Slept in until 5:00 then out wandering the city. Alone, town quiet, I really noticed how many creeks and waterfalls there are feeding into the main river.
We had a nice breakfast at the guesthouse, dropped off some laundry to be done and walked through a different part of town. I climbed up the tallest minaret (nice view, very tight, narrow, spiral of stairs, all alone on top) and the inside of the mosque was one of the prettiest yet. No one was there, so I kicked off the flip-flops, knelt towards Mecca (I think. Front of the mosque anyway.) and did a couple "Allah Akbar."
Well, nothing happened, but I have to have faith I am protected from the evil eye, at least until the next call to prayer.
If I had done the proper research ahead of time, I would have known the call to prayer is Allahu Akbar, and the kneeled prayer is "glory be to my Lord, the Almighty." so it turns out I am still cursed and headed straight to the fire after all. Oh well. Time for wine!
So, sometime after noon we stopped in at a cafe for a water, wine and WiFi break.
Around 13:00 we heard the call to prayer, and soon after the Black Ghost Crowd drifted into our area and gathered on the steps across from us in the shade. The Black Ghosts are the devout Muslim women who drift silently and invisibly through the crowds, totally covered head to toe, with only an eye slit to see. They even wear black gloves. Mind you, I am in the shade, sipping cold wine and water, sweating on a 100 degree plus (42c) day.
I do not mean this to be a derogatory name at all, it is just how I think of them; these women, gliding faceless and nameless through the crowd, in such stifling heat, head to toe and more in black… No comment, though I am thinking plenty.
OK, one comment: the husbands of the Black Ghosts wear short sleeve polo shirts and pants, often shorts.
It is fun to sit here and people watch.
Over at the bridge, meanwhile, the diver at the top of the bridge has climbed over the rail and is teasing a few more euros out of the crowd. He spreads his arms, stands on his toes, faaaaaalllllls back, and grabs the railing. Eventually he will jump the 25 meters (about 80 feet) into the river. Down river a ways is a training platform, about half the height, where they work on proper form.
So we have been at this cafe now for two hours on one-half litre of wine. Thirsty again, we decide to toss a few more marks and buy some sparkling water.
Plunk! The guy on the bridge jumped to wild applause.
Instead of wandering the town, we let the town wander here (between about 13:00-15:00)
After café time we find our way back down under the bridge (I tuck in behind one of the waterfalls) and wade in the cold river, looking for more pottery shards.
As we walk I notice the still-ruined buildings tucked in between the restored ones. It is not like you have to look hard or search out the war damage, it is everywhere, the amount of bullet holes blasted per building is astounding. On the good looking buildings there is usually a plaque, telling how it was restored in 2002 or whenever by the New York Fund for Preservation, or the Norway Something-or-another, even the Grand Dutchy (king) of Luxembourg rebuilt a bridge.
This city is beautiful, heartbreakingly so. I don’t know what it is about the bridge, the streets, the people, but it moves something deep inside. And to think it was shelled into rubble… this is every bit as tragic as the shelling of Dubrovnik.
The war is still very real for the people. Our last innkeeper told us stories, this one doesn't, but she does not talk about that certain period of life (she would have been 31) and at times she pulls her comments up short (like when talking about how long she has lived in this house) and the look on her face changes for an instant.
I read up on the history last winter, I obviously need to read more.
Over a glass of wine out back in the garden, the assistant innkeeper told us about her experiences. She was five, her father did not want to fight, so they fled to Split and got on a packed ferry. Some ferries went to Germany, some to France, she ended up in Switzerland for six years. They welcomed her family in, and she learned French, so now she works mornings as a tour guide for French tourists. She is exhausted during tourist season but winters are nice.
We got a recommendation to eat where she goes (once a month) and the local specialty is trout, right out of the river, flopping around on your plate. OK then. At 17:00 the streets are empty, we are sitting contemplating a nap, reading, the BBC or drinking. If we were on the coast we would be at the beach. We decide to rest up so we can head out about 18:00 for sunset walking and then dinner.
As we are walking, we both notice how “cobbly” are the cobble stones… almost hurt your feet to walk on, the are so very bumpy, and smooth... slick. Very slippery. Just as Gail is saying this, a passing (tourist) woman slips and about falls, but a calm muslim woman grabs her before she bites the big one.
At least this really hot midday thing gives me some time to write. Something we notice about Bosnia, that was the same in Turkey, Albania and Montenegro: no Japanese tourists at all, and no provision (menus on Japanese, guides books, etc) for them.
Also, we have seen no Gypsies at all, none since we left Albania.
(Later: we were hit up by one small, dirty, raggedy, big eyed begging girl at the Mostar bus station while waiting to leave. She was one in a pack of girls working the crowd and she tried to grab Gail. Since then, no other Roma.)
When we set out walking, we head up a residential street, filled with big homes and apartment buildings. Some are restored to their glory, others are empty shells; all are pock-marked by bullet holes and the star-shaped shell bursts. We pass an entire cemetery full of graves from 1992. Muslim, Christian, babies, old people, teenagers, all packed in together. A few blocks later is the cemetery dated 1993.
There is this interesting tradition here. When someone dies, a death notice, like a poster, is put up in their neighborhood to inform everyone. They are posted on trees, street signs, on the wall outside the Mosque or next to the local store.
We walked about a kilometer to dinner and had the recommended dish, Pastrmka, which is their fresh caught trout. I had our friend write the word for me, which turns out to be a good idea as this restaurant is the local hot-spot, and the menu is entirely in Bosnian, and the waiter speaks no English, but is very friendly. The fish was really good, and two complete trout for dinner was 28 marks, or about $13. It was fun eating in a park setting, and watching the tables fill up as it got darker.
After walking a little we turned in early (23:30) in anticipation of tomorrow's bus ride to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia.