Lithuania: A Forgotten Land By Sharon Fowler "Lithuania...where is that...?" has often been the response to our plans to visit Lithuania. Not many seem to know about the small country tucked away on the shores of the Baltic Sea. A country which was the first pagan nation in Europe and eight years ago, the first of the Baltic states to be free of the presence of the former Soviet Union. Arriving in Lithuania is almost like stepping back into a land the world has forgotten. Vilnius International Airport is small and stylish, yet on a Saturday afternoon, deserted. The first man we meet is a seaman, wanting to escape. To anywhere. We board a rickety bus and travel through shabby streets to a bus station where few speak English and no other backpackers can be seen. With the help of a little Lithuanian and invention, we are soon on our way to Klaipeda, the 202,300-strong third largest city. My memories of that three-hour trip consist of sun and sleep. Reaching this part of Eastern Europe takes time and effort, with our journey involving flights from Britain to Poland and then another to Lithuania's capital, Vilnius. On the way to Klaipeda, my husband Kel sees lots of farm cottages, hens, a few cows and many fruit trees. I see mainly dreamland. And lakes. The 65, 300 sq km country has more than 4000 lakes, which meld into its landscape of plains and ever-so-gently rolling hills. The pretty countryside suddenly terminates at another bus station and our coastal destination. Klaipeda was formerly the German port of Memel, until being seized by Lithuania in 1923, annexed by Hitler in 1939 and occupied by the Red Army from the end of World War II. A friend shows a park where Soviet Union troops guarded a statue of Lenin for about a year in the early 1990s, as Lithuania struggled for freedom. When the Soviets withdrew in 1993, the statue was immediately knocked down. Such sculptures now stand in a park down south, a symbol of the past and yet the present. Stepping into Klaipeda is a delight. The old town is full of cobbled lanes and the central square is surrounded by buildings with red tile rooves, intricate white stone balconies, gables and attic windows. In between trees trying to turn autumn colours, you can spy red brick and wooden half-timbering, plus facades of faded yellow, pinks, greys and peachy cream. Few tourists visit at the end of this northern summer and the statue of a little girl stands above a meagre fountain. Nearby, paint peels on an old theatre with wrought-iron lamps and fancy entrance doors, stone cherubs and graffiti. In 1939, Adolf Hitler stood on its small balcony to claim the city for Germany. When we ask at the information centre, an unhelpful woman does not know anything about the Jewish cemetery. When the Nazis occupied the entire country from 1941 to 1944, they and Lithuanian sympathisers massacred an estimated 90% of its Jewish inhabitants. Despite the woman telling us there is no Jewish cemetery, we eventually find one, sadly neglected and behind padlocked bars. The woman's attitude is not necessarily related to our question; most public servants and bank staff we encounter are frosty and unbending. Some are plain rude. A resident tells us that while neighbouring Latvia and Estonia replaced their public servants with young people, Lithuania has not, and so old Soviet attitudes prevail. Another person blames this, and the election of a socialist government after communism, on the country's apparent inability to move forward. Despite the pessimism of many Lithuanians, we see much innovation in architecture, fashion and art and extreme efficiency in many official sectors. The country is such an interesting mixture of European and former Soviet thinking and influences. Moving on to the new town of Klaipeda, we discover the cinema looks like any other from outside and the smell of popcorn wafts out of glass doors. Inside, a film only rolls if you can muster at least four people to watch it. There are trees aplenty and many small parks with grass and statues. Outdoor cafes with sun umbrellas dot the streets and microbuses take people anywhere within a 15km radius for 1 lita (about 50cNZ). On a rainy Monday night, we venture out to locate the several beggars we have seen but cannot, instead discovering a very cool cafe and an excellent jazz bar. We stay with two local women in a two-bedroom flat in a block of flats, surrounded by many other blocks of flats. Trees and a run-down kindergarten break the streetscape. Men scavenge in rubbish skips for a meal, a young couple watch their child play with a new toy, people walk past Audis, Ladas, Opals, Volkswagons, a few Fords and the occasional Mercedes. Our flat has a tiny bathroom, separate toilet, living room including old furniture and balcony and kitchen with gas cooker and small food stocks. Our flatmates are lovely and most welcoming. While Lithuanians desire to be hospitable, sometimes their lack of money makes this impossible in terms of offering food. Since gaining independence from the Soviet Union, the country's economy has struggled. Agriculture is a mainstay yet farms are fragmented, few dairies exist and European Union standards are difficult to meet. Despite this, the cheese is delicious and chocolate superb. We visit a government-funded baby home, where children rush up to us craving hugs and attention. They seem adequately fed and have a few toys and outdoor playing space. The home has 70 youngsters under four years old and 100 workers, although the latter figure is hard to believe. Sadly, the home's location amid a forest is the result of a past need to hide these abandoned children, rather than bless them. Some are mentally or physically disabled, others have been left by solo mothers or parents haunted by a Soviet requirement for small families. The "oppressors" as Lithuanians call the Soviets have gone but their mindset and teaching may take years to change. Kel and I also visit and privately-funded and run home for 10 children between four and 15 years. It has a lovely garden and sense of freedom. Three children sleep in each room, there are computers and a basketball hoop. A Catholic woman who is an orphan directs it and raises money from around the world. A few big residences sit down the unpaved street. When the Soviets left, some people built expensive houses but heating prices escalated and now they cannot afford their houses and sometimes take in boarders. The home is also near the beach, a pretty place with sand hills and some swimmers. Although we do not see much of the coast, it is apparently spectacular. Klaipeda's port, the country's only commercial one, has cranes like New Zealand had 20 years ago, many boats, some big ships and old ferries. Time for another bus and the journey back to Vilnius. Being more awake this time, I glimpse haystacks, a wooden cart in a field and subsistence farms. There are a few crops, horses and villages off the main highway. One of the journey's features is Ignalina, a nuclear power plant with a Chernobyl-type reactor. This plant supplies more than 73% of the state's energy and the country is the second-most nuclear-dependent in the world. The European Union says the plant is below safety standards and should be decommissioned. The European Union has also been busy in Vilnius, helping pay for the inner city to be repainted and restored. This old town is extremely beautiful, with baroque and classical buildings lining cobblestone streets that disappear into flower-laden courtyards. Fashionable bars and cafes mix with embassies and ornate Catholic churches, flags fly outside a large white presidential palace, Vilnius University has red tiles and a stunning golden chapel door. Further into the old town, I look up the street and see Ausros Vartai, the only town wall gate tower still intact. People stand on the street praying and others ascend to a chapel over the gate, where an idol with supposedly miraculous powers sits. I look down the street at three-storeyed buildings with sweet wrought-iron balconies, decorative window surrounds, many jutting-out bits and fancy signs. This city definitely has charm. Vilnius is a good choice for those wanting to explore an Eastern European capital at a reasonable price. Hostel beds cost about $NZ15 a night and some hotels charge $NZ60 a double room. Throughout Lithuania, our double rooms contain two twin beds, no matter how much we flash our wedding rings! Pastries and bus station coffee for two cost us $NZ2.50 total and a loaf of bread about 45cNZ. McDonalds has arrived in Vilnius and is only slightly cheaper than in New Zealand. Richer people seem to go there and it includes surprisingly tasteful outdoor cafe tables. Other sights visitors include a 4.2m high statue of United States rock star Frank Zappa, the Lithuanian State Jewish Museum and a former KGB headquarters, now a Museum of the Genocide of the Lithuanian People. Having limited time and being on holiday, we say hi to Frank but leave the museums and head for Trakai, a town about 40 minutes away by bus. The female conductor grabs our tickets, the bus fills with locals and when we eventually stop, the conductor starts yelling furiously at the driver. Who knows about what; we are glad we don't. Trakai is idyllic. A small town filled with cottages enclosed by gardens of corn, sunflowers, apple trees and silver beet, set among forests on a peninsula between lakes. Women hang out their washing and sweep the streets with twig brooms, men throw fishing nets off small jetties and a handicapped girl chatters away to this weary backpacker. However, weariness ebbs away as we rest at our sunny room in a former Soviet sports complex, drink gritty Lithuanian coffee or instant cappuccinos at lakeside cafes and row on the lake. A well-restored Gothic red brick castle on an island not far across the water compensates for the instant part of the cappuccino. During the days we stay, the lake turns alternately pale and darker blue. Yellow and red row boats nestle by the shore, distant hills are pale green and low and leaves rustle among the mixture of larches, conifers, willows and birches. Many rushes edge the water. Orange and red flowers planted among rocks add further brightness to the scene and for anyone bored with creation, the human variety is available at stalls selling linen tableware and amber jewellery. Photographs and costumes recapture the heart of bygone days at the Karaimu Ethnografine Paroda, a simple museum about a local Jewish sect. The sect has about 70 members remaining in distinctive wooden houses. Trakai's prices are cheaper than those in Vilnius and it is a good place to rest for a few days. Our double room cost $NZ40 a night, including a generous breakfast of salami, cheese, eggs, bread, yoghurt and tea or coffee. A friendly man at a small lakeside cafe charges $NZ4 for a big helping of succulent pork ribs and potatoes and $NZ1.50 for a pint of excellent Lithuanian beer. People generally, but especially those at Trakai, are honest: a shopkeeper gives back money when too much is given and a waitress gives back a tiny tip, saying it is too much. On the lake and across two footbridges, the Island Castle beckons. It was built about 1400 and restored last century. The main tower is about three storeys high and has a large inner court. Off it, side rooms display armour, coins, tapestries and battle prints. The castle has a strange calmness and serenity and is beautiful. At night, it is floodlit and when a thunder storm starts, it is startling. And so we leave Lithuania. With regret, for we have come to love it much. Its people sometimes say the world has forgotten them and they do seem remote at times. The country's history in Europe is fairly significant and as it emerges into the new Europe, it may have further contributions to make. But for now, people trudge on, often without hope. For us, we are glad we have tasted and seen. This article first appeared in the Otago Daily Times newspaper, New Zealand, on October 30, 2001