Stuck at Niš

Stuck at Niš [Enlarge]

We beat a hasty retreat from Belgrade. Hurrying across town to catch the 08:40 train to Sofia the sun came out and the city looked less filthy than it had the night before. But we had bought a ticket to Sofia, and a night's accommodation, and that is where we were going. The train was due in at 18:35. We weren't sure if they had allowed for Sofia being an hour ahead of Belgrade or not, but either way it was going to be a very long day.

Once again, our compartment was based on the same pan-European design, and once again we had stepped back a few decades in time as it was several iterations older than the last. Having complained about the heating in the last train being stuck on, we wouldn't have the same problem in this carriage because the heating was broken! And it was cold outside. As we moved slowly through the Belgrade suburbs and then into the countryside we were struck by just how much rubbish is strewn over the whole country. Every inch of land—street corners, back gardens, farmland, woodland, is covered in detritus.

For the next twelve hours, we would spend some of the time hurtling along at speeds approaching 30 km/h, and the rest of the time stationary. We passed the time by chatting to the only other person in our compartment, a young guy from Montreal who had just finished an MSc in Music at Queen's University Belfast (which is apparently world-renowned for the subject).

Eventually we crawled into Niš, a large town about half way to Sofia. We stopped. And stayed stopped for two hours. We still don't know why, because we can't speak Serbian and none of the Serbs on the train could speak English. In any case there were neither announcements nor staff to ask. When we finally began to move again, we were consoled by the beautiful sight of the Balkan mountains separating Serbia from Bulgaria in the distance lit by the setting sun.

It was 20:30 when we arrived at the Communist-era, brutalist-style concrete statement that is the new Sofia station. The continuing radio silence on the train coupled with a complete lack of visible signage at the station made us want to double-check that we were at the right place. As we got off the train we asked a local guy by saying "Sofia?", making our best attempt to make a single word sound like a question. "Sofia!" came the reply. The tone definitely indicated the affirmative, but the accompanying gesture was a very clear shake of the head. A thousand thoughts, including "what the hell does that mean?" flashed through our minds, then Glenn luckily dredged up some ancient memory of reading somewhere about the Bulgarians being one of the few peoples to shake their heads for 'yes' and nod them for 'no'. We had arrived.

There was something about this city that we immediately liked. The pavements are terrible, the driving is down to the usual Eastern-European standard, the side-streets are unlit (and our hostel, like many, was down a maze of such side-streets), but at no time did we feel the slightest bit unsafe. We had not had the chance to get a GPS lock on the hostel before setting off, so this time we were navigating using the instructions on the hostel's website (to save money, we don't do taxis unless we are really lost or the distance is too far to walk—hasn't happened yet). We had a shaky start: the first instruction was "Leave the station and turn left", but having been unable to find the main exit from the station we had instead emerged from the subterranean labyrinth on a tram platform, so we didn't know which way was left and which was right. We made an educated guess, and it turned out to be correct. After that the instructions were a breeze and we found 'The Rooms' hostel quite easily.

The Rooms is a quirky place—the common area and kitchen (with a camping stove for a cooker and a large flagon of bottled water in place of a sink and tap) are both in the corridor, and the only heating in the place seemed to be a small electric heater in each room. Nevertheless it was very friendly and they served great coffee. After a few minutes as we waited for them to finish preparing the room, one of the other guests came out of his room in search of another cup of tea. This was Matt, an orthodontist from Frankfurt Teaching Hospital. He had become burned out at work and, like us, sold up to go travelling. His big trip was to see central Asia (Kazakhstan etc) but he was in Bulgaria first on a mini-trip to find his travel legs. We talked for ages and he told us a lot of things that we already knew but needed to hear from another traveller—we need to slow down and find our own rhythm. We decided that when we reach İstanbul, we will stop and spend some proper time there.

We had a shower and went to sleep in this clean and quiet hostel without ear-plugs for the first time since Dover.

Day 011
Belgrade to Sofia

This map shows the route we took in this post. Click it to see larger maps of our whole route at flickr.

Maps are taken from the CIA World Factbook.

One night in Belgrade

Serbian town[Enlarge]

As we crossed the great Hungarian plain by train we were looking forward to Serbia. The train compartment was the same design as the one from Munich to Bupdapest, but at least one version older. The heating was stuck on full and the window didn't open. The stations in Eastern Hungary have neither platforms nor bridges. You simply get off the train and walk in the direction you want to go. It's obvious really but still interesting to us coming from a rule-bound and health-and-safety obsessed society.

This time we stopped at the border crossing with Serbia, rather than having the convenience of guards joining the train and leaving at the next station. We stopped first at the Hungarian side for 20 minutes. The guard who inspected Glenn's passport was fascinated by the chip (it's a new passport issued just before we left). She called over her buddies and they all had a good look at it. We eventually got underway again only to stop a few kilometers later at the Serbian frontier station. This being a non-EU country, we got our first passport stamp. We noticed that the date on the stamp was a day out, and we wondered what sort of problems this might give us later given that all visitors must be registered with the Serbian police by their hosts.

Eventually as we entered the Belgrade suburbs, a smartly dressed man in his early fifties who had boarded the train at Novi Sad, opened the door to our compartment and as if making polite conversation to pass the last few minutes of the journey, asked us where we were from. We gave our usual reply, "UK", but he didn't understand. So we used the backup "England" which everyone recognises. "OK, England." He paused. "My grandfather live in Scotland, he dead now for six years. He flee the communists. He live Peebles." Glenn immediately added that he is half-Scottish and that he knows Peebles (he doesn't know it at all other than having an idea roughly where it is). Playing the Scottish card seemed like the right thing to do given the slightly sinister way the man had said "OK, England" before. We made conversation about the man's grandfather for a minute and then he went back to his own compartment with a smile. We were not unrelieved. Unfortunately however, he had only gone to fetch his bags and he soon returned to our compartment and sat himself down. He leaned across in such a way as to block the door. He wasn't intimidating but it felt like he might know some people who are. Quickly trying to dredge up details of what we knew about Serbian politics and recent history, we prepared for an interesting conversation.

The man said "Your country bombard Serbia many weeks. You and America and France." We sort of looked at him half apologetically, half "it wasn't us personally, it was our government". We tried to change the subject and told him we had come from Budapest and were on a round-the-world trip. Mistake. It seemed he hated Hungary as well, because he screwed his face up. Glenn asked him why he didn't like Hungary. "They all European now. Everything Europe". "You don't like Europe?" "No." Again he paused. "So you Scottish, eh?" He had thankfully forgotten that Glenn was only half Scottish, and Isla not Scottish at all, but it worked for us. "Scotland will be independent soon and Serbia will support Scotland as England support Kosovo". All the time his tone remained polite and friendly. We learned that he is a lecturer at Belgrade University. He is also a fan of Milošević. He said "You be careful in Belgrade. People very nice but only on the surface. Under the surface they hate. Be careful." He extracted from us that we were staying in a hostel, which actually seemed to help as it established our credentials as non-bourgeois Westerners, who after all were from an oppressed people just like him. He offered to show us a "much cheap" hostel near his university and even take us there. The experience would have no doubt given us plenty of material for our memoirs, but we declined, saying that we had booked and paid for our hostel already, and adding for good measure that we didn't know the address, only how to walk there. We both independently decided to get the hell out of Serbia as soon as possible so we headed straight for the international ticket desk at the station, which fortunately was still open.

At the desk we met the other extreme of Serbian, a young man in his twenties who was also buying a ticket. He spoke excellent English and was helpful, friendly and seemed delighted that we had chosen to visit his country. He gave us plenty of options for onward travel both to Sofia, and within the former Yugoslavia. Having the lecturer as our first taste of this country had clearly been unlucky. Nevertheless we bought our tickets and got out next morning, bound for Sofia. Sadly we never got to see downtown Belgrade, which is apparently very beautiful.

Day 010
Budapest to Belgrade

This map shows the route we took in this post. Click it to see larger maps of our whole route at flickr.

Maps are taken from the CIA World Factbook.