End of Trance

Paying the driver we walked some way down a road lined on both sides with dense forestry – real Blair Witch Project stuff. Bar the odd car headlights I couldn’t see a thing. Groups of people keen for banter approached us, invited us into the woods for various reasons and upon our rebuttal faded back into the darkness to the crunch of twigs underfoot.

Meeting with the rest of the group, we took a right turn ourselves into the swampy tree-packed undergrowth. Douzens of white cats flashed past as we progressed through the forest, glowing with the energy of the place. It was unreal. The pitch black was otherwise only split by the occasional gurgle of another heavily-laden foot sinking into unseen bog. That and the faint thudding of bass from a mile off as the eyes strained to see the hidden dancefloor. Lights suddenly flickered, but not those of exhibition. These were searching, close, militant.

“Get down and stay down” a voice whispered in the darkness. So my air cadet training circa 1995 – 1995 hadn’t gone to waste! We crouched in a muddy ditch. With my rucksack I was a turtle hiding in a petri dish. But the voices and footsteps passed by.

“What were those torches for?”

“Us, we don’t pay”

“Ah.”

We cut right into the heart of the dense forest. It was hard going – mud tugged at my boots and the load on my back got heavier with every step. The terrain was unpredictable and unseen, I went over twice. Companions heard the crashes and chuckled whilst treading back to help.

A scene soon interrupted the darkness: lights – torches, friendly ones. They illuminated a tent, a dancing girl, dreadlocked, eyes shut tight, swaying. Fires, more lights, smells, sounds. Senses once again in use.

Arriving in a glade
This is where they dance, now I am they.
Trance beating into me.
A surge of euphoria – “This is amazing.”
Dancing with rucksack on
Dragged off unwillingly to the campsite – “Mischa! This way.”
Tent up, wandering round, attempt conversation - lack of Russian apparent, settle into anonimity, sit, tired, sleep.

Morning.

I awake to a magical camp. Sun and shashliks blazing, coffee offered. I could kiss the offerer, but I don’t think Djimka would appreciate it, so I just drink the coffee. So where are the toilets? “anywhere”. Sleep late, stroll, beech, more rest, food. Understand: all is preparation for the evening, when the magic happens. After camp fire dinner and passed bottles we hit the dance floor with shrieks of "Davaii!". I lose everyone, find them and lose them again. No matter, there are few threats and many friends to be made; people are here to dance away the pointless elections, the avoided draft, the simmering resentment for all these things and more. Do I focus on the negative? No. This is what they tell me.

This is [their] church, this is where [they] heal [their] hurts

They shed skins and smile and are happy because there are no rules here; no paperwork and stamps to pram you from one tree to another. Ink stamp paper, ink stamp paper.

Here there are people, trees, a beech, a lake and real choice.

Where am I. I am in a hammock on the edge of a dancefloor sipping a cool beer, it is 4am and I survey the scene. The music is relentless, it’s a little chilly but I’ve wrapped up so all is good. I drop off for a couple of hours and awake to whoops. The music is climactic. The sun is about to burst onto the horizon like an apolocolyptic explosion from an old Manga film. I rise and attempt photos of this magnificent scene. I get a few then my camera stops working, but it’s not such a drama in a place like this. I join a fireside group for a while and we take once more to the beech before I make my way back to camp.

Back through the glade, music still pumping.
Over the wooden planked bridge, watch your step Michael.
Follow the riverbed round until it cuts off to the left
Duck through bushes on your left and a few steps to camp.

“Mischa! Where have you been we were worried!”.
It is 6am. Time to climb the wooden stairs.

…and so it went. Details: there were roughly 14 friends camping with us. The music stopped only from 16:00 – 18:00 every day. I visited friend’s camps. Eager to talk they were undeterred by my “ja nye gavaru paruski” and spoke slower, louder Russian. The English are hence not the only nation to do this.

By day 4 we were ready to run back into the arms of mother Russia. I said goodbye to good friends that I knew would not be in touch, it just wasn’t their style. No, we would leave each other there in the woods, there our relationships are harnessed. Amongst others Max (Davaii!) and Vitok, with his truly excellent tattoos and a love of offering me cognac.

The dense wet taiga tugged at our jeans, emploring us not to leave. Arriving at the road we hailed a passing car and took the train back to St Petersburg. What a great experience, another individual festival to add to the collection, something I have been doing since the age of 15, but nothing like this.