Corrupt officials! Bandits robbing the train

Before breakfast, we save the remaining pictures on CD. We leave the hotel in the afternoon. “We’ll see you again in April,” we say to the nice man at reception and let our bikes roll to the nearby train station. We stand on the platform in high spirits and wait for the international train that will take us from Romania to Vienna. The people on the platform marvel at our wheeled equipment. “Do you want to buy a camera?” one of the 10-year-old salesmen asks me and shows me his possessions in a bag. “Who did you steal them from?” I ask him, shaking my head in disapproval. Offended, he leaves to offer his goods to someone else. When the train finally arrives, a pleasant feeling flows through us. He seems to whisper promisingly as the squealing brakes breathe their last sound into the twilight. “I’ll see if I can find the conductor,” says Tanja and runs along the platform with full vigor. It doesn’t take long for her to return without success. “We’d better load our equipment into the compartment,” she says. While I look after the bikes, she carries pannier after pannier into the train compartment. Although we work quickly, we have to solve the problem of an uncertainty factor. Whenever Tanja picks up the next bags, the carriage compartment is unattended. “Can you take a look at our equipment in the meantime?” she asks a traveler hanging his fat belly out of the window. “Sure,” he says without taking his job seriously. “Where are you going to put the panniers? You have to put them in the nets provided, otherwise we’ll never get the trailers in there,” I admonish. “You have to do that,” she says, whereupon I carry more bags into the narrow corridor. In the sleeping compartment, our equipment lies on the floor and on the beds. I immediately start to arrange our material in the grids above my head. As the train will be leaving the station in 15 minutes at the latest, I’m in a hurry and start sweating like an animal. As soon as the panniers are in the nets, I leave our shelter for the next 14 hours and head into the narrow corridor. A young newspaper vendor walks in front of me, stops in front of an empty compartment and examines it closely. I wonder what he’s looking for in a deserted compartment? Perhaps a bag or a camera that the passenger, feeling safe, has already put inside? Who knows? But somehow the guys have to get their cameras and other stuff which they then offer for sale to tourists for little money. “There’s nothing there!” I say behind him, which is why he runs on, startled. “Can I help you carry the box onto the train?” a helpful German passenger asks me. “With pleasure. You’re very friendly,” I thank you. “Your wife is far too delicate to carry that massive box,” he replies with a laugh. Together we heave the 58 kilogram Zargesbox, which is the body of our used trailer, through the narrow aisles. It takes a lot of effort and loud panting to get the aluminum box into the compartment. “How are they going to get their bikes in there? Can’t you fit anything else in there?” asks the sympathetic helper. “No idea.” “Well, you must have an optimistic attitude. What are they going to tell customs? They’ll take anything from you,” his statement shocks me. “No idea. We’ll solve that problem when the time comes. For now, we have to see how we can get the bikes onto the train.” “Well, have fun then. And above all, good luck,” he says, looking at me sympathetically.

“I found the German-speaking conductor. He doesn’t have an empty compartment. He said everything was fully booked. We should wait here. He’ll join us soon,” Tanja tells me as I stand back on the platform, my whole body wet with sweat, and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Another conductor in uniform strolls past, looks at us with a pitying grin and says in a spiteful tone: “That will cost you a lot of money”. Without offering us any help, he walks on and leaves us alone with our problem. “Corrupt sham,” I whisper after him, completely incensed by his unfriendly manner and outrageous behavior. Then he turns around, laughs evilly and rubs his thumb on his index finger. “You…” “Leave him alone, this arm candy will only cause us more trouble,” Tanja reassures me. “Eight minutes until departure,” I curse nervously, glancing at the clock as the German-speaking conductor still doesn’t show up. “Never mind, they’ll just leave us here. We’ll load the bikes onto the train. The main thing is that they’re inside,” says Tanja. “You’re good. Where should I load them? They’ll hardly fit through the narrow aisles. And if we put them between the wagon joints, no one will be able to get past them,” I point out. “Never mind, they have to go in now,” is their logical and only correct conclusion. We immediately start to heave the bulky bikes through the narrow door. As soon as one of the wheels is in the intermediate section of the rail carriages, the first people start to pile up. They force their way ruthlessly past them and bend the mudguards of our now beloved bikes. A newspaper vendor begins to squeeze past me, pushing the front wheel of my bike against a piece of iron, causing a few spokes to bend precariously. “Watch out you idiot!” I shout at him angrily and am ready to defend my bike with my fist. Startled by my outburst, the Romanian takes a step back and suddenly smiles at me. Then he pushes his body past my delite black with more consideration. “Quick! My bike has to go in!” Tanja’s voice calls to me as she waits outside the door. “Come on!” I gasp breathlessly, still busy keeping the angry passengers from kicking my reliable vehicle. I can’t believe that our machines have driven almost 3000 kilometers through thick and thin with us without letting us down once, only to be treated like this here on the train. Five minutes before departure, I jump onto the platform, grab Tanja’s bike and heave it onto the train too. The traffic jam is now perfect. Putting the handlebars sideways, I pull a delite black through the narrow aisle in front of our compartment. Then we get Tanja’s riese und müller together. As soon as the wheels are in position, the train jolts out of Bucharest station. “Phew, just about made it,” Tanja groans. We linger almost desperately in front of our small sleeping compartment and consider our next steps. By chance, there is still a free sleeping compartment next to us. “We’ll put one in there first, then we’ll see,” I suggest. Then we lift the Zargesbox onto the middle bed to free up the narrow footwell. Using every trick in the book, I now try to angle the delite black around the sharp edge of the aisle into our compartment. “Higher! Higher still! Watch out! No, let go!” I command Tanja, who tries to take some of the weight off me. I don’t know how but I’ve finally done it. One bike stands undamaged in front of the bench. I sit down on the bench to catch my breath, completely dissolved and flowing. In the meantime, the evil officer comes by with a colleague, points at us and says something about bicycles. It doesn’t take long before we are suddenly approached by a man speaking perfect German. “I’m the Austrian conductor. I’m sorry but I have to tell you that bicycles are not allowed on this train,” we hear in shock. “To my regret, I have nothing to say on this train. The train manager is Romanian. If it were my train, I would be happy to help them. But my hands are tied,” he apologizes. “That can’t be right. We asked in Belgrade whether it was possible to take our bikes on the train. They said no problem. To be on the safe side, we also asked in Bucharest and they assured us that we could take our bikes with us,” I explain. “Well, my Romanian colleague would like to see some money for the excess baggage,” explains the conductor, visibly pleased to find a positive solution to the problem and points to the man in uniform who is now joining us. I look up, straight into the eyes of the corrupt official from the platform. A volcano begins to boil inside me that I can only control with difficulty. The Romanian looks at me with cold eyes, takes a list out of his pocket and points to a few numbers. “He says you can only take your bikes with you if you pay 100,000 lei per kilogram. Uh, he means your bike weighs 20 kilograms. So he wants two million lei per bike,” he translates. “What, that’s 60 euros per bike? We don’t have that kind of money anymore. Then they’ll just have to throw us out,” I reply indignantly. “For God’s sake. Hopefully it won’t come to that. I’ll talk to him again,” he says. A few minutes later, he reappears in front of our open compartment door. “He wants 700,000 lei or 20 euros for both bikes. You can still think about it. But maybe it’s better to pay. I’ll come back later,” he offers in a friendly manner. Although Tanja and I don’t want to contribute to the corruption, we decide to pay the 20 euros. Of course, we don’t get a receipt. “I guarantee that the train manager won’t cause you any more trouble,” the nice official reassures us and wishes us a safe journey.

As soon as the train stops at another station, two more Austrians enter our carriage, shouting and clamoring. Unfortunately, they want to go into the empty sleeping compartment next to us. The conductor locked it to protect our bike from theft. “Why is it closed?” asks one of the men, quite upset. “The conductor will open it for you immediately. There’s one of our bikes in there. We’ll take it out straight away, of course,” Tanja reassures him. “Oh, a wheel. What does a bike bother us? Gell Fritzi, a bike doesn’t bother us, does it?” he says to his colleague. “No, absolutely not. For God’s sake, leave your bike in the compartment,” replies Fritzi. While waiting for the conductor, we listen to their loud conversation. “So Fritzi. I had to pull the emergency brake because you had your hand on the handlebar. Is that clear?” “Yes, my God, we’re definitely in for the long haul. Did you really see how I had my hand on the handlebar?” “Of course Fritzi. You had your hand on the handrail and that’s dangerous when the train starts moving.” “Oh, if we hadn’t been so late. I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.” “No Fritzi, you’re not going to have a heart attack. The emergency brake is a small thing. I gave this fucking official, this scumbag of a corrupt asshole a million lei to keep his mouth shut and now he wants an extra 100 euros! This asshole can get to know me. People like that should be thrown out of the civil service. So, if they ask you, Fritzi, you say that you had your hand on the handle. Okay?” “Okay,” replies the obese man, who is about fifty years old, still sweating from every pore and panting heavily. It doesn’t take long for the Austrian conductor to show up. “Well, if I tell you, my friend had his hand on the handlebar! That’s very dangerous. Your corrupt colleague gave the train driver the signal to drive on and didn’t pay attention to my friend. I have no respect for emergency brakes. I know my way around monorails,” he explains, whereupon the officer takes a report.

Then, when the Austrian and Fritzi enter their compartment, it takes less than two seconds and he sticks his head in towards us. So you are married young. It would be nice if you could take your bike with you. You can snuggle up together on a bed. We’ll manage that. Wasn’t it? No problem. We’ll manage that,” he chats away, making our ears prick up. We immediately jump up to angle our bike out of the two’s compartment. “And how are we supposed to get it into our house now?” I ask Tanja on the verge of despair. “I don’t know,” she replies as a begging boy sneaks past us. Wondering how he got on board, we look after him. I now carefully try to bend the now stubborn bike around the corner of the door without any success. Then I lift my backside as high as my strength allows. The Austrian next door also has his hand in the game, which means that the whole action doesn’t have the slightest chance of success. “No! Please leave it. I can manage that. We’ll manage,” I repeat his words and heave the bike even higher. My right shoulder starts to hurt. I angle and angle but the pedal keeps getting wedged in the door frame. Suddenly a thought flashes through my brain and I try to nest the whole bike around the corner at shoulder height. Suddenly it goes “plop” and the frame is in our compartment. Relieved to have achieved the impossible, we now curl up on the bench. As there is no room for our feet on the ground, we stretch them out on the bench and catch our breath for a while.

“Uh, I’m really embarrassed, but the train manager said your wheels mustn’t protrude into the aisle,” the Austrian official admonishes us a little later. “How are we supposed to get the bikes any further into our compartment? It’s impossible and almost seems like harassment,” we reply. “I still have a compartment free. If you like, we can put a bike there. But I can’t guarantee that it will be safe there.” “Why? Is there theft here?” “I’m not allowed to say anything about that,” we hear in astonishment, which is why we decline the offer to separate one of the delites from us. We now sit on the bench and ponder how we can manage to circumvent the law and push the wheels even further into the narrow space without destroying them? “So if I remove the front wheels?” I think aloud. Then a light comes on and we actually manage to wedge the racks together so that the compartment door closes. It is not long before we learn from a source who does not wish to be named here what the danger of the train is all about.

Bandits robbing the train!

“This train connection is extremely risky. Passengers are robbed time and time again.” “How can that happen?” I want to know. “The critical route is not in Romania but in Hungary. Gangs come on board there and spray gas into the compartments. They steal everything that isn’t nailed down. You wouldn’t notice a thing. If, for some reason, they resist anyway, these people are prepared to use other means.” “That’s appalling. Why isn’t anything being done about it?” “I have no idea. There are armed police officers on board to protect the guests. Nevertheless… Some of the train crew must be in cahoots with the gangs. It’s apparently a lucrative business. The authorities aren’t making a big deal of it.” “And what about the train from Vienna to Bucharest? Is it just as dangerous?” “No. The train runs through the critical areas during daylight hours. It can’t be compared with this one.” “Hm, thanks for the information.” “You’re welcome. Have a safe and smooth journey.” “We wish them the same,” I reply and immediately start thinking with Tanja about how we can secure our compartment to make it burglar-proof. “We should put a strap around the doorknob and attach it to the top of the luggage rack,” Tanja suggests. “I’ve just had the same thought. It’s the perfect idea,” I praise her and put her suggestion into practice. “Well, if anyone wants to come in now, they’ll have to shoot the door open,” I joke, making us laugh heartily. To celebrate, we open a bottle of Romanian beer, eat pistachios and enjoy our burglar-proof fort.

Then I discover a third bed on the ceiling and lower it. Later, as we lie down to give our overworked bodies a well-earned rest, we hear the muffled voices of the emergency brake puller and his friend Fritzi through the wall of the adjoining compartment. “Well, I’ve never pulled the emergency brake for anyone, Fritzi. I’ve only done it for you.” “I don’t know if I’m not too old for such adventures. In any case, I’ve realized that my body can’t take any more. I’m already exhausted if I have to run a few meters after a train. This pain. I think my teeth are broken. When I get back, I’ll have them all pulled.” “You’re not doing that Fritzi. You should change your diet. Maybe more soups and less meat.” “You’re probably right. I should lose weight. Well, I’ll lose weight when I get home,” we listen to the conversation whether we want to or not and fall into a restless sleep.

At 2:30 in the morning there is a knock on the door. I peer cautiously through the peephole. “It’s customs,” I say reassuringly. As there are knocks and bangs on other compartment doors, we are sure that we will not be lured out of our fort by cunning thieves and lock up. “What have you got in that box?” an officer wants to know. Tanja tells him about our cycle tour to Burma and the first stage to Romania. The officer laughs and walks on. Just half an hour later, the Hungarians get us out of bed. This check also goes without a hitch. To our delight, the officers are very polite. As dusk begins to fall, we are glad to have made it over the dangerous stretch without incident. We open the compartment door, stand in the narrow corridor and learn that an officer’s bag has been stolen. “No, no money. Just a few personal things missing. Otherwise, it was a smooth ride,” he says.

With a lot of patience and the great help of the nice, helpful Austrian conductor, we carry the bikes and all our equipment onto the platform in Vienna. From there, the journey continues to Salzburg. Then we change to Augsburg and back on a new train to Nuremberg. In heavy fog, we cycle the last few kilometers along the Pegnitzgrund and reach our home at around midnight. I’m really looking forward to seeing my parents again. We talk about our latest adventures late into the night.

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