Welcome

Welcome to my backpacker blog. There are 8 blogs in total beginning with my earliest post 'Days 1-3: Paris & Strasbourg'. Enjoy



RB in Mostar, Bosnian Herzegovina, 24 February 2011

  

Day 24-26: Belgrade

Day 24 Back to Belgrade (Friday 25 February 2011)

The snowfall has not let up overnight and once again this morning I am up at the crack of dawn to catch my bus, this time from the central Sarajevo bus station, back to Belgrade. My bus leaves at 0600 and, should I miss it, then not only is there a two hour wait for the next one but it also departs from East Sarajevo – not somewhere I wish to revisit! I am hurrying through the snow, deep enough that it comes halfway up my shin, eager to be on time and aware that I need to pick up the pace. Almost there, as I am pass the US Embassy guard sat in his little cabin; as I glance up at him I loose my footing and go down face first into the snow, which thankfully cushions my fall, but not my embarrassment. After this tumble I have to sprint best I can through the snow and make the bus with just seconds to spare.

By the time I am once more on the stone steps leading up to the Manga Hostel it has been at least ten hours since I left Sarajevo. Inside I get a big welcome back hug from Igor. I got up this morning at 0515 and the subsequent ten hour bus journey has left me with a rather scruffy appearance and less than fresh odour. It is not long before Igor tactfully suggests I might feel better after a sleep and a shower (he is probably regretting that hug).

Tonight I travel in a taxi with Wayne and Jacob to François' place. A Frenchmen, François has a job teaching French in a Belgrade school for six months to help fund his next stint of travelling. His flat is pretty quirky; for instance, he has attached a table tennis net across his dining table, and at some point during the evening we start to play. The problem is that non of the other people sitting around the table cannot be bothered to pick up their beer cans and cigarette packets, which brings a whole new dimension to our game. Later the party moves to the awesomely named bar, Idiot, but tired out from the day's exertions I leave my new pals to it.

Day 25 Belgrade (Saturday 26 February 2011)



Kalemegdan in the snow

Snow has been falling here since I left for Sarajevo four days ago and now it has begun to settle far quicker than the army of sweepers can clear it from the pathways. I am unsure if these guys are being paid for their tireless work, or if they are admirable volunteers who have organised themselves into squadrons of elite snow sweepers. What I do know is that they are doing an admirable job and I wouldn't blame them for hiding a flask of rakija in their coats to help galvanise them against the cold. I got up rather late today and although I have not been up long the sun is setting as I take another walk through the park at Kalemegdan; it has only been four days since I was last here but I have genuinely missed being able to spend time here. Later I discover a coffee shop called Fidel where the décor resembles a communist revolutionist's jumble sale. It is the perfect place to sit for hours sipping a beer and making these notes.



Old boys play chess in the snow, Kalemegdan

It is after midnight and I am sat in the basement kitchen of the hostel talking to Jorge, a student at Belgrade University, who works the night shift on the Manga reception. After the other staff have gone home his duties seem to include chatting to the likes of Wayne, Jacob and myself whilst polishing off Anna Maria's mother's home-made rakija. Anna Marija thinks that the guests cannot get enough of her rakjia, so everyday she brings in a new batch and every night Jorge drinks it. It is difficult to know who from the staff here at Manga I like best; perhaps, all things considered, Jorge just about steals it. He is this incredibly knowledgeable and well read guy - another person with that fine quality of always having a story to tell, or knowing some bizarre fact that seems to make perfect sense only when he alone explains it. At one point he starts to tell me that “proper cockneys must be born within ear shot of the Bow Bells”; why does he know this? Another interesting thing about Jorge is that he is the captain of the Serbian national cricket team. By his own admission cricket is not the most popular sport in Serbia and his team has to be made up with a few ringers from Britain and Australia. This summer they are due to play in an international tournament for minor cricketing nationals and do battle with the likes of Iceland and Slovenia.

Day 26 Belgrade (Sunday 27 February 2011)

Today is not only my last day in Belgrade but also the final day of my journey. It is a slight shame that today is Sunday because, like many of the cities I have visited, most of Belgrade's shops and kafanas will be closed throughout the day, only opening this evening. Being that this is my last night, Wayne, Jacob and I are planning to go out later with another friend of theirs, Alexa, who is mostly to thank for introducing the guys to Belgrade's underground bar scene. This afternoon the temperature outside makes it pretty difficult to be out for any length of time but I am determined to return home with a bottle of Medovača, a honey brandy I have discovered during my time here. Jorge says the rakija bars and kafanas that serve the Medovača will sell me a bottle to take home. However, as it is Sunday, as I walk around Belgrade for a final time none of my usual haunts are open. Finally I get lucky when one of the last places I try is open and this saves me having to buy it later tonight when we are out on the town.

Alexa does not disappoint and takes us to a bar in the basement of a building that from the outside I could never have guessed at there being a bar inside. During my time in Belgrade I must have walked straight past a dozen times without noticing it. Although the city seems quiet on our way here, inside it is buzzing. Alexa points out some people he says are famous Serbs but, of course, I have no idea who they are and suspect he is probably taking the mick and they are more likely to be his friends. Wayne however, is attracting celebrity style attention; word has gone round that there is a guy who looks the spitting image of Jack Sparrow in the bar, and everyone seems to want their picture taking with him. Jacob has work the following morning and leaves us around half two, but Wayne and I stay for at least another hour. Saying goodbye to Alexa and his friends, we head out into the night in search of Burek – maybe because this is to be my last, it tastes like the best yet. While we sit eating, the baker brings out a fresh batch of cheese Burek and, needing to use up my remaining Serbian Dinar, we cannot resist seconds. Walking back to Manga, about two hours after Jacob had left us to go to bed, I say to Wayne that I fully expect to find Jacob still awake and sat at the kitchen table talking with Jorge. We get back to discover my prediction is bang on. It seems to sum up my time here nicely; the people are just so irresistibly friendly and engaging you just cannot bring yourself to say goodnight...

(c) Robert Beardsworth

Days 21-23: Sarajevo & Mostar

Day 21 To Sarajevo (Tuesday 22 February 2011)



Bus journey Belgrade
to Sarajevo

I am leaving for Sarajevo, capital of Bosnia Herzegovina, on the 1130 bus. Igor warned me not to take the train in this weather and, in fact, the bus journey takes eight hours, as opposed to the ten hour train journey, so besides the compromise in comfort, the bus seems to be the better option. In this blizzard, eight hours becomes nine hours, but that is pretty good going as the driving conditions are atrocious. We stop at a road side café in the Bosnian mountains where visibility is down to a few metres distance. Towards the end of the journey I start to worry as having approached the lights of Sarajevo city centre the bus now seems to have skirted around it and is continuing east, past where I am hoping to get off. Eventually the bus terminates at East Sarajevo bus station. I had not anticipated arriving twelve kilometres outside the city centre and I do not have any Bosnian Marks to pay for the journey into town. Luckily a man who had been on the bus, and who speaks English, walks with me to where I can get a tram into the city centre, and he even gives me enough change for a ticket. It is late by the time I arrive at the Hostel City Centre, on Saliha Hadziuseinovica, where I waste little time crashing into bed.

Day 22 Sarajevo (Wednesday 23 February 2011)



Bascarsija, Sarajevo's Turkish Quarter

Last evening there was just enough time to introduce myself to Jackson, above whom I slept in the bunk bed we share here at the Hostel. Jackson is from Hong Kong, but his family moved to Canberra, Australia when he was younger. Today we have booked a city tour that leaves the tourist information building on Saraci, the main pedestrianised street in the heart of Sarajevo. I am led to believe that the tour will focus on the city during the war years, from 1992-5, when Sarajevo was under siege from Bosnian Serb forces. My tour group does not leave until two o'clock this afternoon so I have an opportunity this morning to explore the central area known as Bascarsija, the Turkish Quarter. First stop is for Bosnian coffee and more Burek. After breakfast while exploring the old town I discover that the principal buildings of each of the four main religions in Bosnia Herzegovina can all be found in very close proximity to one another. Across a tiny area, which I am able to walk in minutes, I see the Roman Catholic Cathedral, Gazi Husrev Bey's Mosque, Serbian Orthodox Church and Synagogue. In a city with such a tumultuous recent history this sign of tolerance and togetherness seems to me to be something quite special.



The Latin Bridge

Throughout Sarajevo I see red imprints sunk into the paving and learn that these are known as 'Sarajevo Roses' which mark a place on the ground where a shell exploded during the war. On the north side of Baseskije is the outdoor market place where, in 1994, a mortar bomb killed 66 people in the largest single massacre during the siege. Before heading back to Saraci to meet up with Jackson and our tour there is just time to visit the Latin Bridge, another infamous landmark in the history of this beautiful place. Here, on the north bank of the River Miljacka, at the entrance to the bridge, Gavrilo Princip assassinated the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian empire, leading to the outbreak of the first world war.

 

Taking the tour this afternoon, besides Jackson and I, there is only one other person - John: an Australian tri-athlete and web-designer from Brisbane who has recently lived in Saddleworth, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Our tour guide is Edin, who at twenty-six is not exactly a veteran in his profession, but I like him: there is no jargon or bullshit on his tour. Maybe it is his lack of years of experience; whatever the reason, his tour might lack facts and a deep knowledge of the city, but his views are honest and personal. He explains how as a Bosnian Muslim his family escaped to Germany before the outbreak of the war. I am surprised to hear him say that if it were not for the tri-nation peace agreement presided over, and still enforced by America, he believes that Bosnian Serbs, Muslims and Croats would still be at war today. Since 1995 Bosnian Serbs and Croats have slowly returned to live in Sarajevo and this makes for an uneasy truce on the ground. Edin explains how the separate groups work side by side, but Sarajevo's social life is now segregated down ethnic lines. We are driven around the city by Edin in his banged-up mini bus; the windows in the back are so filthy the three of us can barely see through them. Our first stop is Sarajevo airport; or more precisely, an area of just a few houses and farm buildings near to the runway. It was from here that besieged Bosnian Muslims dug a tunnel beneath the UN-controlled airport, 960 metres, re-emerging in safe territories from where it was possible to reach the mountains to buy, food and weapons on the black market. Edin tells us that a handful of Serbs became millionaires selling arms to the Bosnian Muslim Army, with whom the Serb nation was at war.

Poster showing the 1992-5 siege of Sarajevo

The last stop on the tour also happens to be the site of the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics, on the valley side, overlooking the city. But the reason Edin has brought us here is so we can see across the river valley to the hillside opposite and witness the sheer scale of the atrocities committed during the three-year siege. From here I can see a cemetery on the other side of the valley; Edin explains that, historically, cemeteries had been kept separate along ethnic lines, but during and after the war the sheer number of dead Bosnian Muslims meant that their bodies had to be buried in non-Muslim cemeteries. What makes this sight so poignant is that the cemetery we are looking at was originally a burial site for orthodox Bosnians, whose gravestones are traditionally black, as opposed to the white gravestones used in Muslim cemeteries. I can see the black gravestones of the orthodox cemetery which, for over a century, as more graves were added, had been steadily climbing up the hillside. What I can also see is the tragic evidence of what occurred here. The nucleus of black gravestones is surrounded, and outnumbered, by an enormous mass of white gravestones: the graves of the Muslim people murdered here in the space of three short years.

Sarajevo's mass cemeteries



Day 23 Mostar, (Thursday 24 February 2011)

This morning, John and I walk through the deep snow that has fallen on Sarajevo overnight. It is very early and we are on route to the train station for the 0715 to Mostar. Last evening, John had decided he liked my idea of a return day trip to Bosnia Herzegovina's second largest town. I am lucky to have met yet more great people; I get on really well with John, and he, Jackson and I had fun drinking in Sarajevo brewery, on the south bank of the River Miljacka, last night. Inside the brewery building is a cavernous bar, not unlike a Munich Brauhaus, with large tables and dark stained wooden furniture. Sarajevsko Pivo must be one of the most crisp and clean beers I have ever tasted and, as we were drinking it straight from its source it could not be any fresher. This morning I do not have even the slightest twinge of a hangover.

Heavy gun fight damage

Having departed Sarajevo by train, we arrive in Mostar at the bus station (the train gave up on route and we were transferred onto a bus for the final hour of the journey). On the short walk into the centre of Mostar it is very apparent that Sarajevo, being the capital city, has had significantly more restoration work since 1995. In Mostar, only a few streets from the city centre, I can see buildings peppered with bullets holes to the extent that I am able to guess where the most ferocious of gun battles must have taken place. Here, it seems all paths lead to one place eventually: the iconic humped-backed Stari Most, or Old Bridge, that spans the River Neretva. Today, John and I are almost alone in the area around the bridge, which in 2004-5 was reconstructed with money from UNESCO and designated a World Heritage Site. The important status bestowed on the place only adds to the unusual sense of amazement at finding it so deserted - it feels as if we have been allowed into a UNESCO theme park an hour before it opens to the public. The Old Bridge had stood for over four hundred years until it was destroyed by Bosnian Croat artillery fire on 9 November 1993. A souvenir shop about ten metres from the bridge on the eastern bank displays a small exhibition of photographs and video footage taken during the siege of Mostar. John and I notice that two stones, retrieved from the rubble of the original bridge, have been placed at the entrance to the Stari Most on each side of the river, both with the same simple inscription: 'Don't forget 1993'.

Stari Most

(c) Robert Beardsworth

Days 16-20: Belgrade

Day 16 Belgrade (Thursday 17 February 2011)

As my fifteenth day on the road draws to a end I board the 2330 EuroNight train to Belgrade. I will share my cabin with a women of maybe sixty who is already ensconced in one of two bottom bunks. Not fancying my chances of a good night's sleep on a top bunk swaying to and fro as the train hurtles east through the night towards Serbia, I too opt for a bed closer to the floor. My cabin mate's story is a sad one; she is living in Germany but returning to Serbia because her elderly mother has passed away. We speak in German and just about get by. The train guard who has entered our cabin is insisting that he keeps hold of my Inter Rail pass until we arrive in Belgrade, something I am not happy about but I am not given much say in the matter. He says I should keep my passport and any valuables hidden under my clothes and that under no circumstances should I open the cabin door to anyone until two o'clock in the morning, when boarder police will be coming on board. He says once we are in Serbia it is safe but before then we should keep the door locked because these trains sometimes get targeted by bandits. Pardon, have I heard him right? Yes bandits! All this is clearly disconcerting for my cabin mate who looks terrified! She is having a rough enough time as it is and does not need this. All three locks (including a heavy duty chain and padlock) securely fastened, I settle in and attempt to get some sleep.

Right on cue at two o'clock in the morning there is a loud banging at the cabin door. Half asleep I fumble about for what seems like a age trying to undo the locks; trying to keep calm while all the time an armed Hungarian policeman is glaring at me through the little perspex widow in our sliding cabin door. Clearly unimpressed by me, he then starts exchanging glances between me and my passport photograph, eventually declaring himself satisfied by exclaiming “English huh”. Fifteen minutes later it is the turn of the Serbian police to come aboard. First a women stamps my passport and as she exits the cabin I think it is safe to fasten the locks the again. No sooner have I returned to bed there is more thunderous banging at the door and another armed policeman comes in to check our passports a second time for good measure. An hour later I am disturbed once again - this time someone outside in the corridor is trying the door and shining a torch into our cabin. At first I am startled and dare not move a muscle, but then I lurch at the door and give it a good kick. With this the torch clicks off and I hear footsteps run off down the corridor. Returning to my bunk bed I catch the light in my cabin mate's eyes which are wild with fear. This convinces me to stay on-watch until daybreak.

Arriving in Belgrade

Belgrade – a cold and wet Belgrade – greets me as I step out of the train. Sleep deprived and disorientated I struggle to get my bearings outside Belgrade Station. Buses, trams, taxis, cars, motorcycles and people are all fighting for recognition on Belgrade's tired and worn streets. On first arrival in Belgrade there does not seem to be any etiquette, or indeed love lost, between different road users and each time I cross a road it feels like I am risking life and limb. I start to question the wisdom in coming here and decide there is a good chance I will be staying just a single night before making a quick getaway. After almost an hour searching I find the rather hidden out-of-sight Manga Hostel at 7 Resavska. It is still very early as I climb up the few stone steps and through the gate into the courtyard. I knock on the door but no-one answers. My experience of Belgrade thus far is telling me that perhaps not too many tourists come here in February and it is very possible the Hostel is closed. Then a girl belatedly opens the door - it is obvious I have got her out of bed – and, rubbing her eyes, she asks if I can wait two minutes, closing the door behind her. Stood alone, outside in the rain, my mood is now as dark as this morning's sky. I turn and leave.



Belgrade's traffic worn streets



Convinced I will be leaving tomorrow on the first train, I walk back towards the station to the Hotel Beograd. My guidebook gives it a lukewarm review and just now that will do for me. Inside, the patron tells me he will not know if he has rooms available until ten o'clock, when his guests from last night have decided to check out. That's two hours from now so I tramp back into the wet street. Another hotel from my guidebook is too expensive and I have started to follow signs to hostels but can never find them. All the time the traffic is bewildering and the cold blistering. Taking refuge in a bookshop with an internet café I drink a coffee and email home and slowly my mood starts to soften. I contemplate how hostels have served me very well thus far, so why should that be any different here? Decision made, I email Manga Hostel to apologise for my early morning wake-up call and to reserve myself a dorm bed.

The Pobednik (The Victor) Monument, Kalemegdan

It is amazing what a few hours' sleep and a hot shower will do for me. Strolling through central Belgrade I feel much better now and even the weather has improved. All this means the city is soaring in my affections and I am starting to think I was a little too hasty in my judgement this morning. My walk takes me along Knez Mihailova, the pedestrianised shopping street that connects Trg Republike (Republic Square) in the centre of Old Belgrade, with Kalemegdan, a fortress and park, that cover the peninsula overlooking the confluence of the River Danube and River Sava. As I reach this point the sun is setting over New Belgrade on the opposite bank of the river, as I loiter a while watching the sun set I feel reinvigorated and happy to be here. Earlier at the hostel I met an Australian guy, Wayne, who is staying in the same eight-bed dorm as I am. I bump into Wayne again, who is in Kalemegdan, with Jacob, a Swedish guy, and another guest at Manga. I chat to them about my first impressions of Belgrade and they both tell me how they have come to adore the city.

Sun set over New Belgrade



Day 17 Belgrade (Friday 18 February 2011)

Igor, who works at Manga, is very a helpful guy - all the staff here are - and he advises me on what I can do today. Taking Igor's word I walk east fifteen minutes to the outdoor market where I buy Burek for lunch. Travelling in the Balkans you cannot really avoid Burek, and nor should it be avoided – a pie made from layers of flaky pastry each filled with a choice of minced meat and onions, potato or, my personal favourite, cheese. It comes in various shapes and sizes, for which there are good reasons and traditions that I do not fully understand. The most common variety I have eaten comes in a long strip, maybe two inches think, that is coiled into a wheel shape to be cooked in a circular pan. I can buy a decent sized portion that is enough for a tasty filling lunch for about 40 or 50 Dinar, the equivalent of about 40 or 50 pence. I then visit the Cathedral of St Sava, which is the Serbian Orthodox Church. As I enter I am not expecting to find the Cathedral's interior under renovation. I am used to seeing such spaces as presented to the world in all their elaborate glory so, on this occasion, witnessing it bare and undressed, I feel almost as if I have caught sight of something I should not have done.



View of Zemun roof tops from Gardos tower



Bus 18 takes me over the River Sava, through New Belgrade to where I alight in the residential district of Zemun. Development of New Belgrade in the latter half of the twentieth century has merged the once separate town of Zemun with the greater urban area of Belgrade. Igor has recommended I climb the hill to the Gardos Tower - close to the bank of the Danube, just north of the town centre. It takes me twenty minutes to climb from the river bank to the top where, sitting on some rocks at the edge of the plateau are two guys looking out over the red-tiled roofs of Zemun and back towards Old Belgrade. I sit talking to Aaron, who is from Limerick in Ireland, and Milash, who is from Belgrade, they have been friends for years since meeting at a camp site in Armenia. Aaron is a genial guy - the type of person you imagine is always at the centre of things, cracking jokes. Milash is more conscientious, endlessly friendly and welcoming. They invite me along for a beer back down in the town where they are meeting Milash's friend Vlada.

Over a few beers it is fascinating talking to both Milash and Vlada, who both speak excellent English. Talking about life as Serbs, they are both very nationalistic and far more politically conscious than my friends and I at home, however I find that they express a world view much the same as mine. Vlada tells me about the stigma he has experienced outside of Serbia, where people have, on learning he is Serbian, not wanted to speak to him and even turned their back on him. This I struggle to understand as he was nine years old in 1995 when the war in the Former Yugoslavia ended and thirteen during the war with Kosovo. Milash is more openly political in his conversation and quite anti-capitalist and anti-American. He doubts whether Serbia will ever entering the EU as joining NATO, he says, would be impossible for most Serbs after the NATO bombing campaign of Belgrade in 1999 that lasted 72 days and nights.

I find Vlada and Milash easy going and good for a laugh; they treat me as they do Aaron, with whom they have been friends for years. In one bar in Zemun a hush descends and the patron turns the volume on the television set up high. Milash tells Aaron and I that the programme is “the biggest show in Serbia”; by the reaction of the crowd in here it is taken pretty seriously. As it gets under way, Aaron and I look at each other and in unison shout “It's Countdown!”. Everyone in the bar is transfixed, all working together as though they had just formed an impromptu pub quiz team. Not much help to the team, Aaron and I just find the whole thing absurdly funny.

We are travelling to Old Belgrade by bus and I am ready to stamp my ticket when Milash prevents me. “Rob, do you not understand, one bus ticket equals one beer!” Milash and Vlada have probably been carrying around the same bus tickets for months avoiding having to get them stamped at all costs. Wages are low here - the average is about 400 Euros a month, so for two young guys like Milash and Vlada probably even lower. For them, stamping their ticket means one less beer tonight. About to ask what happens if a ticket inspector gets on, I find out: there are two inspectors waiting at the next bus stop and as the doors open half the passengers on the bus, led by my new friends launch forward and jump past the inspectors, taking me with them. The next bus is coming behind so everyone jumps aboard this one, only to jump off again a couple of stops later to avoid yet more inspectors. I am beginning think it might have less to do with the price of beer and more to do with the sport of fare dodging. By the time we have completed the short journey into Old Belgrade we have taken about five different buses.

Standing on Bulevar Kralja Aleksandra, close to Manga Hostel, Milash takes my city map and marks two locations A and B. He then writes a phone number and says I should phone in one hour when I will be told to go to either “location A or location B”. An hour later I phone and I am told to be at location B in 20 minutes and when I arrive Milash is there waiting for me. He leads me to a flat, belonging to his girlfriend, half way up one of the enormous high-rise tower blocks built by Yugoslav State. Inside there is a group enjoying a drink and Aaron is busy losing a rakija drinking contest with a Serbian girl who's family I am told are Russian, despite Aaron's confidence to the contrary, there is only ever going to be one winner. After an hour or so the party moves to a club in town called Red Room that is playing mostly British indie music. Most of the people I talk with are interested to know why I would leave London for Belgrade. They are interested to hear about life in England, but mostly about London. I meet Marija, a recently qualified doctor, who tells me that because the United Kingdom is not part of the Schengen Area it is difficult and expensive for Serbs to get a visa allowing them to enter the British Isles. Marija is proud to be from Belgrade and is keen for me to see the city she knows and loves so offers to show me around tomorrow.

Day 18 Belgrade (Saturday 19 February 2011)

Having slept in all morning I spend my afternoon hanging out with the guys at Manga Hostel. Wayne, who I met when I first arrived, seems at first to be a little over friendly as if he is taking the mick, but it is not long before I realise he is totally genuine. Just a lovely bloke. He is a bit of a wanderer from what I can tell, coming from Sydney, he has been travelling in Europe for a while now in his own particular style that is to take things very slowly. After spending some time in London his EU tourist visa expired so he flew to Sofia, in Bulgaria, after which he made his way to Belgrade. He has been living here at the Manga Hostel now for seven weeks and shows no sign of moving on. Wayne's good friend at the hostel is Jacob, another long term guest; Jacob has more of an excuse though as he is working for a Swedish NGO based in Belgrade. His stay at Manga Hostel was only meant to be a short term arrangement until he found somewhere more permanent to live. But, as with the majority of guests, he soon realised how friendly and relaxed it is here and decided to stay a little longer. That was over four weeks ago.

Trg Republike (Republic Square)
and theatre in distance

Later in the day I am stood in Republic Square waiting to meet Marija; she is so late I am starting to wonder if she had not been serious about showing me around today. Eventually she does arrive and it is a real privilege to walk around the city having Marija point out different places and tell me what they mean to her and her family. I decide that Belgrade is to Marija what York is to me. I can appreciate her passion for her city and the enjoyment she gets from showing someone around. We have stopped at a bar for a drink when I realise I must have left my cash card in the ATM I used earlier. This comes as a shock; apart from the small amount of cash I have on me, all my funds are in that bank account. As I thought it would, rushing back to the ATM proves futile and my only option is to return to the hostel to phone my bank and get my card cancelled. I am grateful to Marija; that she has given up her time to show me around is typical of the Serbian people I have become friendly with. She has shown me a side to Belgrade I could not possibly have seen without her.

Day 19 Belgrade (Sunday 20 February 2011)

Today had been the day I would leave for Sarajevo but what with a slight issue with cash flow and getting hold of Bosnian Marks I have decided to remain in Belgrade until my money has been made available to me again. I explore the city further and find I am drawn to long walks by myself in Kalemegdan. It is an incredible place; talking with a Serbian girl I meet in a coffee shop she says that for her Belgrade seems to “suck people in”, with which I totally concur. With more time here than I anticipated I have adopted a slight slower pace than I am used to on this journey, which I am sure is also an impact of hanging out with Wayne and Jacob for long periods. Tonight they are taking me to some of Belgrade's underground bars and nightclubs. These places do not advertise and from the street outside you would not even know they existed. If it were not for word of mouth, no-one would. Wayne and Jacob have been here long enough and have met the right people to have been invited into this scene so, after just a few days in town, for me to be invited to these bars is pretty lucky.

Day 20 Belgrade (Monday 21 February 2011)

I once again have access to my money so tomorrow I plan on travelling to Bosnia, meaning today is my last here. Unfortunately the skies that have been so good to me for most of my journey have taken a turn for the worse and for the first time I am experiencing a harsh Serbian winter. Igor tells me that this is nothing and usually it is minus fifteen degrees Celsius at this time of year. At minus five, it is cold enough for me. I brave the elements and go outside with my camera - until now I have been wrapped up in events and have not really had the chance to stop and take some photographic mementos of the city. Anna Marija, the owner of Manga Hostel, has decided that tonight everyone staying with them is invited to the pub-cum-coffee house, or Kafana, over the street where a rock band is playing tonight. Before the gig all the hostel guests gather in the basement kitchen for the Manga tradition that is each day any new arrivals are given the opportunity to get to know the other guests and staff over shots of Anna Marija's mother's homemade rakija, the Serbian national drink, and cries of Ziveli, or, Cheers! Old Spice, the band we have come to watch, are a trio of super-cool old boys playing Jimi Hendrix covers to a raucous audience that, by midnight, when the band take to the stage, are pretty fired up on rakija.



Manga hostel travellers. Jacob is sat between Wayne and I (far left)

(c) Robert Beardsworth

Days 12-15: Budapest

Day 12 Budapest (Sunday 13 February 2011)

Ten o'clock on Sunday morning: I am delayed and waiting to leave Bratislava station. My train should have got away at 0954 but instead I am one of a group of would-be passengers stood uncomfortably staring up at the departure board, clutching our pockets and bags as the small group of persistent beggars circle us. Only half an hour later I am relieved to be under way on the two and half hour journey towards Budapest, Hungry, and my fifth country in twelve eventful days.

Hostel Marco Polo at 6 Nyar utca is not far from Keleti train station, just off Rakoci ut - the main street running between the station and the centre of Pest. Over the next three nights I will be sleeping in a twenty-bed dormitory; larger than those I have slept in thus far. A bit crowded maybe, but for 9 Euros a night its a bargain. These dorms are partitioned between sets of bunk beds so provided your bunk-mate is not insane or, worse still, that lad from Croydon it is actually quite private and pleasant. My bunk-mate is Minke, of the petite American female variety as opposed to the thirty foot whale variety. All in all, though, the dorm is pretty good and thankfully nothing at all akin to the London lodging-house dormitories I am reading about in Down and Out, where Orwell describes sixty to seventy men sleeping not more than two feet apart, breathing straight into each other's faces.

St Stephen's Basilica

As recently as 1873 the Hungarian capital was established with the name of Budapest following the unification of former cities Pest and Buda on opposite banks of the Danube. This afternoon I am exploring the Pest side of the river walking around some of the most striking sights of my journey. Budapest is a place in which it seems you are rarely a few feet from something of interest, whether it be architecturally, culturally or socially. Make you own way and you cannot fail to be disappointed with what you see and do. St. Stephen's Basilica, named after the first king of Hungary (975-1038), was completed some years later in 1905. Very impressive; yet stood looking up at this Neo-Rennaissance church I can be forgiven for almost forgetting where exactly in Europe I am standing. A far more singular and distinctive landmark building is the Neo-Gothic Parliament building on the bank of the Danube. Visited from where it stands in Pest I cannot fail to be impressed, but when viewed from Buda it is a breathtaking sight and one of the most vivid images of my trip thus far. Go see it.

Pest is a fairly legible place and one would have to go some way to loose one's bearings. Public squares tend to be large and formal and not lacking in statues. Connecting two such squares, Bajcsy-Zsilinszky near to the Basilica in central Pest, and Hosok Tere, or Heroes Square, to the north-east is Andrassy ut, a long tree-lined busy boulevard of grand five-, six- or seven-storey town houses. Towards the Bajcsy-Zsilinszky end of the boulevard is the Hungarian State Opera where I buy a ticket for Tuesday evening's performance of a production of Mefistofele, an opera by Italian composer-librettist Arrigo Boito based on the Faust legend. Slightly embarrassed, I ask the ticket seller if my jeans and boots are suitable for the occasion, to which she replies that they are fine as “we get a lot of tourists”. Opposite the Opera house is Muvesz Cafe where I sit for a relaxing hour writing these notes and where the cheesecake does not disappoint. I contemplate how pausing at one of the hundreds of coffee and tea houses in central Budapest and selecting something delicious from the cake counter will become a daily treat while I am here.

It is getting dark by the time I have strolled the length of Andrassy ut as far Heroes Square. An enormous public place of protest, revolution and remembrance is spectacularly lit and this evening I am one of just a handful of people who have made the pilgrimage from the centre of town. This is the site where on 16 June 1989 a crowd of 250,000 gathered for the reburial of Imre Nagy, who, as chairman of the People's Republic of Hungry, had been executed in 1958 by the Soviet backed Communist Party for leading the Hungarian Revolution of 1956 that briefly overthrew the Soviet regime. Besides the tribute the Nagy Heroes Square is filled with statues to honour the many greats of Hungarian history including, in pride of place, St Stephen I of Hungary.



Hosok tere (Hero's Square)



Day 13 Budapest (Monday 14 February 2011)

This morning I am on my way up to yet another high place. Having crossed over Elizabeth Bridge into Buda I start my climb up Gellert Hill from the steps beneath the statue of Saint Gellert, who stands presiding over modern Budapest. My destination is the Citadella which occupies almost the entire plateau at the summit. Today a place of mixed meaning and memories it was built after an attempted revolution by the Hungarians to overthrow the Habsburgs in 1848-1849, then a century later in 1945 the Independence Monument was erected adjacent to the Citadella in honour of the Soviet soldiers who liberated the country from fascist rule. However, just ten years after, during the Nagy-led revolution in 1956, embattled Soviet troops occupied the Citadella and fired their tanks down on the revolutionists Hungarians below. 



Chain Bridge lion



From the summit of Gellert Hill, looking north across the valley, I can see Castle Hill and the medieval fortified town of Buda, and start to get a strong sense of where I would rather be. Once I have made it down to the bank of the Danube I cross back over Elizabeth Bridge into Pest and walk north along the bank of the Danube as far as the Szechenyi, (or Chain) Bridge. It was this crossing, in 1849, that first unified the two cities, and it seems fitting to make my approach to Buda in this way. There is a antiquated funicular railway that takes people up and down the steep Castle Hill, but I choose to walk the winding path that takes me through the parkland that covers the hillside. Buda Castle on the southern side of the hilltop does little to inspire me but I find plenty to explore in the adjacent medieval town. Almost entirely the domain of tourists, it reminds me of my experience of Bratislava in that it feels like an open air museum. Should you ever visit, be sure to see Matthius Church and also the peculiar named Fisherman's Bastion, so called after the fisherman's guild that defended this stretch of the Danube from the Middle Ages. Reaching the Fisherman's Bastion I discover it to be a viewing terrace of many levels and towers stretching along the edge of the hilltop, from where the view over the river

to the Parliament is superb.



Hungarian Parliament

In Bratislava I did not meet anyone with whom I made a good connection, so it is nice to have met some interest people staying at my hostel. Two people stand out: Minke, my bunk-mate, and a very jolly man from Stuttgart who is in Budapest for some dental treatment. He says it is much cheaper here than in Germany, even though it means he has to stay in Budapest for eleven nights. I suppose it must be a huge discount if he is willing to spend this amount of time in a twenty-bed dorm! If he were not such a happy character I might feel sorry for him. He has been here so long that the other guests regard him as the font of all knowledge; I mean, everyone here seems to have given up asking the hostel staff questions in favour of asking him. In my short time here I have witnesses him acting the roles of tour guide, locksmith, restaurant reviewer and agony aunt.

Minke, the American, lives and works as an Au Pair in Paris. While the family are on holiday with their daughter (the girl Minke takes care of) she has a couple of weeks off, and has decided to travel to more European cities. She tells me about her life in Paris, where she is part of a small community of English speaking Au Pairs that work for wealthy Parisian families. In Paris she lives in her own flat on the top floor of the apartment building owned by the family who, by the sound of it, live a vogue lifestyle. She tells me how the little girl can be a nightmare to look after and attributes this to how the parents will spoil her rotten at weekends but through the week they are never at home, frequently going Sunday evening to Saturday morning without seeing their daughter. I can tell that she does her best for the girl, who she is clearly fond of but also feels quite sorry for. It is a tough situation she finds herself in and I can see that Au Pair work has taken her into a different world from that she is used to from her own up-bringing. She is clearly upset by the girl's mother, who she tell me, is extremely proud at having taught her five-year-old “how to play hard to get with boys”.

Day 14 Budapest (Tuesday 15 February 2011)

Today I have decided I am going to spend a lot of time doing nothing at all. Backpacking has energised and refreshed me physically and mentally, but along the way the body can feel tired and this is why today is all about relaxation and taking things easy. At Café Central, on Károlyi Mihály utca, lunch is delicious and fantastic value for money. For the first time on my journey I feel my money goes far here in Budapest. So good is the value that even on my modest budget I can enjoy treating myself to some really fine meals without worrying about the bill. Allied to this is that Budapest's food culture is, in my opinion, far better and more international than the countries I have visited thus far. Here I have a greater choice, not only in the restaurants, where the food is fabulous, but also at food stalls and in the ubiquitous cafés and bars found in almost evey street.

In the afternoon I walk over Independence Bridge to Buda where I am visiting the Gellert Spa and Thermal Baths. During one of Michael Palin's TV travel shows he visits the Gellert Hotel and does a sketch on the absurd complexity of the process of visiting the thermal baths. Having watched his sketch, and remembering today's mantra to relax, I am prepared to take it all in my stride. To make life even easier for myself I have already bought my admission ticket from the reception at my hostel.



Gellert Spa



On arrival at the Hotel I go to the spa entrance, which is in the north facing façade of the building. It would be an easy mistake to make to go to the front entrance for Hotel guests but I am too smart for this. Passing through the entrance there is a kiosk on my left, between the outer and inner sets of double doors; it is closed so I continue into a large lobby with a high vaulted ceiling where I notice several people walking around in bath robes. I approach the ticket desk, thinking it must have become simpler since Michael Palin's visit, and hand over my prepaid voucher. The women behind the desk looks down at my voucher and, with an air of disdain, quickly hands it back. She will not admit me but points me in the direction of the information desk. Here information is the last thing I receive. At first they do not seem to know what I am to do with my voucher and utter something about the “tourist kiosk outside” before adding “on the right”. I walk back outside the entrance but all I see on the right is a brick wall. I walk further along the street but still no tourist kiosk. Maybe they mistakenly said right but had meant left - perfectly understandable - after all I do not know my right from my left when said in Hungarian. So I walk back up the street the opposite direct, but still to no avail.

Re-entering the lobby I am told, with much greater certainty, that I need the ticket kiosk on the right back through the double doors. I am now starting to question whether it is my eyesight or my sanity that is failing me. Outside for the second time I keep walking to the right until I find another door which, to be honest, I already suspect is not what I am looking for. My instincts are correct; were I able to read Hungarian I may not only understand left from right but also the words 'no' and 'entry'. Inside a moustachioed man notices I am lacking a wristband and am still fully clothed, boots and all. Catching sight of my ticket he also shakes his head and ushers me back outside. He at least explains in English that I have come through the 'exit only' door from the members' changing area. He also assures me that my voucher will be exchanged for a wristband at the tourist kiosk. If only I could find the damn tourist kiosk! Against my better judgement I head to the main entrance of the hotel and into the lobby. Now, given that this is a minimum 200 Euro per night exclusive hotel, when I, now ever so slightly disgruntled, march towards the concierge waving my voucher in one hand and with my swimming shorts inside a orange Sainsbury's carrier bag in the other, I get the distinct impression that I am not terribly welcome here. The concierge is good enough to look at my voucher and tells me “this is the hotel entrance, you need the Spa entrance, outside and turn left”. He says not to worry, “tourists are always doing this”. My determination to take things easy today is now being severely tested.

Back once again at the Spa entrance a girl is now seated in the kiosk on the left between the outer and inner set of doors. Taking a deep breath, I smile, hand her my voucher and she happily exchanges it for a blue wristband. Inside the lobby I am ready to glare at any of the staff that catch my eye, but it seems I am now invisible to them. Until, that is, a youth stops me at the turnstile and wants to see my ticket. The ticket I have finally exchanged for this wristband. He is probably wondering why I am waving the wristband in front of his face with such vigour but thankfully he gets my point and tells me I need the next door along. I walk along a corridor, down a spiral staircase, through a door and at last I am safely inside the changing rooms hidden deep in the bowels of the Gellert Spa. There are women wandering around but I am sure that is fine and that the changing area is mixed. I try a cabin door: it is locked. Another: it is locked, one more: also locked. Turning on my heels I walk back to the entrance where a women is now seated. (Do they see me coming and hide?) She takes my wristband and scans it over a bar code reader. As she does this the number 106 flashes up. Hallelujah! I get it, my band opens cabin 106.

Once changed into my swimming shorts it dawns on me that I have not brought a towel with me. I have seen plenty of bathers with their Gellert Spa issue towels so I enquire: Can I have one please? They cost 600 HUF to rent. Fine, where can I get one? I should have got one from the lobby upstairs (What was the mantra of the day again?). I return to cabin 106, put my clothes and boots back on, walk up the spiral stair case, along the corridor and into the lobby, where the staff happily hire me a towel. Fortunately, after all this, my time in the thermal pools is completely relaxing; I spend three hours bathing and resting and this does wonders for my sore achillies tendon. As I leave the Spa, my revenge for the earlier shenanigans is in the shape of a Gellert Spa issue towel, concealed in an orange carrier bag.

Day 15 Budapest (Wednesday 16 February 2011)

Last evening the opera, Mefistofele, was an impressive show, it was sung in Italian with Hungarian surtitles, but none the less I enjoyed being witness to the spectacle and the pomp and circumstance of the event. This is my last day here in Budapest and the hostel wants me to check out by ten o'clock so I am up and about early. There are thirteen and a half hours before my night train leaves for Belgrade but, thankfully, there is still plenty to do and see. I had planned on visiting Statue Park, the final resting place for the thousands of statues that were pulled down after the Communist party fell in Hungary, but unfortunately I do not think I have time on this occasion. A shame, but perhaps it is good to leave out something that will tempt me back here one day in the future. Instead I am visiting the city's most infamous address at 60 Andrassy Ut. Now a museum but previously the headquarters for both the Nazi Arrow Cross Party and a few years later the Communist Political Police or AVH. At times the exhibitions are brutal in portraying the notorious history of the building. Three hours pass and I am completely engrossed, as I rarely am by museum collections, and although I would not describe myself as enjoying my visit it is an absorbing and moving experience. A Budapest must see.

60 Andrassy ut, former HQs of the Arrow Cross & Communist secret police

(c) Robert Beardsworth

Days 10-11: Bratislava

Day 10 Bratislava (Friday 11 February 2011)



14th c. St Michael's gate

Austria turned out to be somewhat of a party for me and to recover I have decided to take a single room at the City Hostel Bratislava, located just a short walk along Obchodna from the historic centre of town. My first afternoon in the Slovakian capital is spent taking a tour of the main sights, guided by my Lonely Planet. Perhaps the rain has kept people indoors because Bratislava is eerily quiet this Friday afternoon and I am left virtually alone to wander the streets as though they are a huge open air museum. The fourteenth century city walls have almost entirely been destroyed over the intervening six hundred years. Despite this, the centre still has the feeling of a fortified town, especially when entered from the north near the Church of the Trinitarians, where you cross the bridge over the moat and pass under St Michael's Gate into the old town. Hlavne Namestie is the main square on which the Town Hall sits. It is surrounded by streets, squares and buildings that have a look and feel of the recently restored, yet when I venture only slightly off the main tourist drag, further west behind Venturska, I find a completely different scene of derelict, boarded up buildings that gives the impression of waiting to be done up. I sense that the Bratislavians have almost been driven out of their city centre in favour of the more lucrative tourist trade. This feeling is compounded as the only Slovaks I have met today are shopkeepers, restaurateurs and barmen.

Day 11 Bratislava (Saturday 12 February 2011)



Slavin memorial

This morning feels better: not only is the sunshine back in my life but, as it is Saturday, there is a much busier buzz about town. It strikes me that, no matter where in Bratislava I find myself, chances are I will be able to catch sight of the Slavin Memorial which stands at the summit of a hill just a couple of kilometres north of the town centre. This giant 40 metre high monument and cemetery were constructed in 1960 in honour of the 6,845 soldiers of the Soviet Army who were killed in deliverance of Bratislava during the Second World War. To reach it from Stefanikova (the street which connects the old town with the train station to the north) you can take Puskilova, a series of staircases, the majority of the way up. Alternatively, I decide to take the steep streets that wind their way up to the top of the hill. This ascent may be more effort but my reward is getting a closer look at the ultra-modern villas of Bratislava's rich and famous that I pass along the way. The higher I climb, the more impressive the houses become. Once at the memorial I can see that the obelisk is topped with the statue of a Soviet soldier, and on the walls of the white marble sarcophagus are carved inscriptions of the dates of liberation of various places in Slovakia during 1944-55. Bratislava, I now know, was liberated

from Nazi occupation almost 66 years ago on 4 March 1945.

Climbing high places for a panorama is becoming a pastime of mine and today is another bright sunny day which means a clear view across the city. Looking south over the River Danube and across the Novy Most (bridge) I can see clearly the rows of Communist era housing blocks – giants all stood to attention – quite a contrast from the palatial villas I passed by just moments earlier.

Novy Most and communist housing blocks

Bratislava is undoubtedly an interesting place to visit. However, in the context of my journey I have been slightly underwhelmed. Perhaps this is because I have not made any new friendships or really met anyone of interest during my stay here. Evenings have been tedious, and not improved by the very basic food which I have not found to be any cheaper than in Austria or Germany. Two nights here has been enough and my mind has already arrived in Budapest long before my body will be able to catch up.

(c) Robert Beardsworth

Days 8-9: Salzburg & Vienna

Day 8 Salzburg (Wednesday 9 February 2011)

This morning I am leaving Munich Hauptbahnhof at 0827, due to arrive in Salzburg in just over an hour and a half. Once in Salzburg I have little more than a twenty-four hour stay. My luck with the weather is still holding out and, despite the snow cover from recent days, today is another glorious one. I check into Yo-Ho International Youth Hostel, 9 Paracelsusstrasse, and then spend the afternoon sightseeing. I am experiencing my first problem since setting out eight days ago because without warning or incident my left achilles heel has become really sore. I have to strap it up and take pain killers to be able to walk on it. My only footwear is a pair of heavy duty walking boots and I suspect days spent on my feet and all that trekking around the Englischer Garten and Olympic Park in Munich has taken its toll.

 

St Peter's cemetery



You might think it odd but my highlight of Salzburg is St Peter's cemetery. I was here once before, three or four years ago, and my most vivid memory from this time is also this cemetery, even though on that occasion it was packed with a large group of tourists on a walking tour. Today I am alone in the cemetery which is nestled against the cliff face, with Salzburg Fortress looming above and the Christian catacombs carved in the rock face next to where I stand. St Peter's dates back to 1627 making it the oldest Christian graveyard in Salzburg. What makes it so singular are the highly ornate and decorative tomb stones that make beautiful monuments to some of Salzburg's oldest and wealthiest families. If you ever visit, be sure to go at a quiet moment, it is magical.

Returning to the hostel at about ten o'clock (after a hearty dinner of sausage stuffed with cheese and wrapped in bacon) I decide to pop into the bar for a last beer before turning in. A group of backpackers are about to go into town and invite me along so, not for the first time, I have to gulp down my beer between quick introductions with the group: Milo, Pablo, Ian, Amy and Georgie. Ian is married to Amy and they are Australians travelling with her sister, Georgie. Milo, also an Aussie and Pablo, Spanish, are, like myself, travelling solo. Our night out turns pretty epic and we are not back again until the early hours of the morning.



Salzburg Dom and skyline



Day 9 Vienna (Thursday 10 February 2011)

Inevitably I sleep in past check-out time and so lose my 5 Euro bed linen deposit. More annoying still I miss the breakfast buffet too. Last night was really fun and not what I had been expecting from my short stay in Salzburg. I am a little sleep deprived but, with three hours ahead as the 1201 rolls out of Salzburg Hauptbahnhof bound for Vienna, there is a chance I will nod off along the way. Good news is that Milo is making his way to Vienna with me. He is a really top bloke and we get on well. I decide to ditch my hostel plans and stay at Wombat's Hostel where Milo has already booked for the night. My stay in Vienna will be be a short one as like Salzburg I have also been here in the past. I am surprised at how well I remember the place and I am able to give Milo a bit of a rough tour of the city. Just beyond the Ringstrasse near the Rathaus a temporary ice skating rink has been installed but, unlike those I have seen in England, someone has had a lot of fun designing this one. There are channels that break out from the main rink and follow the course of the street before looping back towards the centre. Despite our enthusiasm for how cool this looks neither Milo nor I even come close to a pair of skates and instead we go in search of food.



Ice skating highways



Milo hails from Melbourne, Australia. I guess he is three or four year younger than me. What is for sure is that his version of a European backpacking trip frankly puts mine in the shade. He has been on the road for over two months already and has well over a month to go. Describing where he has been before now, there are not many places missing from the list. Geography can never have been a strong suit of his as it strikes me at times that his journey has blazed a fairly bizarre and illogical route to-and-fro across Europe. Coming all the way from Melbourne I guess he doesn’t think much of hopping on a two or three hour flight if it means meeting up with mates or being in a certain place for this or that festival or event. He started out in London in December where he says the British winter was a bit of a shock to the system, especially coming from 35 degree heat. I remember it was indeed an unusually cold December in 2010, even by Britain's standards. Listening to his story I appreciate his philosophy on travelling. It amuses him to think of returning home with a thousand photographs of various fountains and churches but not being able to remember where most of them were taken! Joking aside, it is good to hear him talk about preferring just to live in a place for however long and experience it that way rather than constantly looking through a camera lens. Why go to all the trouble to document everything you see in a place if you never actually stop to experience anything while you are there? A motto I most definitely share.

At half past ten we are back at Wombat's Hostel to claim our free welcome drink and settle down in the bar. Between rounds of pool Milo attempts to explain his beloved Aussie rules football to me and I do my best to keep up. It is a far less beery night than last, but still two in morning by the time I turn in. Milo has been a good mate for a few short days and it is a shame we must go our separate ways tomorrow. I think it shows good character and a genuine interest that he has decided to do his trip over the European winter. Spending time with him I am struck by how much good he seems to have got out of his trip. I hope that I am able to get as much out of mine. Good luck to him.

(c) Robert Beardsworth