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