Pretext for myself: A trip to use the passport that I had never used before;

Pretext for my friends: Hiking in Tatra Mountains;

Means of transportation: trains, trains and trains, plus some extra walking;

Actions due to reduce the odds: pre-paid train ticket for all trip, including 3 days of free train ride in both Czech and Poland;

Lodging: camping, at least for the mountain section (at least that was the plan, yet what one thinks in the first place never comes true)

Supplies: oats, dried soups, heavy-like-hell fish or pork tins, of which most were to return to Bucharest and also to travel to several mountains, before being used;

Luggage to take: a big backpack with a bigger sleeping pad, just to make sure that I annoy everyone, especially on crowded trains in Slovakia.

That seemed to be the recipe for a trip that was to take place in the end of June 2000. Things were to be at least a bit different from the plan, yet most changes are good, as half people generally travel for the unexpected. After a few too damn hot days of walking, running, deh, of crossing the city in a mostly desperate way, to pay bills, meet friends and so on, like I wasn't going to ever come back home, I eventually took my backpack and - after wondering once again whether some friend of mine had made some kind of joke by putting some stones inside - I headed to the train station, under a cruel sun, that was to follow me everywhere, except where I needed its sunshine, meaning except for the mountains and part of Poland. The same old station, built after a German secondary station model, wasn't a place where one would have liked to stay for too long, as there were at least 30 C. I went on the platform where there was written "R388 - Warszawa Wsch. / 19.35" and prayed for some tired (and therefore willing to sleep, instead of to talk all night) company in the compartment.

It was funny, as that train, like all international trains, had a nickname, and this was "The Carpathians", as it avoided the crowded railway from Brașov to the so touristic medieval town of Sighișoara, then all the way to Alba Iulia, and took another one, close to the highest Romanian mountains, then it reached and crossed a lower part of Tatra mountains, that way making a link between too quite remote areas of the Carpathians, hence the name. The stupid thing was that it traveled in Romania at night time, so one should have had a very good flashlight to see the mountains... Anyway, after throwing the backpack on the luggage shelf, I met a guy that was to travel almost to the border. He had just been released from the - yuck yuck yuck - army service (and I was supposed to join soon, yet for that moment I succeeded to avoid that) and for the first time in my life I met someone that was really proud of that useless waste of time and nerves. I was so tired and he kept on telling me how great the army service was: "There is no way not to join it, it is the best thing to do!". When he went to the toilet I thought whether I had or not some sleeping pills with me, to put like 50 of them in a glass of juice and give it to that awful man. Unfortunately, I never use such pills, and the second - and possible - option was to give him some anti-constipation pills, enough to make him a continuous customer of the train toilet or even better, to make him get off the train in the nearest station. But - to my salvation - when the train reached a major railway crossing, Brașov, 3 hours after departing Bucharest, another guy, heading also to some remote city, got into the compartment. Although this one was even more horrified of the dum army stories, he was too polite to say "stop" and to sadistically kill the first one, so he kept on listening to that crap and I could get some sleep for a few hours.

When I woke up they were both gone. The sun was rising, as it was almost 5 in the morning. Soon the train reached Arad, the last station before the customs. Nothing interesting, apart from the local smugglers that got into some of the compartments, yet probably I looked either too dreadful or suspicious, so they kept away from me. But there weren't too many of them anyway, as it probably was too early, and most trains heading to the west, via Budapest or Szolnok, cross the border in Curtici - Lokoshaza, so they had a lot of choice. The train slowed down as it was getting close to Curtici, in the dry morning breeze.

When it arrived in Curtici, soon after the customs officers got into the wagon, I heard some arguing: "Hey, what is that? Your passport is severely damaged!" "No, please, don't pull the pages like that, you're destroying it!" and so on. Soon the man that had those troubles with the officer found no better place to settle in but my compartment. Oh, God, usually I enjoy very much talking to people, but sometimes one has that feeling and need of silence and of a peaceful laziness... Yet all gods seemed busy with their Olympian love stories and fights, so that none heard me and this man started asking me like I was a war prisoner or a spy or something:

"Where're ya goin', pal?"

"To Tatra Mountains"

"Wut for, for cryin' out loud?"

"To hike the mountains, to see the places"

"Geez, all this way... hmmm... it looks stupid to me"

"Well, that is it"

"And how much have you paid for the train ticket?"

"About $90"

"God, for that money you could have got some nice chicks, and go to restaurants and have lots of sex, buddy!"

He went on and on with such questions and statements. At a certain moment I thought that he was a disguised border policeman. Luckily, for the first time in my life I was happy to see an officer, when they came for our passports. After another argument with that guy, whose passport looked like it had been issued by Alexander the Great and used ever since, they eventually put the stamp on what seemed to be the last tiny spare spot in his passport, did the same with mine and went away.

"Bastards. They never let things be, whatta heck" concluded my self-claimed friend. Though I wasn't interested at all in his life, the boredom that filled the train during the too long stay in Curtici and then, on the Hungarian side, in Lokoshaza, kicked me, and I asked him about his reason for traveling to the neighbouring country.

"I am headin' to Bekescsaba, to the mart there, they've got good things, and pretty cheap, buddy" he proudly said. "If I can make a good deal, I'll buy myself some fishing gear, I wanna go to the Danube Delta in a week or so"

He seemed to know all the Hungarian customs officers, as well as the Hungarian border station, as he had been taken away of the train several times because of the "too loaded file" (meaning because he was obviously more than a traveller interested about fishing gear, but more or less like a local cross-border smuggler, used to bribing and such stuff). "Oh, we're havin' the small'n hairless bloke, it's gonna be fine, believe me, no troubles at all, he's a peach pie". And indeed a very plain and harmless man entered asking for passports. They said hi to each other, then he seemed not to notice me apart from the stamping thing, then he left.

The train eventually started, after some locals filled the compartment. When entering, an old man asked something in Hungarian, probably whether the seat he was looking at was or not spare. "Hongurom, bongurom, go to hell" my "buddy" answered in Romanian.

It was the second - and last - time during my whole trip when I felt like using the ice pick. The Romanians are well-known for the exaggerate sense of humour, yet sometimes things go too far. It was to happen again, some months later, when I went to Belgrade, just before Milosevic was replaced by Kostunica. At that time, answering the railway workers' greetings and smiles while the train was crossing Pancevo, some Romanians in the train kept on smiling and replying with "f*** off, bastards".

Eventually my "buddy" went off the train. As the temperature was rising and the train was slowly moving through that country, I happily noticed that most local trains in Hungary had a specially designed wagon for bicycle travelers. Cycling seemed to be a very popular means of transportation, as many local people - whether they were young or old, male or female, fat or slim - were riding bikes. It is weird that things are so different just miles away, from one country to another, as in Romania there are people enjoying that, yet far less. Under a rough sunshine, my home (as a friend of mine had told me before leaving Bucharest: "you're going to travel for 17 hours, so that wagon will become like your house or so") stopped in Szolnok. People going off the train, people going in the train, it was the same, the same crowd that I enjoy so much while traveling. Backpacks, handbags, purses, plastic bags, old people, young people, red-haired or blond people, people in jeans or suits, wearing hats or caps... And again that red wagon where I was, so different from the white/blue ones belonging to the national railway - MAV -, and still so alike, as trains are the same to me, the best way of meeting people and to enjoy a trip.

Slovakia was just miles away, as we soon reached Hidasnemeti.

"Aha, you're Romanian, are you going to Poland?" the customs officer asked in a bad but stunning Romanian seeing my passport.

"No, I am getting off the train in Kosice, heading to Tatra Mo..." I tried to reply.

"I see, Tatraaaaa, show me money" he said, rapidly changing the tone. He maybe thought that I was stupid enough not to have called their embassy in Bucharest and asked about the terms for entering their country. When he saw it, he sadly put the stamp, turned and went away. Soon after that I learnt from another Romanian that had the bad luck of being alone in the compartment, that he was asked 10 DM to be allowed in. Well, it is part of the "welcome to the wild east" greeting. It is part of the not-so-standardized "civilized world" former communist block. Yet I like it this way, at least, apart from such bad happenings (that are a consequence of the fact that these clerks have very low wages and a very bad mentality), Eastern Europe has a very warm and friendly people, like no other. Except for the too touristic places, as I was to experience soon...

At noon I arrived in Kosice. That was a very bad time to get there, as most shops and banks had a lunch break (which I was very unfamiliar with in Romania) between 12.00 and 02.00 PM. Luckily a Polish chat friend had told me about it, and I soon found the exchange office that did not obey to this general rule, though it offered a pretty bad rate for the US dollars, but anyway. Carrying the backpack and visiting the touristic part of the city in that midday heat was not a pleasant thing to do, yet the neat and pretty old fashioned streets, as well as the beautiful girls I saw there were a good reward for the effort made. The only decent thing about Tatra that I could find during my short stay was an atlas that I was to curse for the following days. It had like 50 pages or so and, in order to find the way between two huts or between Slovakia and Poland (they have a border crossing point on some 2495 m. high peak), it took me some minutes, without having a big - and so nice - map. After shooting the "proof" usual pictures (so that people would believe me that I was abroad and not getting drunk in a local restaurant in Bucharest), I got into the so crowded and noisy train from Kosice to the industrial and polluted city of Poprad. And there - wow - the mountains seemed so massive and cool. But there was no time for paintings, so, after buying a ticket for what they called "local train", I went to the so-called "second station" and waited for a train. I noticed a tramway there, yet I was very stubborn thinking there was a train to Popradske Pleso. It took me some score minutes of waiting until I realized that all those backpackers that got into the tram were also heading to the mountains, so that was the "train". Shaking and making a lot of noise, the tram went close to the mountains. It was a very weird and funny one, I had never imagined the same type of trams that we used to have some years ago in Bucharest, going up to over 1000 m.alt., through a forest and among the rocks. As I wanted to cross the border via Rysy peak, I did not go down in Stary Smokovec, like all wise people, but in Popradske Pleso. From that point I was to follow an asphalted road going to the hut with the same name, located on a beautiful glacial lake at 1500 m.alt. Cesky Peak, then Mengusovske Ridge had beautiful and steep rocky walls going down to Hincov Potok valley. Yet the hut looked more like a hotel. It was pretty huge, with an even bigger parking lot. As it was about 7.30 PM, I thought that the decent thing to do was to ask for lodging.

"Hello, I'd like a place to sleep, the cheapest possible, please" I asked the smiling lady.

"Hi there, unfortunately we have no cheap places. No expensive places either. No places at all, the hut is full". She had a very weird smile on her face.

"OK, I don't mind sleeping on the floor or somewhere, all that I need is a roof above my head, as I can see some not very friendly clouds in the sky", I said, knowing that, in the high area, in Romania, the hut masters must find a place for tourists in the evening, they are not allowed - at least officially, Romania is no heaven either - to let people go at night if these people do not especially want so. Yet this was far from being reality there.

"Sorry, but our policy does not accept that. You may go back where you came from, or go camping, as I see that you have a tent with you" she firmly said.

"But isn't camping forbidden in the Tatras? I think I read so on the internet."

"It is, yes, and there are guards making sure this rule is respected."

She was giving me very interesting and straight answers, besides I knew from some friends that if caught camping here, the rule is simple: "pay the fee (which was very high) or we take your passport".

"I intended to cross the border across the Rysy Peak customs" I said just to make conversation, not knowing that there was a very "cool" answer to this also.

"Rysy Peak crossing is closed, there were some Polish people trying to cross it via that point yesterday, and now the police is after them."

For some strange reason, I seemed to have reached Auschwitz and not Tatra Mountains. I thought about what was to come next. Maybe they would put me in jail for the fact that I had a green / black backpack instead of a yellow one with pink spots or for the fact that they mostly probably considered that the French ice pick on my backpack was a Western capitalist baaaaad gun, also forbidden by the Ministry of Truth that George Orwell wrote about, probably inspired by the reality in these places. Anyway, there was a beautiful mountain in front of me, no need to mess it with useless chatting.

"Where is the next hut?" I asked, not willing to go back to the civilization I was sick of.

"Oh, that is far, 3 hours away, you cannot go there" she said trying to seem that she cared.

"It seems to me the only way. I have a head lamp and I hope that there are no rules against night hiking also. Thank you."

It is sad and weird at the same time that the first thing one finds when meeting people and anthropic values in the wilderness is some stupid rule. I went out and sat on a bench in front of the hut, to have a snack before going up. I could see the path going up in tight curves on a mountain close to the hut, from 1500 m.alt. to some 1966 m.alt. peak. I met some Polish people on the benches there, and God they had sad faces. They had the same problem like me, and much worse: a girl had a twisted ankle and could hardly walk, even the way down to the village seemed impossible for her. "Of course" that the hut master did not care about them either, as the girl with the twisted ankle was wished a good evening and sent away, just like me. I found out from these people that foreigners are badly treated here, for some mysterious reason (maybe because they bring money to the tourism industry).

The story goes like this, as these people have told me: tourism in Tatra had used to be free, yet people had damaged the environment. Then they made it a national park and forbade camping, stepping out of the marked paths and so on. The weird part was that the Slovak side had worse rules than the Polish one, while the Polish people go more often in the mountains than Slovaks. They put those high fees on everything, due to the fact that there were many people coming from Germany, therefore people "with money". It is the same thing in all poor countries, they try to get rich by - officially or unofficially - ripping off the richer...

Coming back to the Slovaks, they had these asphalted roads to the huts and they never accepted the tourists to come here by car (I liked that, I have to admit, as most people coming by car in the mountains bring waste, pollution, loud music and much harm with them). Anyway, we all cursed the officials, like all people do when having problems, talked for a while, ate and, eventually, about one hour later, I started to go up. Someone shouted at me. It was the charming lady from the hut reception, asking me why I was so late. She said that she had expected to see me up the mountain, and that she had been looking for my yellow T-shirt. Now she worried about tourists, the poor thing! I said that I was OK, that I was used to night hiking from my winter trips in the mountains, and, without any other useless words, I headed upwards. Sometimes I really prefer the rough nature to people, and happenings like this seem to entitle me to that. The path was called "Tatranska Magistrala" and it followed the foothills of Gerlachovski Peak, the highest one in the Tatras (2654 m.alt.). The fact that the mountains were much northern than the ones in Romania, as well as the fact that they were a bit higher and more isolated, facing worse weather conditions therefore, resulted in the way they looked. They had really steep walls and rocky ridges, and the paths could not generally follow the main ridge, that involved alpine difficulty and demanded rock climbing gear to be followed. That is why most paths were going alongside the valleys and only crossing the ridge to the other side. As for the highest peak, I had got some bad information in Bucharest that I hadn't wanted to believe, and there was worse to come. The path was - like all paths in these mountains - extremely well maintained. That is why hiking was pretty easy there. At a certain moment I reached Batizovske Lake, which had - oh God - some extremely good camping places close to it, as well as a big plate saying "camping forbidden". For a moment I thought "what the hell, if I camp in half an hour, it will be totally dark and if I start early in the morning, no one will see me". Yet I was only in the beginning of the trip and talking risks was not a good idea. One hour later or so I reached the Sliezski Dom hotel. This one was almost empty. God, life is weird sometimes.

It was almost 10.30 PM and I had to look in the restaurant to find the people in charge of the reception. They were much nicer (and the prices were far higher to justify their behaviour). I slept all alone in a very neat room with 10 beds, and thought what a nice day that was to begin the trip... After all, all is well that ends well. And life would be damn boring if there were no bad times every now and then. Thinking about that, I went to sleep and dreamt of Gerlachovski Peak that I wanted to hike the following day.

I woke up, looked around and wondered. Wow, my enemies hadn't known the best curse there was, as I was still alive and the hut roof hadn't collapsed on me to accomplish the day before. Cheering up I briefly ate, packed up things and went downstairs to pay for the overnight stay. Although that I was talking to her in English and not in Slovak, the lady there asked me whether I was foreigner or not. Stupidly enough, I said the truth and paid 50% more. I hate this price difference between locals and foreigners when I travel abroad, but I love it when being at home, where in some youth hostels and huts there is still such a practice; it is part of being a human, I guess, to enjoy taking advantages at times.

Then I asked about Gerlachovski, pretending not to know that, due to the great number of people wanting to reach it, they had put a sign on the map saying "Gerlachovski Peak is dangerous to hike, all tourists need a paid for, official guide to go there", just to get more funds for the national park. She said that I was to pay like $10 for that, then to join a group of Poles that also wanted to go up, with their guide. While I was seriously considering whether it was wise to pay that huge - for me - amount, or to find a better use for it (like buying food for a 1 week hike in the mountains at home), and when I almost reached the conclusion that, what the hell, I was there, so maybe Gerlachovski was worth, she came back talking to someone. The weather was to be bad for the following days, no one was to go on the summit. Period. That was the piece of news that was to add the last drop into the already full glass. I took the atlas and I looked for the closest way to get to the main ridge. After all, I came for the mountains, not for the people. If the Slovaks were so rough on tourists, why not going to the Polish side as fast as possible? So, I went up alongside the beautiful glacial valley and soon I reached the Dlhe Lake, knowing that Gerlachovski was just above that lake, so damn close... The fog and the clouds were fastly moving due to the strong wind and the barometer on my watch announced - as the lady said - bad weather. The air pressure was constantly going down. Then the path went up and crossed some areas covered up by old snow, eventually reaching the black, steep and beautiful ridge in Polski Hreben saddle. Just to go as high as possible in the area, I left the backpack there and went on a peak called Vychodna Vysoka (2429 m.alt.), in a very foggy weather. Going down on the other side of the mountain, I met a couple of very nice Poles. They hardly spoke English, but when they heard about me being Romanian, they said "Hagi", which needed no translation; no need to say that the conversation about football ended before beginning, as I am not keen of this sport. The long way down started, as the Biela Voda Valley was damn long until the path reached Lysa Polana, which was the road customs between Slovakia and Poland. No need to say that, as we were going down, a heavy rain started.

The Sileszki Dom Hotel front desk clerk's words were ringing in my ears: "The following days will involve bad weather, with plenty of rains". My plans to go to either the Morskie Oko Lake or to the Wielki Staw Polski Lake, in order to reach after that a nice ridge between Turnia and Wielky Woloszyn Peaks seemed ruined. The reason was simple: I could have faced the bad weather, I had done that before plenty of times, yet if I could see nothing there, that meant only money and/or food wasted in vain. The rain was getting worse and worse and, when we got to the road that went to Poland, we thought of reaching the highway to Heaven. My newly acquired friends bought a kind of traditional tea (or at least I thought it was a plain tea, he he): hot tea mixed with vodka. That was enough to make one happy and forget about all problems.

After facing a suspicious customs officer in Lysa Polana... (click here for the sequel)

THE SLOVAKIAN SECTION (you are here)

THE POLISH SECTION