FROM THE "ROAD NOTES OF MAVEN": Road To European Union::OFFICIAL BANDITS
If you missed Chapter I click here:
www.flickr.com/photos/maven_imagery/5786240665/
Imagine that you happen to be driving for the first time in a rural section of Something County in your home state. Let’s take this further: shortcuts to save distance compared to the traditional Oregon Trail, coupled with infighting, a disastrous crossing of the Utah salt flats, and the attempt to use the pass near the Truckee River, along edges what is now Donner Lake - about 1,200 feet below the steep granite summit of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Now, (since these roads are only snow-ridden in winter, should be not much of problem in the Summer, right?) think five to ten times worse in comparison. To simplify: think of Safari excursion in Africa where only a four-wheel drive which could get you through the hostile terrain.
Gradually, the landscape alters after the Hungarian border. The semi-asphalt-patched road veers around a missing ledge, then begins winding along the top and, sometimes, bottom of a slope. A laid map carefully folded to expose the relevant area, now, it’s totally irrelevant, and, although, you have no clue to whereabouts of your exact location, but you’re still on the road…and, as they say, every road leads to a destination, so still there is a hope of …thud! Thud! The under carriage hits a bump or a rock, your heart misses a beat. Hope! Insists your survival instinct. Hope, damned! Then, you hop into narrow asphalt, one lane road. Somewhat released from anxieties you nudge the accelerator and hasten toward…what? The borderlands that taste unruliness and corruption; where the distorted, the unpredictable, the lawless take root in them and luxuriate will remain invisible until…
I turn the narrow right corner and meet them face to face. The dirt road came to a curve and, suddenly, I see a police officer waving me to stop. I stop and wait until the dust settles down, then, I roll down the window.
“Hallo, Nachbar!” exclaims the police officer in German whose face glows at the sight of the Audi TT, holding a police radio so big it could be used as a weapon. A brown, Makarov Holster belt that conceals a FNP-45 pistol (USA / Belgium made) which is only issued for the Bulgarian secret police or special police; a plastic rimmed Ray-Ban sun-glasses and what could be a Blackhawk boots made this desert cop ready for an invasion of Bosnia.
Roll back to Cyber nternet, Cafe , Frankfurt
Chris comes with the drinks. “Those nerds giving you a hard time, Maven?”
“Nah,” I say. “What you got?”
“Here, my friend” says Chris, adding theatrical air to the occasion, “is your favorite V.O.S.P Captain Morgan, Jamaican Brandy!” Chris pauses, sensing a tension in the air, he asks, “What’re you screwballs been up to? You didn’t make my guest, Maven here, uncomfortable now, have you?”
“No, we’ve been just discussing about what would be the best route to take down to Southern Europe. Right, guys?” I lie.
“Yeah,” says Bernhard, his voice still tense, smiling weakly, taking a sip, no, actually a deep gulp from the Lowenbrau bottle. “I said the road is tough…rough terrain. To beware of lawful- bandits—
“Official bandits in uniform,” adds Dieter. “Just give them some oranges, man.”
“You mean oranges as in fruit, or orange as in my ass-hole?” I joke.
Dieter lets out a huge laughter, his head on the table and fist-drumming the table like a lunatic.
“Easy, now, bitch,” I say in a flat tone. “You’ll choke and the last thing I need is to attend your sorry dead-ass funeral.”
He gasps and between chuckles, he says, “You’d better save the portal for the Greeks!” Then, slips into another fit of laughter.
Chris only shakes his head, knowing that I’d figured the magic word: euros.
“Hey, there! You Dutch?” I ask musingly.
“Was?” Asks in German.
“French?”
“No, no my friend—“
“You said ‘neighbor’, and thought you were, you know?” I gesture neighborly-friendly with my hand. It must be the German plate, but I know better. The car is new and expensive which tells the Bandit the impression of being loaded. The Bandits salutes everyone in the same manner. It’s an opener, to make you talk so that he can profile you. Their best time of the year is from May (when schools holiday begins, and the foreign workers, mostly, in Germany, Holland, Austria, drive to their home countries through Hungary, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria and Greece. All are targets, (except native German or Dutch who knows the game and if all the documents are clear, they won’t bother with) for hard time and bribery.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsche?—“
“Do I look like German to you?”
“Ehh, yes.” Stammers the Desert Bandit. “I mean to say, you can be German.” He pauses, scratching his chin. “Yes! You look like this American actor. What is his name?” snapping his fingers as if to evoke some dead cells in his brain. I don’t bother to find out who since decades of being told “look –like that actor” but never knew who or the name of that actor. And I was tired of explaining the difference between a ‘reminding of someone’ and ‘look like someone’ that was totally different. After decades, however, I started getting ridiculous names like Danny Bonaduce, (you’ll be the judge), Is that Vic Reeves?(in Flickr comments, for the image titled Lodestone), Eric Stoltz. Overlords!
“Why’re you stopping me in the middle of nowhere?”
“My name is Inspector Anzhelo,” It said инспектор ангел on his name tag. “Means ‘angel, messenger’ in English. Inspector Angel. How about that for being touched by an angel? Damn bandit!
“Veri, veryi nice car.” Bandit Anzhelo avoids the question. “How much euro it is cost you?”
“Around 55 thousand oranges.”
“Veri expensive, my friend, very expensive. No European car in my whole countri. I must work 25 yerz to buy this one like this”.
“This is bad,” I say sincerely. “Look, I’d very much like to continue this pleasant chat with you here…in this not very hospitable place but I really have to keep moving.”
“Yes, yes, my friend. I am very sorri. I am here to help tourists and visitors—‘
“You said I was a neighbor.”
“Yes, neighbor…friend, tourist…I help all.”
“And how do you that?”
“Look there, my friend,” The Desert Lizard points his index finger to a less than a mile far row of buildings, nothing else in sight. “See? There is a border there and veri veryi long line. You wait for hours…veri long time. Maybe one day, yes, veryi possible. One day, my friend. You turn left before customs. They ask, tell them my name. Anzhelo, remember?”
This douche bag has done his homework but I’d still give him C-, for being a bad liar.
And, I’m getting tired of hearing this Bandit Anzhelo saying ‘my friend’ over and over; after a nightmarish drive of 350km on no-road terra-verte for over twelve hours, I’m parched and tired and famished.
I gesture the bandit with my index finger to come closer. He leans toward me. I say, “I was told that the road was rough, but they didn’t tell me there was no road! . And now this! No road but you!, in Banditville!”
“Haah!” Bandit Anzhelo laughs. “I show you fine road for 100 euros. Good road, my friend. No waiting in customs. You wait for hours—”
“I’m fine with that!” I snap. “I’m not giving you any money. I’m fine with a no-road road. I drove 350 kilometers and I’m sure I can drive another hundred.”
“50 euros, my friend,” persists Bandit Anzhelo. “Good deal, ha?”
“I’m not giving you money. Not giving you oranges. Are we clear?”
Bandit Anzhelo’s face turns red with mixture of anger and confusion. “You aere crazy American! You die like in Afghanistan!”
If you missed Chapter I click here:
www.flickr.com/photos/maven_imagery/5786240665/
Imagine that you happen to be driving for the first time in a rural section of Something County in your home state. Let’s take this further: shortcuts to save distance compared to the traditional Oregon Trail, coupled with infighting, a disastrous crossing of the Utah salt flats, and the attempt to use the pass near the Truckee River, along edges what is now Donner Lake - about 1,200 feet below the steep granite summit of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Now, (since these roads are only snow-ridden in winter, should be not much of problem in the Summer, right?) think five to ten times worse in comparison. To simplify: think of Safari excursion in Africa where only a four-wheel drive which could get you through the hostile terrain.
Gradually, the landscape alters after the Hungarian border. The semi-asphalt-patched road veers around a missing ledge, then begins winding along the top and, sometimes, bottom of a slope. A laid map carefully folded to expose the relevant area, now, it’s totally irrelevant, and, although, you have no clue to whereabouts of your exact location, but you’re still on the road…and, as they say, every road leads to a destination, so still there is a hope of …thud! Thud! The under carriage hits a bump or a rock, your heart misses a beat. Hope! Insists your survival instinct. Hope, damned! Then, you hop into narrow asphalt, one lane road. Somewhat released from anxieties you nudge the accelerator and hasten toward…what? The borderlands that taste unruliness and corruption; where the distorted, the unpredictable, the lawless take root in them and luxuriate will remain invisible until…
I turn the narrow right corner and meet them face to face. The dirt road came to a curve and, suddenly, I see a police officer waving me to stop. I stop and wait until the dust settles down, then, I roll down the window.
“Hallo, Nachbar!” exclaims the police officer in German whose face glows at the sight of the Audi TT, holding a police radio so big it could be used as a weapon. A brown, Makarov Holster belt that conceals a FNP-45 pistol (USA / Belgium made) which is only issued for the Bulgarian secret police or special police; a plastic rimmed Ray-Ban sun-glasses and what could be a Blackhawk boots made this desert cop ready for an invasion of Bosnia.
Roll back to Cyber nternet, Cafe , Frankfurt
Chris comes with the drinks. “Those nerds giving you a hard time, Maven?”
“Nah,” I say. “What you got?”
“Here, my friend” says Chris, adding theatrical air to the occasion, “is your favorite V.O.S.P Captain Morgan, Jamaican Brandy!” Chris pauses, sensing a tension in the air, he asks, “What’re you screwballs been up to? You didn’t make my guest, Maven here, uncomfortable now, have you?”
“No, we’ve been just discussing about what would be the best route to take down to Southern Europe. Right, guys?” I lie.
“Yeah,” says Bernhard, his voice still tense, smiling weakly, taking a sip, no, actually a deep gulp from the Lowenbrau bottle. “I said the road is tough…rough terrain. To beware of lawful- bandits—
“Official bandits in uniform,” adds Dieter. “Just give them some oranges, man.”
“You mean oranges as in fruit, or orange as in my ass-hole?” I joke.
Dieter lets out a huge laughter, his head on the table and fist-drumming the table like a lunatic.
“Easy, now, bitch,” I say in a flat tone. “You’ll choke and the last thing I need is to attend your sorry dead-ass funeral.”
He gasps and between chuckles, he says, “You’d better save the portal for the Greeks!” Then, slips into another fit of laughter.
Chris only shakes his head, knowing that I’d figured the magic word: euros.
“Hey, there! You Dutch?” I ask musingly.
“Was?” Asks in German.
“French?”
“No, no my friend—“
“You said ‘neighbor’, and thought you were, you know?” I gesture neighborly-friendly with my hand. It must be the German plate, but I know better. The car is new and expensive which tells the Bandit the impression of being loaded. The Bandits salutes everyone in the same manner. It’s an opener, to make you talk so that he can profile you. Their best time of the year is from May (when schools holiday begins, and the foreign workers, mostly, in Germany, Holland, Austria, drive to their home countries through Hungary, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria and Greece. All are targets, (except native German or Dutch who knows the game and if all the documents are clear, they won’t bother with) for hard time and bribery.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsche?—“
“Do I look like German to you?”
“Ehh, yes.” Stammers the Desert Bandit. “I mean to say, you can be German.” He pauses, scratching his chin. “Yes! You look like this American actor. What is his name?” snapping his fingers as if to evoke some dead cells in his brain. I don’t bother to find out who since decades of being told “look –like that actor” but never knew who or the name of that actor. And I was tired of explaining the difference between a ‘reminding of someone’ and ‘look like someone’ that was totally different. After decades, however, I started getting ridiculous names like Danny Bonaduce, (you’ll be the judge), Is that Vic Reeves?(in Flickr comments, for the image titled Lodestone), Eric Stoltz. Overlords!
“Why’re you stopping me in the middle of nowhere?”
“My name is Inspector Anzhelo,” It said инспектор ангел on his name tag. “Means ‘angel, messenger’ in English. Inspector Angel. How about that for being touched by an angel? Damn bandit!
“Veri, veryi nice car.” Bandit Anzhelo avoids the question. “How much euro it is cost you?”
“Around 55 thousand oranges.”
“Veri expensive, my friend, very expensive. No European car in my whole countri. I must work 25 yerz to buy this one like this”.
“This is bad,” I say sincerely. “Look, I’d very much like to continue this pleasant chat with you here…in this not very hospitable place but I really have to keep moving.”
“Yes, yes, my friend. I am very sorri. I am here to help tourists and visitors—‘
“You said I was a neighbor.”
“Yes, neighbor…friend, tourist…I help all.”
“And how do you that?”
“Look there, my friend,” The Desert Lizard points his index finger to a less than a mile far row of buildings, nothing else in sight. “See? There is a border there and veri veryi long line. You wait for hours…veri long time. Maybe one day, yes, veryi possible. One day, my friend. You turn left before customs. They ask, tell them my name. Anzhelo, remember?”
This douche bag has done his homework but I’d still give him C-, for being a bad liar.
And, I’m getting tired of hearing this Bandit Anzhelo saying ‘my friend’ over and over; after a nightmarish drive of 350km on no-road terra-verte for over twelve hours, I’m parched and tired and famished.
I gesture the bandit with my index finger to come closer. He leans toward me. I say, “I was told that the road was rough, but they didn’t tell me there was no road! . And now this! No road but you!, in Banditville!”
“Haah!” Bandit Anzhelo laughs. “I show you fine road for 100 euros. Good road, my friend. No waiting in customs. You wait for hours—”
“I’m fine with that!” I snap. “I’m not giving you any money. I’m fine with a no-road road. I drove 350 kilometers and I’m sure I can drive another hundred.”
“50 euros, my friend,” persists Bandit Anzhelo. “Good deal, ha?”
“I’m not giving you money. Not giving you oranges. Are we clear?”
Bandit Anzhelo’s face turns red with mixture of anger and confusion. “You aere crazy American! You die like in Afghanistan!”
“Nice talking to you, asshole. How about them shiny oranges?” I say and roll up the window.
“You die! You hear? No gas! No water!” Bandit Anzhelo’s voice trails behind and soon disappears in a twirl of dust as I drive away.
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