Witnessing my astonishment, an English-speaking bystander explains, âThe lady was shouting, “You Gypsies blind the bears to make them tame.” â One up to Miss Bardot.
This afternoon, Vanya and I meet up in town by prearrangement and hail a taxi bound for Mount Vitosha, just 8 kilometres south of the capital.
The taxi drops us three quarters of the way up its 2200-metre height. The views from here over Sofia are superb enough, but the icing on the cake is a leisurely ride downhill from this point by chairlift.
Tonight, at 9 pm sharp, I board the Balkan Express train half an hour before it pulls out of Sofia central station bound for Yugoslavia (or what's left of it). As we rock'n'roll towards the border, I feel an unexpected warmth towards cheap and cheerful Bulgaria, a country whose best days appear to lie directly ahead of it.
YUGOSLAVIA (SERBIA): 16â19 SEPTEMBER
DAY 450 (16 SEPTEMBER):
SERBO-BULGARIAN BORDER TO BELGRADE
It's midnight as the train rumbles up to the border. Bulgarian formalities are completed in the blink of an eye. On the Yugoslav side of the frontier (the country is still known as Yugoslavia, although in a few months it will officially become Serbia and Montenegro), two unsmiling immigration officers hold my passport one way up and then the other in a manner that clearly spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
Until recently, Australians had to get their Yugoslav visas in advance; now they are obtainable on the border for just US$15, so I was assured by a Belgrade consular official in Sofia. These officers are clearly in intimidating mood. Strangely, I have found that paraplegia can give one courage in such a situation. I cannot escape, so waiting is the only option. It is unlikely that the officers, who know I am entitled to a visa, will actually throw me off the train, I think (although memories of Syria are not entirely forgotten).
Forcing myself to be calm, I sit out a full minute. The younger of the pair finally breaks the silence. âYou must pay US$30 for the visa,' he says. Keeping my voice steady, I reply, âI was officially informed the price is US$15.'
âYou may not be allowed to enter,' says my adversary and turns on his heel, striding decisively down the corridor with my passport in hand.
I continue to sit stillâwhat else can I do?âand try to think of faraway places.
A couple of minutes later, an agitated-looking young man pokes his head into my compartment and begs me breathlessly to give him US$15. He says he is from Sweden and has never been to this part of Europe before. Immigration is about to throw him off the train and he has no cash on him, didn't realise he would need any, has only credit cards and they won't accept plastic.
Quick thinking is required. He might be: (a) a dupe for the immigration officers, sent to ensure I cough up the exorbitant US$30 they're demanding from me; (b) a thief who wants to trick someone else into paying for his visa and has perhaps overheard the officers saying there is a passenger on board in a wheelchair; or (c) a somewhat naïve 20-year-old Swede who genuinely needs my help.
Whether (a), (b) or (c)âand his blond hair does suggest he is genuine in a land of dark-haired peopleâ I decide it's best to give him US$30. I ask him to spend half of it on securing his visa and offer the other half to the officer who has an Australian passport in my name (which I write down for him on a scrap of paper).
Ten minutes later the Swede returns, smiling and grateful, with my newly visaed passport in hand, and without further ado our train pulls out into the southern Serbian night. Upon arriving in Belgrade, the Swede obtains cash and pays me back. This time, placing my bet on honesty has paid off.
A new day in a new city is always invigorating. New to me, that is: Belgrade, at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers, is long in the tooth as cities go, having been founded around 300 BC.
Old it may be but the city is in a fever of reconstruction, and the cause is not hard to see. Several tower blocks flanking the street grid have been left with the stuffing of pulverised concrete and twisted girders knocked out of themâthe damage done by the NATO bombing campaign of 1999.
Wheeling down one of the city's main arteries, I spot a hawker on the pavement who is selling T-shirts. A face I've seen before is staring out from one of them. What do the words on the Milosevic T-shirt say? I ask him. (The big lettering, âSLOBO', I can make out for myself. But the subtitle?) âPlease come back. We were only joking!' This I like: its double edge makes it marketable to pro- and anti-Milosevic individuals alike. For wit like this I don't even bother to bargain. Just as I am folding the T-shirt into my rucksack, two other garments he has for sale catch my eye: T-shirts bearing the likenesses of Ratko Mladic and Radovan Karadzic, both indicted for crimes against humanity, in particular the Srebrenica massacre. My conscience twinges and while I don't return my goods I decide that's quite enough clothes-shopping for one day.
DAY 452 (18 SEPTEMBER): BELGRADE
A third secretary at the Australian Embassy, whom I have asked to give me any standard warnings about travel in Bosnia, offers reassurance tempered only by the usual cautions about pickpockets and avoiding political discussions. Upon checking the visa requirements, she says I must get one in advance from the Bosnian Embassy (cost US$30), and even arranges the time for me to pitch up. It's in the suburbs but the taxidriver knows the street and, when we arrive, the consul's secretary is already waiting by the security gate, evidently expecting me.
This has never happened before. Things appear to be proceeding with such dispatch that I ask the driver to wait. Less than ten minutes later, the consul herself comes out, greets me personally and hands me back my passport, with a very impressive big yellow stamp bearing her confident signature.
I return to the CBD and power up the side street to our embassy. The third secretary is called down. âWow,' I tell her. âThat's the fastest visa application I've ever been involved with.' She appears unfazed. âIt's not so astonishing when you think about it. The war wounds on both sides are still raw, so Bosnian diplomats here don't have all that much business to attend to.'
DAY 453 (19 SEPTEMBER):
BELGRADE TO MONTENEGRIN BORDER
It's 7 pm at Belgrade central bus station and I'm guarding my bags like a prize Dobermann, while trying to persuade the gruff-looking bus driver that, despite my alien appearance, bus travel is second nature to me and there
should be
no hassles. The bus door swings open. Other passengers crowd in. And now, despite the usual careful preparations, my ticket goes missing. I search my shirt, jeans and jacket pockets, passport wallet, sports bag and suitcase. Still no ticket.
The driver barks at me, flicks his hand dismissively. A concerned passenger calls a ticket vendor over. She says, âNo ticket, no ride.'
âManifest, manifest,'
I shout, hoping this is something like the Serbian word for âpassenger list' and that a glance at it will confirm I'm a paying passenger in distress.
After five minutes of chaos, and the driver actually pulling the bus out with me waving frantically from the deep-drop kerb, the vendor corroborates my story just as I spy a scrap of paper sticking out from my passport. Yes, the ticket! I wave it triumphantly for the driver to see. (I had put it in my passport because, as everyone knows, that's a safe place where it won't get lost.) Scowling, the driver creeps back to the kerb and, with the worst of ill grace, allows me to board. I slink into my seat, and hope things will get quieter.
They don't. My bus ride through hell is marred by the attitude of the young co-driver, clearly buttering up the Gruff One, as he demands to see my now crumpled ticket once more. He holds it up to the ceiling light like an immigration officer corruptly out to make a few bucks.
Intent on averting an argument, I parry his disguised demand by rubbing my thumb and finger (money symbol) and pointing to the ticket. (Paid for!) Insults are much easier to take when uttered in a language you can't understand so, after several minutes of invective he loses interest, until we roll in to the border post where Serbia, Montenegro and BosniaâHerzegovina meet in the midnight darkness.
YUGOSLAVIA (MONTENEGRO): 20â23 SEPTEMBER
DAY 454 (20 SEPTEMBER): MONTENEGRIN BORDER
TO PODGORICA TO CETINJE
A referendum, to be held by 2006, will decide whether Montenegro regains full independence after 90 years as a Serbian satellite state. Already it âruns its own show' in the legal, banking and educational spheres. This autonomous territory of ever-shrinking Yugoslavia has already adopted the European âsingle currency' as its own.
And it already has its own immigration service. Two blue-coated officers climb aboard the bus, whereupon the co-driverâstill seething with hostilityâpoints his index finger in my face and snarls accusingly,
âAmericanski
!'
Ah, so this explains my rough ride. They think I'm a spy, or at least suspect that I represent the country that unleashed the dogs of war on theirs.
âNot American. Australian,' I tell one of the officers, handing him my passport. What a pity it's the same colour as an American passport, the first time I've ever noticed this fact. The officer peruses it page by page, scepticism scrawled all over his face.
Hoping that no one here will know that the Howard Government supported the NATO bombing, I wait with bated breath. The officer is in a spot: he turns to the passenger behind me and asks (as the passenger next to me translates), âHas this person been causing trouble on the bus?'
â
Ne
.' Lucky breaks require no translation.
Brusquely, the officer returns my passport. âStay on the bus. And (finger to lips) Ssh!'
DAY 456 (22 SEPTEMBER): KOTOR
After an ear-popping descent to the coast, I find myself in one of Europe's most beautiful towns. Situated on the shore of a deep blue fjord (a rarity outside ice-bound latitudes), this medieval walled city has deservedly made it onto the World Heritage List. However, what I will best remember is the genuine hospitality experienced here, so refreshing after the tension in the Serbian air.
First a couple of shy, giggling teenage girls approach me outside the tourist office and hand me a postcard they have bought and signed, hoping I will remember their town and country âwith pleasure'. Then there is Maria, or âthe black widow' as I think of her. Kotor is not known for its hotels; staying as a private guest is recommended here, so I ask the tourist office if it can point me in the right direction. After a quick telephone call I am introduced to Maria, dressed from head to toe in her black weeds and smiling toothily. Airily I wave away any concern about the fact that she lives in a first-floor apartment without any lift service.
As rain begins to tumble down, I come out of the small cobbled square into the dark recess of a stairwell and, launching myself onto the first step, haul myself up. Catching my cue, the black widow co-opts her grandson into lifting my empty chair up after me.
How do we pass the time without speaking the same language? Beautifully. She begins to prepare asparagus soup and a mouthwatering stew and, while they are simmering, brings out a photo album in which her late husbandâan army captain, if I recallâand sons now living in Germany stare out from alternate pages. The memories are so poignant, her heart so full, that we weep together as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is.
CROATIA: 23 SEPTEMBERâ14 OCTOBER
DAY 457 (23 SEPTEMBER): DUBROVNIK
Three weeks ago I had to find a dependable address in Dubrovnik for delivery of the next consignment of post and other essential items from home in Melbourne, and in this part of the world a hotel is more reliable than poste restante. The way I look at it, I owe the Hotel P a favour, so I plan to stay there for a fortnight's layover.
With a bit of good-natured haggling, I manage to get a reasonable discount. The Hotel P's reservations manager, Josip, and I agree on a tariff of 15 euro a night
excluding breakfast
but he warns me of a three-day period during my stay when the hotel will be booked solid so I will have to leave for the interim. At the same time he tells me, âDon't worry, something will be done', and his boss, Ivan (a double for Boris Yeltsin), even offers to put me up in his own home if all the package-tour guests turn up for those three days and I cannot find anywhere else to stay. That is a distinct possibility, as Dubrovnik with its steep hills is the most forbidding place for the wheelchair user I have seen on the entire journey.
But for now I relax. Access may be via the hotel workers' corridor and service lift, but nowhere else in Dubrovnik is remotely as good. If not for the Hotel P, I tell myself before retiring for the night, I don't know where I would have stayed.
DAY 458 (24 SEPTEMBER): DUBROVNIK
This is the jewel in Croatia's tourist crown, andâwhatever else I may come to think of Dubrovnikâit scintillates. Sunlight dances off the Adriatic as I roll along the clifftop towards another World Heritage-Listed precinct, the Old Town which came under direct fire during the 1991 war.
I am trundling nearer and nearer to the walled town's great portcullis entrance when I spot a giant kangaroo. To be more precise, it is a giant kangaroo with a glass of beer. Welcome, he beckons with his free paw in a thumbs-up gesture, to Billabong, âCroatia's first Aussie bar'.
Well, fry me barbecued 'roo, Blue. You could have knocked me down with an emu's tail feather.
DAYS 459â469 (25 SEPTEMBERâ5 OCTOBER): DUBROVNIK
My two-week layover is cut in half, and the cause leaves a sour taste in my mouth. With perspective I can see that what happened here could have happened anywhere, and, as happens so often in life, a bad experience can be the stepping-stone to a better oneâthough one cannot see how at the time.