Unloading was an excuse to connect with the bikers of the night before, wishing each other well and safe travels.
I sort of set the GPS, with little faith, then decided to change route before we left the port of Split and holistically headed down the Croatian coast.
After a while it seemed pretty similar, pretty but built up, similar to Italy. So I finally listened to the patient lady giving directions in my headset. I have no idea how she had not already lost her temper. Superhuman these GPS birds.
And the adventure started, winding up from the coast into the the face of a mountain. Curves ending in hairpins, on smooth, German-subsidised, wide tarmac roads.
Then the at top,it all changed.
The highlands of Bosnia seemed empty, with uplands reminiscent of Wales or Scotland, vast tracks of pasture littered with the wreckage of rocks, like debris on an ancient abandoned battlefield.
Rounding a big lake the view faded in and out of a typical Scottish mist, long winding curves to be taken at speed, at an angle. The road was good, there was very little traffic and a bunch of kilometres were eager to be eaten up. Suddenly the road turned into a long straight stretch and the Tiger could open up, but the mist persisted and any more than 160 kph seemed silly.
The road wound into prefabricated dwellings close to abandoned older houses, the occasional handpainted sign offered the possibility of bikes and coffee, but it was no certainty, so on we roared.
Then at the crest of a hill a large wooden sign proclaimed something important, but I couldn't read the Cryllic script and anyway had to brake as the tarmac stopped abruptly. The rest of the road in this new land disintegrated into steep, downhill, windy, rain rutted gravel. So like the Himalayas, even the continuing persistence of humidity that collected in the folds of the raingear.
Edgy about the high balancing point of the Tiger, plus its weight, but comforted by its handling ability, we set off. And it got easier. The tyres gripped, the power got us over trouble, and sometimes a quick twist of the throttle rushed us through a tricky bit. I was rapidly falling in love with the bike.
Trees started appeared and we wound down the mountain. Perhaps the road was a deliberate barrier to stop invading armies, or tourists, or any form of contact between the communities on either side of the crest. But after a few kilometres the tarmac reappeared, along with a renovated mosque, gleaming new plaster white in the dark green gloom.
From there the settlements and cemeteries multiplied, Muslim, Orthodox, possible even Catholic, they loomed in the mist with tombstones like tank traps jutting out of the pastures, surrounded by thin metal railings and run down buildings.
The occasional shack had signs of tyre manufacturers and sometimes groups of country clad men clustered, to talk, to look at some mechanical beast of burden, or to watch the strange tourist with his flourescent sleeved, postman flavoured riding gear. Fake tartan shirts, baggy trousers and gumboots the same across religions and countries all over the continent.
But there were no bars, no hotels or B&Bs, or petrol stations or friendly smiles, just the mixed scenery of mountain, forest and rain, interspersed with run down houses. Until we reached a sign that said in English 'Locality under video surveillance'. Was this a local police warning, or some UN sponsored peace initiative? Whichever way, it soon led to the rest of the town of Jablinca where, as I came to expect, every café and every petrol station had free wifi.
I was tired and the long local coffee was most welcome. I only had Euros, but a 5 Euro note got me a coffee and a bunch of local change. The young men in the bar all had shaven heads and were slumped, bear like, over their late morning beers. The barista looked the same, but had a smile and asked the usual question you pose to an alien. What on earth was I doing there?
But the guys set me on the road to Sarajevo and smiled as I left, maybe because I left, but it never felt threatening. Just different.
The coffee break took a little longer than expected so I was happy to increase speed as the road got bigger and wider. But the traffic increased. So I needed to overtake a fair amount. Training in the Himalayas and a lot of experience on the Tiger gave me confidence about where, when and how to overtake. Sometimes this involved crossing the double white lines, but they are made for normal drivers, in slower cars, so I felt OK. In the zone.
On a gentle left hand open bend over a bridge I skipped a lorry, then a car, only to see the approaching traffic start flashing their lights. I slowed, but it was too late. The police car was hidden behind a hillock at the far end. I was flagged. Dismounting carefully on the far side of the road I locked up and hopped over to where the policeman started speaking. I tried the litany of English, German, Italian and French. No good. We both smiled and he drew me a picture of illegal overtaking. I said sorry, both verbally and with a mixture of Italian and Indian supplicant gestures. 'Tourist?' - 'Yes, Si, Ja.'
The fine in the book he showed me was translated into Minimum €50 Maximum €150. So I said 'minimum', which seemed to be the same word in both our languages.
Since I did not ask for a receipt I got 'extra minimum' €20 cash. That worked well for me and was a cheap lesson in respecting the laws of the countries I was visiting, which you must always do, especially in front of policemen!
The roads got bigger and busier and by the time I got to Sarajevo it was a bustling multilane mass of motor cars. I stopped for fuel and was directed to a shopping centre which should have a lighter charger with a USB connection. I forgot to pack one and charging the phone while riding was going to be essential.
Parking a bike is normally easier and traffic police seem to be a lot more lenient as long as you are not blocking anyone's way. So it was simple to park. But unloading the tankbag and carting that, with the helmet, through the shopping centre was a little inconvenient.
The good part was that the panniers had padlocks on and there was no other baggage to carry.
A double USB charger seemed a bargain at the equivalent of €5, until I tried it after lunch and it didn't work.
But lunch was more important and after struggling into the centre of town I took a bridge to almost nowhere and stopped outside a bar. They didn't do lunch but pointed me to a little restaurant a few yards away. Restoran Dalija did a perfect lunch. Spare seats for the bike gear, free wifi, a recharging point for the phone and an excellent local soup with homemade bread. A catch up to publish selfies and see if the world had changed while slurping soup *is there any other way?), a coffee then off we set again.
As soon as the town of Sarajevo finished there was a sign proclaiming Republika Srbska. Two large red paint bombs had badly wounded the sign and showed what someone thought of that.
It was about 2 pm and I was hoping to make Srebrenica before nightfall.
After stopping voluntarily at a police checkpoint to get directions I was there for a late tea. The policemen had probably recovered from the shock of unusual behaviour by the time I got to Srebrenica though.
Here was the borderland with Serbia. The cosmopolitan nature of Sarajevo peeled away rapidly after the wounded sign and by the time I got to Srebrenica horses and carts were a regular sight. One old guy even waved. I stopped thinking something was wrong, but this confused him and me enormously, so off we set again.
I had to stop in Bratunac to ask for directions again, signs were as intermittent as they are in Italy. After the town there were a few abandoned buildings with bullet damage, and soon after the Srebrenica memorial hove into view.
There were four other people visiting, noone on the gate and a damp late afternoon added to the eeriness of the place.
It seems small but gets bigger as you go in. There are lots of Muslim tomb markers in neat rows like war cemeteries all over Europe. Then a big granite rock highlights 8,372.
And a huge semi-circle lists them all, by family name.
And you see generations jumbled up together,
Mesanovic Arif 1941
Mesanovic Azem 1951
Mesanovic Azmir 1969
Mesanovic Bajro 1929
Mesanovic Benadil 1965
Mesanovic Bekir 1972
and on, and on, and on... 8,732 times.
It is very powerful and very sad.
I paid my respects but didn't want to stay there.
Back in Bratunac it looked just as bad with grey, streets draped with telephone wires and plastic backlit shop signs more reminiscent of the middle east than Europe. So I carried on and rather by accident arrived at a checkpoint for Serbia. I was not thinking too well when I asked the Bosnian border guard, who was checking me through, if this was the right road for Belgrade. He said he wouldn't know and let me through. I realised the error at the checkpoint on the far side of the wide Drina river.
The roads were fine on both sides, not great but fine, though on the Serbian side the main road quickly gave way to roadworks, with several kilometres of rough packed gravel holding up the hurtling, heavy-duty trucks. Not much fun on a bike, but the Tiger was superb and we stayed at a steady pace, in the same rut, only using the back brake lightly, and eventually it was over.
On the Bosnian side more renovated mosques mockingly shone through the damp. The wide river got wider.
Some 20 kilometres further on it was time for a very late afternoon cup of tea.
Although there was a sign for a hotel it was next to the busy road and Kvornik did not seem too much fun. But the big burly guy at the bar was happy to set me up with some hot sweet tea and let me plan the next steps on his password free wifi. He resumed a familiar bear pose at a table with some other guys watching some football match, played on an impossibly bright green pitch. I paid with the Bosnian notes I had, however much that was, and even got some change, however much that was.
Refreshed I set off again, but was looking for accommodation. The next town did not seem to have anything, just large factories. I asked a lady walking along the road who told me in German the restaurants may have beds.
The next place was a large lorry park, which did not seem the right place for me to try and a few kilometres further on I passed Restoran Basta. Right on the main road.
It was getting dark and I had been going for close to 12 hours, so it was definitely time to stop.
I asked if they knew anywhere nearby with rooms. They had some. €10 for the night. The room had a double bed, with a newish mattress and a small shower in the room. Perfect.
Two beers and a huge supper later I forked over €25 (wonderful how cash Euros were easily accepted) to secure what turned out to be a massive cooked breakfast of three fried eggs, half a loaf of bread and a chunk of fried pig slopping in gorgeous grease! Perfect biker brekky.
It was a good nights sleep and the free wifi got me up to date.
I even sent a selfie the next morning as the rush hour started and a lone horse and cart clopped down the main highway.
I sort of set the GPS, with little faith, then decided to change route before we left the port of Split and holistically headed down the Croatian coast.
After a while it seemed pretty similar, pretty but built up, similar to Italy. So I finally listened to the patient lady giving directions in my headset. I have no idea how she had not already lost her temper. Superhuman these GPS birds.
And the adventure started, winding up from the coast into the the face of a mountain. Curves ending in hairpins, on smooth, German-subsidised, wide tarmac roads.
Then the at top,it all changed.
The highlands of Bosnia seemed empty, with uplands reminiscent of Wales or Scotland, vast tracks of pasture littered with the wreckage of rocks, like debris on an ancient abandoned battlefield.
Rounding a big lake the view faded in and out of a typical Scottish mist, long winding curves to be taken at speed, at an angle. The road was good, there was very little traffic and a bunch of kilometres were eager to be eaten up. Suddenly the road turned into a long straight stretch and the Tiger could open up, but the mist persisted and any more than 160 kph seemed silly.
The road wound into prefabricated dwellings close to abandoned older houses, the occasional handpainted sign offered the possibility of bikes and coffee, but it was no certainty, so on we roared.
Then at the crest of a hill a large wooden sign proclaimed something important, but I couldn't read the Cryllic script and anyway had to brake as the tarmac stopped abruptly. The rest of the road in this new land disintegrated into steep, downhill, windy, rain rutted gravel. So like the Himalayas, even the continuing persistence of humidity that collected in the folds of the raingear.
Edgy about the high balancing point of the Tiger, plus its weight, but comforted by its handling ability, we set off. And it got easier. The tyres gripped, the power got us over trouble, and sometimes a quick twist of the throttle rushed us through a tricky bit. I was rapidly falling in love with the bike.
Trees started appeared and we wound down the mountain. Perhaps the road was a deliberate barrier to stop invading armies, or tourists, or any form of contact between the communities on either side of the crest. But after a few kilometres the tarmac reappeared, along with a renovated mosque, gleaming new plaster white in the dark green gloom.
From there the settlements and cemeteries multiplied, Muslim, Orthodox, possible even Catholic, they loomed in the mist with tombstones like tank traps jutting out of the pastures, surrounded by thin metal railings and run down buildings.
The occasional shack had signs of tyre manufacturers and sometimes groups of country clad men clustered, to talk, to look at some mechanical beast of burden, or to watch the strange tourist with his flourescent sleeved, postman flavoured riding gear. Fake tartan shirts, baggy trousers and gumboots the same across religions and countries all over the continent.
But there were no bars, no hotels or B&Bs, or petrol stations or friendly smiles, just the mixed scenery of mountain, forest and rain, interspersed with run down houses. Until we reached a sign that said in English 'Locality under video surveillance'. Was this a local police warning, or some UN sponsored peace initiative? Whichever way, it soon led to the rest of the town of Jablinca where, as I came to expect, every café and every petrol station had free wifi.
I was tired and the long local coffee was most welcome. I only had Euros, but a 5 Euro note got me a coffee and a bunch of local change. The young men in the bar all had shaven heads and were slumped, bear like, over their late morning beers. The barista looked the same, but had a smile and asked the usual question you pose to an alien. What on earth was I doing there?
But the guys set me on the road to Sarajevo and smiled as I left, maybe because I left, but it never felt threatening. Just different.
The coffee break took a little longer than expected so I was happy to increase speed as the road got bigger and wider. But the traffic increased. So I needed to overtake a fair amount. Training in the Himalayas and a lot of experience on the Tiger gave me confidence about where, when and how to overtake. Sometimes this involved crossing the double white lines, but they are made for normal drivers, in slower cars, so I felt OK. In the zone.
On a gentle left hand open bend over a bridge I skipped a lorry, then a car, only to see the approaching traffic start flashing their lights. I slowed, but it was too late. The police car was hidden behind a hillock at the far end. I was flagged. Dismounting carefully on the far side of the road I locked up and hopped over to where the policeman started speaking. I tried the litany of English, German, Italian and French. No good. We both smiled and he drew me a picture of illegal overtaking. I said sorry, both verbally and with a mixture of Italian and Indian supplicant gestures. 'Tourist?' - 'Yes, Si, Ja.'
The fine in the book he showed me was translated into Minimum €50 Maximum €150. So I said 'minimum', which seemed to be the same word in both our languages.
Since I did not ask for a receipt I got 'extra minimum' €20 cash. That worked well for me and was a cheap lesson in respecting the laws of the countries I was visiting, which you must always do, especially in front of policemen!
The roads got bigger and busier and by the time I got to Sarajevo it was a bustling multilane mass of motor cars. I stopped for fuel and was directed to a shopping centre which should have a lighter charger with a USB connection. I forgot to pack one and charging the phone while riding was going to be essential.
Parking a bike is normally easier and traffic police seem to be a lot more lenient as long as you are not blocking anyone's way. So it was simple to park. But unloading the tankbag and carting that, with the helmet, through the shopping centre was a little inconvenient.
The good part was that the panniers had padlocks on and there was no other baggage to carry.
A double USB charger seemed a bargain at the equivalent of €5, until I tried it after lunch and it didn't work.
But lunch was more important and after struggling into the centre of town I took a bridge to almost nowhere and stopped outside a bar. They didn't do lunch but pointed me to a little restaurant a few yards away. Restoran Dalija did a perfect lunch. Spare seats for the bike gear, free wifi, a recharging point for the phone and an excellent local soup with homemade bread. A catch up to publish selfies and see if the world had changed while slurping soup *is there any other way?), a coffee then off we set again.
As soon as the town of Sarajevo finished there was a sign proclaiming Republika Srbska. Two large red paint bombs had badly wounded the sign and showed what someone thought of that.
It was about 2 pm and I was hoping to make Srebrenica before nightfall.
After stopping voluntarily at a police checkpoint to get directions I was there for a late tea. The policemen had probably recovered from the shock of unusual behaviour by the time I got to Srebrenica though.
Here was the borderland with Serbia. The cosmopolitan nature of Sarajevo peeled away rapidly after the wounded sign and by the time I got to Srebrenica horses and carts were a regular sight. One old guy even waved. I stopped thinking something was wrong, but this confused him and me enormously, so off we set again.
I had to stop in Bratunac to ask for directions again, signs were as intermittent as they are in Italy. After the town there were a few abandoned buildings with bullet damage, and soon after the Srebrenica memorial hove into view.
There were four other people visiting, noone on the gate and a damp late afternoon added to the eeriness of the place.
It seems small but gets bigger as you go in. There are lots of Muslim tomb markers in neat rows like war cemeteries all over Europe. Then a big granite rock highlights 8,372.
And a huge semi-circle lists them all, by family name.
And you see generations jumbled up together,
Mesanovic Arif 1941
Mesanovic Azem 1951
Mesanovic Azmir 1969
Mesanovic Bajro 1929
Mesanovic Benadil 1965
Mesanovic Bekir 1972
and on, and on, and on... 8,732 times.
It is very powerful and very sad.
I paid my respects but didn't want to stay there.
Back in Bratunac it looked just as bad with grey, streets draped with telephone wires and plastic backlit shop signs more reminiscent of the middle east than Europe. So I carried on and rather by accident arrived at a checkpoint for Serbia. I was not thinking too well when I asked the Bosnian border guard, who was checking me through, if this was the right road for Belgrade. He said he wouldn't know and let me through. I realised the error at the checkpoint on the far side of the wide Drina river.
The roads were fine on both sides, not great but fine, though on the Serbian side the main road quickly gave way to roadworks, with several kilometres of rough packed gravel holding up the hurtling, heavy-duty trucks. Not much fun on a bike, but the Tiger was superb and we stayed at a steady pace, in the same rut, only using the back brake lightly, and eventually it was over.
On the Bosnian side more renovated mosques mockingly shone through the damp. The wide river got wider.
Some 20 kilometres further on it was time for a very late afternoon cup of tea.
Although there was a sign for a hotel it was next to the busy road and Kvornik did not seem too much fun. But the big burly guy at the bar was happy to set me up with some hot sweet tea and let me plan the next steps on his password free wifi. He resumed a familiar bear pose at a table with some other guys watching some football match, played on an impossibly bright green pitch. I paid with the Bosnian notes I had, however much that was, and even got some change, however much that was.
Refreshed I set off again, but was looking for accommodation. The next town did not seem to have anything, just large factories. I asked a lady walking along the road who told me in German the restaurants may have beds.
The next place was a large lorry park, which did not seem the right place for me to try and a few kilometres further on I passed Restoran Basta. Right on the main road.
It was getting dark and I had been going for close to 12 hours, so it was definitely time to stop.
I asked if they knew anywhere nearby with rooms. They had some. €10 for the night. The room had a double bed, with a newish mattress and a small shower in the room. Perfect.
Two beers and a huge supper later I forked over €25 (wonderful how cash Euros were easily accepted) to secure what turned out to be a massive cooked breakfast of three fried eggs, half a loaf of bread and a chunk of fried pig slopping in gorgeous grease! Perfect biker brekky.
It was a good nights sleep and the free wifi got me up to date.
I even sent a selfie the next morning as the rush hour started and a lone horse and cart clopped down the main highway.
No comments:
Post a Comment