Eastern Block and into Greece

The Repulica Sprpska is the northern territory of Bosnia. Its pronounced by stringing a whole bunch of unfriendly consonants together, and then burping at the same time! Having been so intrigued by the Eastern Block with all its strange words and pronunciations, I have composed Blog 4 too, despite it being Amanda’s turn.

After leaving the relative safety and security of Slovenia, we drove through Zagreb in Croatia, which had a similar composure in many ways. The people were pleasant, the city modestly attractive, and the coffee excellent (which it has been ever since Italy). On ordering a coffee, the waiter brings an espresso so strong it could jump start the BattleBus. So I always ask for a coffee with milk, or an Americano, which though equally powerful, is indeed delicious, and cheap too. The usual price we have become accustomed to for a coffee for me and a tea for Amanda is 1 Euro!

We entered Bosnia, and were feeling slightly apprehensive about this country for we only remembered horror stories from the news in the 90’s. Feeling a little uneasy, we planned to head straight for a small town called Banja Vrucia, near Teslic, where the mother of Miro (Goran’s hippy Dad from Malaucene) lived. Miro had invited us to visit her and deliver his gift and a letter he wrote.

Banja Vrucia was still a few hours drive away however, and the light was fast closing in on us. Regardless, we crossed the border apprehensively. After reading the Lonely Planet guide about Bosnia, which, although a few years out of date, warns against walking or driving off the tarred surfaces in case of landmines. It also warns of anti-western sentiments in some parts, and the need to be cautious.

Amanda asked Yvonne Gulugoth (our Sat Nav companion) to load up her Bosnian mapping system, but Yvonne explained that she didn’t have one installed. Amanda managed to track down Banja Luka, the border town, and Yvonne navigated us there. This was the most serious border control we have yet been to, and we were met by local armed police who wanted to know where we heading, and why. We also discovered that our vehicle insurance is not valid in Bosnia. We purchased 3-day insurance pass and meandered into Banja Luka to spend our remaining Croatian Kuna. We didn’t really need anything and so we stocked up on beer – shit loads of it. For 10 Kuna, the equivalent of about 1.5 Euros, we bought 2 litres of beer! So we spent most of the money on these massive beverages, and the rest on chocolate and eggs for the next morning to soak up the beer we had just inherited.

We drove on, and getting late, we started hunting for a campsite or somewhere to park up for the evening. BattleBus seemed a little edgy in this un-chartered territory, complaining that he didn’t want to wake up covered in graffiti, and certainly hoped not to have his window smashed during the night. But faithfully BattleBus endured on. Yvonne Gulugoth was also a little bewildered. Instead of her usual dictatorial ordering of strict commands: “In two hundred meters turn left, then turn right”, she had was less vocal and more timid. Without the mapping system, Yvonne floundered, nervously stuttering: “Re-calculating, re-calc, re-calculating.” Eventually Amanda asked her to keep quiet and muted her, and then set her to Off-Road using latitude / longitude coordinates directing us via GPS rather than the mapping system.

We were getting tired, and it certainly was ‘beer o’clock’. With the vast amounts of local brews chilling in the fridge, our appetites were wet and we were eager to camp up for the night. In the gung-ho spirit that has carried us through many previous challenges, we decided to pull up off the road next to a train track, and near a little river. Still in full view of the road, we felt nervous that we might encounter trouble from either the police or some other passers by. The beer soothed our nerves however. At one point though, three young lads approached and BattleBus suggested we get inside and lock his doors. But we sat tight and waited, on guard, to see what they would do. Innocently they walked by, saying ‘hello’, and they went on their merry way over the train track back to their homes. Our apprehensions began to seem unnecessary.

I asked Yvonne Gulugoth if she knew where Sarajevo was, but she explained that she only knew the way using major roads, which was useless to us as we first wanted to go to the little village of Banja Vrucia. The beer had loosened my tongue a little, and although previously my relationship with Yvonne had been mostly professional, asking her for directions and so-forth, I thought tonight a good night to probe a little deeper and get to know this strict, sometimes intimidating, often irritating woman. After all, her meticulousness has helped us get all the way here. But for the first time I had become aware of a softer side to Yvonne. Her slightly nervous stammers as we entered Bosnia had been praying on my mind, and I wondered if this part of the world touched a nerve for her.

I poured her some beer and asked about the origin of her surname, Gulugoth. She informed me that she was born in Bosnia, and had grown up in the beautiful town of Mostar, which lies in the enchanting valley of the aqua-green Neretva River about 120km south of Sarajevo. Her parents were originally Croats, but as a child she had befriended mostly Muslims. In 1992, Mostar, the main city in Hercigovina, became the scene of intense Croat-Muslim fighting. Sadly, both her parents were killed, and Yvonne fled to Sarajevo. There the war continued, and she struggled to stay alive. Bosnian-Serb snipers lurked behind every wall, tanks rolled down the streets, and the rattle of gunfire filled the air. After a year of this turmoil, Yvonne escaped but was captured and forced to work in Belgrade, the communist hub of the former Yugoslavia. Unpleasant as this was, she managed to flee yet again and spent the next few years on the road travelling to Britain where she had heard promises of a better life. There she sought asylum, and after some time was allowed to work. She got a job as a GPS, and this is where we met her. She has not been back to Bosnia since. It all suddenly made sense, and I understood why she had floundered when attempting to navigate us through this area that obviously stirred up so many emotions for her.

Our worry was unnecessary, and we spent our first night in Bosnia very peacefully. The following day we continued on to Banja Vrucia where we met with Anica, Miro’s mother. She is an elderly lady who speaks absolutely no English, and to make communication even more difficult, her body language was so unfamiliar that it made it impossible to decipher. This made it very difficult to guess what she was expressing, or to understand any kind of hand-gesture or facial movements. She was however very hospitable and very kind.

As it happened, Banja Vrucia was hosting a conference and social event for local universities that week, and so this sleepy little town had become home to a bustle of Balkan intelligencer, obsessed with Euro pop that boomed through the streets. By chance we befriended a few Serbian students at a bar and drank merrily with them, enjoying their sentiments of hope and freedom that the whole of the Eastern block oozes with.

We retired early, and after a night enjoying the hospitality of sweet Anica, we drove to Sarajevo. Again, not knowing what to expect and feeling slightly apprehensive, we were pleasantly surprised to discover a thriving city. Many areas are under construction, and Sarajevo boasts the fastest changing city in Europe, though it still carries the scars of a war-torn battle field, and many of the buildings still have bullet holes and bomb blasts in the walls. But a vibrancy fills the air, energy burst out from the shop fronts, and all the inhabitants are extremely friendly and welcoming.

We were looking for somewhere to eat in the quaint cobbled Turkish quarters, when we found a slightly dingy looking bar with a few locals inside chatting merrily. We thought this might be an interesting place to have a quiet beer before dinner, but little did we know what we were in for. Four local workmen popped in for a bevvie and made themselves comfortable at a table adjacent to ours. Though their English was very broken and our Bosnian non-existent, their infinite friendliness and curiosity resulted in us drinking with them and allowed a conversation similar to one you might have in a game of charades. Hand signals, symbols, drawings, and the repetition of very simple ideas and concepts enabled us to communicate on a basic level; beer and shots of a local illegal spirit: “Scljva”, facilitated a deeper, outrageously entertaining level of contact. This sweet little home-brewed nectar called Scljva (pronounced Shleever) is sold from under the counter out of a recycled plastic bottle. It’s a strong clear spirit made from a fruit similar to a plum, and according to our excited Bosnian friends, is good for the heart, mind and soul. Well it certainly loosened the tongues and enabled communication, and before long the ol’ war-stories came out. These guys had seen the brunt of the war, and they shocked us and impressed each other with their scary tales of being held captive by Chechnyan rebels, and being hang-cuffed up without food for weeks. Then came out the bullet wounds and battle scars. One guy still had shrapnel stuck in his arm, and another had a steel thigh bone after a shot gun shattered his leg.

Not having eaten however, and having become accustomed to a camping-lifestyle of ‘early to bed, early to rise’ – we hit our breaking point long before our fellow Serb-dudes, and so we hastened to catch the tram back to the van to eat cheese on toast in bed.

The next morning we drove to Mostar, a small town of heavy Turkish influence that had been the battle ground of much fighting during the war. Mostar was enchanting, with its bazaars, cobbled streets, and beautiful aqua-green river that runs through. We parked up on the side of the road in the centre, milled around the bazaar for a bit, and finished up with a meal in a delightful setting right next to the river. We then retired back to the van, which parked right in the centre, was like the coolest inner-city hotel / chill-out room money could buy.

The following day we departed Bosnia and entered Montenegro. We spent a night parked off the road near a natural spring flowing out the mountain. We were en route to the border of Albania, and with the increasing third-world countryside, all the fears and apprehensions we had experienced the first night in Bosnia returned. We were settling down and cooking some food when suddenly we heard the strangest ringing of bells. The sound seemed to come from directly behind the van, as though someone was taunting us, and it chilled our bones. We turned all the lights off and sat in silence, listening. Terror filled the silence as the bells got louder and louder, and eventually I worked up the courage to poke my head out the window, and shined a torch onto a massive beast: a cow, with a crumpled horn, and a cow-bell. Phew, what a relief. Indeed, there were some people too, but they were just shepherds accompanying their cow to drink from the spring. After they had left however, we still felt a little freaked out, and slept restlessly that night. But we were safe, and had faced our fears.

Its funny how fear surfaces when in unfamiliar surroundings. Fear of the unknown, and together with it, stereotypes, judgements, and prejudice. God only knows the thoughts that went through my mind that night, and how I had convinced myself of all the horrors that these loathsome Bosnians were capable of. Fear, I reckon, is one of the greatest barriers to human contact, and fuels wars and mass-conflict, including the one in Bosnia. It is also something that is not easily overcome, but needs practice to deal with.

The following morning’s light of day brought with it a pleasant comfort and sense of belonging in this beautiful place. We drove on to Albania and crossed the heavily patrolled border, despite previously having sworn to avoid Albania after hearing scary stories at how dodgy it was with its corrupt police, villains, and thievery. But, again, we were pleasantly surprised, and the stories were little more than exaggerated fears of the past. I am learning to trust people more and more, and recognizing the value and internationalism of a big smile that is always returned with a another bigger smile back. In England I’m sure I had forgotten to smile at strangers? Albania is indeed third world, and the contrast with the charm and development of Bosnia has been massive. We drove to Tirane, the capital, which is a mad bustle of people, bicycles, and over-loaded motorbikes with drivers not wearing helmets. The roads are terribly pot-holed, there are no street markings, no signs, no lights, and only a few policemen confusedly wavering people this way and that. It’s definitely an ‘every man for himself’ type of scenario, and we drove around for some hours trying to change some Bosnian Marks we had not managed to spend. We had no luck and eventually, after the chaos of the energetic Tirane, headed out towards the Greek border. Later that evening we camped the night along a huge lake, the deepest in Europe in fact, and a very beautiful one at that. Today we enter Greece…