Balkan Road Trip - Part 2. "Hunt for the Turbofolk in Serbia, Romania and Ungaria"

The border between Bosnia and Serbia consists of a bridge over the vast Drina river. On the two sides of the bridge are the customs. I remember the strange feeling of driving through it, through the border itself. Theoretically a "no-man’s-land". Since the beginning I'm a little bit uneasy in front of the countryside and the Serbian towns. It's because of their regularity and endless flatness. We notice few people along the way, with a darker skin colour and harsher features. As far as I remember.

After Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia (read about it here), we have now entered the fourth country of our road trip: Serbia. This time weldon't stop, we drive all the way until Belgrade's gates. Except for a toilet-stop in a Serbian countryside village, where we already start admiring a certain Transilvanic style in the interior design of the only guesthouse. The sun is fading down and the arrival is far less traumatic than the previous morning in Sarajevo. Streets -just like rivers, houses and any other thing- are broader and less crowded. We park the car in a convenient spot aside of the street leading to our hostel, which occupies the third or fourth floor of one of the countless palaces Belgrad is filled with. Judging by heart, and with no experience of Russia, the first word that comes up to my mind to descrive the city is "sovietic". 

I, N, Vacca and our two adventure mates

Belgrade

Since we heard that Belgrad made a name for itself as city of night fun and we do not want to miss out on anything, me and Francesco (nicknamed "Vacca") set off to the dark and empty streets of the capital. Enne (N) prefers to stay in the hostel and relax. We are heading towards the riverside, where much of the nightlife of Belgrad is. While we cross the big steel bridge, I feel for the first time the instinct to hold tight my Swiss knife in my pocket. The only people we meet are taxi drivers and kebab sellers, a bunch of not reassuring big guys and gypsies at the sides of te street. Then a lady stops us to ask us in English: "Which is the way to Bulgaria? I would like to catch a ride". We have no idea about the right direction, but we do know that the Bulgarian border es at least 300 km away and that it's night. We would like to invite her to resist, but she has already understood we're not helpful to her needs and she's gone.

Once we reach the other side go the river, we find boats rearranged as clubs (little, loud, floating clubs). Though it's only Tuesday or Wednesday, the queue to get in one of those boats is quite long. So we choose one and wait, but when it comes our moment we are told it’s necessary to be in a list to get in. We give another go to a place without queue, only to receive the same answer from the bodyguards. I don’t know whether it was just to keep an appaerence or because us, being Italians, deserve some credit here, but after some weak protest we are let in by a security guy who recgnizes our accent. He changes his mind and says: "Go in, just because you’re Italian". Inside it's almost empty, maybe the night is yet to take off. So we get a drink and then we get out, so to look for a place where they play Turbofolk, the musical genre which has led us all the way there. 

We find the Turbofolk in the nearest place to the bridge, one we istinctively skipped when we passed next to it. The scene is appalling. What we see is a karaoke duet between a man and a woman, singing heavily-remixed Balkan melodies from a stage. The crowd seems hypnotised by the karaoke, and they sing their hearts out, but without dancing. Men and women stand together next to their tables, each of them staring at the stage and holding a glass in their hands. They know the words by heart and behave a bit trashy a bit pickled. We enjoy it for a while from a corner table and, after having paid two or three times the price of Rakja to an old and shrewd waitress, we shove off. 

One of the riverside clubs, picture from Inspirock.com

Under the sunlight and strolling around the most important part of the city - historically and politically- Belgrade seems less ugly than the previous day. It's Sunday morning and we walk through a pedestrian street leading to the fortress. A 9 or 10 years old girl fills up the street with the notes of a violin. A crowd of tourists surrounds the few souvenir shops, where T-shirts with Nicolas Tesla's face are being sold. While two men (two!) have only shoe strings on their old stand: classic or colourful ones, long and short ones. Shoe strings. In fact, poverty is a bit everywhere around the city: from the ubiquitous old cars to the coffe shops with the cracked windows. 

We make a detour so to enter the Church of Saint Sava, among the biggest orthodox churches in the world. In the square in front of the Temple (that's how it's most well known) some children are playing football and some old people are sitting in the benches. The external facade is bizantine and super symmetrical. So far so good, then. But it's inside that we start noticing some odd details. A red carpet covers the floor of the main room environment. Large religious paintings are laying on top small tables all along the walls. And people are queuing before them, so to be able to kiss the figures when it's their turn. While the back of the Temple is not accessible, as renovation works are being done and we only get to see a lot of protective plastic and a big van which was surprisingly parked in the middle. 

And finally we approach the Park of the Fortress, which has been destroyed and reconstructed countless times starting from the Romans until few decades ago (after which they were tired of rebuilding it and left it the way it was, as it seems). Cannons and weapons of different types, together with dinosaur statues, are positioned a little bit everywhere in the park. While on top there's a guy who convinces us to pay him something so to shoot a few arrows from his bow. But more importantly, from the top you can see the river Slava flowing into the Donau. With this majestic scene in our eyes we leave Serbia soon after, and we get ready to enter Romania. 

The river seen from Belgrade's fortress

A random street in Belgrade

Orthodox "Iconodulia" 

The patriotism, the prophane and the sacred met during a walk around Belgrade

And suddenly we are in Romania. The border we pass through basically doesn’t exist. It’s signalled by a sign, while a boy, not in uniform, is the only person who controls it. Actually, he just looks at us and let us go. In the late evening, we arrive in Sibiu, a nice town in the Transilvania region. I mean it, it's not a ironic adjective, Sibiu is quite a beautiful city. Europan Capital of Culture in 2007 and historical university, Sibiu has a small architectural gem of central square, on which our hostel overlooks: coloured three-floor houses and institutional buildings form a large oval shaped belt, not paved but cobbled, filled at the margins with tables from the taverns and in the middle with a big scenic stage, from which classical music is being played. Other parts of the city are maybe less elegant but full of colours. 

The square of Plata Mare in Sibiu, picture from blogromania.com

A Transilvanian pub

Next day we get ready to drive through the "Transfăgărășan", a foolish mountain road wanted by Ceausescu. It was built at the beginning of the '70s for military purposes and is normally closed to traffic between October and June due to extreme weather conditions. A classic of the Romanian cycling Tour and a destination for bikers of all sorts, we leave the honour of driving there to N. It's the twistiest route I’ve ever experienced. Two guys met at the hostel, Srikanth (from India) and Aryudha (from Indonesia), are also with us and they seem also impressed by it. Before reaching the top, we stop to see one of the fortresses of Vlad the 3rd, aka "The Impaler", aka Count Dracula.

Right, Dracula. Obviously not Count Dracula as we know it (the vampire), which never existed...being a literary invention. But the character Bram Stoker took inspiration from: Vlad III, bloody and heroic ruler of Wallachia Principality, as well as protector of Christianity during the 1400s, when the Ottoman Empire had conquered most of the Balkans and was aiming to expand north. The legend says that Vlad refused to pay the tribute and send 500 hundred of his best soldiers as request by the Sultan of the Empire in exchange of peace. The result was necessarily the beginning of a new war.

Eventually Vlad became a thorn in the backside for the Sultan, whose army had to struggle for some time due to a series of massacres and ambushes guided by The Impaler. Vlad also temporarily became a hope for the Christian world of the time, which was following the events with anxiety. As in all the best stories, the only way to defeat the Count was to rely on a betrayal from his brother, who was also a valuable soldier and was boiling with jealousy. S the brother defeated Vlad and took his place, blinking an eye to the Sultan. While Vlad had to run away and seek shelter abroad, only to be betrayed for a second time and get killed. It is said that that his head was sent to Constantinople as trophy. 

Today the Poenari Fortress itself is no big deal, since not much of it is left from the moment it was abandoned after Vlad's death in 1477. However it's quite an experience to walk through it while knowing that one of the most bloody characters in history used to hide there. The climb up is quite steep and crosses the local vegetation (mostly coniferous trees). Luckily, I hear onlywhile writing this article that the area hosts a fast growing population of bears. In the end, some gruesome bleeding mannequins at the top of the uphill (as in the picture below) welcome us to the fortress, just the way Vlad preferred to treat his enemies.

Back in the car, we continue to follow the Transfăgărășan, which gradually gets more and more extreme. The combination of this and the falling rain triggers us, and the Scatman CD we put on the stereo creates the deadly cocktail. We get to the highest point, park and make our way through the thick fog, under a now even heavier rain. Judging from the map, there would be a lake to see, but we can’t find it, as we struggle to even see each other (useless to describe our attempt to get back to the car). But once we do find again our car, our craziness has only worsened and as a matter fact it gets to Srikanth and Aryudha as well: it is just pure Transilvanian madness for a while, with Vacca's head outside of the car "screaming and waving at the rain" and our bodies only responding to Scatman vibes.

The night in Sibiu reaches the same heights, thanks to a Swedish metal band playing in the cellar of a pub in the city centre. The Indian and the Indonesian are now part of the group and they are introduced to the art of "pogo" (precursor of moshing), which we definitely contribute to extend to the Romanian audience. Cheap beers and lousy people would definitely worth spending even more of the night in the pub, but more destinations are waiting for us and so we go back relatively "early".

The way up the Transfagarajan and a video memory digged out from my phone

So the next morning we give ourselves the chance for a last round in Sibiu's city centre and then we head towards the Turda's Salt Mine. Salt source for as much as 2000 years, then occasionally used as cheese seasoning room and as ari-raid shelter during WWII, since the '90s this mine was transformed in a touristic attraction and futuristic space for concerts and events. A part of it has been filled with water, where it's possible to sail with small boats, and another wing is now equipped with a carousel, some ping pong and foosball tables and stage. However, the coolest thing is still to lean from the top handrail and look down.

In the evening we reach Cluj Napoca (for the cools: "Cluj"), a student city in the centre-north of Romania. We are staying in a room we found on Airbnb. We cook something and we inflict ourselves pure pain with the young Di Caprio in the embarrassing and trash movie "The Beach". The next day we see a bit of the centre of Cluj, which unfortunately is quite empty, as the university is closed. The area around the the old fortress is nice, but what I appreciate the most is Cimiterul Centrale, a green and "anarchic" cemetery (reminds me of Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris), where we also bump into a funeral procession. Not too far off there is a beautiful church and a nice little area, where we get a kebab before hitting the road again. 

The countryside we pass through, spaced by the typical conical sheaves of this area, reminds me of a book I read before leaving for this journey. It’s called "The Enchanted Way", and it’s the tale of the real story of a young English traveller and his special relationship he develops with the land of Maramures, his enchanted way. Enchantment created by intact agricultural practices and traditions, coming from ancient times and unspoiled despite the mingling of Romanians-Gypsies-Saxons, but not in front of globalization.

The salt mine of Turda, picture from rollingstone.it

Modern art in a square of Cluj Napoca, picture from Monitorul de Cluj

The countryside in the Maramures region of Romania, picture from gmgalasso61.wordpress.com

We drive for the whole afternoon as we want to get close to Budapest, where the Sziget festival is taking place. We have 3 tickets in our pockets, valid for the next day. We sleep in some sort of Magyar court, near the border with Hungary. The furniture, the landlady and the atmosphere of that place are some of the most traditional things we see during our short balcanic trip. We are completely out of any touristic route and we really needed a deviation of that kind. 

And then we leave Romania and enter Hungary. We stop by at a service station, where we enjoy a typical hungarian breakfast: fried eggs, sausage and spicy salami. So we enter Budapest around lunchtime and we head directly to Obùda island, also known as "the island of freedom". We expect a big mess around the island, but everything seems quiet and we can even find a free parking spot close by. We wonder where the drill is, but there is none!

We reach the entrance of the festival, where we fail in our attempt to sneak in some alcohol (masked as ice tea). But we are lucky enough to meet three girls from our own high school. Later on, we’ll also unexpectedly meet other friends. On the other hand Sziget has become a meeting point for the so called "Erasmus generation". Thanks the central location and its impressive lineups, this festival is a just a great magnet.

Sketch and description of the Obuda island in Budapest from BUDAPEST - WordPress.com 

The red thread of the Sziget Festival, not only musically speaking but for all activities proposed, is: fun. At first it was born to celebrate freedom, a Woodstock 2.0 so to say, and then it necessarily turned into a commercial event. On the other hand a strong organisation and a financial solidity is required to satisfy the needs of 500 000 people and implement a musical programme with stars from all around the world, if you don't want to end up like this. 

And all in all, we do have fun even if we don’t see our favourite bands playing and we are left a bit dizzy by the chaos we swooped in (as time passes and we move to the hotspot of the festival we realise the place is not quiet at all). Around 3 or 4 in the morning, knackered, we give up on our self-devastating plan to go back to Italy without getting some sleep. 

We settle down in a garden next to the car and we take home a few precious hours of sleep. We take the road again after trying out another Hungarian breakfast, more sober than the previous one. It’s a Sunday and it's August but the streets we drive through in Hungary, Slovenia and Italy are traffic-free. We start reading familiar names of places. We get to Modena Sud after eight hours of travelling, on time to grant N some rest before he turns up for work the following morning.

The bridge and the entrance gate to the Sziget festival, picture from ilovedunakanyar.hu and, in video, one of the most memorable moments of our Sziget

 From this trip, we are left with: a cardboard filled with names of people met along the way and names of unpronounceable cities; a pile of coins with different currencies; some confused memories, as smoky as the air in Sarajevo's Kino or as the fog on the top of the Transfăgărășan. 

I’ll never forget: the inside of Enne’s car, each of us with his favourite seat (the one in the back for me, together with crumbles and dirty t-shirts but with enough space to lay); the Croatian wind, followed by a sunset able to warm up our goose bumps on the skin; the vibrations inside a Suzuki at full speed while playing ACDC under pouring rain; the street-stands, the bullet holes and the white graves of Sarajevo; the adrenaline of a wild dance at the sound of a trumpet players orchestra;

What I would change is: the rhythm. And maybe even the vehicle. Because it would have been cool to explore these places slowly.   But you don't always have a month of free time. So for this time it was good like that, with a skeleton of plans and a working car. But I promise myself to return to the balkans and go around without a vehicle, or maybe a bicycle.

I carry with me an atmosphere -a bit crazy, a bit filthy, a bit trashy and funny, surely fascinating- in a word: balkan- which characterised the places we visited, the people we met and even the food we ate. I think about that time and I can't help it but smile, and there's also some bitterness in it...as I'm also carrying a pinch of longing inside me. 

And finally special thanks to my travel mates: to Vacca (for planning a good part of this trip) and to N (for sharing with us his Suzuki shuttle and for shooting the majority of the pictures you've seen in this article

Translation from the Italian version: Giovanni De Maria and I

"Long live Cevapi - Balcan roadtrip" - Part 1: Bosnia and Croatia

The Balkans. As the name, of Turkish derivation, suggests, the Land of Mountains. Land of borders: crossroads between the east and the west, tangle of languages, currencies and religions. Land of poverty, criminality and underdevelopment, in the common imagery. Sad, wounded by wars and fierce histories, but at the same time gypsy, foolishly free and happy. Snubbed and unknown. Yet still Europe, seriously just behind the corner from us.

We leave in August for our IperBalkanTour. It’s the three of us, driving an used Suzuki Swift: I, Enrico called "Enne" and Francesco called "Vacca". We included in our journey-plan a thousand different things and 4000 kilometers of road to drive, despite having little more than ten days of time. Our journey plan is written on a cardboard we are carrying with us all the time: it’s a coloured line, which is going to be filled with the names of the cities and of the people we are going to cross; in fairness, part of the road trip is pre-determined by the hostel and Airbnb accomodations we have booked a few days earlier and little bit randomly.

Graffiti of Sarajevo, our objective for the first part of the trip

Enne, I and Vacca

The first stage is Slovenia, the Italian-Austrian canton which is part of the balcan peninsula even though it’s so different from the rest of it: alpine, clean, tidy. Actually I only see it from the car window, passing by, since I reach my two travel mates directly in Croatia, thus missing out on the staying in Ljubljana, and the deviation across the Slovenian mountains, looking for a "famous" partisan hospital (hidden among the wood and the rocks to stay unnoticed from the German air rides during World War II). 

We meet up next to the ferry for Cres, an island in the north of Croatia, then we make the tickets and get on board with our cars. We are joined by Elena, Chiara and Alek, who wisely decided to start their croatian holiday together with three experienced men as we certainly are. The ride lasts around 30 minutes, less the time it takes us to reach the remote house we have reserved. As we get there, euphoria takes the lead! The house, despite the bad premises, is really cozy and definitely suits us. 

We go straight for a bath into the sea, resisting the cold water and the spikes of the rocks under our feet (things you immediately notice after ten days of seaside on the Salento coast). Nonetheless, putting our heads down the water and swimming with our eyes open, the scenery is marvellous: the blue of the seabed is blinding, while the feeling of cold water on the skin, both invigorating and purifying, is undescribable. In the evening, a violent storm rages outside our little house. So we take shelter inside, playing Machiavelli and eating a lot of food: it feels like being in an alpine-hut, more than in a Croatian summer house. 

As we wake up in the morning we see that the dark clouds, and bolts, are gone; only a very enjoyable Croatian wind is left to live up the day. We move by car until we reach Lubenice, a tiny village perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. In little more than 45 minutes we see everything and decide to take a break from the violent gusts of wind by going inside the Sheep Breeding Museum, the only museum in town. We are welcomed by a nice slim lady, who invites us to start the visit. Old photos and small paragraphs in English introduce us to the secular art of sheep breeding. As it happens almost everywhere nowadays, even in Cres the pastures and the shepards are on the verge of disappearing, and alongside them the traditions based on the results of that activity. It particularly catches our interest a homemade video showing an old chubby woman dealing with homemade tools in order to create the typical shape of sheep cheese of Cres (cheese which, to our bitter disappointment, we don’t get the chance to taste). Straight after the visit we head towards the sea. 

Lubenice (pictures: croaziainfo.it) 

A path, partly well paved, partly very rocky, crosses the woods and descends down the cliff. It takes us one full hour to cover it all and reach the beach. When we get there, we realize it was worth it: the beach, covered in pebbles, is there almost exclusively for us, and the sea is even better than the previous day. On one side of the beach there are vertical rocks, from where you can dive and go explore the sea with a mask, and, literally between the end of the wood and the sea, there is an old fisherman’s house with coloured shutters. To our great surprise, a couple of tourists gets in the house, after trafficking a bit with the keys, and leaves their rucksacks there. Apparently, Airbnb has arrived that far, one hour by foot from the nearest settlement, a village with no market place in an island in Croatia…(and yet, when we notice two kayaks emerging from the basement and a grill with a table in the garden we can only feel pure envy!). 

Another must-see-beach, according to the lady from the museum, is a couple of hours walk from there (Plava Grota nearby Sv beach). Apparently, every day around 5pm there is a wonderful play of lights in the middle of a cave, only reachable by swimming. So we settle for going there early in the afternoon, leaving our place animated by team spirit and advancing into the wood. The cave is beautiful indeed, and it gives a strong feeling to scuba dive through the icy and dark crannies to reach the hidden "main hall", enlightened only by few beams of light that come out the slits in the rocks. But due to misfortune or other factors, the mysterious phenomenon of the lights doesn't take place that day. 

The way back to the car is very unstable, but rewarded with an orange sunset I will never forget and a round of ice- cold Karlovačko (the local beers) in the only bar in town. We pick up an Austrian girl looking for a lift and give her a bit of a cultural shock, being quite outgoing for her standards. That night, unfortunately already the last one in Croatia, we somehow find the energy to go out and stroll around Cres city, the main centre of the island. Driven by the relentless rythm of a far music of Balkan root, we get to a picturesque square, located between the harbour and the old town area. 

Lubenice's surroundings, Cres (Croatia)

The following morning, sadly, we have to split. We are heading towards Bosnia, while the girls will remain in Croatia. Being ridiculously lucky as we will be for the whole journey, we are among the last few cars which are embarked on the ferry to the isle next to Cres (Krk). At first sight, the island is less bare than Cres and Pag, and is connected to the mainland by a bridge. Which requires a toll, but only in the way in, meaning we can cross it for free. Back on continental Croatia, we start our southward descent. 

We drive through a good chunk of the coast, and make a deviation towards the inland only to stop at Plitvice Lakes. The price of the entry ticket, almost 20 euros for students, and the absurd amount of people we find as a welcome spoil the natural show which lays in front of us. With the long face, sensing to have been ripped off, we proceed towards the wooden walkways, and don’t miss the chance to use shuttles and ferrys which are at disposal of the visitors. The park is really vast and definitely well maintained. The plays of water and the colours of the trees may be worth the price of the entry ticket (wait, what am I saying? Natural parks should be for free, what the f…). However we could have expected such an amount of people, being a Sunday of the summer holiday. While head ing back to the car, I promise myself to get back there on a winter day and not inform the guards of my presence next time. 

National Park of Plitvice Lakes (pictures: unconventional tour.net)

After some driving, the night falls and it seems like we will never make it to our hostel room in Jayce, one of the first towns in Bosnia over the border. We drive past mountain areas and valleys. One, in particular, where we foolishly wanted to find a place to eat, really resembles the American flatlands you see in western movies, where the buffalos live and the Indian tribes ride their horses. In the first village we cross after 30 or 40 kilometers in the darkness, we eat the first cevapi of our lives. Up to the border to Romania, we will be haunted by the cevapi signs, but we won’t have the guts to stop by  one anymore. To be honest, cevapi is quite tasty… Yet the sense of fullness and greasiness it conveys in us will be stronger than that. As a matter of fact, since that moment cevapi undoubtedly becomes for us the standard economic value: it can be very useful as a measure if you're not so at ease with Bosnian marks and Serbian dinars. 

At midnight we finally arrive in Jayce and settle in the hostel. After enjoying some well-deserved wifi for a bit, we are all sound asleep. However, I wake up quite early and take a chance to see the town. The streets are still desert, and I easily reach the old town, waiting for me in its decay and medioeval fascination it still evokes. In the highest point is located the castle, which is closed due to maintenance works, even though I can’t see any from the outside. All around it the historical city centre unfolds, as a cone. I’m impressed mostly by a Christian church, whose plant and tower bell are the only parts left nowadays. There is no roof anymore, neither doors nor windows, grass and moss are now growing where once there was the floor. 

Around the castle hill other hills can be seen, just like it will be in Sarajevo, where lots of white houses with red roofs and pointed minarets stand out. On the way back to the hostel, along the river, I notice that that at last the city is awakening. On a few kiosks of souvenirs some products are displayed, cars start to fill up the streets and a few elders are sitting at a bar. My mates wake up as well, so we pack everything and go downstairs to eat our breakfast. Breakfast so to speak, since, while we painstakingly swallow the biscuits and fruit we have left, a bunch of guys is cooking their meal: standing around a stove, they are waiting noticeably hungry for a sort of meat broth to be ready. 

Jaice's roofless church

At 11am on day five we triumphantly enter Sarajevo. Without even realizing it, we drive through Sniper Alley. The street is one symbol of the siege of Sarajevo, which lasted from 1992 to the end of 1995. Today is a boulevard, with really a lot of cars. Pass me the bad joke: today on Sniper Alley you risk your life in a different way than 25 years ago. We struggle to reach an indoor parking, which we think is close to our hostel. In reality it's close to the hostel’s reception, while the rooms are  actually half an hour away at the end of a really steep street. When we get there, walking, we feel like in the middle of a movie from Emir Kusturica. A not-recommendable guy welcomes us, showing us the place: a couple of huts in cheap material host both rooms and the kitchen, while a few foldable tables form the eating space outside, where chickens run around freely. The huts look from the World War II era, with gas reservoirs in plain sight and an old stove to heat up, but we somehow take it well.

Cooking tunafish pasta without any oil or pan, we really identify with the trash character Bello Figo, thinking we should be in the video instead of him. We settle pretty well with the style of the city: trashy, a bit dirty, old yet modern, intellectual, crazy and sad, but interesting in each of its corners. It’s different from any other city I’ve seen so far. There is a reason why Sarajevo is called the "European Jerusalem" or the "Door to the east": here the west frantically lives together with the bazaars, the mosquees and everything else the Turkish dominance left behind. Every side street sparkles with life and hits you with a whirlpool of weird noises and big cars riding fast a few inches from the sidewalks, really narrow and bumpy. It makes a strange effect, Sarajevo, with the decaying and coloured houses in the city centre and the funny look of its inhabitants. I’m instantly conquered by it. 

Our hostel in Sarajevo

Muslim cemetery in Sarajevo

We decide to spend the afternoon in the historical centre. We move on foot, passing by the main landmarks (some of them really touristic). One of the most interesting to me is the Muslim cemetery, made of thin pale white gravestones, on which the names of the Arab people who died are embossed. From up there, there is a really nice view on the city suburbs. We are struck by Svrzo's House, the old house from an upper class Ottoman family, which is now a museum. We cross the bazaar and eat our bellies out in sweets, and have some hot drinks too, for the price of about 2 euros overall. 

After that, we enjoy a really nice yet "smoky" night at Kino Bosnia, a vintage pub made out of a dismissed yet conserved cinema, where once a week groups of sevdah players perform. Sevdah is a traditional romantic music from Bosnia, really melancholic. To be fair, we are not in the mood for Sevdah that night, so we take advantage from meeting other young travellers and from the reasonable price of beers to get a little tipsy. The way back to the hostel is a tiny odyssey which will be one for the books: a communal pee down from a bridge, followed by an hallucinated discussion over the willow trees and a historical disquisition sparked by the place where Franz Ferdinand was shot, only to reach desperation when we find out our bancomats don't seem to work anymore and that the last uphill actually lasts forever.

The courtyard of a mosque in Sarajevo

Shop of a metal/copper artisan

By the following morning, we sober up enough to understand that we are in Sarajevo and we cannot afford to sleep over and miss to pay a visit to all the war related places. We pick up the car from the garage and go back to the sniper boulevard, Ulica Zmaja in Bosnian. Slowly, palace after palace, the boulevard gets repaired and goes back to normality. In the 90s though this was a clou spot, or at least a symbol of the Serbian siege, since especially in the area between the national museum and the Holiday hotel many civilians lost their lives, hit by the snipers stationed on the roofs. Those who find death couldn’t avoid moving to get some food or just as a refusal of that prisony. 

Parallel to Sniper Alley, Visnovo Boulevard has always carried a very different connotation. With its lime trees and the romantic atmosphere along the river, it was the meeting point for lovers and families who just wanted to have a stroll. For many years it represented a place of tranquility and everyday life, but then -for five long years- it had not been accessible anymore. We got to know all this partly from a very special guide ("Scoprire i Balcani. Storie, luoghi e itinerari dell'Europa di mezzo" - CIERRE Edizioni), and partly from the peculiar historical museum of Sarajevo.  

The museum, already from its disorganization and tha palace inside which is located, is the essence of the past century in Bosnia and in Sarajevo, evoked particularly through photos and objects. From there we head to the Tunnel Museum, located outside Sarajevo and used to connect the airport, where the humanitarian aids arrived, to the city centre. Thanks to a reconstruction of a trait of the original tunnel and other pieces of evidence from those years, we have a first-hand experience of how living in Sarajevo should have been like during the conflict. 

Back in the car, we talk about the events that led to the war and how the conflict unfolded, but the more we discuss, the more we are confused about the issues from those years. And yet we leave Sarajevo behind us. We would be very tempted to stay, but we have decided to reach Belgrad within the same day. So, once again, we set up Enne’s old navigation system (which not only has to be restarted every time the engine of the car has been off, but apparently it has never been updated) and we let ourselves be carried away by the roaring of the Suzuki. A long road is still in front of us and the adventure has barely started!

In the Tunnel Museum of Sarajevo

Reconstruction of the city

English translation by: Giovanni De Maria (Zio Dema)

Italian version of the article 

Uganda - Part 3. "Equatorial Finland"

The southern part of Uganda is covered with forest and is scattered with big and smaller lakes. I wasn’t expecting it, in my image of it there wasn’t such a flourishing and watery side of Africa. I was expecting rather Savannahs and great arid plains, but what I found is some sort of “equatorial Finland”.

It's around the Queen Elizabeth National Park where this region starts. In fact it lies within the Albertine side of the Great Rift Valley, cradle of humanity and builder of extraordinary vulcanoes and mountain systems. Already 30 km south of Fort Portal, a multitude of small lakes can be found: it’s the Crater Lakes linked to the activity of the Katwe volcano. Yasmin and I reach them on board of a crappy car, driven by the usual unauthorized driver. The morphology of the area doesn’t make the whole transport simple , where it’s the motorcycles who rule. Some villages are perched on narrow stripes of land in between mountain lakes, while the roads aren’t paved and sometimes muddy.

The Crater Lakes are many (about 30), but we head towards the Nkuruba Lake, which is the most beautiful of all according to some. It’s located within a natural reserve, which surrounds it completely. We requested to put down our tent a few steps away from the water, where some young westerners were swimming. As the evening descends, while I fight to cook some rice on a bun-fire, I start feeling “sucked-in” by the jungle.The sounds surrounding me are something incredible…And what I feel, as soon as I get over the frustration for my ineptitude with scout skills, is pure admiration for this primordial habitat. It’s the same feeling I have the next morning in the water, while the forest is waking up and the black and white monkeys start to jump from one branch  to another.

Me waiting at a pump in the middle of a market of the mountain area

A crater lake and (below) the Nkuruba Lake

It’s afternoon when we reach the Queen Elizabeth National Park, one of the most famous protected areas of the country. We camp right outside the entry gate, near the big Kazinga Channel. We are told there are hippos and crocodiles in the water, but we shouldn’t worry as “they never adventure themselves up here”. Of course, a few hours later we are woken up by a family of hippos passing next to our tent, but luckily we don’t realize what was happening  til the next morning.

It’s during the same night, we learn, that 13 lions get poisoned by some cattle farmers, tired of the attacks on their animals. Told to us by a British biologist, who has been tracing lions for weeks . Suddenly I’m hit by the opposite feeling compared to the day before at the shore of the Nkuruba lake: a strong anger and a filthy shame for who did this terrible act, towards maybe the most representative creature of this primordial site.

Unfortunately, that day we can´t do anything about it , so we get up and get ready to start another day around the “equatorial Finland”. There’s a funny guide waiting for us, she’s slick and robust. From her I learn that pineapples are to be cut from the long side similar to  water melons, because the sugary parts are found in the middle. Of course, I offer her the first slice -cut in the wrong way and therefore tasteless- only to receive back a dry refusal and some offenses for my insolence and my “wimpiness”.

The Park is huge. Compared to the Murchison Falls National Park there’s a lower density of animals but we get to see a bit of everything and then we head for lunch. It's a place facing a beach where such a big gathering of mammals happens daily that the Jova Beach Parties seem like nothing in comparison. On the way out from the Park we pick up the son of the guide, a big guy feverish from malaria. They explain to us that there’s not much to do about the malaria issue: by now they are used to live with it and nobody -except for the Westerners- makes use of the prophylaxis for malaria. It’s not practical and it’s expensive. This might be why we are seeing so many sleepy people around Uganda.

Shots from Murchison Falls and Queen Elizabeth National Park

Moving west, to the forests on the borders with Congo and Rwanda, the habitat for the Eastern gorilla starts (a species at risk of extinction until one year ago). We travel along it on board of a matatu and we reach Mbarare by evening, where we eat a good (!) pizza (the first one I try in Uganda) and we sleep. The next morning, we leave again proceeding in the direction of Rwanda, til we reach Kabale. Kabale is small. Fundamentally a street with houses and shops on the sides. We notice there are quite a few Western tourists around. While a home-less sleeps on the side of the main street, on the concrete: I surprise him by lending him some bread for breakfast.

Then we start figuring out how to get to our destination: Lake Bunyonyi. We’ve read of a camp site on one of the islands in the center of the lake and we would like to stay there for the following night. As it turns out, reaching the lake is not such a simple thing as a badass mountain separates it from the town. Once again we rely on the boda-bodas, the motor-bike taxi drivers. With our backpacks and the weight of an extra person, the poor two-stroke engines have to go through some rough times on the uphill…but in the end they make it! We unload everything next to the lake, where some unauthorized water taxi drivers are waiting, with their blue and yellow boats. 

When we tell them “Thanks but we don’t need a ride, we’re aiming to reach the island by canoe”, they laugh and strongly advise us against it. In the end one of them accompanies us, with his motor-boat. (I have to admit that the island was indeed far and luckily we were lucky to not get stuck on our idea). The camping takes up the whole island, which is not very big. Strangely, there’s a Western atmosphere there: different areas of the camping are indicated with signs, everything is built and designed with care, wood is the prevalent material (from the main building with kitchen, reception and lake-view veranda to the compost toilets all around the camping and bungalows built above and below the trees) and, generally, everything is very quiet and clean.  The mistery behind this Ugandan island is shortly solved: it’s an American architect who has invested in this project.

However, in the next days we realize that the whole area around Lake Bunyonyi -characterized by jagged coastlines and meticulous terracing, not inferior to the famous Asian tea plantations- tends to be different from the Uganda we’ve seen so far. It could be the influence of the neighbouring Rwanda, one of the most democratic and developed countries in the whole continent (we hear from the people we meet). The lake itself is an exception, being the only or one of the few swimmable lakes in the country (it’s "biharzia free" but also free from hippos and crocodiles). Around the islands and on the shores of the coast you can find luxurious resorts, which we avoid as a bad disease.

Lake Bunyonyi with the sun [source: https://www.bunyonyi.org] and before a storm 

In the afternoon we have the terrible idea of renting a “tree dugout canoe”: basically an emptied tree-trunk. Extra-heavy. Let’s add that nor Yasmin nor I are great canoeing experts, but have different ideas for driving that thing and that we’re both as stubborn as mules. The result is immediately served: bloody hands from the effort, destination far from being reached and a spatial reciprocal frustration. Paradoxically,  it’s a sudden tropical rain that saves us (by forcing us to take shelter and keep ourselves warm inside some cabin and calm our spirits). 

The rest of the day goes surely better. We take a walk around the island where we’ve stranded and spot there the first zebra, and most importantly the first crane (national symbol), of our trip. We also get the ok to use the camping kitchen to cook our own food while the chef and the women of the island are creating their own dishes. Then one employee invites us to make use of the library and rent a movie for the evening…It might seem strange, but it feels like a great privilege to watch “The last king of Scotland” after 2 weeks without tv. Unfortunately we have almost reached the end of our journey. Yasmin and I have already gone a long way, even though we’re not even that tired. But it is almost time to get back to the capital city. She would like to have time to say bye to some people who have helped her during the weeks of interviews and research fieldwork. 

So, on the next day we get back to Mbarare, with one last terrible idea in mind: to get a night bus until Kampala. Useless to say that the vehicle doesn’t move until the last available spot is not filled; if the concept is not clear read the episode “An old bus to the West” on this blog and you will get it. I notice immediately a guy sitting next to us, quite old and in precarious conditions. During the night course his condition seems to be getting worse, to the point I feel the need to lend him some of our remaining medications. He gladly accepts and then falls asleep, only to then stand up, thank me and get off in some undefined part of Uganda. In front of us we have the typical Ugandan guy in the bus who doesn’t own (or doesn’t wanna use) headphones while listening to music. The problem is that he’s just got one song in his library, “Buffalo soldier” from Bob Marley, and he doesn’t get tired of it. After all the driver himself is not intentioned to give up on the music, which is being spit out together with the music videos from the screen in the front.

And so, together with the Jamaican interferences over Eddy Kenzo’s African sonorities, partially interrupted by the deliriums of the dying man, we head towards the capital while the bus keeps on stopping. And despite it’s night, there’s still people trying to sell things at the bus stops. But finally, around 5 a.m., we arrive. We’re quite sleepy and it’s raining heavily. I’m confused because no one is moving, most people actually sleep. But we have arrived…So I get out to check if we’re actually in Kampala and if there’s some way to the center. We are. A guy who’s sheltering from the rain tells me: “Musungu, the boda-bodas won’t work with the rain: everyone waits for the rain to stop, otherwise it’s too expensive”. I thank him and go back to the bus, where it’s hot and oxygen is missing. So I convince Yasmin to get a taxi (Uber to be precise), while everyone keeps sleeping and I feel once again like a spoiled Westerner.

A couple of days later we’re almost back in Entebbe, where our journey had started (check Uganda Part 1 – “Entebbe and my suitcase”). A night in Nairobi airport is waiting for us, in Kenya, and a change in Amsterdam as well. Then the cold winter of Sweden and the everyday life of being a student dealing with thesis will welcome us. But first, a few steps away from Lake Victoria, the taxi driver pulls over and proposes us to get out for a minute. “A last good-bye to this land”! he says. So we get out and we reach the shore of the lake. A group of men and guys from there are around a fire. One of them, noticing us while looking far away, comes closer. He especially addresses me and he’s obviously under the effect of something. He then tells me, out of the blue: “You know how it is to become a father? Like a resurrection”. 

With this image in mind I leave Uganda. A country with an opposite demographic situation compared to mine (50% of the population is less than 15 years old). A country where people are poor and can’t enjoy most of beauties in their own land, because they’re often only accessible to the Western wallets. A welcoming country, where many are desperate but can still enjoy life and will look at you with curiosity. A country where mass tourism hasn’t arrived yet. A country with 40 languages and an unnumbered amount of religions and beliefs. A country which has seen the civil war, and now lives in the shadow of a masked dictatorship, but didn’t die at all. A small country full of big things: the mountains, the Nile, the Lakes, the Rift Valley and the tropical forest. A country in Africa, which is already a good reason for a trip if you’re willing to get your nose out of your own reassuring garden and get a feeling of the word “diversity”.

Us two and some free giraffes

Versione italiana di questo articolo:

Uganda - Part. 2 "An old bus to the West"

An old bus with no written direction and many people inside. A driver surrounded by dusty suitcases, including ours. Pork sticks and plates of sodas offered through the open windows. Then the roar of the aged motor and a struggled change of gear. It started like that our journey between Karuma and Fort Portal, minor towns of Uganda. One of many similar journeys, which became special. 

A matatus stops for food and drinks

Since the beginning, the circumstances for this story were a bit chaotic, but later they got a bit better. Quite abruptly, for a matter of money, we get dropped off from our mini-van in the middle of a street. (We used to have a mini-van, yes! Not ours of course, but rented). While being in the Sanctuary of Rhinos, we had obtained the contact of someone who could provide us with a van and a driver for the north-western part of the country (since you cannot enter national parks without a vehicle). However, this contact of ours proved to be quite mean and ordered on the phone to let us on the street just after the first night at the Murchison Falls, as soon as we refuse to accept his "new terms" concerning the total cost for the service. This new price seems absurd to us, so we collect our stuff and start to walk, in the middle of nowhere. 

Luckily enough, the driver and a passenger/guide we had taken with us have good heart and they come back so to drive us at least until the next bus stop. Once said goodbye, literally 8 seconds later, we are on board of a new vehicle: the old bus with no written direction. Cause as soon as we were seen by the "conductor" and some of the passengers, they had rush in our direction, taken our bags, given us tickets and escorted us until a couple of seats liberated for us. We don't get to choose nor to speak, as everything happens so quickly. 

The bus is dirty and covered with red dust. Inside, everything's old-fashioned and in precarious conditions, with many of the seats torn or ripped off in the back. Plus, I can't believe how overloaded with humans and suitcases it's this bus. Overall, I don't have much faith in it, especially looking at the rough road in front of us. But there we are. With the heat of the motor burning up our feet, and our butts jumping up and down worse than in a roller coaster.

Outside there's a spectacle of animals, re-arranged vehicles and humans, busy with the weirdest activities (or sleeping in the shadow). I'm sure it would also be a great concert of noises, but the motor of the bus covers almost everything. Inside, everyone is sitting tight close to each other. Not many talk, but it would seem like we're all part of a big family.

Ugandan road crossing a savannah 

A teacher, students of a school for tourism and us by the Murchison Falls

Yasmin and I are seated in front, just behind the driver. There is also a man sharing the couch with us. At first he doesn't say anything. But after some time, I see him smiling at the big feather attached to the hat that I have on my hands. Then I make a move and I try the hat on him. Around us the people start to laugh. The two of us chat for a bit, while Yasmin is falling asleep. 

Turns out that he is a farmer with 4 children. They all go to school and Sam is very proud of that, even though he has to work hard to pay for the school fees. He comes from an agricultural area but his field is 3 hours away. "I can make more money there" he says. "I grow maize and beans for The Company". I ask what's "The Company" and he says that it's a foreign multinational, which orders and buys crops from farmers like him. It also provides him with seeds, pesticides and fertilisers. 

This fact of the multinational makes me uncomfortable. When I tell him what I think (that he could consider other options, to not totally rely on the Company and practice unsustainable agricolture), I feel like a prig and an idealist. My objections seem so empty compared to his responsibilities towards 4 children. And yet he seems to understand what I mean. He doesn't reply much, but his eyes look like they know some of this already. Anyway I don't want to go further in the discussion, but I have to smile once again at him...as I notice he is still wearing my explorer-hat with the feather on his head.

Sam and my explorer hat

Every 30 minutes or so the bus stops in a village where a crowd of people is ready: they sell whatever thing to eat or to drink to the passengers through the windows. If they see us they insist more persistently yelling excited "Musungu!" "Musungu!" (White people! White people!). This time we buy a very powerful and refreshing ginger soda. And eventually, after some 50 or 60 km of bloody holes in the streets, we get to Masindi. 

From Masindi, quite a poor village, we are not far from the Budongo Conservation Field Station, where Yasmin is heading due to her research on forest management. On the way to Budongo, we pass next to the infinte lands of an Indian multinational, maybe the same one Sam was talking about. Finally we reach the wooden cabin at the entrance of the reserve, from which the guardian emerges and leaves us pass. The things I notice immediately is the crazy amount of butterflies , small and dark butterflies everywhere. Then I also feel the cooling of the temperature within the forest.

The station is a group of wooden houses in the middle of the reserve. Since 1990, they study chimpanzees and  the impacts of forest management on biodiversity. Zema, the head of the research group, welcomes us with a special, tranquille charm. But it seems like the group is not so used to have many (human) visitors, so we try to be discrete. And the next day we are ready to continue our journey, this time towards Hoima.

A baboon tries to sneak in the Field Station in Budongo

The matatus leaves us in the middle of a big market square, delimited on each side by tall houses with nice roofs. In the middle of the square it's full of "matatus" and "boda-bodas" (taxi vans and taxi motorcycles). We run away from the crowd of taxi drivers and street vendors who all talk to us at the same time. Once we close the door of a hotel room, leaving the noise behind and we sit on the bed, we are so exhausted that we can't get up from bed for almost 2 hours. 

Then we go out in the streets again, while the night has fallen. The African nights are pitch black and they replace the days VERY quickly. Even in towns like Hoima, it seems like the electricity is not very common. Instead of street lights, there are fires burning in metal barrels at the side of the streets. There are people around the fires and some music in the air, but the atmosphere is somehow sketchy and we instinctively increase the pace. 

We're heading to a restaurant I read about in my guide. Once we enter, we realise we're the only customers and two women welcome us cheerfully. Next to the counter there's a big pot with some stew in peanuts sauce, and a floating fish head in the middle. We eat gratefully, avoiding the fish-head and spending less than 30 000 Ugandan shillings in total (7 or 8 €). 

The next day we head to the same street, and we sit for breakfast. They usually eat more or less the same they would eat for dinner: rice, beans, platano banana or potato and  sometimes meat. But it's good, we know we have a long way in front of us and that we need energy. From the area of the Murchison Falls, we're now heading towards the Rwenzori mountains, which divide Uganda from Congo. 

There are matatus going there for a couple of dollars. So we jump on one, half empty, and we wait. After 40 minutes there are still some empty seats and the driver (whoever is) is not seen yet. In the meanwhile, a funny-looking guy has started a conversation with me. He wants to convince me that his name "Jerry the killer", that he is one of 40 siblings and that he fights for living. He's not soldier of the army, but a "revolutionary", someone who fights in the guerrillas. He's been fighting in South-Sudan, where "people are crazy animals, not humans!". He says to be famous in the area and that all women love him very much. I can't stop looking at his red eyes, almost coming out from his bulbs, and at the dramatic use of his body when he talks. He looks like a drugs addict and some people passing around make some jokes about him, but still Jerry wants to help us. 

Jerry the Killer

Once a full hour has passed, he has sensed that our Western souls start to be impatient. So he introduces us to some private taxi drivers and starts to deal with them about the price price. From the moment we are considering to hire one of the taxi driver, the general interest has sparked and a group of people has gathered around us. It almost seems like the decision for who should get this money belongs to the community, and every one suggests someone different and a reason for choosing him. In the end we follow what seems to be the verdict of the community and we go with a big guy towards his big car. 

We feel ashamed to have confirmed the cliché of the spoiled, "rich" white people who can afford to take a private taxi for a long distance. But I have to say that just after a little bit of the road we don't regret anymore, but are actually very happy to be in a car with living space and functioning shock absorbers.

So we reach Fort Portal, the last city before the mountains. Together with Kasese, it's a starting point for the best hikes in the country. The Rwenzori Mountains are in fact a mountain range whose peak (Mount Stanley) reaches 5109 metres. The mountain area is however part of a National Park and it is quite expensive to stay within the Park (40€ per day). For this reason we decide to give up on the idea to do a real trekking, and we opt for a smaller hike on the foothills of the Rwenzori, not far from the town. 

Already there, the scenery is something else from what we had seen so far. To welcome us there's a November fog, posed over the long stretch of coffee plantations. And while we climb the hill, together with a guide who is part of an association for responsible tourism, we see the glitter of the metal rooftops underneath. The steep hillsides are all cultivated, mostly with potatoes and beans. And even though sparse, we see houses a bit everywhere and we spot the school at the bottom of the valley. 

The panorama in the direction of Fort Portal and (below) the first peaks of the Rwenzory mountain chain

The guide tells us how much he believes in the importance of this school, not only for the new generations but for the whole community. He himself teaches in the school, so to transfer the basic knowledge to the adults of the community. However he also let us understand how the resources available are barely enough, despite the income of the association being devolved to the school projects. Tourism in the Rwenzori Mountains, which would have a great potential, never recovered from the civil wars in Congo and Uganda. This area is still perceived as dangerous and is cut out of most tourist routes. In fact we barely meet any tourist.

But we continue our hike and finally we reach the doors of the National Park. Most likely we wouldn't be seen by anyone if we would enter, but it's better to stop there so to avoid any problem. Moreover, we are already quite happy as we've had our first meeting with a chameleon. Just there, a few steps from the border with the Park. It's a pre-historic and calm animal, bigger than I had imagined. Most important, it's not a multi-color, mega-super transformer as in the cartoons...At least during our enchantment -lasted about 5 minutes- it remained the same, as you see it in the picture. And yet it was necessary to have a local to spot it, as our Western eyes didn't notice it!

A male of Jackson's chameleon, widespread in Eastern Africa

Beginning of Rwenzory Mountains National Park

And a few extras:

A dance improvised for us, near the sacred Tree of Nakaima in Mubende (https://www.ugandasafaristours.com/blog/nakayima-tree-tree-mystery.html)

A boda-boda drive on a country road close by Lake Wamala

Versione italiana di questo articolo