I have not posted for a few days. We have been absorbing this beautiful city, enjoying the good life, but saddened by the reality of the 1992-1996 conflict here.
Funny thing, Sarajevo is almost right straight across from Bucharest (west, crossing over Serbia) but there are no direct flights. You have to go through Zagreb, Istanbul, Vienna or some other city or two to make the connection.
The flights took a little more than two hours total, the layover used up more of our time. Bus or train is about twenty hours, so flying for about $100 each seemed worthwhile.
As you will see, we are hitting about the same problem going from Sarajevo to Split, Croatia this coming Friday.
Anyway, the flights went off without a hitch, and we all breezed through Passport Control, customs and security. Thank god (allah?) they don't treat us Americans here, like we treat the Muslims (or even odd-looking people who might potentially be Muslim, like that guy with the turban who just got off the plane from India and is saying weird words I don't understand...!). I mean, we were on two flights full of Muslims. People in scarves and men with beards and caps, and practically no one spoke English (though they did do the cabin announcement in three languages, one of which was English).
We really stood out as looking and acting different.
Yet... no hassle.
Our host for the next four days picked us up at the airport, though that was not part of the deal. Ermin just did it because.
On the way across town, he chattered away, asking us about California and Trump and the US in general. He is angry about the rise of politicians in the US and Europe who push policies of discrimination. "Look at the damage it did here..."
We have a room right on the River Miljacka, just outside the old city center, on a bend where the water almost forms a little lake. It is called the Pansion River, and it is a very unique and quiet place; peaceful like being in the countryside, but right at the city edge.
With big windows and a glass door opening onto a large deck right above the water, we have an excellent view downstream. There is a full picnic table for us to sit at and drink wine. At night the call to prayer echoes hauntingly down the river, off the cliff walls behind us.
We are "guarded" all night by friendly old Drago, whose job it seemed was to hang out, shake our hands with a friendly "dobra dan" (good day) and smoke. He tried to not fall asleep during the night watch, but sometimes (most times) I did not see him on my way out to early coffee.
He was very friendly however, and Gail bought him a pack of smokes, so he became our best friend.
That said, it is a tired old room that needs some work. You know, things like replacing the burned out lightbulbs, and providing even one plug to charge the phone, and more than one roll of luxurious brown colored, (like paper towels at school) "old scratch" at a time. But, I suppose you can’t have it all, and this place is pretty cool, more to me than to Gail.
Who knew that she likes light bulbs and unbroken toilet seat covers so much?
Imagine that.
Stay here for the coolness and ambiance, not the comfort.
We have been in Bosnia and Herzegovina before. In 2012 we stayed a couple days in Mostar and just fell in love with the beautiful little city, the people and the food.
We met a lady from the US who was visiting Mostar, but she lived in Sarajevo, and told us it was the most wonderful city ever.
Well, I just kept that whole experience in mind, and this year we finally have the opportunity to stop in Sarajevo on our way by.
In Mostar we were struck by the tragedy of the Balkans conflict, and the damage it did to the city. You might argue that it was worse here in Sarajevo. This city was under siege from 1992 until 1996.
Mostar was almost totally destroyed in 1993. Quick and easy.
“Under siege” is a nice, cleaned up term that means there were gunners lobbing cannon shells into the city from the surrounding hilltops, snipers picking off people crossing the street, tanks shelling apartment buildings, and people just dying of starvation, thirst and cold in the winter. They were cut off from the outside world, for over three years.
Wikipedia puts it in perspective: To date the siege of Sarajevo is the longest siege of a city in the modern era, lasting three times longer than the famous siege of Stalingrad, longer even than the siege of Leningrad.
And this is not ancient history, or even the history of our parents or grandparents. My kids were both alive when this happened, just over 20 years ago. These were modern day people, just like you and me.
And it is such a shame to see the destruction of such beautiful places, and to think about formerly peaceful, wonderful people turning on each other… and yet if we ignore this history, shrug it off as an abnormality, as something “…those people did then…” we miss the larger message that IT CAN HAPPEN TO US TODAY.
Look at the demonizing going on the United States right now: conservative vs. liberal polarization, blaming the Mexican immigrants for unemployment (when the truth is people are too lazy to retrain or move), people in the “Home of The Brave” pointing fearful fingers at the entire Muslim world as if they are one big hateful organization, black vs. white, rich vs. poor, and on and on.
And the flames are fanned by both sides.
Seeing this recent history first hand brings the message home.
And yet, they have mostly recovered.
Not the internal scars, surely not for a generation or two. But Bosnia and Croatia, Slovenia and Montenegro are beautiful countries, with gracious people.
So here are observations and thoughts, food notes and touring ideas about Sarajevo. Three full days, four nights, in no particular order.
Our first night’s dinner was at a hidden little gem called Dveri. I don’t even remember where I got the name of this place, I just have a cryptic note I wrote to myself from something I read, but boy, am I glad I wrote that note.
Do it now. Write the name somewhere, and if you ever get to Sarajevo you will not remember to thank me, but you will be thankful.
Seek it and ye shall find it. Hidden between two, bigger, outdoor cafe type places, you enter a little green doorway with a simple sign, and walk into a tangle of two or three crowded rooms. There is stuff scattered everywhere, garlic strands and corn hung up, jars of cucumbers stuffed with pepper, and the few tables are filled.
OK. We wnat to eat here.
We didn’t have a reservation, so the lady looked us over, and said, “One hour. Can you do it?”
And we do it?
Duh.
So we got the one empty table, and jumped right in.
Graciously she ended up giving us like an hour and a half.
Still.
We got a bottle of sparkling water to help water the pipes.
I asked what the house specialty is, and it was a sort of stuffed steak, but then her finger slid up the menu and said, “But all our friends order this.” It was a steak with roasted (or pan seared) vegetables and a potato.
OK, says me.
Let me tell you, that was the best steak.
I never order steak out because I think I make a pretty good one myself. This steak was amazing. A half liter of the house red wine and I was set.
We split a basket of their home made bread, like cinnamon rolls but without the sugar and cinnamon.
Gail had a stuffed eggplant, and that was really tasty as well. Very big, very stuffed with, with… well, stuff, and not “runny-gooey” like eggplant (done wrong) can be.
She half a liter of the house white… She loved it.
Prices again are very inexpensive here, the entire meal costing us 84 Bosnian Marks ($47 US)
And get this: the “complaints” on Google Reviews or TripAdvisor are all about the “high cost” of everything. Not a single complaint about the food.
We returned here for dinner, two nights later, armed with a proper reservation this time. The second time around we again started with the bread. We bought a bottle of their “Featured wine of the month” a very smooth, very balanced Cabernet Sauvignon from Mostar. Good enough and inexpensive enough that we bought a second bottle to take to the room.
Gail had cheese stuffed, breaded peppers, with fried, thin sliced potatoes, and a salad. I can vouch for how good her food was, since I got to finish it!
For the third night in a row, I had steak. This time with a gorgonzola sauce, and potatoes on the side. It really just melted in my mouth.
We were having such a nice meal that we ended it with two shots of the local wild cherry brandy (raki).
Even buying the second bottle of wine for the room didn’t push the cost over $55 US.
We hiked back up the steep hill to the Yellow Bastian for the sunset. This is also the spot where they shoot the cannon off to mark the official end of the day, Maghrib, during Ramadan. End of the day means the end of the fast, means that it is time to party!
So we head up and it is packed. Wall to wall people, and the narrow street is jammed with cars going nowhere because one person at the top of the hill got trapped going the wrong way (on the one way street). There is standing room only, and the best viewing areas on the edge are by reservation only. So we walk off the Bastion, look at the packed lawn right below it, and decide to cut a little lower, into the very top of the cemetery.
We are standing there, and a pretty young girl comes up to the fence, asking if we know exactly what time it is, and where you can see the firework.
So, we invited her over on “our side” of the fence, and this is how we met Hafsa (the photographer) and her friend Dorra.
We still had a while until Maghrib, which is scheduled at 20:33 today. Plus five minutes, I find out.
Dorra tells me that they add five minutes to the day during Ramadan to be sure no one breaks the fast early, by mistake.
The girls are living in France, and have been friends for three weeks now. They decided to travel together and are in Bosnia for a week. Hafsa is originally from Morocco, Dorra from Tunisia. Gail really enjoyed having some other women to talk to.
Sunset.
The cannon booms, the firework explodes, and all the minarets light up across the city. The entire yellow bastion lights up with a curtain of lights, and everyone visibly relaxes. The imams all start the end of day, call to prayer, and it echoes below us through the valley as everyone pulls out their food.
Dorra and Hafsa pull out their food, kick off their shoes and sit right there on the grass, inviting us to eat with them. Imagine that: they have fasted all day, and they want to share their food with us. And we would have loved to, but we just ate dinner before heading up the hill.
I tell you, the people here are just so gracious and kind.
We exchanged emails and photos, and possible promises to visit, then Gail and I set off back down the hill.
So, a message to Hafsa and Dorra, because you said you would read my blog:
Vous avez notre courrier électronique. Vous êtes invités à venir nous visiter en Californie à tout moment. Veuillez nous envoyer un courriel afin que nous puissions rester en contact.
Inshalla, إن شاء الله
Peut-être que nous vous reverrons.
The old main square, the core of the old city, is called the Baščaršija.
There is a fountain in the middle, kind of like the fountains at the mosques where you wash up before prayers. Again, the square is triangle shaped, bounded by a mosque, lots of cafes and markets. It is a great people watching point, and makes the best landmark since most of the main (old city) streets radiate from here.
Down on the main shopping street is the Vječna Vatra, which means eternal flame in Bosnian. It is for those who liberated Sarajevo during World War II. At the time, Bosnia was part of Yugoslavia.
Gazi Husrev-bey (yes, the same Ottoman guy who built the mosque) made the first covered marketplace, a Bazaar, like an indoor shopping mall. It is called the Bezistan, and was built in 1555. The actual design is kind of cribbed from a mosque, but the idea was to be a sheltered, indoor space. It is not big like the famous bazaar in Istanbul, still it is interesting enough, for like five minutes of looking (for me, the non-shopper).
The famous Latin Bridge is just up river from our guest house. This is where a guy named Gavrilo Princip assassinated the Austro-Hungarian Prince, Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, thus starting WW1.
So, in effect, Princip actually murdered over 17 million people (with another 20 million wounded) on this bridge.
Ahhhh. The unintended consequences of such a small action.
Nowadays, of course, we are so much more civilized in every way. And Franz Ferdinand is a good band out of Scotland. You might know this song:
We are at almost 2000 feet elevation here, so it is crisp in the morning, and after sunset, especially if the wind blows.
“Freezing!" says Gail, wearing her black down coat.
To me, in shorts, flip flops, and button-down shirt.
But the days are hot and sweaty, and we are (amazingly enough) walking between 10-12 miles every day.
We walked up the river 2.5 km to the Kozija ćuprija or Kozy Most. It is a miniature version of the famous bridge in Mostar, and this one is the last surviving, all-original bridge, built by the Ottoman Empire in 15something or another (the 16th century). It was part of the main road to Turkey.
Along the way we passed under the highway, on pylons high above us, and under the high, white cliffs topped by the white fortress.
There are rock climbing routes here, named with neat spray painted signs on the rock, an arrow pointing to the start. Look up and there is the first bolted anchor point, the first carabiner connected to a wire cable. Never seen that before, actually labeling the routes, on the rock itself.
The path follows the river, along the "Trail of the Ambassadors." Every ambassador to Bosnia buys and plants a tree along this path; one day they will provide shade. Some trees are doing better than others: the Russian tree is huge, the Slovakian is a dead stick.
We climbed high above the city, above the Pansion, to the Yellow Bastion. It is up by the cemetery, and is part of the original wall and defensive wall structures. The view over the city is fantastic, and of course there is a little cafe up there serving simple food, coffee and beer. We had the place mostly to ourselves, but not when we returned at night for the sunset.
This is the place we met Dorra and Hafsa.
We walked on, through a small town center, three groceries, outdoor vegetable stands, a handful of Frizzers (hair cutting) and some old mosques with the original wooden minarets.
Further up, up to the white fortress, perched on the highest point over the river. The walls are covered with graffiti and half destroyed, but the outline of the fort is there. I climbed up and out to sit in one of the fortress windows, looking up the river valley to the mountains.
After, we walked back into Sarajevo and across the river to the Sarajevsko Brewery. Now THAT was a great thing after a hot walk up the hill.
Beer. You would not believe it, but there is this actual brewery here.
And it has an old style, German-looking beer hall that is all dark and cool, with their beers on tap. Not ones to waste time, and needing to “fortify our constitutions,” we ordered right up.
Gail had a light unfiltered beer, (kind of like a wheat beer, pretty tasty) and I had the premium light (much more flavor, clear). Both were gone in a flash.
We walked out through the crowded streets until we came to one of the most crowded coffee shops. People packed inside, spilling out into the street. We lucked into a table, arriving just as a couple stood up. We ended up sitting on the padded bench running along the outside wall, with a little table.
I ordered the traditional Bosnian coffee, Bosanska Kafa, pointing at the next-door table to be sure I got the right thing.
It is served Turkish style, in a little copper pot with a handle, very very hot. You also get a cup of cold water, two sugar cubes, and a sweet, like a sticky Turkish Delight (ie. Original Gummy Bear). There is a little drinking cup, slightly smaller than a standard espresso cup, and it has a splash of hot water in it. Also a spoon.
Here is how you do it (as taught to me by observing all those around me).
Pour the water from the little drinking cup into the copper coffee vessel. It will bring the coffee level right up to the rim. Spoon the top a little, skimming off the foam which you put in the drinking cup. Place one sugar cube into the cup (However, I prefer mine black, or at most a half cube of sugar.). Pour the coffee from the copper into the cup. You will have enough in the copper vessel for two cups. If you added sugar, stir a little. Sip. It is really hot and really strong.
Then put in the second cube, pour the rest of the coffee over it (use the spoon to help hold back the really thick sludge at the bottom of the copper pot) and there you go.
The smell alone kills you.
So intense.
It is a fun experience and the taste is pretty huge. Costs 2 BM ($1) which is an excellent deal.
Add in the really really fascinating people watching in the very narrow streets and it is the best entertainment value around. I could sit all night drinking coffee.
The name of the place is Miris Dunja.
It is tucked away in a small street just before the big Gazi Mosque, which you can see towering over the top of the shops.
We became regulars here, stopping every night for two Bosanska Kafa.
We eat breakfast out on the patio over the river. Daily coffee of course.
We have an entire menu to order from. Gail tried the “light breakfast” that wasn’t, and then a cheese toast that was good cheese, but not toast.
I have tried out the omelet with dried Bosnian beef, and another day I had Ćevapi.
But I have settled on the traditional chicken soup. It is surprisingly good on a cold morning, thick and hot.
About ćevapi. Ćevapi supposedly is the national dish of Bosnia. People eat it breakfast, lunch, dinner, and in-between for snacks. There are many many restaurants that serve nothing but. You could potentially just eat Ćevapi (3-5 marks) and have a beer (2-3 marks) and thus eat three meals a day for a total of $7 to $12 a day in food expenses.
Basically it is made of grilled minced beef in a sausage shape. You get several links inside a pitta or flatbread with onions and sauce. The sauces can vary; I like the more spicy red one. I think it is sausages that are actually the ćevapi, the rest if just the holder and condiments. Here is a funny sort of a quote:
"The dish dates from the Ottoman occupation of Bosnia, since it was a cheap and easy dish to make for rebels or outlaws.”
That is me: a damn cheap rebel.
Anyway, daily coffee.
The daily coffee struggle.
If I just didn’t get up so early.
Thank god for the coffee machine at the EP gas station just up the street from us. The guy is a total crab, but the coffee is hot and cheap. And take-away.
I am a regular early morning customer now. And he still doesn’t greet me with more than a grunt.
On the other hand, by our third night at Miris Dunja the guy just brought me the first of my two Bosanska Kafa, served with a smile.
Walking through the little street of the bazaar, where hammered copper everything is for sale and the actual coppersmiths tink tink tink tink away…
Bosnian rock music spills out of the coffee shop on the corner, the younger shopkeepers gathered there, dancing.
OK. That drew me in. We flopped down on the pillows and had a another coffee, Bosnian style.
By the end of any day I am so buzzed, yet I fall right asleep and wake up the next morning foggy as ever.
I bought pistachios. A bag of them, two scoops from the bulk bin. The good fresh ones, from Turkey (or perhaps Iran). Perfect for walking. Perfect to snack on every time we stop for wine.
Wine and pistachios. Red wine, white wine… cool is better on these hot days. The single best glass of cool white wine in Bosnia so far was at Spazio Cafe, on a side street off the main road. Or pistachios and red wine out at our picnic table above the river, the deck cooled by the water.
This is a real "hang out" city. All pillowed benches and comfortable chairs in the shade; every restaurant and cafe has seating in the shade, under trees or umbrellas or awnings. People drinking coffee, tea, beer, smoking their hookahs, just talking or just sitting. Watching the people.
The Muslim women seem to gather in a spot, very green and shady with long benches, across the river from the Emperor’s Mosque, the Careva džamija. They sit and visit, changing up the seats once in a while, passing the heat of the day.
Sarajevo has the third largest synagogue in Europe, the Aškenaška Sinagoga. The largest is in Budapest, and that is pretty impressive to see.
The largest cathedral in BiH is here, the Sacred Heart Cathedral, or Katedrala Srca Isusova. There is a silver statue of Pope John Paul out front, and the twin bell towers rise high above a square.
The bells from the cathedral ring the call to mass at 7:55, and mark out every hour, making another beautiful sound in this city.
The biggest and thus most important mosque in BiH is here, the Gazi Husrev Bey’s Mosque, built in 1531 by the Ottoman Governor named Gazi Husrev Bey. It is not huge as far as mosques go. The ones in Turkey, for example, are just massive.
I call it the "Harvey Bey" mosque.
So, in the photo, it was exactly 15:41 in the afternoon, but the clock seems to be saying some time from a random time zone somewhere (or perhaps another planet).
This clock is from the 1600s, before people had their own clocks. A public clock tower played an important role in letting (Muslim) residents know when it was time to pray and the time of sunset during the holy fasting month of Ramadan.
So, the clock strikes midnight (00:00) at sunset.
Because daylight hours change daily, and the length of every day is different, the clock must be wound and adjusted by an official timekeeper to take into account the position of the sun. Think about it: back in the 17th century you had to know mathematics, astrology and astronomy to run the clock.
And we think people then didn’t know half of what we know today.
And I bet he was not using the RamadanSunsetApp.
Now however they do use computers and have calculations for all of this, throughout the world. But here in Sarajevo, at this one clock, they still manually adjust the clock once a week.
Tradition, my friend.
At night they are lit up with little light bulbs; lit spikes floating above the crowds, point to heaven.
It is Ramadan right now, but it doesn’t have any effect on us at all. Bosnia is a much more secular society. The call to prayer is really muted, except for the night one at about 22:45. Then it echoes up and down the valley, through the dark, hauntingly beautiful.
Last night's call to prayer was different than the night before. It was definitely a different Imam; he had a different cadence, not holding out the notes, and he cleared his throat halfway through it. I hope we have number one tonight. Better voice.
Mosques, churches, the exact same thing. You wonder just how many mosques you need in one town, how many differing factions of churches in another? It was just the other day in small town Romania, a place where there couldn’t have been more than 5,000 residents, and we counted all the cathedrals.
And, as I have noted before, the similarities between church and mosque and temple far outweigh any differences.
I love the contrasts: the call to prayer and the bells. The full-on black niquab (only eyes showing) and then the stylishly dressed women with hijabs (head scarves), and then the young culture that embraces none of it. Traditional Bosnian cooking, Turkish food, Italian and French and fusion cuisine. The old buildings and new glass towers.
Sarajevo was always known as a very open and welcoming city with a mix of cultures, in fact there is an actual line drawn in the city (at the edge of old and new town) where it states “Sarajevo: Meeting of Cultures.”
And it drives the point home: If you seriously think that your one little church, your one factional branch of one religion is the only true answer; that somehow you and a small set of perhaps one or ten million of your best friends are the only ones who know god enough to get invited to the big party in heaven, you really need to get out more.
Meet some different people, learn about some different cultures, and drop the self-righteous smug attitude.
I saw this great art:
In general, you are the religion you are dealt at birth.
And those are the leaders to whom you give control over your day to day living.
We ate dinner the second and fourth nights at Apetit, a very cool little place that has only five tables and seats 12, maximum.
Again, I read something about this place, but for the life of me I don’t know where. But I did make a note about it, and I have learned to trust my notes, even if I have no idea why I wrote it.
There is a chef, standing right in front of the five tables, and the waiter-wine expert-greeter-host of ceremonies. There is no menu. The chef goes shopping daily, and whatever is freshest at the market, whatever suits his particular whim that morning, that is what he will prepare for you.
Not that you don’t have any choice; they tell you what types of ingredients are available, you say (in general) what you want, they ask a few questions (food allergies? spicy?) and you are off. It is simply priced according to how much you end up eating.
For example, the first night there Gail and I split a fresh salad at the Host-Of-Ceremony’s suggestion I had a crisp, cold local beer, Gail had a dry and smooth white wine from Mostar.
Her main was a colorful, pan-roasted vegetable medley, and pasta with a thick, creamy cheese sauce. Even I thought the taste was fantastic, and I was thrilled that I got to finish up the pasta.
I had steak with a curry sauce, on top of rice with peanuts. Steak again. I am really surprised at myself, actually. But it was so good, perfectly done, and the sauce was amazing. I used the rice and peanuts to finish it up.
Gail continued on with the white wine, while I took a glass of the recommended red, from the same winery near Mostar.
The meal was good enough that we had dessert, a tiramisu. He recommended plum raki (brandy) for me, and a glass of sherry for Gail, but we ended up switching. The sherry and tiramisu pairing gave me a new appreciation for sherry.
Not even $50 US for then entire thing. I made a reservation for Thursday night, on the spot.
Our second night there (the last night in Sarajevo) Gail remember that it was “custom orders” so she got smaller quantities of food, and specified how she wanted the sauce. Me, however, I just cast all caution to the wind and said, “Lay it on me.”
More or less.
We split a salad, and then I had spicy shrimp with risotto.
The white wine from Mostar was perfect.
Gail had pan fried potatoes with mozerella cheese. I had tuna, shasimi style on pasta.
We ended with tiramisu, and I paired it with the sherry again.
Perfect
In talking with the waiter tonight, they just wish to forget the war, but it still goes on.
The feelings run deep.
He was 12.
We have used four currencies in four countries now. Good for the math skills, working out the conversions quickly.
I finally ran out of toothpaste, so picked up the local brand. Kolynos toothpaste. Nice - not too minty.
My friend Mark and his wife, Cara, are in Prague, heading to Budapest. They have a blog at this link.
It is fun to read their impressions of places we have been, the experiences they like and don't, the things they do. The more people’s perspectives you get, the better.
Get this: We are missing them in Rovinj, Croatia by just a few hours: they depart as we arrive.
Our friends Aura and John are in Italy, heading North to Venice then the Dolomites where we just miss them by about two weeks.
Our daughter Amber and her husband Andrew were just here, in Budapest only two weeks to the day before we were.
Other friends Kathy and Steve are in Annecy, France now, just loving it. We are only missing them there by eleven months!
And Don and Jyl are set to come over, Amsterdam and Brugge and France, in a few weeks.
It is getting crowded over here in Europe.
Just so I don't see any of the kids from the school...
Well, I have been dealing with an issue for the past two weeks now, and it is finally resolved. Get this:
When we get to Northern Italy we will be walking hut to hut through the Dolomites. Along the way I will be climbing some via ferrata routes, up to old WW1 outposts and and various peaks. Plus, when we meet up with our friends in Austria, I am looking forward to a day or three of climbing there. But, I didn’t want to lug my harness and helmet and extra clothes all through the islands of Croatia. So, what could be easier than just boxing them up and shipping them to myself?
Except…
This is Italy.
You forget, you know? And so the Italian Customs held my box, and I got an email about it.
What to do?
I had additional forms to fill out. Purpose, value, reason… and it all has to be in Italian.
So I filled out the forms.
Thank allah for email and PDF files.
Another email: more information is needed.
OK then, did that.
Next email: a value is needed, even though there is no import tax.
OK.
Next email: more reasoning why such things are being sent, and to whom?
Two weeks worth of back and forth, but it is finally resolved.
Are you expecting me to say the box was rejected and sent back to the US?
Nope. It is waiting for me in Castelrotto, Italy.
We were sitting with coffee at Moros Dunja, just relaxing, when a scruffy girl literally threw herself into Gail's lap. I reacted immediately, shoving her back and off, yelling at her. Gypsy kid, you see, hugging Gail and hoping to score something from her pack or pocket.
The girl acted all bent out, and Gail was a little taken aback, but I kept up the attack, yelling at her till she left.
And you know what? It's true. I am a heartless son of a bitch, a true black heart.
But I'll be damned if the gypsy scams get us.
It's like the little kid set out on the street pumping his accordion. He can't play the damn thing, he is just playing random nothing, hoping for a few coins due to the cute factor. And I bet he can't go home until he had a certain quota.
And, sorry to say, I don't care.
Tonight an undercover cop came up to us, warning us to watch out for pick pockets, especially the gypsies. Never had that happen before.
So the bent over, crippled old lady?
One legged guy?
Kid with keyboard or the crawling on his elbows guy?
I.
Don't.
Care.
We walked all the way into central Sarajevo to the bus station to see about a bus to Split, Croatia on Friday.
"Seven hour trip," the lady said, leaves several times a day.
But I have information from Rome2Rio dot com that there is a three and four hour option available and they have been pretty reliable so far.
"Nope" says she.
So we wandered off looking for a travel agent to find these elusive busses. An hour later, we found a travel agency and found out that...
The “ four hour” busses don’t exist. Bogus information. So I emailed Rome2Rio (hopefully they will correct it), and we looked into the train option, but it is just as long and we could, possibly, miss the bus connection which then means we miss the ferry which means we don’t get out to the island of Vis…
So back again to the bus station, where I plunked down $20 US each for the 6:00 bus out.
All this took a while, and it really heated up, and after four miles we were really thirsty. We stopped for sparkling mineral water (There. Is that better than “ gas water” Nels?) with ice, and water never tasted so good.
We were at the big glass tower along sniper’s alley, called Sarajevo City Center, which is a huge indoor shopping mall, three floors of sparkling lights and store full of crap nobody really needs.
People died for this?
Just back a quarter mile, by the train station is the US embassy. It is an ugly fortress of a building, and we didn't even notice it at first.
The first thing we noticed was the cop with the sub-machine gun.
Standing at the corner.
In front of this big ugly building for no reason at all.
Oh.
Well, I have learned my lesson from the past few trips, and I know the US Embassy is not a friendly place, so we just moved on.
No photos.
We took a fast elevator ride up to the top, 35th floor of the AVAZ Twist tower. High enough for my ears to pop. This is the tallest building in Bosnia at 176 meters. The glass front of it is “ twisting,” thus the name.
There is a bar up there, and so we had a glass of wine and enjoyed the excellent view...
including looking straight down on the US Embassy.
Wait.
What?
I would have looked, even stared, but I was afraid of being shot.
For another mark you can go up on the observation deck to take it all in, the forest of high rise apartments, sweeping up valley to old town, and the mountains all around.
The graveyards full of the 25 year new stones (as opposed to the older cemeteries full of weathered, grey rock) cover the hillsides like patches of snow.
Here, to the east, five big white blankets.
On the elevator ride down we met two girls, both Bosnian, both studied at the university in Iowa. They were happy just to chat a few minutes. "My Americans" they called us.
Back to the graveyards.
Coming into Sarajevo from the airport the damage from the war was obvious. Some buildings are still ruined and empty, and shell impacts are still raw on the sides of some buildings and patched over (but obvious) on others. In the old town area the repairs are better, probably for the benefit of the tourist industry. But they had damage also, bullet holes plastered over.
Most have Allah written in script with the name and dates, some have an additional star or an attached photo. The Muslims place a head and foot stone, often planting flowers in between.
So many young are buried here. Row upon row, marching up the hill, not as large, but every bit as sobering as the US cemetery in Normandy France.
We walked further up to the yellow fortress and took in the sweeping view.
From here I can count four other big cemeteries with the new white post graves scattered across the hillsides.
This is the one that got me.
I stood and thought: it could be my name there, my life cut short 23 years ago.
All the things I would have missed.
Perhaps their owners were killed, or perhaps they relocated, unable to trust their neighbors again.
Other homes are rebuilt. You can see the original part of the home, with bullet and mortar scars, and then the new construction over that, often left raw and unfinished.
I am struck again, like our first trip to Bosnia, by the senselessness of the war, the stupidity of religious factions fighting, destroying what is good and beautiful and decent about people and civilization.
There is the main road through the city. During the war it was nicknamed “Sniper Alley.” The tall buildings offered an abundance of vantage points for Serb snipers, and just attempting to cross the street here was, at the time, a life threatening activity.
Today, with McDonald's and chain stores, new glass towers growing like flowers on the site of old, bombed out buildings, there's a completely different feeling. Walking here, or anywhere, you see countless different plaques and memorials, fountains and markers to the dead.
In this section is the new, blue glassed Parliament Building. The photos of the old old one being shelled, burning, are iconic photos of the war. Even I remember watching it on the news.
Around the city, you will notice red spatter markings on the ground. These are the “Sarajevo roses” and serve as a reminder of what the people of Sarajevo had to endure.
The roses are created by filling in the shell damage with red resin, indicating a death.
There is a documentary film at this link.
We walked halfway, then took a taxi the rest of the way. Same thing coming back.
During the siege, when the residents were trapped here, the only available supplies were on the other side of the airport. But to get across the runway, with three rows of barbed wire, motion detectors and machine guns strafing the area, was nearly impossible.
So they did what anyone would do: tunnel under the airport for about a kilometer, digging it all by hand.
So the tunnel was constructed as a way to get to the other side of the airport, a Bosnian-held territory overseen at the time by the UN.
The construction started in a private home cellar in January 1993 and was finished about six months later. Volunteers dug through on each side of the tunnel, all by manual labour with a shovel. It is estimated two or three million people passed through the tunnel during the war. Sometimes groups as a large as 1,000 went through in this dark narrow passage, while bombs were going just above.
I guess that is the amazing part; the resilience and unwillingness to give up.
And that is why there are so many graves. The city was supposed to surrender within a month.
Sarajevo.
A beautiful city.
But beauty has its cost.