Hell train

Hello readers, Sean here! As mentioned in previous entries, I (Stephanie’s younger brother) have been accompanying her on this epic quest into the unknown (to us, that is). Stephanie decided that I should make a contribution to her blog, and so here I am, typing away in the comfort of my own bed in my own room, spitting distance from the beaches of Barcelona. I mention this because in order to attain this luxury I had to endure a series of events which I could never have foreseen occurring. I am not suggesting that we had any life-threatening encounters; however, we did experience some excessive shadiness. 

Normal, happy people in Budapest before a night on the hell train

The particular event that I will share with you began late at night in a train station in Budapest. As you may already know, Budapest is rather notorious for hobo-theft. Before you ask, no, there is no epidemic of kidnapped homeless folk, but the occasional bench-dweller has been known to strip travellers of loose belongings in the city. For us, it was a drunk, frail old woman attempting to sneak a bottle of iced-tea from the side of my bag. I saw her and bravely exclaimed, “Umm... I can see you” before she cowered away in shame. Admittedly, it was rather sad, but alas, I was thirsty and on a strict budget. This particular narrative is simply a prologue in order to generate the mood for what was to happen next. 

As we sat, tired and anxious to be snuggled in our beds on board the overnight train to Belgrade, we finally heard a sound in the dark distance. Our train arrived. Stephanie and I approached our chariot with uncertainty due to the fact that there were no lights on in the carriages. We decided that this was, indeed, a NIGHT train and that sleeping might be difficult if lights were to come on at every stop (though I suppose the screeching sound of whistles wouldn’t disturb the comfortable passengers). We were wrong. As we stepped into the train, a man in no identifiable uniform approached us and kindly offered to show us to our compartment. All was dandy until he mentioned that we needed to leave our passports and Interrail tickets with him overnight; something about customs officers needing them in order to check everything without waking the passengers.  Needless to say, this seemed odd and slightly terrifying so we both shook our heads at the prospect and suggested, trying not to sound too rude (or American), that we would feel more comfortable if we kept them with us. Apparently this is not allowed, and so there we were, reluctantly giving our most valuable possessions to a man we had never met, praying that we were not the victims of the least subtle con-artistry of all time. But what could we do? (Other than NOT get aboard hell-train and instead spend another night in a hostel in order to leave Hungary with our documents, pride, and peace-of-mind). Helplessly, we wandered into our coach-class cabin. I must mention that I have been on a fair amount of trains, and even a few overnight ferries, so I had a rough idea of what to expect. Again, WRONG. We stood there peering into the dark of our cabin waiting for our eyes to adjust enough to stow our bags away and lock them up. We took our beds and sat there looking at each other, or at least trying to, with a mirrored look of bewilderment on our faces. Then, as if directed to, we both slowly looked up to see two eastern-European men peering down at us from the darkness of the bunks above. The cabin door was slid closed by the man with our lives in his hands, whose name we had insisted on knowing, as if somehow if this was a scam, we could always report “Henry!” or whatever he had said his name was.

Stephanie had once referred to me as her ‘trip bodyguard’ to a friend somewhere, and I had dismissed it with a chuckle until this very moment. Suddenly, my sisters’ life was possibly in my hands and so, reluctantly, I took the role of Man and pretended that all was gravy as I began to set up my ‘bed’ (which might as well have been a piece of plywood wrapped in cloth) in order to get some sleep. I did this all the while keeping a watchful and still-adjusting eye on our neighbours above. I put in my head-phones and tried to imagine myself in a more peaceful and tranquil place; the dentist’s perhaps. I soon removed the headphones in fear that I may doze off and not be able to hear the sound of my sister being stabbed two feet away from me. As I lay there, not sure if I was indeed already dreaming, I could hear a sound from Stephanie’s bed next to me. I was desperately afraid that she might be crying. Unfortunately, it was worse.

You see, my sister has always had a funny way of dealing with tough moments. When others would shout or cry or punch, Stephanie giggles. It is a very distinct giggle that I have learned to detect. I have seen her giggle away all sorts of bad situations by appearing to be the bigger person in the matter, thus inevitably forcing the other party to back down. The problem here was there was no other party. I tried to calmly explain that there was no reason to be afraid, and that it was “all going to be ok because your brother is here and he’s not going to let anything bad happen to you”. What I actually ended up whispering, however, was more along the lines of “Stephanie, shut the hell up. What are you laughing at? Lunatic!” 

Miraculously, at some point I fell asleep, probably due to the draining of adrenaline earlier in the night. I was awakened (at roughly too early in the morning) by customs officers shouting in some undecipherable language. Our passports and tickets were returned to us, as Henry had promised, and the daylight uncovered the faces of our fellow travellers, who looked just as alarmed as we did. We had survived the night! Stephanie and I later exchanged imagined scenarios that we had envisioned happening. We both had decided on escape methods in the event of a stabbing/robbery, and they were surprisingly similar. I would tackle the man with the knife as Stephanie unlocked the cabin door, enabling us to make a hasty escape. All very plausible, we decided. 

Stephanie recovering from her giggling in the light of day

The train was approaching our destination, Belgrade. I was not even aware of this city’s existence before Stephanie had added it to the list of “must-sees” on our itinerary, much less prepared for what we saw. Momentarily I suspected that we may have boarded a train for Bagdad by mistake, but was reassured only by the lack of time which had passed in the night. 

As the trained slowed along the last stretch, Stephanie and I sat staring out the window at a series of homes that looked more like Alabama chicken coops, with tin roofs and no walls. We passed tenement buildings and porta-potties...

We had finally arrived. We had escaped the clutches of the sketchy men, retrieved our belongings and had at long last arrived at our destination! Our next step? ...Leave!

PS: Note from Stephanie - after reading Sean's entry, I googled this trip to see if other people had similar experiences... why not try it yourself? The results are enlightening!