A kingdom for a rim

Wheel broke. Wheel fixed. In Italy. Going to Austria. Internet thin on the ground.

Kit

I was going to put this up at the end; but since it's been requested...

Essential Kit:
- 1 x Bicycle (preferably with two wheels)
- Mr Broom

Non Essential Kit (but it helps):
- 4 x pannier bags. El Cheapos on the front; Vaude on the back
- Brookes leather saddle
- Schwalbe Marathon Tyres
- Granny gears (22 teeth on the front helped reduce uphill cursing by 83%. FACT!)
- tent (one man, lightweight - would recommend larger)
- sleeping bag
- inflatable roll mat (punctured once, in process of delaminating; foam could be better)
- camping stove and fuel bottle (multi fuel stove; Israeli imitation; known to spray petrol in various directions)
- 2 x small cooking pots
- First Aid kit
- Canvas poncho (groundsheet/rain-keeper-offer/bag-coverer/shade-provider)
- Duck tape
- Collapsible bucket (Ortileb)
- Penknife

Non Essential Kit (keeps you fit carrying it uphill):
- Bike tools (rear cassette remover, spoke tightener, pliers, Allan keys, bike pump)
- Bike parts (spare tyre [used], spare inner tube, break pads, 2 brake cables, 2 gear cables, spokes, spare chain [used for removing rear cassette]
- Bike oil and grease
- Bike cleaning paraphernalia

Luxury Items (just to spoil myself):
- Clothes
- Jacket
- Camera
- Solar charger (for camera)
- Torch
- Book
- Journal
- MP3 Player
- Short wave Radio
- Mug
- Water purification tablets (haven't been used since India)
- Sun glasses
- Alarm clock

I may have forgotten a couple of things. Just remember that all you really need to go cycle touring is the Bike. Everything else just makes it that slight little bit easier.

Forwards to Zagreb

Stage 22: Belgrade to Zagreb (682km)
Day 1: 118.6km Badovinci
Day 2: 101.1km Near Seko
Day 3: 123.5km Banja Luka
Day 4: 102.2km Nr Benakova
Day 5: 126.4km Few towns beyond Slunj
Day 6: 110.1km Zagreb

3 days ago I hit 10,000km. That makes me happy. Very happy indeed.

A combination of rain, good company, laziness, food, more laziness and more rain delayed my departure from Belgrade. All in all, it meant I did not actually get going until the Sunday morning (I had originally planned on leaving the previous Tuesday!). 10km along the road I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a spoke breaking. A sound I encountered only once in my pre-Istanbul (I'm beginning to think of my trip in two stages) journeying, this was the 4th I've had since entering Europe. The problem isn't just the fixing of the spoke, it's the fixing of the puncture that invariably occurs a couple of kms down the road. No matter how careful I think I am in replacing the spoke guard within the rim of the wheel, I always end up with a puncture.

This time, it was almost bang on 100km after the spoke had been replaced that I got the puncture! I changed tubes and made it the remaining few kilometers to within 500m of the border with Bosnia.

Next day, as I stopped for lunch in a field slightly off the main road, I was sure I was going to be robbed. 2 men in a car pulled off the road and stopped the car next to me. They both got out, and as I went over to greet them with my ususal "dobar dan, nay govarim Srbska" (good day, I don't speak Serbian - I was actually in the Republic of Srpska where I stayed for most of the trip through BiH) I noticed the knife wounds on the arms of the shorter, stockier man, the recent bruises on his legs, and the massive scorpian tattoo that adorned his neck, right behind his ear.

Luckily, the smaller, thinner man (and for this reason the one I considered more dangerous - small people always have to prove themselves) spoke reasonably good English, so I was able to explain my trip, say how beautiful the Republic of Srpska was (I never heard one reference to "Bosnia" in this part of the country, and I made sure I didn't make any faux pas myself), how beautiful the women were, etc.etc. In the end, after inquiring if I had a computer for navigation (whereupon, I pulled out my rather tatty and torn map), they bid me adieu and hopped back into their car. 5min later, the police pulled off the road and asked to see my passport. On seeing I was just a tourist and couldn't speak a word of their language, they drove off.

I stayed with Boris, the friend of my cousin's in Banja Luka and cycled off into the rain the following day. I was asked a couple of weeks ago about which was worse: hot weather, or rainy weather. I hummed and hawed for a bit before evading the question by saying it depended on the type of rain. Well, after another thorough soaking along dirt roads, hiding once again beneath trees as the lightening struck about 1km away, I decided that although hot weather wasn't ideal, it was better than rain.

But it wasn't all bad. Soaked to the skin, and finally coming across an asphalt road with houses on it, I found shelter in a small barn where 10 workers were gathered round a small fire. They laughed at the steam that proceeded to come from my general direction as I crouched by the warmth. They were mine clearers working in the area. One of the guys spoke some English. They'd been there for about 3 months clearing one mine field (the whole house was surrounded on 3 sides by mines). The guy himself had worked in Afghanistan for 4 years clearing old Russian mines. One of the other men round the fire had been working with him in Afghanistan too. Now he had only one leg as the other had been blown off in a field that they believed they'd cleared. He still worked on account of the good pay. As we stood talking, one of the workers left to pick mushrooms...from within one of the minefields!!! The guy I was talking to just shook his head and said he was a bit crazy.

The rain eased and I again headed off. Along the road one passes many signs denoting the presence of mine fields. Fairly sure that not every mine field would be marked, I decided it might be prudent to take a bit of care in finding a camp site that evening. I had already taken to avoiding long grass on account of snakes, but figured that on that particular night, I'd be sure I slept in a farmed area. At this point, I had left the Republic of Srpska, and was back into Bosnia "proper". I found a number of flat, green, open spaces that would have been ideal were it not for the bombed and burnt out houses situated right next to them; who knows what atrocities had occured, and I decided I would prefer not to sleep in their shadow. I asked a farmer if I could camp in the area and he pointed up the hill behind the house. It looked recently grazed, but I still couldn't help but try and avoid stepping on mole-hills!



2 days of hot weather brought me into Zagreb. I stopped briefly at Plitvička Lakes; the reason for me taking the route that I did, but the necessity to walk along paths to see them and the hideously large number of tourists and tour buses ensured I didn't linger for long. The parts I did see were very beautiful though.

Spoke broke on final day.

Bastard.

Looked into replacing the set, but, being a Saturday, no-one was interested; would have to wait 'til Tuesday.

Currently staying with the second cousin of the husband of my first cousin. Heading off tomorrow towards Ljubljana. Hoping my spokes hold strong...

My aunt Gilly, cousin Suzie and first cousins once removed, Hugo and Maxim











A lived-in house in Bosnia; a mixture of bullet holes and shrapnel damage. I have also been shown the imprints of grenades on the road.











A desecrated memorial (I think it's Serbian; the memorial that is)











Attempting to dry out my belongings











Lived-in-house. Burned-out-house. Side-by-side.










Not what I thought a minefield would look like!

Back to Belgrade (subterranean cycling)

Stage 21: Sarajevo to Belgrade (370km)
Day 1: 90.3km Meded
Day 2: 52.6km Pass beyond Mokra Gora
Day 3: 153.9km Near Pepelijevac
Day 4: 73.1km Belgrade

Having to make a phone call back to Dublin delayed my departure from Sarajevo until nearly midday; well, a phone call and a bit of eating. The sky was looking a little omnious, but at least it wasn't any of the +30 degree days I'd been experiencing up 'til then. It was a bit of a climb up out of the city and I soon turned off the main road towards a town called Pale, where a minor road was set to take me out towards the Serbian border. The political layout of Bosnia i Herzegonvina transpires to be even more complicated that I had previously been aware with autonomous regions without borders contained withing the larger country. So, soon after leaving the city limits, I was back to reading Cyrillic like a local dyslexic within the republic of Srbska within Bosnia (and Herzegovina).

The road rose slightly but steadily out of Pale until I reached my first major tunnel. It was only after entering it did I realise that not only was it 1km long, but it was a 1km long tunnel containing only one lane. Additionaly, it was a 1km tunnel with one unlit one lane. Around the first corner, I decided that a torch would be a good idea with there being nothing but darkness ahead. I had just about retrieved my torch when I heard the jet-engine roar of approaching traffic coming towards me in this 1km long, one lane wide, unlit tunnel. I cowered in the inky darkness, pressed up against the sloping side of the tunnel as the traffic slammed on its breaks upon seeing my feeble flashing LED headtorch. The cars and truck just managed to squeeze past and I was left alone in the darkness, able to see a dim section of asphalt about 1m in front of my tyre as I cycled slowly onwards.

The tunnel marked the highest part of the road, and I followed a river for the remaining part of the day, allowing me to cover more distance than I had originally thought I could in the half-day. The asphalt soon faded from the road and I was left cycling along a reasonable dirt surface, devoid of almost all other traffic through a steep sided, narrow limestone gorge. The only issue was the subterranean cycling!

Not even using the sophisticated back of an envelope, I estimate that I cycled a further 4 km underground as the road passed through steep limestone spurs. Many of these were only 100-200m long, short enough to see the other side as one enters, but at least 4 or 5 them were over 400m; pitch black cycling with only a small headtorch through small tunnels on a dirt road. It was a fun day.

The area approaching Vishegrad in Eastern Bosnia lacks an abundance of camping sites given the steep hillsides, so I found myself camping above one of the many tunnels just before the village of Meded.



I was held up again the following morning with a broken gear cable before I had even left the town of Meded. I replaced it and was back on the road within an hour. In the town of Vishegrad, the thought of replacing my fairly worn, ripped and faded cycling t-shirt with an updated model was thwarted by the female owner of the clothes shop. Through the medium of international sign language, she indicated that I was not allowed to handle the textiled items within the shop on account of my incredibly grubby hands. I obliged.

There was a little concern that I may have difficulty entering Serbia due to the Kosovo stamp in my passport. Someone had made me aware on this blog about entering Serbia through Kosovo, which had been my initial plan (so thanks for the heads up), but my host (Clare) in Kosovo had said I wouldn't have any issue if I left Kosovo, and re-entered Serbia from elsewhere. This indeed was the case, and I breezed through yet another checkpoint.

I ate my lunch, shading from the sun under a large tree. An hour later I was again sheltering under a tree, this time in full waterproofs as the thunder and lightening was striking less that 2km away. It was about a 10km ascent from the village of Mokra Gora to the pass. Halfway up, I reached into the back pocket of my waterproof jacket to retrieve my camera, only to reach into a pool of water! At the pass, with the rain still hammering down, I sheltered at some picnic tables beneath A-frame roofs and made the executive decision that I wasn't going to continue. I sat out the rain listening to BBC world service on my little radio.

That night I spurned the attic of a nearby abandoned stable for a small little wooden hut, built on stilts, with one small window and accessed through a trap door. I slept, unsure whether anyone would come a knock, knock, knocking on the trapdoor. But my sleep was generally uninterrupted. I'd like to show you a picture of the accommodation, but my camera had decided to be uncooperative following it's soaking.

I covered a long distance the following day. Aided by a slight tailwind and some cycle-friendly gradients I finally managed to break the 150km mark. I thought about going for the 160km, but figured I couldn't possibly deny myself a further challenge to aim for over the remaining distance. An approaching storm also pushed me on my way. It gained on me on an uphill section before the town of Valjevo, with the rain coming to within a few kilometers, before I embarrassed and humiliated it's slow progress on the downhill section.

The final approach to Belgrade was along flat rolling plains, and I found myself in the city soon after lunch. I made my way to the house of my aunt. The following days have seen me eating well, sleeping well and enjoying the company of my Yugoslav relatives. I've had my bike tuned up for free from an excellent bike-repair man (Slobodan: 064 231 3645; www.bajs.co.yu) and even found myself the subject of a TV interview for Serbian TV! Also, having removed some Serbian hard currency for the purchase of a new camera, my old one decided to do a Lazareth and jump back to life!

With the weather appearing to be hotting up these last few days, I'm soon to be back on the bike heading towards Zagreb and then the mountains of Slovenia, but taking a route through northern Bosnia into the lake district of Croatia. I've been informed it's a much more beautiful route, albeit a little longer.

A relieved me coming out of the 1km unlit tunnel. Little did I know that there was much more in store!










Think of this the next time you throw your plastic bottle in the bin. All the white stuff is plastic bottles.








Wet me: sheltering under the A-frames. The last picture before my camera decided that enough was enough









Sicandar with the TV crew in Belgrade

Here, there and everywhere

Stage 20: Mitrovica to Sarajevo (813km)
Day 1: 96.1km Near Arinjet
Day 2: 101.2km Beyond Dardhe (Albania)
Day 3: 85.5km Near Qyrsac
Day 4: 116.8km Near Danilovgrad (Montenegro)
Day 5: 83.8km 3rd town in from border (Bosnia [and Herzegovina])
Day 6: 100.2km Near Doll (Croatia)
Day 7: 97.9km Mostar (B&H)
Day 8: 0.0km
Day 9: 0.0km
Day 10: 131.9km Sarajevo

Before I start on how my entrance to Montenegro simply highlights what an ignoramus I truly am, I forgot to mention 2 episodes involving interactions with the locals in Albania.

The first was having two 12yr old male kids run after my bike on an uphill section repeating the phrase "fuck your mother" (sorry mum) a few times before they ran out of breath and had to stop (who teaches them these phrases?). Mr Broom stayed in his resting position, but he was ready should they have come within striking distance. Having heard about Ms Murphy's encounters with the local youth and my experiences in Jordan, it made me wary of the younger generations, but as it happened, it was a one off incident that was soon offset by the friendliness of everyone else.

To illustrate the point, on my final day cycling from Schkoder to the Montenegran border I had just 80 leke left in my pocket (about €0.70). I stopped to buy 2 apples adding up to a grand total of 70 leke. I handed over the change to the woman who then proceeded to shove a bananna into the bag, indicating that it was a present from herself. A man then entered the shop, had some words with the woman, she then insisted on returning my money (against my protests), whilst throwing an additional two nectarines into my bag. Apparently, the man was paying for my fruit.

So, with this final Albanian send off, I arrived into Montenegro. Not wishing to repeat my fiasco with the currency in Bulgaria, I hatched a plot to change money in a bank, thus ensuring I had the right currency to begin with. In my wallet I had both euro and Serbian dinars (used on the northern side of Mitrovica). I knew that Montenegro was a part of Serbia until about 4 years ago, and so would have used dinars. Surely they hadn't invented a new currency in the meantime? Still, I would go through with my little plan to avoid embarrassment.

It was a warm day, and the moment I walked through the doors to the bank, sweat beads started to form on my brow. Since Bulgaria, I have been getting along with the simple, multifunctional phrase "nay (insert language here)" to introduce myself. I usually accompany it with a little helpless smile and just hope that the person takes pity on me. Now, standing at the counter, I faced a problem. What language did they speak in Montenegro? Was it Serbian; was it Montenegran; or, since they call their country Srna Gora, was it Srna Goran? What was I going to say?

With the sweat now pouring down my face and looking pretty disheveled from the previous 3 nights' camping, I decided to say nothing. I withdrew €30 from my pocket and just waved it in front of the woman, repeating the word "change" in alternating English and French pronunciations.

The lady leaned forward and said something in her own language. I smiled helplessly, shrugged my shoulders and said "nay..." before tailing off into embarrassed silence. She had a little conference with the ladies behind her, while I stood there wiping the sweat from my face before leaning forward and asking in almost perfect English:

"why do you want to change euros? We use euros here"

I just had to laugh...and run out the door.

50km onwards, I set up camp in a secluded spot just off from the road. Up until then, whenever people have asked the question "how's your arse?", I've been able to reply that it's just dandy and praise the goodness of Brooke's saddles. That particular day, after the rough roads out of Albania, I had to exhale slowly as I peeled myself from my sitting position.

Tent was up and food was cooked when a young boy came to inquire if I was planning to camp there for the night. I replied in the affirmative, provided it was ok with him; he could speak a little English. He shook his head, pointed to the grass and said "long grass. many snakes. short grass. no snakes. you camp there". After a little deliberation, I decided to take his advice, along with his and his sister's help in moving all my stuff up to their other field. I slept, safe in the knowledge that there was a reduced chance of having my hand bitten in the morning when I reached into my bags.

It was a long day the following day, consisting of 70km of uphill climbing. My hands, feet and arse were still tender from the previous day and I made slow progress. Still, I reached the border with Bosnia (in another stunning location) and descended into a deep valley where I set up camp in an open stretch of land, next to the river and between two small villages.

I wasn't prepared for exactly how beautiful Bosnia (and Herzegovina) is [I've already been reprimanded once for leaving out the H part of this country!]. I followed a lush green valley for a while before striking out over some hills to the Croatian coast, getting scared by snakes by the side of the road (I thought it was roadkill until I surprised it from whatever it was doing).

Dubrovnik is a beautiful and very expensive city. I debated for a while about jumping in for a swim before deciding the issue on a lick of my forearm. It was already salty, so I stripped off and dived off the rocks at the foot of the castle walls. It was only when I got out that I saw the fresh water shower installed in the old walls. Croatians are such clever people; no wonder they won the war.

Lying in the sun I started thinking about all the people that must have died in that attractive city during its bombardment. Already, on my approach to the city, I'd passed by several houses with bullet and shrapnel holes. I thought about my trip through 18 countries and 4 major religions and the fact that I haven't met one malicious person yet. I thought about the book I was reading (Balkan Express by Slavenka Drakulic) and the Serbian news article that was reported in it:

"and we looked down the well in the back yard. We pulled up the bucket - it was full of testicles, about 300 in all"

or the Croatian doctor's autopsy report that "the victims were forced to eat their own eyballs before they were killed".

I thought about what the alternative must have been on offer to make someone eat their own eyeballs.

I wondered what makes people do this kind of thing to each other.

Don't get me wrong; I didn't come to any conclusions. I went and bought an icecream, sat in the shade and thought about how hot it was.

I returned to my bike to find a deflated tyre. A spoke had broken 5km before the city and I had decided to change the tyres. Turns out my prevoius puncture repair job hadn't quite made the grade and leaked. I replaced the tyre and set off, camping in an olive grove 5km before the border with B&H with a beautiful absence of nocturnal scurrying.

5km Croatia, 15km B&H, 25km Croatia before hitting B&H again; the borders in this part of the world are weird! I was heading towards the city of Mostar in SW B&H where I was going to stay with Francois, a South African guy I'd met in a hostel in Jerusalem. It had been a good day, and at 1.30pm I was about 20km from Mostar. "I'll be there in about an hour" I fatefully thought.

I finally limped into Mostar at about 7.30pm. Another spoke had gone on a perfectly flat section of perfectly smooth asphalt. I removed my bags, turned my bike over, removed my rear wheel, deflated my tyre, removed my tyre, removed my inner tube, removed my rear sprockets, removed the offending spoke, replaced the spoke, replaced my rear sprockets, straightened my wheel, replaced my inner tube, replaced my tyre, inflated my tyre, replaced my rear wheel, turned by bike over, replaced my bags, hopped on, cycled off. I got 200m before I realised I had a puncture. I'd replaced the inner spoke guard incorrectly!

I removed my bags, turned my bike over, removed my rear wheel, removed my tyre, removed my inner tube, fixed the puncture, replaced my inner tube, replaced my tyre, inflated my tyre, replaced my rear wheel, turned my bike over, replaced my bags, hopped on, cycled off. I got 200m.

This happened FIVE times. I couldn't believe it. Eventually, when it went for the 6th time, I jumped into the nearby river to cool my throbbing and overheated head (it was 34 degrees outside). With a cool head, I did everything super slowly. This got me 15km before it went again. I did it one last time and managed to reach Mostar. In all, I used 8 patches!!! I don't know what it was. Either I'm a muppet, or it was so hot the glue needed longer to set. The jury's still out, though I prefer the heat story; makes me look slightly better.

I spent a wonderful 2 days in Mostar, drinking coffee, eating food, jumping off waterfalls. It was fun, and I met a lot of good people through Francois. Thank-you guys to all I met there!

130km to Sarajevo: 90km of uphill. Luckily, it was not as bad as I was expecting, though there is a 5km stretch at a 9% gradient; I was thankful for my low gears. Like the rest of B&H that I've seen, this stretch was again something special with high limestone cliffs and snow covered peaks in the distance. It took about 12 hours to complete from door to door.

Once again, I met up with Francois and some Mostarites who had come up for the day. We strolled round the city and ate ice-cream.

Next stop: Belgrade.

It's not quite the most direct route home, but it's fun!

Statue in Shkoder, Albania

















Albanian plain, north of Shkoder

















Bosnia and Herzegovina

















Croatia
















Dubrovnik Street















Source of the Buna river near Mostar. Darko and me.
















Francois and Cory, my hosts in Mostar
















View from Mostar-Sarajevo road
















The place where World War I was started
















Francois, Ines and Mirjana with Sarajevo behind