Part 1
Way back in the 1990s, with postmodern nonchalance, a sulky Noel Gallagher rejected the chance for his band Oasis to appear on the seminal and edgy sound track to the film Trainspotting because – drumroll: he thought it was about trainspotting. Anyone who has seen the film, danced to the soundtrack or clawed their way through the 344 pages of phonetically written Scottish dialect will understand that far than literally addressing its title, Trainspotting is instead a musing on escapism, drug addiction and life’s choices. But would it have been so uncool if the film was actually about trains? With a resurgence in interest in trains and train travel on tv and travel blogs why then, is trainspotting and train journeying still regarded by many as only for nerdy outsiders?
One of the best subsequent films which actually does use trainspotting as both subject and verb is The Station Agent. This film playfully uses the theme of trainspotting as a structure that the protagonist, Fin, played by Peter Dinklage in his breakout role returns to when there is little else to focus on or even live for. Around halfway through the film, whilst trying his best to be invisible to prying eyes, Fin is noticed by the much taller character Joe, not for his short stature but out of curiosity for his patience at waiting and watching for infrequent passing trains. Played by Bobby Cannavale, Joe’s world is suddenly open to the world of trainspotting; like fishing, he is happy to wait for the moment to happen although he fills the space and solitude Fin was seeking with his small talk banter and endless questions. But the subplot isn’t the trains or the act of trainspotting, but about how we may all be flawed or imperfect but can redeem ourselves though the act of friendship and the simple joys of life.
Although not quite of the painted model train and train club obsession myself, I recently caught the train bug however, whilst researching for my Balkans journey and, after watching a 3.5 hour Cabview of Bar to Belgrade on Youtube on a rainy weekend, I knew it was a must do. Unlike the swish and efficient Bernina Express trip I experienced in Switzerland in 2018, this trip was going to be longer – 11 hours if on time, and from most of the blogs I read, this was rare. It was dubious as to how to actually procure a ticket, not all staff spoke English, the toilets were third world standard and catering facilities were limited. Windows may or may not open and you may be lucky with air conditioning (important as I was travelling in Summer). My desire to experience this trip dictated the structure of the final third of my trip – from Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina to Bar, Montenegro followed by the Bar to Belgrade train, finishing, after three days in Belgrade with a bus to Novi Sad to go out with a bang with the well patronised four day music festival, Exit.
One advantage of solo travel is that there is no one to question you or make sure you visit the main tourist sites. I was free to spend as long or as little as I wanted in each destination, and to bypass some ‘must-see’ cities. Thus, on my commute from Mostar (Bosnia + Herzogovina) to Bar, I watched on as the evening sun hit the gorgeous sea in Kotor, the jewel in Montenegro’s coast and the bus passed it by, having dropped off the majority of the tourist passengers on the bus.
I wasn’t stopping in Kotor or even Budva, the second best beach destination; I was concluding at Bar, the grittier neighbour of the other more popular beach destinations. It was the last stop on an eight hour bus trip and I was getting accustomed to longer bus trips by now so the length didn’t bother me. In fact, as I departed Mostar along the winding mountainous road, I sat, rapturously glued to the window, able to enjoy the bucolic views due to the slow speed of the bus taking the hairpin bends, unlike most of the locals on the bus, most likely having viewed these spectacular scenes enough to be unmoved by their beauty and more interested in sleep and social media.
I pondered how the forthcoming Bar to Belgrade train trip could eclipse what I had just seen, with castle ruins, lush green fields and craggy vertical mountains that the bus slid between passing the time.
Upon my eventual arrival at Bar the final few passengers and I disembarked and I headed off on the hot and uneven road to my ‘guest house’. Most of my accommodation had been covered by homeexchange or Airbnb but Bar drew a blank with limited budget accommodation options. Although the walk to the guest house was a manageable fifteen minutes’ duration, somehow it seemed longer. I had vaguely remembered some of the reviews noting such facts as ‘the last part of the walk is along a dirt road’ but didn’t think any more about this mention. In fact the whole route was industrial, and also included a narrow footpath, less than a meter from a highway which meant jostling for space alongside high speed cars and overgrown thorny wild roses, luggage in hand. As I finally reached what I assumed was the eventual ‘dirt road’ I was still in doubt that Google maps was indeed sending me to a guest house, especially when I walked by an industrial bin smouldering with burning rubbish. To give context, many parts of the Balkans seem to be littered (literally) with piles of dumped rubbish. As recycling hasn’t really taken off all rubbish gets mixed in together and it is a common sight to see people (usually Roma) sifting through the metal bins, usually for apparently useful materials such as cardboard or recyclable cans that must be able to be sold or used somehow.
At last I saw what appeared to be the place in question, according to the picture on google. There was some sign of life in the form of a red faced beer drinking man sitting at the table out the front; when I asked him if this was Guest House Lalic, showing him the picture, he spoke no English but gestured for me to go next door. Puzzled, I stood next door but was still sure he was actually at the place I was looking for. With no signs and no other people around (they were probably escaping the heat and the burning bin), I could do nothing but wait. Eventually an enthusiastic elderly man followed by a woman, neither speaking English, emerged from a first floor room and welcomed me in. Using an online translator I learnt I was about to be ‘upgraded’ to an upstairs apartment, away from the Czech couple downstairs (the red faced one) and to my delight, it was air conditioned. The view was industrial and unfortunately I could not enjoy the balcony due to the smoking bin but the price was good: 29 euros or AUD$47 for two nights (by contrast, two nights at the iconic Princess Hotel, with beach rather than bin views cost around 200 euros per night). I love a bargain.
With only one full day out in Bar the following day, I had to be strategic. To reach the renowned Old Town would mean more than a one hour walk, normally doable, but the road was not pedestrian friendly and the temperature was soaring. It was time to try my taxi skills, by confidently enquiring as to the price of the journey rather than waiting at the end and potentially being overcharged. 5 euros each way was money well spent when it meant that I could enjoy both the old town sites and then downtown, walking the 30 minute journey back to the guest house in the evening after enjoying beer and a meal with a beach view.
I didn’t visit ‘the oldest olive tree in the world’ but did see an amazing, glistening gold domed Orthodox Church, actually brand new despite its traditional painted icons lining the interiors. The other must see is King Nikola’s 1885 Palace, which despite Google indicating it was closed, was clearly open for business.
With plenty of socialist architecture on the way home, and no luggage to compete with the thorny roses on the footpath, the 30 minute walk home was easy.
I also needed to purchase my Bar to Belgrade ticket which meant another industrial walk past the bus station to the train station nearby. In a case of ‘computer says no’, two middle aged women grappled with the computers trying to work out how to print my ticket. Eventually the ticket details were sketchily filled in by hand. Less reassuring was their answer that there was no first class. Having read that only in first class do you get air conditioning and seated toilets, I mentally and physically prepared for 11 or more hours of discomfort.
As I bade farewell to my Montenegrin host in the morning, I thought it worth presenting a small gift; the air conditioned room contributed to a well slept two nights after all (despite the sheets resembling sandpaper Grade 5). Excited at the gift, she called up her husband and asked him to drop me at the station. Still unable to communicate in each other’s language, I smiled as I sat in his convertible sports car and we passed by our grungy environment, on the way to equally grungy train station.
Part 2
Being prepared for the worst after my experience of obtaining my hand-written ticket the previous day, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that despite purchasing a second class ticket, my dog box style carriage was air conditioned, my seat was ideally on the left side, a window seat and facing forward, perfect for window viewing. The only other passenger to share the entire trip was an elderly woman who spoke no English but smiled pleasantly throughout the journey. The train exterior was heavily tagged (with graffiti) and we walked across the railway tracks and heaved our luggage up the steep steps to the train interior. But this was the Bar to Belgrade, perhaps the only other train apart from former Yugoslavia’s leader Josip Tito’s Blue Train to use this track. I was about to experience 254 tunnels, 435 bridges on the 476 kilometre journey from the Adriatic to the Serbian capital.
Unlike the bullet trains of Japan and Taiwan, the Bar to Belgrade drags along slowly and at times I felt I could just about be jogging alongside it at similar speed. This however afforded perfect views for tourists like me. Starting in Bar enables you to pass along the pristine jade coloured freshwater Lake Skadar before arriving at Montenegro’s capital, Podgorica.
Things get really interesting then as the train ascends steep mountains eventually travelling over the Mala Rijeka Viaduct, the longest bridge along the Belgrade Bar route, standing some 200 meters above the Mala Rjieka river. The viaduct took four years to build, opening in 1973.
When constructed it was the highest railway bridge in the world, surpassing the record height previously held by the Fades Viaduct in France. It held the record until 2001 when the Beipan River Shuibai Railway Bridge, a concrete arch bridge, was completed in Guizhou, China. Multiple railway bridges under construction in China will also be higher. Interestingly, the surrounding highway is being built through a Chinese loan, but with Montenegro’s debt increasing, there is talk about how they will be able to repay the loan. Maybe that’s why so many locals catch the Bar to Belgrade train.
Amongst the Balkan locals I actually met on the train were a group of rowdy young men. Having exhausted my supply of home-made sandwiches and smiles with the elderly woman opposite me, and with the landscape changing from the steep and rocky terrain to Serbian bleakness, I decided to venture back into the café car. Having discovered that you could purchase coffee (Turkish, no milk but lots of sugar) and beer (and not much else) I partook of both. The waiter had gestured for me to sit in the restaurant car, slightly embarrassed at the loud lads, but I wanted to be in the bar, despite the occasional smoker hanging out the window and being the only female. One of the boys had previously asked me if I spoke Russian to which they others burst into laughter, so I knew that at least one of them spoke English. My meagre attempt at conversation started with ‘Are you Russian’. ‘No, Serbian’, they responded and we continued our exchanges with the most proficient English speaker taking over. After some discussion, he, enquired if I was in favour of legalisation of marijuana. I wondered if it was a trick question and responded that on the whole I was in favour. He then, quite emotionally said that he wished it was illegal as he was addicted and wanted to give up. I asked them how they could afford to take this trip (back to Serbia) as none of them worked. Fortunately for them, they had enough friends to help them out and put them up. I finished my Balkan beer and returned to my carriage; I had been gone for more than an hour but not much had happened in my absence.
At Bejelo Polje in Montenegro the trains stopped as the Serbian border guards boarded the train for the passport check. Throughout the journey, I was oblivious to the fact that I passed through not two but three countries as the train passes through Bosnia and Herzegovina, even there was no stop there for passport checking.
Oasis may have missed their chance to be associated with the hippest reference to trains in the 90s alongside other Britpop bands, but it’s never too late for the rest of us to discover the cool of train travel.