Notes from the early 2000s:

Small Country, Big People

Welcome to Hrvatska? What the fuck? I’ve gotten on the wrong bus! I should be in Croatia, not Hrvatska! But at three in the morning and after a nine hour bus ride, Eastern Block countries all start to look the same. I had in the past three hours crossed so many borders and shown my passport to so many various uniforms from countries I had no idea existed, let alone spell, that I am sure that the bus driver was simply driving in a circle whilst his mates swapped the ‘Welcome to…’ signs on their backyard allotments.

I have always held a type of perverse fear of border guards. On the one hand I am very wary of their extensive powers regarding the law ( I was once threatened with a full body cavity search for refusing to sign papers that were not translated into English whilst being deported from Mallorca) and on the other I have a sick urge to be singled out by them as it may give me some street-cred for at least looking like a gruff, dodgy, violently masculine criminal, hopefully offsetting some of those feminine qualities that some kind friends of mine have recently alerted me to as having. But no, the border guard knew that the western powers never used bald secret agents as they don’t look good on TV, but instead pointed at two people with hair and marched them off the bus. They were told to grab their bags and packed into a small, dark office set off to the side of the road, looking somehow sinister on the edge of a forest, especially given the fact it was in the dead of night and the fluorescent lighting of the checkpoint made everyone’s faces look pallid and sick, or maybe they were just scared shitless. The bus driver did not even utter a sound, but rather put the bus into gear and pulled away, leaving his paid customers behind. A woman in the row opposite to me gave a small smirk and muttered, “Just like communist times.” Welcome to Croatia.

As one of the last generations to get a whiff of the Cold War odour, I have grown up with a fascination for the Ost Blok and its communist way of thinking and I did not need to be asked twice to take up the offer to visit a friend of mine on one of the Croatian islands, enduring this border-crossing sitcom along the way.

I was expecting to find a good dose of post-Commie rubble sprinkled with a healthy sprinkle of war-ravaged misery, mostly a ruined country populated by emaciated, skin-so-white-it-looks-a-kind-of-pale-blue frightened folk who run for the doorways and avoid eye contact at all costs, or younger people wearing the latest in 80’s fashion (you know, those items made out of 100% polyester to seal in the sweat, usually in some pastel shade and often known as a ‘Shell-Suit’) sporting their luscious curls in the form of a Mullet. I could not have been further from the truth. The place is surprisingly decent.

On a material level, every desire can easily be catered for in Croatia. Certainly, there are still cars around that not even East Germans would touch, but right behind them is a fat, shiny new Audi roaring with confidence at the pure power and testosterone that its makers artificially inseminated it with, about to bare every one of its oiled muscles on one of the numerous, spanking new motorways that are being built throughout the country. The towns all offer the latest fashions, well appreciated by the locals who generally keep a good appearance, not exactly up to Italian standards, but certainly better than the average Brit. Coffee shops and restaurants are plentiful in number, catering for one of Croatia’s most practiced past-times, gossiping. It doesn’t matter who you are, your status, how much time you have, or how little money you have, nothing is done without sitting down for a drink and talking about it. Because of this, one gets the impression that is a bond that people have, almost like a basic denominator keeping the society together. Everything is done by word of mouth, be it gossip, ideas, introductions or simply business deals, passing information around the country as fast as if we were to use email and internet. Having said this, they also act on what they discuss. Despite grinning and bearing years of communist dictatorship under Marshal Tito, the Croats decided they had had enough when the democratic elections came along and the majority Serbs who held all the positions of power both in the state and military weren’t willing to slice up any of the pie. So, outnumbered at least three to one and without a registered army of their own, they got on with it and fought for their independence. Some would argue that NATO helped, but Croats argue that it came too late as they had done all the hard work already.

Whilst journeying between several cities by bus, I kept my eyes peeled like a hardened rubber-necker to find evidence of the death and destruction, maybe just the odd bullet-hole. For the most part, much of it has been cleared up, with Peckham having more to show in the way of violence than Croatia. However, if one journeys towards the middle of the country it is still possible to see images that suggest how extreme the fighting and suffering had been. There are many newly built and painted houses lining the roads now, but every once in a while a burnt out pile of rubble marks a destroyed building, or a wall stands riddled with bullet holes or gouged by shrapnel by nearby explosions. People are open to talk about those years, but their general attitude is to shrug their shoulders, talk in a matter-of-fact way about the carnage, and just get on with the present to improve the future.

As usual, no report of mine would be complete without an ‘Ornithologist’s Update’, and in order to gain a better cross-section, I sampled some of the nightlife. Despite being surprised that all the clubs were playing all the latest club tunes, what struck me almost immediately was how sodding tall everyone was. The women are all nearing six foot and, without stabbing my beloved Argentina in the back, are definitely the most attractive women in Europe. As for the men, I felt as though I had walked in on a ‘Spetznaz Anonymous’ group. I was bounced about between these forms of Homo Balkanicus like a yapping terrier, all of them at least a head taller than me, having to be careful that I didn’t have my eye poked out by their nipples as they danced ploddingly around whichever female they were protecting/hiding/wooing between their biceps.

One of my high points was to stay on a small island that used to be the furthest populated military outpost of Croatia, then part of Yugoslavia. The island had 3000 inhabitants and as many soldiers living there, but now the military has been replaced by 15 policemen. The island is pure bliss, showing off how the Mediterranean had intended itself to be seen, without the lager-louts, the cheap lights and vulgar sale of low quality food with a side helping of chips. The sun is hot even towards the beginning of November and the sea water so clean it makes even the Caribbean blush. In fact, it all looks so idyllic that one can’t help like being in one of those artistic cheesy French films where the hero does sensual things with dolphins, complete except for the fact that one of the two harbours on the island is supposed to have a heroine problem affecting 50% of those living there. I take this to mean that the problem is that every second person can’t get their hands on any of the stuff.

Despite being such a small island (the furthest one can drive is 18km, and that is the long way around) the people are surprisingly lively. People are not lazy and no one ambles, rather everyone ‘pootles’, even without the aid of Class A narcotics. I define ‘pootle’ as travelling with purposeful intent and concentration without the stress of rushing. Everything there pootles; the small 1000cc cars, the mopeds, even the animals pootle. As I sat in the shade of a small pine tree, snoozing in the afternoon sun and drinking in the horizon of the silver blue sea curving towards Italy, and stuffing my face with wild toxin-free berries, I noticed a rare Lesser-Spotted Pouncing Bee not zip by, but rather pootle. If I were to describe the bee’s journey as a drawing, I would include small puffs behind it, like a small vintage car trundling along. Listening carefully, one also noticed how even the birds didn’t twitter nervously, but rather one heard a sort of ‘dum-de-dum-de-dum’ as they pootled by.

In the communist days, the island was riddled with bunkers and store houses, with fences blocking the way every twenty steps. Nowadays all the fences have been ripped down, and one can walk around all the military compounds, crumbling and rusting from years of desertion. The island has a maze of tunnels connecting various bunkers with respective compounds, and even an underground hospital built into one of the mountains, open to anyone to enter as they please. The only problem is no one can say for sure that all the mines have been cleared away, thus putting a dampener on most people’s curiosity, not to mention their limbs.

The language is a tough one to get to grips with, especially if one is not prepared. Whilst walking along the harbour, a passing man looked me straight in the eye and muttered “Bog” at me. I was a little stunned at first, and then contemplated asking him whether he kissed his mother with that mouth, but was soon alerted to the fact that it is a greeting, much like ‘Ciao’. The rest of the language is just as completely unrelated to any of our mainstream languages, but luckily the majority of the locals speak at least a little English, if not fluently.

In the summer, Croatia’s coastline is a bustle of tourism, especially with those that have a disposition for sailing. All amenities are available wherever one goes, and one does not have to look far for a dive club or Kite-surf school to stay active. I truly believe that the country has the ability to be the next ‘in’ holiday destination. It has the infrastructure, is remarkably cheap, the Croats are on the whole a very well educated bunch, the weather truly Mediterranean, and is actually closer than Greece for the average Westerner. In fact, once the EU opens its borders to include all the newest applicants, Croatia will be sitting more or less in the centre of Europe. Take my word for it, if any of you are looking for a cheap and pleasurable holiday, give the place a go. It may surprise you as much as it did me.

As always, there is so much more to try to share about it all but I, with the average attention span lasting only fifteen minutes or less, will cut my losses and stop there. I hope this has left you in a mild state of positive feeling, rather like after sneezing.