MUTSA

Standing in the reception of the hostel that was to be our home for the next week, we shared a laugh and became acquainted with a few of the other travellers staying there. The prospects of the coming days looked optimistic, and we found ourselves already making plans for the evening ahead with our newfound friends. However, it was over before it began, as the hostel manager informed us that he no longer had any rooms available. Although we were gutted, the manager comforted us with the news that his friend in a nearby hostel could accommodate us, assuring us that it would be fantastic. After walking us to our new lodging, and organising a great price, by the time we were there, it was too late. Similar to the exchange that follows an awful haircut, James and I begrudgingly nodded our heads as we booked in and watched helplessly as we slipped away from the gentle hands of civilisation.

A brief tour of our new humble abode left us to conclude that we had definitely been lied to. After disappearing to deal with complaints from another guest regarding stolen belongings, our new host then took it upon herself to whip out a map she had drawn herself (evidently) and accompany it with a completely unintelligible narration which we listened to nonchalantly, throwing in a couple “Hmm’s” for good measure. After settling into our new rooms and alerting the manager to the lack of bedding on the beds, we felt it was best that we take a trip to the shops to stock up on some essentials. For reasons pertaining to cutting our carbon footprint, we opted for the 2-litre variants of the Croatian beer “Karlovacko”, in addition to provisions of pizza slices from the local Pekara (bakery) which had become a staple over the past weeks travelling. On returning, we were greeted by a giant of a man arguing with our manager in the kitchen. It seemed debating was not her strong point, as shortly after, our whole oven unit was ousted from its place in the kitchen and gripping it like an atlas stone we watched helplessly as this gargantuan fellow disappeared with it, into the streets of Split. James and I stood there in awkward silence like you do when your friend’s parents start fighting in front of you at their house. Our hostel manager turned to us and unenthusiastically said: “I think he bring it back”. From the tone of her voice, it was fairly obvious that this was unlikely, and from what I garner about Eastern Europeans from Liam Neeson films and road rage compilations on Youtube, we were not exactly inclined to confront him over the matter. To tell the truth, we came to terms with our loss almost instantly.

Finishing off the remnants of Karlovacko in our plastic cups, coupled with some of the communal snacks that we had found, James and I began making valiant plans to redeem the night from its sorry state. We were then to discover that the communal snacks were not so communal, and as questions regarding their whereabouts circulated the building, we saw our cue to leave. Leading the way With Google Maps and Tripadvisor, we found ourselves in the line of a popular nightclub, and after successfully whispering some sweet nothings into an Australian girls ear, she promised to vouch for James and I so that we could gain free entry with her pub-crawl group. Unfortunately, enthralled in his own endeavours and undoubtedly spinning a sensationalised story about his upbringing in Africa to some poor lady, James missed my prompt to enter with the group, and our plans were foiled.

Regrouping on the promenade, another plan was drawn up. In an attempt to outflank the main entrance to the nightclub, which in this case presented itself to us as a Maginot line, we made it our objective to enter through the rooftop terrace where we could see a small gathering of people. Unbeknownst to us, this gathering had no relation to the nightclub whatsoever and was just a gaggle of Croatian youths. Never being ones to shy away from an enriching cultural experience, we decided to approach them anyway and ask for their nightlife recommendations.

The leader of what very well could have been the Croatian National u18 basketball team came to the forefront while the rest encircled us. Quite rudely, he ignored my initial question altogether and instead demanded a staggering €100. Had he taken time to consider the fact that we were wearing shorts and off-brand Havaiana flip flops, or noticed the early signs of scurvy, induced by our all pizza diet, maybe he would have come up with a more reasonable opening offer. Under ideal circumstances, this classic start high and negotiate down tactic may have worked, but unlike Theo Paphitis, my funds were rather limited. James’s counteroffer of €0 did not go down well, and the group now took to more unconventional tactics. Within seconds James resembled that of a Call of Duty Character waiting to be revived. Sadly these were before the days of social distancing, and in a matter of seconds, a small crowd gathered around James to deal out some gratuitous kicks to the head. So far I was nothing but a spectator to this whole fiasco. I stood there still trying to come to terms with what was unfolding. Uneasy at the thought that it would inevitably be my turn next if I intervened, I began to think perhaps maybe if I joined in on the kicking they would forget about me.

My grace period, however, was short-lived. As I rushed to James aid, like a modern-day Desmond T. Doss, I was met with an orgy of fists to the back of the head. Much to my discontent, and unlike the various Kung Fu movies I have seen over the years, these youths did not line up in a sporting fashion to take me on one by one. Without any semblance of respect for rules or etiquette, I was soon engulfed in a gauntlet and was subject to surround sound fists and jeers of what was probably “WorldStar!” in Croatian. With our screams being drowned out by the sound of Justin Bieber’s “Despacito” emanating from the nightclub below, and the unrailed edge of the rooftop getting ever closer, there was a point where I thought that this was it for us.

However, the mob was no match for the two old bulls and I was finally able to reach James who had now miraculously resurrected and was keeping his captors at bay with windmilling fists and bombardments of obscenities. Unfortunately, I now came face to face with what appeared to be the final boss of these rapscallions. Towering above me at around 7ft1 and not a day over 16, this man was in his element. It soon became evident that he probably didn’t grow up with the “Live, Love, Laugh” mantra displayed in his household, as from a complete standstill, he proceeded to land an impressive kick directly to the side of my head. I say this like I am a connoisseur of head kicks, but in fact, this was my first head kick experience. More impressive than his technique though, was the fact that this chap had managed this feat while wearing jeans. I, on the other hand, found that my Adidas shorts were of little benefit in this situation besides the patented moisture-wicking technology in the likely event that I pissed myself. For a moment, the beating suspended, and James and I used the opportunity to drag ourselves down the stairs and run back toward the nightclub, leaving our assailants behind.

After realising the bouncer was more interested in selling us drugs than apprehending the perpetrators we decided that we should seek out some much deserved Denzel Frothingtons. This was not before realising that one of my beloved flip flops was now a prisoner of war. With a lengthy walk home, James suggested that a repatriation mission was needed if we were to leave this country with an ounce of dignity. We waited for the dust to settle, and following a bit of reconnaissance, we were confident that the rooftop was clear. Making our way up to the rooftop once again in a bizarre walk of shame, I held my flip flop (singular) close to my chest and scraped my feet on the gravel every few steps in an effort to rid myself of the jello shot I had stood on moments before. The coast was clear and we were able to scurry back to safety with the only damage incurred being emotional.

When it rains it pours, and on this particular night, it may have even been hailing. Distraught at the beverage prices we decided it be best we instead treat ourselves to Oprah Tinfreys at home. No more than five minutes into our journey home we were welcomed by the sound of shouting and feet pounding the pavement behind us. Despite the fact that the group was young enough to have looked at home in an egg and spoon race, they were intimidating nonetheless. Eager to ensure that we did not get a half-hearted service these young entrepreneurs were resolute in handing out a bit of post-sales support for good measure. There was little to do but laugh. A fleeting attempt at escape was made but we were no match for our counterparts who benefited from a Mediterranean diet, rich in Omega 3 fatty acids and Vitamin D. Before I had time to repent for my sins, a flying bhiza kick had planted itself firmly into my chest. Our pleas for them to “calm down” worked as well as they do on my mother. I even considered trying out the Croatian I had learnt over the past week, but I felt “Please” and “Thank you” would perhaps be counterproductive. Just as the second wave of beating was about to ensue, our saviours arrived: A group of Frenchmen. Hiding behind our human shields, we pointed the occasional finger so as to seem like we weren’t intimidated, and after some heated debate, the hoodlums slunk back into the darkness. Needless to say, we were exceedingly grateful.

The rest of our journey home was spent ducking behind cars and checking street corners in preparation for another possible attack. We chuckled as other unsuspecting and equally inferior looking tourists wearing backpacks on their chests made their way into the warzone. Retired to our beds, packets of frozen peas were close at hand, and we winced as our jaws struggled to chew threw our leftover pizza. But alas, we live to fight another day.