Waylaid in Belarus by Philip Hill

“The wisest thing to do if you’re living in hell is to make yourself comfortable.” - Charles Bukowski.

Adapted from the memoir, 65 Days, of which this extract forms the third chapter.

I’d just boarded a four a.m. train for an overnight journey through Poland and Belarus to Moscow, where I was booked to ride the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I was looking forward to a quiet couple of days peacefully trundling through wintry eastern European greyness. It turned out that those quiet days were anything but, and if what was to follow was peaceful, then to misquote J.F.K., “Ich bin ein Berliner”, because what happened instead proved I really am something of jelly doughnut!

The misadventure began, though I didn’t know it yet, as soon as I heard the unmistakable sound of heavy boots running in my direction. Taking my cue from Cold War thriller novels, I imagined they were coming for me, and all I could do was sit and wait those few seconds before they burst into my compartment…and it turned out they really were coming for me.

The Belarusian border guard who reached me first, I’d seen not ten minutes before, when he’d seemed perfectly pleasant. But this time, he produced a blue ink pad and a rubber stamp from his tunic pocket. Casually, and I could swear he was smirking, he said, ‘Passport!’, at which moment I instantly knew things were not going to end well. By

this time, three of his mates had crowded into the compartment to witness the fun. 

Rewind five minutes, and my formerly friendly border guard had produced a red ink pad and stamp. He’d happily accepted that my Trans-Siberian train ticket for the following day was sufficient for me to travel across his wonderful, Soviet time warp of a country to

Moscow. Clearly, there’d since been a rethink and my lovely red transit stamp was now covered with a blue one that read ‘ANULVANA’. Annulled. Cancelled. Void. 

I must’ve gone into meltdown because I can’t remember what immediately followed. However, as if beamed up by Scotty on ‘Star Trek’, my next conscious recollection of events was that I was in a minibus with eight, mostly teenaged, Belarusian

soldiers, armed to the teeth, scowling at me. I cleared the window with my coat sleeve and noticed it had started snowing. 

Then I noted the digital clock in the dashboard with the display showing the outside temperature– -7c; it felt the same inside. I felt surprisingly calm as I gazed out the window into the darkness to observe the train I'd just been on rattling past me. It seemed that getting to Moscow was not going to prove as easy as I’d thought. That train was going to reach its destination without me, while I was heading – well, actually, I had no idea where I was heading, or how long for.

There were definitely lessons to be learned from my predicament, but other than what it might be like freezing to death in a Cold War movie scene, set in the Khrushchev era, I wasn’t yet sure what they were. Perhaps it had something to do with engaging in more thorough research before trying to emulate a fictional nineteenth century adventurer. Phileas Fogg had managed the overland round the world journey I was embarking on in eighty days and I’d been planning to beat him by at least ten. Were the minions of Aleksander Lukashenko going to compel me to abandon my attempt on day three? 

My sole rational, or was it irrational, thought was now getting myself out of this mess and flying home to England. We clearly weren’t traveling far, so I figured I was just across the border, somewhere in Belarus. The minibus journey was a blur; no one spoke and I was stared at constantly. I guess it gave the boys something to do. They could go back to barracks and guffaw at the terrified expression on the dumb Englishman’s face over that evening’s borscht. On the positive side, no one made any move to shoot me.

My strange sense of calm worried me; shouldn’t I be making outraged protestations of my innocence, summoning the Victorian spirit of Phileas Fogg and shouting ‘Don’t you

know I’m British? Call the embassy immediately!’ But I said nothing, only sat there like a lemon. Perhaps I should clarify at this point that I’d never been a member of any government agency, extremist political organization, or any other group ranging from wildly exotic to mildly interesting. I was just a regular man in his mid-fifties. Yes, I like to properly travel, to go on a journey, instead of to an all inclusive beach resort with cocktails by the pool among other sunburned tourists, but the mess I now found myself in was out of my depth and I definitely wasn’t getting a buzz from it.

I was eventually deposited in a large, sparse, fluorescent lit hall. At first, I

couldn’t make out its purpose. Was it a government building? It must be, yet I felt confident that at least it wasn’t a police station or prison. I’d just been left alone, me and my two bags in a huge hall. It dawned on me that I still had my mobile phone. No one had searched me or taken anything away from me. I still had my passport. 

Harry Palmer would’ve made a run for it. Jason Bourne wouldn’t have let them put him in the minibus to begin with. I sat with my phone in my hand, wondering who to call. I noticed that I was being guarded by a single soldier at the other end of the hall. I held up my phone in one hand and pointed at it with the index finger of the other. The kid glared for a few seconds, then nodded. That nod told me a lot. It told me I was going to be able to get out of this mess.

I called my Danish friend, Magnus, a man who knows what to do in a tight spot. He answered, but hurriedly said, ‘I can’t speak now. I’m at a yacht club meeting in London.’ 

‘Wait!’ I shouted, in near panic, before he cut me off. 

Magnus waited and I explained my situation in as few words as possible. I heard him laugh in utter disbelief, followed by a series of expletives.

‘So, you tell me what to do’, he said, trying to make me think things through logically. 

I told him I’d see what happened, and would call back in two hours, if I could, but that if I didn’t, he’d need to get the wheels in motion to try and retrieve me.

I realised that I was thirsty and hungry, and must've left my water bottle and snacks on the train in a panic. There was a clunking, mechanical noise outside and I jumped, but then it dawned on me that it was a train. I was in another train station; the situation was getting more promising. A couple more soldiers joined my guard. They exchanged a few words and headed my way. With some pointing and grunting, it was indicated that I should get up and gather my luggage. No one spoke any English; they didn’t need to. It was as though we knew our roles in this drama and all we needed to do was go through the expected motions. 

I was ushered onto a platform where there was what I can only describe as a wooden train like something straight out of the Wild West, making me a cowboy, although I was the only one without a gun. The last time I had seen anything like it was in Soller going through the orange groves of Mallorca…only this one didn' t give me the same sunny vibes. I remember wondering why a train would be made of wood in this day and age, but marveling at how warm the carriage was. The carriage could hold about fifty people, but I had it all to myself. Less than half an hour later, that same carriage was almost full. 

There were no handshakes or salutes goodbye. In fact, nothing more passed between me and the soldiers. The train started to move off, and I watched them turn away as their little charade was over for the night. I suppose I was not the first, and would not be the last, to act out this scene. I was that night’s stand-in who’d never played the role before and never would again. The Belarusians weren’t such a bad lot; they just didn’t like foreigners showing up in their police state without a transit visa. The Wild West Express slowly chugged away into the night, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. It turned out to be short-lived, as fifteen minutes later, the train stopped, the doors were opened and all the carriages began disgorging their passengers onto a frozen platform.

I’ve learned in my travels that when you don’t know what to do, it’s often best to be a lemming and follow the crowd, so I got off with everyone else. I assumed that I was at

the Polish border, but which one? I had to reach Warsaw; at least from there, I could work something out. It was only eight in the evening but felt so much later. My train across Siberia departed at midnight the following day and I had to be on it. I'd been determined not to fly, but realised I might have to fly to Moscow now to make my train. Hadn’t Phileas Fogg flown in a balloon at some point? Maybe that was only in the film, not the book. 

Meanwhile, I was at the back of the queue outside an immigration cabin, on which there was a sign that read ‘Terespol’. So, that’s where I was. I’d never heard of it, and if there were a god in heaven, I hoped never to again. I was being snowed on. I was cold, thirsty, hungry, late and miserable. But I’d been looking for adventure, and if this wasn’t it, then what was? I finally cleared immigration and tried to buy a ticket to Warsaw. It was pay in Zloty or Zloty, no credit cards, Euros, or Dollars. I asked around loudly if anyone would like some Dollars. I was offering the best exchange rate in recent history. One grumpy old man finally made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. The Zloty were enough to get me to Warsaw and buy a bottle of water.

As if the day hadn’t been surreal enough, two hours later, I found myself watching ‘Skyfall’ on my phone, head to head with Maja, a beautiful Polish girl straight out of a Bond film. Following another chat with Magnus in London, I’d been considering my options when I bumped into Maja on the platform where we’d changed trains. After the film, I applied myself to figuring out how to get to Moscow overland in less than a day. 

As the train pulled into Warsaw station, Maja fairly bowled me over by suggesting I stay with her and then fly to Moscow. This was definitely not an option I’d considered when making my revised plans. But I was determined not to fly and steadfastly chose not to do as Bond would no doubt have done. Less than an hour later, I was sat in a pokey, smoky, over-heated train compartment with seven drunken Poles heading into a snowy wilderness en route to Moscow, thinking what a complete and utter fool I’d just been.

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'Phileas' Philip Hill is a British traveller, writer and artist who, when he isn't on the road, divides his time between his homeland and Greece.  He has visited all seven continents and more than 130 countries. His novel, From Cairo, tells the true story of a family history spanning 80 years, from Egypt’s golden era in the 1940s to the rain-soaked Solomon Islands via England, France, and Australia. 65 Days is the first of a planned series of recollections of unusual journeys and life experiences had whilst travelling the world.