A Croatian Comedy
September 24, 2024 – Uber Adventures
It was our first taste of Croatia and it came in the form of a very Croatian landing, right in the middle of the night. The Ryanair plane hit the Split runway with confidence, volume, and zero hesitation. I immediately knew this wasn’t a “smooth” landing by any standards I’ve experienced. The cabin burst into applause. My wife, asleep until that exact moment, opened one eye, clapped on instinct, and went straight back to sleep.
We ordered an Uber, trying to be classy on a budget. Our driver, Zorana, was apparently playing hard to get. A series of "I'm far away" texts followed until, finally, a loud honk signaled she'd found us, like a prize at the end of a hunt.
One hour later, we reached an area that the driver insisted was our destination, but we still couldn’t find the house. Zorana asked for 20 Euros, but my half-asleep wife handed her 30 and waited for change that never came.
We were still lost, but thankfully, Nina, our superstar host, guided us step by step to our cute little apartment. It had a tiny balcony that practically screamed, “Take selfies here!” We collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
September 25, 2024 – Bus Bingo and Krka Shenanigans
Our first mission of the day: figure out the Split bus system. After a brief, confusing battle with the transit app, we surrendered and just gave the driver 6 Euros. We were told to find a white umbrella near the Gregory of Nin statue, which led us to Ande, our guide and resident comedian.
Ande’s first act was to offer everyone a full refund due to a bad weather forecast. Nobody blinked. He then held up a flag, said "Follow this or you're on your own," and marched us to a bus named Robert. On the ride, he collected the Krka park fees and herded us all into a WhatsApp group for easy tracking. Determined to single-handedly debunk the "Indians are always late" theory, we returned from our hike five minutes ahead of schedule. As soon as the bus started moving, Ande was on the microphone: "Next stop, Primošten!"
Primošten: Food Fiascoes & Beach Bliss
Primošten looked like a flawless postcard. Ande recommended Restaurant Galija, where we took on the Black Risotto. It was delicious but impossible to finish. We ate half and gave up. When we told Ande, his unsurprised reaction made it clear we weren't the first to be conquered by that dish.
The clock struck five, and a bird decided to christen my return to Split with a targeted aerial assault. My wife, ever the hero, tried to mop up the evidence with a napkin and some spit, transforming from tourist to part-time hairdresser with the grim determination of a battlefield medic. I, the victim, was not amused.
We pressed on to the promenade, where a juice stand became our next antagonist. The "fresh" orange juice it served had the distinct flavor of a broken promise. My wife's expression shifted into a silent but legally binding threat aimed directly at the juice guy. We finally waved the white flag and returned to the apartment—not victorious, but at least we had a story.
Day 3: The Blue Cave That Never Happened & The Morning That Tried to Destroy Us
7:00 AM – The Plan Looked Good on Paper
We had a 7:30 AM speedboat trip to five islands including the famous Blue Cave. Easy, right? Google Maps said “bus stop here.”
Bus zooms past—on the other side of the road.
Only then do we remember: Croatia drives on the right. Ireland and India have betrayed us.
......................................Jango njangal pettu.............................................
7:10 AM – Uber Chaos Round 1
We book an Uber.
Driver: “Where are you?”
Me: “Near Tommy supermarket!”
Driver: “My friend… there are 47 Tommy supermarkets in Split.”
I run inside the nearest Tommy to ask the staff for the exact location. Apparently, the word “location” translates to “I’m here to rob you” in Croatian because the entire staff looks terrified and starts doing the sign of the cross. Not a word of English. Fabulous.
7:15 AM – Ex-Angel Ande Appears
Out of nowhere, Ande appears. My wife screams “ANDEEEE!” like he’s descending from heaven.
We explain everything. He thinks for two seconds, shrugs, says, “Try another Uber,” and disappears.
Angel status: revoked.
7:18 AM – Fancy Lady to the Rescue
A smartly dressed Croatian woman was standing in the bus stop, so we begged her to speak to the driver for us. At first she seemed hesitant, almost afraid to even touch my phone. Then I had an idea: I switched on the speaker. After hearing just a couple of sentences in Croatian from the driver, she took the phone, spoke to him briefly, then handed it back to me. The driver’s reply came through clearly: “I’m very far. Please cancel.”
Time: 7:20 AM.
Tour cost: 200 Euros non-refundable.
Mood: Funeral.
7:22 AM – Zebra Crossing Olympics
The new Uber appears on the opposite side of the road on the app. We bolt across two zebra crossings with the desperation of people whose entire holiday depends on that one car.
The driver messages: “I’m here!”
…back at the original spot.
We run back again. By now, the elegant Croatian lady from earlier has apparently been promoted to our unofficial Uber manager and is already talking to the driver when we reach the car.
7:28 AM – The Driver & His Identity Quiz
We collapse into the Uber.
Driver turns around: “Guess my name! It’s more Islamic than any Muslim name.”
This is not the trivia round we signed up for, but he insists.
“Mohammed?”
“No.”
“Allah?”
“No! Bigger!”
His name is, in fact, Muslim.
And he’s not even Muslim.
“I might name my son Christian Muslim,” he adds proudly.
Sir, please. We are one anecdote away from missing our boat.
He speaks good English and tells us the classy lady at the bus stop asked him to convey her apologies—she wanted to help but didn’t know enough English. Very sweet. Then he goes right back to talking about himself. Every traffic light feels like it’s on a personal mission to stay red; I’m silently trying to accelerate the car with my mind.
Meanwhile, I call the tour operator, beg for an extra 10 minutes, throw in some urgent-but-polite explanations, and she finally sighs, “Okay… only 10 minutes.”
Massive, silent, internal exhale.
We reach the dock at last. The tour guy spots us and shouts, “We waited 10 minutes! RUN!”
We pay Muslim bhai, yell “HVALA!” and sprint for the boat like two slightly out-of-shape Olympians whose event is “Don’t Miss the Tour.”
7:42 AM – Speedboat of Doom
We board a speedboat with saddle seats—basically a floating roller coaster where your spine and self-respect are both negotiable. The first solo seat is for the skipper: a lean, muscular, bald young guy with a helper. He never actually sits; he stands the whole time, turning back before every burst of speed to give us a thumbs-up and ask, “Okay?” The moment we nod, he slams the throttle and the boat starts bouncing over the waves like it’s trying to audition for Fast & Furious: Adriatic Drift.
The front row is “reserved.” The chosen ones are a couple in their 40s or 50s, oddly under-packed compared to the rest of us. As the speed increases, the man’s face starts to betray him—his body is pretending to be brave, but his expression has already written its will. We quietly nickname him Kakkoos Annan because his face looks like he’s been holding in a bathroom emergency since 1998.
His wife keeps staring at him and then at the skipper, and eventually she just cracks up. My wife sees her laughing and joins in. I refuse to laugh, not out of kindness, but because I am a lighter version of him. I know how to swim, and I’m still mildly terrified; my wife can’t swim and is somehow cackling, yanking at my trousers, insisting I “just enjoy” the ride while we fly across the Adriatic with no life jackets in sight.
At some point, while hanging on for dear life, I notice his cap. The man is being violently shaken by the elements, but that cap does. not. move. I’m convinced it has superpowers—or industrial-strength glue. Waves are slamming, the boat is airborne, dignity is gone, but that cap sits on his head like it has a lifetime contract.
The boat is doing 70 km/h, but my nervous system is reading it as 300. I’m clinging to the seat, to my will to live, and in spirit, to our unshakeable, tight-lipped, cap-defying Kakkoos Annan at the front.
Dolphins jump beside us. Skipper shouts, “Good luck sign!”
Uh-huh. Sure.
The Plot Twist:
The Blue Cave is CANCELLED due to “weather.”
The skipper turns to us and says, "Don't worry, don't worry. I take you to other island instead. You get partial refund. No problem!"
Spoiler alert: There was no refund. Partial or otherwise. That money vanished faster than my will to ever sit on a saddle seat again.
Kakkoos Annan is still trying to recover from the speedboat shaking. His cap, of course, is still performing perfectly steady, loyal, and emotionally stronger than all of us.
But when the skipper said “other islands,” Kakkoos Annan looked scared again. Like, “Wait… this trip is not ending? More islands means more speedboat?” His face was basically begging for land.
So we go to other islands. Hvar. Then a few more. Each one is nice—white stone, blue water, expensive coffee, the usual Croatia stuff.
The last stop is Sveti Klement Island. It's a quiet fisherman's island where nothing much happens and the fish smell happens a lot.
We changed clothes and went for a swim.
Now, I had my own “smart” system for swimming. I wore trousers inside and pants outside for the whole trip. So whenever I see water, I just remove the pants and swim with trousers.
It worked perfectly… until the last island.
After swimming, I tried to wear my pants again. And I saw it—the bottom of my pants was torn.
Not a small tear. A proper tear.
So now I had no option. I had to walk around wearing only trousers with slippers.
And I hate wearing slippers with trousers. I hate it at the highest level. It feels like I’m not properly dressed at all, like my outfit is missing its dignity. But there I was on a beautiful Croatian island, walking around like a disappointed uncle who went out to buy bread and never came back.
Still, I have to admit that the trip was genuinely exciting. I had never felt that kind of thrill before. I started the day scared, holding on for my life, but somewhere along the way, the fear changed. By the end, I felt braver… even if my pants didn’t.
That’s how the trip ended:
No Blue Cave, a partial refund, dolphins for “good luck”… and my pants becoming the real final casualty of the Adriatic.
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