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.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days – Part 10

The luxury of a twin room is that one does not disturb the other when it comes to tossing and turning, or when one gets up. I think John was happy of this fact as I turned out of bed at a not too late a time, in order to get breakfast.

I sat in the jazzy reception area where breakfast was put on, alongside a family with two toddlers and two straight couples. I grabbed some coffee, cheese and bread, sat myself down, and then oscillated between looking up news on my phone and awkwardly smiling in appreciation when one of the toddlers became rambunctious. After my second cup of coffee, and fully briefed on world news, I returned to the room to wake a sleepy John and get ready for the day out. It must have been around 10:30am.

It was a grey day, so John wore jeans and a jumper. I stopped after adding a jacket, wanting to keep my shorts on, as it was still warm. We visited the small bakery at the T-junction yards from our B&B, so John could grab a pastry to eat as we walked. As we began to retrace our route yesterday, it decided to rain. So we ducked into the Produce Market on Mula Mustafe Bašeskije, the site of the mortar attacks that killed scored of people during the siege. In-between walking around the food stalls in search for one that sold umbrellas; we stopped and read the mural to those killed that took up the whole space of the back wall. Once we looped round and walked back to the road, we managed to locate a stand that sold allsorts and purchased an umbrella for 10KM (about £5).

We then carried on towards our destination, the railway station. We passed the memorial from yesterday, and now noted that the road we were walking along and the pedestrian road yesterday becomes Maršala Tita – Marshall Tito. The rain was dying down as we passed the modern BBI shopping centre to our left, and arrived at a large junction with Ali Pasha’s Mosque commanding a dominant position. We crossed over the road and at a fork, took a right, splitting off from the main east west road taking us direct to the station. Away from the traffic, we looked up and around us. The street was quiet, with the odd café having seated patrons outside. The brown-grey Austrian-style blocks that started off the street still had bullet holes on them, alongside more recent graffiti. These then opened up to more familiar 1960s high-rise blocks before the train station plaza and tram stop welcomed us.

The train station was built in the modernist style, reflecting that of Templehof airport in Berlin. Almost light yellow in colour with a hint of marble effect; the curved building seemed to hug the plaza area in front. Only a handful of people seemed to inhabit the plaza and cafés nestled under a canopy at the station entrance. The modern, glass mini skyscraper loomed over us to our right as we approached the main ticket hall. There was as much life in here as there was outside, and we were soon to find out the reason why.

I approached one of the two open ticket desks and asked if there was a train to Mostar in a few days time. She shook her head politely, to which I responded with a “No!?”. She then explained in simple terms that there were no trains south. The train line is closed. This now made sense, as research I did before the trip seemed to imply that there were no trains. But learning from my previous trip, I thought things might have been different when here. We were then directed to the bus station located next door. We walked around past a couple of newspaper kiosks and entered the rather dated building plastered in an array of adverts for a multitude of bus companies and routes. We walked in to a small, dark-wooded ticket hall, and joined the queue. We didn’t need to get the tickets today, but I wanted to check how much they would be and how frequent the service was. After greeting the ticket seller with “Dobar dan” I soon conversed in English to ask my key questions. The price was similar if not a little cheaper than the train, and there were around 7 buses a day. He gave me the times of them so we could consult. Prior to the journey, I had already booked a bus ticket from Dubrovnik to Split to get the flight home. They were a Croatian company, but had services from Croatian parts of Bosnia. I noticed that they had services from Mostar. Later on, I would marry up the Sarajevo-Mostar route, plan for a short stop over, and then book a ticket for the Mostar-Dubrovnik route.

John wanted a soft drink, so we went to one of the kiosks outside. After purchasing, we had an idea to visit the Historical Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina then the National Museum, which were located next to each other. So we walked south alongside the heavily fortified US Embassy, crossed the main road, and went in to the Historical Museum first. The building had still not been renovated since my last visit, and everything had a sort of ‘thrown together’ sort of feel to it. The display in the lobby area was different to before, with a wall of pictures juxtaposing photos of buildings in Sarajevo immediately after the siege with those recently.

We were directed to go downstairs with two other people for an English tour, led by a strapping young blonde lad in his 20s who was working in the archives. We descended a set of stairs in a small, glass-encased tower, and approached a doorway that had further steps beyond it and into a concrete bunker at the basement level. On our right, after the doorway, were two 1960s low-rise style black leather and silver framed chairs. The archivists’ opening speech focused on these with a story of the visit of the man himself, Tito. I felt that he was aching for us to be both amused and surprised to learn that Tito sat in one of these very chairs before us, so much so that he offered to take our picture in them. We politely declined. He seemed downbeat at our disinterest.

At the bottom of the stairs, and in the first of two sections in the bunker, was a display of Communist paraphernalia, which our guide talked us through with an air of having done this hundred of times. Batons, posters, badges, patches; you name it. We then wondered through a seriously thick metal security door. The room was encircled with militaristic metal shelving, which seemed to underscore a lot of what was on display in the damp and gloomy space. These items were from the Partisan struggle during WWII and contained many firearms and low-grade weapons. Some of the gorier items were clubs containing nails, or barbwire wrapped sticks. Again, there were other items from the period, which the guide talked us through.

When the tour ended 20 minutes later we ascended the glass staircase into the sunlight, continuing up to the second floor where the exhibition was. It came in three parts, the first part being new since my last visit. This was an examination of the material life of Yugoslav citizens since 1945, instantly drawing John and mine’s attention. A squared-off section of the main hall had within it a maze style layout that led us to move between themes. One theme looked at holidays and transportation, showcasing vintage posters of the national airline JAT and emphasizing the liberal migration policy Yugoslavia had in the form of ‘Gastarbeiters’, in deviation from other, Soviet dominated countries. Another theme looked at material life in the home. The 1970s chic outfit of a living room encouraged John to exclaim that it was an exact replica of ours back home. You couldn’t deny it. I fancied a couple of the pieces of furniture myself for the living room.

Once we made our way through this, we then went on to the second phase that looked at the siege. This was chronologically ordered and from a political angle, displaying items that the army or citizens used over the 5-year period. An example was a makeshift cooker that was used when the gas was turned off. I hurried around this part as I had seen it previously, but I still managed to give John the odd contextual explanation as he went around. The final section was post-Dayton looking at the settlement and subsequent governance of Bosnia-Herzegovina.

After this, and all the walking we had done up until now, we decided to go for a drink and a sit down. As we descended the stairs I noticed a cast iron life-sized statue of Tito in commanding pose out in an unkempt courtyard. This was a replica of the one in the grounds of the House of Flowers in Belgrade from a few days ago. I grabbed a snap and continued down the stairs. Tucked at basement level, at the back of the museum, was a café simply called “Caffe Tito”. If there was any evidence to suggest that Bosnians had a soft spot for Tito and Yugoslav nostalgia, then the last hour and half was proof enough. We slid past the patrons sat outside in the warmth, all young and student-like, and headed inside to cooler climes. Despite my aggravation from the heat, I ordered a hot coffee. Thinking ahead to the rest of the day, my third coffee before midday was a bit ambitious and could go either way. In between chatting and updating ourselves with social media banter, we admired the kitsch décor that had sparingly been placed on the walls in the dimly lit interior. The odd poster here and there from post WWII times, and a framed map of the now disintegrated country, was peppered amongst the Partisan and Pioneer memorabilia in the foreground of walls printed in bold patterns in the red, white and blue of the Socialist Yugoslav flag.

After finishing our drinks, we went to the neighbouring National Museum. This one featured archeological artifacts and a botanical garden in the courtyard. Having been before, I rushed around half re-reading signs on the displays. After a wonder around the gardens, we soon departed. We walked eastward to pass the dominant glass encrusted Parliament building on Trg Bosne I Hercegovine. The Holiday Inn loomed across the road as we walked on to a new shopping mall on this main axis of roads. We decided to eat here, visiting the food market section on the top floor, and chose to visit a restaurant that offered an array of food styles, mostly Western. I decided on a chicken, apple and hazelnut salad, which was delicious. Having rested our feet once again, we then walked back to the old town, taking in other side streets and buildings that we had not yet seen.  The most impressive was the Bezistan. This was the old, stone-built market hall in the centre of the old town. Now mostly full of shops selling rather tacky tourist stuff, the odd clothes shop or bag emporium stuck out. I imagined it to be mesmerizing when merchants sold textile or copper in the hall, the noises of production mixing with chatter and camaraderie, all for the shopper to see.

I knew the intense coffee intake earlier would now lead to a massive crash. In desperation, and with a renowned sweet tooth, we stopped at a café in the old town that had a vast selection of cakes on offer. I opted for a coffee and walnut cake that had layers of crushed meringue in it. It was divine! I also had a Bosnian coffee – why the hell not!

We decided to pay a visit to the Sarajevo Pivo Brewery, located on the south side of the river, not too far away. It had a museum too, so we decided it was worth our while. We crossed the river, admiring the town hall building once more, when I stumbled upon a street sign on a building that we were approaching. Below it was another sign with some explanatory text. The two newer signs were on the opposite side of a window to an older one. The newer street sign indicated the road to be called Ulica Obala Isa-Bega Ishakovica, named after the city’s founder. The older one was called Obala Pariske Komune, named to mark the 1871 revolutionary, socialist government in Paris. What the explanatory sign detailed was the history of name changing on this particular street. The Paris Commune connection is an obvious post WWII change. The newer name is a reflection of the Ottoman heritage that present day Bosniaks hold as part of their identity.

The whole issue of naming and re-naming is fascinating, and has been the site of common ideological and national struggles in South East Europe, particularly in the post-Communist era. The symbolic power that naming has, is a reflection of those who are in dominating positions at any one time. When you move beyond street names that come from geographic, topographical or commercial markers, such as Mostar Road, Mountain View, Copper Tin Alley for example; the act of naming then becomes political. This street in Ottoman times was named after two trades that existed on this side of the river when expansion of the city came along. When the Austro-Hungarians decided to regulate the river and create an embankment, they renamed it Careva Street, Careva being ‘Emperor’ in an obvious nod to their Monarch. In 1914, for 5 years, it was named after a sultan before returning to Careva Street then changing to Careva Obala, obala being ‘left bank’. It then changed to Francuska (French) Obala in 1927, then during a period of 4 years under the occupation of the Independent State of Croatia it held a different name before becoming Obala Pariske Komune. It changed to its current name in 1993. One can draw from this, that the last renaming was the attempt of Bosniak officials to lay down a marker that Sarajevo is a Muslim, Bosniak city, with a heritage that rests largely on its proud Ottoman history that will not be erased even when under siege.

We moved on and took a street that climbed up the hillside from the river. I noticed a number of Serbian registered cars here, so was unsure if this was a predominantly Serb area. We then reached the brewery. It was a dominant terracotta-bricked, gothic-styled building that seemed sort of out of place here and rather Bavarian. We passed the goods entrance and noticed a sign for the museum. We went in and noticed that it was literally a room that was 8 meters by 8 meters. The girl on reception said that we could pay something like £2 for the museum, or £3 for the museum and a free drink at the pub. We opted for the latter ticket. So we looked at the brewery themed objects on display and read a bit about the history. I noticed one piece that mentioned that this brewery had a connection with one in Petrovaradin Fortress in Novi Sad. What a coincidence.

We soon left and went to the pub. It was actually very impressive and very spacious. It almost had the style of a very well done Wetherspoons with added Germanic flair. Wood paneling dominated the décor; with a traditional bar almost spanning the whole left side of the pub. You also had a balconied area. We were only amongst a handful of patrons. Obviously too early for most, but I did notice that they had entertainment on at a more modest time of 8pm. We grabbed a seat and claimed our first pivo, fresh from the factory (or one would imagine). Having enjoyed the taste, we paid for another round before leaving.

We descended the hill back into the old town and ate somewhere non-descript. After that we attempted to find one of 3 places we believed to be LGBT friendly venues. After lurking around near the Orthodox Church and canton buildings, we gave up and returned to the B&B. Better that we didn’t drink any more, as we would be driving the next day.