Digging the Danube

For me, Serbia was an abstract concept while I was growing up. It was the place that my grandfather (sadly known only from photographs and anecdotes) emigrated from after the second world war, a place that later tumbled into division and controversy and a place that has started to slowly recover. I had never been before, my family live in the unsettled and dangerous town of Knin, which is now part of Croatia but I thought that Belgrade, the white city on the Danube, might offer a good starting point.

Despite conflicting opinions of where a journey begins I feel as though this entry would be incomplete without a brief mention of JAT, the Serbian airline. As someone who isn't terribly keen on flying there are certain flight experiences etched indelibly in my mind for future comparison. I remember the creaking light-plane to Abu Simbel, the cramped and hellishly delayed Rwandair flight to Kilimanjaro and the sixties-throwback style Fijian airways flight to Vanua Levu with particular horror, but this was on a whole new level. The floor sank and creaked as the stewardesses walked along it, the lights flickered constantly and people used their mobile phones with impunity throughout the whole flight. On arrival, the modern, polished Nikola Tesla airport was deathly quiet, including the banks, which seemed strange for a Monday afternoon. Unable to change any pounds to dinar I spent half an hour deciphering the bus timetable (comprehensive yet cyrillic) and fending off overpriced offers of taxis. The JAT bus proved efficient and quick and I hopped off cheerfully at the train station, told my hostel was but 5 minutes away. Belgrade is gloriously confusing if you can't read the alphabet, speak the language or read a map (it's always been a problem, particularly on my Duke of Edinburgh expedition). A friendly stranger read the street name I was looking for and demanded that he should take me there, despite not speaking a single word of English. His kindness was manifest and extended to trying to offer me his hat because I looked so cold. Unable to thank him fluently we shook hands and parted firm friends.

Belgrade is gloriously confusing if you can't read the alphabet, speak the language or read a map.

The Af-Terr hostel was clean, spacious and well-located and, the pair of lurking, angry dormmates aside, very friendly. I was meeting my sister and her friend who had been interrailing and was travelling to meet me from Budapest and she appeared several hours later, at which point I had downed three glasses of whisky from two obliging Cypriots.

We made our first foray into the pedestrianized Obilicev Venac and to our pleasant surprise found street bars lining the road with attractive, umbrella'd seating in the street. On that Monday evening the street was buzzing with people and every bar was full of merrymaking twentysomethings. It was ten pm and we stopped at an upmarket restaurant for something to eat and had an absolutely fantastic meal for next to nothing. All restaurants charge a hundred dinar cover charge per person but it's worth it just for the sundried-tomato bread and olive paste that comes as standard. My sister, with her eyes barely visible in the bags that surrounded them, wanted to get some shuteye. We retired early to the hostel for a good night's sleep of earplugs, bunk-beds and the budget traveller's natural sleeping position, the backpack safety-hug.