Alone - Off the Trails - page 120

I knew that the men would drink all night and eventually pass out. At around
midday there would probably be some rousing of heads. After some more
samagonka to lessen the hangover, they would stumble to the bridge and achieve
almost nothing. It was true that they were still working unpaid, but there was no
honour in that. In fact the work they were doing, largely in a drunken, apathetic
daze, was so unproductive that it didn't warrant payment. They were achieving
absolutely nothing; not successfully repairing the bridge, not earning money, not
helping their families. If this scenario was typical of life in the thousands upon
thousands of villages in Russia, it shed some light on the extent of the country's
economic and social woes. Alcohol obviously had a crippling effect. The typical
Russian man drinks a pint of pure alcohol every two days, compared with less than
two pints a month for the average American. Approximately 40 000 Russians a
year die of alcohol poisoning, not to mention the huge number of alcohol-related
deaths. Outside of Africa, the male mortality rate in Russia in 1999 was worse than
any country, except Haiti. This could be attributed mainly to alcohol and tobacco
abuse, little exercise and a poor diet. The mortality rate has been increasing ever
since 1965, but particularly since perestroika when the old Soviet systems and in-
stitutions were thrown into disarray.
l stared contemplatively into my glass, and then decided to down it.
Sasha eventually arrived to announce that the banya and dinner were ready. I
slipped out without the men noticing. It was still raining as we made for his home.
'What is your occupation here?' I asked.
'Well, at the moment I weld and drive a tractor in the fields,' he replied.
'And how much do you earn?'
'One hundred roubles a month.' Three dollars fifty, US.
'But how can that be possible? People in the north get one thousand roubles a
month on the pension!' I cried.
He shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, I am not on the pension yet,' he finally
replied.
His home was a tiny wooden cottage that stood on a small plot of land. Its
foundations were giving way, leaving a bent and twisted structure. The small
square windows were contorted so that there were gaps between the glass and the
windowsill. Above the windows, intricate woodcarvings added life and character.
'So come in. Welcome to our home,' he said, opening the door. 'I'm afraid that
I don't have tea, but I have some leftover cocoa if you would like.'