BOSNIA'S SURPRISE

     We have decided to venture into another country and do some exploring.  Our destination is Zagreb, Croatia's capital, but in route we will make a two day detour through the countryside and mountains of Bosnia, Croatia's neighbor.                        

     Whenever one mentions Bosnia, it usually evokes a memory of war.  Many of us can remember America's intervention during the Clinton administration which helped put an end to the ethnic cleansing and a bloody war that claimed so many lives. 

     When we have mentioned our visits to Bosnia in the past, eyebrows have gone up. Visions of us becoming victims of some terror group, or being blown up by a leftover land mine have caused our friends to issue warnings of caution.   But I am sitting at this keyboard of my own free will,  and what I have seen and experienced so far should put many minds at ease after this writing.

XXX

     After a forty-five minute drive through Croatia’s interior we reach the Croatia/Bosnia border.  We approach the dingy and weathered border patrol buildings, but they appear to be closed, and we begin to wonder if anyone is guarding the border.  Finally, a uniformed officer with a gruff voice and a practiced manner approaches the car and asks for our passports and rental car information. We have no choice but to surrender our passports to him and wait while he disappears into the metal building.  He’s gone for an inordinate amount of time and I begin to feel a little tense.  Finally he returns, his manner softened and the hint of a smile on his face as he gives John directions and sends us on our way.

     Now we begin our climb into the mountains, leaving the coast of Baska Voda far behind.  It is an interesting drive through the countryside with its small hamlets, roadside tables displaying the homemade cheeses for sale and Turkish hand made pots and ironware.

We take a side road into one of the towns to get some Bosnian money from the bank’s ATM, after which we stop at a grocery store to buy food for our lunch.  A picnic is always part of our experience, even if it is eaten while seated in our car.  I promptly open the bag of lunch items and commence to stuff a ten inch, freshly baked crusty bread with a half pound each of sliced ham and Gouda cheese, wrapping it in paper, Taco Bell style, so that my “driver” can take it in hand and move on.  My lap is showered with large bread flakes and John is manning the wheel with one hand. There’s a bag of paprika-flavored potato chips on the console, and I’m holding a bottle of sparking water, alternating between that and the sandwich, so that John can water down the large gulps.  If not this exercise, he’s prone to double handle the food and use his knee to steer the car! Not a good idea on these roads.      

     A large town comes into view and John makes another detour to check it out.  The tall, needle shaped tower of a mosque soars skyward, and the surrounding architecture is Alpine.  

By request, John makes a quick stop--I can not resist snapping a few pictures.  There are odd, if not curious stares from passersby, but I just smile and meander down the road like I belong there, while my patient driver waits in the parking lot farther up the road pushing buttons on our new cell phone. 

      Just outside this lovely village the road narrows to accommodate a large river on one side and the sloping hills on the other.  It is a quaint scene of lovely little houses

dotting the hillsides, gardens overflowing with cabbage patches, and tall, cone-shaped haystacks in the surrounding fields. 

Some of the people are dressed peasant style, the women in long skirts, their heads covered with colorful kerchiefs. 

 

A man in a blue uniform is carrying a tall pole and coaxes his lone cow through the pasture, while a shepherd rounds up the stray goats that have decided to graze on the grasses next to the road.  It begs for the lens of the camera, and I’m itching to stop and capture it, but the heavy traffic dictates otherwise. 

     We are only 25 kilometers from our destination and the scenery of steep hillsides giving way to mountains, and the once arid landscape now replaced with lush forests tinted in autumn colors is nothing shy of breathtaking.   

    



By mid-afternoon we reach the picture-perfect, medieval town of Jajce (sounds like Yaytsay.)

John begins to navigate the narrow streets like a pro and before long we are driving past a lovely mosque
and entering the old town through the arched stone gates belonging to the fortress perched high above.

We’re eager to explore, but first things first---accommodations; with only two hotels

in the village the decision is simple.

      There’s still plenty of daylight left and a sunlit sky, allowing us to shed our jackets and walk the streets of the village.  We look in the shop windows, amble along the side steets and look at the faces of the people that share the sidewalk with us.  From the mosque, a loud speaker sounds out a male voice chanting a prayer. In no time the streets empty, leaving us to wander and explore them on our own.

     When we come to a steep and narrow cobblestone street and ascend its incline, we are lured by a set of well-worn stone steps leading up to an arched stone gate, and are compelled to see what's on the other side.

We are alone here, climbing, our imaginations peaked, looking into the medieval ruins, peering through the windows of an ancient mosque, sharing the surrounding space with the ghosts of another time, still unaware of what waits at the very top.

    

    We have reached a long stone wall that belongs to the fortress.  Everywhere is quiet, and still. A mist hovers above the hillls and houses beyond. 

There's a chill in the air and smoke coming from the chimneys in the town.  It's beautiful and serene and I want to plant myself here like the seed that found its way into the rock wall. 

We zip up our jackets and head down another path, back to the village that has once again come alive. 

     Thirsty from the walk we find an outdoor café and sit beneath the umbrella to drink a glass of local beer.  The waiter is friendly and speaks good English, and he tells us, with a look of pride, that we are the first Americans he has ever seen in his village.   John orders another beer, offers to buy our new friend one, and in true, John, style, engages him in conversation. 

     When the subject of the war comes up, our young, soft-spoken waiter, Jasmn, a Muslim, is quite eager to share his experiences with us.  John asks him if he remembers the war. 

A REMNANT OF THE WAR

“I was ten years old and I remember it well.”  There is a trace of fear in his eyes as he speaks. “They came and shot at us in our homes.   It was very bad in the town.  Many of our people were killed.  I carried a rifle on my shoulder and was prepared to defend myself.   Even boys of eight years old had to do this.”

     I then ask, “Were did you escape to?” 

     He replies, “Up into the hills. We lived there for a long time.”

     The story is all too sad as Jasmn further describes the horror of the war that took a huge piece of his childhood.  In the end, all we can ask is, why?  What was gained?Even Jasmn has no explanation.

     Later, as we sit at the small restaurant behind Jasmn’s bar enjoying a meal of thinly sliced grilled veal, a hearty beef soup with homemade pasta and a wonderful Bosnian pancake, John once again engages a local in conversation.  This man, too, is eager to share more about this famous, medieval town’s turbulent history, namely it's long Austro-Hungarian rule, which explains the strong Austrian and Turkish influence evident even to this day.    

     “Which are you,” I ask, “Hungarian or Austrian?” 

     “I’m just me,” he tactfully replies with a grin.      

XXX

      We have to make the most out of what’s left of the sunny weather so we take the advice of the hotel clerk and take the “old” road that skirts the Pliva River. Three minutes out, we stop to view several man-made waterfalls spilling into the river. It’s a beautiful sight, but just a sample of what lies ahead. 

    

     Next, we come to a network of tiered waterfalls with their ribbons of white foam spilling over into glassy ponds, and reflections worthy of an artist's brush. It seems that all of nature has smiled upon this beautiful place, and today, we have it all to ourselves. 

    

    

    

A little farther up the road we come upon the Plava lakes with their blooming marsh grasses, mountain reflections and watermills resembling miniature houses nested in between. All of this is set against a backdrop of merging mountain ranges colored in Mother Nature’s Autumn palate. It is a visual overload to say the least!     

    

     A drizzling rain threatens to bring our sightseeing to a halt so we decide to wind up the afternoon with a visit to the fortress. 
     There’s a lock on the massive wooden door that leads inside and we are just about to leave when a man appears with a key and a booklet of tickets.  John hands him the equivalent of seventy-five cents each for our entrance fee and the man, seeming happy to have carried out his caretaker’s task, gives us a broad smile, exposing the empty spaces between his teeth.  

I’m not real keen on seeing another medieval fortress, but once inside the gutted walls, it affords us the opportunity to walk the top of the wall and  take in the breathtaking views.

    

Outside, our semi-toothless caretaker waits by his little stall of souvenirs.  I can not resist asking him to pose for the camera.  Much to my surprise he consents, but when he stares blankly into the camera I insist on a smile. He points to his teeth. I assure him that it’s okay. He capitulates and smiles proudly for the camera. 
     Does he not remind you of a "certain" medieval character from a French novel?

    

     The heavy rain has come bringing with it a raw cold, and definitely putting an end to the sightseeing.  But no matter, for we’ve been richly rewarded by this beautiful little town, which, in my opinion, has more than lived up to its reputation of being “among the oldest, most famous and, beyond any doubt, the most beautiful town in Bosnia Herzegovina.”