My travel, my freedom

“Border control!”

People in hats and blue uniforms appear on board of my train bound for Budapest from Arad, Romania. They check passengers’ documents in a swift and metronomic rhythm.

A pale young officer squints his eyes on seeing my Indonesian passport. He must not be more than twenty, judging from patchy stubs on his boyish jaw. His flaxen eyebrows form a deep crease on his flecked face as he consults his senior.

“To office!”

He confiscates my passport and ushers me to exit door.

“But why…”

I protest in vain for his English is only slightly better than my Hungarian. His gesture urges to get off immediately since the train is about to move.

It’s around midday when we step into the platform. A station post in a distance reads Nadlac but we are heading to a concrete brick building on the Hungarian side of the border. As far as my eyes could see it’s just an uninteresting little part of a town with a long rail track in between. My breath is heavy with a waft of humid late summer air.

More people in blue uniforms talk hastily in Hungarian. A female officer with large bosoms leads me to a room. Silently I curse myself for never considering buying a discounted Hungarian phrasebook before traveling. It would come handy when arrested in a border control office.

How things work here? In my country, if a policeman catches you being on the wrong side of the road, you just need to offer him ‘cigarette money’ or better off, a pack of tobacco, to save his effort of going to the shop.

Clock ticks. Trees swoosh. Phone rings. Child laughs. Trains pass. Minutes slides into hours. The policewoman finally enters the room and stops me in the middle of my sentence with a snap.

“No English.”

She asks me to unload my backpack. As I lay my dirty clothes and stinky socks on the table, my mind casts to the time when I packed this bag. I was giddy with anticipation. I would claim my freedom as I hit the road in Eastern Europe.

She produces a paper with no word I can decipher.

“Sign!”

My mother told me that I should never, ever sign anything I can’t understand. I look back at her, hesitant. Clock ticks. Trees swoosh. Phone rings. Child laughs. Trains pass. I grab the pen.

The sun starts setting in the far west skyline. I run to my last train to Budapest. When I walk its aisle I brush my shoulder against the young officer heading to the exit door. He throws a subtle grin. I wonder if he recognises me. Or perhaps I look a bit different now.

Now I am a free person.