Mesmerising Mostar: a jewel of Bosnia

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Mostar is full of winding cobblestone alleys with Turkish-style bazaars and small coffee houses where people sit drinking from tiny cups. Minarets compete for space with church spires, and, at certain times of the day, the Muslim call to prayer battles with the ringing of bells across the river. But the centrepiece of Mostar's old town is definitely its famous bridge.

The Legend

According to legend, an Ottoman called Mimar designed the bridge. When Suleiman the Magnificent had commissioned him to build it, Mimar had trembled with fear. He knew the bridge had to span thirty metres, something unimaginable in those days. But that wasn't the source of his angst; it was more to do with the sultan. As well as being magnificent, Suleiman was cruel, notorious for his love of gruesome executions. Mimar knew he was next in line for the chop if his bridge did not meet the grade.

Mimar began digging his own grave immediately, requesting that the Sultan execute him straight away. The sultan refused, and so, reluctantly, Mimar set to work, spending two years on the plans alone. Then, for the next nine years, construction began.

On the day of the grand opening, Mimar fled. He believed the bridge would collapse into the river as soon as the scaffolding was removed. But it didn't, and Mimar returned a hero. His bridge then stood for the next 427 years, until Bosnian Croats destroyed it in 1993.

The famous bridge

Reconstructed in 2004, Michael and I stared at the distinctive white, arched crossing, guarded on both sides by stone towers. Below it ran a torrent of green belonging to the Neretva River, its waters swelled by melting snow from the mountains. A tour group stood in the middle of the bridge, right on the hump, listening to their guide. Judging from his accent, they were Italians. He was probably telling them about the Siege of Mostar.

Before the war, Mostar's mainly Croat and Muslim population had lived together in relative peace. The Christian Croats mainly resided in the west of the city, the Muslim Bosniaks in the east, but enough of each religion lived in both parts to give it a healthy mix. People crossed freely between the sides, using the old bridge (Stari Most) often, enjoying the cultural diversity of their city.

When war broke out and Serbian forces tried to attack the city, both Croats and Bosniaks joined forces to fight them off. They succeeded, but then started battling among themselves. Croat forces took control of the western side of Mostar and began expelling Muslims, sometimes with violence. Thousands fled to the eastern side of town.

Then the siege began. Croat troops began shelling the eastern part of Mostar in a campaign that lasted eighteen months. Bridges were blown up, mosques attacked, homes and businesses relentlessly shelled. Then, on 9^th November 1993, Croat artillery decided to target the famous bridge. According to some news reports, over sixty shells hit the bridge before it collapsed into the river.

The Croats claimed the bridge had been a strategic target, but that was a poor excuse, given that it was a pedestrian-only crossing. Anyway, not long after this event, Muslim forces rallied and took back the city, pushing most of the Croats out.

Today, Bosniaks and Croats (in reduced numbers) still live on their own side of the river. Each has their own schools and services. Relations remain tense, but are no longer at dangerous levels. The people of Mostar are simply getting on with their lives.

Turkish Quarter

Michael and I stood on the bridge. The tour group had moved into the old Turkish quarter of the city. It was an area full of stone walls, shuttered windows, rising minarets and cobblestone pathways. We headed there ourselves.

The main street was lined with stalls selling everything from Mostar fridge magnets, brass coffee pots, locally produced handicrafts and Russian dolls, to mementos made from bullet casings. Pens were the most common bullet-themed item for sale, but there were also small tanks and fighter planes, all constructed from spent ammunition. Michael and I decided it was time to get something to eat.

"I'm going to have cevapi," I said. I'd discounted fried brain immediately, and thought that brizle sounded too much like something a bird would disgorge. Cevapi was the safest bet.

"Me too," Michael answered.

We were sitting outside, in a busy part of the bazaar. The waiter had told me that cevapi was small grilled sausages stuffed inside pita bread. When the food arrived, I saw that they came with a side portion of raw onion, which I ignored in favour of the meat. It was similar to the meal we'd had in Belgrade at the start of the Odyssey, and was tasty and filling, especially with a nice bottle of Sarajevsko to wash it all down with.

A beggar approached our table, an old woman wearing a shroud of dark layers. I waved her away but she stayed near the table, hand outstretched. To get rid of her, Michael handed her a few coins, and she shuffled off. Almost immediately, another beggar appeared, this one a teenage boy in a dark jacket. Like the woman, his skin was a darker shade than most of the locals, suggesting he was Roma.

He'd clearly seen Michael give the old woman some money, and so he thought he'd chance it too. Michael rolled his eyes and handed the boy a coin, which he took without comment. He walked away.

A short distance away, I could see a girl aged about six. She was stood with her back to a nearby wall, pretending to cry in order to garner sympathy from passing tourists. As I watched, a woman carrying a baby, presumably the girl's mother, went up to the child. The girl stopped crying straight away. After conferring for a moment, the girl nodded and went off to beg in a more direct manner. She stood in the middle of the cobbles and simply held her hand out. It worked; a tourist couple stopped and handed her some money.

Evidence of the War

Despite the efforts at rebuilding the city, evidence of war was still there to see. Even in the old town, just slightly away from the tourist centre, we saw bullet holes scarring facades above windows.

"Look at that building there," Michael said. He was staring at a line of small shops. Most of them had been renovated, but one had not. Its interior was vacant, its exterior covered in bullet holes. It was a crumbling mess, without any windows or doors, and it gave an indication of just how much Mostar had suffered.

Further along the street was the 16^th century Karadzozbey Mosque. It had a tall, spindly minaret and a large round dome. Outside, secured to a fence, was a black-and-white photo of what the mosque had looked like during the war. The dome was caved in, parts of the roof had been shelled to smithereens and the top of the minaret was missing.

Next door was a small cemetery. Prior to the Siege of Mostar, it had been a city park. Each gravestone dated from 1993, and most belonged to Muslim men in their twenties, their birth dates close to mine.

Michael was staring at a small grave adorned with yellow and white flowers. The name of the person was Nersada Maksumim. He had been born in 1993, and had died in 1993. The baby had not even reached his first year.

The worst building we saw was an abandoned supermarket. Bullet holes and large gashes covered the ugly, grey concrete structure where sniper fire and mortar attacks had penetrated it. Steel girders stuck out from its overhanging roof, and even some nearby trees seemed sympathetic to the building's plight: thin and wispy, with barely any green life left within their leaves. A large wire fence surrounded the whole thing, with signs saying: Attention:Dangerous Ruin. Access forbidden! There were similar signs all over Mostar.

"Come on," I said to Michael. "Let's head back into the old town."

Bridge Jumper

We arrived just in time to see a man about to jump off the old bridge.

Diving off Stari Most was a tradition dating back to the 17th century. Always young men, the reason they did it was to wow the local ladies with their physical prowess and lack of fear. Nowadays, men do it for a much simpler reason: money.

A man wearing a blue wetsuit was limbering himself up on the bridge's hump. His pal was wandering through the crowd with a bucket. People began putting money in, but Mr Bucket deemed the amount too meagre for the jump to go ahead. Another round of money collection began as more people arrived.

The man in the wetsuit was aged about thirty. He was pouring water over himself to cool his skin in preparation for the cold water below. With a sizeable crowd on the bridge, Mr Bucket finally decided that he had collected enough, and gave the signal. The man in the wetsuit nodded and climbed over the fence, facing the river, his arms holding onto the bars.

Everyone waited for the man to dive into the churning green water below, but he simply stood there, puffing his cheeks in and out. Then, with a swift movement, he did it. Instead of diving though, he jumped. Down he plummeted, and then, with an almighty splash, he was in the river, everyone craning their necks to see him. With a bubbling crescendo of applause from the bridge, the man surfaced and waved. We watched as he swam to the side.

Climbing the Minaret

We decided it was time to climb a minaret. We'd read that the Koski Mehmed Pasha Mosque was open to tourists wanting to see Mostar from a perched position.

The man responsible for the mosque seemed happy to see us, accepting our marks in return for entry tickets. "You do not need to remove shoes," he said, "as long as you keep to green carpet."

We entered the small prayer room, noticing the green carpet. It led to a tiny arched doorway on the right. The narrow, spiralling stone staircase didn't have a handrail, or even a light, and as we made our way up, I grew a little apprehensive. Half way up, I began to have my usual battle over whether I should be climbing to the top. My fear of heights was nowhere near as bad as it had once been, but it still gave me the jitters from time to time.

At its worst, my fear had caused me to walk on my hands and knees around the summit of a small medieval tower in York. My girlfriend at the time had found it immensely embarrassing, but worse were some kids who had pointed and laughed.

I followed Michael up through the minaret, and eventually we came to the top. I didn't dare to look down. Instead I kept my gaze fixed firmly ahead. But what a view! The bridge was flanked on both sides by the gorgeous stone buildings of the old town.

Michael disappeared around the curve of the minaret. Tentatively I followed him, keeping as far back as I could from the edge, even though there was a wall to stop me from toppling over, should I slip.

The view wasn't as good around the other side, so I made a complete circuit back to the start. After one final look at Mostar from above, we headed down the steps, thankful that nobody was coming up. I dreaded to think how they would have passed us.

"Do you need a guide?" said a man wearing an identity card around his neck. Michael and I were near the old town again, him taking photos of more bullet-damaged buildings, me standing around waiting.

"No, thanks," I said. It was late in the evening, and we'd seen most of the sights already.

"But I am an official guide," the man pressed, proffering his card. "And I've had my photo taken with Boris Johnson. Perhaps you want to see it?"

Michael walked over to join us, listening in to the conversation.

"No, it's all right," I said. "Anyway, I'm not German." A strange expression crossed the man's face, and he shot Michael a look. "But thanks anyway. Bye."

A few metres away from the guide, Michael turned to me. "Why did you say you were not German?"

"Because he wanted to show me a photo of Boris Johnson."

Michael stared at me quizzically, almost the same look that the guide had given. "So?"

I said, "Why would I want to see a photo of a German tennis player?"

Michael looked bamboozled, but then started laughing. "Because Boris Johnson is not a German tennis player! He's the Mayor of London, you idiot. You're thinking of Boris Becker! The guide must think we're both thick. And he'd be correct about you." Michael laughed again.

We found a place to have something to eat. It was off the main street, but still with plenty of passers-by. A middle-aged man on crutches walked past. His right leg was missing below the knee, and, as he struggled along the cobbles, both Michael and I surmised his injury had been caused by the war.

Our food arrived, yet another meat dish swimming in oil, and then two kittens arrived. We nicknamed them the Moustache Cats. One was black and white, the other tabby, both with the same facial markings that cads had favoured in 1930s films. The cats loved the greasy meat, so I was thankful for their presence.

Memories

I walked up to the hotel barman, a man in his fifties with a black bushy moustache. Michael and I had met him earlier when he'd doubled up as the hotel porter.

"Two Sarajevskos please," I said.

"No problem," he answered retrieving two bottles from the fridge. "Please sit, I bring over."

I did so, joining Michael at a table in the otherwise empty bar. He was leafing through a book he'd found on the reception counter. It was full of photos from the war. He stopped at a photo of the bridge. Only small sections of it remained; the rest had collapsed into the river.

"It was bad," said the barman, placing our drinks on the table, together with a complimentary bowl of crisps, always part of the Bosnian service. "Not a good day."

It was always tricky talking to someone about something horrible. How do you say the right thing? So I nodded at the barman. "Yes, it was."

"For a long time after the war, I tried to forget about what happened. My wife was the same. We never spoke about it."

Michael closed the book and looked up.

"At the start of the war, our first son was born. Croat soldiers were turning up at Muslim houses and taking people away, mostly men. We lived on the eastern side of the river, so were safe from that. But fifteen of my friends on the western side were killed."

I didn't know what to say.

The man looked at us. "But I do not hate the Croats. I just wish they could accept they are Bosnians, like us." He walked off towards the bar.

There was so much I wanted to ask him, but did not dare. Questions such as: What happened to your son? What was it like living in a city under mortar attack? Did you fight against the Croats? How did you feel when your friends went missing? How did you cope? How did you survive? We finished our last drinks in Bosnia, and went to our rooms to pack, thoughts spinning in my head.



If you have enjoyed reading about my trip to Mostar, then perhaps you'll like the full story it came from. It's called The Balkan Odyssey.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Balkan-Odyssey-Travels-Yugoslavia-oh-ebook/dp/B00DQ6V324/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372689617&sr=1-2&keywords=the+balkan+odyssey

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Comments

[Dancing Dave]

Mostar
Beautiful photo Jason. Thanks for the fascinating history of this magnificent bridge and the terrible Balkan War that led to its destruction in 1993. Really uplifting that they restored it to hopefully survive for further centuries to come.