Why am I so interested? Why is the bridge so important? Well, the fact is that for the huge population of Belgrade that lives south and east of the Sava river, and south and east of the city, getting into the city and getting to New Belgrade is, and for many years has been chaotic, time-consuming and frustrating beyond expression. This huge population (most noticeable during rush hours but visible at all hours of all days) currently travels along the Sajam (Vojvode Misica) to the Gazela bridge or into the city along Savska or Knez Milos or heads to the same destinations through Senjak. Gazela was never built to handle the current level of traffic, and each approach one takes is incredibly slow.

The new bridge will handle all traffic to New Belgrade from the population of this part of the city. All of it. The Sajam and Gazela will no longer cater for this group of people, and will return to more normal traffic flows. Travel time (and engine-running time) will be reduced significantly. As a bonus, the bridge includes tram lines down the middle and pedestrian/ bike lanes in both directions, creating real opportunities for different types of commuting, opportunities that are severely hampered currently.

It is a very big construction, and for mine, very beautiful. Here is an external link:

All the photos below were taken by the Redhead with whom I share my life.

Entering From/ Exiting To Pozeska Street

Do you remember dipping down from Pozeska, near my green market in Banovo Brdo? You go left to head towards Vojvode Misica, Gazela and the Centre and right for the Hippodrome and the old level crossing.

Pozeska Street - heading towards the Centre.

This is the corner where you head down. The right turn is closed, all traffic being directed left. This is because the bridge will actually end (begin) right here (for Banovo Brdo). The approaches are being constructed.

Pozeska Street Bridge Approach

And another. I believe the Bridge will actually end almost exactly where the candy-striped sign is.

Bridge Approaches - End of Pozeska St

All of this is an aspect of what has been for me the most important part of the bridge development process other that the actual bridge over the Sava – addressing the dreadful hippodrome level crossing. Do you remember the level crossing? Staying in the queue on either side of the railway line for up to 45 minutes while a series of trains passed? Do you remember being the last car not let through, then waiting 8 or 10 minutes and then watching a two-car train pass? Do you remember your anger (I do!) when 6 or 8 idiots overtook 300 cars waiting (sort of) patiently for the boom gates to open and then forcing themselves in, in front of the queue?

All that has been in the past for some time now – probably 6 months – as the bridge development included removing this bottleneck. What does it look like now, and how will it finish? Let’s have a look.

The Hippodrome and the Level Crossing

Hippodrome, bridge in the distance

Hippodrome - road where we always approached the level crossing.

Nothing has changed, eh? Actually, all traffic from the Ibarska Magistrala was diverted here this day for bridge works. It is usually chaos these days (to remind us of the past) but not this bad.

The Bride's Current End

Here is a nice perspective of exactly what the current situation is: the pillars are almost complete that will allow this dead-end to be extended to the Pozeska bridge approaches as shown above. The cars that are visible are travelling on the old road to the level crossing – you can see here how the bridge is being built above that road through to its linkages onto Pozeska.

The Bridge Toward Pozeska

This is a shot back towards the current end of the bridge – the previous photo – from on the bridge. You can see how, after coming over the bridge from New Belgrade you turn right and this will be your route towards Banovo Brdo. This follows the path of the old road, and this photo was taken immediately above the old level crossing.

The Hippodrome Interchange

Coming from Banovo Brdo, this is where you will go left to the bridge or Vojvode Misica, right to Topciderski Zvezda and Red Star Stadium. There is no access from here for Senjak – that will happen underneath, on the old road.

Tunnel Entrance

Yes, that is correct. Ultimately the brown hill will become the tunnel entrance – the tunnel going under Senjak and coming out near Partizan Stadium.

The Bridge

This is the view across to the bridge from the Hippodrome Interchange. The rail line we used to have to cross over is visible below. The roadway curving up is the entrance to the upper level from the old road. The whole set of roads we use to drive on are being extensively re-worked as they will continue to be used for local access. The lighter section visible in front of the crane, in the background, is the bridge itself, curving around to the left before it straightens to go across the river.

From the Bridge

This shows where traffic will leave the bridge from New Belgrade.

From the Bridge

As does this. This is the view of where we will come from into the Hippodrome Interchange from the bridge. So on the other side of the fence on the right is the road out of the Hippodrome Interchange toward the bridge and Vojvode Misica/ Sajam.

From the Bridge

Another view of the exit route from the bridge. The curve of the bridge is quite noticeable on the left.

Under The Bridge – The Old Road

Entrance to the Interchange from the old roads.

Serbian Surfers

This is a view of the old road we travelled from/to Vojvode Misica/ the Sajam and to/ from the Hippodrome level crossing or further. You can see how it is being rebuilt and the construction of the bridge above.

Under the Bridge

Another perspective on the roads under the bridge.

Entrance to Hippodrome Interchange from the Old Road

So if you are leaving the actual Sajam and driving to Banovo Brdo via the Hippodrome Interchange you will come this way. If you are coming from Vojvode Misica you will come through the travel circle, The Radnicka Interchange - which is described below.

Under the Bridge - The Old Road

Nice shot of how the old road and the bridge work together. The next shot is from 180 degrees around – facing the river.

Under the Bridge

The bridge itself curves around to the left, the road ahead goes to Vojvode Misica and the Sajam.

The Bridge Frames The Bridge

Construction of the exit area from under the bridge out to the Sajam.

Upgraded Tram Tracks Next To The Bridge

The Bridge And The Radnicka Interchange

Here is another external link:

The Evolving Traffic Circle

For so long I was unsure how everything would tie together, as there are so many links required from and to the bridge. Then I learned about The Radnicka Interchange, under the bridge. This interchange, when completed, becomes an interchange for traffic onto and off the bridge from the Vojvode Misica, from Vojvode Misica towards the Hippodrome and vice versa, as well as to Banovo  Brdo.

Access From The Hippodrome Interchange To The Traffic Circle

The dead-end visible above will connect into the Radnicka Interchange. That connection is one way for people from Banovo Brdo to get onto Vojvode Misica, and to the Sajam.

The Radnicka Interchange From The Hippodrome Interchange

Visible behind me is the other end of that connection. The angle and perspective make it difficult to see the whole of the Radnicka Interchange, but the bridge itself is visible above. Visible also is how this part of the bridge leads onto the main section.

Connector Between Hippodrome Interchange And The Main Section

Here we can see the scaffolding underneath the connector between the Hippodrome Interchange and the main bridge section. The scaffolding will be removed soon as this section is complete. This scaffolding is actually beneath the connector to the Radnicka Interchange, with the main bridge behind.

Existing Tram Bridge

The lower bridge behind is the existing tram bridge from Vojvode Misica to Banovo Brdo. It will be brought into a soon to be built traffic circle for trams that will allow them to interchange between existing tracks and the new bridge.

The New Tram Bridge

The new bridge has tram lines down the middle. Construction of these tram lines is visible in this photo. While the roadway continues on the the Hippodrome Interchange, the tram lines will drop down to their own circle – the downward angle of the tracks is clearly visible.

Tramway and Roadway

Here is clearly visible the new roadway on the bridge with the downward angle of the new tramway and underneath that the existing tramway.

The three following are different views from directly below the bridge, from the existing tramway.

The Bridge From Beneath

The Bridge From Beneath

The Bridge From Beneath

As well as the Radnicka Interchange, it is also possible on one side of Vojvode Misica to get onto and off of the bridge. The following shot shows, in the distance, the exit from the bridge onto Vojvode Misica towards Ada Ciganlija. The foreground is the connection between the Hippodrome and the main section – almost completed.

Bridge Exit In The Distance

And below we have the entrance to the bridge from Vojvode Misica, at the Sajam. Note my favourite bridge in the foreground – it is probably being re-asphalted today again, for the 300th time this year. Throughout this whole process I had hoped some disaster would mean it would have to be rebuilt, but sadly this has not happened.

Entrance

Again, my favourite bridge and the entrance from Vojvode Misica. And below, entrance constructions causing traffic delays.

Entrance Construction

The Bridge

It has been a long process – the following show some perspectives on what we will have when it is done.

Update, 9 January 2012.

Sadly we were travelling in Romania (subject of a soon to be published post) the day of the Grand Opening, on 1 January. We arrived home yesterday and I’ve been over the bridge 8 times since then, twice when we arrived last night and 6 times today doing things. Previously ‘normal’ commute times to Delta City from home – 25 to 45 minutes. Today – maximum 15. I just think of all the time people are saving. All the engine idling being saved. I have no idea when I will cross the ‘old’ Gazela Bridge again – hopefully never.

We’ll walk around on the bridge soon, and post a further update, but here are phone photos from this morning.

Bridge access from the hippodrome.

From the Old City side towards New Belgrade.

It feels like normal living again, to travel short distances in short periods of time. Time will tell, but I am delighted so far.

New Bridge At Ada, On The Sava River, Belgrade, Serbia - August 2011

This walking habit of ours translates into bushwalking (hiking) weekends from time to time. I described one some time ago in my post on Durmitor, Montenegro (http://jimnewkirk53.wordpress.com/2009/09/04/durmitor-montenegro/). That weekend we had as our fearless leader Mika Marković. Last weekend we walked with Mika again, this time to Zlatibor (http://www.zlatibor.org/english/English-Zlatibor.htm). The idea was two days of walking, and we drove from Belgrade to Zlatibor on Friday after work in order to get an early start on Saturday. Irena and I brought the cat, which was a clear indicator that we would not be walking Sunday, due to check-out times, which turned out to be a wise decision made early.

Mika had his GPS, as usual – he is a regular, serious bushwalker and uses the GPS regularly, although my earlier experiences with him were with maps. As he does, Mika downloaded a track for our walk. This too, as many will know, is normal practice. Someone in Belgrade had walked on Zlatibor, with their GPS, and upon finishing their walk they posted the ‘track’ online. Mika had downloaded the track, and the plan was to simply follow it. Yes, we made the incorrect assumption that Mika had already walked the track. The plan was for a 16 kilometre walk – almost exactly 10 miles – and for the other 5 of us, this was just about perfect on a brisk, November mountain morning.

The first 8 plus kilometres were also exactly what we expected, but at that point things went wrong.

A Cold, Foggy November Morning In Zlatibor

Wrong, I suppose, depending on perspective.

At some point we realised we had missed a turn, and then Mika’s track, which we understood continued to follow small roads, led us into the forest. The forest diversion had no road, no path and no clear direction for us. It was however, a track on a GPS, so we followed it to the best of our ability.

Zlatibor Forest

We followed it down, and down and down. Loose rocks covered by wet, icy grass and loose, wet leaves. Two kilometres we climbed down, killing our legs, slipping regularly and, at times, in dangerous places.

Slipping Through The Forest

Just so difficult to relax, struggling all the time with footing on this seemingly endless downward trek.

We did get down, where we found a logging road that was likely the route we were supposed to have used, but who could be sure? It was nothing special, but would have been a real improvement on the cross-forest route we took. Unfortunately, upon completion of the down section we knew we were under some time pressures as dark falls quickly and early in Zlatibor in November. The plan for the day was to visit five waterfalls on our loop walk, and to then return, meeting our outward leg with some 5-6 kilometres left in the walk. So, with no rest stop, we headed up the creek in search of the waterfalls, as well as our way home.

The Route of the Return Trip - Up A Creek

And I thought the downward leg was hard! The rocks were wet and slippery, and most of them moved when stepped on. We tried moving along the side of the creek, but in most places it was impassable due to heavy undergrowth, fallen logs or purely because it was too steep, and we were inexorably drawn back onto the rocks and, from time to time, into the water.

We found one of the five waterfalls.

Zlatibor Waterfall

We slowly worked our way up, while anxiety levels began to develop as the brightness of the day began to wane in the deep gorge. We found a climbable slope and an apparent ridge above, and began an arduous climb out, again drawing on very limited reserves of energy in our legs.

Pain and the Upside

We found the ridge, and about a half an hour later houses. It was still light, and much brighter on the ridge, but the houses although empty gave us a Plan B if we struggled to make it back to the cars.

Mountain Dwelling On Zlatibor Mountain

We followed a long, steep slope down to the road, and discovered we had to go up the road, which meant we should not have gone down at all, rather directly across. But we were on a road, and heading back. Someone asked Mika how far it was to the cars and he said 3,3 kilometres ‘as the crow flies.’ We walked as quickly as possible as the sun went down and dusk claimed us. About 90 minutes later Mika told us we had missed a turn and would have to go back. It was by now completely dark, although only about 5pm. We had been walking since 9 in the morning. We had gone some 45 minutes past our turn. Mika proposed a short-cut along a ridge, which we followed until the track petered out into forest and we returned to the road and retraced our steps, finding our correct turn with no problems, except the return was up a particularly steep track which sorely tested our now very tired legs.

We asked Mika how far to the cars, and he checked the GPS and said 3,3 kilometres.

Top Of The Hill

At the top of the hill, half an hour later, deep in dark and with the battery torches lighting our way, the GPS battery failed. The reserve also had little charge, so we walked along the road for sometime with no details of direction, somewhat comforted by the fact we were near civilisation – we could see lights and hear dogs. There was much discussion about the fact we were on the same road we had travelled on in the morning, and I had no intention of saying to anyone that I did not recognise one tiny bit of it, particularly the wooden fences running along the road. We moved forward, and Mika turned on the GPS to check where we were. The obvious question brought the same, non-joking, response. 3,3 kilometres to the cars – as the crow flies. My toes hurt, my thighs were dead, there was a steady drizzle now that was making us all wet and drawing our warmth and strength.

We moved forward, clearly not on the same path but clearly drawing closer and closer to some sort of village. At this point the batteries in the torch also failed, but I was no longer worried – just dead on my feet. We found a bitumen road and stopped at the first house where we learned we were less than a kilometre from the cars, which we arrived at to our great relief.

You know it is cold when Mika wears a hat!

Our Fearless Leader Mika and I

Almost 24kms.

9 hours, the last 2 in the dark.

Fabulous place, Zlatibor, fabulous. And a lovely weekend.

Bananeiras is nestled in the mountains east of Rio. And ‘nestled’ is really the right word. We had little direct sunlight each day because of the steep hillsides on all sides of the village. They weren’t so high, but climbed steeply up from the river that ran past us. At one point, having been in Bananeiras some three months, I had occasion to make a business trip to Recife. I can still remember the wonderment I felt disembarking from the bus on arrival in Brazil’s north-east – Recife and environs are so completely flat that the size of the sky shocked me a bit.

To get to Bananeiras we travelled through Niteroi, up highway 101, passing Rio Bonito and heading to Silva Jardim, the nearest town of any size. As I write I have diverted to Google Maps to locate Bananeiras exactly, but my memory just does not suffice. I am quite confident we took the RJ-126/ RJ-140 north and east, to the end of the road, but I could not swear on it. What is certain is that it was around 20 kilometres from the highway turn-off (a bit of dog-leg from the Silva Jardim corner) to Bananeiras.

Karen and I worked as volunteers on a community development project. As this was late ‘70s, ‘development’ wasn’t the industry it is today. I would not for a minute suggest it was less capable, or achieved less outcomes – I merely point out that today ‘development’ is an industry, and practitioners often earn excellent incomes. In those days it was heavily church organisation and/ or heavily volunteer focused. We were provided room (literally about 3m x 3m), board and about $30 a month (although we didn’t always get this money). We also had health insurance and travel paid for. I won’t dwell today on these things – better to write specifically about them in another post. For this ‘remuneration’ we were engaged in the project for six and a half days a week. We had off from Saturday afternoon until Sunday, later in the day when we gathered as a whole team to eat the Sunday meal.

This is a story about our ‘day off’.

We caught the bus around 8 am – one of the two buses that came to Bananeiras daily, the other being around 6 pm, on which we would return in the evening from our trip. At the corner, where there was a small tienda (shop) that serviced travellers, where we would drink a cafezinho (very short, very sweet Brazilian coffee) while waiting for the bus. We then boarded a second bus for Rio Bonito, where, at the bus station, we found our third bus for the day, to Cabo Frio. It all went like clockwork, and we arrived in Cabo Frio late in the morning.

I’m the anxious one about travel, and suggested upon arrival that we should confirm the return time for the bus before going to enjoy ourselves. No more ‘like clockwork’ – the bus had already gone. We were more than 100 kms from home, had about 20 words of Portuguese and probably about $5. The anxiety kicked in heavily, and we spent all of 15 minutes at the beach before starting to hitchhike back to Rio Bonito. For over 30 years I have regretted this decision – it gained us nothing in terms of our trip home, and I have no memory at all of Cabo Frio or the beach there. And I imagine I was a bit of a stressed-out idiot the whole day.

No one wanted to pick us up. We walked and walked and walked, for what my memory tells me was hours, before finally being picked up by a group in a bright pink Volkswagen. They dropped us in Rio Bonito, where we caught the bus to the turn-off at the corner near Silva Jardim.

We saw our bus for Bananeiras driving off into the distance.

It was summer, so there was daylight until later in the day. It was however Brazil, and while in no way was it the jungle of the Amazon, it was a heavily forested area, and 20 kms or more home. What to do? We were getting plenty of advice – too bad we could not understand most of it. I’m fairly confident we would have had a cachaza (cachaça) or a Brahma Chop. Or two. Everyone knew of us, everyone was interested in our predicament and in trying to help us, everyone had suggestions and no one had the answer. No bus until morning, no taxi, only one villager with a car and in any case no way to contact them, no hotel or guest house. We calculated the distance and the likely time, and whether or not we would make it before dark (no chance). We talked about making a wrong turn and becoming lost. We talked about poisonous snakes. There was quite a lot of argument about whether or not we should just walk home – argument to which I (at least) added significant detail, making excellent use of the alcohol I was drinking and those 20 words of Portuguese.

A key player in the discussions was a tall man with a moustache to match his personality – big, full, alive. I have always felt about him that he was quite a bit older than me, but on reflection I would guess he would have been early 30s (to my 26). He had a great appreciation of cachaza, and as the shadows lengthened he became more drunk. As evening came he took more and more interest in our well-being, and when we insisted we would just walk home he was adamant that we could not. He insisted we come home with him, although it took some time before we could understand that this was what he was suggesting.

About 10 pm his wife arrived – quite likely on her nightly trip to the tienda to collect her husband. She was cute, darker than him, shorter than him and just as insistent as him. They basically herded us out of the tienda, and led us west, along the shoulder of Brazil Highway 101, towards Rio. We walked about a kilometre, crossed the highway, went through a break in the guardrail and followed them down a narrow dirt track. After a couple of hundred metres we came to their hut.

Made from sticks and mud, the hut was square, about 4 metres on each side with dirt floors and two, equal-sized rooms inside, one of which was the kitchen/ dining room the other the living room/ sleeping room. Their three darling children were already well asleep on mats on the floor. The couple insisted we sleep on their double bed – they retired to a cardboard mat on the kitchen floor. In the morning we met the children, enjoyed a coffee and meal they had prepared for us and made our way to the corner in the company of our moustachioed friend.

We returned a few months later to thank them. I have silly visions of visiting them again. Although they probably tell the story themselves, I can hardly find Bananeiras on the map, how would I ever find the family that grew out of those two lovely Brazilians in their little mud hut who gave up their bed to us to sleep on the dirt floor.

(As I wrote this I got snippets of memory flooding in – people and things to make me laugh and things at which I just shake my head. I remember Guillerme and his family – they ate only bananas; Nucim – black, dynamic, fun; ‘the Mountain Drunk’, and how he was a source of great hilarity for the community; Brahma Chop, a nice local beer; the two Berlim and their small tiendas (shops); the Doctor – for the level of his education, not because he had a medical degree; walking to the Doctor’s home, and crossing the river on a narrow log to get there; the night the ants marched through in their millions. I remember two of the owners of banana fazendas (plantations) but am sure there were at least three. I remember the night Brian’s hut burnt down. I remember our two dogs – Hinky (always fly-blown) and Mutti. If I was a good writer I’d get a great story out of Brazil, and a book out of Peru.)

But I’ve never sat down to think clearly about why. We had friends (Wendy and Roy) here from Bristol, in England, for the weekend and I decided I’d take the opportunity of talking about the city (and country) to listen to myself, and them, and to make some notes about what I heard. I did that, and this musing is the result of my reflections on my reflections.

Belgrade isn’t Prague – you don’t come here for history and architecture (although you do). Beautiful baroque and gothic buildings, and the history they evoke, is not the focus of a visit to Belgrade.

Belgrade isn’t Dubrovnik. It isn’t this stupendously beautiful walled city jutting out into the Adriatic, wanting to be looked at – and deserving the look.

Belgrade isn’t Florence. There is no David here, and no Medici Palace of great stature hiding on a modern thoroughfare.

Belgrade is Belgrade, and what attracts is what it is now. Today. History ripples through Serbia and the Balkans – long history, hard history – and indeed one strong component of interest here is Belgrade’s (and the Balkan’s) place as the bridge between ‘East’ and ‘West’. But I would argue that this is not the real reason to visit. Or maybe better to say not the main reason.

I have written elsewhere about this ‘bridge’ – about the historical role of the Balkans as a link between East and West. Given the role in Belgrade life played by Ušće (the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers), in the very heart of the city, maybe confluence is an appropriate image for Belgrade. Certainly here East and West come together. Here you find Orthodox religion in a Europe-focused population. Here you find equal quantities of influence from ‘turbo-folk’ music and a society that loves the rock and pop stars of the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s, flocking in huge numbers to indoor and outdoor venues. Here you find a homogenous society (as I’ve said, ‘Serbs look like, well, Serbs’) that greets the very few black faces found on its streets with a strikingly cosmopolitan indifference.

Here you find an older generation born, raised and matured in Tito socialism; an angry and disappointed generation who lost their best years to sanctions and war as the Milošević era reached its ugly end (a generation that lost many of its best and brightest to the diaspora, people now providing great service to Canada, the US, Sweden and many, many other nations); and a young generation born and being raised with no memory of war and the promise of a European future.

Each of these groups looks in different directions for hope, direction and inspiration – and all mix here, at the confluence of East and West. Here, ideas, styles, music, religion and thought mix, mingle, swirl and churn, and in the end all flow together. Like the Danube itself, this big, fast, dangerous, European flow is making its way along its destined route, adding to the richness of the region. And make no mistake, the Balkans is a culturally rich and enriching place.

I talked to Roy and Wendy about why I like it here, and said something about the energy of the place. Later Roy said: ‘I thought Jim was just rubbishing because he lives here, but there really is an energy.’ That energy is difficult to define though. That was my problem when describing it to Roy – I pretty much fell in love with Belgrade straight away (and long before I even met my wife), but are there concrete reasons for this? I’m struggling to come up with any. Roy again: ‘I have a feeling this is one of those cities that will just blossom into a place people will come to, and will want to come to, in the next few years. You visit some places and you just don’t feel like they are going anywhere. That isn’t what I feel here.’ I know what he means exactly. Cannot put my finger on it, yet know exactly what he means.

Maybe it is Beogradjani (the people of Belgrade) themselves. They are curious and outgoing, funny (hilarious actually) yet angry and hard, European in outlook with a well-read, well-studied and well-argued appreciation of themselves and the world around them. They can also be dismissive, and are never afraid of a difficult conversation. I’m not sure if this is a by-product of the past 18 years of sanctions, war and ostracism, or comes from the previous 1500 years of invasion and re-establishment – but without rancour Beogradjani will always question your thinking and your ideas.

They are a beautiful people – at least the women. I remember reading in the JAT (Serbia’s international airline) magazine that ‘the real religion in Belgrade is “looking good”’ and knowing just how true the statement is. There are few greater pleasures in life than strolling the walking street on a warm spring day, as the population comes out to enjoy the warmth of the sun on bare skin after months of winter hiding. I have an English colleague who got sore eye sockets and a stiff neck each spring as he tried to keep up with the passing crowd. My second son told me on his first visit here, ‘Dad, I thought at the nightclub last night I had seen the most beautiful woman in the world, until I saw that woman at the table next to us.’

Belgrade is a city of two million, in a relatively small area geographically, as the vast majority of the population lives in a flat, in a building of 6 to 8 stories. There are many places to go in Belgrade to watch Beogradjani doing what they do. One enjoyable place, where you can watch people who want to be watched, is Strahinjića Bana, known affectionately as Silicon Valley, not for integrated circuits but for augmented breasts. Spring and summer evenings provide a rollicking good time as you stroll the street looking at the double-parked Mercedes, Audis, Hummers etc all strategically placed to ensure you cannot miss them, while their owners enjoy a coffee or beer while showing off their new outfit or new lips. My aforementioned English colleague had some very difficult evenings there!

Ada Ciganlija is another fabulous place in Belgrade to enjoy life and to enjoy Beogradjani enjoying themselves. Ada Ciganlija is an island, in the middle of the Sava River, which has been joined to the eastern river bank by large causeways creating Ada lake. The walking track around the lake is 8 kilometres long, with a recently completed bicycle track that runs outside the walking track. The whole of the lake shore has been developed into a place for sunbathing and swimming, while between the walking and bicycle paths, in the shade of the hundreds of trees, you will find cafes and restaurants of all descriptions. Ada is Belgrade’s playground, and on hot summer days tens of thousands of Beogradjani can be found there, socialising, keeping fit, keeping cool, keeping out of the house or showing off their new bikinis. You can golf, you can play beach volleyball, you can play tennis, you can water ski at the clever water ski area where no boat is required – you are towed around a long course. Any Sunday afternoon in July and August there will be lines of cars waiting to get into the parking lots, and if you are a ‘serious’ cyclist simply don’t go there – the bike path is for social cycling, and, because this is Belgrade after all, pedestrians can be expected there even though they are not allowed.

All along the banks of the Sava, and parts of the Danube, are walking paths (generally shared with bikes). Gentle walks along the river, chatting about sve i svašta (anything and everything) is a very relaxing Beogradjani way to spend a couple of hours. We like to finish our walk at one of the hundreds of splavs (river boats) tied up along the bank. We have a coffee or a beer, and sometimes a meal, either of fresh river fish or a traditional Serbian roštilj (grill). Serbs love meat – beef, pork or lamb – and prepare it in a wide range of traditional restaurant dishes. The salads that go with it can be unbelievable, particularly when they comprise fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and some lovely domestic cheese.

The splavs are a focus of Belgrade night life as well.

A fourth lovely place to enjoy Belgrade and Beogradjani, particularly on a sunny summer weekend afternoon is Košutnijak – the forest on the hill above the hippodrome. There is a 4 kilometre long loop road through the forest, along which there are plenty of places for a picnic or a barbecue. There are a couple of nice restaurants, including Aleksandar Klub, where we sit (day or night) and enjoy a wonderful view of the city from the hillside vantage point. My wife and I had our first date there, and it is always nice to go back.

The walking street (Knez Mihajlova) rocks, but not with anything special – just life. I guess that is what I like best about it – it is nothing special, but has such a good feeling. Day and night, summer and winter, Beogradjani young and old can be found strolling up and down the walking street. It is a special part of Belgrade. It extends from the entrance to Kalemegdan fortress to Terazije, although this ‘walking precinct’ really encompasses the fortress park and surrounds (looking down on the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers) all the way to the Hram (Belgrade’s Serbian Orthodox Temple) which is found some two kilometres from Kalemegdan along the walking street and Kralja Milana, on a hill at the east end of Belgrade’s centre. Mostly notable for the people strolling along it, the walking street is full also of upmarket retail shops (one shoe store where the cheapest pair of shoes is about $500 Australian), cafes, news stands, ice cream kiosks, buskers, artists and illegal vendors of ties, umbrellas and pirate DVDs. Ice cream is a well-loved treat, and generally of excellent quality. Coffee is a Belgrade speciality – if you struggle to get a decent cup in London or New York, come here and ask for a dupli espresso sa mlekom i djus. This traditional Belgrade taste treat will renew your faith in coffee, while creating an interest in the Belgrade tradition of coffee with orange juice, sparkling water or a cola – I use to think it was crazy, but I always have my espresso with a coke now.

Irena says Belgrade is male. Hard. Tough. But she also says it can be gentle, and uses a Serbian expression to describe how this male Belgrade will, if you are open to it and accept it, care for you much more strongly in return: Čuva te kao malo vode na dlanu, meaning ‘it will hold you in the palm of its hand like a drop of water’. I worked with an Australian woman here once who looked down on the country and its people. And they replied in kind – I remember she was nicknamed gazda, as in landlord, but in a demeaning way. She never got it, and it replied in kind.

And it is very foreigner friendly. I would describe the city as one of the safest I have ever visited or lived in. I have never, in any section of the town, felt in danger or threatened, and I have walked throughout popular and quiet neighbourhoods and gathering places. It is English language friendly as well, ranking with Sweden and the Netherlands in my own experience as places with high levels of English-as-a-second-language capacity. I still remember the day I was ordering a hamburger from an elderly woman in a small kiosk in Banovo Brdo. I was struggling with the finer details when she simply asked in English ‘would you like mustard and/ or mayonnaise?’ A typical experience.

There are a number of sites with interesting, useful information on the city and country. Try:

http://www.ambassador-serbia.com/

http://www.beograd.rs/cms/view.php?id=220

http://www.belgradeeye.com/

ttp://www.belgradenet.com/

I love this place. It is dynamic, fun, crazy sometimes, open, future-oriented with a clear grounding in the past and, to my way of thinking, going places. Not everyone agrees with me, including most Serbs. It is my city now. Home.

Friday

Bloody alarm at 3am. The bus doesn’t leave Lima for Pukalpa until 9.30, but there’s a lot to be done to get there on time. First of all, I light the almost useless un-pressurised kerosene stove and put the pot of water on to boil. Then back to bed for 45 minutes while the four litres heat up.

Alarm again at 3.45. I hurry outside and carry water from the below-ground tank into the container inside the reed ‘shower’ cubicle on the back veranda. I dip the small container in the larger one and top up with boiling water. Over the head it goes – not bad, warm enough, but those chill September winds through the reeds are anything but enjoyable. I do it again and then shampoo and soap. Then three more dips and top-ups and I hurry and towel down before freezing. I’ve showered without the heated water before, but it is a once per week proposition. I shaved the night before – with electricity from only 6-10 pm, some things are best done at night.

I hurry and dress and go outside to meet Bacho and Maro. It is crisp and clear, and I delight in the southern sky as I greet my friends. They are brothers, and live near each other about 1.5 kilometres up-river from me. We live above the Mala river, some 15 kms from the coast in central Peru. The village and associated fields are on an irrigated plain of 10 square kilometres, which is home to 350 people. The river is about 80 metres below us, a straight drop on the southern edge of the village. All our water comes in via a five kilometre long irrigation canal dug by the village’s founding fathers about 80 years ago.

Maro – Florencio Amaranto Chumpitaz Huapaya – is my best friend in the village. He has the classical ‘cholo’ look of the coastal Peruvian villager – short, dark complexion, dark hair, dark eyes – the obvious Indian components mixed with the Spanish blood of Pizarro’s heirs. We spend a lot of time together. Maro is poor, and not particularly well. While the village is far from rich, Maro, Bacho and a significant percentage of others own virtually no land and depend on field work and other casual jobs for their income. Maro’s summertime restaurant, Chumpi, on the beach near Mala, is an institution. He is joined there each year by two other local villagers, and earns much of his annual income in that three months.

Most of the village income is from peaches and apples. One thing I am working on is establishment of a box factory. We’re building fruit crates for use by the villagers in shipping their produce to the market in Lima. Maro is working with me on the business side of things. Bacho – Basilio Chumpitaz Huapaya – who is older, works at the factory making the boxes. Bacho is the third saw operator we’ve had. The first lost half a thumb and the end of his index finger. The left thumb of the second operator is still not healed after having a huge hunk taken from the meat. Bacho just laughs, and points to his temple, knowing he won’t get hurt. Bacho laughs a lot, and smiles with a bright twinkle in his dark eyes. The factory is far from his main source of income. He spends countless hours at the riverside cutting reeds and making the reed mats that form the walls of a large number of Peruvian houses.

We’re off to the jungle to buy wood for the factory, and it is a long trip just to get to our real starting point in Lima. We’re anticipating a real adventure –bus to a place none of us have been before, where we will spend several days finding and purchasing wood. Step one of the journey is a four kilometre walk to the nearest motorised transport. We have to be there by 5am for the ride to Mala where we will catch our collectivo to Lima. By 5.30 we’re crowded with four other passengers and the driver into the orange Dodge Charger, a shared taxi, for the 80 km trip to Lima.

We sleep a bit in the collectivo, but even with the early start the cramped conditions are not conducive to getting back to sleep. So we talk, the beginnings of endless discussions over the next week on every matter under the sun. I love my two friends, and delight in our chatting. I’m in my early 20s, they are about 8-10 years older. We have a lot of fun sharing our wildly different life experiences.

We’re at the TEPSA depot by 8am, only to discover that our 9.30 bus if already booked out. For us this is a disaster, as none of our plans included a day and night in Lima and TEPSA, the only reputable firm travelling to Pukalpa in the early 1980s, has only one bus daily. We have a chamomile tea break – whole flowers and stems with boiled water poured over them – then Bacho sets out to see if any other transport of any description is available. We meet at 10am where he tells us he’s found a young man starting up a new bus company whose first trip will be at noon – to Pukalpa. Maybe we’re stupid, we know TEPSA is the only real choice, but we jump at the offered chance in the hope of having things work to the original plan.

We arrive at the bus company about 11.00, for the 12.00 start. The TEPSA bus takes 24 hours for the trip – it is across each of the three cordilleras – so noon isn’t a bad start time. We’re a bit tired, but anticipate a snooze after we head off. The bus office is nothing to write home about, with room only for a counter with one person, the owner, behind and a couple in front. We actually wait, with the rest of the passengers – enough to fill the bus – in a restaurant across the street. No bus at 12.00. We’re not surprised and enjoy our lunch.

At 1.00, Maro heads across the street to see what is happening. The owner advises that ‘some final mechanical matters are being addressed and the bus will arrive shortly’. In conversation it is learnt that he’s actually only purchased the bus this very morning. He is as proud and happy as a new mother! We’re a bit irritated by 1.30 but no-one goes to see what’s happening until about 1.45. Same story.

And at about 2.15. And 2.45. And 3.00. And 3.15. And 3.30. By the time 6.00 rolls around we’re tired, building from the long day and the rising irritation. The owner is anxious, but more so when the police arrive, having been called by the disgruntled passengers. We’ve all paid, and there is a real concern developing that the owner and money will quietly disappear. By the end of the police visit all are placated, mostly I believe though by the obvious commitment to and anxiety about this new enterprise by the owner. We eat dinner, and drink a couple of beers, and wait.

By 9.30 I am convinced the bus will never arrive. The owner has never wavered, not once, from his ‘final mechanical matters’ story, and although he disappears for some time in the early evening the office remains open and the driver is present to deal with passengers. I just want a sleep. It has been a very long day, with waiting to worsen the experience. But there is simply no place to even stretch out one’s legs. The best we can do is put our heads down on the table in the restaurant.

It was probably just the already expended money on an extremely tight budget that kept us there. But we stayed, until the bus finally arrived at 1am. We were beyond irritation and relief. We just climbed on board in anticipation of being immediately on our way. We were, but the surprises didn’t stop. The owner climbed into the driver’s seat and took us out of town. The driver was no more impressed than the passengers, but sat patiently on the engine housing next to the owner.

The Andes climb ‘straight up’ out of Lima, up the Rimac river valley. As the crow flies, 100 kilometres east of Lima the road passes over 4,818 metres (15,807 feet) in altitude. This drive up the valley towards Ticlio Pass is the first stage of our ‘real’ journey, and the road shares its route up the valley with the rail line to Cerro de Pasco. The train crossing over Ticlio is the highest railway journey in the world. In many places in the climb up the valley the train passes overhead on lengthy bridges which ensure a relative straightening of the railway while minimising the effect of the rise and fall of the valley floor.

Notwithstanding it is September, I have dressed mostly for the jungle, with only a light cotton jacket for warmth. As there is no heating on the bus, the passes at Ticlio and at 14,500 feet over the central cordillera will be cold. I had not anticipated that a number of the smaller vent windows near the top of the bus sides would be missing. On a cold winter night I am climbing to high altitudes totally under-dressed. Maro is next to me, snoring with head rested on the window. Bacho is directly behind me, three rows from the back of the bus. I have fallen immediately asleep, but come bolt awake at the sound of a huge crash as the bus lurches near the edge of the bitumen. The owner, skilled entrepreneur and qualified bus driver, has taken a corner too tight, smashing into a railway bridge with the back corner of the bus. It is sometime after 2 and we do not stop.

I find my way back to sleep, only to be awakened a matter of minutes later as the bus fills with smoke. We are near a parking/rest area and pull in for a look. The driver opens the engine cover while the owner gets off the bus. I’m beginning to like the driver, who seems not only to know about owners and driving but also about buses themselves. He works away and lets us know after not much more than 15 minutes that he’s fixed the problem and we can go as soon as the owner gets back on. He goes outside and comes back five minutes later, advising us that the owner, in a moment of wisdom, has disappeared. Honestly relieved we resume our trip.

Ticlio is special, even in the dark. Snow and cold wind, blowing in through the missing windows, dampen my enthusiasm, but I cannot help but be delighted to see the altitude signs. I notice the difficulty in breathing, but we pass over quickly as does the lack of oxygen.

Extensive road works being undertaken from near the top of Ticlio through La Oroya and Cerro de Pasco to Huanaco will slow the trip down.

Saturday

We stop for breakfast – tea, rice and fried eggs, then continue to drop down out of the mountains to a large plain. Maybe it was the tea water at breakfast, or a late reaction to dinner, but as we near sea level again my stomach starts churning and a headache develops at the base of my skull. It worsens quickly. The road works include the complete replacement of the road’s asphalt seal, and where we drive now is un-surfaced, dry and dusty. The broken vent windows are sufficient – none of us has any wish to increase the dust levels inside the bus by opening the large windows and the increasing outside temperatures make the atmosphere inside the bus most unpleasant.

There is no toilet on the bus. I have no aspirin and little water. My head throbs, my stomach growls, turns and calls out as gasses are generated and the whole of my bowels become affected by the food poisoning. I can look forward to 8 hours more of this as the bus is unable to travel more than 30 kilometres an hour on the rough road surface. The heat, humidity and dust inside the bus conspire to convince me I am about to die.

The bus drops, shifts sideways and then is partly airborne as it enters completely and then exits a huge washout in the road. While there is no danger of an accident, I am thrown into the air and then land hard on my seat, snapping the seat-back stays on landing. I am now unable to lean on the seat as the seat-back is completely ruined, lying on Bacho’s lap. The bus is completely full, and no-one offers to exchange seats with me. Only Maro and Bacho know I am not well, but not how unwell, and I have no desire to request a change of seats.

Certain now I will die, I work with Bacho, through a haze of pain and discomfort, to try and secure my seat-back with a piece of rope. We fail, and I spend the next two hours leaning forward while we bounce and twist in the heat and dust over the construction works.

The lunch break offers some hope of relief, if only to my bowels. I will look for a coke and aspirin soon, but first I rush to the bathroom, where the Asian-style toilets are the filthiest ‘conveniences’ I have ever encountered, before or since, in my travels. The toilets and toilet floor are covered in excrement and the only thing thicker in the air than flies is the stench. There is of course no toilet paper, and I know, deep in my soul, that if I even attempt to relieve myself I will be throwing up at the same time. And I know also that with no water available in any form I will be returning to the bus covered in a range of disgusting things over a large percentage of my body.

So I walk away, feeling no better but no longer retching. Bacho and Maro are eating, and I stay far away. It is hot still, and I can find no comfort in any position seated or standing. There is little shade and no aspirin. I drink an Inca Kola and wait. Back on the bus and back to my seat. 12 hours since we left Lima and we are not half-way to Pukalpa. We head on through the heat and dust, arriving at Huanuco at dusk. Incredibly, I have survived. And while neither my head nor bowels have improved at all, I have actually had diarrhea the whole day in my seat on the bus and have not embarrassed myself.

Our dinner stop in Huanuco is like heaven for me as the toilets are clean and have running water. Still no aspirin, and my heads throbs ceaselessly, but I sense an end to my ordeal. I don’t eat, and drink only Inca Kola. Maro and Bacho are relaxed and happy, the conversation is enjoyable and it is a bit cooler. The break is somewhat refreshing and we return to the bus at the appointed hour ready to continue our journey. A number of people have disembarked, and I get an unbroken seat.

The bus driver returns. He stands at the front of the bus and announces ‘he isn’t paying me enough to go through all this. I quit.’ And he walks off. We just stare. Now what do we do? It is a large town, with a large amount of traffic to Pukalpa, but it is late and no-one will go until morning. And no hotel rooms are available. With no other reasonable choice, we make the bus our room for the night. It is far from full, and we are able to stretch out. My stomach has settled somewhat and my headache slowly eases. By morning the head is better, and the diet of Inca Kola and access to a toilet has cleared my bowels.

Sunday

We breakfast at 6 and return to the bus to determine our course of action. We’re chatting with our fellow passengers when the driver shows up. He says he’s had a good sleep and has changed his mind. While I take him at his word, I will discover during the day what he had really been considering overnight.

I can see on reflection that day two was the best day of the week for me. We climb immediately up the western flank of the central cordillera. Near the summit we entered a tunnel,. Any disappointment we might have experienced in not passing over the summit dissipated with the view on exiting the tunnel. Above, on the left, we could almost reach out and touch the summit of a beautiful mountain at close to 7000m in altitude. It loomed above us, windblown, snow-capped and cloudy, but still clearly visible. Down and generally directly in front of us stretched a wide, deep valley and our road snaking away then finally disappearing some 2,500 metres below. Simply, the expanse of the view was overwhelming – massive, white and forbidding to our left, huge, verdant and welcoming below. The effect was magnified by the variation in colour, the distance to the far side of the valley coupled with the sheer and stark nature of the mountain wall there, at this altitude, and the distance below to visible vehicles on the road, winding their way through a more hospitable climate. A perfect picture postcard in my mind, only ever to be shared in words. I long to return, yet am fearful the memory is greater than the reality. We drop slowly, our view never impeded on the slow journey back to sea level. The perspective changes, and the length of the journey serves to more deeply implant the view in the mind.

We arrive at Tingo Maria for lunch. I am able to eat for the first time in more than 24 hours, but stick to plain bread and Inca Kola, not wanting to tempt the gods. Two ranges down, one to go. The third, the eastern cordillera, rises only a couple of hundred metres above sea level, and as we move towards the Amazon basin we leave behind all sense of the sierra. Peruvians describe the three great components of their diverse country as ‘la costa, la sierra y la selva’. Our trip has reached from the coast, over the mountains and is now entering the jungle.

The bus is half full as we pull out of Tingo Maria on our last leg. We have some 250 kilometres to go, and I anticipate a smooth and rather quick trip. It is warm and humid, and there is little movement of the air. About 100 kilometres from Pukalpa the bus driver stops and allows some new passengers on the bus. They are locals, on the way to Pukalpa to sell produce at the market. The produce is with them of course, so must be loaded in the storage compartment below the bus. Unless of course it is live, in which case it travels with us, on the bus. We begin stopping for passengers every few hundred metres, and the bus quickly fills – including people we have pigs, chickens, ducks and guinea pigs. Before long the storage compartment is filled and potatoes, carrots and cabbages come on board as well.

I see the driver’s strategy, as it is clear none of the fares will arrive at the company in Lima. With good management he will easily double his salary for the trip, and it turns out he is very good.

Each seat is now full, and the warmth and humidity join with the smell of unwashed animals and humans. All windows are now open, with some breeze created by the movement of the bus. We continue to stop for passengers, and the aisles now fill with people and animals. I am grateful for my window seat as the crush pushes the standing passengers to lean over those on the aisle seats.

We continue to stop for passengers. The new arrivals, with their produce of any description, now climb onto the roof. Because of the heavy load, and the danger of falling, the bus now travels no more than about 15 kilometres per hours. Not only is our arrival again delayed, but the breeze has disappeared. We are over the top of the cordillera and dropping down into the jungle. It is hotter and more humid.

We stop. Everyone on the roof and in the aisles alights, and we drive off. I am unaware what is happening until we pass, about a kilometre later, a police check point. We pass through and then drive a further kilometre up the road where we stop and wait for the passengers while they walk the two kilometres to the bus. And we wait while they re-load and re-board. A further thirty kilometres and we go through the whole process again. Police checkpoints are numerous throughout Peru as the Sendero Luminoso are very active, and the driver certainly did not want to give up his ‘hard-earned’ extra income in bribes to allow the overloaded bus to pass the checkpoint. And of course, the hour we spent in these processes did allow some relief from the smell and heat inside the bus, as we travelled faster with only people in seats.

We arrive in Pukalpa around 8 in the evening. Our anticipated 30 hour trip has taken over 60. But we are here. And it is raining – real rain. The coastal rains of Peru are much more like heavy dews, and Bacho in particular has never seen real rain. We are getting a proper jungle thunderstorm and he is in raptures.

Have you ever heard of the Ucayali River? It is a minor tributary of the Amazon, and at Pukalpa is still some 1500 kilometres from where it becomes the Amazon proper. And, it is the biggest river I have ever seen; much larger than the Mississippi. We visit the logging operations dotted around Pukalpa, and arrange to collect the wood we need. We do not purchase, as our requirements are for the off-cuts which would otherwise be burned. We pay only the transport back to the village, and arrange it also while in Pukalpa. All going well the wood will arrive in Azpitia about two days after us.

Epilogue – going home

Our work lasts three days, and we then set out for our TEPSA bus home. In great anticipation of a reasonable trip we arrive at the TEPSA depot, where we are immediately transported to the set of From Here To Eternity. The bus is silver, with the rounded roof style of the old Greyhounds of the 50s, which of course it is. Above the driver our destination is announced in large white letters on a black background – Milwaukee. After a good giggle we climb on board, where we stay only a short while before all the men on board were asked to get out and help push-start the bus. We did, and I could not escape the idea that the trip home would match the outbound trip for drama and duration.

Thankfully, that was not to be.

A couple of preliminary musings. I grew up in the mountains (Colorado, South Dakota and Wyoming mostly), and grew up hiking, camping, fishing, skiing. These were family things born from my Dad’s own loves and his profession as a forester which meant we were raised in ranger stations on national forests until I was about 10. We moved to towns then, then cities, then bigger cities, and unlike most of my sibs, mountains, fishing, hiking and I grew apart. As my friends and family know, biking and skiing are my outdoor pursuits, together with travelling for the sake of it. So my older sisters in particular would have loved this trip. Me, well I figured it would be ok but if my wife had cancelled for any reason there wouldn’t have been tears from me.

Australians call it bushwalking, Americans hiking. At least that’s how I think it is. Then there is trekking, but I imagine that as something extending over several days where you carry stuff from one location to another. Australians talk about going bush, Americans about going to the mountains, Europeans about enjoying Nature. Whatever, that was the plan.

Bushwalking/ hiking in Durmitor, Montenegro

Europeans love going to the beach for their summer holiday. Notwithstanding my earlier comments about me and bushwalking, why would anyone choose a crowded, dirty beach in Budva to Herceg Novi to a quiet, cool, restful, and at the same time active week or two at Zabljak? It is beyond me. I don’t actually do either, but I think it is quite likely we will pack our bikes on the roof and return to Durmitor for a longer stay, doing a bit of walking and a bit of riding.

Bus Trip

We were eight passengers and a driver, in a mini-bus. The trip was organised so we travelled overnight, leaving Belgrade at 9 pm. I think this was a perfectly good idea, except if I were to do it again I would re-organise the order of days to accommodate the tired bodies (ok, let’s admit it, we were destroyed) from the overnight trip. It is a rough road, a busy road and a long road, and the driver was not, by any stretch of the imagination, smooth or careful. While the return trip was worse, it was not possible in the cramped seats (notwithstanding there were seats for 17) to sleep as we bounced, veered, turned, accelerated and decelerated with regularity. I have the guy’s phone number and number plates – just so you can check if you do the same trip that you are not with him. Just after sunrise we crossed the Tara, the bridge there the last major landmark before the final climb up to Durmitor.

Early morning on the Tara bridge - not far now.

We are staying in Žabljak, at 1,450 metres (4,757 feet) above sea level.

Day 1 – Medjed

We arrived around 7 am, unloaded our gear in our accommodation, tidied up a bit and immediately set out on our first walk. We start at the Crno Jezero (Black Lake) just outside of the town of Žabljak. The first hour is exactly what I was expecting – lovely views, cool, shady forest and gentle rises and drops. I had built this picture of a mountain forest walk – something to clear the head and stretch the muscles. I had this in my mind in any case, but the weekend had been promoted as a reasonable walk on Day 1 and something more ‘testing’ on Day 2.

Shady forest walking, Durmitor

After the first hour we made a right turn and the terrain immediately started to rise. Nothing stressful, nothing testing, but rising steadily just the same. We left the forest at the same time, so the additional work coupled with the mountain sun meant sweaty drips in the eyes and the need to put on my hat. We were not a group of serious, experienced walkers, and the steady climb and sun began to take their toll as the group broke up. We had a break, where we came together again, about half way up, and not long after the re-start struck a seriously steep section covered in scree. It was at this point I think that the lack of a restful night (sleepless really) began to kick in. I was going ok, although feeling it, but two or three of the group who are less fit and smokers began to really struggle.

Above the scree on the Medjed ascent.

We dealt with the scree, at which point we encountered an even steeper section, one I at least felt was dangerous in that a slip would quite easily see one slide 50 to 100 metres down the hillside. I was concerned about my own abilities, while knowing I was far from the least fit, strong or capable of our group. There were no dramas though, and we completed the summit relatively comfortably. Our GPS battery died just before the top, but the track shows a rise in elevation of more than 850 metres (2,790 feet) before we stopped recording. The summit of Medjed is 2,287 metres (9,142 feet).

Crno Jezero from the saddle, just below the summit of Medjed.

The drama, although possibly too strong a word, came on the descent. From the summit of Medjed to Crna Jezero is recognised as the most difficult descent in Durmitor – coupled with our lack of sleep the return became a very difficult exercise. The initial section is very steep, wet and slippery, and also has sections of scree. I was in the lead group, and after half an hour was some 15 minutes in front of the second group, including one young boy. We were on the edge physically, and yet the groups behind dropped back with each step. We were worried particularly about the family with two children, although the older boy had no problems at all.

A rest stop on the descent from Medjed towards Crno Jezero

For me personally though the real problems started when we reached about halfway down the descent and the ground became significantly less steep. I simply had no energy reserves, and while the angles were (relatively) gentle, the path was replete with ridges of rock and exposed tree roots. I simply could not find the energy in my mind or in my legs to effectively deal with the path. And it was a long, long walk – the final 500 metres of descent took some 2 hours. Somewhere along the way the second group passed us – contending much better with the flatter descent – although the final group arrived at Crno Jezero when we were well into our second pint of beer.

Another rest break on the descent from Medjed

Fabulous day. Seriously. But it must be done rested, and it is not for the unfit or the too young. It is dangerous, though not deadly, so while I would recommend it as a wonderful experience it is important to exercise caution.

Day 2 – Bobotov Kuk

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but for me the second day was much easier. Today we ascended 1086 metres (3,563 feet), in a walk that from start to finish was 10.8 km (6.7 miles) in length (5.4 km from start to summit). The highest point on was the summit of Bobotov Kuk, at 2,535 metres (8,317 feet) above sea level. If you are interested, the coordinates of the highest point of the walk are N43 07’ 453” E19 02’ 227”.

The Climb up Bobotov Kuk

As with Day 1, the walking was generally strenuous and the views fabulous, with sections that were seriously difficult for the inexperienced or unfit. We were a much smaller group – the stronger and fitter from Day 1. Some 350 metres into the ascent we went up a particularly difficult section – I was quite concerned I might fall, which was a possibility, and if I did I would not have stopped for some 200m. I simply would not normally choose to go where we were, but then as I have said, I have been away from this type of activity for years. Interestingly, on the return we avoided this section completely. There are two possible routes and we simply missed the easier one on the way up. This was the only difficult part of the day – although the final kilometre, with its 450 metres (1500 feet) of ascent, was physically quite demanding. It was not dangerous.

Closing in on the top - Bobotov Kuk

Day 2 was out and back, so we had two chances to enjoy the lake at the half-way point. You can see the high water line, and how deep it is now, so no, we didn’t swim. Too bad. Fabulous day for it.

Bobotov Kuk - Lake at Half-way

We did have a snowball fight.

Snow on Bobotov Kuk

Day 3 – Žabljak and Crno Jezero

The truly easy day. Our colleagues went further while we enjoyed a day in and around Žabljak and Crno Jezero as we wanted to visit a friend who owns a hotel in Žabljak. We went together to Crno Jezero, and half way around, where we said goodbye to our friends and continued on the lake loop. This is a lovely walk, and completely easy. It is shady, with constantly changing views of the lake and the surrounding mountains. We heard Danish, Slovenian, German, Swedish, Italian and Spanish as we walked.

Forest Walk Crno Jezero

We then returned to Žabljak via the forest walk from the lake parking. This walk is strongly recommended, as it too is shaded, through a lovely pine forest. The start of the walk from Žabljak is not so easy to find (ask at Hotel Javor, as they are near the start) but is clearly marked at the lake end. The path is in good condition, and well marked along its whole length, but for some reason no one takes responsibility for trees that fall across it. I counted six trees we had to detour around. Cannot understand this failing – there are park employees, there are plenty of woodcutters (wood still being used for winter heating throughout the Balkans), and there is a charge for entering the park at the lake (€2).

Looking out over Crno Jezero

I also could not understand the rubbish. It is not bad, but it does exist in certain places on the lake walk. Certainly park management can/ should address this issue as they should address the fallen trees.

Hotel Accommodation, Local Food and Other Activities

I cannot say honestly that Žabljak and environs offer anything ‘special’ in terms of accommodation (To be honest, as a town I cannot really say anything particularly special about Žabljak per se. It is a holiday town in the mountains of Montenegro). But, there are plenty of places to stay that are comfortable and reasonably priced. Try Hotel Javor (http://www.durmitor.in/english.html) – especially for the food. Make sure the staff know you want to have dinner with them, as early as you can, as otherwise they might not prepare enough food. We were early the night we ate, but a group of young Australian women who arrived later did not have a wide selection. And, and this is important, have beef or lamb with potatoes ‘ispod sacha’. I have never had a better version of this delectable local dish. And you must have the potatoes unless you are allergic!

This has been about walking/ hiking/ bushwalking, because that is how we spent our weekend. But, riding here would also be unbelievable. We will return with our bikes, and although we are ‘roadies’, there is plenty to offer for us and for mountain bikers. Lot’s of long rides across the top of what might be called the Durmitor plateau, as well as some good hill work if you are interested, towards the Tara or towards Podgorica.

And Durmitor and the Tara cannot be mentioned without discussing rafting. Žabljak is a main stepping off point for people wanting rafting trips on the Tara of either a day or longer. It is not longer an inexpensive, unusual holiday, so expect to pay more, and to have more people on the river.

2. Serbs look, well, like Serbs. I have this thought from time to time, often in these crowd situations, and I know it sounds a bit funny. But, Australians look English, Irish, Aboriginal, Chinese, Vietnamese, Sudanese, Lebanese, Greek, etc. If you are in a big crowd at the MCG, watching the footy, this is what you see. Here then, I just cannot escape seeing how people look like they are from the same stock. And of course they are. Nice looking, tall (generally), angular features. But mostly I notice they look like Serbs.

3. We listened to Darko Rundek (http://www.darko-rundek.com/), a Croat. Nice music – I have not heard him really before. It was a very big crowd, and he was very well received – genuine warmth. I always notice when people here jump and bounce and raise their arms and sing along. I know none of the songs, which is too bad in these situations. There was one dickhead nationalist standing in front of us, bitching and carrying on about Rundek being in Belgrade. Felt sorry for his wife and kid – they just tried to keep looking in another direction. Why didn’t he just leave??

4. My boys would love it here. Lots and lots of energy, lots and lots of beer. Pints of most of the main local and quite a few international brands for $2 Australian. But how do I get them here? Long way to come for a beer festival. Hmmm, worth it though. The food is a bit lacking, and relatively expensive. Too bad, as food goes so well with beer. I actually had chips from McDonalds – first McDonalds purchase in a long, long time. My ex would laugh at that.

5. Been here two years in a row now – think it will become a tradition. Last year was Orthodox Celts (fabulous) and of course this year Darko Rundek. Wonder about next year.

Driving in Serbia is an interesting experience. Several things make it interesting. I am of the view now that there are quite a large number of good drivers here. Maybe even a majority. Maybe even a large majority. What clouds my reading of this however is the (by Australian standards) high number of bad drivers. And extremely aggressive drivers. Not aggressive in their manner to others, aggressive in their driving habits. High speeds (black saloon cars travelling at well over 200kph on the open road). Overtaking on all types of streets (city or country) irrespective of oncoming traffic (just flash your headlights and expect – usually correctly – that the person coming towards you will simply get out of your way). Tailgating at 100kph. Total disregard for lane lines, stop lines, pedestrian crossings. The one I like best is the use of left turn lanes (think right turn lanes in Oz) used as overtaking points at red lights. Pull into the left turn lane, light turns green, shoot out as fast as you can and use the left turn lane for oncoming traffic to complete your manoeuvre. But then, why wait for the light to turn green anyway? Many don’t.

A second realisation I have had is that it is not that people drive fast, it is the great variance in speeds one encounters. If one drives on a freeway in Australia where the speed limit is 100kph, something like 90+% of people would be driving between 95 and 105. I’m guessing of course, but I think it would be something like that. Here, I drive on a freeway for about 5kms on my way to and from work. On that freeway, where the speed limit is 80kph, and where there is a significant amount of traffic, many people will be driving at speeds as low as 50 and a number will be driving at speeds of up to 150. This variance is very disconcerting to someone coming from Australia. Especially when coupled with the experience described in the previous paragraph. And it is not just the freeway. On all the main roads people drive somewhere between 50 and 100, notwithstanding the speed limit of 60.

I have written elsewhere about drivers having to be careful of pedestrians walking on the street and the fact that they walk on the street because all the footpaths are taken up with parked cars. Belgrade is old. I think the oldest references to a city on this site go back over 800 years. Not surprisingly therefore the streets are narrow, and are not well laid out, from a driving perspective. And being a European city, and from a former communist regime as well, most dwellings are apartment blocks, and most buildings open right onto the footpath or street and are built up against each other. And there are simply no parking buildings or parking lots. They just don’t exist. But there are large numbers of cars. More all the time. So we all park on the footpaths. And on the median strips. I couldn’t say I like it. It offends my Australian sense of driving and parking aesthetics to travel the main street of the capital of Serbia and have all the concrete footpaths covered in parked cars. But I have no solution. At least not one that won’t take years, millions of scarce dollars, political will and a lot of construction. So I will just get used to it. I don’t think though I will ever get used to the parked cars sticking more than a metre into the street, often with plenty of room to move forward, and often with a driver sitting in them looking at you as the steam exits your ears.

Imagine: main thoroughfare, narrow, one lane each direction, rush hour, parked car with tail sticking into your lane holding up 4 cars. Two cars behind you just drive into the oncoming traffic. Front car pulls out to get around parked car. Horns. Language. The driver of the parked car just takes a quiet drag on his cigarette. I just keep remembering that the drivers of the four cars are probably all good, safe, sensible drivers. The majority that I think exist. I just find it hard to think about them most of the time.

Can you imagine me on my bike? I can’t!

15 September 2009: Have a look at this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2v7vZXF4pC4&NR=1

We had an experience like this, on this stretch of road. It is NOT usual.

4 December 2011: This is an excerpt of something I wrote elsewhere in 1999:

Belgrade is less pedestrian friendly than Caracas Venezuela. I do not know what happened in its development, but somewhere along the line there got to be too many cars for the parking infrastructure. A city of 2 million and I do not know of a single parking lot anywhere in the city. What would you do as a city planner in those circumstances? Yep, you got it in one, you would turn the footpaths into parking. In most of the city this is an ad hoc process – you just park on the sidewalk. Pedestrians? Simple, we walk on the street.

The Hram (Orthodox Temple) Belgrade

Having arrived in (what is now the Former) Yugoslavia in 1999, with no intention of being here more than a few months, it is surprising in some ways to still be here 10 years later. Certainly my wife’s friends revel in asking Irena: ‘you married an Australian and you live where?’ Indeed I only stayed those few months. I returned later however, seeing this second posting as my bridge to my second (or third) career. I should have known – the Balkans have always been a bridge – between East and West most obviously. As with many members of the invading armies who fought wars on this land over the past 2000 years, I never really got off ‘the bridge’.

For my family and friends, the vast majority of whom live in North America, where I was born and schooled (in both the US and Canada) and Australia, where I immigrated in 1975, the history that is visible across Europe cannot be touched in their native lands – at least not in the way it is present here. Having grown up in young countries, confronting age, in the context of nations, religions and inter-cultural relations was illuminating, and, frankly, shocking. While the multicultural flows in Australia are complex and nuanced, the inter-ethnic conflicts witnessed annually these days at the Australian Open are but a ripple compared to the deep currents of division, distrust and suspicion that exist here, between Croat, Serb and Muslim. Here, centuries of hatred, war and misunderstanding generate constant foam on the surface, indicator of the churning going on below the surface.

Usce (confluence) of the Sava and Danube Rivers

I have written elsewhere more generally on this point. What I would like to share here is something I have developed that I hope helps people feel, in some small way, the length of history and the depth of complexity. I call it the Balkan Loop, 5 to 10 days travel across Serbia, Montenegro, Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina. The trip takes in locations specifically interesting in terms of Balkan geography and history, with a specific emphasis on religion, language and empire, and on the dynamics of life for normal people living on this bridge – living on the edge of both ‘the West’ and ‘the East’ but not living in either.

The Loop varies in size, length and duration, but most recently has taken on the form described below. My focus has always been on seeing how geography could have impacted on conquest and daily life, so the trip includes the mountain highlands of Bosnia and Montenegro, together with the rivers which flow through the region. The Adriatic, and the coast from Budva through to Split are a second geographical aspect.

A second focus is on religion – its variety in the Balkans (with significant majorities of Catholic Croats and Orthodox Serbs and the significant Muslim minority), its link to ethnicity and the role both have played in the recent Balkan conflicts. Linked to this discussion is the third focus – language. Studying in Canada I was taught that the language of Yugoslavia was Serbo-Croatian, but don’t expect a Montenegrin or a Bosniak or a Croat in Split to agree with this description, even if it is linguistically correct.

So here, my Balkan Loop, which for me starts and finishes at home.

Belgrade, Serbia and the Danube

The largest city in the former Yugoslavia, Belgrade is a modern city, whose recent development has been severely hampered by war, the international sanctions of the ‘80s and ‘90s and the NATO bombings of 1999, with subsequent difficulties in re-establishing it economy and administrative systems.

One is regularly confronted with an (often humorous) mix of sensible and not-so-sensible practices. We pay for parking by sending a text message, with the fee coming off our mobile phone bill. And people park anywhere they feel – anywhere – legal or not. Visit any Government Ministry and enjoy a cigarette with a high-level functionary, in their office, below the No Smoking sign.

Kalemegdan Fortress Belgrade

I always imagine Belgrade as the point of change, although strictly speaking this might not be the case. But as it is at the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers, and as Austro-Hungarian influences increase from the moment you move to the north side of the Danube, it is a good image of a line. Having said that, history here is an ebb and flow of influences from East and West. Let me tell a story I heard about the fort in Belgrade (http://www.belgradeeye.com/kalemegdan.html).

According to the story, when at one point the Austro-Hungarians gained control of the south of the river, Belgrade and further south into Serbia proper, they wanted to move the administrative centre across the Sava, to Zemun. And they did – brick by brick they moved the fortress. Some 200 years later control of this territory was again ceded to the Ottomans, who again moved the fortress, brick by brick, stone by stone, back to the hill overlooking the confluence of these two great rivers. While I am fairly confident that the whole fortress was not moved, the story provides an interesting insight into the history of the city.

One other critical point about Belgrade – it has been destroyed 40 times in its history, and was bombed by NATO in 1999 and by both sides in the second world war. Unlike a Prague, one does not visit Belgrade for to look at old buildings.

Oplenac, Topola, Serbia

Have a look here: http://www.topolaoplenac.org.rs/english/welcome.html. Topola was a surprise to me until I lived and worked there a couple of years. I visit now for the church, and for the Serbian history represented in the family buried there. And I like the mosaic art of the inside of the church – 14,000,000 separate mosaic tiles, which have been used to re-create many of the great Serbian Orthodox frescoes. The website has an aerial photo of the church – I didn’t take it, but I did balloon over the church and the whole of the Topola area one day – fabulous.

The Karadjordjevic family is buried in the church. Karadjordje began the uprising against the Ottoman’s in 1804 that would ultimately be successful, after some 500 years of Turkish rule, in reclaiming Serbia. The family, and the story are so representative of this place – backwards and forwards from one conqueror to another. My enduring memory of the first book of Balkan history I read (The Balkans, From Constantinople to Communism, Dennis P Hupchick, 2001, Palgrave, NY), was that every almost page seemed to see a new tribe from the steppes sweeping across the Balkans, taking over for a period.

The Bridge on the Drina – Visegrad, Bosnia

The Bridge on the Drina

Like many, my knowledge of this bridge came to me from Ivo Andrić, whose book, The Bridge on the Drina (Na Drini ćuprija) is one of his works that saw him awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1961. In the context of my Balkan Loop, it is of interest to note that Andric Andrić is claimed by Croats, having been born to a Croatian family, by Serbs, given his own later perspective on who he was by Bosnians, given he was born and raised in Bosnia and Herzegovina (indeed in Visegrad itself for part of his childhood).

I think it is a beautiful bridge, and coupled with how Andrić draws Balkan history through the story of the bridge, it is an important part of my Loop. As you might see in the background of my photo, the drive to Sarajevo is beautiful, up a stark Bosnian river valley.

Sarajevo

I love Sarajevo. I’ve been going there for 10 years. The older parts of the city, nestled up against the mountains, are particularly attractive. The Baščaršija (pronounced Bashcharshia) is the most famous street/ sector, and it is lovely, if a little touristy now along the main corridor. But the whole of the old part of town is beautiful – doors are a favourite of mine. The city (physically, emotionally and culturally) was terribly damaged during the war in the ‘90s. I recently read Scott Simpson’s Pretty Birds (2005, Random House, NY). There is also the Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway (2008, Knopf Canada). They both tell stories of the sad, and the beautiful things that happen in war.

Sarajevo was always known as a multi-ethnic city – it was a hallmark of who it was. I understand this is still the case, but I am just not sure. The wounds are very deep, here and across Bosnia. Having said that, masses of humanity flow through Baščaršija each evening in a Bosnian version of a paseo along Las Ramblas in Barcelona. And at the end of the street away from the mountains, near the Orthodox Church, you can sit and enjoy a beer and watch the crowds.

The Bridge, Mostar, Bosnia

The Bridge in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Mostar is a newer place in my experience, as I never went there before 2005. I never saw the old bridge, for which I am sorry. The new bridge looks exactly the same, you can just tell it isn’t. I’m not sure if it is what I knew/ know that affects me when I visit Mostar, or whether I really do feel something, but I’m always a bit sad and uneasy there. The old bridge (Stari Most) was destroyed in 1993, having stood over the Neretva River for almost 430 years. The reconstructed bridge is lovely – it has the same exact look as the old one – but it is new, and obviously so.

You can see how steep it is.

Still, sitting in Mostar’s old town, just off to the side of the bridge, eating ćevapi, watching tourists and locals and waiting for the divers to leap off the bridge is a great way to spend a couple of hours in the afternoon.

Mostar Old Town

Dubrovnik, Croatia

Looking down on Dubrovnik on the road from Montenegro.

Oh how I love Dubrovnik – have a look at what Wikipedia says: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dubrovnik ). As with almost all my favourite cities in the world, it is totally overrun by people like me, but handles them better than Venice – on a par with Prague let’s say. Knowing absolutely nothing added to the experience, but the moment I first saw it, from above and to the south, coming in from Montenegro, with its fabulous walls, stone construction and lovely red-tiled roofs, jutting out into the Adriatic, I knew I would return often.

The three main entrances to the old city are on three different levels – the middle entrance some 200 steps above the main walking street. It is a beautiful entrance, as you look down the uneven stone stairs to the bustle of the town below you. The city walls are a tourist favourite, as you can walk the whole circumference of the city, looking down in onto city life or alternatively looking out onto the Adriatic, with its tourist boats, liners and ferries. It is quite easy to imagine yourself as a member of the city’s defences, guarding against invaders from the sea.

There are two places where small doors open out onto rocky locations outside the walls. In recent times these places have been levelled with concrete, and tables and chairs brought out. Sit, enjoy a coffee and watch the (mostly) young travellers jump from the rocks into the Adriatic.

Seaside, outside the walls.

Like each of the key places I visit during my Balkan Loop, Dubrovnik too severely damaged during the war. The physical scars from being bombed and bombed from the mountains above are almost all gone, but the antagonisms remain. Drivers of Croatian number plated cars in Belgrade are more comfortable putting their cars in parking garages overnight. The same is true for Belgrade plated cars in Dubrovnik.

While speaking of parking it is worth mentioning there is a new, large underground parking garage a short walk from the old city – a welcome change from the parking difficulties of the past.

Kotor, Budva and the Boka Kotorska, Montenegro

Boka Kotorska Montenegro

Many, many, many of my friends and family spend the July/ August holidays on the beaches of Montenegro in and around Hercegnovi, Budva and the Boka Kotorska. (http://www.discover-montenegro.com/Boka-Kotorska.htm). I could never bring myself to holiday here, in the sense of 10 or 20 days sitting on the ‘beach’, but it is a simply beautiful place to spend a couple of days. Here, the Montenegrin mountains come straight down into the sea. In front of you, ‘just out of sight’, is Italy and behind you, the mountains, blocking you from a quick exit. Kotor and Budva each have their old cities, but the attraction for me is the Boka itself. The entrance to the bay is about 300 metres across, but the drive from one side to the other is some 35kms I would guess. The drive should be made in the direction which keeps the passenger side of the car on the water side. Steep mountains, deep water, twisting, narrow roads. Lovely.

Stop for a meal in Perast, and get a table that looks out on the islands in the middle of the Boka.

Durmitor and the Tara River, Montenegro

Crno Jezero, Zabljak, Durmitor, Montenegro

Montenegro promotes itself as ‘wild beauty’. True. The climb up from the sea, along the rivers and up the steep roads to Durmitor used to be much more wild than now – a noticeable change is the number of police and the frequency with which people are stopped. It makes for a less stressful 5 or so hour drive to Zabljak, and the peaks and lakes of the Durmitor National Park. This is a place I could spend a week or 10 days, walking, reading, cycling. Lots of people do, enjoying the less crowded beauty of the mountain in summer.

Tara River Bridge, Montenegro

The trip home includes the last serious bridge of my Balkan Loop. This one has no historical or engineering significance that I know of. But I love it. Down from Durmitor, across the bridge (over the Tara, where you can raft most days) and then up again, into the mountain beauty again on the way back into Serbia. It’s a long drive home, past Zlatibor and eventually along the Ibar river. It’s a good chance for me to rehearse with my guests what we have discovered, about history, language, war, and the beautiful geography of the Balkans.

Other Places

From time to time I have the chance to extend my loop. I try and take in the Plitvica Lakes National Park in Croatia, as well as Split and the Dalmatian coast. It isn’t possible, or practical really, to do that section and Sarajevo/ Mostar, and it is a longer drive. But Plitvica is unbelievable – a magic kingdom of water and solitude – and is well worth a trip on its own.