Eyes burning. Mouth bone-dry. Disorientated. Travelling is supposed to fun, surely. Why does it always start like this...
Not hung-over though. Too early for that. Possibly still inebriated from last evening. 'Metro' golf with uSwitch crew. Office workers imitating Tiger Woods for the evening. Open-stances and baseball grips. A few air-swings precede balls hurtling or trickling towards wall-sized computer representations of St. Andrews, or Pebble Beach. Peroni beers wash down bland pizza. Greased fingers grip flailed fairway-woods. Sensors between players and screens track slices and hooks. Impressive game, enjoyed more because my team won. Not the same though. No birds. No insects. No smell of cut-grass. No summer sun. Not the same.
Minutes pass quickly. Andy's clock is slow. He needs to be hurried. Rushed goodbyes to Pam. Outside is still dark and cold. Next thing we're on the bus towards Stansted airport. All airports the same. Cue the routine. Follow the stage directions and don't forget your lines. Few precious minutes more sleep on the plane.
Transfer in Stuttgart. Something not right. Check-in clerk looks at his screen, confused. Somehow we missed a beat. Perhaps this is the wrong desk for transfers. Signs mostly in German. Supervisor called over. We're out of time with the music now. Time ticking towards take-off. Budget airlines - they don't check baggage through. This would have caused stress, a long time and many flights ago. Repeated stimulus dulls the response. Fifteen minutes until take-off. Still have to go through security. Supervisor punching keys. We pass the seconds by blaming each other. The three musketeers. Supervisor smiles. We rediscover the beat. The dance is familiar from here.
Touch down in Zagreb, and located a bus headed towards city. Voices speaking unfamiliar words. A conversation in English cuts through the cacophany. Australian accents. Always. Everywhere.
Apartment blocks punctuate otherwise flat ground. Buildings unmatched in their lack of attention to aesthetics. Must be council flats. Concrete gray. Unrendered. Only color provided by vandals. Their chemical rainbows unable to climb beyond 8 feet from the ground.
We arrive at a station, stepping from the vehicle's deceptive refrigeration. Still dressed for early morning London. Skins instantly prickle with perspiration. Thermometer says 34c. Jeans are quickly replaced by shorts. Sunglasses are located. Months worth of dust removed from their lenses - unrequired by London's grey days. An eatery is located. No english on the menu. Something is ordered. Food is cheap. For good reason. It all tastes like stale smoke anyway. No such thing as non-smoking sections here.
We wait for a tram. No tickets. Sign warns the fine is 35 euro. Risk/reward is evaluated. We get on. Central Zagreb - the 'old town' - is much prettier than the outskirts. All statues, parks and paved streets. M-A plays tour guide. Andy and I happy to follow. Tree-lined streets. City views and churches. Upper-end Mercedes Benz drive down cobble-stone roads. Past crowded homes with shingled roofs and no glass in their windows. Scaffolds have grown over buildings everywhere. Cosmetic surgery repairing the scars of time. Stone walls, hundreds of years old, act as a canvas for the hydrocarbon-propelled artwork of youth. New world meets old, in a way that seems characteristic of Europe. We cover kilometres on foot. The sun lightly burning any exposed skin. Cool water from a drinking-fountain is greedily gulped. The final hours before our 22:00 train to Split spent lying on the cool grass in a park across from the main train station. The day in its twilight. The temperature pleasant.
The train arrives. We find the shlaf-wagon. Our cabin small, but seemingly new and clean. Barely room for the triple-bunk and wash-basin. Oppresively hot, we selectively remove clothes as we attempt to sleep. A storm begins outside, the wind howling. The train begins to move. The air-conditioning powers up. The cabin cools. My lack of sleep the previous night has come to claim its debt. I fall asleep before the others.
I awake to the knock at our cabin door, informing us we are 30 minutes from Split. It is after 06:00. Train is late. I wish it was later. The extra sleep is welcome. Split is humming with activity. Boats arriving, people laden with luggage clambering across the moored vessels to reach the land. Market-stalls everywhere, selling everything. The air is scented with a familiar mix of sea-salt and marine fuel. My olfactory memory must associate this with good times. It excites me. We have 5 hours to kill before our boat departs. M-A and Andy sit at a cafe and order a kava (coffee). I wander into the markets and purchase a large straw hat. We find some bananas and freshly baked bread. We eat our breakfast on the esplanade which runs alongside the ocean. The white marble-like stone used for paving contrasts with the brilliant, blue ocean. Both reflect the sunlight, so it seems to come from not only the sky, but the ground as well. We purchase some playing cards, feeling they may be well used, and also a few pairs of reef-shoes at the warning from friends who have preceded us on similar journeys.
We rendezvous with Tim and Kate, before boarding what will be our home and transport for the next week. The Madona.
The Madona departs Split. The four-man crew is introduced. The skipper. His son the host. The chef. The deckhand.
Our host, the sixteen year-old Duje (Doo-Aay), informs us our course has changed. Bad weather. Instead of Makarska we are heading to Omiš. None of the passengers seemed to know where we were supposed to be going anyway. Or cared. And if this is bad weather, we should be okay. Slight breeze. A little bumpy.
Mid-afternoon we find a protected spot to anchor. Water so clear it looks only a few feet deep. Duje says 6 metres. We leap from the boat. Perfect temperature. Cool enough to be refreshing. Very salty. Clamber up the side-ladder. Ascend to the top-deck. Climb onto the roof. Plunging the 4 or 5 metres back into the ocean. Just high enough for stomachs to rise towards throats. Bodies collide with the liquid. Neither can be displaced quickly enough. Descent is slowed.
I climb over the front-deck rail. The crowd calls for a flip. I haven't tried one for maybe a decade. I assume I still can. My legs spring me away from the boat. But I don't tuck and under-rotate. Perfectly horizontal at the point of entry. Pain is slightly delayed as message is relayed. Chemicals pumped across synapses. A brief respite. I hear the groans and laughter as I surface. The judges are harsh. The scores low. I re-board the boat and repeat. Result not much improved. Not easily deterred. Let's go again. Self-protection intincts activated, albeit belatedly. Flips to be resumed another day.
We arrive at Omiš. Duje secures us against the other boats. Some of them familiar from Split. We have travelled about 25km south from Split. To the junction of the Cetina River and the sea. It is late afternoon. The bars and restaurants seem to be preparing for the inevitable trade brought by the invading boats. We sit outside one. The mountains towering behind the town give an impressive backdrop. We order cocktails. Pina Coladas. Mojitos. We visit another couple of bars before finding somewhere to eat. Back to our floating hotel to sleep.
The ringing bell inidicates both that breakfast is served, and that for me it is time to wake. The boat's engine is running. We have travelled some distance already in the day. The by-product of the burning fuel pollutes the air in the below-deck cabins. I climb the stairs - maybe ladder would be a better description. My eyes, having adjusted to the dark, are rendered useless by the sunlight reflected from the water. Breakfast is basic. Cereal. Toast. Bad coffee.
The pattern that will be our daily routine is becoming evident. After breakfast we head south for a while longer. We find somewhere nice to anchor and swim. For many this is also their daily bath. Eventually Duje rings the bell again. Lunch is served. The food is a credit to Josip. We have spoken to people from other boats, less than impressed with the quality of their fare. Ours starts with soup entrees. Then the mains. Baked fish. Gnocchi. Veal schnitzel. One of the girls buys Josip a beer to show her appreciation.
We sit on the top deck as the boat travels. The salt left behind by the evaporated water is baked to our backs by the afternoon sun. With a few hours of day remaining, we dock for the night. Tonight it is Mljet - the most southerly of the Adriatic islands.
It is tiny port. Some people rent bicycles and ride into the national park. Andy, Tim and I swim out to a water polo court. We take turns as goal-keeper, while the others take their shots. Legs furiously pedalling, we quickly tire. We return to the stone shelf.
The port-town is so small that most of our boat dines at the same restaurant. We rearrange their tables so we are all sitting together. We drink cheap Croatian wine. It tastes terrible. By the end of the bottle it goes down smoothly. Mljet is not renouned for nightlife. We return to the boat and play cards, having smuggled aboard a load of contraband. Water, food and alcohol. Just living by the pirate code. The skull and crossbone flag flying in the breeze, high above the Madona's decks.
We stop for our morning swim. Duje has let down the anchor. Andy and I swim towards a stone jetty, perhaps 200 metres away. Both eager for some physical activity. We wade ashore. The stone floor beneath the shallow water is crowded with black sea urchins. Spines protruding from all angles of their circular bodies. Despite purchasing reef-shoes in Split, both our feet are bare. We step carefully and avoid the creatures.
Striding along the jetty. Looking out towards the moored vessel. Andy curses. The urchin had been sun-dried on the jetty's stone. Its protective armor now lodged in Andy's flesh. The sole of his foot, softened by soaking in the water. Easily pierced.
Lunch is served earlier than usual, in the port at Dubrovnik. More time to explore this scenic, walled city.
The boats are docked away from the traditional city. We wait 15 minutes for a bus. Watching many, too full to accept new passengers, pass by. We decide to walk.
Another perfect day. Clear blue skies. Hot. Not humid though. We wonder out loud if croatians know what overcast days are like. And why the clouds take their summer vacations in London?
Dubrovnik's old city looks like it was designed for battle. Built atop cliffs, its cannons still keep watch over the Adriatic for signs of trouble.
We do the almost mandatory 'wall-walk'. A sheer drop to waves crashing against the rocks on one side. The terracotta swirl of the city's roofs on the other. From this angle it is clear Dubrovnik bears scars fresh even by European standards. The vivid orange of roof-tiles recently repaired contrasts with those greyed by time. Bruises showing where the Yugoslav punches landed in '91. The white stone used for streets and buildings makes Dubrovnik dual-chrome; white and orange.
From the wall-top, we spy it. The rumours were true. Perched on the cliff, outside the city walls. We know immediately we will watch the sun go down from there. Tables and chairs overlook the vast ocean. Those occupying them sip drinks served from a small bar. Others get their refreshment by diving from the rocks into the water.
Once on the ground, the bar with the perfect location proves difficult to locate. After navigating many alleys, we find the secret door. There may be better places in the world for an afternoon drink, but all agree we haven't found them. I climb back up the steel ladder from the cool water. Letting the slowly descending sun dry the water from my skin. Sipping fine beer and laughing. Day becomes night.
The days pass. Always perfect weather. We have become friends with Duje. He is 16, but has the confidence from having grown up on this boat, amongst tourists. His English is strong enough to jest. The group of central queensland boys challenge him to an arm-wrestle. Despite being much lighter, Duje toys with them before pounding the backs of their hands to the Madona's wooden table. Days later Andy, having seen Duje and our deckhand, Nikolai, playing chess, challenged the victor. Seconds later, Andy's pieces were stacked beside the board. Nikolai's pieces still standing tall upon it. Croatia 2, Australia 0.
Andy seeks revenge. He challenges Duje to a swimming race. Raised on a boat, Duje is a strong swimmer, but without Andy's years of training. Duje intelligently demands a short distance. They start approximately 50 metres from the boat, with the Madona's hull the finish line. The race is close, but Andy leads all the way. We toast the victory with the three beers staked as prize money.
Korčula and Hvar. Harbour towns. Still battle-ready. Walls and cannons. Regular tourist stops. Strong nightlife. Buckets of cocktails in a backpacker's bar in Korčula. No, not cocktails. Implies creativity. Buckets of combined spirits. Too many people inside for comfort. Doorman appears to be a guest. Also appears to be working for drinks. A fun night is had. The county Queenslanders continue their tradition of swimming in the harbour... sans clothes.
Epic dance clubs in Hvar. We return to the boat earlier than others. M-A unwell. Perhaps the vacation is taking its toll.
We anchor a few hundred metres off the Zlatni Rat. Long beach. White pebbles. Naked europeans. We swim to shore. A rugby ball comes with us. We pass,kick, and tackle in the shallows. Sun-bathers become irritated. No doubt relieved to see us disappear back into the sea.
Bol provides the evening's harbour. Our crew cook up a barbeque on deck. The sun sets on the island of Brač, as we eat, drink and dance through the night on the top deck.
Many days have passed since I last woke in time for breakfast. Today won't be the day. I lie semi-conscious until I hear the anchor drop for our morning swim. No trace of exhaust fumes in the cabins today. My eyes adjust to the light. Nicest place to swim yet. Perhaps because we know it is our last. Even the air is relaxed here. Nowhere it would rather be. The water is undisturbed. At least until the bodies leaping from the Madona's decks enter.
Lunch is served. Each day Duje dons his white, collared shirt and bow-tie to wait on us. Today Quinny wears it. Lowey wears a sun-dress. Why? Why not? Beer-based decision making.
Final night spent in the harbour at Split. We follow a recommendation and have dinner at the Black Cat. Great food. Everyone has either already spent time in Split, or is about to. No need to explore tonight. Most of the boat returns to play cards on deck.
Saturday morning. Checkout. We rise for breakfast. My second of the week. Around the tables, dawning realizations of returning to the world. Some will continue to holiday. Some return to routine, in London, Sydney, Vancouver. Some to start a new life. New city. No accommodation. No job. Unanimous relief to sleep in quality beds. To have warm, private showers.
Exchange of emails and facebook addresses. Most will go unused. Drink tallys behind the bar are totalled. Time to pay. Disbelief. Debate. Denial. Some become angry at Duje. If I had to bet on who got the count right? Duje all day. Some embrace their total; the country-boys proud of their double-century lager count for the week.
Final farewells to Duje. Good host. We feel special despite being aware the next group will board within hours. Goodybe Madona.
The heat is more noticeable now. Clothes covering skin that all week had been dissipating heat. Muscles straining slightly under the weight of our packs. Sweat begins to flow. We seek some respite in an air-conditioned internet cafe. Then return to the Black Cat for some lunch.
Most of our fellow travellers have headed their seperate ways. Only, M-A, Andy, Rachel and I remain. We chase the afternoon away playing 500 in a shady park. Again we eat at the Black Cat. Each meal enjoyed. After dinner, Rachel too departs. Just the original three remain.
Eventually, it is time to return to the train that delivered us. 8 days ago. Seems longer. This time our cabin sleeps six. We must share it with two Croatian girls, and an old man. Stifling hot. We have not showered. No room to move. M-A and I sleep on the top two beds. Difficult to climb to. Andy takes one of the lower bunks. Forced to watch the old man finish a large beer, then another. Eventually sheets and pillows are provided, and the train lurches off. M-A faces the wall on the opposite bunk. I'm unable to determine if she's sleeping yet. I fasten the belt that prevents me from falling. Andy watches the man open a bottle of clear spirits. The diesel fumes begin to drift in...
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