Balkans by bus

August, September 2013

After a break (of collarbone as well as supertourist activity) and some recouperation in the south of France (thanks Kate & Charles) I finally made it to new territory - Balkans.

Hugged by Hungary, Austria and Italy on the west, and the Black Sea and Asia on the east, the Balkans are quite a distance to cover on public transport alone. But after 8 hours crammed on a train full of Interrailer's fleeing Sziget Festival, I started out ready for a big dose of Bus travel.

I was to be transported to maritme oases with streets of marble, battlescarred cities with too little money to fill too many holes, and mountain villages where cattle get taken for walks and the dogs walk themselves.

There are too many different and unique places, people and landscapes in the Balkans to list my whole experience (just wait for the photo albums) but there are enough similarities to be able to bunch these countries together as a region. So here are a few:

Fall of empires. A lot of shit has gone down in this area to the detriment of the Ottomans, various Maritme republics, the Austro-Hungarians, Nazi Germany, Commies and Greater Serbia. This makes for very interesting, albeit sometimes very tragic, sightseeing opportunities. And a few awkard conversations.

"My country is better, but did you know Croatia is now in Europe?". Always commented with a hint of surprise. This is a particularly hot topic in Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina, where it seems each has their own truth on the past and neighbour nations are still not to be trusted.

But they eat the same food, how can they be so different?! It's not the place to visit for gastronomical variety. A sausage may be called Kofta or Cevapi but its still a sausage. Even the beer looks and tastes suspiciously similar three countries later.

Rakia. Everyone has the best, completely natural fruit brandy made by hand from their Grandparents plum tree. A shot of Rakia in the morning is prescribed by doctors to keep your heart ticking good and a family will make up to 100 litres each year for their personal use. From my experience, 40% alcohol does not leave much room to be able to appreciate the taste of Grandma's plums and it all burns like hell on the way down.

Rubbish. Many horror moments to be had watching locals ditch their rubbish and endless supply of cigarette butts into the nearest UNESCO site, garden, beach or just straight into the Adriatic sea. Only a handful of desperate Roma pillaging dumpsters seem to understand the concept of recycling.

Smokers rule. Not in a good way, but at around €2 a pack its only the diehard non-smokers that avoid this community building activity. To be found not only at your nearest reputable cafe, street, restaurant, hotel, or bus.

Everything takes longer than you think. People take their sweet old time. Hungry? bring a snack while you wait for the menu. That 200km journey in a couple of hours? No chance. 60km/hr is quite speedy. This is not a part of the world you can see at pace.

And so Bus-overdose set in after just four weeks, as I was left cursing mountainous Montenegrin roads, rakia, a 5 hour sleep, and a bus driver with one hand in and out of his box of ciggies.

The Cathedral

I've never visited Cathedral Cove. I would have liked to.

But as fate, or irregular train timetables, would have it I have landed upon the Sagrada Familia... tall, lots of arches, nice stone work, taken an age to create.

Any other Cathedral just wouldn't be the same.

Camino

The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of St James, is a strenuous and trying pilgrimage across hundreds of kilometres to Santiago de Compostela in the north west corner of Spain. Most walk from the French Pyrenees across the north, kitted out with the latest hiking gears and armed with walking sticks not much use in the cobbled streets of the towns and villages of Spain. A forest dweller we met at the pub walked from Germany ("In winter ", he added with a crazed look). I made my pilgrimage from Porto, on a four hour bus with a screaming restless child. It was strenuous and trying. They wouldn't give me a pilgrim stamp so I got the photo instead.

Atlantic

Made it to the Atlantic. No more swims with dead fish, turtle flippers and other Mediterranean suprises. In fact no more swims as it's bloody freezing!

All the Horses in Spain

Jerez de la Frontera is a far cry from the peach concrete chaos of the Costa Del Sol. The Fuengirola branch of the Rover's Return doesn't serve snail juice. In Jerez you won't even find an English explanation of Hay Caracoles.

If you are mad enough to stay in an Andalucian ghetto suburb in May with a Spaniard who might or might not be called Miguel then you are in for a treat.

Feria del Caballo.

There are hundreds of dancing prancing horses, hundreds of thousands of glasses of sherry and millions and billions of flamenco ruffles.

It's dusty, smelly and hot. But it's one hell of a party.