Cabbages and Kings

We were supposed to go on a field trip to a bog. In preparation for the 15-hour excursion we ate a hearty breakfast, dressed warmly, and packed a nutritious lunch. But we got the time wrong and the bus had been on its way to the boggy coast for an hour by the time we left the flat. Oops. Thinking we might chase them across the country on a bus of our own, we headed for the Bussijaam. But no such luck, the next departure in that direction was at 3:20 and didn't arrive til after 7. They'd be on the way back by then, so the venture would be pointless. Disappointment was thick, but spontaneity buoyed us up. After all, we were at the bus station. It would be a shame to have gotten up so early for nothing. So we decided to go on our own field trip.

Back and forth between the map of Estonian bus routes and the information clerk with her scraps of English, we had begun to disbelieve in the feasibility of our enterprise. It is very difficult to express that you want to go somewhere, but you're not sure where, and have you got a suggestion, to a bussijaam info-clerk at 8 in the morning. As I made use of the ever-present wifi signal in a hurried and desperate attempt to squeeze some useful information out of the world wide web, a young man in a plaid jacket asked my companion in English what was up. Suspicious of the kindness of strangers I lent only the corner of an ear to their conversation as I continued my fruitless googling. Hence my surprise when my companion announced his discovery of a destination.

And off we went to Voru. The town itself is unremarkable, but a village on the outskirts, accessible by bus, boasts the highest peak in the Baltics and a picturesque surrounding countryside. In Voru our guide, Rouno, extracted the necessary timetable from another English-less bussijaam info-clerk and presented us with a written explanation of just when the bus to Suur Muna Magi was set to depart. This document also noted the times and routes of two options for returning to Tartu. Then Rouno showed us to a lovely cafe, told us a little about himself, and went on his way to whatever village he's from.

To pass the time before our next departure, after coffee, of course, we visited the impressive collection of supermarkets which is, according to Rouno, the pride of Voru. More grocery stores than people, he claimed, and as we went along deserted streets from Konsuum to Rimi to Maxima it seemed his assessment was correct. At Rimi (or was it Maxima?) I located a favorite brand of juice which comes in various combinations of beet and/or carrot housed in a single-serving-sized rectangular carton. On this occasion, however, I spotted a new variety of juice, unknown to the shelves of Tartu markets. The green cartoon was confirmed by the ingredient listed on the back: kapsas. Impulsively, though not without a trace of fear, I bought the cabbage juice. I sampled its aroma before taking a swig, and then nearly didn't because it smelled, as my companion would later relate to a crowd of semioticians, "like twelve farts".

19 kilometers and a half-hour bus ride later we were deposited unceremoniously at the base of a sign that read "Haanja". A sign a few meters up the way encouraged us to follow the road for a kilometer more to Suur Muna Maggi. It was a tremendously beautiful day.

The weather was perfect: crisp and sunny, the violent blue unblemished by clouds forced an extra measure of orange from the stunning autumn leaves. The air seemed cleaner, easier to breathe, and it is only thanks to much practice that I kept my giddiness in check. The wide paved road curved suggestively around hilly swellings in the landscape, and well kept farmhouses overlooked the dark, freshly turned earth of fields preparing for winter. No animal life, chicken or human, inhabited the scene, and the stillness which might have seemed eerie was overwhelmed by the blazing perfection of the day.

At the base of the cement stairs leading up the "mountain" we found a nice-looking but deserted cafe. Exploring its grounds we discovered a large round boulder situated between some apple trees on a circle of overgrown bricks.

Close inspection revealed a spiral pattern in red and a rune etched into every other brick or so.

This clearly magical space was identified as the "Spring of Time" by a nearby sign. I wondered, and wonder, what they do there when the place is open. I pulled an apple off the tree and we headed for the stairs to the summit.

On the way up we debated stashing our bags, full of computer and books and lunch and a plastic bottle of cold tea, in some bush or another to ease our ascent. By the time we had made up our minds we were at the top. Suur Munamägi (Big Egg Mountain)is only 318 meters above sea level. Because it's covered in trees you have to climb the tower, another 29.1 meters, to get a view of anything. But it is a pretty spectacular view:

Down the tower again I sat on a wooden bench and broke out our lunch. After some cold chicken and colder tea we headed back down the other side of the "mountain". Our spectacular view confirmed that the buildings near our bus stop comprised the town of Haanja entirely, and so we went back to where we'd started and looked around for something to do. Finding the only businesses--a post office and what seemed to be a tourist center--locked, I recalled a sign some meters toward Voru that pictured a knife and fork and said "Finnis Pub". We found the sign, followed the arrow, and located the business which we prayed was open. It was.

The spacious bar with big picture windows looked out on an empty and snowless ski resort. Photos of skiiers and their exploits testified to the nature and purpose of the town of Haanja, currently dormant and waiting for the ski season. It was very pleasant there. We were enjoying ourselves, relaxed and free from human chatter. We decided to stay.

Another fruitless google search led me to the bartender who, I suspected, spoke some English. He did, and when I inquired about lodging he directed me not to a map nor back to Voru but, index finger extended at the end of his outstretched arm, out the window and across the uneven grass to a pale building with a red metal roof. "Milla," he said. "Cheap?" I asked. He reddened a little and laughed, "Ja." I brought my informational booty back to the wooden table and we decided to check it out at once.

It was a very large building, by Haanja standards, and seemed to be multi-purpose. On the left side of the top floor A sign read "Haanja Milla Kook" and more big picture windows looked in on a warmly decorated dining room. I was excited to think that this hostel had a restaurant of its own, but confused about why the chairs were up on the tables, the doors locked, and nobody home. We tried every door we could find with no better luck, and decided to ask at the A ja O grocery housed in the lower right side of the building. A single blonde woman tended the small store, which nonetheless carried a surprising quantity and variety of booze. It was quickly apparent that she spoke less English than a bussijaam info-clerk, and I began to wonder if we could still make it back to Tartu. As a last attempt I looked her squarely in the face, put on a rather helpless and weary look and asked, "Milla?".

"Oh, JA! Milla!" She seemed astonished by the simplicity and obviousness of my inquiry, jumped out of her chair and sprinted toward the back door. I was wondering whether we should follow her, if perhaps she were leading us to the hostel hidden in the bowels of the big building, when she shouted into the dark doorway.

"MILLA!"

She returned to where we stood at her register and resumed her seat with a look of satisfaction. We were confused. As I tried to sort through the jumble of inexplicable events that had occurred over the last few seconds, the fattest woman in the whole country heaved through the back door. She came toward us speaking rapidly and huskily in Estonian, hot pink and black lycra stretched unconcealingly across her undulating mass. A teenage girl, not quite as fat but well on her way, followed in Milla's wake. Halting questions and frustrated explanations flew across the checkstand in English and Estonian, but nobody spoke both. Milla put her hand to her head, trying to locate her third-grade English lessons, the grocery clerk threw up her hands and looked defensive, and the teenage girl laughed at all of us and declined to intervene. A tall wiry man elbowed his way through the crowd to the register and then forgot his beer as added his voice to the indistinguishable mass of speech. Finally he held up a hand and six voices stopped at once. He looked at us meaningfully, rather sternly, and asked, "Russian?".

No.

The clamour of voices began again at once and finally, in what turned out to be a stroke of genius, I caught Milla's attention and placed both hands palm to palm against the size of my face. I didn't even need to make a snoring sound. This cleared the matter up at once and she led us out of the store, fumbling with a massive key ring while everyone continued to talk at once. Now another voice joined the conversation as Milla dialed on her mobile phone, spoke a few words, and handed it over to my respectable looking companion. They conversed, thankfully, in English, and I waited with great anticipation as he reviewed the terms of our stay and negotiated a price. The phone returned to Milla, she shouted smiling into it a few times, and our host unlocked the door to our lodging.

It was perhaps the nicest, most comfortable temporary lodging I have ever had. It was warm, the wood floor and furniture lent a distinctly rustic mountain feel, every floor has a tasteful clean rug in an abstract design, the beds were well appointed with sheets, blankets, and comforters. The kitchen was large, with a long family dining table and two stove/ovens: one electric, one wood burning.

 We had access to the whole unlocked facility, which was connected with the commercial kitchen upstairs. I resisted the urge to make use of their shiny industrial grade equipment, and I didn't take anything out of the deep-freeze full of meat. But we were the only lodgers, and every room stood unlocked and open, so I explored it all.

We ate a lovely meal of hapukapsas (sauerkraut) and the best grillvorst (sausage) I've ever had, and watched Estonian cartoons.

 Across the frosty field we returned to Finnis pub to thank the bartender for his recommendation, sampled some excellent pepper infused vodka (which tingled pleasantly on the way down and less pleasantly on the way out) and slept comfortably on the bed which was not too firm, not too soft, and left me perfectly refreshed as tomorrow shone sunny through the pumpkin colored curtains.

In the morning we feasted on cast iron skillet eggs with Rukkipala and orange juice, and departed in search of an ATM. Again, the blonde cashier at A ja O stared blankly as we made our English inquiry. Some hand gesturing and pointing at debit cards later we left with a mounting suspicion that Haanja may in fact be ATMless. We found our host upstairs in the empty dining room, surrounded by children of varying ages and a few women. We tried our query again, were met with a similar language barrier, and felt relieved when a very tall very thin very blonde woman with a lazy eye and a scowl entered and spoke in our native tongue. The relief was short lived.

"You should know, this is the country side. You have to bring real money."

Our unanticipated field trip had not included a stop at the paangautomat, and we were at a loss. No problem, she assured us. She left the room and came back a moment later with a scrap of paper covered in a string of numbers inscribed in clear, determined penmanship.

"The account number. SEB. You put the money in when returning to Tartu."

They actually let us stay and leave without paying, trusting in the honesty of the respectable-looking man and his industrial-kitchen prowling companion. Or they didn't care that much. Either way, we thanked them profusely, assured that the transfer would be made at our earliest opportunity, and went about our business. As we left it occurred to me that our business involved a return bus trip, for which we were also lacking "real money". After some deliberation and a foolish suggestion on my part that we walk the 16 kilometers to Voru, it was decided that we should venture across the field and seek the help of our English speaking bar tender at Finis Pub.

The place was expectedly empty just after opening at 11 a.m., but the same man stood behind the bar. He understood our plight, as well as my companion's hesitant and humble question regarding the possibility of obtaining cash from the bar's till. What would have been an impossible and absurd suggestion in most of the industrial world was met with a friendly "ja" in Haanja, and a debit for cash transaction enacted with ease and generosity. Relief returned, thanks were heaped on our rescuer, and the bus was on time. As I climbed into the diesel beast I spied a mobile credit card machine mounted on the dash. We paid cash anyway and returned to Tartu without further incident.

Salvaging a day threatened by disappointment, we experienced the tranquil beauty of a rare and disappearing isolation. We lived like kings on the budget of beggars, and I am forced to reconsider my attitude toward the kindness of strangers.