Puck – 16 September 2012
As I dig deeper into the haphazardly piled mountain of keepsakes I had stored away in my family’s garage, an almost forgotten relic begins to surface. It’s my Yamaha Ténéré motorcycle, semi-dismantled and covered in dust and cobwebs.
“Puck, old boy!” I cry, giving his dented fuel tank a pat, scaring a few spiders into hiding. I laboriously roll him out into the open. The morning light does little to improve his appearance. The tyres are flat, bolts are missing and the frame is showing signs of rust. Hard to believe this wonder of Japanese engineering once carried me through Asia to Australia between 1997 and 2000! I walk around Puck a few times, then grip the handlebars and mount the saddle. The shocks and springs no longer bounce, but the seat feels comfy. Three years of sitting upon it moulded my personal imprint. I close my eyes and imagine the wind blowing through my hair as I speed along an outback desert track. Did I just hear you say something … Puck? Puck?
I lean forward towards the engine block, as much as my saddle permits. Softly, from behind the cracked sparkplugs, I hear a voice pleading, “Take me with you.”
Austria – 15 October 2012
The day after Austrian skydiver Felix Baumgartner plummeted a vertical 39 kilometres from the stratosphere, breaking the world record for the highest parachute jump, we manage to cover roughly the same distance, albeit in a more horizontal fashion. Touring along a scenic Alpine road on my motorcycle, I glance briefly towards the heavens, wondering what it must feel like to freefall at the speed of sound. Felix reached Mach 1.24, or more than 1,300 kph, on his gravity-assisted descent from the heavens. Laura and I are puttering along at a leisurely 50 (or Mach 0.04), propelled forward by our single-cylinder combustion engines and curiosity.
The distance covered is where the similarities between our two ventures end. I have no intention of breaking any records. In fact, I hope we manage to survive our little trip without breaking anything at all, especially our bikes and bones.
“Chris! Can you hear me?” Laura calls out over the helmet intercom. She’s a dozen lengths behind me on her BMW; an F650 built in 1996 that’s definitely seen better days.
“More or less. What’s up?” I shout into the microphone. The unit is voice-activated and does not quite function the way I’d hoped it would. It requires a fair amount of effort to distinguish Laura’s words from the background crackle of static interference. On a few occasions this has been a blessing in disguise: my partner has the habit of singing while riding her motorcycle, and her repertoire consists of exactly three songs, including a 20-minute version of A Horse is a Horse, of Course, the title song of an early 1960s television series about an articulate equine called Mr Ed.
“Do you think Felix Baumgartner was afraid when he stepped out of his balloon-capsule at such an altitude?” Laura asks.
“No, I don’t think he’s afraid of heights. Only of grounds. As Terry Pratchett once wrote: ‘The sky is relatively harmless, it’s the ground that can kill you.’ Speaking of which … please be careful. We have a number of hairpin bends coming up!”
Whereas I have a fair amount of experience on two wheels, Laura is still a beginner. Prior to this trip her largest “motorcycle” had been a small Vespa. In my eyes, she’s just as brave as Felix – and no less crazy.
I navigate the serpentines leading up to the Arlberg Pass, entering the sweeping curves and then accelerating as soon as the road straightens out. I can feel the sun shining on my face, the wind tickling my nose and the occasional fly striking my eyeball. Unlike car travel, one is open to nature and the elements, not shielded from it by two metric tons of steel and a windscreen. It’s been 12 years since I last rode on my Yamaha, and I’m grinning from ear to ear. I’ve dearly missed the experience. However, if embarking on a world trip by motorcycle is supposed to be an adventure, as many of my friends have suggested, then I’ve failed to understand something. My adrenal medulla, which should now be synthesising adrenaline, is on its lunchbreak. I’m simply happy to be on the road again: no more, but also no less.
Laura and I left Germany 30 days ago, have covered approximately 1,000 kilometres, and are currently enjoying the Alps in beautiful Austria. What we’re doing is no different to my parents’ annual ski-outing to Kufstein, with the sole distinction that we have no return date. Indeed, every overland trip begins by entering a neighbouring nation, which is – at least in Europe – usually not an “adventurous” destination riddled with rebels and infested by female Anopheles mosquitoes. A border at a time, an uninterrupted sequence of holidays with a month or two in each country and eventually we should reach Australia. Or so I hope.
Perhaps the greatest difference between Felix Baumgartner’s undertaking and ours is that his project, funded by Red Bull Stratos, cost a few million dollars and took many years’ preparation for a journey that lasted ten minutes. Our trip is not sponsored. We’ll just have to see how we can get by on our meagre authors’ earnings of around $500 a month per person. It took us only a short while to gather our camping gear together, purchase a few road maps and set off on a voyage that will last anything upward of four years.
Laura pulls up behind me on the top of the pass at St Christoph, a small ski-resort village with glorious panoramic mountain views. She’s elated and her heart is pounding with excitement.
“Did you see that? I just rode my very first pass!” she exclaims when we stop for a rest.
I congratulate Laura on her achievement, vividly recalling my own early experiences on two wheels. All those little road hazards I now view as mundane once caused me to break out in a cold sweat: dark tunnels, passing lorries, fork-juddering potholes, railway tracks, rush-hour traffic, side winds, gravel, sand, rain, snow, ice. And as a woman, Laura has a few additional disadvantages: she weighs only a quarter of her BMW, and despite the fact that I lowered her suspension and front forks to the minimum setting, her feet still barely touch the ground. Every now and then she falls over when coming to a standstill at a traffic light.
“Damn short Italian legs!” she always cries out. “I want German legs. Or at least some platform shoes.” But knowing my girl, she’ll be a pro by the time we reach Croatia, if not sooner. It takes far more than a motorcycle to bowl Laura over: I have this theory that in addition to electromagnetism, strong and weak nuclear interaction and gravity, she is the hypothetical fifth fundamental force of nature. If not for her determination, how else could she have suffered me for the past four years? I am – how can I put it – not the easiest person to have a relationship with.
“Chris, what’s that black thing sticking to your teeth?”
I look into my side mirror and grin. It appears to be an insect, rather sorry looking after its mid-air collision with my enamel wall. Good thing I like my proteins; can a vegetarian actually be a biker?
I met and fell in love with Laura in Malawi. At the time she was working as an overland tour guide, plying the Johannesburg to Nairobi route with two dozen passengers crammed into the back of a truck. Each north or southbound journey lasted precisely six weeks. I, meanwhile, was enjoying my own African safari, albeit at a more leisurely pace. It had taken me 26 months to cover the same distance from South Africa to Kenya, but then again, I did not have a fancy vehicle at my disposal. I was the proud owner of a dilapidated Series III Land Rover. As per usual with Land Rovers, it had the tendency to break down every few days. This may have been the principal reason why my previous trip around the world took eight years to complete. Our paths converged in 2008, and ever since we have been inseparable. Laura quit her job with the tour company, and we joined forces for the final stretch to Germany, our current voyage and – I hope – the rest of our lives.
Towards evening I spot an ideal campsite to spend the night. Over the past month we have established a set routine with regard to our sleeping arrangements. As soon as the sun begins to set, I reduce my speed and start scanning for prime tent estate. Should I notice a promising field, nook in the woods or track accessible by our motorcycles, I stop to investigate. If the location satisfies my requirements, I signal a thumbs-up to Laura, who then follows me into the thicket. Tonight’s pick leads us down a public path to a patch of grass next to a cascading mountain stream. It even has a small firepit complete with a fistful of dry twigs as kindling; relics of unknown travellers who have slept here before.
The Austrian Alps are a free-camper’s heaven, regardless what local legislation might have to say about pitching a tent in the wild. Some countries in Europe uphold the centuries-old tradition of Jedermannsrecht (everybody’s entitled): a ruling that allows the weary wanderer to camp on any public uncultivated land for a night or two, provided he doesn’t disturb or destroy the natural environment and keeps a fair distance from private residences. Across Scandinavia (with the exception of Denmark), this privilege is even anchored in written law. In countries less forthcoming towards the nature-loving rover, where one is officially obliged to spend the night at organised campsites, there is a get-out clause: if you’re too tired to drive, you’re required to rest lest you endanger both yourself and fellow road users. “Resting” is usually defined as a temporary time-out not exceeding ten hours. Yet in all my years of wild-camping throughout Europe, not once has a police officer ever asked me to move on, and I’ve never had to defend myself with such petitions as a legal excuse.
Laura and I have separate to-do lists as we go about our nightly rituals. She brews coffee while I practise Zen and the Art of Tent Erecting. She unpacks our sleeping bags as I meditate over our bikes, checking for signs of wear and tear. If possible, I collect wood for a fire while Laura sifts through our food-containers and prepares dinner. We do not view these little jobs as bothersome. On the contrary: this repetitive packing and unpacking is an integral part of our daily lives, and no different from home-owners’ routines such as table setting and bed making.
The objects and personal effects that come to light as we unload our individual bikes differ ever so slightly. Laura is, after all, a woman … I am not. The boxes on her BMW contain knick-knacks such as an inflatable velour airbed, electric toothbrush and epilator: the latter a torture device I once – and only once – applied out of curiosity to a certain region of my body in order to better appreciate her efforts to maintain a feminine appearance. Absolutely never again.
“Laura, do you have some spare nuts and bolts in your tool-kit? One of your panniers is loose and I’d like to fix it before supper.” She passes me a cylindrical plastic container with a Body Shop sticker on the lid. It smells intensely of maracuyá body lotion. “I needed to put the spares somewhere,” Laura smiles. “Don’t the bolts smell lovely?”
I grunt in a manly fashion and tighten the panniers. Laura now has the world’s first passionfruit-scented BMW. She named it Pixie, after the fairy-like creatures in Celtic folklore, said to be benign though somewhat mischievous. The name suits it well.
My motorcycle – a 1996 Yamaha XTZ660 Ténéré – is called Puck, a character best known from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Essentially, Puck is the male counterpart of a pixie. Puck and I have been through a lot together and are well acquainted. This was the bike I used on my very first journey around the world and I dearly hope he will manage to repeat the feat. I couldn’t afford to buy a different one even if I wanted to, which I don’t. One doesn’t dump friends just because they are getting old and infirm. A good 70% of my storage space is occupied by tools and spare parts. The remainder consists of our tent, my sleeping bag, our petrol-stove and two black T-shirts, which tend to have a shelf life of at least ten days before I consider a change of attire vitally important – not for me but for those in my immediate vicinity. Somewhere there should also be a toothbrush stashed away.
The stars are shining brightly tonight. I lie back in my folding chair and scan the heavens for familiar constellations. Every now and then a meteor paints a short-lived arc across the sky. I briefly contemplate wishing upon it, but find myself to be wishless. I’m where I want to be, with whom I want to be, doing what I want to do. All is well. Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted by a strange buzzing noise emanating from behind a nearby tree. Ah, it’s only Laura and her electric toothbrush; nothing to worry about. Maybe I should follow suit and search for mine. I think I still have a mozzie or two stuck between my teeth.
Liechtenstein – 20 October 2012
The horizon is closer than you may believe. C’mon, take a punt: how far do you think you can see when standing on a beach, looking out over calm waters? A dozen kilometres perhaps? Maybe more? Let’s say you are of average build and your eyes are 165 centimetres above sea level. The answer may be surprising: just under 4,600 metres. That’s the human horizon: 1/8,700th of Earth’s circumference. I have always found this quite annoyingly short, but what to do?
Standing on your balcony, ten metres up, will increase your range of perception to 11.3 kilometres, and taking the lift to the top of a 100-metre tower will allow you to observe ground-level details almost 36 kilometres1 away. Sorry mate, there’s no way to find out what lies beyond the horizon unless you travel there yourself, then repeat the journey until you’ve circumnavigated the globe. However, I shouldn’t forget to mention something I hadn’t fully realised until I returned from my previous voyage: it’s all very well to travel to distant places, but that does not mean we should close our eyes to what’s directly in front of us.
Many European travellers know Bhutan better than their own backyards or hike the Himalayas, but never set foot in the High Tauern Alpine Range. Austria and Switzerland are often treated as transit countries by overlanders, springboards to beyond, not legitimate destinations on a world trip. I’m no exception. I spent 12 years in North America, four between Mexico and Patagonia, four in Africa, three in Asia and two in Oceania – but I’ll be damned if I could tell you much about Liechtenstein, the country we’ve just entered, other than it’s small, has a prince as head of state and is one of only two doubly landlocked countries in the world. (A doubly landlocked country is a nation wholly surrounded by other landlocked countries. The other one is Uzbekistan.) Pathetic. And I call myself an experienced traveller? This will have to change.
It’s partly through Laura that I’ve realised the error of my ways. Italian in origin, Laura spent most of her life in Australia. Germany and the Alps were new for her – and from the vantage point of a Sydney-sider, well beyond the horizon. In any case, after the completion of our last trip she wanted to get to know my “home” rather than heading off straight away. So whenever possible I took her on outings, from Regensburg to Garmisch and Kufstein to Salzburg. I knew these places already; they were not that special to me, but Laura was deeply impressed and pointed out many wonderful details I either took for granted or had never paid attention to in the first place. She was right: Europe contains marvels no less fascinating than those found at “exotic” destinations such as Timbuktu, Zanzibar or Lhasa – only different. And if you’re looking for “exotic” peoples, look no further than the indigenous tribes of Austria, Switzerland and Bavaria. They’re known to display some highly bizarre behaviour. Imagine Laura’s reaction when I introduced her to folkloric traditions such as the Schuhplattler (a dance that involves lots of rhythmic slapping of thighs, knees and soles of feet) and Steinheben (a competition where one must lift a 254-kilogram stone off the ground), then squeezed her into a dirndl, handed her a Schweinshaxe (roasted pork knuckle) and told her to wash it down with a litre of beer.
Travel with a foreigner through your own neck of the woods and you begin to appreciate your country as a tourist. From a visitor’s perspective, Central Europe is by far the most diverse location on Earth. Where else can you drive for a few hours, get out of the car and be in a completely new country? Austria alone shares frontiers with eight nations, all with a unique history, architecture, landscape, language, traditions and cuisine. In Australia, by contrast, a 1,000-kilometre ride will barely get you out of New South Wales. Take a map, draw a circle with the same radius around Munich and 32 countries will be situated within the perimeter. One of them is Liechtenstein. We crossed the virtual border yesterday. Virtual, because ever since it became part of the Schengen Area, border controls have been a thing of the past. Think what you like about the European Union: for overlanders it’s a blessing! In some parts of the world, travellers get stuck for hours or even days at frontiers before they are allowed to continue their journeys.
On the eastern bank of the River Rhine is a country only 24 kilometres long and six kilometres wide. There’s no airport, only one hospital and four railway stations. The total population is a minuscule 36,000 and you can see every single one just by standing on your tiptoes. But size isn’t everything, is it? We take a look at the capital Vaduz, then head for the hills towards Liechtenstein’s one and only ski resort at Malbun.
A high meadow peppered with gentian, rockcress and fat marmots becomes our campsite. The setting resembles an immense natural amphitheatre with mountains as spectators and us on centre stage.
“Shall we see what the view is like from the upper tiers?” I suggest. It’s still early in the day.
“Will the bikes be safe if we leave them here?” Laura asks with slight concern.
“Sure. This is Liechtenstein, not South Africa. I doubt we have to worry about crime.”
Indeed, the country’s single prison is mostly empty, and the 87-strong active police force is fully sufficient to protect the population, our motorcycles and the thousands of PO box companies set up to benefit from negligible corporate tax rates.
Reaching the main shoulder of the Naafkopf, we are rewarded with a vista far exceeding our expectations. In the distance, painted onto a sky-blue canvas, are the formidable summits of Switzerland, clad in white. Below are quaint and charming villages, with their church steeples and red-roofed houses, surrounded by green pastures. I dare anybody to suggest the Alps are any less scenic than the Rockies, Andes or Himalayas, and unlike other continents, you do not require a climbing permit or park ticket to enjoy the landscape. These mountains are free for all, rich and poor, regardless of whether you are a leisurely hiker, professional rock-junkie or simply prefer to gaze over the rim of your beer glass from an Alpine-hut terrace, content to watch how others sweat themselves silly.
Most of the world’s nations place a price tag on nature, rendering its enjoyment almost exclusively for the well-to-do. Do you know what the Nepalese government currently charges for climbing Himalayan peaks? Anything between a few hundred American dollars for minor summits up to a whopping $11,000 per person for a Mount Everest permit! Meanwhile, on the African continent, the tab for an ascent of Kilimanjaro adds up to at least $1,000. Hiking the four-day Milford Track in New Zealand costs a minimum of $240 in high season. In the United States, nearly every national monument from the Grand Canyon to Yosemite has a hefty entrance fee. By comparison, Europe is a blessing for those enamoured by nature’s flora, fauna and geographical wonders. Not a single hike or summit will cost you a penny.
We return to the valley. Neither of us has eaten since daybreak, and our bellies are audibly grumbling. Back at our motorcycles, which – of course – haven’t been touched, Laura sets up our stove while I stroll down to a nearby stream to fetch some water. Yes, we have it good here in Europe. For one thing, you can drink from and swim in every Alpine lake or river. Try that in East Africa and you may end up with anything from diarrhoea, intestinal worms, cholera, bilharzia or even a hippo-mauling – as once happened in Zambia to one of Laura’s tour-guide colleagues when a client was bitten in half. European fauna tends to be tame or domesticated, which isn’t always a bad thing. The worst we have to fear is a hedgehog tripping over a tent-peg.
Much later, our hunger sated, we tuck into our sleeping bags to play a few games of dice and listen to the BBC World Service on our shortwave radio. Doing the latter is rarely a good idea just before bedtime: international news doesn’t usually hasten a decent night’s rest. Wars, bombings and school shootings affect almost every continent – yet the reporter remains eerily silent about the happenings in Liechtenstein. Perhaps he shouldn’t; it would be a nice change to hear a correspondent say something along the lines of “and reporting live from Vaduz: all is peaceful for the 213th consecutive year.” Liechtenstein does not even have a military. It was disbanded in 1868, considered to be a waste of money. The only other countries I can think of that lack proper armed forces – apart from a few island-nations such as Nauru or Samoa – are Costa Rica, Andorra and the Vatican (whose 110-man Swiss Guard can hardly be called an army).
Peering out of our tent, I say goodnight to Puck and Pixie. They are standing side by side, probably discussing whatever it is motorcycles talk about when humans are not listening. Road conditions perhaps, petrol flavours or those sexy Ducati bikes they saw during the day. Or could they be flirting with each other, feeling butterflies in their fuel tanks? I switch off my head-torch, zip down the flaps and drift off to sleep. I needn’t fear Congolese rebels hiding in the woods, or worry about stepping on an Angolan landmine should I leave the tent for a midnight pee.
What to say? Aristotle regarded beauty as a quality of forms and proportions. Scottish philosopher David Hume thought it was a subjective opinion. Harvard professor George Santanaya suggested it may be defined as objectified pleasure. Whatever it is, I defy anybody to say it can’t be found somewhere in Europe. So if you are chuckling at the fact that Laura and I might need a week to cover Liechtenstein’s 24 kilometres, hey, trust us: we know what we are doing. What lies behind the horizon can wait.
Laura’s question, whether our bikes would be safe parked in the meadow, was very understandable. Theft is a major concern for overlanders. Their truck, car or motorcycle is often more than a simple machine to get them from A to B: it’s also their home. Sometimes, as in our case, it may contain the traveller’s entire worldly possessions.
Those who opt to drive around the world by car have multiple means to protect their vehicles from greedy fingers. One of the easiest and least technical is to remove the steering wheel and take it with you every time you go for a stroll. In Matilda, my old Land Rover, I had devised a quick-release system on my steering column for this purpose. I could deal with barkeepers in dodgy towns looking strangely at me when I placed the wheel next to my pint of lager or plate of empanadas. It was preferable to worrying constantly that my home might be nicked.
Concealed switches between the battery and ignition coil do the trick, as long as they are hidden well. Some travellers secure anything and everything with locking devices, while others prefer cutoff valves in the fuel line. Alarm systems with blaring sirens are rarely a good idea outside of the West. Noise in Delhi, for example, is not an annoyance but a fact of everyday life. Should a local sit on your bonnet or bike-seat – which is bound to happen minutes after you’ve left your vehicle – and the motion-detector sets off an ear-piercing wail, people will become amused and curious, not frightened. Kids (and some adults) will begin to play the very popular Indian game, “Who can set the alarm off until the battery goes flat”.
Some South Africans have come up with ingenious and diabolical techniques to safeguard their four wheels. All are highly illegal and morally questionable, but remember that Johannesburg has different standards to Vaduz. Jo’burg is the car-jacking capital of the world and violent robberies are commonplace. One friend of mine who’d had his car stolen five times in 12 months had had enough and placed a rum-bottle laced with rat-poison on the passenger’s seat. A few weeks later he woke to find his Toyota missing from the driveway. He didn’t have to walk far to recover it: the thief, who’d celebrated his new acquisition with a swig of Bacardi, had barely made it to the nearest intersection. Another of my mates, whose wife had been shot while behind the wheel of her car at a traffic light, showed me his new homemade anti-carjacking contraption: a retractable spring-loaded switchblade sword positioned at ankle-height under the driver’s door. He was out for vengeance and intent on making every highway-robber a foot shorter in stature. Then you have the flamethrower: a metal tube running from a fuel bottle to the top corner of your side-window, ignitable by means of an electric pilot-light – but I think I will stop here. I’m not in Africa any more; I’m in the neutral tax haven of Liechtenstein. Though some despots and dictators surely have their country’s treasures stashed away in banks here for safekeeping, I doubt they are tent-slashers or bike thieves.
Still, while Laura rests comfortably atop her mattress, I have retained the habit of sleeping on the ground in my full leather gear. Old routines are hard to break, even once they have become superfluous. Memories of unwanted guests approaching my campsite at night have not faded, and I feel less vulnerable if I am prepared to ward off potential invaders. Stepping into the open to face a troop of rebels, militia or thieving thugs is not a good idea if you are only clad in Batman undies. You might not be taken very seriously. Wear heavy motorcycle leathers, on the other hand, and even Woody Allen could be mistaken for Mad Max.
Apart from the above-mentioned options, there’s precious little an overlander can do to protect his set of wheels, especially if he’s a biker. As soon as it leaves his sight, all these security measures are placebos. If somebody seriously wants to nick a motorcycle, they swiftly lift it onto the back of a pick-up and drive away. Better than any safety mechanism is losing your attachment to possessions. As much as we love Puck and Pixie, they are replaceable.
Switzerland – 3 November 2012
“That’s a tunnel,” Laura observes correctly, stopping a dozen metres short of a gaping hole in the side of a mountain. “I don’t like tunnels.”
“It’s only a few hundred metres long. Look, you can almost see the light at the far end,” I try to calm her. “Just close your eyes and zip through; it will be over in a flash.”
On second thoughts, perhaps I shouldn’t have added that piece of advice. Laura has never driven through a tunnel and might take my words literally. I haven’t yet mustered up the courage to tell her that Switzerland contains more holes than Emmental cheese. She had better get used to them.
“Chris; telling me to ‘close my eyes, head for the light, it will be over soon’ is not reassuring. It sounds like you are trying to kill me!” Nevertheless, Laura pulls down her visor and accelerates towards the carnivorous jaws. I watch with a smile as she is swallowed by the mountain, then follow in her wake.
Most passes have already closed for the season due to recent snowfalls, and the autobahn, though more direct and open for traffic year-round, means paying tolls. To save on money, we keep to minor roads as we tour the country visiting old friends en route.
When I mentioned how swiftly the preparations for a world trip can be accomplished, it was a half-truth. The packing itself: yes, that’s quickly done, if you are well-versed in backpacking essentials. The initial logistics, such as acquiring visas for countries one intends to transit, are almost nil in our particular case. For those who wish to circumnavigate the globe in less than 12 months it’s advisable to procure beforehand all visas not directly available at borders. We can’t, since they will expire years before we reach our destinations. Instead, we need to apply at embassies along the way, always one or two countries in advance. Yet what I failed to mention was how no amount of time is sufficient for farewells to those with a place in your heart. It may be a while until I see them again. Hence the days turn into weeks and then a month, as we skirt from one side of the country to the other saying our goodbyes.
Aside from visiting friends, I really don’t mind spending a copious amount of time here. I am very fond of Switzerland and the Swiss, despite – or perhaps because of – their country’s little eccentricities. As a people, they seem to enjoy doing things their own way, irrespective of other European nations’ opinions. I can relate to that. I also do not follow every convention Western society dictates and see nothing wrong in being different. On the contrary: if anybody ever walked up to me and said, “Hey Chris, you are just sooooo normal!” I’d be deeply insulted.
Switzerland definitely falls short of the normal category within the eurozone. They are a member of the United Nations but not of the European Union. They agreed to join the Schengen Treaty but not the European Economic Area. While the vast majority of Germans wish to discontinue their nuclear energy policy, the Swiss turn down every anti-nuclear initiative brought forward in public referendums. And although they historically follow a policy of neutrality, they may be hoarding more weapons privately than the Pashtun in Pakistan. This is due to the structure of the Swiss Armed Forces, made up almost entirely of conscripts. Instead of completing compulsory service in one go, the Swiss must periodically attend boot camps over the course of many years to refresh their skills. Their army-issued weapons, meanwhile, are taken home. So don’t be surprised if that cupboard next to the fondue set contains a Sturmgewehr 90 assault rifle or Pistole 75 semi-automatic. There is a saying that Switzerland does not have an army; it is an army. I guess somebody has to safeguard the chocolate reserves.
Yet the single most fascinating idiosyncrasy must surely be how they originated the Geneva Conventions and host the UN Human Rights Council, but it was not until 1990 that women were allowed to vote in every canton. Universal suffrage has existed in Pakistan since 1947, in Syria since 1953 and in Libya since 1964. Meanwhile, here in the midst of Europe, we had a nation refusing to implement women’s suffrage at the federal level until the end of the 20th century! Appenzell Innerrhoden was the last canton to throw in the towel and allow women to the ballot box, but only under protest. “Don’t fix what isn’t broken. Who’s going to take care of the house and children, if we occupy our time with political issues?” was a notion brought forward by a number of female protesters. This outdated viewpoint may come as less of a surprise once you understand that voting in Appenzell and the canton of Glarus is still conducted by counting raised hands in a public square, not by computerised balloting. It seems archaic practices are not the sole prerogative of Middle Eastern or African nations, as many in Europe tend to believe.
From the value of direct democracy2 to wide-ranging cantonal sovereignty, our friends try to explain to us the ins and outs of Swiss politics, a topic I am deeply interested in. I believe that in order to fully appreciate a country as a traveller, it takes more than tasting the local cuisine and seeing the prime tourist attractions. Every nation is a complex tapestry woven of ancient historical, cultural and traditional threads. Only by pulling on a few loose strands will the fibre begin to unravel. Sometimes when I’ve visited war-torn countries repeatedly affected by civil unrests and rebellions – such as the Democratic Republic of Congo – a basic knowledge of local politics may have also saved my life. In Switzerland though, I probably needn’t concern myself. As with Liechtenstein, they haven’t been at war for hundreds of years, despite the fact that for most of that time only men were allowed to participate in politics.
It has started snowing in the low-lying valleys, not much more than a few flurries which were quick to melt, but we take it as a sign of an impending winter. The next snowfall may hit us harder and we must make haste. We dress in our warmest clothes and head in a southerly direction towards the canton of Valais, Zermatt and the Matterhorn. I had been there often enough before, whilst scrambling amongst the Alps and bagging peaks as a teenager. However Laura wants to see the Matterhorn, and as all men should know, a woman’s wishes must always be met.
We need to stop in Täsch and board a train for the final few kilometres, since Zermatt is a combustion-engine-free zone.
“Look, there they are again!” Laura observes inside a parking garage, as we hunt for a space to leave our bikes. “And I still say it’s insulting.”
What she’s objecting to are the parking bays marked “Reserved for Women”, another Swiss oddity. Some appear large enough to accommodate a lorry. Lengthwise. I try to explain that the added width is so that female customers can lift toddlers out of their rear seats more easily.
“Rubbish. For them you already have the ‘Reserved for Women with Children’ parking spaces. I’m telling you, the signs imply that women can’t park!”
I take out the tape-measure from my toolbox. Laura may have a point. The standard car-ports are 2.3 metres wide, those specifically for women 3.5 metres – the same as the bays reserved for disabled persons.
“Hmm. You could be right. Once when I was in a Bangkok shopping centre, I saw these hyper-dimensioned parking spaces demarcated with blinking pink ‘landing-lights’ for the ladies. It was apparently the idea of some insurance company, upset with the disparity in gender-adjusted collision statistics.”
The shuttle to the terminus of the Mattertal takes only a few minutes and arrives punctual to the second. We had expected nothing less. Swiss are proud of their nation’s meticulous organisational skills. Much of the country runs with the same precision as their world-renowned watches. Another saying in Switzerland claims how “other countries may tell the time, but we make it.” In some regards, this fixation on precision may best be described with the unlikely phrase “charmingly pedantic”. The postal service vehicles honk a perfect cis-e-a chord from Rossini’s opera William Tell when they turn sharp bends on mountain passes; the national flag is uniquely square instead of rectangular, awarding it an extra two lines of symmetry; and the Swiss even have a Käseverordnung, a legal framework that specifies the dimensions of a “standard Emmental cheese hole” (between one and three centimetres in diameter, evenly distributed, since you asked).
Laura and I often do not know what to make of this obsession with orderliness. We have spent most of our lives in disorganised countries where trains may be delayed by days, time is judged by the passing of seasons and squares seem to have five corners and three sides of unequal length. Hell, I don’t even own a watch. My last one I binned decades ago.
Waiting for us at Zermatt station is Cor, a passionate traveller himself, who rents out holiday apartments and couches. The former he does to earn a living, the latter as a hobby. Laura had contacted Cor through a “couchsurfing” website. Basically, if you have a spare bed at home, you offer it online to visitors free of charge. In return, the couch-host might enjoy a few days’ pleasant company, if the guests are agreeable.
“Yeah, it can be a bit hit-and-miss. For both sides, mind you,” Cor explains as we wander up the hillside to his house, “but generally speaking most travellers are nice and the discussions interesting. It’s not always easy to find like-minded people in Zermatt.”
I can relate to that. After a lengthy journey away, one may return home to find that you and the friends you left behind no longer have much in common. The price of rice in China will awaken as much interest in them as you will have when leafing through their wedding and baby photo-albums. Please do not misunderstand: I am not placing arbitrary values on discussion topics, just making an observation. The loss of common ground is the natural result of diverging lives: no more, no less. My guess would be that Cor, having temporarily settled down, feels lonely and couchsurfing is a splendid way of bringing the world to his door, if he cannot venture into the world himself. For us, his offer is a godsend. Zermatt is prohibitively expensive, even by Swiss standards.
Opening the door, Cor shows us his couch, his nuclear fallout shelter and his balcony. The couch folds out to a queen-size bed and suits us perfectly. The shelter is a radiation-proof vault and slightly less accommodating. According to Swiss residential building codes, every citizen must have access to one, and many are privately owned. The balcony is best, offering views of Zermatt and, in the background, the iconic emblem of Switzerland and that most Tobleronesque of peaks: the majestic pyramid of the Matterhorn!
The last time I viewed it was 23 years ago when I was 19. Almost a quarter of a century has passed since then. Damn. Expressing one’s age in century terms really does make you feel old. Climbing the Matterhorn had been my boyhood dream. I remember it like yesterday: after a quick breakfast at 03:30, I stepped onto the immense natural staircase of the Hörnli Ridge to see a long string of lights ahead of me, flickering like fireflies, winding their way up the great slope. These were the head torches of the early birds – climbers who had left just past midnight. Then, just below the Solvay Shelter, the rising sun brought light and warmth to the new day, but also triggered avalanches. Chunks of ice, sometimes as large as houses, began tumbling down the notorious North Face, obliterating everything in their paths. Before midday I reached the snow-capped cornice, steep and exposed at first, then gently easing off towards the top. At last the double summit – 4,478 metres high, connected by a thin, rocky ridge and crowned with an iron cross. I vividly recall my elation at having successfully followed in the footsteps of Edward Whymper and his party of six, during their first ascent in 1865. After a short rest, I began the descent – albeit along a much less direct route than Whymper’s team. Their climb ended in tragedy, when four members plummeted to their deaths on their way down from the summit.
This time around, I have no plans to test my grit against the rock. If there’s one thing I learnt from years of so-called adventures, it’s that one does not continuously need to defy death in order to appreciate life. Peaceful leisure can be just as rewarding. Thus, Laura and I sip a latte on a mountain refuge terrace surrounded by Breithorn, Dufourspitze and Lyskamm, and stroll through the Mattertal valley, imagining what life must have been like when Heidi still roamed the region. Yes I know Heidi is a cliché, a stereotype many Swiss frown upon. Yet I can think of many names people drop whenever their country is mentioned that are far less flattering than an orphan girl tending goats and grandfathers in the Alps. When travelling as a German abroad, for example, you often need to deal with locals calling out “Heil Hitler” as soon as you reveal your nationality. Johanna Spyri’s portrayal of the Swiss landscape is really not too far off the mark, even a century and a half after she wrote her children’s classic. Nowhere are the Alps more picturesque. Please allow a hopeless romantic to yodel his soul out a bit.
The town of Zermatt itself has lost much of its romance. Once a quiet little village, it’s now a booming ski resort with several times as many tourists as inhabitants. The main drag is a single uninterrupted sequence of souvenir shops, hotels and restaurants. On our last evening, Cor invites us out for a farewell drink. Zermatt is almost silent as we walk the streets in search of a pub, though they are full of people. The council has recently widened the definition of “unruly behaviour” to include noisiness at night and intoxication in public places. Enforcement is carried out by the aptly named “Shh-Police”, who can spot-fine violators with a 300 Swiss franc (about $320) penalty.
Inside our chosen establishment, a musician is tuning his guitar and testing the loudspeakers. He’s in his mid-twenties, scruffy looking and wearing those baggy jeans that reveal the colour of one’s underwear. But damn can he play! Soon enough he has our toes tapping to classical rock ballads and hits from the 1970s.
“What’s his name?” I shout over the music into Cor’s ear.
“That’s Spencer. Spencer Chaplin. He comes here every so often,” Cor yells back.
“Chaplin? Like Charlie, the silent-film actor?”
“He was Spencer’s grandfather.”
Just now, when I claimed that romanticism was a thing of the past in the Mattertal valley, I may have been mistaken. We order another round of beer and I step outside for a smoke. In the distance I see the Matterhorn, beneath a canopy of heavenly stars, glittering under Luna’s veil. What could be more romantic (and bizarre) than listening to the Tramp’s grandson singing Have You Ever Seen the Rain? by Creedence Clearwater Revival under moonlit mountains?
Morning breaks far too soon, bringing our tour of Switzerland to a close. We return by train to our bikes and cross the Alps into Italy. The last remaining open pass is the Simplon, but even this road would be better suited for ice-skates than motorcycle tyres. A blizzard is brewing near the top.
“Isn’t there a tunnel we can take?” Laura asks. “They are always so nice and warm inside!” In the past month she has undergone a U-turn in her opinion of tunnels.
“One more hurdle, Laura. On the far side we’ll celebrate with an Italian red. If Hannibal could do it with elephants, you’ll manage with Pixie.” Some theories suggest the great Carthaginian military commander passed somewhere nearby 2,230 years ago during the Second Punic War with 38,000 infantry, 8,000 cavalry and 37 war elephants. At the time Hannibal was 43, only a year older than me. But my reassurance tactic backfires again.
“Um, if I remember my history lessons correctly, almost all the elephants died attempting to cross.”
Italy – 8 December 2012
Another Hannibal, Hannibal the cat, jumped out of the fourth-floor window. Whether inspired by Felix Baumgartner to break the longest free-fall record for felines, attempting to match the bravery of his Carthaginian namesake or because some interpretations of the Mayan calendar prophesise that the world will end on 21 December anyway – which is in a few weeks – I cannot say. We’d barely stayed a night in Loredana’s Genoese apartment when her cat literally “flipped out”. Incredibly, he survived the plunge to the pavement, with no greater injuries than a sprained ankle and bloodied nose. Laura and I felt responsible.
“I heard that cats don’t like changes to their surroundings,” Laura apologetically explains to her friend. “Maybe Hannibal was upset because we’re sleeping in his bedroom?”
Loredana dismisses our concerns and strokes the bandaged puss now purring on her lap. “No; I don’t think so. See how cross-eyed Hannibal is? He probably saw two windowsills and stepped on the wrong one by mistake.”
I hope she’s right. We’re planning to visit a number of Laura’s friends and relatives in Italy. If all their pets try to commit suicide as soon as we arrive we’ll probably not be very welcome.
This is only the latest of unfortunate incidents since we crossed the border. Our bad luck began at the Simplon Pass. Halfway up the Swiss side, a minor blizzard rolled over the mountain. Within minutes, visibility decreased to zero and temperatures dropped far below. For the first time on our trip I wished myself back in the comfy confines of my Land Rover. Somehow we managed to plough over the snow-covered summit and descend again to lower altitudes, where the snow turned first to slush and then to rain. The weather remained wet for the next weeks, and thus, so did we.
However, whereas we merely felt miserable, many residents along the Ligurian coast fared far worse. Italian towns seem unable to cope with the seasonal downpours. Every winter, without fail, the skies open their sluices for a few days, wreaking havoc below. A sense of despair shrouded Carrara as we wove our way through what remained of the city’s infrastructure. The previous night, high up in the Marble Mountains, a dam had burst, triggering a massive landslide. Bridges collapsed, roads exploded and housing units became islands in a sea of muck. Navigating an obstacle course of overturned cars and uprooted trees, we observed how the marooned victims emptied the contents of their homes onto the pavement and tried to rescue what little they could.
“We deal with this mayhem almost every year,” a disgruntled resident explained to us. “The dams were built before the Second World War and Prime Minister Berlusconi does nothing to maintain them. The council knew of the cracks and seepages! For what do I pay taxes?”
The poor man had a valid point and his heartfelt criticism of the government was quite understandable. In a nutshell, the Italian government is considered corrupt, semi-dysfunctional (to the point of being theatrical) and annoyingly slow to implement much-needed reforms to boost the economy and improve the infrastructure. Moreover, Silvio Berlusconi himself is one of Italy’s wealthiest men, with a net worth of an estimated $8 billion. One might expect him and his party to be a tad more generous and considerate towards the needs of the ordinary citizen.
It was impossible to miss the signs of neglect. The roads from the border to Domodossola, Novara, Carrara and Genoa were in a state of complete disrepair, and the towns in no better condition. Compared to Italy’s northerly neighbours – definitely spotless Switzerland – most appeared dirty and dilapidated. On the outskirts of these cities, in lay-bys left and right of the main arteries, skimpily clad girls stood shivering in the cold – not just one or two but many dozens. According to a UN report in 2011, there may be as many as 20,000 prostitutes in Italy of Nigerian descent alone. The majority were refugees, people from war-torn countries who may have been granted asylum, but received neither a work permit nor any other form of government assistance. Segregated to the margins of society, they frequently end up in prostitution, the drug trade, pushing trolleys at supermarkets for a pittance or selling fake Gucci bags in city pedestrian zones. While many European nations assist asylum-seekers by providing free housing, language courses and job training, Italy does not. If they manage to survive the sea crossing to the island of Lampedusa, qualify for refugee status and reach the mainland – what next? Without assistance, accommodation is limited to abandoned buildings or the floors of railway stations. Think what you like about allowing migrants into Europe, Italy’s solution is surely not the best.
Even Laura is shocked by her home country’s appearance as we stroll through Genoa from one piazza to the next. “The only thing the government seems to invest in is rat-traps,” she complains, referring to the black boxes laced with poison at every street-corner. “And look at the rubbish. When will it get picked up? No wonder rats are everywhere.”
I’m forced to agree; the waste problem is all too obvious. Miniature Matterhorns of heaped rubbish bags line the streets, spilling their guts into the gutters, torn open by some hungry cat, dog or rodent. Unlike in Germany, Italian houses usually don’t have outdoor lidded bins nor do many cities collect the refuse regularly. Without any doubt, this country contains some of the most splendid historic architecture in the world, yet certain aspects of Bella Italia definitely do not appear very bella. But maybe the appalling weather is affecting our mood; grey skies and rain can make even the most magnificent cathedral appear dark and dreary.
The following morning we say goodbye to Loredana and Hannibal, then head for Cinque Terre and Pisa. At the former we wish to park Puck and Pixie and hike the Via dell’Amore, or the Way of Love, between the coastal towns of Riomaggiore and Manarola. This rugged section of the Italian Riviera is said to be exceptionally beautiful, but we have to take their word for it. Our run of rotten luck continues, and the walk is closed to the public. Last year torrential rains caused a mudslide, killing nine people on the trail. Judging by what we have witnessed of Italian efficiency it will probably not reopen again this century. Pisa, on the other hand, is still there, but by now we’re almost afraid to visit. If the Leaning Tower ever does topple, it will be the minute we arrive.
To our surprise and delight it doesn’t. The sun has also finally decided to reappear. For the first time in many weeks, we strip off our multiple layers of clothing and lay them out to dry in the grass gardens of the Piazza del Duomo. Laura spread-eagles herself on the ground, revelling in the unaccustomed warmth. I follow suit, rest my head on her shoulder and allow my eyes to roam from the cathedral to the baptistery, and to the banana-shaped Torre Pendente itself. All the structures are tilting, one way or another. What did the builders say when they first noticed how their masterpieces were slowly sinking into the soft subsoil, more than 800 years ago? My best guess would be “Oops”. What else can you say?
A stroll around town further lifts our spirits. I wish I understood the finer details of the architecture. I have about as much grasp of the Renaissance period as I do of cooking: precious little. Beauty speaks best to those who know the language, regardless of the medium, so I vow to rectify my lack of knowledge – regarding ancient Italy, not food preparation. Laura is quite adept at cooking and I wouldn’t want to take away her job.
Just then I notice something that grabs my full attention: a sundial with an inscription beneath. I can only decipher parts, since my Italian is limited to linguistic correlations with Spanish, which I speak to a certain extent. Laura comes to my rescue:
“ ‘Pensa che questo di’ mai non raggiorna’ … hmm, that means more or less ‘Just think; this day will never dawn again.’ ” What a grand slogan for a sundial. And life! To treat each day as if it were your last you don’t have to go to the extremes of the Mayans by suggesting that the world will actually end – though an approaching Armageddon may result in greater appreciation of life’s remaining hours – just carpe diem (seize the day), at least when the times are good. I’ve always found that living in the present is not advisable during life’s darker moments; the hope for a better future is sometimes the only mind-set which can preserve one’s sanity. I give Laura a big hug, and hand in hand we return to our bikes. Despite the past weeks’ downfalls – literally, because Laura has dropped her bike seven times so far and I have once – look where we are now: 77 days into our trip, riding our motorcycles through Tuscany.
“Pensa che questo di’ mai non raggiorna” could, of course, also have the opposite meaning. It is possible the stonemasons who engraved the motto were wild-camping like us. Finding a suitable place to pitch our tents in Italy is an arduous task at the best of times, especially if you start hunting for a site too late in the day.
“I really hope that this day will never dawn again!” Laura says one evening, peering out of our tent. We had erected it on a rubbish tip beneath an abandoned cement factory. I count at least seven piles of excrement from an unknown source within a two-yard radius.
“Dalle stelle alle stalle (from the stars to the stables),” my girl sighs referring to all the immaculate wild-camping we had enjoyed north of the Alps.
Rivers, coastlines and viewpoints are often where local Italians dump their refuse. Our best chance to find a halfway pleasant and hidden location is inland, away from the coast. Fields behind an olive grove will do, or the greens around abandoned churches.
“Don’t Italians ever camp?” I ask.
“You mean like us? In a tent? Not really. Some Italians might have a caravan parked on the coast. They visit the same spot every single summer from the time they are toddlers until after retirement. ‘Stessa spiaggia, stesso mare (same beach, same sea).’ The vans are crammed in bumper to bumper, as are the beach towels at the stabilimenti. On any given day in August, you can see more than 150,000 beach umbrellas planted in the sand around Rimini alone. I find it a bit strange. I’m used to palm-studded beaches in Australia. The stabilimenti are a nightmare!”
As ugly as some aspects of Italy can be, we stumble just as often upon the polar opposite: cities whose former architects seemingly attempted to surpass each other’s workmanship, thereby steadily raising the bar on the definition of bella. In Florence, Venice and Siena, every bridge beckons us across and every piazza invites us to linger. Armed with a bottle of red wine, we indulge in an hour of dolce vita by holding a pisolino – siesta – in the courtyards, or stroll through narrow alleyways, a cup of latte in one hand, a chocolate croissant in the other. Much is as new for Laura as it is for me. It’s been decades since she last toured her country.
Some things may have changed in Italy over the past years. In the centre of many cities are coin-operated pizza-vending machines. Next to them, you may see another unit that dispenses up to 15 different types of coffee. Laura’s nonna (granny) would be appalled. Technology has penetrated even the stoutest medieval fortification. At Monteriggioni, an ancient walled town on a natural hillock and stopover along the Via Francigena – a famous pilgrim trail connecting Canterbury with Rome – a massive sign hangs outside the main gate. It reads: “To enhance appreciation of this site, visitors can scan the QR codes. Apps for mobile devices are available in three languages, and describe points of interest using text, audio, video and Augmented Reality. Simply visit your local Multimedia App Store and Android Market.”
I do not understand a single word of the text. Am I missing out on something vitally important, because I have neither a mobile device nor local android? Do QR codes enhance one’s appreciation of beauty? Perhaps they do; I cannot say. I suddenly feel medieval myself.
What I also fail to understand is Italy’s fixation with religion, relics and saint worship. Padre Pio – the stigmatist and mystic priest who was canonised by Pope John Paul II in 2002 – is omnipresent and his picture gazes at us from behind nearly every mini-market cashier counter. Relics are no less prevalent: we’ve lost count of the saintly spare parts strewn throughout the nation. Thank heavens they don’t have interactive audio-apps like the walls at Monteriggioni. Not yet, at least. The shrivelled head of Saint Catherine in Siena doesn’t welcome us with a “Hello. I am dead. Look at my head.” Francis lies in Assisi and one of Jesus’s many severed foreskins was housed in Calcata. The prepuce was reported stolen from the church in 1983 and no traces of it have been found since. There’s hardly a crypt in Italy without displays of corpses or fragments thereof. Dressed in religious vestments and encased in glass coffins, they lie waiting for pious individuals to offer a candle at their private altars. I don’t find decomposing bodies the prettiest of sights, and so I marvel at the marble, frescos and paintings by Donatello instead.
The world doesn’t end on 21 December, as the tabloid press suggested it might, but instead decides to continue on its habitual orbit around the sun, as it probably will for at least another five billion years. Tired but happy, we finally reach Sapri, where we intend to welcome in the new year with one of Laura’s 14 aunts. Though the birth rate has declined dramatically over the past decades, Italian families are traditionally huge. The numbers are exponential: Laura’s father had 12 siblings, one of whom had a dozen children himself. And the strangest thing, for me at least, is how many live in the same apartment block. Laura’s Zia Anna occupies a flat on the third floor, her daughter is on the second and another uncle lives on the first. Two additional relations reside within calling distance from Zia’s kitchen window in the adjacent building, and even the most distant relatives are not more than a few streets away.
“Lauretta! Chris! Ben arrivati! Avete fame?” Zia Anna welcomes us.
Avete fame? means “Are you hungry?”. Little did I know how this phrase would haunt me for the next three weeks.
It appears most of life revolves around food – or to be more precise pasta, in one of its multiple shapes and forms. Pasta asciutta, pasta amatriciana, pasta al forno, pasta all’infinito; there’s no end as to what delicious things Italians can do with a noodle. My problem is that I have to try them all, and often more than one variant in a single sitting.
“Hai fame?” Zia shouts at me during Sunday lunch, a few days later. Startled by her voice, I jolt upright in my chair. I’d been trying in vain to understand the table conversations of the 15 family guests around me. All are yelling simultaneously at a volume that could drown out the noise of a landing Concorde. The 15-way exchange is not a family feud or heated quarrel about politics. They are just discussing food, and what should be prepared later for dinner.
“HAI FAME?” Zia asks again when I take too long to respond, this time exceeding 100 decibels. No wonder Italians make great opera singers.
“No grazie, sono sazio (No thank you, I’m full)” I respond, very honestly.
“Non gli piace? (Doesn’t he like it?)” Zia questions Laura, seated beside me. Laura tries to diffuse the situation by showering the meal with praise on my behalf, but the tactic rarely works. As a guest of honour, I am expected – no, I’m required – to eat until my eyeballs pop out.
“Chris, maybe it’s best you take another plate. And Zia is not shouting at you because she’s upset; she merely believes you understand Italian better when she speaks more loudly.”
Midday turns into mid-afternoon, and the guests begin to disperse. Not home but to gender-segregated rooms. The men settle in front of the television to watch Sunday footy, while the women shuffle into the kitchen to wash the dishes and gossip over a cup of espresso beneath portraits of Padre Pio. Laura and I join the female faction. I’m amazed how my girl can morph from a relatively calm Australian into a hot-blooded Italian the minute she’s surrounded by her kin. She can hold her own against even the loudest and fastest-speaking family member.
“Do you ever breathe?” I tease her. “You’re exceeding 300 words per minute. Motorcycles have RPM counters; some women should have a similar device to count WPMs! You’re definitely in the red-zone.”
“True,” she laughs. “And by the way, it’s been decided that we’ll have pasta for supper. Again.”
One of the greatest differences between German and Italian psyche is how the latter generally abhors the thought of “change”. This notion intensifies the closer one gets to the tip of the Italian boot. Nurturing structured habits is widely seen as a positive trait, and is often taken to extremes. The thought of trying something new and different does not lead to a tingle of anticipation or excitement. From food recipes and holiday destinations to social interactions and how many spoons of sugar you want in your coffee – once you’ve established a set routine in life, it remains unaltered until the day you die. I’d get bored stiff. Many Italians, however, seem to find repetitiveness comforting and essential for a bella vita.
The guests put on their puffy coats, shawls and hats, readying themselves to join the procession to the door. Tomorrow, and possibly every day this decade, they’ll converge for lunch at precisely 13:00 on the dot. I find it odd that one needs to dress fully before ascending or descending a single flight of stairs, but in this part of Italy at least, such behaviour is the norm. The hallway in the stairwell apparently has a draught, and somebody might catch the feared cervicale.
Italians are prone to illnesses other nations are ignorant of. La cervicale is the most common ailment, and is best translated as an inflammation of the neck vertebrae. Your eyes, ears or abdomen might also catch a colpo d’aria (a hit of air) if you don’t dress properly in winter. Then you have the dreadful malady “change of seasons”, the worrisome “liver-pains”, the mysterious “ill vapours” and worse. I customarily take off my boots when entering people’s houses but Zia will have none of it.
“He will catch a cervicale,” she declares, looking at me as if I’m but a foot from my deathbed. In Italy, removing shoes is almost as bad as drinking cappuccino after 12:00, going out with wet hair or not waiting a minimum of three hours after a meal before taking a dip in the sea. Compared to northern Europe, Italians are hypochondriacs.
There are other idiosyncrasies that also strike me as peculiar. Back in the kitchen, Zia puts on a shower cap and begins to prepare dinner. Quizzically, I look at Laura.
“It’s usual, Chris. She doesn’t want her hairdo smelling of food. Stylish hair is important in Italy. Zia visits the hairdresser’s twice a week.”
Trying to picture myself wearing a shower cap when cooking with our petrol camping-stove, I pour myself a fifth coffee. The cups in Italy are only the size of thimbles.
“It’s strange; I feel almost as if I’ve never left,” Laura continues. “I’m surrounded by the same perfume smells, same furniture and same people, of course now older. The kids I used to push around in prams have all grown up. They still live at their mum’s, even though they are in their thirties.”
Suddenly Zia pushes Laura gently to the side and passes me a plate of panettone with a smile. “Hai fame?”
Mid-January we leave Sapri and make our way towards Croatia – both of us four kilograms heavier. Fattened up, we should be able to survive through the rest of winter.
“Laura, what’s for dinner?”
“Two-minute instant noodles – I think the ones with artificial chicken flavour.”
“Delightful! Looking forward to that … E621 is my absolute favourite.”
Much later, lips numb from an overdose of monosodium glutamate, I lie back in my sleeping bag and allow my mind to wander through the events of the past four months. On the whole we’ve had it good. Should somebody conduct a happiness survey and ask me “on a scale of one to ten, where ten represents the best possible life, how satisfied are you?” I’d immediately respond with a “nine”. A point would have to be deducted for the quality of tonight’s dinner, my almost painfully itching scalp after two showerless weeks and the current weather situation. The sky has been pelting us with sleet for days.
“How about some hot coffee?” Laura asks, barely audible. Her voice is muffled because her sleeping bag is zipped up entirely. Like an arctic seal under pack ice, only the tip of her nose is sticking out of a small aglu (the Canadian word for the small breathing hole that seals make in the ice). Underneath she is wearing several layers of clothing in an attempt to stay warm.
Laura ranks a bit lower on the happiness index. When I ask her to rate her wellbeing between one and ten, she replies with a muted “Minus 40, like the temperature feels”. As an Italo-Australian accustomed to sun and heat, she suffers infinitely more than I do when the thermometer approaches zero. Yesterday in her diary, she began her entry for San Marino with the ominous title: “Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy and Laura’s Hell.” Our dissimilar metabolic rates with regard to thermal energy conversion have led to the only major hiccup in our planning for the far-flung future: we can’t reach a consensus on where to build a house, should we ever settle down. Laura envisages a cabin on a palm-studded beach; I lean towards a mountain hut near the snowline. Somewhere in between there’s surely room for compromise.
Of course, our discomforts are self-inflicted. If one embarks on a motorcycle trip in winter it will be cold, even on the Adriatic. Like Dante on his travels through Purgatory, where he faced all the consequences of his life’s choices, we’ll just have to deal with our situation, including the weather god’s occasional foul moods, cold numb fingers, drenched clothing, stiff-as-a-brick socks and water pooling in our boots. However, everything is relative, especially suffering. In an attempt to comfort Laura, I tell her about my past biking experiences in northern Norway and Kurdistan during winter, when the thermometer really did drop to 40 below, as well as tales of the months with my Land Rover Matilda in the frozen wastelands of Siberia.
“Now I feel even colder! Tell me about piping hot showers, palm trees, crystal-clear warm waters and refreshing cocktails.”
But a short while later I already hear the deep, slow breathing of my girl asleep, hopefully dreaming of a nice sunny beach. We both have top-quality Swiss Army sleeping bags: even a tropical soul such as Laura will survive the night. Lulled by my love’s rhythmic exhaling, I close my eyes and smile. Isn’t life perfect? Hey, let me up that nine again to a ten.
I guess our lifestyle is not everybody’s cup of tea. It’s rather basic, to say the least, especially since we swapped our Land Rover for motorcycles. The former had almost six square metres of living space; my three aluminium bike-boxes only 120 litres of volume combined. Chihuahuas would be given larger doghouses. Living out of the back of a vehicle or motorcycle top-case is what I’ve been accustomed to since my 18th birthday, and – at least for the time being – I cannot think of any lifestyle I’d prefer. I’ve found my own niche where I can follow my routines, see the world, determine my destiny and freely express my individuality. This nook and the fact that I can share it with Laura are the main contributors to my personal happiness.
I consider myself lucky in the sense that my chosen lifestyle requires very little material wealth to preserve. I have no house, but I also have no mortgage. I have little in my bank account, but at least I’m free of debts. I own no shower, but I also have no water, electricity or heating bills overflowing in my (nonexistent) mailbox. I guess I have a job of sorts – if you want to call being an author a profession. I’d rather see it as a highly enjoyable passion. My income suffices to buy petrol, two-minute noodles and sometimes a bit more. I have food, freedom and friends; what else could I possibly want?
I’m aware that most people’s happiness niches are considerably more complex and higher maintenance than mine. They are also more fragile. The European sovereign debt crisis that has been running since 2009 plus the various austerity measures are breaching these private niches’ defence mechanisms. As a result, many in the eurozone – and especially here in Italy – are not all that pleased. People who’ve invested decades of their lives trying to secure a safe haven for their families are now despairing over unemployment, bankruptcies and loan defaults. In 2011, a record 11,615 Italian businesses closed their doors.
“Our government is the new mafia!” is the standard opinion of small-business owners. “They’re all corrupt, line their pockets with our taxes and are unwilling to reinvest.”
From the unemployed, some still in their thirties with their pride hurt, we hear: “If you don’t have good connections, it’s impossible to find a job! And who will hire me at my age? Does the government expect me to live on the street and sift through rubbish bins?”
The unmentioned irony of the situation is that they are relating their woes to us: two homeless but happy vagabonds in drenched motorcycle leathers with holes in their socks.
Some Italian government officials defend themselves by stating that the ordinary citizen has contributed to the chronic economic stagnation. Evading taxes and engaging in black market activity has been standard practice amongst Italians for decades. The losses amount to almost 16% of Italy’s GDP! “Now the free ride is over,” they say, to which the disgruntled citizen might reply, “Why shouldn’t we evade taxes, when it’s a known fact that our government is corrupt?” Clearly this manner of reasoning results in a perfect devil’s circle.
A third possibility, which might explain why some in Europe feel the crisis more than others, may have something to do with demographic spending habits. Anything considered “quintessentially Italian” is upheld regardless of cost. “Fare una bella figura”, the general emphasis on elegant appearances and reputation, for example, surpasses most nations’ standards by leagues. You’ll rarely find an Italian man with a poorly fitting suit or woman with “Made in China” sunglasses from the pound shop. Despite an overall decrease in consumer spending these past years, the average per capita expenditure in Italy on clothing and footwear was $1,200 in 2011 – almost double Germany’s and 20 times mine. Even if it isn’t Gucci, Prada, Armani or Ferragamo, many Italians will still purchase quality, whether they can afford it or not.
It doesn’t end with apparel. Yes, even on a moderate income, one should still employ a cleaning lady and nanny. No, the self-service pumps at petrol stations are not meant for the respectable Italian. It’s better to pay six cents more per litre at the attended fuel pumps than get your hands dirty. Yes, by all means a woman should go to the hair-salon at least once a week. And no, she shouldn’t walk there. As a matter of fact, one should avoid walking anywhere, unless it’s a Sunday passeggiata stroll along the boardwalk to show off one’s stylish hairdo and newly purchased fashion items. At the same time, only 62% of Italians managed to break even at the end of the 2011 fiscal year. Taking all of the above into account, could there be a possible correlation? Small sums do add up. I’m oddly reminded of my time in India, where many on a low income complained about their living conditions and lack of private sanitary facilities in their homes. A proper toilet costs $300, I was told, often seconds before our conversation was interrupted by the individual’s equally expensive mobile phone ringing. 53% of Indians own one, yet less than half of the population has access to a toilet. I guess everybody has their subjective priorities.
One way or another, I’m always at a loss how to respond when engaged in these discussions with Italians. For me personally, the financial calamity is invisible. Please do not misquote me. I’d be the last person to belittle the woes of others. From what I’ve gathered, the problems most Italians face are very real and must be taken seriously. Some have even taken their despair a step further and committed suicide for economic reasons. According to the EURES Social Research Institute, two Italians take their lives every day on average. There must be a better solution. In my view, neither a lack of funds nor losing your job should imply that life is not worth living.
I most definitely can’t advise people in Italy and elsewhere to imitate our lifestyle. Selling all possessions bar what fits into a rucksack and freeing yourself from material burdens to travel around the globe might work for some, but it’s not a recommendable alternative for most. Besides, society would be in tatters if everybody on the planet suddenly decided to mount motorcycles, travel to the horizon and write books about their experiences. We’d have a world full of vast libraries under a cloud of carbon-dioxide emissions, but little else.
Perhaps I could cite extremes, as I did when I tried to comfort my shivering Laura with tales from Siberia? I’ve been to countries suffering a true crisis, where people died of hunger, disease or the effects of war. Viewing the state of our planet in a wider context can make our European woes seem petty by comparison. Try to imagine the current global population of seven billion shrunk proportionately in size to a town with only 100 inhabitants: 15 would be severely malnourished and live on less than one dollar a day, 30 would be housed in slum-like conditions, 22 would have no electricity, 13 would have no access to safe drinking water and nine could not read this sentence because they’d be illiterate. But I fear that any attempt to prove numerically how privileged we are in Europe is futile. The average “man on the street” might re-evaluate his definition of a crisis, despite his job loss and bankruptcy, should he spend a few months in the Democratic Republic of Congo or Nigeria. But he’s not in Africa. He’s in Italy, possibly having worked his whole life to afford an Alfa Romeo Giulietta and a De’Longhi espresso machine. Downsizing to a bicycle and cup of instant coffee is an unimaginable sacrifice. Especially for an Italian.
Throughout life, there are zeniths and nadirs. Oddly, when it comes to financial growth, most people expect a steady increase. This is completely unrealistic, wishful thinking. C. S. Lewis once wrote “security is mortal’s greatest enemy”, and he could be right. Perhaps some, when rebuilding their businesses from scratch, should make an effort to refocus and diversify their priorities in the future? I believe the pursuit of a predominantly money-oriented lifestyle can be rather hazardous. There are more sustainable value-systems one can follow to achieve a state of wellbeing. Though the quantification of happiness is highly subjective, there are nonetheless indicators to suggest that a healthy balance between the social, mental and economic parts of life may not be such a bad idea. You know … if only as a safety net for when the market inevitably melts again.
However, as I have no definitive answer when engaged in these roadside conversations, I do what is generally wisest: listen, hold my tongue and simply nod. I’m not in the shoes of those whose dreams have been shattered by the crisis; my current concerns revolve around typical bikers’ problems – how many days until I can enjoy my next hot shower and when I can get out of my wet gear, lick my wounds and finally thaw out. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after. Near Venice at the terminus of the Strada Statale 16 there is supposedly an affordable campsite that is open in winter. Maybe the weather will also clear up. But it’s late; time to follow Laura into dreamland.
Croatia – 20 February 2013
Climb into the saddle, turn the ignition, start the engine. The sun’s just rising. You head out to the coast road, windswept mountains to your left, the glistening blue ocean to your right. Beyond, in the distance, is the open horizon. Grip the handlebars and open the throttle. The motor responds immediately, roaring, raging, as you pick up speed – you’re soaring now. The wind hits you; you’re in charge. Click through the gears as you take the sinuous bends then smile. You know what? You’re a goddamn biker. Is there anything better in the world?
What held true for the swordboat captain in the film The Perfect Storm is equally valid for the motorcycle rider. It’s the same passion – only the vehicle used to attain this sense of freedom is different. Laura now feels the same way. As predicted, by the time we cross the border into Croatia, she’s become a fully fledged biker herself. 6,000 kilometres on two wheels will do that to you. Fair enough, it may be a while before she Evel Knievels over canyons,3 but she no longer frets or asks for assistance when we descend steep, pebbly footpaths in search of hidden coves to spend the night.
Winter’s worst appears to be over. A final bout of snowfall hits us in the forested mountains of Slovenia, but here on the Dalmatian coast the temperatures are steadily on the rise as we hop between a dozen of the country’s 1,185 islands – of which only 48 are inhabited – from the peninsula of Istria southward to the fortress city of Dubrovnik. The most we have to contend with are sudden violent winds.
“Listen. Is that a train approaching?” Laura asks one evening as we lie in our tent. I need a while to respond, my mind still mulling over Laura’s latest magic trick. How in the world did she just manage to remove her bra from underneath several layers of clothing while inside a sleeping bag without getting undressed? It’s a mystery; a performance worthy of Houdini. Women give the magical incantation “a-bra-cada-bra” a completely new meaning.
Before I can answer, our tent flattens like a pancake, and the only thing keeping it from flying away is our combined weight inside. I need to shout in order to make myself understood.
“Batten down the hatches! It’s the bora!”
The bora, the sirocco and the maestral – it seems those residing along the Croatian coast have as many words for winds as, it is said, the Inuit have for varieties of snow. Whereas the northwesterly maestral is a mild, sea-to-coast, summer wind welcomed by sailors, and the sirocco is a warm, humid, southeasterly storm frequently carrying Saharan sand within its raindrops, the bora is by far the most feared. Inexperienced skippers may find their sailing-boats capsizing, and lorry drivers wondering what hit them when a sudden gust overturns their vehicles. In bursts, the bora can reach hurricane speeds of up to 250 kph in extreme cases. It’s usually a wintertime katabatic wind, originating from the mountains to the north. On the island of Pag, residents report how fish are sometimes flung from the water and piled up on dry land!
“How long does the bora usually last?” Laura asks, fighting against the buffeting canvas.
“Mostly only a day or two, but sometimes up to two weeks. How much food do we have?” There’s no way I’m riding my bike in this weather to go shopping. Besides, Croatia wisely closes many roads, highways and bridges during a bora. Luckily, we stocked up at a supermarket yesterday and have sufficient edibles. If not, I could always briefly open my tent-flap and try to catch an airborne tuna.
Without wanting to become unpopular within the tree-hugger community, I must say the concept of being at one with nature probably did not originate from somebody who actually lived in close proximity to it. As anybody who spends copious amount of time in the great outdoors will tell you – including the motorcycling overlander – the primordial task of human beings is to escape from nature and the elements by building barriers against them, not to fraternise. Life in the wild is a constant struggle. In order to survive one must find food, water, shelter, warmth and sometimes, depending upon the regional fauna, an arsenal of weaponry of sufficient calibre to ward off all those beasts of the woods leering at you with hungry eyes. Respect nature by all means; enjoy glorious sunsets and listen to the birds sing, but thank heavens for supermarkets, nylon waterproof fabric and synthetic sleeping bags! Why do so few confess their true desire to be “at one with plastic” so they can survive and enjoy a natural environment? Or does “oneness with plastic” just not sound as good?
We make the best of our situation by passing time in the same way as mountaineers trapped at base camp during a whiteout. We tell each other stories, jokes and anecdotes about our lives. Sometimes we sing popular tunes, on condition that “wind” appears in the lyrics. Once our repertoire runs out, we alter the words ever so slightly to suit the circumstances. Tina Turner’s “I can’t stand the rain against my window” is easily transformed into “I can’t stand the wind against my tent flap”.
As quickly as the bora started, it abruptly ends 40 hours later. Shaken and stirred, we crawl out of our tent and are welcomed by clear blue skies and a herd of sheep busily grazing around our motorcycles. Their master, an elderly shepherd who’s standing in the distance with his dog, gives us a wave and then slowly hobbles over.
“Dobro jutro.” We wish him good morning. “It seems you survived the storm as well. I hope none of your lambs flew away.” The man, who has a face like a shrivelled prune, smiles, apologetically points to his ears and shrugs. He is deaf. Nonetheless, the gist of our words is understood.
“Bura,” he replies knowingly with a nasal voice, and pantomimes a quivering tree with his arms. “Kako ste? (How are you?)”
“Hvala, dobro. A vi? (Good, thanks. And you?)”
Mutually reassured that all is well, we shake hands and the shepherd departs, leaving us with a dog-pee puddle on my bike’s front tyre and memories of yet another brief but friendly random encounter – one of thousands occurring on any overland trip. They rarely impart valuable insights, but they definitely leave you with a warm and comfy feeling of community and that our planet – for the most part – is not such a bad place to be.
I’m turning into a bit of a wrinkled prune myself. Tomorrow I turn 43 and start my 44th round in the boxing ring, and Laura seems to be more excited about this than I am. We pack up our gear and Pixie takes the lead. “Just wait, I’m going to find us the perfect setting to celebrate your birthday,” she promises.
The task shouldn’t prove too difficult; there are good reasons why Croatia receives millions of visitors every year – albeit in summer. Now, in mid-February, we have most of the country to ourselves. Wherever we look is pristine and predominantly intact wilderness, an ideal part of the world to reset and recalibrate your heart, mind and soul. Beneath vertical cliffs picturesque pebbled coves hide, many only accessible by sea. Islands rise in the distance from turquoise waters, polished bare by unrelenting winds and bleached white by an ever-glaring sun. Follow any one of the numerous gnawed canyons and gorges inland, cut by rivers teeming with trout, and the country’s interior welcomes you with pine-green forests, home to lynxes, wild boar, foxes, a few wolves and even 400 brown bears.
When Laura spots a dozen dolphins jumping a stone’s throw from shore, she immediately applies the brakes. A track leads down to a nudist beach, currently deserted. Little wonder; as much as I’d enjoy a swim with the dolphins, a thick neoprene dry-suit would be the least I’d want to wear. So instead, I go fishing from a collection of large boulders breaking the lapping waves.
“We’re not having Flipper-sushi on your birthday,” Laura jokingly scolds me, but she needn’t worry; I haven’t managed to hook a single fish in the Mediterranean since my first attempts in Italy. Fishing in the Adriatic is not like fishing in Canada or Argentina, where you can catch salmon almost by hand.
What we do have the following morning is better than dolphin sandwiches. Laura makes me a fry-up, complete with eggs, bacon and Croatian ćevapčići topped with Gorgonzola cheese. The grand finale is a stack of pancakes decorated with candles.
“Pancakes are legitimate cakes, right? Happy first birthday on the road!”
I close my eyes to make a wish, imagine us still happily circumnavigating the globe at 93 with wheelchairs driven by Land Rover engines, then take a deep breath and blow.
What to say? I’m unquestionably ageing. Vehicles in some European countries carry special “vintage” number plates if they were manufactured more than three decades ago. Applied to me, I would have been classified as an antique in the year 2000. I know the connection between a cassette tape and a pencil,4 and can vividly recall the BC (before computers) era. Those were the glorious days when motorcycles were still motorcycles and not computers with wheels. Though my paint may be peeling, all my components still work relatively well. Sure, I could use a bit of WD40 for the occasional squeak, but generally speaking my engine is purring nicely. I don’t feel old yet. Age, at least so far, is felt more through inference than physical aches.
Besides, reaching 40-plus carries distinct advantages, or so I’d like to believe. I have a whole wardrobe of memories and experiences to mull over, which is not such a bad thing. My early twenties were mostly about losing my insecurity, realising my options in life and deciding what suited me best – in my case I opted to travel. My thirties revolved around the problems arising from those earlier choices, and making slight alterations if need be. By the time I turned 40, well, I could relax. I’d tried my best not to live my life according to the motto “if I could, I surely would” – a blend of subjunctive-irrealis with conditional inflections. Instead, I’d seized the day and already fulfilled many of my dreams.
So has Puck; provided motorcycles had dreams. And although it isn’t his manufacturing anniversary, he also receives a present, albeit reluctantly. A friendly Croatian woman gave Laura a plant this morning, a flowering cyclamen to be precise, but sadly, there was nowhere on Pixie to mount it.
“The beer-bottle holder on your handlebars would make a perfect flowerpot, don’t you think?” Laura smiles, attempting to look earnest. For a second I want to refuse – pinkish flowers are not really my style. Puck, painted matt black, appears rough and tough. Following an encounter with a suicidal camel in Iran on my first overland journey, Puck lost all his plastic fairings and morphed into a naked bike. Over the years, I’ve added and removed crash-bars, mountings for spare tyres, 20-litre jerrycan holders, brackets to accommodate my rock-climbing gear and ice axe, a radio-cassette player with loudspeakers for a bit of music on those endless straight roads through Australia’s Nullarbor Plain, and more. Travel-bikes evolve like any other life form on Earth; a progressive Darwinian development to meet the needs of the traveller on his wanderings through an ever-changing environment. In the past, I may have gone over the top with a few adaptations. When a cobbler in the Iranian city of Isfahan gave me a military cavalry saddle as a present, I did what I considered was the only reasonable thing to do: I discarded the original Yamaha seat, and replaced it with the saddle. Back then, though, I was an utter greenhorn when it came to horses and tack. In a glorious demonstration of innocent dimwittedness, I fastened it the wrong way round. Over the next 12 months I kept wondering why the locals in every country I passed through gave my bike strange looks. Apparently, they were all too polite to comment upon my foolishness. Finally, a British woman and equestrian enthusiast I met in Nepal posed the ominous question:
“Excuse me, if you don’t mind my asking: why are you riding a motorcycle sitting on a horse’s saddle put on backwards?
After that faux pas, I guess my so-called “image” is ruined for all eternity, so I take Laura’s cyclamen and pour some water into my beer-bottle flowerpot. But it’s pretty, I do admit, and as long as we don’t stop at a Hell’s Angels bar all should be fine. To restore an ounce of masculinity to my bike, I decide to name our plant Thor.
Another month passes. Springtime arrives in Dalmatia, and I have the feeling we could endlessly ride from one side of the country to the other, then retrace our tracks and begin the loop all over again. Not that we’re actually doing much. We’re drifting, almost taking a holiday from our holiday. What did the Chinese philosopher Lin Yutang once say? “If you can spend a perfectly useless afternoon in a perfectly useless manner, you’ve learned how to live.” There’s something deeply fulfilling about taking life slowly, sitting in some village square every day surrounded by smells of garlic and olive oil and doing little else but watch life meander by. Croatia has an ambience that can make even the most hyperactive individual temporarily unwind and relax.
Soon, however, we are no longer the solitary tourists in the streets. When the first cruise liners dock in Dubrovnik harbour just before Easter, the old town swiftly becomes crowded with thousands of day trippers. Narrow alleyways between medieval walls become impassable as vendors set up their T-shirt stalls for the arriving tour groups. Local roads connecting coastal towns are equally congested. A seemingly uninterrupted string of white campervans begins to form between Croatia and northern Europe.
“It’s still snowing in Switzerland,” the driver of a Hymer motorhome tells us. “It took about 15 hours to drive here. How long did you need?”
Laura and I look at each other and respond simultaneously “206 days.”
Perhaps it’s time to move on before I end up spending my 44th birthday here, too. With a flick of my wrist I skip a farewell stone across the sea towards Australia, then we mount our bikes and head for the hills.
Bosnia and Herzegovina – 1 April 2013
On the crest of the hill above Dubrovnik lies a small border post to Bosnia and Herzegovina. We know immediately we will enjoy our time in the new country when the immigration officials invite us into their office and pass us two bottles of locally brewed beer, even before they stamp our passports. Now that’s what I call hospitality. But since we are responsible riders we politely decline, and are handed two glasses of lemonade instead.
In walking distance from the border is our home for the next two weeks. Laura has organised accommodation that fits surprisingly well within our budget. The furnished two-bedroom flat will cost us a mere $6 a day per person. Of course this is not Sarajevo but Ivanica: a tiny rural community with a single tarmac street, two restaurants, and a convenience store selling bread and burek.
The owner of the flat is a 73-year-old Bosnian-Croat grandmother, who lives there together with her cow, two goats, two dogs and an indefinable number of cats. Her rooms are on the house’s ground floor and she’s been expecting us.
“Dobro jutro! Da li ste gladni? (Good morning! Are you hungry?)” Grandma welcomes us into her kitchen, plonks us down at the table and serves us Bosnian coffee, brewed and tasting similar to the more commonly known Turkish variant. We’re all at a loss how to communicate with each other. Our command of Bosnian is nine words greater than Grandma’s English, and she can only say “hello”. So we do the only thing we can do, if the room isn’t to be filled with awkward silence: we disregard the language barrier and just chat, each in our own tongue, heedless whether we are understood or not. Suddenly my bare feet are spotted – first impressions are important, and I had removed my soiled boots.
“Da Bog Sačuvaj! (God forbid!)” she exclaims, grasping her head and running to find me a pair of slippers. Apparently the feared Italian cervicale has made it to Bosnia.
Next day Laura has an idea. Grabbing her laptop, we wander down the flight of stairs to Grandma, who’s busy stirring in a massive pot. The contents smell not dissimilar to my unwashed socks. It’s full to the brim with sarma, a tasty local dish made of minced meat rolled in cabbage leaves.
“Grandma … have you ever used Google Translate? Shall we try?”
It works, and finally we can swap family-related details and our life stories. Until the topic changes to her animals, that is. When Laura types “I love cats” into the translation box and Grandmother replies, her answer shows up as “I have five. Would you like one for dinner?” To be sure we understood correctly, Laura asks, “Do you mean to eat?” A few keystrokes later, and we read “Yes. I heard Italians love to eat cats!”
Either Grandma has a wicked sense of humour or we’ve just witnessed a gross example of cultural misunderstanding. If neither, then Google Translate has some serious explaining to do.
Cultural differences may also be partially to blame for the wars in former Yugoslavia, which ultimately led to the break-up of the state into separate sovereign republics, including Bosnia and Herzegovina. From Slovenia to Macedonia, the region is a colourful mixture of various ethnic groups, each with their own customs and languages. Bosnia and Herzegovina is inhabited by Croats, Serbs and Bosniaks, who are predominantly Catholic, Orthodox Christian and Muslim respectively. I would like to learn more about this conflict, which ended 18 years ago, and Grandma might be a good source of information, but in this case I wouldn’t trust Google further than I can skip a rock. Luckily, most people in the Balkans speak a number of European languages, first and foremost German and English.
In a sequence of separate but related conflicts throughout former Yugoslavia, around 140,000 people were killed and millions displaced. Unlike Croatia, which was able to resurrect major tourist hubs such as Dubrovnik, Bosnia and Herzegovina had insufficient funds to refurbish the nation. By war’s end in 1995, 60% of all homes, 50% of schools and 33% of hospitals had been damaged. Most of Ivanica’s buildings are still either riddled with bullet holes or turned into gutted shells beyond repair. As we slowly become acquainted with the village population, we discover with amazement the readiness with which people are willing to share their wartime experiences. Everybody has a story to tell, from the one-legged man who stepped on a landmine, to the ex-soldier with a crazed look, who speaks like Salvatore in Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, stringing sentences together with words from several languages. Which side started the war depends on who you ask, but what all these tales have in common are elements of horror and hardship. And everyone agrees that the whole mess was “very complicated”. Maybe the truth, if there is a single truth, can only be found in the sum of each and every witness account.
For Grandma, however, nothing seems too problematical to solve. One afternoon, upon returning from a walk in the hills, we find our room decorated with little pictures of saints. They are stuck everywhere: above the doorframe, in the bathroom and taped to the windows. The greatest gaggle of saints is hanging above our bed. Wondering what we did wrong to deserve our apartment’s redecoration, we sheepishly knock on Granny’s door to ask.
“You told me you have no children. The saints will ensure you have lots of babies in Ivanica,” she smiles. “And then all of you can stay here to keep me company.”
Oh dear; I hope she’s not right. I can barely manage to keep our beer-bottle plant alive; how in the world would I fare with children on a trip?
Not that we’re against having kids per se, it’s only that they rank quite far down on our personal list of priorities. Laura fulfils my life, as I do hers. Undoubtedly, should we ever decide to have children, we’d find it hard to imagine life without. We understand how amazing it must be to expose your kids to the element of time, watch them grow and take their first steps; see aspects of yourself ripening in them or be reminded of your own youth; picture how they will someday reach your age and become – you hope – happy and fulfilled adults. But what you’ve never experienced you do not miss, and our curiosity in this regard is admittedly limited. We have no desire to turn our whole world topsy-turvy, which invariably happens when children are inserted into a personal life-equation. We love the vast freedoms we share together and are doubtful whether children would provide sufficient compensation for its inevitable restriction. Of course, travelling with kids is possible; many overlanders do, but usually only until they reach school age or a few years beyond that, and certainly not to troubled regions where their lives might be at risk. If we had children, and acted responsibly as parents, a large part of the world would be off-limits and we could no longer follow many pursuits and hobbies we enjoy so much. Severe motorcycle off-roading with a toddler? High-altitude mountaineering? Trips to Somaliland or the Congo? I think not. Most of all, since neither Laura nor I “melt away” when we see babies in their mothers’ arms, we take this as an indication that parenting might not be for us.
Strangely, a total meltdown does occur when we’re around animals. Although the saint’s intercession failed to impregnate Laura, the same cannot be said of Grandma’s animal-farm. On three consecutive days, two goats, a litter of kittens and five puppies are born. Granny offers us the pups to take with us on our trip.
“Look, all five fit into a corner of your motorcycle box!”
Little does she know how difficult it is for us to refuse. One of our greatest dreams is to have a little hut somewhere, someday, and surround ourselves with a canine Noah’s Ark: two of every single breed on the planet plus a handful of mutts. Only now is not the right time to start our collection. Technically it might be feasible. I have a good friend living in Peru who once circumnavigated the whole South American continent with a massive kennel bolted to the top of his motorcycle. But we’re heading towards Australia, the single most difficult country to import animals into. The law demands a quarantine period of six months. That’s one-twentieth of a dog’s lifespan – extrapolated into human terms, equivalent to a four-year solitary-confinement prison sentence. Just imagine how tourists would feel if they were jailed for this length of time upon stepping off a Qantas flight to visit Ayers Rock/ Uluru? I doubt they would be happy. So we give each puppy a peck on the nose, baptise them in order Puck, Pixie, Matilda, Chris and Laura, then bid farewell to Grandma.
“Be careful where you camp,” she advises us before we go. “There are still plenty of landmines in Bosnia-Herzegovina left over from the war!”
Around 200,000 units of undetonated ordnance are still buried along former front lines and elsewhere, after repeated flash-floods scattered them. And it doesn’t take 200,000 to make a mess of an overlander with a motorcycle, camping wild in the bush: just one. Between Ivanica, the Kravice Waterfalls and Mostar, we select our sites cautiously, pitching our tent directly on forest tractor tracks rather than in the middle of the woods. It’s of little significance that these mines were laid almost two decades ago; DOVO, the Belgian armed forces’ bomb-disposal unit, is still finding unexploded ordnance left over from World War I almost every day. Shells and mines have a long shelf-life.
A gentleman in Blagaj, an ethnic Muslim-Bosniak village near Mostar, provides us with valuable insights into the regional situation. Following the war, he was employed for many years by a mine-clearing organisation.
“It was painstakingly slow work,” he explains. “If you didn’t suffer a nervous breakdown on the job, you might manage to clear 30 square metres a day. But the pay was good, and we had real coffee, not like during the war when we drank coffee brewed from lentils. For poking the ground with a stick I received $200 a month. Our government’s plan was to free the nation of mines by 2019, but forget it. It will take much longer than that.”
“What do they look like?” I ask, passing him a pack of my smokes. I can see that his hands are trembling slightly.
“Oh, not like much. PMA-2s are about the size of a tin of tuna – they usually only blow off a limb or two. PROM-1s are bigger and jump a metre high before blowing up. They kill you. Some are plastic, some metal; best not to touch any strange object you stumble across. By the way, the landmine you see in movies, triggered when you step off it, is a myth. You don’t hear a warning click, after which you can carefully cut off the sole of your shoe, weigh it down with rocks and step away unharmed. Mines are triggered by pressure or a tripwire. There’s no warning; one second you are peacefully strolling along, the next there’s a ‘boom’.”
He takes a puff and explains that, since the end of the war, more than 5,000 people, many of them children, have been injured or killed by residual ordnance. I sit back, and allow my eyes to wander from the crystal-clear Buna River to the picturesque hills and then northwest. Somewhere in this direction lies Munich, just 720 kilometres away. I’ve been to former war zones, and seen minefields in Angola, Somaliland and on the Afghan frontier – all geographically very far removed from home. This beautiful country lies practically next door. I have difficulty coming to terms with this fact.
“But now tell me: why in the world did this all happen? Were the independence movements all that important?” I ask.
“It’s complicated,” the campsite manager responds. “I’d have to begin with the First World War to explain the frictions between Serbs, Croats, Bosniaks and other ethnic groups in the region.”
“World War I was almost a hundred years ago!”
“Ah, but you see, a hundred years is not a very long time in the Balkans.”
The second issue I have difficulty coming to terms with is how in this day and age, some countries still refuse to sign the Ottawa Convention – a treaty prohibiting the use, production and transfer of anti-personnel mines. On the positive side, the vast majority of world nations have, including all of NATO and every single nation considered “Western”. All, that is, apart from one. The United States is the exception. The Obama administration still has an estimated ten million stockpiled landmines “intended for future use”, as a Washington spokesperson announced. As one might expect, Obama also did not become a signatory to an equally important convention which entered into force just three years ago: the ban on cluster munitions. These are explosive devices that scatter small bomblets – often brightly coloured and resembling Easter eggs – over a wide area. Children are attracted to and often pick up the units that have failed to explode – but which eventually go off. The dud-rate is alarmingly high: depending upon the device, between 5 and 40%. Still, according to the Pentagon, the USA considers cluster bombs “humane weapons”. I guess when UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon spoke of “the world’s collective revulsion at these abhorrent weapons”, he didn’t see the United States as part of the collective. Besides, what reason would Obama have to become a signatory anyway? Of the 78 countries on the planet currently affected by unexploded ordnance, not a single landmine or cluster bomb is buried on US soil.
Laura and I decide to take a ride into the historical centre of Mostar. This charming town, situated in a valley surrounded by vineyards, was once famous for its Ottoman-influenced architecture, multicultural ambience and the country’s landmark: the Stari Most Bridge Version One. It is, sadly, no longer standing. During the war, Bosnian-Croat forces shelled the 427-year old stone arch over the Neretva River along with the city, successfully demolishing the former and most of the latter. In its place now stands another bridge, the updated Stari Most Version 2.0, looking surprisingly similar to its predecessor. It took almost as long to rebuild in the 21st century as it did to construct in the 16th. It’s nice, but somehow, for me, still not quite the real thing.
Another point of interest absent from the city today is the lost Bruce Lee monument. We need to ask a police constable for directions.
“Bruce? He was removed eight years ago and taken to a storage room in Zagreb. There’s nothing to see,” he explains.
Nonetheless, we persuade the officer to accompany us to where the life-size bronze statue once proudly stood, defending the city with a nunchaku in one hand and feet positioned in a martial-arts stance. It was financed by the German taxpayer, but I imagine the material costs were modest since Bruce Lee was only 1.70 metres tall.
Choosing a cult hero of Asian background as an “icon” for a city in Bosnia and Herzegovina may seem rather peculiar, but there were valid reasons. As the war was fought between the Muslim, Catholic and Orthodox populations, it was wise to select a neutral celebrity of a different religion, born somewhere far away, in order not to offend any particular ethnic group. Bruce was intended to symbolically represent reunification of the people, heedless of their political ideologies, and to commemorate the fight against injustice, corruption and evil. Personally, I would have chosen the bust of a pacifist such as the Dalai Lama for a war-torn region, instead of somebody who could side-kick your head to the moon, but I was never asked.
“There it is – or better, was,” our police escort informs us, stopping in front of a small, graffiti-sprayed stone pedestal. “What happened?” I ask.
“The problem was Bruce’s raised hand. Mostar is a divided city, even today. The eastern parts are mainly Bosnian-Croat, the western predominantly Muslim-Bosniak. In order not to provoke either side, the monument was oriented so the hand faced north. I guess they miscalculated by a fraction of a degree, and one side thought Bruce was attacking their suburb. So vandals defaced it; end of story.”
“Do you think Bosniaks and Bosnian-Croats will ever manage to coexist peacefully in one country?”
“Unlikely. Each group depicts themselves as free of guilt, but in a war there are no innocents. There could be hope for future generations if our school system wasn’t also ethnically divided. As it stands, Bosniak kids mainly go to Bosniak schools, Croats to Croatian and Serbs to Serbian. Depending upon whom you are taught by, you grow up believing in a different account of history. This would have to change in our country first.”
From the perspective of a traveller, it’s most definitely possible to traverse the country, visit only tourist hotspots and think everything is hunky-dory. As long as you don’t ask the local population too many questions, you might be led into believing the various ethnic groups are well and truly residing side by side in harmony. However, should you inquire about an individual’s true feelings towards those of dissimilar cultural backgrounds, you’ll need to conduct a fairly large survey until you hear a good word. In some regards I can’t help but be reminded of Sub-Saharan Africa, where so many problems arise due to the fact that the vast majority of people identify themselves first and foremost with their tribe, not with their country of residence, and definitely not with humanity as a whole.
We mount up, circle the Dinaric Alps and head towards Foča near the Montenegrin border. This will be our last stopover in this country, where I’ll again attempt to visit something possibly not there: a monument at the city’s Partisan Hall and both the Kalinovik and Foča High Schools, infamous for their use during the war as organised rape camps. Between 1992 and 1995, approximately 50,000 women in former Yugoslavia were subjected to torture, enslavement and methodical rape. As elsewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina, the Bosnian-Serb forces in Foča participated in an ethnic-cleansing campaign aimed at removing the Bosniak and non-Serb population. Rape was part of the strategy. By impregnating Bosniak women and keeping them in confinement until the latter stages of pregnancy, the target group would be replaced, since children customarily inherit their father’s ethnicity. They succeeded. Prior to the war, the demographics in Foča were evenly split: half the citizens were Serb, the other half Muslim. Afterwards, barely a handful of Bosniaks remained. All traces of Muslim presence, including every single mosque, had been obliterated and the town was renamed Srbinje – the Place of the Serbs.
Since then, Foča has readopted its old name and several mosques have been rebuilt. Alas, as we ride through town we notice how some have been tarnished by graffiti. A massive concrete monument has been erected overshadowing the central plaza as a dedication to the fallen Bosnian-Serb forces, not the victims of the rape camps. Perhaps there’ll be something at the torture facilities themselves? No, there’s nothing there, either. The focus of Foča nowadays is on tourism and rafting the Tara and Drina, and the townspeople’s attitude is often one of absolute denial that anything horrible had ever taken place here.
Laura and I aren’t inclined to partake in any adventure-sport activities today. We order a final Bosnian coffee at a local cafe and then wind our way down into the Tara canyon without looking back.
A girl screams before she loses consciousness. Two men are taking turns raping her in public: her 28th and 29th assailants that day. The river is littered with corpses, bobbing as they are washed downstream. Many bodies have their noses, lips and ears chopped off or have been sexually mutilated. A women sits watching, cradling a decapitated toddler on her lap. Parents, tied to chairs by their captors, are being forced to watch as their children are tortured and killed. To avoid gang rape, a female villager commits suicide by hanging herself from the rafters, while her sister attempts to escape. She doesn’t get far. Screams and gunshots continue throughout the night.
This isn’t Rwanda in 1994, 6,000 kilometres away on a different continent, though the time period is the same.
Outside an abandoned warehouse, 700 men separated from their wives and children are ordered by the guards to cast their valuables onto a growing mound of private possessions. To calm them, the men are told that they’ll come to no harm if they follow instructions. The column is then loaded onto waiting lorries and taken to a large field some distance away. At their destination, all the men are ordered to remove their shoes and line up, before they have their hands tied, eyes blindfolded and are executed by concentrated machine-gun fire. Not all die after the initial round. Survivors are buried alive when a bulldozer pushes the bodies into a roadside ditch.
This isn’t the Holocaust during WWII, though the geographical location is almost identical.
Almost three hours separate the head from the tail of the 12-kilometre-long column of refugees who fled from their villages. All are exhausted and emaciated after many weeks on the run with nothing but foraged food to eat. Clad in undergarments and limping on bloodied feet wrapped in rags, they resemble spectres – and these are the lucky ones. Many who stayed behind are now dead.
This isn’t Iraq or Afghanistan during the so-called War on Terror campaign or the current rebellion in Syria. No, this is Europe, not even two decades ago, and less than a day’s drive from Munich. Ethnic cleansing, unlawful confinements, killing of prisoners of war, the murder, enslavement, torture and sexual assault of civilians, the targeting of intellectuals and professionals, forced deportations, shelling of urban population centres – all of this was orchestrated by citizens of our continent in the 1990s. That’s my generation, and possibly yours. The precise location may even be on your list of favourite holiday destinations: the country formerly known as Yugoslavia. One doesn’t need to travel to the opposite end of the globe or far back in time to find traces of genocides and horrific war crimes. Rwanda is also here.
Laura and I have now been in the region long enough to have heard the tales of surviving witnesses. As we sit in a bombed-out shell of a building somewhere on the former front, an involuntary shiver runs down my spine. Counting the thousands of bullet holes perforating the walls, I can almost hear the cries of the wounded and dying. There may be further signs of bloodshed in the surrounding gardens – a few artillery shells, perhaps, or fragments of human bone. It’s impossible to clean up all the evidence when so many thousands are killed.
Though most atrocities were committed in Bosnia and Herzegovina by Bosnian-Serb forces against the Muslim-Bosniak population at infamous massacre sites such as Srebrenica, it would be wrong to point the finger solely at them.5 Croatians and Montenegrins are also accountable for the deportation, murder and torture of Bosniak and Serb populations. One can take no side in the Yugoslav conflict. Indeed, members of the military, police and paramilitaries of almost all nationalist forces – yes, sometimes ordinary villagers themselves – were involved in crimes against humanity.
Even NATO is by no means innocent. During airstrikes on Bosnian-Serbs and throughout the Kosovo campaign, nearly a thousand civilians were killed and four times as many wounded. For the dead it’s of little solace that the bombing served to end the war. Also, don’t forget the members of the UN, NATO and the outsourced American security company DynCorp who participated in the Bosnian sex-trade while stationed in the country. Some were clients and facilitators of trafficking, slavery, rape and torture of women and of girls as young as 12. No peacekeepers have yet faced criminal charges due to UN diplomatic immunity laws. Instead, DynCorp was awarded billion-dollar contracts in Afghanistan and Iraq by the US State Department.
Initially, I assumed the war – and the resulting fragmentation of former Yugoslavia into Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Montenegro, Macedonia, Slovenia and Kosovo – was a result of long-lasting tensions between this kaleidoscope of ethnic groups, but that would be too simplistic. When looking at the bigger picture, you notice how they had been living – for the most part – amicably together, sharing parallel fates throughout the last millennium. All six former republics had, at one time or another, been independent kingdoms, in unions with other countries, conquered by the Ottoman Empire, annexed by the Axis Powers and federal constituents of a united socialist Yugoslavia. We hear how the population was dissatisfied with the failing regime in Belgrade, the former capital of Yugoslavia, and desired greater regional autonomy. Some suggested the fragmentation was accelerated through nationalist rhetoric of political rivals, various arms deals struck between the secessionists and foreign governments, and the American Foreign Operations Appropriations Act6 in 1991.
Maybe the motives aren’t that important and I’ve been asking myself and others the wrong questions. After all, conflicts have been around since the dawn of time, always for what the warring parties viewed as justifiable reasons, however petty these may sometimes seem to outsiders. Nations also more readily fall apart than unite with their neighbours. In 1900, our planet consisted of only 57 countries.7 Now, with Kosovo, the global total is 195, if you count only United Nations member and observer states. Whether or not the ethnically more homogenous division of population in the new countries guarantees lasting peace for the Balkan region remains to be seen. I’d be surprised if it does. A lot of trust will need to be rebuilt before the countless displaced and tortured can reconcile with their aggressors.
No, let’s start over. I’m beginning to ask myself not why wars are fought, but more importantly how. How can you “justify” Srebrenica? How can you explain the rape camps? The true question should be: is committing atrocities an inherent part of human nature, and is there nothing – absolutely nothing – we will ever be able to do about it?
Montenegro, Kosovo and Macedonia – 1 May 2013
Ilean back in my chair, one of the few luxury items we allowed ourselves to take along, and watch as Laura takes a bath in the river.
“Come in,” she cries. “It’s wonderful! And you need one, too!”
“No. You enjoy. I’m good here sunbathing. Look how brown I’m getting!” I shout back.
“That’s not a tan; that’s bike-grease!”
She’s right, I do need to wash. But it simply feels good at the moment being my old self again. With Land Rover Matilda I needed to rack my brains and play mechanic every second day in order to keep her moving. Our bikes, in contrast, are clearly far too reliable. I miss the oil, lithium lubricants and smell of petrol in the morning. At least today my hands don’t look as if I just stepped out of a nail-salon. I want to enjoy the look a wee bit longer.
A short while ago I finished dismantling Laura’s leaking carburettor – actually Pixie’s, since women don’t have carbs as far as I know – and replaced the cracked jet-seals with spare rubber O-rings from Puck’s chain. As per usual on a road-trip, in full compliance with Murphy’s law, the parts you packed are usually not the ones that break. Yet the O-rings did the trick, and now I no longer need to worry about my girl going “poof” when she enjoys a cigarette on her bike. Overlanders must make do with what they have if original parts cannot be obtained: chewing gum will temporarily seal cracked petrol tanks, Coca-Cola cans serve to repair exhausts, and it’s remarkable what can be done with a length of wire and sticky-tape. We carry our collapsible chairs, for example, by inserting them into two Italian pasta-pots that are bolted to Pixie’s crash-bars. The pots look utterly ridiculous but Laura doesn’t mind. She finds them befitting – symbols of her cultural heritage. Speaking of kitchenware and bushcraft: in case you’ve ever run out of fuel for your camping-stove, have you tried cooking a meal with your motorcycle’s exhaust manifold? The fine culinary art of creating a BBBQ – a bike barbeque – is simple. A few hours before you intend to stop for the night, wrap a sausage, chicken breast or fish fillet in some aluminium foil and wire the package strategically to the hottest part of your engine. Depending upon the thickness of the meat, a few dozen kilometres of riding should ensure it grills to perfection. You’ll start to salivate on the final stretch to camp when your bike emits smells of roast chicken. What you should never do is tie food near the chain, air intake or fan. And don’t stuff chocolate-bananas or bratwurst into your exhaust pipe. They could shoot out and injure anyone riding behind you.
Suddenly I sit bolt upright. “Laura! Snake!”
While she was busy washing her hair, a metre-long serpent swept centimetres past her head, carried along by the strong current. I couldn’t make out the precise species; snakey was already gone before he could properly introduce himself.
“What? Can’t hear you! I have shampoo in my ears!”
“Never mind – I’ll tell you later!” On second thoughts, it may not be a clever idea to tell Laura how she almost turned into Medusa with vipers sprouting from her scalp. Whereas snakes fascinate me, she has a phobia. However, very few snakes in the Balkans are deadly, and I presume my slithering friend in the river was just another harmless whip snake. We’ve seen them every day since we arrived, albeit for the most part flat as a tapeworm on the tarmac, after being squashed by vehicles. The ones we must watch out for are the Orsini, European and Long-Nosed vipers. Their venom is haemotoxic, and a bite will result in severe tissue damage.
Generally speaking, it’s not the wildlife one needs to be wary of on a world trip. Fellow humans are the greatest hazard. Late that night we tune into BBC World Service on my shortwave radio and hear of the Swiss cyclists who were savagely attacked while overlanding in India. We both know that, statistically, the probability of becoming the victim of crime as a tourist in Montenegro is lower than in Germany or Australia. Still, Laura takes out her Bear Grylls Ultimate Survival Knife and places it next to her pillow. I gave it to her for her birthday, after we’d watched a few episodes of Man vs. Wild where Bear drank elephant-dung juice and slept in a bivvy-bag he’d fashioned out of a camel carcass. Something, incidentally, I have never needed to do to stay alive. In my opinion, the art of road-trip survival is about how you don’t end up in situations where you need to defend yourself against 20 rebels using only a toothpick. Amongst the plethora of adventure-seekers, I bestow the greatest praise not upon those who push limits to the extreme. They usually have a rather dismal lifespan. The best mountaineers, explorers and bikers are those who manage to return alive without having endured great hardships or fractured bones.
Next morning, I unfold my dad’s map to plan our day’s trajectory. It isn’t very accurate any more, since my father last visited former Yugoslavia in 1981. It’s missing certain waypoints many consider important, such as new bridges and roads, as well as borders between the new republics. I don’t mind. If you have time on a trip, getting lost is half the fun – and while we were busy losing ourselves, we’d fallen in love with Montenegro. The country offers everything my heart desires: towering mountains in the Durmitor Range, rugged terrain for the off-road enthusiast and lots of pretty snakes. Hidden in the interior is a beech, sycamore and ash primeval jungle – one of the last of its kind in Europe – and a gorge called the Tara, which needn’t stand in the shadow of more renowned national parks around the world. In places the Tara is flanked by walls 1,300 metres high, only a trifle less than the average depth of the Grand Canyon in the United States. As for the people … neighbouring countries joke about how Montenegrins possess a poor work ethic and are habitually lazy. I don’t. I call them relaxed. And a hearty meal at a restaurant will hardly empty your wallet. $5 will buy you more grašak – a traditional pea and beef stew – than you could ever eat; a far cry from our experiences in Switzerland, where the eateries in some cities deemed a 250-gram steak with spuds a “daily special” bargain at $50.
I also haven’t witnessed anybody making a fuss when Sunni Muslim mosques call worshippers to prayer simultaneously with Orthodox Church bell-ringing. According to their representatives, the Muslim minority is content with the liberal government’s policies regarding faith. Mosques, madrasas and minarets are erected, Muslims are granted leave from work for Friday prayers, headscarves are allowed in schools, and halal food is offered at all social institutions. Small measures can sometimes go a long way to help build friendly relations. In my opinion, these concessions are negligible inconveniences for the demographic majority, compared to concerns such as national debts, exhausted pension funds and unemployment. I wonder if Germany could learn a thing or two from Montenegro?
Prior to our trip, a topic that repeatedly raised its ugly head in Bavaria, was the fear of “Islamisation”. A few unused churches had been converted into mosques, and in many locations new ones built, for the 2.4 million immigrants and 1.9 million Germans who follow Islam. That’s a big minority in a country with 80 million inhabitants! As the community continues to grow, so do tensions and controversies. German politicians incessantly discuss precisely those issues Montenegro has seemingly solved. Is it constitutional to permit burqas and niqabs in schools and elsewhere? How liberally should the government interpret the “right to religious freedom and expression”? At street level, I listened to the aversions many people nurtured towards Muslims – how minarets would ruin quaint city skylines, and the many reasons why loud church-bell ringing cannot be compared to the muezzin’s adhan (call to prayer). In fact, the last statement is not completely off the mark. The adhan is more than a summoning: it contains the Islamic creed, which some Christians may find offensive, whether they understand Arabic or not.
“You’ll see! In 20 years, beer will be banned in Bavaria if this multiculturalism nonsense continues!” more than one acquaintance of mine remarked in a volume exceeding the cries of most muezzins. I tried to calm them by explaining how Turkey brews some wonderful beer – Efes Pilsner is quite drinkable – but they would have none of it. “Integrate or leave! Bavaria is for Bavarians; if you want to listen to mosque loudspeakers, go to Istanbul!”
To mention that many Muslims are German passport holders, and thus technically Bavarian, would have led nowhere. According to a longterm study conducted by the University of Bielefeld, 50% of Germans are “considerably” or “ardently” xenophobic … and with these individuals, emotions often override the possibility of holding rational discussions. In the end, the whole Islamisation issue is not so much about the individual aspects of Muslim culture versus the impact these may have upon traditional German society. It’s about Germany’s metathesiophobia: chronic fear of change. Unless, of course, the German government were to extend weekends by recognising Friday as a holiday and grant all citizens days off on Muslim festivals without pay cuts.8 Few would complain about that.
From the perspective of a traveller, these issues are not really my concern. I don’t reside in Germany. However, I do have a mosque blaring outside my tent in the distance on many nights. I kind of enjoy it. It feels “exotic”. For me, change and multiculturalism are desirable. I also understand how difficult it can be to integrate into an alien culture. No matter how much I tried to blend in during my years in Africa and Asia, I was never viewed by the residents as a local. Sometimes cultures are so diverse they cannot morph into a viable hybrid, but they can still coexist peacefully as a symbiosis based upon mutual respect. I just wish this evolutionary process needn’t take hundreds of years to achieve.
Kosovo. It always amazes me how different countries can be, even when they are geographical neighbours. Unfortunately, the world’s second newest nation also carries a stigma of fear: many potential holidaymakers are afraid to visit due to the portrayal of Kosovo by our Western media. Currently, not a week passes without the dispute between Serbia and Kosovo being broadcast into our living rooms with footage of NATO’s KFOR (Kosovo Force) soldiers patrolling the streets of Pristana. While it’s true that Serbia doesn’t acknowledge Kosovan independence, reality on the ground reveals that the region is, for the most part, peaceful, and you’re more likely to encounter the peacekeeping troops sitting in restaurants, drinking in bars and shopping in malls than hiding in trenches. Mind you, it’s still by any description an occupied country. Kosovo is divided into Italian, German, British, French and American zones, similar to Berlin before the end of the Cold War. But unlike their position in nations such as Afghanistan, Iraq or Palestine, the occupiers are very much liked – probably because they’re not the aggressors. KFOR really is just there to keep the peace until a time comes when Serbia accepts the status quo and the Serb-majority northern regions of Kosovo find a political compromise with the south. In addition, the peacekeepers are the best customers at all restaurants, bars and malls. Laura and I are also visibly welcome. Wherever we ride, whenever we stop, people wave, shake our hands and offer us a place to camp in their back gardens. The locals understand the concept of sleeping out under the stars very well. 700,000 were once refugees and many had involuntarily spent months living in tents.
One of the population’s greatest concerns is what to do when KFOR eventually leaves: its presence drives most of the economy. You might have thought the locals would have taken into account that Kosovo has almost nothing worth exporting – and thus isn’t really viable as a nation – when they seceded from Serbia. Once upon a time, Kosovo was the poorest region of Yugoslavia. If nobody comes up with a plan, it might end up in the deepest backwoods of Europe again. Coal mining is one option. Heroin is another – it’s said to be the best in the world.
Near the White Drin Waterfall, cascading down Mount Žljeb, a man invites us to a triple raki at his restaurant. He speaks fluent German, as do many in the country.
“I fled to escape the draft and lived in Hamburg for many years. I was only 18 at the time, and really had no desire whatsoever to get myself killed. I would have been sent to the front in Croatia. Why should I shoot Croatians? I’d never been there and they never did anything bad to me!”
I fully empathise with his moral standpoint. In my experience, it’s not wise to wish other people ill or cause them harm just because a third party believes they deserve it. If you did, half the world’s population would be living a life of hell, yourself included. And even in cases where your first impression of a nation or individual is negative, it might be best to recite the mantra “in dubio pro reo (when in doubt, favour the defendant)” a few times in your head before forming a fixed, condemnatory opinion. An extra month in a country, a dozen potent glasses shared with a disliked individual, and your second impression might be more positive. If not – well, then change your mantra to suit the Lex Mercatoria (merchant law) principle of “live and let live” and travel elsewhere. It’s only under exceptional circumstances that you actually need to kill somebody.
Beyond the young and hip town of Pristina on the far side of the Šar Mountains, a new country welcomes us. I’m not quite sure what to call it, though. The locals say we’re in Macedonia. The rest of the world, first and foremost Greece, says we aren’t. They claim that for historical reasons, “Macedonia” is under copyright protection. It applies solely to a region of northern Greece and/or the ancient kingdom of Makedonia. This issue is of such importance that the country we’ve just entered is barred from joining the EU until this ambiguity is resolved. The interim official name used by NATO, the EU and the UN is The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. Oh, the squabbles people can come up with! If it’s not Emmental cheese-hole regulations then it’s something else.
We hear the Mediterranean calling us from afar with an invitation for a swim, and so we descend from the hills of Macedonia through dense pine and juniper forests, and find ourselves in a charmingly friendly fishing village on the coast of Albania. There on the shore, amidst blinking fireflies, crashing waves and frog-croak symphonies, I ponder over the past month’s events and mankind’s phobias – ophidiophobia, agoraphobia, metathesiophobia, xenophobia, xenoglossophobia, decidophobia, chronophobia and even phobophobia.9 Sure, I have my concerns, apprehensions and worries, but is there anything I should really be afraid of? At the moment at least, I can’t think of anything: I have Laura. And she has a Bear Grylls knife.
Albania – 1 June 2013
The roads are actually quite bad in Albania. Oh, they are better than those in the Amazon or Congo, but are still a far cry from your German-style autobahn. German motorways generally don’t have donkeys and other creatures roaming about on the overtaking lane. Here they do. However, it’s mostly the potholes, not the fauna on the infrastructure that can turn the Albanian road experience into a nightmare. Animals tend to get out of the way when a motorcycle approaches. Potholes usually don’t. Laura falls over on a few occasions, but since our speed is so incredibly slow, no tumble results in injury to the rider or damage to the machine. This is when I come to realise one of the greatest advantages of travelling by bike as opposed to Land Rovers: you don’t need 20 people to lift your capsized vehicle upright again.
We also notice an indecent amount of missing manhole-covers. This is bad enough if you’re driving a car, but hitting one with a motorcycle will send the rider into supersonic flight over the handlebars. We’re told that some locals sell the iron lids for their scrap-metal value. Laura is especially concerned about the problem. At times she can be quite accident prone. For as long as she can remember, her brain and body have been unable to fully synchronise: the former works a few seconds faster than the latter.
“I often bump into doors since my mind is already in the next room. Or I stub my toe on a boulder when I believe I’ve passed it. It’s the story of my life!” she explains. “I just hope Albania joins the EU soon. Maybe then more people can find proper jobs instead of digging up the frigging roads!”
Her conundrum is as much my concern as it is hers. I am constantly worried that she might seriously hurt herself and have learned to ride Puck cross-eyed: my left observes the road ahead while my right is glued to the wing-mirror to monitor Laura behind me.
A further aggravation is the Albanian driver. Their ruthlessness behind the wheel appears to be in direct proportion to their vehicle’s value. On many occasions, Hummer SUVs and posh Mercedes limousines first tailgate us for kilometres, then abruptly overtake on completely blind bends, almost clipping our side-boxes. I can’t even distinguish the drivers’ faces in order to tell them off: the car windows are always tinted black. Who are these road-rage predators? And how can a country with one of the lowest incomes in Europe have one of the highest densities of Mercedes-Benz cars in the world?
No, these are not the Albanian mafiosi, as many foreigners believe. We’re told how it’s just a matter of priorities in a country where private vehicle ownership was banned until two decades ago. According to some sources, there were only 600 privately driven cars in all of Albania in 1990 – usually Mercedes-Benz limousines owned by government officials. Upon democratisation, Mercedes had a head start with regard to sales, since the company already had a wheel in the local market and in the minds of the population. I know that if I had been living under Hoxha’s totalitarian regime at the time and suddenly all restrictions regarding car ownership and travel were lifted, I’d have been amongst the first to borrow some cash, buy a reliable vehicle and migrate abroad, as one million Albanians did in the years following the collapse of the former republic. People want what they don’t have, and I’m no exception to that rule: am I not in constant search of that elusive horizon? Following the troubled transition from communism to capitalism in the 1990s, private enterprises are now booming and the migration tide has turned. Many investors who rode the initial capitalist wave made a quick buck – and can actually afford to drive the vehicles they own.
As aggressive as Albanians may be on the road, their whole attitude changes once they step away from the wheel. Whether we travel inland or village-hop along the coast, the reception we receive from the local population is always warm-hearted. More than once we enter a cafe, bid a friendly hello to all the little old men hunched over the tables and, by the time we wish to pay, discover to our surprise that somebody has already covered our bill without telling us. On another occasion, upon coming across a small town with no more than 100 inhabitants, we dismount in the central square. At first, there’s this eerie silence; people in the plaza stop talking and just stare. A few old ladies sitting on balconies cleaning beans stretch their necks to have a look at the unexpected visitors. The moment the sceptical locals realise we mean no harm, an elderly woman walks towards us with a big smile, two cheese pastries and a full loaf of cornbread. The lady from the corner mini-market is no less generous: she pitches in with a bottle of orange juice and homemade honey.
The language barrier is negligible. Those above 30 years of age often speak Italian, a proficiency acquired by illegally viewing Italian television channels during the Hoxha era – a crime that carried a six-month prison sentence, much as in former East Germany with regard to watching West German “capitalist propaganda” stations. The younger generation is often quite adept in English or German. But the most apparent display of warmth is neither via verbal pleasantries nor conveyed by means of burying us up to our necks with free handouts of yummy burek … it’s through the common hug.
Damn, can Albanians be huggy! As an Italian, Laura is more used to the kissing, cheek-touching and shoulder-patting than I am. The only time Claudia, who owns a small burek food-stand near Durrës, ever lets go of Laura’s hand when we stop for a chat, is when she needs to stuff more pastries into the oven or into our mouths. And we’ve only been in town for a few days! What would happen should we become true friends? Men hug each other too – as greetings, farewells or just randomly in between for good measure. I don’t consider myself adverse to body contact with complete strangers as a form of communication, but due to my German upbringing I sometimes wish I could inflate my personal bubble by a few metres without causing offence. Honestly, how often do you embrace your mechanic when you go to the garage for an oil change?
After a month, and as wonderful as the people have been towards us, we’ve had enough of camping in the shade of crumbling military bunkers10 or building sites. To the dismay of visitors, whole coastal stretches are being converted into either unsightly residential areas or makeshift hotel strips. From the wild Bjeshkët e Namuna – the Cursed Mountains of the north – to the forested interior, Albania contains much beauty to behold. But here, especially on the Ionian coastline south of Vlora, the landscape has lost its battle against the concrete slab.
Greece – 1 July 2013
We’re not alone on our southerly migration. Taking advantage of good weather in Europe, many retirees with their campers are on their way to Greece, and a handful of overlanders are heading further afield to Turkey and beyond, just like us.
It’s amazing how many world travellers are currently out there. While we’re busy puttering along the Mediterranean coast, more than 12,000 individuals are circumnavigating the globe in their privately owned vehicles – and that’s only the ones plying the classic trade routes Cairo to Cape Town, Alaska to Ushuaia, and Europe to Singapore.11 If you visit an overland convention you’ll probably find thousands attending in vehicles of all shapes and sizes – from fully equipped, six-wheeldrive KAT expedition trucks worth $500,000, to old Vespa 125cc mopeds purchased for a few hundred quid. Surf the net and you’ll discover thousands of travel blogs. Search the online bookshops and you can select from more than 1,300 motorcycle travel books alone! Do you want to see the world by rail? You can actually book a train ticket from London almost all the way to Singapore via Moscow, Beijing and Ho Chi Minh City. Working out the connections will cause the railway employee to have a fit, but theoretically, he/she could do it. And if not, hey, it’s great fun to watch them try, as the ticket window queue behind you slowly grows into infinity.
So you see, what Laura and I are doing is by no means exceptional. Overlanding is easier than ever before in history. Mind you, it was different in the past. Odysseus – the famous Greek travelling hero – apparently spent ten years of his life trying to get from Troy to Ithaca according to Homer’s epic, Odyssey. Nowadays, that journey can be completed in a day. Less than 1,000 kilometres of driving and two short ferry hops connect both ancient sites. Some people find it regrettable that the ease of modern travel has taken away much of the overlanding mythos. I strongly doubt a recreation of Odysseus’s voyage would entail battles with man-eating Cyclops, witch-goddesses turning travellers into swine, or sirens. All the wonderful creatures of Greek mythology have either become extinct in the past 3,000 years, or decided to go into hiding. The only Greek sirens attempting to ensnare us with their song today are the women at the vegetable markets singing operatic arias in praise of their tomatoes. However, neither their voices nor – by and large – heavy-set appearances have much in common with the enchanting femmes fatales of yesteryear. Their Greek tomatoes, olives and cheese, in contrast, have the power to lure any visitor nearer to inspect the market tables. Fresh Greek food is delicious!
Arriving in Igoumenitsa, we’re at a loss where to begin our tour of the country. My road map is spattered with “sites of interest” icons. Hungry for more information, we consult Hagen, one of my best buddies, who had worked in Greece as a shipwright until recently.
“If you like big old rocks, you’ve come to the right country. Alternatively, just choose any ancient Greek hero and follow in his footsteps,” is his simple suggestion.
Laura and I are spoilt when it comes to museums and archaeological sites, or “old rocks”, as Hagen calls them. We’ve visited too many on our previous journeys and they’ve lost much of their wonderment. If I were to assemble all the broken pottery shards I’ve seen during the past two decades, I could build a vase the size of Mount Olympus. Nonetheless, I guess it can’t hurt to circle at least a few Hellenic ruins on my map to look at. As far as following in others’ footsteps is concerned, I usually prefer to create my own. Of course, the so-called “lonely planet” isn’t all that lonely any more, and it’s rare that we actually leave footsteps on virgin terrain. That’s also not my intention. For on a personal level, it is indeed possible to be a pioneer, even though 12,000 may be driving around the world and 17 million visiting Greece this year alone. As Frank Sinatra said, it’s all about doing things “my way”.
Infusing a good portion of “you-ness” into every decision and action carries distinct advantages. Many travellers who strictly follow guidebook itineraries to the letter are prone to selective perception with regard to the recognition of beauty. When the Lonely Planet guidebook to Greece suggests the visitor should “sip sunset drinks on the seafront in Nafplio, one of the most romantic destinations”, many tourists do precisely that – and it may be the one and only time on their trip they are awed by a setting Helios. Hard to believe, but there really are people who’ve missed a lifetime of romantic sunset moments, which occur every 24 hours throughout the world, until they’re told to expect one at a specific location on holiday! Hence, to avoid falling into the same trap, Laura and I will merely consult our map and heed local advice to provide us with a rough sense of direction. That’s enough guidance for us.
Our first circle on the map is penned around Olympia. The road to the site of the world’s first Olympic Games is extremely slow – not due to the appalling condition of the tarmac as in Albania, but because of the numerous speed-bumps in the form of tortoises trying to cross. If you’ve been to Greece you’re probably aware of the dilemma: how every year thousands of tortoises are injured or killed in traffic. After all, they cannot simply jump into the bushes when a wacko driver approaches at warp-velocity. And though their shells are tough, they’re defenceless against humans. In fact, the only instance I know of when a chelonian retaliated was in 456 BCE. According to legend, the Greek playwright Aeschylus was killed when a tortoise dropped by an eagle hit him on the head. It’s probably a myth – though some birds of prey are said to drop them from high altitudes in order to crack open their shells. Just in case the story is true, we always wear our helmets, unlike most Greek bikers.
We feel pity for our reptilian friends and always skid to a halt to assist them if it’s not already too late. If we’re in time, it’s just an issue of ferrying them to the far side of the road. Sometimes the tortoises suffer a glancing blow and we find them hapless on their backs, feet wiggling in the air, baking like a pie under the hot Grecian sun, but otherwise uninjured. Their struggle to right themselves would be funny to watch, if it wasn’t also so heart-wrenchingly sad. What an odd course nature occasionally takes, allowing animals to evolve so that a simple flip of 180 degrees can place them temporarily out of action. Most succeed in levering themselves right side up by pushing their heads against the ground. At least nature put some thought into the shell blueprint and configured a dome shape in proportion to the neck length. Only when there are slight imperfections on the carapace resulting in a stable “upside down” point of equilibrium will the tortoise-wiggles be futile. I can’t help but wonder how they managed to survive for the past 220 million years.
If we find a tortoise with a fractured shell, and it’s neither paralysed nor internally bleeding, there’s still something we can do if no vet is available. I’ve done turtle surgery before under expert guidance and know the procedure. When I was young, I dreamt of becoming a veterinarian, and there are still some vestiges of my early ambition: my medical-case for injured animals is twice the size of the first-aid box for ourselves! It contains everything from bullet extractor tools for dog-hunting accidents to paw-socks. In the case of a slightly cracked turtle shell, however, all I need are antiseptics. The rest – sandpaper, fibreglass matting and epoxy resin – I have in my toolkit for patching up leaking petrol tanks.
Repairing a carapace is a lot easier than trying to put together a flattened bunny rabbit. The modus operandi is not all that dissimilar to repairing car bodywork or a boat’s hull, and any skilful mechanic can do it in an emergency with a bit of training.12 Without any treatment whatsoever, tortoises with fractured shells can die a painful death through infection within days.
Moving slowly and steadily like Aesop’s tortoise, we eventually arrive in Olympia. Sparse lichen clings to the remains of pillars that have stood since time immemorial, when Greek deities and mortals still mingled freely. Carefully crafted stones of fallen sanctuaries are strewn about, encroached on by vegetation. Here, nestled between rolling hills, lie the stadium, gymnasion (training area) and palaestra (wrestling school), where athletes once competed naked in honour of the gods. And though it’s all very impressive from a historical standpoint, I fail to become emotionally overwhelmed. Tourists, wardens and tortoises are the only living things wandering around. Olympia itself is quite dead. No games have been played here for 1,600 years. For me, watching the modern Olympics is more enticing.
Perhaps I’m doing it all wrong. The mind can be an amazingly strong tool, and by using our imagination we can be anywhere, anytime. Lowering my eyelids, I envision Bybon lifting a 143-kilogram rock with one hand, and the wrestler Milo of Croton demonstrating his strength by carrying a bull on his shoulders around the arena. Ah, now that works better for me! Following a sudden urge, I make my way to the starting blocks of the stadium where races were held and sprint, as if I had the three Furies, the Erinyes of Hades, on my heels, the whole distance of 192 metres. Heart pounding I turn to an invisible audience and take a bow. I hear clapping and need a while before I realise it’s not the Hellanodikai – the Olympic judges – only my Laura and a small group of tourists. Torn from my dreams, I smile and bow again. Luckily I had kept my clothes on.
The concept of tourism has been around for a very long time and as early as the second century BCE travelling poets such as Antipater of Sidon had compiled lists of remarkable constructions for Hellenic tourists to visit. Then, as now, people were fascinated by the superlative. In his writings – the predecessors of today’s guides for travellers – he mentioned the classical Seven Wonders of the World. One of them, the 13-metretall, gold-and-ivory-decorated Statue of Zeus, happened to be here – at least it was, until the Christian god forced all the Greek deities into early retirement. The statue’s long gone, along with all the other original wonders apart from the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt, destroyed either by man or nature.
Should you have a personal bucket list – in other words things to do before you kick the bucket – and one of your wishes is to visit the sites where the Seven Wonders once stood, you can try.13 Two are in Greece, two in Turkey, two in Egypt and one in Iraq – though you’ll need scuba gear to locate the Lighthouse of Alexandria’s base. And you might be too late for Babylon. American forces in Iraq vandalised the dragon reliefs on the outer walls, dug trenches into the ziggurat pyramid, crushed the original processional road through the Ishtar Gate with tanks, and filled sandbags with thousands of tons of archaeological material, including pottery and bones. British Museum commissioners, such as the archaeologist Lord Redesdale, were furious about the ignorance and/or lack of concern and feared that the mysteries surrounding the Hanging Gardens would now never be resolved. He said, “Outrage is hardly the word, this is just dreadful. These are world sites. Not only is what the American forces are doing damaging the archaeology of Iraq, it’s actually damaging the cultural heritage of the whole world.”
What to do? The human race can be ingenious, but at times equally foolish – and I dare say it’s been this way since the days of Antipater of Sidon.
“Oh yes, pasta and pizza come from the Greek! We made it long before the Italians, but didn’t like it much,” a warden at Olympia tells us. Such notions are widespread: many locals appear to believe that everything derived from Greece, one way or another. It’s almost understandable: you’re dealing here with one of the most ancient and proud cultures on the planet. I don’t think it’s necessary for the locals to fabricate exaggerations. Classical Greece really did contribute extensively to the world we inhabit today. Athens gave us democracy; Homer, Western literature; and Socrates philosophy. From mathematics to the arts, we have much to thank them for. For this reason, I almost want to turn a blind eye towards the current Greek government’s dimwitted management of their economy.
How big was the last European Union and IMF bailout, which was agreed to in early 2012? $130 billion? And they still can’t bring their deficit under control? Maybe it will all work out in the end. Do you recall the ancient Greek myth of Pandora’s Box? When it was opened, all the evils known to man were released into the world, but one item did not escape: hope. Besides, this is not Greece’s first financial crisis. When the Mycenaean civilisation collapsed around 1200 BCE, the region entered what became known as the Greek Dark Ages. Their economy eventually recovered – it only took 400 years. Maybe Greece will be able to get back on track by the year 2413.
The harsh austerity measures are on everybody’s lips, as are the straws sticking out of the massive cardboard freddo iced-coffee cups selling at $4 a pop. Here’s an idea to solve the crisis: if all 11.3 million Greeks drink one freddo less per day, they could collectively pay back the $130 billion loan in eight years. Sorry, just as in Italy, we cannot see any real crisis at the moment. Seaside businesses are booming, locals are driving up and down the boulevards with brand-new scooters and beaches are full of youths playing racquetball on the beach and guzzling one freddo after another.
The Greeks believe in the crisis, and given the opportunity they’ll readily vent their complaints. Outside a greengrocer’s, upon learning that Laura is Italian and I’m from near Munich, a man becomes so angry about the “tragic state of the economy” and Angela Merkel he literally starts spitting venom.
“Italy – you I like. Germany – not so much! You can’t expect us to do things like in your country!” he yells at the top of his lungs. I’m speechless. Germans don’t unload that sort of emotional baggage, especially not in public and definitely not to a person they’ve known for only 45 seconds.
Some Greeks do more than just blow off steam and try to explain the causes of their economy’s demise. A petrol station attendant we chat to believes, “The problem is the young generation! They all hold university degrees and demand a job in their field of study. There’s a lot of work in Greece but it seems only the Albanians are willing to do menial labour. Most Greeks are too proud!”
“Where do the kids get all the cash to buy scooters and freddos?” I ask.
“From whom do you think? From the parents! It’s the same with my children. I have to fund their lifestyles on top of paying my own bills. They’re sucking me dry! I wish they would get a job, any job, even if it’s washing dishes in a restaurant or filling up cars.”
Once we’ve had enough of beach life, Laura and I decide to brave the bustle of Athens. This loud and busy metropolis can be spectacular: even the subway stations contain museum-quality relics discovered when the train tunnels were excavated. But do you know what? What I recall most vividly, when looking back upon my Greek experiences, has nothing to do with cities, museums or fallen temples. In truth, my favourite highlights are not mentioned in any guidebook whatsoever, nor are they prominent on any map. Personally, the best of Greece included chatting to the friendly checkout lady at a supermarket in Lefkada, the invitations to drink coffee with ordinary villagers, and convincing the one-armed fisherman to reveal the true story of how he lost his limb. No, not in a heroic wartime experience or shark attack. It was simply a matter of the dynamite fuse being too short when he was out fishing for sea bream with explosives – an illegal though widespread practice in some regions of Greece even today. No wonder I can’t catch any fish in the Mediterranean!
I remember the endless coastline, humming the film score of Zorba and dancing barefoot in the sand. Every night we could listen to the song of the waves, more magical than the voice of Orpheus. The gods of Olympus feasted on nectar and ambrosia to replenish the blood in their veins and maintain eternal youth; we do the same with olives and tzatziki. Riding our bikes with open helmets between gnarled trees, our nostrils fill with the fragrance of wild herbs growing alongside the embankments. Yes, it’s possible to live well here, economic crisis or not. We may have a hard time leaving, but before we do, there’s one last person we must visit.
If I can find her, I want to consult the Pythia, the priestess of Apollo at the Oracle of Delphi. Regarded as infallible, the Pythia was the mouthpiece of the god, who used her to voice answers to questions posed by supplicants seeking counsel. What an amazing resource this would be for any government today. Wouldn’t it be great if all politicians had access to an oracle to save them from reckless decision-making? Maybe the world wouldn’t be in such a mess.
Having said that, there are at least two consultable infallibles alive today. The Pope is one, according to the Vatican Council, when speaking ex cathedra – in his official capacity – on dogma and moral issues, a claim even many Catholics find difficult to reconcile with the questionable parts of the Church’s history. In light of this chequered past, the fact that popes rarely speak “from the chair” (the literal translation of ex cathedra) and are reluctant to address the world’s most pressing issues may not be such a bad thing. The ancient Greeks knew that when gods and mortals mingled, the story invariably ended in tears. Years have passed and not much seems to have changed, considering how much blood continues to be shed in the name of religion. Maybe Chuck Norris, the other infallible legend, is more trustworthy? World Wide Web wisdom asserts that Chuck can divide by zero, slam revolving doors and convert God to atheism. But one shouldn’t believe everything that’s on the Web. Personally, I’d place more faith in the Pythia.
Only she hasn’t uttered a single word for more than 1,600 years. Her final message was: “Tell the king the fair wrought house has fallen. No shelter has Apollo, nor sacred laurel leaves. The fountains are now silent, the voice is stilled. It is finished.”14 This is discouraging, but it never hurts to try. Traditionally, the supplicant – me in this case – must follow a certain procedure before he’s allowed access to the inner sanctuary. After a lengthy journey to Delphi he’d be interviewed by priests to ensure his question was genuine. If it were, he could proceed up the “Sacred Way” to the Temple of Apollo bearing laurel leaves, an animal sacrifice and, crucially, hard currency. There he entered the adyton (it means inaccessible), a small room where he would put his enquiry to the hallucinating Pythia seated on a tripod near a fissure in the ground emitting holy vapours, and hope Apollo’s response was not too ambiguous. Oh, and Apollo only spoke on the seventh day of every lunar summer month. For three months a year, he went away on holiday.
I can tick the boxes for some of these conditions. The new moon was a week ago, few Hellenic supplicants travelled as far as we did and I consider myself to be genuine – apart from one trivial issue. As you’ve probably gathered, I do not believe in deities or the supernatural. I also have no laurel leaves and am vehemently against animal sacrifices. But I did leave a monetary fee behind at the site’s ticket office. Hoping that will suffice, I ascend the Sacred Way. Only, what should I ask, if against all odds I stumble upon the Pythia? The meaning of life, the universe and everything – and hope she doesn’t answer with Douglas Adams’ 42? No. And besides, I’ve found my personal meaning of life long ago. Without divine guidance, atheists, agnostics and nihilists have no other option than to construct a personal value system themselves. In a nutshell, mine would be “to search the world for input I find stimulating, reject ideologies I feel uncomfortable with and adjust my life accordingly. I wish to fulfil my curiosity and discover what’s best for both myself and my loved ones.”
I could ask the Pythia about my future. But wouldn’t that take the fun away from life’s journey? Cheating at a Sudoku puzzle by peeking at the answers is not nearly as rewarding as working out the solution yourself. Maybe I should narrow the question’s scope and be more specific. There are many issues mankind is determined to resolve – my personal ‘Seven Mysteries of the World’ include finding a cure for cancer, discovering a source of unlimited energy, and understanding the female brain – but would it be wise to speed up the pace of human evolution and interfere with its natural development? Would I be prepared to take on the responsibility, should a divine panacea trigger an uncontrollable growth in Earth’s population or unconstrained access to energy bury our planet under an equally vast amount of consumer waste? I am not so sure. On my travels I’ve often witnessed how abrupt changes to an indigenous tribe’s natural evolution have wrought havoc within their society. The good intentions of aid agencies, aiming to improve a region’s standard of living, are not enough when the community lacks the means to deal with the consequences.15 Many offices of indigenous affairs – such as Brazil’s Fundação Nacional do Índio – now plead for a stronger policy of non-interference, lest the last remaining isolated tribes self-destruct.16 Should a hypothetical Pythia disclose any world-changing information, I may have the moral obligation to keep it to myself.
Thus, standing in front of the ruins of the Temple of Apollo, I can think of only one question to ask the oracle. Eyes closed, I whisper: “What is it humanity should ask of you?” And the Pythia responds wisely, for the first time in 1,600 years – with audible silence. This is, in my opinion, an unambiguous and fully valid answer. Smiling, I give a brief bow towards the adyton, turn on my heels and descend the Sacred Way.
Even without infallible Pythias, humanity has achieved much since the invention of the wheel. We may still have a long way to go until our species’ sporadic bursts of brilliance untangle all the great cosmic mysteries, but given enough time, I have no doubt we’ll find at least some of the answers – when we are ready. Laura and I also have a long way to go. After almost a year of travelling, we are prepared to leave Europe and enter Asia. With optimism – there is no other reasonable way.
1 If you wish to estimate the distance you can see from a sub-orbital vantage point, multiply the square root of your eye-height above ground in metres by 3.57. The (rounded) result is in kilometres.
2 Trust in a form of democracy that promotes popular initiatives is part of Switzerland’s cultural identity. Citizens can hold referendums on anything from joining the UN to government taxation. Laws passed by parliament can be challenged, and amendments to the federal constitution introduced, by gathering sufficient signatures to allow for a public referendum, which is then decided by a simple majority vote. One result of direct participation in public issues is that some cantons do not levy inheritance tax on assets transferred to directly related beneficiaries. I hear many Western readers weeping.
3 I deeply hope Laura never develops daredevil ambitions. Evel Knievel broke 433 bones during his career.
4 In case you don’t, congratulations. You’re still young.
5 During a six-day period in 1995, 8,372 civilians were executed in a region designated by the Security Council as a UN-protected zone. It was ruled by ICTY (the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia) as genocide, though apart from key individuals, very few have so far been indicted – especially when you consider how more than 25,000 people were directly or indirectly involved in the killings. Many who are accountable still hold high government positions.
6 This Act prohibited financial assistance (i.e. aid, loans and credit) unless all the individual republics of Yugoslavia held free and fair elections. Effectively, it persuaded the republics to secede and thus led indirectly to the civil war.
7 Some say 53, others 49. The League of Nations, predecessor to the UN, did not exist at the turn of the century. There was no globally accepted body empowered with defining statehood.
8 In Lauingen, a kindergarten allowed all Christian pre-schoolers to celebrate the Sugar Feast, an Islamic festival marking the end of Ramadan, just as the Muslim kids would participate in Easter. Needless to say, the Turkish Delight and chocolate bunnies were much appreciated, regardless of religious background.
9 Fear of snakes, fear of unfamiliar environments, fear of change, fear of foreignness, fear of foreign languages, fear of making decisions, fear of time and the fear of fear itself.
10 750,000 of these dome-shaped bunkers are scattered throughout the country, built on the orders of the “Great Teacher”, Enver Hoxha, during the cold war. A defensive bulwark against a perceived western threat, or were they, as some claim, planned to make the population believe an attack was imminent to stop them from complaining about government policies?
11 How is this figure estimated? Well, all three routes contain bottlenecks – waypoints nearly every traveller must pass through. To get from North to South America one must ship from Panama around the Darien Gap. Overlanders in East Africa currently still need to take the Lake Nasser Ferry between Sudan and Egypt (a land border opened in 2014); and the Lahore-Amritsar border is the only open frontier between Pakistan and India. Each of these bottlenecks welcomes roughly 4,000 Western-plated vehicles per year.
12 To all animal-loving mechanics and DIY handymen out there: please don’t try to weld a crack in a turtle’s shell. That’s not a good idea. Instead, consult a vet before your next trip so you can provide emergency first aid in countries and regions where veterinarians are absent.
13 Today, the “official” Seven Wonders of the Classical World are: the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, the Colossus of Rhodes and the Lighthouse of Alexandria.
14 Various versions of this message exist and it’s unclear when the Pythia last spoke. Some sources claim it was in the year 362, when Oribasius questioned her on behalf of Emperor Julius the Apostate; others cite 393 or 394 as the correct year. Either way, her famous final prophecy was invented hundreds of years later and is little more than an eloquent fabrication.
15 The same can be said of our governments, when attempts are made to force our notion of democracy upon countries not adhering to our Western value system.
16 In Left Beyond the Horizon I cited numerous personal observations collected over many years. Foreign aid projects walk a knife edge. The introduction of modern technology and Western concepts – sometimes even basic schooling – into an archaic society have the potential to kindle humanitarian disasters more severe than the initial crisis. More often than not, Western intervention “contaminates” a region and leads to dependency, loss of cultural traditions, bereavement of individual purpose, inter-tribal confrontations, alcohol abuse and ultimately to the destabilisation and extinction of tribal unity. Applied anthropology and evolutionary psychology are highly complex disciplines most aid organisations seem unable to grasp.
