Gone With The Ferries: Bari to Bar-Montenegro.

May 13, 2015

A mention for the hostel in Bari. Indeed. Every hostel on this trip has had its very own charm. Beats staying in cheap hotels anyday. This one is an apartment in a sixties high-rise. The owner has converted spare bed-rooms into dorms. She has also taken over the apartment across the landing, extending the hostel in there where I'm stationed these few days. A nice place with ambiance.

However the religious feast days and holidays almost ruined my plan of a few days off in Bari. The vast majority that have come for San Nicolas and packed the city out, are not devout at all. They are just here for the party. The local municipal like having them here, as they bring in a lot of revenue to the city.

In the top bunk across from me is Michael. Asleep this morning. Snoring. He didn't stir until midday. He told me he was up all night, at all the festivities. Then at four a m, he went to the special mass for San Nicholas.

Michael is an interesting enough man. Philipino, though his family moved to Florida when he was little. He now talks with a Southern States drawl. "I aint, no way outta shape....". Actually he is, rather round. Belly hanging from his wait band and he fills the doorway. But, I resist the urge to laugh at his claim that he's not over weight and past no remarks. He has a warm personality and I enjoy his company, which counts more.

Monday

An as interesting fellow hosteller is Ignacio from Argentina. A mechanical designer formerly with an Argentine bicycle company. He designed both road and mountain bike frames until resently, when he was made redundant due to financial difficulties in the concern. Now travelling a few months in Europe, he tells me when he returns home, he'll have to find a new job. There are jobs for designers, but they don't pay enough to live on: four-thousand pesos a mouth. Ah yeah, that's around four-hundred euros, to pay rent and to eat. And we have such rising inflation in my country.

"I am good at woodwork and what would be my dream, is to work for myself making articles for sale. I would move out of Buenos Aires down to Patagonia, to Bariloche, my favourite place in all of Argentina. Make enough just to live on and then go to the mountains. It's such a different life there to Buenos Aires". I chip in 'El Bolson down the road from there is very nice too' His eyes light up "Incredible. Rivers, lakes, forests and mountains all around".

Tuesday

This morning I'm due to check out at ten. But first I'm up and breakfasted by seven as I want an hour or so on the net to reply to all the messages of support in the journal guestbook. Metaphorically it's been a mild winter without snow, then in April comes an almighty snowstorm. I'm snowed in and I've to get out with the shovel to clear. It was just like that. When I thought interest for this title was flagging, many have expressed the contrary.

I am not in any hurry, taking my time to see the bike is working well. Spread all my stuff on the floor, setting aside any rubbish that has accumulated and pack the panniers meticulously. I'm out the door at quarter to ten. I leave the panniers on the landing, while Carrying the bike first down the one flight of stairs: the bike weights I don't know, say fourteen kilograms: eighteen with the tent and other bits in the bag strapped to the rake; and of course the bar-bag where I keep my camera and other light stuff. Then return for panniers, I pick the four up as one and notice they're a lot lighter than the previous load. I'd say collectively they weight around twelve. So the total weight for the loaded bike is thirty kilos without food or fluids. That's not bad.

From the hostel I cross the street to the bank and use the ATM. Italy is expensive if you do the tourist stuff. My average expense has worked out at twenty-six euros, or twenty in old money, pounds and pence, which is a lot. I suppose I'm greedy. I like my food. But you need your comforts. As I said before, I like keeping the journal, that accounts for extra time in hostels using their wifi. Generally I try to cycle seven days, then spend three days off in a city to journal; a fair balance. I write this sat in the café next the bank adding up the sums and pondering while on my second coffee.

I cycle off and head for the port. The thought of just going there and randomly buying a ticket for the next ferry, whether that ferry is for Greece, Albania, Montenegro or Croatia crosses my mind. Arriving outside the terminal building, there's a nice Serbian couple on bikes already there. He says in English with a deep Slavic voice. "You too go to Montenegro? Window to buy tickets is closed. Travel agency is outside port across the road. Follow me, I show you". So I cycle behind.

In the travel agency the woman behind the desk selling tickets and people waiting to buy are all Balkan. The man on the phone "Da. Da. Da. Va doberbri...." The man says in Serbo-Croat. Yes, yes, yes. Thanks. I think he says. The one-way ticket to Bar in Montenegro is sixty-two euros economy. The sailing at 2200 and I'm told to be at the port no later than eight.

Riding around town, I find a shop that prints photographs. I chose to print nineteen images from the final week in Italy. I have them done in 13 by 18 cm with a white border. The result is impressive, though the photographic paper is too light for them to be used as post-cards which was the original idea. I'm thinking now I'll give them away as presents to people I meet with my name and this website on the back, so they can keep track of me. I can always get more done when I run short.

I look out for a book shop too, but don't easily come upon one. I want a map of Montenegro. Frustrated I go to tourist information. They are useless in Bari. The man there on Thursday when I arrived couldn't tell me the whereabouts of a hostel. I'd to find wifi and look it up myself. Today there's a cute girl that doesn't speak much English. I ask where's there a book shop because I need to buy a map. I think she assumed a map of Bari. She says bari like body, so at first I think she says "you want body?" Am I hearing right. Girl I'm in no mood to flirt. Oh of course you're saying, do I want Bari: a map of Bari. No. Why would I want to buy a map of Bari when you people give them out for free. Finally she marks the location of a bookshop on a Bari map I produce from my pocket.

The bookshop has maps; Italian regions and one Michelin red map for the whole of Italy. A rarity. I thought of snapping it up even though I'm leaving the country. There are also city maps of Milan and Rome, but no other country maps, not least a map for Montenegro.

On board: This is the best map I could find so far.

The ferry is old. I spend an uncomfortable night of it underneath the Pullman seats on the hard floor humming and shuttering with engine vibrations. There is no heating so I brace my arms round my chest shivering as the temperature sinks.

During the evening I don't have any food. There's a cafeteria but they don't serve food. They do however serve a wicket cup of coffee. So I sit first editing photos, then writing my notes up to date. Having done that, I award myself a beer, or "pivo" as they say here. Two euros fifty for a small bottle of the local stuff. The bottle has 330ml on the side, but there's no way there's that much in there. More like 250ml. Two of them would make a half litre by the look of things, not a nice big 660ml bottle.

The music TV screem blares "They say I'm crazy. What do they know. Put your hand in my hand, baby never let go". All evening it's eighties. The following number is Power Of Love, by Huey Lewis And The News. And toward the end of the night it's more contempary "....Baby we found love right where we are". It's very soppy and not much to it.

The golden era of music has got to be 1966 to, round 1980.

It all started with Sid Barrett sliding a zippo lighter along the fret-board of his guitar in Intersteller Overdrive, producing freaky sounds and a threshing oscillating guitar riff at the end of the song, like a flying saucer coming down to earth. His influence would have a lasting profound effect on the band Pink Floyd, that would go on to produce Dark Side Of The Moon, one of the most iconic pieces of music every made.

Today's ride: 115 km (71 miles)
Total: 4,007 km (2,488 miles)

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