Murter Island

Location:
Croatia

family, community, culture

By Dyani Makous

We were on a bus after nightfall, crossing a vacant bridge from Split, Croatia to Murter Island, when an invasively kind stranger who sensed the urgency of our confusion yelled, “Get off now! It’s the only place you’ll find a Tourist Information desk on the whole island!” Frantically, we swooped up our belongings and stumbled down the bus steps, onto the street. As the exhaust fumes cleared, we realized the tourist information booth was closed. There was no one in sight.

Weighed down by our backpacks, and hindered by the language barrier, we skeptically observed the vacant, windy road for signs of life. We approached a young couple sitting at a 24-hour newsstand and asked them, “Do you know where the town is, you know, where things are going on?” With cringing grimaces, the young man informed us that it was very far, and we had abandoned our only opportunity of transport. I assume that we looked devastated, because after exchanging glances of solace, the two of them offered us a ride.

They dropped us off at a restaurant, which appeared to be the only sign of life for miles. Provoked by repressed hunger and cultural curiosity, we awkwardly approached like the aliens we were and sat down at a center table in the outdoor seating area. We were welcomed by the sounds of an accordion and the smell of fresh fish grilled directly beside us. After coming from Bratislava, where the residue of communism seemed to reflect a general anti-American attitude, we tried to lay-low and avert any behavior that may draw attention to our foreigness. However, our appearances, cumbersome luggage and English quickly made that impossible. Soon, we noticed everyone was looking at us. The man on the accordion began to play Beatles songs. The waiter presented us with shots of rakija (the thick, strong, home-made liquor of Croatia). Suddenly, we realized the attention we were receiving was not menacing, but genuine hospitality.

Formerly in Yugoslavia, Croatia declared its independence in 1991, resulting in a four-year war. A country known for its beautiful stone beaches and crystal clear water, the war not only devastated its community, economy and population, but also the tourism industry that had thrived for many years. Although our visit was in 2006 and the country had declared independence for more than ten years ago, the reconstruction hindered its immediate resurrection as a tourist destination. The citizens’ feelings were not that of a desperate nation, but that of a nation eager to be re-introduced into a thriving society, fueled by the desire to partake in the sharing of global experiences.

Against the objection of our growling stomachs, we took the rakijas, which initially gave us the shudders and then blanketed us with euphoria, visible through our Cheshire cat-like grins. We ordered food we didn’t understand from people who didn’t understand us. Then, it hit us— it was almost midnight and we had no place to stay. My companion called over the waiter and attempted to explain our situation. I shrugged off the communication as inconclusive, and our food arrived— a dish of grilled fish, the length of my forearm, with head and bones intact. We delved in, attempting to extract the bones as the amateurs we were, when my companion asked me, “Did you notice that they all keep pointing at us, and then whispering to each other? I think they’re trying to find us a place to stay.”

“Wishful thinking,” I snickered. Moments later, the waiter, using a large wave of the hand, motioned the accordion player over. He sat down and introduced himself as Boris. Although he spoke only Croatian, Russian and Italian, and we spoke only English and Spanish, through a pen and paper, we illustrated our issue. He offered us a bed for the night.

After we finished up with another round of rakijas, we paid our bill and followed Boris on his bicycle up a windy road. It would cost us 18 euros and we were to be out by 6:30 a.m. We walked from the restaurant, through the midst of nothingness. Suddenly, we hit a small town. The bars were alive with music.  Young and old adults filled the streets, drinking, socializing and relaxing on a Wednesday night in July. Shocked that there was actually life on Murter Island and eager to explore it,  we reluctantly agreed to continue following Boris. Boris took us into his house, led us quietly to his room, and told us he would sleep on the couch. “6:30,” we all agreed, and passed out for the night.

We awoke around 7 a.m. We tiptoed down the hallway, fearful to find an angry Boris, late to work. However, Boris greeted us cheerfully. As we continued down the hallway, packed and ready to go, we encountered a family at the kitchen table, enthusiastic about our presence. The mother, a jovial, middle-aged woman, slightly chubby with short graying hair and the air of a schoolteacher, greeted us in perfect English, “Good morning! We heard you were staying here.” Her husband sat beside her and smiled bashfully at us, while shooting Boris occasional glances of disdain. Across from them there was an elderly woman, her mother, and an even more elderly man beside her, who was the husband’s grandfather. Next to the two of them, was a reluctant looking twelve-year-old boy, who was clearly her son. Her name was Groldauo, which we never learned to pronounce. She was a schoolteacher. The grandmother poured us coffee, and Groldauo yelled, “Dennis! Come to breakfast! There are Americans here!”

We took seats and accepted coffee, which quickly transformed into homemade wine from a small refrigerator next to the table. At 8 a.m., as the four generations chain-smoked cigarettes and we drank their potent homemade wine, Groldauo explained that Boris told us to leave so early, so the landlord wouldn’t know he was secretly renting out his room for profit. 

Dennis, the oldest son, arrived at the table, a clear, collected too cool for school 17-year-old. He also spoke perfect English, and assured us it was from  watching Cartoon Network. His mother enthusiastically caught us up on everything that had happened in Croatia, historically, politically and economically since 1951, while the family, in a communal effort, ensured our sedation by collectively refilling our wine every couple of sips.

Finally, they offered us a place to stay, right next door. We followed Dennis down creaky steps to the apartment of a woman so old she had whiskers on her chin. Dennis acted as our translator. She greeted us enthusiastically, leading us to a bedroom upstairs, which was only 11 euros a night. We complied, accepted the keys and, after dropping our stuff off, went to the beach with Dennis and the family who had decided to adopt us for the week.

Throughout that week, we spent most of our time with Dennis, who showed us the ropes of Murter Island. We talked about our lives, and the ups and downs of our individual cultures and countries. We visited the family often for dinner. And, we frequented Konoba bar, owned by a woman named Marijana, who often gave us free rakija. She would put the entire bottle down on the table and turn a blind eye, while we poured ourselves as much as we wanted. The bottle was elegantly pear-shaped with a snake wrapped around it. The place was eccentrically decorated with abstract pictures of sailors, sailboats, dolphins, fishnets, fans. But also, the classic bar adornments of old-school liquor advertisements, such as Southern Comfort, but not in the American-style neon lighting.

Our last night there, was a night of nostalgic mourning. We had a ‘last supper’ with the entire family. Afterwards, as a rare occasion, the grandmother, mother, both brothers and Boris accompanied us to Konoba, where, Marijana greeted us tragically. Groldauo, the grandmother and Dennis’ brother left first, giving us every detail of their contact information. 

We mutually acknowledged Boris' previous room manipulation in a language we had come to develop, forgave him, and he gave us a CD of his, with a picture of Murter Island on the cover. We thanked him, kissed him on the cheeks, and he left.

Next, Marijana, close to tears, gave us our own private bottle of rakija, to keep. Although she did not speak English, Dennis informed us that she had lived in L.A. for the first seven years of her life; and, she had an unspeakable attachment to America. It appeared that we embodied her experience, and through our departure, an era of childhood memories were forced to revert to their previous state of hibernation.

The next morning, we headed downstairs with our backpacks and gave a  courtesy goodbye to the old woman housing us. Through physical motioning, she told us to take a seat. She offered us figs, cookies and wine. 

She sat across from us and also offered us both fig necklaces. We accepted enthusiastically and equally confused. She began to speak, as wise, old women often do, unfortunately in a language we could not understand. We felt her yearning in her tone and stare. 

Mesmerized, we watched as she began to sob uncontrollably. She pointed to the picture of a very young girl. We squeezed each other’s palms, overwhelmed by the emotional intensity of the moment and plagued by our inability to understand the fragile, inscrutable woman.

She scribbled down something in Croatian on a piece of paper. We offered as much consolation as we could. Although she did clearly did not want us to leave, we knew it was time. Sadly, bearing our fig necklaces and heavy backpacks, we each kissed her twice and took off to catch the 7:00 p.m. bus, rather than the 1:00 p.m., which was our original plan.

We came to Murter Island with a vague understanding of Eastern Europe. We knew little about the history of Croatia. We visited under the advice of strangers we met in Bratislava, hoping to find beautiful beaches and luxury at inexpensive prices. However, those shallow aspirations led us to depths we never anticipated. The degree of cultural immersion we experienced within one week is something people rarely experience within years of living abroad. In a post-war-stricken community we left feeling nothing but the generosity and hospitality. Outside of our own economically driven society, there still exist communities that will take in a stranger and make him one of their own.

Further Information

Travel tips: Take buses throughout all of Croatia. If you are planning a trip, avoid purchasing train passes, such as a Eurail, since it won't be of much use there. Also, do not book hostels or hotels in advance. Although Murter Island, in particular, is small, throughout the majority of Croatia, you can find a room (called a "sobe") there for a very affordable price, simply by walking around and looking, or being approached at the bus station. Believe it or not, this is the safe and most popular option for accommodation.

Must see/do at this place: MUST go to the beach there. Although they are stone beaches and not sand beaches, the water is clear and beautiful. Ask around for the nearest beach to where your staying.

You should avoid here: Avoid boat tours, specifically the ones to "Kornati National Park." Obviously, it depends on what your general traveling preference is, but those specific boat tours are very long, and the guide did not give us any information. You will be approached at the beach. If you wish to go on a boat tour, make sure you know exactly what the tour entails. Don't be afraid to ask a lot of questions.