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 13

Not exactly chipper, we left the hotel after 11am. We had to leave, as we needed to get the bus tickets for the onward journey to Mostar tomorrow.  So we filled up on breakfast, then walked our usual route heading west. The food gave us a bit of energy - something I didn’t think we could have summoned when we woke - and brought about a discussion on what we could visit or see today. John came up a trip to the Olympic stadium, built for the 1984 Winter Olympics. Torvill and Dean territory, I recalled.

On our way to the bus station, we happened upon a pavement stone engraved with the logo of that year’s Olympics, outside the modern shopping centre. The stadium was a diversion from the bus station, so we turned north and instantly began to climb a steep hill. This was a similar route by which we entered the city when we arrived, which ran along a parallel, and somewhat quieter, street that edged a park. Half way up, it flattened for a short period, so we crossed over to the busier road. Even though we only walked half a mile or so to get to this point, the vista opened up to yet more and taller hills in the distance, brooding over us. So although the main valley, in which the city sat, ran east to west, there was this other tributary valley that came south into the city too. The open expanse that we sat in turned out to be another of those deadly places to wonder during the siege, and formed part of the front line. In addition, the buildings on the west side of this valley were your tall, brutalist kind – which I found unfathomable as to how they stayed upright on such a steep gradient – and were easily exposed to sniper and mortar fire.

Once the other side of the park, we came across a bustling market space that seemed to grow out of an underpass that carried traffic into the city. Bakeries, taxi ranks, people gathered at bus stops; it was a hive of activity that was emblematic of the commercial centres that inhabited the community-minded suburbs of cities in this region. Having passed by, we saw a tower loom in the distance. It indicated that the stadium was nearby, as the logo was emblazoned on it. Morbidly, to our right, there was a large cemetery too.

We walked up and past an indoor arena, to reach the outdoor stadium itself. This was closed off, but we could get close enough to peek through the tunnel into the grounds. We then started back down hill to the indoor arena. Draped outside were many banners showcasing the Olympians Bosnia had sent to the Summer Olympics in Brasil. We approached the main entrance, as a sign indicated that there was a museum. Two men in their 40s or 50s were sat outside having a cigarette. We went up a few steps to a 1970s tinted doorway and pulled at the handle. It was locked. Whilst John looked around for any signage to indicate opening hours, one of the men called to us in Serbo-Croatian. I began to walk over and hollered, “English, sorry”. He put down his coffee and walked towards us.

He said that the museum was closed. John and I both looked downbeat, especially after that long walk uphill. He explained that it would not be open for a few days. We said it was a shame, as we were leaving tomorrow, but that it was nice to come and see the grounds. At this, he said he could show us inside the indoor arena if we liked. We lit up with glee. He walked back to the other guy, put out his cigarette whilst speaking to him, then motioned for us to follow him to another door, the one to the arena and not the museum.

We emerged into a lobby area that was a rather darkly lit by the tinted windows that rose above the entrance. Together with the slight yellowy, beige paint and dark green carpet, its appearance was placed firmly in the mid 1980s. He took us to our right, into a sort of cafeteria-cum-common room that was deadly quiet, apart from the lively 1990s TV playing above our head to the left. There were pictures on the wall here, so I assumed he could explain a lot more with visual aids. After informing us of what went on at this site, including the opening ceremony, he took us back to the lobby and down some stairs. It felt like we were going into the basement. But once we drew down a floor, we passed through a set of doors into a huge indoor arena.

It reminded me of my high school gym back in Wales, one of those that were useful for school assemblies, or to host multiple of badminton courts. As we gazed at the icons and logos on the walls, and the sheer space of it, our friend elaborated on what went on in this room. I couldn’t tell if he was rather excited to see our response, but he gleefully shared the fact that this was the room in which Torvill and Dean danced the Bolero, going on to win gold. This genuinely took John and me aback. What a lovely thing to be treated to, especially when we quite fairly should have been denied entry.

After departing, we made our descent back past the market area and turned right to eventually reach the bus station again, where we purchased our tickets for a 10am coach to Mostar the next day. We walked from there then, towards the river. Before crossing over, I notice a marble monument set within a memorial park. It marked the start of the siege on 2 May 1992 by the ‘aggressors’, and was put in place in 2016. I feel the choice of words was a small step to move beyond ethnicising blame for the siege, and instead single out all perpetrators.

Now south of the river, and in the Skenderija quarter, we walked east along the river. It was a glorious day, with the river looking crisp and clear as it trickled slowly past us. We stopped off at a small café on the ground floor of a three-story, Austro-Hungarian style building, typical of this part of town. The terrace was shielded by a voluptuous gathering of climbers and vines, most in flower. After this short break, we continued our walk. I wanted to see the synagogue.

We arrived to a closed up courtyard, so had to peer around the building from the street, away from the river. The building was, again, in keeping with the aesthetic surrounds, but had Moorish sympathies reflecting perhaps the dominant Sephardic community who arrived from Spain and Portugal to Ottoman sanctuary originally, although it was built for the smaller Ashkenazi community.

After a few photos we retraced our steps, but this time on a parallel road so that we could have some shade. We walked past the bridge we crossed over, and continued towards the next one. This bridge was the site of the murder by sniper fire of two teenagers, Suada and Olga, at the start of the siege. Evidence was abundant, particularly on the nearby buildings, of the flash point this area became during the siege. We crossed over, back to the modern shopping centre and Parliament building.

We decided to eat at Vapianos, partly in a nod to our friend Jack who loves the place, and because it had a nice balcony from which to view the goings on below. We consumed an above average amount of wine for a late-lunch. A walk back to the hotel naturally followed this, so we had time for a nap.

As it was our last night, we decided upon a ‘traditional’ restaurant for our last meal. We had passed it on a walk a couple of days ago, and seems picturesque given it overlooked the river. The clear twilight was a great canopy under which to sit and eat. We ordered a hearty meal, with local red wine to devour. Afterwards, we took snaps of the Town Hall, light up in golden splendour, before walking down the river, and back across into the Bascarsija. We ended up in the bar we stopped at on our first night, and had a few beers as a nightcap before calling our time on Sarajevo on our last full day.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 12

After the busy day travelling around yesterday, we emerged from our sleep a lot later than I would have allowed, given we had more exploring to do. But we had been on a little adventure, so today’s activities could be somewhat more relaxed. It must have been close to midday before we left the hotel. Bright sunshine beckoned us when we did depart, but we soon shied away and walked down the narrow main thoroughfare to ease its gaze.

John suggested that we should go and visit the Tunnel Museum. I had been curious to see this previously, but was not brave enough then to make the journey there by myself. I kept to the familiarity of the old town, and down to the Parliament building area.  So I eagerly agreed.

We found a kiosk and bought a tram ticket to head to Ilidza. This was the opposite end of Sarajevo to the old town. John was excited for the tram journey, again. We boarded the shabby tram that proved to be rather busy. We immediately stamped our ticket, as we were pre-warned to do, for fear of getting a fine. The journey was along the whole length of the route, so I was pleased that after 3 or 4 stops I secured a seat, with John following a stop later. A nice breeze came through the open windows above, with the metal on metal rattle of the wheels and track below pouring through.

As we passed the car hire place from yesterday, we entered unknown territory. Rows of concrete blocks of housing kept appearing to our left until we reached a big elevated road junction reminiscent, one abstractly assumed from above, of the Olympic rings logo. After we passed under this, single-level, bungalow-style housing then emerged. And there was a reason for this.

Soon enough, to our left there appeared two rows of wired fencing running alongside us. An expanse opened up behind it, and complicated lighting arrangements emerged. We were at one end of the runway for Sarajevo Airport. I suppose it took me by surprise, although it should not have, given we were going to visit the Tunnel Museum that was dug underneath the airport!

60 seconds later we crossed through a roundabout, then pulled up to our final destination. We got off the tram, and appeared to be in a small shopping area. The tram could continue around a teardrop shaped track to face back towards the old town. All the shops were flat roofed and modern in a 1970s sense; many of the food ones having canopies and rattan seating. There was an air of market day about it, with shoppers casually ambling around with bags half full.

Ilidza formed part of the Bosnian Serb forces territory during the siege, but it was now within the Federation (not Republika Srpska) entity. But not by much. We decided to head straight to the museum. I couldn’t locate any information online about public transport to it, so assumed there wasn’t any. We set off on foot and meandered around a few municipal buildings. We arrived at a wide road that had industrial units on the side facing the airport, and what must have been a registry office on the other side, as a wedding party was gathering outside. We walked in an easterly direction without any trees for shade, and had failed to buy any water too. We did stumble upon a brown sign a few hundred yards down the road, indicating the direction of the museum. So we turned off the wide road into a rather well to do suburb. A small stream ran past us, bubbling in front of the small plots containing detached housing. It was all pretty serene. We passed a small shop, no bigger than kiosk, which apparently sold bread. I couldn’t tell if it had closed many years ago, or just sold bread on an ad hoc basis. It seemed rather worn out, and given that the area we were in was the front line, I’m not surprised.

We continued walking, mostly following the free GPS on my phone, in the general direction of the museum. We only saw one other sign for it. Then the houses disappeared, and all of a sudden we were walking on open grassland. The airport looked very exposed. There was no pavement here, so when a car approached, we had to get on to the grass. To be fair, this only happened twice. In all, it took us about 40 minutes of walking to get here. The only noise to break the silence were two aircraft taking off, sending a booming and vibrating blast across the wide valley floor. 

The house upon which the tunnel was built was easily identifiable.  It really did bear the brunt of enemy fire by being on the front line. With the amount of bullet holes in it, it was remarkable the thing hadn’t just collapsed. It was typical of the style we had just walked passed. A stirring resemblance to houses in ski resorts, only on a smaller scale, with two floors, balcony, and a classic apex roof. You entered the museum down a side alley to the house, where a little wooden hut was constructed, set from the house. We paid the equivalent of £4 each and entered the back yard. This stretched about 100 yards towards the airport, and was a couple of yards wider than the house itself. In the bottom right corner was a modern wooden building of one level. This was the video room. Attached along the 8 ft high metal garden fencing was a written, chronological story of the tunnel that you followed round.

The story was fascinating. The airport was agreed, between the parties, to be a ‘neutral zone’, which meant it cut off the Bosnian Serbs from fully encircling the city; but also from allowing the Bosnian Government access to the city from territory it held. The Bosnian Government wanted to secure access, so the idea of a tunnel emerged to shift people and supplies back and forth. The owner of the house was an old lady, who allowed for this to take place. I believe she lived there throughout. What a torment for someone to sustain for all those years, especially witnessing the devastation to her house. As I gazed at a map of the city under siege, I noticed that the Bosnian Serb territory, which was merely hundreds of meters away, now corresponds to the demarcated internal border of the two entities. Republika Srpska was a short walk away.

We wondered into the house that had an assortment of displays on about the siege. But as you were directed to the basement, you became aware that you were going to the start of the tunnel. They kept the entrance to it open, and stabilized 50 yards of it. It was extremely claustrophobic, but luckily we only walked through it for seconds. We then emerged in the middle of the backyard. I had wandered what the little hole in the ground was! We visited the video room, but only for a few minutes, as we had garnered enough knowledge about the siege as we needed. Also, we were becoming a bit dehydrated.

We decided to leave after 45 minutes, and follow our footsteps back to Ilidza. As we rejoined the main road with the industrial buildings on it, a convoy of cars drove slowly past tooting their horns and waving flags out of the windows. It seems that the wedding had now finished, and this was the custom. I had seen this in Slovenia a few years ago, but it was still a joyful thing to see. It really created a community vibe to the wedding. This went on for the whole length of the road we walked, as they seemed to be doing laps!

When we returned to the market area, we decided to have a drink. We were parched and also needed shade from the sun. We picked a bar at random, but it happened to be on a thoroughfare so we could people watch. The one thing we should have not have done, was take this rest as a bit of a session for drinking. After about 2 hours of chatting and ordering more beers, as we didn’t want to move, we became rather pissed. I recall paying, buying a tram ticket, and then boarding the tram. The journey was pretty fuzzy back to the old town. However, as we walked through the old town, I remembered that I needed to send my friend a postcard that he requested (read: demanded). So I bought one, found a small post office in one of the old town shop fronts, paid my stamp and borrowed a pen. I scribbled a message, which I could not recall moments later, and posted it. I believe the person received it after we returned from the trip.

As we staggered back to the hotel, I noticed the first floor of a building that looked out on to the square of the old town where the Sebilj was located. It had etched into its yellow plaster a Star of David, and a box with words including the date 1873. These sorts of finds really fascinate me. What was this buildings’ purpose? Was it a synagogue, or did it serve another function? Who occupied it? John tried Wikmapia to see if it had the answer, but alas it did not. We returned to the hotel and took a long nap.

We woke up rather hungry, so John inspected Trip Advisor again and found an Italian near the flame memorial. We walked the length of the pedestrian pathway through the old town and Austro-Hungarian section, to reach the flame. We then turned immediately left into a very Germanic courtyard. This seemed to be a hub of activity, with a restaurant in every corner, spilling out into the courtyard. Our Italian was on the left. We were given a table for two in the mezzanine level, unfortunately next to a teenager’s birthday party. It was all very loud! The food was nice, and the candlelight brought a romantic feel to the restaurant. We then departed and returned to the club from last night. Perhaps we will have more luck in spotting some gays this time.

We arrived at the door and presented ourselves with our secretive knock, the door giving way soon after. We paid the minimal charge and went down. Tonight was a lot busier, very much the club ‘feel’ I was expecting the first night. We bought a couple of beers, then perched on a tall table near the exposed brick back wall. Many people were dancing in the pit area near the door and DJ booth. After a while we notice another couple that had entered and looked as new as us. They must have been tourists and seen the same Internet reviews of this place as we did. John went to the bar and they began chatting. Once they came over and after we exchanged pleasantries, it turns out that they both have a London link. One guy was from Germany originally but lived in London. His partner is from London originally but now resides in New York.

The rest of the night consisted of us all discussing our time in Sarajevo, where we had been, and to where we were travelling. At one point we decided we did not like the club, so ventured out. There were still throngs of people emptying out of the various film festival events. We ended up at a trendy bar on one of the back streets, but it seemed that all the other film ‘luvvies’ were there too. After too many beers, we then left our new friends and returned to the hotel at god-knows what hour.

LGBTI Rights in the Western Balkans - ERA Conference 2018

In recent months I have taken on a new role on the board of an organisation known as Rainbow Rose. It is an umbrella organisation of all the LGBTI organisations associated to social democratic and labour parties across Europe. My appointment came on the back of my two and a half year co-chairpersonship of LGBT Labour. To those of you who have read my posts, my awareness of south-east Europe came to maturity thanks to my work with the Labour Party. The board want me to lead on a new working group on the Western Balkans; so it seems that the three interests of my life – Labour politics, LGBTI activism, and south-east Europe – have come together in a new and exciting challenge for me.

So the start of this work centred on my organising a delegation of activists to the Equal Rights Association (ERA) Conference for the Western Balkans and Turkey in Skopje, Macedonia. ERA emanates from civil society, so we were lending our support as social democrats in order to learn, share our knowledge and experiences, and to create networks for our new working group. Noting my affection for Macedonia, the week we visited happened to be when Macedonia had just held the referendum on its name change.

So I organised for a delegation of 11, 7 from the board, 3 activists, and one speaker. We arrived after a Ministerial meeting took place on the Thursday morning, and went straight to the plenary hall. I was with Jose, Secretary General of Rainbow Rose, who was introducing me to a few people in the room – an ILGA Europe representative, two representatives from the Commission, and Dragana from ERA. I also met Amarildo from ERA again, as I first met him three weeks previously in London, at a Western Balkans event in Lancaster House and then Speakers’ House. It was nice of him to stop and chat for 5 minutes, given he was organising the day and I’m sure had more things to be doing. The plenary then began.

We had a couple of opening speeches, one of who was by the SDUM Minister for Labor and Social Affairs, Mila Carovska. This was my first hint of the seriousness and commitment that the new SDUM-led Government had taken LGBTI rights, as well as neighbouring countries. Especially those from Macedonia, where you would have thought they could have used the excuse of the name referendum to withdraw from participating. Over the course of three panel events throughout the day, we heard from a mixture of Ministers, MPs, NGO activists, and individuals just living their lives in the countries of the region. The one particularly striking panel was on trans and non-binary rights, as it laid bare how uneven the legal rights of trans people were across the region, but also how much depended on the state having to recognise you in order to provide for you. Unknown to me that day was the SDUM MP Pavle Bogoevski, who sat on a panel on non-discrimination. Jose and I couldn’t grab him as he left, but I soon invited him to a dinner I had planned on Saturday night for the social democrats present at the conference. After our first day, we met more of the delegation who arrived in the evening, on the central square at Pelister restaurant.

On a side note, I was in my element having returned to Skopje after 2 years. On the Wednesday, I explored a little by myself as no one else had arrived. I walked through the eastern side of Karposh district, where the hotel was located, as I had not done so on previous visits. Once you turned into the residential area between two parallel east/west main boulevards, there was a hive of cafes and bars. One of them, Radiobar, was noted in the schedule of the conference as being a ‘liberal’ bar to drink at. I popped in for a beer on the way to food. On the Thursday night, I returned to the main square. It was a lot quieter that it was when I was here last, in the hot August nights of 2016. It was mid-week, I supposed. The hideous statues and building facades remained, but I noticed that the splattered paint had now gone. The traces of the Colourful Revolution may have gone, but their legacy was established within the political ones.

The Friday of the conference was the first of the two-day ‘Open Source Technology’ workshops. An innovative approach to decide what issues should be discussed, relying on what participants bring to the table and what they want to participate in. The speaker we brought over, Cllr Bev Craig from Manchester City Council and an old friend of mine, was going to pitch in to discuss how we can create LGBTI polices at the local government level. I was to present on how LGBTI people can organise within political parties, and Arturas from our delegation was to lead a discussion on whether pride is a celebration or a protest. As participants added their interest to the workshop board, I was proud that our sessions were going to be well attended.

Over the course of the two days, we had genuine interest and participation in our sessions. The one thing I wanted to avoid was a patronising tone to come from our contribution. I would be embarrassed if we were seen to have just turned up, delivered a speech on what was wrong and how our way was the best way to solve it, and then leave. Instead what we aimed to do was provide an overview of our journey, and then provide a few questions/statements in order for participants to share experiences and decide on the best action plans in each of their countries. Macedonian and Turkish participants eagerly attended Bev’s session, with many representatives of NGOs attending my own.

We on the board had to miss out on the Saturday proceedings, as we had to take the day to plan for our General Assembly that was taking place a few weeks later. The Friday evening saw us all congregate at RadioBar. This underlined the change in atmosphere that I felt whilst I was in Skopje. Although still very conservative, and LGBTI people could not be open, having a group of 100 odd LGBT people in a bar, out on the streets, felt liberating. Someone had even gone on well-known gay social networking apps to tell people that we were at this bar and to come and meet other LGBT people. A very novel and positive thing to do, I thought.

But before we arrived at the bar, 3 of the delegation were keen to see Skopje and I was more than happy to take them on a tour. Over the course of an hour and a half, I relayed my knowledge of the history of the country and the city, as I pointed out such buildings as the Government HQ, the old, brutalist Post Office and the Kale Fortress looming over the city, hidden behind those horrid buildings. We ventured into the old town, which was buzzing with a mainly younger crowd. This area has clearly seen investment as many of the shop fronts had been done up, and many of the bars and cafes had a hipster feel to it. It also seemed that this had not led to residents being pushed out, which is pleasant to see. We had a beer at one of the cafes, as I continued my history lesson. My only hope was that I didn’t bore my colleagues.

The Saturday night saw us host our social democrats dinner at La Terrazza, just off the main square. I arrived with a small number of our delegation, the rest following half an hour later. We had Julie Ward MEP, Pavle Bogoevski MP, Danijel Kalezic from Queer Montenegro, Antonio Mihajlov from Subversive Front, and Cllr Stamat Stamatovski from Skopje. Over the course of dinner, wine, and a few Rakija, we had a great discussion on the current state of politics in Macedonia, commitments to help our Montenegrin MPs set up an LGBTI working group in their parliament, as well as the great back story of Pavle.

He worked for the LGBTI Support Centre in Skopje, and it was this organisation that he said gave him a leg up in the world of work. It was his work for this organisation, too, that gave his cousin the courage to come out to his family. I was genuinely struck by how Pavle’s work and advocacy had helped his family member, and reminded me how small acts like this can help those closest to us. His activism then spread to become one of the leaders of the Colourful Revolution. I sort of knew this, having done a quick Google search of his name. But the stories he came out with were second to none. For example, in order to not be prosecuted by the authorities, instead of breaking windows by throwing objects, which was a criminal offence, they came up with using paint to merely mark the outside of buildings, as this was only a misdemeanour. This way they could make their point, without going to jail. But then the plans had to be expanded. As the police cordoned off buildings, they had farther to send their balloons of paint. So they made huge catapults in order to reach the buildings now a hundred or so yards away.  Despite getting elected to Parliament, and the paint being washed off the walls, he said that there is still a small patch of paint at the back of the Government building. When he takes guests on a tour, he proudly points out this reminder of recent political history of which he was a leading part.

That night, as we went to a bar where his cousin was actually leading a karaoke night, we rejoined the rest of the participants. The bar was packed, and Jose and I sang a rendition of Fuego. We met the Mayor of Skopje, and we thanked him for hosting the conference. I also let my guard down as, whilst I was in the queue to the toilet, I began chatting to a young woman, who asked why I was visiting Skopje. Perhaps the Rakija Pavle fed me made me lose my inhibitions, but I said I was here for an LGBTI conference. Her non-reaction to this news led on to a short conversation about why Macedonia needed to move forward on this issue. A sense of joy rose up within me.

The next day, I left Skopje full of hope. Pavle’s story and his continuing solidarity with us was a major factor in this. I look forward to his star rising. But the ERA conference really showed the power of collective action, with the participants sharing ideas and best practice, and then going away to accelerate the work they have already begun. From our perspective, it allowed for us to gain further knowledge of the situation in each of the countries and to develop our own strategy to support the LGBTI community in each country. The obvious channel is with those countries that have PES member parties in Government. But the role of our movement is not solely in getting the low hanging fruit, but to meet the challenges head on, especially when we are not in power.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days - Part 11

I had been looking forward to this day for sometime. On the one hand it was going to be a sombre day, as the places we were visiting had witnessed some of the most harrowing scenes of the Bosnian war. On the other, we were going outside the city and in into the countryside of one of the countries I have been fascinated by for a number of years.

We pre-booked the car for 9am, so woke up relatively early, skipping breakfast, in order to catch the tram to a destination half way across the city. We left with a backpack each of limited supplies and all the paperwork under the sun. We stopped at the bakery on the corner before purchasing our tram ticket from the kiosk at the tram stop. We hopped on to a busy tram, standing most of the 25-minute ride from Alipasino Polje, our stop for the car hire place. We jumped off at the central reservation of the road where the tram runs, and observed brutalist housing to our left and sparse land of former industrial buildings to our right. We walked back on ourselves for 5 minutes to get to the EuropeCar lot. 15 minutes after entering reception, including a meticulous check of the hire car, we departed.

John was in the driver seat first, as I was nervous about driving abroad anyway, and wanted to be out of the city before I attempted it. Lucky too, as the road was three lanes in each direction. He managed to navigate across the road, doing a u-turn on a side street, before getting back on to the main road, driving east. The sat nav was a real help to calm nerves, even though the road was straight. 15 minutes later we squeezed through the now narrowed road between the old town and the river, and were out of Sarajevo.

The effective division of the country soon hit us when we immediately saw the ‘Welcome to Republika Srpska’ sign a few minutes outside the city limits. The road was on the side of a ravine, the river below being the Miljaka. We climbed up rather steeply for a good 20 minutes before reaching our junction to turn north-east. The road was single lane each way and empty of traffic.

5 minutes after we turned we stopped at a lonely-looking petrol station. A couple of staff members were in the cramped shop as we bought crisps, sweets, gum and water; the cashier appeared unbothered with us being visitors as his oral exchange was rather muted. Back on the road we ascended some more for 25 minutes or so when we levelled out onto Romanija.

The scenery was beautiful. On the horizon were the tops of spiraling mountains, dominating the vista and almost taunting the green rolling hills in the foreground before us. This was very much like driving along the hinterland roads of north Wales – bleak yet pastoral. The sky was overcast somewhat, but the sun broke through in shards of light to further illuminate the green-yellow fields around us. We had still only seen individual homes dotted along the road, often at some distance between them. This was to last for 20km or so.

We had reached the edge of the plateau, arriving at the first of the mountains that were to make this journey all the more protracted. In addition, we were stuck a few cars behind an old, grinding agricultural truck – seemingly from the latter Tito-era.  We slowly drove up and over the mountain; one or two cars did the daring maneuver of over-taking on rather short bouts of road between the bends. We stayed firmly in line. After our descent, we drove through similar terrain as before, but this seemed to be covered more in forestry. We meandered in the direction of Podromanija, again having the road to ourselves. 

At this point, we came across a police car in a lay by to our right, with a police officer stood leaning against it. The next moment he is beckoning us to pull over. My heart leapt to my throat. John smoothly applied the brakes in order to slow down, and turned into the lay by behind the police car. I scrambled to get our papers from the glove box, so as not to seem inefficient. The officer began walking towards us as we slowed down to a stop, and approached my side of the car. I literally had no idea what to expect. Did he speak English? Was this a common occurrence? It was our first police sighting.

I wound down the window and, as he came to the door, I belted out “Doberdan. Hello”. It was with the second word that he must have immediately come to the decision to not bother with us. I offered the International Driving licenses, and had our UK licenses to hand, but he merely waved his hands to shoo our documents away, and then turned to walk away, waving his hands from behind for us to drive off. I wound my window back up; John checked his mirrors and then pulled out. Only once we passed out of view of the police officer, did we then speak – fearing he may hear, I assume – and shared our mutual fear of what we expected might have unfolded.

After continuing for 15 minutes or so, we turned off towards Sokolac. This town may have served as a market town in the past. Its main high street was on a one-way section of a gyratory road system. This must have been implemented in response to increased traffic through the town, given that the strategic south-west/north east and north west/south east roads passed through here. We drove past the usual array for convenience stores and café’s, and noted the Serb bent of symbols dotted around. The town seemed a bit tired, as if there was a decline in passing trade leading to a malaise in its people. We passed through and continued. For the next 80 minutes we followed the now monotonous country road heading north, then east from Vlasenica (another sizeable town with a seemingly mixed population), turning once again north at Milici, and then east on the road to Bratunac.

All along this route there was an increasing frequency of villages that we passed, and a noted oscillation of who lived there. As we drove through one, you would notice an Orthodox church in the centre (usually newly built) and a Republika Srpska flag nearby. Half a kilometer down the road we would then see a mosque at the centre of the village (again, usually newly built) with the Federal flag. The area we were now passing through evidently had a long established Muslim population, and I felt a natural bias towards the Bosnian Muslims as they were so far away from the Sarajevan sphere of influence. The fact that these communities still resided in Republika Srpska surprised me, as would Serb communities living in the Muslim-Croat entity. Thankfully, the ultimate goal of nationalist leaders on all sides had not come to fruition; although the point of our journey was to visit the place where some had tried, and had certainly erased a vast number of these communities.

As we drove into Bratunac, I noticed it possessed the same atmosphere as Sokolac. You could almost feel the resentment to outsiders, like most places that exist on the periphery of a state and experiencing economic and social neglect from larger urban centres. Here, you are as far away from Banja Luka as you are Belgrade, with Sarajevo not that much closer; which only compounds the sense of isolation and being left behind. I sensed that the border with Serbia, only a kilometer away, might be acting as a reminder that the Serb nationalists may have founded a separate republic in all but name, but failed in it being incorporated into a greater Serbia. It was at this point I pondered “Did people see the BiH number plate on our car and suspect we were only driving through to visit the Potocari memorial?” I noted that the car number plates here and for most of our drive were SRB.

Almost immediately were in a slim green valley and had arrived at Potocari. The sunshine was complementing the landscape, romanticizing it almost. Yet I felt that this betrayed the place where untold human suffering reached its zenith. We pulled up near to the front gates and got out. The temperature was a shock, as we had the air con on; the air outside was dry and still. I was apprehensive as we walked into the compound, not knowing how I would emotionally engage, as I had wanted to visit for a number of years.

A green-roofed, brick built open-air mosque stood at the centre of a plaza area yards away from the entrance. To our right was a small glass booth with a visitor’s book inside. I left a short message of condolence. A series of cream marble stones formed a crescent around the mosque, and had inscribed on them the names of those men and boys who had been buried here, including their dates of birth. The one that really stuck out for me was Mehmed Varnica who was born in 1981 – only 14 years old when he was murdered.

We walked along the crescent, and then up the incline of the valley’s hillside among the headstones. The valley was quiet, only the odd car passing by disturbed the peace. I then happened upon the only headstone that was of a Christian. I wondered what the story of this man was. Was he resisting the onslaught of the Serb forces, or was he caught up by accident? We walked back down the hillside towards the exit, and crossed over the road to one of the run-down industrial buildings occupying the east side of the valley.

The vast, echoing series of halls were where the Dutch UN Peacekeepers resided. Nothing really remained aside from a few large pieces of industrial machinery and graffiti on the walls. Some of it was rather disparaging to Bosnian women; those the UN were supposedly meant to protect whilst ‘keeping the peace’. It gave off the impression too that the soldiers didn’t really know why they were here.

In the middle of the largest hall was a small exhibition. It contained photos and belongings to 20+ men and boys who were murdered. Because the UN had inadvertently created a focal point for refugees to gather, at the industrial site, the Bosnian Serb Army had a concentrated population and could now action a plan to remove them. About the time that the buses came to remove them, along with the women and elderly, thousands of the men and boys took to the hills. Others were segregated for dealing with, once the women and children had gone. Thousands of men and boys were systematically murdered, or were teased out of the hillsides and killed on the spot, over the following hours and days.

A sense of suffocation came over me as I read these stories, as we were literally in the middle of nowhere, the journey here proving that. Tuzla, the main Bosniak-held town, was over 80km away. The various ways in which each individual tried to survive was heartbreaking.

I left the hall looking for John, finding him outside. We then returned to the car. I decided that we should go to Srebrenica itself, just up the road, and hopefully buy some food in a shop. We drove for 8 minutes and entered the town, parking up to the right on a fork in the road where a supermarket was located. It was then decided that I should drive for the next section. Fair do’s, John had been driving for three and a half hours.

We grabbed some bread, meat and cheese for sandwiches and some drinks. As we sat eating in the car, I looked around at the small town. I would say it was more like a village. The buildings were a mix on one hand of Austro-Hungarian style, painted in pastel colours; and the brutalist kind we were used to seeing.  The supermarket was housed in a more modern construction. Only a handful of the buildings looked war damaged. Not many people were about either.

After finishing our lunch, I then started up the car, reversing around so as to point in the direction of Potocari. It took me a good 30 minutes to get used to driving. I kept hitting the car door to my left when I wanted to change gears, forgetful that the stick was the other side. The sat nav was my best friend, especially as I came to the first turning at Bratunac. I handled the right turn well, perhaps revving off too quickly, as a car was approaching in the opposite direction.

I had soon settled in, and was rather enjoying the driving through the repeated scenery of where we had already driven. The drive back to Sokoloc was only eventful because a tractor had overturned and caused a bit of a traffic jam. Other than that, within two hours we were at the junction just south of Sokolac again, but this time turned left as we headed to Visegrad.

The initial drive was a long, straight road through flat, agricultural land. Easy-peasy. We then travelled alongside a river within a ravine, passing in and out of tunnels, all of which had names on sign as you entered them with the length in meters next to it. It then returned to familiar green rolling hills before we arrived at the only major settlement in the area, Rogatica. Driving through and taking in the town, it felt less forgotten than the towns we had just passed through. It felt as though it still functioned as a place to stay overnight before continuing with your onward journey – something now long gone in the UK since the advent of bypasses and motorways. Perhaps this town’s days are numbered, as a Belgrade to Sarajevo road is being proposed with the route via Visegrad being one of the two options. Its main road still had cafes and shops that were thriving, and a park and tree-lined walkways with benches full of people. With Rogatica behind us, travelling south then east, we then drove through one of the most dramatic landscapes I had come across yet.

We had now met the Drina River again, having done so as we crossed the border a few days before. But here, it had gathered into lakes of luminous turquoise. I felt like I was in a James Bond film, as the car drove level with the water, speeding in and out of tunnels that were dug through the hillsides jutting out into the lake. This would have been an ideal place to stay to hire a boat, and just paddle around exploring the shoreline. About 25 minutes before we reached our destination, the river began to descend. So we hurtled through evermore tunnels as we rushed alongside the narrowing and deepening river. The final descent into the town saw us high above the river, as it began to dominate the bottom of the widening gorge that opened up into the town. To our right, as we navigated north into the east side of the town, we saw the old bridge span the now emerald river.

We had to drive on and go over a new bridge, and back on ourselves to get into the old town. We found a parking spot, paid the fee, and marched immediately to the bridge. My need to visit here was only recently developed. I had just read Nobel Laureate Ivo Andric’s novel The Bridge on the Drina. His novel depicts the life of the residents of Visegrad over 400 years, all with a connection to the Mehmed Pasa Sokolovic bridge built in 1577 by the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire. The bridge is the silent witness to the goings-on in the town. So to be here was to bring to reality the fiction that I had read.

We walked along the length of the bridge, appreciating the gushing river below and the widening valley and hillsides to the north. When we returned, we visited the nearby café so we could have a refreshing soft drink, and to take in the bridge structure some more. Bosnia would do well to advertise this hidden gem to international visitors. No sign of bus trips from Sarajevo (or Belgrade for that matter) as we travelled through, even! This would be an easy moneymaker.

We departed soon after, as we needed to get the car back by 7:30pm. I wanted to drive again, so I hopped into the driver seat. I think John was glad too because, 25 minutes later, he was fast asleep. I had wanted to go back via Gorazde and Pale – the former another of those “safe havens” of the past; the latter the wartime Serb capital – but got confused when I approached the junction, so I just returned on the route we arrived by. The hilly and mountainous terrain meant that even in the height of summer, from 6:30pm onwards, it started getting dark in the valleys and along the roads overshadowed by nearby looming summits. John woke up as we made our descent from Romanija into Sarajevo.

We darted through the busy old town and onward to Alipasino Polje. We parked in the car park, and a security guard in a small office came out to relieve us of the car. We hadn’t had time to put in petrol, and were late by 30 minutes, but it seemed later that they only charged us for the petrol at £20. Not bad. We walked over to the tram stop and noticed that some car accident had occurred in one of the lanes heading into the old town. We played the usual nosey onlooker until our tram came. A number of people on the tram were dressed up, ready for a night out. Although not necessarily tired, we were weary from the long drive, so we both had showers as soon as we got back to our room. Once changed, John wanted to see what Trip Advisor recommended for food, and after 10 minutes of scrolling decided upon a place called Dveri. We wondered out, and walked 3 minutes to its approximate location. Only for a photo on the app showing a board at a discreet doorway, we would never have found it.

We walked down a narrow, covered pathway before we hit upon a glass doorway. The décor was dark browns and greens accompanied by exposed brickwork, with plants descending from the roof. It was one of those places that gathered allsorts over the years and placed them everywhere. A guy welcomed us, and sat us near the door. We were in a gangway of 3 tables, similar in width to the alleyway we entered by, and two rooms came off the wings of this containing 4 tables in each; Very cosy and intimate. For my meal, I decided upon a form of battered sausage with peppers, tomatoes and a jacket potato. John had a meat and bean stew. The friendly waiter suggested a good bottle of red to go with it, which we obviously approved of, even if it could have possibly been rank. As it turned out, the red wine and the meal were delicious. We spent a good time there catching up on the day’s travelling, and made plans for the week until we finished the wine. We had to settle by cash, which hit the wallet a bit but was worth it, and left a sizeable tip for our attentive waiter.

We wanted to find this supposed ‘gay friendly’ club, so walked towards the river. As we did, a huge display of fireworks lit up the sky. We presumed that it was in honour of the annual Sarajevo Film Festival that was also taking place this week. After they finished, we carried on by turning right down a road that had a few pedestrians on it but was quieter than the parallel main shopping street. We thought we had now found the vague location of the building. We had the street, and the nearby property numbers. The building here, part of a row of buildings forming a block that was 500 yards in length, had a bit to the right that contained a door to go up to the apartments and a small shop. To the left was an open space that led to behind the building. We moved shakily through it. No one was about, and faint lights above us lit our way. Soon enough we were out at the back, in a semi public plaza area. I looked up and noticed that we happened upon the office of Oslobodenje, the city newspaper. As we circled around, we could not see any sign of a club. As we walked back I heard faint music. It seemed to come from beneath us. I noticed an unassuming door to my right. It had on it Podrom, the name of the club, and the street number we had been looking for. We rang a buzzer, and in seconds it buzzed out inviting us to open the door.

We descended into the basement, unsure what to expect. The one thing that did hit us was the cigarette smoke. Vile. We walked into a familiar basement bar set up, and walked over to the bar. No indication that any of the few patrons present were gay. But it seemed harmless enough. We ordered two beers and sat near the bar. We made conversation, all the while trying to eye the room looking for potential ‘gay signs’ of the venue or even for people who seemed cool. After a polite second beer and 45 minutes, we decided to leave. The day had by now taken its toll on us, so we went back and crashed.