A Delayed Start - 6th August 2017

Oh Luton. How you build up such great expectations for a departure, purely by default, and then spectacularly dash them with such élan.

We began our journey, John and I, by taking the Thameslink from central London to Luton Parkway. A standard activity with cans of vodka-mixer added to liven things up. This was the second trip we were taking to south-east Europe, albeit with a shortened length of two weeks. This time we decided to ditch public transport and hire a car for the two weeks. No backpacks and buses for us. This trip would be air-con heavy, and Spotify playlists all the way (‘CEE Drive Time’ on Spotify, for anyone interested). The added freedom allowed us to stop en route between our destinations, to my excitement but John’s chagrin.

We would be starting and ending in Budapest, somewhere John had been to recently, but I had never been. Images in my mind of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy merged with the trappings of being the second Imperial city of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Our route would take us to Novi Sad, Belgrade, Zagreb via Vukovar and Jasenovac, Rovinj, and then Ljubljana. We would mostly be touring the southern part of the Lands of the Crown of St Stephen, as they were know towards the end of Austria-Hungary; this area also formed part of the Military Frontier at other times, as a bulwark against the Ottoman Empire.

We arrived at the airport and proceeded to the executive lounge. As it was daytime and we planned to arrive in good time, we thought we would treat ourselves to food and drink before we board. And this we did, whilst charging our phones and finishing off last minute work/personal admin. I sank the best part of a bottle of red wine, soaked up by some pasta and nachos. John was on a similar track. With our gate being called after a short delay, we departed, said our goodbyes to the maître de, and walked to our gate. We queued up, as usual, and watched as a Wizz Air plane arrived at our gate, ending its previous journey, and witness its passengers disembark.

This is when the confusion began. This was clearly our plane. It was in our gate, and the people in our queue should be boarding it. However, after an hour with no updates and no progression on boarding, we had an announcement to say that our flight would be further delayed, and that another gate full of passengers would be boarding our plane, heading to Cluj-Napoca. We were told to go away and listen for further announcements. Incredible! We could not get back in to the lounge, so instead we sat at the bar in the main departure hall.

After another round of drinks and snacks, John went to the gate to find out more information. He was none the wiser. At this juncture, a guy who was sat next to us began chatting to us. He was a young lad currently living in Budapest, but hailed from Debrecen. We chatted about the delay, and what we were doing on our travels. I mentioned to him the EU compensation scheme, which he did not know about, so that lifted spirits somewhat.

After another hour I decided I would go down to the gate. There was a bit of commotion as the Wizz Air staff had begun to handout vouchers for food and drink, as the delay was ongoing. No announcement of this was made, of course. When I approached one person, she bluntly announced that I was drunk and should mind myself. I said it’s a bit of a cheek to hand out a voucher for food and drink to the value of £3.50 when all the restaurants and shops had now closed, apart from one bar and a Starbucks. I grabbed my two vouchers as a consolation prize, and returned to John. We carried on chatting to our new friend, keeping to soft drinks now following my caution. 5 hours after our scheduled departure, we finally had a call to go to our gate. It was just past 11pm, with a scheduled take off of 12:10am. After much huffing and puffing we boarded, and arranged to meet our new friend in Budapest at the end of our trip.

We arrived to a quiet Budapest airport just after 3am. As there was no public transport with any sort of frequency, we decided to get a taxi and claim it back from the airline. I had tried to message the hostel we planned to stay at, to say that we would be extremely delayed. I had received no response, so assumed it would be OK to check in at 4am.

We were dropped off on a main boulevard, which was wet from either a recent rain shower or street cleaners, and approached an apartment block of faded grandeur and tried to get in. We buzzed and phoned the hostel numerous times but could not get in. Tired and frustrated, we began to march down the road, as we saw a couple of international looking hotels to try and get a room at, our luggage dragging through the puddles behind us. The first two were booked up, but the second recommended a hotel around the corner, aptly called Soho Hotel. We entered and thankfully they had space. I felt rather queasy when John paid €99 for basically 6 hours in a hotel. But we both needed a shower and a lie down, and that is exactly what we did. I said that I would wake up a little earlier and call the car hire company to tell them that we would now be picking the car up after 12pm, rather than 10am as planned, so John could get some extra sleep. He was the nominated driver for the first stretch on the road trip. 5am we finally went to sleep. What a way to start!

Thoughts on Bought & Sold: Living and losing the Good Life in Socialist Yugoslavia by Patrick Patterson

The ‘Yugoslav Dream’ is the novel concept this book centres on, with the snappy by-line of ‘Living and losing the Good Life in Socialist Yugoslavia’ competently underscoring how the story is to unfold. A country believed to have been definitively behind the Iron Curtain, might make many people baulk at the initial idea that a socialist country run by a Communist Party could in any way have possessed a consumerist ‘Dream’, when these ‘Dreams’ are the by-product of capitalism. Patrick Patterson’s narrative evades choosing either a simple chronology, or an analysis by theme. Instead, by a combination of both, and through elevating key actors, processes or events, he traces the main points in the development and practice of consumerism in Socialist Yugoslavia.

Patterson initially details the material strife many Yugoslavs had to endure in the immediate post-war period. And from the comfort of 2019 you could think this a bleak description reserved only for this part of the world. But one needs to recall that not all was good in the West either. We in the UK did not come out of the war as a consumer society of abundance, rationing being the order of the day. And we suffered less damage to our infrastructure than Yugoslavia during the occupation, civil war, and then retreat.

During this immediate post-war period, the initiation and growth of the theory and practice of advertising and consumerism emerged; primarily from Western influences in the post World War Two era, with little, if any of it, having come from the small, domestic sector prior to the war. However, there had to have been favourable economic, social and political circumstances for it to take hold, resist suppression, and grow in Socialist Yugoslavia. The move in the 1950s away from Stalinist economic orthodoxy to a novel Yugoslav ‘self-management’ structure, allowed for more freedom to produce goods and saw the emergence of a ‘market’ mechanism to Yugoslavia. This was the key economic move.

Advertisers emerged out of ‘in-house’ advertising departments of large, mostly industrial, businesses into ‘bureaus’ themselves, and kept pushing, ever so softly, at the outer parameters of appropriate behaviour and acceptability. The profession had perennially been viewed suspiciously by the regime, to greater or lesser extent over the period. How consumerism presented itself also evolved too, for example magazines departing from hard news to lifestyle content. Furthermore, Gastarbeiters, and those living close to Italy and Austria, were already experiencing consumerism, just not in Yugoslavia. Advertisers saw and filled the domestic void when the opportunity arose.

Different ideological arguments over consumerism emerged over the period of Socialist Yugoslavia, both critical and supportive; and Patterson describes how officials, agencies, or the consumers themselves, stood by or participated as consumerism grew. One example he provides is that advertisers decided to make their profession ‘rational’ and ‘scientific’ in its practice, so that it fit into Marxist philosophy. Initially, this was through the content of adverts by providing basic facts about products and from where they could be bought. But opponents argued that adverts played on a ‘false need’, a new ‘opium of the masses’ as Patterson asserts. Even he concludes that the content of the adverts were not socialist. But they were advertising in socialism. Thus it was the environment in which they operated that had an impact on its functioning, its content, and it being ‘socialist’.

But why did the regime just not ban advertising? Especially if it was deemed to have emanated from capitalist practices. Tito’s concern was how people earned money, not how they spent it. With no opportunities to invest, Yugoslavs spent it on goods instead – either in the country or on shopping trips to Italy or Austria. Opposition from orthodox Marxist, ‘Praxis’ theorists wanted a return to Stalinist economics, and blamed the regime for wanting to impose market mechanisms, with the by-product being consumerism and (in their view) a more individualistic society. Instead, the regime saw this as an attack on its delivery of the uniquely Yugoslav self-management economy. Hence orthodoxy was suppressed, not consumerism. Fundamentally, Patterson believes that the regime wanted the positive political capital that it received from consumers enjoying the good life.

And from this good life emerged a New Class, one not highlighting ethnic differences, but a genuinely Yugoslav experience. Instead, it was a cultural class, defined by the ambition for the good life and material goods. Yet, if it was a cultural class, Patterson does not delve into the social side that consumerism and the need for material goods also created. Only passing references are made to shopping, but they are devoid of a more anthropological observation of how people spent their time shopping, and for goods other than mechanical for the home. Were people convinced to buy good foods, coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, clothes; and what about entertainment venues, such as restaurants, cinemas and theatres? The sites where one consumes these goods are outside of the house, and would have benefitted from the extra income people had to spend. This would make for intriguing reading, but inevitably may only be an observation seen in urban settings.

But the good life did not, ultimately, last. And neither did Yugoslavia as a state. Failings in the self-management system, with bonuses being awarded and not kept for investment; republican squabbling about the allocation of incomes and their distribution; and a borrowing binge used to fund a spending binge; as well as other factors – all contributed to the good life being constrained then reversed. But beyond the wars, Yugoslav consumerism lives in the culture of the people in the successor states, possessed in the persistent Yugo-nostalgia that is still evident. It remains in the minds of those who experienced the ‘good life’, members of the cultural ‘New Class’, now lamenting for it; and has emerged in the generation born since the recent wars free from the ‘lived’ experience of communism.

I would suggest this book to those who want to get a deeper understanding of how consumerism grew, as a by-product of self-management. It is a complex read, and at points you feel you have to ‘wade’ through it. But it does open up the possibility that Yugoslavia was in fact different to other Iron Curtain countries, and that a good life could to be had.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 15

It was rather a rude awakening, our first morning in Dubrovnik, as loud refurbishment-induced noises came from the apartment above. We had hired a small studio flat, which came with a private balcony that was furnished functionally. A large double bed, a cream and slightly worn three-seat sofa, a glass coffee table that matched the 4 person dining table, and a TV and stand all occupied the main section; with a galley kitchen coming off it opposite the balcony doors. After the banging had stopped temporarily, we collected our things and departed, looking and feeling rather scruffy.

Having not been in any water to swim, let alone the sea, since Belgrade, we decided to explore the Babin Kuk shoreline. As we were on the top of a hill, we walked to the houses that backed on to the steep hillside, and descended from there to the shoreline. What I was told was true; the coastline was pure jagged rock. I should have listened to all those people suggesting I get the appropriate shoes. Before us, though, was a simple dock for leisure boats, bobbing as they were in the clear blue sea. However, at some places, sand had been placed for that more familiar beach feel. At one point John became very amused, as we passed the dog pool. It was a ring-fenced part of the sea that dogs could have for themselves. I saw an Alsatian, and felt for the poor sod in the penetrating heat. We walked around, and then back for about 1km to find a spot to pitch, and duly did so where more of a crowd had gathered. This patch had gravel laid on it, so at least the rocks weren’t jabbing in our backs.

We laid here for an hour or so, turning over and over to get some sun on our pale backs and fronts. A cruise ship emerged from its berth, and passed before us at a snails pace. A toot from its horn vibrated across the water, with the waves from its slow passage reaching us some minutes later. After our stint here, we decided to go further round to the west of the coastline, as we saw that there was a bar there. It was mid-afternoon at this point, so we thought some refreshments were in order. As we walked, there came a point where the path led away from the water and climbed up. It led towards a number of hotels on this more remote part of the area. However, before we reached the hotels, we came to a sign that pointed back down a series of steps to a bar.

The beach bar was very glam in its appearance. Nice wooden loungers, or chairs with over-sized canopies or umbrellas covering them. Some were sectioned off, presumably for reservations. The bar and facilities were built almost into the hillside. It was quite quiet, so we had the choice of seating. We decided on a large, deep sofa – enough for 6 people – that sat directly in the sunlight. We thought, “Sod it”, so ordered a jug of cocktail. The price was an eye-opener, and a sign of things to come. Dubrovnik is very expensive, something I claim to be because the city can cash in on cruise ship passengers who have money to burn in the few hours they are on land. That leaves us, more committed holidaymakers, worse off. The second jug, this time taken at a table under an umbrella, soon loosened me up to ignore the price.  After an hour or so and a further round of beers, we paid our bill and slovenly walked back to the apartment, where we napped for a few hours.

That evening we decided against the “Brits abroad” area, and opted to see Dubrovnik first at night. We looked at the helpful portfolio that the apartment had for public transport, and located the bus number and bus stop we needed. We retraced our steps from the previous night to the roundabout, and joined the gaggle of people also waiting for the same bus.

25 minutes later, we arrived at the northern gate. There was almost a carnival atmosphere here, with masses of people passing by, others eating at restaurants under the walls of the city, and more people funneling in and out of the gate. We walked in that direction. The walls of the city, when looking at the gate, came from the hill to our left, and down towards the sea to our right. It was discreetly lit to give it that medieval feel. We went inside, and then down some steps into what may have been the vestibule area to check arriving visitors in eras gone by. Here, you could pay to go up on to the walls. We decided against that, for tonight at least. We then passed through another gate that opened up on to the familiar main boulevard running almost north-south through the city. I have to say, it was very pretty. Smooth stone slabs on the floor were almost slippery through being worn down by visitors over the years. The buildings on either side could easily have been a film set for a 14^th century royal court drama, adorned with regal banners and such.

The only downside was the tourists. I know we were of them too. But having avoided the hoards up to Mostar, this really was intense. We did our best to have a wonder around, because off the main boulevard were a myriad of alleyways and side streets to explore. To the east, these alleys immediately went up at a steep gradient. To the west, towards the sea, they were laid out on a flat, gridded system for about 4 or 5 short blocks, before they too rose up. So the main city was in a small valley, it seemed.

We hit upon one of the main plaza areas, and decided we were both hungry and thirsty. So we people watched for over an hour, as we sank two beers over pricey food. It was then that I noticed John glowing, and not in a romantic sort of way. He had really caught the sun. He did admit that his skin did feel rather sore. After that, we went to a bar back near the entrance and began talking to two other tourists, both from Germany. The night ended at an Irish pub back in the centre of the old town, downing shots of Jager (or was it Rakija?).

The next day, we woke up rather late and had sore heads. John now started to feel his sunburn, and it didn’t look too good either. We decided to explore the old town in daylight, so we could soak up the history and admire the architecture. We meandered around the part of town nearest the sea, getting lost in the maze of streets, sometimes following tourists we thought knew where they were going, and at other times eerily alone thinking we were intruding into someone’s private garden or such.

The alleyways were one and a half meters wide, at best, and the grey, stony, functional buildings rose up three or four floors beside us. The Italian/Venetian appearance was no surprise, given that at one time or another, when not its own independent city-state, it was run by Venice. It also played on my image of the quintessential Mediterranean way of life – wooden shutters in place for when the temperatures rose, or the plastic cables for hanging the washing on stretching between the houses above. My immediate observation, though, was that there was no apparent trace of the damage done by the JNA during their siege of Dubrovnik. It was one of the handful places to seemingly have itself protected by the few instances of international public outcry, because of its status as a UNESCO world heritage site. It’s shaming that the international condemnation did not extend to other parts of the former Yugoslavia during the Bosnian war. Buildings counted more than people, it seemed, as the shelling of the Mostar Bridge could also highlight.

We ended our little exploration in a different square to the one last night, on the south side of the city. Again, we sat and people watched whilst making plans for what to do next. We settled on a further walk to the old port of Dubrovnik, where we saw that in the sea a football goal was erected, and a group of people were playing, whilst the rest of their group were on the rocks having a BBQ. In the distance, across the water about 2 km away, was Lokrum. Although we had never watched the show, this was apparently where they filmed some of A Game of Thrones. I’m sure others would be thrilled, but we wanted to visit because it involved a boat ride. We planned that for the next day. We walked to a pharmacy on the main avenue, so that John could get some after sun. It turned out that he needed some extra special industrial cream, as his skin was very puffy.

Despite his ailment, and in a seeming pang of motivation and energy, we decided to walk back to the apartment. It was a good few kilometers, but we fancied the challenge. Beyond the old city to the north, we passed through mostly suburb, but often we would happen upon a “secret” cove occupied by an extended family or a smattering of couples - locals, I presumed. At one point we could see a fancy hotel that was built into the south-facing hillside of Babin Kuk. It looked luxurious, with its own private beach. That evening we stayed local again, going for a few drinks to “Brits Abroad” boulevard early on, as it had a bit of a buzz about it that evening.

The next day was the boat trip. So we made our way back to the old town, and the old port. There were about 4 or 5 boating companies offering a range of services, from a functional boat taxi, to a full on tour around the islands - one even had a glass-bottom. We decided on the direct boat taxi one. It was a busy service running every half an hour, and had an early last departure service from the island at 6:30pm or so. Given its popularity, and my anxiety to have a plan, I decided we should get the second to last return one at the latest, lest we arrive to a full boat and become stranded.

We disembarked at a thriving entry point to the island. But the first thing to hit you was the all-encompasing and constant sound of crickets. There must have been millions of them on there, as I though I was experiencing the onset of tinnitus. We reconfirmed the return journey times at the port house, and then walked clockwise around the island. The island was more or less covered in pines, which provided relief from the shade, and gave off a fresh smell. Aside from the crickets, two forms of wildlife emerged out of the bushes that surprised me - rabbits and peacocks; the latter being in abundance. We passed the FKK sign to our left, and circled around to the north west of the island. Here we pitched up and sunbathed for a couple of hours. The bottle of wine I packed was a lovely relaxant. Afterwards, dehydration mixed with genuine hunger led us to seek out food at one of the two available restaurants on the island. The one we chose was in the centre, and had landscaped gardens, presumably one of the reasons why the TV show was filmed here. As we tucked into pizza, the odd peacock appeared, scavenging for scraps as if they were a stray dog.

The return journey was sufficiently busy but not full, and the breeze that came over us was welcome in the late afternoon sun. Instead of heading straight back, John had discovered a bar that perched out from the old city walls, with views to the west. We decided to head there. What initially was meant to be the odd drink, turned into a wonderful 3 or 4 hours sipping beers and cocktails as we chatted, or just sat in silence admiring the view. This consisted not solely of the sea and islands, nor indeed the passing boats and kayaks, but also the handsome men diving into the sea from the cliff edge below us. As our intoxication increased, so did my slight irritation at a couple sat in front of us. Not their presence as such, or the volume of their conversation, but the sheer absurdity of what they were discussing; especially the ignorant opinions on the history of the region. John, I believe, showed solidarity with me for once, rather than the usual eye-roll he does when he sees it as my problem not other peoples.

A bar tab that again raised my eyebrows, saw us leave very much closer to drunk than sober. And in that spirit, we tracked down a pizzeria and endeavored to make a night of it. We hungrily ate our two slices of pizza, and then went to a bar that promoted itself as a rock music place. We climbed up the steep steps of the east side of the city, and then into a doorway, and up further still to get to the bar. It had echoes of an Irish pub, but it certainly wasn’t that. The darkened room with dark oak effect paneling was the backing canvass for an array of Americana/rock paraphernalia. The rectangle room was divided in two by a central wall with door-less doorways either side, with the bar occupying the central wall on the opposite side to the entrance. We sat at a table under the gaze of two members of Fleetwood Mac, which basically represented the style of music we heard and enjoyed through the night. Afterwards, a taxi was in order to get us home in one piece.

We yearned for a fancy brunch with views. So after 10 minutes of searching online, John found one nearby that was set in a small marina. It also overlooked the cruise ship docking area and the modern, steel road bridge that had echoes of the sails of a yacht to it. We walked down casually, to sea level, and saw a white wall stretch from our left for about 500 meters, with an entrance halfway down. We walked over and into the private marina.

Small boats and pocket-sized yachts were moored here on a few wooden jetties. We sat down on the quay and ordered a set menu for lunch. This was indeed what we wanted and needed, but the service was incredibly slow. Still, it meant we had the time to admire the view. The cruise ships before us, on the other side of the bay, were gigantic. How they stay upright always fascinated me. After two hours, we finally managed to leave. We decided to walk around the bay to see what was what. There were a number of passenger ferries, charged with taking people up and down the Dalmatian coast as well as across to Italy. The one I wanted most to try was the catamaran. It looked speedy and grand, and the classiest way to travel.

We’d packed for the beach anyway, so we walked the same route as on our first day; the bottom of the stairs we took previously began near to the brunch place. We walked past the fancy bar and up to a similar level as the apartment. We got wind of a secluded beach, so turned off at some ruins surrounded in long grass that then led to a dense but low-rise forest that occupied the cliff edge. We walked over and entered the forest. We soon began a steep descent and clung on to the dry, fragrant branches as we skidded over gravel on slate-like rock. After emerging out of the trees, we were still 10 meters above the water, on the cusp of a more or less sheer drop. We managed to locate and navigate a series of outcrops and lowered to near sea level. There were literally two people here. So we found possibly the only two remaining “flat” spaces to drop our towels. We un packed our belongings, and as I settled in with some Factor 30 and a book, John went straight into the sea.

We lazed about for hours, in and out of the sea, applying and reapplying sun cream. We observed one cruise ship after another depart north westerly into the distance. Parties of kayakers streamed past. A furry looking guy near to us constructed some sort of bear cave with a shawl draped over and between two high-rise rocks around him. A woman in her 50s seemed high on life, and raved with him to his trance music. They were far enough away for it not to be annoying, but close enough that it agreeably blended into to the sound of the sea.

We returned to the apartment to shower, and possibly snooze, before our booking at a recommended restaurant. John’s parents had come to Dubrovnik earlier in the year and visited Otto’s. After brunch this morning, we dropped by to book at one of their only two sittings a night. We opted for the 7pm sitting. We decided to smarten up as best we could with holiday gear. We sat down to a lovely three-course meal, outside but under a canopy, with only about 25 other diners. The service was impeccable, and the wine was very complimentary with the food. As the sun set on us, we became drowsy with booze and rather giddy. We made plans to return to the Fleetwood Mac bar.

After settling the bill, we returned to the apartment and ventured to the bus stop. Once in the old town, I had it on apparent good authority that there was a bar frequented by the LGBT community. It was described as a jazz bar, which I thought I could stomach so long as it wasn’t too avant-garde. We negotiated the maze like side streets, to come to a diagonal thoroughfare that had a small square to the left, and then proceeded to have one on the right. All rather jagged, no doubt planned to accommodate the grand church that occupied one of the spaces between the squares. We found this “jazz bar” located in the space between the two squares. Most, if not all, of the patrons were outside sat at cabaret-style chairs and tables, all facing towards the door of the establishment. We sat down at one about two thirds away from the door, so that we didn’t have to lead the interest in any jazz performance. I ordered a wine, third up from the lowest price. It cost me the equivalent of £10. As the performance started, we concluded that it was not a gay place, but that a smattering of the patrons clearly read the same review as us. We stayed for 20 minutes or so, and left feeling slightly cheated by the price of the wine and mediocre number of gay attendees. Instead, we returned to the rock bar and made a night of it.

The next morning, the banging upstairs reached a peak. I even videoed it as proof for the people we were letting it off. I banged the ceiling with a mop handle, to no avail – and John’s eye rolling. In a huff, I immediately sent off a further, angrier message on Airbnb. Profuse apologies came later that day, but at that moment we just packed our bags and left for the beach. We decided to get some breakfast on ‘Brits Abroad Alley’ and, following that, we went to the beachy cove that lay at the other end. This was very family centered and had a little café, unlike the secluded beach. Overlooking us, to the south, was just another rocky cliff face. To the north was a steep hill, cut horizontally by a road, with a couple of smart looking hotels below, and private houses above.  After an hour or so here, we decided to walk along that road, and follow it clock wise to the secluded beach in the north.

Once we walked past the hotels and houses we saw from the cove, the roadside became bare and arid. But the views to the west were unspoiled. The road was quiet with traffic, possibly because we only passed two hotels on the way to the beach, so we were undisturbed, but thankful for the water we carried, as there was no shade from the sun. We descended back to the beach and occupied it for a good few hours until sun set. This time the sea was less choppy than it was the previous day. John was put to use with his skills of finding great restaurants on TripAdvisor, and located one near the brunch place. After a snooze at the apartment, we left for our final night in Dubrovnik.

The restaurant served gastro pub style food, with a coastal edge. It turns out that the guy who ran the place was from London and this was the second season that the restaurant had been open. The food was delicious, and the setting in a private, open aired courtyard next to the marina screamed Mediterranean life.

The next day we packed up and left the apartment in a taxi to the quayside where the bus station was. This was only the start of our ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ trip back home. We booked the flight back from Split, as it was considerably cheaper than Dubrovnik, even with the bus fare. We allowed 45 minutes before departure, so we could grab snacks for the journey. It was going to be 3 hours or so to Split, and half of it on road already travelled, so there was less intrigue that usually comes from seeing pastures new.  We threw our bags into the undercarriage and boarded. Again, the bus was an improvement on the last - modern leather seats, air con, and a toilet. We set off on time and meandered our way back to the Bosnian border, stopping off at the hotel restaurant again. We then crossed back over, on towards Ploce and beyond, to new territory. The terrain was much the same. To our left was the Adriatic, pocked with islands long and short; to our right was the Balkan hinterland, ascending both steeply or slowly in equal measure away from us along our route.

I nodded off for a while, and came around as we hurtled down a modern highway about 40km away from Split. The scenery was much the same. I felt somewhat drowsy, possibly from lack of water and the air con. Once we turned off the highway for Split, it became a lot rockier and mountainous. It so happened that as we approached the city from the east, we had to navigate around then through a horseshoe of peaks that encircled the city, leaving it as an enclosed enclave looking out to the sea.

Once through a tunnel, the city before us was the largest we had seen since Sarajevo. I noticed lots of Hajduk Split graffiti emblazoned on walls and houses on our route in. We arrived at the bus station, which was again next to the dock. This one was a lot busier, and made not just for passenger, but cargo. We booked our shuttle bus to the airport (another 50 minutes away) but had an hour to kill. So we walked to the main square nearby, that looked out on to the sea. We surmised that perhaps Split could be a future destination. It seemed more like a city, and one that was not just filled with cruising tourists.

I think we had reached the pinnacle of buses, on the one to the airport, but there was a bit of commotion on how many people could fit onboard. We were fine though, as John and I had seats. But I did my usual huffing, aimed at those tourists, who seem never to have planned or organised anything in advance. Anyways, we set off on our last bus journey, which took us anti-clockwise 180 degrees around the wider bay Split was set in. The airport was a small affair, surprising for what I could only assume would be thousands of tourists this time of year. John and I got suitably tanked up for the flight, Wizz Air no less, boarded and settled in for the return home.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 14

We decided on a cab to the bus station, as the walk would leave us exhausted and sweaty. After packing, eating breakfast, then checking out, we jumped in the hotel ordered taxi and arrived in good time for our bus. We searched for a few snack items from the nearby kiosk, and then unenthusiastically waited until our scheduled bus arrived. We decamped in front of ‘Peron 10’ – peron, I assumed, meaning platform – until a bus pulled into our bay. A little bit of commotion was caused by fellow travelers, presumably on our journey, with bags being dragged closer to the bus’ luggage storage. We waddled a little closer in order to hear what the official was saying to others. I cant explain why as we didn’t speak the language, but if I heard ‘Mostar’, I knew we would be onto a winner. As tickets were being checked and tokens for the luggage were handed out, we queued up and took our turn. 25 minutes before departure, we were in our seats. The bus was hot as the air con was not yet on, but it did seem to have modern conveniences that our previous coach to Belgrade lacked.

We unpacked things we needed immediately; water, headphones, books etc, and settled in for the journey. As scheduled, the driver climbed aboard, the doors were shut, and we were off. We drove west out of the city, but not taking the modern bypass southwest from the outset. Instead, we drove through Ilizda, crossing over the Bosna River, and then meandered through villages that ran alongside the main E73, before merging with it. At first, we essentially passed through similar terrain as Sarajevo; with tall green hills surrounding slim floodplains dotted with houses one could loosely call villages. Every now and then, we would see the railway line in an array of positions - running in and out of tunnels, vulnerably perched along high viaducts, or cross our path through a junction.

After 40 minutes or so, we then joined the main north-south road heading into the Herzegovina region, where the terrain began to turn mountainous. We must have continually been ascending since Sarajevo, because we now entered and hurtled down a long tunnel that brought us out into a steep, green valley. Villages perched on the side, containing terracotta topped houses and shiny white minarets poking out here and there. After an accelerated descent, we reached the first main town, Konjic, which was also our first drop-off/pick-up stop.

It ticked all the boxes for a market town at a crucial cross roads in central Bosnia, and was positioned near to the entrance of Lake Jablanica, spanning the Neretva River. We pulled up on the side of the road on the main Kolonija road, and dropped off a few people, as well as picking a couple up. We were soon off again and heading out of the town. Between here and Jablanica, we kept to the lakeside. It was blue-green in the sunshine, sparkling almost. Craggy hills descended into the lake, each valley between them filling the lake with its own tributary rivers. I was envious of the kayakers on the lake in their red boats and puffy life jackets. I made a mental note to stay in this region for a while on a future visit.

After travelling in a westerly direction, we began to turn south not far from the next stop of Jablanica. The sun was now out of my direct gaze, so it allowed me to squint less and observe the scenery more. We repeated the scenario; people off people on. Again, all in a matter of seconds, not minutes. As we left the tight streets of the central town, we drove past an open expanse to our left. The gigantic and stony Prenj Mountain stood dominant in the background, with what seemed like only slightly shorter hills closer to us. But nearby was a green plain, on the precipice of a gorge that contained the Neretva River. At the green’s edge was an old locomotive train, and on the opposite bank one could see a collapsed bridge with the railway track still fastened on. Later on, I soon learned that this was the site of the famous Battle of the Neretva. The bridge, though, was rebuilt and bombed twice for the filming of the movie of the same name.

We continued on, now snaking along the side of the river and within the same valley until we reached Mostar. A change in the environment was noticable about 45 minutes outside of Mostar, as the hills became parched, and the ground turned chalky-brown and more Mediterranean.  As we came into Mostar, you could see that beyond it, to the south, the valley opened up as the river went on towards the sea.

We disembarked at the quiet and dusty bus station. We had about 4 hours in Mostar, so we asked to put our luggage into storage for a few marks and confirmed our next bus. I read that we were on the Bosniak side of town, and one that we stayed in for our brief visit. We walked down a north-south side street that was parallel to the main thoroughfare we arrived on. It was quieter but, as we began to approach the Mostar Bridge, had more shops and cafes emerging around us. This is where we also noticed the outnumbering of tourists to locals as we approached the famous old bridge. We cut down a side street, to another parallel road to the one we were on, but this time adjacent to the river.

Above the tops of the trees that emerged out of the ravine below, you could see a wide ‘V’ of buildings come to centre either side of the top third of the bow of the Stari Most. You could already see a heaving gaggle of tourists on top. Suitable photo opportunity now, I thought. We paced downhill slightly along the cobbled street, where trinket shops lined the riverside. We were in direct sunlight, so began to bake slightly. We reached the bridge, and climbed steeply up its arched top. It was steeper than I anticipated, highlighted by the prominent row of bricks every 10 inches or so apart, acting almost like steps. It took 5 minutes to walk over, with no chance to stop, as people dawdled to look at the surroundings or posed for pictures.

As soon as we stepped off the bridge, we passed between a tower and a townhouse and into the tightly packed lane with more trinket shops. This had more of the feel of the Bascarcija in Sarajevo. We walked through, looking for a bar to have a drink and lunch. We continued in a straight line through the sand-coloured buildings, covered periodically by canopies between them, until we opened out into a street with generic 1980s apartments. Here, we saw a gelato shop ahead so anticipated further restaurants. However, we approached a rather wide main road, so turned back to try our luck back in the market area. This is where we also saw the first Church, so assumed we had entered the Croat side of town.

Near towards the bridge, John saw a sign for food ‘with a view’. We decided to give it a shot. We entered into a tekke-styled courtyard, and then off it into a restaurant entrance. We spoke to the waiter who led us through the dimly light restaurant, up some stairs, and then out of some French windows and onto a balcony. The ravine was below us, the sparkling green-blue water again, gushing together as it squashed through the bridge nearby. We were in the shade, but could take in the majesty of the bridge. I ordered cevapcici, as it may have been my last time on holiday, and ordered a glass of red. I may have ordered another, more in an attempt to hydrate, but this fanciful idea was quashed with my ordering water to accompany it. I just wanted to be woozy to pass the time.

After this, I wanted the money shot photo, so we headed on down to the riverside to look the bridge from below. It was very busy with children playing in the water, observed by family members on the rocks in the shade. The serene nature of the goings on were a far cry from the war that saw this historic bridge destroyed only 20-odd years before. Mostar resembled Sarajevo in that it was surrounded by domineering hills. It was from here that the Croat forces mortared the bridge. Its rebuilding and opening in 2004 was an attempt at reconciliation. However, as elsewhere, reconciliation between people proves a mightier challenge. Those of an older generation knew who their enemies were, on all sides, and those who have grown up since have done so with a petrified version of national identity and historic revisionism that continues the segregation.

The bridge still had lots of people on it, as the famous ‘divers’ were preparing to jump. For the 10 minutes we were down there, they still had not jumped. So we ventured back up. On top of the bridge, we managed to squeeze in a photo and see the divers tout for donations. We returned to the other side of the bridge and, with two hours still to kill, noticed a roof top bar with a canopy above. We walked off the main riverside path, to the back of this building, and climbed up to the bar. We grabbed a couple of chairs under the canopy, but with a lovely view of the bridge and hillside behind. The added bonus was the water spritzers.

We ordered a couple of rounds of beers to pass the time, whilst I took pictures on my instant camera. We paid up then walked back, still with plenty of time before departure. We got a few extra snacks on the way at a chain supermarket, stopping in the grounds of a mosque for a look, and then picked up our luggage at the bus station. The bus arrived not long after. Again, this coach was another step up in modernity and comfort.

We had our tickets checked, and then threw in our backpacks, before settling in for the next leg of the journey. We departed on time, and crossed a bridge next to the station to drive on through the west side of town. Was this because the bus company was Croatian and this was the Croat side of town, I pondered? Anyhow, as soon as we cleared the south of the city, the hills all receded, and we were now on sloping floodplains descending towards the sea. We made one stop at Capljina, before heading to a rural and quiet border patrol before heading towards Ploce. We then headed south-east in order to pass twice through a border – from Croatia back into Bosnia, then Bosnia back into Croatia – as we passed through Neum. We stopped here at a hotel so the driver could rest, and passengers could use the facilities. I bought John and I an ice cream, as we moved away from the coach and looked at the gorgeous Adriatic as it came in to this shielded port with the sun setting in the background. Perfection

It had been a long day so far, so we slipped in and out of snoozing as we travelled in the dark. We wound around villages and small towns, and in and out of bays. We did not arrive until around 9pm, our welcome being the cruise ships parked at the newer port in the north of the city. We got off, and walked over to a taxi that took us to our apartment. We were met buy the cleaner, who gave us our keys, took copies of our passport, and proceeded to point out where we could go for food nearby. So we quickly refreshed and headed out. We were in an area that was very much a suburb, Babin Kuk, but you could sense many of these homes were holiday places. We walked up a short hill, then down a much steeper one, until we reached a roundabout that had a bit of life off two roads that led to it. We went down one and hit upon a series of restaurants. It seemed a bit ‘Brits abroad’. We just picked one at random and ate an OK meal. As we were tired, we returned to the apartment in no time and hit the sack, exhausted.