Yaga Gathering: Drenched In Komorebi

The inevitable nerves induced by this daunting solo endeavour were calmed by the generous offers made by my hosts. Michelin star tasting dinners and various ceremonial experiences gave me mixed feelings of excitement and curiosity. Selective browsing of their social media provided a narrow impression of what I was getting into.

A trance-oriented line up with all the associated ingredients; hula hoops and every other form of fluorescent juggling accessory, tossed around by less fragrant folks donning shoddy ponchos and preaching incoherently about their pursuits into spiritual enlightenment. Usually, even the faintest whiff of such activities would have me furiously marching in the opposite direction. But despite my slightly negative impression of this genre, I sensed something was different here, so I left my cynicism at home and entered with all the positivity I could possibly summon.

Clearly this wasn’t enough, however, as the torrential rain soon washed away all hope and replaced it with the murky sludge of despair. “What the fuck am I doing here” was all I could think as I wrestled with the soggy canvas in a futile attempt to fashion it into some form of adequate shelter. Once I was semi-satisfied with what I had erected, I met with the other members of the media team, and we headed to the only solid roof that we could find, conveniently placed next to the bar. There we sat as the clouds emptied above our heads, bonding over our mutual bitterness and shared fascination at the unfazed revellers prancing around in their bare feet. I was reassured to learn that they all seemed as miffed as I was, also battling feelings of regret and questioning their presence here. Maybe we were all selected and lured in, we pondered; “Oblivious British journalists indoctrinated then sacrificed in a ritualistic pagan ceremony” was one of the speculative titles for a review that we would never write.

Heavily aided by Rinktinis, a lovely Baltic lager, the mood slowly started to turn as we began to see the humour in this atrocity we were surrounded by. This moderate joy was cut short when a lightning bolt directly and ferociously struck a nearby tree, incinerating it. Lingering in the air for what seemed like an extended period of time, its close proximity was confirmed by an immediate thunderclap; a shuddering rumble reminiscent of a Weatherall baseline. As the familiar feeling of dread reintroduced itself, I sat there quietly contemplating while gradually stepping up my consumption of Rinktinis, in a desperate pursuit of desensitisation.

By the time the rain eventually died down, I was sufficiently juiced and finally feeling brave enough to fulfil my duties and venture out into the surrounding wilderness. Guided by one of our more capable hosts, we stumbled and slid along the muddy paths, vaguely navigating this mysterious woodland that we would inhabit for the foreseeable future. It was dark, and my vision was blurry; any wrong move would have me splat down in the slurry, a gesture that would seem fitting considering all hope of maintaining my reputation as a credible journalist had long since vanished.

The next morning, some fresh arrivals looked down pitifully as my dishevelled body dragged itself out from under the canvas. As I sat there gathering my belongings and scattered thoughts, I attempted to recollect my fragmented memories from the night before. Our tour had taken us to three main stages sparsely located around a central market, flogging your predictable selection of holistic clutter; dream catchers, crystals and various potions were among the essential items urgently required to blend in and embrace my inner crust. On our travels, we encountered a group of fellow Brits whom I recognised from the plane. Among them was the notorious Jacques Adda, one of the many meticulous DJs who presented his variations of high-velocity trance on the Duskwood stage. Set deep within the trees and surrounded by a river, it became clear that this is where one would come for a fix of the mind melters. Curated by local producer Tadam, it hosted a selection of heavyweights in the Goa and psytrance scene, names such as Battle of the Future Buddhas and Trancesetters of Westphalia would all be injecting their finely tuned frequencies into the spongy brains of willing recipients. Throbbing baselines scattered with unrecognisable alien noises made me feel as though the lightning bolt witnessed earlier had channelled some form of extraterrestrial energy into the surrounding landscape.

An environment designed to stimulate every sense to maximum capacity; the visual presentation of this stage did well to match the frantic nature of the music. A glowing canopy of tapestries was intricately decorated with neon patterns and intensely illuminated by lasers shooting from every angle, what you’d imagine every psychedelic dreamer’s paradise to resemble. Perhaps a touch over-bearing for those of us not so inclined to dabble in such practices, but for myself, someone who’s only experience of this genre is in the scatty squat raves attended in my early years, it was hard not to be impressed by the advanced technicality and attentiveness in production of this music, even if at times it felt like it could induce a mild seizure.

The next stage on this voyage of discovery was called The Valley, a giant timber structure overlooking an expansive lake. Quite deceivingly named as it was positioned on a flat opening in the forest; a minor discrepancy that didn’t seem to bother the other attendees, as many were witnessed refreshing themselves in the cool water and frolicking on the grassy banks as the pulsating sound of psytrance resonated across the landscape. This stage was more diverse however, with artists playing a range of styles within the spectrum of dance music. A particular highlight was an exciting live performance from Fantastic Twins; her energetic use of analogue equipment provided a much-welcomed antidote to the slightly monotonous tone in much of the other music. Later on, I found myself looking out over the beautiful blanket of fog on the still water, thinking that silence would be a far more appropriate soundscape for this blissful scenery.

The feeling of being submerged in psytrance is a new sensation that I am now quite familiar with. Some can hold their breath longer than others, but unless I’m equipped with ear defenders and a long snorkel, I’d fear drowning fairly quickly. Thankfully, there was a sanctuary in the form of the Pinewood stage, an oasis of calm where ambient soothers reverberated between the trees. I’d often find myself running towards it, gasping for air. Surrounding it, a woven network of hammocks cradled the slumped bodies of spaced-out tree gazers staring up at the canopy while downtempo melodies caressed their eardrums. Italian DJ Amanita’s sensational selection of dubby psychedelia was especially appreciated by some of the more curious listeners.

Luckily for myself and the dedicated Yaga community, the following days proved that the ‘seven sleeping brothers’ are not to be trusted. The storm subsided, and the ocean of muddy puddles evaporated, allowing full exploration of this stunning landscape. A spooky fog leftover from the heavy rainfall lingered among the regimented formation of towering pine trees. Clueless wandering through this expansive forest would often lead to unexpected outcomes, with dark corners occupied by intriguing installations and other curiosities. The most noteworthy of these was a bright red beacon made up of fleshy latex cascading from the tree branches. This was the creation of Welsh artist Ella Jo Skinner, and would be the scene of her choreographed performance titled ‘Death of the Box’. One night, many inquisitive spectators gathered round as two dancers straddled this elasticated structure, desperately trying to escape its fleshy walls. Their entangled bodies slowly tearing away at it in a mesmerising display of synchronised destruction, eventually ripping it to the ground. The impressions made by their faces screaming silently into the blood red latex, along with the soundtrack of recordings taken from a Catholic confession box, created truly profound images of claustrophobia and isolation, resonating with my earlier feelings of despair.

I am happy to announce, to those of you still listening, that all despair quickly diminished when the sun finally revealed itself, resulting in the most breathtaking ‘komorebi’. For those that are unaware, this is a Japanese word with no direct translation and is used to describe the spectacle created when rays of sunlight shine through trees. Yaga exhibited some of the finest komorebi I have witnessed, with the floor of spongy moss and tangled roots providing the ideal surface to lie back on and soak it in. Fading ephemeral memories of deliriously drifting through the undergrowth, along with occasional, but cherished, flashbacks to the traumatic drenching at the start, elevated my appreciation of this glorious natural phenomenon. Feeling like Hunter S Thompson after abandoning his attorney and taking a wrong turn into Twin Peaks, the mysterious atmosphere shrouding this surreal corner of the Baltic’s never ceased to astonish, as the phrase “what the fuck am I doing here” continued to echo optimistically in my thoughts.

The exceptional Lithuanian hospitality did well to ensure that, despite being there alone, I never felt this way, as much of my remaining time there was spent frivolously galavanting with new acquaintances. My shoes remained firmly on, but the subtle formation of a few lone dreadlocks could indicate that I have shaken off my snobbery and seen the light. Not all the musical flavourings appealed to my particular taste, but the diverse variety of activities, workshops and performances at Yaga ensured that there was entertainment for everyone. For me, that entertainment came in the form of Komorebi, as you can always guarantee a good time when it is spent watching the trees.

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