Bosnia

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Bosnia
November 16 - 25, 2006

Thursday November 16

We took the 5:15 pm bus to Mostar from Dubrovnik. We think the actual drive time is only 2 hours but with stops and border crossings we were told it would take between 3 and 4 hours. The bus was the most crowded bus we had been on in quite awhile but it was still not even half full. At one point on the way from Dubrovnik there is about a 20 km stretch of coast that is Bosnian so you have to cross through 2 checkpoints there before even really leaving Croatia and getting to Bosnia.

We arrived at 8 and Majda ([e-mail]) (pronounced Myduh) who runs Majdas Rooms met us at the train station. We had our own room at her place but shared a bathroom. The internet was a little slow, but free. The first night there was only one other guest there and on our second night there was no one but us to share the apartment and the bathroom with the family. The family (Majda and her mother and father) were so hospitable it felt like we were just hanging out with family friends. When we arrived and enquired about local restaurants Majda gave us some hearty and delicious potato pie and soup and cherry dessert that her mother made. After dinner, Majda drew us a map of some local attractions and suggested things to see and eat in Mostar.

The other person staying at Majda’s Rooms the first night was a young woman from Japan traveling on her own. She was very adventurous and definitely made us feel like soft travelers because she had worked her way west from Japan through all of the various "Stans" before arriving in Bosnia. Her plan was to head to East and West Africa in a month or two. She was doing all of these places on a very tight budget and alone with an average grasp of the English language.

We spent some time talking to Majda about Bosnia and the war that engulfed the country as Serbia grasped for control of the breakaway republics (a doomed effort made more ugly due to ethnic tensions old and new). Mostar was heavily damaged and remains so. Like many Bosnians Majda and her family sought refuge in other nations, Majda spending four years in England, her parents in Norway, and her brother in Sweden. Understandably the topic was difficult for our hostess to discuss but we learned a great deal about the realities of the conflict in Mostar from her.

Friday November 17

Majda told us that a lot of the shops would close at 2 and that we should get an early start. We woke up and her mom gave us bread and coffee (more like warm milk with a little instant something in it, still a much more hospitable start to a day than we may have thought before arriving). After breakfast we headed into Old Town. Old Town was really cute with shops selling handicrafts that we hadn’t seen yet in our travels. The picturesque village shops, stone streets, and quaint shops accentuate the stunning "new" Stari Most (Old Bridge), a giant stone arch that has connected the banks of the Old Town across the Neretva River for more than 400 years. The original Old Bridge was destroyed in 1993 when Mostar became caught in the middle of the warring forces fighting to rule the crumbling Yugoslavia. You do not have to be in Mostar long to appreciate the value of the bridge. Both literally and figuratively the high arc of stone has connected and defined the village for centuries. The "new" Old Bridge has again become the symbol of Mostar and even the ancient annual contest for those insane enough to leap 30 meters into the water below has returned.

Walking around Mostar it is amazing the amount of destruction that remains. There are many destroyed buildings next to completely new and modern ones. We weren’t sure why the destroyed buildings hadn’t been fixed yet. Were they left as monuments to the war? Had the owners not returned to Mostar after the war? Majda told us that people don’t have the money to fix the buildings but that a lot has been fixed because almost everything in town was destroyed. Many of the ruins that remain are fenced off and feature signs warning of possible collapse. Near the Old Town we saw a large graveyard that used to be a city park. Many of the parks in the region have been converted to cemeteries, a permanent and grim reminder of the toll of the war on this small town. Across from a stretch of shops and un-repaired buildings what was once a green park now holds row after row of the graves of young Muslim men. As if to accentuate the intimate smallness of town even more we noticed signs around town that are obituary notices, posted frequently to announce the passing of a resident to the larger community.

While walking around town we ran into a woman from Portland that we met at our hotel in Bled. Her boyfriend had joined her in Bosnia and they were set to do a couple of weeks of traveling before heading back to America. It’s a small world when you’re in the Balkans.

From the shops along the river Roger bought a meta shell from the war that a local artisan had turned into art, carving the name of the town and some beautiful designs into the metal. Amy bought a very good book on the recent history of Yugoslavia called The Fall of Yugoslavia by Misha Glenny. We had lunch at a recommended self service restaurant although we ordered off the menu and received cevapi, small sausages, and pljeskavica, a hamburger patty dish. They are served with mustard, pita and onions and are very good and cheap. Most of the other people in the restaurant were eating bureks with gravy and yogurt drinks and this was the first time we noticed how quickly the people in Bosnia eat.

Following the detailed instructions provided by Majda we took a very crowded city bus 15 km to Blagaj. Once there we realized that there wasn’t much to do this time of year. There is a castle on the rim of the mountain above town but we didn’t really have the time or interest. There’s also a traditional house that you can tour but it was closed (we think it was closed - we walked into the garden and poked around but no one seemed to be at home). The main attraction in town was at the source of the Buna River. The river flows quietly out from under the mountain and is crystal clear. Next to the rock wall and the pool of fresh water sits the Dervish House, itself an attraction, though the house was quiet and there were only a few other visitors enjoying the late afternoon sun. We didn’t even explore Blagaj for two hours before we returned to the block long strip of shops that constitute the city center where we sat for coffee, waited for the bus, and watched the locals come and go (everyone seemed to know everyone else).

After arriving back in Mostar we had dinner at Taurus, which was recommended and very good. Roger had steak that had some kind of mustard and potato salad (which was really a plate of sliced potatoes) and Amy had veal, rolled around ham, cheese and egg and then pan fried and topped with gravy. We are not making that up. Bosnian food is good for you.

When we got back to Majda’s we did some work on the computer. Majda’s mom made us tea and brought us pomegranate, fresh roasted chestnuts and a plate of fruit. Majda was out but after she came home she told us about her day and answered some of our questions about the war although it was painful for her to talk about it.

Saturday November 18

We woke up to catch the 8am train to Sarajevo. We were told the train was beautiful and since it only ran twice a day, at 8 in the morning and sometime in the evening, we were forced to take the morning train if we wanted to see the scenery. Majda’s mom drove us to the train station at 7:30, which was cutting it pretty close for us. The entire floor of the train station was full of young men wearing red coats, scarves, and sweaters. It took us awhile to figure out where to buy the train tickets. We could only find the window for the bus tickets. When Amy ended up unknowingly at the train ticket window and asked if the woman manning it spoke English (hoping to ask where we could buy train tickets) the woman told her no. Amy had already asked someone else that and been told no so she was starting to get a little bit anxious about getting our tickets in time. We watched a guy, his dreadlocks and backpack a dead giveaway that he, too, was a tourist, buy the tickets from a window though and so we bought our tickets there as well.

Tickets in hand we went upstairs to find our train. There were no signs telling us where the Sarajevo train was but all the men that had been crowding the first floor were now on the opposite side of the tracks so we asked and followed. Waiting for the train we started talking to the dreadlocked guy, a pleasant kid named Matt from Canberra, Australia.

The train pulled in and there were only three cars. The train was immediately flooded with the local guys who we determined were on their way to a soccer match. They were loaded down with beer, hard alcohol, cigarettes and pot, all the necessities for a sporting event. The cars quickly filled up and it looked like we would all be standing in the hall. As guys squeezed passed us some people started taking note that the last two compartments were empty but locked. A few of the guys started trying to open a compartment with the window shades pulled down, ultimately pulling away a panel that exposed the locking mechanism across the top of the compartment door. The leader of the hooligans was wearing a Kansas City Chiefs coat (more an indictment of the kind of people who cheer for the Chiefs than of Bosnians).

Matt quickly followed their lead and opened up the last empty compartment on the train (empty except for one small bag on the floor). Surprisingly none of the hooligans followed us in and we weren’t sure if it was out of respect or disregard for the foreigners or because we were going to get in trouble. They were very rowdy, singing and shouting at each stop as well as throwing at least one firecracker out the windows at each stop. When the ticket conductor came by for our tickets we realized we had broken into his car. Whoops. We think he was upset but he didn’t know enough English to ask us or scold us (we think he kept telling everyone that asked that we broke into his car, though in our defense, on a packed train where people are standing without seats it seems pretty rude to keep a compartment for one non-paying rider). As it turned out we shared the ticket conductor’s non-smoking compartment with him, a couple of other guys and a whole lot of cigarettes (non-smoking signs are more suggestive than prohibitive).

The scenery from the train was very nice and we were amazed at the rolling hills and high mountains the separate Mostar and Sarajevo. After a while one of the soccer hooligans brought in a whisky bottle box full of money for the conductor. We’re not sure if that’s how they bought their tickets or if they were paying a fine or bribe. A couple of the guys seemed very interested in making sure he was ok with what they brought which would be a bit weird if they were buying fixed price train tickets. Not only were the hooligans smoking and drinking, Roger and Matt were pretty sure that one of the guys and about the only other woman on the train had sex in the bathroom, which Roger found to be so dirty he barely wanted to use it to urinate. This is all at about 8:30 in the morning.

We finally arrived in Sarajevo and instead of rushing out into the world we had coffee at the train station to unwind a bit after our journey. As we had been traveling in Bosnia without a guidebook we also felt the need to collect our senses, and maybe a map, before heading into the city. Like most train stations it was a bit sketchy and there was even a very cute little 3 year old girl asking us for money. The train must have made a short stop because several of the red-clad men got off for massive quantities of more beer.

The tourist office in the train station was closed and we didn’t have a map and weren’t able to buy a map. We finally decided to get on the tram and see if it could get us to the Old Town. We got off at a pleasant looking stop along the river and it ended up being the perfect point for Old Town right near the Latin Bridge. The directions we had for a recommended guesthouse said to go two streets toward a mosque but looking up we could see mosques everywhere so we headed in a direction and found a street that sounded like ours and finally found our place (it really was that exacting and scientific a search). The woman had us in a tiny double with a bathroom but we changed to a much larger twin without a bathroom for 10 Euros less.

For lunch we had a burek and something else similar, one with hamburger and one with cheese. We walked around the Old Town stopping in a book store and at a travel agent’s office to inquire about flights to Istanbul. We had coffee and a crepe with nutella and crushed cookie at Roger’s favorite new coffee shop, Club Bill Gates. We also spent some time looking for a phone to call home but realized it was far too expensive so we settled for internet instead. When we were done we walked quickly to the movie theatre to see Nafaka, a locally produced movie that Majda’s mom had seen while we were in Mostar. It was in English and Bosnian and was about an American woman and her friends in Sarajevo during the war. We liked some of it but it was hard to understand the context of it all and there was a very disturbing scene at the end involving milk-filled mouths and sloppy kisses which was far more horrifying than the graphic horrors of war.

After the movie we had cevapi and pljeskavica for dinner. Again.

Sunday November 19

Since arriving in Europe, our Sundays have been pretty quiet. We left the room after 10 and we were surprised that some of the shops were opening up even though most of the businesses (travel agency, etc.) were closed. We went to a café for coffee and after seeing some other people order two desserts we split baklava, which was lighter and with more honey (and vastly better) than we had ever had. The coffee was so small that Amy had to order two.

After dessert, we walked over to the old Serbian-Orthodox Church of St. Michael The Archangel. We do not really know what distinguishes the Serbian-Orthodox faith from other Christian sects. All we know is that it is a Christian religion and it is what most Serbians are. The church dates to the Middle Ages and is consequently designed differently from Catholic churches, particularly in appearance from the outside. Parts of the structure today have been in place since the 5th or 6th centuries. In this church all of the action is in the middle. Rather than a traditional alter at the front of the church the pulpit lies in the middle of the congregation. A balcony rims the room and there are several small offices and ceremonial areas. The church is very ornate and feels and smells old. With limited windows, small doors, and ancient wood panels it takes you away to another time.

After exploring the church we walked over to the nearby hostel to see if they had any tours. They had a tour of some of the sights during the war so we signed up to do that on Monday. Then we went to the old synagogue, which is also the Jewish museum. It is a beautiful space and is a nice museum about the role Jews played in Bosnian life and what happened during the Holocaust.

We had a couple of delicious bureks for lunch - one with meat and one with potato - at Café Dallas (UL. Velika Avlija br. 1). Then we shared a tulumba which looked like a twinkie but wasn’t filled and was covered with honey. It was, in a word, magnificent. We spent a couple of hours at the internet café posting a new blog and researching how to get to Turkey. We had a delicious dinner with sausage, cevapi and the ubiquitous pljeskavica. It may have been the best one we’d had so far in Bosnia and we’d had a lot. We also bought a phone card and Amy tried to call her parents. We couldn’t believe what a rip off it was when the 8 Euro card cut us off after 7 minutes.

Though Sarajevo has always been able to boast of a religiously diverse population we noticed that there are a lot more covered Muslim women out at night. We seemed to be targeted right away for people asking for money even though we stood out far less here than in many of our destinations (like Asia). We’re not exactly sure what sets us apart but we suspect it is our travel clothes. Most of the women here get really dressed up and sport big boots.

Monday November 20

We left the hotel around 9:30am and went to three travel agents to ask about the train and plane to Istanbul. None of them sold train tickets and after asking at the tourist information office we confirmed that the train station is the only place to buy tickets. We found out that plane tickets to Istanbul would be around $250 per person. We were only looking for one way tickets but none of the travel agents thought to look for round trip tickets to see if they were cheaper until Amy asked them to do so.

After that we went back to our favorite café, Café Dallas, for a potato burek and meat burek and coffee and found out that it is named after Dallas, Texas because the owner lived there (we assume during the war but we aren’t sure).

When we arrived at the hostel for our 11am tour we met another traveler named Katie, from Australia. We waited about 20 minutes for a guy that signed up and never showed before they told us they couldn’t go without four people so we decided to split the fourth fare between the three of us so that we could go. The guide was a very opinionated 30 year old woman who had been in Sarajevo during the war. She had been shot in the leg by snipers as she was trying to run to freedom across the airfield (essentially the only pathway out of the besieged city). Sarajevo sits in a well defined valley which allowed snipers to sit in the hills by the airport and shoot anyone trying to escape. Our guide reported that the snipers were indiscriminate and would shoot at anyone, including old people or children.

Our guide wasn’t very good at giving us information except when she was ready to. When we asked questions she often said she would give us a speech when we came to a certain destination so it was fairly scripted. We stopped at a cemetery overlooking the city that was known for being a location used by snipers and several other spots overlooking Sarajevo. During our stay Sarajevo was generally cloaked in smoke or mist. As seen from the hills in the afternoon sun it took on a very otherworldly appearance. The mosques, churches, old communist buildings, and residential television antennae poked through the smoke and, with most of the traffic obscured, seemed more like a portrait of a city than a bustling metropolis. Periodically the hills would echo the Muslim calls to prayer from the mosques.

The most intriguing stop of the tour was at the tunnel museum. During the war Sarajevo was surrounded by Serbian forces on all sides except for the airfield, which was controlled by the United Nations. While the snipers were able to pick off city residents moving over the airfield, as our tour guide had attempted, they could do nothing to keep the locals from tunneling under it. The tunnel stretched 800 meters and was so narrow as to only allow traffic to move in one direction at a time. This tunnel was the only link between the city and the outside world and saw thousands of people, goats, and cartons of supplies move through it each day. Built as quickly and primitively as it was the tunnel is largely collapsed now but the museum has preserved a portion of it that drives home just how small, damp, and daunting the walk would have been.

Our guide was very entertaining but often fairly contradictory in her opinions - she doesn’t hate anyone but she hates George Bush and the French, she is mad no one came to help Bosnia but thinks America is awful for being in Iraq, she thinks Italians are weird for not coming to Bosnia but then she thinks Kosovo is too far away to worry about…. We have often been surprised on this trip to find the extent that America is the face of evil (alone in the West). Everyone we meet will tell us that they are from a very multicultural country (Bosnia in particular seems to be incredibly diverse) where they have to live together and they have to work very hard. People must think all Americans are the same ethnicity and religion (who knows which one) and that we are all handed bags of cash at birth. Many people we have met don’t believe Roger is American and instead believe he is either Spanish, Arab or Turkish, even though he would not stand out in a crowd anywhere in the US. When we try to explain that everyone in America looks different, because most of us can easily trace our roots to any one of a hundred countries, it usually falls on deaf ears.

There is definitely a bitterness in some of the people we have met in Bosnia that we have not found elsewhere in our travels. We did not find the Bosnian people to be as friendly as in the other Balkan countries, but it’s hard to begrudge them for that. Their recent history is very painful and remains very connected to life today.

After the tour we took the tram back to the Sarajevo train station and to buy our train ticket to Istanbul (though we were only able to buy the ticket to Belgrade). We went to take the tram back to town and the woman in the ticket booth refused to sell Roger tram tickets and just waved us on. We knew this did not seem right and eventually insisted that she sell us tickets (fourth try is the charm). Katie had told us how she had been fined 25 convertible marks (about $17) for riding without a ticket after she and some guys she was with (one of whom was Slovenian and asked about tickets in Bosnian-Croat) were told they didn’t need tickets. We think the ticket lady was trying to get us on without a ticket expressly so we would be fined. We rode the tram a few times and were asked almost every time by an inspector to see our tickets but we rarely saw anyone else asked and it appeared they target travelers.

We had cevapici and pljeskavica for lunch, which at this point was getting a little old, but we haven’t seen much else offered in Bosnia beyond pizza and we were still tired of that from Italy, Slovenia and Croatia. After lunch we spent some time on the internet and then tried to buy some fruit and sweets for our train journey that evening.

When we got back to the hotel to get our bags Roger was feeling really bad so we decided to stay another night and try to go to urgent care. Unfortunately at 5:30 most doctor offices are closed (we had tried to get an appointment earlier and the place told us to call back on Tuesday) and the woman at our hotel told us we couldn’t go to the emergency room until it opened at 8pm. It sounds like this is your option at night and during the day you have to get a referral from your doctor. Neither option would appear to work well for emergencies.

That night we rested in our hotel room and watched some TV shows on our computer before taking a cab to the urgent care place armed with a note from the woman at the hotel explaining Roger’s symptoms. When we got there we realized there were no English signs and no check in desk or information. It was very hard to figure out what to do in a room full of patients with no obvious check-in and nothing but closed doors all over the hospital. Amy asked at the pharmacy outside but the woman didn’t speak much English and wasn’t able to help us. Finally, we asked a man who had sent his wife and child into a room if he spoke English and he did and he helped us find out where to go. With Roger’s Bosnian-Croat symptom card he ultimately got a lab test, talked to the doctor for a few minutes, and then got a prescription. They offered Roger a pain shot for the sharp pains he had been having in his lower back but he wasn’t in pain at the time and so he declined. We got the prescription filled before returning to the hotel. The woman at the hotel told us a guy who stayed with her a couple of weeks before paid 12 convertible marks at the emergency room. We paid that for the lab and then they wrote us up a bill for 18 convertible marks, which they said was for the doctor. We’ll never know whether the costs or the treatment were necessarily accurate, a real eye-opener when dealing with your health. Before treating us the hospital staff had taken Roger’s passport, which also limits your desire to question or protest. We have often reflected on how magnificent Bumrungrad Hospital in Bangkok was and this was no exception.

Tuesday November 21

Intending to leave Sarajevo, again, we woke and packed up our things, again, and checked out of our hotel, again, with a plan for the day that led up to the 8:30pm departure on the train for Belgrade.

Not too far into the day the pain in Roger’s back and groin became very acute (it returned, in fact, as we sat at Café Dallas). We were unable to get back into our hotel, where our bags were, because the owner was out and we didn’t have a key after checking out. Amy suggested we head back to the hostel where we had taken our tour but Roger wanted to go to the internet café and just sit upstairs by the bathroom and try to wait out the pain. Unable to be comfortable anywhere we walked across the Old Town to the hostel’s small café where we hoped we would find an unhurried place to rest, internet, and an accessible bathroom. After about an hour Roger’s misery led Amy to work with the people at the hostel, the same who had helped us with our tour the previous day, to find a doctor for us to visit. Our tour guide, whom we had perceived as a little cold the day before, was tremendously helpful to Amy in organizing things (Roger was of no use).

We hopped in a cab to an ultra-sound and x-ray facility. The nurse was very nasty at first (Roger continued camping out in the restroom despite the fact that there was no actual reason, just a sensation, but the nurse insisted that she had told Amy he needed a full bladder…). The clinic staff warmed after a while although they never saw anything on the ultrasound or x-ray and wrote up non-prescription medicine for us to try. We were then sent to the emergency room for a pain shot, which meant loading Roger (who was so pained he was barely able to walk) back into a cab for a trip to the very emergency room we had visited the previous night. We went to the same door as the night before and after they looked at the print outs and x-rays we had they sent us to the university hospital urology clinic.

After catching a cab to the university hospital we stumbled around the campus until we found the urology clinic where we were told that we needed to go to the university hospital emergency room (coincidentally this was back where the cab had let us out). It took awhile to find the emergency room building and we got the distinct impression that the people at the front of the urology clinic kind of thought the whole thing was funny (Stressed wife seeks medical attention for doubled over and grimacing husband in a foreign country bounce from place to place with no idea what is going on? Pretty much the comic value of a pie fight, right?).

We walked back to the emergency room where we found one large, open room with several staff sitting around and several more people laying on gurneys being treated or awaiting treatment. Here, in a shared room, Roger had blood and urine taken for tests and a shot for pain before we were walked to an outside loading area where the nurse had a smoke and we waited for a hospital car to take us across the campus to another office.

The car took us back to the urology clinic where we had started, though there was no reception and we couldn’t figure out where to go (again). We somehow found our way to the 2nd floor where we found another person waiting in the otherwise empty hallway. Despite the shot Roger was doubled over in pain and slouching down to sit on the floor and was promptly told by the nurse to get up. An old man from a dark room full of patients shuffled his way out to the hallway with a chair for us. The old guy was dressed in a gown and carrying a bag of his urine connected under the gown by a long tube. This act of sensitivity affected us deeply even though we were still pretty distracted by the pain. After a few minutes a nurse called us down the hall some 20 feet away to wait for the doctor. When we were sent to see the doctor the old guy gave us a grin and thumbs up. He was very cute and, we hope, on his way to a speedy recovery.

We waited in the upstairs hallway for a doctor who, once he arrived, provided a quick and thorough exam that yielded another pain shot, detailed prescriptions, and, despite limited English, something of an explanation. Roger had apparently been suffering from some kind of bladder infection and kidney stones. The pain eased almost immediately after the visit with the doctor and we shuffled outside where we sat on a bench in a lightly falling snow. It had been a very traumatic and frustrating day and we just collapsed for a few minutes.

Somehow during the day’s events Amy had found a new nicer hotel for Roger to recover in, Hotel Hecco ([e-mail]). We booked a room (complete with a private bathroom, cable, internet, and a very comfortable bed). From the hospital we took a cab to the new hotel where we checked in and relaxed as the final blessed effects of the pain shot took effect. Aside from a good deal of tension in Roger’s body from the day’s tribulations we were both feeling pretty good and we headed back to the old city to pick up our prescriptions, some water, and our bags before taking a cab back to Hecco where we would hide out for the next couple of days.

Sorting out the prescriptions and treatments was made infinitely easier by the use of the internet, Amy’s mother’s emails, Roger’s sister’s emails, and the helpful clerk at the hotel who got to participate in an awkward cultural event explaining to Amy just where one of Roger’s medications went. "It is not for the mouth."

We have learned that kidney stones are a pretty painful experience no matter where you have them. What had been a very frustrating experience navigating the Bosnian health care system highlighted several things, not the least of which is how accessible and customer oriented the American system is. Certainly our lack of knowledge of the Bosnian-Croat language contributed to a lot of our difficulties. Even though in most of our travels in the Balkans we met people who spoke passable English for most of our needs, the language barrier becomes even more significant and obvious when one is dealing with the always fear inducing issues of personal health. We encountered several people, including a few cab drivers, some medical staff, the people at the hostel, people in the streets who offered help when they saw how much pain Roger was in, and that sweet patient in the urology clinic, who expressed great kindness to us. We also saw what we think must be the reality of life in a place where not long ago there was all out war and devastation (Roger was in pain, yes, but it didn’t look life threatening). This is not a standard we were accustomed to, but at the end of the day we found that there was no need to have moved on to Istanbul or London or Bangkok to get care. For its rough exterior compared to the ample seating and pastel colored halls of American hospitals, the Bosnian health care system did right by us (and we are full of gratitude).

Wednesday November 22

We had a very lazy day around Hotel Hecco. At a small news vendor we bought the Lonely Planet for Turkey and received a free 2007 calendar, which we unfortunately had to leave in our hotel room. We ate at a cheap Mediterranean place for lunch where we enjoyed the best, or at least the most welcome, cheap pasta in memory. It helped that we were so incredibly burnt out on meat.

Dinner in town that night was foiled by the moderate to heavy rain that discouraged us from walking the ten minutes into the Old Town. We cobbled together a meal of peanut butter and honey and banana sandwiches, chips, Snickers, and Diet Coke from the corner market and had a picnic in our room instead.

Thursday (Thanksgiving Day)

We tried to sleep in but the noise of the construction work being done on our hotel (seemingly directly above our bed) made it difficult. After a lazy start to our Thanksgiving we headed out to the train station on the tram where we were again the targets of the fare police, though this time a gang of inspectors checked every passenger and stopped long enough to make some poor slob absolutely miserable (it remains unclear to us whether the man was fined as he was completely surrounded by three fare checkers). We did see a woman validate 2 tickets after being stopped. As she was permitted to validate the tickets after the fact we learned that the fare polices are clearly not consistent.

In changing our train tickets to Belgrade we expected the worst at the train station only to find the exchange to last less than two minutes. The procedure was entirely without question or hassle and as the nice desk clerk at our hotel had told us we got all the money back minus 10 percent. We left the station on a natural high, our only dilemma being whether to seek out the Burger King we spotted during our cab rides around from doctor to doctor on Tuesday or seek out the recommended Mexican restaurant in the old city. Though Roger had been nearing a crucial cheeseburger withdrawal unseen since our time in Vietnam we decided that the Mexican restaurant would be easier to find and was close enough to our hotel as to permit us to get back in time to catch calls from our families.

The Hacienda is tucked away in a narrow side street on the fringe of the old city. It looks like any other Mexican restaurant you may find except for the lounge tables with low couches around the edge of the room that were clearly reserved for sipping coffee. The place was smoky and dimly lit and full of drinkers enjoying beer and coffee (a startling number, actually, for a Thursday) but only a couple of people eating food besides us. We ordered nachos and a chicken burrito, both different enough to remind us we were in Sarajevo but delicious enough to satisfy our taste for something non-Bosnian. Roger attempted to express to the waiter that this was a big holiday in America to which he responded, after consulting with the bartender, that the restaurant upstairs was available for rent.

We spent the afternoon listening to the sounds of construction, watching television shows we downloaded, attempting to determine whether we could conceivably watch the Broncos-Chiefs game online that night at 2am, talking to our families, and generally relaxing. For dinner we attempted to find an Italian/sushi restaurant downtown (a brilliant combination - Italian, sushi, Sarajevo). Unable to locate it we stumbled into another Italian place where the food was good and the live music very soulful.

On our way back to the room we picked up a pair of nice looking cakes at Café Dallas and retired. The evening would have been splendid had we not discovered the internet connection to our room was inexplicably no longer available. Hotel Hecco did send a guy right up to take a look but without result. Our decision whether to stay up for the football game was settled.

Friday November 24

We caught a cab across Sarajevo to the East bus station, which is actually west of town. The drive showed us a vastness to the city, snaking through the narrow valley that defines the urban sprawl of the city. We also got to see more of the ever-present scars of the war - bands of bullet-fire across apartments buildings, masses of pock marks around top floor windows, etc. The Old City showed very few scars from the war and it was very powerful to see the largely residential fringes of the city still showing the signs of gunfire. Before long we departed via bus to Belgrade.

The eight hour bus ride to Belgrade was not too bad. We still can’t believe that we can say with a straight face that an eight hour bus ride was not bad. It was very crowded at times with people standing, and it always amazes us the number of people who will take up a seat with their bags sit in the outside seat, thus "saving" the window seat, when there are people standing. We made periodic stops for bathroom breaks but never really stopped for food (thankfully we had some treats and the remnants of out Thanksgiving picnic with us).

We arrived in Belgrade near the train station and immediately bought our train ticket to Istanbul. We took a cab to Hostel Tis. The first cab driver wanted to charge 10 Euros for a trip that the hostel’s website said should cost 3 Euros. The next cab driver agreed to use the meter but took a long enough route to double what the cost should have been. We got settled at the hostel and then went out to get something to eat nearby rather than in town because we were exhausted. There wasn’t much selection so we got pljeskavica in a pita. It was very good but Roger had long ago passed his breaking point for Bosnian food.

Saturday November 25

We cobbled together some prepared food from various vendors near the train station to hopefully last us on our 24 hour train ride from Belgrade to Istanbul. The compartment wasn’t great, but it was only the two of us and it had a sink. Roger slept most of the day while Amy read and later we put down our beds and watched a movie.

We arrived in Istanbul at 10:30 am (only about 2 hours late) and a little tired of our small but private compartment on the Turkish Railways car that we had taken the previous morning from Belgrade. The trip was uneventful in almost every regard except for the possible cigarette smugglers who board prior to border crossings to stash cartons of cigarettes. We had read about the procedure and stayed motionless in our car despite the noise around us and the hands juggling out door’s handle in the hopes that they could slip in and stash some smokes. We even slept pretty well considering we were on a train. The scenery through Serbia and Bulgaria was not spectacular, our car was regularly shuffled to another train, and with the exception of the crossing into Turkey the customs and immigration folks were hurried and not terribly warm.

The crossing from Bulgaria to Turkey was noteworthy only for the fact that during the mandatory clearing of the train at 2:30 am, after we purchased a visa and lined up for passport control, Amy almost killed a guy. The poor soul in question cut right in front of her (and several others) and responded to her polite prodding with dismissive, perhaps drunken gibberish. Emboldened by the late hour Amy continued to pester the cutter into removing himself to the spot behind her (well actually Amy cut back in front of him), where he still stood in front of four people who did not have the courage to say anything to him. Don’t cut in front of Kansas girls. And we were off to see Istanbul….

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Photos

A Cemetery In Mostar
Once a park, the land across the street from the city center was converted to a cemetery following the war. Many of the structures in the row of buildings across the street remain in disrepair.

The Corner
where Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, setting in motion a series of events that would culminate in world war.

The Sarajevo Train Station
As seen from our seats at the little coffee shop.

Sarajevo's Club Bill Gates
Next to Dallas, Roger's favorite hangout in the city for sweets and coffee.

The Delicious Selection At Cafe Dallas
When you are in Sarajevo there are two things you must do - go to Dallas for pastry and GO TO DALLAS FOR PASTRY.

A Massive Concrete Cathedral In Mostar
Built During Serbian Occupation As An Intentional Slight To The Muslim Residents Of The Village

Amy In The Sarajevo Tunnel
Today only a short section of the tunnel remains accessible at the family run museum.

Bus Stop Sign
Even with a poor knowledge of Bosnian-Croat we believe this to be an advertisement for some sort of "ordinance for appliances" program.