Busses and Bosnia

Somehow I got the idea in my head that I wanted to go to Sarajevo.

I don't know if it was based on romantic ideas that the name has always conjured, a need to put some true-life basis behind the stories I read and heard in my lectures on inturnational relations, or the hazy images we got on Canadian TV that I still have in my mind of snipers from soviet looking apartment blocks and guns on the hills around dropping shells on the city below that needed some kind of confirmation. Maybe it was just the thought of riding a measly twenty or so kilometers of bosnia (the miniscule leg of coastline it lays claim to on the sea where there is a small gap in Croatia).

One way or another I decided to come. Then, in an admittedly drunken portage episode on my last night chillin with Tim I managed to twist my ankle, and the idea occured to me to take the train to sarajevo and stay a night or two with a couchsurfer - that way I can rest my leg and not worry about lost KM (the dazs until homecoming are rapidlz ticking down, and the Kilometer count remains daunting).

So we go to the train station. Where we're told that the tracks are being worked on and there are no trains from Split. Rats - but not impossible. Tim books a bus to Zagreb with plans to connect to trains taking him to Budapest, I decide to grab a night bus all the waz to sarajevo.

When the bus pulls up at 10 pm, my heart sinks. Its a minibus. Holds maybe 12 people. Definitely not my bike. Unenthusiastic at the process of stealth camping solo with a twisted ankle and in the rain in a large city, I limp back to the ticket office and ask them where is the closest to bosnia I can get by bus that night. They tell me Ploče, halfwaz to dubrovnic, has connecting trains. I wait for the 1:30 bus. When it shows, I ask the driver if he indeed stops at Ploče. Yes. and he'll take my bike. He overcharges me even after I bargain him down.

Midway through the ride I realize we're well beyond Ploče. Fuck - he either didn't stop or didnt call the stop. Not to worry I tell myself, this is better. I'll stay on the bus all night and get some sleep, then take a train from Dubrovnik, better rested, and maybe paying a fraction more.

At the Dubrovnik ticket office i get my next rude surprise. "there's no trains here" the puzzled information office woman tells me. Fuck. Again. I head into town to pick up some food (rude woman overcharges me at a fruit stand, rude girl yells at me - in between sentences in her more-important-than-the-customer phone call) and grab another bus heading, finally, to sarajevo. A couple of large, cold Karlovacos and a sleeping pill left over from when I got really sick riding in spain put me out for most of the ride, save periodic shakings into consciousness when I dutifully present my passport.

I arrive.

Sarajevo is wierd. I was warned by a friend we made in Split - "it's depressing" - and it is a little bit - but somehow still full of life. My face was glued to the window as we slid into the citz - building after building facade still pockmarked with bulletholes, scarred and maybe re-patched with mismatching bricks by shell holes. Its almost unreal. The achitecture reminds me of western-pop images of soviet russia and an arthur erikson wet dream combined. Faded billboards from the 1984 olympics still stand near the bus depot.

On the surface though, things seem normal. Traffic hums away as it does anywhere, save for a complete absence of bicycles. (complete). Boutiques line the streets in the centre, and there is a thriving tourist boutique district near the gorgeous (I would call it the most beautiful thing in the city, actuallz) mosque and courtyards. Everyone still drinks coke, and it costs the same it does in Vancouver or Torino.

Under the surface I discover things are still messed up. This is a city without trust - offering a couple of marks to make a quick local call on someone's cell (a trick that has worked everyhere else I've been) elicits suspicious looks, grunts, and flat out 'no's. I meet a bosnian girl now living in vancouver (who thankfully hooks me up with a cell phone) here to do paperworks and sort out loose ends remaining from pre-war times. She tells me that the system is corrupted enough that she can barely get anyting done. She also tells me that the area around the city is still heavily mined, and completelz unmarked. Freaking scary, because the area she points to is the very same one I'd been scoping to wild camp (hey! what a nice forrest right next to the city!) if my couchsurf plan didn't pan out.

I decide to do a bit of better research on the subject and am informed by our lovely government's website that "Landmines remain a very serious danger, especially outside of Sarajevo. The vast majority of mined areas in Bosnia and Herzegovina are not marked in any way. Visitors should keep to main roads, stay on paved surfaces, avoid abandoned houses, and travel only during daylight hours. Special care should be taken near former confrontation lines. Avoid areas with visible signs of destruction, such as numerous destroyed buildings, which may be mined. The mine threat includes large amounts of unexploded ordnance and discarded ammunition. War relics and unknown items should not be touched and should be reported to local authorities. Visitors should carry a document identifying their blood type."

Well there is a mindfuck. Looks like I'll be asking a lot of people if I can tent on their property, as that warning description pretty much rules out all of my usual haunts. I dont even KNOW my bloodtype.

trust me kids, though, I'll be careful. I love my legs and have absolutely no interest in having them blown off.

See you back home (in one piece) in just over a month!