As the clarion clear bugle call of Iain’s high pitched
enormous expulsion of gastric gas ricocheted through two closed doors (farting
will play no small role in this update, apologies), around a corridor and
echoed about our room inducing a general guffaw from all the denizens of room,
I reflected on the mad farcical series of events that had led us to this
uncomfortable early morning and vague sense of solidarity with our room-mates. How
had it reached this point? How had we come in the space of under 10 hours from
a pleasant yet ultimately dull few days in Vilnius to sharing a tiny bed, me
with a wound to my foot and Iain with a vodka induced nasty hangover?
The short answer is, as it is all too often, Australians,
but we will return to this later, let’s start at the beginning.
Our time in Vilnius began at the train station when we
strolled downhill through cobbled streets and past the legions of baroque
churches and ornate buildings of the old town, wading through hordes of coach
trip tour groups who were clogging up all the pavements and alleyways. Vilnius
old town is a prosperous and well-kept place with plenty of cafes and souvenir
shops, it has the feel of many old European tourist trap-come-university towns,
but it is a pleasant place and very scenic indeed.
We enjoyed an unremarkable but agreeable two days resting
from cycling and dabbled in a little sight-seeing about the town (our rest days
normally involve the amount of walking that people would consider mildly strenuous,
we consider it rest because it’s not cycling). Unfortunately our hostel was not
the social hub of activity that the previous two had been and we were in truth
a little disappointed that we had not met any fellow backpackers who wanted to
party (in truth we need other people to break up the madness of spending all
our time together like an old married couple).
It was our last night in Vilnius and after dinner we were
preparing to settle down for a quiet evening, which we thought was going to
culminate with a tense match of tiny table football (see attached image for
hilarious tininess of the football table). The receptionist left for the night
leaving us and the guests with strict instructions to only allow in two more
guests, about ten minutes after she left a scrabbling came at the main door,
Iain and I opened it and in burst a bushy haired buoyant man with a strong
antipodean accent and a cheerful (if clearly knackered) demeanour.
It soon became
apparent that he was not one of the two who we were told we could let in, so we
felt a little sheepish at doing precisely the opposite of what had been asked
of us, but he had the paperwork for and seemed harmless enough and deciding
that despite appearances, Iain and I were not the bouncers we left him to his
own devices (it transpired that he did in-fact have a bed there and this was
merely the first of many fuck-ups on the part of the hostel staff).
His name was Sam and he was the Australian who instigated
our ill-advised debauch. He invited us out to a couch surfing party in a nearby
bar. Thus began a very peculiar night out, the group was a rag tag bunch of
unlikely companions from all over the world (specimens ranged from a shaven
headed lad from Bradford who gave off a distinct ‘brit lads on tour vibe’ to
shaggy haired metal heads from Finland, or friendly moustachioed Turkish men
with a piratical/70s detective look), but the most interesting and my favourite
by far were Marta and Grieg, a Polish couple from Gdansk who were touring the
Baltic in their car and said they were ‘shower surfing’ rather than
couch-surfing. They had a great attitude to life and were very friendly,
insisting that we meet up with them in Gdansk (an offer I’m hoping will work
out in the next day or so).
They invited the whole group to a muddy yard where they
had parked their car to share their (very good Polish Bison) Vodka and sweets
(they had a sack of sweets which looked like something out of Willy Wonka’s
factory, this was apparently given to them by a hitch hiker who worked as a
travelling business to business sweet salesman). When a group of shady shaven
headed men (there was something of the mafia, or police, or both about them)
started thoroughly investigating the back of an abandoned warehouse we decided
it was time to move on. Thus began a saga of a night out which was like herding
cats as debates between the locals in the group raged about which bar was best
to go to. This night mostly consisted of walking between bars and stopping,
trying to keep the group together, I seized the opportunity to flirt with a
tall dark beautiful Lithuanian girl with sharp clever eyes (unfortunately,
despite my rhapsodising I have quite forgotten her name, like the git I am),
that I swear were looking back into mine with flirtatious flickers…but alas it
was to come to nothing as it was fast reaching 3am and Iain and I had to be up
at 7am to pack-up and reach the train station to get out of Vilnius and
continue our adventures. So we left and went back to the hostel, thoroughly
drunk (as ever, Iain was drunker than I).
When we arrived in the room, there was a man lying on Iain’s
mattress, leaving us with a small sofa bed. He explained that he had booked a
bed and I think we had stolen his bed, as we were meant to be on temporary
mattresses that night…but either way the hostel staff had fucked up and the
room was one bed down. Fortunately we so were drunk we didn’t really mind and
he was a sound enough Australian guy, so we just joked that we would cuddle up
in the small bed together (which we managed to rather effectively do and
actually had a decent enough night’s sleep…worringly).
Our bed problem was trifling though compared to that of
yet another Australian who had arrived in the room at the same time as us to
find a large bearded Latvian man asleep in her bed atop all of her stuff. Her
eviction rant she rained upon this man was delivered in true Australian style;
forceful yet good humoured. Iain backed her up in as chivalrous form as was
possible in his drunken state, but he burst into hysterical laughter when the
Latvian man said ‘I’m sorry, but it should be OK, I haven’t farted in the bed
much’ to which she responded ‘oh that’s just fucking great then isn’t it, get
out, go on…’. I would have assisted her myself but in the dark I had managed to
slice the bottom of my foot open on a sharp and dangerous screw that was
randomly sticking out of the floor, I had hopped to the bathroom to wash it in
the sink and stem the bleeding with some tissue and waited for the drama to
resolve itself before saying ‘Iiiian…Iiiian, get the medical kit, I’ve cut my
foot open’. Iain with what can only be described as mildly pissed medical flair
managed to dress the wound and seal the dressing in true building site medic
style with duct tape (this is apparently de riguer with building site first
aid). Duct tape has played no small part in holding things (mostly the
accoutrements of Iain’s bike) together on this trip.
With the drama at last over Iain and I managed to squeeze
into the tiny sofa bed and slept the sleep of drunken giants for four hours. It
was this uncomfortable morning that Iain woke the whole room with his trumpet
farting and we left the Aussies in peace and headed for the train station to
get a short train ride out of the sprawling suburbs and industrial outskirts of
Vilnuis.
Unfortunately it seems that in Vilnius our luck had at
last ran out.
On the very steps of the train station Iain’s wheel had
managed to buckle itself and we then had to limp over a mile to a bike shop to
try and get it fixed. Luckily we already knew where the bike shop was and
luckier still the mechanic said he could straighten it, but it would not be
done until 2pm at the earliest. Whilst undoubtly a stroke of luck this made me
very nervous as the last train that could deposit us outside Vilnius in the
direction we wanted to head departed at 3pm. There was no margin for error
here. We had to get of Vilnius as all the hostels and cheap hotels were fully
booked and I did not fancy camping in a park.
So as the mechanic set to work we sat on a bench watching
the world go by. I whipped out my smelly foot to let the wound get some air and
scab over (delightful I know, but it’s not an adventure if you don’t’ stink at
least a little bit). As we sat we heard a brass band approach and some booming
drums, and a parade of what seemed like the entire Polish-Lithuanian community
of Vilnius barrelled past.
The bike wheel was straightened as much as possible with
moments to spare we left the bike shop at 20 minutes past 2 and raced for the
train station; which was an entirely uphill journey, through traffic. Iain
didn’t think I had it in me to go that fast, breaking many traffic laws, over
sidewalks, pedestrian crossings, through traffic lights, uphill, fully laden. We
made it in the nick of time, even though we were sold the wrong ticket (we
didn’t have time to fix this) I managed to get us onto the right train with
about 20 seconds to spare. We had to run up stairs with fully laden touring
bikes, hoist them at least four vertical feet onto a train. When we succeeded
in this stressful endeavour we finally collapsed onto the seats panting, I said
to Iain, ‘your fucking bike, Iain, your fucking bike…’ Iain responded with
laughter still high on the adrenaline of the race to the station, I went on
‘it’s like there has been a cable tie around my heart all day which is only now
being slowly released.’
Then ticket inspectors came. Miraculously, unlike British
trains, she didn’t mind we had the wrong ticket. However in the process of
communicating what we wanted a crowd of the entire carriage and two ticket
inspectors surrounded us, as I tried to explain that I know we were on the
right train but our ticket was going to the wrong place. Pleasantly for minor
officials they were mostly worried we were on the wrong train, rather than
trying to make us pay for anything.
From the peripheral town of Varena we set out for our
first night of wild camping. We pitched up in some woods just off the road, but
our mild tick phobia meant that we dosed ourselves in DEET and sealed ourselves
in our tent after eating dinner.
On the next day we began the first of several days moving
through the top corner of Europe’s biggest forest, with sandy soil and endless
pine trees lining the roads. We passed Gruttas Park, a bizarre themepark/soviet
occupation memorial, which is a gathering of all of the old soviet statues of Stalin,
Lenin and friends that were torn down at the end of the USSR. It is bizarre
that these ideological leviathans and tyrants have been reduced to kitsch photo
opportunities, but it is perhaps the best place for them.
Our second wild-camping location was slightly forced upon
us because Iain’s bike had began making a mysterious new ticking noise. As he
grew quiet and concerned I said ‘look, we’re by a lovely spot, let’s just stop
here, you try and find out what’s wrong with your bike’. It transpired that his
chain had broken (which he wants to emphasise is one of the newest things on the
bike). He fixed it easily enough as I sat and relaxed looking at the maps,
phoning my parents and saw a gargantuan tick, which vindicated our fears and
justified our trousers tucked into socks paranoia.
The next day we hit the Polish border, leaving Lithuania
behind and threading through through an incredible isolated stretch of forest
where our voices echoed for miles (I used this chance to make a load of silly
noises). The road here was bumpy to say the least and I glanced back constantly
with fear at Iain sat on his bike, which for the purposes of even LIGHT off-roading
is essentially made of glass (smug quote from Iain; ‘still though, it made it,
fuck you Ryan [Iain’s brother]’).
The weather had taken a turn for the better and we
finally broke out our shorts. It had maybe even gotten too hot with highs of 37˚C, it was sharp contrast to Estonia,
with us now taking shelter in the shade and enjoying any breeze we can get,
instead of shivering in bus shelters.
The polish countryside is beautiful; rolling hills with
rich fertile farmland and huge deep clean clear lakes. 60% of the road surface
is the stuff of cycling dreams, with just the right mixture of uphill and downhill
to challenge a cyclist and stop you getting steppe syndrome. However, 40% is
hellish bumpy dirt/potholed roads that slow you down to a snail’s pace and feel
like a punishment for some sin committed in a past life. Though for the record,
Polish drivers are, contrary to what we were told in Lithuania, very good and
quite respectful of cyclists (thus far).
When we found all the campsites were shut at our
destination village, we took an executive decision and hopped a five foot high
fence (fortunately we’re easily tall enough to pass bikes over this) and just
pitch up. Our philosophy was based on an Irish saying I’ve picked up; ‘better
to apologise, than always be asking for permission’. Using this adage we
pitched up in whatever campsites we saw whenever we could, whether they were
open or not (and we have to date gotten away with it). Our only real need is a
working tap (which we consider a luxury anyway).
The days passed into a blur, we were moving fast and most
notably we did a herculean effort one day, hitting the 141 kilometre mark (88miles
in old money), though we were averaging at least 80-100km a day. For anyone who
thinks we’re having too much fun, what we are doing is not easy and involves a
lot of hard work and determination.
Our second to last day on the road was meant to be an
easy day… but for the first time on the trip my navigation got us lost in the fairy-tale
magic swamp kingdom around the estuary of Elblag. We were endlessly looping
round identical potholed roads which gradually tapered off to dirt tracks
through a featureless flat marshy landscape. The map scale made any decent
navigation impossible especially with road signs that seemed to point 10k to
the mystery town of Marcienco at every junction. They did this no matter which
river we crossed, where we were or which direction we were pointed. At the point where had done 20 unnecessary
kilometres I exclaimed, ‘ok that’s enough pissing about, fuck this, we’re going
on the motorway’.
And so at half past five running on fumes (we hadn’t eaten
since breakfast) and willpower alone we hit the main road between Warsaw and
Gdansk. We cycled into the abyss,
heading towards gigantic black stormclouds on the hard shoulder of a very busy
motorway with lightning streaking the sky and being dosed by the ominous light
rain which comes before a downpour with the smell of a storm in the air,
cycling into a 20mph head wind. I was constantly swearing at the weather as I
cycled machine- like with my legs screaming in pain and my body wanting to give
up. We were both out of water (and “emergency” haribo)… things looked bleak, though
there was no alternative but to keep going. Iain was bitten by a gigantic
orange and black fly, this didn’t even slow him down, he just sucked the wound
dry and kept pedalling, not telling me this till the next day. Our only glimmer
of hope was a McDonalds bill board that promised
us respite in 12km. They were the longest 12km I have ever had to do.
Upon reaching the McDonalds the heavens opened (Iain
wants to emphasise that the heavens REALLY opened, think monsoon). We were damned lucky that we narrowly avoided
being in this. We sat surrounded by young teens, as we reeked like giant
cycling trolls and wolfed down a big mac meal and 30 chicken nuggets each (Iain
had intended to by us 12 chicken nuggets each, however he bought 60 in total,
due to communication problems…we managed to eat them all though). As we sat contemplating
life, we agreed that this was the point where we wished we could bawl like
infants and someone would come and rescue us. That was not going to happen, so
we used McDonald’s wifi to find a nearby hotel, and amazingly they was one only
500 yards away which cost us the princely sum of £35 for the two of us,
including an excellent continental breakfast, that filled a table for four. So
salvation in the storm was found. This day was meant to have been an “easy”
day. It almost destroyed us.
The next day actually was an easy day, with only a 50km
ride to do to Gdansk we managed to fit in a visit to Stutthof concentration
camp (at our first planning meeting, after asking whether we going to be eaten
by bears, the second question Iain asked was if we could visit a concentration
camp). This was as you can expect a moving and fittingly uncomfortable
experience. I was mostly struck by the feeling of being a ghost from the future
haunting the spectres of a cruel history as I strode around the preserved
remnants of this sight of horrors as 2metres of broad well-fed Englishman
clothed in high-vis synthetic cycling attire. I have always found the images of
the ovens and gas chambers I have seen in history text books particularly
revolting and they proved no less disgusting to witness in the flesh. Though
what was perhaps strangest of all was the banality of the place, its
ordinariness, the paperwork records, and the efficiency of the whole
unpalatable affair. I am sure I say nothing new that this place even half a
century on fills one with a quiet rage and a deep sadness. Both Iain and I agreed
though that it was peculiar that this place had so obviously been preserved,
painstakingly maintained, rebuilt in places and even freshly sanded and
varnished. I would have left it to rot, letting the ruins be a stark reminder,
but I’m sure what to do with the history of the holocaust has been better
discussed elsewhere by better authors than I.
Leaving the concentration camp behind and racing on only
served to highlight its sickening unusualness in history as we reflected on the
road that our generation is the first to be able to travel so freely through
this part of the world since the 1900s. We raced along the flat lands on smooth
roads to Gdansk, enjoying a ferry ride over a broad fast flowing river and not
enjoying a harrowing ride along motorways through the industrial outskirts into
the heart of the old city of Gdansk. We collapsed into our hostel sleeping for
12 hours solidly after washing all of our stinking clothes and wolfing down the
last of our camping food supplies, which I boiled in one big pot (there was
sausage that had been the bag for several days so I wanted to kill anything
that might have been living in it).
We are now about to head out to a gig with our friends Marta and Grieg and our Canadian room-mate to sample Gdansk's nightlife.
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