One cannot but associate bureaucracy with communism. An inner desire for complete control, without the use of a gun.
Day 9 – Camp Dunav, Belgrade welcomes us with 20C and blue skies. Arriving on spec, Beastie rolls onto one of the few remaining pitches. Slips in between a Slovenian and French MOHO, to enjoy a threesome. All other twenty MOHO spots taken by a touring group of Dutch. The doubling of temperature calls for Mr S to pack away his jeans. It’s shorty time.
Patiently waiting for admission into the EU since 2012, Serbia Border Control does its best to repay, despite the fact that Serbian citizens have been granted the freedom to travel the Shengen area visa free. Our early afternoon crossing passes five miles of lorries. Hemmed in. Lying in wait. Crying on the hard shoulder. Each driver preferring a game of Russian roulette no doubt. A living nightmare for them and their contractors. Each one subject to a mind-numbing process. Our sixty minute wait, a mere spec.
It makes you think about the time and human effort it takes to put those far flung ‘taken for granted’ products on our shelves.
Day 10 – With no EE roaming coverage in Serbia (an oversight by Mr S) we decide to exit left. Head into Bulgaria. Smaller A roads become our norm and favoured routes.
To find only a handful of vehicles in front at the border crossing, comes as a relief. Although it takes the best part of 45 minutes to get through. Strangely, on exiting Serbia, we’re asked to furnish Beastie’s registration documents. A bit late now. We’re also asked to back him up for an internal inspection. He doesn’t flinch. A tall uniformed good looking fresh faced and pleasant smelling whipper-snapper sheepishly climbs aboard. He ducks in. Officially pretends he knows what he’s looking for. Points to a cupboard. Food filled. Elongates his neck around into the bedroom. Emulates the water filled N-T-L from The Abyss. Finds a bed. Surprise, surprise . . . backs out. Non the wiser . . .
Misses Beastie’s wine cellar.
We cross into, what can only be described as a non-war zone gap of 100 metres. AKA Nomansland. Although no-one is playing footie. (Well, it’s not Christmas!) Stop at the Bulgarian western front. It’s then that Mr S realises he’s forgotten that all roads in Bulgaria require a digital vignette to be purchased. Luckily I can buy one here. I misunderstand instructions and find myself inside the large office. Screens everywhere. A silent quizzical look passes between the uniforms. “How the FCUK did that unauthorised person gain access and breach our security systems? Get him away from the screens”
“Can I buy a vignette here?” – “TAM. TAM” pointing to an ATM lookalike I’d walked past – on the outside! I open the unlocked door I’d just entered through. Buy a vignette with the assistance of one of the uniforms. He’s looking sheepish too. The steady stream of traffic had probably been particularly unwelcome and therefore dealt with more slowly than usual. The uniforms seemed to be spending more time behind glass than was necessary. It’s Saturday afternoon. “Who’s playing I ask” – “The equivalent of Man U vs Liverpool” – the two Sofia teams PFC and Levski going head to head – being watched live, intermittently, on a mobile phone.
Our journey ends at Camping Starite Porove. A secluded guest house with twelve camper spaces – all empty. Beastie chooses the flattest. It’s taken the owners twenty years to build from a dilapidated ruin. The shower facility is spa-like. We loves it.
