Walking like a Balkan

In postcard perfect unseasonal October weather the Croatian coastline provides a vista of singular and nigh incomparable beauty. Of elegantly savage rock cliffs and stucco houses. Vine riddled alcoves and weathered plastic chairs. A vista on which the blight of the cruise ship, curiously dormant in the harbour as it ferries geriatric tourists to-and-fro, is stark and ruinous.

Ruinous of a perfectly pleasant stroll around, say, the Old Town of Dubrovnik, and also of every attempt to capture through photograph a scant image of the coast winding crystalline before.

I was in Dubrovnik after finally making my way out of the world of its own that is Berlin to meet my parents, quasi pilgrims through the land of my mother’s father. Attempting to escape the seething masses squeezed into the Old Town we went in search of the abandoned Hotel Belvedere, a beautiful relic of the destruction wrought by the war, pockmarked and savaged on the outside by the Yugoslavian army and pillaged on the inside by the Croatian. On perhaps the most ideal promontory of the coast, the hotel has almost the perfect view of the surrounding land, yet has remained unrepaired over the years, something which our surly lunchtime waiter put down to the difficulty of access and price of restoration.

Hotel Belvedere

Speaking of whom, the purveyor of Restaurant San Jacob, a tiny pebble-beachside eatery in the shadow of San Jacob’s Monastery—or the Hotel Belvedere depending on the time of day—displayed that churlish countenance typical of those local Croats fatigued by a long tourist season.

In this otherwise empty and removed spot we were served one of those meals that align so elegantly the desires of time and place. Of warm sun and gently breaking Mediterranean. Of charcoal roasted seafood, summer vegetables and crusty bread.

The perfect lunch

The following day of transit to Hvar was less glamorous.

A four hour drive through winding inlets gave way to a tedious ferry trip at the end of which we were decamped on a drizzly Croatian island where, due to an oversight in my calculations, I spent the afternoon doing an extensive collection of laundry in my swimmers in the wake of a dearth of underpants.

Blessedly the following day was again one of unseasonal warmth. I used the opportunity to hike around a sizeable portion of the island up through wandering streets and along residential roads and to see widely from the Spanish Fort. In the steep roads of the old town, surrounded by terracotta tiled roofs and tiny alcoves with white laundry shading patches of the street below, the silence is gentle. A therapeutic quiet, it fills me with a desire to summer lazily in the shade and do little more than eat Mediterranean fish and vegetables, periodically pausing to drink espressos on a small and shaded veranda from which I could recline and watch the world passing by.

The view from the Spanish Fort, Hvar

The last stop along the coast was at Split, a city that plays out the same tale as Dubrovnik and Hvar; of a fantastically pretty old town of white cobbles and pristine water that is riddled with tourists, and of a city behind that is relatively barren and looks designed by a blind communist.

It was in Split, however, that I came upon the best Burek I was to eat in Croatia. Savoury and chewy yet crisp on the outside, it was reminiscient of a fried gyoza and was sold by the kilogram. Speaking of which, my rule of thumb for burek purchase is now only buy it from places that sell by the kilogram. From Split we day tripped to Trogir, another pretty yet tourist filled town, and roamed the hotel studded coastline nearby for pebbly beaches at which to swim.

I have some issue with the pebbled beach, however, as while I do enjoy not having to extricate sand from my every orifice after a relaxing swim, the sensation when one emerges from water to land and must limp over the beach in a shuffle of discomfort is such that it renders the pleasures of the swim almost forgotten.

Euro-TV

The final stop with the parents was at the Plitvica Lakes. I cannot really do justice to them in words, so here are a couple of photos. 

Plitvica Lakes

Finally it was to Zagreb where we would part ways. It was an experience to travel with my parents for several days after not having done so for some years. While at times it was a little frustrating due to the different pace and style of travelling compared to that I’d do by myself or with friends, it was also nice to have some different and familiar company. It was particularly nice to be able to eat to excess, also, with fine dining very much the repeated order of business. Fancy wine and fancier food were du jour and very much appreciated. Most delicious perhaps were the amply sourced marinated white anchovies, a favourite of my father’s and mine.

Fine dining in Split

We parted ways Saturday eve and so I checked into my hostel with a few days of reckless boozing to catch up on. With the hostel organising a pub crawl I needed to look no further than the downstairs bar for some delicious liquor and under the watchful eye of the garrulous Borna we sallied forth around 11pm, fuelled by walnut rakija and with a posse 20 strong.

It was here I met two American army gents, Gabriel and Tyler, vehicle operators stationed in Italy who’d driven to Zagreb for the weekend. In true American style, the two had become far too drunk far too early, such that Tyler fell down the stairs at the first pub we went to, spraining his ankle, but still liquored up enough that he had the will to soldier on and slam down more rakija. 

Markets, Split

Also staying at the hostel was a group of 10 uni students organising some union transition, and they celebrated the success of the day’s tabling by coming out with us. So I met Borgo who taught me the subtleties of walking like a Balkan. Having inquired after a local the correct etiquette for walking on the street with regards to sides of the footpath, Borgo insisted that it is merely a case of might is right, and that one ought to walk where one dares to walk and to maintain a constant line and bearing. Walking like a Balkan.

Similarly I met Marina, Fabienne from Pulp Fiction’s doppelganger. A chain swearing, chain smoking  bob-cut of a lady. After the pub crawl finished at an altogether too salubrious klub, she took me to Medika, a factory used until recently as a squat but which  has been revamped as an art, culture and music free space at which they have some rather eccentric weekend gatherings. Here we met up with her friends and drank red wine and coke from 2L bottles and smoked and chatted the night away.

Medika with the back of Marina's head

Sunday I learned the Croatian weekend pastime of putting on your largest designer sunglasses and sitting in squares around the city for the entire day drinking coffee and watching people. Streets are deserted with shops closed everywhere, but as soon as you hit a square it is packed and everyone is watching everyone while pretending not to be watching anyone. All of which is surrounded by a dense aura of nonchalant, Balkan cool.

The streets of Zagreb also appear quite claustrophobic, with the buildings encroaching on narrow footpaths already staggered over by parked cars. But on closer inspection one can discover behind these doorways squares protected from the traffic and noise and home to all sorts of interesting houses and stores.

At the hostel I also met another Australian, Aaron, and a Dutch geologist Anouk, whose lofty travel idealism and excellent company have me contemplating a detour via Oman for a bit of Middle Eastern dune driving. Similarly, Ziv the Israeli told tales of hitchhiking through Africa with little more than a tent and a 3kg bag of rice that were about as exotic as anything I could imagine. Indeed, with these three and Kevin the German graphic designer there was ample late night drinking of beer in its regular, lemon and grape forms, as well as extended conversations with Bob the 75 year old retiree from Florida who would endlessly talk until there was no one left to listen and he’d rumble off to bed in the wee hours of the morning. 

Anouk, Aaron and Bob

 Despite having an excellent time in Zagreb, I decided to overnight in Ljubljana to briefly poke around. The capital and biggest city in Slovenia, it is a student town where those studying get big discounts and the streets are modern, winding and beautiful. The view from the castle—renovated and with a café dominating its fore—is quite something, as is the hike to get up there. At the hostel here I met some rather affable Americans and Canadians with whom that essential element of US culture—the drinking game—was partaken in to the extreme before we went off in search of some weirdness.

Castle view, Slovenia

Appropriately we found another squat of graffiti’d walls and tiny bars with hidden clubs blasting some pretty brutal metal. A pub that barely housed the six of us served blueberry rakija before we went and found somewhere a bit more hospitable. When we arrived it seemed fairly quiet, but at some unordained signal it was suddenly packed with Slovenians dancing to some spectacularly cheesy Eurotrash. 

Squat, Ljubljana

The next day Steve, a New York investment banker with a bad case of ennui, and I decided we’d celebrate our coincidental shared last morning in Slovenia by dining out on some horse burgers at Hot’ Horse. Surprisingly delicious.

Horse burgers with Steve 

Back in Zagreb I went out to meet up with Marina and her friend Barbara, and then with Aaron and Anouk at an Erasmus party some people at the hostel had tipped me off about. Cue some more Eurotrash dancing and staying out until 5am when I had to be up at 7.30 the next day to catch my train.

I didn’t think this would be that bad of a decision the night before as the 9 hour train ride to Sarajevo should have provided ample time for sleeping. Sadly, the train I was in seemed to have had its heating system broken and left at full-tilt thereby turning my little carriage into something partway between Sauna and inferno. Already suffering from dehydration and sweating what seemed to be pure liquor, I was unimpressed by this situation since I was unable to alleviate it by putting down the window as it would automatically slide back up. My genius solution of weighing it down with my boots was working a charm until the stern instructor warned me to take them down while he had in his hand my passport. I obliged.

Air conditioning, Balkan style

Thankfully I managed to tie down the window with some inventive shoelace technology before after about 4 hours the heating was blessedly turned off.

So I arrived in Sarajevo and caught the tram to where I thought my hostel was, narrowly avoiding the tram police who were determined to slap some tourists with a fine. For once I actually bought a ticket, despite having had to wander for some distance to find an ATM to equip myself with some Bosnian Marks, something usually altogether of too much effort. Instead of catching me they caught two girls who as it turned out were en route to the same hostel as me.

Getting off the tram at Pigeon Square in the Old Town of Sarajevo I had no idea where on earth my hostel was, and a strange old man I’d met at the station also got off and decided he’d guide me. Despite some fears of decrepit old man crime, I followed him, and within 10 minutes I was at my hostel.

My guide to my hostel in Sarajevo

So now I await Aaron to join me in Sarajevo, a city whose cobbled streets are echoed in the cobbled skyline of mismatched roofs with distant mountains blue on blue pierced hither and yon by delicate minarets, fingers of penitents extended in search of grace. 

In search of weirdness in Berlin

The last time I could remember seeing Carolin was as she stood atop a bar in Las Vegas, swaying in a rictus of dancing. Part way through an extended bender and at a seedy Coyote Ugly bar, my last pennies and moments of recollection were exchanged for a tin bottle of Bud Light before the new morning met me sprawled pantless on a foreign floor.

For some reason, out of this tale and a previous night’s similar bacchanalian revelry, Carolin thought it a good idea to offer me a couch to sleep on should I ever end up in her neck of the woods, Berlin. While some might question her good judgment, I was merely overwhelmingly thankful at the thought of somewhere clean and quiet to recuperate after the excesses of Oktoberfest.

A couch bigger than most beds was my home for the next few days as Carolin escorted me and Delphine, a long-time friend of hers from travels and life, around the city. With a rather amazing apartment in Kreuzberg, we were nestled in one of the more interesting areas of Berlin filled with cheap eateries, smoke filled bars and curious shops.

Carolin riding at the abandoned airport

After the wall came down, Berlin was in a unique position to literally build its own future. Conscious of the business-driven cities around it, Berlin focused on trying to cultivate culture over industry. Subsequently Berlin has one of the poorest populations in Germany, and this is even more the case in the neighbourhoods filled with bedraggled artistic types or large immigrant populations.

Eating out is thus very cheap, and so that first night we were able to enjoy a delicious and economical Turkish meal before it was time for drinks in Neukölln, the new edgy ‘hood of Berlin given that the inexorable creep of gentrification is stripping Kreuzberg of its cool.

It was here that I was first introduced the to the Berlin institution that is the airless smokey bar. While technically I believe smoking is not allowed in bars, it is really up to the discretion of the owner and in the cool crusty spots of Berlin the non-smokers are a minority.

A peculiar face in a group of thirty-something ladies about Berlin, I was nonetheless made to feel most welcome as we sat around drinking Moscow Mules, a local favourite cocktail of vodka, ginger beer and cucumber.

The next day, October 3, was German Reunification Day, and we celebrated by heading out to Teufelsberg, a park to the west of Berlin. Specifically we were heading to Devil’s Hill in the middle of it atop of which sits an old American listening station. Long abandoned, the tattered remnants have been repurposed over the years as a graffiti ground and party venue, something evident by the detritus around. Recently, however, the insidious forces of global capitalism have bequeathed upon this once charge free destination a beefy  bouncer and a thoroughly patched fence so all comers must fork out 7 euros to a man holding a haphazard sign in order to poke around inside.

Graffiti at Teufelsberg

Despite my miserly grumblings, the view from the top is spectacular and the graffiti throughout is in true Berlin style. Indeed, throughout the whole of the city graffiti is very prominent. Unlike other cities, in most areas it is welcomed and an essential part of Berlin’s culture.

Listening tower in Teufelsberg

On reflection on the significance of the date, we felt obliged to briefly visit the epicentre of Berlin’s Reunification Day and so headed into the city to gaze upon the Brandenburg gate and the attendant shenanigans. From a big stage a faded euro starlet was singing as street vendors hawked beer and currywurst.

Celebrating Reunification Day with Delphine and Carolin over currywurst and  beer

What struck me though was that for some peculiar and no doubt thoroughly German reason, currywurst vendors all have a machine that one slides the cooked bratwurst through to have it chopped in a flurry of noisy mechanics. While this could no doubt be accomplished easily by hand, the Germans have found a more efficient way. Speaking of which, while waiting for the ‘tour’ around the tower in Teufelsberg, even the shabby guide made sure we knew we could go up in precisely six minutes.

We finished the night in a small, typically Kreuzberg bar after a sobering trip through the memorial to the Jews killed in Europe. Opening at around 10pm and closing when the sun is well and truly up, Minibar is one of the many tiny bars scattered through the streets where smoke hangs thick and low and the drinks are poured very stiff.  

Speaking of smokey bars, with one of Carolin’s good friends about to head to Cameroon for six months to work for the WWF, it was to another smoke-filled bar for her farewell. Now this bar had some of the Berlin weirdness that I was keen to experience. Staffed by a lone lesbian, the ‘DJ’ was a middle-aged Turkish looking man who sat in the corner flipping through CDs and chain smoking as he blasted a collection of 60s-90s hits. Aside from the group there for Mine’s farewell, the clientele consisted of a few hardy hipsters and a core of old Turkish men, with the combined smoke cloud such that it was quite difficult to breathe and tears could be seen running from the eyes of those unconditioned to Kreuzberg bar culture, i.e. me.

One old Turkish man of the type who hits dodderingly drunk yet continues on indefinitely, took a shine to a few of us and we were invited into the corner where he rolled a rather hefty hash joint and proceeded to suck the life out of it. Surprisingly cogent despite his intake of substances, he chatted whilst peering red-eyed over his glasses, before once he had finished scoping out the females, decided to bond with me by miming some obscene gestures and offering nudging winks.

This was one of those particularly satisfying travel experiences that would never have happened had it not been for having a local connection through Carolin. Not only did I get to see a wonderfully weird hole in the wall bar, I got to meet all of her friends, one of whom, Anetta, had hugged a Swami earlier that day, as well as a couple of ex-pats who both moved to Berlin for the same girl, hated each other over her, then became great friends.

After such an incredibly dense atmosphere, the post-bar decamp to another smokey bar was exactly what I needed, before the fresh air of the newly dawning day made all the evil unleased upon my delicate lungs seem completely worthwhile.

Oh so cool.

On a less booze-soaked note and as I already mentioned, the youth and malleability of reunified Berlin has let it choose the path of the struggling artist, and the locals are keen to keep this edgy status. According to my cultural historian Carolin, the arrival of offices of MTV and Universal were fiercely protested as they were seen as embodiments of cultural imperialism, and there are riots every May 1 between Anarchists and police as the true Berliners rage against the man.

The net result of this attitude is a city where it took me 8 days to see someone wearing a suit, something which struck me at the time like a slap in the face.

I am not sure if it should be put down to this liberated, anti-authoritarian attitude, but in Berlin one is able to wander the streets freely with a drink in hand. To add to this delight, the beer is cheerfully cheap and can be bought at every corner shop. Through some rather extensive testing I can offer some advice to the Berlin bound: 1 euro is the threshold of a quality beverage. Keep in the safe 1.20-1.60 zone and you will have a refreshing European lager. Conversely, venture into the 0.80c territory and you will have a sour tasting malty brew. For those more interested in sweet vino, the 2 euro Aldi wine is surprisingly smooth, with the helpful scale of dry-sweet guiding the connoisseur to a choice pick.

The other great Berlin institution is the kebab. Kreuzberg and Neukolln particularly have large Turkish communities, and while they have not culturally integrated very well into Berlin society, their kebabs have. Whilst still ostensibly comprised of the same ingredients as in any other kebab joint, they lack the horrible greasy mouth feel for which your typical 3am option is known. In addition to the joy brought on the by the kebab, both Durum and doner, the sight alone of the kebab shop workers wielding a long and bendy sabre as they slice wafer thin bits of mystery meat, grease splattering the plastic window in front of the customers, is a spectacle in itself

The artistry of the kebab

Despite the local resentment of men of business and corporate greed, Berlin is still in Germany, and subsequently has fantastically efficient infrastructure, particularly public transport. Trains are reliable, and the Haupbanhof in Berlin is enormous and combines a hub of transport with a shop for anything you could want.

That said, at 4am on a weekday night transport is less frequent. Andreas of Oktoberfest fame happened to come to Berlin while I was around, and having lived in the city for 8 months he decided his contribution to my knowledge should come in the form of a boozy prostitute crawl. Striding up and around Alexanderplatz we drank street beers, ate anything that was on sale, and ogled the prostitutes as they stalked both road and footpath. Using Andreas’ knowledge bred of befriending a prostitute back in his rebellious Berlin youth, we found the apartment block they rented and watched the varied gentlemen straggle out of taxis and off the street with their women in tow.

The prostitutes of Berlin, given that it is legal to streetwalk, can be quite forward in propositioning potential clients. This happens quite a bit as men inevitably leer at the tightly-bodiced and white-latex clad ladies of the night, which is all the invitation they need to engage.

After this entertaining and rather alternative form of sightseeing, the public transport was running every 40 minutes, and given I had to make three changes to get back home it looked to be a long night of waiting. Foolhardily, given my sense of direction, I decided to walk home, which after I got my bearings, somehow only took about 45 minutes of intoxicated stumbling fuelled by late night bakery treats and a kebab. Quite a success, really.

Street art

A very Berlin thing is flea markets. At Mauerpark on Sundays is a famous one which has been in existence for about 9 years and steadily grown. As far as flea markets go, it was quite interesting with a lot of weird stuff, but what sets the Mauerpark Floh Markt apart it the open air karaoke that takes place at the same time as the market in an adjacent outdoor amphitheatre.

Called the Kareoke Bear Pit, this place is quintessential Berlin weird. With anyone able to sing, the range of talents during my Sunday visit was notable with one very talented girl followed by one quite tone deaf. Nonetheless, the crowd cheered on all comers, with enterprising men with cartons of beer floating around flogging cheap booze. At one stage while we were watching, an old man with a wild beard, impish grin and a whole lot of bubbles came on to the stage during the karaoke and danced around waving bubbles into the air and the crowd. This only lasted so long before a whole gaggle of toddlers jumped up as well. So to the soundtrack of an Argentinian girl singing The Champs’ Tequila this merry scamper of mischief and bubbles danced back and forth across the stage with everyone perfectly content to let it play out.

I also visited another flea market with Carolin at Kater Holzig, a graffiti riddled warehouse on the canal front that doubles as a club at night. This one was slightly less weird and considerably more hipster-filled. Kater, meaning a male cat, is the german slang for a hangover, and in celebration of this fact I returned to this destination with some people from the hostel later that night.

Like many Berlin clubs and sights, Kater Holzig is a repurposed abandoned space, many of which exist in varying states of disrepair around the city. The old Berlin airport is another such space, with the vast flat and open area now a popular skating, biking and barbequing area with the old communist-styled buildings looking on forlornly.

With tiny alcoves, low-ceilinged mezzanines and smoke-filled rooms of pulsing lights and rolling Berliners, Kater Holzig is a riff on a fairly consistent theme of electronic beats and intoxication. The love Berlin has for electronic music is such that on any given night of the week there are many venues around the city pulsing not only with music, but with a lot of people. With a population not renowned for working nine-to-five, the nightlife thrives.

The sun rising after a long night

Hardened clubbers last until around midday, with the more practical amongst them waking at 3-4am before heading out to start the evening. When leaving one club at 7am one morning there was still a queue to get in. In a rather pleasant change from clubbing elsewhere in the world, when out in Berlin the priority is not trying to sleaze up on members of the opposite sex. People are there for the music, and the atmosphere is a lot less predatory and really much more pleasant.

My hostel was also an intriguing place. With a core of fiendish party people, the hours kept by some folks, particularly over the weekend, involved waking around 9pm and being in bed in the early afternoon. After one small drug confusion that saw an ambulance visit things quietened down a bit. But at least there was still some boozy 4am pool to be played.  

I also learned valuable lessons about the Germans, notably that German rudeness is not that but rather a demonstration of an indifference towards small talk, something to which silence is preferable. Indeed, I didn’t even notice this alleged rudeness as I only had very positive experiences. From the travel doctor who vaccinated me at minimal cost, to every one of Carolin’s friends who would start talking in English around me, even to other Germans, just so I could understand, Berlin was such a delight that I (assume I) subconsciously booked my flight out 3 days later than intended so I could loiter for a bit longer.

Oktoberfilth

I thought I knew filth after a 20-something-hour, sweaty flight from Sydney to Munich followed by an even sweatier struggle around the city trying to find my hotel for the first night that left me feeling greasier than a hormonal 15-year-old’s face. Five days later, I realised I could not be more wrong about filth.

To understand the true nature of filth one has had to see James Roche after five days of camping and slugging beers for the better part of his waking hours. One must gaze upon his wan and slack-jawed face and admire the texture of the crusty stains on his shorts unprotected by underpants. One must  experience the body-blow of stink that emanates from him so intensely that a hardened rugby league grub dry-retched that fateful fifth-day morn when The Burger emerged from his musty tent and into the daylight. This is true filth.

The filth

From my comfortable hotel bed I foresaw none of this. Greeted with complimentary champagne and a dressing gown I want to call a Eurobe, but which might well have just been not designed for the taller gentleman, I did what any sensible person in a new city does; ate a roast pork knuckle and slept 16 hours to defeat jet lag in one fell swoop.

As a poorly organised individual and due to the popular nature of Oktoberfest, the only consistent accommodation I had been able to secure for my stay in Bavaria was a tent in a camping ground run by Stoke Travel who, judging by their preview emails, clearly ran a demure and family friendly establishment. I was not terribly concerned by this. What did concern me was that due to my above average poor organisation, I had been too slow to book a safe and cosy 1-man tent, and instead had ½ of a two man tent. Given the size of two-man tents and the possibility for any manner of tent-buddy, I was slightly anxious about the potential for a smelly, cramped mess.

My fears were unwarranted as I ended up in the single-man tee pee (or man-pee), a large, well-aired 8-sleeper with the affable Andreas (The Spicy Jalapeno), a German-speaking parole officer from Washington DC. I tried to locate the Burger who had arrived a day earlier, but with none of his contact numbers working it was a merry scamper around various tents before I stumbled across him where I should have been looking all along: at the all-day bar slugging piss at 11a.m.

The man-pee

With him was a man somehow stockier, Gaps, and with these two and Andreas, a nucleus of filth and drunken excess was born. Following some celebratory we’ve-arrived-at-Oktoberfest-and-found-each-other campsite drinks, we headed into the fest where in a worryingly short space of time we each ploughed through four or so steins.

The crew (me, Gaps, The Burger, The Spicy Jalapeno

At one litre capacity and weighing probably close to two kilos, the stein is an impressive receptacle. More impressive are the powerful arms of the waitresses, straining against the sleeves of their Dirndl as they carry up to 10 of them.

To drink these refreshments one has to first find a seat at a small, sticky table, into which the process of wedging oneself can be quite difficult if anyone else is sitting there. Those with foresight try to hold an end seat so that the inevitable excursions to the bathrooms are more easily achieved. Unless you have a perch at a table, you won’t be served.

From 12pm an old-school German band plays strange drinking songs in every hall to which the crowds sing lustily along, and every now and then people get very excited when some brave soul stands atop their table and attempts to skol their stein, success at which is met with applause worthy of a conquering hero.

That first day we stumbled back to camp where I promptly passed out in the man-pee before waking up around 9pm to rejoin the campsite bar and lay waste to some more beverages.

Subsequent days followed a similar pattern, only with increasingly miserable hangovers and fewer mid-evening passings out.

The exception was day two, where we tried to get into the ‘fest but apparently it was “Italian Saturday” or somesuch, which meant that there were enormous queues for every beer hall and carabinieri assisting the local politzie because of the glut of boozed-up Italians.

With no desire to queue indefinitely—we later found out that the trick was the bribe the security guards with 30 euros, although then you still had to find a seat at a table—we decided to embark on our own mini pub crawl around the centre of Munchen after a hearty Bavarian lunch of variously roasted or boiled meats with spongy dumplings and viscous gravy. Joining us today was a small Canadian man who looked like Judd Apatow. Despite weighing barely half of any of the other four of us, he went beer for beer all day, even downing some shots of Jagermeister, before finally cracking on the walk home as he dribbled a steady stream of vomit which slowly crusted on his impressive, woodsy beard.

Gaps and Judd Apatow

That night we met Shultzy, an Australian man at the campsite who accused Gaps of having pissed on his face the night before after crash tackling him into a tent. Gaps did not dispute the charges, and in his own special way of making it up, took a poo in shoe to demonstrate to Shultzy that he wasn’t such a bad guy.

This impressed Schultzy enough for him to start a chant in Gaps’ honour, ‘Mad cunt, mad cunt, mad cunt!’

The owner of the campsite had a moped on which he scooted around constantly, checking up on the state of his grounds and the drunken debauchery that threatened to render the earth scorched and uninhabitable thereafter. We later bore witness to a video of a drunken Schultzy roaring around on this same moped, having somehow Shang-hai’d it.

Other memorable campsite moments include drunkenly berating two young Australian guys into beer-bonging to excess, eating vending machine hot chips, having people come over to Gaps in reverence and ask him about shoe-pooing, and generally drinking to excess with a bunch of similarly minded people.

At the tables at Oktoberfest the beer flows endlessly and it gets progressively more crowded as the afternoon wears on. In the cramped conditions it is hard not to become amicable with your neighbours. By far our favourite drinking companion was an American called Conway, aka The Big C, who looked like a cross between Meatloaf and Neil Diamond. With also a touch of Jabba the Hut and well beyond his best years, this smooth talking yank, once he realised we were a pack of filthy humanbeings, took us into confidence and thereon maintained a steady running commentary of lasciviousness as he scanned the hall for buxom broads and recounted tales of grubbiness past.

Me and The Big C

I like to think that we left him with a tale. Cramped in the middle of the table with nowhere to go, The Burger was forced to fill a stein with his light golden urine. Placing this in a collection of used steins on another table, he assumed a comely bar wench would rustle it away into a washing machine. This did not happen.

A fellow reveller, spotting this stein, decided it must’ve been hers and filled with delicious white wine—the only non-beer option available—and proceeded to drink deeply. With wrinkled face, she then spat it out. We thought the ordeal was done, but it wasn’t.

She went back for more.

The Burger had filled this stein with a sizeable 0.5L of sweet piss, apparently so sweet that this woman thought it was just funky tasting white wine. After polishing off most of the stein, she poured in more white wine, and continued sipping away.

I thought that this, or perhaps Burger’s stench, would be the most unsavoury experience of my five days.

On the second last day the Burger and I celebrated our final stint in the beer halls by embarking on a sausage crawl back to the bus that would take us to the campsite. Four cabanossi and two bratwursts later we were there, and proceeded to finish the evening in standard style with a few quiet drinkies.

At four a.m. I felt a terrible rumbling and was getting quite a lot of cabanossi on the burp. After an indecent rush to the bathroom, I thought I had escaped this terrible scourge, before I felt round two a-coming. A hasty retreat to the bathroom saw a cascade of rancid filth explode out of me, only to have the stench of this terribleness catalyse a mutual explosion from my other end. Purging dynamically, I thought the end was nigh as I tried to keep my feet out of this chamber of horrors before stumbling out into the early morning where I attempted to wipe clean what little dignity remained in my body and throughout my soul.

The Burger, Gaps and I left that campsite very much worse for wear. The stink on the train ride to the Munich airport left adjacent grandmas politely gagging, and with every slight shudder my tender insides threatened to wreak further damage.

At last this salubrious trio parted ways, Burger and Gaps with a bottle of shower gel to the airport showers, and bowels aquiver I to my plane to Berlin. It was a harrowing, if memorable Oktoberfest.