"And like a bridge over troubled water..."

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Friday morning, I woke up in the apartment in Dubrovnik, screamed in the bathroom as a fuzzy centipede-like creature crawled out of the floor drain, and finished off the rest of my milk and cereal- hooray for cereal! Nikola had been very kind in that he said that he would buy a ticket for the 8:00 am bus to Mostar for me; I could just pay him back. However, as I was finishing my packing, Danijela came in and explained that the bus for Mostar was sold out. Argh! That was OK, she said, Nikola would drive me down there anyway to see if I could squeeze in. Though I was ready at the discussed time, 7:30 am, we didn't leave until after 7:45, when Nikola told me that we also had to pick up a group of guests staying at another apartment. I was sweating bullets as we careened through the maze of hilly streets.

The boys we picked up already had their ticket to Mostar (growl). We arrived at the bus station at about 7:59. In a 15-second whirlwind, Nikola explained that I would take the bus further north to Ploče, Croatia, which has very frequent buses to Mostar; I threw my pack on the bus; and found a seat just as the bus was pulling out of the gate. A similar event occurred upon our arrival at Ploče, where I had about 30 seconds to get a ticket, check my pack, and get on the Mostar-bound bus. Whew. I nearly had a heart attack, though: the night before, I had taken out enough money from the ATM to cover one, not two, bus tickets. Thank the Lord, I had exactly, I mean EXACTLY enough kune left for the second ticket.

(Short digression: one thing that kind of frustrates me here is the lack of standard ticket-purchasing protocol. I have been in some cities where I attempt to buy tickets a day in advance, after which I get a dirty look from the ticket counter person like I'm insane . At other times, when I show up to by a ticket the day of, like 15 minutes before departure, I get a dirty look and a reply that either a) the bus is full, or b) I can just buy the ticket on the bus from the driver. But THEN, in the extreme situation where I have just gotten into Ploče 5 seconds earlier and in my haste, understandably try to buy the ticket from the driver to Mostar, I get a dirty look and an annoyed pointing finger in the direction of the ticket booth. MAKE UP YOUR MINDS. OK, rant completed).

I arrived in Mostar around 11, intending to go straight to a telephone to find accomodations. Of course, the swarm of eager women at the bus station offering places to stay swallowed me whole, and I soon found that I was too tired and too damn hot not to just go with one of them. Jesus, are they persistent. I went with a middle-aged Bosnian woman who did not speak any English. I tried to explain to her that I wanted to stay to buy tomorrow's bus ticket to Sarajevo, but again, I got the crazy look and what I am assuming was an explanation that there are plenty of Sarajevo-bound buses, so buy it tomorrow.

The woman, Majda, brought me to her apartment and showed me a private room. All I could think was wonderful, I'm going to sweat to death, that's fine, I just want to do it in my sleep. I slept for the next 4 hours. Around 4 pm, I washed off some of the sweat and attempted to brave the heat outside. I wandered around the neighborhood near the bus station, wondering where all the people were: the streets were eerily empty. (I learned later that the locals were smarter than me and had just decided to stay indoors on that particularly scorching day). A car of Italian army men stopped and asked me for directions. Ha! Wow- I was impressed that they did not immediately write me off as a tourist.

As I walked along, perspiration dripping off me, I heard what I thought was either a loud radio or a man singing. It turned out to be both: a loudspeaker from the top of a nearby minaret was calling the Muslims to prayer. The voice was beautiful and haunting; definitely not like anything I had heard before.

Making my way towards the old part of the city, still sweating, I passed by the small hotel that I had originally intended to stay at, the Pansion Most. And then on its door I saw the most cruel word a sweat-soaked traveller could see: klimatiziranje. Oh God. They had air conditioning . I almost cried. And then I almost ran back to Majda's, grabbed my pack, and hurried back into the sweet, temperature-controlled paradise. But alas, I didn't, and continued toward the old town.

I walked to the bridge, which is a sight to see. The famous most, or bridge, is where the city got its name. It spans over the green, fast-flowing Neretva River, which separates the east and west sides of the city. During the war in the early 90s, Mostar was particularly hard hit, and the bridge was all but destroyed, segregating the city between Bosnian Croats on the west bank and Muslims on the east. The bridge that I photographed and walked across has been completely rebuilt in the last ten years. Being fortunate enough not to have experienced war firsthand, it was surreal for me to look at the photos of the city's destruction in the nearby exhibit. Buildings that I had passed had been reduced to rubble only a short time ago.

I bought some lunch at a cafe near the bridge (which, oddly enough, was playing The Gypsy Kings on repeat. I swear, I've heard "Bamboleo" and "Volare" so much on this trip, I should make them my theme songs). I was starting to feel a little light-headed again because of the heat. The waitress later came up to me and asked if I spoke English. She asked, "How do you say this in English?" I had ordered pljeskavica, the same meal I had eaten with my cousins in Ljubljana that one night. I responded that truthfully, we really didn't have those foods where I live, so there is not a literal translation, but I could try. She asked me to write them down for her. So:

pljeskavica = sausage burger
čevapči = spicy sausages
pommes frit = French fries

She smiled gratefully and returned to the restaurant. Something tells me that I am going to be responsible for a menu change. It was strange, though: later on that night, as I was sitting at another cafe near the bridge, writing in my journal and having my first experience with Bosnian (Turkish) coffee (this, I think, came right after I accidentally swallowed a bunch of the grounds and almost choked), an older gentleman with a long gray beard and white linen clothing approached me. He asked in Bosnian what I was writing, and I replied in Slovenian, hoping he might understand that. Nope: he stood at my side and peered into the book, trying to see what language I was writing in. When he saw English words, he asked for my help: he was a store owner (I had seen him selling local souvenirs when I passed by earlier) but his problem was that he was located right next to an ice cream place. When the people line up for ice cream, he complained, they stand in front of my store, and no one can see inside. He asked me to write the words for a sign that he could post. I ripped out a page from my journal and in block letters wrote "PLEASE DO NOT BLOCK DOORWAY. THANK YOU!" He took the paper, smiled gratefully, and went off. Hmm. Maybe I should just give up on the real career thing and just fund my travelling by work in translating 😉.

I hobbled along the street, the Kujundziluk, on the east bank of the river. The so-called walking shoes I was wearing were having a tough time on the steep cobbled street... and gave me some nice blisters later. I'm sure the locals were having a laugh watching me stagger around like a drunk. I visited a mosque, where I was allowed to climb the minaret inside. The architecture was beautiful, and the view from the top was priceless. I met a very pleasant Italian guy from Milan (who was very surprised that I had been to Milan). The weather had finally cooled a little bit, and it was nice just to take in the scenery at sunset for a while.

I did some walking around the area that was the front line of the fighting. Again, it was eerie to be walking along and suddenly come across a whole section of buildings that were still riddled with bullet holes. Nothing, not even places of worship, seemed to escape damage.

The rest of the night was nothing to write home about. Mostar has a bunch of these cool cafes and bars: one looked like something out of Arabian Nights, with reclining couches and gauzy curtains around private tables; another, which I think was called Open Sesame, was built into a cave on the side of the river. The downside to staying in a private room is that you don't meet people as easily, and I didn't. Maybe it was because I was still getting over being sick, but I wasn't feeling particularly adventurous enough to go to one of these places by myself. Kind of tired, anyway, I walked back to Majda's.

When I arrived, she was not alone. Her son, Aladin, and his friend, both probably around 21 or so, were in the dining room watching an English-version Attila the Hun miniseries on TV. Majda offered some ice-cold iced tea (ahhhh!) and a spot on the couch. Another traveller from Ireland had just gotten into town and left the apartment as I was coming in. (There were other rooms? I wish I had known this sooner!) As we watched - Aladin and his friend both knew English - a third traveller came in and sat with us. And he was beautiful. (There were other rooms? I wish I had known this sooner!!!) His name was Dave; he was from Australia, in his early thirties, and heading towards Dubrovnik the next day. (Why??? Why, God, must all nice, attractive Australian men that I meet be following the exact OPPOSITE course of travel that I am?) He was just here for the day, and had just gotten back from this cool little bar built into a cave at the side of the river. (God is pointing at me and openly laughing now). We watched Attila get poisoned by his wife, then went to bed. Wish there was some sort of addendum to this, but alas.

Ever the kind hostess, Majda had Bosnian coffee ready for us before we left early the following morning, and then a few minutes later, I was on my bus to Sarajevo.

Coming up: a tour, a tunnel, and the first time I am unable to eat a local dish.

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Photos

My room
At Majda's apartment, I collapsed into bed and slept all afternoon. There was nothing else to do in the heat.

Bridge over troubled water
The local crazies who competitively dive off the bridge are still at it. Later, I met a Spanish guy on the train who had also jumped off the bridge for fun. He thinks he broke his rib.

Ubiquitous advertising
This translates into "Food and Coca Cola, a ? Pair." (Have to double check my Bosnian here). I saw these signs all over Bosnia with different varieties of meals.

Amidst the minarets
Fantastic view of old Mostar near sunset.

Kujundziluk
This part of town was my favorite; it reminded me a lot of Granada, Spain. The streets gave me a bit of trouble, though!

New and old
A renovated home next to one that hasn't been touched since the war.

Majda
She graciously posed for a photo and then offered more iced tea :).