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True Stories from a World Traveler- Riding the Magic Bus from Istanbul to Serbia Bill Honer

Chapter 10 1978: A Wild Ride on the Magic Bus from Istanbul to Nis, Serbia In the seventies, an underground bus service called The Magic Bus connected London with New Delhi. After returning to Istanbul from the interior of the Turkey, I went to Yeners restaurant, a locale frequented by countercultural individuals such as myself, to learn the time of the next bus heading towards what was then Yugoslavia. My plan was to take a bus to Nis in Serbia, next a train through Montenegro to the city of Bar, then an overnight ferry to Bari, Italy, followed by a train to Rome and finally a plane to Majorca. A magic bus was scheduled to leave that day at five oclock. I considered the timing fortunate since the bus came through on a weekly basis. Arriving thirty minutes before departure time, I found the bus was filling up rather quickly with long-haired travelers wearing jeans and carrying back-packs. Martin, the driver and sole proprietor, was a huge man with white hair and a full beard; his shirt failed to cover at least a third of his sizable stomach. There was a deranged look about him. A young man, possibly Iranian, climbed onto the bus. So this is The Magic Bus. I asked Martin hopefully. What will be bloody magic is if I can get this bus to London. Martin replied gruffly. It was time to leave. Benny, Martins fourteen-year old assistant, was placing the baggage in the hold. He was on summer vacation and had traveled all the way from London to New Delhi with Martin, and was now making the return trip home. I wondered

2 why Bennys parents hated the child so deeply that they were willing to entrust his young life to this vision from hell called Martin. The bus itself was by no means new; it had probably transported people around London in the fifties. Martin, the land-locked Captain Ahab, started the engine and proceeded to move the bus as if it were a huge ship surrounded by little boats that were getting in the way. He hunched his body over the wheel, pushed down hard on the horn, and looked on silently as people, burros, carts, and bicycles were forced to the side of the road by the larger vehicle. It was now time for Martin to make the first in a series of memorable announcements. The public address system consisted solely of his booming voice, which he rarely subjected to modulation. All right, whoever is smoking that bloody hash can get rid of it right now! In Greece, they are going to bring the dogs on the bus; if I can smell it, the dogs can smell it. said Martin in a thundering voice. The aroma of hashish, which Lou had been enjoying, rapidly diminished; order had been restored on the four-wheel land yacht. The bus made its way to the Greek border; after a brief stop, it proceeded towards Thessaloniki. It was midnight, no matter how I tried, I could not find a comfortable position in my seat for a six-foot frame. Perhaps it would be better to engage the steward of the road in conversation than to struggle for sleep that might not come. I walked to the front of the bus and sat on the metal engine cover. How are you feeling, Martin? I asked. Not bad, Im tired, but then again, Im usually tired. he replied.

3 His conversational tone was sincere and amicable; Lou thought he might be less unfriendly than he initially appeared. As Martin continued guiding the bus along the winding road, they talked about his business and about the condition of the roads between Istanbul and New Delhi. When will you get some rest? I asked. I wont sleep until I get to London. he answered. Surely London was a few days away. How was this possible? Martin was quite interested in my future travels to the jungles of Central and South America. We talked until sunrise; finally I felt sufficiently tired to sleep. Bidding Martin a good morning, I returned to my seat and went to sleep. I suddenly felt people pushing my shoulder, frantically yelling Bill, you have to get up, hes falling asleep at the wheel! Martin likes talking to you, you have to keep him awake or we are going to get killed. I walked towards the front, but progress was slow because the bus kept leaving the road and lurching onto the soft shoulder as Martin nodded off to sleep for a few seconds. . I sat down once again on the engine cover and started conversing with the blearyeyed driver. Dont worry, we will be in Nis by noon. he said. Tell me more about New Delhi, Martin. I asked. The bus skidded along the soft shoulder; Martin once again steered the wandering bus back onto the highway. I cant talk Bill, but you talk and I will listen. he added.

4 Martin exemplified the dangers of having a compulsive personality; he simply could not get himself to stop driving until he reached Nis. The bus entered Yugoslavia; Martins face was looking more haggard as the day wore on. When we finally pulled into Nis, I was quite content to say good-bye to Martin and the gang. The Serbian city of Nis was filled with large and drab green high-rise apartments. I was surprised to see that the supermarkets contained a wide variety of items since shortages were reported in some Eastern European countries. There were enough cashiers; one did not have to endure a long period of waiting in line. I spent the afternoon walking through a large park near the river. When he stopped at a restaurant, the staff was friendly. After the arduous trip on The Magic Bus, it felt good to be walking. Nis was proving to be more pleasant than anticipated; I proceeded to look for a hotel, where I soon learned neither English, French nor Spanish was helpful in this city; people would occasionally answer my inquiries in German. Eventually, I found a government hotel and booked a room for the night. The next stop was the train station, where I purchased a ticket to the seacoast city of Bar in Montenegro for a train that would leave the following morning. The train ride through the mountains was very picturesque; there were many little villages nestled in lush green mountains and valleys. Balkan trains were not known for their amenities, although this one was a major improvement over The Magic Bus. I thought of Martin. It was insane traveling non-stop to London; the man simply needed to rest. However, Martin had no doubt done it many times before.

5 A veteran of The Magic Bus had said that Martin usually took a long nap in Belgrade; I hoped he would do just that. During the train ride, I struck up a conversation with Ivan and Laslo, two railway engineers; people here appeared open and relaxed compared to Czechoslovakia. Much to my amazement, I had been in Yugoslavia for more than a day and had yet to see police; it was a far cry from my time in Spain under the dictator Franco, where members of the Guardia Civil were numerous and highly visible. The train moved slowly, winding its way through the mountainous terrain. The conversation with Ivan and Laslo was enjoyable; both spoke fairly good English. At five oclock in the late afternoon, the train pulled into Bar. The two men were very helpful; not only did they arrange for me to purchase a sleeping berth on the midnight ferry to Bari, Italy, but they also invited me to a pleasant cafe to share a bottle of very good beer. Lou appreciated their spontaneity and also their apparent satisfaction with their family life and their work. From the little I had seen, life appeared to be better here than elsewhere in the Eastern Communist bloc in many ways. My new friends left to return to their families. I consumed several additional beers before heading to the ferry pier. By eleven that night, a large crowd was waiting to board the ship. I was in no hurry to be the first on board, nor was I looking forward to the voyage. Night crossings on the Adriatic could be rough. I tried not to think about his past ferry rides on the Mediterranean between Majorca and Ibiza. They had been terrible, but those trips were in the winter; this one would hopefully be an improvement.

6 Most of the waiting crowd of passengers was comprised of Serbian and Montenegro guest workers on their way to jobs in Italy or elsewhere in Europe. However, there was one other obvious foreigner, a tall youth dressed in a stained and disheveled black suit. Several of the waiting passengers moved closer to me, openly inspecting this bearded and long-haired traveler. They were not being offensive; I understood their behavior for what it was: the open curiosity of simple persons who lived in areas not usually frequented by tourists. Ah-May-Ree-kan? asked one intrepid soul. When I acknowledged my nationality, another man said, Jimmy Carter no good. I had purchased a packet of cookies in Nis, the plain type the British call digestive biscuits. Having a supply of these was helpful since they were safe to eat and would stave off hunger at times when restaurants were unavailable. I opened the package and started passing the cookies to the workers. Im not Jimmy Carter. I said smiling. The men began smiling and laughing; language difficulties precluded much conversation, but goodwill clearly prevailed. I noticed that the young man in the black suit had been watching these events with close interest. I called over to him and asked him where he was going. His name was Jim; he was from Australia, and was on his way to London. The trip had been complicated by his family sending money to London instead of New Delhi. As a result, he had no choice but to take the cheapest transit from India to England. There had been little money for food and none for hotels. As a result, his clothes were dusty and rumpled. After hearing his story, I gave him money for breakfast the following morning after the boat arrived in Bari.

7 My stateroom was small, but it had a cozy quality. The bed was soft; I read part of a novel by Francoise Sagan and drifted off to sleep. It had been a long day of travel from Nis. By the time I woke up, the boat had docked in Italy. After breakfast, I visited a travel agency to book his flight from Rome to Palma de Mallorca. For a rather quiet day in Bari, the scene in the travel agency was chaotic. Four Englishmen were trying to arrange a return flight to England, speaking in English to an uncomprehending travel agent. I proceeded to communicate in French to the agent and quickly resolved the ticket problems. While engaged in this activity, the Jim the Australian walked through the door and started looking around. One of the British tourists called out to me Hey Bill! Now that you have helped us with the ticket problem, can you get us some women in this town? I laughed. Listen gentlemen, I was glad to assist in your return to the motherland, but when it comes to the ladies, you are on your own. Another said to me It looks like the Australian bloke is down on his luck; do you think he would mind if we helped him out? he asked. Not at all, in fact I know that things are difficult for him at the moment. I said. Why dont you keep him here for about 10 minutes? Well be back. he said. When they returned, each was carrying something for the Australian. One had a suit, another had a shirt, while the other men were holding socks and a pair of shoes. The travel agent let the Jim change clothes in the back of the office; when he emerged, Jim looked like a different person. It was a touching act of generosity, but it did not end there.

8 Bill said one of the Englishmen, how much is a rail ticket from here to London? About thirty dollars. I replied. . What do you say, boys? Five quid each. one said. Another one collected the money and gave it to me. Bill, we trust you, would you be good enough to buy the lad a ticket? We will stay here and keep him company until you get back. he asked. I returned one half hour later with the ticket; Jim could be in London by the following night. As the generous British men left in search of wine and women, I bid good-bye to the Australian and returned to the train station, where I boarded a train bound for Rome. The next afternoon, I arrived at the airport in Majorca.