Bring Me The Horizon

C Major

2009-02-01T03:13:00.000-08:00

After the final I awoke in another couchsurfer's home in the city centre - she had kindly put me and Bastian up for the night as the last train back towards Djim's direction departed before the final began. With a new phone and my visa registration in the bag I finally got round to exploring some of the capital with Djim and his girlfriend Kristina. The tour was mainly an exploration of The Arbat, "Moscow's most charming and lively pedestrian street" and a St Petersburg-style flourish of cultural pomp mixed with a compelling display of the arts, which included a surprise display of heavy metal from a band next to the underground station. Stalls and buskers filled the air with heady noise and my favourite part of Moscow was firmly established.

Djim had earlier in the week suggested I stay as honoured guest for his Mother's birthday celebration on the Sunday (25th May). What I expected to be a small family affair turned into a feast of epic proportions. All kinds of meats, dishes and drinks littered the table and I was once again overwhelmed by the hospitality bestowed on me. More and more family arrived and more toasts were made until finally it was my turn. Blood rushed to my head as I took to my feet and a few vodka-induced slurs interrupted what went something along the lines of "I'm thankful to be a guest here and hope I'm representing my country well during this meal which signifies the union of our respective motherlands". Djim thankfully translated and the speech went down a storm, whereupon I was plied with yet more booze before us young scallywags departed to take a walk through the woods to the local bar (now another firm favourite) for the most exsquisite garlic black bread with beer.

Djim's fantasic cousin joined us and we played pool and cracked language barrier-breaking gaffs into the small hours. Returning home I got the sudden urge to watch Lord Of The Rings, the only copy of which was in Russian and we fell asleep to the sound of Gandalf shouting "you shall not pass!!" in the mother tongue. I couldn't get enough of life in the country, and stayed two more days at Djim's. But alas, it was time to go - the city centre awaited me and a new host. I would miss the experience which Djim, his wonderful family (especailly little Nastia) and lush Ducha had given me. Thanks Djim, you're a legend.

Champions and Thieves

2009-01-08T04:14:00.000-08:00

In my mind it was to be the consummate battle between good and evil; those that had built glory and those that had bought it.

I met up with Bastian (a German - but as it wasn't international the footballing rivalry subsided) in front of the statue of Marshall Zhukov astride a horse, which in turn stands in front of the State history Museum, which in turn stands in front of Red Square. The Museum, which I never had the pleasure of entering is indeed very Red and square, more so than the thing with the same name that lies behind it. The statue itself is one of those which attracts tourists who run and jump in front of it whilst their picture is being taken, in a hopeful effort to liven up yet another "this is me in front of..." photo. Some slide-show viewers would really be in for the long haul when these guys got home.

"No, wait I'm jumping, see? Not standing! Jumping!"

Invariably the photographers' finger is off-cue and a re-jump is necessary. By the third or fourth take the jumper has lost more heart than an actor under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola... but it was amusing to watch until Bastian turned up.

On to the football; It had been a long day in Moscow getting things sorted but the atmosphere was fantastic. It reminded me of how travel-savvy I had become to watch quasi-boozed, overweight fans attempting to pronounce - and listen for - the names of their wanted destinations.

"Sportinaya [sic], thas the one" pointed one rather large cockney Chelsea fan, after scrutinizing the metro map for a good 5 minutes. "We're close so lets hop off here for a few beers".

I got chatting to some and glowed as they wowed at my travel plans. It was a brief comfort to hear English surrounding me again. Seeing a thousand other people in the same situation as me, trying in unison to navigate the un-navigable. But while we shared nationality and the love of beer and football, and as much as I missed my family and friends, it reminded me that I was still for all intents and purposes in Europe, and I yearned for the long road ahead.

Thoughts of obtaining a ticket were dashed by the news of a complete sellout and tout tickets going for as much as $4000US. The police presence was astounding, they were everywhere but had little to worry about - the rivalry between the two teams not half as intense as that of what could have been (Liverpool v Utd). Jovial banter was as manifest as the Old Bill - especially in the awesome Red Square as we wandered around the mini football arena that had been erected there.

Suddenly, through the crowd I caught the flash of a familar face. Approaching him I saw more and more until they clocked me in equal astonishment, it was Foreman, a friend from back home accompanied by a group of lads including Dollar - all friends from back in Blighty. They had tried getting in touch but of course the Russian SIM had displaced the old one from home. It was sheer luck to have met them and a great boost to the day and perfect timing. We headed for one of the many bustling pubs near to Red Square. Afterwards realised they only had 1 pump and 2 very sweaty and agitated barmen who had severely misjudged the drinking capacity of two sets of English football fans. However we queued and queued and finally got our jug before settling down to some of the finest pre-match banter i've ever witnessed.

The pub was predominently Red, with a smattering of Chelsea fans and pre-match build-up blaring on the big screen. The songs soon drowned that out and went to and fro as we epitomised the definition of merriment. The lads headed off with their tickets in hand. Bastian and I waited for Yulya - one of the girls who had helped me with my visa stamp - and her friend and headed for a different bar to knuckle down for the match. More friends joined and we sat at the end of a long table under which we all placed our bags and coats. During the match I left to meet various Russians who were extremely ineterested at my presence at the bar (being the only Englishman).

I was interviewed for television and radio, only after making it clear to both that they should ask before rolling tape, which neither had done. It's just manners. I'll never know whether I made it onto prime-time but both had assured me I would. They asked questions in regard to why I was in a pub and not at the match and I took great pleasure in filling them in on my travel plans which did not allow for such luxuries. It was indeed a surreal experience. One that turned a little sour when I returned to the table and checked my bag for my phone, which had dissappeared along with my MP3 player. Neither were expensive but my numbers, birthdays and music had gone, and I would be lying if I said it didn't put a dampner on the whole affair.

The fact was that I had most likely shaken hands with the thief when meeting people around the table. I am a paranoid traveller and had left the bag at the foot of friends for less than 5 minutes, but on the road, even that is not ample. It was a lesson, but a hard one to swallow. It may sound precious but your possessions become almost like little friends on the road, especially my music which I treasure. I had also agreed to meet up with the lads in Red Square afterwards and was now was unable to without my phone.

When John Terry slipped and mishit the penalty which allowed United to win the European Cup for the third time in their history it was a definate consolation, but the theft was fresh and played on my mind. For the first time since leaving - and on the back of the visa debacle and my camera breaking - I wallowed and had thoughts of coming home, if not a little magnified by a belly full of beer.

Still, every problem brings a challenge. Plus United won, which no-one can steal from me.

Visa Vie

2008-12-20T04:29:00.000-08:00

Everything revolved around the match, and although Djim didn't enjoy football, being the legend he is he attempted to put an excited face on for my sake. But there were days to kill before then, and after a listless couple spent in Djim's luxury Ducha he was back to work and that meant I had to finally tackle Moscow. On Tuesday I was awoken early with what was to become a running joke (not that I find anything funny at that time in the morning), the soft rap of knuckles against the door and the heavily Russified "Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike... Wek up!". I dutifully obeyed and was within the hour queuing at one of two tiny windows of the packed Kruskovo ticket booth, "Moskva Pashalsta".

Unfortunately I had timed it badly and boarded a packed train, destined to stand the remainder of the 50 minute journey. Still, making good work of it with my MP3 I stepped off and found the underground, which at first glance was a squalid affair compared to the grandiose structures in St Petersburg. Dirty faces lined the walls, some squatting on their haunches - a now reassuringly familiar sight in Russia. Switching my bag to my front and going into paranoid traveller mode I found the line I wanted and got on it, only to get lost a couple of times before reaching my destination. the underground was a world away from that of SPB. A humid, crammed, stuffy and confusing affair that sapped a day's energy away in a matter of minutes and once off I located a park bench and dozed for an hour.

Yes it's fair to say Moscow confused me that first day, and I didn't see the best of it mainly due to the 'travel admin' I had accumulated. As previously mentioned on the blog I had failed to register my visa correctly in St Petersburg. I had tried, but to a solo, non-Russian speaking traveller the task was one of the most frustrating I have ever attempted, and once the blank faces had taken me past my 3-day limit (explained below) I had stubbornly (in true Russian style) refused to try again. One Russian host described the whole affair:

"The registration paperwork impossible to keep in order, for a citizen or a tourist. I live in Moscow but not strictly legally as I am not registered here. I cannot register here because I am registered in a different town and hence should not technically be living here. I would say that roughly 80% of Russians living in any major city are living here without the proper paperwork for this or that. It is kept this way so that if for any reason they need to have something on you, they do."

So here's the thing: Russian visa regulations (as far as I could understand them) stipulated that a traveller must register their presence with the local authority within 3 working days of arrival in any town or city. I was determined to get at least 2 registration stamps, which is what some travel sites were recommending as the very least for your visa to look legitimate. However, now that I had screwed up my SPB registration I was potentially looking at a $500 fine and possible detainment no matter how many registrations I accumulated, and the debacle was far from over.

I trudged to several different offices all over the city in search of the precious stamp. In all it took me 3 solid days of metro, walking, wild goose chase after wild goose chase until I found myself downstairs, waiting in a queue with my passport finally accepted. Upon getting to the front of it the lady realised what I was actually asking for and with apologetic laughter told me they were a driving school and thought I wanted a license. I slumped down, 3 wasted days in a major city that I just wanted to explore had taken its toll.

Seeing that I was approaching wits end and speaking some basic English she sat me down with tea and cake and picked up the phone. A few calls later and she had found me an address. After triple checking the directions I set off thanking the girls profusely and found the place, handing in my passport in good time to keep my arrangement to meet Bastian in Red Square for the champions league final.

I've never known such an unnecessary and complete WASTE of time for traveller and those who have to administrate this completely baseless rule. Supposedly brought in to combat terrorism by keeping tabs on the whereabouts of foreigners I would question the difference it has made. It indeed seems as foolish as the random stop and check passport control that the police employed so regularly to anyone with slightly dark skin and dark hair (potential terrorist) or any male under 24 (potential draft-dodger). A friend with dark skin and hair was stopped 4 times in a week and fined on each occasion totalling $400. He had not completed proper registration due to various meetings attempting to ensure clean drinking water for children in Nizhny Novgorod.

Not Moscow (Zelenograd)

2008-11-10T00:13:00.000-08:00

I departed St Petersburg from Moskovsky Vokzal, in typical local style with a gifted bottle of Vodka in hand. I was looking forward to being waved away by Djimka, Katia and little Nastia... but had text messaged them to Moskovskaja tube station instead of Majaskovskaja. You can understand the mix-up. If they would just name the latter 'The Big One' or 'Station of the fetid Sasquatch' it would prevent a thousand furrowed brows of a thousand lost tourists, but Russia does what it wants.

Walking through the Neo-Renaissance frontage (thanks Wiki), and leaving my Couchsurfing clan behind after an afternoon in St Pete's Chambers of Horrors which was entertaining despite the whole thing being in Russian. Very Madame Tussauds. Perhaps they had run out of material when they presented the murder in Dostoevsky's Crime & Punishment as real.

I waited in the buzzing departure hall. Neon-fronted shops selling the usual fare (mobile phones/accessories, cigarettes, newspapers) rallied on either side of the seated waiting area, assaulting the masses with painfully low-grade dance music. I watched my rucksack and the departure board with equal hawk-like regard. My train flicked up and at 22:00 on May 17th I found and boarded Carriage C of the 22:20 departure to Moscow. The train was spacious and comfortable, with a standard of vast reclining seats that made beds unnecessary. I took my seat, sorted my snacks, coffee, book (hadn't yet managed to demolish Dostoevsky) and Music and was just settled when a Russian lad approached me and started mumbling something.

I got my obstinacy on: "Nyet mate this is my seat" and showed him my ticket. He continued to try and make his indiscernible point and I began to simmer. Then I realised he just wanted to swap seats to sit next to his mate. I obliged and duly took his seat in a four-seat berth with table. Fine by me - more leg room. The train departed and I read a little Fyodor before drifting into strange sleep which left me possibly even more tired when I awoke pulling into Moscow's Leningradskiy Vokzal Station at roughly 6am. My Couchsurfing host Dmitry was waiting patiently - despite the hour - on the platform.

I had posted up a message on the 'Moscow last minute couch request' in my disorganisation following the gladed festival. 2 Russians: Dmitry and Andrei (my second host) had responded, and here I was.

Zelenograd. A place I had believed to be a suburb of el capital. I was pleasantly wrong.

The station was as close as I was to get to Moscow that day. We caught the next train to Krukovo train station, about 50 minutes by railroad from Moscow. I guess we were both pretty tired, but soon began to wake up when we hopped into his car and drove through Zelenograd (Dmitri's home town) further and further out into the wilds.

He must have been up early to meet me I thought, a signal of Djimka's unique personality - generous, thoughtful, easy-going guy who just enjoyed good company. Now Djim had emailed me saying we would be staying at the family 'holiday house' but I hadn't realised this meant a Ducha.

The Ducha
I had seen and read of 'Duchas' (Russian country houses for weekend/holiday escape from the city flat) but hadn't put two and two together. In Petrozavodsk I had toured a vast village of Duchas, varying in design, shape and size (Pauly/Dad you would have found them especially intruiging). There are the old, quaint Duchas cobbled together with mainly wooden experiors surrounded by smaller outbuildings for different purposes (toilet, separate kitchen etc) and also the new. The modern Duchas take every architectural influence imaginable into their design, here is one example. Crazy.

We arrived at Djim's similarly plush but slightly more understated (compared to above) Ducha. It was incredible. The bustle of the city faded from my ears and was replaced by softened wind chimes and the peace of the countryside. Moscow aould have to wait. I was given the grand tour: shower with 4 different settings, a radio and steam option; the garden shelter with hammock. Like on the Hurtigruten, I was introduced to unexpected luxury. My room was the piece de la resistance, with 3 computers, a large TV, a King-sized bed and lounge chairs. I was almost beginning to feel guilty, but Djim is such a down-to-earth guy it was hard to. After a fine cooked breakfast with coffee prepared in a turca we discussed plans for the days ahead before I retired to catch up on much-needed kip in my massive bed.

One Day I Will Leave This City

2008-09-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

You know the rainy days they ain't so bad when you're the king

Stumbling, trundling reluctantly back into the arms of the waiting Leningrad on our local train service with seats as wooden as the expressions of the locals that rode them. Besieged by tired, flyaway thoughts and memories collapsing into dreams. Did that just happen? The train seller hops from the platform of an unnamed station and into our carriage.

The mobile train seller.

He has been waiting on the platform with his merchandise, which in his case is a selection of large books. These must be cumbersome for his skinny adolescent frame. Unlike the majority of sellers, this one has a spark. He is untroubled by the nature of his load. He enjoys banter with a group of elderly men and gets enquiries. His sale falters only when they scoff at the price. He laughs, and heads down the carriage.

Here is the seller's routine:

1) Mount carriage

2) Recite memorised spiel attempting to convince apathetic passengers of the need for their product

3) Price comes last, before the long walk down to the next carriage, now and again exchanging roubles for product. Return to step 1. Repeat to fade (or end of train).

In between steps 2 and 3 I excitedly ask my Russian companion for a translation. The sellers, like their loads, come in all shapes and sizes; plasters, torches, ice cream, timetables, magnifying glasses. There were some strange ones which I can't quite recollect - strange additions welcome Russian friends.

Aphex Twin's Xtal on chewed cassette - the sound of being 15.

Back in the city we visited more friends on the outskirts of St P and toasted the arrival of a certain team in Red to the Champions League Final... Moscow looked suddenly shinier. We heard loud crackles and bangs and in the distance observed profligate fireworks to welcome the new president Medvedev to the locality. We pretended they were for us. Yes, that was a moment.

and that special St Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in the summer

But morning brings chore, and I was worried - I could take no photo's of my experiences and was shortly to head to the most expensive city in the world where I would have to purchase a new camera. I've since met people who travel without cameras and are verbal proponents of this. Myself, I just can't imagine it.

Moving to new host Lyubomir I spent days sorting a new recorder of images and other such necessary travel admin that had gone unhindered due to my spontaneous foray into the forests. Lyubomir, full of life, energy and the adoration of activity, helped me no end and his endless wisdom and information was an inspiration as I prepared to leave the haven of St Petersburg. Providing me with audio books on my Russia, China and England. Yes, England - for I have learnt more about the history of my birth country from foreign sources than I ever did during the corn laws and cholera-infected curriculum of 1996.

"Miss, Miss, what about the Empire?"

Days and days. One such day I again wearily trod around the addictive streets until the next coffee den lured me to my rest. I was not yet ready to move on, until one day I was.

but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by

The day came.

My re-booked train set for depart after a quick trip to St Petersburg's Museum of Horror with some of the friends made there. In fact Couchsurfing had really been an integral part of my experience in this gorgeous city. Moscow awaited.

Leningrad is a city of canals, a northern Venice of such beauty that there is no absurdity in the comparison

*Quotes from The Big Red Train Ride, Crime and Punishment, Kings of Leon, and my funky li-awl mind.

End of Trance

2008-08-31T20:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Photo & Map

2008-06-24T01:52:00.000-07:00

Header Photo: Trance festival beech. Early, Saturday May 10th
Map: Updated Route Map - click on the link and just see how far i've come, just see!

Welcome to the Jungle

2008-06-21T03:21:00.000-07:00

"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...

Art

2008-06-21T02:43:00.000-07:00

Time for the inevitable cultural tour of museums, the first, The Russian Museum, was my favourite. It's dark landscapes awed and inspired and I strolled through with Ivan, my wacky, intelligent host. The prize of favourite work here went to Victor Vanetsov with his piece, A Russian Knight at the Crossway. Other artists that made the Brown shorlist (Granny get your art books out!) included Feodor Vasiliev (Morning), Ivan Aivazovsky (The 9th Wave), Nikolay Dubovskoy (Calm Before The Storm), Konstantin Bogaevsky (Ships. Evening Sun) and especially Nikolai Roerich with his masterpiece, The Waiting One.

Next day, next museum. Some little green shack named the Hermitage was on the horizon. You need more than the half a day I set aside, however after getting in free due to Ivan's quick flash of his out of date student card I wasn't too miffed. All I had to do now was bypass face control with my Russian ticket (tourist tickets = 500 roubles, Russian citizen ticket = 50 roubles, Russian student = 0 roubles) by looking Russian. I drew close and set my lips to a miserable grimace and my eyes to the thousand yard stare that so many comrades here have developed. This seemed to do the trick and I was soon waltzing round the lavish interior of arguably Europe's finest collection, chilling with my main men Picasso and Michelangelo, not to mention being bowled over by von Hess' sprawling battle scenes. I have a list of other artists whose work I found palatable, but surprisingly not as many as the previous day.

Ivan, a fellow film lover finished my day in grand style by finishing our day in perfect style and Dom Kino, the English Speaking (Cyrillic subtitles) cinema for a Closer (bother) Be Kind, Rewind (don't) double header. The following 2 days were my last in the fine city and I settled down to finishing off sites I had not seen and words I had not read. It was then I received the thrum of SMS against my leg...

Giddy giant

2008-06-04T07:55:00.000-07:00

cntd. from SPB 2: That evening we gathered in the flat to enjoy an evening of champagne and football (Zenit St Petersburg vs Bayern Munich). While Olga was determined not to let the party descend into a football evening, a few die-hard Zenith fans had other ideas and I joined their throng as they smashed their way to a completely unexpected 4-1 victory (hence fingers in this photo days later). Merry didn't quite define it, and from this moment on the party was only going one way. The night bounced into day on a carriage of fine acoustic Russian sing-a-longs, numerous games of twister, ballroom dancing (I need practice)... and more champagne.

The following day I again changed hosts and met Ivan, an astute guy living a tram-ride away from Komandansky Prospekt Metro station. Over the next few days he introduced me to the delights of Russian junk food, including fried pilmeni, shavierma and pushka. We watched films at the English (Ah English - how I miss your sweet, understandable sound) with Russian subs cinema, enjoyed off-the-wall art galleries (photos of naked oriental women covered in ketchup) and the incredible SPB flea market - Si you would love this, and a must for all who visit.

Based in the outskirts this huge bargain metropolis of dusty stalls manned by equally dusty babushkas and elderly gents sold a variety of Soviet tat which I could have spent a fortune on given the time, rucksack space and rubles. I contented myself with a few badges and some old soviet-starred military shoulder straps to decorate my rucksack. And yes, Chruz even in this desert of rusty treasure I managed to find the long arm of Linux (got shouted at for taking this photo by miserable store owner).

St Petersburg 2

2008-05-19T03:04:00.000-07:00

The next day I met with Sasha, a Russian linguistics graduate who spoke surprisingly mint American English and had offered to show me round the city.

"Do you like walking?" she asked, "Cos we're gonna do a lot of it today".

Sasha was sharp of tongue and quick of foot. Amongst my favourite comments were: "What's with the nose ring, it's so ugly" and "get a haircut".

I held my own with a series of purposefully ignorant and mildly xenophobic comments. Great banter littered our walk (she walked insanely fast, with me in tired toddler mode lagging behind) as we dived-bombed into touristic bliss. St Peter & Paul Fortress was first on the march, it was where moy druk Dostoevsky was briefly imprisoned, and was followed by the rather large, impressive (and free!) Aurora, whose gunshot heralded the 1917 revolution. We power-walked through the centre of SPB (as the locals like to abbreviate it) and in the evening she introduced me to more couchsurfing friends at a meeting in a local bar, where I met another ex-pat who, like most, was teaching English here. There was a heated debate (not involving your "cool your boots, man" narrator) about whether English or Russian made the better TEFL teachers and I dragged myself back to Avtovo, looking forward to a pre-sleep scuffle with Schnapps.

Blinis, metro, coffee, metro, Nevsky Prospekt, metro, get off a stop too early, metro... and a day or so later I found myself back being verbally abused by Sasha, "Keep up! You're so slow", "why haven't you got your visa registered?". Ah yes, the visa registration...

Google this little gem and you will find a thousand faceless advisors clammering to scaremonger how failure to register every lungful of Russian air will see you jettisoned into the nearest Kartorga. Cut back to entry into Murmansk where I happily re-read Brynn Thomas "You must register within 3 days of arrival in each Russian city". Not planning on staying in Murmansk for 3 days, I believed I was safe until SPB, where I would look into registering. Unfortunately I relied on this one source for advice, it should in fact have read "all visas must be registered within 3 days of arrival into Russia". A really poor piece of wording in an otherwise excellent guide could have and could still cost me a hefty fine. But more on this story later (I miss BBC).

Sasha took photos of me posing next to graves of the talented in the Aleksandr Nevsky Monastery graveyard; Dostoevsky, Tchaikovsky and Nikolay Andreevich Rimsky-Korsakov (composer of The Flight of the Bumble-Bee - kind of a classical one-hit-wonder though surely? I doubt 2 Unlimited will recieve such a lavish burial). This was followed by a brief visit to another church - Dad I wish I could have donated my eyes to you for these as the churches were finally perhaps beginning to wear a bit thin. Too much of a good thing I guess...

"I'm all churched out! If you show me one more church, I'm liable to break". Just to test me she did, I just about held it together.

The next day we met and visited a book market, where I bought blank CD's emblazoned with old soviet banners (hope to be sending the photos back to you on these, Chruz. Mostly when I stop being frightened of the Russian post offices, the protocol of which is befuddling). Scene of the birth of Revolution, Palace Square for a military march (unplanned - always nice when this happens), I imagined it was a display just for me and took photos, clapped and realised how young the soldiers looked before recalling that most were forced into service by the 2 year manditory draft.

Hmmm. Ok, ok, I'll hold my tongue. For now.

Church of Resurrection - Savior on Spilled Blood - great from the outside, but don't waste roubles on the interior unless you're really bored. A glance at time running out and a rush to the Mariinsky to witness a soaring performance of Madame Butterfly. Sung in Italian and subtitled in Cyrillic I couldn't have been more confused regarding the plotline, though the fat guy spouting off about some heartache was pretty good I guess, no Thom Yorke though.

I made my way back to Egors (my 2nd SPB host) and prepared to leave for my third host, Olga. Olga is an ambassador on the couchsurfing project, an independent woman who knew how to have a good time. She picked up Bogdana - a cool indie-looking chick with a gorgeous smile - on the way. They chatted in Russian for a while before Olga declared,

"I will drive to the supermarket and you will buy us champagne"

My heart and wallet skipped a beat, before I realised she meant the cheap stuff and we settled into her gorgeous flat for a night of music, laughing, stories and preparations for Olga's impending birthday party the following night,

"You will come to my party and stay and extra night" she ordered. I was, of course, happy to comply and after bedding down at 4am, we arose at 10 with Miika, Bogdana's boyfriend to set out to the frankly beautiful gardens of Petergof and spotting Russia's most enormous beard and mullet combination.

St Petersburg 1

2008-05-16T05:02:00.000-07:00

My train from Petrozavodsk jolted into Ladogskaya train station, St Petersburg at 7:07am on 25th April. My phone alarm had been vibrating and bleeping on and off for half an hour before it woke me and I looked around to see everyone else in the compartment up and packed. Possibly this was due to my alarm. But such is the beauty of the language barrier (or concrete wall with blast-proof iron panelling in this case) I couldn't ask or apologise and to be honest had more pressing matters to mind.

Several texts from my first St Petersburg host, Inna, directed me to catch line 4 to Ligovsky before changing to line 1 to Avtovo. "Ostorozhno, dveri zakrivayutsa" the tannoyed voice announced as the doors hissed shut behind me and the Metro rolled into action. I now enjoy silently lipsinking to this phrase every time I depart a station, usually to the amusement/withered look of my companions.

The stations here are so deep that many passengers are buried in books during the long elevator ride into to depths of underground St Petersburg. The metro itself is usually a hot, crowded affair which involves clinging to the nearest greasy pole for support as the varied jolt-starts and hard-brakes do their best to throw you off balance and into your neighbour, requiring a swift "Izvinitye".

Finding my way to Avtovo I again used my newly bought Russian B-line (2 roubles a text - bargain) sim to summon Inna and guide me to her flat 5 minutes walk from the station. Inna and flat mate Nastia were great hosts and wouldn't allow me to cook a thing. Making me fresh coffee and introducing me to the best cat ever, Schnapps (stalked and attacked my foot without warning before scurrying away, repeat to fade), the girls left me with keys and to my own divices. Sleep beckoned but St P beckoned louder. I hastily stuffed my waypoint with the day's requirements and set foot back on the Metro to central St P.

It was hot, and my hazy mind decided once more upon my favourite idea for every new city: No map, no plan, get lost. I wandered round gardens, statues, ornate buildings, along canals and found myself on the bustling metropolis of Nevsky Prospekt, the city's jugular and maybe that day, my nemesis. I found my lack of basic Russian debilitating and purchased the Lonely Planet's excellent phrasebook for a slightly inflated 350 rubles before hopping back onto the metro.

On the second day I ate a fried rice and vegetable breakfast before being toured round the city by Inna and Nastia. The plan was to catch the bus to the southwest corner of the city centre and walk from there. On the bus I sat next to a teenager and distinguished strains of Slipknot blasting from his earphones as I strained to see anything through the sticky plastic advertisments that rise above window level on the buses here.

We walked though town towards the Mariinsky Theatre where a bolcony seat for Tuesday's Madame Butterfly was purchased from the predictably miserable ogre behind the tiny plastic screen of the ticket booth. Still, 1000 rubles is a bargain.

Slack blogging apologies

2008-05-16T04:59:00.000-07:00

Good, cheap internet is rarer than a day without wind here. And so the gap shall now be filled.

Petrozavodsk

2008-04-28T08:29:00.000-07:00

I stepped onto the 24-hour overnight train from Murmansk to Petrozavodsk on Saturday 19th April with my Plaskartny (3rd class) ticket in hand. To board, I had to show my ticket and passport to the guard at my carriage door. On board, it was great to get a taste of the Russian trains I had read so much about. The bunks were 2 deep on 3 sides (like this: П) of each sectioned apartment, with a walkway separating the 2 horizontal from the 4 vertical.

As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.

A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.

Waking up in a Plaskart is a more difficult job than going to sleep in one. There was barely room to manouvre my 6 ft frame out of the bunk. I was twice close to round-housing one of my more delicate co-passengers. The fun continues as each traveller attempts to carry out their unique morning ritual in the kind of personal space a factory-farmed chicken would shudder at.

Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.

The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.

Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.

Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.

Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).

To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.

Murmansk and beyond

2008-04-26T14:30:00.000-07:00

(Cntd from below)
On the back of booking my coach ticket to Murmansk and a slightly rushed couch-booking with my 2nd host Nastia, what to do, what to do...

With Kirkenes my salty oyster, I had options. I could have gone to chortle and pose with the sculptured bear mounting a lamppost outside the Russian Embassy, or I could have sauntered up the hill to the monument dedicated to the Red Army troops who liberated the town in 1944. But instead I strolled into tourist information, asked directions to the best coffee in town (bar Amundsen) and sat myself down to a soothing latte before heading to my carriage into Russia.

I could barely wait or comprehend it, after the glamour of Norway I was entering, for me and many others, a land of great awe and mystery. Even better, the northern territory which few endevoured to travel. "Where are you traveling?" people would casually ask, as though their eyes had - Terminator (the 1st) style - begun to list the expected reposte; "Thailand", "India".

"Russia"

"Russia?! Why Russia? You'd better be careful there", with a look that suggested the cold war was still in full swing. A small part of me warmed every time this happened.

I was to take a route previously unavailable to westerners during the soviet regime Kirkenes - Murmansk. Indeed, the Norwegian and Russian border control at Kirkenes had faced off at several points during the cold war, though things are a little more peaceful these days.

My 'coach' shuddered to a stop outside the Rica Arctic Hotel where I waited with 3 bawdy smokers and a suited & booted stern but pretty Russian lady clutching a brace of expensive looking shopping bags. It wasn't a coach at all, but a red minibus. Murmansk? I stuttered to the sniffling driver. I took his grunt as confirmation and hopped aboard with a sigh of contentment as I tucked myself into the corner with smultringer, water and literature to soak up the 5 hour journey.

My 4 other co-riders were all Russian. This is hardcore travelling, I thought to myself. I was getting a real kick out of such a unique route into Russia, not least the fact I was entering at a point different to that specified in my application, "I'm coming into St Petersburg via Helsinki Comrad". No you're not Michael. This served to add a little gamble to my proposed entry, but as I have learnt on this trip, what you think will happen probably won't.

So it was that I passed through Russian border in a jiffy, until I realised it was the Norwegian border and I still had the Russian one to come. At the desk, the Russian guard looked up at me with vague suspicion and then back down at my passport several times up and down, up and down. I started to feel uneasy: Nuts, should have gone through Finland. Gonna be stranded in Kirkenes. I hate Kirkenes.

"Popsodsjahjsdhghski?"
Blank look.
"You speak any Russian?"
"Nyet."
"..." "...Raaahahahahhaahahhaah! 'Nyet'. Hahahhaha! Wery good."

And with that I was through and back on the minibus, with the headline reading 'Dry English wit undermines Russian fear of the foreigner'.

The driver was a maniac. Even my Russian brethren were looking a little shaken up by the first leg of the journey as we pulled into an old army barracks now converted into a cute row of rentable cabins in the middle of nowhereski. Maniac approached, and I was attempting to drag out kick block number one from the recesses of my brief kickboxing experience when he opened his chops,

"You pay me now"
"No, I've already paid"
"No, you pay me for journey"
"Nyet way. I've already paid and showed you my ticket which you accepted at the start of this rather uncomfortable ride"

Luckily, bawdy smoker no. 2 came to a translating rescue and a few phone calls later, Maniac was safe in the knowlege the office would pay him on his return. The roads are awful here, but that didn't stop this guy from careering round numerous potholes, dints and overtaking in places where the few roadsigns that existed clearly advised aganst it. I scrambled for my seatbelt after being jolted from my seat twice in quick succession - Maniac had begun to drive through the potholes at the expense of his suspension, stern shopper's sleep and my behind.

Russians don't do seatbelts. To wear a seatbelt is a sign of fear, and what can you fear when you are with Russians? Nothing; we are together, so we are not afraid.

We rolled up to the hotel one hour early. I was to meet my hosts at 10pm. Maniac had shaved this time off using an abundance of rallying skills. I was met by Nastia and her two friends Katia and Djima. A quick stop to change and drop my load before heading on to a quiet drink at their friend's place nearer the city centre.

In the hero city of Murmansk from Wednesday to Saturday, I spent most of this time with trance-promoting couple Djima and Katia. We visited the eternal flame, in front of huge statue Alyosha which is a tribute to Russian soldiers who fought in WW2. Introduced to new foods: Salo (bacon fat), black bread (deeeeelicious). Toured the city's main road (took all of 20 minutes). Murmansk is still very Soviet, in architecture and in aura. To some it may be an ugly city but the people I met there made it cosy and hard to leave.

But leave I did...

Motherland

2008-04-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

The week has sped through my fingers at a rate of knots similar to with which I was hurled into Russia, pounding along a piece of cratered tarmac barely justifying the label 'road'.

But I drift ahead of myself.

My story picks up where it left off; aboard a wonderful boat with aforementioned wealthy tourists on an entirely different travel planet to my own.

Making a point of getting off at the numerous stops on the Hurtigruten's slow journey round the coast (short quest for the Linux cafe in Hammerfest in now part of 'Snakk' chain - sorry Chruz), we were permitted a 4 hour break to while away on the east coast of Nordkapp. Honningsvag, home to the northernmost brewery ("a micro-brewery, so it doesn't count" Jon reminded me prior to my departure - Jon being a proud product of Tromso, who previously held the title with their Mack's brewery) was to be the end of my quest north.

It had become a little obsession, the journey north, and continued to be so as I ignored the tat and trod through to the outskirts of the town, and on and on. With lump in throat I pulled myself together, took a deep breath and plonked myself down for a photo of my most northern point of the trip, at 70° 58' N, with the sea at my back and wind in my lungs.

Now, lets see how south I can get.

Back aboard with possibly one of the finest ales I've tasted settling in my stomach I struck up idle chat with the 2 Germans I had tail-gated into the ship's sauna, (the attitude of some aboard had driven me to take my own little private non-paying revenge), from which we could gaze upon the slowly disappearing Honingsvag, oozing sweat in the perfect heat. They left me alone contemplative, only for one to pop his head back through the door to shout "and good luck viz getting to China". Cheers Hanz.

I awoke the Wednesday morning with a heavy day ahead. My rucksack seemed to be losing space despite certainty that I hadn't gained items. A bade sad and fond farewell to the luxury liner and its Hawaiian-shirted cargo respectively.

and they stared right to the very end, bless 'em.

I had just about made it without comment when the gazing American standing a foot away from my attempts to don my gear got at departure received the brunt of English fury: "Alright mate?" I yelled rhetorically. I at last felt true kinship with goldfish, and indeed held more in common with such a species than with any soul aboard the 10:00am Midnatsol arrival at Kirkenes on Wednesday 16th April 2008. Nevertheless, a truly magical leg of my trip.

In Kirkenes I found myself in the library, being confronted with the first "Nei" to the question "snakker du engelsk?". Oh well, surely this won't be the trend the more intimate I become to Russia...

Searching the Wikipedia page on Kirkenes, I found that indeed it was the second most-bombed place during world war 2. My overriding emotion was hope that an unexploded device would perhaps soon detonate and flatten the drab little town once more (without casualty). Perhaps Norway will consider moving their border west a little to swiftly donate this ugly blot of land to another owner. Or maybe I was just tired.

Head down, I grabbed my coach ticket for Murmansk ("you do have a visa don't you dear?") and heaved my poorly rested bones into the nearest coffee den to enjoy the traveller's most uneconomical moment, when, on departing a country one finds his pockets full of coins that must be spent within the hour. On a much needed caffeine hit, or two.

And so to my chariot...

Bedless

2008-04-14T14:59:00.000-07:00

"I love you just the way you aaaarrrrrrre" croons the slightly off-key lounge performer on board the Midnatsol as we lumber northwards. Thanks man. Weaving between coastal settlements and deserted snowy islanded peaks, I observe them for 3 blissful hours from my own deserted island; one of two steaming open air jacuzzis atop this proud oceanic Mastodon. As snow drifts into my bubbling refuge, determined tugboats follow ferries and unexplained flashing lights blink from distant uninhabited forests. A rare spell of luxury on travels that are shortly, surely to become a touch more gruelling.

I rank amongst the youngest passengers on board and attracted glares as I attempted reorganise my rucksack in front of a wealthy mix of americans and germans, stifling the urge to sit back and declare "I'm really gonna have to offload some of this crack". Backpackers are undoubtedly a rare breed on the Hurtigruten. The staff were likewise taken aback when I explained I intended to travel sans-cabin,

"You're going to Kirkenes"
"Yes"
"...and you don't want a cabin?"
"No. Sleep is for the weak."*

*This conversation may not have taken place

With a surprisigly heavy heart I departed Tromso after enjoying my time there. The memories will linger. Snow-rafting, kiting, the northern lights, new people, students wandering the library in socks, exploring the island, finding the lake, kids in all-in-one snow-suits, a stroll round the botanic gardens to the goon show, drivers stopping to let you cross the road, no litter anywhere, recycling everywhere and always the isolating, grand, uncompromising backdrop to rely on like an old friend.

But in the words of Nelly Furtado all good things come to an end... mind you she also sang "don't you gaga goo no coochie-coo girl now ". I will attempt to find some darkened alcove to catch a little shut-eye in preparation for new shores and new adventures, starting with Hammerfest at 6:30am prompt.

Drift drift drift.

Update: Found a rug and curled up in the panoramic lounge for 2 hours of sleep before being awoken at 5am by over-keen early risers coughing and babbling German right next to me. Seemed a little confused as I tossed them overboard muttering xenophobic football-related comments, before heading back to my nap.

Onwards and upwards

2008-04-12T15:09:00.000-07:00

"It's compelling", I mused to Damian shortly before his departure...
"What."
"Coming this far north, you just get the urge to go norther"

Tromso has been enthralling for nigh on 2 weeks, exploring by week and snow-sporting by weekend at the incredible hospitality of my first couchsurfing hosts Melanie and Jon.

But I run the risk of becoming a slovenly traveller and must tread on.

I was informed by tourist information that the only link from Tromso to Finland, Lipan Linjat coaches, had made it timetablingly obvious that they didn't want people from Tromso to visit their country during the Winter. It seems - like many businesses this far north - that during the colder months they'd prefer to sit quaffing reindeer than accept my cold hard cash. This presented the first major hurdle to my plans, as previous readings of their schedule had led me to believe otherwise...

I was not to be undone, and a Norwegian sauna later my thoughts turned to a conversation with some German couchsurfers during my first night in Tromso,

"It had a sauna and a roof top swimming pool" they gushed of the great Hurtigruten ferry which scours the pock-marked west coast of Norway all the way up to the second-most bombed town during WW2. "...but we had no trunks".

and so my friends I was faced with the choice of a gruelling hitch-hike through the Finnish outback (a 7 hour journey from Tromso to Kitilla) or the Hurtigruten. Loca, a Taiwanese traveller with Eurail pass in hand had opted for former, and we received his relieved, babbling email 2 days later that went something to the tune of:

14 hours, 7 drivers, 2 sleepless nights (one in an unlocked outhouse he had found after missing the last train).

Great story, but the call of the Hurtigruten is strong and I must take heed.

Set the heading for north by north east and don't look back. Apologies to Finland, but it had mostly been a means by which to reach the Motherland, which I can now do by way of the 5 hour journey from Kirkenes to Murmansk - northern Russia holding a certain mystery en (my) route second only to North Korea (recommended reading).

Due to leave today on this, I instead opted to wait an extra day for the pride of the fleet to dock in Tromso - complete with sun deck, panoramic bar, jacuzzi, sauna and dancing bears.

Arriving in Kirkenes 40 hours later, feeling a little morose to be leaving Norway as I trudge to my 2pm departure to Murmansk, largest city north of the arctic circle, where I shall couchsurf a few days before a train ride to Pertozavodsk and beyond.

Mother Russia awaits...

Days

2008-04-08T02:03:00.000-07:00

Ok new photos up.

Things I needed the most:
Boots
Sleeping Bag

Things I could do without:
Cough
Dry skin
Norwegian prices (think festival prices then add a bit)
Slipping

Nice:
The crunch of snow underfoot
Fresh air
Views

Left my soul down by the sea

2008-04-06T17:02:00.000-07:00

It was with a heart as heavy as my over-filled rucksack that I bade farewell to Damian and Raggy and set foot alone back into snow-filled landscape after a bustling week in Tromso. I reside here still with natural buzz in tow since being treated to a heady midnight spectical. After 4 nights of frosty and ultimately disappointed noses peering out at the unfilled night sky, my Tromso dream became a reality. I was beckoned mid nature-call with the news that she had arrived, and after a short, shoeless sprint I was sock-deep in the snow viewing the constantly folding wispy-green curtain of her majesty, the northern lights.

Ace.

Prior to this we visited the world's Northern-most brewery, the world's northern most bishopric and the world's northern most Burger King, sampled good coffee, fine ales, climbed a mountain, bum-sledged through icy streets, endured the best and worst (cabin floor, freezing, with cold) nights sleep, sold cigarettes, learnt, slept and learnt some more.

Tromso is an island only in geographical terms, it welcomes strangers and has care only for the moment. The mountains here are not statues but playgrounds. And I shall play.

Drifty Mcsnowdrift.

North

2008-04-02T04:17:00.000-07:00

From the foot of the Bodo mountains we tucked our tired bodies into our latest shelter rented from a friendly old Norwegian man who gave us his best cabin for the cheapest price. Before long it was time to explore and after a brief foray to a hidden beach I collected Damian and we set foot into the green forests behind us (see 'Rambo' for reference).

Our feet then set straight into a german WW2 bunker, seemingly untouched for a while as the grass grew thickly round the edges and snow lay in its base. Further exploration uncovered douzens of bunkers, trenches and pill boxes littered in between the dense forest. The intended stroll had transformed into historical treasure trove.

Back at the cabin for a toast or two to the stunning views (see photos, soon) before heads down and early rise for Bodo - Narvik - Tromso coaches up the E6 through snow-brushed Lord of the rings scenery. This place is expensive, but worth every Kroner for the lush views that left us all happily silent.

Tromso parties like its 1999, and my 1st couchsurf went really well, this pm we plan to don the cable car for further views across this Northern island and beyond.

These boots were made for walking.

The drifter.

and so it begins

2008-03-27T16:40:00.000-07:00

"I'll burn every bridge that I cross, and find some beautiful place to get lost"

Freshness stung our faces as we stepped off our flight onto Trondheimian tarmac and towards the tiny airport of Norway's ex-capital. An uneventful flight was preceded by unimpressed check-in staff as I unravelled my passport from the waterproof pouch in my gleaming new moneybelt. "Overkill?" I suggested, "yes" he replied, dryly.

Norway is beautiful, and full of snow. Tap water tastes like it has been filtered directly from fresh-water lakes hidden in the rolling, snow-topped hills we flew over on our descent into Norway. The coffee is taken strong and black throughout the day... I love this place already. The first walk throught the streets reminded me of scenes from some bleak western, the distinctive wooden buildings waiting to spew a pair of brawling cowboys onto the streets at any moment. Our plans for the days ahead include the world's only bicycle lift and hitchhiking to hell and back.

The headlights are in full beam.

Please peruse the photos as linked top right of this page.

That is all.

Saturate dry wells

2008-01-29T14:47:00.000-08:00

My travel companion arrived today.
It will show you places where I am and have been.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Trouble Sleeping

2008-01-22T13:54:00.000-08:00

Waking at 5am in panicky flusters about where I'll be sleeping in China. 2008 is year of the brown rat so lets all head for the sewers. Spurs are beating Arsenal 5-1, that's brilliant. Well isn't Thorn Tree is a great site, contrary to the Russian Business Visa application. Anyone would think that UK relations with the Motherland are at an all time low. After much pestering and smelling something fishy from my nose, my visa support chappy admitted,

"According to the regulations we can only apply for business visa support 45 days prior to the indicated entry date. Therefore, we can not submit your request for processing immediately. Your request is stored in the system and will be submitted to the Passport and Visa Department on the nearest possible date."

Which means if I hadn't asked he would have had my support documents ready for 17th March (ring any bells?). A full 10 days before my departure. Why can't they just tell me the truth? Will have to lose half a month of the 3 month Visa just to get the documents in good time. No matter, I wasn't planning on a full 3 in The Motherland anyhow.
Hep A & B vacs yesterday in respective guns. Also need typhoid, rabies (the dogs may be out for revenge when chow down on their relatives), malaria and others so plenty more needles to come. Pete Doherty will be jealous.

Northern Lights Yo

2008-01-06T10:12:00.000-08:00

I leave: 27th March. Read the following with this.

1st leg Norway, beginning in sweet, sweet Trondheim. We stay with student friends studying at the university of Trondheim from 27th to 30th followed by lungfuls of Norwish air then shoulders for pillows aboard our overnight passage to Bodo (arr 0910 on the 31st), gateway to the north. Here we shall bribe the gatekeeper and find hostelry to lay our wares. From here it's anyone's guess how we make our way to Narvik, either

via the Lofoten Islands (if the ferry is running)
coach journey direct from Bodo or
by vigorously mincing our way there

Upon arriving at Narvik we can plough north to Tromso (arr 1st April), where I will probably enjoy my first couchsurf. The remainder of the Norway leg will be spent in Tromso observing the aurora borealis oh yeah. Options from Tromso are Stockholm then Helsinki or straight to Helsinki and onto the Motherland.

Corrections from last post: The brief flirtation with Denmark (and possibly Sweden) has now been put to bed, due to our new start point.

Travel Plans

2007-12-18T13:24:00.000-08:00

"It's nice to be alive
Wonderful people everywhere
The way they comb their hair makes me want to say
It's a wonderful place
Oh what a wonderful place
For you, for you, for you, not me"

...sings Zac De La Rocha from Rage Against The Machine. It'll come as no surprise then that Zac is coming nowhere near my travel plans, which begin here in late March. I'll indulge in planeflight from Stansted to Haugesund with my good friends Damian (Right) and Raggy - Damian's Norwegian (it's all coming together now isn't it reader) girlfriend. Raggy has kindly offered to show me the sights of her homeland before we proceed to Denmark (possibly) and Sweden before we go our separate ways as I proceed East to Finland and the Motherland. More to follow my pretties...

29.12.07 Update: Plans change like important minds the journey now starts here.