Sound advice from Sean Connery in The Untouchables.
“Rub your chest, your arms will take care of themselves.”
More wisdom in warmth, this time from Liam Neeson in Batman Begins.
I’m pretty much convinced that the things I’ve learned watching movies will keep me alive as I once again strike out on the road in my hitchhike to India. I had no idea just how hard it was going to become.
The day had started well, not to mention my last night in Olomouc, which was very memorable indeed. I’m going to seriously miss this place, and all the new friends I’ve made here. Nonetheless, time and tide wait for no man, and in the early afternoon I’m back by the side of the road in full gear. I’m concerned it’s not the best spot, but I’ve literally put my ‘India’ board down and a wolf whistle turns my head. A guy is waving me over and he can take me as far as the Polish border. It’s the fastest I’ve ever been picked up, and not only that, but he’s packing a CB radio and is radio-ing truckers to see who is going into Poland. It all bodes well for arriving in Krakow by this evening. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
All the gear, no idea
Stranded at the last petrol station in the Czech Republic, I’m sitting alone at the end of the concourse, with not a sniff of a lift. KFC is the only food option, which I wander back to on a couple of occasions, lastly to down two cups of coffee as it’s getting dark. It looks bleak, but I know that the sleepy truckers will be heading across in the morning, so at least I’ll eventually get a ride. I’m contemplating where to bed down for the night, when my salvation comes in the form of the last transport to pull away, and with no English at all, we manage to thrash out a deal to take me as far as somewhere called Rybnik. It beats sitting on the cold tarmac, so I bundle my stuff in and we’re off. After six hours at the service station, around ten pm I finally cross the Polish border.
The last petrol station in the Czech Republic
With hitchhiking, people need to realise that just because you have a sign that says ‘India’ it doesn’t mean they have to take you the whole way. So it goes with my ‘Krakow’ sign, and since the route to the city isn’t direct, I adapt one of my boards to read ‘Gliwice’. Dropped at another petrol station, I’m told that the town is only three kilometers up the road. I set off in the right direction, only in the darkness to discover a sign that reads 23 KM. Undeterred I march onward. and as I trail my signs behind me, I’m picked up at a set of traffic lights. Again with no English the driver grunts he can drop me at a motorway on-ramp which leads to the A4; the direct route to Krakow. I edge ever closer. Then the nightmare really beings.
I find myself at the side of the motorway, with a road toll both a few feet back. I ditch the irrelevant signage and plump for the ‘Krakow’ one alone. I’m in high spirits, as there is still a fair amount of traffic to be had. Yet with each passing vehicle, the night gets darker.
Nobody stops. Nobody. For a country which claims to be pretty religious you would have thought it a chance to be the good Samaritan. Not a sinner is taking the opportunity, and the vast majority are clearly going to the city.
The fog gets thicker, the traffic gets thinner, the temperature gets lower. The condensation is eating into my stuff, and the dampness glistening on my guitar case in the floodlight. I’m singing songs, stamping my feet, talking to myself at length, trying anything to keep morale and temperature high. The only time I don’t want a driver to pass is when I’m taking a leak by the side of the road or rolling a cigarette to keep me awake and the hunger slightly at bay. I write the entirety of this blog entry aloud.
“MAK MUHn MANN BLAGH BLAH MUH! WHAHAHAHA!!” Screams some laughing idiot at me as his driver speeds past. I’ve no idea what the Polish words meant, but we have a word in English for people like that. It begins with cunt.
I look to the heavens, sigh dejectedly and ask for some help. In these moments I’m not talking to any god, but rather my parents, asking them to send me an angel in three…two…one…GO. Foggy lights appear. They get bigger. The truck slows. This is it. Shivering I look up expectantly to the cab, only to be greeted with the ‘wanker’ sign. I seriously didn’t think that existed in Poland. I’m sure I catch sight of rosary beads swaying somewhere in the darkness as he pulls away.
I decide to change location and move up to the toll booths. I’m instructed to stay further down by a greying attendant, who motions me away, not so much as the offer of a cup of coffee, or respite from the cold in the office. The moon rises, and I watch it pass across the sky. I’m concerned that dawn will bring too much traffic, and nobody will be able to stop. My mind contemplates being here for another night as I lose all track of time. I try the foam hand, I try just my thumb, I try a combination of each sign. I try looking incredibly happy, and I try looking incredibly cold. The latter isn’t hard. Weary, delirious and at my wits end, I desperately fashion a new sign to read:
A4 + (a drawing of a cup of coffee) = Kr (smiley face)
Surely this spot of genius will encourage someone to simply drop me at the next services down to get some food and warmth. It falls on dead eyes.
I waited here for seven freezing hours
As I’m finally hauled up into a big rig cab, I’m astounded to discover that it is 5.30am. I’ve been shivering in the fog for around seven hours. The feeling starts to return to my feet and hands. My bags begin to dry off. The cheery driver has me in high spirits. “No prooooblem!” is all he can say, and he repeats it over and over. About an hour and some CB chatter later, he explains that there is no direct road to Krakow and we’ve turned off the highway into foggy fields. My hand slips to my pepper spray as we wind through farm yards and barn countryside. This is it. This is my death at the hands of some human traffic ring. Some 11km outside Krakow, my suspicions prove unfounded, and he deposits me on a main road with the early commute.
The dawn light is welcome, and through red, bleary eyes I’m thankful for the increase in temperature the sun provides through a blanket of cloud. I could take a bus, but I’ve no Polish currency and no bank in sight. For the fifth time I stand with my thumb out, and pray just one of the hundreds of drivers going to work will pull in. Everybody passes by, all going to Krakow, all with one occupant in the vehicle. I’m shaking my head in utter disgust. Polish drivers; you should be ashamed of yourselves.
A hero comes in the form of a young man who speeds in and throws the door open. He’s going to work, but will take me right to the door of my hostel. He pulls into a driveway with an automatic door. “Moment” he utters, then jumps out and returns with a huge masonry drill. So THIS is it. My death at the hands of a psycho driller killer. Suspicions once again are proved unfounded, and around 8.30am, I clatter through the narrow hostel entrance, to be greeted by the sight of an angel. I knew it. I’m looking and smelling like a week old turd, and there is a female form before me Praxiteles could have sculpted himself.
The room is filled with rowdy English boys, but I don’t care and slip into a deep sleep. I’ve been taught a number of hitchhiking lessons in the past 23 hours on the road. Start early, pack snacks, and don’t do it in Poland. A wry smile creeps across my face as I drift away; this is going to make a hell of a story…
Hitchhike from hell
“Wallace are you cold?”
“Yes, I am a little”
“Well then stamp your feet. It’ll keep you warm.”
Sound advice from Sean Connery in The Untouchables.
“Rub your chest, your arms will take care of themselves.”
More wisdom in warmth, this time from Liam Neeson in Batman Begins.
I’m pretty much convinced that the things I’ve learned watching movies will keep me alive as I once again strike out on the road in my hitchhike to India. I had no idea just how hard it was going to become.
The day had started well, not to mention my last night in Olomouc, which was very memorable indeed. I’m going to seriously miss this place, and all the new friends I’ve made here. Nonetheless, time and tide wait for no man, and in the early afternoon I’m back by the side of the road in full gear. I’m concerned it’s not the best spot, but I’ve literally put my ‘India’ board down and a wolf whistle turns my head. A guy is waving me over and he can take me as far as the Polish border. It’s the fastest I’ve ever been picked up, and not only that, but he’s packing a CB radio and is radio-ing truckers to see who is going into Poland. It all bodes well for arriving in Krakow by this evening. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
All the gear, no idea
Stranded at the last petrol station in the Czech Republic, I’m sitting alone at the end of the concourse, with not a sniff of a lift. KFC is the only food option, which I wander back to on a couple of occasions, lastly to down two cups of coffee as it’s getting dark. It looks bleak, but I know that the sleepy truckers will be heading across in the morning, so at least I’ll eventually get a ride. I’m contemplating where to bed down for the night, when my salvation comes in the form of the last transport to pull away, and with no English at all, we manage to thrash out a deal to take me as far as somewhere called Rybnik. It beats sitting on the cold tarmac, so I bundle my stuff in and we’re off. After six hours at the service station, around ten pm I finally cross the Polish border.
The last petrol station in the Czech Republic
With hitchhiking, people need to realise that just because you have a sign that says ‘India’ it doesn’t mean they have to take you the whole way. So it goes with my ‘Krakow’ sign, and since the route to the city isn’t direct, I adapt one of my boards to read ‘Gliwice’. Dropped at another petrol station, I’m told that the town is only three kilometers up the road. I set off in the right direction, only in the darkness to discover a sign that reads 23 KM. Undeterred I march onward. and as I trail my signs behind me, I’m picked up at a set of traffic lights. Again with no English the driver grunts he can drop me at a motorway on-ramp which leads to the A4; the direct route to Krakow. I edge ever closer. Then the nightmare really beings.
I find myself at the side of the motorway, with a road toll both a few feet back. I ditch the irrelevant signage and plump for the ‘Krakow’ one alone. I’m in high spirits, as there is still a fair amount of traffic to be had. Yet with each passing vehicle, the night gets darker.
Nobody stops. Nobody. For a country which claims to be pretty religious you would have thought it a chance to be the good Samaritan. Not a sinner is taking the opportunity, and the vast majority are clearly going to the city.
The fog gets thicker, the traffic gets thinner, the temperature gets lower. The condensation is eating into my stuff, and the dampness glistening on my guitar case in the floodlight. I’m singing songs, stamping my feet, talking to myself at length, trying anything to keep morale and temperature high. The only time I don’t want a driver to pass is when I’m taking a leak by the side of the road or rolling a cigarette to keep me awake and the hunger slightly at bay. I write the entirety of this blog entry aloud.
“MAK MUHn MANN BLAGH BLAH MUH! WHAHAHAHA!!” Screams some laughing idiot at me as his driver speeds past. I’ve no idea what the Polish words meant, but we have a word in English for people like that. It begins with cunt.
I look to the heavens, sigh dejectedly and ask for some help. In these moments I’m not talking to any god, but rather my parents, asking them to send me an angel in three…two…one…GO. Foggy lights appear. They get bigger. The truck slows. This is it. Shivering I look up expectantly to the cab, only to be greeted with the ‘wanker’ sign. I seriously didn’t think that existed in Poland. I’m sure I catch sight of rosary beads swaying somewhere in the darkness as he pulls away.
I decide to change location and move up to the toll booths. I’m instructed to stay further down by a greying attendant, who motions me away, not so much as the offer of a cup of coffee, or respite from the cold in the office. The moon rises, and I watch it pass across the sky. I’m concerned that dawn will bring too much traffic, and nobody will be able to stop. My mind contemplates being here for another night as I lose all track of time. I try the foam hand, I try just my thumb, I try a combination of each sign. I try looking incredibly happy, and I try looking incredibly cold. The latter isn’t hard. Weary, delirious and at my wits end, I desperately fashion a new sign to read:
A4 + (a drawing of a cup of coffee) = Kr (smiley face)
Surely this spot of genius will encourage someone to simply drop me at the next services down to get some food and warmth. It falls on dead eyes.
I waited here for seven freezing hours
As I’m finally hauled up into a big rig cab, I’m astounded to discover that it is 5.30am. I’ve been shivering in the fog for around seven hours. The feeling starts to return to my feet and hands. My bags begin to dry off. The cheery driver has me in high spirits. “No prooooblem!” is all he can say, and he repeats it over and over. About an hour and some CB chatter later, he explains that there is no direct road to Krakow and we’ve turned off the highway into foggy fields. My hand slips to my pepper spray as we wind through farm yards and barn countryside. This is it. This is my death at the hands of some human traffic ring. Some 11km outside Krakow, my suspicions prove unfounded, and he deposits me on a main road with the early commute.
The dawn light is welcome, and through red, bleary eyes I’m thankful for the increase in temperature the sun provides through a blanket of cloud. I could take a bus, but I’ve no Polish currency and no bank in sight. For the fifth time I stand with my thumb out, and pray just one of the hundreds of drivers going to work will pull in. Everybody passes by, all going to Krakow, all with one occupant in the vehicle. I’m shaking my head in utter disgust. Polish drivers; you should be ashamed of yourselves.
A hero comes in the form of a young man who speeds in and throws the door open. He’s going to work, but will take me right to the door of my hostel. He pulls into a driveway with an automatic door. “Moment” he utters, then jumps out and returns with a huge masonry drill. So THIS is it. My death at the hands of a psycho driller killer. Suspicions once again are proved unfounded, and around 8.30am, I clatter through the narrow hostel entrance, to be greeted by the sight of an angel. I knew it. I’m looking and smelling like a week old turd, and there is a female form before me Praxiteles could have sculpted himself.
The room is filled with rowdy English boys, but I don’t care and slip into a deep sleep. I’ve been taught a number of hitchhiking lessons in the past 23 hours on the road. Start early, pack snacks, and don’t do it in Poland. A wry smile creeps across my face as I drift away; this is going to make a hell of a story…