A Transitory Existence (Part II)

A Transitory Existence (Part II)

Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

On the morning of September 6^th we left for the twelve-hour day train to Sarajevo in Bosnia and Herzegovina.  Our compartment turned out to be non-existent, and we suspected that this was the doing of the unpleasant woman at the ticket office.  Eventually we secured a carriage next to the same boys who were on our last train to Hungary, meetings like this often occurred between groups of travellers, and we happily chatted and played cards with them for a while.  The journey was a very slow and uncomfortable one, and we all suffered from stiff legs and sore backsides.   The train clattered on at a snail’s pace and stopped at every insignificant station, sometimes waiting for an hour at a time.  In between naps I wrote my diary and thought about our next destination.  The places we had been to so far each had had a definite air and individual vibe about them, yet this time it felt like we were entering into a different sort of Eastern Europe.  Somewhere where culture differs just that fraction more, a place immersed in history where there are still visual signs of suffering and ruin.  I wondered whether we would be welcomed somewhere so rich in misfortune, a place that we ignorantly knew so little about.  The scenery from the carriage was flat and tedious, brown field upon brown field stretched to the horizon to merge with a grey and disinterested sky.  The change was almost immediate, but we embraced this exciting adjustment, the unpredictability of how we would receive and be received by this destination gave a new dimension to the trip.

We finally arrived at about nine that evening.  It was dark now, and the ceaseless cloud of rain had followed us here.  Aching to relieve our painful posteriors we felt a sigh of disappointment with the hostel.  Our room was in the basement of a building slightly out of town, it felt hollow and there was no hot water.  In the room with us were five silly Swedish girls and an irritating Bosnian boy I never bothered to learn the name of, as he constantly insisted on having serious debates about politics and communism.  He had come here to seek some knowledge of the history and society that interested him so much.  Ursula, who was doing a politics and law degree, found him fascinating and took him under her wing, to my complete and utter annoyance.  I had no real reason to dislike him, he would probably be interesting to most people, but I felt tired and hungry and did not appreciate my upmost attention being demanded by a stranger.  Perhaps I displayed the stereotypically rude and selfish nature of the English, and perhaps he showed the engaging and interested nature of Europeans.  Either way, I did not care very much.

This dramatic change in my mood was lightened when we began to notice the kind-hearted nature of the people of Sarajevo.  It was late and we were looking for a place to eat when a man stopped to help, ringing an English-speaking friend to direct us to a small pizza place, which subsequently made the freshest, most delicious stone-baked pizza.  A smooth character named Elvis with slicked back black hair and clad in black leather began chatting to us and conveniently owned the bar next door.  We drank Sarajevsko lager, plum flavoured Bosnian spirit and flaming Sambucca chambers, all impressively whizzed in front of us by the loveable waiter with a sweet smile, who got paid a mere five pounds a week.  We enjoyed the gypsy music and Elvis’ company then rambled on back to our bunk beds, before the Bosnian boy got the chance to give another lecture about something boring or other.

Gravestones overlooking a view of Sarajevo

 The town itself is small for a capital and has an understated genuine sort of charm unlike any of the other cities we had visited.  Pigeon Square certainly holds true to its name.  The market shops are mainly ramshackle crooked wooden huts selling hand-woven rugs, jewellery and all sorts of useless bits and bobs.  My bad spirits returned when the others began to mess around with cashing traveller’s cheques and following the Bosnian boy around, who, to my horror, proposed that we waited for him outside the Post Office whilst he queued to spend £100 on five stamps for his stamp collection.  Of all the things to be doing with my day this was not what I had in mind.  Infuriated with the lack of action and fuss over this stranger who we would never see again, and who I deemed the most boring person I had ever met, I stormed away from the others in a raging temper. With no map I headed towards the Milijacka River which is an unpleasant muddy brown colour, but walking up a hill I was finally rewarded with satisfying views of the town’s red rooftops intermingled with the deep green ferns of the surrounding hills.  I took a deep breath and felt the pressure in my chest subside.  Sarajevo looks refreshingly different.  Unlike the dull landscape of the train journey, it looks healthy and thriving even with a few cracks littered about the pavements, and even with the fields of ageing gravestones.  The war wounds and bullet holes spotted about the older buildings give this place a melancholy depth. Yet these holes, these people and this city seem to be re-healing themselves from the dark days of the German bombing campaign in World War II.

Chess players

 Meanwhile, the town and its people seemed simply delightful; I was particularly beguiled by a group of elderly men playing oversized chess together in a park square.  With my nerves calmed, strop officially over and the boy disposed of I met with the others again.  The friendly and casual atmosphere of Sarajevo rested comfortably in our minds and not once did we get a bad reception for being English.