Do good for someone and forget about it quickly thereafter. Receive good from someone and remember it forever.

Saturday we were on our way. This week I would be accompanied by Tatiana, my girlfriend who lives in Bucharest. She managed to borrow an old bicycle from her cousin and although it would be a real challenge to manage on that bike, she was keen for the adventure. Because the route from Bucharest to the Black Sea is nothing spectacular, we again boarded the train at the city’s main station for the 3 hour ride to Constanza. She is an expert in the local customs and rituals and within minutes arranged a wonderful deal with the conductor that had him close one of the wagon’s toilets so that we could stow our bikes in the gangway and us sitting in our own first class cabin, and all at a very favourable price.

Saturday night we visited the city centre and walked along the seaside promenade. Constanza is still quite run-down but it holds a great deal of history and we decided to see it again the next day in daylight. We arrived at the bus stop having just missed the last bus to where we were staying. Although taxis are inexpensive here, after the week of normal life in Bucharest the budget is especially tight for the coming weeks. One bus was standing there and preparing to return to the depot. Two other persons at the bus stop had also missed the last bus and using their in-bred Balkan creativity developed from life in the jungle, Tatiana and the other two offered the driver 4 RON to drive us home on his way to the depot. I imagined trying to bribe a Swiss bus driver………….….In any case it was a first for me, it was funny and it really worked out quite well.

Indeed there is a lot of history to ponder in this part of the world. Formerly known as Timos, Constanza was an important Greek and then Roman city of commerce and much of the city’s identity today seems to be based on that history. In the Piata Ovidiu we drank coffee and thought about his banishment here, to the periphery of the Roman Empire, what must have been about 1700 years ago and how it must have been then. I expect it was quite nice actually. In the 1400s this city and all the surrounding areas became part of the Ottoman Empire, and the Turkish community and its influence remain strong today. Within a stretch of 300 meters of one street in the old center there are a mosque with its regular calls to prayers various times per day, a Catholic church and a very large and important orthodox biserica.

Later in the day with the bikes loaded and ready, we asked directions out of town from a middle-aged man on the street. He was not quite sure of the way and after looking up and down the street, thought the better of it and asked another man passing by what he thought. They began a rather long discussion, in Turkish, about the best route for us. It was clear that he placed a lot of importance on assisting us and we appreciated it, not just for the directions, but for the kindness. The discussion with the man on the street apparently did not provide the information he was looking for, so putting his hand up in a motion to us as to say “just relax, I will have the info in a moment”, he made a phone call. The person on the other end of the line apparently knew what he was talking about because in short order he explained to me, “go to the next stoplight and turn left, then continue straight on”. Between the man on the street and the phone call, it seemed like a lot of discussion for ‘go down and then turn left’. It felt like that scene in ‘Lost in Translation’ in which the Japanese director is giving Bill Murray lengthy and animated instruction in Japanese about what he wants and then the translator says to Murray ‘he wants more passion’. Bill Murray, in his classic style, says ‘that’s it? More passion? It seems like he said a lot more than that’

Heading up the coast we arrived in the beach resort of Mamaia. It begins with an area suited for budget tourists and we stopped there for a beer. Very big beers cost 3 RON everywhere, but the bars can be not too nice. We found one with tables and chairs on the sand and I chose it, but then noticed loads of rubbish on the sand strewn all around. The bar’s patrons did not seem to mind sitting among the trash, perhaps due to all the 3 RON beers they were consuming, but for me it was too much.

As we moved north the standard steadily improved to the point at which, at the most northern part of Mamaia we found beach clubs that rival the beach clubs that one finds in Italy or France. Beautiful white sand, rows of luxurious deck chairs under individual summer-tents and beautiful restaurants. We stop for a quick swim and then move on. We are adventurers and not high-class beach tourists.

In order to leave the city behind we have to circle around a large industrial area that is really heinous, but just 30 kilometres north of the city arrive in the village of Vadu, buy some vegetables from an old lady selling produce from her garden and ask about the route to the beach. For the last 10 kms we are really out in the sticks and this town is no different: one mini-market and a collection of houses. From there it is 3 kms along a sand road to the beach, which is completely virgin, no development, no houses, no water, nothing. Wonderful. There are two other tents set up and we place ours close by. Since we could not secure the tent into the sand, we used the bikes on either side of the tent as lashing points and secure the tent in that way. Besides the other two tents – one a family that spends weeks there each summer in an enormous house-like tent and two others who arrived like adventures on a Honda Africa Twin – there was nothing around. Then the standard evening programme of swimming, drinking red wine, cooking on the camp grill and eating at sundown.

As usual, I woke in the night, but rather than turn to my iPod to distract me and drown out my thoughts I listened to the breeze against the tent and the crashing of the waves. I always find it strange to think that waves have been breaking against the shores every few seconds for hours, days, years, millennia, millions of years, without any interruption. Is that not a strange concept when you think about it? It never stops. If you just think back to the times when Romans were on these beaches, it looked exactly the same as now, the waves were crashing onto the beach just as they do now. We tend to think today that the world is so different than it once was. In some ways it is, through cars, airplanes, cities, communication, the sheer number of people, etc, but how much does that really comprise of the world? Maybe 3%. We can say that 3% of the world has changed radically. On the other hand, the beaches are the same, the mountains are the same, the hills are the same, the plains are the same. Remove everything that man has created, which in the grand scheme of things is not all that much, and everything is the same as it was 10’000 years ago or 50’000 years ago. I am sure that one day humans will die out, the cities and everything that man has built will erode and disappear, the earth will carry on and nobody will notice or care about all the “wonderful” things we have created. I don’t mean to philosophize too much, but wake in the middle of the night in a tent on a virgin beach on the Black Sea and maybe such philosophy is a natural consequence.

I went outside for a stroll in the sand. The night was warm and the breeze off the sea fresh. The sky was overwhelming. There have been occasions on which I have seen more stars in the sky, but not many. A sky like that always has an impact on me that is almost physical, as if that many stars actually have an impact on me that stops me in my steps and forces me to feel the moment. No man can describe such a sky in words and I won’t try. To stand there in the night on the beach, hear the waves, feel the sea breeze and be part of that sky can only be described as a gift. Some might call it a gift from god, I call it a gift of the universe but regardless of who gave me that gift, I think you know what I mean. I left the door of the tent open and laid down so that my head was at the door and I could look up into the sky. The Milky Way appeared as a creamy white streak from horizon to horizon and there must have been a meteor shower because shooting stars sailed past every few seconds. I fell asleep to the sky and the waves and the sea breeze.

Within minutes of waking in the morning I was in the sea for a morning swim. Despite being a “gypsy”, I am still a lawyer and financier and thus still always have my Blackberry with me. When I woke I saw a message from a friend telling me of the sharp market crash of the prior day. Like anyone who is tuned-in to what is really happening in the world (meaning they don’t follow the mainstream media) I knew this was going to happen. Had I been “in the world” and had I had a job and speculative money, I would have long ago taken positions on the down side and would now be reaping the benefits. It would have been a chance to really clean-up, but it was not so, so I just enjoyed the waves and used the very fine Black Sea sand to scrub my face and body. Then coffee cooked over the camp stove and discussions of the plan for the day.

The countryside most of the day was unappealing, extremely dry, barren, mostly brown, yellow and even the trees and grass seemed more yellow and dried out than green. Along the way we met two cyclists from Holland sitting before an orthodox church. They were just breaking for lunch and sat with them, talked and ate together. They live not far from Texel, which is a wonderful island off the Dutch coast and we talked about it and some of the wonderful places we know in Holland. Being Dutch they are real cyclists and have many tours behind them. Next year they will be retired and are planning a three month USA coast-to-coast tour. Later we met two Belgians and then two Swiss. When you are out in these dried out, unwelcoming fields and fully loaded long-distance cyclists come toward you it is an unspoken rule that you stop, talk and exchange information.

By late afternoon the barren landscape had changed to richer fields and the flats to light hills. This was a much more welcoming environment and I started to feel better about this part of the journey. We stopped in Baia, located on the main north-south route, bought some food for dinner and then turned off to the secondary road toward the Danube delta. The idea was to find a protected place, ideally in someone’s garden, and set up the tent for the night. We ride through the village slowly but all the gardens are full down to the last square meter with vegetation, and so we press on and will probably have to ride to the next town. Just at the edge of Cearmuria de Jos I saw a house with a very beautiful, large and open garden and we circle back. By now I have become an expert in asking about accommodation and when I see an old man in the garden I stop just outside the gate. He comes out slowly, offers me his hand and I start off in my funny and limited Romanian. He seems a bit confused by what I am saying and so Tatiana steps in. He of course offers us a room in his house. A month ago this would have been surprising to me, now it is standard course. We say that we would like to sleep in the tent in the garden.

Fane is 70 years of age and a former school teacher of geography. He lost his wife seven years ago and has one son who is a university professor in Bucharest and another who lives nearby, in Tulcea. He is happy for the company. Until 1964 he lived in the far south of this country, then went to the capital city to attend university, talks wonderfully of his university time when the state provided for everything and he could study and live for free, and then was sent here to teach school for a three year obligatory period. Because the life here is far richer – in the sense of culture, topography, proximity to the sea, etc - than from where he originates, he stayed, married and raised a family here.

The garden is lovely and we set the tent in a corner under a tree. Fane picks tomatoes, fresh peppers, onions and garlic from the garden and gives them to us with great pleasure. There is a long wooden table in the garden and we set up a big dinner of a huge salad of fresh vegetables, pasta that we cooked in his kitchen, local red wine and fresh fruits I just picked from the trees in the garden.

After dinner we sit in his kitchen and I write this entry. The night is alive with the sounds of the three dogs in the garden, about 50 chickens and numerous roosters living just behind our tent and the passing horse-drawn carts. In this part of the world they seem to make up about 25 % of the means of transportation and I hear them passing frequently into the late evening.

                                                

The roosters wake me before 6 and I am up and about, make coffee in the kitchen and write more of this book. Later Fane wakes and makes more coffee, local style and then offers me the ubiquitous morning schnapps, which of course I accept. We start the day slowly, writing, talking, drinking, packing our gear and head out at about 9 o’clock. 

It seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table

This week of rest and recovery has been very different than the month of travel and I have been behind in writing because I don’t yet know how to assess it. For me personally it has been wonderful, relaxing but also a frustrating step back. Here is why:

The last hours in Serbia were wonderful. The roads rose and fell as the Danube cut through the cliffs and the views up and down the river were amazing. There was little traffic and as the sun set it turned the hills deep green and the fields a wonderfully rich gold. In regard to Serbia, despite the few negative impressions I had during the last two days south of the Danube, I was wonderfully impressed by the country and very much want to return, especially to visit Novy Sad again and to visit Peter and Gaspar. Those last hours in Serbia were wonderful, perhaps made even more so because I knew that at the end of that day I would cross the border into Romania. This country has been a topic I have touched upon earlier in this blog and it is a country about which I have very mixed emotions. Being completely objective I can say, without upsetting too many people, that it can be a very challenging place. Being subjective I say, and I will upset some people with this, that there are things about this place that make my blood boil and make me swear that I will never return – that I will leave cursing the place and its people – and then never return. Nonetheless, at the same time I can say with conviction that some of the most beautiful places I have seen on this earth I have seen in this country. Go to Maramures, put on a rucksack and walk from village to village, or walk through Siebenburgen from Schassburg and Medias and you will experience scenery, history, people and warmth like few other places I know. Just about Maramures alone I could write a complete travel book but that area has had such an impression on me that I would not want it to become known by the world and ruined by tourism. I wrote earlier about hitchhiking there and being picked up by a family in a horse-drawn cart. They were so friendly and happy to collect a foreigner who took such pleasure in their simple form of transportation.

Thus, with mixed emotions based upon mixed experiences I swung down off the hill toward the border crossing. It was a Saturday night, about 30 minutes before sundown and there was a long queue-up of cars and lorries waiting to cross the border. On the bike I could ride past everyone, directly up to the front and sneak in behind the first car in the queue. I waved to a border guard and with body language asked where I was expected to queue on the bike. He waved me through without checking anything. At the Romanian side I was also signaled to go all the way to the front. The border guard eyed my passport and looked at me incredulously. I think I must have lost more weight in the course of the last month than I thought because he really did not seem convinced that the photograph in the passport was of me. Perhaps I have also become uglier since my photo was made, though I hope that is not the case. He held me up for 5 minutes but let me through without further comment or questions. 10 kms from the border to Turnu-Severin. I arrived in the dark and headed directly to the railway station. In the course of the last weeks I had decided to bypass southern Romania by train and instead spend my time exploring new areas. A night train was leaving in 3 hours and so I walked the bike into town, stopped in a small market to get a very cold beer and sat down in the town square to relax. Being a hot summer Saturday night many people were out, walking, talking, visiting, living as people do in southern climates in summer. By night it actually all looked ok and I was rather enjoying sitting there, relaxing from a month on the bike, drinking a cold Timisoareana and just observing. Later I grabbed some food in the market, headed back to the station, made a small picnic and prepared to enter the train. 

This takes preparation because there are no railcars designed for bicycles, no baggage cars and one cannot even buy a ticket for the transport of a bicycle. Whether the bike gets on is all at the discretion of the conductor. I had to think about where to position myself – at the head or tail of the train – once I had the ok of the conductor, how to remove the bags and gear from the bike in a hurry, lift the bike onto the train while others are exiting and entering and then jump down to collect four panniers, a tent, iso-matt and sleeping bag before someone walks off with them. There is a little bit of stress involved. I positioned myself at the head of the train and fortunately that is where the conductors exited, so I could ask right off if it would be ok. He made a troubled look, which usually means that something is possible, but that it will cost money, bakshish (a gift, let’s say). He sent me to the last car in the train, so I had to hurry down the platform. Some people helped me to get the gear and the bike onto the train before it rolled out of the station, but the entire access area of the railway car was filled by me and my things and there was nowhere to move and it was a right mess. Once we were moving I was instructed by the conductor to move everything to the other end of that railcar. A half an hour later I had the bike secured, the bags stowed in a seating compartment, paid far too much in gift money to the conductor and actually found four seats in a compartment a few metres from where the bike was locked. Nobody seemed to mind that I removed my stinking shoes, put my sleeping bag under my head for a pillow and stretched out to enjoy the ride. I got a few good hours of sleep until at about 3am dozens of people entered at some unknown station and stormed in to grab any available place to sit. I had woken and stood up to observe the commotion and was glad I had because had I still been stretched out they surely would have pushed me off the four seats I was using. I managed to hold onto one seat in the corner and soon fell asleep again until I reached Bucuresti Gara du Nord at 4.50 in the morning.

Between Sunday and Monday I slept a total of about 30 hours. I had arrived wrecked, filthy, and aching but by Tuesday I was quite fit again, enjoying the cafés in the city’s recently restored and wonderful old town, air conditioning at night, cognac before bed, putting the bike back in order, eating bad food in town, cooking good food in my friend’s apartment, writing, searching for jobs, and conducting another telephone interview for a job in which I am in the final rounds. Basically, within 48 hours I was back in the normal world and it felt good for a while.  By Thursday however, I was frustrated and ready to go. The return to the normal world had been too quick and abrupt and I was quickly becoming too comfortable and soft and besides that, all the food I was eating was making me feel ill. Life on the bike makes a person hard, lean, purposeful, resistant to cold and wet, and grateful for any small comfort. Upon my arrival I had fully welcomed the comforts offered me and now, after a few days, was feeling repulsion toward them. Like the sick to one’s stomach feeling after eating far too much, I felt that in my whole being. I just wanted to be rid of it and back on the road and back into my element. 

So you think you can tell heaven from hell?

Peter and Gaspar told me to expect a different Serbia on the other side of the Danube. The river marked the border of the former Austria-Hungary Empire and the people and their mentality are different on the other side, they told me. Over 90 years have passed since the change from Austria-Hungary to Yugoslavia and depending how one looks at it, that is either a long time or a short time. When it comes to people and how they generally change and adapt, it is a blink in time. 

As I crossed the long bridge to Smederevo I did experience change. The streets were much more chaotic, the people instantly seemed less friendly and there were many more gypsies to be seen. The atmosphere is also what I would call ‘ziganata’, or being influenced by gypsy mentality. I know that in this time in which we are all expected to be so correct and proper that such wording will be frowned upon by some, but correctness has its limits. In Smederevo I visited the old town and would normally have laid down for a sleep, but the town did not seem too welcoming, so I pushed on. I was riding along major thoroughfares and some unattractive towns and also riding through stinking areas in which the locals had created the fields into rubbish dumps. I started to wonder if all the prejudices that exist in my country against these people could indeed be true.

Mid-afternoon I am stopped behind three cars waiting for a bridge to open. The bridge serves both rail and automobile traffic and we are waiting for a train to cross and allow us passage. In the BMW 3-series before me are three guys who look like local mafia – ugly, fat and wearing shirts that are far too small for their disgusting bodies. The music booming out of their car is of a Turkish or Albanian genre and I am really not feeling that I want to stay in this part of the country. Weighing my options I start off behind the cars as soon as the bridge clears. Just before crossing I see that there is a foot path on the side of the bridge and dismount to use it. Had I not done that I would not have seen Dietmar at the riverbank below the bridge. He had taken a late lunch break there and was just about to set out. It was nice to see him again and we compared notes on how the country had changed. That afternoon we rode together and went through areas that can best be described as disgusting. For hours we were passing through towns fully of gypsies living in stinking dilapidated houses that looked as if they had been abandoned at the end of the last world war and then taken over by these people. In the mud and rubbish filled gardens little children were playing in the putrid stink, filthy and unkempt. Not even photos could portray it completely. Dietmar took it all in stride, not being too terribly bothered by this or by the change in environment. I have developed a strong distaste for these people over the last years and this was as close to them as I have ever come and closer than I ever wanted to come. Village after village, they all proved to be zigani towns. It was becoming late in the afternoon and we had to think about overnighting somewhere. The prospects looked slim as in each village we entered we would scan the people and then discuss whether it was ok to stop or whether to push on, despite the setting sun. Each time we unanimously agreed to push on.

About 20.30 we were still riding and within minutes we would no longer be able to see enough to ride safely. At the edge of a town that we were leaving we say one farmhouse that looked quite normal and we circled back to ask if we could sleep on the grounds. We had already entered the grounds and were near the door when we say gypsy clothing hanging on the clothes line. Dietmar said quickly, that we should move on but by then a young boy had come out of the house and I asked anyway. He did not understand and ran to get his father. It was apparent that they were also gypsies but the father seemed accommodating enough and pointed to a corner of the garden in which we could sleep. It was dark so we set up quickly.  Using our forehead-lights we had a quick picnic dinner and gave scraps to the 5 or 6 kittens that were playing around us. While we were eating one of the gypsy women from the farm came out, completely drunk and intent on giving us Serbian-language lessons. I thought, “this is going to be a long fucking night” but eventually some kids came out and convinced her to go back inside the house.

Without a tent and the weather holding out but questionable, I laid out my large plastic tarp on the ground between two pieces of farm equipment, put the air mattress on top and then the sleeping bag. The idea was that if it would rain I could fold the tarp double over me, like an omelet and at least stay dry. The rain started a few hours later and I did just that, which seemed to work quite well for a while. It was just a bit loud under the plastic tarp as the big rain drops slapped against it. I was also concerned that the lightning might strike one of the pieces of farm equipment located on either side of me. There was nothing to do however, but to try to sleep. Holding the omelet closed with my right arm I grew tired of that position and rolled over on my other side to see one of the kittens that had crawled under the tarp behind my head. When I looked at her in surprise she gave me a ‘meow’ as if to ask if she could stay in there, protected from the rain. I slept again with a little black and white kitchen just in front of my face. She stayed there the entire night.

Dietmar woke me at 8.00 and it was still raining. Everything was soaked, including my air mattress and my sleeping bag. Completely soaked, not just damp. I don’t know how I managed to sleep so deeply, but I did. We packed in haste, stuffing wet gear into bags, feet into wet shoes and arms into wet jackets. It was unpleasant, to say the least. We headed back to the center of town to visit a café and warm ourselves. I had my first flat tire of the journey and resolved to repair it when the rain stopped. The café was ugly and unwelcoming and the coffee terrible. Soon some of what looked like the local mafia showed up and it became even more unpleasant. It was still raining and soon the streets were flooded, so we had no choice but to stay there and put a good face on it. An hour later we said let’s get the hell out of here, I sprayed a quick-fix repair solution into my tire, and we headed down the road in the rain. A few villages later, this one directly on the river front, we stopped in another café. This one was also unwelcoming and cold and with equally bad coffee. Again, we had little choice because we were completely soaked. A large barge was tied up nearby and I went searching for the captain with the intention to ask for passage for us and our bikes downriver. I try to find him by talked to some locals about it but they did not understand me and directed me to the ferry boat that has service every few hours to the other side of the river.My shoes had permanent puddles in them.

From this café we could see down the river and the coming weather and every time a patch of less-dark clouds appeared we assured each other that the weather was improving, even though we did not believe it. I guess we stayed there for 2 or three hours and eventually the weather let up a little and we decided to leave. My tire had gone flat again, so we entered the porch of an abandoned house and repaired the flat.

We rode all day in the rain. We were already as wet as we could possibly be and when riding at least we were not cold. Sleeping in the wet sleeping bag was not an option for that night so I said to Dietmar that we should find a room and that I would pay for it with my last francs. In the town of Golubac we found a mini-apartment for 2200 dinars and moved in. We both commented on how funny it was to be so content with something so simple. Two single beds, a tiny kitchen and about 20 square meters, but it was warm and inviting, had a hot shower and was like a palace to us. We managed to half-dry the equipment by the morning but my shoes were still miserably wet and the next morning it was raining just as much as the previous day. 

The mini-apartment was located directly at the river and in the morning we are awoken by the horrible sound of screaming pigs and looked outside to see a farmer moving his pigs from his truck into a boat, which they were clearly not too keen on doing. My midday the sun was starting to return to life and showing itself on occasion, giving us a lot of hope. The route was rough going because at this point the Danube is very narrow and the road cannot pass alongside the river but climbs along the cliffs running alongside the river. It meant a lot of pushing the bikes up the hills. Early morning we stopped in a very simple restaurant at the edge of the river. The idea had been to buy food and make a picnic, but a restaurant would cost just a little more and at least it would be dry for a while. The lunch was amazing, accompanied by local wine and while we were enjoying it the clouds went away and the sun shone down strong and warm. Within a few hours we were dry relishing in it. 

The rest of the day was beautiful riding, hardly any towns and moderate traffic, very hilly with amazing views over the Danube and some of the narrow canyon-like areas through which it passes. 

Dietmar headed out and I stayed for a while with the family, sitting in the sun and enjoying the breakfast and the coffee. It was so nice there that I could have stayed a week. Eventually I headed out to waves and cheers of take care and be safe. The ride to Belgrad was long and not very pleasant. Near a campsite I stopped to talk with three men from Luzern who were taking a break on their kayak tour from Ulm to the Black Sea. That is also a tour I would like to do. They gave me their contact info and I will write to them soon and ask for some photos of what must be a great adventure. 

Just before Belgrad I passed through the bordering town of Zemun, which is quite run down but has a nice, traditional, small-town feeling to it. There are many cafes and restaurants and today there is a market with many people selling clothing and small articles. 

Crossing the river Sava I enter Belgrad and walk my bike through the town. It is hot and loud and not really anything special. Of course there are a few nice areas but for the most part nothing special. The NATO attacks of 1999 are still a hot issue here and rightly so.

On a few occasions I was sure that at some point under Tito's regime there was some kind of competition for the ugliest architecture. 

Within an hour I was exiting the city and glad for it. Leaving the city I had to go cross the bridge, Pancevo Most, which is a major thoroughfare and the traffic was terrible and loud and the footpath along the motorway very narrow. Anyway, I managed to cross intact and then came off onto a bike trail that was marked and took me along the top of a dam running alongside the river. It was a gravel and grass route and the going was slow, but it was better than being in the city and in traffic.

 Just prior to entering Belgrad I saw the cruise ship Primadonna, which I had seen a few weeks prior in Passau.

  

The rest of that day was wonderful riding on well-surfaced roads with little traffic. I visited the towns of Vojlovica, Omoljica  and Pancevo, where I talked with a man on the street who asked me my opinion of Serbia. I told him how surprised I was by the country, the people, the friendliness, etc. He told me that there is a conspiracy by Jews, Free Masons and the united states to spread negative propaganda in the world about Serbia. I had no comment. Could be true.

In the early evening I arrived in the town of Ivanovo. The sign at the entrance to the town has the name written in Serbian and in Hungarian, which is a language I had not seen for several days and was not expecting to encounter again. Once in the center of town I stopped before a garden in which two people were standing, and asked for water. The woman could speak only Hungarian and Serbian, but Peter also spoke perfect German. We talked for a while in the garden about the town and its history and my travels. Peter suggested that I should stay in the town that night and offered me his house for the night. 

He grabbed his bicycle and we rode around the town a little and then rode over to his house. He was staying in another house with his female friend and his house was free. The houses was small, very simple and wonderfully cool inside. In the garden there was a well and I could wash and get fresh water and the trees were bursting full of ripe plums. There is no electricity in the house and when I asked if there were somewhere that I could charge my mobile phone, Peter set about to find a solution. I did not want to cause and chaos, but he insisted. He found a long extension cord and ran it over to the neighbor's house. The neighbours then asked him in Magyar about me and he explained that I was riding my bike to the Ukraine. This set off a big discussion about why, how I arrived there, etc. Thus I was invited over there also. First Peter and I sat in the house, talked and sampled some of the various types of schnapps he had on hand. 

This town was founded in 1882 when the Austrian empire encouraged Magyars from Hargita and Transylvania, in what is today Romania, to relocate and thus create a stronger presence at the southern border of the empire. They arrived there an laid out a town on a grid pattern with church at the center, wide roads and houses with large gardens. The town was traditionally made up of one third Hungarians, one third Bulgarians and one third Germans. After the second war the Germans left and Serbs from Belgrade moved in. Today the town is still predominantly Hungarian-speaking and Peter and his brother, for example did not learn Serbian until the 5^th class in school.

He, and later his brother Gaspar, who I met the next day, are what I consider classic Austria-Hungary descendents. They are Hungarians, live in Serbia, are very intelligent and cultured and both speak perfect German. We had a very interesting conversation and when he had to leave for the evening we agreed to meet for coffee early in the morning. I walked next door to meet the neighbours. We drank a beer together in their garden and then they offered me their bathroom to shower, which was most needed. Later I walked around the village and stopped at the mini-market, which also serves as the town bar and meeting point. I bought a beer, sat on the bench and observed the happenings. Sitting next to me, quite affected by alcohol, was a man about 35 years of age, who turned out to be the town priest. I did not know that priests are permitted to drink. In any case, he was friendly and having a good time with the townspeople. Peter rode by to say how I was getting on and we then sat in his garden and talked.

Next morning Peter came over at 630 and brought breakfast of Börek, a cheese pie that was clearly introduced during Turkish occupation. Delicious, heavy and perfect accompaniment to palinca, which we were tasting again at 7 in the morning. Gaspar stopped over to say hello and then we rode bikes over to his house, picked fruits from the garden and sampled some of his home-made schnapps. 

It had been a great stay and I like that peace and quiet and friendliness of that town very much. 

Audaces fortuna iuvat

The ride to Novy Sad was wet and cold, but at only 45 kms, completely manageable. In a small village I stop at a small bakery standing directly in the middle of the town on its own. The whole place cannot be more than 3 metres by 3 metres. The ladies working there found it very amusing that this wet person on a bike would turning up in this little town, talking to them in Russian, eating something quickly and then moving on. I had heard from others that Novy Sad is nice and I was looking forward to arriving early, finding a dry place to sleep, showering and then seeing what this UN exam was all about. 

I found a hostel and instead of taking a room, it had a small apartment in the courtyard build in a free standing house. It looked like a child’s play house and it was great. I could lay out all my things to dry, shower and put on “clean clothes”, by which I mean clothes I had only worn about 3 or 4 times. My little house is located directly in the centre of the old town and I walk just out the courtyard and there is lovely bakery, cafes and restaurants. 

In Novy Sad I felt instantly welcomed and at home. Found a small restaurant with wifi, ordered a beer and some food and downloaded the legal texts. Scanned them quickly and then at 1430 opened the examination that had been sent. It was a real law-school-type essay exam. I had expected some multiple choice questions or something banal like that, but not a real essay exam. I really had no desire and thought of just scrapping the whole thing, but then sense got the better of me and I thought, you have ridden all morning in the rain to come here for this, so concentrate now for two hours. In the end I used the entire allotted time and sent the test off in the last minute. I answered it like the commercial lawyer that I am and not like a civil-service lawyer, so I don’t know what to expect. Since 2001 I have been sending CVs to the UN and even though this is much further than I have ever come before, I won’t hold my breath.

Then chilling in the old town and in the evening, as a reward for my real-world-job-searching-effort I invite myself to dinner in a great beer local in the old town. It is in an underground cellar and has been a beer hall since the mid 1800s, has a great atmosphere and feels to like a beer establishment one would find in the Czech Republic. Tried two versions of the local beer Lav, one blond and one black, and had a great dinner. After dinner I visit the lads in the hostel and we talk about traveling, study maps for various routes and exchange stories.

Next morning I take it easy, drinking coffee and visiting the small old town, which is so small that I have already seen all of it 5 times since the day before. About midday I have the bike packed and set off. Leaving the town proves to be a nightmare. First I cannot find my way out and drive around for about 1.5 hours until I finally find the signs and am on the right track. Then the route out is a long and steep climb along a highly-trafficked and very narrow road. The Serb drivers are very careful and the few times that cars or lorries pass very close I am sure that it is only because there is traffic in the other lane and they cannot swerve out to give me place. It is a frightening experience made more so because roughly every 500 metres or so there is a memorial to people who were killed on the road. This was much worse than the bad road experience I had in Hungary because the road is really narrow and because the climb itself is very hard.

This was indeed a day of crass contrasts. On the one hand there was the frustration of not finding the route out of Novy Sad and the fear of being struck by a vehicle on that climb. On the other hand, on the way I had the fortune to encounter the town of Karlowitz, which is lovely and deserves a longer stay and discovery than I gave it, and also because at the top of that awful climb out I saw a man ahead of me, pushing a bike and trailer up the hill with the cars and trucks screaming past him. Dietmar! Unbelievable. 

I had not seen him in 2000 kms and here he was again. I was thrilled to see him again. He behaved as if it were completely normal that we would meet in the middle of Germany and then again one month later in the middle of Serbia. He had had an accident in Austria, been in hospital for stitches, had taken a few days of recovery and was again charging forward. We road together the rest of the day, fortunately, soon after our meeting the trail swung away from traffic and lead us through beautiful country and lovely villages with very friendly people calling out and waving to us at every occasion.

There is little traffic and we can ride side by side and talk. We pass fruit orchards and stop frequently to pick plums, apples, peaches and corn. Riding alone has its advantages – one does not have to arrange and coordinate with anyone and it is easier to meet locals – but riding with another is also nice on occasion.

Later in the afternoon we are off the bikes, pushing them up a steep hill and my Blackberry vibrates signaling a message. I am awaiting important news that day and am nervous when I stop to look. Indeed, it is a message from CFA Institute. That day CFA 2 exam results come out and I had been trying not to think about it too much. Holding my breath I open the message and have to read it twice before I am sure of what I am reading. “It is my pleasure to congratulate you on passing the CFA 2 exam in June.” I close my eyes, breathe out deeply and take a moment to relish in that feeling. This was the second time around on CFA 2 for me and had I not passed I doubted whether I would try a third time. My preparation had begun in September when I was in Thailand and really intensified in late winter and early spring. Though no record was made by me of total hours studied, a good estimate would be that at least 400 hours went into this second attempt. Your favorite gypsy cyclist is now: university diploma in political science, master in law, doctor in law, licensed attorney at law, CFA 1 and CFA 2…….and unemployed.

Late afternoon we are looking for a campsite. A local man told us of a place near the river and we head off looking for it. We arrive at the spot in which we should turn and head down a steep hill to the riverside. What I had seen of Serbia was very clean but when we arrived at the riverside it was clear why there was little rubbish to be seen elsewhere. It seems that all rubbish from the towns had been collected and dumped there. It looked awful and smelled even worse. A real shame because the scenery was otherwise lovely. 

We pushed back up the hill and no sooner had we stopped to catch our breath a BMW with German plates stopped and the driver came out to greet us. I should mention that Dietmar has a German flag on his bike trailer. Axel was in the area with his Serbian wife, visiting her family and he suggested to us that we carry on 15 kms down the road to their house. It was late but the invitation was too good to pass up. He took my backpack with him in the car which freed me tremendously and the 15 kms passed easily. When we arrived we met the whole family: his Serbian wife and her mother, both from Croatia and forced to leave after the war, the grandmother, his parents from Germany who were also visiting, and the next day his father-in-law. 

We set up in the garden. My tent finished in the rubbish days before and the weather looked good, so Dietmar and I created a simply shelter for me out of the plastic tarp, but mostly I was sleeping in the open. Then we were invited in for dinner. The others, being carnivores, tucked into a huge pot of Maultaschen soup with sausages. It looked great. I had cheese and bread and vegetables directly from the garden. All this accompanied by cold Serbian beer. There were eight of us a table and we had a great meal, great conversation and a great time. 

Next morning at 7 Axel came out to tell us he was going to the bakery to get breakfast and then we would all eat together on the front porch. Again we had a great time, great coffee, palinca (plum Schnapps) and delicious Serbian baked goods with cherries and apples and homemade preserves. They all really took care of us and we very much felt at home there. My phone battery was out so I did not make photos but as soon as I get them from Axel I will place them here. 

A hard rain is gonna fall

Dushan came by in the morning and then we rode together to the town center to drink a coffee together. He gave me his contact info and offered me the house again on my return journey. I set of toward the south, destination Novy Sad, Belgrade, Romania and beyond. Upon leaving the town sign indicated a bike path to the next village, located 10 km down the road. It is paved and I decide to take it. It leads me through quiet fields and a few farms. There were no cars and no other cyclists. Unfortunately after about 45 minutes the trail simply stopped in a mud field. No further indication and no explanation. I guess I am now more accustomed to such occurances because I take it in stride and simply turn back. This extra 20 kms or so of riding probably means I won’t make Novy Sad that evening, or if I do manage it, my arrival will be late. In any case, it is not raining so I try to enjoy the quiet of the countryside.

In the afternoon I stopped in the town of Odzaci, bought fresh vegetables, cheese and cold beer and had a picnic in front of the town hall. It was a Sunday and very quiet. The lunch was delicious, the beer cold and the siesta after lunch very deep. Groggy after the deep sleep on the bench I walked across the street to eat an ice cream and talked to three men about 60 years of age, who found me to be absolutely mad for the trip I am undertaking. It is understandable though. Such people have lived most of their lives in the pre-globalisation era, which I consider having begun with the internet age, about 1995/1996. Before that time the world was completely different, people lived with at most one quarter of the information we have today. In fact, about 10 years ago I read a study that concluded that in 2001 the average person received more information in the course of one day than his or her grandparents received in an entire lifetime. That is hard to believe, but if it is even remotely correct, it is a frightening change of circumstances. These men, when they were my age, had to deal with working to support families, the breakup of Yugoslavia into 6 different countries, the various wars that were associated with that, real survival struggles. The idea to ride a bike for months would be extremely unusual to them.

As an aside, for this reason I love to read of adventures undertaken prior to our modern era. Even trips taken in the 1970s and 1980s, when the world was still considered a ‘closed’ place appeal to me far more than anything done today. Years ago I worked with a man, traveling with a friend, left Bern in 1973 in a VW van destination Sydney. Over a year long they traveled through Turkey, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Southeast Asia and then putting the van on a boat to Perth and then drove cross-country to Sydney. I used to listen to his stories at every opportunity.

In the afternoon I turned on my iPod and listening to Ewan McGregor’s adventure in “Long Way Round”. It is a story I have already heard many times and each time it starts the wheels rolling on my future motorbike tour of Russia and the former USSR. It also makes me fondly remember the long European tours I made in the past on my big BMW 1100. Those were great times. Very different times than now, and great for what they were. McGregor and his mate, Charley Boorman, tell a captivating story of their big adventure. For my taste, however, they did it too quickly and with too much support. The idea of coordinating with a support team and having to follow a tight schedule would lessen the adventure. I am thinking of who could or would like to do such an adventure with me. I don't know that many adventurous people. If anybody reading this has a suggestion, I am very interested in hearing it. 

In the late afternoon I arrive in Backa Palanca, which lies directly on the Danube, with Croatia on the other side. This part of Serbia is very flat and as I ride into town I see the beautiful hills of Croatia on the other side of the river. They look very inviting but as a cyclist, I am glad for the flats. The weather was again questionable and I was thinking of pushing it the last 40 kms to Novy Sad and finding shelter there. The next day I have the UN lawyer exam and at 14.30 I must be in front of my computer, online and ready to go. Some legal texts to review in preparation for the exam had been sent by email on Friday and I still had those to review. For these reasons I have basically decided to head to Novy Sad when I pass a group of cyclists, loaded for bear. They call out to me, I turn around and we chat. They are all from Bruxelles and two of them are on a 10-day tour Budapest to Belgrad and the other two on tour Budapest to Mongolia! That was a story not to miss, so we decide to camp together in that town at the river. 

We found a nice place, pitch tents and go for a beer. Because the weather was really looking bad, Olivier and I tied a large plastic tarp over my tent, doubled it over and tied it down again. We cooked a big dinner together and talked about our tours. The Mongolia-bound couple had recently married and are taking a year off to travel and as they joked "test if the marriage will work". In Belgium it is apparently possible for anyone to take a one year, partially-paid sabbatical at some point in life and they were taking advantage of this gracious opportunity so long as it still exists. We had a great dinner and conversation and as the rain started to fall, all retired to our own tents.

That night was a disaster. The wind had picked up intensely and by the time it had woken me, had pulled the tent stakes on the windward side out of the ground. The tent pole that had broken in the storm in Austria and which I had subsequently repaired, had obviously broken again because the tent was no longer in a tent-shape. From outside it must have looked more like a bag anchored down by something heavy, which was my body. Had I not been in it I am certain that it would have blown away. My solution was to take the four bags from the bike, which I had brought inside, and place one in each corner as an anchor. Then I sat up – in the water that had collected inside mind you – and lean against the windward side and hold my arm out to the side in an effort to give the tent some support against the wind. I was not so worried about saving the tent because by then I had decided that this rubbish tent is not carrying on with me, but I did not want to lose the tarp that was tied to the tent. By leaning back I could hold the tent in place and give it some resistance to the wind. Within an hour the storm had passed and I could lie back down and sleep. It was wet in the tent and in the bag, but I did manage to sleep. In the morning it was still raining but not storming. We all awoke and began packing gear, which in the rain is really uncomfortable. I had to hurry off to arrive in Novy Sad at a decent hour, get a shower and find an internet café. The tent went into the nearest rubbish bin, the Belgians and I parted with adieu and bon route and I was off toward Novy Sad in the rain.