Zákány. Train station at the end of the world. A small building: policemen, soldiers, border patrol. They have a small table with coffee, tea, some biscuits on it. On the floor there is a cooking pot with the lid on it, that is the warm food provided to them. Deplorable is the first word that comes to mind. One toilet for everyone to use, but it's clean.
The volunteers have some sort of truck, it continues in a tent. Thin walls. If the wind is blowing really hard (and it is, all the time), it is cold in the inside as well. A heater is much needed. The day before yesterday the wind just blew it away, the food and the boxes got wet, the bags were dirty... There is a small table inside the tent, we sort the food on it, making food packages. In this damp weather the rubber gloves got also wet. It's pure heaven to put on wet rubber gloves. You should try it sometime.
The rain is pouring continuously, I have no waterproof pants. So when I leave the tent they become soaking wet in five minutes. Mud till your ankles everywhere. And this is still okay, since in Presevo at the Serbian-Macedonian border people are literally standing in knee-high water, waiting to get on the train. When they get here they are immediately transferred to another train. And then the waiting begins. It can last several hours.
After that the train is pulled to a different track, which is longer away from the tent. No idea why. First we put the water bottles on the ground, a pack every 10 meters. The boys pull some wagon filled with water. Then the food packages in big IKEA bags. There are separate baby packages as well (two diapers, a banana, baby food). I am one of the two volunteers distributing baby packages. Some are trying to lift the bags before the tent. They are heavy. I am strong – I say – I can take one. Really? Let's see. I lift it. It's heavy, but I can carry it. Great, here we go.
They pull the train to the track. If it is not pulled exactly where they usually do, we pick up everything in a hurry and start to run. No platform here, only wet grass, mud, some rocks. One bag on one shoulder, another on the other one, it always tries to slip. And you walk in the mud near the train. No, you don't walk. You run. You glide, you slide, balancing the stuff you carry. People are leaning out the narrow windows as low as they can. They're saying 'food, water, baby.' And then you give them packages. You are literally standing on tiptoe, because your height is a measly 163 cm, the windows are high, everything is fucking slippery, and your jeans are muddy, but that's the least of your cares right now. Not because of your clothes. It's time you don't have enough of. Your hood falls to your back, your hair gets wet immediately, the rain is almost piercing your face, the wind is blowing you away, and your XL visibility vest looks on you like a saddle on a sow. And in this situation turned inside out you suddenly start guffawing, because you remember someone worrying for you, since you'll be among lots of men and who knows about their dirty thoughts. And you realise that if there is a person there who gets a turn-on because of this look, well, they actually deserve it. The thought is there for only a split second, until you get from one window to another and grab another packet from your bag. Then you run again because you still have 16 carriages (approx. 80 people in a carriage). The first four are served by the Hungarian Red Cross. They come in, give people the packages, camera rolls, showing that everything is okay on the border and then they leave. The rest is the job of the volunteers, who have no media coverage, no state financing, who practically don't even exist. No time to say fuck the system, you need to distribute, people are hungry.
You hear a baby crying – that is good because then you can give them a baby package. And hurrying on you hope that both parents are there, not just the brother of 15, and who knows where the parents are because they couldn't get on the train. Or they drowned. People hold out their arms asking for the packages and you ask them to show you the baby. Show baby. You imitate the size of an infant and then at your eyes. Because the poor bastards are lying as well, just to get something. Because they are herded like animals from one country to another and learned quickly that those who don't fight, die.
Show baby here. To me. No grammarly subtilities. Pampers, you tell the 14-year old. You don't need that, son, trust me. He is grinning, he really doesn't. You cannot get on the train, they cannot get off. You have 8 to 10 minutes, then it's over. A policeman comes and tells you to stop distributing. I have two more packages, I hand them out quickly. He seems angry, even says something, but he looks like someone who has to put on an angry face.
The policemen and the soldiers look all apathetic, tired, tense. But they help me carry the 12 liters of water. When I first go inside the building, they show me to the toilet, they let me go ahead, since after all: I am a woman and manners maketh man.* Peeing with automatic weapon escort. We make jokes after that with a girl that next time we will pick our own suite. In 90 minutes I ask again if I could use the toilet. Naturally, I need someone to escort me. They don't mind. At least something happens.
One of them is chatting on facebook and when I greet him with a smile, he smiles back surprised and says hello. He's 23 max. They're young, some of them quite the lookers. Maybe they think of the volunteers as a bit crazy. They try to put on a grim and serious face while they don't have even wrinkles on their faces, not to mention the missing beards. Beanpoles, all of them, they could be my little brothers – I feel my heart softening. There are no chairs or beds inside. The whole place is no bigger than a regular 3-room apartment. There are the stairs, you can sit there if you are really tired. They are also soaking wet from the rain. Sometimes they look at me suspiciously and then they open the door for me. It is surreal. I ask one of them if he has a dry set of pants, mine are wet. I'd like to stay for the night but in these clothes it's really risky. He looks at me, maybe even thinks that the woman standing in front of him is mad. What the hell would this woman of 55 kg want from a 180 cm athletic guy. And then he shows me his pants, those are wet as well, he doesn't have any dry ones. You are both smiling.
After the train leaves you inspect what you have left. You try to get new food. You get some air, drink something warm, go to pee (escort), wash your hands and start making packages again and wait for the next train to come. There are trains during the night as well, sometimes even 3 or 4 of them. Few volunteers and even less food.
On the way home in the car you get off your wet and muddy pants, you cover your white, cold thighs with a shawl and you are already writing a list of what you have to buy: rain pants, hiking boots or rubber boots (I had waterproof shoes but it would be a waste to use them there), a separate hood, hiking underwear. You need to get your thermoleggings out of the closet, try on your skiing pants which you use for biking in winter, cap AND a shawl to make a turban, warmer shawl, gloves, waterproof backpack. And another set of dry clothes, just in case. You already know what to write in the e-mail to your friends when you ask them for help, you just need your computer back at home to write a text in Hungarian and in English. You really try to hold your tears when you talk about your day in the phone. You fail. Although you are strong, because baudolinA is tough as old boots, everybody knows that.
You arrive back home to a warm appartment. To a bathtub of hot water, normal food, tea, people who love you, financial stability, fresh clothes. Bed. You weren't herded for days, you were never even near mortal danger, no-one stripped you from the last morsels of your dignity. You didn't have to give up your pride completely in order to be grateful to people whom you see for 2 minutes in your whole life for the first and last time on a cold and rainy day somewhere even god has forgotten about, and to whom your only connection is an encouraging smile and 5 seconds while you touch each others hands on a dirty sandwich bag.
*Word-for-word translation from Hungarian: a gentleman is a gentleman even in hell.
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