Destructive and constructive, the contrasts couldn’t stronger and the impact of both is powerful.

The sniper’s nest resides or rather comprises an entire building situated about 1km from the bridge. The ghostly shell of an old bank building, it still stands as one of the tallest structures in the city. Shattered glass, empty shells, and crumbling concrete are found throughout the building. You can make your way up to the 7th or 8th floor via staircase that is seems to be suspended by rusty sinews of iron rods. Each step increased both my anxiety and altitude, until I stopped in my tracks and looked out on the surreal scene unfolding in front of me.

Looking out from the sniper's nest

From where I stood I could see Hisako silhouetted against a backdrop of green, rolling hills, and a vibrant turquoise river – all framed by shards of glass. Beneath my feet the glass crunched and shattered and my toe bumped up against some spent ammunition. Below me and spreading out from the building was a beautiful park with fathers, mothers, children, and pets at play. It was hard to imagine such a beautiful setting being caught up in war.

I held a used bullet shell in my hands. I turned it over wondering about its violent and brief history. Wondering. To my left was an empty elevator shaft that ran straight down, 7 stories deep. The doors long gone and a creepy wind howling through its bowels. A shaft of sunlight was streaming in through a hole in the shaft towards the top. Only later did I realize that it was a whole created by an RPG. Everywhere I looked destruction, desperation, and depression.

Spent bullet shells

Before long neither Hisako nor I could take it any longer and we hurried back down the rickety stairs and felt a the emotional weight lift from our shoulders as we stepped into the sunlight and out of the ruined lobby.

We then struck out from the sniper’s nest toward the bridge of Mostar.

An engineering marvel when it was built and another engineering marvel when it was rebuilt, the bridge arcs beautifully across the Neretva river that runs directly through the center of town. Built in the mid 16th century, the bridge stands a steeped in mystery in terms of its construction. But you need only stand on, beneath, or beside it to appreciate the elegant shape. Supposedly the widest man-made arch when it was built, you can find all kinds of other juicy details over on the Stari Most page on Wikipedia.

Mostar bridge's shadow

Our main mission, though, was to try and capture the bridge in the sunlight. Since it was already October and the sunlight coming in at low angles by early afternoon we made our first pass at the bridge around 10 in the morning. Unfortunately, the shadows were just so that the bridge and water below it were not illuminated. Disappointed, but not discouraged, we made our way around town looking at the numerous shops selling trinkets made of bullet shells or small models of the bridge. We found a nice little cafe to enjoy a few relaxing hours whiling away the time and noticed that the shadows were starting to get long again. Hurrying back to the bridge we found, to our great dismay, that the time had flown by and now the shadows were being cast from the other canyon wall. A perfect shot just wasn’t to be had this time around.

Trinity chilling at the cafe

Aside from our superfluous failure at capturing the bridge in a good light, we were nevertheless, is a great mood after seeing the bridge. Much like our time in Sarajevo, a ray of hope was shining strongly in the dark history of Mostar and I was glad to have soaked up the rays for just a little bit of time.

Bridge... in the shadows

But we're still happy campers

Snow on the moutnain pass

After one or two mandatory snowballs, I was back on the bus and huddled close to Hisako as the we descended down towards Sarajevo. It was nearing dusk as the bus pulled into the far side of town, concrete blocks of buildings welcoming us.

The highlight of our stay in Sarajevo was definitely a tour we took with one of the locals. Offering the tours for free to anyone who contacted him through his web site, I was astonished to hear about all the trials and tribulations of this Sarajevo local who had lived for the war. Of course, I wanted to come to Sarajevo when we had changed our plans to come through Eastern Europe. Seeing the images on TV as a kid and listening to the news, it seemed like world away and I couldn’t believe I’d have the chance to see it for myself.

It tears me in two. The reason for my excitement, if you can call it that, was because of the devastating war there. It seems so wrong that something so horrible can cause a destination to be a tourist stop. But on the other hand, I’m glad that the tourist market can lend a hand in getting the city back on its feet.

Tank

From what I saw around the city, the town is embracing its tourism industry and sections are thriving because of it. With nearly all heavy industry gone after the war, it seems to be one of the few bright spots for its residence.

Including Neno.

Neno giving us a tour

This wonderful local took us around to some of the famous sites within the city. Of course, we saw the Holiday Inn where the journalists stayed and the Sarajevo roses which are grisly reminders of the mortars that terrorized the city. But it was listening to Neno talk about the war, how it affected him, how he feels about it now, and where he wants to go that was truly inspirational. Not wanting the past to be forgotten, he has embraced the idea of educating the masses as his personal mission. Between classes and study he makes time for those that would like to learn more about the people of Sarajevo.

It was fascinating to hear how strongly he just wants to move on from the whole conflict, but simultaneously wants the world to truly understand the terror that the people of Sarajevo were put through. It was impossible for me to relate to the situation. Still, Neno opened my eyes with the retelling of his first hand experiences.

Bullet holes covering a wall

Sheltered in a basement for the majority of the war, Neno spent years without proper nourishment, a place to play, or a mother who could stay home. Each morning his mother would creep out of their apartment complex and would crawl, run, and scamper across town while sniper fire and mortars filled the air around her. Each time Neno saw his mother leave in the morning it was always with the feeling that this might be his last time to see her off. And yet, miraculously, his mother returned each evening bringing with her tiny rations, bits of bread, or whatever she could scrounge up for the day.

Neno and many of his fellow residence began to resent the canned beef being shipped in from the West almost as much as the sniper fire from the hills. Tasteless and unchanging, he said that the dogs wouldn’t even eat the canned “meat”, but his family had to subsist on it for years on end. Couldn’t the West intervene? Couldn’t they send them something other than canned beef? The war squeezed him, his family, and the citizens of Sarajevo in every direction possible and somehow he managed to persevere.

And yet, after the mortars stopped falling, the troops withdrew, and peace returned to this city where a World War had started less than a century before, Neno and many like him were quickly searching for a way to move beyond the terror. For him, that step was too keep educating others so that the mistakes of the past wouldn’t be repeated for a new generation.

A bit of lifesize chess

As an American I often resent the long reach of our government in affairs overseas, but here was someone who believed that it was the responsibility of governments like mine to intervene when a situation spirals out of control like Sarajevo. Thankful that Clinton did finally bring in airforce, but resentful that it was 4 years after the conflict had started. Like I said, it’s impossible for me to relate to the situation and always easier looking back to decide what might have been the “right” action, but it has given me pause to think about a government’s role in oversea affairs.

Between the crumbling facades and bullet holes, Sarajevo gave me plenty to think about. The city and its people stand as an amazing example of the perseverance and wickedness of humans. But for me, it won’t be a place of sorrow, but a place of hope because of a new generation that is slowly rebuilding from the rubble of the last.

Bridge from the past

Hisako looking happy that she can read the native form of the word Belgrade

Belgrade began of foray into the worn torn states of Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, and Croatia. The impacts of the war weren’t immediately apparent to us when we arrived in Belgrade, but gradually stories unfolded. As we ventured deeper into the countries we became more and more overwhelmed with the sheer complexity, tragicness, and spirit of the people that met.

While our stay in Serbia and Belgrade was short, it was an experience that remains close to our hearts. When in Timisoara just a day before, we were looking for a couch surfing host in Serbia but having no luck finding one. Our current host told us of a host coming to Romania that evening and said we could meet up him. Arrangements were soon made and later that night we had dinner and drinks with Rade. Rade didn’t know of any open couches, so he graciously offered us his.

Next day we made or way towards Belgrade while Rade had taken the night bus back. We found his place on the outskirts of Belgrade and were greeted by a large German shepherd mix as we came though the gate. We nervously approached the door with the dog close on our heels. After a few rings, raps on the window, Rade’s familiar face appeared in the door’s window.

Rade surprised us with his wonderful stories, altruism, and super friendly dog Bobby. He had gone from 0 to 60 surfers in the course of only a couple of months, deciding to bring the world to him if he couldn’t travel. He reminisced about Yugoslavia, the war, and finding new purpose in life with couch surfing. Inspiring stuff. At Rade’s we feasted on all kinds of locally prepared dishes. When we asked if he had any requests for a meal, his only response was “not pasta”. One of the side affects of being a heavy couch surfing host. Lots and lots of surfers like to cook pasta.

Rade cooks up a delicious casserole dish

Downtown Belgrade was a one day event for us. Serbia itself was only a 2.5 day visit before we traveled to Bosnia-Herzegovina. The weather wasn’t playing so nice, which muted the vistas throughout the city and was a drastic change after the beautiful autumn weather in Romania.

Nevertheless we made it to some of the highlights of the town, including the Kalemegdan fortress which is perched on about 100 meters above the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers. The fall colors were falling like wet paint to canvas below our feet as we walked through the fortress’ innards. Half park and half museum, I was surprised when we came over a bridge into the main complex and saw tanks and heavy guns lined up in the dry moat below. Here was a our first real introduction to the war.

A deadly moat

I was to learn throughout my time in the Balkin states that what I knew of the war growing up was extremely limited. The events that I saw on tv, however, were memories from my childhood. And now I was here, standing above a moat filled with weapons of that very war. World war one or two seems less relevant, easier to put into a historical context, like the walls of the castle around me. But faced with something that made me grimace 20 years ago there right before me was eye opening.

Throughout the fortress grounds, we saw more weapons on display juxtaposed with what-would-be beautiful views over the city. The rain and clouds kept us from taking in one of the most heralded vantage points, but we still managed to snap a few pictures.

Peace for Belgrade and the region

The rest of our time in Belgrade was pretty much spent chatting with Rade, eating food, or sipping coffees at one of the cafes downtown. Unfortunately, were weren’t there for the CS meetup that Rade goes to religiously and we missed out on a number of other touristy sites.

As we boarded the bus bound for Bosnia-Herzegovina, however, we thought back on our experience in Belgrade as one filled with heavy past, but a promising future. If you are ever in the region, maybe you too will experience the hospitality and magic of the Serbian people.

At first a host, now a friend - Rade

Passed out in Timisoara

The day before Hisako and I arrived from the northern provincial town of Baia Mare via a micro bus filled with peasants, college students, and one peace corps volunteer. I felt a bit like a VIP considering the amazing hospitality we received from our couch surfing hosts. After a delightful stay in Baia Mare, our host had gone as far as talking to the bus driver and our next host to arrange our point of drop off once we arrived in Timisoara. Sure enough, when the bus pulled into Timisoara, our next host was there hiding behind a beard of dazzling proportions. I thought I was looking at a taller version of Gimli. Hardly surprising that we headed to the mountain caves the next day.

An avid music lover, our host had heard about the concert a few days early and it wouldn’t be his first time to a concert in the mountainside. His attire spoke heavy metal. Late into our first night at his place he backed up my suspicions by breaking out Metallica’s Black Album. On cassette. He and his friend praised Sony’s auto-reverese feature of their boom-box resting on a shelf. The nostalgic sha-chunk of the tape deck’s play button began the blaring guitars and we were off and rocking. Somewhere between auto-reverse number 2 or 3, he brought up the option of going to see a concert the next day. When he mentioned that it would be in a cave, we jumped at the choice.

Off to a cave concert

The next day, four of us (Hisako, me, our host and his friend) piled into a well-loved Yugo. Tucked into the back with Hisako and gouging myself on grilled cheese sandwiches, I watched the countryside go whipping by as the friend drove us further and further away from Timisoara. We scooted across a brand new bridge that arched gracefully over another highway and a second later passed by an old materials factory that was covered in rust and decay. The road gradually got bumpier and started twisting through farmland.

A couple of hours after departure, the car slowed and I saw cars lining the side of the road up ahead. We had arrived. A nondescript village in the middle of nowhere was to serve as our base camp on our venture up into the mountains. Surprisingly, the number of cars lining the road was not small. Many others joined ranks with us as we walked along the road and turned up a dirt road. Young, old, punk rock, classical, rich, and poor all seemed to making their way up the mountain and this is where I got confused.

Given the music we had been listening to with our host to date, I thought for sure we were headed for a rock concert at this point. But as you know, and much to my surprise, it was a concert band performance instead. I was delighted to be going to see a band performance in a cave, but was also slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t be reenacting some wild cave dancing from Zion in the Matrix. All the signs to date had been pointing to rock and roll. Our host had just removed his shirt and was now walking bare chested next to us. Another clue I had thought! Turns out our host is just one of those types of guys that can wear shorts and sandals throughout the winter and to classical music concerts. It baffled and delighted me silly that this guy was taking us to a concert band concert.

30 minutes or so into the hike we came to a steep downward slope, followed by a sharp curve, and then a small incline disappearing right into the mouth of the cave. The several hundred people who had arrived before us had already created a well worn path heading into the cave and it was no easy matter to maintain your balance and keep from slipping. Collision with the person behind you here would have resulted in disaster, toppling people like dominos. Now I was rather happy for the low-key nature of the concert. Alcohol and this slope would not have mixed well. Hang overs wouldn’t have been the only cause of headaches I’m sure.

On the way to the cave

The mouth of the cave stretched a good 15 meters across and once my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw the interior bending off to the right. The sound of the generators outside the cave died off as we plunged deeper into the cave, our feet making their way through the loose rubble. Floodlights hung from small scaffolding here and there, providing just enough light to make the ground and walls visible but the ceiling fade to black. Inside the cave was huge. Several hundred people crowded into the space in front of us, forming a solid wall that prevented us from getting any close to the action. Far at the other end of the cave I could make out the concert band, large speakers, and what looked like some important looking people.

Shortly after we had settled into our spot amongst the throngs, the band started playing and we swayed, bopped, and shuffled around to the music. A mix of concert band, operatic, and choir music filled the cave for nearly two hours. A few times I thought I recognized the tunes. My mind kept racing back to my days in concert band in Ohio and imagining if we had gone down to Hocking Hills to play trumpets, bass drums, and clarinets among the stalactites. I wonder if dripping moister proves troublesome to the woodwind players. Or guano.

A slippery entrance

A highlight of the night must have been the opera singer who’s voice seemed to fill every cubic inch of the space. Stalagmites trembled at the high notes and creepy crawlies must have paused during their creeping and crawling to give her a good listen. This was nature’s own Sydney opera house.

All told, the concert lasted about two hours. Towards the end I was about ready to find some place to sit and we made our way back towards the exit. I felt like a bear, waking from hibernation as we neared the exit. I had forgotten that it was still daytime. The slippery, treacherous slope was still there. Back through the woods and stopping in a field for a picnic of more grilled cheese sandwiches, we wrapped up our little adventure.

Back in the car our host popped Metallica back into the cassette player. It wasn’t long before our heads were banging to the music again as we tore across the countryside. But it wasn’t the heavy metal tones that were ringing in my ears and memory for days to come afterwards. Instead, the works of classical composers in the most prehistoric of settings were echoing in my mind.

The picture you've all been waiting for, a cave concert!

Behind the Scenes

Apparently, these types of concerts are to uncommon in the area around Timisoara. So if you are in the neighborhood it’s definitely worth checking as to whether or not any concerts might be going on.

For more pictures and good times from our stay in Timisoara, be sure to check out the album.