El Borak Country

Friday 16th September 1983

We dozed through the usual morning bell ringing at 06:00 hrs and lay in until about 08:30 hrs. I finished reading “The Hobbit” which was most enthralling. We then packed up our gear and in a glum mood trudged down to the Tourist Buro to pay for our lodging. Stitched up as usual, we had to pay hidden extras, but in all we were only caught for about £5 each for the room for two nights. Then we hit the road, back north and over the fantastic bridge to the mainland (another 20 Dinar toll). Isolated on a bike one can only think, and when the road is not exceptional to distract you, thoughts turn to home.

We got back on the coast road and headed south. The bikes were going as well as ever and the sun burst though the clouds to brighten the scenic winding road. Mountains rose away to our left and steep slopes fell away to the bright blue sea on our right. Some of the bends were very sharp and the dead hulks of old cars rusting on the slopes testified to those that had taken them too fast. Only a few concrete blocks at random intervals served as barriers between staying on the road or pitching into oblivion below.

The scenery was just out of Robert E. Howard’s “El Borak” stories (El Borak, otherwise known as Francis Xavier Gordon, is a fictional character created by Robert E. Howard. Gordon was a Texan gunfighter from El Paso who had travelled the world and settled in Afghanistan. He is known in Asia for his exploits in that continent. He is likely to have been inspired by real people such as Richard Francis Burton, John Nicholson, "Chinese" Gordon and Lawrence of Arabia as well as the fiction of Talbot Mundy.) with precipitous viaducts and rough-hewn channels through the bare rock. Wonderful little bays and fields and harbours were visible on our right.

We stopped for a coffee and Coca Cola in Senj beneath a statue of three Herculean figures at the prow of a ship (Honneur aux Combattants de la Patrie). The Jugoslavian island were visible off-shore and looked quite forbidding with their steep cliffs rising abruptly out of the sea. We stopped again about 40 miles further on up the road where the ferry left for the Island of Pag. Here at Karlobag we stopped for another coffee break. At an earlier stop a stall owner guessed that we were Czechs! Now the heat of the day is beginning to blaze through. We loitered at Karlobag for a while and took a few photos before continuing on the magnificent coast road with more bays, gullies and scented stunted trees. As it started to become darker we turned right (west) over a dull bit of land and lost sight of the sea. And so we came to Zadar. With its Roman ruins, art installations, and white-sand beach, Zadar is one of the most unique resorts along Croatia’s Dalmatian coast, where in-the-know travellers come to feast on seafood, watch dreamy sunsets, and sip cocktails at oceanside bars.

However, our first impressions were that it was a nasty place and as we came into town youngsters sneered and jeered. We eventually found the well-camouflaged Youth Hostel, despite the pitiful address given in the International YHA handbook and the lack of any sign-posting, after asking for directions in the foyer of a lairy hotel. We booked a night with the miserable wretch on reception and went off in search of a supermarket. The drab apartment blocks and the smell of rotting fish confirmed our initial fears of this dismal place. We bought some nasty tinned beans and bacon (pure fat as it turned out) as well as our usual bread, cheese spread and a bottle of the cheapest vino. We found a deserted summerhouse out of sight of the town and tucked in heartily. The wind was picking up now and clouds were closing in to make this drab hell even gloomier. We walked along the “sea front” to the Jugoplastics Factory where we miserably spent about half an hour chatting by some moored yachts and then we decided to call it a night. We returned to the hostel which was now in darkness. The receptionist was crouching in the gloom doing something by the light of a candle when we called in for the key.

The dormitory was in complete darkness and the electricity was off as we scrobbled about in the blackness. Luckily we had made up our beds earlier and leapt into them with some relief. “What a thoroughly disagreeable place”, remarked George as we lay down to sleep. However, we were not to remain unmolested. At first I thought that I was imagining the itching and crawling on my body but after a few minutes George squealed with anguish. Bed bugs of some description were running riot and we were the victims. We leapt out of bed and stood moaning in the dark. George was all for leaving the hostel and sleeping rough outside, but it was too cold and windy for my liking. We put on our rough clothes and lay on top of our sheets dozing fitfully until morning. We were aroused at one point when the other occupants of the dormitory returned and the lights came on. The night was punctuated by slapping noises and cursing as mosquitoes joined the fray. Bike reading 15,039 miles