Rough-cut Gems

Amazing mountains rise in the distance. Moving up the windy road, the bus eeks it's way between newly erected rock-slide barriers, and into a deep gorge. The blue-green water of the roadside tarns seem almost as surreal as the cliffs and rock formations. After some time the pass widens, and eventually the rolling hills give way to fertile plain, ringed with more rocky chains futher in the distance.

Whiz. Something odd about that roadside home. Whiz. Another, this time eyes are prepped to focus on the bullet riddled, roofless pile of bricks. Not a home; once a home.

And such is the bittersweet welcome to Bosnia, a land of contrasts, if there ever was one.

I don't think I've ever heard anyone extol the virtues of the natural Balkan landscape, so I was in a state of awe as our bus headed through those gorges. Perhaps it is testimony to their beauty, or perhaps to my stupidity, but I didn't even think of getting photos until we were just at the end of the canyon. Stupid me.

Of course, the scars were something I had expected. There were tons of ruins around Mostar, and there was also a large swath of Sarajevo that was still ruins. This, however, is in a completely seperate area of the town, and I have no intention of tramping about to find them again. Something about the several hundred thousand land-mines and other unexploded ordinance keeps me from hiking into abandoned areas. Even my Lonely Planet, which usually offers a realistic view of travel dangers, has a big boxed section warning to "regard every centimeter of ground as suspicious". So yeah, I'm paranoid.

But can this detract from the beauty of Sarajevo? It's an amazing town, but it's just tough to wrap my head around. Big beautiful hills bump up through and around the city, but these were the same hills from which Serb snipers were picking off kids in the street. Huge minarets pop out from whatever section of city you eye, but, so do over-packed graveyards. I was listening to a man describing how the tunnel that terminated under his home was the only link where food, refugees, and weapons could be moved into or out of Sarajevo; at times he was close to tears. A few minutes later, the Shakira ringtone of his phone went off, and he was laughing it up with a friend on the line.

It's tough to wrap my head around. Still, I love this place. Perhaps I'm a sucker for history, or for mountains, or for the exotic fruit, but I feel a great affection for this town. I'm headquartered in a hostel right by the big Turkish bazaar section, on a corner where the olive jeeps full of European peacekeepers rumble by regularly. The Turkish coffee is cheap, and so is the food, with only a few thousand varieties of dish to choose from. The Bosnians smile and laugh freely, and are never hesitant to explain how tolerant and diverse Bosnia Hercegovina is. It's a mixture that has to be felt.

So, I've been chatting it up with Bosnians and travelers, sampling the cuisine, going on history tours, and taking plenty of strolls. Paranoid, paranoid strolls.
I suppose I can't put much more down, since I need a bit of time to polish thoughts before they can come out shining. But for all it's nicks and flaws, this place is still a gem.

Ciao.





And a few more Dubrovnik shots: