Cesky Krumlov

“In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes”. So said the inimitable Benjamin Franklin, who didn't grow up in New Zealand in the 1990s and therefore couldn't have known that losing to Pakistan in the cricket is a third certainty. Here is my traveller's addendum to the list: there's now death, taxes, losing to Pakistan in the cricket and having your travel plans rooted by the incompetence of others.

We were meant to have been picked up in Salzburg by a shuttle and taken directly to our next destination, Cesky Krumlov. But due to some unforseen cock-up on the part of the Czech shuttle bus company, our seats were re-sold and we were told there was no space on the shuttle for us. The upshot of it all is that we're now in Linz, having arrived here by train, and in a few short minutes we're going to hook up with the shuttle that didn't have enough room to pick us up in Salzburg but does have enough room to pick us up from Linz. I've given up trying to understand it and I'm now consigned to just going with the flow.

Linz has two major claims to fame, neither of which you will see mentioned on the road signs on the way into town. Firstly, it was Adolf Hitler's favourite town and secondly, it has a kind of cake named after it. This may provide some insight as to why tourists generally opt to give Linz a miss where possible. From where I'm standing, outside the train station, the the town looks as grey and dreary as the sky above it. I cannot speak highly enough, however, of the modern and expansive station; in particular the bookstore on the lower level, which does a nice line in pornography and sudoku books.

I'm just stuffing my new sudoku books into my backpack when the shuttle arrives and out steps the driver, a bulbous man in his 30s with conspicuously low levels of hygiene that are no doubt the envy of all his bus driver mates. With a well-practised gruffness, he hoists our gear into the boot and asks us if we'd like to “go a toilet” before departing, but I've just gone one earlier, so we hop aboard his van without delay.

It's one of those pack-'em-in-like-sardines minivans that in the interests of economy has been spared unnecessary luxuries, like comfortable seats or suspension. In the row in front of us, three middle-aged Japanese Hello Kitty devotees are chatting excitedly in their native tongue. In the front seat alongside the driver are a hippie couple from Australia, who look well into the 60s and are clearly too old to give a toss about what the world thinks of their appearance. The man is dressed in full khaki tramping gear and sports a thick white beard and the most ridiculous combover I've ever seen. What few fertile patches he has left on his melon have been grown out and then tied back over his head into a sweeping ponytail, creating the overall effect that he's just emerged from 30 years living in the Outback and scalped Willie Nelson. Perhaps he has: the remote mountains of the southern Czech Republic seem like he kind of place a fugitive would be headed and besides, you don't hear much from old Willie these days, do you?
“Ahhh, we don't have roads like this back in 'Straya”, he tells the driver enthusiastically. “No bloody cars to drive on 'em!”
“Oh. Really?”. You can tell this piece of news has made the driver's day.
“Yeah mate. Big long dirt roads and not a single bloody car on 'em”.
“I see”.

I had a rough sleep last night, and the rhythmic hammering of my head against the roof of the van is enough to send me into a light slumber. At some stage in the trip, this is interrupted by a loud bang and a series of gasps from the van's occupants. The driver, obviously bored with life and trying to inject some excitement into his day, has taken a corner too quickly and clipped a passing mail truck headed in the opposite direction. What remains of his left side mirror dangles limply, the mirror cracked beyond repair but still in one piece. The driver casually pulls over to the side of the road, reaches across and pats the shards of the mirror back into place, then zooms off again as if it's just a minor inconvenience that happens all the time.
“That'd never happen back in 'Straya!”, Willie Nelson says helpfully. “Big bloody wide roads in 'Straya!”

Straight away I can see I'm going to love Cesky Krumlov. At first glance it appears to be everything that Salzburg wasn't: quaint, picturesque and brimming with character. The entirety of the old town is closed off to vehicle traffic, giving pedestrians free reign over the winding, cobbled streets and alleys. Two church spires – one each side of the river – rise above the twisting rows of ancient houses. Atop the hill behind our hostel stands the most impressive structure of all: the castle and its imposing, uniquely-decorated tower. For the first time on the trip we have a hostel room to ourselves. After satisfying myself that the bathroom is free of used condoms, I lie down and treat myself to a well-earned afternoon nap.

“Welcome to this medieval house where time has stopped. Let's take a seat at the oak table and pause on how we can be inspired by the diet of our ancestors. Although old bohemian cuisine has basically vanished, let us offer you a taste of the past”.

My reading of the restaurant menu's introduction is briefly interrupted by the loud and absorbing conversation taking place in the small room behind us.
“Well today we came from Praaaague? But before that we were in Viennaaaa? And before that we were in Bratislavaaaaa?”
“Oh wow, that sounds great! Yeah we've never been to Oar-strail-ya but we'd love to visit! Are you from Bris-bain or Mel-born?”
A middle-aged American couple are dining with a middle-aged Australian couple in what resembles a kind of perfect storm of irritating travellers. Now they're joined by another Australian couple, who greet the original Australian couple with speechless astonishment, as if they'd never expected to meet people of their own creed so far from home, even though the bastards are everywhere.

I'm doing my best to tune it all out and engage myself in the fascinating menu. We are, after all, in a very peculiar and enchanting place. Tucked away down a narrow cobbled lane, we've found a house caught in some bizarre timewarp. It contains a restaurant that specialises in medieval bohemian cuisine, the owners of which have done everything possible to transport the diner back to the Middle Ages. The interior is wooden and dimly-lit, the décor is sparse; even the waiter is dressed as if he's just sprung forth from my fifth form English illustrated copy of the Canterbury Tales. The music doesn't quite date back to that time period – in fact it's Radiohead – but upon closer listening, Thom Yorke's ethereal wailings do have a kind of primeval quality to them.
“Might I suggest the feast platter for three”, says our waiter, placing a frothing pint of medieval ale in front of me. “It is roasted hare, roasted chicken, roasted pheasant, smoked meat with potato, millet and dumplings”. Well, why not indeed?

As I sip at my entree, a bowl of potato and daisy soup, I read more about the culinary traditions of ancient Bohemia. It's important to know these things. You never know when they might pop up in a job interview, or an episode of “Who Wants To Be Millionaire”.
“The poor usually ate bread with cheese, or onion and soups. The well-off ate fish with a glass of wine or beer. To finish their breakfast they drank a glass of good wine and brandy”. See, living in the Middle Ages doesn't sound nearly as bad as it's made out to be. The trick obviously was not to be one of the poor people.

Our dinner is an absolute visual delight. It arrives on one large platter for the three of us, the various meats stacked high on potato done fifty different ways (actually I lie. It's only about forty-five), with a colourful Bohemian salad in the middle to finish off the dish. Then something else wonderful happens: the Aussies in the next room bugger off, leaving us to enjoy our meal in relative peace. “Can't have too many 'Strayans in one area!”, says the lady as she departs. It's the first intelligent thing she's said all night. The meal is delicious, though if I am honest, it appears that modern Central European cuisine hasn't much deviated from the course set by their medieval ancestors. Plump and satisfied, we follow our Chaucerian waiter down into the bowls of the house to pay the bill. I'm slightly worried that he's going to ask me to hand over a pot of apple wine, a sack of magic beans or perhaps a couple of my goats in exchange for the meal, but it turns out they take Visa.

I can hear the tormented cackling of a witch burning at the stake as we step back out into the grimy, candle lit alley. An old man lies dying of the plague in a nearby doorway. The full moon illuminates the severed heads of traitors on display above the town gate and in the main courtyard, the town crier is ringing a bell as he relays news of the Saxons' crushing defeat in southern Moravia.

I wonder what they put in that medieval beer?

***

I can't say I wasn't warned there would be days like these. Now I'm having flashbacks to that chilly May night in Dunedin when I resolved I would never need any cold weather gear again, and lamenting my insolence.
“Don't you think you should keep some of those jerseys, Max?”, they asked. “You're gonna need them some time, you know”.
“Don't be stupid, you fools!”, I cried jovially as I sipped from my can of Southern Gold while gleefully throwing another sweater on the fire. “There's no rain and cold where I'm going! No bad weather for me ever again! Muhahaha!”.

Fast forward four months to a freezing September morning in the Czech Republic. I'm standing in the street outside our hostel as the rain hammers down upon my hunched over frame. I don't believe in umbrellas, and I don't own a raincoat. The only protection against the cold I've brought is a thin woollen sweater. Across the street, Willie Nelson and his wife are rugged up and peering through the windows of a grocery store. From an ice cream parlour down the road – which will presumably not be doing a roaring trade today – comes the sound of the local radio station cranking the latest Billboard Top 40 hits. I don't recognise the song but it sounds like sounds like that twat from Coldplay whining, as usual, about his vast fortunes and the possibility of Gwyneth leaving him. It seems like no matter where you go in Europe, you can't escape this particularly noxious form of noise pollution.

Cesky Krumlov is an easy town to explore, with most of its highlights found along one long road that crosses the river and joins the old town together. The old town was built along a stretch of the river where it curves so dramatically upon itself in an exaggerated S-bend that the river almost forms two islands, save for a thin strip of land. I set off towards the centre of the old town with the aim of navigating every alleyway without going down the same one twice. The town centre is extremely dense and its open doors and walkways give it a very communal feel. Shop owners setting up tables mingle with local grocers and old ladies out walking their dogs. Presently I find myself wandering down a narrow passageway and into a room which I could swear is someone's private kitchen, and that's because it is. A big pot of soup boils on the stove and a stocky, middle-aged lady looks up at me from her kitchen table with an air of indifference, as if complete strangers walk into her kitchen all the time. I cast my eyes around the room and raise my eyebrows as if to say “nice place you got here”, then turn on my heel and get the hell out.

The stroll up to the castle grounds offers pretty views of the town, the river, and the two German backpackers walking up the hill in front of me. The gardens are expansive, beautifully manicured and once again serve as a reminder that you definitely wanted to find yourself on the right side of the poverty line back in the Middle Ages. There's even a “revolving theatre” - a round grandstand structure with seating for about 200 people, that has been designed to rotate through 360 degrees during stage plays. I'm not sure how that works, since I generally prefer my theatre not to revolve while I'm trying to watch a performance in front of me, but who am I to poke fun at what is probably an ancient Czech ritual. Perhaps I might find some explanation on the sign on the base of the grandstand. Upon closer inspection, it says:
“Místnost ostrahy – Nekuřácké pracoviště”

I don't know what that means either. But a quick glance at my watch confirms my stomach's suspicions that a refuelling mission is in order. What to eat though? We can be fairly sure that the humble spud will be on the agenda. I don't really have much choice in that regard, unfortunately. “Monday special: Right wiener schnitzel of veal haunch, boiled potato”, says a large blackboard outside a culinary tourist trap in the square. No thanks. I walk down an alleyway and find a smaller restaurant pushing “gypsy sausage, sauerkraut, potato”. I don't know why they even bother mentioning that there's potato in it, since potato appears to be a non-negotiable item when it comes to ordering food in Central Europe.

I remember walking past a place called Joe's Living Restaurant last evening, the concept of which intrigues me. Living restaurant? Does this mean the animals are slaughtered at the table and vegetables are ripped out of the garden in front of your eyes? Sadly we will never know, since Joe's Living Restaurant is, ironically enough, not open for business today. Further down the street I find a traditional Bohemian barbecued meat restaurant that my guidebook recommended. A sign in the doorway promises “live entertainment with authentic Bohemian period music”, but they've got Justin Timberlake playing on the radio when I walk in, so I walk back out again. Back on the street I bump into Georgina and Caroline, who are similarly at a loss for what to eat, so we pool our collective thoughts and settle upon pizza. Not authentic by any means, but I really need a break from potatoes.

The rain hardens after lunch, making any outdoor exploration of the town an impossibility, so I set myself the task of finding a convivial local pub in which to pass the afternoon. Willie Nelson is standing in the town square as I walk past, chatting to a man who appears to be an Australian tour guide. I can't hear what he's saying, though it's always fun to guess.
“So I was out in the bush hunting for me tea and crikey! There he was, just sittin' around the campfire with a few of his roadies, strummin' his guitar. So I pulled my knife out, sneaked right up behind him, and-”

The rain is now intolerably heavy, forcing me to take shelter in the doorway of a pub on the outskirts of town. I take this as a cue to enter. The narrow doorway opens into a long, cavernous room with soft lighting and mud brick walls; it's immediately clear that I've found my place. The rest of the occupants – all local Czechs - are crowded around the bar, smoking and chatting with the bartender. A toddler is pushing an ashtray around on the counter as the tinny stereo speakers blast out that horrible song about kissing girls and liking it. It's always disappointing to visit a new country expecting to experience at least a sampling of the local culture, only to discover they're all listening to the same over-commercialised shite you'd hear in Royal Oak mall on a Saturday afternoon.

Everyone stops and stares at me – the toddler included – as I approach the barmaid. Pressure's on, Max. Better not stuff it up.
“Errr, one Budvar please”.
“Budvar, big?”
“Yes please”.
“20 koruna”.
Less than a Euro for a pint of Budvar. I want to pay her more, just as a token of my appreciation for giving the world this wonderful, hoppy brew. You'd pay seven bucks for a stubby of six-month-old Budvar back home, and here I've got a pint of the fresh stuff.

I find it comforting, and strangely gratifying, to know that generations of Czechs have been getting pissed in these very same environs since time immemorial. The décor has a wonderful timeless quality to it: lanterns hang from the curved ceiling, a hat stand adorns the corner and the walls are covered with agricultural tools – weigh scales, scythes, pitchforks – hark back to a bygone era long before the tourist dollar fed the beating heart of the town. It's just a shame about that bloody radio behind the bar. We're now being subjected to “Travelin' Man” by Ricky Nelson. At least it has lyrics that I can closely relate to, apart from all the boasting about rampant sex with prostitutes sugar-coated in 1960s pop twee.

“I'm a travelin' man and I've made a lot of stops all over the world,
And in every port I own the heart of at least one lovely girl.
I've a pretty senorita waitin' for me down in old Mexico
And if you're ever in Alaska stop and see my cute little Eskimo”

I drain my glass and make my way back to the bar for an all-but-free refill. Don't they prefer to be called “Inuits” these days?

Back at the table with my fresh pint, I open my guide book and discover that the town's history is almost too complex and diverse to follow, even while approximately sober. An important trading post along the Vltavy River since the 6th century, the area was controlled by the noble Czech Slavníkovci family until they were slaughtered by the rival Přemyslovci family in AD 995, in what may be a chilling foreshadowing of the murder of the MacDonalds by the Campbells at Glencoe in 1692. Since then, the town has alternatively fallen into the hands of the Rosenburgs, the Habsburgs, the Eggenburgs, the Czechs, the Austrians and latterly, the Australians.

I still haven't gotten to the bottom of why there are so many bloody Aussies in this town. It's not like it's a place that's renowned for having great surf, easy women and Sizzlers outlets. Nor does there appear to be any historical link between Bohemia and 'Straya. Yet I once again find myself surrounded by them as I embark upon my tipsy stagger back to the hostel, their goofy grins and Map-of-Noosa t-shirts sticking out through the rain and gathering gloom. On every street corner there's an Aussie couple, putting at a shop front or building and saying things like “corker, mate!”, or “grouse!” (ok, I lie, I've never actually heard an Australian say “grouse” outside of the Hardware House advertising jingle). My best guess is that Cesky Krumlov recently got a mention in a prominent Australian travel magazine or TV show. “Yeah, this town is like, totally wicked, mate! The sheilas are terrific and you can get a mad feed of steak for a corker of a price. It's like, fully sick, mate!”. Fair enough, but did anyone think to ask the poor locals whether they wanted them here?

***

Digging a moat to protect one's castle is a successful and time-honoured practice throughout the Old World. But what happens when your castle is built in a pronounced slope? The builders of Cesky Krumlov's impressive castle dug a moat around it alright, but instead of filling it with water, they filled it with bears. One of them is looking up at me now, with a singular hatred in his eye that says “don't even think about falling off that wide, safe pedestrian bridge and down into here”. With a grin and a salute, I heed his advice and carry on into the castle grounds.

It's just before 9 on my last morning in Cesky Krumlov and I'm on my way to the castle tower for a bird's eye view of the town. For all the thrills that adventure tourism can provide, the rush that I get by walking up a tower and looking down on something is all the fun I need in a holiday. The ticket booth appears to be unmanned, although as I approach it a gruff looking old man appears in the window.
“One student, please”.
“Your card, please”.
He takes a good, long, had stare at the card, then at me, then at the card again. As if it really matters who I am. It's a tower, for fuck's sake.
“Where is Otago?”, he asks suspiciously.
“In New Zealand”.
Suddenly an entirely different complexion comes over him. He's all smiles and exaggerated hand gestures. “Ahhh, New Zealand! I love New Zealand! Very, very beautiful country”.
“Well, you have a lovely country here too”, I reply.
“Is nothing like New Zealand! I am wanting to go there one day”.
“You should. Is the tower not open yet?”
“For you, my friend, it's open. Five Euro please. Ok, go. Go New Zealand!”

It's another miserable, cloudy day, but that does little to spoil the vista from the top. I have an uninterrupted view of the town and the dramatically arcing river that runs through and around it. People scurry about ant-like through the narrow alleys and in and out of the quaint little rows of houses. With no other tourists here to spoil the moment, I imagine being a medieval watchman surveying the hills beyond the town and scanning for any signs of an approaching enemy. Then I cast my eye westwards towards the new town that sits a mile or so away on the hill, a depressing jumble of gas stations, soullessly identical apartment blocks and buses rumbling up and down the hill. It's a stark reminder that even in an untouched historical wonderland such as this, the ugly realities of modern Europe are never that far away.

The old man is waiting for me enthusiastically as I make my way out of the castle. “Where you go next?”, he asks.
“Prague. Will the weather be any better there?”
He shrugs loosely. “It will be same. But you will like it there. I am from Prague. Very good beer”.
“Sounds like I will”, I tell him with a smile. “Well thank you, and have a nice day”.
“You too my friend! Go New Zealand!”. He raises a clenched fist to the air.
“Go New Zealand!” I reply, mimicking his gesture. Isn't it a shame that we don't even love our country as much as the Europeans do?