I was looking forward to my return to Croatia,after having spent a week sailing around the Dalmation coastline last September, island hopping from one awesome port to another. On my last visit, Croatia was seriously awesome fun, however this time around I would not necessarily be following the standard backpacker trail. Second time around, I was heading straight for the hills, cycling from Zadar inland towards Plitvice Jezera (Plitvice Lakes National Park) before tracking south into Bosnia – uncharted territory for the Foreign Correspondent.
I left Rome following Marcella’s advice and headed not to the Roma Termini station, and instead went to a closer station to his home, which in his opinion would also be much better for me as it would not be anywhere near as busy and the train to Ancona would stop there for a few minutes for me to load my bike and everything. It all made sense. However everything was thrown into chaos when I dicked around a bit too much in the morning and nearly missed the train. I should have known better really, than to rely on an efficient service from Trenitalia but silly F.C. had not learned his lessons from previous rail travel throughout Italy, and left only 45 minutes to arrive at the station, grab a ticket and get to the platform in time for the train to arrive. Like most places in Italy, the Roma Tibulina station was utter construction chaos, lacked proper signage and was not exactly friendly to a person trying to move a loaded bicycle around the place – thank God I wasn’t in a wheelchair or something. I headed to the line to purchase my ticket – 25 people queued ahead of me and the morons running the place only had one ticket window open. I checked my watch – Siesta time no doubt – and I watched on with increasing alarm as the line barely moved for about 10 minutes. Naturally the average Italian commuter appeared to hold a most passionate conversation with the sales manager. Obviously with the language barrier I had no idea what people discussed, but evidently each one had some kind of unique problem. I was the same in essence, since I needed to purchase a ticket for my bicycle, I couldn’t use the automatic machines that stood adjacent to the ticket office. For reasons unknown, you could only purchase a bicycle reservation at the ticket office in person. I’m sure everyone in the line before me had a similar dilemma and I watched impatiently as each individual took their sweet arse bloody time organising their affairs and travel arrangements.
The clock ticked over and I watched it minute by minute as I ran out of time to catch the only train that would get me to Ancona in time to grab tonight’s ferry to Croatia. Little things began to annoy me – why couldn’t the woman who had just ordered her tickets have had her money ready? I mean she had only been standing in line for about half an hour like the rest of us, and now that she needs her money and the sales manager stares waiting, she fumbles around looking for her purse, which inevitably has disappeared into the ether of her designer handbag which has become one big black whole where nothing that goes in can ever be found again. Then there’s the two men who are clearly travelling together on the same itinerary, yet both decide to go up separately and explain the situation at the counter. They could simply have explained once and ordered two tickets. And then there’s the old lady who finishes her transaction, yet doesn’t move from the ticket window for a good minute, as she checks things are in order with her handbag, repacks her purse into her little wheelie trolley and shuffles off slowly. The person behind was too polite to tell her to move along quickly (and was obviously in no hurry like other people). The sales manager sits there waiting patiently for the little old lady to move on so he can deal with the next customer.
With literally 4 minutes before my train is due to arrive, I finally get to the front of the queue. I have no trouble in explaining what I need, and within a minute I have my tickets and am literally hauling my bicycle up stairs, running through the tunnel underneath the platforms all the way to platform 10 (on the far side of the station of course). I get to the platform realising I still need to validate my tickets on the date-stamping machine, and just as I manage this, the train pulls in. I can’t believe that I’ve actually made it in time, and am immensely grateful that I have not been once again screwed over by the Italian rail system. I load my bicycle onboard, sit down and instantly crack one of the Moretti birras (beers) that I’ve bought along for the ride. It’s 29 degrees, there’s no air conditioning working on the train, I’m sweating like a kiddy fiddler in a playground and can only collapse into the seat to settle in for the four hour trip to the east coast. At least I’ve got a few hours to kill now and once I cool down and relax, I crack open my latest book – volume three of Stieg Larsson’s Millenium Trilogy. I’d just finished book two and had just managed to find a copy of “The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest” in an English bookshop in Rome. I had planned for each of the three novels to last me at least a month on the road. As it stood, I was going to finish the entire trilogy within the space of just one month. It’s that good, I highly recommend reading them, they are currently in the Top 10 at most bookshops I’ve come across in Europe.
Anyhow, I digress. Arriving at Ancona, I realise what a shithole the place is, which is a shame because I can imagine just how many tourists must come through the ferry ports, either coming from or going to exotic destinations in places like Croatia and Greece. Being on the coast the city has such great tourist potential but it’s far from paradise. It’s the kind of city you just want to get out of. Believe me I tried, and even finding the ferry ticket office was a nightmare – it was located some 3km from the actual ferry docks. Thank God (I’ve been doing that a lot lately) that I had a bike to cover the distance quickly, because if I’d had to walk lugging a backpack that distance, only to then have to lug it back with my ticket to actually board the boat, I wouldn’t have been a happy camper. The ticket was quite pricey, notably much less value for money than the ferries I’d caught in Scandinavia previously. 57€ for a 6 hour overnight trip to Croatia was quite expensive given I didn’t even get a room for that price. And the boat was literally half the size and had a crap duty free shop and no nightclub! What would I do for 6 hours… sleep? Get real.
Realising that this was my last chance to grab a pizza in Italy, I indeed ordered one as I was killing time waiting to board the ferry. It was nearly the worst pizza I’ve ever had. Its only saving grace was that once I had managed to burn a pizza to a charred cinder once, in London, after returning from the Great British Beer Festival. I’d put it in the oven at 3am and at 6am when I woke up to go to the dunny, it was still smoking away in the oven. Such a waste, it really didn’t taste very good. Italy had been pretty fantastic, especially Rome and the Cinque Terre, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Ancona.
By 2.30am I’d realised what a mistake it had been not to quickly claim one of the deck lounges in the cafeteria or bar areas. I dicked around looking for a power point for my laptop and by the time I had done that, all comfortable deck space had been taken, so I was resigned to either sleep on the floor, but I instead chose to sleep on a deck chair on the open top level of the boat. After all it was a balmy night and other people were doing the same. Unfortunately I realised my mistake when at 2:30am the wind picked up and I had not thought to grab any sleeping bag or jackets or even long pyjama pants from my bags which were now locked up with my bicycle. I literally froze myself, with only a space blanket covering my feet. I gave up and headed inside, managing to pull four chairs together in the cafeteria to form a long, uncomfortable bed, but at least I was not as cold. I had a terrible nights sleep, and in the back of my mind I knew that when the boat docked at 6am, my plan was to hit the road straight away and cycle some 138km, or at least as far as I could get towards Plitvice Jezera in one day.
And that’s exactly what I did. Tired, grumpy and hungry for decent food, I hit the road.I didn’t hang around Zadar – at 6am there were no shops open and nothing worth seeing, so I decided it was best to get as many miles under my belt as possible early on. I passed many places where I could potentially grab something cheap and substantial to eat, and plenty of roadside stalls selling locally grown fruits and veg that would have been an excellent choice. But as yet I had not been able to find an ATM to withdraw any Croatian currency. No Kunas, no bananas…
Around 8am, I had battled some annoyingly busy main roads out of Zadar, sharing narrow lanes with dozens of enormous trucks who were moving at furious pace. But as soon as I passed the turn-off to the main highway towards Zadar, the traffic eased and I had a leisurely 20km towards the mountains. Then I finally found a service station with a Bankomat and lots of cheap groceries. I fuelled up and bought extra supplies for the mountain climb ahead of me. Looking east towards the hills looming in the distance, I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb. I did not however expect it to be as long and steep as it was. 15km of 10% gradient heading up through barren, dusty hills covered in sparse shrub, with nothing to look at except the odd house, of which every 3rd or 4th was abandoned and in danger of collapsing. Most were riddled with bullet holes, had the windows blown out and the properties were pretty much ransacked and gutted of everything and anything valuable. Concrete relics of the recent war… and despite the sensible advice available in Lonely Planet, I was definitely keen to stop by some of the more interesting ones and explore them. When I eventually did, I would find them covered in interesting graffiti (one had a picture of a tank carved into the wall with a chisel or a rock or something) and some were obviously used as temporary shelters by homeless people, travellers or even some of the road construction crews who would setup camp there for a few days if they were working in the area.
I climbed the top of the mountain, quite frustrated at the height. Literally I had climbed from sea-level to around 750m in the space of 3 hours. It was steady, monotonous climbing through the heat and dusty, dry landscape. Every corner I rounded, high up on the mountain, I hoped to see the summit and then be on my merry downhill way, but it seemed to take forever. At one interesting point I recall stopping off for a rest and stumbled across some kind of small zoo or animal park. They had emus or ostrich’s running around, lamb, goats, and other animals that kept me entertained for a little while. Next door, I saw the first of many outdoor rotisserie ovens that were scattered all over the Balkans. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what type of animal they were spit roasting over the hot coals, however when I found out it made perfect sense. My first impression was that it looked like some kind of weird reptilian bird, but actually I’d never seen a lamb spit roasted before, and it still had its head and everything attached which is what threw me. Nothing like the lamb chops I normally see at the butchers! I couldn’t wait to stop by a roadside grill and have a taste. I haven’t yet but I plan to before I leave the region.
When the downhill run came, it was sensational. I dropped about 400 metres over 5km and then it wasn’t too bad a run towards Plitvice. My GPS was fairly accurate in terms of distance, but the Croatian maps had a lot to be desired. Apart from the most major roads, there was no additional map data yet available for the country. This was the first country in Europe that I would not be able to punch in any address or postcode or tourist attraction, and have instant directions. I couldn’t even do a search for nearby campsites or hotels – the data simply wasn’t available yet. Maybe the 2011 maps would cover these gaps, but that wouldn’t help me. Bosnia, Macedonia and Albania – in fact possibly all countries I’m heading to except for Greece – are probably going to be the same I fear.
I stopped in the only town that my GPS had on the radar for about a 50km radius. It was so small I don’t even know why it bothered to register at all. There was literally one main street and a few houses off it. One mini-market shop and one pizza-grill restaurant. I stopped, and budget conscious brought a bag of bread rolls and some kind of cow and chicken pate spread. A cheap lunch and it would hopefully tie me over until dinner where I could hopefully find a pekara (bakery) and demolish several kilos of burek. I was sitting in the shade on the steps outside the market, when another bike tourist rolled up and headed inside to buy some liquid. He was travelling light, just a small backpack and a sack over the back of the bike. He was clearly a local, and when I struck up conversation, I found out his name was Emil and he was from Zagreb. He was cycling to Zadar – 340km over 3 days – to visit is mother. I thought that was remarkable!
Emil was the first person to insist on shouting me a lunch at the grill across the road. Clearly (in his opinion) I was on a budget, and if I was cycling towards Plitvice and then through Bosnia and on to Egypt, bread rolls for lunch weren’t gonna cut it. I had no choice, and we headed to the restaurant which was excellent, and I had my first taste of the local cuisine. Steak with bacon and cheese filling, with a side salad, chips and a sauce called Ayvar, which was made from peppers (capsicums) and was like a red paste. You could spread it on your plate and dip your meat and chips in it like ketchup or something. Delicious, and I would end up buying entire jars of the stuff to eat with meals in later days. Turned out Emil was also getting married in about 2-3 weeks time, so he was pretty happy. I warmed to him fast, and he gave me some solid advice for the road ahead. Everything he said turned to pure gold. He told me where the campsites were located, where I should stay tonight and then the location of the campsite near Bihac, the first city I would come across in Bosnia. He told me not to buy water, that there was a natural water source at a precise location 150m to the right as you exit the next town, 30km down the road. Sure as shit, there was a little fountain with beautiful, clean spring water, just when I needed it. I thanked him sincerely, and hoped that he might get in touch further down the road. Whether or not he does, time will tell, but I wished him good luck for his wedding, and as the worst of the midday heat passed, we both cycled off in opposite directions. What awesome hospitality and a great welcome back to Croatia. It was the kind of hospitality I would have to get used to over the next few days. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen much in Western Europe.
I camped 17km outside of Plitvice Jezera at a nice campsite, pretty exhausted. The weather forecast was threatening rain for the next few days, but it was supposed to rain today, and yesterday but it hadn’t. I was beginning to believe I would never get rain all the way to Egypt. Well I should have known that it was only a matter of time, and after I setup my hammock, I headed to the campsite restaurant to grab some pasta and use the laptop to watch one of the movies I’d downloaded. It was then that I realised that my power adapter had broken at some point during the day. The pesto that had leaked through my bag hadn’t helped – it was still leaking out of the plug holes, but now a plastic clip had broken and any slight knock to the adapter would see the front plate fall off. It took me 20 minutes to patch it up with a temporary fix but I would have to get a new one fast or I’d not be able to charge anything. Nonetheless, if I was careful, I could get by for a little while. I looked up from the screen half-way through watching “Men Who Stare At Goats” to see that it was absolutely bucketing down outside. With my headphones in, I hadn’t heard the thunderstorm rolling in, and I cursed my stupidity when I realised that I’d left my sleeping bag draped over my tent to air out. There was nothing I could do; it was already saturated, and thank God (once again) that I’d at least setup the rainfly of the tent properly for once, and not just done a token draping gesture. I’d managed to find two stray tent pegs at campsites I’d been through in Italy, and now I could properly set up the rain canopy no matter where I hung the tent. But I would have to spend a cold, damp night in a tent with no sleeping bag, while the rain poured down outside.
It was a shit night. I wore four layers of clothes to bed, plus I still had the space blanket wrapped around my legs. It was all futile however, as without the space blanket insulating the whole of the bottom of the tent, my entire body was freezing from the cold air circulating below, no matter how many clothes I wore – pyjama pants, jeans, two pairs of shorts, a singlet, two shirts, a long sleeve dress shirt and finally my PTRC rowing vest. My towel was wrapped up as a pillow but soon I also used that as another layer. Nothing helped and I froze all night. The space blanket at least kept my legs and feet relatively warm. So for two nights I’d had terrible sleep, and I desperately needed a good lie in. Thankfully I did only have around 17km to cycle to get to the lakes. And with the wind from the previous night, I was pleasantly surprised that my sleeping bag had for the most part dried out overnight after the rain stopped. So I wasn’t in too bad a shape considering.
Plitvice Lakes National Park was fantastic. Once I got over my stupidity for sleeping in and arriving late in the day (once again for not anticipating that it might be busy, and rocking up at around lunchtime was a bad idea if I wanted to avoid tourist crowds) I had a good time. The ticket queue was enormous, but in the end I enjoyed the park. Included in the park entry fee, you could use the boats and trains that connect the various lakes and walking tracks. And there are literally thousands of little waterfalls, where the lakes cascade and interconnect to each other. The wonderful wooden walkways wind through the park, across the lakes and through the parkland. It really is an awesome place, and I highly recommend it to anyone who visits Croatia and wants to go a little off the standard coastal backpacking trail for something unique, It is after all a UNESCO World Heritage site. Now that I think about it, I’ve managed to cross many UNESCO sites off the list recently!
Finally I spent my second night in Croatia in a campsite on the outskirts of Bihac. Dinner consisted of much Burek – one of the best things about Croatia and the Balkans. Technically I was now in Bosnia & Herzegovina (BiH), and cycling along the road out of Plitvice into BiH, it was the best downhill run I’ve had the entire trip, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I was dreading the 30 odd km into Bihac if it had been uphill, especially since I didn’t leave the national parks until about 6pm. I came across my first road border crossing of the trip also. In the EU nobody seemed to care for checking passports in the Eurozone, as everything is borderless. But between Croatia and BiH it was a different story. I had no problems, the guy just waved me through and I didn’t even get a stamp. A bit disappointing really since I kind of wanted one. Hopefully they don’t ask why I don’t have a stamp on the way out of the country in a week or so, but somehow I don’t think they really care about an Australian on a touring bike. Stay as long as you want, spend your tourist dollars, don’t cause any dramas. No worries mate.
And so I entered Bosnia…
