Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 15

It was rather a rude awakening, our first morning in Dubrovnik, as loud refurbishment-induced noises came from the apartment above. We had hired a small studio flat, which came with a private balcony that was furnished functionally. A large double bed, a cream and slightly worn three-seat sofa, a glass coffee table that matched the 4 person dining table, and a TV and stand all occupied the main section; with a galley kitchen coming off it opposite the balcony doors. After the banging had stopped temporarily, we collected our things and departed, looking and feeling rather scruffy.

Having not been in any water to swim, let alone the sea, since Belgrade, we decided to explore the Babin Kuk shoreline. As we were on the top of a hill, we walked to the houses that backed on to the steep hillside, and descended from there to the shoreline. What I was told was true; the coastline was pure jagged rock. I should have listened to all those people suggesting I get the appropriate shoes. Before us, though, was a simple dock for leisure boats, bobbing as they were in the clear blue sea. However, at some places, sand had been placed for that more familiar beach feel. At one point John became very amused, as we passed the dog pool. It was a ring-fenced part of the sea that dogs could have for themselves. I saw an Alsatian, and felt for the poor sod in the penetrating heat. We walked around, and then back for about 1km to find a spot to pitch, and duly did so where more of a crowd had gathered. This patch had gravel laid on it, so at least the rocks weren’t jabbing in our backs.

We laid here for an hour or so, turning over and over to get some sun on our pale backs and fronts. A cruise ship emerged from its berth, and passed before us at a snails pace. A toot from its horn vibrated across the water, with the waves from its slow passage reaching us some minutes later. After our stint here, we decided to go further round to the west of the coastline, as we saw that there was a bar there. It was mid-afternoon at this point, so we thought some refreshments were in order. As we walked, there came a point where the path led away from the water and climbed up. It led towards a number of hotels on this more remote part of the area. However, before we reached the hotels, we came to a sign that pointed back down a series of steps to a bar.

The beach bar was very glam in its appearance. Nice wooden loungers, or chairs with over-sized canopies or umbrellas covering them. Some were sectioned off, presumably for reservations. The bar and facilities were built almost into the hillside. It was quite quiet, so we had the choice of seating. We decided on a large, deep sofa – enough for 6 people – that sat directly in the sunlight. We thought, “Sod it”, so ordered a jug of cocktail. The price was an eye-opener, and a sign of things to come. Dubrovnik is very expensive, something I claim to be because the city can cash in on cruise ship passengers who have money to burn in the few hours they are on land. That leaves us, more committed holidaymakers, worse off. The second jug, this time taken at a table under an umbrella, soon loosened me up to ignore the price.  After an hour or so and a further round of beers, we paid our bill and slovenly walked back to the apartment, where we napped for a few hours.

That evening we decided against the “Brits abroad” area, and opted to see Dubrovnik first at night. We looked at the helpful portfolio that the apartment had for public transport, and located the bus number and bus stop we needed. We retraced our steps from the previous night to the roundabout, and joined the gaggle of people also waiting for the same bus.

25 minutes later, we arrived at the northern gate. There was almost a carnival atmosphere here, with masses of people passing by, others eating at restaurants under the walls of the city, and more people funneling in and out of the gate. We walked in that direction. The walls of the city, when looking at the gate, came from the hill to our left, and down towards the sea to our right. It was discreetly lit to give it that medieval feel. We went inside, and then down some steps into what may have been the vestibule area to check arriving visitors in eras gone by. Here, you could pay to go up on to the walls. We decided against that, for tonight at least. We then passed through another gate that opened up on to the familiar main boulevard running almost north-south through the city. I have to say, it was very pretty. Smooth stone slabs on the floor were almost slippery through being worn down by visitors over the years. The buildings on either side could easily have been a film set for a 14^th century royal court drama, adorned with regal banners and such.

The only downside was the tourists. I know we were of them too. But having avoided the hoards up to Mostar, this really was intense. We did our best to have a wonder around, because off the main boulevard were a myriad of alleyways and side streets to explore. To the east, these alleys immediately went up at a steep gradient. To the west, towards the sea, they were laid out on a flat, gridded system for about 4 or 5 short blocks, before they too rose up. So the main city was in a small valley, it seemed.

We hit upon one of the main plaza areas, and decided we were both hungry and thirsty. So we people watched for over an hour, as we sank two beers over pricey food. It was then that I noticed John glowing, and not in a romantic sort of way. He had really caught the sun. He did admit that his skin did feel rather sore. After that, we went to a bar back near the entrance and began talking to two other tourists, both from Germany. The night ended at an Irish pub back in the centre of the old town, downing shots of Jager (or was it Rakija?).

The next day, we woke up rather late and had sore heads. John now started to feel his sunburn, and it didn’t look too good either. We decided to explore the old town in daylight, so we could soak up the history and admire the architecture. We meandered around the part of town nearest the sea, getting lost in the maze of streets, sometimes following tourists we thought knew where they were going, and at other times eerily alone thinking we were intruding into someone’s private garden or such.

The alleyways were one and a half meters wide, at best, and the grey, stony, functional buildings rose up three or four floors beside us. The Italian/Venetian appearance was no surprise, given that at one time or another, when not its own independent city-state, it was run by Venice. It also played on my image of the quintessential Mediterranean way of life – wooden shutters in place for when the temperatures rose, or the plastic cables for hanging the washing on stretching between the houses above. My immediate observation, though, was that there was no apparent trace of the damage done by the JNA during their siege of Dubrovnik. It was one of the handful places to seemingly have itself protected by the few instances of international public outcry, because of its status as a UNESCO world heritage site. It’s shaming that the international condemnation did not extend to other parts of the former Yugoslavia during the Bosnian war. Buildings counted more than people, it seemed, as the shelling of the Mostar Bridge could also highlight.

We ended our little exploration in a different square to the one last night, on the south side of the city. Again, we sat and people watched whilst making plans for what to do next. We settled on a further walk to the old port of Dubrovnik, where we saw that in the sea a football goal was erected, and a group of people were playing, whilst the rest of their group were on the rocks having a BBQ. In the distance, across the water about 2 km away, was Lokrum. Although we had never watched the show, this was apparently where they filmed some of A Game of Thrones. I’m sure others would be thrilled, but we wanted to visit because it involved a boat ride. We planned that for the next day. We walked to a pharmacy on the main avenue, so that John could get some after sun. It turned out that he needed some extra special industrial cream, as his skin was very puffy.

Despite his ailment, and in a seeming pang of motivation and energy, we decided to walk back to the apartment. It was a good few kilometers, but we fancied the challenge. Beyond the old city to the north, we passed through mostly suburb, but often we would happen upon a “secret” cove occupied by an extended family or a smattering of couples - locals, I presumed. At one point we could see a fancy hotel that was built into the south-facing hillside of Babin Kuk. It looked luxurious, with its own private beach. That evening we stayed local again, going for a few drinks to “Brits Abroad” boulevard early on, as it had a bit of a buzz about it that evening.

The next day was the boat trip. So we made our way back to the old town, and the old port. There were about 4 or 5 boating companies offering a range of services, from a functional boat taxi, to a full on tour around the islands - one even had a glass-bottom. We decided on the direct boat taxi one. It was a busy service running every half an hour, and had an early last departure service from the island at 6:30pm or so. Given its popularity, and my anxiety to have a plan, I decided we should get the second to last return one at the latest, lest we arrive to a full boat and become stranded.

We disembarked at a thriving entry point to the island. But the first thing to hit you was the all-encompasing and constant sound of crickets. There must have been millions of them on there, as I though I was experiencing the onset of tinnitus. We reconfirmed the return journey times at the port house, and then walked clockwise around the island. The island was more or less covered in pines, which provided relief from the shade, and gave off a fresh smell. Aside from the crickets, two forms of wildlife emerged out of the bushes that surprised me - rabbits and peacocks; the latter being in abundance. We passed the FKK sign to our left, and circled around to the north west of the island. Here we pitched up and sunbathed for a couple of hours. The bottle of wine I packed was a lovely relaxant. Afterwards, dehydration mixed with genuine hunger led us to seek out food at one of the two available restaurants on the island. The one we chose was in the centre, and had landscaped gardens, presumably one of the reasons why the TV show was filmed here. As we tucked into pizza, the odd peacock appeared, scavenging for scraps as if they were a stray dog.

The return journey was sufficiently busy but not full, and the breeze that came over us was welcome in the late afternoon sun. Instead of heading straight back, John had discovered a bar that perched out from the old city walls, with views to the west. We decided to head there. What initially was meant to be the odd drink, turned into a wonderful 3 or 4 hours sipping beers and cocktails as we chatted, or just sat in silence admiring the view. This consisted not solely of the sea and islands, nor indeed the passing boats and kayaks, but also the handsome men diving into the sea from the cliff edge below us. As our intoxication increased, so did my slight irritation at a couple sat in front of us. Not their presence as such, or the volume of their conversation, but the sheer absurdity of what they were discussing; especially the ignorant opinions on the history of the region. John, I believe, showed solidarity with me for once, rather than the usual eye-roll he does when he sees it as my problem not other peoples.

A bar tab that again raised my eyebrows, saw us leave very much closer to drunk than sober. And in that spirit, we tracked down a pizzeria and endeavored to make a night of it. We hungrily ate our two slices of pizza, and then went to a bar that promoted itself as a rock music place. We climbed up the steep steps of the east side of the city, and then into a doorway, and up further still to get to the bar. It had echoes of an Irish pub, but it certainly wasn’t that. The darkened room with dark oak effect paneling was the backing canvass for an array of Americana/rock paraphernalia. The rectangle room was divided in two by a central wall with door-less doorways either side, with the bar occupying the central wall on the opposite side to the entrance. We sat at a table under the gaze of two members of Fleetwood Mac, which basically represented the style of music we heard and enjoyed through the night. Afterwards, a taxi was in order to get us home in one piece.

We yearned for a fancy brunch with views. So after 10 minutes of searching online, John found one nearby that was set in a small marina. It also overlooked the cruise ship docking area and the modern, steel road bridge that had echoes of the sails of a yacht to it. We walked down casually, to sea level, and saw a white wall stretch from our left for about 500 meters, with an entrance halfway down. We walked over and into the private marina.

Small boats and pocket-sized yachts were moored here on a few wooden jetties. We sat down on the quay and ordered a set menu for lunch. This was indeed what we wanted and needed, but the service was incredibly slow. Still, it meant we had the time to admire the view. The cruise ships before us, on the other side of the bay, were gigantic. How they stay upright always fascinated me. After two hours, we finally managed to leave. We decided to walk around the bay to see what was what. There were a number of passenger ferries, charged with taking people up and down the Dalmatian coast as well as across to Italy. The one I wanted most to try was the catamaran. It looked speedy and grand, and the classiest way to travel.

We’d packed for the beach anyway, so we walked the same route as on our first day; the bottom of the stairs we took previously began near to the brunch place. We walked past the fancy bar and up to a similar level as the apartment. We got wind of a secluded beach, so turned off at some ruins surrounded in long grass that then led to a dense but low-rise forest that occupied the cliff edge. We walked over and entered the forest. We soon began a steep descent and clung on to the dry, fragrant branches as we skidded over gravel on slate-like rock. After emerging out of the trees, we were still 10 meters above the water, on the cusp of a more or less sheer drop. We managed to locate and navigate a series of outcrops and lowered to near sea level. There were literally two people here. So we found possibly the only two remaining “flat” spaces to drop our towels. We un packed our belongings, and as I settled in with some Factor 30 and a book, John went straight into the sea.

We lazed about for hours, in and out of the sea, applying and reapplying sun cream. We observed one cruise ship after another depart north westerly into the distance. Parties of kayakers streamed past. A furry looking guy near to us constructed some sort of bear cave with a shawl draped over and between two high-rise rocks around him. A woman in her 50s seemed high on life, and raved with him to his trance music. They were far enough away for it not to be annoying, but close enough that it agreeably blended into to the sound of the sea.

We returned to the apartment to shower, and possibly snooze, before our booking at a recommended restaurant. John’s parents had come to Dubrovnik earlier in the year and visited Otto’s. After brunch this morning, we dropped by to book at one of their only two sittings a night. We opted for the 7pm sitting. We decided to smarten up as best we could with holiday gear. We sat down to a lovely three-course meal, outside but under a canopy, with only about 25 other diners. The service was impeccable, and the wine was very complimentary with the food. As the sun set on us, we became drowsy with booze and rather giddy. We made plans to return to the Fleetwood Mac bar.

After settling the bill, we returned to the apartment and ventured to the bus stop. Once in the old town, I had it on apparent good authority that there was a bar frequented by the LGBT community. It was described as a jazz bar, which I thought I could stomach so long as it wasn’t too avant-garde. We negotiated the maze like side streets, to come to a diagonal thoroughfare that had a small square to the left, and then proceeded to have one on the right. All rather jagged, no doubt planned to accommodate the grand church that occupied one of the spaces between the squares. We found this “jazz bar” located in the space between the two squares. Most, if not all, of the patrons were outside sat at cabaret-style chairs and tables, all facing towards the door of the establishment. We sat down at one about two thirds away from the door, so that we didn’t have to lead the interest in any jazz performance. I ordered a wine, third up from the lowest price. It cost me the equivalent of £10. As the performance started, we concluded that it was not a gay place, but that a smattering of the patrons clearly read the same review as us. We stayed for 20 minutes or so, and left feeling slightly cheated by the price of the wine and mediocre number of gay attendees. Instead, we returned to the rock bar and made a night of it.

The next morning, the banging upstairs reached a peak. I even videoed it as proof for the people we were letting it off. I banged the ceiling with a mop handle, to no avail – and John’s eye rolling. In a huff, I immediately sent off a further, angrier message on Airbnb. Profuse apologies came later that day, but at that moment we just packed our bags and left for the beach. We decided to get some breakfast on ‘Brits Abroad Alley’ and, following that, we went to the beachy cove that lay at the other end. This was very family centered and had a little café, unlike the secluded beach. Overlooking us, to the south, was just another rocky cliff face. To the north was a steep hill, cut horizontally by a road, with a couple of smart looking hotels below, and private houses above.  After an hour or so here, we decided to walk along that road, and follow it clock wise to the secluded beach in the north.

Once we walked past the hotels and houses we saw from the cove, the roadside became bare and arid. But the views to the west were unspoiled. The road was quiet with traffic, possibly because we only passed two hotels on the way to the beach, so we were undisturbed, but thankful for the water we carried, as there was no shade from the sun. We descended back to the beach and occupied it for a good few hours until sun set. This time the sea was less choppy than it was the previous day. John was put to use with his skills of finding great restaurants on TripAdvisor, and located one near the brunch place. After a snooze at the apartment, we left for our final night in Dubrovnik.

The restaurant served gastro pub style food, with a coastal edge. It turns out that the guy who ran the place was from London and this was the second season that the restaurant had been open. The food was delicious, and the setting in a private, open aired courtyard next to the marina screamed Mediterranean life.

The next day we packed up and left the apartment in a taxi to the quayside where the bus station was. This was only the start of our ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ trip back home. We booked the flight back from Split, as it was considerably cheaper than Dubrovnik, even with the bus fare. We allowed 45 minutes before departure, so we could grab snacks for the journey. It was going to be 3 hours or so to Split, and half of it on road already travelled, so there was less intrigue that usually comes from seeing pastures new.  We threw our bags into the undercarriage and boarded. Again, the bus was an improvement on the last - modern leather seats, air con, and a toilet. We set off on time and meandered our way back to the Bosnian border, stopping off at the hotel restaurant again. We then crossed back over, on towards Ploce and beyond, to new territory. The terrain was much the same. To our left was the Adriatic, pocked with islands long and short; to our right was the Balkan hinterland, ascending both steeply or slowly in equal measure away from us along our route.

I nodded off for a while, and came around as we hurtled down a modern highway about 40km away from Split. The scenery was much the same. I felt somewhat drowsy, possibly from lack of water and the air con. Once we turned off the highway for Split, it became a lot rockier and mountainous. It so happened that as we approached the city from the east, we had to navigate around then through a horseshoe of peaks that encircled the city, leaving it as an enclosed enclave looking out to the sea.

Once through a tunnel, the city before us was the largest we had seen since Sarajevo. I noticed lots of Hajduk Split graffiti emblazoned on walls and houses on our route in. We arrived at the bus station, which was again next to the dock. This one was a lot busier, and made not just for passenger, but cargo. We booked our shuttle bus to the airport (another 50 minutes away) but had an hour to kill. So we walked to the main square nearby, that looked out on to the sea. We surmised that perhaps Split could be a future destination. It seemed more like a city, and one that was not just filled with cruising tourists.

I think we had reached the pinnacle of buses, on the one to the airport, but there was a bit of commotion on how many people could fit onboard. We were fine though, as John and I had seats. But I did my usual huffing, aimed at those tourists, who seem never to have planned or organised anything in advance. Anyways, we set off on our last bus journey, which took us anti-clockwise 180 degrees around the wider bay Split was set in. The airport was a small affair, surprising for what I could only assume would be thousands of tourists this time of year. John and I got suitably tanked up for the flight, Wizz Air no less, boarded and settled in for the return home.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days – Part 9

The streets below were quiet as we woke up on our last morning in Belgrade. I was up like a dart, knowing I had planned a tight regime for us to be up and out within 30 minutes. It was 7am, so John was less inclined to be rushed. We showered, gathered last minute bits for the small backpacks that will travel alongside us, and packed our remaining items into our large traveller backpacks.

We were ready 5 minutes before the scheduled arrival time of our minibus. Yesterday, I confirmed the details with the travel company via email. I was still a little disappointed that we wouldn’t be repeating my journey by train 5 years ago, but at least I would get to see a different route through the rough terrain to Bosnia-Herzegovina’s federal capital.  After 10 minutes of peering down from the window, I noticed a white minibus pull in underneath up. Surely this was ours. So, as we gathered our things and began to lock up, the driver called me. I said that we would be down momentarily. We posted the keys into the mailbox in the lobby as instructed, then pulled the door to. The driver clambered out of the van and said hello, whilst motioning us to the back of the minibus. We bundled our luggage into the back, and got in, joining a woman in her 30’s who must have been the first to be picked up. The van had two seats up with the driver, three in the middle, and three in the back. We opted for the back seats, with the person we joined occupying the middle row. We drove off uphill towards Trg Republika and stopped moments later outside a hotel where we picked up another person. We then drove from there, across the eerily quiet town, to Trg Slavija, picking up another fellow traveller from a side street; and an older woman in her 70s.

We then dashed downhill along the tramlines, from Trg Slavija towards the railway station, turning left and then merging right on to the east/west motorway. I was still a bit drowsy and unaware of my surroundings, but within 15 to 20 minutes, we were out of the city and into flat agricultural land. We coasted along the motorway in near silence, the chatter between the older woman and the driver having died down – perhaps saving themselves for the long haul.

We turned off at an unassuming junction and pulled in on a dusty slip road. My curiosity was piqued, but I was not concerned. It appeared that we were picking up two further people, who seemed to have had a relative bring them here to be taken onward on their journey in our minibus. A rather odd location to be picked up from, I thought. The drama in my head saw the scenario play out as a body-in-the-bag, criminal gang exchange farce. Happily, that was not the case. The man sat up front with the driver, and the woman was in front of John. With the last of our passengers on board, we travelled away from the motorway in a south-westerly direction towards Sabac.

The high speed and relative calm of the initial journey took a sharp turn (only to be superseded later on) as we moved away from motorway/bypass type roads to rural ones. These ones had ditches on either side most of the time that aided the irrigation of the fields that lay all around us. The driver had obviously done this route hundreds of times, and wasted no time nor any opportunity to overtake cars, trucks, even tractors. Blind corners, for John and I seen as death traps to overtake at, were taken on with either arrogance or faith. Neither reassured us. And to add to my discomfort, the day was getting hotter and the seats were made of leather! I had no chance of getting to the end of this journey dry as a bone.

As long and slender villages passed by, broken with the odd larger town here and there, we took a petrol and rest break. We arrived at a small, modern petrol station that had a shop-cum-café attached to it. To confirm the driver’s frequent use of this route, as he entered he was greeted by the staff as a familiar friend. In-between trips to the loo, we scoffed at warm cheese and ham croissants and milky coffees, and then purchased a couple of extras for the rest of the trip. As we had access to Wi-Fi, I looked up the route we had just taken, and possible routes we were about to take. It seemed that the border with Bosnia was not that far away, a mere 1,000 meters.

After 25 minutes the group was back together in the minibus and off we sped. Minor personnel adjustments were made, with the motorway couple swapping places. The roads were a bit quieter now as we travelled towards Loznica and the nearby border post. Out of view, but nearby, was the Drina River, which we would have to cross to get into Bosnia. A small wood to our right cleared and revealed a wall of hills seeming to indicate geographically a different realm. Indeed, as we approached a junction to turn right, the border posts on either side of the bridge confirmed that these hills were indeed those of Bosnia.

And what a quiet crossing it was. On the Serbian side, pseudo-Heraldic flags, long and slim, hung down from tall flag posts. We gave the driver our passports, with the other passengers providing less formal National Identity cards. We stuck out like a sore thumb. Once on the bridge, which had similarities to ones an army would erect, we waited in a queue of 4 cars before getting our documents checked. The flag poles on this side mirrored those we just passed but had two different flags on them, the familiar blue and red flag of the Republika Srpska entity and the yellow and blue of the Bosnia-Herzegovina federation. We drove off into Bosnia within a matter of minutes.

The geography was certainly different. We followed the river south for a short while, before turning west towards the centre of the country. We meandered between the hills and mountains, through the steep and beautiful gorges where the roads we were travelling on could only be built. Many turquoise lakes with short-lived vistas lay along the route, providing relief from suffocating cliffs we ran alongside. In between appreciating the views, I had a novel on the go since we started in Skopje and was 80-100 pages from the end, so I decided to try and finish it before we reached Sarajevo in order to start my next book.

The early start, rising heat, and constant swaying of the minibus along the windy roads must have conspired to send me to sleep. I awoke as we were climbing our way up the last mountain, beyond which Sarajevo hid. Evidently we had passed over into the Muslim-Croat entity some way back, and were now passing through an overtly Bosniak town. Vogošca had a number of mosques with the green flags of Islam hanging from their minarets. All public signs were in the Latin script, and government buildings were easy to spot with their sole flag flying, that of the federation. There seemed to be a chain of towns along this road, the scene changing from shops and transport hubs, to housing and schools, and back again; all the while continually rising in altitude. The peak seemed to be reached at the same point where a brand new mosque, the largest seen up to that point, dominated a hillside spot looking over the descending hill from which we had just climbed. We curved around its grounds and then began our descent into Sarajevo proper.

Given the drivers’ erratic abilities at the wheel, we seemed to ‘land’ in Sarajevo, hurtling down a main road that soon flattened into the main valley floor in no time. The train station appeared on our right, the same direction in which we then turned, as we sped off west in the opposite direction to our BnB.

We ran parallel to the main east-west road that ran through the city, and turned into a high-rise estate in anticipation of our first fellow traveler leaving us. The young woman, who was first in the van, and the older woman began talking. The gist I got, from the fragmented bits of conversation I could transliterate into English, was that the older woman was quizzing the younger one on why she lived here and not in Grbavica – a stone’s throw away across the river. The response I couldn’t decipher. But the brushing off nature of it by the younger woman wasn’t what surprised me, but the reason for asking the question in the first place did. To some, it seems the question of where you lived is still linked to your ethnic/national identity, as Grbavica was the extent of Serb inroads into the city during the siege. We then departed to drop off the rest of the passengers before arriving at the Baščaršija to be dropped off ourselves.

In the narrow streets, lined with track for the characteristic tramline, the minibus pulled up and hogged half of the road. A small commotion was made of our arrival, but we grabbed our belongings, thanked the driver for getting us here (alive), and then I led the way to our BnB. A mere 100 steps away, John observed for the first time the open space of the Baščaršija where the Sebilj is located, ringed by a platoon of pigeons. The Sebilj was the historic centre of the old town where those who travelled through the city would congregate and quench their thirst at the water fountain. We were now at a T-junction, the centre of which had a small water pipe (lots of these are dotted all over the city), where we now turned right and up a steep incline turning left into a makeshift car park almost immediately.

This was our place of rest for the next few days, and had not changed one bit from my previous visit. The décor was still kitsch, containing a collection of paraphernalia gathered over the years with what looked like ethnographic examples of rug making. Our room was a twin and in keeping with the theme at reception; carpet from the early 1990’s (in the UK at least) that had an almost regal theme to it. I believe it was the exact same room I stayed in when I was there 5 years previous. What a coincidence.

We decided that after our long journey we needed showers, bearing in mind it was still in the early 30s temperature wise. As I showered with the window open for the breeze, the old town below was buzzing with the noise of people and cars. This reminded me that when I was last here, alone, I didn’t travel outside of my comfort zone. With John as my comrade in arms, I felt eager to explore a lot more of Sarajevo and Bosnia during this visit. I was really looking forward to hiring a car in a few days time to travel east to Potocari and Visegrad – different reasons for both.

We left once ready and went straight to the old town to have a wonder. The place is all ground floor level shops with glass fronts and terracotta-tiled roofs. The only buildings taller here were the mosques and newer additions such as hotels that stood mostly at the perimeter of the old town. The streets were slab-paved, with water gulley’s to disperse the rainwater into the Miljacka River nearby. We sought refuge in a canopied courtyard surround by the backs of the shops where I ordered Bosnian coffee and water. The shade was a welcome escape from the searing heat.

After this we walked the ‘History Route’ as I call it. This pedestrianized segment runs the middle of a loop of road making up the main east-west road through the city. At first it encompasses the old town with its Ottoman Turkish and Islamic heritage. It then immediately stops, and turns to Austro-Hungarian architecture with pastel plastered buildings soaring to 3 or 4 storey’s high. Along this stretch are a myriad of 19^th century religious buildings of two of the four major faiths - Catholicism and Orthodoxy. We pondered these, then I pointed out to John the Sarajevo Roses and the symbolism of these to the siege. Even here, the streets were narrow and sort of suffocating, with the tops of the hills to our left, on the south bank of the river, lurking over us.

Once we merged with the westbound car traffic, noting the eternal flame monument to mark the freedom of Sarajevo during World Ward Two, the buildings changed to have an earlier 20^th century, modernist feel before breaking into brutalism as we approached the Presidency building. It was at this point we looped back and followed the eastbound main road back to the old town alongside the river.

At newly renovated City Hall, I was keen to push on but I think John had enough at this point in the day. Yet, I persuaded him into climbing up the side streets to the Yellow Bastion to take in a view of the city. As we climbed up the steep hill alongside one of the cemeteries that serve as reminders of the war, the heat and sun really began to beat us down. I had to stop a number of times to either catch breath or wipe my brow of sweat, guzzling water when I could. However, the prize at the top of the hill was the splendid view across the valley westward as the sun hung low in the sky. A smattering of tourists were with us, on this unkempt rampart from Ottoman times. After a short while, we made the return journey with ease, and decided to rest for a few hours.

Not wanting to stay out late, we dressed and went off for dinner. I recalled the restaurant I visited last time that served chocolate steak (or chicken) as a specialty. We sat out in front of the narrow and intimate restaurant, with the now famous poster of a Cellist in the ruins of the City Hall looming behind John. We ate a meal washed down with wine and returned to our BnB after our exhausting day.

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.