Soviet Union Where the Right People Rest

By John Moody

The train from Moscow pulled into Sochi and disgorged passengers exhausted from the 850-mile, 30-hour journey. Waiting for them on the platform were about 100 residents of the lush Black Sea resort, some of them sweetly smiling, grandmotherly women who wanted nothing more than to share the genteel charm of their homes. "I have a nice little room to rent, a short walk to the sea, hot water, next door to a good restaurant," declared one. Two bone-weary women quickly began bidding furiously against each other for the room, even though neither had seen it, driving the price up from the equivalent of $7.50 a day to $10. The negotiations were suspended by a uniformed policeman carrying a bullhorn who tapped the saleswoman on the shoulder and told her, "Lady, go home. This is not a store."

But Sochi is the marketplace of dreams for millions of Soviet vacationers trying to exercise their "right to rest." The guarantee is contained in Article 41 of the constitution, and is printed on banners and billboards on the shoreline of the country's holiday heartland along the Russian and Georgian coasts of the Black Sea. As with many aspects of Soviet life, the utopian ideal is often more attractive than socialist reality.

Soviet workers, from pipefitters to Politburo members, receive state- subsidized vacations that differ as dramatically as the jobs they perform. Prominent members of the Communist Party and leading scientists luxuriate in secluded, heavily guarded mansions, supplied courtesy of the state. Even second-rank officials usually have a country house at their disposal. Tens of millions of their less exalted countrymen employ their wits and their blat (arm twisting and family connections) to gain entry to beachfront hotels, often located on the former estates of the prerevolutionary Russian aristocracy. Another much sought- after holiday choice for active trade-union members or people suffering from a diagnosed illness are woodsy spas known as sanatoriums. In theory, admission is by permit only, but in practice, anyone who can wangle a place gets in, and last year 60 million people managed.

Sochi, on the Russian side of the Black Sea, is one of the most popular resorts. Last year 4 million visitors walked along its shady lanes and admired its manicured shrubbery. But families do not necessarily share such pleasures. Because the permits for rooms at sanatoriums are distributed at places of employment or through trade unions, Soviet vacationers often take their holidays with their workmates. Said one beach-bound Muscovite: "Why would I miss my husband? I can see him all year."

Sochi has 200 sanatoriums and dozens of hotels. As in other resort cities, the demand for rooms far outstrips the supply. Those unable to bribe or bluster their way to a place in the sun are forced to find their own lodgings. The Soviets refer to these masses of unfortunates as dikari, literally "savages," but in this sense meaning unofficial holidaymakers. They arrive with nowhere to stay and must try to strike a bargain with locals who have a room to rent. Such private deals are strictly illegal, but they are widely tolerated. Some seaside landladies offer a fair deal, but others are hucksters conjuring up lyrical descriptions of properties that sound too good to be true. Often, they are. A Ukrainian woman found she had rented a deserted shack with no plumbing. Disheartened, she returned to the train station and put down a deposit for another room, but the address proved nonexistent. "I'm sick of the whole idea of vacation," she said. "I want to go home, but I can't buy a train ticket."

In contrast, the sanatoriums offer a room and meals for $2 a day. Anyone planning to take advantage of time away from the family for late rising and high living is due for a shock. The sanatoriums impose a strict regime, beginning with 7 a.m. reveille and lights-out at 11, after the credits have finished rolling on the evening movie. A medical checkup is supplied free, and patients' medical data are fed into a computer for analysis.

Soviet doctors stress the restorative virtues of spa vacations. At many resorts, visitors can immerse themselves in bubbling sulfur baths or inhale herbal steam. At Sochi, where the beach is covered with black pebbles instead of sand, white-uniformed nurses patrol seaside stretches with names like Medical Beach and Health Beach, enforcing a 55-minute limit on exposure to the sun's rays, even for the swarthiest guest. The preferred way for getting a quick tan is to stand facing the sun with arms held aloft. Because of a shortage of swimsuits and suntan oil, beaches are crowded with thousands of pale bodies, some clad only in underwear, reaching skyward like a lost tribe of sun worshipers.

As at any seaside resort the world over, eating out can be grim and costly. "The food in the Black Sea resorts is much worse and more expensive than in any of the restaurants in Moscow," complained one young woman. Despite indigestion and inflation, she and millions of others will continue to return for another dose of sunshine, sea air and the guaranteed right to rest.

With reporting by Nancy Traver/Sochi