SAAREMAA - "When we saw your tent, we thought, 'Somebody very poor must live there.'"
A tent like ours could only attract such disparaging comments in a place like Estonia. In a country that has raced to embrace all things new and shiny, the beauty of things odd and old is sadly overlooked.
That's how I came to find the tent languishing in the dusty back corridors of a second hand center in Tallinn. Its previous owner had no doubt abandoned it in favor of one of those sleek and streamlined plastic tents, the kind that unfurl with a snap of the wrist and pop into place with a single peg.
This was no such space-aged camping facility. It failed every test of convenience. I was even unsure of its ability to resist the weather.
It was an ancient house frame tent made of sun-worn canvas. Its roof was a faded green color, its sides bright stripes of orange, pink and white. Its flaps were held together not with zippers, but large wooden knobs. It looked like something from a comic book.
I bought it on the spot for 150 kroons. Its destination 's Saaremaa, Hiiumaa and Muhu, the largest of Estonia's many mystical islands.
Of course, island hospitality would see to it that we would only need the tent for three of nine nights. We would sleep in beds, on floors, in abandoned houses and in straw-softened attics most of the time. But when it was needed, the old tent stood the test.
I keep talking in the plural here 's the "we" I refer to is me and Colin. Colin's somewhat of a celebrity around Tallinn, thanks to his unmistakable crown of frizzy black hair. His afro attracts attention wherever he goes. It certainly helped while hitchhiking around the islands 's drivers slowed down just to gawk.
We're a decent match of traveling partners. Only a wry and dry Australian like me can absorb his thick Canadian sarcasm. I had enough of a grasp on the Estonian language to talk our way around the islands. He had enough outdoors know-how to ensure we didn't die in the process.
We jumped a ride out of Tallinn the day before Jaanipaev (St. John's Day). Our driver insisted we set out early to avoid the midsummer traffic and steal a berth on the ferry. I don't know how long we waited at the ferry dock 's I was asleep in the back of the car the whole time. When I awoke we were already flying through the green country lanes of Saaremaa, and I felt energized by the memory of the place.
Saaremaa for me has always been the most special corner of Estonia. On the surface it seems dull and rural 's green pastures, ramshackle houses, dirt roads and dubious sanitation. But it slowly traps you with its charms 's its quirky residents, its old traditions, its idyllic tranquility and its dark legends. The island is so heavy with mysticism, it should have sunk by now.
I first came here one year ago to celebrate Jaanipaev with Keito and Tuuli, two friends I met in Tartu. Keito had just inherited a run-down old property from a dowager aunt, and the pair decided to eschew the bohemian art scene of Tartu in favor of a rural existence in the village of Leisi. The property hadn't been occupied for years when they arrived. The door groaned open, the house gasped out a breath of musty air. The yard was a jungle of weeds, the well pump rusty and arthritic.
It's a very different house this summer. Keito and Tuuli have spent a year clearing the yards. They've knocked down a few walls, cleaned out the sheds, trimmed back the grass and fixed up the sauna. A year of island living seems to have done wonders for their wellbeing too. I briefly contemplate following in their footsteps.
We prepared for midsummer by gathering birch branches from the forest to make sauna switches. "They're only good until Jaanipaev, then the leaves start to fall off," Tuuli told us, "Lots of things in nature change after the longest day of the year."
The farmers, too, were preparing for a change in season. Our idle hands were quickly put to work by a nearby farmer, who had us lifting hay bales from his fields and into his lofts, and rewarded us with a hearty lunch of pork and potatoes.
Keito is one who shares our appreciation for rustic objects. He operates a bicycle workshop in one room of his shed, fixing up the Soviet-era rattlers that locals use to trundle around the village. They're not bicycles, Keito insists, but "united pieces of bicycles," built from the remnants of old frames and wheels.
He lent us a pair of united pieces of bicycles and we set off the day after Jaanipaev with our backpacks strapped to their rickety skeletons. From Leisi it's a short ride to Triigi, and from Triigi it's a short ferry trip to Hiiumaa, Saaremaa's northern neighbor. I wondered who else would use this ferry, a slow old boat that connects two thinly populated islands in the chilly north of the Baltic Sea. In this crowded corner of the planet, this forgotten ferry boat is a picture of isolation.
This is a public notice of thanks to the Finnish owners of a half-constructed summer house in the south of Hiiumaa 's thanks for abandoning your property and leaving it as a shelter for wayward cyclists.
We know you're Finnish because of the lettering on the box of matches we borrowed from your house. We had to break into your house to get the matches, but don't worry, we closed the window and set the latch so you'll never know.
In the future, it would be nice if you leave a couple of mattresses out for temporary squatters like us, but don't worry, the ground was comfortable enough for one night.
Please don't return to your charming little cottage. The locals don't seem to want you here, judging by all the anti-Finn attitude we encountered. And we might need to visit it again, because we were completely won over by Hiiumaa.
If Saaremaa is one step back from everyday life, then Hiiumaa is two steps backward 's a further degree of tranquility.
A herd of seafaring cows farewelled us at the ferry dock. They were wandering out to sea across the shallow waters, as island cows are wont to do. We chatted briefly with a few locals about the remoteness of the place. We reloaded our united pieces of bicycles and trundled on. We had a festival to get to.
The main reason for our trip to the islands was Juu Jaab, the best kept secret on Estonia's summer festival calendar. The festival has been running for eleven years now, but it doesn't seem to have changed much in that time. Juu Jaab is three days of jazz, folk, funk, and world music on a paddock on Muhu island. It's the best three days of partying across the whole summer, but don't tell anyone or else it might get too popular.
Our little tent finally got put to work. We erected it with pride, flapping its bright colorful canvas open like a flag. It took some strategizing to keep it standing. We had to cut sticks into poles and whittle branches into pegs. We'd barely thrown the tarp over the top when the first drops of an impending storm began to fall.
All through that first night, I was sure the tent would be blown away in the wind. It howled with the ferocity of a tropical storm, yet our ancient canvas shelter held fast.
In the camping ground at Juu Jaab we met Karl-Erik, another collector with an appreciation for retro. His object of pride wasn't a tent but a car 's a beautifully restored old Moskvitch 400. I thought Soviet car factories were only capable of pumping out boxy Ladas, but here was an elegant roadster that seemed like a set piece from a 1930s gangster film. When the Soviets took over East Germany, they laid claim to the Opel factory and began producing identical vehicles, Karl-Erik explained. It's possible to find the dilapidated shells of Moskvitch 400s all across the former socialist republics, but most require a fair amount of restoration.
Both Karl-Erik's car and our tent attracted plenty of attention. "Muy historico," I heard one Spanish-speaking admirer exclaim to his wife as they gazed at its funky circus-colored canvas. Our campsite neighbors were sheltering in a slick plastic apparatus, and looked at us with some pity. "When we saw your tent, we thought, 'Somebody very poor must live there.'" one of the campers told us.
We knew better. The battered old thing stood strong for three days, and barely a single mosquito or raindrop invaded its sides.
The tent is scheduled for reappearance at the upcoming Viljandi Folk Festival. Drop by if you see it and say hello. This country is short of folk who admire a bit of Soviet retro.
