Welcome to Sarajevo
I don’t think that any city I’ve recently visited has a cachet quite like that of Sarajevo’s. But while this is a fascinating and worthwhile place to visit, it is just a city in Europe, not a place on Mars, and while evidence of the Bosnian War exists, it is less dramatic than the fully destroyed buildings of Mostar. I arrived shortly after lunch and quickly explored Sarajevo’s historic Turkish core, filled with shady courtyards, covered bazaars, and numerous 16th c. mosques. While television images of the war broadcasted views of shelled 1970s office-buildings, it became somewhat obscured that Sarajevo, like Mostar, is a city founded by Turks and retains a strong Turkish influence. I’ve been able to refill my water bottle in the fountains that stand in the mosque courtyards and like in Mostar, the air is frequently filled with the sounds of muezzin calling the faithful to prayer – although here in Sarajevo they must compete with the rock music blasting from the cafes and bars that co-occupy the Turkish quarter along with the mosques, madrassas, and innumerable souvenir stalls.
After a few turns along the streets of the mostly touristy Turkish quarter, I continued into the Austro-Hungarian city, constructed to state of the art specifications so that by 1914 Sarajevo was perhaps the most high-tech city in the empire. Sarajevo lives up to its reputation as the Jerusalem of the Balkans, with mosques co-existing with Roman Catholic cathedrals and Serbian Orthodox churches. The city has two synagogues, a Sephardic one dating from the 16th c. and custom built to accommodate Spanish refugees, and an Ashkenazi synagogue from 1901 for Jews following the Austro-Hungarians after Turkey’s 1878 defeat and loss of Bosnia.
The central avenue of the new town, Marsala Tita, is headed by an eternal flame in recognition of Bosnia’s role as a partisan stronghold during WWII. Tito himself spent 30 months during the war holed up in Bosnia’s mountains. Continuing down Tito Avenue and turning onto the riverside airport road, dubbed “sniper alley” during the 1992-1995 siege, I ended at the Holiday Inn, a city landmark and only functioning hotel during the siege, home to journalists, visiting dignitaries, and other rogues and characters. Sometime during all of this I stumbled across the Latin Bridge, the spot where Gavrilo Princip assassinated Archduke Ferdinand and wife Sophie on June 28, 1914, sparking WWI, and the National Library, Sarajevo’s greatest Hapsburg edifice, done in neo-Moorish style and ravaged by fire when a shell struck in April 1992.
The next day, today, is Sarajevo’s full day of sight-seeing. Having oriented myself yesterday, I spent a bit soaking up the unique atmosphere of the Turkish quarter before crossing a bridge to the neighborhood on the far side of the narrow river which is a bit rougher around the edges. I had someone open up the synagogue for me so I could see it, the continued down the block to the 1970s concrete heap that now serves as the parliament of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, one of the two “Entities” that comprise the Republic of BiH. Along the way I passed a few “Sarajevo Roses,” blotches of red paint on the sidewalk that mark spots where Serb shells killed civilians. They are eerie as they almost look like large splotches of blood. Before recrossing the river I poked around the Skenderija Olympic Center – once the grand city center venue of the 1984 Winter Olympic Games but now a partially abandoned relic from another time. I managed to get in and snap a few pictures of the molding indoor arena where ice-hockey and figure skating competitions were held before getting kicked out by security.
Sarajevo is a strange place in so much that while it appears superficially to be a relatively normal, albeit poor and run-down, city, it is palpably haunted by two significant events, only eight years apart but representing the best and worst moments in the history of the city. The 1984 Winter Olympic Games, the most successful games ever until that point, marked the apex of Sarajevo’s soul – the recognition by the entire world of Sarajevo’s accomplishments in arts, culture, sports, and humanity. The cultural center of Yugoslavia, Sarajevo and its people had the reputation as being lively, humorous, tolerant, and just all-around good people. The warm fuzzy feeling that permeated the ’84 games seemed to convince the world at large of this as well. “Welcome to Sarajevo – Olympic City,” proclaims a sign as the bus entered the city, and while the games are now 23 years and another universe away from the Sarajevo of today, at 2007, it seems as if the residents are hesitant to let the memory of 1984 slip completely into the night, for doing so would leave nothing but the nightmare. For only eight years after Sarajevo’s moment of triumph, this city, ringed by lovely hills and set in a lush valley, would become the epicenter of Europe’s worst conflict since WWII.
The story of the three-year Siege of Sarajevo, when Serb artillery and tanks completely surrounded the city up on the very hills that was once the eye candy of its residents, is presented at the Historical Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina, housed in an incredibly shabby building in the Novo Sarajevo district – the post-war city that bore the brunt of most of the fighting. The commentary was a bit pretentious and arty for my taste – “Sarajevo was not a victim but a place of human experiment” etc., but the photographs and clippings were able to tell the story far more effectively, although no museum could convey the horror of a city under constant heavy fire for three years.
It was a pretty lengthy walk up to the Olympic Stadium, home of the opening and closing ceremonies and also housing a small, free, museum about the games. It was worthwhile mostly for the extensive video footage of the Olympics available for viewing as well as good views of the city and of the hills. Adjacent to the stadium is a very large cemetery. It was amazingly hot, just like yesterday, so I took a breather to use the internet at a place next door to the American Embassy and then walked to the bus station to buy a ticket for tomorrow to Banja Luka. The night was low-key and I woke up early for the bus. I later climbed a hill for panoramic views of the city – unforgettable.
Bosnia: Mostar
Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina The temperature has skyrocketed the past few days, reaching 43 degrees yesterday in Mostar, the largest town of the Herzegovina part of BiH. After the relentless consumerism of Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina is a breath of much needed fresh air. Mostar is only a bit inland from the coast – 4 hours from Split, 3 from Dubrovnik, but man is it different. In the space of a few hours and 180 km, I’ve been whisked from Venetian Gothic to the romance of the Ottoman orient. Mostar’s heart is a splendid Turkish old town with cobblestoned lanes, mosques, a Turkish bath-house, and the world famous Old Bridge of Mostar – the original dating from the 16th century but destroyed during the war, the current incarnation dates from 2003.
Another aspect of Mostar which differentiated Bosnia immediately from Croatia is the fact that it is very apparent that Monstar is recovering from a serious conflict. Now divided into Muslim and Croat halves, the once-united city of Mostar was one of the worst affected cities during the Bosnian War. Throughout the town, and especially along the boulevard that was the frontline between the dueling Croat and Muslim armies, are destroyed buildings – shelled out skeletons and crumbling ruins. Signs all over town worn against entering ruined buildings, but the vast lobby of a bombed-out office building – at least 20 stories high with twisted iron and shattered glass – is completely open to the street and large graffiti murals cover the exposed concrete. The juxtaposition of the destroyed town, dozens of large buildings, banks, schools, shopping centers, untouched for a decade and a half, and the carefully restored Ottoman town with its brand new “Old Bridge of Mostar” and souvenir stalls with all goods priced in Convertible Mark, Euros, and Croatian Kuna, is jarring.
Large groups of tourists, in Bosnia on daytrips from Dubrovnik, enjoy the Turkish atmosphere and bask in Mostar’s carefully orchestestrated Eastern romanticism and never see what most of Mostar currently looks like, or consider that the residents of Mostar must walk everyday past what was once a state-of-the-art 8-story shopping center but is now a massive hulk of debris after an attack by Croatian tank grenades. I actually enjoyed Mostar quite a lot. I was picked up at the bus station by my host Miran and taken to the hostel where his mother plied me with fresh juice and watermelon. Later, Aaron and I walked around Mostar, receiving a short tour of Mostar’s best preserved Ottoman residence, watching locals dive off cliffs into the emerald waters of the Nestreva river down below, and climbing the minaret of Mostar’s most significant 16th century mosque for a birds-eye view of the town.
It was brutally hot and the sun was strong, but this somehow managed to add to the effect that I’d really entered the Balkans, Most of what used to be Mostar’s park space has been converted into cemeteries for the thousands dead, and seeing graves of so many young people all dying in the same year was quite sad. Later in the evening Miran took us to the town of Blagaj, near Mostar, which is home to a large clear stream and shrine of the Whirling Dervishes – only problem was, by the time we arrived it was dark and there was absolutely nothing to see. It was a bust, but a bit funny as well. Afterwards the whole hostel ended up a club called Alibaba’s, set in a cave, and we smoked hookah while downing 3 KM Sarajevska beers.
Split: Nexus of the Universe
Zagreb seen, I was off to Split, Croatia’s second-largest city and capital of the Dalmatian Coast. I had booked at a hostel in Split for three nights, planning on taking day trips to Zadar and perhaps Dubrovnik, but hanging myself a bit loose, my three days were instead communing with fellow travelers: Aaron, the American from Bled who ended up staying in the same room as me, a trio of Belgians that had been on the same bus from Slovenia to Croatian Istria, two Brits I had played pool with in Krakow, and a variety of other characters – two Norwegians, also from Bled, some Canadians, Austrians, Americans, and and even a girl from my class at UR. So, Split is the center of my universe, and while I had grand ambitions for the Dalmatian Coast, the hot sun, teeming crowds, and high prices kept me just trying to stay cool and sane. After three days in Split I decided to cut poor Dubrovnik and flee the country – Croatia is just not for me.
That’s not to say that there weren’t interesting things I saw in Split and in the area: massive Diocletian’s Palace, a series of intact Roman buildings and the heard of Split Old Town, the ruins of ancient Salona – capital of Roman Dalmatia (not in such great shape) and the town of Trogdir, a Venetian town that, in terms of its Gothic and Renaissance buildings, ranks amongst the best I’ve seen recently, but the total of these attractions wound up being less than the sum of its parts. Instead, Split was all about heading to the beach with hostel-mates, chatting up the locals, and just trying to keep cool. There was a TV in our hostel room so the afternoons were lazy affairs of watching old Cosby Shows and Fresh Princes with fan at full blast and downing liter-sized containers of soda. Was my time in Split bad, or boring? On the contrary, Split, and my own personal Dalmatia has been an important chapter in this eye-opening journey. This morning, waving Croatia good-riddance, I crossed the border into Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Zagreb
Until July 17, Zagreb It has been hard to catch up in the journal the past few days – 2 days in Zagreb and 3 in Split and never a moment of solitude to record events. Rather go out and live new experiences rather than staying in and recording the old ones. From Pazin it was a tiring bus journey to Zagreb, in the heart of “continental” Croatia, and although the scenery was spectacular – a series of mountain tunnels culminating in a high-altitude flyover of Rijeka – by the time we reached Zagreb I was a bit cranky. The bus was caught in rush-hour traffic upon entering the city, and all the way until the bus station the city center was no where in sight – just spread out lots and avenues punctuated with occasional socialist-era high-rise apartments. People I asked to help me with directions to the hostel were unfriendly and a guy almost ran me over and then shouted something nasty at me. Yes, I had low expectations for Zagreb and I was sure that this would be a quick visit. I did find the hostel without excess difficulty, and expecting that I would be leaving a bit later the next day, dragged myself into one of Zagreb’s famous blue trams into the city center. What I saw in the next hour convinced me to grant Zagreb a full day tomorrow.
Zagreb is off the traveler’s circuit, it has a reputation for being a dull, unexciting place, but I found Zagreb to have all the prerequisites of an intriguing, livable city: A large Austro-Hungarian Lower Town with impressive central square, a several-blocks long entertainment district with cafes, bars, funky shops and internet cafes, and a “green horseshoe” or immaculately manicured parks that link together the town. Up on the hillside is Kaptol and Gradec, Zagrebs’ twin, and rival, Old Towns, that existed separately until merging in 1850, Buda and Pest style, to form modern Zagreb.
The next day I started at Zagreb’s central square – Bela Janivic, at the tourism office, where I was plyed with information on Zagreb and given a brochure for a self-guided walking tour. The tour started at the square and wound through parts of the 19th century city, pointing out some interesting 19th and 20th century buildings such as the Stock Exchange, the Bank of Croatia, and the Arts Pavillion, built in 1934. Soon however I am in Kaptol, the ancient ecclesiastical center of Zagreb with the city’s principal, neo-Gothic cathedral. Compared to the very 19th century cityscape below, Kaptol and Gradec have an older, 18th century appearance, although no less Central European in its origins. Slightly further up the hill from Kaptol is Gradec, the secular power center and home of the merchants and craftsmen of medieval Zagreb. The main drag of the neighborhood is lined with restaurants and clubs – the people here are much younger than in Kaptol. All in all, the two areas are very much urban villages within the city. Paris only has one Montmartre, but felix Zagreb has two. In the middle of Gradec is St. Marks Square which is the government center of the Republic of Croatia. Here is the Presidential Palace and the Parliament. All government buildings in Croatia are draped with both the national flag as well as the EU flag, which I find quite pathetic. To Croatia’s credit, this is certainly a country that seems as if it should be an EU Member State – in terms of prosperity and development it blows some other EU states out of the water. But Croatia’s timing was all wrong – while former Eastern bloc states were in the midst of earnest negotiations in the 1990s, Croatia under President Franjo Tudjmann was committing war atrocities and by the time the dust settled, the EU was fatigued by constant enlargement. Still, Croatia really seems to have deluded itself that it is part of the club, with many cars even sporting a fake “HR” extension to their license plates.
In a Capuchian monastery on St. Marks is the Croatia History Museum, which had a top-class temporary exhibit on Croatia during the First World War. Given Croatia’s geographical location, there was a bit more emphasis on the activities of secondary Central Powers Bulgaria and Turkey and some insightful interpretation on the blatant commercialization of Franz Josef’s death in 1916. With most of Zagreb now “seen,” I was able to leisurely stroll through the city, thoroughly impressed with its historical and cultural attractions. The previous day, while reading about Zagreb in the guide, I thought to myself: “Zagreb, the city of 1000 attractions – none of them interesting” and while Zagreb’s offerings certainly are typical, the place has a certain charm, and it is far from being touristy. I passed through the Botanical Gardens and the Mimara Museum, an outstanding private collection with pieces from all the heavy hitters, before throwing in the towel and heading back to the hostel.
Croatia: Rovinj
July 12, Rovinj/Rovigno
Pazin isn’t exactly as convenient as I had hoped, but tolerable nonetheless. I was down at the bus station at 9:30 only to be told that the next bus to Rovinj was at 1:25. Déjà vu? So, after sitting in a park decorated with busts of partisan heroes, I went back to the travel agency that helped me find the hotel last night and became friends with the girl that worked there – gee, today is just like yesterday! After chilling there for a while and asking some questions about life in Istria, I went to the Pazin Castle to tour the museums houses within, the Pazin Museum and the Istria Ethnographic Museum, although to claim that there are indeed two distinct museums inhabiting the castle is a bit grandiose. The most interesting thing I learned here is that the castle was the primary location for a schlocky 2002 movie called “The Female Muskateer” starring Gerard Depardieu and Michael York.
The rest of the day was spent with my friend Latica from Strasbourg. She introduced me to some of her friends, showed me around the town, where she has been working, and just walked around. Rovinj is home to the tomb of St. Euphemia, martyred in 304 AD and there are good views of the town from the top of the Cathedral bell-tower. After Porec I was pretty sure Rovinj would be worse but was surprised. Sure, the town was populated by tourists, but it was still manageable. It was really nice though to spend a relaxing day with a friend. But from here on in, it’s the great Croatian unknown.
Croatia: Istria and Pazin
July 11
I believe that I’ve made a very good travel decision today, although it may have been too early to tell. I’ve been somewhat dreading Croatia for the high prices and large crowds. But worst of all is the practice that one must stay a minimum of 3 nights in the desirable coastal locations or else get socked with up to a 100 percent surcharge on the nightly rate. And staying 3 nights in one place will simply not do, at least nowhere in Istria. So, I made the decision to travel to and stay in the in-land town of Pazin, and make a day-trip, only a one-hour bus ride away – to the tourist magnet of Rovinj, where I will be visiting a friend.
I woke up at 8 in Piran and was at the Lucija bus-station by 8:40. Asking the gorgeous girl begind the counter when the next bus to Croatia was, she told me that a bus would pass through on its way to Pula at 2:30. Skeptical that no other bus would be crossing the border, only 2 km away, until 2:30, we tried looking up several different combinations and destinations before I was satisfied that I was stuck in Slovenia for another 5.5 hours. I asked if there was a movie theatre in town. Yes, but no movies before 4 pm. I muttered aloud, “this is the worst place ever…’, and the girl replied, “yes, it is.” I sat down and wrote in the journal for a bit. I talked to the girl, Jana, for most of the morning about the differences between northern and southern Slovenia, about fun things she did with her friends (go to Trieste, Bratislava,) the different bus drivers that came in throughout the morning with gunney-sacks full of change. Thanks to her the morning passed quickly and I was soon on a bus and over the border in Croatia.
I got off the bus in Porec and had 45 minutes until the bus to Pazin, so I took a quick peek at this seaside town. What I was was despicable. Apparently the Nazis won the war, because the Germans were running Croatia now, or at least it seemed that way. Hawkers on the side of the streets shouted “bitte schon, bitte schon” with their tacky knick-knacks. I was cheek-and-jowl with every manner of Teuton looking for sun and cheap booze. Literally every storefront of the Old Town was selling Che t-shirts, shell necklaces, your name of a grain of rice, your caricature, rip-off Chanel #5s, ice cream, and boat excursions. The fine decoration of the buildings was completely obscured by advertising. Overwhelmed, I returned to the bus station and drank a coke while reading my Satanic murder novel. The ride to Pazin was 40 minutes due inland, and I felt as if I had made the right decision the moment I got off. Here was a real town, a beautiful place nestled in the Tuscany-like hills of Istria, and nary a tourist in sight. Pazin, which oozes with authenticity, is built on a series of Karst caves, and there is a dramatic gorge. There is the last house, and then a sheer drop of several hundred meters into a cave system. There is a path that winds down from the town into the gorge, and below the tree-level, inside the cavern, is practically an entire different ecosystem than up-above. French geologists commented on this place and Jules Verne sat much of the action of his novel “Mathias Sandorf” in Pazin and its gorge and caves. Walking through the slightly Monkey Island-eque streets of the town, stone buildings with big clock towers and overhanging lamps, I wondered if I would have the opportunity to visit another Croatian town as normal and un-touristy as this one. Best of all, accommodation in the town’s only hotel is about 25 USD a night, less than half the going rate for a room along the coast.
Slovenian Coast: Koper and Piran
July 10, Koper (Capodistria) and Piran (Pirano)
Most of the day today was spent traveling from Lake Bled, up in the Alps, to the towns along Slovenia’s Adriatic Coast. I changed bus in Ljubljana, and the ride from the capital to Koper was about 2.5 hours, passing through the famous Karst region of limestone caves and the Lipica horse ranch along the way. The change from the Alpine zone to the Mediterranean coast is astounding – one could fly for hours on an airplane and not find the change of scenery, temperature, attitudes etc. that one finds from the drive from northern Slovenia to the coast, a sliver of several fishing villages and resort towns wedged in between Italy to the north and Croatia’s Istrian peninsula to the south. Mentally, I’ve started to thing I’m already in Croatia, I need to remind myself that I’m actually still in Slovenia. The bus from Ljubljana ony took me as far as Koper, Slovenia’s chief port with an old center that is less cute and less touristy than nearby Piran. I decided to check the place out so I stashed my bag at the train station and rented a bike from the rail company for 2 hours. Koper is an interesting place indeed. The town, like the others, was founded as a Venetian colony and has a distinctive Venetian-Gothic style, complete with a towering bell-tower copied from St. Marks. Most of the buildings look like they were last restored or redone in the 1920s or 30s, and the relative few tourists – especially compared to the number that a similar town would have in Italy – give the place a bit of a time-warp quality to the seedy elegance of the Interwar period, when this whole region, all the way down to Rijeka, was part of Fascist Italy. It was definetly worth a stop-over, even if only for 1.5 hours.
About 20 minutes down the road is Piran, another Venetian outpost, situated just at the point where the small Bay of Piran meets the larger Gulf of Trieste. Unlike Koper, Piran is not surrounded by light industry but by resort complexes, and the place had lots of tourists from Italy and northern Europe, although by no means jam-packed. I’m trying to savor the relative lack of crowds in Slovenia while mentally preparing myself for the human zoological exhibition that is the Croatian coast. As for Piran, it is pretty, small, and picturesque, if not that interesting. The interior is a dense tangle of streets, punctuated by small hidden squares a la Italiana. It is well preserved and not that commercialized but due to its size there isn’t a whole lot to do. I got the idea pretty quickly and searched around town looking for the best spot to get that magic photo, which I found at the top of the Old Town walls guarding the rear of the town from mainland attack. That night I had dinner at an excellent seafood restauarant with a guy who I had previously met at the Ljubljana hostel and two Canadian guys from McGill that were doing the Eurotrip. Also staying in our room was a French woman who was bizarrely walking everywhere. I saw that she had booked the next night in Izola and I commented that that was only 10 minutes away. Yes, by car, she said, but it will be maybe a half a days walk. Uh, yeah, you’re crazy.
“Ricky Kasso, Jimmy Troiano, and Gary Lauwers were three kids from good homes. But by the time they hit high school they were bad boys…cutting class, smoking marijuana, taking LSD, and angel dust. Everyone knew that they were headed for trouble. But no one guessed that there were also ‘getting into Satan’…until one night in the chic town of Northport, Satan said to kill…” -Say you Love Satan, by David St. Clair. This is the back cover of the very entertaining pulp-crime true story novel that I’ve been reading as I’ve traveling by bus up and down Slovenia’s mountains and into Croatia.
Lake Bohinj
July 9, Lake Bohinj
Continuing my “vacation from my vacation,” I slept in late, roused myself from bed around 10, and headed back up to the castle to get a panorama view of Lake Bled, views that were pretty good but which I could have lived without. Hitting the Mercator, Slovenia’s #1 supermarket chain, I bought some snacks and a sandwich and waited for a bus that would take me from Lake Bled to Lake Bohinj. Located within the bounds of Triglav National Park, Slovenia’s only national park and covering most of the northwestern chunk of the country, Lake Bohinj is a bit rougher than Lake Bled and less picturesque. Its also less developed and less touristy. Instead of aquamarine waters surrounded by low hills with fluffy trees, Bohinj’s dark blue waters lie at the bottom of a gorge-like indentation with mountain walls rising almost vertically from its surface. Riding until the last stop of the bus, I then hiked for about an hour uphill to the Savica Waterfall.
It was a challenging hike with not many others so I thought it would be a secret spot, but there was a parking lot about ¾ of the way up which ruined it a bit. The views however of the park were spectacular. After winding back down the path I headed for the lakefront. I was prepared to go swimming but it was a bit cold and even started drizzling off and on, so I decided to go back to Bled, where I hung out with two other Norwegian guys who were traveling. One of them had just gotten out of the Navy and regaled me with tales of boarding Russian vessels way up near Spitzbergen. That night I ate a kebab with an American guy I kept running into and found out that we knew people in common and that we both went on the same Study Abroad program in Brussels.
