We got down to the waterfront and had an interesting breakfast. It was like a war zone, except this time the Americans lost to the Scotch. Dead-asleep American partiers are asleep on the bar’s chairs, the concrete dock, even leaning against the walls. It must have been one hell of a fourth blowout for them. Not exactly putting a great face on American tourists… I try to assume a Canadian accent as I order our cappuccino and croissant, in Italian.
We took a really fast, smooth ride on a catamaran and were in Split in one hour. The port is right next to the bus station, so we got coffees, water and a strudel and sat for half an hour. The bus tickets were 128K each, or just $21 USD. While I am really not fond of bus travel, and can't wait to get back to trains, I have to say they are cheap.
But, this is one of the worst busses so far. The seat in front of me is twisted, like a bolt is loose, so I have to sit crooked to fit my knees in. Gail's seat has some metal bar poking her in her back so she has to pad it with her coat. We are back to flying around corners on springs so bouncy the bus seems to tip over the guardrails, and blind passing is a sport once again. The scenery is beautiful, however. Dramatic high white mountains plunge to the sea, and the road just winds in and out every valley and cove, down at sea level (those beaches look sandy) then up up a thousand feet and I swear to god the bus is leaning out over the guard rail because I am looking down out of my window! Not that a three foot high guardrail will stop us from flipping over into the void. We stopped at a small town bus station for five minutes, so Gail ran to the bathroom while I talked with a couple from Australia backpacking through. While she was gone an identical bus, going the opposite direction, pulled in and a crush of people started disembarking, then boarding. Gail got in the line, worked her way on board and as the engine started she leaned out and called me, "Ed! Ed! The bus is leaving!" It took me a minute to figure this out. I looked at the guy I was talking to, looked at our bus driver, at the bus, back to Gail who is now halfway down the aisle on the other bus…
OH SHIT!!!!!
Almost lost Gail in Croatia.
We head inland between the white mountains. I guess sun baked rock applies, there are scattered stands of straight pine trees, about 30-40 feet tall, some lower bushy trees and a lot of manzanita type brush, but it is all pretty sparse, so what hits you are the white cliffs, white rocks. Pretty rural and agricultural here. On the radio is a station that has American rock-n-roll, then a couple Croat folk songs, then a rock remake in Croatian. I just laughed when the song from "Grease" came on, sung in Croatian!
We picked up a blond American lady, her two kids and another woman. The blond charged up to the people in the seats in front of us and loudly and angrily demanded they leave "her seats" she had reserved; tickets produced all around, our friends had the correct seats but someone sold the same seats to this lady too, so she went to complain to the bus driver who, as you will guess, shrugged and told her to "Sit. We go." She muttered about her reservations for a while. The two kids, smartly, just grabbed the two empty seats right across the aisle and started playing their GameBoys while all this was going on.
I had to laugh at this, not at the lady or the double selling of seats, but really: if you could see the shape this bus is in, to think of reserving certain seats in advance? Maybe if you knew that there might be a non-bouncy, no poking metal, seat with unbroken trash, bolts, uncut mesh holder thing, seat that is unripped: maybe up in first class? Reserving a seat. I laughed because I wanted to say, "They are ALL crappy seats, lady!"
So we get to border control. It is literally a little metal bar with stop sign on it, a small shack with a poster of Bosnia, looking like a face, with a cop hat on, a couple guys with guns and a longer, low building off to the side with the Croatian flag at one end and the flag of Bosnia at the other. The building says "CARINSKI TERMINAL." I am snapping photos (trying to get the flags fluttering just so) and laughing. Where is the BUSINSKI TERMINAL?
I take a ton of photos as we wait, edit them, none good, take a bunch more, edit, get two good ones and put the camera away. As an afterthought, I pull out the iPod to snap a photo for Gail to put on Facebook. That is when one of the guys with a gun says something to the bus driver who comes storming on board. "No Photos!"
In spite of busting me for the rogue photo, the border was pretty lax again. They shrugged at the luggage, a woman with a gun walked quickly up the aisle scanning passports. (our US, the Australian couple in front of us, and the Canadians are basically ignored. The Croatians are the ones who are scrutinized. Two Croatians are thrown off the bus. I am almost insulted to earn not even a shrug.) We don't even get a passport stamp. But here we are. Once across the border we have a twenty minute break (water and a bathroom) and we are on the road. I am guessing at this point that the bus schedule “arrival time” is a somewhat loose term.
So, we are in Bosnia. The other side of the border, the other side of the war. Sort of. There were three factions fighting each other, I believe, and they would sort of gang up, two vs. one, depending where they were and who they could make alliances with. Eventually it cam down to two sides.
First town, we are back in Mosque-ville; we have left the cathedral bells behind once again. Makes sense when you read the history of the area.
Since I am still on the bus, this seems like a good time to point out to you, my reading audience, that what I am calling "Bosnia" is really three separate and distinct countries wrapped up in one. The name is Bosnia and Herzegovina, and right now and in Mostar we are really in Herzegovina. But it is hard to say, harder to type using this small keyboard on bumpy roads, so I am just saying, we are in Bosnia. We will be when we get to Sarajevo.
Anyway, each group mostly stays in their part of the country, none of them really like the new national flag and instead fly their three regional flags (which offend the other two groups) and they use two separate alphabets on everything, even money. Shoot, the Swiss can get along with their four distinct ethnic groups, what is the difference here?
These are religious based factions, Eastern Christian vs. Western Christian vs. Muslim. You know, spreading god's love and all.
Back to the bus trip: out the window I see small village, mosque, farms, stone village with castle, canyon through the white mountains, less pines more shrubs, tunnel, tunnel, tunnel, mosque; the music has changed and is all in the local language, and while it us rock and roll it is obviously inspirational in message (you know the rousing crescendo type); village, tunnel, mosque, mosque, church (Wait. What?) and now:
The first bombed out and burned houses.
A Croat flag over some graves.
More burned homes, empty shells, then cute villages.
A funeral procession comes by on the other side, people in the truck beds and hanging out car windows waving the Serb flag.
Over the grape fields Mostar sprawls into view, backed by those white, now grey mountains.
We drive into a nice city, beautiful setting. There are shelled building remnants here and there, and you notice bullet holes and shell starburst patterns on buildings. When we are dropped at the bus station, a guy comes up and starts to pester us where are we going. I say I don't remember, he returns, insistent, so I remember the name figuring he will go away. Instead he starts telling us to go in the exact opposite direction we were heading. Much easier, he says. Yea say I. So we are arguing with this complete stranger: I KNOW which way to go to our guest house, he insists we go the direct opposite way and hook around. So another guy comes up and tells him to leave us alone, tells us we are right. Later, as we relate this to our innkeeper, she figures he is trying to send us the long way, perhaps we will get a cab or something? Or… something.
The something is that intangible thing, the split in Mostar. We came in on the regular bus to the main bus station, and plan to walk through the “Christian” area of town to the “Muslim” section. That stranger wanted us to walk through the "Muslim" area to the Muslim section.
Thinking ahead a few days to when we go to Zagreb, I am split between the 12 hour train (you can eat, drink, get up and have a bathroom) or the 7 hour bus (faster, and it is "air condicon" but we have seen that seduction before) but we have two days to decide.
We have another great room with balcony looking out over the town and modern bathroom. Really nice garden and fountain area out back with a self service bar - I know where we will be when it cools off. Nice little area with fountain, and you can have complimentary local wines and beers. The owner lives in a nice house behind the garden and has four rooms for let. Turns put she is 52, born and raised here, birthday two weeks after mine. She apologizes for the unseasonal heat (a common refrain, it is much hotter, much earlier than normal).
After unpacking we set out (it is the heat of the day, 41 degrees, Redding heat) get 300 Bosnian Marks at an ATM (Always a guessing game, except for Euros which can be used across Europe. You get too many marks, kuna, lira or leke and you have wasted money. Too little and you run out of things like water or food.) which works out to about $170 USD. We find a traditional café, Sadrdan, complete with Turkish-style dressed waiters and a lady out front in full black hooded burkah (eye slit only, and what eyes they were!) and it even has photos of the food in the menu, thank god, because I can only figure out about half the words. Gail orders Italia Salat and tomatoes, mozzarella, olives and lettuce, and it is just as pictured. I order Cevapcici, which looks like a nice grilled chicken breast (local dishes) with French fries, of course. What I get is a pita, grilled, filled with sausages (thank goodness they taste good) and this tasty red pepper sauce on the side. OK. At any rate it was delicious, and at 6 marks ($3) a pop I can handle it. We enjoy the local white wine and sparkling mineral water (with ice!)
After lunch (it is already 17:30) a sudden wind comes up and everything cools off.
I am writing my notes, so is Gail, we tell the waiter our guest house owner sent us and suddenly POOF! Complementary dessert raki shows up. Gail's is sweet walnut, mine is the manly, harsh straight style (like a shot of cheap vodka or tequila). Nice.
The entire experience, for in Europe you are buying the experience as much as the meal, two solid hours of eating and relaxation, cost 60M ($30USD).
OK let's take score so far: crappy bus ride, -1. Nice hostess and great room +2. Good food and wine, +2. Really hot, -1. Cheap costs, room and food, +2. Comped ice and Raki, +4, old fashioned service (Match? Pouring our water for us, etc) +4. Total: +12 so far. Minus six points for the whole war thing. Still, pretty good first impression. Oh yea, the guy at the bus station... offset by the cooling wind.
Side note: the more I drink, the less harsh the Raki. Seems like I am still writing and spelling OK. Huh. Yip stil shpelinng goood. Oh ye babie paz me moor.
So we spend the next few hours wandering the streets. It winds around but really is a pretty compact little area. The bridge really does take your breath away; the graceful, high arch is just spectacular. Photos everywhere showing the war damage, plaques describing what group helped rebuild this or that section, entire cemeteries filled with people killed just in 1992, or 93, 94, and 95.
The buildings are beautiful, almost exotic. You really almost feel back in Turkey. Many women in shawls, various degrees of robes and burkas, one or two fully covered in black. Many mosques, from the bridge alone we can count eight. The call to prayer here is very subtle, subdued, not as harsh as we heard in Istanbul. It almost sounds like a woman singing, it is pitch perfect, quiet rather than blaring. There seems to be two churches in town, you hear the bells on the hour.
We waded in the river below the bridge and found beautiful pieces of tile between the rocks. The cool water felt so good on a hot day.
Hungry again about 21:00, I had gnocchi of all things, and we had a glass of wine and water, and enjoyed the town and bridge all lit up.