Western City Gate - 8th August 2017

We anticipated a slovenly day, what with the heat and an afternoon of travel ahead. So we woke up well after the sun had risen into our room, at a modest 9:30am, and cobbled together the bits we took out of our rather large suitcase. Having repacked, we caught up on the day’s news whilst we had WI-FI.

We took the suitcase down to the car, before returning to the block to pay the hostess our fee. A deaf yet audible conversation of our English and her Serbian took place swiftly, with a lot of nodding heads and smiles. We wanted to explore the city a little more, so we left the car where it was and retraced our walk back to the centre of the old town via the riverside.

The high street was quieter than anticipated, so we easily found a table at café that served coffee and a variety of breakfast options. I had a craving for eggs, so ordered three fried. John is always partial to a ham and cheese toastie, so he ordered that. Although under a parasol, I could feel the heat rising around us. I was thankful for the water that so often comes with coffee as standard in the Balkans. Once fed, we walked back to the central square, where we noticed a tourist map in one of those free-standing advertising boards. On it was marked a synagogue, about a 10-minute walk away. I suggested we visit that, then loop around back to the riverside, and then back to the car.

So, we crossed over the main trunk road that ran through central Novi Sad, skirting the old town, before it went off towards the bridge over the Danube towards Petrovaradin. I lasted about 2 minutes in the heat, before I asked that we walk on the other side of the road under the shade of the trees and taller buildings.

The synagogue was on the shaded side of the street, behind metal fencing with the gates open. We wondered in to get a closer look. It was a large, sandy coloured brick building, with two ‘towers’ on each side of a recessed entrance. Flanked on either side were two similarly sized outbuildings. An information sign indicated that it was built in 1909. It amazed me that it had managed to remain here during the Second World War, given that the area was ceded to Hungary who had far right and then fascist leaders under thumb of the Nazis.

We continued on until we reached the main boulevard that begins at the railway station. There was a bit more life here, as shops lined the kerbside. After turning left, we had arrived at the entrance to a very brutal shopping centre plaza. We continued down another wide boulevard until we reached the riverside. Here, we had lovely views of the fortress across the way, and stopped to look at the memorial sculpture to the victims of fascism.

Having now called time on Novi Sad, John took to the driver’s seat, and we prepared to leave our concrete housing estate. Not before, though, I changed the language on the sat nav to English, so that we could safely make out way to Belgrade and beyond.

However, we had a little hiccup upon our departure with the sat nav. As the road network nearby was all temporary due to the bridge works, coupled with our lack of familiarity with Serbian road signs, we battled with the sat nav to understand where we needed to go. After pausing in the middle of the road debating whether to go left or right, and a little back and forth between John and I, we turned left. This way, we retraced our steps back through the suburbs and onto the motorway.

The journey to the outskirts of Belgrade should only have needed to take 30 minutes, but I was unsure what the traffic would be like in Belgrade itself. I was hesitant to drive, as I wouldn’t be confident driving in a city centre like Belgrade and on the opposite side of the road. John wasn’t bothered. The drive was still accompanied by flat, agricultural land, with the odd hill here and there. We slowly started to descend, soon after a road toll and surrounded by a forest, before approaching a bridge. This was suspended highly above the broad width of the Danube below. We coasted over into the region known as Srem or Syrmia. This piece of land, shared between Serbia and Croatia, is the wedge of land between the Danube and Sava rivers.

As we turned off the north-south motorway, we joined the main arterial east-west road between Belgrade and Zagreb. Once we drove past the airport, the traffic on the motorway became a lot busier, as we hurtled into the outer suburbs of the city. We were welcomed by the Western City Gate, standing in brutal dominance overlooking the motorway. To our right, we passed a Gazprom poster depicting the Serbian and Russian flags joining together highlighting their political and economic union.

As we began to slow into the rhythm of local and long-distance traffic negotiating more numerous junctions, we knew our turn off was the second of two immediate ones straight after we cross the Sava river. One thing to note is that the junction turnoffs are very short and sharp, which can make for dramatic driving. John navigated the mini spaghetti junction with ease, and we were now heading north on the road akin to Whitehall, with all its government and embassy buildings. We then ascended a hill to the main city centre, which flattened adjacent to the park in front of the Parliament building. You always get a different perspective of the landmarks as a road user than you do as a pedestrian. We bared right, and then began to descend. We had to navigate a one-way system around a park opposite our apartment, but finally turned right onto a cobbled street thinking we had reached our destination. We counted the property numbers, and it turned out we were on the upper part of the street, not the lower. John turned around and drove down.

I jumped out and called the proprietor. He came down to meet me, and directed John to the carpark accessed by a side entrance and a steep incline into the basement. He escorted us up to the top floor, and let us in. The one-bedroom apartment was decorated in a modern way but with local twists and additions. The air-con was already on, as he must have been boiling whilst waiting for us. He showed us around, and highlighted the balcony that came with a canopy shade. One he had left, and we had dumped our things, we departed for the city centre.

There was a traditional, Herzegovinian restaurant opposite our building, which acted as a key stone to a hemispherical park that led on to a secondary road into the centre. This was narrower than the wide boulevards and so more shaded, and it led us to a market space at the bottom of the hill where Skadarlija was located. Having visited twice before, it was rather serene in the daytime without the cacophony of diners and lively music. The sun was low in the sky, so it was ideal for some snaps.

We walked up to the now familiar Trg Republike, and down the main shopping street. For ease, we stopped for a beer in the same place we did the previous year. We then ventured around the Kalemegdan and returned to the shopping street, along with many others from the park, and walked to Hotel Moscow. Its white tiles radiated a soft pink as the sun had started to hide behind nearby buildings.

 

We were here because I noted that there was a gay bar or two in the vicinity. Armed only with a little bit of research I did before we left the flat, and no internet away from WIFI to use, we managed to locate one bar inside an arcade. A closed doorway sat between two windows, one being slightly pulled up. I walked in to the smallest bar I had ever been in. Aside from the barman, there were 4 other patrons. They all looked at us as they became silent. Along the width of each window was a bar shelf with 3 stools at each. The small bar was an ‘L’ shape, and to its right, there was a steep staircase that led on to a low mezzanine level. We ordered two beers, and sat down, which was when conversations were renewed. As the place was smoky, we opted for the stools opposite the open window.

We decided it would be rude if we only stayed for one, so ordered another round. The beers were relatively cheap, and the music in the background allowed us to converse without sparking up curiosity from the others. We drank up, then walked the 3 minutes to the next bar.

This was called XL, and to get to it you had to go into the entrance way of a shopping parade that was of the 1970s/80s style of marble and glass. Up the stairs to the first level and you had a choice. Café bar to the left that overlooked the main shopping street, or a frosted door leading to the back of the building. The latter was our bar. We went in and, despite the darkened lighting, everything was decked out in white. There was a small group and a female couple in already. It was early. I ordered a red, and we sat at a raised bench with a bar table that one could easily lean against when standing up.

We finished our night here after a few more drinks, and staggered back down Despot Stefan to our apartment, and then sleep.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 8

We left the apartment early in order to catch a mid-morning train to Novi Sad. I had wanted to visit the city because it was one of the centres of resistance to Milosevic’s hegemony in the 1999 and 2000. We walked up to Trg Republika, then back down the hill towards the train station, stopping at a kiosk for water and snacks on our way. The final part of our descent to the station led us along a steep, cobbled path where street sellers were in operation. They were either local people selling market type goods, or refugees selling their personal belongings. A very sad sight indeed.

As the train station came into view, we noticed a gathering of people in the park opposite us. As we crossed and walked through, we observed that officials wearing lanyards holding EU cards in them were speaking to the refugees. I assumed that they were migration officials overseeing the implementation of EU policy on the ground. My impression was that they were merely fact-finding to see how many were gathered, what their intentions were, and what their situation was.

We walked onwards to the main train station entrance. The ticket hall was quite dark as there were few windows, or perhaps because it was so sunny outside, but we located the ticket booths instantly. These resembled old-fashioned bank cashier hatches that were framed in dark brown wood, 10 or so in total but only 5 in operation.  The short queue soon disappeared and we asked for two return tickets to Novi Sad. After being handed our tickets I asked for the time of the next train. Again, I had already looked this up and knew what time the train was, but I wanted it corroborated and with the added information of what platform it would depart from. I began to think I had a problem.

We left the ticket hall and returned to the sunshine, which poured down on to the L-shaped plaza area that shadowed the shape of the station building. We had a bit of a wonder around and took a picture or two, as we noticed that the train was already in our platform. Cafes lined the outside of the station building and were alive with custom. Our train was of an older rolling stock, presumably one that played a role in the wars of the 1990s. I was a bit envious of the newer, air-conditioned train that was resting in the platform next to ours. We boarded the dilapidated train, and parked ourselves on seating that reminded me of those plastic and metal school chairs from my childhood. Not the most comfortable, but we bagged a window seat so we could enjoy the views Srijem had to offer. A loud, grinding noise of the engine firing up indicated our immanent departure. However the force of this noise was not matched with an equal emphasis on our acceleration out of the station. At a walkers pace, we slid out of the platform, navigating through the various points on the line. Once clear, the expected speeding up did not occur. This was because we had to incline and bear a sharp right to cross over possibly one of the oldest and creakiest bridges to span the Sava.

Once over, we immediately pulled into Novi Beograd station. The suburb is a Brutalist enthusiasts dream. Tower upon tower and block upon block of browny-grey concrete behemoths stood around us. We trundled on out of the suburbs of the city and entered the flat, agrarian plains. Most of the seats were filled on the train, with commuters sitting in contemplative silence and appreciating the breeze afforded by all the windows being open. Our initial interest soon passed into indifference due to the monotony of wheatfields, with the odd farmhouse every now and again. We anticipated one of the stops, Nova Pazova, as this was where our newfound friend Danilo was staying. The station there was typical of the rural, Balkan kind. A station building level with the tracks, over which you would have to climb to reach your train (no raised platforms or bridges). The station itself was painted sunshine yellow and came topped with a terracotta-tiled roof. No barriers or fencing surrounded the station or its grounds, so people and animals could wonder freely. One or two rail company officials were visible by their uniforms, and a handful of passengers boarded replacing those who left just before them.

The scenery remained unchanged until we started to approach the Danube. We couldn’t actually see the river, but the change in surroundings from flat, agricultural land to hilly forests certainly indicated that we ascended slightly on to land that would have historically housed inhabitants up and away from the floodplains from which we came.  In fact there was a train station nestled amongst the dense forestry, which we stopped at. A number of people got off here, armed with beach towels and picnics, pointing  perhaps to a secluded yet popular riverside spot for those in the know. We carried on to Novi Sad.

The train curved east around the hill town of Petrovaradin and opened up to the length of the Danube, which we were about to cross, and the city of Novi Sad behind it. To our immediate right was a gargantuan structure of two white arches with reinforcing metal ropes, one on each side of the river. A new bridge was under construction. We crept across our makeshift bridge, finally settling into the main railway station a kilometer away.

Again, faded beauty is how I would best describe this brutalist construct. The raised platforms were on the first floor, so we descended to the ground floor, passing under the platforms above and into a massive 1970s style arrivals and departures hall, then out to the plaza area outside. Unsure of what bus to take to the old town, we decided to get a taxi from the taxi rank to our left. A brief conversation led to our jumping in and hurtling off down the main boulevard that began opposite the station plaza. Again, this part of town must have been some part of a model new city, as the boulevard was three lanes wide on each side of a grassy central reservation, accompanied by parades of shops on either side occupying the ground floor level of rows of 12 storey tower blocks. We then bared left as we arched around the old town centre. We got dropped off and paid the near £12 fare, a bit of a rip off to be honest. But with only 4 hours in the city, I didn’t want to waste any time. We walked away from the now dual carriageway towards what I assumed to be the direction of the main square.

The buildings here reflected the architecture of the Austro-Hungarian period. The city would have been one of the last places in the empire before reaching the Ottoman border, whose furthest reaches would have been  the rivers shores opposite Belgrade. Over different periods it would have been Ottoman, Austro-Hungarian, then Yugoslavian. It now occupies the role as the capital of the Vojvodina region in Serbia. The Hungarian minority presence was felt not just by legacies invested in the buildings we were walking past, but by the street signs and other official signage being bilingual and in two scripts. You had Serbian in Latin and Cyrillic scripts, and Hungarian in Latin too.

The square was quite vast, with the expected grand 19^th century municipal buildings and a church occupying its perimeter. We had a close look at a few to try and see what they were. This proved difficult when all the marble signs did not contain English. The odd word sprung out, like ‘banka’, so we did our best at deciphering them.  We walked down some side streets in a loop and ended up at the top end of a pedestrianized street that began at the square. It had café seating along it, so we decided that we should eat and grab drinks, as it was a scorching day. We settled at a table under a parasol and the waiter kindly brought over two English menus.

After lunch, I wanted to visit the Petrovaradin Fortress. This hosted Exit Festival each year, the initial gathering of which was the student protest in support of democracy at the turn of the millennium.  We walked towards the river, away from the old town, and merged again with the dual carriageway ring road. Just off it was a modernist looking building that housed the Socialist Party of Serbia, therefore it must have been the former headquarters for the League of Communists of Yugoslavia. After we walked across a junction and turned a corner we noticed a long modernist building that resembled a ship – complete with a Captains Bridge perched on top. It had nautical themes engraved on it, so it must have had something to do with the ship trade on the Danube. After 5 minutes, we reached the bridge that led over to Petrovaradin. The castle seemed to loom over the river, an imposing feature on the skyline. We crossed over and entered a rather rundown but quaint village. The houses seemed almost French, and were obviously the residences of those who had some connection to the fortress above. We walked up the main street, diverting right onto a cobbled side street to locate the path up the hill.

After a steep and sweat inducing climb, we reached the top and now saw the view of Novi Sad from up on high.  The river flowed directly below us, to our right we could see the two new bridge archways in the distance. Northwestern Vojvodina stretched out behind Novi Sad and was as flat as that which lay outside of Belgrade. We must have been on top of one of the few hills in the region, and one which was an obvious choice of location to build a fortress. There was a restaurant and a café located within the walls, so we decided that a couple of beers would be a nice reward for our efforts and with which to enjoy the view.

We were conscious of time, so departed after 45 minutes and made our way back down the slope, through the small village and over the bridge. We returned to where our taxi dropped us off and noticed a taxi rank. We set off back up the brutalist boulevard, and were placed outside the station for a cheaper fee than our outbound journey. I noticed an old locomotive outside the station, so decided to go over and inspect it. We then went inside and asked at one of the desks which train we could get. The staff member said that we could get the next one, which was deemed the ‘fast’ service (it shaved off 15 minutes off the 2 hour 10 minute journey to get here). It was due in 4 minutes, so we darted through the underpass and emerged at the platform at the same time as the train.

The train was your stereotypical trans-continental type, probably glamorous in the 1970s and 1980s but had grew tired over the years. We approached the 2^nd class carriage and climbed on. The train had come from Budapest and was heading to Belgrade as its last stop. The décor was similar to that on the bus we took from Skopje – carpet-esque, moquette textile lined the walls (including the ceiling) - and the seats were a lot comfier than on the train ride here. I put on my headphones as the train pulled away, awake long enough to gaze back over the city as we crept back across the bridge to Petrovaradin, before succumbing to tiredness.

When we arrived in Belgrade, I thought we should walk a different route back, so that we could see a bit more of the side streets of the city. So we turned left out of the train station, and walked northwest along the main road that loops clockwise around the base of the Kalamegdan. We passed the Bristol Hotel and onwards to an art gallery and some ‘pop-up’ café bars that were housed in what seemed to be ex-dock buildings. We then approached a viaduct, and walked up some steps that saw us come level with the road it carried. We weaved along side roads, always uphill, so that we could reach the main shopping street. We came across a quiet square surrounded by restaurants and those high-end businesses housed in glass-fronted offices with sparse furniture and two or three employees.  We noted the restaurants for the evening.

Back at the apartment, we decided to do some basic packing ahead of our departure tomorrow and then agreed that we should head back to the fortress for the final evening. On our way over we bought some crisps and two 2-litre bottles of chilled Jelen beer. The park within the fortress walls was beginning to darken, the shadows beginning to creep further away from their source. We approached the outer wall and placed ourselves on top, as many others were doing and had done so around us.

And what a way to spend the last night in Belgrade! The blue sky above had already begun to turn pink-purple as it neared the orange-red sun on its approach to the horizon. Only a WWI plane flying overhead, an added touch of history at this poignant location, broke the quiet on this warm evening. A relaxed feeling came over me, quite possibly from the beer, but a note of surprise was that I was not planning in my head tomorrow’s journey. Being in the moment was all I felt. And the romance of sitting on this wall, with John by my side as the sun finally set over Zemun and the WWI plane playing a supporting role, was truly a memory to treasure.

We sauntered back through the park and to a restaurant near the square from earlier. The meal was so-so, but we decided to go to another café on the shopping street for dessert. John outdid himself with a large ice cream sundae. We then went back and finished our packing ahead of our early start tomorrow.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days – Part 6

I arose in an excited and over zealous mood. Yes, I was partially still drunk from the night before, questioning how I got home alongside why I was awake so soon after having gone to sleep. 5 or so hours were enough for sleep, surely?

Anyway, John, who was not eager to leave the apartment anytime soon, did not receive my mood well at all. He worked around it as best he could. I was very keen to visit Tito’s resting place, given that I missed out on that the last time I was in Belgrade. Through the miracle of washing away the vestiges of last night’s debauchery with a shower, and John now more carried by his need for food, we left the apartment around 11am. We descended the communal staircase, admiring the art deco style windows and peered nosily into the courtyard that was the heart of the square block of buildings. A space of serenity in the middle of the city.

We ventured up to Trg Republika, getting a coffee and a pastry on our way as we found our bearings. I managed to look up the bus route to get to the House of Flowers, the formal name for Tito’s resting place, which said to go to a bus stop near the Federal Parliament. So we crossed to Makedonska, and turned immediately right onto Decanska that led to Trg Nikole Pasica. The municipal buildings that dominated this stretch were built at the turn of the century, and had early Modernist styles with minimal ornamentation. This would have been Serbia’s own attempt at emulating the capitals of Western Europe, and in putting distance between them and their Ottoman heritage. Upon approaching the square, the opulent green dome of the Federal Parliament came into view. You would have imagined the Skupstina to be larger, but in fact it stood out from the buildings that surrounded it by being smaller than they. The dark behemoth that was the main post office loomed behind the pale Skupstina.

We walked in front of the parliament to look at the banners that were laid out in front of it. We deciphered the Serbo-Croatian to understand the thrust of the message was the plight of the Serbs in Kosovo. A denunciation of NATO was also thrown into the mix. However, no people accompanied the banners. They had been put up and left by their owners, and evidently in no way to the annoyance of the parliamentary authorities. We didn’t want to linger in case we looked interested in the subject matter and guilty by association, so continued to our bus stop.

After only a short wait in the sunshine next to a rather busy road, our trolleybus greeted us. John soon perked up at the immanent experience he was about to have on his first trolleybus ride. We boarded at the front, behind two people we presumed were local to the city. Once our turn arrived, I asked the driver for two tickets to the Tito Mausoleum. Not initially catching what I was saying as English, the driver motioned to repeat my request. I changed tack and asked if the bus went to the Tito Mausoleum. He said yes, but by the time I offered him some Denars through the small opening in his driver’s booth, he waved both my money away and the two of us into the bus. I suppose the double complication of having to explain the cost and the evident need to depart meant he would save time and effort just to let us on - perhaps with some knowledge that no ticket inspectors were patrolling today.

We went all the way to the back of the bus, where two seats were located behind the final set of bus doors and presumably perched on top of the engine. Straightaway, we were heading downhill on a long and straight road heading in a southerly direction, which soon flattened out. I had looked up the route to get there; to verify that the bus route went as intended, and indeed to check our bus was corresponding to that. We passed a number of prominent buildings, some smaller but displaying flags of different countries. We assumed this must be the government quarter with a smattering of embassies. We sped over a bridge that passed the intersection of the main motorway on which we arrived to Belgrade on the previous day. We then bared left on to a leafier thoroughfare that ran alongside Hajd Park – yes, eponymous with London’s own city lungs.

Although I knew our stop was close by, prepared by my pressing the bell and standing up, when the bus came to a full stop the driver peered through his window to beckon us off. How very helpful and friendly of him. I disembarked, still fuzzy in my head with the last ebbs of being drunk now merging into a hangover.  This was not how I imagined turning up to the mausoleum that I was always intrigued to visit.

The grand façade of the main building of the complex was upon us as soon as we began the walk uphill from the bus stop. Its large, wing-like expanse was typical of the theme of brutalist architecture we seemed to be pursuing, but was less severe than its contemporaries of the 1960s. This building, the 25 May Museum, was the main complex that was opened in 1962 to house gifts Tito had received up to that date. This was to be the last of the three buildings we were to visit. We approached a small building on the left that contained the ticket office and shop. For a small fee, we could access the aforementioned museum, the House of Flowers, and the Old Museum. We walked up the path, flanked by the odd statue here and there, and came around to the entrance to the House of Flowers, water fountain trickling in the background as we entered.

Whether the interior had been refurbished or not, the décor was very 1970s conservatory chic. Concrete and glass, with magnolia washed walls, meant that the odd pieces of 1970’s Danish furniture stuck out prominently. The marble tomb of the late dictator lay it the centre, sun shining from up on high, but secluded from us periodically by Mediterranean foliage acting as guards. In one wing of the room there were displays of Tito’s personal belongings. In the other there was a hoard of what looked like 1980s darts trophies. It threw me to try and recall why I had not picked up during my studies on Tito that he was a keen darts player. It turns out that they were in fact batons. Originally, these were symbols of youth in Socialist Yugoslavia, that were carried around the country to arrive in Belgrade on Tito’s birthday, which he shared with the Day of Youth national holiday. But then the idea expanded, so that all of the formal socialist and communist organisations – national through to local – would present them to Tito when he visited.

Onwards then to the Old Museum, that contained oddities from Yugoslavia’s past, particularly from the founding of Socialist Yugoslavia in the 1940s. My favourite was a wall mounted geographical relief map of Yugoslavia. I really wanted it. We then visited the final building, but not before my buying a coffee cup and saucer and Yugoslavia tote bag from the gift shop as souvenirs. The last building had less content, and what there was of it was in Serbo-Croatian. However, what I did enjoy was a minimalist map that was painted onto the wall. I bizarrely find fascination in different language scripts, and the names of the major cities on this map I really appreciated. I was mystified what this map could possibly represent. By process of elimination I gathered the names of some of the cities that weren’t capitals, and noted Jasenovac. I also noted that one of the words said ‘Revolution’ – so perhaps it indicated sites of monuments to the revolution that I knew dotted the former Yugoslavia. I took a picture so I could study it later on.

Nearby was the Partisan Football stadium and I suggested we pop by there, knowing John was a football fan, and that his dad may appreciate a visit to something non-politics/history orientated. In the fragile state he was in, and knowing the violent history of the fans of the team based there, he decided we shouldn’t go. Yet we also decided to walk back to the city, despite our sorry state, as we wanted to get a closer look at the buildings we saw on our journey over. It was definitely not the case that we were put off from having to negotiate a bus ride back.

So off we walked towards the motorway intersection. A new railway station was being built to our right, perhaps to replace or complement the old one what will sit next to the newly regenerate riverside development. Over the motorway we returned, and the avenue of the government quarter began with a harsh reminder of recent history. After consultation by John of Wikimapia, the bombed out building before us was the former Ministry of Internal Affairs. It was the target of NATO bombing in 1999 in order to get Milosevic to submit to demands for his regime to withdraw from Kosovo. This placed the somewhat visible resentment towards NATO through graffiti in context, but was not acted out through resentment towards nationals from those countries that made up NATO, as evidenced by our bus driver earlier. It was eerie witnessing my first example of a missile attack and the scale of the destruction that it can cause.

We walked along the traffic-jammed artery towards the Parliament ahead, commenting on the architecture and using our new found friend in Wikimapia to feed us details of buildings that intrigued us. Many of the buildings were built after the Second World War, so were modernist in design and emblazoned with images of communist warriors or socialist stars. As we started to incline again back to the city proper, another bombed out building bookended this segment of the avenue. This time it was the Armed Forces building. A few hundred yards on, we decided to take a left and walk amongst the tight-knit buildings towards the Kalemegdan, as it would provide much needed shade from the sun and not have as steep a walk to get to the main high street. We meandered through blocks of housing and offices, noting a few al fresco-dining establishments for future reference. We then appeared alongside Hotel Moscow again. Its vibrantly coloured and glazed tile façade stood out from the brutalist monotony surrounding it.

Back at the fortress, we took a bit more time to do some exploring. After rounding the fortress wall as before, we wondered within the grounds to look at some of the buildings and monuments. One was a small hexagonal building, topped with terracotta roof tiles, with a plaque in Serbo-Croatian and Arabic above a caged wooden door. It was a mausoleum for a Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire and two other muhafiz (Belgrade Governors). It was nice to see one of the few historical reminders that the Ottoman Empire had a presence here. As we continued our walk around, we came across a roof terrace bar built into the ramparts. The negative side of having a tourist attraction is the rampant commercialisation that accompanies it. We avoided it.

After a while, we unconsciously found ourselves heading back to the apartment. Before departing for another late dinner, we played a few games of cards again, drinking the remains of our alcohol. We picked another restaurant on the Skardalija to eat, deciding on a bottle of Tikves white wine to accompany our food. Towards the end of our meal, the house band that was doing the rounds came nearby to serenade the table behind us. They added to the jovial mood that the diners were in, including us. On a roll from last night’s ability to locate a gay bar, we decided to try and find another. However, we were not so lucky this time. We wondered through and around a block of buildings that had the Parliament building, Hotel Moscow and Trg Republika surrounding it. At times I thought we stood out a mile, looking for a place we couldn’t locate but passersby would know our secret mission and destination. After circulating 3 times, we abandoned our search and went home. But not before stopping by a hole in the wall that was a small pizzeria, selling only capricciosa pizza with a handful of choices for toppings. It was delicious.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days – Part 5

We had an early start today, as we began our trip to Macedonia’s northern neighbour. We packed our remaining belongings after getting ready, and did a last minute look around the apartment for anything left behind. We hauled our backpacks on, the heft of which was added to with the weight of the bottles of Tikves wine I wanted to take home with me. As instructed, we closed all the windows, turned the air con off and locked our apartment door, leaving the keys in the hallway before departing through the main door on to the stairwell. One last trip was had in the rickety lift, my nerves on edge in case the bottom fell through with said backpacks. Luckily we survived to the ground floor and made our way out the communal door and on to the main square. Even for 7am, it was suffocatingly hot. I hoped and prayed this bus had air con!

With the heat in mind, John suggested that we take a taxi to the bus station. I was a little relieved he did ask, although I feigned a little bit of opposition at first (as is my demeanour) before capitulating and agreeing.  I let John do the talking, to a driver parked adjacent to the Arc de Triomphe. He helped us with our backpacks, and soon drove us down the familiar 11^th October Street. Smatterings of early risers were heading in the opposite direction to us, possibly to set up shop for the first day of weekend trading. Tracing the route we walked two days previous, we were at the train and bus station in no time.

After paying for our ride, we were met with the usual humdrum around a station, even at this hour. Bus engines where whirring in the background as we made our way into the departures hall to find information for our bus. Although the main boards were in Cyrillic, the front of the buses had English signs for their destinations. We spotted ours through the flimsy idea for a ticket gate, where a couple of small families had set up camp ahead of the driver opening the vehicle to let them on board. We had about 25 minutes, so we went to a kiosk in the hall to purchase some extra treats to add to our horde. We added sweets and crisps to our stash of water, sandwiches and beer – well, we were going to be on a bus for 8 hours!

We returned to the departure gate and showed our tickets to the clerk. Uninterested, he waved us both through, and over me moved to the front of our bus. We dumped our bags next to those of the waiting families. We were told two days ago when buying the tickets that a charge would be levied for the luggage, something we are not used to doing in the UK as the ticket price normally includes the luggage we bring. Not knowing how much this charge would be, I ordered John to take a stash of notes out so that we wouldn’t be one of those couples who searches for change and holds up a queue. I think John got out about £30 in Denar. When it came around to our boarding, the charge was a mere £2. Very reasonable, and set the bar for how much we would be paying on other bus journeys ahead.

We boarded a bus that was definitely a relic of the late 1980s/90s. Perhaps Communist apparatchiks rode in it themselves! Anyway, we placed ourselves on our dated purple and white moquette seats half way up the bus. My thinking was that the toilet would be located down the emergency exit stairwell opposite, so we would have ease of access. But as we unpacked our immediate travel necessities – headphones and the like – I noticed that there was no door either to the left or right, just the emergency door straight ahead to leave the bus. I turned around to see if there was a cubicle at the back of the bus. None existed. Shit.

So now I sat contemplating a bus ride for 8 hours without a toilet. Drinking beer was now out of the question. We didn’t know how many stops there were, where we were stopping, or even if the stops had toilet facilities. I was thinking how we would have to ration our water intake but balance it finely with our hydration needs, in order to reduce the need to go. John at this point darted out of the bus, departing in 10 minutes, to go for a last minute relief break. I ummed and ahed as to whether I should do the same, but decided my chance had now gone by the time John returned. I knew I would now be anxious for the entirety of the journey. The driver fired up the engine and the air con blew into action. So too did the Wi-Fi. Wouldn’t you believe it, no bog but there was high speed internet. Incredible!

The at-capacity bus reversed out of its bay, pulled forward through the barrier emerging from under the train platforms and on to the side street in the open air. We drove to the dual carriageway, and headed eastward. The sun was blazing through the windows, but we did have the use of curtains if we needed them. I quite enjoyed my window seat views as we swiftly passed from city suburbia to open country. The raised elevation of the road and coach meant I had a great view of the horizon. Our route would take us around the edge of the mountain range observed on Mount Vodno, which blocked our view to Serbia in the east two days ago. Now we would get to see what lay behind it. John made use of the Wi-Fi capabilities, which kept him entertained. We merged on to the E75, the road that connects Budapest to Thessaloniki and undergoing work for an additional east/west junction, to proceeded north.

We pulled off the motorway after 30 minutes or so of travelling, with Kumanovo being our first stop. I could only pass a fleeting judgment on the city, but I did notice that the ethnic divide was somewhat lesser here. The odd mosque and church didn’t seem to conform to a logic that a certain group lived in one part or another. The bus station was a mere parking lot with an aged administrative building near the entrance. A number of travellers left us, but they were equally replaced with new people boarding. We then set off towards the Serbian border.

I wanted to test out this Wi-Fi, so I decided to FaceTime my mum. I logged on to the Wi-Fi and called her. I had quite forgotten that it was very early in the morning in the UK, but nonetheless my mother was awake. It had been just over a week since we left for Berlin, and although I had messaged her and FaceTimed once, we chatted about the past couple of days. John’s head would bob in and out of the camera at prompts to the conversation I was engaged in, but only because he could hear just my side of it as I had my headphones in. After 5 minutes, we said our goodbyes.

We knew we were approaching the border because the driver’s aid (or the second driver!?) started walking up the bus and collecting an assortment of documentation, passports and ID cards etc. We gave him our passports with the visitation paper. He then waddled back to the front of the bus prior to our stopping and starting through the slow traffic to the Macedonian border control. John and I anticipated observing a mass of migrants at the border, or a sense of chaos following the refugee crisis in the previous months. But there were only a handful of people at this particular crossing. I suspect the initial influx of refugees had either made it to Serbia or they walked alongside the border to a more open spot to cross and continue their journey. As we waited, I saw that we were now indeed on the other side of the mountains guarding Skopje, and were situated in an open valley. As I was on the left-hand side of the bus, I could only see the western hillside where a settlement nestled halfway up on the Serbian side of the border. If you climbed up and over that hillside, you would be in Kosovo.

We passed through the Macedonian side with ease, and the guide handed back our passports but without our visitation paper. We then progressed to the Serbian checkpoint. We all had to get off the bus and individually hand in our passport to the guard in a toll-booth like structure in order to be stamped. The bus may have been checked by a guard or two, I was unsure, but 10 minutes or so later it pulled up alongside us for us all to get back on.

We wound our way along the motorway, pulling off every 50 kilometers or so to drop off/pick up passengers at small towns along the route. The landscape was still that of wide floodplain expanses, with the odd hill here and there, or in the distance. At one stop, John dashed off with a fistful of denars to go to the toilet. He exchanged words with the driver before getting off. I was anxious in case it was lost in translation that John said he would only be 5 minutes but the driver would instead drive off. I was also worried of the reverse that John would dawdle and be longer than 5 minutes and risk the ire of the driver, who may have chosen to depart anyway. Luckily neither happened, and John rushed back. His description of the toilet had me fear for my personal hygiene for when I would be my turn.

The one thing that struck me as we dipped in and out of these towns were the continuous EU signs on new buildings or projects. They must be spending a huge sum as part of the initial accession package ahead of EU membership. This juxtaposed with my earlier assumptions of Serbia having a dislike of anything EU related. It also just reminded me of the unfortunate situation we found ourselves in the UK, only weeks before. Thankfully, thus far, we had avoided any forlorn faces or sympathetic conversations from locals about our current quagmire.

But then my need for a rest break soon came about, in-between stops. So I had to concentrate on my need to hold it in, whilst wishing for a stop to be on the horizon. When it indeed came, I signalled to the driver before I leapt off with two fingers and mouthed “two minutes”. He nodded with a sense of further frustration at delaying his intended immediate departure. I really needed to use the full facilities of the £1 entry toilet block, but was aghast at the cleanliness and the furniture I found in the cubicle – a floor level basin. I had neither the time nor inclination to try and navigate this scenario. After doing as much as I could to ensure a comfortable onward journey, I jumped back on the bus and off we set.

The last stop before Belgrade was Nis. Located in central southern Serbia, this was its third city. And it seemed as though it was the forgotten city in that it needed a bit of tidying up. Buildings looked creaky, and the bus station seemed to look like an imitation, yet run-down, petrol station from the early 1980s. It did the job I suppose. John had to dip out for another toilet break, but here we had 10 minutes to stretch legs. I dashed to the toilet too.

Soon after we left the city, I started to nod off. I awoke about 40km outside of Belgrade, and the sleep meant I did not have to focus on my need for the loo. Outside, the bus meandered uphill through low, rolling green hills in weather that had now grown overcast. A steady stream of cars travelling alongside us soon grew in number as we approached the capital. We then came over the crest of a hill and started our descent into the city. The taller, modernist structures peered in-between the folds of the remaining hills obstructing our view, before the suburbs swept alongside us and our view of the burgeoning city was made clear. The motorway cut right through the southern part of the city, from east to west, and we departed at a main junction that sat next to the Sava River. We turned north into the city, running parallel to the railway tracks. The bus depot was adjacent to the railway station. We disembarked and collected our backpacks. There was little fanfare with our arrival, and our co-travellers seemed keen to go their different ways immediately. No hanging around!

Our new surrounds presented refurbished Austro-Hungarian architecture sat next to their patiently waiting neighbours. One building would be completely upgraded and finely pointed, and then the next would have its pastel coloured plaster partially missing and tired with pollution. The whole area was next to the Belgrade Riverside development, so was the natural next step for rehabilitation. We began to walk, crossing the main road in front of the station, to continue onward to Balkanska.

We walked past a two story covered car park, inside of which we noticed a gathering of about 70 or more men. It became apparent that these were all Syrian refugees. I mention men because there were no children or women present. None. They were huddled under the shade of the car park roof, amongst possessions that could be carried. So Belgrade was one of the centres the refugees congressed, waiting opposite the two methods of onward travel – train and bus.

We walked on and turned left up Balkanska. I recall the steep hill that this would become, and hated the idea of my backpack weighing me down. We plateaued next to the Hotel Moscow, and walked onwards to Trg Republika. We were early to check in, so we walked up Kneza Mihaila, the main shopping street, and sat down at a café to rest and quench our thirst. I opted for an elaborate Latte. We surveyed the scene and population. The street was bustling as shoppers and day-trippers leisurely went about their day. We were sat under a canopy with fans cooling us off. Where we were sat, at the top end of the pedestrianised shopping street, the buildings were low level copies of the pastel coloured ones near the station, some indicating dates of their construction. After a while, we returned to Trg Republika, and walked back downhill in the opposite direction into the Skadarlija. John appreciated a forgotten mode of transport that passed us by - a trolleybus.  I appreciated the breeze it gave off to cool me down.

The Skadarlija is a quarter adjacent to the popular Skadarska Street, which buzzes with restaurants and bohemian nightlife.  The cobbled street stretches from the Trg Republika at the top of the hill, down towards a green grocers market in the direction of the Danube. The end of the street, opposite the market, is marked with a Sebilj – a water fountain that was a gift of Sarajevo in 1989. The wider area seemed to be built pre-war, with raised one-storey houses resting next to tall four-storey apartment blocks formed on a grid basis. They were all constructed in the same dark grey stone and cement, with the unifying aesthetic of 1930’s modernism and the added flair of ornate stucco cornices every now and then; each with a touch of ageing decay.

A trolleybus whizzed by heading towards the town centre, as I made calls and sent messages on my phone to alert the homeowner that we were there. After 10 minutes, the cleaner for our apartment came down to let us in. She couldn’t speak English beyond the odd word or number. As we got into to our sizeable and modern apartment, on the top floor of a four-storey block, we had to use the aid of Google Translate. She hadn’t finished cleaning yet, so asked if we could come back in an hour. We left our bags and set off with a set of keys and left her to finish.

Although I had visited the foodie street before, I never really explored the quarter that would be our base for the next few days. I was excited to show John the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers from the Kalemegdan. So we walked through the side streets northwest, admiring the buildings and appreciating the shade provided by the narrow streets and tall buildings. On one corner we noticed an Art Deco/modernist building that seemed to house a cultural centre now, but when built contained the First Danube Steam Navigation Society, evidence of Belgrade’s key shipping status in the past.

We continued towards the Kalemegdan, walking via the Student Park, and entered via the main entrance opposite the top of Kneza Mihaila. At first, you walk through a small forest of trees before it opens up to landscaped gardens with monuments of Serbian and Yugoslav history.  People peppered the gritty pathways and benches as we walked along, the odd person stooping into the flowing water taps for refreshment. We bared left so we could begin our 180-degree walk from the east to the northwest along the ramparts of the fortress. The Sava is the first of the two rivers we see, travelling east towards the city, before turning gradually north as it arrives below us from the left. It then passes by towards the island created at the initial joining of the Sava and Danube, which was the furthest north we could see at present. Bridges heaving with traffic crossed over to New Belgrade with its brutalist architecture, hovering in the distance beyond the park opposite us. The old city loomed on our left, clinging on to the hilly riverside above the train station and beyond.

We turned right following the Sava northward along a slim boulevard towards the Danube. The fortress over the years had been expanded, and the terracotta/stone bricked walls we were walking alongside belonged to the 19^th century. We walked through an entry gate and climbed up to the older fortress plaza area belonging to the Ottoman period. We were now opposite the island and could fully take in the awesome view and power of the Danube swallowing the water of the Sava as it travelled eastward. In front of us now, to the north, a wall of forests guarded the Vojvodina, and in past times would have been the Military Frontier to the Austro-Hungarian Empire beyond. We decided to return to the apartment, so that we could recharge our batteries (technological and biological) and change for an evening meal.

I had chilled a bottle of the white wine we packed in Skopje, and John had done the same with the beer intended for the bus journey. We drank these as we changed, then settled down for while to play cards and trawl through social media to look for any gay nightlife. We found a Facebook page of a night that was located a mere 500 meters away. Google couldn’t locate it specifically, but we decided to give it a shot anyway. After getting rather merry whilst doing all this, we decided to head out and eat on the Skadarska.

Within 5 minutes we were there, so we walked up and down the cobbled street, looking at menus and agreeing at how reasonably priced it all seemed given the posh appearance of the restaurants. We decided on Dva Jelena – Two Deers. We had bread upon arrival and ordered a bottle of white. Our mains were rich and flavoursome, thankfully soaking up the equivalent of a bottle of wine we drank each by the dinners end. As we settled the bill of around £20, it was approaching midnight. We decided that rather than go to a bar for another, we would try and locate this club.

According to Google and other notable mapping websites, the building number for the club on this street did not exist. So we decided to trust street signs and instinct. We got to Dunavska and looked for the number, but we could only find a building that was two numbers before it, which ended at a crossroads.  In the low-lit street lighting characteristic of Europe, we were anxious not to be looking for a gay venue, in case haters were waiting for prey. So we circled a block of buildings to see if we could find a hidden set of numbers to mask the real location of the venue. We even tried to listen for the bass thumping sounds of music to guide us, but nothing gave away its location. We returned to the crossroads.

It was then that we spotted three men who we decided were heading for the club too. We hung around for 30 seconds so they were a good 200 meters ahead before following them. They took the road off the crossroads that was lined with wired fences separating the road from grassed over ex-industrial land, was hardly lit, and seemed to head towards an industrial park. Things became worrying when we had to cross a railway line. Relief came over us as we began to hear those bassy sounds. As we turned the corner of a building that reminded me more of a guardhouse, I noticed a police van parked across the way. Three people were on the door to the club, one in semi drag, and began to speak to us in Serbian as we went over. We gave our apologies and they then asked in English if we knew that this was a gay club. We said yes and smiled, showing our relief. They explain the cover charge and that it included two drinks tickets. Bargain! The officers in the police van seemed unperturbed.

Whether because the LGBT scene was rather small, or this was a place for regulars, or that we simply entered; a number of heads turned as we entered into the inner open-air courtyard of the club. A bar was opposite us, so we passed groups of friends as I ordered our first free drinks while John popped to the toilet. The Facebook group mentioned that three styles of music would be played, but we couldn’t see enough space for there to be three separate rooms. It later transpired that three DJs with different tastes of music played at varying times during the evening in the sole club space inside.

After finishing our first free drink, John grabbed the next as I set off for the loo. The interior was a small concrete bunker with graffiti and posters from events gone by plastered all over the place. It would be at home in east London. Upon my return John got speaking to two people, soon to be joined by a third. Nemanja was local to Belgrade and his friend Danilo was visiting family nearby and hailed from Dusseldorf. Voja, who joined us later, also lived in Belgrade. We got chatting about a whole host of things whilst in the courtyard, as the placed filled up even more. I asked about the police outside. Nemanja said that they were there to protect us, not intimidate us. This put my mind at rest. We stuck with these guys and exchanged numbers to potentially meet again while we were here. After a number of Vodka Cokes, we all went indoors for the pop music DJ set. My last memory was calling out at the top of my lungs, along with Voja, for Cher to be played. Not sure if the DJ obeyed.