PART TWO: THE REST OF THE STORYPART TWO: THE REST OF THE STORY
CHAPTER TEN
THERE AND BACK AGAIN
After my experience in Belgrade, I decided to take myself back home to Sweden and leave the kayak someplace safe in Yugoslavia. I could pretty quickly scrape up the money to return to my kayak and continue the journey when I got back in Sweden.
I put the kayak under lock and key at a hotel in Novi Sad and kissed her goodbye.
“Take care of yourself, girl. I’ll be back.”
I hitchhiked through Yugoslavia, Hungary, Austria, and Germany for three days. Along the way, I met helpful smugglers, businessmen, and a couple from the Unification Church.
In Munich, I got a long ride to Lubeck from the perfect therapist for what I had recently experienced. Finnish Jako shared with me that he had taken a six-month leave from the war. In the past, he had worked for the Red Cross and had been stationed in Yugoslavia, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Chechnya, but now he drove a truck in Europe. He was the kind of person with whom you could have an intense conversation and then lapse into 3-hour periods of silence without feeling strained. He was just the person I needed to meet after two months of verbal vacuum.
I stood at the ferry terminal an hour before the boat would depart to Trelleborg. I was trying to make contact with anyone in the Swedish-registered cars to get a lift or to borrow money and pawn something I owned, but five millimeters of car window separated me from my countrymen.
An Unwelcome Home
I had taken myself through Europe, found kindness and help from people with whom I couldn’t even communicate properly. My own kind didn’t dare to speak to me because they were scared of my appearance. Instead, my ticket into the motherland came in the form of two Kosovars living in Sweden. In their small, inconspicuous car, they smuggled me into the giant ferry Nils Holgersson. I snuck out of the car and mingled with the passengers before anyone discovered anything.
When I arrived in Trelleborg I refused to borrow the phone in a convenience store. I explained my situation, even trying to exchange rolls of film for a phone call, but the man behind the counter shot back: “Hey, I do not barter. Give me five crowns if you want to make a call.”
“Welcome home,” I said loudly and angrily as I walked out of the store.
Home at Last
Eventually, an Iranian gave me a ride and drove me right into the center of Malmö even though it wasn’t his destination. I then walked the rest of the way to the home of my very good friends, Amanda and Stefan. When I reached their doorstep, I pressed the buzzer and Stefan answered not long after.
“Hey there,” I greeted over the intercom.
“Welcome back,” he answered in a tired voice.
I crawled up the stairs. Ugh, I feel like a parasite. What will they think?
The door opened and a sleepy, puffy-eyed St. Stefan, dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, met me.
“Hey,” I said, truly feeling like a parasite.
He stood there, and I’ll be damned if he hadn’t found the time to squeeze a snus under his lip already. He smirked at me and pinched me to see if it was really I. Then he grinned again. I was welcome, I guess. I laughed, feeling so grateful that there were people who managed to put up with me.
