Pink Sky at Night (Chapter 3 - Zagreb, Yugoslavia)

That night drive from Ljubljana to Zagreb was an experience indeed. We awoke from our nap at about eight o'clock, fortified ourselves with more tea, and mounted to do battle. For about a hundred yards we progressed very well, then hit a yawning pot­hole that would be better described as a pit, promptly wobbled out of control, lost balance, and fell off. Travelling slowly, there was no damage done, but the incident was a caution. At an even slower pace, after a futile dusting down, we resumed. This time there was an improvement and we covered about a mile before repeating the performance. Those pot-holes were demoralizing brutes. There was absolutely no method of avoiding all the chasms; we had to take them in our stride. It was almost im­possible to discern just where they lay, for the headlight was dazzling on the white surface and we were in trouble before it could be prevented.

Sometimes we managed to scud along for as many as two or three miles with barely a dent to be felt, then, suddenly there were craters everywhere. Luckily these seemed to con­form to a regular pattern and as our anxious peering eyes spotted the first of a new series, Nita would shout (just in case I hadn't seen them) 'More!' and we could take evasive action. This consisted simply of attacking the pitted area in first gear, weaving our way over what was left of the original surface. The Prima took the severe punishment well. There was a nice floating action from the hydraulically damped rear suspension (which worked to the limits of its travel due to the overweight), and although the passage was extremely choppy, there were no worrying noises from any part of the machine save for an occasional 'clunk' as the front-wheel springing bottomed. I began to enjoy that ride. We were overcoming the first hurdle. It was a lovely night, moon­less, but with plenty of stars and quite warm. Unlike our journey so far, for the first time there were no twinkling lights on either side and the few small villages we passed through were in total darkness, except for the inns. At one of these we sampled the potent slivovitz. One glass is more than enough to keep out the chill night air and two are a guaranteed anaesthetic. With the red-hot coals smouldering in our stomachs we left the bar which was austere, womanless, but lively in a rural way; a medley of tobacco smoke, sawdust, cloth caps, and boots and a burble of animated chatter of which I could decipher but one word, 'da' (yes).

Confident now, we attacked again and, surprisingly, had no more spills that night. We hastened slowly, stopping every hour to stretch our legs and smoke a cigarette, refuelling from the re­serve tank once; and so, as the hours passed, the miles of tortuous track passed with them.


At three o'clock in the morning we suddenly ran on to heavenly metalled road again, the beginning of the 'Autoput' which, accord­ing to the map, would take us through Zagreb and, blessedly, right on to Belgrade. Dead tired, we pulled off the road -the real road- made a rough camp, and in twenty minutes were falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Night driving in Yugoslavia would cure the most advanced case of insomnia.

The tramp of marching feet awakened me, and across the top of my dew-soaked sleeping-bag I could see a host of white-clad figures passing. Rubbing my eyes and staring with disbelief at a watch that said five a.m., I looked again at the phantom army marching through the billowing dawn mist. They were women, despite the clump of their boots. Peasants in Sunday attire of stiff white dresses and starched bonnets, ornate with traditional decora­tions, on their way to the market at Zagreb. Laughing and chattering among themselves, carrying huge baskets of produce on their heads, these sturdy countrywomen politely looked straight ahead as they passed the parked scooter and the two cocoons huddled side by side on the grass verge. There was a lull of a few minutes between groups, so during the slack period in this pedes­trian traffic we hastily shed our sleeping-bags and got dressed.

While Nita brewed up on the Primus, I watched another batch go past. Strong, healthy women with a glow in their cheeks, wholesome people who live close to the earth, these were no Com­munists, Titoists, or any other 'ists'. They were Croats, doing much the same as they had done for centuries. I felt certain, watching them stride past, that their lives had remained un­touched through Turkish rule, German domination, or their cur­rent choice; untouched, that is, so far as loyalties went. The peasant was dictated to only by the earth; the land, that com­mands more devotion than any human being, a hard master at times, but one which rarely repays confidence with empty promises.


In Zagreb on that Sunday morning, we met an Englishman. Among shops with no display windows and weird names (which of course were unreadable to us), we were searching as usual for a food shop. Nita really wanted a butcher. It was time, she said, that we had another quota of fresh meat. We rolled along slowly, peering through narrow, gloomy doorways, some of which were open, despite the strong Catholic influence in that part of Yugo­slavia. Behind us a car-horn blew and I looked around to see a man in a new Austin waving to us. I tried to recollect whom we knew in Zagreb, could think of no one and decided to stop any­way. The driver pulled in behind us and got out.

'How do,' he said by way of introduction. 'You're a bit off the beaten track, aren't you?'

'We were last night,' I agreed.

'Ah, then you'll have come from "Lubli", will you?'

'That's right.'

'A real cruel bit 0' road is that; still, you're on a good thing from 'ere to Belgrade. What they call the "Autoput", y'know.' I nodded.

'Course, I know this country backwards by now; come out every year and stay about three months. Do a little bit 0' business 'ere and there.' Here he winked knowingly at Nita. She smiled back at him non-committally, and I visualized all sorts of illegal dealings covered by his 'bit 0' business'.

'We'd really like to find a butcher,' I said. 'You wouldn't happen to know of one hereabouts, would you?' He laughed.

'You'll have to keep your eyes open 'ere, lad; what's that be'ind you?' I turned round and there, not twenty paces away, was a tell-tale sawdust trail from a narrow doorway.

'Oh, yes,' I said, somewhat ungraciously. 'Thanks.'

Our fellow countryman looked over the scooter and told us that his daughter back home' ran one 0' them'. 'But you're bein' a bit ambitious, ain't you?'

'We are if the Yugoslav money exchange is a sample of the countries ahead,' I told him. Our friend eyed us with a shrewd look, then decided to take us into his confidence.

'Look' ere,' he said with a hasty glance round the near-empty street, 'have you changed much since you've been 'ere?' We told him we hadn't.

'Good, then I'll give you a tip; I've got a pal in Belgrade­Yugo, but he's O.K.-goes by the name 0' Brodski. He's nearly always in the Hotel Moscow; fat fella wi' crinkly hair. Now then, have a word with 'im and say Tom Briggs sent you. He'll fix you up wi' a cracking bit of exchange. Don't have no truck with travel agencies if you take my advice.'


We said we'd think about it and thanked him for the informa­tion.

'S'nothin', glad to 'elp.' He glanced at his watch. 'Well, must get back into harness. Gotta see a chap at half-past ten, not 'ere for me 'ealth, y'know. Might see somethin' of you in Belgrade, I'm always popping in and out.'

'Right,' we said, 'And thanks again.' We waved as the Austin disappeared round a corner. Trooping into the butcher's shop, we bought two pieces of prime steak, got the butcher to fill our new water bottles, and without further ado drove out on to the Autoput and settled down to cover the two hundred and fifty miles to Belgrade.