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| Journal - |
| March 15th, 2006 > travels with my umbrella |
| To Russia, at last... |
| roll your mouse over any image for a description |
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| Purpose built “project planning” HQ in central London. A team of six or more secretaries and researchers. Manufacturers tripping over themselves to supply complimentary gear so as to have their name associated with the journey.
I refer, of course, not to my own meagre efforts but to those of our friends Euan McGregor and Charley Boorman in The Long Way Round. The day before I set off on my own little journey, nursing an inconvenient cold I watched this series on DVD. Always a year or two behind everyone else, lots of people have recommended it to me so I figured it was time to see what all the fuss was about. After watching the first instalment, that which covered the organising and planning, I was close to throwing the TV set out of the window. I was going to rave on about how little they had bothered to learn about their destinations in favour of pratting around for the camera. I may have mentioned my frustration at how easily they obtained entirely free equipment and funding because of who they are. But I don’t want to sound bitter. And I’m not. Because as I watched more, the sheer wonder of their journey takes over. Credit to them, they seemed to get stuck in to the toughest challenges and as much as possible stayed away from their two vehicle support team. The pair interacted with the locals and helped bring the places they passed through to life. So by the end I had mellowed somewhat to the point of wanting to join them hugging each other as they completed their trip. I’d really like a piece of their budget too. |
| Having survived camping out on a London street in the snow for nearly three hours, straight from a New Zealand summer, I finally got my foot in the door. My hands were so cold I could barely use a pen. I was dismayed to find inside a considerable lobby area mostly empty where they could surely have let us keep warm. But with hindsight, the cold grey demeanour of the staff would have kept it equally frosty inside too. Ten days later I get to repeat the process to pick up my Russian visa, and at last I am free to leave. But before I go, a small quest. I didn’t want to just slip away quietly. No more parties and meals, they have been done during the three times I have already supposedly left the UK. But I needed to make something notable of my departure, at least a significant point from which I could say the journey begun. So I trundled my way down to Pall Mall and that place from where Fillious fogg set off on his Around the World in 80 days jaunt. The Reform club. For those not in the know, Pall Mall is that famous London street lined with the Gentlemen’s clubs. No, not the sort you might find in Amsterdam; the ones that date back often hundreds of years and require friends in high places to gain membership. The Reform club was formed in 1836 during the reformation bill in parliament. The domain of the fledgling Liberal party, it was said to be a place where intellectuals can discuss events and plan campaigns. It now performs a chiefly social function in positively palatial surroundings. That sounded just perfect for me, so I ventured up the stone steps to try my luck with the doorman. Aware that my battered existence didn’t entirely fulfil the dress code of jacket and tie, I suspected things wouldn’t necessarily go my way. Rather than giving him the pleasure of having me “removed from the premises” I tried a reverse tactic. Explaining my quest I conceded that “I may be a little over-dressed tonight” but “a gin & tonic at the Reform bar would be a memorable start to my journey”. It didn’t work. Shifting nervously my special brand of humour passed right over his head as he hastily explained some important guest’s were arriving soon and that he would really rather I wasn‘t stood in his lobby. He did, however, agree to my photo being taking outside the entrance. With a triumphant bounce I cleared the steps and hurriedly took out my camera. It is at that precise moment that I realised the entire building apart from the actual door is covered in scaffolding. Keen to retain what little pride I had left, I put my big pack on and scampered off into the London night. I’ll bet you Fillious bloody Fogg never had such rude treatment, or Michael Palin. |
| But first... the Netherlands |
| I didn’t hang around too long in budget draining Amsterdam. I have seen it before and have to get to Russia quite quickly; for despite their extremely slow progress during the issue of my visa, they left me little time to get there before the days start ticking off the statutory thirty I was granted. But a couple of days was enough to draw the conclusion that the city has not changed much. Having arrived very early morning I was pounding the streets by six thirty AM looking for a bed (I mean a room, no, I mean accommodation - sheesh, will you drag your humour out of the gutter please)? By seven AM I had been offered coke twice, but I politely replied that I wasn’t thirsty and preferred coffee anyway. |
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| Amsterdam is actually very pretty, and quite small. It seems much larger as you wonder the tiny cobbled streets and meander along the canals, but you soon find yourself on familiar ground again. I found a very hip & groovy hostel, The Flying Pig right in the middle of town. I was curious to learn why here there are more Americans and Canadians per square metre than anywhere else I have been, so I conducted my own survey. I needn’t have bothered, for the thick smog that filled the hostel social area was a bit of a giveaway; from the deranged conversations I managed to get myself into (which ranged from the best way to secure a road-kill Moose to the car roof, America’s alleged falsified moon landings and the price of a tropical fish tank) I deduced than the prime attraction for these guys is the novelty of legally smoking dope. Its slightly amusing that the predominant attraction here, it’s well documented, has an adverse effect on one’s ability to enjoy Amsterdam’s secondary one. On any other given day I might have decided to put down some roots here for a few days, but I felt the need to see the real Netherlands. |
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| So I travelled east just an hour or two to a small town that goes by the name of Putten, and met up with Dan & Eva, both ex workers from the island of Herm last year. It was great to catch up, now the fifth such meeting with ex-Hermites. They are both still in touch with many of the guys from last year and so it was fun finding out who has been up to what. With the next day dawning wet and misty, I opted out of hitching and splashed out on an expensive train ticket to Berlin. The trains here, I have to say, are clean, quiet and on time to the minute. And the German crew that took over at the border were the smartest dressed I have ever seen. The six hour trip breezed by in a blur of two hundred kilometres per hour, the flat agricultural landscape barely changing all the way. I didn’t even have to reach for my books to pass the time as I got chatting to Joyce who filled me in on all my questions about Holland. She was on her way to Hamburg for a hot date; to which I replied he must be very hot indeed to go all that way. |
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| Wanderlayers |
| A look around any outdoor shop these days will confirm that kitting oneself out in branded gear is going to cost a small fortune. So I have devised my very own layer system. Its cheap, warm and, if I say so myself, very stylish. Most importantly, the base layer consists of the universally attractive Long John thermals (ladies, control yourselves). Then over this, almost every other item of clothing I have in my pack gives around four more layers topped by a rather snug lumberjack style quilted shirt that cost GBP10 in a Cardiff market. Finally, my big investment was a fancy Gore-Tex coat to keep the lot dry and make me look like a professional explorer. The layers can be worn in rotation, ensuring I can go nearly a week before a visit to the Laundromat. The only real problem I am finding at the moment, as I write from Berlin, is that I need absolute cold now. The hostels I have stayed in so far have been ridiculously warm, thus when I dress in the morning I have just minutes to leave the building before I dangerously overheat. It’s a learning curve. |
| Berlin |
| I hit the ground running in Berlin, or rather sliding, in the snow. I’m really excited to be covering some ground, north and east, and to be somewhere totally new. It wasn’t a time of day to be faffing around, so I poured into the first hostel I came across. The A & O hostel is colossal in size, like the biggest place I ever saw in Sydney or any of the other backpacker G-spots. But as I sit here now, in the social area, I can’t quite work out who the clientele are. They ain’t travellers, for sure. I’m beginning to think I’ve walked in on some huge Christian convention or something. Still, I have a roof over my head, communal male showers for “getting to know” my fellow roommates and everything on a timer. Yes that’s right, the bane of all new hostels, light switches and taps/showers on timed switches. Its one thing taking a naked shower with other men, we’ve all done it before. But I draw the line at having to reach for the light switch, along with several other wandering hands, every two minutes to turn it back on. In between, the shower button gives no more than one minute of operation. Thus, it just gets warmed up, then goes off. And then the light goes out again. No doubt, you are seeing a pattern here. Sorry if this isn’t reading well, but I’m in a jovial mood. Rather than doing the usual walking the streets looking for food tonight, I had a thoroughly good time in a local supermarket buying bread, cheese, olives and sausage for a cheap and wholesome feed here. So now I am sat content, watching new arrivals crashing into the double glass doors as I did when I arrived. They are those type that its never obvious which way they open; and its always the last direction you try. With my street cred recovered, I can at least enjoy watching others momentarily loose theirs. On the day I chose for a walking tour of this large city, the snow fell with vengeance. As I had booked onward train travel that night, I simply had to wrap up warm and get on with it. Conveniently most of what interested me could be included into one logical walk, but just twenty minutes in it was clear I would not last long in these conditions. Looking around it suddenly became obvious what I was missing. Breaking the budget (again) for the day, I was soon furnished with my very own umbrella. I’ve never been much of an umbrella person really, more your hardy outdoors type. But with few spare clothes, I need to keep as dry as possible. My lack of experience probably shows, especially as my umbrella seems so much larger than anyone else’s, and several Berliner’s have come close to having their eyes removed today. |
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| I started at Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedachtniskirche, a church destroyed by British bombs in 1943, the remains of which were left as a reminder of what can happen when things go wrong. From there it’s a short walk into the Tiergarten, a huge expanse of park/woodland in the former West Berlin. It’s a magical place, made all the more beautiful with fresh snow turning the landscape and every tree white. I’m quite sure an entire day could be spent exploring here, it seems that at every turn I came across another monument or point of interest. Spotting what I assumed to be a large open grass area, I set about running around in the deep virgin snow. Thankfully, it dawned on me quickly that I was actually stood on a lake; and while it may be frozen, it is perhaps not such a wise idea to be frollicking around on there. A local later told me that they regularly ice skate on the lakes in the park, but the weather is not quite cold enough at the moment. |
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| Centrally located in the Tiergarten, all paths lead to the Siegessaule. A number of busy multi-lane roads converge here, including the long, wide and very straight Strasse des 17 Juni that heads all the way to Brandenburg gate. In the middle of a huge roundabout lies the marvellous monument some eighty metres tall topped by the guilded angel. I’ll admit I’ve lost my notes on this. From memory it was built 18th century to commemorate three wars. I believe it was moved to its present spot by the Third Reich to fit in with Hitler’s vision of the city. The long climb up the steps would be worthwhile on a clear day, but not so today. I had just reached the top, and a police man who had followed me up asked if I could leave quite soon. He explained the Egyptian Prime minister was visiting the city and they were clearing the area. Always willing to do a deal, I said that was fine so long as he took my photo for me. Really, I should have asked for my EUR2.20 back. |
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| Heading east and perhaps a little north through more woodland you eventually come to the Reichstag. This imposing building was constructed to house the Reichstag, the original parliament of the German Empire. It was opened in 1894 and housed the Reichstag until 1933. It again became the seat of the German parliament in 1999 after a reconstruction led by irenowned architect Norman Foster. Today's parliament is called the Bundestag. The Reichstag ceased to act as a true parliament in the years of Nazi Germany. In today's usage, the German term Reichstag refers to the building, while the term Bundestag refers to the institution. |
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| Directly at the rear of the building, if you speak to a policeman nicely, he will shovel the snow with his boot to show you the exact line where the Berlin wall passed by. Further along, Brandenburg Gate is another icon of Berlin. The triumphal arch was built in 1791 and has been used to symbolise various events through history. When the statue with the olive wreath was returned from marauding Napoleon in 1814 it became a symbol of victory. When the Nazis rose to power, they used the gate to represent their power. In 1961 the gate was closed when the Berlin Wall was built. And Finally, when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, the gate symbolized freedom and the unity of the city.
If you could use a map, unlike me it seems, Check Point Charlie is a short walk away. I eventually arrived at the infamous spot, along with several hundred Japanese tourists. The museum here looks a real must do, but unfortunately I had to get a move on. |
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| Finding myself actually a long way from base, I jumped on an underground train. Not being able to make sense of the ticket machine, I risked riding without for one stop. This, I would find out soon enough, was a mistake. Hauled aside by a scruffy looking kind of guy, he cautioned me for my offence. We alighted at the next station, where we reviewed the facts and he informed me I owed him EUR40.00 for his trouble. I immediately launched my dumb tourist mode, pleading poverty and even threatening to cry. For a moment, I am sure, I had him on side. But he found his resolve and continued to demand the money, and so I changed tack. Pointing out he had no uniform and ID that could be made on any computer, he offered to take me to his office for my own piece of mind. This I did, only to be confronted with around six similarly scruffy men in a smoky subterranean room. Not really any the wiser, they beckoned a passing policeman to come join the action, at which point I deduced the only sure means of getting my passport back was to part with the dosh. My last ditch attempt, and a genuine one, was that I didn’t have enough money on me. Surely they would accept twenty Euros and be done with it. Surely, not; he walked me to an ATM so I could pay up in full.
So, a lesson learned there I guess. Don’t ride the Berlin underground without a ticket. Late that night I boarded my train for Warsaw, and the excitement of moving further east. Comfortably installed in my six berth sleeper cabin, I soon got chatting with Moritz. He is an East Berliner who travels to Warsaw every weekend to see his partner Alina who has temporarily taken on work up there. A lawyer by profession, I jokingly asked him how much it was costing to speak to him; he replied EUR150.00, “and what was my second question“? A few stops down the track we were joined by Krzysztof. He is from Warsaw but works in Germany designing cars for Volkswagen. Also travelling this train every weekend, the two guys have become pals from their shared journeys. Our Polish carriage guard looked after us well as we sat up late chatting about all the usual things people do from different worlds; politics, girls, cost of living (perhaps those two are connected), language etc. I was particularly interested to hear about Moritz’s recollection when the East/West wall came down in 1989. Though only fifteen, he says his overwhelming memory on his first walk into the west was the smell. The air was much clearer. At first, he says, there were so many people there, he just wanted to get back home! He says he was at a lucky age, for he was then able to go to study where many before him would simply join the workforce. Eventually settling into my bunk, the gentle rocking motion of the train ensured a sound and happy sleep. I’m glowing inside from meeting these great people; they turn what could be a boring journey into real travel. Everyday now, it gets better. Our guard wakes us, but I am so comfortable I don’t want to move. As far as I am concerned, this train can take me all the way to Moscow. But of course it doesn’t work like that - and so at something like five thirty on a freezing Polish morning, I arrive onto the deserted streets of Warsaw. |
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| Coming real soon.... Warsaw to Krakow, Auschitz and then to Lithuania |
| If you were paying attention, you will have read I bought an umbrella. I have got rather attached to it, but have not needed it since. It looks very cool strapped to my pack, so I need your help to decide.... should the brolly stay or go? |
| related links |
| you crazy dude! Loose the brolly! |
| brollies rule! Keep the Wander Brolly! |
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| check out the country profiles - they took ages to write! |
