Welcome to the Jungle

"It's in the forest, you said you like festivals so you must come"

Uttered Nastia, the night of my arrival in windy Murmansk all those weeks (only weeks?) ago. Initially passing it off as a polite, inclusive, 'say but don't mean' invitation to make me feel at home, forgetting that Russians aren't English, they're Russian. When they say it, they actually mean it. Go figure.

Now, on the eve of my booked departure to Moscow, I was once again buried in Dostoevsky on the surreal beachland outside the Peter & Paul fortress where the old chap was imprisoned at one time. My peace was cut shirt by the thrum of mobile in jean pocket. I peered at my phone, "Mischa! You still in St P?". It was Nastia, I had half forgotten about their return to the old city, confirmed my presence and arranged a meet later.

It was great to see Nastia, Djimka and Katia again after revelling in their warm company during my initial stay in their hero city. We had formed a good bond there and the eve-of-festival buzz that I am so familiar with was tangible. We indulged in a touch of Putinka (guess who it was named after, go on, bet you can't... oh you did) and the invitation was once more extended to me "we have a spare ticket, so it is your destiny".

Needing no second, erm, third invitation I was shortly at the kacca kiosk to exchange my ticket (a fiver from SPB to Moscow, chill out) for one a week later and then set foot on the train to trance-central (one for the KLF fans out there). Aboard the train the high spirits continued whilst I wondered to myself what awaited in the wilderness of the dense Russian forests.

A bottle of warmish pivo was passed idly around as a heady mix of Russian/English banter ensued. More friends joined at the several initial stops and the party was just beginning as the sound of bagpipes filled our ears.

Bagpipes?

Suddenly it dawned that this instrument wasn't so popular in these parts and I turned my head to the sight of kilts and a huge scottish flag swaying at the other end of the carriage.

"Oooooooh Mike you've gotta go and say hello to them"

"Why? I'm not Scottish."

"They don't know that"

They had a point, and a little white lie later I was in the company of the elite of the local university. It turns out they were also pretending to be Scottish, though my guise was a little more convincing. They were overjoyed at meeting a genuine Scot and immediately welcomed me into their fold with a rendition of that song that all bagpipers play - you know, the Scottish sounding one. Minutes later the scene evolved into a group photo at the end of the carriage, much to the delight of our co-passengers, some of whom almost smiled.

Technically it wasn't entirely a lie. I just neglected to leave the fraction "1/8th" in between the words "I'm Scottish". Either way, it made for a great train journey and a springboard into the woods.

We pulled into the station and unloaded our baggage onto the platform with other revellers dressed in vivid clothing and sporting braids, assorted wacky headwear and mostly practical footwear (wackiness only goes so far). Bending down to adjust my pack straps I saw the approaching boots of yet another platform salesman. He started his ineligible spiel and I let rip an irritated "Nyyyyet nyyyet". Raising my eyes I saw said platform seller was not a platform seller at all but instead a fully suited & booted member of the Russian 'Milita' (police), whose nose I had put somewhat out of joint with my dismissiveness.

Thoughts of Gulags rushed through my mind as Nastia cajoled Seargent Sergei into not beating the west out of me with his truncheon. Good old Nastia. Big Sergei wasn't completely sated however and my gobbiness earned me the first passport check of the trip. For those not aware, you must carry it with you at all times or face a fine or worse if you are empty handed upon request. I hadn't invisaged a great deal of police presence in the wilderness of the Russian outback but had luckily brought it along at the last minute, though the cold grip of fear in my stomach reminded me of my unregistered status in the Motherland.

So, the story goes - and get comfortable - this is Russia my friends, land of excessive paranoia, paperwork and insatiably bad customer service. You must register within 3 days of arrival in each city. Various differing advice (versions from friends, websites and finally - to my fist-biting frustration - official bodies differed) had by this juncture thrown me into a typhoon of confusion. After a wasted day of walking round with Sasha, talking to different faces which read "Imperialist, I wouldn't help you if you were on fire, and offering payment" I muttered a few choice words and decided on a 'leave it til Moscow' tack. Mainly because some cities offer no proof of registration - just their word, some stamp the back of your migration card and some give you a separate piece of paper which resembles a stencil of a cheque drawn by a bored child. The right arm doesn't know what the left is doing, no-one knows the official line and it seems to be just another way of throwing roubles in the neverending beurocratic mulch.

Thankfully, police guy handed me back my document after light xenophobic banter. Within seconds we were whisked away to the waiting woods in a 'taxi' (clapped out Lada). 20 minutes later I had befriended the walky talky chap sitting next to me in the back seat and I was methodically repeating "warning, the doors are closing" in Russian to the other cabbies in the area. Nastia ordered the cab to stop and we got out surrounded by tall, silhoueted pine trees...