Lousy trucker accommodation

“How did you like the room?” the woman at reception asks me kindly. “Well, apart from the fact that the toilet is dirty, the hot water doesn’t work and the white sheets have brown stains, the night was okay,” I reply, to which she continues to do her work as if she had never asked me. “2400 dinars please”, (approx. 30 euros) she says and hands me our passports, which we always have to hand in at Serbian hotels.

We are already on the road towards Belgrade at 9:00 a.m. today. Once again, the enormous headwind plagues us and demands everything we have built up in terms of fitness over the last 2000 kilometers. I use a horse-drawn carriage as a slipstream. A few Sinti are sitting on the cart, which is loaded with rusty metal parts, old plastic, buckets and other garbage. The right front tire is flat and lets the Gefährd bump along at a steady rhythm. The horse has to struggle with its load. The speed varies so much that I have to be constantly on my guard not to suddenly rear-end the car. We decide to overtake the pleasant slipstream and continue to fight against the gusts. Despite the smaller road, the exhaust fumes and traffic are virtually unchanged today. The atmosphere is gloomy. The sun has no chance of working its way through the strange-looking layers of air. The sight of garbage between the fields is unchanged. In some places, the farmer has plowed the plastic bags, bottles and all the waste produced by Western civilization into the ground. Wild garbage stops appear again and again. The wind blows the stuff far across the land. The sugar cane and maize harvest is in full swing. Field workers wave to us. Brakes squeal. Cars honk and stink. The fields are partially burnt down. The smoke combines with the exhaust gases. Our headache is throbbing. The memorial plaques at the side of the road sadden us, make us afraid. The nightmare of cycling through a country ruined by war remains unchanged. We need a mighty protective hand over us to get through these adventures in one piece.

We stop before Zrenjanin. I search the map for the right route. A woman comes by on her bike. Speaks to us and is delighted when we reply in German. “I work in Germany. Where are you from?” she asks. “We started our journey at Lake Constance,” I reply. “On Lake Constance? I live in Constance. If you want, come and have a coffee. My house is right here on the street,” she invites us. “Thank you very much. We have to get going,” I reply. “Watch out when driving through the city. Police are waiting there.” “Uh, why? Do they have something against bicycles?” I ask anxiously. “Ah, that bikes are. I thought they had motorcycles,” she laughs heartily. “I love my Yugoslavia. No, not anymore. Yugoslavia is broken. I love my home here in Serbia,” she continues until we say goodbye to her.

“We absolutely have to find somewhere to camp here,” I realize after 80 kilometers, because it’s still 37 kilometers to Belgrade and we don’t know where to look for accommodation in the capital, let alone find it. It begins to dawn again. The trucks push past us closely. Often there is no alternative for us because of the steeply sloping road. Children throw popcorn at us from a bus window and roll around laughing. We are tired, exhausted and almost a little desperate. As far as the eye can see, there is no suitable place to pitch our tent. It must not be visible from the road, because as far as we have heard, wild camping is forbidden in this country. Next to the main road, it is swampy and large puddles almost everywhere bear witness to the recent rainfall. Trees are very rare here. Now and then there are thin, long rows of trees between the fields. The wind blows across the darkening plain. Dust swirls from the road into the sky and our eyes. The cars now seem to be coming in batches. We put our jackets on again. At 13° degrees, the cold gusts make us shiver.

The first castles of houses in the suburbs appear. Their lights promise us warmth and protection, but appearances are deceptive. People look at us seriously, gazing after us in amazement. Newspaper stands are colorfully illuminated. Our speedometer shows 105 kilometers per day when we reach the suburb of Borca after more than 10 hours. “Is there a hotel around here somewhere?” I ask a snack stand owner. “Want to spend what?” he asks me. His knowledge of German is like a flash of relief for us. “Not that much,” we reply. “Motel Panonija. Not far away. Just seven streetlights back,” he explains. We immediately set off in search of the motel. The only thing we want now is a warm meal and a dry, mosquito-free place to sleep. We reach Panonija, which turns out to be a truckers’ accommodation for truck drivers on their way to Belgrade. “One night?” asks the waiter with a strange look on his face. “Yes, one night,” I reply. “Question boss,” he says with a tired smile. “Okay, one night 1300 dinars,” he says when he comes back. (16 euros). “Can I see the room?” “Yes,” he says and leads me up one floor in a slightly hurried manner. The room makes me recoil in horror at first. Four beds, obviously freshly made up, fill it next to a battered old cupboard on which a few old tomatoes from the previous occupant lie. Chewing gum sticks to a stained radiator and the bed frame. Pin-up pictures are immortalized on the dirty mirror. The pot of a sad plant was misused as an ashtray. Candles are lying around for the power cut. The ceiling is cracked, the plaster is peeling and the door lock has been broken a few times. “Um, I’ll ask my wife,” I say politely. “No problem,” replies the waiter, who seems to have thawed in the meantime. “Can we park our bikes?” “No problem,” I hear his reply and he leads me into a dirty courtyard with the gate open to the street.

Back at Tanja’s, I explain the situation to her. Perplexed and overwhelmed by the situation, we stand on the dark main road to Belgrade and try to think clearly. “Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm!” the trucks and cars rush past and interrupt our flow of thoughts. “So what do we do?” I ask. “You decide.” “I don’t know how to decide. I can’t decide anything anymore,” I reply. “Let your gut speak for itself. It’s always right,” says Tanja. “My feelings have been lost in traffic for a long time. I think they’re gone. I’ll go back in and ask if the gate can be locked,” I conclude. “No problem,” replies the waiter and locks the gate. “If the gate is locked and we’re in the room today, not much can really happen. We’ll lock the bikes to a post in the courtyard and the equipment won’t be at risk while we’re here,” I tell Tanja. “Okay, if you think we can stay here, let’s stay. It’s certainly more sensible than looking for another place to stay in a big city that night,” she replies, whereupon I re-enter the restaurant where a few drivers and guests are having dinner. “We’re staying,” I tell the waiter. “Pay now,” he replies and writes 1800 dinars on the slip of paper. “What? I thought it cost 1,300 dinars?” I say in horror. “Price 1800, not me boss. Sorry.” “Then we’re not staying,” I reply angrily and turn on my heel. “Stop, no problem. Ask boss!” he calls after me. It doesn’t take seconds before our initially agreed price of 1300 dinars is confirmed again and we move into the shithole. After another 20 minutes we unloaded the bikes, locked them to a post, covered them with a sheet, dismantled the trailers and carried them and all the saddlebags into the room. Then we decide to eat in the trucker’s pub. The tablecloths are covered in dirt and many flies have died in the pickled peppers on the table. Nevertheless, we were pleasantly surprised by the portions and the good taste of the food. “If the bikes are still there tomorrow, the accommodation won’t be too bad,” I realize and down my throat I take a big swig of Serbian beer. Later we go to the room. The Zargesbox has not been broken open and everything is still as we left it. Before I settle down on the mattress, I type my short notes into the Itronix, chase the mosquitoes and mend the window’s mosquito net.

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