Ever experienced that dreadful, sinking
feeling on the day of departure when you see
that your passport expired three months ago?
Panic. Self-loathing. Sweaty palms.
Think think think. Phone embassy. Answering
machine. Phone embassy again. Again. And
again. Speed off to the embassy. Plead with
a contemptuous official. Run five blocks to
get photo taken (no smiling!). Run back to
embassy just before closing. Huge sigh of
relief when I am handed a bright pink
temporary document that will at least get me
into The Netherlands.
As the holder
of two passports I thought I had it licked.
Travel out of South Africa on my SA passport
and Europe is my oyster on my Euro passport.
Not so when it has expired. Yet nothing will
stop me from going on this amazing holiday I
have counted sleeps for such a long time:
sailing from Croatia to Greece on a 49ft
private yacht.
After arrival many
hours follow standing in queues in various
official offices and embassies, trying to
get a new Dutch passport (‘No Mevrouw, 6-8
weeks!’) or at least a visa for Croatia and
Greece in my South African passport.
More contemptuous officials. Brimming
with nervous smiles and syrupy charm, I
eventually manage to convince the airport
authorities that, of course, this holiday is
an emergency! I am finally issued with a
second ‘emergency’ passport and fly to Split
in Croatia, damp with trepidation. After two
aborted landings I begin to think that they
have discovered an illegal alien on board!
But, third time lucky, we land. With no more
than a raised eyebrow I am allowed in by the
Croatian officials and - hugely relieved,
embark on the most wonderful holiday in the
Mediterranean.
Croatia’s islands,
unromantically known as ‘otok’s’, glisten
seductively in the blue seas. After an ice
cold G&T to steady my rattled nerves we head
straight out of Kastela Marina to overnight
just off Hvar Island. I still can’t believe
I’m here. The following day we set sail for
Dubrovnik on the southern tip of narrow
Croatia.
Dubrovnik at the height of
the season is overrun by tourists in all
shapes and shades of pink. Throngs of people
walk up and down the narrow streets and
alleyways and restaurants pack every
possible space in between. Yet it is an
absolutely beautiful city, ringed by a two
kilometre wall built by the many occupiers
of the city over the centuries. Despite
significant damage in 1991 during the
vicious war in the former Yugoslavia, the
city was rebuilt and restored to its former
glory thanks to UNESCO.
From here we
head south to Montenegro, formerly a bitter
enemy of Croatia and responsible for much of
the damage to Dubrovnik in the 1990s.
Through a series of inland lakes we arrive
at the historic city of Kotor. Just like a
mini Dubrovnik, Kotor is also surrounded by
a wall, built right up against one of the
imposing mountains around the bay. At night
it is beautifully lit up, like a lopsided
bejeweled crown shining above the town.
We arrive in the midst of what appears
to be a fiesta in Kotor. Loud music blares
from the quay and the local ‘policia’
relocate us and several other yachts with
much gesturing and finger pointing. Small
seemingly disorganised floats are towed out
into the bay. This turns out to be the main
fiesta of the year and locals stream into
the town. The earlier floats reappear at a
sail-by later in the evening and ‘pirate’
boats swerve and ‘attack’ in among them,
thrilling the crowds. After joining in the
fun, dancing on the ancient square we do our
South African thing belting out a rendition
of ‘Shosholoza’, in reply to Italians
singing ‘O Sole Mio’ on the quay.
From Montenegro it’s a 32 hour trip past
Albania, which remains vaguely hostile to
visiting yachts. After sailing through the
night the first sighting of Greece is Nísos
Erikoύssa, an island just north of Corfu.
The old town of Corfu, fringed by an
impressive ancient fortress that juts out
into the sea, has many old buildings that
are disappointingly in need of a lick of
paint and some TLC. Curio shop after curio
shop line the narrow streets and Greece’s
oldest cricket pitch lies between the old
town and the fortress, in a beautifully
maintained park.
By this stage I
sigh a huge sigh of relief! My pink
passport, duly handed in to the officials by
the skipper at every country we enter, does
not seem to be a problem and I don’t – as I
feared I might – get deported. Nor does the
skipper get locked up for harbouring illegal
aliens.
The next few days are spent
criss-crossing between the Ionian Islands
south of Corfu. Contrary to the Aegean ones
on the other side of the Greek peninsula,
the villages are not painted in the familiar
blue and white of Greece but in neutral
sandy colours. Many of the villages in the
Ionian were severely damaged by earthquakes
in 1949 and 1953 and villages like Sívota
and Vathí have been attractively rebuilt.
The islands are lush and green. Among the
prettiest are Paxos, Meganísi and several
bays off the main island of Lefkas.
True to the Greek way of life tavernas line
every little bay, often right on the water’s
edge. With names like Elena, Yiannis,
Stavros and Dimitri’s they are magnets for
yachties and the locals alike. We delight in
the misspelt menus ordering: ‘Spicy Cheece
Dip’, ‘Feta-Stufft’ Peppers, ‘Ekplants with
Tomatoe Souce’ and various delicious ‘Lamp’
and ‘Stake’ dishes, washed down with a
‘kilo’ of white house wine. The more daring
among us drink Retsina, rounding off the
evening with a chaser of Metaxa brandy.
Bored waiters often launch into a perfect
‘sirtaki’ for the amusement of the guests,
who soon join in a disorderly fashion but
with lots of fun and laughter.
After
two and a half weeks of bliss on the yacht
it is time to take her to her winter mooring
in the marina of Preveza on the Greek
mainland. It is sad to see our temporary
home hung up in a sling on the end of a
giant crane and moved to her winter sleeping
place on land. There is something so very
undignified about a sleek yacht hung up so
high and dry on land with her belly exposed.
On arrival in Amsterdam I get yet
another thousand words about merrily
cruising around on a temporary passport
(‘for emergencies only, Mevrouw’). When I
get to the passport counter having checked
in for the flight to Cape Town I am frog
marched off to the police office at the
airport. Once more I get sternly spoken to
but eventually I am ushered out of the
scruffy office and through passport control.
I have learnt my lesson: never,
never allow your official documents to
expire! Here I’ll wag my finger, just as so
many have been wagged at me, ‘Groot
Krokodil’ style.
Have you checked
the expiry date on your passport lately?
