Birvidik

Finally, as promised, we move on to individual Croatians and secret weapons.

You may recall that several blogs ago we were bemoaning the expense of cruising in Croatia and promised to reveal the secret weapon we used to mitigate the avaricious arrangements put in place by the Croatian authorities, both local and national.

Pencils and note-books poised? Ready? Right - here it is:

Be nice to them.

Yup - that's all there is to it. Contrary to the beliefs of that jolly Mr. Farage and his merry band, we have found that if you are nice to Johnny or Joanna Foreigner he or she will tend to be nice back to you.

I know - unbelievable isn't it? It's almost as if they're more or less the same as us.

I think it helps that they are accustomed to being treated with surly, suspicious hostility by a significant number of yotties who expect everything for bugger-all and spend most of their waking hours nervously on the watch for being ripped off by some underhand, swarthy dago.

This cadre of cruisers seem to expect to benefit from the total infrastructure of the countries they visit whilst paying nothing whatsoever toward it. They argue that they should be provided with potable water, secure moorings, rubbish disposal, internet access, sanitary facilities, even electricity if they think they can get away with it, all with no contribution from them. They justify this by claiming that they bring money into the country.

While this is technically true, they are being somewhat disingenuous in making the claim. Yes, they do bring money into the country, but they also make heroic efforts to take most, if not all of it, back out with them when they leave. They are known to walk halfway across town to drink in a seedy backstreet bar, patronised by an unexpectedly large number of people with disconcerting skin conditions, just because the beer is 2 cents cheaper than it is in the comfortable, scenic waterfront bars. On the rare occasions that they eat out they demand cordon bleu meals for less than the cost of the ingredients. They buy wine that they can get for 30 cents a litre in an old Fairy Liquid bottle, irrespective of the fact that it should really have been marketed as an industrial solvent. Asking one of these types for payment, for anything, is treated as an offensive gross personal insult, on a par with suggesting he lends you his wife and daughter to fill a couple of unforeseen temporary vacancies in the local bordello. For a considerable number, their contribution to the local economy could perhaps best be described as diddley-squat.

As a result our approach frequently has novelty value for the local fee collectors. It's nothing special, just the usual courtesies that serve to lubricate social intercourse everywhere. The first step is to smile and look pleased to see them instead of scowling and skulking below hoping they'll go away (they won't). This usually wrong foots them from the start. We follow this with a cheery greeting, introduce ourselves and engage them in light hearted conversation. By now they are completely thrown and look faintly embarrassed when they eventually have to ask us for money.

Finally, pay them with good grace. By all means comment as to the unexpectedly high charge, but do it with a smile. They will almost certainly agree with you and bemoan the many deficiencies of the amoral sociopaths who inaugurated this ludicrous system. Commiserate with them and agree on a common scapegoat group that you can both blame for all the ills of the world. Politicians, jobsworth management and bankers in general are usually a good start. It's wise to avoid Serbs as a scapegoat. Your new-found friend may embrace this idea with somewhat more enthusiasm than you find comfortable. The second time you see them, carry on where you left off.

We have found that after such a start their subsequent visits are a pleasure on both sides. In addition, it frequently happens that we are given every second or third night free. Their receipt system does not allow them to charge you less than the stipulated amount, but they can always accidentally overlook you from time to time. This significantly reduces the average per night cost. It goes without saying that these oversights never extend to the Surly Contingent of cruisers.

Aside from the purely mercenary, there are other benefits to this approach. Local knowledge, help and advice are freely proffered once you have struck up a rapport. These cover everything from local weather conditions through the availability and quality of local businesses and services to assistance well above and beyond the call of duty or friendship. There were many, but one will have to serve as an example.

In Cavtat we got on particularly well with the guy who collected the fees for the mooring buoys and took away the boats' rubbish bags. Ante was his name and he fitted this work for the local council in between fishing, driving a water taxi and building his own fishing boat. He didn't have a lot of free time.

For about a week prior to our second visit to Cavtat I had been suffering a steadily worsening infection below the filling in one of my molars. Ice cream or hot tea had me being peeled off the ceiling. Biting on it reduced me to a pathetic, whimpering wreck, moaning piteously on the floor in the foetal position. By the time we got to Cavtat it was continuously painful and I had resigned myself to having to get a bus to Dubrovnik to try to find a dentist.

On the off-chance I asked Ante during his visit if there was a dentist in Cavtat. He said that there was and that he would pick me up when he finished his round and then drive me there to make an appointment, which he did. It was about a fifteen minute drive, although if I'd been behind the wheel it would have been about an hour and a half. Having made an appointment for 10:30 the next morning, Ante drove me back and ferried me out to Birvidik. His parting words were "Be on the dock at 10:00 tomorrow morning and I'll drive you up there". I resolved to nip ashore to the local Religious Supplies shop and buy up their entire stock of St. Christophers.

When I got to the quay the next morning, Ante was nowhere to be found. I was about to organise a taxi, when I noticed an older guy waving at me and making toothache gestures. I went over to him. "Dentist?" he asked, reprising his Marcel Marceaux skills. That was about the limit of his English. Nevertheless, he drove me to the dentist, waited for 40 minutes while I had the first stage of a root canal job done, and drove me back.

It turned out he was Ante's father. Ante himself had been up all night on an extended water taxi job for a crowd of bladdered Russians on a pub crawl. Understandably, he was shattered, not having got back home until eight in the morning. Before he collapsed into bed however, he had arranged for his father to ferry me to the dentist and back.

Croatians? - wonderful people. Won't hear a word against them.