SEVEN
17–27 August 2003
Shirley: The autostrada takes us to Slovenia. The freeway goes from three lanes to two and then slows to a virtual standstill near the border. Brian cuts the traffic and no-one shakes an angry fist or yells abuse. At the border there are two very bored guards checking passports. We prepare for long delays but it is not the case; they glance at our passports and couldn’t care less that we are on a foreign-registered bike.
Brian: Back on the highway we round the corner and come across a toll booth. Great, the Slovenians have picked up one of the worst traits of European governments: tolls on public roads. I don’t mind supporting national parks, or some great feat of engineering in a road’s construction, but not a standard piece of bitumen.
Shirley points out some caves in this region (not once, but at least three times), so I take the hint and turn off to Skocjanske Jame. We find the road well signposted and in no time are parking near the entrance. The next tour is in a little over an hour, so we chill out in the shade.
Shirley: Inside the caves, it is instantly cooler. After about 100 m we glimpse our first stalactites and stalagmites and marvel at the different shapes and colours. As we go deeper into the cave, the air is even cooler. The walk through the caves is 3 km long and goes to about 164 m below ground. There are two main caverns – the silent cave and the water-whispering cave where the river Reka flows underground. These are classified by UNESCO as a World Heritage site and you can understand why when you’re inside.
The exertion of walking to and from the cave in the heat wearing all our bike gear is telling. We both struggle with the temperature, which is even more oppressive after the cave visit. We both shed our jackets for the ride to the coast. At least it isn’t far and I am grateful to Brian for taking the time out to visit the caves.
We arrive at the small town of Fiesa, right on the water’s edge. Our hotel doesn’t boast a beach, it boasts its own private concrete ramp into the water. The water is cool and refreshing and not too salty – just the ticket after a hot walk into the caves.
At the Slovenian border with Croatia we are again disappointed in the lack of interest in the Carnet de Passage for the bike. We begin our journey down the coast and are horrified by the standard of the roads, which show a distinct lack of maintenance. Trucks have made huge ruts in the asphalt and road gangs have gouged the surface to provide some grip in the wet on the well-worn surface. This isn’t the best thing for motorcycles, as the wheels track in the gouges.
Brian: The countryside consists of rolling hills and farmland. There are many roadside stalls selling everything from vegetables to wine and grappa. I’ve tasted Croatian grappa before, when a supporter offered me some for my efforts after playing a good game of football. That was more than 25 years ago, but the memory is vivid. It is so potent, I could run the bike on the stuff if necessary.
The going is slower than expected with the poor road surface and an out-of-town speed limit of 60 km/h in most places. The infernal trucks are spewing black diesel smoke and motor homes get in the way of more spirited progress. All of a sudden the temperature drops markedly and we are on a clifftop overlooking the Adriatic Sea some 300 m below. There are no safety rails, just concrete bollards to stop bigger vehicles taking the big jump. They won’t do much for us.
The sea is an iridescent blue and ferries between the ever-present islands leave a phosphorus wake for a kilo metre. We are now hugging the coast and traversing a road similar to the Great Ocean Road at home. The going gets slower as we get into the suburbs of Rijeka. It seems like the whole population has made its way to the water. There is plenty of flesh on show, with some people showing far too much.
Shirley: On the island of Krk we find another seaside town with a foot-punishing stone beach. We really don’t know how lucky we are to have sandy beaches in Australia. We notice the water isn’t as clean as in Italy or Slovenia and there is a lot of rubbish on the foreshore, which you don’t find in Italy. People seem just to leave their rubbish anywhere and everywhere.
It is a long ride to Split – about 355 km – and it is hot again. While the cool change has hit northern Europe we seem to be staying one step ahead of it! We leave Krk via the massive bridge and pay our toll. The man in the tollbooth sticks his head out the window and looks at the bike. He asks where we are from and shakes his head when we tell him. When we explain we are riding home to Australia, he says we are crazy and laughs. It is a pleasant reaction!
We turn right to Split – hugging the coast for a while. The traffic is very heavy in both directions and the road, in part, really bad. The surface is ground-up in places. Over - taking is necessary wherever and whenever possible to get past the trucks, caravans and motor homes. A couple of times we come around the corner and find a car coming the opposite way on our side of the road. Brian certainly has to keep his wits about him. A couple of times he has to do some quick accelerating to get around cars. We both ride without our jackets, trying to deal with the heat, until we come around the corner and find an accident. A motorbike has smashed head-on into the front of a car. The guy on the bike is just nursing bruises. This is enough for me – the jacket goes back on.
We take a wrong turn and end up on the inland road to Split, which turns out to be fascinating. We ride past completely deserted towns, as if the townspeople have just walked away en masse – and they probably have. One with about 60 houses has been abandoned. Some towns look as though they have been hit by an earthquake, but it is more likely mortar fire and may be the aftermath of the ethnic cleansing. When we hit the coast again the road winds past bay after bay of crystal-clear blue water and sunloving beachgoers.
Split is amazing. There are Roman ruins inside the palace walls and marble streets that meander through a maze of laneways and squares. We opt not to pay to see the treasures inside the cathedral, instead taking the time to listen to five young men in shorts and T-shirts singing in the square – a cappella. They are singing Croatian folk tunes and it is very stirring stuff. They get lots of applause, but we don’t buy a CD. They might not sound so good in the loungeroom at home.
People still live in the old town behind the palace walls and it is incongruous to see washing hanging out of the windows. We walk through one gate in the palace walls and find a huge statue of the tenth-century Slavic religious leader Gregorius of Nin. He is quite a fellow and it seems that rubbing his foot brings luck, as it looks like polished brass and is much brighter than the rest of the statue. Gregorius bears an uncanny resemblance to Merlin the magician, or the headmaster of Hogwarts in the Harry Potter books and movies.
We ask at our Split hotel about riding through Albania. ‘We go there [meaning Croatians] and we have been at war with them!’ is the answer. Fair enough.
For still more advice I ask a radio audience during my weekly interview with Red Symons. Should we go to Albania or take the ferry to Greece via Italy? In the morning there are lots of emails and the advice is pretty much the same: Don’t go to Albania. My brother’s email is short and to the point: ‘Take the ferry’. One Albanian now living in Australia says he wouldn’t go to Albania, and he speaks the language and of course looks Albanian.
We head south along the Dalmatian coast to Dubrovnik. We come to a border crossing into Bosnia. We have no visas and begin to panic, but the guards just wave us through without stopping. Fourteen kilometres later we hit another border crossing, but again we don’t even get a sideways glance. We are now back in Croatia.
Of course, it is the height of summer and when we hit Dubrovnik, the city is booked out. We head out along the bay, stopping at little beaches. Alas, there is no room at the inn. Eventually we end up in Zaton, about 18 km out of the city. The first guesthouse we try has no rooms, but the owner’s sister has a place on the next bay. It is basic but clean and the window opens out onto a small part of the bay over the rooftops from the third level. At €30 for the night, it’s cheap. We don’t have many options, so we take it.
We strip off and dive into the cool water from their small jetty. You can almost see our skin sizzle and the steam come off our bodies. We then walk to the beach bar and sit and take it all in.
Brian: All of a sudden I notice Shirl is crying behind her sunglasses and I wonder what I’ve done. She assures me it’s nothing. A stray cat and her kittens at the hotel in Split have upset her and sometimes a girl just needs a good cry. No-one cares for the abandoned animals. We sit in silence for a while. Shirl is okay but quiet. I wonder how she will handle depressing sights when we really hit the third world. She assures me she will be all right … I’m not so sure.
Shirley: Our accommodation might not be the best, but it is a great location, and we decide to stay another night. There is a good feel about the place and the other guests. We head into Dubrovnik to look around the old city. We can’t find it until Brian has a look at a map on the wall. I still can’t get this navigational aspect of the trip right.
First things first, and we head past the gates to the castle and for breakfast go to a restaurant overlooking the wall. Before we even get to order we hear a cat miaow. Brian can’t believe it; a cat has walked around the edge of the wall, has somehow managed to get itself into an alcove high above the water line and can’t get back out. I immediately want to ring the fire brigade, but ever-practical Brian says that the cat will find its way out. Its cries are mournful and echo around the small bay under the walls.
During the war with the Serbs in the early 1990s, Dubrovnik was devastated by a bombing campaign that left the city separated from the rest of Croatia. The Dubrovnik Free dom Fighters Memorial elucidates the enormity of the battle. Staring out from the walls are faces of young, middle-aged and old men who fought to save their city and their freedom. No matter how hard they tried, the Serbs couldn’t destroy the peoples’ will or the city walls. The desire for freedom is reflected in the name of the local motorcycle club, Liberatas (Liberty).
Our little B&B has some interesting guests – David and Carol, an English couple, and their children, and a Croatian couple living in Sarajevo. David works with the UN and is based in Sarajevo. Zoran is in a wheelchair after a horrendous car accident. Brian, David and Zoran spend hours discussing the conflict with the Serbs and the terrible atrocities that occurred. Their advice about the next stage of our journey seems to match just about everyone’s: don’t go to Albania. They say that if the bad roads don’t get us, the bandits will.
On our last day we take up our host’s offer of a boat ride up the coast to Dubrovnik. Brian and another guest help Zoran into the boat in his wheelchair and we all clamber in around him. The breeze off the water is cooling and we get a completely different view of the city from the water. Along the way we pass the homes of the wealthy and luxury hotels. They look special but we are sure the guests are not having as much fun as we are.
Back at the house, we spend the afternoon sipping beers and wines, including the homemade wine Luca’s father makes mixed with water. We eat cheese, meat and bread. Zoran adds some melon, prosciutto from Zagreb and good parmesan to the mix. What a life we are leading!
Moving further along the coast, we realise we need maps, but you can’t buy a map for Serbia, Montenegro, Kosovo or Albania in Croatia. The tension is evident when we are told, ‘You can buy the map there, not here’.
We head into Montenegro, following the coast down to Budva, and then ride around the bay rather than taking the car ferry. Montenegro is trying very hard to attract the tourist dollar and it does have its fair share of natural beauty, but we are not impressed with the locals, who seem to dump rubbish beside the road despite big dumpster-style bins provided for them. We see one man take all his domestic rubbish in a wheelbarrow to the edge of a small cliff and just dump it over, while 20 m down the road there’s a dumpster bin.
There are not many Western tourists in this part of the world and the locals have more than a passing interest in us. We come across police checks everywhere. These are normally just one or two police standing in the middle of the road with a little paddle saying, Stop Policije. We are not doing anything wrong, so we don’t worry too much, but they pay us a lot of attention.
Brian: We get waved to the side of the road by one rather arrogant-looking young policeman who has already pulled up a car with German registration. From my vantage point on the bike, I see the young car driver fumble and then hand over his papers and a cigarette packet. The policeman looks inside the pack, nods and puts it in his pocket.
This seems to be the way in this part of the world and, quite frankly, it disgusts me. He sees me looking at him and gives a confusing signal. Is it to wave me on or to stay where I am? I decide I don’t want a car chase, so I wait. The policeman comes up to me and we can’t understand each other, but clearly I have done nothing wrong. I decide to show him my police identification and put on a friendly face, despite my strong desire to straighten this thief out. He nods a more familiar greeting, pats Shirley on the shoulder with his paddle and lets us pass.
We pass more police checkpoints. Sometimes I disguise us by sitting close behind trucks and buses. This way, we pass too quickly for the police to see the foreign-looking bike. Near Berane we find ourselves in the rain with no ‘cover’. An old Mercedes is chugging along so I overtake him when I can. There are no lines marked on the road and I’m only doing about 80 km/h. Around the next corner we are pulled in by yet another solo policeman. Again I cannot understand him. I keep asking if we have done anything wrong. After a few minutes it becomes clear I am not going to offer him any money and he hears another bike coming, so he waves us on.
The scenery is spectacular up in these mountains but the roads are treacherous. The fact they are wet makes them even worse. At one point, we follow a tilt-tray tow truck down a steep hill. The driver touches his brakes and instantly goes sideways. Undoubtedly, there’s something on the road, and the driver holds out his hand to warn me to go slowly. Down the hill there is a policeman standing on the side of the road. I immediately think it’s another police check, but then see a semi-trailer on the side of the road and we smell diesel. That is a lethal combination – a diesel spill and a wet road. A car is approaching from behind too quickly. He brakes and instantly spears off the road and into an embankment, nearly taking out two cars chugging up the hill. The bike tyres want to go in two different directions at once. I’m down to walking pace and preparing to cop a slow-speed fall. We get through okay, to the amazement of the police officer and the tow-truck driver.
Shirley: We pick our way through the hills. The going is very slow and it’s getting late. We come across signs advertising hotels, but when we find them they are burned out or bombed. Roadside traders are pushing their bottles and jars of goodness knows what in our faces. Some are very aggressive, shouting at us as we pass. We are very close to the Albanian border and we aren’t stopping for anything.
Brian: Further on we find a tunnel with a green light showing on our side of the road. As I enter, it is black. I put the lights on high beam and am horrified to find the road is mud and the air thick with smoke and dust. We are slipping all over the place and can only see about 20 m in front of us. The tunnel curves around, but there are no markings or reflectors to help guide us. I warn Shirley to hang on – we are bound to hit the deck in here. I get ready for a slow-speed tumble. A truck appears out of the gloom so I pull over to let him pass. We slip and slide for about a kilometre underground before emerging out the other end. The workers are standing around smoking. They all smile and wave. Shirl is terrified and my arms ache from the effort of holding us up.
Shirley: About 10 km down the road we find a grand-looking ski-resort-style hotel in the middle of nowhere. We’ve had enough so we pull in. It seems we are the only guests, with the waiters outnumbering us at dinner. After a fairly ordinary meal we sit out on the balcony with a bottle of the local red – very good and served chilled.
The still night air is disturbed by the distant rumble of engines. Over the hill come some of the local farmers on their tractors. This must be their ‘local’ and they are obviously intrigued by the tourists sitting in their domain.
After the beauty, friendliness and peace of Dubrovnik and Zaton, Montenegro has been a real culture shock. And tomorrow we head into Kosovo.
I am nervous about today, as we are not sure what Kosovo holds for us.
There is no traffic on the road except yet another police checkpoint. We’ve passed through about 20 checkpoints since entering Montenegro yesterday. Around 10 km down the road we come to the UN-patrolled border post for Kosovo. The distance between the two is indicative of the tensions in this part of the world. Most border posts between two countries’ checkpoints are usually just 100 m apart.
The UN police and Kosovo customs agents are friendly. They check our green card and, as we are already aware, we are not covered for the old Yugoslavia. All that is required is to pay the minimum of €30 for 15 days of insurance cover at the border. That’s not a bad earner for the authorities when you consider we hope to be in Macedonia tonight!
After checking the paperwork we have to ride through a ‘disinfectant pit’, which is just a concrete pit full of water, to wash off the Montenegrin germs. As a parting gesture they warn us not to wander off the road. ‘There are still many landmines out there. It will probably take us 100 years to clear them all,’ we are told.
The road conditions change from excellent to goat tracks. When we see a sign announcing an EU-sponsored project we know the road will be good. We thank Germany for the road out of the mountains.
Brian: We head for Pec in the heart of Kosovo. It is a big provincial city and today is market day. The road is clogged with traffic – everything from horse and cart to Mercedes Benzes. We crawl through the town and, as we pass, men in the coffee shops all stop what they are doing and stare at us. Shirl is disconcerted by the attention and stern facial expressions. I tell her that this is just the way these people are and we should start to wave at them. As soon as I do that, there are smiles, waves and shouts of encouragement. This eases Shirl’s fears somewhat.
Shirley: It is slow going. We are within 10 km of the Albanian border and we start to notice army trucks and well-armed soldiers patrolling the streets and countryside. The road takes us within sight of Albania and, as we climb higher, the traffic reduces to just army and UN vehicles. As we head down a road through beautiful countryside, an Armoured Personnel Carrier (APC) comes barrelling down towards us, complete with gunner in position. The pine forest and rolling fields had looked like a good place to picnic. The APC gives us a quick reality jolt.
We have to stop twice at army checkpoints. The soldiers position one man to stop the traffic (us). About 50 m down the road is their APC, providing covering fire in our direction. Next to the APC are more soldiers with guns at the ready. We wait with the first soldier until they wave us forward. The conversations at both checkpoints are the same:
‘Passports.’ We hand them over. The soldier looks at them with interest. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We are tourists.’
‘Tourists?’
‘Yes, tourists.’
The young soldiers shake their heads in disbelief. Why would anyone be here voluntarily? They wave us through.
I find it comforting to have the army and UN presence on the road. As well as the mobile patrols we come across two ‘camps’ surrounded by barbed wire and sandbags. Brian finds it unnerving because it clearly indicates we are close to Albania and in a very dangerous part of the world.
Brian: The buzz of travelling through Kosovo is exciting, if a little dangerous. But, due to the presence of the UN and the army, I do feel there’s a greater chance of being harmed by the poor road conditions than getting hijacked.
Shirley: We hit the Macedonian border and there is a thorough check. I guess they don’t want people sneaking out of the country. We have to pay for our visa despite the guidebook saying they are issued for free. We decide that arguing with the young female official wouldn’t be a good career move and hand over the cash. We are granted a five-day transit visa. That’s fine with us. We just want to see Lake Ohrid and chill out after the last two fairly stressful days on the road.
After a long day – two border crossings, two fuel stops and more than 400 km in more than seven hours – we arrive in Ohrid. All the restaurants on the edge of the lake boast barbecues with every form of meat you can imagine.
Lake Ohrid puts on a superb light-and-sound show for us, with lightning, thunder and the most incredible downpour. It is magnificent. We stand on the balcony of our room in a hotel overlooking the lake and watch everyone running for cover in the streets. The thunder is deafening and the lightning illuminates the sky. We hear girls scream with fright.
Outside the old town, Ohrid is like many other provincial cities. It has Western services, but the people are poor by Western standards, if monetary wealth is a guide. But they have a rich culture and close family ties, which is obvious from the number of families wandering the streets. There is not the hustle and bustle of a modern Western city.
A 900-year-old plane tree gets our attention, as well as eleventh-century churches and a Roman amphitheatre. Perched on the clifftop overlooking the lake and town is a basilica. An archaeological dig here has uncovered floor mosaics dating back to the fifth century. A roof has been erected and a walkway a metre above the tiles has been put in place, so we can take in the magnificent workmanship without damaging the mosaics. The intricate designs feature animals and fruits. We are careful not to step on the tiles close to the edge of the cordoned-off area. To our horror, one man walks all over this treasure taking close-ups with his video camera.
We end another idyllic day by spending a lazy afternoon on the balcony watching rain showers drift across the lake.
We head to Greece and manage to get horribly lost in the last Macedonian town before the border. Instead of finding the borderpost we end up in a lumberjacks’ marketplace. They all seem to be driving funny little petrol-driven devices with the flywheel where the radiator should be and massive timber cutting saws whirring away as they putter down the street. From the minute we drive into the market area there are two possibilities: we will find the friendliest people we’ve met to date, or we will be bashed and robbed of the bike.
The lumberjacks are tough but incredibly friendly. In his inimitable style, Brian rides up to a group of young men, opens his visor and says, ‘G’day, fellas. We’re looking for Greece’. It is a great line. From here on we are everyone’s friends and these young men are pleased to try out their English and help us on our way. Brian has a natural flair when dealing with people and it is coming to the fore on this trip.
