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.
No comments:
Post a Comment