Mostar Bosniaks (The Rest are Croats)

"Come," she said, beckoning, "I will tell you about our suffering."

One of the guide books had a sidebar on what to do if you got stuck at the Kolodny station. Don't panic! Simply walk fifteen minutes to the correct station, then walk fifteen minutes into town. This didn't make much sense to me.

I just found a cab at a gas station. There was nowhere to get the local money, but he was happy to take Euros. He gave me my change in their money, though. It's called... The Convertible Mark. No joke. You pay for things there with Bosnian Convertible Marks.

The drive from Kolodny to the Old Town of Mostar was a wonderland of street art and ruin porn. I was snapping my neck around and trying to memorize street names. I should have walked! Even when the guide book is wrong, it's right!

He dropped me off near a mosque and peeled out of there.

The air was heavy and cold, but very clean and clear. Very quiet. No birds or people.

I wandered slowly around. Gorgeous sloping stone streets. Curves and hills. I found myself in a closed bazaar. It was Sunday, and early, and the off-season. You can tell this place is hopping in the Summer, so I was very glad to have this opportunity.

I found the famous bridge so quickly, I thought it was something else. But there it was. Crossing it and looking back has been one of my favorite things in Europe. A green river raging below a dull blue sky. Computer-colored stones and orange-tiled roofs. Silent birds hunting and drifting.

Wandered around with the mild idea to find a higher point to photograph the bridge from. Tiptoed through another rocky street of closed shops. A woman sat on a wall with a notepad. She was drawing the bridge. A cat crept up and sniffed her pen. She smiled and shooed it away.

A sign said "Exchange office" and the door was open, so I walked in. Figured I'd grab a few Convertible Marks to buy lunch with. There was nothing inside but a few bags of brick dust. Walked back out and saw another sign saying: "Best view bridge - 50m"

Did that mean meters or marks?

It meant meters. But it also meant marks. But not fifty. Five. So, I paid it. The ticket taker wore a huge puffy jacket with the hood drawn tight around his face. "There is no one here," he said, "but you and I, so I will let you into the mosque for free."

The fee I had paid was for a balcony somewhere below.

I asked if I needed to remove my shoes. He shook his head like I'd said something ridiculous. We went inside. Nice old place. He disappeared while I photographed the dome. He called me from some dark place in the corner.

"Here, come here."

An open door, blackness beyond. He stepped out of the shadows and indicated I should go in. Would this be it for our hero? Had I escaped Kolodny only to fall here? I went in.

Total darkness. I felt stairs with my feet. It was a great deal like the bell tower in Split, so I knew to go slowly and watch my head. It got tighter and tighter. There was some light coming from an arrow slit, but the stairs were getting wet.

I ended up crawling up them on my hands and knees like a penitent. After a long, hard climb, leading to I knew not what, I found myself on the observation deck of this minaret (see below). I was ankle deep in water, but... I had the best view of the bridge.

Later, I took this picture from the bridge, so they would be even.

No idea how they handle that climb in the "season." Maybe there are lights? And it's dry?

Got some great shots and climbed down exhilarated. He tried to sell me a wooden bracelet. I declined. "It is lucky," he said, "but not everyone needs luck."

I went down to the observation deck I had paid for. Sucked in comparison to the minaret. He followed me down to make absolutely certain I didn't want a wooden bracelet for luck. I was sure, but I thanked him very much for all the opportunities.

He was cool about it.

Poked around for coffee. Near another bridge, a dirty dude came up smiling. Crusty red eyes, Land o Lakes teeth. He was doing his very best to look friendly. "Hello, my friend. Hello to Mostar. I am a guide. You want a guide Mostar? This place is very old. You need guide Mostar."

No thank you.

"PLEASE may I haff money!" he said, "My father, he is killed. I am starving!"

I only had the one mark left. I gave it to him. He said, "This is not any money. This is very small. I take you automat. I take you bank."  I thanked him for offering to be my guide and told him I was very sorry I couldn't help him any more.

He snapped back to being humble again. "Ok," he said, "Ok. I will use this to buy a small coffee. And I will be warm for a while."

I got out of there. God, that poor man.

Some cats sneaked around. I hated myself thinking I would have gone to the bank automat for them.

Was that guy lying? This place got fuuuuucked up during the Balkan War. So maybe not. The bridge was destroyed. It took forever to rebuild because they wanted to use the exact same materials and the exact same methods. No modern tools, etc. I think that's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.

To me, in the '90s in the US, the war over the breakup of Yugoslavia was mostly incomprehensible. I think my understanding was reduced to: "These people have hated each other for centuries, but the commies made them play nice. When the commies ran out of money, they couldn't stop these people from fighting any more."

Which, you know, leaves out a lot.

Every time I tried to look more closely into it, though, my eyes would just glaze over. These trips over the last few years have given me more context, so while I'll never have true understanding, it's increased my desire to understand, and that means I make more effort. So, I read Balkan Ghosts a few months ago and some short stories by William Vollmann, and a chunk of Rebecca West's giant book, and along with the capsules in the guide books, I feel like I have more of a sense of it. They all had to build on one another, though, and it took a lot of repetition.

Of course, it's absurd to say, "Well, I read a couple of books, and I ate some baklava, so now I'm an expert!"

Ultimately, there's the sense that it's insultingly reductive to say, "Well, these people just hate each other, what can you do?" because there are always circumstances far beyond that surface bullshit.

But, that is what we do. We love to boil it down to "religious" differences, because that leaves out the reality of economic and political oppression. So much easier to say people are like animals than to recognize they've been forced into these situations by the "realities" of "markets."

The history of this region is the history of slavery. It was used as a giant buffer zone between Turkey and "The Good Europe." The Turks were strong, smart, had advanced weapons, and there were a lot of them. Europe was scared.

The powers in Vienna or Venice, whoever had the best guns at the time, took the Slavs' money to bribe the Turks or, if the Turks didn't feel like being bought off, made the Slavs use their cities as fortresses and their people as sandbags to keep the Turks from reaching the treasure.

And on and on like that forever. After the Turks, it was the Russians. So, to say, "Oh, never put a Serb and a Croat in the same room, they just don't like one another. Cats and dogs, you know," is to leave out that they've been exploited for centuries, murdered for other nation's profits and forced into conflict with one another.

I ended up walking back to where the cab had driven me, halfway back to Kolodny, and taking pictures of ruined buildings and angry murals. This is what it looks like when an artillery shell crashes through your bathroom window.

The town was starting to come to life at this hour and families held hands as they walked to church and women bought flowers. Men laughed in the park. They've "moved on."

So, a day of sobering and sad thoughts, but a nearly perfect one. Mostar has become one of my favorite experiences. I found a place that took Euros and bought some bread, salami, and cheese. I dodged a few gypsies and fed a few cats the salami.

Found the real bus station and got the next ride back to Split. I lay back thinking about the sad beauty of this place. Really happy I got to see it so empty.

Maybe it made me feel charitable toward Shardik, because 300 pages in now, I think I like it.