Two foreigners are struggling to lift their heavy packs back into the shopping cart. The woman at the supermarket check-out eyes them curiously. What could they possibly be up to with all of those tins and instant soups?
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Kasachstan Landscape is waving past the window brown, ocker, dusty dry spikes, stony lines flowing by the green, yellow trees you fell asleep to are long gone, replaced by a vast open space, like a dream that is washed away by the cold morning air Thoughts drift off – Einsteins theory of relativity and the picture of yourself ages ago in a classroom – as another train flys past the clock has lost its meaning while you glide through the time zones unaware of the hours onboard, everything stands still although the dry grass and round hills keep rolling past relentlessly outside the rattling, shaking cough of the rails has long become part of your own heartbeat cradling you out of and into sleep again on a day that feels like a motionless wheel Only the view from your window, ever-changing: an arid plane, interspersed with depressions and abrasion islands, scelettons of soil the blue hills in the distance, and suddenly you are amongst them an empty village, dead, hollow houses, small shops, a railway station grazing horses, an eagle watching the train, then suddenly two camels A sea of sand surging outside dunes covered by small patches of strong grass-like barnacles, or white foam on waves single camels are washed up between the waves; appearing, disappearing, indifferently to the train running past while the shadows grow longer, the waves surge higher, up and down, and the train soon falls back into the night. ------ Kyrgyzstan Suddenly that straight line you’ve been following since the red square rises up to form higher, golden hills sleepy striped tigers, lying there in front dozing away in the afternoon sun not surprised when the storm above them will hit for they know all the winds. Borders. Why do they always come at night? Some man yanks open the door abruptly, tearing the people inside the cabin out of their sleep, onto a Russian railway station, vulnerable in the dizzy aftermath of their dreams. Outside snowflakes fall. The man barks something incomprehensible, then stamps off. The soldiers you see are all men, all too young, and their green-brown uniforms with the stars on their shoulders give them power. You fall back onto the bed, eyes open, listening. Heavy boots trample up and down the corridor, pulling back compartment doors. They check the foreigners first. To the left, you hear a few fragments in English. You can not catch full sentences, no matter how hard you stare into the darkness. Something about a fine. 10 000 Rubel. “You have to leave train “, “Get your stuff. “A woman cries. Muffled sobbing. The tall, red-haired woman with the striking blue eyes we had seen outside, earlier that day. A movie starts playing in your head—pictures of soldiers dragging people out of wagons, beating them, forcefully holding women and violating them. The only English speaking officer enters your cabin. He inquires whether you knew the woman. You do not. Wanting to proof the movies were only in your head, you ask whether you could help. It is the only thing that comes to mind at that moment. While you are scared, you can’t just comply and let them intimidate you like they know they do. You think of deportations, of people not daring to ask where their neighbours were brought, too afraid they would be next. And you are the same, not daring to ask too many questions; About why it was a problem that her visa would expire in two days, about what would happen now. Later, in the soberness of the day, I wonder how real all of the dark scenarios seemed. In retrospect, knowing that Judith got back onto the train after an hour (the time it took them to drive her to a bank to get the money for a new visum) it seems highly unlikely they would have risked a diplomatic catastrophe by abusing their powers in the ways I had pictured. But when you hear “We must have this girl. We are men of Russian border control –not Ukrania, not Kazakhstan – RUSSIA, and we must have this girl.” from an armed young man in uniform in the middle of nowhere, in the deep of the Russian night, you don’t always think in the most logical ways. Sentences are more threatening between unfortunate translations and incomprehensible dialogues in Russian. Helplessly, we are robbed of the one armour we are used to carrying: the capacity to make us understood and to understand in return. As the train is sent into the night, lying in the dark once again, you feel disgusted by the cowardice that had paralysed you; Cooperating because of the fear to be next. We’ve heard that story before. At least, the experience makes me, once again, aware of the borderless fairytale land I live in. It makes me think of a world without borders. For all the people who don’t have my passport full of privilege. For we might have been frightened by the unfamiliar situation, by the nakedness that comes with not-understanding, but still, rationally, we knew that nothing would happen to us. Coming from the privileged west, we are foreigners in the positive sense of extra careful treatment, not foreigners in the sense that supposedly “unwelcome” migrants experience today at Europe’s outer borders. There is no moral justification why some can travel anywhere with their passports and others can’t, even though their lives depend on it. Just because they had been born in a different place. As I revisit my notes from that journey, now amid the Corona Crisis, the inhumane tragedy happening at the shores of the Mediterranean is largely suppressed from our collective consciousness. If you haven’t done so already, inform yourself now about the Human Rights violations in Moria and other places along the border. Sign petitions (e.g. here), talk to friends and join other forms of protest (see). It feels like a ridiculously small thing to do, given what is happening, but it is better than nothing. And if you can afford it, consider giving some money to organisations helping. L. We had been trying to somehow stop a cab now for five minutes. For half an hour. For the last hour. We needed to get from the railway station where we had arrived on to the Kasanskaya station on the other side of town. Apparently though, calling a taxi here was not as easily done as waving a hand . Even phoning one of the numbers on the passing taxis did not yield any success. Since, even once we had made us understood to the Russian-speaking person on the other end of the phone, we learnt that to order a taxi, you needed a Russian phone number. A little while later, we had in the meantime been shouted at by the 50-year-old who claimed to be a taxi driver, but whose car wore none such indications, we had after all managed to stop a taxi, don't ask me how. Once we had found lockers big enough for all our luggage at the Kasanskaya station, we had the better part of the day off for sight-seeing. Not surprisingly, food had absolute priority at this stage and even though we mastered some courage after that to go to the inner city, our tour to the Red Square, a place I had always wanted to see, was rather short-lived. Just having exited the metro, crossed the giant square that leads up to the red square, and we were already fed up. No, we were properly exhausted. The sun and the crowds drowned any room for contemplation, so we decided to bail. For Pierre, this meant finding a Bouldering gym, for me the next place to eat. Despite our quickly faded psyche, Moscow was still indisputably impressive, its architecture unique, overwhelming, intimidating even. It felt as if every building had been intended to be yet another superlative. In some very competing ways, however. Tall, almost overhanging glass towers, palaces with ornamented columns, plump square mansions, all crouching side by side. Mint, orange, pink pastel-witnesses. Some of these buildings had seen socialism rise and fall, others followed later, as the offspring of capitalism. A plethora of contrasts. The strong east wind was blowing through the streets as I made my way back to the station in the fading light of the day. We have luggage to move and a train to catch. It was almost 11 at night, and we were, at last, heading towards our train. The endlessly long platform was crowded with groups of people and big, bulky pieces of luggage. Here a family, there a young group with a kayak. We are making our way to the front of the train, where our wagon is, and I see kids turning their heads and whispering with big eyes as I pass them, stemming my huge bags. I am so excited. The train smells of distant deserts, oil and camel. People on the platform shout something, iron pieces are clunking, trains wheeze. Agitation is in the air.
Inside the train, I hold my head out of the corridor window, as the platform slowly starts moving away. Once we settle in the cabin that we share with two Russian construction workers, we will get offered/forced vodka, get invited to the board restaurant and see some of our stereotypes regarding Russians and alcohol confirmed. We will try to make conversation without knowing the words, laugh with our new cabin friends and look at the pictures they show us of their family in a village far away from Moscow. Arriving in Riga was refreshing after 26h tucked in a bus. Once we had managed to bring the 110kg of luggage to the hotel, that was. An 8-minute walk to the hotel, according to google maps, turned into a swift half-hour mission, charged as we were. On the upside, now we knew it was actually possible to move, carrying all of our six big packs at once. Even if excruciatingly slow and with some suffering. By the end of the trip, however, we would get so used to it that we would even ignore the people who offered carriages at the stations. Little did we know of this cheap “literary foreshadowing", as we dragged ourselves meter by meter through a somewhat dodgy looking neighbourhood, hoping our room would have a window and not too many cockroaches. This was very different from the picturesque, polished pictures I had seen of Riga before. I liked it. It somehow seemed real. The whole quartier was a permanent market where seemingly everything from pet food over lingerie to fresh fruits and small fish could be found. As the sounds mingled, a weirdly southern flair lay in the air. A soft breeze reminded of the vicinity to the sea, although it might as well have been the Mediterranean, not the Baltic Sea. The last sellers were bundling up their goods for the day as we walked past them. The corners smelled like piss, and some elderly people were cleaning up smashed tomatoes on the pavement. Freed from our stuff, we let ourselves float in the stream of tourists through the streets of the inner city — a very purposeful floating towards the next place that made seemingly delicious vegan food. Here, the vibe was very different than where we had arrived. The small streets were paved and free of cars. Brick roads reminiscent of certain parts of Hamburg, indeed. The architecture was a cute reflection of their common Hanseatic spirit, but the warm summer night added a more carefree atmosphere to it. People were eating, dancing on the street, Musicians playing at street corners. An island of new impressions and rest within this week of constant travelling. Tomorrow, we would pack together again and board the orange-blue train to Moscow. We left Riga a bit tense and exhausted, not quite recovered from the flue and battered by the antibiotics. The morning had seen me getting a sunburn despite staying mostly in the shade with sunscreen on and Pierre forgetting his wallet in the hotel room after the check-out and regaining it with all the cash gone. The fact that I was still experiencing weird muscle pain which started randomly, probably caused by the Borreliosis, as well as the nauseous feeling from the meds worried me more than I tried to admit. What if it would get worse during the long train ride? Nevertheless, when we got on the train excitement struck us. Only now it dawned on us how big of an undertaking we were setting out for. As it often is with these things, it felt more nuts now than it had appeared off our coffee-stained couch at home. We had left two days ago, yet we weren’t even halfway through. With every hour now we are getting further away from home, from what we know. More than ever before, this slower way of travelling makes me realise the actual meaning of distance. Lying in this upper berth while the train is rattling below us and surrounded by sleeping strangers, I am starting to feel a hint of adventure in my belly. Next stop: Moscow. L. Somewhere before the Polish-Lithuanian border pine forest and young oats take turns in front of the window with long maize fields and wetlands, with small buildings and grazing cows. you were looking forward to these long rides. for you thought, you'd find time for all the unwritten, all the unread words. now, you can't free your eyes from the windowpane, with the scenery constantly changing, afraid to miss out on the details gone the next blink again – a brick church amidst shabby looking one-storey houses, a stork's nest, children on their way from school – already passed. Further down the road, in the middle of Lithuania By now the window lost some of its captivating power the landscape flat for hours, changing only in its details really while the land itself maintains its outline. beaches have by now replaced the pines. beaches framing more wetland inbetween the fields got bigger, the houses moved further apart. L. Irgendwo in Polen Durch die Nacht fahrend, ist alles ein bisschen bedrohlicher Oder, ist das der Friede der Schwärze Nein-Grautöne, nicht schwarz In unseren Ländern ist die Nacht noch schwer zu finden Langsam rollen wir weiter Richtung Osten Die Erwartung in der Brust - Ängstliche Erwartung, doch noch mehr ist es vorsichtige Freude. Vorsichtig für den Moment, da nicht sicher ist, wie weit wir diese Woche kommen ob wir tatsächlich in 7 Tagen viel weiter östlich aus dem Zug steigen und das Abenteuer dort erst beginnt. Wenn ich so aus dem Fenster schaue, ja, dann kommt mir die Nacht bedrohlich vor. Doch dann wende ich mich weg vom Fenster, dir zu - eine Bewegung, die Sicherheit bringt - und weiß: wir fahren zusammen, bis die Nächte schwarz werden. L. Team Borreliosis: ready to hit the road The bus attendant eyes us strictly while she crosses the two-story bus, counting the passengers, one by one. We had been laughing just a little too loud. Tears in the eyes, we finally gave in to the relief. The first hurdle was taken, we made it on the bus to Riga. Against quite some odds. I had managed to temporarily lose our ticket, just within the 20 seconds, it took us to walk around the bus to the driver who was loading the luggage. Despite the oh-so-practical fanny pack, for some reason, the tickets were not in my hands anymore. Not ideal, given that things had suddenly changed speed and the queue was advancing quickly. The driver looked at us impatiently now. Pierre would tell me later that during these two minutes that it took me to find the tickets again, frantically digging through all of our 6 bags, he seriously expected us to not make it on the bus. Never trust a Lulu with your documents. He should have learnt that lesson by now. Then, after some discussion in Russian between the attendant and the driver, he finally agreed to take our oversized luggage. Unsurprisingly and true to style, in the morning it had taken us until the last minute to bring most of the remaining loose threads for the preparation of our trip together. All the while stressing out my mum, who had to watch us running around in the house. The day of departure ideally should not be the day where you discover that you have Borreliosis in an advanced stage, requiring you to start phototoxic antibiotics that make your skin burn as soon as you step into the sun unprotected. Yet, here I was on the phone with my doctor who had gotten back the results of my blood test, 5 hours before our bus was scheduled to leave. Fortunately, UV radiation at glaciers is known to be no problem. Now that was, in a way, actually hilarious considering that Pierre had started his Borreliose therapy just one week prior. The team was ready. This joke was mostly lost on us in the discussions that followed. I didn't really know what to make of these new findings. Were there likely complications that would occur once we were alone at basecamp at 4000m? My doctor wasn't much of a help, as he seemed not quite to grasp the difference between your average holiday and what we were planning. Neither was my dad, for who in turn it was like we were going to K2 in winter. In the end, we decided to go. After all, we'd have one week upon arrival in Bishkek, one week to turn around again, in case things would get worse. So for now, we have taken seats, almost looking forward to the 25h ride ahead with not much to think or worry about. From here on we'd have to take it as it comes, one step at a time. L. If we can pull the planning off – anyone can. A highway resting area, somewhere after Bern, Switzerland The sky is coloured in light shades, I was pissed. Pissed, frustrated, stressed and arguably hungry. The situation could have hardly been more ridiculous. Nor more typical. We had been planning this for almost a year. This “planning” involved mostly looking at pictures of the steep, snow-covered Kookshal-Too Mountains, rising abruptly from the grassland in front, creating the sharp contrast that had attracted me from the beginning. Or reading the occasional blog about taking the train to Kyrgyzstan. In our minds the date of departure had been fixed: Just after the wedding Pierre was invited to, we would take the next train to Russia. Even the Visa we needed were already sorted. The transit visa for Belarus, tourist visa for Russia. But we were still pondering whether choosing the direct route, a night train from Berlin to Moscow would not be too risky. Officially it is still not legal for foreign citizens to immigrate into Russia through the Belarus border. Most reports you read were positive, saying they didn’t have issues on this train and it was tolerated. A few accounts, however, described how they were forced by the police to go back again upon arrival. The alternative though entailed an excruciatingly long bus ride to Riga before taking the train to Moscow. Finally, after “heaps” of speculation over various dinners, after more internet searches and embassy calls – all in vain – we had reached the sort-of-informed conclusion that the risk of immediately being kicked out of the country was reasonably low. So we decided to book the direct train through Belarus. And now, 15 days before our departure we had discovered that the tickets for the weekly Berlin-Moscow train were all sold out. The whole train? The whole train. No other way to get hold of tickets – except if you were willing to pay 1.4k for a private first class compartment for two persons. A somewhat abstruse option, given that this was only supposed to be a minor part of our journey. Admittedly, we did not discard the idea immediately, though. The alternative of taking the long detour through Latvia tucked behind its own string of new and unanswered questions: Would we be allowed to transport so much luggage in the bus? Would it be possible to reschedule our transfer from Bishkek to the Kookshal-Too? In short, our journey didn’t seem all that likely anymore at that point. We both were devastated and angry at ourselves. Being as adulty as we are, sure enough, we did not spend the next day on the phone, organising and trying to get the answers we needed. Instead, we endured the new uncertainty by standing in line, ready to take the next cable car up the Aiguille du midi at 7.30 am the following morning. Once out of the tunnel, on the emblematic ridge that connects the Aiguille station to the Vallée Blanche, we were proven right: all anxiety about the future of our trip was gone, and we were instantly at peace with either outcome. If Kyrgyzstan didn’t work out, staying in Cham wouldn’t be so bad either.
L. |
Snippets and Tales
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