Europe - farewell for now...

It was a quick decision, having searched on Tuesday and found a relatively cheap flight to Cairo from Athens for Wednesday morning I was saying farewell to Europe.

It was an interesting and exhilarating two months. Looking back there were many high points; the Prague concerts, relaxing in a Budapest steam bath, marveling at Viennese elegance, standing top of a mountain in Slovenia, driving along the Croatian coast. Less good were the kidney-busting train and bus journeys, washing facilities that wouldn't be out of place in the Tower of London, and realizing I left my swimming shorts behind in the Budapest steam bath once I reached Bratislava!

There are places I want definitely to return to; Bled in Slovenia and Dubrovnik. Others I'm glad I've been but may never visit again (Thessaloniki!). People I really hope I meet again. Cuisine was great in Athens, Budapest and Bratislava. My worst hangover probably travelling from Berlin to Prague, my longest period without a drink an impressive nine days from Ljubljana until Sarajevo.

Next is Egypt, the land of the Pharaohs, pyramids, temples, the Nile, Cairo a city of 20 million people and beyond that the Middle East beckons, deep breath....

Athens 2007, this time it's Hellenic!

Wake up 7am, train at 7.35am across town, panic? It's a race but I'm out the door by 7.13am which gives me a fighting chance. My main hope is that Greek trains are as reliable as the 8.19am Manchester Victoria to Wigan Wallgate. Fortunately they are identical and despite arriving 7.38am the train does not arrive and leave until 8am, phew!

My close friend Dave flies out to meet me for five days. He wasn't able to make the leaving celebrations in Manchester but thanks to climate change disregarding cheap flights it's possible to meet for a Mediterranean holiday at a marginally greater cost than the return trainfare from Glasgow!

We're protesting in the rain

As if to make a point, the our first day and it pouring down torrents of rain, in other words ideal museum weather. After a morning coffee to wake up we head out and within two minutes we're soaked and wandering aimlessly past the Parliament Building we discover a large crowd of people. Thousands of students are protesting at a new bill to allow the re-introduction of a military presence onto campuses and restrictions on the right to study. We spot anti-war symbols and join the march alongside this group. It's a pretty lively and loud despite the weather. Seeing the riot police fully-clad in storm-trooper gear is unnerving but the demonstration passes peacefully!

Spirit of '68?

Whilst marching we get talking to Spyros, a hospital worker, trade unionist and activist supporting the student protest. He explains some of the background to the dispute and together we go for lunch at a 'radical' cafe where he points out various characters including the head of the College tutors who had recently been on strike and we're joined by Kriton a psychology lecturer. On Friday night we're invited to a party at the Kalon Technon which students have occupied on and off for the past 10 months in protest at government educational reforms. It's a very lively atmosphere with 400-500 people dancing away in what I guess was a sports hall to reggae, punk, soul and disco (and hearing Survovir's 'Eye of the Tiger' is perhaps the most bizarre moment of the night!). The main political ideas amongst the students seem to be those of an anarchist tendency, which could explain the mass of graffiti. The problem of trying to organise around such ideas is shown when around 3am the music is cut and someone tries to make an announcement that 10 students have been arrested and invites people to go and discuss what to do. Curious we follow to see what will happen but find about 350 people just hanging about in small groups of 3 and 4 talking amongst themselves. Hmmm, the weakness of autonomism!

Acropolis sunset

After an afternoon wandering the streets around the Acropolis we settle down with a beer to watch the sunset along 100 or so other people. It's a spectacular view, at one point the clouds and skyline shot through pink-orange and red sunlight creating a mirage effect of a marble-dome ceiling that Michelangelo would be hard-pressed to surpass. It's almost unreal, so much so that I'm half expecting a TV camera to fall from the sky.

Mattsideon of Mancos

Somewhere nearby we discover a statue commemorating a Greek warrior. An inscription reads, "Mattsideon of Mancos, guardian of the harbour. His ability to ward off marine invasions with a mighty

discus throw was legend amongst the ancient world. Better known in modern day as a veteran decathlete of the XXIII Olympiad in Los Angeles finishing 12th behind eventual winner and world record breaker Daley Thompson. He nevertheless gained the respect and admiration of fellow Olympians for amassing a total of 6,847 points, over 6,000 of these achieved in the discus with a throw of 435metres. However, his decision not to compete in the individual event was generally considered to be a mistake.

Happy Birthday James

Sunday 25 March James is 23 years old. In the afternoon I get a call from home and speak to James, Gerard, Ruth, Clare and Dave. It's the first time on my travels we all talked and it's great to hear their voices even if it leaves me a little homesick afterwards. I think James likes his present, the Bled rowing team shirt. I remind Dave that although it's his birthday that's no excuse for letting James win at pool, even if he does have his own cue dubbed Excalibur!

"It don't matter to Jesus!"

Late in the evening we meet up again with Spyros and go for a meal at Pozanni taverna in the Exharia district. The food is delicious, fava bean mash with olive oil and lemon, salads, and three types of fish. Afterwards, around 1am we go and find a local bar still serving to round of the night. The bartender there is in a buoyant mood as it is his last night working after 10 years there and invites us all to join him with a celebratory Herradura Tequila shot, yamas! He looks a lot like John Turturro and even speaks a bit like him to, so I keep thinking of the Big Lebowski and laughing. He offers to take a group photo of us and immediately goes into Austin Powers mode, shots from all angles, yes yes yes NO! After, he surveys his work and with a huge grin says "'they're terrible, you should be ashamed you're all a disgrace to the human race, ha!". A bit harsh maybe, judge for yourselves...

The littlest (?) hobo

It's a sad farewell at the airport but also a new phase in travelling. Dave's going home and I'm looking ahead to having no immediate milestones, I've nowhere I need to be at no particular time, just me and the world. On the metro back to Athens I'm humming again... "maybe tomorrow I wanna settle down, until tomorrow I'll just keep movin on"....

Thessaloniki

That sinking feeling...

Pulling into the station at 1pm I'm feeling a bit ragged and looking forward to a wash and fresh clothes. There are no signs of life at the hostel aside one rucksack and a note saying leave your things office open at 7pm. It seems pleasant enough, the rooms are basic but the balcony has a couple of chairs and overlooks the street. I cannot find the showers but there are a couple of locked rooms. For the time being the sink and a quick splash of water on the face will have to suffice. Returning from a stroll around the harbour, munching on apples and bananas, the office is now open and a old-man who looks a bit like Danny De-Vito's Penguin collects 13 euros from me.

Showers? Downstairs in the basement, I need a key or the door but please can i return it, no problem... and the award for worst wash facilities for travellers 2007 goes to... Thessaloniki Youth Hostel! You open the wrought-iron bar gate removing the heavy, rusted padlock, and descend the precarious steps into a dimly lit dungeon with four light switches on the wall, one reads 'boys' which I flip. A yellowish light flickers on to reveal rotting ceilings, pipes covered in blue-green mould, and a stream of slime ooze running into an open drain. A moth is beating its brains out against the dust-clad window in a bid for freedom. Prison showers does not do it justice. Grit teeth, this is an experience, turning the 'hot' tap nothing happens... then a jet of ice-cold water pierces my scalp and paralyses me for seconds before the necessary expletives. Forget this, it's bathroom gymnastics with the sink for me!

Taverna Touts

At the crossroads they gather, prowling predators, smoother-tongued than Kaa, experts in persuasion, enticing hungry and non-hungry alike into their restaurants. The smooth operator firmly fixed in the centre displaying his debonair credentials with 3/4 length camel jacket, the energetic semaphorist running around signalling to all manner of people near and far, the young pretender calmly showing a Roger Moore-esque ability to beckon with only head and eyebrow movements, and the slick leather-jacketed man moving in whenever a back is turned to redirect in his favour. Unwittingly walking into the centre i'm surrounded by four, a hand on the elbow beckons one way, a voice calls to come the other way, a horse-trading game begins, 'best food here, good prices', 'good prices and live music here', 'live music and free drinks here'. Happily disorientated somehow it ends with me sitting under a plastic canopy on cobbled streets, serenaded by an accomplished guitarists duo, eating delicious souvlaki and crepes and watching as the game continues...

Only, 23 hours to Thessaloniki...

Ok, bus from Sarajevo Sunday 18 March 6am, arrive in Belgrade around 1pm, train at 9pm to Thessaloniki via Macedonia 16 hours, arrive at 1pm Monday 19 March, 23 hours travel, deep breath...

Border crossing


The guy with greased-back hair points and beckons me off the coach. Other passengers look curious or else yawn disinterestedly. Outside the hatch is open and a Serbian border guard is examining my backpack. "Where've I come from and where've I been?" he demands. Fibbing a half truth I say Sarajevo, not wanting to draw any attention to staying at private residences or that I've been in Bosnia and Croatia. He turns my passport over flicking through the blank pages and staring at me waiting for a reaction. The greased-hair man intervenes "you're missing some stamps"... Ah, well I've been in Europe and no-one's seen fit to stamp my passport as yet. Is that mine, the guard motions towards my guitar case? Yes. I'm preparing for the inconvenience of having my stuff pawed through, but after being looked up and down the guard shrugs, and hands back my passport ushering me away. Unlike L'Oreal, I'm clearly not worth it! However, I do get my first stamp of the trip courtesy of the Republic Serbskia.

Adie's 1999 edition Europe guide has been very handy thus far, but I'm banking (ha!) that the situation described in Serbia of there being no ATMs will have changed in the ensuing 8 years. As if to address this concern, the road to Belgrade is lined with Billboards advertising Alpha Bank, now with 103 cash machines. 8 hours to explore Belgrade before my overnight train to Greece.

The Kalemegdan citadel is the obvious choice and clearly very popular as many people are picnicking around the site on grass verges and walls. From the hilltop there's a good view of the sunset over the river and the inner courtyards are filled with more military equipment which little children use imaginatively as climbing frames, occasionally forcing a parent to intervene when tiny hands slip from the gunbarrels.



Hardy Traveller Take Two...

This time I'm better prepared - bread, water and snacks, check! cereal and milk for breakfast, check! Ipod charged, check! Ok, 16 hours to Thessaloniki overnight via Macedonia, let's go. The porter beckons me to a cabin, I'll be sharing with a middle aged man who has made himself a home, feet up sprawled across two seats, back turned to me, trying to fall asleep. There's a slightly stale musk to the cabin but I can ignore it. My feet are tired and aching a bit however I'm feeling magnanimous and decide to keep my shoes on for both our sakes. A hour later, I'm subjected to severe olfactory assault, he is exuding what can only be described as the essence of a decaying rodent with an unhealthy egg-fetish, no-one light a match! I'm willing to let this go, after all we all succumb to the occasional bad stomach, but another half an hour later the bombardment continues with greater intensity. The door is half open but it's a plaster on a broken leg, time to fight fire with fire, the gloves are off, or more accurately the shoes, en garde! My malodorous cabin companion shuffles and turns uncomfortably in his seat and reaches to open the window, touche!

Sarajevo

What happened here...

The National Library was destroyed in the siege, millions of books and documents perished in fire, and the dilapidated shell of a building remains a stark reminder with assertive signs instructing 'do not forget'. A short walk along the riverbank I reach the spot. It is unremarkable, but many a pupil has been made to learn that it was here in 1914, Gilviro Princip a Serbian nationalist shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand which lead to the First World War, a historical analysis about as accurate and helpful as Baldrick's explanation of the 1917 October Revolution: Already our Russian comrades are poised on the brink of revolution. They've already taken down Nicholas II, who used to be bizarre!

City under siege

The Sarajevo History Museum collection is excellent, perhaps the best exhibition I've seen, with posters, documents, visual and tactile materials you can experience. During the four-year siege the city was isolated from communicating with the outside world for significant periods, and suffered cuts of power and water. Despite that through rationing of electricity and goods they managed to keep priority buildings and production going to maintain a regular newspaper, and fascinatingly manage to keep the cigarette factory working everyday throughout! I'm shown round by a very knowledgeable guide who answers my questions with anecdotes about the people and situations and confesses to having a big crush on Princes Harry and William and loves the British royal family, hmmm maybe not that knowledgeable... The mosaic represents the years of the siege with red and black lines symbolising the opposing forces and the circle faces those of citizens and victims of the conflict.

Outside the museum the forecourt is filled with abandoned military hardware, field-guns, armoured vehicles and a helicopter. All have been daubed with graffiti and it despite the obvious violent use they now seen like monuments of something else, maybe not peace but a show of defiance?

The Morica Han restaurant is one of the oldest in Sarajevo. Sitting in the courtyard surrounded by a bazaar of carpets, I order coffee and chicken kebab.

I'm soon joined by an inquisitive cat, masquerading as an innocent feline but who soon jumps onto a nearby table and leans over hungrily eyeing my food. Shooing away doesn't seem to work so I eat with one hand, keeping another arm guarding my plate. Not wanting to deprive anyone else of this experience I throw my last piece of meat onto the floor for her to gobble up. I get a brief appreciative look as she turns tail and saunters off to the next table to scavenge more and I feel like we have a bond, so much so that it seems she should have a name, perhaps Lydia?...

Half-day at Medjugorje (16 March)

It seems hotter than before, maybe because the route to Podbrdo 'Apparition Hill' weaves through baked fields cultivated with furrows and black-root vines along a dusty, red-dirt track. Along the way people peddle wares gently inviting you to browse homemade cloths, crosses and rosaries. The rural path gives way to a few white buildings, selling religious ephemera and tack. At the foot of the hill, a rocky path ascends lined by shrubs and dotted with small needly trees. Stations of the Cross are erected along the way leading round to the statue of Mary atop of a six-point star representing the six teenagers who witnessed the vision. It's quiet, people sitting around on rocks in contemplation, occasionally venturing to genuflect before the statue, and in the distance small columns of smoke rise from the hills where people are burning deadwood.

On the way down I notice how my shoes squeak , and the signs of the volume of traffic over the past decades become apparent as the pathway stones are orange-stained and smooth, whereas either side you can see the original untrodden jagged gray rocks. Trees amid the way have polished bark where hands reach for stability and support, running your hand down you can test the rougher surface towards the roots. Caressing the branches I either looked very spiritualist or a bit barmy to the superfluity of nuns (thanks Wikipedia) passing by.

Mostar

Heading inland towards Herzegovina the bus slowly meanders along bumpy roads stopping regularly at any place that might serve food or drink. The schedule doesn't appear to be important as passengers happily get off and sit outside at tables ordering coffee and staying for 15-20 minutes. Two hours 'late' we arrive in Mostar. 87 steps from the bus-stop - I'm not counting really but as Vic Reeves says 91.3% of all statistics are made-up (plagarist, sorry Dave, again!) - I meet Miran, a young Bosnian-Moslem man who asks if I need a place to stay. Mostar's main centre is only a few minutes walk away and after ensuring I've settled into the apartment room adjoining the house, Miran leaves to go to work and I'm left to explore.

The stari most (old bridge) was destroyed under bombardment in 1993 during the conflicts. It has since been restored using pieces of the ruins. In the summer, there is an international competition as high-divers from all over the world come to Bosnia to jump off into the Neretva.

The town itself bears many reminders of the war, with buildings poc-marked with sniper bullet holes and signs warning of dangerous structures where shells have battered through walls and ceilings.

Back at the house around 6.30pm I meet Miran's mum, Nada. She's really friendly and invites me inside the house where I'm treated to fruit tea and Bosnia coffee, a small glass of heavily sweetened potent caffeine. We sit and watch the news together and somehow, without speaking English, manage to discuss what's happening, with Nada explaining the Bosnian political system of three presidents, and four tiers of government, and who she thinks is a good or a bad politician. There's a panel interview with the three main leaders, all looking like identikit politicians in black suit and the only distinguishing attire being slightly different ties. Nada shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the various comments, and after a while turns sighing and shrugging to say they're just talking and interested in themselves, hardly any differences. This could be Newsnight, and I nod agreeing.

Miran returns from work around 8pm and takes me out with his friend to a local restaurant-bar. We order some teas and sit talking about Mostar and their passion for the local football team, Velez, currently 3rd in the League. A number of top football players and coaches hail from Bosnia, including Zlatan Ibrahimovic who although playing for Sweden has a Bosnian parent, and Arsene Wenger's assistant coach was once a player at Velez.

I'm curious about their experiences but wary of raising painful subject, so I ask a vague question about what it is like living in Mostar after the conflict. Miran's expression changes and he looks at me with intent. He and his friend are very willing to talk about their lives but I need to understand this is something deeply important. They take me walking out into the town along the road which was the frontline, pointing to buildings where snipers and artillary aimed at anything opposing or unfortunate enough to be exposed. Miran shows me places where friends and family were killed. It's hard to describe how it felt to have him share these experiences, deeply deeply moving, something that is I know is now embedded in my memory.