food / travel
December 17, 2013
MOSCOW — For Dmitry Klimov, a public relations specialist, the road to becoming a farmer started during the economic crisis. In 2010, he and a couple of colleagues decided to raise guinea fowl in the hopes of building a sideline business. But the market was not prepared for the traditional but relatively unknown bird. “We had 5,000 guinea fowl, and we were spending $10,000 per month on them,” he says. “We were certain that there would be a market. But no! We burned around $300,000.”
Klimov says his experience just proves that the revolution did in fact kill old Russian culinary traditions. He decided to get over the psychological consequences of his failure by going even further. He spent two months in Honduras and when he got home, he decided to try again. Now he and his partner, Andrei Ovchinnikov, rent a piece of land with a slightly run-down house in a village outside of Moscow.
After his experience with the guinea fowl, Klimov decided that his second attempt would be with more common birds. Now he has 600 chickens, and about 100 each of turkeys, ducks and geese. They built a small pond for the geese and ducks. “It cost us $3,000, but at least it’s nice for the birds!” Klimov says proudly. “We are only selling around five guinea fowl per week; on the previous farm we were selling a little bit more. The niche has been filled by the so-called guinea fowl broilers,” he complains.
Klimov doesn’t raise guinea fowl or chicken broilers (which gain weight so quickly that they can’t walk because of their own weight) on principle. The chicken coop is full of colorful birds running around happily.
Klimov’s farm attracts gastronomic tours for people who want both beautiful surroundings and high-quality products, i.e. foodies willing to pay $180 for a tasting menu squeeze into the small farmhouse.
On the windowsill there’s a book called Chickens: 200 Species for Breeding and Exhibition — Full Atlas. Klimov says he has learned everything he knows about farming from books and the Internet. There are workers on the farm, but they don’t know anything about farming. Klimov admonishes one of the workers for not noticing that the chickens had laid 20 eggs.
“It’s not easy with our chickens. You can’t fry a stewing hen, and you can’t make a good soup out of a young, lean chicken. Our buyers didn’t know those details at first, and our chickens got bad reviews. But I contacted the clients and explained what was going on, and offered to bring them a new chicken for free, just to maintain a good relationship with them,” Klimov says.
Now 50% of his orders come from the LavkaLavka farmer’s cooperative, an Internet portal that helps farmers sell online. Klimov sells the rest of his products to an organic store, restaurants and private clients. A young chicken that weighs between 300 and 350 grams costs about $12.
“The best farmers are Muscovites,” Klimov says. That’s because people from the city are more likely to have acquaintances who understand the draw of delicious but expensive food.
Klimov says they built everything with their own hands, since hiring construction workers would have been too expensive. They had to get creative to save money: Instead of a roof on the coops for the birds, they used old advertising banners that ad agencies are more than happy to get rid of. It’s unlikely that a real peasant would have thought of something like that.
Same with the method for financing the poultry houses: Clients were asked to contribute $300 towards the construction, and given a gift certificate for $330 in return. Klimov was able to raise half of the necessary money that way. Now he spends half of his time in Moscow and the other half on the farm. But he is trying to get the farm processes in good enough order that he could control the farm from as far away as Honduras.
The farmer’s friends
The types of resources that are helping farmers reach customers include LavkaLavka, the website which also boasts two brick-and-mortar stores in Moscow. The site’s founder, Boris Akimov, was once the co-editor of Moscow’s culture guide. In 2009, he started traveling to the countryside in search of good, natural products. His friends began to ask him to bring stuff back for them, and Akimov saw an opportunity for the distribution of real farm food. This year Akimov also started a small farm with livestock and produce, but he is not yet selling his own products.
“A large portion of the farmers in the LavkaLavka cooperative are former city slickers who decided to become farmers,” Akimov says. He has his own ideas about why it’s easier for former urban dwellers to use the system than for life-time farmers: People from the city aren’t afraid of the Internet.
All of the products on LavkaLavka have the farmer’s name attached: pastrami from Lilit Bagdasaryan, dairy products from Nina Kozlova, etc. Farmers don’t even need to have a registered company to sell their products on the site. There are about 100 farmers, most of whom fled the city looking for honest work on the land.
Consider, for example, Vladimir and Yulia Krotov. In 2010, Vladimir was the head of sales at a trade company and Yulia was a financial director for a consulting firm. That year, they decided to leave the business world. “For a long time, I didn’t understand why I wasn’t able to cook good food. I tried experimenting with different spices, but I came to the conclusion that the problem was with the quality of the products,” Yulia says. “That raised the question of what we are eating and breathing in the city. That’s when we started to think about moving to the country, in order to do something about it.” They moved to Tulskoi Oblast and now raise cows on 150 hectares (370 acres) of pasture.
These former city folks can become “fashionable farmers” even without their own capital. Aleksei Ivanov, a former secretary who now sells 16 tons of vegetables per year on LavkaLavka, met an investor several years ago who was interested in putting money into an agricultural project. That’s when Ivanov became a farmer.
Like the Klimovs, he divides his time between Moscow and the farm. “My idea is to establish a totally self-sustaining system, so that if there is a war we can survive easily,” Ivanov jokes. “It’s still not clear what our speciality is going to be. Our preserves have turned out unexpectedly well, although at the beginning we were just pickling cucumbers for ourselves.”
The farm has three sections of 16 hectares (39 acres), 42 hectares (103) and 80 hectares (197 acres), on which only nine people work. In addition to vegetables, Ivanov raises chickens, ducks and geese.
“Now the farm’s development is running up against infrastructure limits,” Ivanov says. “The energy company gave us an estimate of nearly $1.5 million, so we haven’t developed the electrical system. Gas is only provided to villages with at least 100 residents, and we only have 25 people. Without gas we can’t develop our project of a goat farm with milk products.”
To make farming seem less like Russian roulette, LavkaLavka runs a two-week seminar for beginners every month. It costs $1,500. Right now Akimov and his partners are raising money to start a farmer’s market in Moscow using crowdfunding. Crowdfunding is still unusual for Russia, but Akimov has already seen that it works. And it’s a lot safer than trying to develop the project with a bank loan.
Geese online and sturgeon in the basement
Far from Moscow, even more innovative agricultural ideas are blooming. Konstantin Tereshenko, a businessman in Novosibirsk, decided to help his village of Novonikolaevka 400 kilometers away. “I once did a survey on V Kontacte (Russia’s Facebook equivalent) asking, ‘Would you like to participate in agriculture while living in the city?’ More than 70% of people answered ‘yes,’” Tereshenko says.
Basing his idea on the Internet “farm” games, he decided to set up something similar, only with real live geese. He rented some land in Novonikolaevka and set up a web camera. He allowed people to buy a goose online and then watch it grow up — a bit like pre-ordering the bird. Last year he sold 600 geese for New Year’s, and about 100 of those were pre-purchased on the Internet, where buyers got to watch them being raised. Tereshenko now employs three people on the farm, and the salary for the three of them is a little over $600 per month. In total, Tereshenko says he has invested around $75,000, and he expects to make that money back within two years.
Living the agrarian life — Photo: LavkaLavka
The important thing, he says, is to diversify your risk. In case the geese got sick, he decided also to have a commercial fishing operation in Novonikolaevka. And there is a tourism component too: Tereshenko has a bed and breakfast on the property.
An equally interesting farming project comes from Igor Bobrovksi, the owner of a computer business in the Siberian city of Biysk. He started a sturgeon farm in his office basement. The entrepreneur acknowledges that, at its current size, it isn’t a profit-making endeavor, although it is innovative.
“We planned and carried out a project to raise 2,000 fish, which proved the concept that from available resources and with minimal labor we could use the otherwise empty basements in the city to raise sturgeon,” Bobrovski says. “They can provide city residents with tasty and healthy food that is practically free.”
The young fish weigh three to four grams and grow into half-kilo sturgeons. There were some losses, but not major ones. “We showed the set-up to the city government, and wrote the regional government several times. We suggested running a pilot project in one or two residential buildings, but we didn’t get that far,” Bobrovski says.
Just for yourself
Not everything is meant as a business. Automatic feeders and waterers have allowed city dwellers to raise livestock on land outside of the city without becoming farmers. For example, in the small town of Ivanovskaya near Moscow, nearly all the residents are Muscovites — meaning they have a country house in the town. All of the houses have livestock. They trade knowledge and help each other, which represents a new kind of social organization for Russia.
Tatyana Khokhlova stresses that it’s not necessary to move to the country to get organic products. In the center of her property, an antique wagon sits on the well-groomed lawn. The porch is decorated with authentic items from the agricultural past. Her husband drove to Belarus with a trailer to get them. An old breed of shepherd dog lives with the poultry, and though he’s about the same size as a bear, he is very friendly.
The same can’t be said about the five geese, the property’s real security force, who raise a ruckus as soon as anyone gets near the fence. There are also eight hens, four guinea fowl, a rooster, and a pregnant rabbit. Khokhlova visits the animals on the weekend. “The automatic waterers, feeders and infrared lamps allow the animals to be on automatic pilot for a couple of days,” she says.
She doesn’t keep track of how much she spends on the animals — it depends on the seasons, and who really cares if it’s all for yourself? Her neighbor, Nikolai Ionov, says that in the winter he spends about $25 a month to feed his 16 hens, and a little less than that for his 12 rabbits. He slaughters three rabbits and three chickens per month, which is cheaper than buying the meat in the store. More importantly, the taste is not comparable. Khokhlova's female rabbit is expecting a litter that Nikolai’s rabbit, Boris, fathered: neighborhood cooperation in action.
Just like commercial farmers, these hobbyists have failures too. “Once, we were tricked by an advertisement and we decided to buy Canadian turkey broilers,” Khokhlova remembers. “We were promised that they would weigh 25 kilos. Day-old chicks cost $10, and we had to order a minimum of 10, and you had to order three months in advance. I bought 20 of them. They were delivered with fanfare, in a Mercedes. My neighbor’s turkeys died within two weeks, and only four of mine survived.”
In Khokhlova's poultry run, four bow-legged birds stared back at me. The broilers couldn’t walk. Now she shares her turkey experiences on poultry forums, encouraging readers to choose more appropriate birds.
Khokhlova has learned about agriculture from her neighbors, on the Internet and from books. She shows me a warm composting vegetable bed that looks like a decorative flower bed. Apparently the design limits lost soil. The compost rots and heats up the bed. She got the idea from a gardening book. One of her other neighbors had a similar idea. He was against having vegetable beds in the middle of his lawn, saying it was too “Soviet,” but had nothing against growing produce in mounds of cut grass and other waste.
This Muscovite, far removed from farming, calls it hugelkultur — the technical word for gardening in a mound of composting organic material.
Kommersant ("The Businessman") was founded in 1989 as the first business newspaper in the Russia. Originally a weekly, Kommersant is now a daily newspaper with strong political and business coverage. It has been owned since 2006 by Alisher Usmanov, the director of a subsidiary of Gazprom.
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The confinement experience could turn brutal for those forced to live with relatives who would not tolerate a member of the family living their sexual orientation openly as a young adult. Here are stories from urban and rural India.
October 19, 2021
Abhijith had been working as a radio jockey in the southern Indian city of Thiruvananthapuram when the COVID-19 pandemic hit in March, 2020. When the government imposed a nationwide lockdown, Abhijith returned to the rural Pathanamthitta district , where his parents live with an extended family, including uncles, cousins and grandparents.
Eighteen months later, he recalled that the experience was "unbearable" because he had to live with homophobic relatives. "Apart from the frequent reference to my sexual 'abnormality', they took me to a guruji to 'cure' me," Abhijith recalled. "He gave me something to eat, which made me throw up. The guru assured me that I was throwing up whatever 'demon' was possessing me and 'making' me gay."
Early in 2021, Abhijith travelled back to Thiruvananthapuram, where he found support from the members of the queer collective.
Inspired by their work, he also decided to work towards uplifting the queer community. "I wish no one else goes through the mental trauma I have endured," said Abhijit.
Abhijith's story of mental distress arising from family abuse turns out to be all too common among members of India's LGBTQ+ community, many of whom were trapped in their homes and removed from peer support groups during the pandemic.
Oppressive home situations
As India continues to reel from a pandemic that has claimed more lives (235,524) in three months of the second wave (April-June 2021) than in the one year before that (162,960 deaths in March 2020-March 2021), the LGBTQ community has faced myriad problems. Sexual minorities have historically suffered from mainstream prejudice and the pandemic has aggravated socio-economic inequalities, instigated family and institutionalized abuse, apart from limiting access to essential care. This has resulted in acute mental distress which has overwhelmed queer support infrastructure across the country.
Speaking to queer collective representatives across India, I learned that the heightened levels of distress in the community was due to longstanding factors that were triggered under lockdown conditions. Family members who are intolerant of marginalized sexual identities, often tagging their orientation as a "disorder" or "just a phase", have always featured among the main perpetrators of subtle and overt forms of violence towards queer, trans and homosexual people.
Calls from lesbians and trans men to prevent forced marriages during lockdowns.
Sappho For Equality, a Kolkata-based feminist organization that works for the rights of sexually marginalized women and trans men, recorded a similar trend. Early in the first wave, the organization realized that the existing helpline number was getting overwhelmed with distress calls. It added a second helpline number. The comparative figures indicate a 13-fold jump in numbers: from 290 calls in April 2019-March 20 to 3,940 calls in April 2020-May 2021.
"Most of the calls we have been getting from lesbians and trans men are urgent appeals to prevent forced marriages during lockdowns," said Shreosi, a Sappho member and peer support provider. "If they happen to resist, they are either evicted or forced to flee home. But where to house them? There aren't so many shelters, and ours is at full capacity."
Shreosi says that the nature of distress calls has also changed. "Earlier people would call in for long-term help, such as professional mental health support. But during the pandemic, it has changed to immediate requests to rescue from oppressive home situations. Often, they will speak in whispers so that the parents can't hear."
Lack of spaces
Like many of his fellow queer community members, life for Sumit P., a 30-year-old gay man from Mumbai, has taken a turn for the worse. The lockdown has led to the loss of safe spaces and prolonged residence at home.
"It has been a really difficult time since the beginning of the lockdown. I am suffering from a lot of mental stress since I cannot freely express myself at home. Even while making a call, I have to check my surroundings to see if anybody is there. If I try to go out, my family demands an explanation. I feel suffocated," he said.
The pandemic has forced some queer people to come out
Sumit is also dealing with a risk that has hit the community harder than others – unemployment and income shortage. He's opened a cafe with two other queer friends, which is now running into losses. For others, pandemic-induced job losses have forced queer persons from all over the country to return to their home states and move in with their families who've turned abusive during this long period of confinement.
Lockdowns force coming out
According to Kolkata-based physician, filmmaker and gay rights activist Tirthankar Guha Thakurata, the pandemic has forced some queer people to come out, succumbing to rising discomfort and pressure exerted by homophobic families.
"In most cases, family relations sour when a person reveals their identity. But many do not flee home. They find a breathing space or 'space out' in their workspaces. In the absence of these spaces, mental problems rose significantly," he said.
Not being able to express themselves freely in front of parents who are hostile, intolerant and often address transgender persons by their deadname or misgender them has created situations of severe distress, suicidal thoughts and self-harm.
Psychiatrist and queer feminist activist Ranjita Biswas (she/they) cites an incident. A gender-nonconforming person died under suspicious circumstances just days after leaving their peer group and going home to their birth parents. The final rites were performed with them dressed in bangles and a saree.
"When a member of our community asked their mother why she chose a saree for someone who had worn androgynous clothes all their life, she plainly said it was natural because after all, the deceased 'was her daughter,'" Biswas recalls.
The Indian queer mental health support infrastructure, already compromised with historical prejudice, is now struggling
In India, queer people's access to professional mental healthcare has been "very limited," according to community members such as Ankan Biswas, India's first transgender lawyer who has been working with the Human Rights Law Network in West Bengal.
"A large majority of the psychiatrists still consider homosexuality as a disorder and practice 'correctional therapy'. It's only around the big cities that some queer-friendly psychiatrists can be found," Biswas said. "The pandemic has further widened the inequalities in access to mental health support for India's LGBTQ community."
Biswas is spending anxious days fielding an overwhelming amount of calls and rescue requests from queer members trapped in their homes, undergoing mental, verbal and even physical torture. "We don't have the space, I just tell them to wait and bear it a little longer," he said.
Medical care is dismal
Anuradha Krishnan's story, though not involving birth family, outlines how the lack of physical support spaces have affected India's queer population. Abandoned by her birth family when she came out to them as a trans woman in 2017, Anuradha Krishnan (she/they), founder of Queerythm in Kerala who is studying dentistry, had to move into an accommodation with four other persons.
Isolation triggered my depression
"I am used to talking and hanging around with friends. Isolation triggered my depression and I had to seek psychiatric help." Living in cramped quarters did not help with quarantine requirements and all of them tested positive during the first wave.
What is deeply worrying is that the Indian queer mental health support infrastructure, already compromised with historical prejudice, is now struggling, placing more and more pressure on queer collectives and peer support groups whose resources are wearing thin.
During the 10 months of the first wave of the pandemic in India in 2020, Y'all, a queer collective based in Manipur, received about 1,000 distress calls on their helpline number from LGBTQ+ individuals. In May 2021 alone, they received 450 such calls (including texts and WhatsApp messages) indicating a telling escalation in the number of queer people seeking help during the second wave.
As India's queer-friendly mental health support infrastructure continues to be tested, Y'all founder, Sadam Hanjabam, a gay man, says, "Honestly, we are struggling to handle such a large number of calls, it is so overwhelming. We are also dealing with our own anxieties. We are burning out."
Sreemanti Sengupta is a freelance writer, poet, and media studies lecturer based in Kolkata.
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