Kolonie Viktovice

I validate my ticket on tram 1 to Dublina and do a long loop through the city, changing lines three times. There are distinct areas, almost separate communities; Ostrava Slezska, Moravska Ostrava, Svinov, Marianske-Hory. Each is supported by the coalmines, steel works, and foundries that are an integral part of the city; industry, commerce, and housing overlap, intertwine, and adjoin. I pass by housing estates dwarfed by towering chimneys and huge cranes, pleasant little bungalows wedged between steel pressing plants and coal loading docks; everywhere, the spindly winding towers of collieries rise in the most unlikely settings, factories appear unexpectedly in the middle of quiet suburbs. Railway lines penetrate every part of the city, bringing in ore and coiled steel, taking out coal and iron ingots; spurs, forks, branches, criss-crossing and snaking into every corner. The tram stops at a crossing on an ordinary high street for a rake of loaded coal wagons to be pushed over the road by an old shunting engine. Every few-hundred meters another line bisects the road, and we slow again in anticipation of a warning blast from a trains airhorns. I change trams at Belsky Les. The stop is in the centre of a large roundabout surrounded by concentric circles of massive tower blocks, built to house the workers of the steel works glimpsed between them. It is a barren and unattractive place to spend a few minutes, let alone a lifetime. On the tram to Hulvaky a kid of no more than fifteen sits in front of me; he takes a bottle of Malibu from his bag and drinks, then a few minutes later, a bottle of sherry. I watch him get off and walk unsteadily towards a dingy block of flats with rotten window frames. I get off at Ostrava Kuncice and consult my map: I can walk a kilometer along Vratimovska to the bridge at Rudna, then back on Frydecka to the railway station for a train back; or I can walk a short distance along Sypky and across the tracks. The railway is as wide as a motorway - six mainlines splitting in three directions to the North, three freight branches joining where I stand. I cross the first line and hear the points behind me change. Suddenly an empty freight train is rattling past behind me with a furious blast of it's horn; then a passenger train rounds the curve to the North. I look to my left and see the headlight of another train about to depart the station. There is no way to tell which of the five lines infront of me either will take. I do the only thing possible: I stand as close to the rushing freight train as I dare and hope nothing takes the next track. Both trains pass on the far lines, and I pick my way across as fast as possible. I am shaking slightly as I reach safety, and walk nervously along the edge of the line to the station.
Kuncice Nadrazi is a large station, and almost completely derelict. It looks almost industrial in it's construction: corrugated iron roofing, redbrick and concrete, a footbridge made of latticed steel framework with a wooden floor, parts of some redundant industrial plant. I take a train to Hlavna Nadrazi, the city's main station, built in the crook of two diverging lines. I notice a plaque on the wall outside with a Soviet star and an inscription: I can only read "1939-1944" and assume its a memorial to liberation, hidden in the most obscure place. I take the tram back to town and try to find something to eat. I walk past strip clubs and casinos, past a shop with a glinting array of machettes, and another selling only taxidermy - a dusty badger staring sightlessly at a small lumpy bear in the window. The streetlights are out in the centre and it reminds me of walking through an African city at night, the glow from the bar's windows casting deep shadows, the warm dusty light fading to deepest blue. It has that edge of fear and excitement; the slash of headlights and wash of receding red then back in the shadows. There are no Restaurace open. The town is quiet, almost empty. I notice movement and watch a big rat scuttle along the gutter ahead of me; it hears me and squeezes it's thick body through the grate of a drain and is gone. I find a street lined with bars; on the pavement outside traders have set up foodstalls and are cooking over charcoal embers. I point to a piece of chicken and eat it with salad and bread standing up next to the stall, then drink an Ostravar in one of the bars before going back to the hotel.
As I walk, I can't help wondering exactly what I have just eaten: the stalls looked makeshift and possibly unlicensed, there was little light, and the "chicken" looked about the right size.