Nothing to declare
Now, I realise that Serbia and Croatia have had their differences in the past, so I thought there might be a slight hold up passing from one country to the other. So there was no surprise when the Serbian border guard frowned at us, frowned at our passports, then back at us.
"Where have you been?" he barked.
"Belgrade," I replied.
"Beer Festival?" he asked with a wry smile.
That was unexpected. Then we got to the Croatian border guard who saw us approaching, rushed over to his colleague who was scanning our passports and snatched them from him before waving us aggressively into a "search area" by the checkpoint. He then asked us whether, in English, he should say he wanted to "look inside" the van or "see inside" the van. We told him that either worked. He was very pleased with himself as he came aboard and was still smiling as he foraged in the overhead lockers, under the benches, under the duvet, under the mattress, behind cushions… so happy that he completely missed all the booze sta
shed in a cool box under the table. We were waved through and thought that was that.
Then we got stopped by a Croatian policeman who wanted to see our passports all over again. I told him that we had just been searched and he replied, "They are customs. I am police."
He was a menacing, overalled jobsworth with a moustache and a utility belt to make Batman jealous. He told me to get out of the van and follow him round the back as he sneeringly inspected the large swathes of silver duct tape holding it all together.
"Open the box," he said gruffly.
Now, the roof box to which he was referring is only accessible via the ladder at the back of the van and that ladder had our bikes strapped to it. It takes approximately half an hour to get them down and put them back up. I tried to explain all this to him but he cared not one jot, smiled and nodded, knowingly. After a hot and sweaty wrestle with the bikes we both clambered up on to the roof (I was praying he'd put a foot through it so we could get some repairs paid for) and together we went through EVERYTHING that was up there – including the "poop chute" to empty the loo! Eventually he got bored and climbed down leaving me to re-pack the roof box and lash the bikes back onto the ladder-rack. All in unbearable heat...
Because if
I thought Bulgaria was hot and Serbia was sweltering, well, Croatia feels like it's about 20ft from the sun. It is unreasonably hot. As we trundled toward the capital on near-melting asphalt, the digital signs along the motorway were telling us it was 35°C, then 36°C, then 37°C… the next day, in Zagreb, the local newspaper's front page said it had been 48°C! That's the boiling point of sanity itself.
It meant that our walk around Zagreb, beautiful city thou
gh it is, was arduous, sweaty, occasionally grumpy and subsequently broken at regular intervals by pitstops at various bars. We managed to see most of Zagreb's talking points (including the statue of a man strangling a python) but it was bit of a mission. Talking of missions, we foolishly had some Serbian dinara left over so naively thought we could change them to Croatian koruna. We were laughed out of each bank we tried. It seems that they are still not on speaking terms.
It has also become apparent, via email, that the deal with "Hungarian Johnny" is off and he will now no longer be buying the Ebay van from us. This means we now have to nurse the dying beast back to the UK. Big ask. Especially as there's a couple of mountain ranges to negotiate. But if Hannibal could do it...
"Where have you been?" he barked.
"Belgrade," I replied.
"Beer Festival?" he asked with a wry smile.
That was unexpected. Then we got to the Croatian border guard who saw us approaching, rushed over to his colleague who was scanning our passports and snatched them from him before waving us aggressively into a "search area" by the checkpoint. He then asked us whether, in English, he should say he wanted to "look inside" the van or "see inside" the van. We told him that either worked. He was very pleased with himself as he came aboard and was still smiling as he foraged in the overhead lockers, under the benches, under the duvet, under the mattress, behind cushions… so happy that he completely missed all the booze sta
shed in a cool box under the table. We were waved through and thought that was that.
Then we got stopped by a Croatian policeman who wanted to see our passports all over again. I told him that we had just been searched and he replied, "They are customs. I am police."
He was a menacing, overalled jobsworth with a moustache and a utility belt to make Batman jealous. He told me to get out of the van and follow him round the back as he sneeringly inspected the large swathes of silver duct tape holding it all together.
"Open the box," he said gruffly.
Now, the roof box to which he was referring is only accessible via the ladder at the back of the van and that ladder had our bikes strapped to it. It takes approximately half an hour to get them down and put them back up. I tried to explain all this to him but he cared not one jot, smiled and nodded, knowingly. After a hot and sweaty wrestle with the bikes we both clambered up on to the roof (I was praying he'd put a foot through it so we could get some repairs paid for) and together we went through EVERYTHING that was up there – including the "poop chute" to empty the loo! Eventually he got bored and climbed down leaving me to re-pack the roof box and lash the bikes back onto the ladder-rack. All in unbearable heat...
Because if
I thought Bulgaria was hot and Serbia was sweltering, well, Croatia feels like it's about 20ft from the sun. It is unreasonably hot. As we trundled toward the capital on near-melting asphalt, the digital signs along the motorway were telling us it was 35°C, then 36°C, then 37°C… the next day, in Zagreb, the local newspaper's front page said it had been 48°C! That's the boiling point of sanity itself.
It meant that our walk around Zagreb, beautiful city thou
gh it is, was arduous, sweaty, occasionally grumpy and subsequently broken at regular intervals by pitstops at various bars. We managed to see most of Zagreb's talking points (including the statue of a man strangling a python) but it was bit of a mission. Talking of missions, we foolishly had some Serbian dinara left over so naively thought we could change them to Croatian koruna. We were laughed out of each bank we tried. It seems that they are still not on speaking terms.
It has also become apparent, via email, that the deal with "Hungarian Johnny" is off and he will now no longer be buying the Ebay van from us. This means we now have to nurse the dying beast back to the UK. Big ask. Especially as there's a couple of mountain ranges to negotiate. But if Hannibal could do it...
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