high seas and deep gorges

Leaving Split was a rough experience by anyone’s measure. I had a ferry to Ancona that left at 22:00, to make matters worse I am a scrooge at heart and I opted for the deck seat ticket. As far as I can tell, I don’t actually have a seat, instead I just bivouac where ever I see fit and settle in for the night. So with 11 hours of ferry ride ahead, no bed in site and flying solo once more, I did the only thing an entrepreneuring young man could. I unplugged the pay-per-use massage chair, plugged in the laptop and watched movies until I was beyond exhaustion then just passed out. The grey fingers of dawn found me curled up, contorting my body around the various apparatus embedding in the chair that when in use must be more comfortable. I unfurled in body only as I drifted in a zombie like state for the bar. A coffee and 3 hours of sleep would have to see me through the day to Modena.

There isn’t an awful lot to say about Modena. Its old looking, apparently deserted and capitol of the Italian car industry heartland. We went to the Ferrari factory, we got locked out of the hostel for 5 hours a day, there was some ok wine and pizza. But it didn’t matter, Interlaken was next.

For me the attraction to Interlaken was the impressive array of outdoor and adventure activities it boasts and needless to say I was not disappointed. Day one saw us complete a decent 8 hour day trip at 22:00 after Klaus and I shared a stein at 4500ft and a horrendous salami and cheese pizza pocket at 1000ft.

Day two was an 8 hour canyoning trip through one of the many Swiss gorges. After collecting our wet gear and a pre-named helmet (mine was FOOL) we were guided deftly by our South African experts as we slid, repelled and jumped our way through 3 solid hours of cliffs and rapids. One of the most memorable moments has got to be getting lowered over the edge of a waterfall and 50ft to the pool below while being showered by the surprisingly temperate river. Others include somersaulting from cliffs and jumping across a fall so you land just so on a cliff face parallel, enabling you to plummet into the pool below and avoid a “preetty nawsty ledge. That would just be pain, yeah?” I can safely say that I will be sacrificing a good many meals to afford that excursion, but I do so gladly!

this boat was real...

If one doesn't count the previous post that I've just, for want of a better word, posted... it has been far too long since I've updated you on our travels. There is, as always, a good reason for this. We've been at sea, you see.

From my last post, you may have gotten the impression that I wasn't a fan of nautical transport. In that particular case, it was in fact a rather negative experience. However, the last eight days have given me a somewhat different perspective of boating, and I must say that this new perspective is in contrast, wholly positive.

Leaving one member of our party on the shore (not out of any cruelty on our behalf, it was his own considered decision to remain landlocked) we set foot on the rocking deck of what would be our home for the next seven nights, the Novi Dan. This fine seagoing vessel would carry us on a one-way cruise from Dubrovnik to Split, the second largest city in Croatia. We would sail (and I use the term with an unashamed level of poetic license – there was no canvas to be seen) up the Dalmatian coast, stopping in at towns and islands along the way. Our boat carried about 25 people, plus the crew of 5. Of the 25 passengers, only two were unfortunate enough to be of a nationality other than Australian. The 23 of us compared states, cities and towns, and the engines fired up to carry us up the coast.

Our crew were quite a bunch of characters. There was the Captain, who remained fairly aloof for the duration of the trip. There was Jaques (or however one spells his name in Croatian) the bartender and waiter, who was by far the most friendly with the unruly mob who had invaded his boat. Then there was the first mate, who went by the name 'The General'. Why the General, we asked?

The answer: Because he was a General. In the war. Just over a decade ago.

In light of this slightly worrying bit of information, we all made mental notes: Don't, under any circumstances, upset the General. Indeed, for the duration of the trip, whenever the General caught us with non-boat-issue water bottles we would scurry in fear. It was an absurd rule, we were not allowed ANY liquids other than those they sold to us, even H2O. But when it came down to it, on the boat, the General's word was law.

I shan't give a day by day account, for most days were fairly similar, and can be easily summarised. A typical day, at least for myself, would consist of waking up to the gentle rocking of the boat as we powered up the coast. Most distance was covered in the mornings. I'm told by the lighter sleepers that they fired up the engines around 7 am most days. Around mid morning, the engines would be cut, and you'd hear the anchor being dropped. This was the signal for one of the daily highlights – the 'swim stop'. The boat would stop just off the shore, where the water was still so deep that none of us stood any chance of touching the bottom, even with the most ambitious dive. This allowed us to leap off the deck (or roof) of the boat into the water, a fantastic way to properly wake up for the day. The water off the Dalmatian coast is the clearest that I've ever seen, and for the most part incredibly warm. After a good paddle about, we'd all clamber back on board, and await the ringing of the lunch bell. After lunch, the boat would move again, bringing us to the day's port. We stopped at some amazing little towns, and almost without fail had an enjoyable night. If one was inclined to party, the option was there. For those more keen on relaxation, this too was completely achievable... at least until the party-ers returned home.

By the end of the trip, we'd become quite a close knit group. Although there was another boatload, traveling along with us, for the most part we kept to the company of our own vessel, and came out of it each with a whole lot of new friends. As we pulled into Split on the final day, there was a palpable sense of regret. Our last swim stop had passed. Our last voyage was over, we had arrived at our final port.

In our minds, the journey was over – yet the final evening held a lot more for us that none of us expected. That, however, is a story for another time.

a night on the water

Our first real encounter with the Italian siesta came not in Cinque Terra, Florence or Rome, but in Bari, a coastal town which essentially is built around the ferry trade (or so it would seem). After avoiding this relaxed custom for over two weeks, we arrived by train, to find a strangely quiet town awaiting us. With only fast food stores and gelati vendors still apparently awake, we had the good part of the afternoon to kill, waiting for the Italians to wake up.

After camping out in the Port office for several hours, somebody finally deigned to re-open the ticket desk, and we were able to secure our passage out of Bari, bound for Dubrovnik, Croatia. Ticket in hand, we had only a trifling five hour wait for the ferry to depart. At least now, Bari was showing some signs of life, and after an exhaustive search of the town, we found what was apparently the sole supermarket in the region to secure provisions for our journey.

After a traditional backpacker's dinner of preserved meats, cheese and bread (eaten in the unlikely setting of a ticket office lobby), we cleared passport control and were allowed to walk the substantial distance to the ferry itself. As we boarded, there was a quiet but intense struggle to find a seat that might also double as a bed for evening. We thought that we'd been lucky, as we claimed a large leather couch in the darker 'bar' area, which did not look like it would be used for any kind of festive purposes on this particular evening. With everything seemingly taken care of, we relaxed and waited another couple of hours for the boat to start chugging its way across to Croatia.

It was to be one of the most mind-numbingly boring nights of our trip. Our chosen position turned out to be less than ideal, at the mercy of the most incredible air-conditioning that we've experienced over in Europe. It conditioned the air, and subsequently us, all night long. It has been some time since I've worn a jumper, but that night I was forced to pull out the polar-fleece that had been languishing in the bottom of my backpack.

It would be a lie to say that nobody managed to get any sleep, though those who did were for the most part chemically assisted. The remainder of us endured a restless night, soothed only by the chugging of the motors, and the enthusiastic banter of one small group who seemed to be enjoying the voyage... all night long.

Lest this post become yet another 'whinge blog', I must say that it was quite spectacular to see the sun coming up over the sea, revealing the Croatian coastline, wreathed in morning fog. As we entered the harbor of Dubrovnik, the morning light was just hitting the red roofs, giving us a spectacularly picturesque first impression of the town.

As we departed the boat and received the obligatory passport stamps, we were accosted by an army of eager locals, all of whom were eager to sell us accommodation. Though initially skeptical of these offers, the fact of the matter is that we had nothing arranged, and after some shrewd bargaining on Klaus' behalf, we secured a small apartment for just what we would have paid, had we gone to a standard hostel (which, our information indicated, may well already have been booked out). For this bargain price, we would get beds (some sharing involved), a kitchenette, air conditioning (an absolute blessing) and a view to die for out over Dubrovnik.

Thus ends the tale of our voyage. Having dropped our packs and taken off our shoes, we proceeded to make use of our new lodgings.

For the next two days, we'd do little more than sleep.

home away from home

I'm not sure if it has been mentioned in this forum or not, but by far and away, the greatest number of travellers you meet are Australian. It is pretty safe to say that in every city, town or village I have stayed in there has been an Australian within cooee. No doubt David will summon forth a circumstance using his seemingly female recollection for these details that will undermine my entire statement, but there aren’t many. A man’s allowed to take some small liberties with the truth for the sake of entertainment.

Split however seems to be some sort of lodestone for us though. Nobody is really sure why they are here, nobody seems to know what to do and nobody really knows why there are so many tourists, but we seem to drift in on the tide. It’s a sort of transit lounge for the eastern Mediterranean and Baltic states.

Right now as I am sitting in the common room typing away, Hostel Situs contains nine guests. Of this nine, eight are Australian. Of this eight six are from Melbourne. It feels nothing like a hostel. Four of us are sitting here watching cricket on a laptop, another one is cooking “snags” in the kitchen for us. The other one is giving hell to a Kiwi as they play Fight Night on the Playstation 3. The word sanga has re-emerged with unseemly haste into all our vocabularies. All in all I am quiet enjoying having my countrymen and women around me at the moment. It’s a good way to relax and take a break from travel and language barriers

This ancient roman fortress has had its “yeah, not bad” walls stormed and the Eureka flag flies proudly at its “kinda OK” towers. The smell of hamburgers waft across the battlefield as we crush Karlovačko “tins” beneath our thonged tread.
I mean it’s nice and all, but we didn’t really even want the place...

Branco

Brash, boisterous, boastful... these are all words I could be using for a witty alliteration but instead I choose bizarre. This single word wraps Bizarre Branco into a neat little package.

Banco is the name of my host here in Hvar, a really nice guy but a little over the top. The hostel, and I use that term loosly, is the middle level of the house he and his wife live in. It’s very neat, clean and comfortable but Branco himself is the main event. I first encountered him in town when he picked me up from the tourist office in his small red wagon. He came screeching to a halt just inches from where I was sitting in the gutter and said “I know you! You are James! But you don’t know me, I am Branco!” this was followed up by “you weren’t waiting long were you? I sped to get here, nearly killed a boy but I think he will be fine.” I never followed that up but I can only assume that he was joking. I hope. So now that you have a taste for his unique character I’ll round it out with a description. Our hero is a heavy set Croatian fellow in his late fifties, snow white crew-cut, that unnatural brown/orange tan and the smallest pair of shorts that you ever did see.

During my 3 minute whirlwind tour of town from the passenger seat in which he neatly managed to insult the Japanese, Italians, Americans, Greeks and Australians in a total of two sentences’ (we got our very own sentence) he jerked us to a halt out the front of his house. I was left to inspect the place while he parked the car and did so diligently. It’s a pretty standard house for the street, 3 stories, white washed and a terracotta tiled roof. When Branco returned to find me talking to his wife, he halted outside of her vision and waited for her to depart, he then whispered loud to me “am I in trouble?” After I reassured and coaxed him down the steps I was clapped on the shoulder by his meaty hand and the words “now we need to speak” rumbled forth. I felt like I was about to be lectured by my father... no not my father, a girlfriend’s father. My apprehension was unwarranted however as the only ominous rule was no visitors. We don’t like visitors.

So this was my first day under Branco’s terracotta roof and I am expecting things to only get funnier as time goes on. I hang on his every word for small pearls of wisdom and insight that will inadvertently brighten my already glaring Croatian days.

Branco’s Words of Wisdom
“Look at him, damn Italian’s and their stupid beards.”
“You take this road to the left. I mean you can go right if you want, it is lovely, but the house is to the left.”
“I am barbequing for the Swedish girls. They are so nice, like my daughters. Want me to set you up?”
“I love to belly dance. Give me some drums and pivo and you be careful, I will be on the table!”
“you can head out to Hula-Hula tonight. The girls there... oh the girls”
“This Australian girl and Kiwi guy... I don’t know what happened to them. Probably ended up under a tree... you understand what I mean by this?”
“Yeah, he wasn’t all there you know? Hit on the head in the beginning or something.”
“I’m going to meet my dentist for drinks. You are in charge here”

when in...

Rome is a city that one can't help but have high expectations for. Whether good or bad, you're bound to have heard some hype. So whilst you aren't sure exactly what to expect, you're certainly expecting something quite confronting. The image I had of Rome was a busting, chaotic place, the air full of honking car horns and loud Italian chatter. What romantic imaginings I might have had about the historical beauty of the city had been somewhat compromised by the experiences that travel has so far delivered – finding city after city struggling to keep up with the times, to the detriment of its historical character.

Despite this, I was surprised at what I found in Rome. We didn't see the surface until we emerged from our underground station, and walked up Via Urbana, searching for our hostel. It was immediately different from our time in Florence, and strangely, in the sense that it was a lot calmer. Florence had bustle, here, we were among the only people on the street, save for an old man in a deck chair who looked on, seemingly bemused by these four people foolish enough to be lugging backpacks up the street in the height of the afternoon sun. Though the place had a crazy messiness to it, and the layout of streets were a spidery sprawl, it felt altogether too placid to be the Rome that people talked about.

Over the next four days, we would see a whole lot more of Rome, that if anything brought our opinion of the city back into line with some of those expectations. We were encouraged to see a lot of the city by an interesting policy of our hostel: a midday lockout, from 11am til 5pm, where we were expected to vacate the hostel to facilitate an easier cleaning by staffmembers. This seemed absurd in the Roman summertime, where those hours were when you most wanted to be safe inside from the afternoon sun. Instead, we were doomed to be out and about in it, often killing the hours waiting until we could return to our refuge.

Plenty of time was spent seeing the sights, and by sights, we mean anything on the map that had a picture, indicating a worthwhile sight. We've definitely done more walking in Rome than we have anywhere else, it's a big city without the luxury of a comprehensive public transport network. It's not too big to walk, but it's large enough that you'll feel it in your feet after a days wander. Over four days, we saw the big sights: the Vatican, Colosseum, the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain. We also see a number of slightly less hyped places, including the Plazza delia Repubblica, the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, and the Santa Maria delgi Angeli. We see San Carlo Quatro Fontane, and then the Pallazo delle Espozioni, in a misguided attempt to find the Spanish Steps. These we find a little later in our wandering; in our defence the picture on the map was neither well drawn nor well labeled!

Our first brush with the law occurs in Rome. One of our party, whom shall not be named (other than to say it is not James, Stephen or myself) has a penchant for taking off his shirt, something that the Roman police seem to take issue with. Worse, this individual was a repeat offender, later on the same day being reprimanded again for this indecent exposure. Thankfully no charges were brought against our companion. He is disappointed to report that he now has to put in the extra effort to get rid of the 'singlet tan' that the enforced hours of shirtedness have left him with.

Our lodgings, in addition to the ridiculous lockout, were among the strangest we've had on this trip. The size of the hostel was suprising – a short hallway made up the bulk of the common space, with a number of dorm rooms opening from it. The hostel would have slept upwards of 50 people, yet seemed not nearly big enough to accommodate them unless they were all in their beds. At night, the hallway would be lit with a harsh blue light, and the 'evening manager' would arrive. His name was Fabio, and he was all kinds of strange. He wore a jaunty straw hat, the sides of his head were shaved down to almost nothing, and his eyes were full of madness. His role seemed to involve stirring up all manner of mayhem, before disappearing at midnight, and leaving the 'night manager' with the undesirable task of calming everyone down. Apparently we were not the only hostel in the building – the next floor up was also for accommodation. This floor, however, was run by nuns. It seemed somewhat symbolic. Up there, under the watchful eyes of the sisters, that hostel must have had a heavenly serenity. Down below, there we were, under the terrible influence of Fabio.

Rome proved exhausting – I don't think I could claim a single good night's sleep, and every morning called for an early start, lest the heat of the day catch up with you too soon. It's with a sense of relief that we depart for Bari. However quiet our street – Rome never seemed to stop moving.

Onwards to Florence

It was with some regret that we escaped Cinque Terra. It was really the most delightful place to be stranded. After days of lying in the sun, shouldering our packs seemed a little more onerous than before. Nevertheless, we were already a day behind schedule, we needed to get to Florence.

Now, it had been rather warm in Cinque Terra. We're talking about a country that doesn't seem to acknowledge the doona – and with good reason, even the thin linen sheet feels a bit much most nights. The heat of Florence was a whole lot more apparent. You could feel it radiating up from the pavement. Perhaps it was something to do with the subconscious awareness that there was no longer any gorgeous blue water close at hand.

Florence is the kind of city where you simply can't escape history. There seems to be very little that is new, and ever corner one turns reveals a church, a tower, a gatehouse. On our very first evening, a short stroll was quite abruptly brought to a halt by the most extravagant structure we've yet stumbled across, the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, Despite being a 'low' city, with nothing seeming to rise more than five or six stories, it's incredible how a cathedral can sneak up on you. From a distance you see the dome, but it's often without any warning that you will stumble on the building itself, up close and personal.

There is without a doubt too much to do in Florence. This difficulty is compounded by the oppressive afternoon heat, which renders even us seasoned Australians sluggish and unwilling to trek about town. Again, we lament the fact that there's no swimming to be had (not entirely correct, there is a pool in the basement of our hostel). The river is not inviting, a worrisome green. James saw an 'otter' swimming gleefully through the floating debris. This raised a sequence of pressing questions: Are there any otters in Italy? Are you sure it was an otter? Have you considered the possibility that it may have been a dog-sized rat?

Update: Yes, it was likely that this was a dog sized rat, actually a species of 'semi aquatic rodent' called Nutria. It also seems that there are other people on the internet who've had exactly the same question.

All of it's other charms aside, I must admit that my favorite part of Florence was the San Lorenzo Markets, and the Mercato Centrale. There's nothing truly authentic about these markets, it does feel a little staged and shamelessly touristy. That aside, roaming the packed streets full of little wooden stalls was an experience. Visually it's a treat, vibrant and colorful. The vendors chattered away to each other in Italian, no doubt laughing at the hapless tourists pouring out the contents of their moneybelts on belts, bags and jewelery. Browsing is difficult, let your gaze linger on an item for more than a fraction of a moment, and the vendor will have teleported to your side with said item (even if it had previously been hanging 8 feet above the ground) and is asking whether you want to pay with cash or card. In between the licensed stalls, bands of enterprising African gentlemen peddle designer watches, designer sunglasses and designer handbags. I would want for a moment to cast any aspersions on the authenticity of their goods. I'll simply make the observation that their cardboard stands could be packed up very quickly, and that they became incredibly mobile in the event that a policeman came a-wandering down the market alleys.

There's a strange sort of repetition in the markets. There must be ten or more stretches of road, packed with stalls on either side. Yet often two, three or four stalls in a row would be selling indistinguishable wares. Pick any store, you could probably find ten more just like it. Variety was not the name of the game (if this game had a name, it would be 'Sell The Tourists Some Leather'), it was definitely an exercise in quantity. An effective technique really. You could only walk for so long before feeling your resistance against impulse purchases waning. Eventually I caved in, and bought myself the most impressively purple satchel bag. The vendor was most approving, and told me that it was a very good color for me. I'm sure he says that to all his customers, but in this case, I'm inclined to think he's onto something.