No game today, just a tortuous 467 mile, 14 hour train
journey to Serbia.
A surprisingly spirited 0500 start to the morning, meant we
were at the station in time for the 0603 IC service into Wien.
This meant we were into Wien in time to see the overnight
services arrive from various parts of Europe.
On the right the empty stock from Milan, this one in from Berlin.
Our home for the next 12 hours duly arrived. I was particularly excited about it being hauled
by a MAV Taurus in liveried to celebrate the 'Aranycsapat', the Hungarian
'golden team' of the 1950s.
We progressed through Austria and into Hungary,
re-aquatinting with a misty Danube. Dai
is never one to do any research about where we are going, so always has a barrage
of questions, of varying complexness. As
we were on our way, after answering various queries about Tito, Dai then went
back to basics with "Is Belgrade in Romania?". At this point I was more interested in
sleep, so I fobbed him off with a "yes".
At Budapest Keleti, we had a 50 minute wait as various
portions of international trains are re-assembled for onward destinations. We took this opportunity to go and grab some
breakfast, and conscious of the petty theft, took our bags with us. Dai got mesmerised at the bookstore that
there was a Hungarian version of Readers Digest, so I left him to it and we
agreed to meet back at the train. After
grabbing some food, I noticed that the football liveried loco had come off our
train and had hooked up to a Bucharesti service.
The train shortly departed.
What I didn't expect to see as the train passed me, was Dai merrily
ordering something in the dining car, appearing oblivious to the fact that he
was on his own, heading two countries away from where he should have been
going. As he had no working phone, there
was no way of telling him. This was the
last I saw of him, the next I heard was the following Monday when my phone
informed me I had a WhatsApp message, something I didn't know existed until
then, with Dai telling me he was in Sofia.
So I headed on alone.
We crossed into Serbia at Subotica, a place I was very familiar
with. I used to go to Kosovo a lot as
the post Balkan war railway there consisted of rolling stock that the UN had
scrounged off other European countries.
This meant some absolutely outstanding locos, most notably some
Scandinavian Nohabs. This meant I had
lots of Kosovan stamps in my passports.
Now the Serbians didnt take too kindly to Britain playing a part in
having a part of their country annexed and given to the Albanians, and some of
them could get really arsey about it.
One of these was the chief customs person at Subotica. He would haul you off the train, take you to
a holding cell, shout at you in Serbian, then march you outside to watch the
train leave, knowing there wasn't one for another 12 hours, then let you
go. I had this happen four times, the
first time waiting the 12 hours, the next time getting a coach to Cluj Napoca,
and the third time a taxi to the border.
On the final occasion, I got talking to one of the railway staff, and he
gave me a lift to the border. He
explained the customs officer was quite high up in the Serbian army during the
Balkan war. If there was anyone I could
imagine committing genocide on a village full of Croats, it would have been
that pathological fucker.
Anyway, safely through passport control this time. I headed to the restaurant car, attracted by
these wonderful 1970s publicity shots that adorned the carriage vestibule.
And so we arrived into Beograd, with the Danube looking
wonderful.
However, the station was still the piss-ridden tramp fest
that I remembered it to be. Never mind,
a short walk to my hotel for an early night, a big day tomorrow.
Solo Travelling Times
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