Whirl-Wind Croatia

Day 1: Pula

Going out partying into the wee hours before you catch an early morning flight is always a bad idea - having had 2 hours sleep I woke up at 4.47am. According to my mum, this is when one’s liver, whilst asleep, performs at its best at processing toxins for one’s body – and all I’m doing is waking it up in the busiest shift its had that week! I had hoped to catch the 5.15am bus from Liverpool Street to Stanstead, so was frantically shoving my holiday gear into the backpack. So it wasn’t exactly a surprise when I realised much later that day that for a 8 day holiday I had brought 4 pairs of bras (for my last 8 month backpack trip I packed 1), 2 toothbrushes, 3 packets of panadol, but no socks, no hair-ties, no spare memory card for the camera, no books, and no contraceptives. Great.

My first impression of arriving in Pula Airport was that I was “back in the jungle”. There’s definitely something about the ramshackle regional airport and its dated orange seats, fading signage, flicking dying light bulbs and the unsmiling staunch customs officer in an olive army blazer decorated with medals that says “Welcome to our former communist state!” Bus as soon as you get into the city, the relaxed pace of the locals and the lazy afternoon sunshine soon made me feel completely at ease. It’s a rather quiet town, and basically there not much trimming on the bacon type glitz and glamour at all. Just basic old Mediterranean beach style apartments surrounding a quiet harbour.

I love not speaking the local lingo. It all comes down to the universal language of smiling, frowning, pointing, and the semi-passive state of looking stunned, demonstrated by the following scenario: the elderly lady attending the toilet at the mangled bus station, smiling, gesturing three fingers at me and then pointing to the toilet, meaning that it costs 3 Kunas (that’s about 1 NZ dollar and 50 British Pence) to use the very grim looking facilities, and me first looking really stunned at this surprise attack on my sensibilities and then frowning to show my disappointment, and then smiling to show my inevitable surrender to the universal human need to just ‘gotta go when you’ve gotta go’!.

M-8 had arrived the night before overland from Slovenia (and by the sounds of things had been very well bemused by a Policy neuropsychiatrist regarding his philosophy of curing mental illnesses – ie. Via physical harm). So I was relatively relieved he had an early chance of getting his bearings. We checked out the impressive amphitheatre, 3rd biggest of its kind left after the Coliseums in Rome and then in Verona (this all sounds too good you sure they’re not making this up?). where we were regaled by the scary story of the Croatian version of the Lion fighting gut splitting Gladiators. The Roman Empire had colonised this part of Croatia before the Slavs arrived in 7th century, who became the direct ancestors of the current Croats.












A slow stroll along the harbour where we caught a sailor having a sweet little snooze.
the Triumphal Arch of Sergius, where a group of Hari Krishnas (yes they are here, there, everywhere) and the slender white pillars of the Town Hall. Our troubles were rewarded by a dinner of seafood risotto and grilled white fish (which of course I happen to wrongly read the price and ended up spending 3 times more than I thought it had cost…) Oh but it was actually well worth it…mmmm.

Day 2: Split

The overnight bus from Pula to Split (10 hours) was actually more manageable than I thought, after being warned by Thorn Tree Forum goers of how the drivers like to be kept awake with loud music and bright lights – the swivelling around the precarious hills were apparently something that required quite a bit of concentration and alertness. It reminded me of the ride I took from Cox’s Bazaar to Chittagong in Bangladesh in August last year, where the driver chewed through 2 large bagfuls of beetlenuts just to keep both his concentration and nerves up. I wonder what vices the Croatian bus drivers would take?

I slept like a baby as the motion sickness tablets eased me into a series of ludicrous dreams, such as another episode of falling out of a plane. But being dumped into the empty bus terminal next to the windy harbour in pitch black at 6am was another story. I was still half asleep when we reached the hostel, after a confusing map led us astray into the winding alley ways at the opposite direction in the gently breaking sky. I am so used to this sort of being lost now I just take it like a scenic detour.

Reliably-predictable, the hostel host was unable to be contacted via his/her 24hour mobile service, so M-8 and I had a light breakfast over second hand smoke at the cockroach infested café at the harbour. It seems that I am also used to this aspect of travel now too that I just take it like an exercise to strengthen my general immunity.

We made a leisurely stroll up the Marjan’s Hill, overlooking the city, bathing in a spot of warm sunshine, and checking out the wild life and the laid back start to the day around the sunny harbour.

Finally just before midday the hostel owner emerged in the form of Elena, the Croatian female version of Ali-G, in gold rimmed crooked aviators and a pink track suit. She happily swung her large set of keys from a long neck strap in the air as she greets every single person we pass by their first name, explaining how to operate the shower in gansta-sista speak - candid, loud, strangely warming and gone in a flash.



Next to the Old Town there was the beautiful esplanade, a broad bold parade lined with Parisian style cafes, bustling commercial life. The harbour was lined with ships of all purpose and sizes, blowing in to and from near and far corners of the world, while the city gazed like a waiting mother for her children to return.









After the full-on overnighter and turbulent morning, I needed another espresso to wake me up. The restaurant next to the Diocletian’s Palace, despite being over run by pilgrims and tourists, was still able to maintain an nostalgic charm and affordability. To accompany the aroma of my coffee, there as an all male chorus in the stone cave dome next to the cathedral, producing a lovely rounded sound wave that soothes you inside out.

Around the corner from where subsequent tourists touched the toe of Gregorous Nin, the large fresh produce market sold all kinds of fruit and vegetables next to a large repertoire of dried pork and cheeses, while large swarms of wasps lunched on whatever they could get their little claws on. The market was basically a one stop shop for anyone’s entire lifestyle – it also sold clothes, cosmetics, bits and bobs of everyday items like buttons, handy tools, toys, old trinkets and live animals (for pets, I was hoping).
























In the afternoon we met up with Katie, an American with the most grating accent whom M-8 managed to pick up on his travels in Austria and Slovenia, and explored Trogir, a tiny coffin shaped town just outside of Split with church towers and medieval religious characterful walls . The jovial locals having a relaxed Saturday afternoon gathering. It was a tiny little square court yard that came out of children’s picture books square court yard, colourful with chiselled brick layers on the ground, and quaint colourful rustic designed clock tower that came out of a story book. The afternoon was rounded off by watching a high school football game form the top of the tower of the Kamerlengo Castle, now converted into a theatre space.









































Day3: Brac

We left Split on the commuter ferry early in the morning for the Island of Brac, a typical holiday makers destination of resorts and unspoilt beached. We arrived at the small port of Supetar – a small sleepy village that generally supports the recent tourist boom, and does some small scale farming on the side. The island had lightly distributed dry forests and a number of stone ruins around the centre of the Island. Apparently, Brac stones were used to build the White House. As the bus hugged the steep and bare looking hills, the car wrecks littering the cliffs reminded of the violent end to Bonjour Tristes. We descended into Bol, a small seaside resort town playing host to Croatia’s most famous beach, a “finger of find sand” according to the brochure, called Zlatni Rat, though to be completely honest it all looked like pebbles to me. Unfortunately it had started pouring down with rain which almost fulfilled my dream of sunbathing in full rain gear.












So it was quite timely that M-8 found an abandoned hotel building towards the south of the dock, what I would describe as a broken palace of broken dreams. It was a huge complex and completely and absolutely ransacked, probably over a number of years by many different groups of vandals and squatters frequenting here. The locals must have complained, but neither the police nor the owners had enough time, bother or power to care about this empty shell of a dead place. They’ve pissed, shat, spilt alcohol and god knows what else all over the floors, and what ever substance they once were now solidified and caked in strange shapes and places. This must have been a bit of a low budget family hang out back in its hay-days. Each level of the bedrooms had a bright colour theme (orange/yellow, green/blue, red/purple) in big square blocks decorated with big strips of white, which looked exactly like the art style of the large kindergarten I attended in Taipei was organised in the 1980s. The entire floor spaces were covered in debris of some sort, mostly from the torn parts of the interior decoration that would have once adorned this grand and well reputed place. The ripped curtain and the wall papers in the grand and spacious lobby were now in shreds before being disposed down the spiral stair case into a very large graveyard of dusty and sad non-descriptive waste. To add to the assault, rain and wind blew in debris from the rough sea through the broken windows. To think that this would have once been someone’s dream of making the millions in the hospitality industry of the Adriatic. I wondered how it would have all ended so badly when other smaller guest houses and hotels seemed to do OK – was it just hit too hard in Croatia’s embattled economy during and after the Balkan crisis of the early 1990s, was it a victim of the corruption that continued to plague the political economy of these vulnerable small communities, or was it just pure business stupidity? Which ever, or what ever combination, it would probably have been a slow painful death. To think that this would have been someone’s best childhood memories of family laughter and warm waves, or somewhere where someone would have spent the best dirty weekend in their life, or where someone else would have just come to seek a part of their soul – and what ever it is, I hope they never find out what became of this place.

Day 4: Hvar

In the evening as our next ferry approached, Hvar’s golden lights shone above the glittering water like Sinbad’s treasure trove. Big palm trees line the harbour, projecting a mysterious and alluring feel to this place, even though the autumn wind chilled in. After all, Hvar is reputed to be the island that gets the most sunshine in Croatia.

This is when one needs a day off!! M-8 and I spent the day lounging and reading by the beach, catching up with the tan. The gentle waves sat comfortably in my vision, swarming in the emerald crevasses of the lagoons. Even in the late September the water is invitingly warm. The tiny fish in the shallow waters were completely at easy with the larger human versions of themselves tumbling across the deep blue glass bowl. Its just so easy to be seduced by the beauty of this place.





























Day 5: Korcula/Orebic

Another ferry took us across to the Island of Korcula in the evening through the gentle waves, that in the dusk, looked like slivers of silver ribbons. It was almost like descending into a war with the flurry of locals (concerned about not filling their rooms after the high season) fighting to tout their private accommodation to the tourists. We were quickly snapped up by a lady who took a well-meaning Aussie guest to help her convince the new arrivals that her home-stay was indeed the best in town. And it was!! A strangely narrow and compact house of 5 stories with a terrace overlooking the dock, old town and the mainland, cosy areas for us to hang out in. It felt like we were squirrels living in different compartments of a very big tree trunk, if I could think of anything that came close to describing it.












The small fortress is secured by steep walls, and inside is layered in large marble paving, the large pieces of marbles shiny and slippery polished from centuries of being trampled, glided over by generations after generations of brisk feet. Its almost like the clear clam ocean on the other side of the walls.

Korcula town reminds me of the movie Princess Bride, or that pirate movie with Bert Lancaster in it. The rough waves, tall towering walls, blocks of stones, suggesting drama, intrigue, drudgery, bloodshed and a very big hint of romance. One can imagine the witchcraft being practiced in dark small rooms behind these walls, and magicians and monsters that would turn into stones when the hero comes to rescue you. In its narrow winding streets one can also imagine where sailors would have gone looking for the next slice of fun and a prostitute or two. Unlike the grandeur and pomp of Western European nations that would have had their political, economic and social might ‘peaked’ most recently in the 17th -18th century wave of colonialism, Dalmatia’s golden naval age more or less peaked in the medieval times, and so the reminiscence of what is left and preserved and celebrated is a testimonial of its volatile history . That sense of history it still presides as a seaside town once governed and served by emperors who’s powers came from owning the sea trading routes, business from neighbouring North Africans and the tribes towards the East.







We visited Orebic, a town on the mainland only 20 minutes boat ride away, walked up to the Church with sweeping views of the coastline and of Korcula, and befriended a young feline. In the evening we drank cocktails from the innovative tower bar, accompanied by two scary scorpions that moved so quickly on the rocks that we first thought they were crabs.










Day 6 & 7: Dubrovnik/ Lukrum


The bus dropped us off at the ferry terminal within the new city. Walking in via the extended parts of the newer city from the ferry terminal and the harbour, Dubrovnik is a mixture of smells of rotten fish, old drains, and toxic fumes. The security guard standing outside a bank holding a pistol reminds me of my own near brush with death in neighbouring Slovenia a year ago. This is a volatile territory in a big bad city where tourists are still much targeted for petty thefts and if not major crimes.

While the new town is a suburban spiral of large commercial buildings, commuting vehicles, big hotels and a major backbone to Croatia’s economy which is performing well compared to the rest of the countries in the former Yugoslavia, the old town of Dubrovnik is the historical and spiritual heart of the city, and is declared a UNESCO Heritage site. It was in fact a mini kingdom to itself as the Republic of Dubrovnik from the 14th to the 19th century.

Its a medieval fortress built on a sturdy giant rock formation out towards the sea in almost like a peninsula sort of arrangement, with the strong tall wall standing guarding and encircling the city. You can walk around the circumference of the wall in about 2-3 hours if you’re not stopping to admire the absolutely magnificent views of not just the sea, but the way which the fort stands so grand and unwavering against it. At the top of the wall you can gaze onto an ocean of chiselled roofs, presented in waves of shades of orange from pale to moss ridden to bright scarlet, many recently refurbished after the shelling of 1991-92, but others are many many centuries old.

Anyone would be in awe of the sheer beauty of this unique site, and it is extremely hard to imagine that it had suffered a traumatic siege less than 20 years ago. Dubrovnik was awarded an UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1979 and opened to the lucrative tourism industry back in the Yugoslavian years, and was jealously viewed by the other Yugoslav nations even back then. Croatia declared independence from Yugoslavia in 1991 against the wishes of both the Belgrave government and ethnic Serbs within Croatia. In October 1991 – May 1992 Dubrovnik came under Yogos shelling, 80% of the Old Town was deliberately hit, killing more than 80 people.

Many of the bombed out houses/areas were not rebuilt for a number of possible reasons, ie. Owners are elderly that no longer lives at the premise even at the time when it was bombed, or they could be owned by Serbs that have since fled the country and too afraid to return, or that the owner simply did not have enough funds to rebuild it, but with them still being alive or out of the country, it is illegal for any other party, including the government to deal with the land. So the result is a number of odd and unpleasant looking hollows of cavities of rubbles in amongst the rest of the rebuilt city, which looks strange to the outsider just thinking how easily (and lucrative in return) it would be to rebuild the premise, but then again, it serves as a permanent reminder of the complicated and sad recent history of Dubrovnik.

Now everyone wants a piece of this place, making it crowded, a bit tacky, driving prices up and making the place a total mess at times - but who could blame them? This place is swarmed with an array of tour groups, many off the Titanic proportioned cruise ships that park outside of the Old Harbour because they simply couldn’t fit. Those cruise ships that sat out there floating honestly looked bigger than the city itself.

The Old Town is small enough to not get entirely lost and fairly easy to navigate, especially centred around the small old harbour. You can dash about along the slanted streets freely on a breezy afternoon, eating on ‘slanted tables’ and sipped kutjevo – a lovely local dry white wine. The streets designed slanted to manage water flow or floods in the city, there are numerous central shallow drains that runs through the main streets of the old city that is so prone to the battling waves surrounding it.
The other side of the giant fortress lies the boundless Adriatic, with the rich green bushes of Lockrum Island floating above, just out of reach by one’s hand. Its a small uninhabited island about 20 minute boat ride from Dubrovnik Old Harbour, famous for its nudist beaches. The only building is a monastery and a middle-ages stone fort long abandoned by the wine making (and definitely drinking) monks that once lived there, now a sanctuary for nudists seeking a bit of peace and the right to strip without the odd prejudice glance. We took one-rounded foot tour of the island in the space of about 2 hours, whiling away the afternoon in ‘the Dead Sea’ a small billabong , small treks across the island checking out the ruins of the monastery and the fort on top of the island. So yet more sunning by the beach, private and removed from the rest of the world. Day 8: Zagreb

We arrived on a bleak, cloudy morning, the road wet from the overnight rain into Zagreb, the capital, some 570kms and 12 hours bus ride from Dubrovnik to the North. far cry from the sunny south, having suffered from the various passport checks throughout the evening as we had to go through parts of the Bosnian territory.

I guess this is what I would call a reality check. The bus drove through suburbs after suburbs of identical concrete square buildings, over arches of highways before we reached the capital. Far away from the blue oceans and the palm trees, money needs to be made and lives need to be forged. This is where the real Croatians live, struggling like anyone else in the world between slices of bread and the desire for something beyond a grey sky.









Zagreb reminds me a little of Budapest, with that little dash of old Eastern European glamour washed in with a bit of grime and hardship. The city centre’s broad wide boulevard is busy with tram lines, cobblestoned streets lined with cafes, boutiques, big old-school banks. In the main square a Christmas concert was being held, and two mime artists perform a nostalgic style of open air theatre. In the corner, I brought a newspaper-sackful of BBQ’d chestnuts that left black coal dusts on my fingers.

Strolling through the magnificent, hauntingly beautiful but sombre Mirogoj Cemetery and the eclectic art collection of the Gallery of Modern Art was a fabulous way to wrap up this trip. The collection had a vast amount of Croatia’s art through outfits history being sampled, from Mestrovic to Džamonja – a fascinating and proud exposition of just how rich and sophisticated their history and culture had been and still is. It really hit home that, for someone like myself that grew up in New Zealand, despite being so geographically close to English speaking countries, the Slavics’ history and way of life was so much ignored in the educational and references in Anglo-Saxon cultures and consciousness, apart from recent references to the conflicts which traumatically represented most of my understanding and reference of this part of the world.

The recent war in the 90s is just a small period in a long long history. While it was a significant, recent, damaging, vividly portrayed in the empty frames in the town hall, nail sculpture by artist in the 1960s, affects everyone’s lives, but the courage and will to survive and fight for their piece of the sky, as they always survive, will always be the backbone of this passionate, illusive country.

Epilogue:

I am really sad to announce that M-8 and I have decided to part ways on the last evening in Croatia. He is heading home to the other side of the world in November and with much more traveling ahead for him, we felt that maintaining a relationship under these circumstances would be too difficult. Its hard for everyone, and as usual I’d rather not get into too much emotional details, but there is no doubt that we’ll remain very very good friends.

I dreamt about the beaten up hotel we explored in Hvar. A couple of Australian families had moved in, cleaned up the place significantly, no trace of broken glass or stains and giant balls of dust and dead leaves, leaving just the smashed windows not mended. They seemed to be just enjoying themselves in their new found space. “Yeah-nah. Some one will get round to it soon enough, we’re just here to enjoy the sunshine in the mean time.”, they said as they lounged around in the broad shorts by Billabong drinking Fosters from a can, a giant surfboard with blue and pink Rip Curl graphics stands against the wall, watching the proceedings.