Balkan Raid 2010 -Territori 4×4-
“The Guaypoints 4×4 Team” was born in the shelter of the Bardenas Reales. Territori 4×4 provided the means and the rest was done by coexistence, nature and above all… mud.
A lot of mud!
The friendship grew, the routes became more frequent and our holiday plans revolved around our photographic Namibia!
Oh dream trip… Namibia! Our cry of future promise.
And so it was. Namibia was “the best”, Albert told us; “once in a lifetime you have to go” and we asked again and again and he explained…
“But for the first long trip, I would recommend the Balkans.”
Balkans?. Yes, Balkans.
How right he was. I don’t know if we have thanked him enough.
Almost without realizing it we already had the inscriptions, the boat back and forth and the cars in the workshop of “San Sergi”, (well, the beatification was during the trip, but he was already one of ours before leaving).
We were three cars (two Toyotas and a Nissan) and an SUV (Jeep Wrangler). I still don’t know how they let them sign up!
This phenomenon continued to fascinate me as we got to know the rest of the expedition, since it was rare that Toyota did not drive.
Even the organization! Unconscious! I said, come with cars…!
The fact is that we embarked through Barcelona but not to Livorno; the ship was 12 hours late and we were not willing to wait that long, so, Territori made a move and… ticket to Civitaveccia!
July 31. The adventure began.
The nerves that produced the last-minute change were appeased by the crossing;
We arrived at our destination late but wonderfully rested. We needed it. 550 km ahead. Destination: Venice.
The trip was promising from the beginning. We managed, only to lose the first car as soon as we got off the boat and an hour later, already en route, we took care of “getting lost” from the Organization.
Yes, as you hear.
Dani, “Official Navigator Guaypoint” opened and when they least expected it, with night and GPS, in a navigation foreshortening, zassss, we gave them a corner.
Brrr, Brrrr! Albert, will you copy me? change…
chirrrrrsss, chirrrrrssss. Not even flowers!, mission accomplished. We are now on our own. Or at least, that’s what we thought.
“Navigator” continued to drive his Nissan and closed the group with a peculiar individual. He also drove Toyota, but the old ones. I think they call them 80. Of course, it was quite well cared for. The truth is that the car was not a big deal, but the driver, from the moment he boarded, inspired confidence. Was it because of the moustache?
It is not a plan to trust the first one you see and even less so with such old cars, but the fact is that the responsibility of “herding” the herd, was exercised with mastery and good humor, encouraging the rest of Toyotas, who at night and with a highway full of trucks sharing direction, found it difficult to stay in the lane. Balbino. That’s the name of the “Pastor.”
Brrr, Brrrr! Albert, will you copy me? It’s 4 in the morning and we’re arriving in Venice, change.
I’ll copy you! We have booked dinner for you. You have it in your room! Change.
I still wonder how he did it. At that time. In Italy.
Sleep, what is called sleeping, we do not sleep. We rest for a couple of hours and start the excursion to Venice but not before having a good breakfast.
Venice… what am I going to tell you about Venice! Its canals, its boats, its gondolas… The one who has not been… well, that’s about time. Lest instead of oil rise, the water rises and erases it from the “Territori”.
Venice was finished, but the next day we began the real route. The Balkan route. On the way to Ljubljana, Slovenia.
On August 3rd, with the briefing homework done and in two groups, we marched led by “El líder”, “Los Carchanos” and “Los Guays”, with our backs covered by “El Santo”, our technical support, Sergi.
We traveled the 150 km of highway, 100 of asphalt and finally, we stepped on land.
Beautiful landscapes of pointed roofs, green meadows fed by the perennial drizzle and beautiful lakes such as the Bled, dominated by the Castle of the Bishops of Brixen; lush forests, those of the local Robin Hood, made us enjoy the view and the pleasure of driving on tracks dug in tunnels of lush nature. How beautiful!
A well-deserved rest awaited us in a 5* Hotel. But before that, a walk through the center of the adorable Ljubljana, divided in its heart by the Sava River, which seems to flow into the church of St. Nicholas, since the Middle Ages guarded by the castle, dominating from the hill, was necessary.
Early in the morning we left quickly to meet a train journey that would take us inside an enormous whim of nature in the form of the most varied stone dreams, the result of the union of water and time. The Postjona caves.
Its walls will be forever impregnated with the sound of the choir of “Los niños de Territori” singing the “happy birthday” that we dedicate to the illustrious “Navigattor”.
Like our imagination, going back in history, the castle of Predjama rose before us and on the back of our machines, we crossed the forests of its valleys just as the Slovenian “Peter Pan” (or Robin Hood for others…) did, centuries ago.
Rijeka was waiting for us with a comfortable hotel, a comforting dinner and a few drinks. We were still celebrating birthdays on a balcony overlooking the Adriatic and as far as we could see.
A combination of Adriatic landscapes and jungle leads us along tracks. Despite the humidity of the forests, they are in perfect condition and the cars that accompany us have no difficulties. Neither does my SUV. The paths take us straight to one of the jewels that this magnificent journey contains. Plitvice.
Croatia is the owner of the privileged water park that the Gods built for your delight in the heart of Plitvice National Park. And believe me, I’m sure the gods are still playing in its waters, its fountains, its lakes and its waterfalls.
The hike is worth it. The effort is less if you know the reward and as always, the hotel awaits us, already in Bosnian lands.
The landscape continues without disappointing and forests, valleys and meadows pile up on our route.
The Una River gave us the opportunity to descend its rapids in a day of rafting but the solidarity of the “Guaypoints” made us all stay on land. Well, not all of them.
“The cars” didn’t even get close to the river, but the “all-terrains” deployed the portable snorkel and jumped into its waters. What a moment! Thank goodness it has been immortalized for the glory of Jeep, because if not, the unbelievers would call us fabulators.
Bosnia and Herzegovina. When writing his name, the whistle of barbarism still resonates in his syllables, just as the facades of Sarajevo recall the passage of hatred between peoples. Disputes with bombs have been settled since ancient times. But we didn’t see them on TV. Only a few drawings narrated how the anarchist attacked Franz Ferdinand and his wife, although this event was the pretext to start World War I.
When entering the city it was inevitable to remember, as its inhabitants surely remember, the smell of gunpowder. I didn’t like Sarajevo. I didn’t even like their ski slopes. Those that hosted the ’84 Olympiad. Those that housed the guard bunkers. Those that today remind us with their ruins that there was a war.
Damned, the wars and damned the tracks that lead us to them, hard, stone, that only withstand the passage of tanks and not my footprints. In them my springs broke and broke the pieces that hold their balance.
Arriving in Mostar, following the Neretva, even though the war had been bloody, was a relief, for my car and for her. For the city, now rebuilt, a World Heritage Site, peace has arrived.
It is an oasis of hope among peoples who surely still hate each other, but they endure each other, because this is preferable to being erased from the face of the earth.
I like to show up. It has stolen my soul and the memory of those close to me who bet so much on it and who today see the reward in its streets. With its bridge, its mosques and churches, with its restaurants, its souk and its blonde, dark-skinned women painting the landscape of greens, blues and water carried by the tireless river, the memory of those who have seen it.
That’s Mostar.
The next day we woke up early. Too much. And not because of the morning walk to say goodbye to the city. The stone slopes of the ski resort broke the rear stabilizer and with it gave way to the shock absorbers and springs, but… It’s a jeep. An early morning was enough and… hand of saint, of “Sant Sergi”, I mean. Our technical support and friend.
That a club like Territori organizes a route is already a guarantee of success enough, but that it also has the technical service of Sergi Carrasco from Talleres Jorsán is a luxury and a peace of mind. And there are several of us who were able to ratify it.
We had arranged to meet at 7:00 and I arrived at 7:02. He must have been under the car for at least 20 minutes. He had located the problem and the possible solution to be able to continue the trip. And so we did.
Heading to Dubrovnik. The Pearl of the Adriatic.
On the banks of the Neretva we begin the navigation following the route map on quiet tracks, enjoying the landscape, the company of our friends, the radio station; “here Radio Guaypoint, broadcasting for the airwaves”… and the waves were waiting for us, those of the Adriatic, licking the feet of the hotel that would give rest to our bones. It couldn’t have been better or more opportune because the kilometers were beginning to be noticeable not only in the car’s shock absorbers.
That night we took Bombay Saphir rocked by the waves. And we spoke with Pilar, our beloved reporter “Guaypoint”. We missed her.
The next day the decision was unanimous in the “Guaypoints”. The boys would travel through the mountains until we reached Montenegro, on the back of abandoned train tracks, seeing the forced abandonment of a village and touring the Kotor fjord, the southernmost in Europe.
The girls would stay (with some dissidents, aspiring “Cool”) at the hotel, to enjoy the sun and the sea, shopping and walking around Dubrovnik.
The night and a great restaurant brought us all together again. The obligatory walk through the medieval city is a memory that will not die because it will be nourished the day I least expect it with a new visit. It’s worth it.
The eighth stage would take us to Montenegro. 300 kilometres of tracks and border crossings, from Croatia to Bosnia, from Bosnia to Montenegro, to the heart of the Durmitor National Park, protected by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site, and by the canyon of the River Tara. Unparalleled landscapes as unparalleled was the Spa hotel that was waiting for us. It is indescribable. The one who selected him has a thin nose. Very fine. Fine. Right, Albert? When you arrive at the town where it is located, you cannot imagine those facilities.
The next morning they had to drag me out of the hotel. It cost them some insults. Luckily they are friends of the soul. I would have stayed for a whole winter, but we had to resume the route to Shköder, passing through Podgorica, but before we stopped to fix the stabilizer. Welding as a professional, the mockery of my colleagues and a handful of euros later, we were already back on the road.
Dinner was ready on arrival, we changed countries and menus. The meals of this trip would deserve a separate chapter but suffice it to say that there was no lack of “pata negra”, nor cava nor freshly brewed coffee or desserts. Whether it was breakfast, aperitif, lunch or snack, the deployment of means was worthy of the best all-you-can-eat buffet. All together, whether we were each group separately or both together, exchange was the general trend. Chicken thigh for cava, piece of cheese for “cider” or “herbal liqueur for friendship” were common.
And so we arrive in Tirana. Capital of Albania and… of cars. Of the scrapping of luxury cars, of the roadside washes, of impossible traffic, of the chaos of civilization. Driving in Tirana is an act of faith. And driving in a caravan without the group breaking up, mission impossible.
I would not be able to say if it is a city in ruins or under construction, because the urban disorder does not make clear one or the other. You can find the best (for example our hotel) or the worst (go to eat at a beach bar on the nearest beach).
Now, you can find the car part you want in record time. It took us an hour to find the shock absorbers and a half to place them. Of course, always hand in hand with the experience of our “leader” and under his protective mantle. The courtyard is to be trusted!
There is only one place in the world where you can find everything for a vehicle; well, two, in Albania and in the trunk of Carchano. What a great discovery our friend José! It’s like Inspector Gadchet, but in an Off Road version. Complete screws, tools of all kinds, even a towing system for cases of extreme need! And not only that, but the willingness to lend a hand at any time, at any time, anywhere.
A real incombustible.
Starting stage 11 is the equivalent of the “final fireworks”.
This journey would take us through the Albanian Central Trail, the mountains of central Albania, lands of forests, loggers and wolves, to the plains of Lake Ohrid.
The route promised and did not disappoint. The mud ruts left by the wooden trucks compromised more than one if they got distracted by the landscape. The help was heard on the radio station and the scouting advances were repeated over and over again, ensuring the passage of the caravan. The terrain was well known to Albert and Balbino’s help left no loose ends in case the terrain had changed due to the rains. There was no possibility of surprise traps. The only ones had been left behind in the form of an improvised wall of stones that the “Carchano Boys” were busily in charge of building in an attempt to stop “Los Guaypoints”. A wasted job and they knew it. But the laughter was worth it.
Nor could the mountains of Albania defeat us. On the contrary, they became an excellent amusement park with roller coasters of hills and rocks. Again and again, down the slope with “Albanian-style” maneuvers, we arrive at a clearing, taken from a book of legends, where we display our usual culinary repertoire, to pay homage to ourselves before continuing the path.
The crossroads was the passage of the loggers, in their trucks from the Second War, loaded to the brim in an exercise of impossible balance, risking their lives on each trip. We exchanged food, greetings and wishes that they would reach their destination. The most fortunate ones galloped down on their mules.
We continued our journey, bordering the bed of the stream sometimes and in the middle of it at other times, in an endless trial that made us enjoy ourselves like children, to reach the valley, crossing villages and towns.
The stones and fallen trees gave way to fast, very fast and playful tracks that brought out the soul of a pilot restrained by the prudence of having to reach the destination to continue the journey. And the night caught up with us and the fun increased as the fatigue increased, disguised by the tension of not being able to get distracted. Just remembering it gets my adrenaline pumping, what a wonderful day!
Macedonia was the prelude to the end of the journey and we knew it, but we were not going to let our spirits drop. We hurried to the maximum with the visit to the monastery of San Naum and the journey to Greece, through the mountains and their valleys that the roe deer that populated them wanted to show us, as a farewell.
Another wonderful hotel awaited us at the foot of the Meteoras, the magical mountains that have housed since the fourteenth century the monks heirs of those, who were hermits, already populated the caves that brought them closer to “the Creator” in the eleventh century.
And so, as if fallen from the sky, our last steps fell in Greece, straight at the end of a journey that we will hardly forget.
Because, the places, it is true, with the passage of time become blurred; But how can you forget about shared emotions?
Landscapes make sense when memories are fixed on those details that made them important, when the words when describing them bring to mind that guy, the one with the moustache, of whom someone said “with you he would go to the end of the world” or of that other who watched day and night that the breakdowns were mere anecdotes or for the one who toasted with cava or the one who shared cider or for whom he he ordered our routes.
Or for you, who brought us back home.
For you, my faithful “Guaypoints” who have made the family grow.
For you, little one.
From Radio Guaypoint, broadcasting for the airwaves… see you soon!
Agustín de Ramón
