Detour: Mostar, Bosnia
I spent the last three days in Mostar based on a recommendation I received from two Virginian travelers I met in Vienna. They said the day tour offered by the hostels were the most memorable experiences while they were in Europe. They weren’t lying. Mostar is tucked in a valley between large mountains that dwarf you in every direction. A cross sits atop a hill that masks a dark past. Croatian soldiers used to pack tires full of TNT and indiscriminately roll them down the hillside to destroy the homes of Bosnian Muslims. How’s that for a hook?
The hostel I stayed at was run by a lovely matriarch who cracked jokes and shared her firsthand stories of the Bosnian conflict with her guests. Every day we received a home-cooked breakfast, and every afternoon we had soup or coffee. I quickly made friends with two young, Australian guys named James and Jamie who’d been travelling together for a month.
We visited an abandoned sniper’s nest at sunset. Check it:
The next day, I partook in an all day tour with a Bosnian who survived the conflict between 1992-’95. My guide outlined the political tensions that lead up to the conflict, the use of nationalism and Islamophobia to systematically target ethnic minorities, and how the international community responded. As we drove around town, my guide pointed out how the ethnic fallout from the conflict continues to play out today. Certain sides of the city received financial attention while others were intentionally left destroyed to demoralize nearby residents. Schools claim to be non-segregated and yet children receive alternate educations at different hours depending on their lineage and/or religion.
Sprinkled between the heavy-handed history lesson was a visit to emerald waterfalls in Kravice. My group scarfed down a platter of meats, plural (beef, pork, chicken in multiple shapes and sizes piled high on an even larger pile of french fries), before visiting the ruins of an old Bosnian village. After taking in the landscape during sunset, the guide led us to his grandmother’s house where we were served enough sweets to place us in an coma.
The tour concluded at the foot of a large mountain housing the ancestral remains of the original Bosnian kings. Our guide revealed that Serbians, Croatians, and Bosnians all share a common lineage. He encouraged us to remain vigilant of political actors who use tribalism to divide and conquer otherwise peaceful people so as to avoid suffering the same fate his people did less than 30 years ago.
The parallels between his message and the current state of politics in the United States are obvious, so I’ll forego making obvious comparisons. The real gold in the tour were the small glimmers of pain and resilience that would surface briefly during my guide’s prepared narrative. His family had witnessed countless horrors and faced crushing betrayals, and yet somehow he found it within himself to share his story every day with a group of strangers. He said, “To me, it’s like therapy. I still don’t quite know why it happened. I don’t think I ever will. But at least this way I can try.”
The Mostar government isn’t run by native Bosnians. To try and rally his people during this time would be suicide. And so my guide’s subtle act of rebellion in the face of his people’s legacy being rewritten is to take his skeletons from his closet each day and share them with as many travelers as possible, in hopes that we won’t forget his story when everyone else has.
I found the energy to go out dancing with some friends from my the hostel later that night. We went to the Golden Pub, an underground bar steeped in clouds of cigarette smoke. Bosnian music was blasting all around, which sounded like a mix between 80's pop and country (except when Snoop Dog or Usher came on). Everyone knew every word. At one point I was hoisted up by a group of high-schoolers who wanted to take pictures with me since I looked like Steve Aoki. This has been a recurring theme on this trip. I’ve grown tired of the comparison but it’s a decent icebreaker. I left smelling like an ashtray.
The next day, I sauntered around the city with a woman from Colorado. We explored a few of the local parks and grabbed McDonald’s as a remedy to our hangovers. We visited the old bridge in the center of town, the symbol of Mostar and one of six destroyed during the conflict. Locals refer to it endearingly as “Grandpa” and wept when it collapsed. Recently rebuilt, people now gather to watch daredevils dive 24 meters / 72 feet down into the water below.
After a nap, we grouped together with another hostel and ate dinner by the bridge. I had a delicious veal dish, stuffed with sour cream, prosciutto, and cheese and drenched in a rich mushroom sauce. Vegetables are not really a thing out here. After a few drinks back at the hostel, I hit the pubs for my last night in Mostar.
We danced and made conversation with locals, I spoke with an economics student who knew six languages. Common for many Europeans bordering so many different countries. She was kind enough to write down the names of all the classic Bosnian songs pounding overhead. I’m excited to listen to them later. My group got sufficiently schwasty and had the bright idea of visiting the sniper’s nest at three in the morning. The atmosphere was a bit spookier than the first time around, but we had a nice time stargazing on the roof as we piled together to stay warm. Fearing we might fall asleep, we walked back to the hostel.
My cards started being declined everywhere the next morning since Bosnia experiences high volumes of credit card fraud. I was only able to buy myself a small meal and literally use my last dollar (Euro) to pay for my luggage before boarding a bus to Montenegro.
