A distinct odour of boiled eggs and old
shoes hung on the air. In the corridor's semi-gloom a bandana wearing
teenager shuffled past, too engrossed in a bowl of cereal to cast us
even a sulky hint of acknowledgement. In the adjacent kitchen people
sternly buttered bread and muttered awkwardly to each other about
clean towels and forthcoming stop overs in German villages. A man
with a too-big-laugh blurted whinnying, nervous expulsions at the
sole staff member. Skis and signed t-shirts and drapes and pizza
eating-league-tables clung to every available surface. Everything
exuded an air of dampness. So, exactly the kind of hostel we'd come to
dread.
We were a little surprised to find this
familiar feeling chunk of backpackers' paradise in a far flung corner
of the Slovakian mountains. Despite the nearby slopes of the
Beliankse Tatry - making up a craggy panorama visible from the front
porch - one of the guest's signally failed to leave the hostel
throughout our whole stay. There in the living room when we arrived,
and still there when we left three days later, he seemed far more
interested in the hostel's DVD collection than the scenery.
Still, one guest did make a good point:
"When I'm staying by myself all the time I go kinda crazy. It's
lonely; I need people." One woman, we were sagely informed, was
in the midst of two years' "intensive journeying". If that
was me, I'd want any company I could get. And we had to admit we
benefited a great deal from our hostel hosts, whose generosity and
patience were ample (perhaps because, this being the mountains, there
was nothing else to do).
"It's a bit of a slog. About half
an hour uphill," the aforementioned friendly host said.
Fresh off the Prague sleeper train, a
good six hours' clattering, rhythmic sleep under our belts, this
seemed doable.
The thick black clouds curling around
the highest peaks of the Vysoke Tatry (the High Tatras) promised
rain. But we weren't going up that high, so what did it matter?
We followed a medium level blue trail
for the first half an hour, traipsing over foot-hills still half
buried in the wreckage of the 2004 storms that took apart over a
third of the forest. Felled trees rested everywhere. It was a bit
like the video to 'Earth Song' by Michael Jackson. A scene of
Hollywood-esque devastation.
Following the storm the Slovakian
Environmental Ministry declared that, since the Tatras had suffered
so much, their protected status should now be downgraded and tourist
development accelerated. Quite the terrifying example of a government
turning crisis into opportunity. There was, however, decreasing
evidence of development as we scrambled higher up the mountainside.
We were jubilant as we reached the
checkpoint that led us off the blue trail and onto its red cousin. Now we had joined the so called Magistrala - the only trail that runs
the whole length of the Tatras, themselves a part of the greater
Carpathian range. Almost stopping to drink the beers we'd brought
with us, we decided to wait until we reached the rumoured frozen
lake. It would probably only be another half hour, I gamely told
myself.
Fatefully it hadn't occurred to me to
wonder why the lake was still frozen in May, the sort of
commonsensical query I've got a frustrating habit of avoiding. Nor
did I really wonder why everyone else we passed on the trail was in
proper hiking gear and thermals. I, on the other hand, had just my
trusty Primark hoodie and a bag of shopping with said beers and some
cheese in.
The trail cut remorselessly uphill,
delving under thick foliage as the now low-hanging clouds began to
spit. Then, after scrambling over rocks, we emerged blinking from the
underbrush to be confronted with the magnificence of the plain below.
Perched on the sheer crest of an outcrop poking out of the side of
Lomnicky stit (the range's tallest peak), the vastness of the land
rolled out around us in a thick balm of green. The rain was now a
little icy, prickling the back of my neck, but worryingly we still
had higher to go.
As the elevation increased so did our
vague sense of disquiet. Less confident of our speed, this drawn out
slog, winding ever higher up the side of the mountain, gave me plenty
of time to reflect.
"About half an hour uphill,"
we had been told.
This was ostensibly true: the immediate
ascent had taken about half an hour. But the red path was now
winding upwards in deceptive and increasingly craggy increments.
Siobhan - who has a distinct tendency to go a bit 'jibbly-wibbly' in
the knees when confronted with heights - was scaling the endless
system of rocky promontories with admirable firmness.
"How is it?" I asked as she
scrambled over one particularly jarring ledge.
"Good if you're a mountain goat."
I followed carefully, trusty shopping bag in hand, just a tiny bit unbalanced. Even the plant-life had changed, reduced from the
rain-forest-density below to thick clumps of low-lying shrubbery
clinging tenaciously to the unforgiving rock face.
Below stretched a vast expanse;
distances I was more accustomed to enjoying from the comfort of a plane seat than when standing upright on an icy, windswept ledge. The
Slovakian countryside rolled out, unbroken save for the occasional
copse and a few winding roads, for miles.
Slovakia is an interesting national
case. Plucked from Hungarian territory post-WWI, it was partly
defined by the ambitions of their neighbours, the Czechs, and partly
by the Slavic linguistic minority who had resided in the territory
for centuries. It had once been incorporated in a Moravian empire
which unified the Slavs of the region and which produced the first
cyrillic alphabet. After the disintegration of that empire Slovakia
was swiftly annexed by the growing power of Hungary. The city that
now serves as Slovakia's capital, Bratislava, for a time became the
Hungarian capital, under the name of Pressburg, after the Ottomans
took Buda. A small reminder, then, that territories and the
sovereignties declared over them are composite, contingent things.
The panorama around us had changed hands multiple times - its earth subject to multiple constructed sovereignties. These remain unresolved for a few staunchly nationalist politicians on both the Slovakian and Hungarian sides of the border. "Let's get in our tanks and bulldoze Budapest," nearby Zilina's former mayor and all round extremist, Jan Slota, has suggested.
At last we were in view of the frozen
lake, which was indeed still frozen. And now snow lay at our feet. A
final scramble along a much flatter path - to the evident amusement
of other hikers, clad in winter-style gear - led us to it. Finally
stopping, it struck me just how cold it had become.
"Shall we save the beers?"
Siobhan said.
"Probably not a bad idea, yeah,"
I said, putting on my jumper.
After all, we had to get all the way
back down.
We stayed in: Zdiar, a
surprisingly sizeable village in the Belianske Tatry mountains with
copious accommodation. Our hostel was the Ginger
Monkey.
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