Cindy-Lou Dale

On route to Mostar from Sarajevo, driving through a dizzying canyon, my guide, Sasha, decided to stop off at, Konjic, a small town on route. There was a man there, she claimed, I needed to meet.

My trip to Bosnia was purely an academic one – a meeting with a history professor at Mostar University, so arranged that I could savour a few days in the country which had once been beaten to within an inch of her life in a recent civil war.

Samir Kriviã, Sasha explained, is a physical training instructor by profession, but he also owns a white water rafting company.

I recall thinking how civilised it all was – a cooked breakfast served on a wooden deck, shaded from the baking sun by canvas covers, followed by a general rule guide to rafting. Later we all piled into an assortment of 4x4’s and pootled off, following the river some 30km upstream.

A panic induced protest stuttered to a start when Samir handed me a wet-suit and helmet. In hindsight I think because I mentioned that I had done a bit of canoeing in Malawi, he assumed some measure of competence on my part.

I fixed him with the most respectful grovelling look I believe I have ever mustered and enquired if he expected us to be getting wet.

He smiled broadly, indicating that I should look into the canyon.

I felt a stab of despair when I peered over the edge; several hundred feet below was a deeply carved gorge with a foaming froth of fast moving white water. A small, uncontrolled squeak escaped me.

Now, Samir announced, we raft.

And so it was that I began my unintended first-ever white water adventure, when I gingerly stepped into a rubber raft, containing several other wide-eyed innocents, all looking a little owlish. I showed them my teeth and sat down, securing my feet under the ropes. Then, with a startled cry, and a near backward summersault, we took off with a velocity seldom seen outside a Road Runner cartoon. Shrieking hysterically, we surfed through huge rapids and deep troughs as if on an Exorcist missile.

I was quietly certain we would all die this day, all except Samir of course, who evidently feared nothing.

Following what felt like a small eternity, but in reality was but a few minutes, the waking nightmare was over and we were in calm waters.

Despite myself I became rather excited at the prospect of the next set of rapids and uttered a cry of pleasure when Samir pointed them out.

The Neretva is 225km in length, of which 203km is in Herzegovina and 22km in Croatia. The upper stream of the Neretva contains water of Class A purity and is ranked as containing the coldest water in the world with temperatures as low as seven or eight degrees Celsius in the summer months.

Later, when we entered the calmer waters, I began to look around and see truly astounding sights; like the plump mountains suddenly and infinitely splashed with every sharp shade that nature could bestow, offset against white canyon walls and turquoise coloured waters, under a vast summer sky; a contrast that truly dazzle the senses.

We rafted for several hours, passing through a landscape of incomparable splendour and ended the trip where we had breakfasted earlier in the day.

Bosnia is more than a rugged country, Samir explain, it’s a way of life which demands extreme outdoor sports. Some sportsmen paraglide off the top of Visoèica and over the canyon of Rakitnica; others prefer to mountain bike across the Prenj plateau - Bosnia’s version of the Himalayas.

He took a long pull at his pint and grew thoughtful. The locals though favour rafting on the crystal-clear rapids of our world renowned Rivers Neretva, Una and Tara.

Soon Sasha and I resumed our journey to Mostar were we spent the night in a charming not-touched since the 60s type of hotel.

Our fellow diners were possibly the most fearsome looking folk I had seen since a recent family reunion. They looked as if they had just come in from killing large animals in the woods, perhaps with their teeth.

The dining room was hung with wallpaper which was doing its best to flee dampness; which is what I did immediately upon finishing my meal.

I awoke the next morning to a world bathed in that predawn light that seems to come from nowhere.

We struck off before breakfast in a north-easterly direction towards Foca and the River Tara. We grouped with a few other thrill seekers at the local offices of Encijan Rafting, where Milan Supic-Sherpas loaded us into his 4x4 and proceeded further to Vranovina. On route Sherpas used every four-wheel drive feature his vehicle possessed, driving on a steep and narrow mountain track, often needing to make three point turns on sliding gravel.

We arrived at Encijan’s camp to a lavish buffet lunch set out beneath a covered wooden deck, overlooking a raging mass of turquoise water.

Sherpas, an amiable giant, with a handsome peasant look about him, explained that the River Tara was coined the jewel of Europe.

This, he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the wild, foaming river, rises from the mountain ranges in the northern part of Montenegro and flows 140km until meeting with the Piva River where it forms the River Drina, one of the longest and largest rivers in the Balkans.

And that, he said, indicating the forest surrounding us, is one of the last three remaining jungles in Europe with many trees more than 500 years old.

It was one of those splendid days, the world full of crisp spring excellence, with the heavens so fresh and sparkling that you felt as if you could ping it with a finger, as you would a polished champagne glass.

This is about as raw as nature gets, I thought, making myself comfortable in the raft. I watched the powerful flow of the Tara rush by, as she has done for eons, hollowing out a soft limestone surface, creating sculptured gorges and chasms, and forging an 82-km long canyon, the deepest in the world, second only to the Colorado’s Grand Canyon.

I downed a Fanta then unzipped my wet-suit, tying the arms loosely around my waist. I readjusted my bikini top and relaxed somewhat, basking in the sun as we gently paddled down the River Tara.

I awoke to sharp jolt and a rafter’s paddle beating my forearm instead of the water. We were in white waters rivalling none that I had yet seen. The raft tilted dangerously and for some inexplicable reason, whilst grasping at an evasive sky-hook and falling into a slow backward summersault, I recalled a bottle of wine I had forgotten in my deepfreeze back home. It took a moment before the coldness registered but when it did I paddled furiously for the surface, which was fast receding. Despite my vigorous attempts I continued to sink. Water had filled my wet-suit, and the arms, which I had earlier tied around my waist, now embraced my knees.

This was not at all how I had imagined my life would end. None of my family or friends would believe it either as I, after all, only required a colour TV and coffee making facilities for a bit of excitement. Would they understand, I wondered, that I’d had enough of being the cupcake and also wanted a bit of that swagger that comes from doing insane things.

I waited patiently for death’s sweet kiss but instead slowly rose to the surface where I was unceremoniously plucked out of the water and man-handled into the raft.

I gasped and spluttered, frothing little nose rings of Fanta. Sherpas looked at me the way you might look at a road accident victim then picked up my life-jacket from the floor of the raft and threw it at my feet.

Do you not remember the safety rules we discussed?, Sherpas demanded. I nodded sheepishly, unable to speak, and put my life jacket back on again.

By the time we reached base camp I was almost calm. Following another feast, campfire talk focused on a brown bear which lived on the opposite bank.

The mountains are full of perils, a fellow rafter announced. Snakes, nests of spiders, bears and even a scattering of small antelope, all lethally deranged by parasitic worms that borrow into their brains.

Nonsense, said Sherpas, tossing his black tresses out of his face, reminiscent of the rather fetching Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean.

If Drak’s around, there is nothing dangerous out there.

Drak was a mountain-man, Sherpas claimed, who lived nearby, and who had no concept of plumbing or how it worked, nor electricity.

A few years ago, Sherpas said, I visited Drak’s hut. I noticed an Ikea-type kitchen clock leaning up against a wall, still in its Styrofoam and plastic wrapping. I enquired if Drak needed batteries to get the clock working.

Sherpas chuckled at the recollection, then continued. Drak claimed it had not worked since the day he bought it and did not want to waste any more money on it.

What caused him to become like that?, a fellow first-timer asked.

We all quietly reflected on this for a moment. Then someone volunteered:

Massive amounts of home brewed liquor and generations of unbiblical sex, is probably what bred Drak.

I quietly observed the mannerisms of the hardened adrenaline-junkie extreme sportsmen around the campfire, then asked Sherpas about the war.

He grew thoughtful then took a long drag from his cigarette and told how no family was left untouched. He recounted, with difficulty, his own losses, occasionally averting his moist eyes. He took a moment to recompose himself and used that time to light another cigarette.

We were fearless fools and certain we were indestructible. I lost most of my friends, and many members of my family.

But, he added, there’s a constant feeling that nature is reaching out to heal the wounds caused by human wrong-doings. He contemplated his statement for a moment, then added. Bosnia is both irretrievably scarred and infinitely capable of renewing herself.

On the flight home an over accessorized fur-coated lady sat beside me. Her sighs of discontent were clearly intended to encourage a conversation, so I ignored her. Clearly she could bear this no longer and despite herself enquired after the blue black bruises on my arm.

That looks awfully painful, she exclaimed. What on earth happened to you, dear child?

Nothing serious, I said, just some bloke that beat me up and then tried to drown me because I took my top off.

Word Count: 1,781

THINKING OF GOING?

When to go: Typical to the region, Bosnia has hot summers and chilly winters. Winters average a daily high around 3°C (37°F) and snow tends to linger at higher altitudes. In summer rainfall is slightly heavier but the sunny, 26°C (79°F) July days are a treat. Springtime (April and May) is the best time to get a glimpse of the country's rich flora and fauna, though upland areas may still be under snow.

Getting there:

Return flights with Malev Airlines from London Heathrow to Sarajevo start at around £99, however these rates are time dependent. www.malev.com. No visas are required for British passport holders.

Transport:

There are no motorways in Bosnia – it’s mostly B roads. Driving conditions are generally good. There are however, still large mortar holes in some of the roads so it is wise to keep your speed down. You will be stopped regularly by Police patrols, so watch your speed at all times. Keep your doors locked whilst driving as carjackings' do occur. Locals aren't the world's most cautious drivers - drink driving incidents are on the rise. Service stations are scarce outside the big cities. It is therefore strongly advised to seek the services of a local guide to accompany you.

Car Hire: Premier Car Jet at both Sarajevo and Mostar airports offers VW Polo’s for the four days from Thursday to Monday for £118. Rates are time dependent www.premiercarjet.com/bosnia

Clothing: Light and cool clothing ideal for hot weather. Bathing costumes, comfortable walking shoes and an extra pair for when you go on the Vrbas, a wind cheater, sunglasses which can be secured to your head with a strap, a waterproof camera casing, waterproof money belt.

Contacts: 117 Tourism Association of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina www.tourism.ba/eng.

Money: Bosnians will happily use three currencies: Euros, Bosnian Convertible Marks and the Croatian Kuna. At the time of going to print £1 converted to €1.46, BCM2.81 and CK10.81

Guides: Green Visions, started by Tim Clancy, a former American aid-worker, is an eco-tourism company www.greenvisions.ba.

Books/Maps: The only English-language guidebook on Bosnia & Herzegovina, ‘The Brandt Travel Guide’ was also written by the recommended guide, Tim Clancy and is available on www.amazon.com. 

Food and Drink: It isn't a true trip to Bosnia Herzegovina if you haven't had the ideal backpacker's meal of Burek, a hot greasy pastry staple full of cheese, meat or both, and a thick black 'Bosnian' coffee. All for just a couple of pounds and you still have enough for a beer. Food is generally very salty, so be sure to drink lots of water.

Word count: 835