Athens, the Greek Tragedy

For a city that has inspired so much, Athens is remarkably uninspiring. The Acropolis stands proud of a grey featureless sprawl that testifies to the cities fractured history and complete lack of urban planning. After checking out the main attraction, a few lesser ruins, the museum and a couple of local bars (that we were encouraged to visit by our hoteliers concerned warnings of junkies, pimps and hookers) there was not much to do but find the best places to grab a coffee or yiros and watch the sun shift over the ruins above.

With time to kill in Athens we headed to the temple of the unknown god where Dirk (with whom I'd caught back up in Greece), in his best Paulian phrasing, proclaimed that the unknown god was in fact Travel, as made known through the lonely planet. Needless to say many turned their back on him - locals argued that just because the world exists it doesn't follow that it must be travelled, others railed against the dogma claiming that many roads lead to the same cities, some cited the unlikely scenario of the broke, bedridden Conglese dwarf who would never have the opportunity to experience travel, much less buy the ticket, The most vitriolic of all, however, were the Contiki tourists enraged when Dirk discounted them as misguided heretics. One man remained - he must have been on some ripping drugs (As may be any remaining readers).

Our relaxed approach to schedules, a train line shutdown and Greek signs having more in common with maths equations than english text almost conspired to have us stay a fourth night in Athens. An amazing race-esque sprint through the Athenian streets aided by a couple of compliant lead footed taxi drivers and helpful ticket touts ensured we just caught a steaming ferry bound for Santorini.

The trip to Santorini was expedited by dice and ouzo shared with Vanessa, Jessica and Karie - 3 Canadians we met on the boat and with whom we would spend our time on the island ... ok, they weren't Canadians, we had made a serious error in judgement.Santorini was a blur of scooters, dice, weak cocktails, atv's, dumpsters, yiros, donkeys, cliffside pools, ridiculous suitcases, dancing, unidentified plastic bottles, black beaches (with Whoopie Goldburg taking Bette Midler's role), red beaches, crap glass bottom boats and Marcos Baghdadis all mortared together with discussions on such unresolvables as tipping, religion, cartels, methods for disposing of lapdogs, and the possibility of Americans having redeeming qualities. It was almost enough to distract from the picturesque beauty of whitewashed towns precariously poised on the cliffs of an active volcanoes sea filled crater. Almost.

Goodbye to Satorini meant goodbye to the girls and to Dirk - my travel partner for most of the trip to date and long time sidekick in stupidity. Headed for Naxos Island, I would have to start planning for myself and Dirk would need to find someone else to satisfy his late night alcohol fueled requests to spoon.

The Englısh Summer

I left Croatia via stunning Dubrovnik for England to attend a second wedding in as many weeks. Jo (a Londoner living in WA) ensured a welcoming intro to London - forcing her Dad to pick me up in his cab then zipping me down to catch her brother and friends for a few pints, a curry and a beıgel in Brick lane before putting me up at her parents house (after I showed exactly how soft an Aussie I am by falling asleep in a club).

It was nice to be in a homely place after a few weeks on the road ... it felt even more homely the next morning when Jo woke me up gave me a coffee, English breakfast and train schedule before sending me off to Bere Ferrers with a packed lunch - if only she handn't refused to pack my bags i could have been back at No. 44!

Bere Ferrers is a ridiculously quaint town coincidently the home to Ange's (my sis) parents in law and Raech's (the bride to be) family. Exactly how quaint is hard to explain, however, I stayed in a converted barn (thanks Bob and Annie), strolled the lake and flowering hedgerows, talked to the lovely ladies selling cakes for the women's league (their last meeting was a talk on the language of fans ... if only had more time), and generally wondered if I'd meet anyone who was not in someway involved with the wedding. Berre Ferrers was a nice intersection point with Hannah and her brother Adin travelling the opposite way around the globe and the tiny local pub proved to be the perfect place to catch up with Tiff and Raech and meet their friends on the night before the big day.

Fortunately Raech's braces had been removed so she was legally allowed to be married, Tiff wisely said yes, many single girls wept, and the newly weds hurried off in horse and cart to get Raech to the mountain of food at the reception (which, in a stroke of genius, included Cornish pasties). Raech was keen to keep eating so the party continued through the following day and into the local pub where the open night provided her dad's sea shanty group a perfect forum to belt out some old numbers. The tight pub atmosphere, shanties and a few beers were enough to convince Adın and I (Han declined) to shed our Aussie masculinity and sign up for an act. After a quick practice with a supportive local and a quicker beer we delivered a tuneless and out of time rendition of waltzing matilda (using an iphone for lyrics) - fortunately the crowd was both generous and vocal for the choruses (See vıd at bottom of post)!

With no time to bask in our new found Bere Ferrers fame, I joined Adin his fight against Hannah's tyrrany on a trip down to St. Ives, Cornwall (Yes, Cornish pasties constitute a balanced diet. No, vegetables or vitamin suppliments are not required) before heading back to London to catch up with Jo and try capture some of the great city in a day!

Followıng 2 wedding parties, a bucksnight and a few in between it was time to head for every Hobartian's solution to early morning haze - Mykonos ... or at least an Athenian takeaway.

Croatian Coasting

Well, as most of the group probably assumed but never publicly admitted - the only thing holding this motley crew together was Harry (the sunshine of our lives) and Ana's Unitarian derived circle of truth. As we no longer maintained our sentinel status as guardians of the north, the group fractured quicker than a piece of porcelain at a Greek wedding. Marty and Theresa, now being free of the kids (Myself & Chris), jetsetted to Dubrovnik to combine a night of drinking with a night of romance. The jury is still out as to which of these proceedings occurred first or perhaps if one was causal to the other.

Meanwhile Lou and myself tussled for directive control of the travel itinerary for the remaining four and set forth to find a bus to take us south. Our respective 'partners' were providing appropriate organisational support in their own special way: Matt on the search for icecream and Chris on the search for foreign love. Sadly only one of these pursuits was a successful venture (and Chris elected to head off with the main party to the spectacular Plitvice National Park rather than make a tempting detour to Ivanaville).

The ensuing journey south proceeded uneventfully save perhaps for the amount of times the group wished Lou had bothered to book the last and only remaining hire car in Zagreb. Why, for the first time ever, Louie waited to consult the male contingent of her travelling troupe, rather than book it immediately still remains a mystery - maybe even more of a mystery than why she puts up with us in the first place.

Needless to say she did not make the same mistake twice and became more autocratic than ever in her self appointed leadership role.

The other significant event provided by the bus journey was the first of what would be many encounters with a couple of friendly Canadian guys - or should I say a friendly Canadian couple.... Lou? (more on them later)

Plitvice National Park was a breathtaking succession of naturally tiered lakes linked by a series of terraced waterfalls. It seemed (as Lou commented) at every turn there would exist an even more idyllic and spectacular vista - up to and including when she was confronted by the sight of three men in form fitting bathing apparel (read Bondie budgie smugglers) launching into the eight degree water adjacent to a No Swimming notice and in full view of the of the participants of an Asian bus tour. Never have words like refreshing, liberating and invigorating been so misused. In fact other descriptions were used but cannot be printed on this family friendly blog.

From Plitvice the foursome continued south to the preeminent Dalmatian Coast. Fortuitous timing (rather than Lou's good management) landed us on the last scheduled ferry from Split to the island of Hvar. A quick trip to the upper deck led to the second chance encounter with the friendly Canadian duo of questionable orientation (they were obviously not cardinals of the North). After a few beers consumed on our behalf and about 20 beers consumed on their behalf we arrived at Hvar a little before midnight.

Our bedding decision was made easy as the expected throng of accommodation touts did not quite eventuate, and thus we accepted the only residence on offer. The next day, with the impending arrival of Marty and Theresa, Chris and I conspired to allow Matt and Lou some quality time. Armed with the knowledge of Lou's aversion to anything remotely risky (read slightly interesting) we tabled the idea of rental scooters and a day of fun in the sun. Expectedly, the offer was turned down by the privacy starved lovers and so off we went, content to see the look of excitement and relief in Matt's eyes as he embarked on a wonderful day of shopping and sightseeing narrowly avoiding a day spent motor biking with the boys.

The evening was spent in good spirits as the reunited six enjoyed a traditional Croatian meal

complete with traditional Croatian over-charging. With the anticipated arrival of the newly married

(and freshly consumed) Harry the following day, achievements most of us thought impossible were realised. These being:

1. seven Calvin school friends successfully organising and achieving an overseas reunion, and

2. one of the seven Calvin school friends remembering to bring a corkscrew to accompany the bottles of wine.

The day was spent boating, eating, drinking and chatting about good times both past and present.

For once a perfectly romantic ideal that Matt had envisioned ceased to be a fanciful delusion but

rather was realised in the most beautiful of settings. (Well perfect right up until the third encounter with a couple of drunk boat borne Canadian boys...) And so the adventure for some was complete but for others only just beginning. For those anticipating a more suspect travel narrative stay tuned for Greece.

(Dirk Petrusma)

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And what exactly did the Martins get up to in Dubrovnick ... was a night with Ben really causal to Theresa having a few stiff drinks?? Surprising as it may seem, I have actually allowed Ben's ink to stain this page once more.

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It was high time to break from the group to take our chances in Dubrovnik, which unfortunately had a reputation of not allowing Aussie tourists to depart intact. Theresa and I took a short flight to the fabled town from Zagreb and alighted from the bus next to the old city. We were immediately surrounded by locals with magazine clippings offering accommodation. I took the lead… “don’t worry darls”, I said, “I am used to handling these matters…bugger off, bugger off, bugger off”. We were soon left standing alone with full packs and no where to stay. Undeterred I marched off up the hill…there would be plenty of places to stay. 3 hours later in the 30 deg heat I accepted defeat and Theresa secured accommodation in 5 minutes within the old city. Beginner’s luck.

Our digs were modest but the amount of restaurants and beer houses outside our door promised we would waste little time on romance and we set out to enjoy the sights of a foreign land. We rounded the first corner in the old town and were met with a VB bar mat swinging from an awning. The publican was Tasmanian and he welcomed our accents and, more believably, Theresa’s cleavage. We listened for an hour and were comforted to know that in his opinion the previous Aussie tourist who didn’t make it home had probably asked for it. We walked away backwards politely waving and made a move to the local bottle shop. Some would suggest that a holiday would be where you took things easy, especially during hot weather. Theresa decided, very uncharacteristically that this idea lacked merit in Dubrovnik and we were soon hiking up the hill overlooking the town with a bottle of whiskey. We reached the Smrden-Grad fort in just over an hour and where we were surprised to find an unadvertised museum covering the history of conflicts the region had endured. Theresa could see the beach from here and we descended with now warmer whiskey to an alcohol free stretch of pebbles to enjoy an Australian past time. A group of local suits marched down onto the beach and setup a picnic blanket not far from us. Dark glasses, impeccable hair cuts, these guys meant business, whatever they were there for. Even in my whiskey haze I was impressed when one of them produced a pack of cards and wads of money. My admiration was short lived when, with a heavy accent, one of the guys shouted “UNO”.

Our time on the beach was also short lived – Theresa told me that she wanted to stay for the rest of the afternoon and that I was to buy ice creams. I sullenly walked up the path; past the sign that prohibited sex on the beach (it was going to be a long day) and returned with melting refreshments - only to stop to see a staggering girl wandering towards me. Ice creams in the bin and back to our digs. Sorry Dirk, romance once again off the agenda. The next day we walked the city walls, admired the amazing scenery, both historic and, at a guess, early to mid twenties. We then caught the bus to Split to catch a ferry to Hvar. We met an Australian couple on the bus. The bloke was recovering from eating horse in Brussels. Needless to say I trumped him will tales of woe from India and then threw in a few references to this mate I had who was a pilot. He showed mixed interest in my stories.

(Ben Martin)

In the sunshine of your love

Zagreb was the perfect counterpoint to the hard travelling in India, the streets were clean, the grass was green, cows were on plates rather than streets, water could be taken from the tap (don't dare tell Dirk if you believe otherwise), there was little bureaucracy (though, reputedly, no shortage of corruption), little sign of the war torn past and, to top of it all off, no one seemed to do anything other than sit smoking in the cafes watching the disproportionate number of beautiful, well dressed women and cute waitresses (on one of whom the immortal line:`you must get lonely workıng here ....´ was unsurprısıngly unsuccesful - despıte being delıvered by the guy with the self professed `movıe star appeal´)

Louise and Theresa's arrival was timed impeccably - just as Matt was beginning to express his need for a little of of that human touch bit too physically (to his travel partners - not the beautiful, well dressed women and cute waitresses ... strange). It was a cue for Matt to end his cigarathon, Marty to groom and get back in his box, and us all to enjoy a few relaxing days in Zagreb awaiting the wedding of Helios and the yet to be sighted Ana.

Before a wedding could be sanctioned Harry had a bucks night to endure ... and Ben and Matt had scores to settle. Harry, the sly bastard, had allocated a dead Thursday night, post family dinner, time slot and although his slurs of "just one bar???" punctured the night while we searched for an open club, I knew there was a wry smile behind his gimp mask. A local barman said we were stupid for not holing up in a small room with a crate of whiskey and some strippers - I could barely imagine what that would be like without adding a top hat and bad karaoke to the mix.

Fortunately the bucks night was no indication of the wedding to come - Ana turned up stunning and Prince's Sexy M.F. pounded in her ears as she walked down the isle to the ever radiant Harry. The Unitarian circle of power was created with appeals to the Guardians of the watchtowers of the North, South, East and West (all of whom, as it so happened, were present) allowing the ceremony to take place. Ana decided against running off with the far more dapper groomsmen, Harry and Ana were wed, and the circle was released to the audible sigh of relief of the crowd.

The ensuing reception revealed such previously unknown delights as homemade Croatian spirits, Grant's sense of humour, Sam's predilection for the Chinese, Nick's tenacity, A clown, Harry's nick name and Croatian dancing in a setting generally agreed to be the most beautiful we had experienced.

Marty rounded out proceedings deftly swapping sentiment and subtlety for humour in a great best mans speech (although slightly baffling the interpreter, and consequently the Croatian contingent in the process) and the celebrations continued into the Zagreb clubs until 3am when Ana declared it time to consume the groom (apparently a hangover from the days of Tito).

Conquest by the Guardians of the North

Right, after reading the respective narratives of Marty and Matt I feel about as underwhelmed as I did the moment I left Ranthambore tiger park where the tour group was trying to decide what was more annoying - the lack of any actual wildlife in a supposed wildlife sanctuary or Marty's incessant whinging over that very fact. However having been given the honour of penning the final comment on the "boys Indian adventure" I've decided to gloss over what Marty would deem as essential points of mention - these being disrupted bodily functions and "wobbly bits."

With a string of disappointing 'tours' under our belt we headed for India's most ogled attraction, the Taj Mahal, to see if it could hold Marty's attention span for longer than 5 minutes. The journey was reasonably uneventful by Indian standards - averaging only about 6 near collisions per bike with either pigs, dogs, cows, beggars or oncoming buses in your lane of a dual carriage highway. Naturally there were a few wrong turns as Matt was having trouble prioritising between his pillion duties - these being: reading the lonely planet, asking locals for directions in his best attempt at Hindi, drinking 4 litres of soft drink a day and working on his photographic skill-set by seeing how many pictures he could take of the pavement or the back of Marty's helmet. (see one of the attached photos of Matt's extensive portfolio) It is also important to mention that Matt's preconceived romanticism of himself being a modern day James Dean was somewhat affected by his pillion status. Naturally, in the end, navigational duties had to be turned over to a 13 year old tout who excitedly rode pillion to the rider with the most obvious movie star appeal and natural bike riding aesthetics. Needless to say the rear seat of Chris' sleek Enfield Bullet remained unoccupied as we manoeuvred through the narrow streets to our Hotel with a view of the famed Taj.

The familiar early morning get-up was the direct result of our self appointed tour leader and all round tyrannical despot - Marty. The increasingly ridiculous revisions of what could be considered a civilised wake -up time was an continued source of conflict between Marty and myself. And of course we settled the dispute as mature long term friends should with incessant whinging and petty name calling. Luckily Matt used his well developed diplomatic skills to negotiate a compromise for the next day despite his inability to obey Marty's request for uniform T-shirts (complete with lame nicknames and numbers on the back) to be worn on our visit to the Taj. After a quick change of clothes we headed for the legendary Mausoleum built for love which, due to Marty and Matt's childish preoccupation with the close companionship of Chris and myself, was somehow befitting.

For the first time something in India lived up to expectations... except perhaps the tour guide who seemed to be even less informative than the Lonely Planet. His efforts were perhaps only slightly more credible than our guide at the Tiger park who responded when Matt asked as to the species type of spider he was pointing out with "exotic."

The rest of the day was occupied with all the regular activities of a usual excursion abroad. These included pitting young poverty stricken souvenir peddlers against each other in order to pay 30 cents less for an already grossly inexpensive set of marble coasters, Chris riding on a cart harnessed to a camel and Matt's futile attempts at playing Sitar.

The next day, our final in India, one thing was to expose the complete idiocy of our idea to motorbike in India - Delhi traffic in the middle of the day. Fortunately Matt was praying more times a day than a Muslim during Ramadan and we found our way safely to our final destination. The rest of the day was spent shopping and generally antagonising Marty by delaying, at all possible opportunity, his imposed deadlines...to the point where I almost missed my flight.

And so we all headed to Croatia satisfied that our adventure had entitled us to the self appointed status as Guardians of the respective compass cardinals according to the religion of universal Unitarianism. The only thing we didn't envisage was how important our newly discovered spiritual selves would be during the service of Harry and Ana's wedding union.

to be continued... (in a country more in tune with our delicate western sensibilities)

(Dirk Petrusma - writing from an internet cafe which allows smoking, beers and crap music ... so close to a great combination)