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.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Thursday, 11 September 2008
One Day I Will Leave This City
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.
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.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
End of Trance
Paying the driver we walked some way down a road lined on both sides with dense forestry – real Blair Witch Project stuff. Bar the odd car headlights I couldn’t see a thing. Groups of people keen for banter approached us, invited us into the woods for various reasons and upon our rebuttal faded back into the darkness to the crunch of twigs underfoot.
Meeting with the rest of the group, we took a right turn ourselves into the swampy tree-packed undergrowth. Douzens of white cats flashed past as we progressed through the forest, glowing with the energy of the place. It was unreal. The pitch black was otherwise only split by the occasional gurgle of another heavily-laden foot sinking into unseen bog. That and the faint thudding of bass from a mile off as the eyes strained to see the hidden dancefloor. Lights suddenly flickered, but not those of exhibition. These were searching, close, militant.
“Get down and stay down” a voice whispered in the darkness. So my air cadet training circa 1995 – 1995 hadn’t gone to waste! We crouched in a muddy ditch. With my rucksack I was a turtle hiding in a petri dish. But the voices and footsteps passed by.
“What were those torches for?”
“Us, we don’t pay”
“Ah.”
We cut right into the heart of the dense forest. It was hard going – mud tugged at my boots and the load on my back got heavier with every step. The terrain was unpredictable and unseen, I went over twice. Companions heard the crashes and chuckled whilst treading back to help.
A scene soon interrupted the darkness: lights – torches, friendly ones. They illuminated a tent, a dancing girl, dreadlocked, eyes shut tight, swaying. Fires, more lights, smells, sounds. Senses once again in use.
Arriving in a glade
This is where they dance, now I am they.
Trance beating into me.
A surge of euphoria – “This is amazing.”
Dancing with rucksack on
Dragged off unwillingly to the campsite – “Mischa! This way.”
Tent up, wandering round, attempt conversation - lack of Russian apparent, settle into anonimity, sit, tired, sleep.
Morning.
I awake to a magical camp. Sun and shashliks blazing, coffee offered. I could kiss the offerer, but I don’t think Djimka would appreciate it, so I just drink the coffee. So where are the toilets? “anywhere”. Sleep late, stroll, beech, more rest, food. Understand: all is preparation for the evening, when the magic happens. After camp fire dinner and passed bottles we hit the dance floor with shrieks of "Davaii!". I lose everyone, find them and lose them again. No matter, there are few threats and many friends to be made; people are here to dance away the pointless elections, the avoided draft, the simmering resentment for all these things and more. Do I focus on the negative? No. This is what they tell me.
This is [their] church, this is where [they] heal [their] hurts
They shed skins and smile and are happy because there are no rules here; no paperwork and stamps to pram you from one tree to another. Ink stamp paper, ink stamp paper.
Here there are people, trees, a beech, a lake and real choice.
Where am I. I am in a hammock on the edge of a dancefloor sipping a cool beer, it is 4am and I survey the scene. The music is relentless, it’s a little chilly but I’ve wrapped up so all is good. I drop off for a couple of hours and awake to whoops. The music is climactic. The sun is about to burst onto the horizon like an apolocolyptic explosion from an old Manga film. I rise and attempt photos of this magnificent scene. I get a few then my camera stops working, but it’s not such a drama in a place like this. I join a fireside group for a while and we take once more to the beech before I make my way back to camp.
Back through the glade, music still pumping.
Over the wooden planked bridge, watch your step Michael.
Follow the riverbed round until it cuts off to the left
Duck through bushes on your left and a few steps to camp.
“Mischa! Where have you been we were worried!”.
It is 6am. Time to climb the wooden stairs.
…and so it went. Details: there were roughly 14 friends camping with us. The music stopped only from 16:00 – 18:00 every day. I visited friend’s camps. Eager to talk they were undeterred by my “ja nye gavaru paruski” and spoke slower, louder Russian. The English are hence not the only nation to do this.
By day 4 we were ready to run back into the arms of mother Russia. I said goodbye to good friends that I knew would not be in touch, it just wasn’t their style. No, we would leave each other there in the woods, there our relationships are harnessed. Amongst others Max (Davaii!) and Vitok, with his truly excellent tattoos and a love of offering me cognac.
The dense wet taiga tugged at our jeans, emploring us not to leave. Arriving at the road we hailed a passing car and took the train back to St Petersburg. What a great experience, another individual festival to add to the collection, something I have been doing since the age of 15, but nothing like this.
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.
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...
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