Vodka on the Balkan Express

If your experience with European rail travel is confined to the superb grand vitesse trains in Germany, Switzerland, or France, then trying to do the same in Eastern Europe will come as a rude shock. In these parts, minimal investment has been made in the rail infrastructure by cash-strapped governments, thus being whisked to your destination in a flash is but a dream.

I first learned this the hard way on the train route from Budapest to Belgrade. The journey took seemingly forever (in reality, eight hours), with the train stopping at each tiny town on the countryside, and sometimes just mysteriously stopping, period. The lights and AC (which didn't work properly anyway) would suddenly go off, and everyone would patiently wait while fanning themselves with crumpled newspapers.  Then the train would roar to life just as suddenly, and we'd be on our way - until the next time this happens. 

However, the train fares were quite cheap, so despite the stuffy compartments, mysterious stoppages, and generally decrepit facilities I still wound up taking them. Not all of my memories are negative though; the trip between Belgrade (Serbia) and Timisoara (Romania) was particularly exciting in an unusual way.

I was joined in the compartment by three Aussies - Glenn, Matt, and Adrian, and a Russian woman traveling on her own, Elena. The three guys started on the bottles of vodka and Coke as soon as the train pulled out of Belgrade, while Elena and I abstained. 

They were cool dudes though, and pretty soon we were swapping travel stories and laughing loudly in our cramped quarters. They told me that they were going all the way to Bucharest, a grueling 15 hour ride, scheduled to arrive at Romania's capital at 6am. Loco, I said to myself.

Our festivities were marred somewhat by the foul odors emanating from the toilet around the corner, especially when passengers who use it neglect to close the door firmly behind them. The putrid smells would waft over to our seats, thus after a while we resorted to yelling at the startled offending parties to go back and shut the damned door!

An hour before we were scheduled to stop at the Romanian border for immigration checks, the train came to a halt. Dozens of Serbian police came onto the train, and started prying open ceiling panels, flashing their torches into it, definitely looking for something. We had no idea what was happening, and were frustrated by the delay, especially the guys who had exhausted their vodka supply three hours into the journey. 

Some of the officers walked off the train carrying armloads of cigarette boxes, no doubt smuggled by some of the locals. Come to think of it, two shady looking characters, one with a big belly and the other wearing an unfashionable tracksuit, had been scurrying back and forth along the corridor all night, holding small duffel bags which seemed full going that way and then empty the other way. 

After over an hour's delay, the train was back on track. Night was falling, air was getting chilly, the guys were getting antsy and were wondering how in the world they could make it to Bucharest without their Stoli. In the meantime, the two suspected smugglers still kept going back and forth even in the darkness. 

The Romanian border was soon crossed, our passports checked, and the train sat stationary for half an hour. More smuggled smokes were discovered, this time by the Romanian police, making me wonder why the Serbian officers didn't find them. Ah, perhaps Mr. Big Belly and Mr. Track Suit were one step ahead of the authorities. 

Finally, Timisoara station was reached, and I said my goodbyes to my wonderful companions. It was now nearly 11pm, a good two hours later than the scheduled arrival. And I had no idea how to get to my hostel. Adrian had other ideas though. He pulled me aside, handed me a twenty euro note, and asked if I could find a liquor store at the station that was still open and buy them some vodka and Coke. He was placing my trust in me, a virtual stranger, with no guarantee that I wouldn't walk off with his money. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Tired, hungry, and unfamiliar with my surroundings, I agreed anyway and fortunately found one nearby. After some difficulty converting prices from Romanian lei to euros, the twenty was enough to buy a few bottles. I carried the stash, luggage and all, up the stairs to the platform where the train sat waiting. As I hurried up the final few steps, I could see Matt, Adrian, Glenn and other foreign passengers (no doubt eager to partake in the booze) hanging out of their compartments' windows, peering in the darkness and looking for any shadowy figure that resembled myself. 

Cheers erupted when I became visible, and handshake and grateful hugs were exchanged as I handed over the liquid gold. The clapping and hooting was still in full force as I slowly retreated to make my way back to the station, still unsure how to find my hostel.