Ken's Blog

It’s starting to get interesting. France, Germany and Austria. Very much like touring in the UK, with a few linguistic challenges thrown in. But that’s beginning to change with Eastern Europe. Nothing dramatic, just a more austere feel slowly creeping in. Even along the Danube, you pass through some heavy industrial areas, abandoned factories, a Cold War feel. They probably never made tractors here, but they might have done. However, I could show you similar scenes of neglect back in the UK.

I’ve travelled here over several months, gradually adapting to the changing environment. Perhaps I would find it much, much tougher now if I’d just been parachuted in. Possibly. My world now has a lot more uncertainty, never quite sure how the day will end, where I will sleep. Some serious language challenges. But I never fret about it. I just accept this is how it is. Once you’ve done that life suddenly has a pleasing simplicity. What was previously very daunting becomes quite fun – it’s a challenge, a game to be played on the road. Can have it’s moments of course. But so far I’ve never lost.

And there’s far, far more to this than the cycling. Writing the blog, maintaining the bike, postcards to family and friends, endless shopping for food, laundry, planning the detail of the route ahead, places you might stay. Logistics to be considered, longer term plans to be assessed. Asia next year. Kit to be checked, refined, an eye on the ’Stans in the spring. And even meagre budgets need to be managed. Very carefully. All part of the challenge. It’s a vocation.

I apologised to my fellow traveller. He was Italian, but, as far as I could understand, lived in Strasbourg. Something to do with supermarkets. I’d wrongly assumed Billa and Spar were German chains. No, he was quite emphatic, they were Italian. Aldi and Lidl were German. Seems the Italians were sneaking a march over their fellow Europeans, spreading into Eastern Europe. I’d frequented all of them, the endless search for cheap food.

On the bike I don’t have economies of scale. Can’t buy the big value packs. No space in the panniers. So it’s foraging, every day or so, and when riding I need to eat a lot. An awful lot. There’s about thirty kilograms – over sixty pounds – of kit, and the bike itself is an industrial expedition tourer, built to last. Shift that a hundred kilometres in a day, even on the flat, and you’ll soon feel peckish.

Prices have steadily decreased as I’ve headed east, probably quite cheap now by UK standards. But add in accommodation costs – even camping or budget hostels – and it’s a challenge to keep inside twenty pounds a day, even now. Doesn’t sound much? That’s six hundred pounds a month, more than I can sustain for four years. You just have to take a hit in Europe, hoping to recover the finances in Asia. Wild camping is tempting, but suitable sites are not as common as you might think. And there’s the dog walkers. Everywhere. The owners may not spot you in the failing light, but their pets will.

Eastern Europe has other compensations, not just a lower cost of living. Less temptation. Walking past alluring Bavarian eateries, their starters more than you could afford for a main course, is tough. Really tough. In the past I’d probably have dropped in. But not now. It’s not that there aren’t such places in the East, it’s still First World, even if their economies have a bit of catching up to do. Somehow it’s just a bit easier – meeting fellow travellers on similar meagre budgets is comforting, as is the slightly more austere feel to places.

Humour helps hugely. One evening, as I assembled my budget pasta and cheap carton of mashed tomatoes I joked I had a tin of dog food to add to the mix. Not the pork stew I’d expected, some sort of lentil mush with small cubes of meat. I think. Filling and nutritious you tell yourself. Acceptance counts for a lot. If you know you’re only shopping in the budget section you tend not to look at the nicer packaging elsewhere.

And shopping can still be fun. Tesco Global seems to have a real foothold in Slovakia and Hungary. Looks just like the branches at home, a slightly unsettling experience, and about a quarter of the stock is stuff you’d find on the shelves in the UK, English packaging. Not sure what the locals make of all this. I visit every aisle, helps me get a feel for a country and what ordinary people buy. Car tyres are big in Hungary.

Actually it wasn’t hotpot, it was Hungarian Goulash, but it was prepared by a Lancashire lass. And after a very long day on the bike – it was now close on eight – the kind offer of a glass of red wine and some goulash is stuff you just dream of. Kelly and partner Steve, from New Zealand, looked after evenings in the Aboriginal Hostel for Csaba the owner. The establishment was in downtown Budapest, a few dorms on the first floor of an old apartment block. And a garage beneath for the bike.

Decorated in an Aboriginal style, the place was compact, very clean, but cosy rather than claustrophobic. A small common room with a kitchen off to one side, toilets, showers and an office tucked discreetly away. Even a small laundry. All in a space most people would consider to be a city dweller’s flat. I loved it.

In my dorm – eight beds, each with a good sized locker – a real mix, an English actress, a few Australians, an American, an Italian and a German. Save for the Italian chap who I thought was probably about my age, everyone else was a bit younger than me. Not an issue, unless you want to make it one. All travellers. Proper ones.

It was the little touches I liked. Themed evenings. A Games night – lots annoyingly compelling puzzles and riddles, a Halloween party, even a movie night with free popcorn. Join in if you like, but nobody minds if you don’t. And a breakfast to die for. Proper muesli, stacks of hot, homemade waffles, jams, chocolate spread, endless coffee. All for 2,500 Forints a night – that’s about ten pounds. Scarcely more than camping. Somewhere to dry the tent, to clean and check the bike. Perfect.

I thought Budapest at night quite beautiful. I’d have appreciated it more, but it was rush hour, I’d only a rough idea where I was, and even less of a clue as to how to reach my destination. The day had started well enough. The sign I’d seen the previous night had definitely said hundred kilometres to the capital. But by early afternoon I found I’d still a good sixty kilometres remaining and about two hours of daylight remaining. Not good.

As the light began to fail, I’d at least reached streets that were lit. I have lights, but they’re so you can see me on the road, not bright enough to navigate by. And a map that has the entire country on one sheet wasn’t a huge help. My destination was the Aboriginal Hostel in downtown Budapest. I’d a bed booked in the dormitory, and the flyer I’d picked up in Bratislava had a small map. Helpful in daylight, but much more tricky to decipher under street lighting. At least it’s not raining.

Judging progress in urban areas, the starting and stopping of traffic, studying each and every road signs looking for hints as to where you might be, is difficult at the best of times, but especially so at night. Always much slower than you’d ever imagine. Much slower. It’d been dark for a good hour when I finally reached the city centre. Almost there. I pick my way through the pedestrian areas and quieter back streets to reach the hostel. Then a problem. An arterial route, one of several to be traversed, can only be crossed by means of an underpass. Steps. Not a chance. A lengthy detour then back on track.

It’s been dark now for several hours. I reach the square I’ve been searching for. But no hostel. Double check the map. Hungarian street names don’t exactly stick in the brain, but I’m sure I’m in the right place. Definitely. Ten more minutes of pacing up and down, then a careful re-read of the address. Number 46. Must be here. I find it. An old apartment block. But the hostel? Careful study of the list beneath the buzzer. Found it. At last. Job done. For tonight.

I’d made much better progress than I’d expected. Once I’d got out of Bratislava. Dusty roads, ageing lorries hurtling past. Very close. Heavy diesel fumes. Sporadic signage. I’d decided to stay north of the Danube, remaining in Slovakia. I’d heard it was faster, a more direct route, and I could cross later into Hungary. There was no reason to amble. Flat and featureless on the Slovakian side, a few more trees on the south bank. The odd dredger.

Then a small car ferry. And a cafe. It was open. I’d packed the Slovakian phrase book deep in the panniers, not expecting to need it again. I wandered in, the only customer. The lady behind the counter gave me a menu in German. This I could do. I try to have one hot meal a day, so went for what I thought was cheesy chips – pommes frites and kase – there were fries, plenty of them, but the cheese came separate as a big thick slice fried in breadcrumbs.

A chance to re-assess the plan for the remainder of the day. My intended destination in Hungary, Gyor, was close by. Not much smaller than Bratislava, and Western prices I’d heard. I decided to push another forty kilometres to Komarom, sticking to the Slovakian side of the river until I reached the bridge directly into the town.

I reached the crossing point with about an hour of daylight remaining. New country, unfamiliar town, unopened phrase book, no currency, as yet nowhere to stay. You just have to be methodical, observant. Always dismount. You see more. Cashpoint first. Then head for the first hotel you see, not because you plan to actually stay there, but to get a feel for the cost of accommodation. Numbers are universal so it’s normally relatively straightforward to do this. About twenty pounds for a bed. And tonight the tariff was in both magyar – Hungarian – and German. This is good. I don’t know much German, but it’s a lot more than my Hungarian.

I head off along a quiet street. A sign indicates hotels and campsites further along. Out of season I hope for a cheap room. More signs in German – Zimmer frei – room available. Suddenly, I find a campsite open, the first I’ve seen in weeks. German camper vans. It’ll be good. Check-in is in German, and I’ve three weeks practice so can do this with comparative ease. Light is fading fast so tent goes up, bed roll and sleeping bag unpacked, panniers stowed, bicycle secured and covered. Quick shower and change into something clean. Two hours since I crossed into Hungary. New country, so time to shop. Got to get to grips with a new language somehow.

I smiled. That was about as far as my Slovakian went. I’d a phrase book but when it came to sending a parcel home, it was a bit thin on the ground. It made no mention of the forms. Residual East Bloc bureaucracy? I’d chosen to visit the Post Office mid-morning to avoid the lunchtime rush, even found a small branch, so as to cause the minimum fuss. Even written the Slovakian for England on the package. But no joy. Not a hope. So I took back the parcel, and the forms, and went in search of someone who could translate for me. A bit embarrassing, but you have to be realistic about these things.

A friendly Slovakian guided me through the various forms. Quite straightforward if you can read Slovak, not the Kafkaesque nightmare I’d expected. But they do insist on a sender’s address, which is always a bit problematic for me. Ordinarily I’d just make one up, but the helpful young lady suggested I put hers on the form. Back then to the Post Office. Same chap behind the counter. I’d rehearsed my lines a bit more. Seemed to work. This time he took the parcel off me. I thanked him, smiled and left. You have to be polite about these things.

I’d a mug of tea, with fresh rather than powdered milk, a rarity these days. I was happy, sat quietly in the corner of the now deserted hostel bar, browsing the net. Checking the route ahead, the do’s and don’t’s of the former Eastern Bloc. Interesting stuff. But there’s a balance to be struck between poring over maps and exploring the web, and just getting out on the ground. Sometimes the latter’s easier – often that’s the only way to find the cheapest places to stop.

Take Hungary. Save for Budapest, no cheap hostels. With the shorter daylight hours, I reckoned the capital was three days out from Bratislava. I’m hoping the city of Gyor will yield somewhere cheap to stay for the first night, but then it’ll be camping wild. Google Earth is very helpful for identifying likely spots. Whether this sort of thing is permissible is a moot point, you’d have to find me first. Tent’s green and so it Emma. And I don’t show lights.

The language – magyar – is incomprehensible to most travellers, being only distantly related to Finnish. I’d a phrase book. A quick peek inside. It wasn’t looking good. Gobbledygook. German is sometimes spoken, but I’m not sure that’ll be a big help. Wasn’t a great success in Germany or Austria, but you never know.

I’d located a budget hostel in Budapest that had somewhere secure for the bike so I could safely explore the city for a day. Theft is commonplace in the capital so I planned to safeguard the camera with my usual trick of concealing it in a supermarket carrier bag, always purchased locally. The little details can make all the difference.

FCO travel advice for Serbia doesn’t exactly sell the place. There’s a mention of ’flu on their website, but I’d be more concerned with widespread Rabies and water-borne Hepatitis A. And right-wing extremists attacking foreign nationals in Belgrade. If you plan to camp anywhere near Kosovo be careful with hammering in the pegs. Land mines. And if that lot doesn’t get you, the customs paperwork probably will. The Australians I’d met had described the place as intense. They weren’t joking.

After a week or so in Serbia, Bulgaria shouldn’t be anything but welcoming. Largely cash economy, which sounded like fertile territory for corruption. But it’s the weather that concerns me most, with winter approaching and mountainous terrain to be crossed from the Danube over to the capital, Sofia. I’ll be a scream.

Author’s note: Except for the capital cities – Budapest, Belgrade and Sofia – communications may be a bit more sporadic, so please don’t be surprised if I don’t post as often as I would like. That doesn’t mean I won’t be writing them, rather they’ll just be a delay in posting. Which, I understand, is a bit of an issue at home….

It had taken a while, but I’d finally met some antipodean travellers. Andy and Kylie were New Zealanders, but now lived in Western Australia. We met in a budget hostel in downtown Bratislava, joined a little while later by a small group of Australians. These weren’t young people just drifting around Europe. They’d all saved hard. They had plans.

Quite astutely, both groups had bought transit vans when they’d arrived in England at the start of their respective trips. From whom you wondered. No doubt the MOT certificate would be in the post. Cheaper accommodation than even a budget hostel, but even the most hardy of travellers needs the occasional hot shower and a proper bed.

We shared our experiences late into the evening. Places to go. Places not to go. Serbia and Kosovo were described as intense, which sounded interesting. The landscape was changing. France, Germany and Austria had a certain comforting sameness about them. Slovakia, now an up and coming EU nation, felt like a bridge into the old Eastern Bloc. Proper adventure.

Budget hostels tend to cater for twenty-somethings, offering greater freedoms than you find in more conventional places. Often quite quirky – posters of Bob Marley sitting alongside a bust of Lenin – they’re where you’ll invariably find some colourful characters. And the serious travellers. Couple of thousand miles under my belt and I was beginning to feel like one. Being privately run establishments, standards can vary a bit. Whereas back in France you knew a good campsite when the Germans where there in force, in the world of budget hostels, it’s the Aussies and the Kiwis you need to look out for.

It sounds a bit trivial, but you’ll usually find a washing machine – shared with the bed linen, well, these are budget establishments – and a self-catering kitchen. Welcome sights when living on the road. Clean clothes and cheap, proper meals. In Bratislava there was even a supermarket just around the corner. German, so you knew it’d be good. I’d have nipped out to the Tesco hypermarket, but that was too far out of town.

Weeds had taken root between the vast concrete slabs where once vehicles queued, waiting to pass into the decadent west, or the austere east. A sorry sight, barely noticed by most as they sped unimpeded across the border. The abandoned customs posts, the empty money exchanges. Slovakia was now in the EU, it had the Euro. Twenty years ago ordinary Slovakians had marched through here from Bratislava, now the capital, to Hainburg, the first decent sized town in Austria. They were re-asserting the freedom of movement Communism had denied them.

As I slipped quietly from Austria into Slovakia, I met a French Canadian, very pronounced accent, and his son. They were returning to Bratislava for a further night, having mistakenly headed west not east. They’d cycled from Paris, simply equipped, their belongings mostly wrapped in bin liners, bikes that looked barely up to the task. The occasional hostel, but mostly camping rough. Foolhardy, no. Gutsy, yes. We parted company on the edge of the old city. I was heading into centre. I don’t think they knew where they were going.

I’d entered the former Eastern Bloc on the twentieth anniversary of the raising of the Iron Curtain. The first generation never to have lived under the old regime would be beginning to exert their influence. I’d not experienced the Eastern Bloc before reformation, but, as I headed through Slovakia, Hungary, Serbia and into Bulgaria, I could at least draw a few comparisons with Western Europe.

The so-called historic centre of Bratislava looked, on the face of it, like so many I’d passed through in Germany and Austria. Pastel coloured buildings, familiar looking street cafes, pavement art. A exhibition marking two decades since the end of Communism. But sit on a park bench for a while and you notice the police presence. Not the uniformed officers. The plain clothes ones. Mingling amongst the tourists, looking for pickpockets and other undesirables. Indicative of a nation that still has some catching up to do? Perhaps. A little more caution now required, especially in public places.

Breakfast was a meagre affair. The kitchen staff hid behind glass screens. They looked disinterested. You had to pay extra for anything really worth having. An industrial feeding factory. A big disappointment after the likes of Linz, Melk and Tulln hostels. Of course, they’d say that this was a much bigger establishment. True, but looking around at the disappointed faces, these were the same sorts of people I’d seen in the other hostels. And they’d be economies of scale. No reason why they couldn’t do much better. Besides, it wasn’t gratis, we were paying for it.

Bit of a grim start, but then a very helpful e-mail from an overseas post. From a British Pro-Consul. No idea what one was, but she’d sent me a pretty comprehensive reply to my query. Very prompt. I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, never quite managed lunch out of them, just a few coffees in King Charles Street. By Whitehall standards they’re a pretty miniscule affair, and yet they have a presence in almost every country. They don’t get a huge press at home, they just seem to quietly get on with things, but I suppose that’s diplomacy for you.

Whereas I felt I had a measure of the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, I’d struggle to define, in any tangible form, exactly what the United Nations actually achieved. So I decided to visit. I’d a healthy scepticism borne of previous dealings with inter-governmental organisations, but I’m always open to a slice of humble pie, these days with lashings of cream.

The Vienna complex is probably most well known for being the home of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA). Like The Holy City, the correct title, I was told, for what is commonly termed The Vatican, the UN in Vienna is a territory independent of Austria. Unlike The Holy City, however, you wouldn’t describe the UN site as opulent. Rather, it looked ever so slightly dated, more in need of a refresh than a rebuild. And no luxury hotels nearby.

What then of the UN? For a body conceived in the aftermath of World War Two to prevent further conflict on a global scale, I suppose you could say it has been a success. If you took the view that it was there to promote peace between nations, the picture’s not quite so rosy. It’s easy to overlook UN’s peacekeeping missions, and I’m sure that where they’re out on the ground, they are achieving something. Sometimes at great cost. And one of the problems with peace is that it just isn’t newsworthy, so their efforts can easily fade from the public consciousness.

If I struggle a bit with the UN and its entirely laudable aims, it’s twofold. Firstly, any organisation that employs half its staff in its HQ – about 10,000 – isn’t what I’d call delivery focused. Secondly, seeking consensus between member states – I’ve seen multilateral arrangements struggle with just a handful of countries participating – the UN has almost 200 member states. You suspected that out on the ground there were a lot of passionate, hard-working UN staff really trying to make a difference. I hoped to meet some.