The hellish journey to Ventspils
LEMBERGSVILLE – Usually any horror story of traveling in a foreign country involves traveling by bus in some shape or form. Mine happened in my old country.
I wanted to spend a weekend in Ventspils, Lembergsville, to learn about the glorious city that arose from ashes of the Soviet Empire to become a wonderful mini-town in Western Latvia. I wanted to see the glory left behind by the mayor, who had worked hard for the last 19 years he’s been entrusted his job.
Well, more on that later.
Unfortunately, Lembergsville is not connected by a direct functioning railroad route from the capital city, Riga. To get here, one has to board a bus from the main bus station. And although buses leave almost every hour, they’re often full. They were especially full on Friday afternoon, which for some reason I decided to make that point in the week to travel to Lembergsville.
Somewhat foolishly I made several assumptions about the bus system in Latvia. First of all, I presumed offices sold no more tickets than there are places. Second of all, I suspected seats will be available on the first come, first served basis.
I was wrong on both counts.
As long as I can remember the bus stop (pictured above) along with the abutting open air market have been the trashy parts of the town center in Riga. Dirty people who might pick-pocket you at any moment roaming the dirty streets of the bus station which lays on the paved bank of the dirty city canal. That was the bus station that I remembered and it really hasn’t changed much. The bus station now only offer more destinations to exotic places, like London, for example. People still roam around; there are still not enough places to sit. It’s still dirty.
It takes about three hours by bus to travel 190 km from Riga to Ventspils. About two and a half hours, myself, a Portuguese poet, and a couple of Russians spent alert, on our feet, hoping our destination to arrive soon. Passengers were placed inside the bus like sardines. Because of the heat, and lack of air conditioning, most men began to sweat, and women to glisten. Allowing air flow through two ceiling openings didn’t do much good. Only when the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the temperature subsided, the bus became less of a sweat fest.
At one of the stops, an old Russian woman whom I suspected to be out of her mind, was offering a young Latvian girl to sprinkle her with some liquid she had in her bottle.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” the woman said. “It’s good. You will feel refreshed.”
The girl, obviously, reluctantly agreed. After the procedure, the girl exclaimed in a voice that reflected both amusement and fear, “Super.”
I may sound like an ugly American, who’s used to comfort and excellent customer service. It’s not true. These experiences are what makes coming home somewhat special. Rude, smile-less people, awful, in some places, customer service, standing on a three-hour bus ride ridden with sweat — all those are my experiences of my country.
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