If an empty tin of tar had a tongue that is what my mouth felt like. There was no headache upon waking just that awful taste. Three litres of dark beer will do that I guess. Still we rose at a reasonable hour and were well on time for the airport. As the key rattled into the letter box we turned for the door and said a quiet goodbye to Hostel Hobo Bear. Micky, on reception, gave me straight forward instructions the night before: “Get the tram three stops back past the train station and get a bus to the airport for 35 kuna (six Aussie dollars).” With a light rain falling we got on the tram, riding it for free, as we were told. Although we had to stand we were in good spirits. One stop past the train station an official looking man in a jacket, white shirt and hat, asked us for our tickets. “This must be some sort of mistake,” I thought. The hostel told us we could ride the tram for free - this was the free zone. Alysia protested and despite the language barrier it seemed to work. But at the next stop the instruction was simple: “Get off.” At this point my suspicions were running high. Is he legitimate or does he just prey on tourists hoping to score some cash. He pulled out a leather pouch and pointed to some text and the price, 200 kuna. A chorus of disgruntled locals sparked up around us seemingly unhappy we had abused their transport system. Doing my best to keep cool - my protests we were dumb tourists falling on deaf ears - I handed over just the 200 kuna. Luckily we were allowed back on the tram, the next stop being the one we wanted. Despite being a little agitated we stood quietly on the tram as it ratted along for a few more minutes. With some relief we got off. But this would be short lived. The guard had approached a colleague and cornered us as we tried to walk off the platform. They wanted another 200 kuna. Apparently the fine I had paid was only for one of us. It was only the fact we weren’t riding any further they desisted and let us go. My blood boiled. Yet I exhaled slowly and we walked away. We had done the wrong thing, apparently, giving us no leg to stand on. I did feel hard done by though. There was no malice in our actions. The local woman screaming obscenities across the platform at the guards seemingly had no excuse though. In a moment our experience of Zagreb soured and in the next moment a local had offered us directions to where we were going. In that act I resolved to remember Zagreb as a good place.
A little confused we walked along the front of what looked like a large car park and found row after row of buses and a Eurolines office. In through the doors I was ready to ask someone at the desk if it was them who offered the transfer service when I saw a guy waving someone else through.
“Airport transfer this way,” he gestured through the doors.
Fetching Alysia we threw the bags underneath and jumped on. Mickey was right when he said it was only 35 kuna each. We travelled to the airport without so much as a word between us. We were still digesting what had happened on the tram.
“Are we any more forgiving of tourists in Australia? Would a guard simply instruct the person to buy a ticket?”
We arrived at the airport before check in had opened for our domestic flight to Split. It was a good chance to grab breakfast and we took a seat at the terminal’s only café. The coffee and strudel were welcomed. And watching people, ourselves a little drained, we passed almost the next hour without trying. I rearranged my bags, weary of how much my checked luggage would weigh, though the bottles of booze would have to stay put.
We were greeted warmly at check in and though Alysia’s bag was over the 15kg stipulation it was sent down the conveyor without drama. My bag was more than three kilos over though, where Alysia’s had weighed 16kg, mine was near 19kg. I was instructed to take it down to another conveyor. The sign above it read “security”. This sign evoked images of zips flying and contents being strewn. I even gulped at the thought of a cavity search. Did I look suspect? I need not have worried though. The bag was given a cursory blast by the xray and sent on to the plane. Thank goodness for that. And we didn’t have to pay any extra for excess baggage. Our passage through security wasn’t a drama either. Yet one can see why more and more people are avoiding air travel when they can. Soon enough we’d be on that plane and our worries behind us.
Touch down in Split was smooth and better yet my ears didn’t hurt having been such a short flight. Closer to half an hour in fact than an hour. The airport was no bigger than a domestic job back in Oz. We grabbed our bags and got some clues for travelling into Split.
“Split coach outside the doors. Thirty-five Kuna,” the girl at information said.
A short time later our bus had arrived and we were on it. A rocky ridge line rose high on our left and followed our path south to Split. More houses constructed with large red bricks, roughly laid, lined the narrow road. Veggie gardens were common. And nether were unregistered or just unused cars on foot paths. Otherwise it was pretty enough. The white metropolis of apartment blocks on the horizon could best be aesthetically described as utilitarian. What would this place be like over all? The roads widened and grew into dual lanes. This would not last long as we were soon at the port: the city’s transportation terminus. Saddled with the bags once again and equipped with the world’s vaguest directions we set out for the hostel. Up the hill, go through the lights and cross the road. Yeah okay, might help if you had said what side of the road we were on in the first place or maybe a street name. Across the road at the lights, a sign pointed to “hostel” and amazingly we found it. As simple as this sounded there were several ways we could have gone wrong. Check in was a cinch too. An eight-bed dorm with a pair of roommates already well set up with a clothes line along the bunks. Time to go explore.
Along the marina we walked, back the way we came, finding some pizza. Yep, pizza, who would have thought we would ever eat pizza again. But this was enormous pizza. One slice required its own postcode.
Fed we walked back toward the hostel but this time down into the walled city, dating back to Roman times. The fact this is a living, breathing, museum is most unusual. People sell goods and live within this stone city. For quite a while we strolled aimlessly. Late in the afternoon we decided to head back to the hostel buying some beach towels from the markets on the way. We never packed anything more than a travel towel each as we had never planned to go to Croatia.
Back in our room, we met our roomies, an Aussie couple who had been travelling for about two months already and had another three to go. It was their second night in Split and the first long-term stop they had made and they were getting comfortable on their top bunk.
There was one computer to share between all the occupants of the room so we were lucky to have our own.
Cleaned up we set off in search of food, back along the marina, and further. We found some interesting little taverns serving food but by the time we had agreed on where to eat, the place was full. The owner said it would be near an hour if we wanted to eat, before we’d be seated.
“No thanks.”
Pizza it would be. Yet with light rain falling there was nowhere to sit. Back to the hostel it was, this time with a whole pizza of the type we had tried for lunch. It was twice the size of a large Dominos pizza and plenty tasty.
More roomies greeted us back in the hostel, two girls from the UK and another Australian, all of whom were heading out on the sail boats tomorrow. Seemed to be a popular choice.
While the others stayed up reading, with our full bellies, we soon crawled into bed exhausted from a full day.
Sam (September 10)
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