Somewhere in a coffee shop in Sarajevo, one Bosnian should thank me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will thank me. This has something to do with the law restricting employing foreigners if the company can find a local replacement. This makes sense given the very high unemployment rate in Bosnia. But this means I can kiss goodbye my hope for a contract renewal. I will soon have to leave the country that I wanted to stay longer at least one more year, maybe even more. All sentiment set aside, I now have something to look forward to my summer vacation to Croatia’s seaside. I didn’t want to go there thinking there will be plenty of time, and suddenly I don’t know when I will be able to return.
A friend, Meri, called the bus station on Friday to inquire information about buses to Omis and found out the earliest one to Split through Omis had only three seats left. Her phone call sent Jarda and I trying to beat the locals and running to the street of Sarajevo to the bus station to grab the last tickets. Usually, you can be more relaxed behaving and shopping the Balkan style, showing up and buying tickets on the spot right before your departures. But Split is one of Bosnians’ favorite summer sites. On top of that, the departure is on a Saturday during the summer season when every Bosnian day-dreams for a taste of the Croatian seaside.
Our 7-long bus is scheduled to depart at 7 and cost 17 KM/9 euro per person, which is quite decent. Upon comfortably seated, and the bus is only minutes from leaving, I realize I have forgotten my passport. Out of desperation, I turn to Jarda “Do I need the passport?” “Get out! Get out right now! We have no choice. How are you going to cross the border?” He shouts while ushering me off the bus. “Uh, how about we bribe the police for example?”
You see, years and years living in a corrupted country will make matter like this be seen as bribe material.
How could I forget my passport? I had a detailed checklist.
– Razor to shave legs for the beach.
– Hat to walk under the sun.
– Cream for face, lotion for hand, soap for the body.
– Instant noodle as emergency food kit
– Wallet, credit card, debit card. Printouts of credit card and debit card.
– All kinds of things a woman bring on her vacation to the seaside.
– Mini locks and keys to prevent thugs from quickly opening my backpack and stealing razor, hat, cream, lotion, soap, instant noodle, wallet, cards, card printouts and all kinds of things a woman brings with her on a seaside vacation.
And I left home my passport.
We exchange our tickets for the next bus departing at 10. It is surprising how the bus company even lets us do that. We left the bus at the instant of its departure, and they would not be able to sell our seats. Jarda stays at the station while I walk home to find and add the passport to my travel sack. No rush to return to the station right the way, I wash dishes left over from yesterday and vacuum my room while contemplating the quick turn of destiny. One minute I was ready to embark on a summer to remember, and in another I find myself holding sponges scrubbing greases and dustpan to rub the floor. On the way back to the bus station, I stop at an open market to grab a bikini. The formidable lady upon learning that I am a teacher, she gives me a whopping 30% discount. Teachers must be seen universally as being dirt poor, I guess.
The unique mountainous landscape from Sarajevo through Mostar to the southwest of Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH), though I have seen many times, still have this strange power to bewitch and sadden me at the same time. It was the ultimate contrast between nature’s superior sight and human’ debased behaviors.
The first bus stop is in Lalajna where, on my way to the toilet at a restaurant, I run into a colleague of mine and her four-year-old daughter on their way to Neum, Bosnia’s only seaside city on the Dalmatian coast.
Bosnian seaside if you can call it that looks very strange, having only 30 km of the landmass. On the maps of Bosnia and Croatia, a tiny wedge in different color near the south of the Dalmatian coast is Neum. Bosnians, using regional maps from ancient time, claim that Croatians stole their seaside. When I ask Jana, a Croatian friend to verify that claim, she sternly looks at me and lectures: “Look! Bosnia did not even exist for some time. Part of it belonged to Croatia. Look at Croatia shape (It is a strange upside-down L). What kind of shape is that? Before, Croatia was much bigger, but over the years, Bosnia edged in.” It is fascinating to see how different people interpret the map of Croatia. Petra, my Czech roommate in Sarajevo, once told me that Croatia wants nothing to do with the Balkan. Its shape shows it desires to break away.
I am not certain and will not bother to find a correct answer about the originality and the legitimate owner of the Dalmatian coast. The answers vary depending on your chosen timeline and the beginning of the questioned history. I found three historical maps in chronological order. On the first and second map, the Dalmatian coast was in Croatia’s territory. On the third map, during the territorial expansion under King Stephen Tvrko in the 14th century, Bosnia expanded to include a large part of the Dalmatian coast.
Our butts kept bouncing up and down on our seats during the sometime-bumpy ride through bad roads before when we first catch a glimpse of the Dalmatian coast, only partly visible under the bright sun. I lived near the seaside all my life, and the sight of the see doesn’t impress me as much as it does Jarda, who grew up in a landlocked country. For me, this is just another trip to the ocean, but for him, it is as close as a dream comes true. Now I know why the Bosnians flock to the Croatian seaside during the summer. When you compare the ridiculous tiny seaside they have in Neum to this vast coastline, there is only one logic solution.
My photographic excitement slowly dies out after failing to capture the coast on the bus which is driving too fast. The bus doesn’t go directly from Sarajevo to Split as we thought; instead, it goes through Mostar to Marcasca, another tourist resort to the south of Split and heads to Split after passing Omis. Thinking that the bus driver will stop to drop people off at Omis as he does at other stops, we idly sit and stare out of the windows before realizing that the bus has traveled from the city center and reached the end of the town, heading to the next one. We grabbed our bags and asked the driver to let us off in the middle of the road. Frustrated and semi-roasted from the late afternoon heat and heavy backpacks on the back, we groan at the prospect of walking 2 km back to the center to find a tourist office and accommodation. Good thing does come out from a miss calculation. After walking less than 15 minutes, we see the sign “Auto Camp Galeb,” the camp site we planned before the trip to stay. If we have gotten off at the city center, we would not have seen the camp and would spend a significant amount of time to find it, and of course walking 2 km.
The camp has no designated lot, and we roam around to find a spot in the shade and finally find an open space overlooking the beach between the giant tents of the German tourists. Most campers travel in trailers and cars from Germany, Czech Republic, Hungary and a few other countries. (There is an inland camp called Lišticina near the center, but it was much smaller.) We build our tent, take a quick shower in the fully-equipped bathroom facility and wash our clothes before heading to the center.
I am utterly impressed by the city which was originally meant to be only a cheap stop for our main destination, Split. Camping in Omis saves us a lot of money compared to private accommodations in Split. We planned to stay in Omis only long enough to find out information about Split and then would spend all our time there, but we end up staying two extra days after feeling so spoiled in this small city. I have not seen such city before in my life, small and thin coastal city surrounded by mountain, plenty of things to do, lively enough to make you happy and quiet enough to give you peace.
We stop at a pub hidden in a dimly lit alley to watch the World Cup football match between Argentina and Mexico. After the pub, we walk to the marina and see an advert for 6-hour fish picnic trips, fish lunch included, in the morning to visit three islands and cost only 20 euros per person. But we already made an appointment to see our friend Jana in Spit, and I have to console myself that she’s worth more than a fish trip. We stick to the plan to see her tomorrow.
Then, under the moonlight on the pier of a very romantic city, instead of holding hands and promising we will love each other forever, Jarda and I got into a heated argument, the first of our many arguments on this trip, all because the boyfriend wants me to dress like what I interpret as ‘whore’.
Every man, I am sure, at least once in his life, drools over women in low tops and short skirts. Every man, I think, more than once, hopes that those women are theirs. And every man, I suspect, at least once, wants to see his girlfriend covered in minimal clothing. Anyway, a huge nocturnal marina argument over cultural difference explodes like a firework.
“I’m not going to dress like those f* whores!” I stamped on my feet.
“But it looks nice on you.” Jarda is relentless.
“Hey, understand, I grew up in a conservative environment.” When I get too emotional and can’t rationally explain and reason myself to others, especially to Westerners, I pull this culture card. I will say that I’m from a conservative background, thus behave so and so. Most of the time, they let me get away with it. While I don’t advocate hiding behind certain labels to justify our thinking and actions, sometimes labels are simple and quick to explain things which can take a paragraph.
I don’t remember exactly what goes down at that marina beside short skirts, boob, and conservatism, but I think the argument ended up with “let’s break up.”
It is only the first day of our summer vacation together on this beautiful Adriatic coast. My boyfriend wants me someday to dress like those ‘innocent’ Japanese high school girls portrayed in chick-flick films. And the glamorous Croatian girls in high heels and skirts so short you can see their panty lines all seem to conspire to ruin my holiday.
Two years ago on an IAESTE traineeship in Gliwice, Poland, I met this loud person whom I didn’t click immediately. I don’t think I even liked her. She hung out with other girls and boys and once got a hangover from too much Polish vodka and Absinth illegally ‘smuggled’ across the border from the Czech Republic to Poland. She was too drunk she missed the train home. Our mutual friend Nico, another Croatian, said that we had nothing in common. Somehow thereafter, Jana and I got to know each other on our frequent weekend trips around Poland and Abba had sealed it for us. Every time she saw me, she greeted me with this loud, booming, typical Mediterranean voice “Hi Mars!” Yes, she thinks that I am from Mars.
People, here comes Jana, the local from the Croatian seaside.
Jarda and I didn’t split up over the mini skirt fiasco, and we carry on with our plan to Split in the morning to meet Jana. While waiting for her, we ate at FIFE, a restaurant cooking typical Dalmatian seafood dishes and less pricey than other tourist-oriented restaurants in town. Our huge risotto and grilled fish dishes cost only 40 KN and 45 KN, very decent for our hungry stomach and a tight budget. The lack of seafood in my diet in Sarajevo made me long every day–since the moment I finalized my vacation plan to the Croatian coast–for Dalmatian seafood. During the last two months in Sarajevo, whenever I felt the urge to eat out, I told myself: “No, soon I will be at the seaside and would have a seafood binge.”
We finally meet Jana, a true Dalmatian who was born and raised in Split until she left for Zagreb, the capital, to attend university. Before I went on my summer vacation, my Bosnian roommate in Sarajevo, Tena, explained to me the accent of the people from the seaside. (When the Bosnians refer to the seaside, they mean the Croatian one and not theirs.) According to her, the Dalmatians speak with a lighter accent compared to those in mainland Croatia and Bosnia. You know one of those relax tone you often find in people who live in laid-back sea towns. I ask Jana to speak some basic phrases to see if I can spot the difference between her accent and of those from Sarajevo, but she already picked up the mainland accent after moving to the capital trying to get serious and all. She isn’t a pure coastal person anymore.
I tell Jana about the Bosnians’ claim of the Dalmatian coast and believe that Croatians stole it from them.
“No, it was not! They took it from us, and we took it back. Then we gave them Neum so they could have a place to go for vacation.” Jana retorts. Her half-serious, half-comical facial expression and hand gesture while giving us the speech about her country’s rightful claim to the territory and its generosity to the Bosnians give us a good laugh. Don’t try this conversation when you don’t know the person well. You don’t want to end up in the middle of a nationalist debate. This is the Balkan; people are either nationalists or very proud of their country. If they are not, they are usually some very ‘boring’ who have nothing to say. Being such a ‘diplomatic’ that I am, depending on whom I am with, the Dalmatian coast surely belongs to them. Case settled.
One thing I love about Europe is the love-hate relationship between neighbor-cum-rival countries. These neighbors can have a lot in common with their histories, customs, and languages; they refer themselves as ‘we.’ On the other hand, they have no shortage of harmless jokes and heated grudge when ‘we’ become ‘they.’
Now, without the pressure of being chosen as the next best friend of either a Bosnian or Croatian, I agree that the Dalmatian coast was stolen from Bosnia by Croatia when looking at a fixed time frame in history. However, if history is a string of events and has no real beginning; it’s also valid to conclude that the Dalmatian coast first belonged to what is now Croatia and then was taken by the Bosnian kingdom.
I am happy to have met Jana after such a long time. She becomes our tour guide for the day. She shows us the city and tells many interesting facts about historical events, architect and give us many travel tips. In awe with my discovery about Jana, who only cared about getting drunk during our time living together in the dormitory in Poland,
I tell Jarda how surprised I am that she knows this sort of thing.
“But she was not drunk when she was in high school, was she?” Jarda says. “This is Europe. She had to learn these things in high school. Don’t you learn art history in school?”
Now he hits my sour spot. “No, I came from an Asian educational system? We are uncivilized savages from Asia, unlike you, European intellectual snobs.”
It is time for me to confess another culture secret. Back in the old days when I was ‘conservative,’ I would think people who drank and partied were dickheads and dumb-asses. The personality of a young traditional Asian who is breed and educated in Asia is usually not as dynamic as those grow up and educated in Western societies. There is an unspoken social code which we follow to be or to be ‘seen’ as good students in school and proper persons in life. The good ones regularly attend school, get good grades and behave appropriately in public and at home. The bad ones skip school, smoke, drink and frequent dancing clubs. And that who we are. That explains why suddenly I look at Jana and think about how smart a friend I have.
Tena sent me an SMS from Sarajevo to remind me to walk on Marjan hill to see the marvelous night view of the city. The walk is a short climb the hill passing people who are trying to get fit after all those risotto and fish they eat down at the city center. Tena is right. From the top of the hill, you can see the lit city below and miles of the coast. By now, the center is getting packed with tourists and locals who come out of their hiding to enjoy the start of life at the seaside.
The football match between Netherlands and Portugal is on. I anxiously follow the game when Netherlands was led by one goal. The Dutch team has been one of my favorite going back to my childhood. The Dutch was called the “Orange Tornado” for their fluid and beautiful attacking style. They have not made any progress since their capture of the 1998 Euro Cup, a UEFA European Football Championship held every four years. The great Dutch player, Marco Van Basten, who led his team to that year champion title, is the head coach for the national team in this World Cup. I was his fan as a child and totally root for him and his team. Unfortunately, they lost to Portugal. The Portuguese team that year premieres Cristian Ronaldo, who only a few years later went on to be the World Best Football Player and one of the most eligible bachelors.
We can’t finish the match because we need to take the last bus back to Omis where waiting for us is a tiny tent on the beach overlooking the Adriatic sea.
Split is one of the main transport hubs in central Dalmatia. We bought our tickets to Dubrovnik there. There are many companies operating many routes. Costs differ based on departure times. We choose the 8 o’clock as it is the second cheapest, and the timing was reasonable. Followed Jana’s advice, we ask for buses which stopped at Omis to save the time and money making a trip back to Split.
While sitting on the pavement of Omis and waiting for the bus, Jarda notices an increasing volume of car drivers not wearing seatbelts. He begins to count out loud. On average, we catch every other driver without a seatbelt, all of whom are locals judged by their license plates. Foreigners and tourists obey the law, and even stop their cars and let pedestrians cross the street. Bosnian and Croatian drivers are notoriously in their monopoly of the streets. If in that rare occasion we are yielded by them, we always roll our eyes in disbelief wondering if they stop for us or something else.
“These people are stupid. They spent a lot of money buying expensive cars with airbags, and they don’t wear seat belts. The airbag will surely kill them once it opens.” Jarda groans.
“Tell me how airbags can kill them?” I drove for a long time, and yet I was always someone from another planet where cars were concerned.
“Well. If an accident happens, the seat belt pulls them back as the air bag opens. However, without the seat belt, their faces will move forward, opposing the airbag’s direction. Imagine the two forces.” He explains.
In Sarajevo, people often don’t wear seat belts. They have not found an incentive to wear one, and the penalty for not wearing one is a mere 25 KM/12.5 euroS. If the drivers are slapped with the standard fine imposed in America, a whopping 200 plus dollars in some states, the change will surely happen overnight. But then again, this is a country with many other serious problems; driving without a seatbelt is probably the least of their concerns.
On our way to Dubrovnik, we pass Neum. If you look at the maps of Croatia and Bosnia and listen to jokes about the Bosnian seaside, you will understand the funny experience when you have to show your passport when you reach Neum, Bosnia’s only city in the coast. In less than an hour later, you might have to show your passport again once you are in Croatia. The check is a mere formality as the customs officer does not even glance at my document.
I am in charged with accommodation for this trip. Jarda was pressing me to book a room ahead afraid that there would not be any room left and we might have to pay a higher tourist price. He has this fear of feeling like a homeless. By the way, his original last name means ‘fear.’ His mother demanded the change by appending ‘ovsky’ to it before marrying his father. He’s also a self-proclaimed hypochondriac and has these funny fears which I sometimes don’t understand. We argue a lot because of our different styles: mine so-what, we-will-find-a-cheap-one and his we-might-have-to-pay-lot-of-money-for-expensive-hotel. I didn’t book any because all rooms I found online were in the high 40 euro, which is too much for this region. Besides, booking accommodation weeks ahead incurs too much inflexibility forcing us to be there at a fixed date. Being a more spontaneous traveler, I dislike this method of traveling. Jarda, being time and detailed oriented engineer, wants everything mapped out to the smallest details: what to do, where to stay, when to be there, so and so. At the time, I have not yet learned to be more organized like him, and he flexible like me resulting us arguing a lot over useless stuff. Typically, I will leave the planning up to him, being a good planner that he is, but now he is busy doing a master thesis, study and searching for a job, so I unhappily take on the role of trip planner. Armed with this new title, I pull ‘rank’ on him and object his plead to book a room ahead of time. “I am the organizer, remember?” He doesn’t let me off that easily until I offer a bet. If the price is over 40 euro, I will pay 20 plus the extra. If it is less, I’ll pay only the amount subtract the price from 40.
Here is a lesson to you: “Don’t argue with a person who has the locals on her side.” Before the trip, my students told me there would be people at the central bus station Dubrovnik renting their rooms out to tourists.
When we arrive, we are flooded with locals holding “Room/Sobe/Zimmer” signs waiting for people like us. An old woman who speaks no English snatches us. My pathetic Bosnian helps a little when we bargain prices. She has a photo album with pictures of her houses, showing this woman really knows what she’s doing. In the end, we get a room in her family house for 190 KN/28 euros per day. The lady calls her husband and a few minutes later, a smiling old man driving a car to pick all of us from the bus station. These people amaze me. They conduct businesses and close deals without speaking and understanding their customers.
Our room is located near the bus station and not too far from the Old Town. But without knowing the short way to the Old Town, the walk under the heat is too challenging. It is extremely hot that day, perhaps the hottest on the trip. We stop many times to rest; after all, we can only do so much tongue-sticking-out to catch a breath. Not able to walking on the main street amidst noises and under the direct sunlight, we instead zigzag to a longer route, the outside neighborhood to avoid the sun while aiming for the sight of the fortress.
The medieval cobbled-stone street walk around the neighborhood leading to the Old Town is a nice experience for me but not so much for Jarda, a European who is used to this kind of build. He comes from a city with no shortage of cobblestone streets. To him, the sight of a beautiful narrow path leading to the fortress is only “you see, in the old time people were smart. They built narrow streets along houses so people could walk and avoid the sun.” I am not sure if these roads were constructed with the sun in mind because ancient people were probably not a bunch of lazy, spoiled city-dwellers like the rest of us. But his reason makes a lot of sense.
Standing here in Dubrovnik, I can not help thinking that I almost skipped this city have I not accidentally saw some photos of the Old Town on the Internet. I am not a big fan of the seaside after having lived near the water all my life. The entire length of Vietnam spans the Pacific Ocean, and so does California. The seaside for me is merely a tourist-trap sprinkled with modern beachfront vacation houses, café, shops, and hotels which charge ridiculous prices. Thinking that I would stay in Bosnia for another year, I didn’t rush to see Split and Dubrovnik until Jana warned me that it would be a dumb move if I skipped Split and Dubrovnik when I was living so close. I would have, indeed. Dubrovnik is a beautiful town, and this is only an understatement.
Jarda follows a guided group of tourists to listen for free. I am a little bit embarrassed and try to be invisible by keeping a distance from them. Whenever I get close, I pretend I was window-shopping. But shameless Jarda who is into information about history and architect sees no problem of blending in with the paid group and becoming one of them. To him, the street is free, and he can walk and stand wherever he wants. “I agree, but this is more of a principal matter,” I tell him before quickly wandering off from the crowd though still close enough to eavesdrop. Don’t be fooled by my last statement everybody. There is nothing principal about me really; I am utterly embarrassed.
The tour guide is a lovely woman dressing in white summer gown and a round beach hat. She speaks decent English and is articulate narrating the history of Dubrovnik until near the end when she gets caught up by a harmless political-provoking question from a tourist. “What was that civilian conflict which happened here?”
“No, it was not a civilian conflict. It was a Serbian war.” She quickly corrected him.
The group erupted with laughter.
Suddenly, I forget my freeloader’s status and inch closer to listen to the conversation.
“It was not a religious war either.” She continues. “It was strictly for economic reason. Croatia broke away from Yugoslavia, and Serbia declared war because it wanted to control the Dalmatian coast.” Then, she pointed to buildings, bombed from oversea by the Serbia and Montenegro army from Montenegro territory.
“Wow, this woman is madly nationalist.” Jarda comments.
“What the hell do you mean?” I ask.
“She did not tell the truth. Croatians murdered many innocent Serbs too.”
“But Serbia started it.”
“If you want to argue about who started first, it will never end. For example, one can say that Croatia started because it broke away from Yugoslavia.”
“But if the central government in Serbia led better or were not too greedy, nobody would even think about breaking away right?” say I. “Look at Czech and Slovakia. You guys broke up without a single gun shot. What does it mean? It means that the same event can spawn many different responses and actions depending pretty much on the people involved. If you have leaders like the Dalai Lama or Gandhi, wars and massacres would not have happened. Too bad, this region has people like Milosevic and the radical Bosnian Serbs.”
“Let see it this way. As the president of Yugoslavia, Milosevic was responsible for keeping the country together.” Jarda calmly explains as he always does being a very calm Central European.
“If you say so then why DIDN’T the president of Czechoslovakia or Czech Republic bomb Slovakia? There are many ways to keep the country together. You can always negotiate. If negotiation fails and these people want to leave the union, then perhaps it says something about your character as a leader of a nation. You simply don’t have the respect and support; then you should let them go peacefully.” My voice begins to rise. “Milosevic, being a power-greedy and ill-intent nationalist person that he is, waged the wars and murdered thousands of people. Look at Gandhi and his non-violent approach in his quest which earned him a Nobel Prize, to liberate India from English rule.”
“Stop screaming at me! Can we just talk?”
“No. I’m not screaming. I just have to make a point. And we cannot talk.” Honestly, I didn’t scream. We have a contrasting way of communication. His is a typical calm Central European. Mine is, well, Balkan.
I admit that I get myself all worked up every time Jarda and I talk about the Aggression 1992-1995 when he tries to find all kinds of reasons to defend Serbia which I have singled out as the responsible party for this war. At the time I had this severely negative images of Serbia and its right-wing nationalists.
Jarda has never lived through any war in which his close relatives died. The war for him was one great-grandfather who was a soldier during WWII, how German Nazi murdered Czechs and how Russia fucked up Czechoslovakia during communism regime. He says that he doesn’t hate the Germans and Russians and that we should move on, and that Bosnians need to move on to be qualified for EU consideration. However, he does not know his great-grandfather. Thus the death concerns him little if not at all. WWII happened a long time ago, and he did not live through it; the pain and misery experienced by Czechs only caused sudden and momentary rage when Czechs talk about (which they don’t). And he has this collective dislike of the Russians, like many other Czechs. These experiences can never surmount to the personal level felt by the Bosniaks, many of whom are as young as 15 years old, who witnessed their fathers and uncles being slaughtered by Serbian cetnik (nationalist ). This trauma has an enduring and severe affect and can’t simply go away by the sound from the EU.
Phew! We stop arguing and proceed to a bookstore to find information about the city. I pick up a travel guide about Dubrovnik which mentions the Aggression. Something smells here. The book mentions only Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia and Montenegro, even Macedonia (who has little to do with the war), everything but Bosnia, the KEY factor in this war. I turn to Jarda, “Maybe these people (Croatians) have something to hide. They didn’t mention Bosnia because they might have to bring up the fact that they betrayed the coalition with the Bosniak army and murdered their former allies in the process.”
Forget politics. We are going to Montenegro.
6/2006
[slickr-flickr type=”galeria” tag=”omis” caption=”on” description =”on”]
[slickr-flickr type=”galeria” tag=”split” caption=”on” description =”on”]
[slickr-flickr type=”galeria” tag=”dubrovnik” caption=”on” description =”on”]
My name is Cindy, also rhymes with travel junkie. A friend said I was probably a gipsy in my previous life. One of my many secret missions in life is to convert you to run off every once in awhile.
