I had decided to travel to Danja because I wanted to see something different. Along the way, the coach had several near-crashes due to an absence of road markings. Our driver eventually achieved the near impossible task of finding a smooth stretch of road, then marked his territory by beeping the horn for the rest of the journey.
One would think that, after such an ordeal, I might be entitled to a hero’s welcome — but instead the locals met me with fear. Old people ducked into alleys when they saw me coming and children scurried past staring at the floor.
Within minutes of arriving in Danja I had seen the whole town and come full circle. There only were 125 houses and many had tarpaulin entrances instead of doors; most of these had Mickey Mouse on them — Disney shareholders will be delighted to hear the brand is doing well even here.
In search of a guesthouse I walked under an archway and emerged in a playground. The forlorn children playing on it didn’t have a ball — instead they kicked a crushed can back and forth.
I returned through the archway to find parents waiting to collect their children. The fathers smoked at a distance; the mothers waited next to the school fence. When the children marched out, their teacher made sure they were walking in time. Some children ran into their mothers’ arms; whilst further up the road the fathers yelled at their children — patting their thighs as if calling dogs.
The end of the school day had been the most interesting thing I had seen so far in Danja, which made me wonder what the hell I was doing there.
With nothing better to do, I continued to search for somewhere to stay.
It seemed I was the only guest in Danja, so when I eventually found a guesthouse I thought the owner would be pleased — but instead she mostly ignored me.
At 6.30 p.m. I mimed that I would like something to eat. The guesthouse owner emerged 20 minutes later with some noodles in a plastic Disney bowl.
The noodles were cold and hard, so I asked if there was anything else. The woman disappeared and returned with a bottle of red sauce. She pointed at the noodles, then the sauce, and rubbed her stomach.
Her hospitality reminded me of an old traveller’s tale:
The innkeeper gave the traveller some mackerel and a pot of mustard.
The traveller asked: “Is that all there is?”
The innkeeper replied: “There’s enough mackerel there to feed six people!”
“But I don’t like mackerel.”
“Oh well,” said the innkeeper. “Help yourself to the mustard.”
Still hungry, and not in the least bit tired, I decided to have an early night.
The bed was made of stone and, beneath it, was a coal fire. At 8 p.m. the fire began to dwindle — and by midnight the room was freezing cold.
I rolled myself up in the blanket and reflected on why I had ventured off the tourist trail.
The answer was straightforward: other travellers had boasted about ‘getting off the beaten track’ so I had decided I ought to do the same.
In retrospect this had been a mistake.
There’s a reason why famous tourist sites are popular: there is something to see and something to do. There is also a reason why people don’t visit places like Danja: this excursion had been the equivalent of turning up at an industrial English town and expecting to be met with open arms and entertainment.