I admit to it, I am a UNESCO World Heritage whore...

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Getting into Montenegro proved to be a bit of a pain in the ass for me. I went to buy the ticket an hour or so before the bus was leaving, and had to pay 83.50kn instead of 77kn, the price I had been told on two separate occasions on previous days. The lady who sold the tickets couldn't give me an adequate reason for this sudden change. The next unfortunate thing was the fact that the bus company was Globtur, a Bosnian company which holds the monopoly for the trip from Dubrovnik to Montenegro. So they can pretty much do as they please. I tried to go on the bus with my luggage, but a really nasty conductor signaled me to put my backpack outisde into the luggage compartments. So I went and did that, paid one Euro for it, and still had to put the backpack in there myself. There was a very dodgy, haggard guy with few remaining teeth, who served as a sort of makeshift luggage boy, but in reality he only helped some Japanese girls put their stuff in. I watched him closely, just to make sure my backpack was safe, and when he became aware of that, he grimaced at me, flashing his cavernous, rotting teeth, scratching an oversized wart beneath his left eye. A guy from the US started talking to me on the bus, asking me the usual traveller's questions, and not caring about the answers, Talk about superficial.

The first sizable town in Montenegro, Herceg Novi, was where I got off the bus. I knew that there was not a lot of walking with all my luggage, so I just had a quick look around town, then went to a cafe, ate a really good srpska salata (Serbian salad), and hopped on the next bus to Kotor.
A UNESCO World Heritage Site, Kotor lies amidst the impressively picturesque Kotor Bay and sports an old town with small alleys, cobblestones, old churches, a fortress built into the mountains, and heaps of character in general. I decided to have a first look around town, and come back on a later day for a more detailed exploration. I passed through a small market, and a lady selling cheese asked me to try a soft, white cheese, which was excellent. I thanked her and went off, hearing her swear after me for not buying anything. It had started to rain, and I had to run to the entrance gate to the old town for shelter. The cafes on the main square were too expensive for me to wait out the rain over a coffee, but making my way through some really charming small alleyways, I found a tiny cafe where I had a chamomile tea for an acceptable price. After half an hour, the rain still hadn't stopped, but had only got stronger. I decided it was better to come back another day, and ran back to the bus station.
When I wanted to board the bus to Budva, the opening the gate to the tracks said I had to buy the ticket at the ticket counter. I tried to tell him that I wanted to buy it on the bus, like everyone else does, but he didn't or didn't want to understand me. Of course I paid a higher fare then, just for the guy opening the gate for me, which already pissed me off substantially, but then I had to pay another 50 cents for the stowing away of my backpack. The same thing happened in Budva, where I wanted to alight for Sutomore. I was told to go out of the gates, just to pay the extra fare it costs to get back on to the buses. But I managed to linger around for a bit behind the gates, pretending to be busy rearranging my luggage. When the right bus finally arrived, I sneaked onto it and paid a lesser fare, although I still had to pay the luggage fee.

When the driver dumped me in Sutomore, it was already dark. I went to a nearby supermarket and convinced the checkout girl to let me call my host Nemanja from the store phone. It was a bit hard for me to explain precisely where I was, I said something like "I'm at a supermarket which is just called 'Market', and it's next to a real market, a proper one with fruits and veggies and other stuff". Nonetheless, after a while, he showed up and we walked to his place, a guesthouse that operates only during the summer months, which means Nemanja lives there for the rest of the year. He had a spare room with five beds and heaps of blankets, a more than necessary feat given the fact that the whole flat was tiled and not properly insulated, so in winter it is literally freezing. Nemanja is a 31-year old Serbian from a small town one hour south of Belgrade, who came to Montenegro after finishing his studies to work as a surveyor.

I dumped my stuff in the free room, had a shower, and off we went to the farewell party of a Russian bloke named Oleg, a friend of Nemanja's, and the one who was supposed to host me in the first place, had it not been for his spontaneous decision to move to Barcelona, which involved going back to Moscow first to get the visa required. I was actually a bit knackered from the long bus rides, and the thought of going to a farewell party for a Russian didn't sound particularly appealing to me. Images were already forming in my mind of vodka shots being lined up and guzzled down by toothless, stone-faced Bolsheviks and their bleached girlfriends wearing pink lipstick and turquoise eyeliner. Like so often, the reality couldn't have been more different. I was cordially invited into their place by Oleg, a small guy with a shock of blond hair and more Swedish than Russian features, and immediately introduced to two couples who didn't fit the Russian stereotype either. The girls were busy preparing salads and cooking omelettes, while the guys, who turned out to be their husbands, were in the living room, drinking wine and watching the Russian qualification for the Eurovision Song Contest. After we sat down and were provided with wine and snacks, lively conversations erupted on all sides, and I found that the Russians were extremely attentive and patient, almost stoic, listeners, interested in many different topics ranging from politics and history to travelling and literature, and as keen to speak their mind as to listen to somebody else's opinion.

The drinking was moderate as well, and I almost didn't notice Nemanja's perpetual sipping from a small water bottle filled with raki. After an hour or so his speech started getting a bit slurry, and his monologues got increasingly longer. Suddenly his phone rang and he talked to somebody in English, announcing to us afterwards that he had to fetch a Polish guy from the train station. We decided to go and greet the newcomer all together, who turned out to be a 46-year old guy named Jurek with receding white hair and a big beard, features that made him look around 10 years older. He lives in the mountains close to Krakow, and has his own small business that produces textiles for advertisement purposes. As it turned out, he speaks not only fluent German and English, but also decent Spanish, Italian, French, Russian, and Serbian.

We proceeded to walk along the railway tracks and through a tunnel, which led directly to some rocks above the ocean. The sea was pretty wild, but it was warm, and just sitting on the rocks, watching the water and smelling the good air was just magnificent. By the time we wanted to call it a day, Nemanja was quite drunk, but still wanted to drive home. We refused to get into the car with him, and told him to let his more sober mate drive instead. He didn't listen, reversed, and almost hit Jurek and another parked car. In the end, we could get him to move over and be driven home.

The following morning we fetched Oleg, and witnessed a very tearful goodbye from his landlady, and drove him to the airport near Kotor. After giving our farewells, we went on to visit Budva, a small town along the coast that can call a very beautiful old town its most interesting sight. We drank coffee, ate some palacinke (pancakes), and strolled along the beach. The good thing about Montenegro is that most of its interesting sights are along the coast, which isn't that big, maybe three hours from one border to the other. The capital, Podgorica, lies inland, and is described by locals and tourists alike as very bland and boring.

The next point of interest was Stari Bar, which Jurek and I visited on the next day. Nemanja dropped us off in central Bar, we ate a Burek and yoghurt for breakfast, and walked the 4km to the old town, which is situated in the middle of a mountain chain. Before you enter Stari Bar, it already feels like you're in Albania. The majority of the population there are actually Albanians, there are mosques, cafes that serve Turkish coffee and baklava, and you see donkeys all around. The old town had been under Roman, Byzantine and Venetian rule, which is prevalent in its architecture, most of which was unfortunately destroyed during two earthquakes. The fact that most of Stari Bar lies in ruins now does not diminish its charme and attractivity at all. We were walking around for two hours, marvelling at the leftovers and the refurbished buildings, and enjoying the scenery. In my opinion, Stari Bar is one of the most interesting tourist attractions in Europe, and I couldn't understand why we were the only tourists there, and where the hell the Japanese tour groups were. Montenegro is most popular with Russians, as they don't need a visa for it, and if only all the tourists crowding Italy, France and Greece knew what lies so close to those well-trodden countries, they would go and visit it. Actually, maybe it's better this way.

So finally the next day it was to be Kotor. Jurek and I hitchhiked from Sutomore to Kotor, having to change three times. First a young Serbian took us along, and Jurek chatted to him in Serbian. The next guy who stopped for us was Russian, and him and Jurek talked in Russian, while I was sitting in the backseat, smiling sheepishly, not knowing what was going on. Anyway, we eventually made it to Kotor, and went directly up the old fortress. Hiking up there was pretty strenuous, but after an hour or so we made it to the top, and were rewarded with an unreal view of Kotor Bay. We were extremely lucky with the weather that day, the next day it was pouring down like mad, and all we could do was take a brief walk along the coast from Dobrota to Kotor.

When we returned to Nemanja's he was busy preparing Serbian bean stew, which took more than an hour to cook, and when it was finally done, we had the heartiest dinner of the century, scooping the bowel-ripping hot soup into us. He had also bought 2kg of different cheeses from the market, and with it we had some decent red wine. When they started drinking the raki, I passed. Just the smell of the lethal firewater was enough to cauterize my nostrils.

After bidding my farewells on the next day I made my way to Bar, where I tried to hitchhike, but failed miserably, and took the bus to Ulcinj, where I was more lucky, and got a lift to the Albanian border. That's where my Montenegrine adventure ends, and I have to say that I had a pretty good time. The locals may be a bit rough around the edges, and they really like to litter their own country, but the natural attractions of this small state make more than up for it. I was also blessed with very generous hosts, and most of the people I met were just amazingly helpful and hospitable. If that's not a reason to go back, what is?

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