We had already almost lost our hope when  suddenly Andrei came to my mind.

On the train Andrei had had his bed under mine, he was one of those men who had worked out a lot, and who was sharing some hunting stories with other local dudes. From time to time he silently gave me an apple or a chocolate bar, and was worried about where I was going like that. To meet the shaman people, I see.
And when we had almost lost all our hope I got a text from Andrei: Tomorrow there is a shaman at my place.
Walking through tundra
The Ural Moutains
Without a longer thought we took once again the weird means of transport, batuska, to cross the river and went to Labõtnang, where Andrei  picked us up with his Zhiguli. We spent the next few days at his place.
There were two handi shamans, Lazar and Slava, actually they were both more like 50/50 shamans as they liked to call themselves. Both had had grandfathers who had been very good shamans at their time. It is said that Lazar’s grandfather had caught a bullet with his bare hands. A great shaman like that.
But then history with its sad turns intervened. Namely, both grandfathers were killed by the communist government, just like most of big shamans in Siberia. My eyes were filled with tears when Slava told about this. He had been ten and thus had had only 3 years during which his grandfather had had a chance to teach him. Now he as a shaman has a problem, he can call the spirits but he doesn’t know how to send them back. Playing his shaman drum he can put you in trance but he can’t bring you back. So he couldn’t play us his drum for too long.
Andrei’s house
Lazar
The first night one of the most important wisdoms in Russia revealed: In breakfast table in Russia you first have to drink vodka, and only after that people start talking and themes developing. This is why the shaman boys didn’t want to talk too much. First we proudly had to whoop toasts and clink glasses. For sakuska (snacks) we had Siberian national dishes:
Strogonina – raw and frozen fish which is very thinly sliced. The slices can be dunked into a sauce or salt. Like ice cream but actually it’s fish, raw fish.

5-minutka – the same fish slices but now they’ve melted. They’re covered with several herbs, kept under a lid for 5 minutes and it’s ready!
Reindeer sausage and reindeer meat
Uhhaa soup.
By the way, Slava made us eat fish brain, too!
All in all we had the most classic nights in Russia. We and the men sat around the kitchen table, drank vodka and tasted exciting sakuskas, the sun was shining constantly. Andrei was a fantastic cook.

After a few shots he told me a bit more.
For a while we were left alone with Slava. He organized a little shaman session. He played bubin (shaman drum), danced shaman dances and while playing the drum above us he tried to find  the most problematic areas considering our health. After a short play on the drum he could, with a surprising accuracy, describe our characters. He also gave us some advice for the future.
A common characteristic of Siberian shamans is that they all wear an eye cover when in session. This is for the reason that nobody could see the shaman’s eyes in trance. A shaman in trance can travel in other universes gathering necessary information. The back of the shaman costume is covered with a metal ornament. It should protect from the evil spirits that could attack the shaman behind his back.
The shaman belt has the following elements:
- a hare
- a cold flake

Now we were really surprised.
Slava explained:
„The USSR killed all great shamans. To keep the shamans not being shoot at they put symbols of the power on their belts.”
Later that night when everybody was still in the kitchen whooping toasts, I sneaked into the other room to play bubin. I enjoyed the shaman drum’s powerful dim sound and practiced the rhythms Slava had taught me. Then the neighbours knocked on the door. Oh, it must be too late.

At the polar circle. On the other side of the Ural Mountains. Jamal Nenets autonomic district. Salekhard.

This was the most beautiful town of all I had seen in Russia. The streets were clean and houses decent. There were only a few Hruchovkas, which normally are very common elsewhere. I’d say that with its one or two storey buildings alongside with concrete houses that had an innovative touch, I felt as if I was somewhere in Scandinavia. But the town was lifeless. There were no cafés nor bars, no culture what so ever. We were forced to browse grocery stores that had already become monotonous, and where prices where about 30% higher than everywhere else in Russia.

Nights are light. The town doesn’t sleep but is in a dozy mode. In its ghastly visionary state it lives like a revived dead. We had walked the streets for days. And there was nothing to do.
The next day we went back to the government buildings, just like the man in a black suit jacket had suggested. Later the man got a nickname “Monkey”, and for a totally understandable reason. He had told us we could go up to the tundra but we’d need a visa for that. Normally it would take months to obtain one, but we would get it in an hour. Monkey promised to take us to the right office.
The weather was bad. The snow was melting and streets were covered with muck. Between the streets there were the  buildings of the newly-rich, who had got their money from selling oil.
Being on a taxi it took us long time to find the place. Finally Monkey called to the institution, after which our ride arrived. At first I didn’t recognize that it was like a mafia bus. Black, with tinted glasses and without a license plate.

The next moment we stepped ito an office where a bunch of important men, placed behind a glass, looked at us. On the walls there were soviet time heroic pictures of powerful leaders and of the forcefulness of the power. We’d travelled back to the time when the KGB kept an eye on people, at least this was the feeling I got.

But this was supposed to be an institution where an official permit for travelling to the Nenets and tundra was supposed to be given for us. We, full of hope, gave them our passports and started waiting. Monkey was satisfied and took a hike.

We waited for an hour. Things looked fishy. We smoked a cigaret and Berit opened doors for a gentlemen carrying a heavy black box. It seems that the work they do here is fine and complicated.
We waited one more hour.
Then a man with a wide smile came from the back room and announced honorably: “Now you have to pay a fine!”.
I bursted out laughing. We still didn’t quite get where we were and why we were there. We had only wanted the best and hoped to get our papers cleaned and then they come with their fine talk. I asked the men in button-down shirts to return our passports and promised to start going southwards instead. It was cold and gray and unpleasant there.
But the men didn’t give up – we had already broken the law. We had entered the border zone without a permit. If we don’t want to be fined we’ll be put in jail. We had different strategies and kept arguing with five men for about half an hour, meanwhile the men carried out their first psychological tests on us:

“You live at Nina Alexandrovitch’s, don’t you? Did you know that she’s just had her birthday, 27 May?” We, of course, hadn’t heard anything.

Finally we were taken upstairs for interrogation. They were already quite sure that we were Estoian spies, and at least one of us has to be a journalist. Then they started questioning us. The questions were from my brother’s academic perspectives to personal relationships, family history and reasons for coming to Russia. They threatened us with lie detector. I couldn’t help but notice important documents on the walls that lead me to an understanding that the place where we were was the infamous FSB… border service…former KGB.

I replied: „Of course. I came here to study your super nice pamjatniks (memorials).” And I actually was – for my MA research, which was about political symbolics, though political symbols in popular culture.

“And of course the Russian rigmarole.” I added.

The man stood then up: “I have no more questions.” 
Three minutes later he returned with handcuffs.
„But do you now have something to add?” he asked, forgetfully wiggling the handcuffs before me. “Do you know what these are?” 
They took our every single fingerprint and took photos from three sides. The hardware for the torturing had been in the same big box Berit had opened the door for an hour ago.  We were finally allowed to go in the evening. But I guess they still didn’t understand that the three girls they’d dealt with were three vagabunds who had simply wanted to hear the shaman songs of a nation related to their nation.

When we were back at home we asked Nina about her birthday, just in case.
“It was only recently. 27 May.”

„Yes, I’ve seen videos about parties held in Russian woods on youtube…” is normally the reply when you tell an Estonian something about Russia and trance.  

I had my last night in Voronezh, Berit was already on her way to tundra. I’d bought my friends a bottle of Vana Tallinn (400 rubles, you can find it from one certain shop), we were secretly sad and didn’t go to sleep until the morning. Natacha was supposed to go to an open-air party in Moscow…
Having woken up I couldn’t forget about the forest rave. At a momentous hour in the same afternoon everything was clear. I sold my train tickets and bought bus tickets to Moscow instead. The problem was that I had only two hours for packing, clearing my papers, moving out from the dorm, saying good bye to the teachers and doing all the thousand things you have to do before permanently moving out your former hometown.
Two wild hours later, as it’s proper in Russia before going on a trip, I was sitting with my rave companions, Sasha and Ljoha, on a bench. Eight hours later we took a route taxi and rattled 40km out of Moscow. On the taxi pathetic trance played and people were rather sloshed already.
Then we arrived in the forest. Under the luminous sky in a black forest there were three stages thumping three different styles of trance. Reality is lost the best when listening to totally artificial, or even robot-like dark trance. This is where I lost myself. And I guess that through artificiality as deadly as this, you can make it to the new spiritual level called trance… At least this is how I felt when looking around me. Sasha, wearing a luminous neon mask, was twitching with others in ectasy. All in all, masks and costumes seemed to be very popular. And India was totally the thing. People were dressed in Indian style from head to toe and dreaming about a trip to Goa.
My early morning rave

We walked the whole morning in the waking forest, the clunking barely in a hearing distance. We sat around a bonfire and dried our socks. Then we went to the nearest village, took an elektritchka and went back to Moscow. A few guys were still twitching in trance, a chick with afro braids opened her bag, took out knitting needles and started to knit.  Next to us old ladies rushing to the market were sitting, but we were still tangled and laughing all the time. It was 10 in the morning.
In Moscow a zombi day begun. We spent several hours in a metro. Finally we landed in a friend’s apartment.
Zombie crash in the kitchen of a random flat in Moscow

In the evening I was sitting in a train to Siberia. I was surrounded by tattooed men who were sharing their hunting stories and boozed a lot. Behind the window there were four figures – my good Russian friends. I understood that I owed thanks to no one but them, because now I knew how in such a chaotic and controversial world like Russia is today, it is possible to find the positive and safe “land of freedom”. It really is there.

The train started moving, my friends ran along the platform until he couldn’t hold his hand against mine on the other side of the window. Until they slowly disappeared into the distance. I sank into the bed.

We could even talk about a phenomenon called the pohhui-culture. This is especially evident among Russian young people. Politicians are pigs, nobody believes the media. Propaganda flourishes in red letters on the streets. History is interesting, because it is obvious that it is constantly re-written by someone’s interest. If you don’t have any experience of a period in history, how could you believe in things that happened at a time. This is the post-socialist generation’s ambivalence – they don’t know anymore what to believe. So the easiest way out is to take a particular attitude, “MNE pohhui”. Just pohhui, I don’t care.
Around the Victory Day on the 9th of May, the streets are immediately cluttered with Red. Peace. Spring. Victory, big posters along the roadside are reporting.
But for pohhui-attitude holding youth this is another day, when we have something to celebrate. Let’s party!

It is said that in order to understand Russia, you will need a liter of vodka. But after this one you no longer need to understand. Then you have already reached the pohhui-state.

One of the Russia’s most beloved word is probably prosta. Easy as that, right. Or?

Well, when I chat at a random corner of the street or in the park with market aunties, or just share life with friends, or laugh, then in Russia, things are quite easy, it’s prosta. Let’s talk about simple things, talk about fun things, just talking like that. Prosta.
And I like it. People tend to take the outside world with self-respect and with the attitude of fun. It seems healthy. Rushing around is seen as excessive, in-depth analysis is confusing, people should not stress too much, things should be prosta.
But if you’re already in dialogue with people and your familiarity in the conversation has already exceeded some third or fifth hour, the prosta seems not to be enough for me. The Russians, however, are still laughing and taking things as simple as that, prosta. They say that you cannot always ask how, why, and what if, because it is just so easy, without any implication or explanation.
Perhaps Russia has a second meaning of the prosta, which I do not know or do not remember.

And then suddenly I discover that I’m smiling. Just a smile. Prosta. And I quite like it.

When this word slipped over my lips, seven young actors in front of me started to paint vivid gestures with joy. Gopniki here is part of culture – gopniki is young, tasteless and weird. One who wears sneakers, fake Adidas sportswear and a random jacket.

Normally, he spends time hanging somewhere in the streets. His favorite pose is sitting down, both hands resting on the knees, palms toward the sky. Gopniki are usually a heavy drinker, alcohol keeps him going. Gopniki have a special way to hold the cigarette – between the thumb and the pointing finger. It is accompanied by arrogant attitude.

What does a gopnik do daily? Nothing.

He just hangs out on the streets and adds some spice on his life making other people’s pockets empty. Or starts a fight for fun. Gopniks usually live in a certain district of the city where common people usually do not want to go.

When you make trouble with gopniks they can suddenly behave especially mad. For example, they can crash a bottle of shampange on your head. That happened to one friend of mine who accidentally didn’t shake a hand with a gopnik, but just waved. Gopniks have its own logic, they can see a neutral gesture as irritating. And if it is that bad, then things must be put in place. Violence is just a means to get things right.
And probably friends of the lead characters of  one of my last stories Andrei and Sergei are gopniks.

They are against the capitalist system, yet however the aesthetics of their propaganda uses the similar methods…

Sasha says that the most important thing is to be free – free in your head, free in your mind. He doesn’t want to be plankton, like most people here in Russia.
Who is Plankton?
Plankton wakes up in the morning, eats a sausage sandwich, runs to work, hates his job, slowly walks back home, sits in front of the TV, eats sausage sandwiches, drinks beer, gets bored, goes to sleep, and then back to work the next morning. Over the weekend he is just lying in front of the TV all day, drinking beer and getting bored. He does not know much more, he does not think much more. All he knows comes from TV, or it is hanging on the neighboring posters smelling nothing else than propaganda, which he  tends to follow, subconciously. 

With mixed feelings we took the elevator to the 10th floor. There were no numbers on doors but we could hear a cat mewing through one. I turned the key, at the same time being a bit frightened to see something extremely embarassing. Something that you’d expect in an alcoholic’s apartement.
But it was vice versa.

We had an inside view into an astonishing world of someone. Everything was clean and nice and there were many interesting things put in place with an extreme neatness. The library was filled with literature about philosophy and art history, on a nightstand there was a little book about mushrooms. Exciting paintings hanging on the walls. On the floor there were big stones and giant horseshoes, which I later heard were used in the WW I. On a tree stump a rifle with a wooden grip was lain, which I later heard was from the 18th century. Heirloom. Lain on the wall there were two more guns. Meant for expeditions in tundra.
I found his album collection that is full of really good psychedelic rock or Tibetan meditation stuff. We explored Ilia’s world going through his books and listening to his music that flew us back to the golden age of hippies the whole day.

„I’m free! I’m free again!“  were the first words he euphorically shouted when he had stepped in.  „I’m free! Let’s celebrate!“
We opened a bottle of wine, out of courtesy.
Bit by bit his life story was rolled out before us. He had told  about his spiels about Berlin and Norway on the phone the day before. After the first glass of wine his face that had been a bit hammered after spending some time at the sobering institution suddenly turned sparky. His speech was clever and intriguing.
His blood is of Norwegian, Russian and Estonian  (!) origin. He was brought up in Moscow. From there he went to Berlin for his doctorate, there, with his own hands, he helped to demolish the Berlin wall and was a squatter for 5 years. With the biggest hippies of the era. He was one himself. Long hair and long beard. John Lennon’s glasses. A few band projects. Women. Experiments with different psychotropic herbs and LSD. He showed some of his drawings from the period. He was hell of a good artist. He was friends with Yoko Ono and Timothy Leary. His doctoral dissertation was of Buddhist ideas in neo-left-liberal movements. In other words, about hippies. His life motto was: Move fast slowly.
For a while he lived in Amsterdam, then in the USA, he established a couple of “clubs of free thought”. Then there was a story of unhappy love and a decision to travel up, behind the polar circle, where he could easily finish his life.

He had crossed the polar circle and…
The illness is called Polar Disease. When you’ve seen the polar day then you want to see it again and again.
In Lapland the man bought himself 100 hectares of land, and after that, which means the past 15 years, he has travelled to the north to an expedition each year. He has built his own huts, he knows each stone and tree stump. Alone in his domain, brown bear being the only king.

When we went to the shop for another bottle of wine, Ilia came up with a brilliant idea that didn’t surprise me:
„I have some grapefruit juice at home. And I have ice. What do you think of fixing some good coctails?” 
It was sad to look at a gifted man, a man whose gifts had turned into fading memories. He had come through of so much, but the thing that’s finally going to break him is still the Liquid Devil.