I mentioned in an earlier posting (Mostar, June 21) that trouble had broken out during the World Cup.
Julie, the Kiwi I met, came across these articles which give more details about what happened. I thought you might also find them interesting.
Thanks Julie!!
http://see.oneworld.net/article/view/135119/1/3260
http://www.serbianna.com/news/2006/01866.shtml
http://www.bloggernews.net/2006/06/world-cup-game-sparks-violence-in.html
The bus finally left Mostar at 1030 hours, 40 minutes late. We traveled out of town, passed buildings riddled with holes from shelling and bullets, and by the school located on the “division line.”
The last three days have been wonderful, although the heat and humidity, along with the emotional drain of trying to learn more about the war have gotten to me. Lame, I know, because I can’t imagine what it must be like for the people that live with the memory every day. At one of the graveyards in the town, opposite the Kradjozbegova Džamija Mosque, all the headstones end in the same four numbers: 1993.
Yesterday I tried to visit Medugorje, the site where the Virgin Mary appeared to several school children in 1981. It’s only 28 km away from Mostar but because of the bus times (or lack of—buses depart from Mostar in the afternoon and return in the morning… go figure) it’s difficult to do a day trip. Daytrips from places like Dubrovnik and Split to Mostar are easy—50 or 60 busloads hit the town every morning—but Mostar to surrounding attractions is not that simple for the independent traveler to organize, at least for the time being.
Bugger me backwards with a blind man’s bugle, it’s hot in Mostar. One day during my stay it reached 42 degrees. I think my brain literally stopped working properly and it proved difficult to concentrate on anything for long, except the trickles down my legs and arms, and back, and front. My only thoughts were “how bad do my sweat marks look?” and “When’s the next stop for refreshment?”
The temperatures reached over 40 degrees yesterday, my second day in Mostar. Joanna and Kerry had already managed to figure out how to get to the Kravica Cascades and invited me to join them. (I had earlier stopped by the Tourist Office to see about getting there and no one seemed knowledgeable. The same went for Fontana Travel located in the center of the old town).
Yes! We’re half way there!
Mostar, the most developed economic center of Herzogovina, with its Mediterranean climate (mild winters and hot summers) is my “M” On An Alphabet, and country # 13 (not counting Montenegro).
Having slept all the way, I awoke when the bus shuddered to a halt at the rest stop. The time was 0225 hours. We should have been in Mostar around 0200 so I got off the bus to ask the driver when we’d arrive.
From the look he gave his co-pilot, I could tell something was afoot.
“Tsk, tsk,” the driver said and held his chin.
“Tsk, tsk,” the co-pilot said and looked grave. He motioned for me to take a seat and they exchanged words. I waited.
“Mostar….” He began making swishing sounds and using a hand signal similar to the ones traffic cops use when they’re telling you to move ahead. I began to think he meant reverse.
I dialed the number for the hotel that was expecting me in Mostar. From a previous conversation, I knew the proprietor spoke English.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Not sure, please can you speak to the driver for me?” I handed the phone over and waited. The driver handed me back the phone.
“You’re about one and half hours after Mostar,” the woman said. “They stopped there already and you were sleeping.”
Wonderful. Bloody wonderful. Just what I wanted to hear. There were no more than ten people on the bus. How could they have forgotten about me?
“But where am I?” I asked.
“Jablanica. Can you come tomorrow now? It is late. There is hotel in Jablanica.” But where?
I hung up the phone. By this point, the driver had struck up conversations with other guests in the restaurant as well as the bar staff. They were all discussing what should be done with me. I obviously had no say in the matter.
My bag was taken off the bus and bundled into a waiting car. The driver of the little vehicle was called “Sladjko,” a tall gray-haired gentleman who looked to be in his 50s. I understood nothing. By this point it was nearly 0300 hous.
“Jablanica,” he said. “No problem.”
We pulled up outside Motel Camel. The cigarette logo was all lit up. The same could not be said for the motel.
“Nichts problem,” Sladjko said. He got out of the car and began banging on doors and knocking on windows, calling for someone to wake up. He disappeared around the side of the building and returned moments later.
“Ah, problem,” he said before dialing a number on his cell phone. I was helpless, at the mercy of a stranger, with absolutely no idea where I was.
“Nichts problem,” he said and smiled when he’d finished the call. He grabbed my bag from the car and motioned for me to follow him back up the stairs he’d just come down from. The front door was unlocked. He took me into a bedroom with two freshly-made beds and a skylight and then walked along the corridor, turning lights on as we went, to show me where the toilet and bathroom were located.
“How much?” I asked. It’s funny how, even though many of the people I meet do not speak a word of English they know the exact meaning of “how much?”
He took my pen and wrote in my notepad. “10 Euro, me. 25 motel.”
Ten Euros for the short trip to the motel, and 25 for a bed? That was steep, but there was little I could do about it. It was a safe, clean place for me to stay until morning. I only had 9 Euros in change for the ride, a 5 Euro note and four single coins. He only took the five. “Okay, okay. Caio,” he said, and walked away, leaving me to it. Having not washed since the night before, the first thing I did was shower, then worried only briefly about what the hotel proprietor would say when they saw me before I crashed into a deep sleep.
I awoke at 0730, and went downstairs to find coffee and something to eat. Sladjko was sitting at one of the bar’s outside tables and invited me to sit with him.
“Fruhstuck?” I asked, using my limited knowledge of German, a language many speak here.
“Da, da,yes,” he said and called for a waiter. Was it included in the price, I wondered. “Compliment,” Sladjko said, reading my mind.
The waiter disappeared down the street and returned a short while later with fresh bread and cream cheese.
“Marmalade?” I asked.
“Da, da, marmalade,” Sladjko said and once again called the waiter. Off he went again to the shops. I began to feel guilty, but for 25 Euros, bread and jam wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
After eating, I walked to the bank to change some money, stopped by the bus station to find out when I could leave for Mostar (I had 45 minutes) and returned to the hotel to pack my bag. As I left the hotel, since I still hadn’t seen a hotel staff member, I handed Sladjko a 50 KM bill, the equivalent of 25 Euros. He dipped into his pocket and gave me back 25. The room had actually only cost 12,50 Euros.
As I walked to the bus stop, it crossed my mind that since no one had asked for my passport, and I don’t think Sladjko was the owner of the Camel Motel (although he must have known them, right?), he might have just made himself a little spending money. Not a problem from my point of view. Without him I’d still be stranded at the side of the road.
