Serbia to Bulgaria

Serbia to Bulgaria ...

I'd made a mistake ... I knew it as I headed towards the Serbian border. That little fella who sits on my shoulder knew it too. He was kind of looking at me with a knowing gaze. Of course he didn't know what it was exactly, but kept looking at me, as a reminder I was gonna find out soon.

Pulling back the scale on the GPS, I surveyed the map of Europe to see which country sits where, in relation to each other. The Garmin showed me that it was a long ride back if I wanted to avoid Serbia, or if they wouldn't let me through for some reason. I scanned my memory banks for any recollection of anyone not being able to get in to Serbia, and felt pretty certain that if it was a no-go for any reason, I'd have surely remembered. Stopping the bike for a pee, pulled out the map and looked at it more thoroughly. According what I was seeing, the boundary run right alongside this road. I was stood in Hungary, but had just pee'd into Serbia. Vague thoughts of the atrocoties during the war that broke up former Yugoslavia, put me on a slight edge. I looked about to see if there were any machine gun turrets, but the coast was clear. It'd not yet reached midday. With the sun was out, the air was getting warmer. So far it was a nice day ...

Suddenly the road narrowed, and found myself being funneled into the border crossing. A barrier was barring my way compelling me with a bold red & white bar to 'STOP'. The first border crossing that wasn't a wave-through job. “Pazzport” the camaflouged guard demanded. He was a stocky sort who I'd guess wouldn't look good in ballet tights. His thin-lipped smile told me he was light on empathy too. “Green-cart” I looked at him blank.”Oh yeah, insurance” I said and went to dig out my UK insurance certificate. It was then it struck me ... the bloody green card. This was the first country that demanded it. And of course our stoopid UK insurance companies, no longer issue 'em, as they're redundant under EU reg's. The little fella on my shoulder was sniggering away with delight!

I tried to blag it using my UK insurance certificate, but they were insistent. Or should I say bore'dly persistent, as they'd no doubt seen it all before. I was taken along to a little hut, that'd been squeezed in amongst a dozen other little huts. Signs written in Cyrillic giving clues as to their possible purpose, which of course left me as much in the dark as I was before reading them. A young and not unattractive lady was sat behing a counter. She did her best to make sure she was as unattractive as possible, by growling and avoiding all eye-contact. She succeeded brilliantly. The same mono-syllabic demands for my Green-Cart, led to the discovery that I would have to fork out over 80 Euro's to get the necessary insurance coverage. The little fella had gone from sniggering to guffaws ...

Paperwork completed, I went along my way. But with a good chunk bitten into the wallet's Euro-stash. My thoughts wandered back to some of the earlier research of the previous year. There were a few fuzzy brain cells that could recall a HUBB posting, to the effect of being 'stung' for insurance if you chose to ride through Serbia. Oh well, I was going to make the most of it now that I was in, as the map showed a thick red line running most of the breadth of the country. Once installed on what looked like a motorway, I'd be able to fast-track the day's ride much further east than would have done using any other country as a ride-around. My last email from Bjorn told me that his Romanian route for example, was dotted with small towns that made for very slow progress. And by now had well and truly made up my mind to hot-wheel it onwards to Turkey, where I'd arranged for a tyre-change. This was my chance to make up time, and may even be able to meet up with Bjorn before the Turkish border.

Sofia (16/6/08)

After leaving the rather nice small Hungarian town of Pécs, had figured to get through Europe ASAP. Sensibility once more prevailed during the day, in deciding to take a stoppover, rather than another night-time ride-through to reach my next target in Eastern Bulgaria. 'Net' research had shown a promising campsite run by a couple of enterprsing Brit's, but my progress during the day had proven me to be waaaaay off the mark. The GPS informed me after a nice gentle ride South, and as I joined Serbias spine-like E80 motorway, that I wasn't likely to get to my hoped for destination till gone midnight. Now, I dont know what your tent pitching skills are like, but after a long days riding couldn't see me engaging in any kind of canvas erecting activity with any sort of enthusiasm, or indeed particular skill. Apart from that, knocking up a couple of caravan park/campsite owners from their beauty sleep just for a €2 'earner', didn't seem the right thing to do.

Another mad-ride was coming to and end, as darkness approached. The Serbian motorway had served it's expensive purpose in shooting me across the country in double quick time. I'd also negotiated the Serbia/Bulgaria border, but to tell you the truth remember nothing about it. Try as I might here while writing, cannot find any memory relating to that particular border crossing. Normally, border crossing's are cause for some kind of hold-up that langours in the memory banks, but no, nothing. It's as if it didn't happen, so can only guess that it must've been a wave-through without incident of any kind. Most unusual!

I was again bone-tired after a day watching Serbia hurtle by in my peripheral vision. The main road was now taking me directly towards Sofia, one of Bulgria's big industrial towns. Not fancying a ride into the likely-to-be-busy centre, would see if I could find a bed for the night this side of the city. As I approached, a set of traffic lights showed a teeming junction, with cars and lorries going left and right. A ring-road? If so, then it's a good chance to find a sign saying 'Bates Motel' or whatever ...

I finally managed to find a hostelry, but not one that was able to warm me to either Bulgaria or Sofia. To give you some idea ... my rather expensive evening meal at the unfriendly hotel struggled to attain average. As an example, the chef had added enough salt to the potatoes to turn Lake Coniston into an inland sea, and the chicken kebab was delightfully 'pink' inside. The waitress clearly wanted to go home, so acted like a 5 year old having a tantrum, as well as trying to give me a hard time afterwards for not having enough money to pay in local currency.

NB. I did make a foolish attempt of turning this overnighter into an anedote that had some entertainment value, but I was as successful as the waitresses efforts at détente. So I've ditched it, and moved straight to the next day:-

The final nail in the coffin to ensure my sole visit to Bulgaria was filed into a somewhat negative memory, was a minor incident the following morning. Having got up and dressed road-ready, realised my rather pricey night's stopover didn't include breakfast. I couldn't say I was really too worried, as I'd already made up mind that I wanted to get out of there and on my way as soon as possible. So packing up, did a quick once-over to make sure everything was bolted-down on the bike and set off. The GPS showed what appeared to be a ring-road around smokey old Sofia, so started along the very busy and poorly maintained route to negate the need of going through the centre. I remember a few things quite distinctly from that morning. One was that the sun was shining and it was clearly a beautiful day. But the road, the conditions and occassional glimpse of Sofia gave a rather depressing feel to the ride. Once I'd negotiated the fearfully busy and at times dangerous ring-road, finally managed to get onto the main road East.

Once on the main route it felt like I was making real progress, and so started to relax as I moved further away from that bad place. As a parting salute, Sofia was still making its oppressive presence known in both mirrors. It could be viewed laying in a fug of pollution behind me, and if you'd have been there would have seen a little puffy thought balloon coming of my helmet, that displayed the words; 'thank goodness I'm past that'. I'd already done something like 40 to 50 miles or perhaps more, and was beginning to settle into the morning's ride. So belatedly completed my double-check routine. It was then that it hit me ... You know ... one of those 'sinking feeling' moments. All it took was a glance into my mirror ... to make sure I had my bag, which held some personal stuff. No strap! 'Oh shit'. Check again ... Yup, there was no bloody strap. I looked down, and could see the bag wasn't where it should be. And because this was the first time I'd checked for it, I knew it hadn't fallen off. It must have been left back at the hotel! Damn, blast and buggery! My stomach turned over with a lurch. The next immediate thought was, to try and remember what exactly was in the bag, as at that particular moment could not face the thought of turning around to go back. Backing the throttle right off, slowed to 50Km/hr and dawdled along for the next couple of miles. I continued to dig into my proven-to-be-unreliable memory banks. Though no matter how hard I concentrated, couldn't for the life of me recall what was in the bag, apart from note-book, pens & compass. I even stopped briefly for a stock-check of 'stuff'. Moby? In my bum-bag. Wallet? Same ... Passports? Jacket rear zip-pocket. And so it went, with me not really finding any really high priority items missing. What I was doing was trying to find reasons not to go back. I was looking for an excuse to carry on my sweet way and just forget all about it. Then two thoughts struck me simultaneously. The first was that I'd put a small ornament into one of the bag's pouches. It was a cut-glass hare, wrapped in tissue that I'd intended giving back to my youngest daughter, but not getting to see her was still carrying it with me. Then the second thing was; that I quite liked my little gay man-bag. It was a present, and I was already kind of attached to it. I had to go back!

I stole myself and even gulped at this realisation. I've gotta say the idea of doing the ring-road again ... twice ... was very depressing. With legs of lead, stepped back onto the bike and carried on for a short distance, before doing a U-turn. Going back down the hill the city smouldered, the unwelcoming fog still hanging like a shroud. Being directly in front of the wind-screen I couldn't help but watch it get closer, working it's magic and dragging my mood into a deeper hole. The hell of the ring-road was beckoning. Refusing to think about whether I was likely to find the bag after going back, tried use a bit of positive reasoning. Concentrating on the fact I was at least making the effort, rather than abandoning it to an unknown fate, kept the monsters at bay. Twenty minutes after the U-turn I was back on the ring-road and battling the trucks, mad drivers, heat and pot-holes once again. Less than an hour after turning back, saw me outside the hotel back where I started. Some doubt filtered to the fore, as I walked up the hotel steps. Is the bag here? Will it be worth it?

Walking in, the place was still devoid of people. So began going around trying doors, calling out a wimpish sounding hello, to attract attention. Eventually I found a cleaning lady, and asked if the manager was about. She then made a motion putting a bag onto her shoulder. Noooo? It couldn't be ... surely not? But yes, she'd put it into one of her broom cupboards. I could've kissed her. Then did a double-take at her manly appearance. Perhaps not ... Managing to find some grace in a heart-felt thank you, added one of my best cheesy smiles, which seemed to raise her sour looking demenour slightly. Before I left she let me know by pointing, that I'd simply left the bag out the front. A distant memory ... taking the bag off, placing it on the deck before pulling on the bike jacket. I may well have made sure the luggage was all firmly strapped down, but in my haste to get away from there, had failed to double-check I'd picked everything up. What a prat! Mounting the Dakar it made a parody for me to do the check again, but the reflection of the bag-strap was where it should be this time. Lesson learned I set off towards Satan's race-track, for the third time that morning ...