Ken's Blog

Writing the blog is both immensely enjoyable, and a challenge. Sharpens my powers of observation, and contemplating what I might write often helps take my mind off more testing days. Inevitably, it is just a snapshot of the people and places I encounter, but I always endeavour to be fair and balanced in what I write, striving to get beyond stereotypes and pre-conceived notions. That doesn’t always mean I get it quite right. But I try.

I’m an independent traveller and the website is my own. I decide what to write about. If I do have an agenda, then it is to help others better understand about the people I meet and the places I visit. If my posts result in just a few individuals thinking afresh about something, being a bit better informed, then that’s a job well done.

My target audience is predominantly a British one, whose first language is English, and I seek to reflect that in my use of humour, sometimes making use of common misconceptions or images to help draw the reader in. Only then can you seek to challenge misunderstandings. And quite a few pieces are light-hearted, simply there to entertain. It’s all about balance. Of course, I do keep an eye on who’s visiting the site, which countries they come from. Always great to see visitors from afar, and I’m sure that’ll be reflected in my writings in the years ahead.

What I’ve loved over the last few weeks has been a steady increase in feedback, mostly about the blog. Quite a lot of comments for all to see on the site, and a few thought provoking e-mails as well. The European stage of the expedition is very much about refining things for the road ahead, and the website is no exception, especially my blogging style. I always give a great deal of thought to what people say, and endeavour to reply to each and every e-mail. Keep them coming!

The following is reproduced with kind agreement of HM Consul, Belgrade. Love the humour, and Sean Moran, the author, is such an astute observer. A Serbian language version appears on Serbia’s influential B92 web portal.

CYCLIST TEACHES DIPLOMAT ABOUT USING THE PROPER GEAR

A couple of days ago, in my role as HM Consul, I met a British chap by the name of Ken Roberts. Ken had been in touch with Consular Section because he’s decided to spend 4 years of his life cycling around the world, and his route was bringing him through Serbia. "Blimey", I thought to myself, "a real, live, Great British eccentric". (That’s a euphemism for ’lunatic’, just in case you’re wondering.) And if you judge a book by its cover, when he initially turned up in his bright yellow waterproofs it did nothing to dispel the myth. But then a group of us spent about 45 minutes talking with him and found out what a genuinely nice, sensible, interesting man he really is. Briefly, he’s taking 4 years to cycle 45,000 miles around the world, and aiming to cross Europe, Asia, Australia, the Americas, and Africa. All the while, he’s raising funds for, and awareness of the Outward Bound Trust, an organisation that helps young people to realise their potential through challenges and experiences in the great outdoors.

I think what struck me most of all was the type of preparation he’d put into the venture. For example, there was no point in getting a passport full of visas before departure because they’d mainly expire before Ken gets to the relevant border – he’ll be visiting around 60 countries in total! By contrast, there was every advantage in taking bicycle repair courses, and talking to people who’d visited some of the more remote regions he’ll be going to. How about this for advice – he’s heard that in Africa, lions don’t realise that they can rip open a tent but assume it’s much more solid, and hence a good form of protection. (Rather you than me on that one, Ken.) We couldn’t compete with that for local knowledge, but my Serbian colleagues were able to suggest some good stopping off points on his route into his next port of call, Bulgaria. Best of all from a consular perspective, Ken confirmed that he’s got the Holy Grail – comprehensive travel insurance! It’s no mean feat, getting a four year policy, but he’s clearly a resourceful fellow.

The following day we saw Ken again, this time at the Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery for the annual Remembrance Day Service. By now, and as a cold rain blew into our faces, I’d grown to rather envy his yellow waterproof, especially as I was protected only by a thin raincoat. Ken told me that he usually attends this service high up in Britain’s Lake District, so unlike me he was prepared for the weather. And he’d managed to get hold of a bright crimson poppy, symbol of remembrance, which stood out on his jacket like a strawberry in a bowl of custard!

As we parted for the second time in as many days, it was a pleasure to shake Ken’s hand and wish him safe travels. It really is a fascinating project and a fantastic journey he’s on. If like me, you want to know more about his travels and his aims, please visit Ken’s website www.acrosscontinents.org. And finally, wherever you are in the world in the next 4 years, if you happen to see a chap in yellow waterproofs, pedalling hard but looking as if he’s actually quite enjoying it, give him a wave and a smile – it just might be Ken.

Sean Moran

HM Consul, Belgrade

I’ve fallen in love with Belgrade. More intrigue than a passing infatuation. An inviting rawness, drawing you in. The traffic’s chaotic, there’s a few bomb-damaged buildings in the Government district, standing derelict. And you probably wouldn’t want to ask about the air quality.

It hadn’t been love at first sight. That’d be asking too much. It had taken a few days, wandering about the place. I’d popped into the British Consulate for tea and a chat. Made me very welcome, busy people who’d taken time out to share thoughts and advice about the country. Got me thinking.

The following day I went along to the Remembrance Day Service at the Commonwealth War Cemetery, across the city from the hostel. I probably stood out a bit in my bright yellow jacket, but I’d at least found a poppy to wear. Unexpectedly introduced to our Ambassador and his wife, I kicked myself for not knowing the correct terms of address. Left my copy of Debrett’s at home. They didn’t seem to mind, or at least didn’t let on. Another warm welcome.

But it was on the way back into the city centre that things began to gel. I’d stopped at a small petrol station, on the pretext of buying something to eat, but really with an eye on their toilet. I’d ended up chatting for a while. Unexpectedly found myself invited over for lunch in a couple of days. Enough time to check the local customs. That was it. Forget the politics, the recent turbulent history, the grime, the occasional child rooting around in the bins for scraps. Instead, see a nation endeavouring to pull itself towards greater prosperity, a friendly, hospitable people who seem genuinely pleased that you’ve chosen to visit their country.

I’d been introduced to the world of the budget hostel back in Bratislava, Slovakia. For around ten Euros a night – about ten pounds these days – you’d be forgiven for imagining unkempt, unloved establishments, mattresses with a life of their own, tolerable simply because you can’t afford anything better. Well, you’d be wrong. Dare say there are one or two like that, and standards do vary a bit, but they’re now my first choice for an overnight stop. And much better than most of the more traditional hostels I’d used in Germany and Austria.

Surprising? Not really. Most of the clientele are twenty-something travellers, largely middle class, educated, discerning types. There are a few websites to help you locate hostels, but for the most part they rely on word of mouth, often flyers left in hostels in adjacent countries. Reputation is everything.

The hostels I’ve stayed in really understand their market. Lots of travellers carry netbooks, so WiFi’s a must. Nobody likes a wet towel in their backpack, so they’re always included. A small kitchen to help you keep costs down. Lockers to keep your possessions secure. Some even include breakfast, which can be quite substantial. No quibbling over portion sizes.

Always clean, most have appealing decor, even if the apartment block they’re housed in has seen much better days. You feel very safe inside. And friendly, helpful staff. English is the working language in this world. Essential if you want the custom. And great for conversing with fellow travellers, sharing experiences and advice, places we’ve stayed or visited.

Quite a few places don’t have a check-out time, and you can arrive when you want. This puzzled me for a while, until I realised that many travellers use the cheaper overnight trains and buses to get about. New arrivals at seven in the morning are quite common, as are late evening departures.

The hostels I’ve used have been very understanding about the bicycle, always finding somewhere to secure Emma. The sixth floor of an apartment block can be a bit tricky, but you’ll be amazed what you can get in a rickety old lift if you have to.

Bit of creativity – and a mop in the corner- and you can even find somewhere to help Emma scrub up a bit. Pick a quiet time of the day, scrupulously clean up afterwards, and nobody minds. Or notices.

A brief overnight stop in the city of Novi Sad, then on to the capital, Belgrade. I was tiring of the incessant mud, and it wasn’t limited to just the cycle way. I’d about a hundred kilometres to cover and really didn’t relish the idea of arriving in the dark, especially as I’d only a rough idea as to where the hostel for the next few days might be.

So I decided to take a direct road route. It was a Sunday morning so I hoped it would be relatively quiet. The rain had returned once more, persistent. A long, drawn climb made for slow progress in the first few hours. At least they’d be a good downhill run. There was, but endless potholes and unforgiving traffic thwarted my efforts to make up time.

As I crept towards the capital, progress improved. The roads were much better, even if the traffic wasn’t. Through the suburbs, nondescript, then onto a wide boulevard, past a vast Communist era hotel. Deserted now. Then a helpful city street map at a bus stop. I soon reached the central coach station, quickly locating my hostel. Just brief interlude to chat to yet another friendly Police officer. Such nice chaps.

The journey from Backa Palanka to the city of Novi Sad, had been refreshingly pleasant. The scenery hadn’t been great, the same old fields for the most part, but a few more trees. But it had been dry. And short.

A chance to look briefly around Backa Palanka in the daylight. It had a warmth I’d found lacking in Sombor a few days earlier. People I wandered passed seemed less drawn to stare. More likely I was simply getting used to being in a new country, one quite unlike any I’d already passed through.

The city of Novi Sad was pleasant enough, in the centre at least. I’d arrived in daylight, passing some dreadful looking tenements on the outskirts, a few tented encampments of homeless people. Not somewhere you’d stop to take a photograph. I’d a hostel booked, a bed for me on the third floor of an old apartment block and a cellar for the bicycle. A strange smell in the stairwell, but another friendly welcome from Miki the owner.

There it was on the menu – Drumska Lepohca – helpfully translated as ’Road Beauty’. One could only imagine what it might be. I’d skip. I’d seen the roads. Plumped instead for the stuffed Serbian hamburger. Delicious, especially after such a challenging day.

I’d checked the map the previous evening and was sure Apatin to the town of Backa Palanka was about eighty kilometres. However, it soon became apparent from the signs en route it was closer to a hundred and fifty kilometres – about one hundred miles. A few small villages, the odd small shop, but otherwise absolutely nothing. The cycle track had stretches of heavy, greasy mud, a struggle to get traction. The incessant rain didn’t help. Sometimes it seemed to ease for a while, or I just didn’t notice it so much. Hard to tell.

The terrain – marshland or flat, open and exposed fields – didn’t lend itself to wild camping save in dire emergency. Besides, with the Danube forming the border with Croatia, and a noticeable police presence, pitching the tent didn’t seem wise. In the afternoon I’d briefly diverted a few hundred metres off the route to the ferry crossing to the Croatian town of Vukovar, looking for shelter to get out of the rain of just a moment. Found a spot, a small wooden building with an overhanging roof. And if I’d gone around to the front, I’d have realised it was a Police post. They were terribly nice about it – permitted me to remain whilst it was raining. I thanked them. Not that I had any intention of moving.

A few hours of daylight left and about sixty kilometres remaining. I ploughed on. Muddy tracks were replaced by empty, straight roads across flat, open fields. Bleak. Just the potholes to break up the monotony. As the light began to fade I came across a bus shelter besides some ramshackle agricultural buildings. A brief stop. I was being watched. A security guard stood in the doorway of his small hut across the road. After a short while he beckoned me over. Ushering me inside, he offered me a seat by the roaring woodstove. I reciprocated with some chocolate, but he preferred one of his cigarettes. We sat for a while, watching Trevor Eve in a subtitled episode of ’Waking the Dead’ on an old black and white TV. Much preferred him as Eddie Shoestring.

The guard tapped his watch. He knew I was heading for Backa Palanka and would need to press on. I nodded, thanked him for his hospitality, and headed off once more into the driving rain. It was soon dark, some twenty or so kilometres remaining. Busy roads now. Ride too close in and a risk of being dismounted by the potholes, too far out and there’s the traffic to contend with. My lights keep me visible, but don’t help with working out where the road goes. I rely on night vision, regularly disrupted by oncoming traffic. Glad it’s finally stopped raining.

Then the outskirts of Backa Palanka. Finally. I head for the centre, the familiar search for accommodation. I’m in luck. A sign for ’Rooms’. A small hotel with somewhere discrete for the bike. Reasonably priced meals in the restaurant. Hot food and a hot shower. Another warm welcome.

Pronounced o layg.paar.naash ho.yawm te.le von on.gawl.naa.vol, the title may be more familiar to fans of Monty Python’s Hungarian phrase book sketch – it translates as ’my hovercraft is full of eels’. Fortunately I’d no cause to use it, but perhaps it gives a sense of just how different Magyar – Hungarian – is to Western European languages. A completely different grammatical structure. Challenging my pocket book said. An example. Whereas we would emphasize particular words to indicate the most important part of a sentence, Magyar has a much more fluid approach to the construction of phrases, placing the key words at the beginning. I’d found this conceptual variation at once quite fascinating, but equally very daunting. Not a hope.

Fortunately, my abysmal German had sufficed to help me get by. My efforts in Germany and Austria had invariably led to people conversing with me in English, and so, ironically, I’d ended up speaking more German in Hungary than in both the other countries combined. Despite these challenges, I’d thoroughly enjoyed my time in Hungary – some testing days, but they also tended to be the most satisfying. Budapest at night a truly beautiful city.

I’d heard Hungarians had a love of paprika, in a way you might suggest northerners like myself would enjoy tripe and black pudding. But they do. Found a TV channel devoted entirely to recipes with the stuff. I began to notice salt and paprika condiment sets on tables. This was a country moving forward, or at least the familiar supermarket chains had moved in. Remnants of the Communist era were gradually being purged. Just the odd Trabant remaining. Delivery took about ten years, but, judging from those I’d found like the one pictured below, they seemed to last quite well.

Just one thing had eluded – their most famous export – the Rubik Cube – or Magic Cube – not a single sighting. Disappeared without trace.

The crossing point was deserted. Had to hunt around for a Hungarian border guard. A disinterested nod and I was free to cross into the Republic of Serbia. Not sure what I was expecting. Not the warm welcome I received. Genuine curiosity at what I was doing. ’I have items I wish to declare for temporary importation. I have a list.’ I explained. ’That won’t be necessary, you have a computer perhaps?’ advised one of the Serbian border guards in very good English. ’Yes’ I replied, and gave him one of my cards with details of the website. He looked pleased. And I had an entry stamp in my passport.

I’d not exactly describe Hungary as prosperous, but in comparison to Serbia it was. A few kilometres beyond the border and the road began to deteriorate. And there was the fly-tipping, mostly household rubbish. I pressed on to the town of Sombor, searching for an ATM to get some Serbian Dinars. Didn’t like the look of the place, something unsettling. Eventually finding an outdoor cash machine – didn’t want to leave the bike unattended even for a moment – I decided to make a sprint for the town of Apatin, twenty or so kilometres away. It would soon be dark and I’d yet to find somewhere to stay.

I stopped briefly at a small village shop. Offering my dinars as payment, the lady said ’Hungarian, German, Austrian’. Hard currency I thought, but no, she was just intrigued as to where I had come from. I explained, mostly in broken German. She followed me outside, eager to see the bike. She shook my hand and I continued on my way. Reaching Apatin as the light began to go, I quickly found a small hotel, little more than the cost of a youth hostel in Germany or Austria. Another friendly welcome.

I’d made very good time to the small car ferry that linked the east bank of the Danube with the town of Mohacs, my last stop before crossing into Serbia. Far too early to turn up at the guest house I’d booked, and too cold to drift aimlessly around the place. So, a coffee in a small bar next to the slip way to while away an hour or so. I couldn’t quite fathom out how the ferry worked. No sign of a timetable or a ticket office. Perhaps you bought them onboard? I’d watch and see.

If you’re struggling with the language, a bit of patience and observation unlocks most things. Just wait. See what everyone else does. Ferry every thirty minutes, bicycles board and disembark last. The ticket office was a small window around the corner. Tickets purchased – I’d guessed there’d be a separate one for the bike – and I board. I’m the only one approached by a crew member – ’Tickets please’ he says. Faultless diction. I obliged.

I liked Mohacs almost the moment I disembarked. It had colour, warmth. And a ’100 Forint’ shop – that’s about forty pence.

It was still early afternoon but I decided to take my chances at the guest house and see if I could dispense with the bike and explore on foot. I was in luck. Ester spoke very good English. ’Where did you learn it, at school perhaps?’ I suggested. ’No’, she said, ’Surrey’. A brief cup of tea and then there were errands to be run. In my very best Magyar. My efforts in the Post Office got a smile, and the stamps I needed. A similar response at the ferry when I bought tickets for the next day. Seemed a pity I was off to Serbia in the morning.