Upon arrival in Zadar, we got picked up by a rather nice family who opened up their apartment to us for the small price of 120KN (£14, roughly). As is trusting area practise, we found accomodation coming off the airport bus. A rather nice man called Josip asked us if we needed a room, we negotiated the price and then hopped into his 1996 fiat, or something like that. It would never work in London, New York or the likes of the rest of the Western World, but somehow in Croatia, all is well.
After a night in Zadar with its lovely, lovely sea organ and pasta with prawns drenched in butter, we made our way to Mostar, Bosnia. On the map the two places look around roughly three inches away from one another. In real time, the bus journey took us roughly eight hours, including one three-hour stopover in Split, one dodgy rest stop and one change in currency (this proved problematic).
We arrived in Mostar around 10pm, struggled to find a place to sleep and then wandered into the Old Town, which all slants down or up depending on the way you walk. We met/stayed with a Canadian woman travelling solo and struggled to find veggie friendly food before I duked it out with HSBC for 25 minutes (and £72 worth of an international phone bill). In the end, they decided to let me take money out of my bank account, and the trip continued in all its splendour.
I left my heart in Bosnia for so many reasons that I'm not sure if I can quite put it into words. I had no expectations, which was probably part of it. The food definitely wasn't a highlight--i wasn't a fan of piled high cabbage masked as a 'Bosnian Salad' or deep fried vegetables with a side of fries, the highly recommended 'Vegetarian Platter'. But the confluence of eastern and western cultures and the pride and kindness of the people we met took me a long way.
In my naive little mind I still struggle to understand the sometimes cruel reality of human nature. The battle scars of war stood as bleak reminders of this all across the city, and the entire nation. My memory of the Bosnian War is limited to scant news reports and stories told by former students. But still, i guess i thought war happened in a vacuum devoid of regular civilians. I was therefore repeatedly humbled by the persistence of human nature.
on the streets of the old town
The City's biggest mosque and home to a sad graveyard, the resting place of hundreds of men who died during the Bosnian war
inside the Koski Mehmed pasa mosque
pretty view. what you cannot see is the pockmarked, shelled buildings, signs mandating 'no entry' with skull and crossbones and derelict outskirts
The Old Bridge (Stari Most)
up the skirt of the Old Bridge
The Old Bridge is actually not that old. It stood for 427 years, until 9 November 1993, when it was destroyed in the Bosnian War. The rebuild took place in 2004.
The Crooked Bridge (old bridge in miniature)
Bosnian Coffee, a local take on Turkish Coffee, and just as delightful
view of the icily cold Neretva River that locals dive into off the Old Bridge
a small reminder of the region's conflict
better than barbed wire?
residents of one of the oldest Turkish style houses in the city
Apologies, I'm feeling rather uninspired at the moment. More about Bosnia in the next entry.
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