Running the transport gauntlet in Eastern Europe
by Daniel Fitzpatrick

As the crow flies, the trip from Bulgaria to Budapest, Hungary is about 400 kilometres, but in reality it's a nerve-racking hell-ride of over-populated trains, trams, coaches and taxis.

It was probably easier to have flown but the allure of travelling through the Eastern Corridor was too great.

My day starts off...
I took off from the Bulgarian Black Sea town of Balchik at 6.00am on a crisp Wednesday morning arriving at the "Friendly Bridge", a border crossing marking the Bulgarian and Romanian border over the Danube River some two hours later. The person who named this bridge must have had a wicked sense of humour as there wasn't anything friendly about it.

With Bulgarian national guardsmen armed with semi-automatic machine guns everywhere, it made Checkpoint Charlie seem like a walk in the park.

No entry
My attempt to cross was soon stopped by one of the guardsman. While his English was as good as my Bulgarian, I understood clearly that he was refusing me passage.

Dumbfounded, I sat down at a nearby gutter and plotted my next move when an English-speaking taxi driver approached me with an alternative. He said if given 200 000 lev, the equivalent of $10 AUD, he would get me across the border.

In my state of desperation, I quickly took his offer. He told me to get into the boot. Looking at him - his shabby dark hair and beard, button shirt hanging over cream-coloured trousers with a tooth pick dangling from his mouth, he was straight out of a B-grade Russian spy movie.

Refusing the boot, he explained that the custom officials knew him and would let him pass without checking his car but would refuse him entry to Romania if they saw me.

Hide and seek
Even as he placed the blanket over my head, the stupidity of it all was incredulous. I wouldn't get in the back of a stranger's car in my hometown of Sydney and here I was about to hide in the back seat of a bloke's car I met two minutes earlier.

I began thinking of whether I'd see my family again when the world was blacked out by a kerosene-smelling rug.

The car was moving at a snail's pace and in the blackness my senses kicked into overdrive. After a lifetime, the car came to a gradual stop and his car door opened. He came back after five minutes with my passport stamped. Welcome to Romania.

My coach from Romania's capital Bucharest to Hungary would have been ideal for someone five foot five or under but unfortunately I didn't fit that category. To add salt to my travelling wound, we had to endure six hours of Romanian pop music that was on rotation. After 14 grueling hours we make it to the Hungary border but I'm not there yet.

About to get a heart attack
Walking to the check point counter, I reach in to my daypack to grab my passport. I stop. Fear grips me. My hand runs through my backpack like a snake in the grass but doesn't find its target. I can feel my sunglasses, CD player, camera and notebook but no passport. Gotta remain calm.

Undies and dirty jeans flying, I frantically search the depths of my bag to find the one item that matters.

As the reality of a lost passport sinks in, the events of the last the last day come crashing over me like a tidal wave and I fall in a heap, too exhausted to care.

It is at this stage that the teenage boy who was sitting next to me on the coach nervously approaches, his hand outstretched and in it my passport. I grab and hug him, like a lost friend.

With this one random act of kindness, my faith in Eastern Europe is semi-restored.

What this trip has meant to me
I know this is one of those defining moments as a traveller, where my strength of character is tested but having endured robberies, smuggling, sleep deprivation and intimidation, l don't give a stuff about testing myself, I'd much prefer a warm bed and a shower.

More about the Author: Daniel Fitzpatrick Not having money requires "creative" travelling and has led Daniel through many misadventures, mistakes and mischief that include being smuggled across the Bulgarian and Romanian border, surfing amongst snow-capped water in Japan and trawling for icebergs off Newfoundland, Canada. If it has taught him anything, it's to always be polite to strangers.

Photo credit: tinou bao
Photo credit: Fanch The System