Pretending to be an artist

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 13 Mar, 2019 | Journeys

Professor Fastl seemed like a kind man. He was tall, handsome and pre-occupied. He had renovation projects going on all over Austria and wasn’t going to look too carefully at this scruffy applicant. He had no reason to not believe my story of studying art in Edinburgh, of working in restoration in that great city – and there was an element of truth here; I had worked on building sites in Edinburgh, and they were renovation jobs – for Stewart Anderson — builder, climber and my Mother’s boyfriend.

– Have you heard of the restoration work of Professor Stewart Anderson? He is the leading expert in the restoration of ancient buildings in Edinburgh. He always praises your work.

– Humph, said the professor.

– It has been my ambition for the last two years to come and see your work.

– Hmm…said the professor, not really listening

– And if there is a chance to experience your restoration work more closely…

– Come here tomorrow morning. Have a trial. We will see then.

On the one hand I was euphoric – I was going to work in the most beautiful building in Vienna. On the other hand I was a fraud and I couldn’t bloody paint. How on earth was I supposed to do anything? I was in a panic as I left but Krzysztof, the Polish doctor who’d landed me in this, told me not to worry:

– I show you how to do this job. Is easy. You see tomorrow.

– Er, but, I can’t paint. I never could.

– Is no problem. Just come tomorrow. It will be fine.

I worked harder than I ever did in my life, desperate to keep this job and cover up my deceit. To my relief, the job was a lot simpler than I’d imagined. A huge renovation project was going on at Palais Ferstel and we were dealing with a relatively small part of it: painting huge pieces of fabric with a simple floral design. Each piece of fabric was about six metres long and two metres wide and took weeks to complete. When it was done we would attach wooden blocks to the back of the fabric, climb up scaffolding that was erected inside a series of huge arches and screw the fabric into the arch. The idea was to make copies of the original floral design that had been painted on the wall, inside the arches, and then cover them with this new fabric. Apparently this would improve the acoustics, as the room was destined to become a concert hall.

It was a bit like drawing in a children’s colouring-in book: you just need to make sure you don’t spill paint, which is easy if you concentrate. The tricky part was drawing straight lines. I was a nervous wreck: surely everyone could see that my lines weren’t straight, my hands were shaking and that I wasn’t an artist. My new colleagues, the real artists, seemed happy to have someone new to talk to and they were patient and kind. One of them was a sultry, attractive Hungarian woman called Beata whom I soon fell in love with – a hopeless case as her artist-boyfriend was working alongside us. There was also a small Turkish lady who offered me a room in her spacious apartment, an offer I jumped at.

Her flat was located at the Schottentor (the Scottish Gate) which was five minutes from the job, very central and next to the Sigmund Freud Park. It was an old and spacious flat, the most elegant place I had ever lived in. She used to give me coffee in delicate china cups and then read my fortune in the leaves; one evening she described my father in chilling detail and then showed me the cup and there he was, in outline, among the tea leaves.

I couldn’t believe my luck, although I was dreading the moment when Professor Fastl would next visit as he would look at my work, realise I was a fraud, and fire me instantly. My denouement became even more likely when an American artist showed up and managed to paint at twice my speed, whilst gabbling on about his jealous Austrian girlfriend. I was convinced that this friendly, long-haired American would get congratulated and I would get the sack. To my amazement the opposite happened: the American was shouted at by the professor and fired on the spot. He had used brilliant white rather than the magnolia colour the rest of us were using and the professor, who had been very mild-mannered until that point, was furious. I was so nervous about my own performance that I hadn’t even noticed what colours we were using; I had simply copied what the other artists were doing.

Gradually I mastered the art of drawing straight lines and filling in colour. Once I’d cracked it I started inventing ways of doing the job more quickly. Krzysztof, the silent Pole, was like a foreman in that he organised the supplies. He was also in charge of hanging the huge pieces of fabric in the arches, the trickiest part of the job. I could see that his was the least artistic role of them all and realised that this is what I needed to be doing. I watched what he did, helped him constantly and slipped into his unofficial position by the time he emigrated to America – about a month after I started. I also loved the part that everyone else hated – climbing up the scaffolding and screwing the massive piece of fabric into the wall. I had found my niche.

Three months passed quickly. My love affair with Beata got nowhere, but it was nice being in love and I would amuse her trying to pronounce impossible Hungarian words like eggy-sheggy-dray (which means cheers). Her boyfriend noticed my obsession for his girlfriend but didn’t seem to mind, he even made the odd joke about it; was he bored of the relationship or did he trust her totally? The work was going far better than I had expected, all thoughts of going home were banished and I even managed to get a job for Bettina Tucholsky, my new friend from the Künstlerhaus. My apartment never ceased to impress me with its big windows, wooden floors and beautiful art on the walls and I kept thinking: What have I done to deserve all this?

It was time to go. I had over two thousand dollars in my money belt and this time I felt determined to keep going until I reached Shanghai. When I asked Professor Fastl for a reference letter he gave me such an excellent one that I considered staying on indefinitely. But it was time to go. I organised a going away party in my apartment and the next morning I was on the road, hung-over, with my thumb out and a cardboard sign that said Budapest.

In Budapest I met up with Bettina for a weekend together. While I was hitchhiking she was getting a ship down the Danube. We had become closer and closer over the preceding months and we would go out for long beer drinking sessions. My definition of a friend is someone you can talk to about anything, indefinitely, and never get bored. We had managed to keep the whole thing platonic – avoiding romantic entanglements is an essential part of my type of travelling – until the combination of alcohol, closely packed bodies and dancing at my going away party had somehow ended up in bed.

Budapest had a special status within the Soviet bloc. I could feel it as soon as I arrived in this most beautiful of cities. Its architecture was similar to Vienna’s but it had a sinister atmosphere I couldn’t explain. I was told that Budapest was more open than any of the other Soviet bloc cities in the region; the staff in restaurants and stations were friendly and efficient, they spoke English, there were foreign tourists everywhere and someone told me this is the city that Russia uses as a place to meet with westerners. It’s their window to the west. They also offered a service I had never heard about before: a list of families from whom you could rent a room. In other words you could officially stay with families. We stayed in a big, nineteenth century room belonging to an elderly couple.

I had a small camera with me but I took very few photos in those days. Film was expensive and you could buy professional photos, very cheaply, in the form of postcards. I kept one black and white photo of Bettina in a bikini, laughing, in an old fashioned outdoor pool (lido) for which the city is famous, where old men played chess on floating boards, enjoying the hot water. In the background was a line of concrete dolphins, water spouting from their mouths.

In a crowded bar we bumped into a young, chatty American with a neat beard and a loud voice. He turned to me and said:

– So, you’re going to China?

– Yes.

– Which way are you planning to go?

– The usual way, in through Hong Kong. It’s the only way in as far as I know.

– Not any more. Things are changing fast over there.

– What do you mean?

– I’m just back from Asia and I met people who got into China through Kathmandu, Nepal.

– You mean they got into Tibet?

– Yeah, they’ve just opened up Tibet to tourists.

– Wow, it would be incredible to visit Tibet. I’d never thought about going there.

– Go for it man! Go to the Chinese Embassy in Kathmandu and ask for a tourist visa. They’re giving them out.

Heading for Nepal and Tibet seemed like a much better plan than working my way through South-east Asia where there were bound to be border problems, expensive visas and other hassles. I’d already spent enough time in Eastern Europe and I didn’t want to waste more time by picking my way through small countries like Burma and Thailand. On the spot I decided to head for the Chinese Embassy in Kathmandu, from where I could discover a land I knew precisely nothing about: Tibet.

There were still too many East European countries to get through and I was getting impatient. I wanted to be in the wide open plains of Turkey, Iran and India – getting nearer to my destination – but I was stuck in this patchwork of small, complicated, repressive, dark countries. I didn’t feel I was actually getting any closer to China and over four months had passed since I had left home. If things carried on like this I would be an old man before I reached Shanghai. It was like a dose of the flu – I had to be patient and work my way through it.

Meeting Princess Diana in Vienna

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 6 Mar, 2019 | Journeys

– You want a job? Here? In Vienna! Are you mad? You don’t even speak German!

My new friend Andras was most amused. He was short, athletic, handsome and spoke fluent English. His family were obviously rich; he had his own flat in the centre of town and didn’t seem to work. He also had a small but incredibly fast car – a Peugeot 206 – which he raced round town and in rallies. Andras had studied English in Edinburgh; I had got his number from a friend and invited myself to stay.

Andras pointed to his girlfriend, a long-haired blonde with a perfect figure, a languid aristocratic manner and a beautiful face. Just looking at her was a pleasure.

– Look at her! She’s been searching for a job for two years! And she can’t get one. How on earth do you think you can?

– Er…I dunno…but does she go out there and ask for work?

– Actually no, she just sits around here all day, and then has me drive her to the shops. Don’t you baby?

– Fuck off darling!

– But how on earth are you going to get a job?

– I’m going to walk the streets for three days and go in every shop, restaurant and building site and ask for work.

– Hmm. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that.

– If I can’t find a job within a week I’ll have to go back to Edinburgh, and I really don’t want to do that. My plan is to travel overland to China.

– Well I think you’re absolutely mad but you’re welcome to stay here for a couple of nights.

– By the way, how do you say in German: Do you have any work?

– Haben Sie Arbeit?

We were in a small, exquisite flat high up in an old block in central Vienna, overlooking St Stephen’s Cathedral – one of the most beautiful buildings I had ever seen. Arriving in Vienna was one of the most memorable moments in my life: never before had I seen such incredible buildings, such gorgeous networks of narrow streets, beautifully preserved houses that you could sometimes glimpse inside – such stylish and well-lit interiors – and well-dressed and handsome people everywhere. The whole place was magical and I couldn’t think of anywhere better to live. Andras didn’t share my enthusiasm for his home town:

– Vienna is populated by students and old ladies. Budapest is more beautiful and more fun, and it’s only down the road.

The next morning I got up early and started looking for work. The unbearable thought of going home motivated me to go from door to door – shops, cafés, cinemas, restaurants, hotels, building sites – and say the magic words: Haben Sie Arbeit? Although I didn’t understand the replies, their body language and facial expressions were enough to let me know the answer: no, we don’t have any work for you! I dealt with this series of rejections by comparing it to hitchhiking; thousands of cars pass the hapless hitchhiker before one will stop. Working as a sales rep for publishers is similar; most of what you present to the bookshops isn’t wanted. Being rejected is a part of everyday life.

After three days I had a success – a hotel where the young manager must have recognised the hungry immigrant’s look in my eye. He was vague about what I would do and I didn’t like his laid-back manner. When I saw a topless girl in a leaflet saying Come with me! Come on me! Come in me! I decided not to come back unless there was no other option.

One of the first things I’d done in Vienna was to visit the British Embassy, where I asked for a job helping set up a British Arts and Crafts exhibition:

– How did you know about the exhibition? asked the friendly young diplomat.

– I met a Scottish artist in Berlin called Gwen Hardy. I asked her advice about getting a job and she advised me to go to Vienna. She told me she was exhibiting down here, at the Künstlerhaus, and that I should ask for a job helping to set it up.

– Hmm, very interesting. And you came all the way here, from Berlin, looking for a job?

– Yes.

Three days later they called the number I had left them – at Andras’ flat – and left a message telling me to show up at the Künstlerhaus. In a flurry of excitement I rushed down to the city art gallery and, without any formalities, got my first job abroad. It only lasted about a week but it banished the pessimism that had been gathering like storm clouds. I threw myself into it with such energy that the organisers from the British Government’s Central Office of Information offered me a job back in London, but I was heading east and had no intention of returning.

My job involved humping paintings around, something I knew all about, and setting up the information desk. But there was plenty of spare time to sneak off and go round more shops and building sites asking for work. One day we were told that Prince Charles and Lady Diana were going to show up in a few hours and officially open the exhibition. The whole place went into a frenzy of excitement. A tough looking crew of security men came round the building looking for bombs and we were all herded into the basement.

The others seemed quite happy to sit around underground and take a break, but I wasn’t. I snuck back upstairs, saw the security people leaving and thought I should stand behind the information desk which I had helped to set up. What was the use of an info desk without someone behind the counter? The gallery was deserted – the Austrians were all in the basement drinking, smoking and playing cards and the Brits had disappeared. I had a moment to appreciate the imperial architecture of the building, the light that flooded the place, the windows all along the ceiling and the dramatic paintings that had just been trucked in from London. Künstlerhaus means House of Art and I suspected it was one of the most impressive galleries in Vienna.

There was a commotion coming from the front door and suddenly Charles and Di appeared, as if they were in a real hurry. My first thought was: How can they be so small? They don’t look small on TV!

But they looked open-minded, attractive and keen to get away from the crowd of sycophants, officials, and posh hangers-on who came surging through the hall after them; people with excited looks on their faces, delighted to be in contact with British royalty and chattering like monkeys. Not one of the entourage even noticed me or took a second look at the Information Desk – but Charles and Di did.

Prince Charles walked straight up to me and said:

– You from Vienna are you?

– No, just passing through.

– Really? And he was gone.

– Would you like one of our brochures? I said, holding them out to the departing couple and feeling rather ridiculous.

– I would, said Lady Diana. She took a few steps back to where I was standing, took a brochure, walked off and gave me a backward glance and a seductive flicker of the eyelids.

I was smitten. Like everyone else of my generation I had seen hundreds of photos of Lady Diana, and who didn’t know about the Royal Wedding of 1981? But I hadn’t thought much of her and found the media coverage excruciatingly boring. I was neutral when it came to royalty – they seemed rather harmless and people say they attract tourists – which is rather odd if you think about it; the best argument we can come up with for justifying royalty is that they’re a tourist attraction. But seeing her in the flesh was another thing altogether; she was not only beautiful but she looked rather lost and vulnerable. I fell in love instantly, was head over heels, fantasising about what we could do together, plotting about how I could entice her away from Charles.

I crept into the grand room where Prince Charles was giving a speech to the officials, artists and hangers-on. He was reading slowly from a series of elongated cards but I don’t remember a word that he said. Lady Di was standing to one side like a formal Japanese doll and I wondered if she was bored out of her mind. Does she have to listen to this sort of stuff every day? I wanted to go up behind her and whisper in her ear: Let’s get away from this place! I’m going to show you the delightful backstreets of Vienna! But I noticed the beefy men with well trimmed beards and plain clothes who stood at strategic points around the gallery, legs apart, watching everything. Each one carried a little handbag that contained, I was sure, a pistol. These men were calm and motionless and they blended into the crowd, and they had surely spent time honing their killing skills with the Special Forces. It would be a matter of seconds to knock me to the ground and stick a pistol in my back.

Andras and his girlfriend were astounded that I had managed to find a job, and I took advantage of their surprise to ask if I could stay a few more nights (which stretched to three weeks). Although I was technically employed I knew the job wouldn’t last for more than a week, I hadn’t seen any actual cash and wanted to avoid paying rent at all costs.

I made a lifelong friend at the Künstlerhaus: Bettina Tucholsky. Bettina always seemed to be smiling; she had chubby cheeks, a mischievous nature and we had conversations that never seemed to end. She had been brought up in London by Jewish parents who had fled the Nazi persecution in Russia. They had set up a small shop and taught their children to speak German, English and Russian. I had never met someone before who could speak as fluently as a native in three languages, and I was intrigued. We would hang out with Paul, a giant of a man with a black moustache and an unhappy marriage.

I soon realised that I wasn’t being supervised at all and, as long as I did what was asked, I could disappear off for a few hours and nobody at the gallery would know. I was pounding the streets again, saying Haben Sie Arbeit in every shop, cafe and restaurant I came across.

When I walked into Café Central on Herrengasse in central Vienna I knew my chances of getting a job there were non-existent. There was no point in even asking. I was getting nowhere. Andras would kick me out before long, I’d run out of cash and I’d have to make a humiliating call home begging for a loan so I could crawl back to Scotland in disgrace. A feeling of failure and guilt, for sneaking off for so long from the Künstlerhaus, settled over me as I admired the interior of the Café Central, which was located within a palace – Palais Ferstel. It made me feel small, weak and pathetic.

The gothic interior of the building was more beautiful than anything I had seen yet and the waiters, in tuxedos and bow ties, glided around as if trained at the Bolshoi Ballet School. How could they even consider offering me a job? I didn’t know their language, didn’t look the part, had never worked as a waiter and surely they already had someone to take out the garbage. This was the place where Hitler used to hang out when he was a penniless artist, so presumably it had been a cheap place for a cup of coffee at one point. Not any longer. Now it was full of grand ladies in fancy hats and there was no way that I could afford the espresso which I craved. So I sat on a chair in the empty hallway and contemplated my situation.

Suddenly a door burst open and a short, fat man in overalls stepped into the hall. He was covered in dust, carrying a piece of wood and seemed oblivious to the fact that his scruffy presence was lowering the tone of this grand location. He slammed the door with a deft kick and shuffled up some steps, leading away from the grand world of Café Central. As if pulled by a string, I stood up and cautiously followed him up the steps and along a marble-floored corridor. He opened another door and disappeared inside a big room with pillars and arches and the familiar sounds of a building site. My heart leapt: here was a building site right under my nose. I had been so pre-occupied with my own misfortunes that I hadn’t even noticed. This was more like it! I felt at home on a building site, and what a building site this was! The feelings of unworthiness that I had been wallowing in two minutes earlier were banished like mist in the morning sunlight.

– Haben Sie Arbeit? I asked a kind looking man in a beard. He didn’t reject my question immediately, as was the norm, but he looked at me and seemed to be thinking. Perhaps he was wondering why I had a silly grin on my face.

– Upstairs go, he said, in broken English. Go see artists. Maybe have work there.

Artists on a building site? I thanked him profoundly, bounded up the stairs and stepped into a room that was as spacious as a skating rink and as tall as a cathedral. The floor was made of ancient wooden tiles. Tall arched windows reached up to the full height of the room and flooded it with light. Halfway up the wall was a narrow balcony, a mezzanine, fronted by elaborate wrought iron railings with imperial eagles painted in gold-leaf. High above where I was gaping, was the pièce de résistance: a wooden ceiling, with elaborate coats of arms painted onto huge roof beams. Later, I discovered that this had been the stock exchange of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, an entity which had controlled much of Central and Eastern Europe until the First World War. I was so stunned by this room that I had forgotten to ask for a job. Just standing there and basking in its beauty was enough.

– Can I help? asked a thin bearded man in fluent English. I snapped out of my daydream and looked at him. He didn’t look like the usual roughneck you find on building sites, he wore a white coat and had intelligent, penetrating eyes.

– Er, I’m looking for a job.

– What job?

– Anything.

– Hmm. He was silent for a while and seemed lost in thought. I wondered where he was from as he spoke English well, without the tell-tale German-speaker’s accent.

– Have you worked on a building site before?

– Yes, in Edinburgh. I am from Scotland.

– Good. You tell him that.

– Tell who?

– Professor Fastl. He is the boss. He’s not here. He comes tomorrow. You must come back and tell him you are a student of art, that you studied his work, and you came here from Edinburgh for the great opportunity of working with him. He will like that. Come back tomorrow morning.

– But I can’t say that! I’m not an artist. I can’t draw anything. And I didn’t come here to see him.

– Just come tomorrow and you might get a job.

– But I’m not an artist.

– Not a problem. I’m not artist. I am a doctor from Poland. I come here to get away from Communism. I go to USA soon.

And with that he was off. He walked back to a group of scruffy but handsome artists, at least I presumed they were artists, who were lounging around. They were painting a huge piece of fabric and looking over at me with curiosity. They looked totally out of place on a building site. They also looked bored.

The rest of that day was a torment. It would be a dream come true to get a job in a place like that but I would have to tell a story that was untrue. I didn’t know if I had the courage, or if I could keep it up in the face of my interrogator. Wouldn’t he see through me at once?

#

These chapters will soon be published as 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook. If you’d like to get a copy just leave a comment below as I’ll see your email address and  get in touch. Or you could email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com, or even call/WhatsApp on 0044 747 138 1973. 

Cheating the system in Poland

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 2 Mar, 2019 | Journeys

I finally made my move and got a train ticket to Warsaw. After a few minutes the train stopped in East Berlin’s hauptbanhof (main station). There was a wild bustle of activity as hundreds rushed for the carriages, clouds of steam rose into the black metal roof arches; uniforms everywhere; a terrific noise of people and engines; announcements were barked out in an officious tone. The only colour in that station was black and the steam and condensation made the surfaces shine.

That stop in East Berlin was short but the compartment I had been sitting in alone now filled up with noisy passengers, each one of whom seemed to be carrying twice his weight in bags, boxes and jerry cans. (I never did work out what was in those jerry cans but I saw scores of them that day). They quickly packed away their contraband, removed the seats and skillfully filled all the spaces underneath. When they were finished and we all sat down I felt like I was in the store room of a grocer’s shop. I looked at the grinning faces opposite, tried to decipher their incomprehensible language and realised that the Polish people can be really friendly.

Poland was the second Communist country I visited and even before I got there I realised that it was very different from East Germany. This might seem like stating the obvious, and today would sound ignorant, but I was struggling with the stereotype that all Eastern European countries were the same. But the people from Poland seemed to be different to those I had seen in East Berlin, where they seemed unfriendly and scared. I wondered if the East Germans took Communism more seriously than the Poles? My new Polish friends in the carriage were determined to have a blast; as soon as the journey started they whipped out bottles of vodka and a collapsible metal tumbler and poured a drink. The tumbler was handed to me as if I was part of the gang. There was no polite sipping as we might do in Scotland, it was down-in-one every time followed by a cheer and then a high-pitched discussion. Each round was preceded by a toast and all I could understand was: to you…to us…to our parents…to Poland…to Germany (I’m sure fallen comrades was in there somewhere too). The more I drank the better I seemed to understood their language. By the time we reached our destination we were blind drunk and I felt like we were blood brothers.

The other difference with Poland was the border guards; the man who came to check our passports at the Polish border didn’t seem to mind that we were so rowdy. He had white curly hair spurting out from under his cap, rather like horsehair bursting out of an old mattress. He had the tired, resigned air of a grandparent who knows he can’t control the kids and has given up trying. He seemed bored but friendly and didn’t check my passport or visa too carefully. This was very different from the East German border guards who examined my passport as if it was fake and looked at me as if I was a spy. They looked like they would enjoy torturing me. Their uniforms were well laundered and intimidating but they seemed to have absolutely no sense of humour. I wondered if cracking a joke would land me in jail – at school we had plenty of sick jokes about Germans, Jews, French, Irish, Americans, Pakistanis and Italians. They carried curious square cases over their shoulders and when they opened these the front and top part would fold down and be suspended by little leather straps. This formed a miniature table where they could place the suspect’s passport and scrutinise it carefully.

Unlike many travellers I don’t like to research a country before visiting it. If you arrive somewhere in a state of ignorance then everything is waiting to be discovered. And I would rather find out what’s worth visiting from local people rather than guidebooks. At university I barely studied the Communist countries and so it made sense to head East, to learn about an unknown area. But I did know that Poland had once been erased from the map by their Russian, Austrian and Prussian neighbours, that the Nazis had given them a particularly hard time and that there were rumblings against Communism in the port city of Gdansk. But I knew nothing of its geography and looking out of the train window it looked very flat.  In fact, my impression of Poland is that it’s a big flat plain stretching into Russia, with a mountain range on its southern border.

Not everyone was as welcoming as my friends on the train.  I went to change money at a big bank in the centre of Warsaw and came across the stereotypical Communist woman; a big bully of a beast, oozing irritability.  In those days you had to change about $20 a day, at the official exchange rate, for every day you were staying in Poland. This was a way of getting hard currency from tourists, as the official exchange rate was really low compared to what it was on the street (wherever you went men would hustle up to you and whisper change money, showing thick wads of zloty). In fact, the official exchange rate was so artificial that you would get five times more for your dollar on the street than in the bank. It was frustrating to hand over hard-earned cash to an officious hag who gave a fraction of what you could get outside.  And the problem with Polish money, or the money from any Communist country for that matter, is that it was totally useless outside that particular country. Everyone in the region wanted US dollars and would grimace at the sight of Polish Zloty, Czech Crowns or Hungarian Forints.

But there was a loophole: every time you exchanged money officially they would give you an elaborate handwritten receipt. I got chatting to a fluent English speaker in the queue at the bank and he told me: If you have any zloty left when you leave Poland, show your receipt at the border and they are obliged to exchange it at the original rate.

Maybe this would be an opportunity to get even with a system that seemed intent on cheating me out of my US Dollars. We’re not talking about a lot of money here – I only stayed a week and had exchanged only $140 – but it was the principle that mattered. Getting ripped off is a humiliating experience, however small the amount is. When I left Poland I handed over a wad of zloty – that I had exchanged illegally – and had the exquisite pleasure of being given a stash of dollars by a Communist official.

The woman who handed me those dollars could have been the same thickset peasant I had come across in the bank in Warsaw: surly, uncommunicative and wearing a peaked hat that looked as if it never left her greasy scalp. When I asked if I could change money I thought she would laugh dismissively or make a sarcastic comment. Citizens of these countries were strictly forbidden to possess hard currency – a law that didn’t seem to stop the money changers flashing their wads of cash on street corners. It reminded me of parental rules to stop kids drinking and smoking, rules that inspire them to do just that.

She remained expressionless and opened a drawer in a battered wooden table that stood between us. Inside the drawer was Aladdin’s cave. It was packed full of banknotes that were scattered all over the place. I saw English Pounds, Swiss Francs and Italian Lira – and plenty of US Dollars – and wondered why someone hadn’t robbed them of this treasure by now.

She rummaged among the notes, gathered up some dog-eared dollars, tossed them onto the table, closed the drawer and wandered off. She didn’t even glance at me as I gathered up the loot. The idea of grabbing what I could from that drawer crossed my mind. In one movement I would have enough cash to get me all the way to China; no need to find a job in Vienna or crawl home in disgrace.

But it was only a thought. These Communist officials may have looked unfashionable but they were formidable – after all, they had managed to stop the use of illegal drugs in their territories, an impossibility in the west.  The butch woman who was now picking her teeth on the other side of the room looked like she had wrestled for Poland. Or had she been a champion weightlifter? Overweight people can sometimes move surprisingly fast and she would have caught up with me in seconds, coshed me on the back of the head and slung me in a shallow grave.

I stepped out of the ramshackle customs house and realised that I was the only person there. Where were all the cars?  I had taken the scenic route from the southern city of Krakow and from there followed a lonely road up into the Tatra Mountains, a road that led into Czechoslovakia. The border crossing seemed to be at the top of the mountains but I wasn’t sure as a thick blanket of mist had descended and all I could see was a bit of road and a curtain of pine trees. An excellent place for a murder I thought as I wandered into Czechoslovakia, a country that no longer exists.

Perhaps the most significant thing for me that day wasn’t my triumph over Communism in the form of the money change scam, but the fact that I had started hitchhiking. It had been my intention to hitch hike from Scotland to China but I had made a pretty poor job of it so far. I had only been on trains, planes and buses. When I left Krakow I finally overcome my complacency and did what all hitchhikers have to do: get to the outskirts of town, find a good spot by the side of the road, stick out your thumb and wait for ages before getting a lift.

These chapters will soon be published as 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook. If you’d like to get a copy just leave a comment below as I will then see your email address and I’ll get in touch. Or you could email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com, or even call/WhatsApp on 0044 747 138 1973. 

Flogging books and driving trucks

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 25 Feb, 2019 | Journeys

Having finished university and gone back to Edinburgh, the big challenge was to raise enough cash to get to Shanghai – my target destination. Every job I’d ever done had only paid peanuts; washing dishes, selling books and working on building sites had been useful experiences but none paid more than was needed for booze, food and smokes.

Up in Edinburgh an opportunity soon presented itself. I had often helped out my father in his trucking business and I knew the ropes: I could pack valuable antiques and large paintings into the back of a truck without breaking anything. I knew how to drive his Three Tonner truck and was used to his non-stop hours. Trouble was he only paid the going rate for unskilled labour, about twenty quid a day, and I needed a lot more.

My father had a business partner called Gerry, a smooth talking Irishman who had an impressive moustache and, as my Grandmother would say, he could talk the hind leg off a donkey. Gerry fancied himself as an antique dealer, and would go off on important business trips. He was also a heavy drinker and womaniser. My father would get really angry when he didn’t show up for a job and I would be sent to pick up his truck and stand in for him.

Then Gerry announced that he was going to Texas as he had some big deals cooking; he mentioned antiques but refused to share any details. Would I be willing to look after the truck for two weeks? This was my opportunity to make some big money fast. Being in possession of Gerry’s truck meant that I could make the transition from driver and unskilled humper to equal partner. It meant that I could charge the full fee that my father would normally charge the client. If I worked like a slave over the next two weeks maybe I could earn enough to hit the road.

What I didn’t know was that Gerry was up to his eyeballs in debt and was, in fact, doing a runner. We never saw him again and I’m pretty sure that his story about going to Texas to stitch up an antiques deal was another of his eloquent fairy tales. I also didn’t know that his Mercedes truck was on hire purchase and a payment was expected every month; he hadn’t left me any instructions about debt payments. Just the key. For two miraculous months I was able to make big money – £500 a week, which was a fortune in those days – and not once did anyone ask about debt repayments, taxes or the whereabouts of Gerry. It seemed too good to be true and I soon realised that this was my chance to earn enough cash to get to China.

I worked at fever pitch past the original two-week term and carried on for two months. I would drive down to England every week, pick up paintings from artists living in remote cottages, deliver them to galleries in central London, sleep in the back of the truck, sometimes drive for 18 hours a day and go for drinking sessions when I was in the vicinity of friends. I learned to get through the city at high speed, to intimidate taxi drivers (the bullies of London traffic), to park and unload in impossibly narrow streets, reverse down alleyways with inches to spare and sweet-talk policemen, traffic wardens and officious porters. It was a great job and within two months I had saved £2,000 and was ready to go to China.

Then I had to overcome the biggest challenge of all: complacency. I was earning up to £500 a week and having a great time with my girlfriend in London who would give me full body shiatsu massages. The reasons for not going anywhere were building up fast. I could settle down in Britain! My father wanted to give up his fine art transportation business and part of me wanted to take it over. But my father was dead against the idea: You don’t want to work 18 hour days for the rest of your life, have no friends and sleep in the truck! Hit the road. Travel. Live your own life.

Finally I got the impetus to get up and go. My best friend from school, an artist called Christian Anstice, reminded me that we had planned to meet in Berlin on February the 20th (1986) and he called to say: You’d better be there.

It was time finally tear myself away from the comforts of life in the UK and do the rounds of saying goodbye. Everyone asked me when I was coming back but I really didn’t know. My father told me to park the truck near the garage where Gerry had bought the van. They’ll know what to do with it, he said. And that was it.

These chapters will soon be published as 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook. If you’d like to book a copy just leave a comment below as I will then see your email; or you could send an email to me at wolfemurray@gmail.com