Croatia - Don't mention the draw
Croatia. That should be Croatija. If Scrabble exists in Croatia, the scoring system would be completely backwards and the letter 'j' would be worth 1 point. The Crojat languaje usjes the letter j likje it's goijng out of fashijon. Policia becomes Policija, Popeye is Popaj, Hero is Heroj, there is a freaking brand of shoes here called "J".
As we pull into the absolutely stunning Adriatic port of Split, we cant wait to get off the boat and explore. Partly due to cabin fever, mostly due to the fact that we've been made to feel extremely unwelcome on our ferry ride from Ancona, Italy.
So, we've been in Croatia for a total of 5 minutes and have already been accosted. Our crime? Approaching a street vendor selling soccer jerseys, bargaining over the price of a hat and asking if he had any Harry Kewell jerseys . A brutal looking street-worn man cum-moustache, he mumbled something angrily in Baltic tongue, leaving us very sure of the translation by finishing his sentence emphatically "F*ck your mother."
Moustaches are the new black here. Or the old black that never went out of style. Long, bushy and stereotypically Eastern European.
Croatia is at first glance an extremely unfriendly place. Customer service at cafes consists of little more than the stunt double for Drago in Rocky IV barking "Vot do you Vant?!" as though your presence is a massive disturbance. Perhaps a lesson there for the Sydney barristas who get annoyed when people ask for double decaf soy lemon cappucinos - intimidation can go a long way to making your life easier in the customer service industry.
As expected, the coffee is atrocious. It tastes like someone burnt toast and then evacuated the contents of their stomach onto it. Everyday sets a new standard for the worst coffee I've ever had. If you ask me on a given day in Croatia "Was today the worst coffee you've ever had?", the answer would invariably be "yes".
Unnervingly efficient in their grasp of the Engligh language language, it is not uncommon to hear Croatians come up with expressions like "Put girl on phone", replacing normal sentence structure and tone with deliberate, military precision.
One can't help but feel that these guys are geared for war. Tensions run high in this alpha male dominated society. The training grounds are evident in everyday social interactions, from the cafes, to the driving, to the beach. Pedestrian crossings are merely target practice zones and are to be avoided whenever a car is in the vicinity.
Like a young brother and sister who niggle each other into a submission point when either or both start crying, the young males of Croatia rumble at the beaches with a policy of brinkmanship. They grab clumps of dirt and mud and throw them at each other with force, then gracefully await retribution. They crash into each other, driving each others faces into the dirt with the subtlety of a rugby league tackle.
The little ones get picked on first, the irony here being that the little kids are larger than most of their Australian counterparts (except those of Croatian extract). A fight breaks out in the water as one adolescent clocks another in the jaw with a roundhouse haymaker. Things only settle when the older brothers and cousins come across to sort out the commotion.
And all the while, we can't help but feel that these antics are for the benefit of the groups of girls who gather and occasionally get involved in flirty mock fights, giggling as they feign anger at the male attention thrown in their direction.
The one thing that this trip has affirmed is the need for an International Beach Commission. Not to regulate the behaviour at the beaches, but to regulate what is and isn't a beach at all. I feel like the term 'beach' has been thrown around way too much, to the point that it has completely devalued the word.
I mean, surely there's a few things that make a beach a beach. If a beach didn't have water, would it still be a beach? No. It would be a sandpit.
So, surely it must apply that if there is no sand, there is no beach. This would automatically eliminate 98% of the beaches in Croatia, where locals are content to set up shop anywhere (on a rock, on concrete, on a patch of dirt).
There is no classy way to enter the water, as one stuggles to step over pebbles and avoid sea urchins (which sting like a b!tch, trust me), but the worst is that there is no coordinated way to exit the water. No standing buff, no jogging out, no spraying the hair... but rather a look that is more akin to what it would look like if you rolled your ankle while trying to cross a bed of hot coals.
Truly, we are blessed down under.
And so, we find ourselves in a trendy bar in Split. The remains of a 2000 year old palace form the nerve centre of this Adriatic port, as modern commerce and a modern lifestyle have been completely enveloped within the antique rooms, punctuated by a labyrinth of cobblestoned streets.
We wander through a back alley and find a trendy bar built on an ancient staircase. As the drinks flow, we get a bit rowdy with some of the locals and the conversation inevitably twists towards a common point ... football.
Now, for those who don't know or remember, the history of Australian-Croatian relations began in June 2006, when Australia unexpectedly eliminated Croatia in the World Cup, with Harry Kewell snatching a late draw with a contentious (read: offside) goal with minutes remaining.
So, it's around this point of the story where we commit a cardinal sin, by striking up the chant...
"Harry Kewell, Harry Kewell, Harry Kewell, 2-2, 2-2, 2-2"
Now, it's important to recognise that at first the singing was in good spirit - solid, drunken banter.
However, out of no-where, we heard a deep gutteral rumble that was the unmistakable sound of swearing in a foreign language. One again, the rough English translation:
"Shut... your... f*cking... mouth"
The bartender goes over to settle things down. Realising he was unable to do that, he did the next best thing
"If you guys leave now, you'll have a 3 minute headstart"
We didn't need a 2nd warning and we evacuate our seats, turn completely the wrong direction and spend the next 20 minutes attempting to navigate the labarynth, finding several dead ends and having to hide around a corner when we saw our mate with a couple of his friends, a mob of hooligans intent on some alcohol fuelled ethnic-based football violence.
Welcome to Croatia ... don't mention the draw.
As we pull into the absolutely stunning Adriatic port of Split, we cant wait to get off the boat and explore. Partly due to cabin fever, mostly due to the fact that we've been made to feel extremely unwelcome on our ferry ride from Ancona, Italy.
So, we've been in Croatia for a total of 5 minutes and have already been accosted. Our crime? Approaching a street vendor selling soccer jerseys, bargaining over the price of a hat and asking if he had any Harry Kewell jerseys . A brutal looking street-worn man cum-moustache, he mumbled something angrily in Baltic tongue, leaving us very sure of the translation by finishing his sentence emphatically "F*ck your mother."
Moustaches are the new black here. Or the old black that never went out of style. Long, bushy and stereotypically Eastern European.
Croatia is at first glance an extremely unfriendly place. Customer service at cafes consists of little more than the stunt double for Drago in Rocky IV barking "Vot do you Vant?!" as though your presence is a massive disturbance. Perhaps a lesson there for the Sydney barristas who get annoyed when people ask for double decaf soy lemon cappucinos - intimidation can go a long way to making your life easier in the customer service industry.
As expected, the coffee is atrocious. It tastes like someone burnt toast and then evacuated the contents of their stomach onto it. Everyday sets a new standard for the worst coffee I've ever had. If you ask me on a given day in Croatia "Was today the worst coffee you've ever had?", the answer would invariably be "yes".
Unnervingly efficient in their grasp of the Engligh language language, it is not uncommon to hear Croatians come up with expressions like "Put girl on phone", replacing normal sentence structure and tone with deliberate, military precision.
One can't help but feel that these guys are geared for war. Tensions run high in this alpha male dominated society. The training grounds are evident in everyday social interactions, from the cafes, to the driving, to the beach. Pedestrian crossings are merely target practice zones and are to be avoided whenever a car is in the vicinity.
Like a young brother and sister who niggle each other into a submission point when either or both start crying, the young males of Croatia rumble at the beaches with a policy of brinkmanship. They grab clumps of dirt and mud and throw them at each other with force, then gracefully await retribution. They crash into each other, driving each others faces into the dirt with the subtlety of a rugby league tackle.
The little ones get picked on first, the irony here being that the little kids are larger than most of their Australian counterparts (except those of Croatian extract). A fight breaks out in the water as one adolescent clocks another in the jaw with a roundhouse haymaker. Things only settle when the older brothers and cousins come across to sort out the commotion.
And all the while, we can't help but feel that these antics are for the benefit of the groups of girls who gather and occasionally get involved in flirty mock fights, giggling as they feign anger at the male attention thrown in their direction.
The one thing that this trip has affirmed is the need for an International Beach Commission. Not to regulate the behaviour at the beaches, but to regulate what is and isn't a beach at all. I feel like the term 'beach' has been thrown around way too much, to the point that it has completely devalued the word.
I mean, surely there's a few things that make a beach a beach. If a beach didn't have water, would it still be a beach? No. It would be a sandpit.
So, surely it must apply that if there is no sand, there is no beach. This would automatically eliminate 98% of the beaches in Croatia, where locals are content to set up shop anywhere (on a rock, on concrete, on a patch of dirt).
There is no classy way to enter the water, as one stuggles to step over pebbles and avoid sea urchins (which sting like a b!tch, trust me), but the worst is that there is no coordinated way to exit the water. No standing buff, no jogging out, no spraying the hair... but rather a look that is more akin to what it would look like if you rolled your ankle while trying to cross a bed of hot coals.
Truly, we are blessed down under.
And so, we find ourselves in a trendy bar in Split. The remains of a 2000 year old palace form the nerve centre of this Adriatic port, as modern commerce and a modern lifestyle have been completely enveloped within the antique rooms, punctuated by a labyrinth of cobblestoned streets.
We wander through a back alley and find a trendy bar built on an ancient staircase. As the drinks flow, we get a bit rowdy with some of the locals and the conversation inevitably twists towards a common point ... football.
Now, for those who don't know or remember, the history of Australian-Croatian relations began in June 2006, when Australia unexpectedly eliminated Croatia in the World Cup, with Harry Kewell snatching a late draw with a contentious (read: offside) goal with minutes remaining.
So, it's around this point of the story where we commit a cardinal sin, by striking up the chant...
"Harry Kewell, Harry Kewell, Harry Kewell, 2-2, 2-2, 2-2"
Now, it's important to recognise that at first the singing was in good spirit - solid, drunken banter.
However, out of no-where, we heard a deep gutteral rumble that was the unmistakable sound of swearing in a foreign language. One again, the rough English translation:
"Shut... your... f*cking... mouth"
The bartender goes over to settle things down. Realising he was unable to do that, he did the next best thing
"If you guys leave now, you'll have a 3 minute headstart"
We didn't need a 2nd warning and we evacuate our seats, turn completely the wrong direction and spend the next 20 minutes attempting to navigate the labarynth, finding several dead ends and having to hide around a corner when we saw our mate with a couple of his friends, a mob of hooligans intent on some alcohol fuelled ethnic-based football violence.
Welcome to Croatia ... don't mention the draw.
posted by The Groin at 10:05 pm
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