Not a very good night – too much movement outside the tent. It seemed as though the entire campsite was a living, breathing entity. Choruses of snoring wafted in on the night air. Added to this was the cold night as the temperature plummeted about thirty degrees from the daytime warmth.
The next morning was bright and sunny. But in the distance, clouds were forming, threatening to put an end to the blue skies. We also discovered the source of the movement and snoring. The tents we had noticed when we entered the site the previous evening, belonged to a group of Pakistanis en route overland for England. It is an interesting story and how we found out went as follows.
8 am. Allan and I were going about our morning routine, preparing breakfast etc, surrounded by a group of these Pakistanis who crowded round the mouth of the tent, “Ooo-ing” and “Ahhh-ing” at each well planned movement. The interest turned to absolute amazement when they saw that were able to pack a fair sized tent and accoutrements into a little Fiat… Also watching us were several Slavs. Quietly amused, we felt like circus performers.
A young Pakistani pushed his way through the crowd.
“Good morning,” he said politely. Nonchalantly, we returned the greeting. We continued packing away our things under the incredulous eyes of the spectators, acutely aware that we were the stars of the moment.
His next words were quite surprising. “My name is David,” he said, proudly adding “I am a Christian.” He waved a hand disdainfully at the others. “These are all Muslims.”.
I was a little nonplussed, not knowing what to say. Religion has never been a strong point with me except for a couple of years as a choirboy, a chore undertaken to please my mother.
“Really?” I replied, not the least interested in the man’s faith. However, he was a nice young man, and we made some small talk with him as we worked, all of which I have now forgotten, except for one thing – their method of travel. The explanation was really incredible.
Waiting at the bus stop in Pakistan, were enough people wishing to go to England to amount to two busloads – but only one bus! The solution was unbelievable in its simplicity.
The driver took on one bus load and then drove them say, sixty miles in the direction of London. At which point, he deposited them. They set up their tents and the driver then returned to pick up the second lot. The second load of passengers joined the first, and after a few hours sleep, the driver continued on towards the promised land with the original load. Once again they were deposited at a suitable camping spot whence the driver returned for the second load. Thus two busloads of Pakistanis were able to leapfrog their way to England where I suppose they joined their fiends and family in Leeds or Bradford. Now is that ingenious or not?
We breakfasted on hamburgers, cooked over our little stove. Finally, we were ready to start on the next leg of our odyssey. But the car was not!
We knew the problem could not be serious – plugs or points or both after the previous day’s marathon. So I cleaned and reset the plugs while Allan did the same with the points. Success!
However, before we could leave, the second lot of Pakistanis arrived in the bus and once again we were surrounded by curious onlookers who were quickly brought up to date by their compatriots who had arrived the night before.
9.45 am. We drove out of the official camp site to the goodbyes of the Pakistanis and carrying with us mixed feelings about the country so far. Generally, the people are very nice but the apathy of the public servants reminds one of a similar kind of inertness found in Britain’s state run industries, ie. British Rail.
The countryside is flat and dull, uninteresting. The Autoput stretches out straight before us until it converges with the horizon as a single line. Children wave excitedly as we pass.
It is Sunday morning, and we notice a group of young women approaching across a field. We stop. They are dressed in a delightful national costume, very colourful. As they draw nearer we point at our camera and then at them. No words are needed. Laughing and giggling, they pose for us. Typical reaction from these people; wary at first, then when they see we want to be friends they relax at once.
We continue on our way under cloudy skies. The fields on either side of the Autoput are filled with some kind of crop which we do not recognise. We think it is sugar-cane. Years later I realise it was melons. How could we have thought it was sugar cane?
Talking about yesterday’s run, we reckon it is the equivalent of a trip from London to Newcastle and back. Quite unusual in that small country of ours. The sun is favouring us again. We have never seen a road like this ever. Dead straight for 400 km. (250 mls.) We are in Croatia, soon to cross into Serbia, the match which ignited the First World War.
A car is parked on the shoulder of the road. The driver waves us down. We stop to help. It turns out to be a puncture. The owner of the car, as far as we can make out is a shoe salesman, middle aged, travelling with his mother. Naturally, neither Allan nor I speak Slavic so the man switches to German of which I have a rudimentary knowledge. To my amazement and pride, I found myself remembering more and more as the halting conversation proceeded. I began to enjoy myself. It appears that many people speak German in Yugoslavia because of the German occupation during the war.
Meanwhile, Allan was mending the puncture, being more familiar with this kind of work than I. Silently watching the action was a barefoot peasant.
Soon the tyre was mended. Arrogantly, the owner ordered the peasant to pump up the tire which he meekly did. But as soon as it was inflated it sprang another leak. Mindful of the time we were losing, and reluctant to mend this new leak, we let it be known we were sorry, but we had to be going. He pleaded but we were adamant. We felt like rotters at leaving him but felt we had done enough. Amazingly, as soon as he saw that his exhortations were falling on deaf ears he declared “I do not speak German, but my mother does”. I wondered if it was really German that I had been speaking for the past hour!
“If you help us, you can spend the night at our apartment,” his mother offered. But we refused. We had our timetable and were going to stick with it no matter what. A bet depended on it! On reflection, maybe we should have. We would have certainly seen more of Belgrade and the way of life. However… We suggested the owner stop a passing truck for help but he gave the impression that that would be demeaning to a man of his stature. So we did it for him! I explained to the truck driver in my halting German what the problem was. The driver, a very friendly fellow was only to eager to help.
Before we drove off, the car owner’s mother had the good grace to thank us for our efforts. But her son, still mad at us, didn’t thank us at all. We were very glad to get out of the situation.
Onwards to Belgrade.
New Belgrade comes first. It is quite amazing. To our, untrained eyes it seems as though an entirely new city is being built around the old city of Belgrade. Massive blocks of flats are going up everywhere. I think this is an integral part of the communist manifesto, to give housing to everyone. We proceed on to Belgrade itself.
I liked Belgrade immediately. The fine, wide streets – or aptly named boulevards, are nearly empty of traffic. Is this the communist paradise? We bought postcards and nipped into a local cafe to write them. We bought a beer apiece and soaked up the atmosphere. Although it was one of your local bars, the background music – traditional of course – gave it an ambience I shall never forget. It really was a world apart from our own, Author’s note: That memory is still vivid from a distance of thirty-six years. Time to leave Belgrade. Not what one can call a memorable city, but pleasant enough. As usual, the people friendly and helpful.
The Autoput ends at Belgrade, so naturally the road south was nowhere near as good, roughly surfaced and twisting and turning its way through semi-mountainous country.
The character of the people is changing now, this being Serbia, once an independent state, as were all the provinces of Yugoslavia. The roads are lined with peasants in their traditional dress. The men wear a kind of military beret. A loose jacket oversees a pair of trousers, baggy to the knees then pulled in very tightly to enclose the knees and calves. On their feet they wear a kind of moccasin, the toes being curled up similar to the shoes the Turks wear. After all, this was once part of the Ottoman Empire. I was lucky enough to get one of the better dressed gentlemen to pose for me, deeply-lined face unsmiling, as though not knowing what to make of us or the camera.
It is Sunday afternoon. The roads are filled with pedestrians. Families riding in horse drawn carts creak by. Not being facetious, I suppose they belong to a better-off class of peasant. Keeping company with the humans are small herds of little black pigs. We see what are obviously cultivated grapes growing by the roadside. The growers sell them to the passers by. People wave as we pass. What an * interesting part of the trip.
We are driving along parallel to a range of mountains which turn blue as the sun begins to set behind them. A beautiful sight.
As dusk was coming on, much earlier than at home, we began to look for a campsite. We found a clearing at the edge of a wood just off the road and quite well hidden. Taking a chance (for as I earlier noted, camping off the beaten track is illegal in Yugoslavia), we set up tent.
We dined royally on vegetable soup, rolls, beef casserole, fruit washed down by a cup of the omnipresent tea.
7.00 pm. We are almost ready for bed in order to make an early start tomorrow. The crickets are cricketing outside; earlier we heard the hoot of an owl. You could not get a more rural scene than this. There’s nothing else to report so I close today with the hope that this night will be better than the last one. Goodnight.
Speedo reading: 15157. 223 mls. (1613)
