Pivo, Vino and Sobe… the three most important words in Croatian

We crossed the Serbian border into Croatia with the nicest customs officials I’ve ever met. I couldn’t figure out which bag I put our passports into, so I was shuffling around between bags when I lost grip on my bike and it started tumbling to the pavement. My ankle broke the fall, and the chain ring put a nice bloody cut across my leg. The poor custom official tried to help me pick up the bike, and said to me in broken English “Just don’t tell the Croats that that Serbs did that to you!”

History Lesson:

Serbia and Croatia are neighboring countries, which at one time were part of Yugoslavia. Both areas suffered terribly during WW2, with major cities (Belgrade, Novi Sad, Zagreb and many more) were bombed mercilessly and the people suffered greatly as their countries were German puppet states. After the world wars, both Serbia and Croatia suffered their own civil wars, and several conflicts between the neighboring countries. The reasons for the wars are plentiful and difficult to understand, but the 1990s for both countries (especially Croatia, with many parts being occupied by Serbs) were hard times for all.

Riding Day 3: Novi Sad to Ilok, 50km.

We entered Croatia to see a city sign riddled with bullet holes, and an enormous uncovered garbage dump. I felt my chest get a bit tight. Todd and I exchanged glances and rode into the country. From that point, we were nothing but impressed with the country as a whole. Incredibly clean, orderly, and ancient feeling… and the people… the Croatian people have to be some of the kindest on the planet. Very accommodating and kind, even though they didn’t always understand what we were saying. Every truck, car, bike or person we passed waved and yelled something in Croatian. Which we interpreted to be various forms of “good luck!” “good day!” or “happy travels!”.

The first night in Croatia we found a beautiful resort, Hotel Dunav, right on the Danube River. There are no hostels in the part of Croatia we were traveling through, and camping is extremely rare, but the cost of staying in beautiful resorts is comparative to camping in Yellowstone or a hostel in Western Europe. I had a big glass of yummy Croatian red vino (wine)—the waiter told me “It is famous! — and Todd enjoyed some local pivo (beer) and we relaxed on the covered patio, watching the golden sun set on the banks of the Danube.

Riding Day 4: Ilok to Mohacs, 110km

Today, we planned on taking a short ride to Vukovar, due to a stretch of extremely steep hills of 8-10% grade that stretched on forever. My track record going up hills is sketchy: a terrible combination of heat, altitude, lack of catalytic converters on trucks, and asthma usually results in me toppling off my bike into the curb. Todd, on the other hand, is this superhuman combination of gazelle and Mac truck, and he usually bounds to the top of even the most strenuous of climbs with energizer-bunny-like-speed, and then cheers me on from the top.

Once we made it through the mountains, coasting for miles through what our guide book calls “idyllic” villages (I would refer to them rather as humble farming villages with lots of odd animal poop and sunflowers), we made it to our destination village, Vukovar, before noon.

We rode into the town, past a cemetery the size of most of the villages, filled with all-too-recent graves, and into a small residential street. This place had been all but destroyed in a bitter battle between the Serbs and Croats for control of the city which borders on the two countries in the 90’s, and the aftermath is still extremely obvious.

There’s a strange mix of brand new brick-and-stucco houses painted bright colors and hole-ridden homes becoming consumed with trees and decay. Across the street from several uninhabitable homes, there is an enormous, foreboding water tower pockmarked with holes the size of car tires. The tower is like a giant, rusting piece of grey Swiss cheese. On the top, there is a Croatian flag proudly waving in the breeze, and a new children’s playground is being built in its shadow.

Todd and I went a bit farther, we both were feeling a bit overwhelmed and barely spoke as we allowed the magnitude of the towns’ sadness to sink in. It didn’t take us long to decide that we couldn’t stay here, no matter how tired we were. And so, we left the depressing community for Osijek, a thriving city about 60km up the road. After a 20km detour to the Serbian border (we got a little lost) we found our way to the city, where we devoured an entire plate-sized sandwich and enormous calzone as big as a pizza.

We rode another 7km or so to the small village of Bilje. We followed a well-built bike path, fenced off to the right with “Danger: Landmine” signs in the distance. we found out later that alot of the landmines in the area were still there from WW2. Soon, we saw signs for Sobe (bed).

Down a dirt driveway was a beautiful guest house built next to a small Croatian straw-roof home. In the yard was a flourishing family garden, with farm animals and yard pets. Sitting on the porch was the owner, a young Croat man with a cigarette in his lips. He welcomed us to his B&B with a pitcher of water, and local beer that he served with a traditional pastry his mother had just made. We sat with him for a while, stinkin’ to high heaven and tired as hell, but so intrigued by what he had to say.

When we told him we had skipped Vukovar because it was so sad, and he looked in our eyes and agreed. He allowed us to ask questions we had been dying to ask, with no one to answer them: What happened to your country? Why?

He told us that when he was about 7 till 11, he and his family were refugees in Osijek, while their home was occupied. After the war, he told us, “We moved back, and cleaned up. It was our land before the war, and it was ours again now, nobody would question that.” They rebuilt their home and guest house and started over again.

Todd asked about their relations with the Serbs and he said “We let them come, there are no hard feelings, but we never will forget.”

While in the Chillton Hostel in Belgrade, Serbia, the young receptionist there had told us about how she was from Croatia, and fled to Serbia during the war. Her family made it across the border the last day they possibly could, but her father was made to fight in the war for the Serbian army. When the conflict was over, they went back to their home to find nothing. “They even took the wood floorboards, to sell.” she said. To make matters worse, when the Croatian government found out that her father had served on the side of Serbia, they sent him to prison. It was injustice on all sides.

The next morning, the young man served us a breakfast fresh from his family land. Homemade nettle juice, fresh tomatoes and vegetables, house smoked meats and three kinds of homemade cheeses from local cows all with a huge loaf of bread from the bakery down the road that still tasted like oven. You know, up until that point, I felt a little sorry for the lack of modern conveniences in these Croatian villages. Many still used oxen and wooden plows, the streets and homes were many times in disrepair… it all reminded me of being in another time period. Then again… maybe they have it all right, and we’re all wrong.



We crossed into Hungary later that day.