ACCIDENTAL TOURIST – TROUBLE ON A TRAIN

First published in Sunday Times, February 2020

Warsaw! Mockba!

A quick sojourn in Helsinki, a short hop on the ferry to Tallinn, Estonia followed by a 7-week journey by train through Russia and the rest of the Eastern Bloc all the way to Turkey. A brave itinerary back in 2000.

“It’ll be a breeze.” Phoebe and I said to each other. Or so we thought.

It started with a night of fitful sleep on our first Russian train after a stern-faced conductor demanded our passports. Upon seeing that we were South African, he exited the compartment whilst remarking that ‘they’ will look at our passports closely.

Ilse ran out of warm clothes in Russia

Phoebe needs an umbrella in the Russian summer

St. Petersburg was pretty. Moscow was marvellous, and the only place where we could apply for our Belo-Russian in-transit visas.

In the middle of the night the train crossed the border into Belarus. There was no border control. We were the only Westerners on the train.  The rest were vodka-swilling louts.

Phoebe in our compartment

With some trepidation we made our way to the breakfast carriage. The only breakfast option was thick chunks of dark bread, pale cheese and sweet black coffee. Our waiter gesticulated madly and rummaged under the counter. A few seconds later the gravelly voice of Louis Armstrong filled the carriage. When we sang along, tears ran down his cheeks.

The countryside of Belarus seen from the train

Close to Minsk we saw soldiers armed with AK-47 assault rifles every 100 metres or so next to the railway line, their barrels pointed at the train.

At Brest the train pulled into a workshop-type hangar. Whilst a contingent of armed police and border guards seemed to be dismantling parts of the train, a soldier thoroughly searched our compartment.

A conductor brought back one passport – Phoebe’s. No explanation was offered. A while later he returned barking “Moscow” indicating he was sending me back to Russia whilst Phoebe could continue to Warsaw, Poland. This made no sense whatsoever.

We’d read about the notorious Belarus border guards prior to our trip. Transit passengers stood the risk of interrogation, could be sent back to Russia or simply thrown off the train.

Through sign language we learnt that my visa had supposedly become invalid as my stapled photograph had become partly undone. In fact, it had been loosened by ‘them’.

Things turned even more sinister. I was marched off to an empty compartment.

The soldier – holding an automatic rifle – locked the door and interrogated me in a language I didn’t understand. After a while a 2-word battle ensued. He shouted MOSCOW at the top of his voice. I shouted WARSAW at the top of mine. This was repeated again AND AGAIN.

I attempted a game – only, it was everything but a game – of charades. I demonstrated how HE fetched my passport at 2 o’ clock (pointing to my watch), how HE loosened the staple and then brought it back to me.

After more shouting he demanded another piece of documentation from me. I was shaking like a leaf when I unzipped the pouch of my money bag. I prayed fervently that my hands wouldn’t shake when I handed it over to him, though he could probably smell my fear. I gingerly handed it over.

After a few more gruff insults he let me go BUT he kept my passport and shouted MOSCOW down the passage though, I thought, with less vigour.

A few minutes later he yanked open the door and threw my passport down on the bunk bed. He mumbled something that sounded like Warsaw and indeed it was because, when the train left the hangar, I was waved through customs in desultory fashion.

Upon reaching Krakow two very relieved South Africans had a few stiff vodkas each to calm our nerves. Croatia was awaiting us, and thereafter, the Yugoslavian train trip that we had also been warned not to take…

All’s well that ends well