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.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Photo & Map
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!
Map: Updated Route Map - click on the link and just see how far i've come, just see!
Saturday, 21 June 2008
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...
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
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...
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...
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Giddy giant
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).
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).
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