Shot on Fujifilm X-T10 with Fujinon XF 35mm f2
Balkan Voyage
Difference inspires exploration
The older I get the less I feel neither desire nor longing to explore the world towards the West. There is no form of frontier, no difference to find. It lacks significance. Quite different in the East. Everything has ever felt different - more unknown, wilder and yet safer, more direct and honest, rougher and yet warmer. Friendliness is only found by looking closer, but when found genuine rather than the other way around, the American way. I am searching for difference, difference satisfies curiosity, inspires question and exploration. Difference is significant.
Difference inspired this trip and informed its mode: longer in time but less per day, more stops and less performance, more immersion in and less fly-bys of the unknown. I cherish maps, digital as well as analog. Since I have been a kid maps signaled an upcoming venture. Thus, I spent long evenings in front of my laptop, browsed through maps and travel reports, created at least five routes and pestered likeminded friends and strangers with questions of all kinds. From Zagreb I wanted to go South until Durmitor National park, cut to the coast and go North until I touch the known, in form of Austria, again - alone.
After a rainy day, I wet my socks on my artificial grass balcony while I enjoy the sunrise over Banja Luka with coffee in hand. I am nervous, hastily I shove some food into my system and get ready. Shortly thereafter on an endless alternation of up and down my frustration tolerance lets me down faster than usual. The bike feels heavy - it probably is. Even though cheap accommodation paired with insecurity due to inexperience and anxiety of sleeping out alone had me ditch my sleeping gear just before leaving and, thus, lightening my setup. Nevertheless I feel slow, weak, and self-doubt creeps in. The ease of choosing comfort over discomfort two days ago enhances the effect of discomfort and my ability to cope with it. I stop. I am close to tears of frustration. While self-doubt gnaws at my self-perception, I watch a grandma - probably a babushka - manually plow her little field. I take a deep breath. I take on more. Think and instantly have to chuckle at the absurdity of my thoughts. It is 09:30 AM and it is my first real day of riding my bicycle.
In the subsequent descent, the sign "Motel Kanjon, 500m" flies past me and before my head has a chance to decide against a break, I already order coffee and omelet. After a thumbs up from a distant table, the stranger approaches and introduces himself as Bogdan. And, he does not hold back with questions about me, my journey, my bike, and my impression of Bosnia. “I prefer people with questions over people with answers anytime”, I think and eagerly return some questions of my own. Fueled by the interaction, I find my rhythm up the second and last climb of the day.
“I prefer people with questions over people with answers, anytime.”
The next morning I get a push-start by a slight downhill for the first thirty kilometers before I stop at a supermarket to get breakfast. I sit on the floor in front of the super market enjoying some Bosnian pastries and watch the melon supplier unload. Shortly after a babushka routinely knocks on all the melons, shakes her head disappointed and ignores them. Eating my melon ice cream I grin to myself, life is sweet.
That day my balance and composure is put to the test, again. It becomes clear: I need to readjust my rear derailleur and I am no natural-born mechanic. In the next town, a supermarket worker points me to a little store where the owner lets me use his Wifi, so that the Internet hopefully helps me conquer my lack of technical and mechanical craftsmanship. As an exchange of favor I have to take a look at his new Mercedes Benz he proudly presents as just imported from Germany. While his import-story was a full success, my mechanics skills lack an equal success-rate. So, head on to Sarajevo in the hope of finding help. The third shop is the needed help and provider of ice cold coke. I watch the mechanic twist and turn the dials on my derailleur, do not understand why but when I leave the shop change gears like a world tour pro. I spend the rest of the day drifting through Sarajevo, taking photos and testing local cuisine. A year later, I still remember the mechanics voice, his warm laughs while we exchange cycling stories, and him saving for a Leatherman - which is insanely hard to get in Bosnia - for his next trip. A sentence which does not really exist in the Western world anymore.
Not an enthusiast for early starts, I raise at 04:24 AM but nothing spoils my mood today. Finally the time has come: Durmitor National Park! At 04:52 AM, I push my bike out of the cabin, want to hold my bike by pulling the front brake - it keeps rolling. The lever hits the handlebar. In an instant, emotions rage inside of me. A logical explanation I have not. A solution I have neither. Pragmatism decides that one brake is sufficient for the first 60 km with 1.700 meters of elevation gain; Hope that the front brake will reappear. Carefully using the rear brake I pass the car queue infant of the border post - passport out, passport in - I pass the iconic wooden bridge to Montenegro and am fully here, now. Euphoric I speed through tunnels and test my echo at each tunnel passage. The following climb, a dream, the light even more, the condition of my legs terrific, the missing brake of no interest.
Shortly before the end of the climb I spot another cyclist in front of me, old behavior comes up: I won't take a break until I catch up with him. During the break I meet Victor, who started at home in France. We get each other, the desire for the East, talk about photography and my front brake. We ride the next ten kilometers together before Victor wants to stop for coffee, but I - again acting on old behavioral patterns - think I have to continue, to push on and, thus, we part. In the subsequent climb I find peace, ponder and, ultimately, stop shortly before the end of the climb at a ramshackle trailer for coffee Arabica. Knowing his route, I wait for Victor. When I see him climb, I feel relieved. We drink another coffee Arabica and spend the rest of the day riding, taking pictures, and on the descent I envy him for his working rim brakes. In Žabljak, Viktor cooks food on a five by five meter piece of lawn GoogleMaps knows as city park, while I drink Fanta and locate my accommodation. As we part, I realize how glad I was for the company and am satisfied to have broken up old behavior patterns for once.
On my vespertine food campaign, I rediscover burek. Neither do I know how I forgot about it after my good friend Cihan introduced me to it nor do I know how I managed to miss it throughout Bosnia and Herzegovina. I order two different ones, a Fanta, enjoy both in front of the store and immediately text Cihan. I notice how restraint, shyness even gives way and calmness spreads in interactions; I realize that I arrive in this region and on this trip.
On the first downhill the next morning, my bike computer shows me a solid 70 km/h and as I remember my limited braking capabilities I pull both brakes habitually and — both brake. Wait what? As mysteriously as it was lost, it returns. I scream of joy and can feel the corners of my mouth touch my earlobes. I fly over the plateau and descend into central Montenegro. Nothing can stop me today, neither the heat nor my bizarre accommodation. The next morning, the continuing euphoria still makes me jump out of bed onto my bicycle, float across the asphalt, do a few pull-ups on the side of the road - just because - and choose some extra meters of elevation - just because. At kilometer 40, I sit in a ruin on the roadside. Exhausted.
It's 42°C, a considerably mild breeze is blowing through the ruin and my bike leans perfectly against a wall. I seize the opportunity to take a few bike portraits. Through the viewfinder of my camera, I watch my bike catch a bigger breeze and fall — it feels like slow motion — before I take the viewfinder from my eye I know what happened. Fuck. Five deep breaths, dirty hands and one replaced derailleur hanger later I leave frustration and the ruin behind me. Shkodra lake feels like a fever dream, it is 47 degree celsius but I cannot reach its cooling content. While I keep it in close proximity, I reach the next supermarket. Three cold beverages, two ice creams, and one nap later, I pour the remaining cold water over my head before I begin the last 600m climb.
The next day begins as the previous ended, uphill with a bonus thunderstorm. I seek shelter on a terrace of a coffee bar. The first hour, I spent with a drifter that slept on the couch of said terrace in his sleeping bag. We talk for twenty minutes before he gets off the couch, pulls out paint and paintbrush and starts painting the terrace which catches me off guard. I chuckle. While he paints, I slowly put on leg warmers, fleece shirt, and my rain jacket. A group of French campers from a nearby camping spot joins for breakfast and a little later his boss arrives. I jump inside, order coffee — warmth, shelter. Quickly after me four of his friends arrive, obviously still intoxicated the last one falls out of the car and stumbles into the bar. Card games are played, two different French tourists appear and I down coffee number three before I brace the remainder of the rain. What a bizarre scene in the Montenegrian mountains on the backside of the bay of Kotor. Four hours later, I sit again. This time at the road side staring into the void. Sweat covers every inch of my body. I know what I need, but unfortunately not where to get it - ice cream and Fanta. Twice more I find it on the climb back into Bosnia and Herzegovina. On the final descent, all the fatigue in my legs fades, noise around me silences, the consistent sound of my free hub acts as a hypnotic and I float into Trebinje to find another grand burek.
On day ten of my trip, I have finally lost connection to my legs. Every pedal rotation feels like chosen torture, I debate with myself, long for comfort, but still manage one more pedal rotation than assumed. The moment I convince my body to follow command, my rear tire quits its service just in time for lunch break. A kind two-wheel mechanic — who was all over Central Europe as a truck driver and does not want money from me — a coffee and a cool radler are my rescue. After a long lunch rest I make my way to the last wild (or rather abandoned) horses in Europe just in time for Golden Hour. Their disinterest in this absurd adventurer on the bright orange bike that I am fascinates and grounds me. Impressed by their strength and autonomy, I soak up these quiet moments with every breath I take.
The day my AirBnB-host invited me for coffee and an hour-long Google-Translate conversation. Common people usually find common ground. Apart from the perfected Burek routine, nothing else happens except Bosnian TV. The next morning it is much too early and with a heavy heart that I say Doviđenja Bosnia and the tailwind pushes me towards Croatia and its rain-filled clouds. This wet gray accompanies me for the rest of the day and from the second round of dressing and undressing my rain gear, I notice more and more how uncomfortable sitting feels. And that it unfortunately does not get better. In the evening in bed, I am full of hope that everything will resolves itself overnight and I can continue cycling the next morning. That remains nothing but a pipe dream.
“Taking pictures feels like documenting my failure. So, I stop.”
After waking up, I fight the obvious, but still get on my bike and by the end of the only climb, it's clear: This is not going to work. I do not want to admit my failure yet. Taking pictures feels like documenting my failure. So, I stop. Selfishly with a dose of shame, I consume and preserve the last impressions in my head exclusively for myself. As the behavior changes from unconscious to conscious, I have trouble holding back my tears. My legs, my head, my lungs, my heart, all still have so much to give. For it to fail because of saddle sores feels wrong, so wrong. I've never faced saddle sores before, previous problem solving strategies don't work here. And the new one - give up, surrender, admit defeat - still feels so wrong.
When I admit defeat and find myself at the next station, I learn that the train for bicycles does not leave until 00:30 AM. It is 11:30 AM. Spending eleven hours in a random tiny town is not really an option, so I torture myself another 50 kilometers to my booked accommodation, sleep a few hours, get to the station to start my return journey by train in the middle of the night. At least I have a 4h stay in Ljubljana, to soak up the expected urban flair and celebrate my Burek routine one last time. And with the last Burek, serenity comes back. My head slowly but surely starts to review the experience and within experience there is no failure. It is just experience.