Travel account Friland



Account of the English businessman Richard Foster about his business trip to Friland.


While the plane breaks through the clouds, I see the Frilandic archipelago below me for the first time, surrounded by the endless water masses of the Atlantic Ocean. Jolly, a business trip to meet a representative of our trading partner. My colleague gets to go to Spain but I’m sent to a godforsaken corner such as Friland. Absolutely smashing!
        Once in Lindan, the national airport of this weird country, I have to find the railway station. This proves to be not far from the airport, so I decide to go there by foot. The first thing I notice is how clean the streets are: there is not a single piece of paper, soda can or spat out chewing gum in sight. Some buildings belong to a strange, almost fairy-like building style and the gardens are neatly maintained, as if every grass halm has been put into the right position with a comb and tweezers. Everything here seems to be about order and perfection.

At the railway station I notice that the information on the timetables is written in that peculiar, angular writing that they use here. Fortunately there are also English signs for the tourists, on which I read that the train to Riksgard departs at 1:15pm. I sit down comfortably and have a look around me. I only now realise how tall the people here are; I estimate the majority of the people passing by to be at least 6.07 feet. Would it be something in the water? The people are neatly clothed and make little eye contact with eachother. They politely greet acquaintances, but seldom start a conversation. I notice a certain reserve, as if the crowd at the station frightens them.
        The train to Riksgard rumbles into the station. I look at the clock: it’s 1:14pm. The accuracy of the Frilandic railways is almost legendary abroad. I enter the train and find a place to sit. While I sit, I look at the clock: exactly at the moment that the second-hand hits the 12 and the minute-hand jumps to 1:15pm, the doors close and the train sets itself in motion. So punctual, that it’s almost eerie...

The train leaves Lindan behind and rides through a wide open landscape that varies from pastures to rugged terrain. The passengers stare through the windows; none of them tries to engage in any form of interaction with the other. They look like robots, such a weird people they are!
        The ticket inspector enters the carriage; he’s wearing a spotless uniform with a dead straight tie and a cap. He looks like he’s right out of Victorian England.
        ‘Wes žu hail frowan and hairan, žin wurjan hwanhagiž!’
        ‘Auk weshail fur žik!’ the people politely greet him back.
        I try to suppress my laughter; it looks like a school class! The inspector checks the tickets and comes standing next to me.
        ‘Godandag minhair, žin wur hwanhagiž.’
        ‘Eerm... Do you speak English?’ I ask.
        ‘Good day sir, your ticket please.’ The inspector translates his last sentence into fluent English.
        ‘Allright,’ I mumble. I hand him the ticket and he puts a stamp on it, exactly between the lines.
        ‘Thank you, have a nice day!’
        While the inspector goes on his way the train crosses a bridge. Underneath me I see a broad river, probably the Flautar. The journey is well underway.

After a while we enter a large city; the train stops and people board and get off. With some doubt I look at the name sign on the railway station: under the runic writing Latin letters spell the name Arinhaim, which means I have to stay aboard a little longer. The train continues its way and I look at my watch: the time of arrival is 2:30pm, only a few more minutes.

The train slows down and the dense buildings show that we approach another big city. On the horizon I recognise the Watartur, a building that I’ve also seen in a tourist brochure that I consulted before travelling to Friland. The name sign at the railway station shows the name Riksgard. This is where I get off.
        While I get off the train, people gather around the ticket inspector. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but they are obviously pissed off and point at their watches. The inspector apologises. Looking at the clock I see that the train is a minute late. At home in London, where the trains are regularly delayed by fifteen minutes to half an hour, the people would not even notice. But well, this is Friland...
        While I enter the station hall I start looking around me. The representative, a certain mister Alriksduhter, would wait for me in the hall.
        ‘Are you mister Foster?’ I hear someone say behind me.
        I turn around: a young woman with blond, braided hair and an angelical face gives me an inquisitive look.
        ‘Eerm... Yes, why?’
        The woman sticks out her hand.
        ‘Ida Alriksduhter, representative of FBK Tawungan.’
        I shake her hand and look at her: her bright blue eyes evade my glance, like the eyes of the travellers in the train did as well. She wears clothing with strange motives, which looks like some sort of modern regional attire. On her belt she wears a pistol, which is totally common in Friland. To be honest I kind of expected it from a silly island such as this. Around her neck Ida wears a silver pendant in the shape of a hammer and in her hand she holds a file with papers.
        ‘I’ve brought the terms of delivery with me so we can study these,’ Ida comes straight to the point.
        I notice that she speaks English with a funny, melodious accent. Ida walks up to a bench and pulls a whole mass of paperwork from her file to go through all the details with me right there on the spot.
        ‘Shall we just leave these papers and have a drink?’ I ask.
        ‘Why, are you thirsty?’ Ida wants to know.
        ‘For no particular reason, just to get to know eachother.’
        Ida looks at me like I’m crazy. ‘Drinking without being thirsty, what is the point of that?’
        My boss had already warned me that the Frilanders are very pragmatic and have little social skills, but that it would be this bad was beyond my expectations. However, Ida decides to do it my way and puts the papers back into her file.

We leave the station for the little café opposite of the street. As is usual in big cities I ignore the red traffic light and cross the street when an opportunity arises. Ida and the other pedestrians however, stay where they are, even though there is no car coming. Only when the light turns green everybody crosses.
        ‘Ignoring a red traffic light is against the rules,’ Ida remarks when she walks next to me again.
        We take a seat on the terrace in front of the café. It’s freezing cold but it doesn’t seem to bother Ida; she takes off her coat and lays it on the chair next to her. It’s probably always that cold here so she must be used to it.
        We order a cup of coffee from the waitress, after which I turn to Ida and try to start an informal conversation.
        ‘How are you?’
        ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asks.
        ‘Just for conversation.’
        ‘Oh. Well, apart from some insomnia and a sprained ankle I function reasonably. FBK has given me a salary increase and today my cat Sprengar has been dead for three months. What about you?’
        ‘I’m ok.’
        ‘Just ok?’ Ida asks. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
        For a moment I’m too confused to say anything, but then I decide to tell her about my apartment in London, my pregnant sister and a joke that my colleague made.
        ‘Interesting,’ Ida says while she takes out her file with paperwork again.
        I decide to forget about the conversation and go through all of the papers with her. She clearly feels more comfortable now that the conversation has gotten more formal again and she elaborates about terms, products and factory processes. In England we do such things at the office, but I suspect that here in Friland people will even do this while sitting on the curb if it saves them time.
        I go through all the contracts, sign them and make a new appointment. Ida promises to visit our headoffice in Southwark soon to wind up the agreement. Regarding the cultural differences she will then probably be in for a shock in crowded, chaotic London. We return to the station; I shake her hand and she gives a timid smile. She clings on to her file with papers, satisfied with the successful completion.
        ‘Til siž, Ida!’ I try in my best Frilandic.
        ‘See you later!’ says Ida. She turns around and almost bumps into a dog.
        ‘Andsun mik, hundil,’ she apologises to the dog.
        I try not to laugh and wave one more time to her while I enter the platform.

Once arrived at Lindan airport, I see on my ticket that I’m flying with the Frilandiska Luftfardganautskap, which means that during flight I’ll also be stuck with these characters. Oh well, at least I’m now certain that I will land at Heathrow exactly on time...