stranded (a bit)

a european odyssey in several parts

2: FREE-WHEELER
    (a.k.a. "All I want is a few hours' sleep, gods-dammit!")

You'd be amazed at what you can do to a train while people are on it. Or maybe you wouldn't ... depends on where you've travelled by train, I guess.

In any case, I was amazed at what happened on the border between Ukraine and Poland in December.

As you may or may not recall, I'd had no sleep the night before, so as the sun came up I tried to settle in for a restful journey to Krakow. It was difficult, though, 'cause I knew there'd be a border check and I didn't know what time we were meant to arrive at the magic line-in-the-sand.

About 90 minutes later, while I was staring vacantly into space, a tall red-headed woman with intense blue eyes came into my compartment. I remember being struck by the fact that the colour of her eyes matched her shapka* perfectly. Then it registered that the tall furry hat was part of the Ukrainian Border Patrol uniform, and that I was going to be asked for my passport. I quickly grabbed it from my bag and handed it over, and she took it politely and respectfully, asked me a few searching questions, and handed it back. Ok ... so far, so good.

However, when the process was repeated on the Polish side of the border, things started to get a little weird. (It's always a small increment of weirdness first, followed by larger and larger increments ... don't you find?) This time, when I tell you they took my passport, I don't just mean that they grabbed it, inspected it and added a big red stamp. The border patrol guy actually walked away with the passport in his hand, and a few minutes later I saw him getting off  the train and disappearing into a station office. I was suddenly ID-free, at the exact point in space where Europe officially begins and ... well, not officially Europe ends.

Almost half an hour elapsed before I got my passport back, and by this time I was more or less in a Zombie State. The moment the border patrol guard was gone, I keeled over in my bunk and tried to get comfortable. At last, I could fall into the waiting arms of sleep. At last I could make at least some attempt to arrive at my destination refreshed and ready for the Embassy visit which was the focus of my journey. At last, I could ...

Wait a second: what's going on? Why the Hell are we going backwards?

It was a largely rhetorical question: I knew there was no hope of me getting an understandable answer from the Ukrainian-speaking carriage attendant, even if I could find him.

And so I closed my eyes.

I've found that when you live as a foreigner – and often when you travel too – there are occasions when you just have to trust that whatever strangeness is happening around you will turn out to be non-fatal, and let it wash over you. Luckily, living in the former USSR provides plenty of practice in this art, and especially in Kazakhstan I learned to worry far less about things that would previously have sent me into Freakout Mode. So I guess that's what happened in this case: I just realised there was nothing I could do, and that realisation coupled with complete exhauston was enough to let me drift off to sleep, without any clear idea of where I might wake up.

I don't know how much later it was when I was shaken violently awake by the sound of an electric drill close by.

"Errr ... huh???"

I peeked into the corridor and saw two guys who looked like customs officers. One of them had a tool kit ... not something I'm used to seeing customs guys carrying! A few minutes later they entered my compartment, lifted up my bunk and asked me to open my suitcase. Ok, no problem. Then they got the drill out, and started removing the ceiling panel.

It was at this point that bells started ringing in my head. I remembered hearing about some of my colleagues crossing the Polish border by bus, and how customs had stripped the bus to find smuggled cartons of cigarettes (worth about $1 a pack in Ukraine, and $4 a pack in Poland).

The weird thing about that episode was that everyone, including the customs officers and most of the ordinary passengers, seemed to have been in on the scam. Customs delved into almost every little hidden space on the bus, and took out maybe ten cartons ... but they deliberately ignored a few obvious places, where most of the contraband cigarettes were hidden. And sure enough, as soon as the border was safely behind them, locals pulled out screwdrivers and crowbars, retrieved all the 'accidentally missed' cartons, and passed them to the driver. My friends, meanwhile, sat stunned in their seats. One of said friends had arrived in Ukraine barely a month earlier, after spending two years in sane and sunly Budapest. Nice introduction to the East for her )))

So anyway, back to my situation: the customs guys took apart my little sleep chamber, felt inside the ceiling with gloved hands, poked into all the corners with mirrors on long sticks and shined torches on the mirrors ... and then, apparently satisfied that I wasn't an evil tobacco smuggler, they smiled politely and left.

A few minutes later I peeked into the corridor again to see if they'd really gone, and if it was ok to sleep. The first thing I saw was a shifty-looking Ukrainian guy loitering less than a metre from me, with a question on the tip of his tongue: "Do you want to buy some cheap cigarettes?"

I closed my compartment door and locked it.

When the train started creeping forward a few minutes later – heading once again for the wonderfully unpronouncable Polish border town of Przemysl** – I lost consciousness entirely.
 
The next time I woke up we were in Przemysl, and my carriage was being jolted about violently in all directions. When I went to the vestibule for a cigarette, I noticed with horror that the carriage which had previously adjoined mine was gone, and that there was a locomotive in its place.
 
"WTF?", was naturally the next thing that went through my mind.
 
My first theory was this: there had been a technical problem with my carriage, and it had been hauled into a goods yard for maintenance, with me still inside. The carriage attendant was still on board, though. I couldn't ask him what was going on, so I just sat in my cabin, being buffeted backwards and forwards, until about 10 minutes later I finally remembered something that Scott had told me, which more or less explained what was happening.
 
"It's ok", I reassured myself. "Everything's going to be fine. They're just changing the wheels."

Mm-hmm, that's right; going from Ukraine to Poland, every train has its wheels taken off and replaced with wheels of a different size ... while the passengers are on board! Not only can I not imagine how this is done; I can't even imagine why it's done. I mean, if the rails are a different size in Poland, why not just get everyone to change trains at the border? I really don't get it. But anyway, that's what happened ... and it was not a gentle process!


3: STEAM & THINGS

Anyway, once the new wheels were affixed, the rest of the journey to Krakow passed smoothly, and I finally, finally slept.

Some time later I had my first glimpse of Poland's "cultural capital", and I have to say it was very pleasant (apart from the biting cold). As I mentioned in the last entry, the christmas market with its steaming sausages, its steaming hot wine and its steaming everything-else-that-had-been-heated-to-above-freezing was rather wonderful. And there were plenty of poky little streets to explore in this beautiful medieval city. I mean, it didn't blow my mind the way Tallinn does – but then, few other places in Europe can compete with that level of prettiness.

(I have to ignore Tallinn when I'm rating other European cities, 'cause it just throws the whole scale. With that done, I'd probably put Krakow somewhere not too far from the top.)

The alternative, 'arty' vibe in the city was definitely not something I'd expected to encounter – especially after living in nearby Lviv for a few months, where said vibe exists only in pockets. On my second night in Krakow, I spent most of the evening in an underground 'rock club' where I danced to everything from Rammstein to The Doors, sharing the premises with a motley collection of metalheads, punks, goths, rockers and other interesting folk. The next morning I woke up on a sofa in the hostel reception, alongside other guests and staff members who'd all come back and collapsed with me after a great but exhausting night out.

This was definitely a contrast to Lviv, where the 'cool' clubs are frighteningly pedestrian, sleazy and depressing (and where I haven't dared to venture into any of the less reputable ones, for fear of throwing up in disgust).

And that – apart from a little bribery to get myself a private compartment on the way back, which I'd actually purchased but then been denied – was my first visit to Krakow.

Which brings me almost back to the present moment, sitting on the bench in the main market (sans christmas stalls this time) and hoping my laptop battery doesn't run out as I scribble down my thoughts (or at least, as I do the electronic equivalent of scribbling ... i.e. typing anything that comes to mind at 20,000 kph, then going back later and wondering what the Hell I was trying to say, and whether it can be organised into anything that approaches coherency).

So ... how did I end up here again, on this chilly May evening?

Hmmm, good question. Glad you asked ;-)

Tell you later.


... to be continued


* shapka - I've mentioned these before in The Manor, but in case you've forgotten, they're those tall furry hats that are popular in Russia, Eastern Europe and elsewhere within the 'former Soviet world'.

** I remember in the 1990s seeing a fake news story on The Onion (political satire website), to the effect that Clinton was sending the US Army into the former Yugoslavia to bomb it with vowels. The article was full of stuff like "Officials in the regional capital of Brzlsmc say that the shortage of vowels here could lead to ethnic cleansing if the situation doesn't improve soon." I often think of that silly piece of humour when faced with names like "Przemysl".