Cindy-Lou Dale

“Anger becomes like old leather,” he said, “the longer you carry it around with you, the more comfortable it becomes, eventually you don’t know any other feeling.”

 

Lushly scenic hills sprinkled with white sheep, lazily merged with towering mountains. Ancient forts, which had been frowning over the valleys for centuries, punctuated the hills and stood guard over much of the regions history. I was driving through Bosnia-Herzegovina - one of Europe’s truly astounding landscapes.

 

The twisting road and plump mountain-side was splashed with every sharp shade that nature could bequeath, where every tree became individual – a patchwork in hues of olive green, jade and sage; and little farm houses sent smoke signals into the blue sky.

 

In the two-hour drive from Sarajevo, its capital, to Mostar, my car squeezed through a dizzying canyon and clung to the edge of the mountain passing beneath snowy summits reflecting the midday sun. This astounding landscape was perfectly replicated in the turquoise waters of the Neretva River.

 

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

 

This serene backdrop was far removed from the portrayal of refugees tramping alongside growling tanks – an image broadcast around the world, some twelve years ago. My preconceived notion of the country as a devastated land quickly diminished.

 

My arrival at Mostar was immediately followed by a cursory grooming, after which I wandered into the Old Town in search of a cold beer and diversion. The Old Town centre was crowded with people sitting at umbrellad trestle tables, laughing and chatting and sipping Turkish-style coffee.

 

Nearby I watched workmen pouring runny concrete into the gaps between the recently laid cobbles of the newly restored Old Bridge. The Old Bridge once drew millions of visitors and was an icon of harmony in a peaceful country shared by Muslims, Serbs and Croats. But in 1993 a Croatian tank destroyed it during the war which brought Bosnia-Herzegovina to her knees. Subsequently the Old Bridge was rebuilt.

 

I seated myself on the terrace of one of the cafés stacked up against the steep riverbank. Together with the delicious smells permeating from the kitchens wood-burning stove, I drew great comfort when watching a couple of friends greet one other with two-cheeked kisses, who then proceeded to wreath themselves in blue cigarette smoke. Seal’s ‘Kiss of a Rose’ was softly playing somewhere

 

My eye was drawn to an adjacent building’s shattered balcony and above that, mortar damage. A patron from across the terrace followed my gaze then limped across to join me. He was a giant of a man with leathery complexion and wild beard. He exuded a certain toughness, bundled into some type of heavy barn jacket which gave him a handsome peasant look.

 

“We experienced some of the worst combat during the war,” a voice announced from within his beard.

 

“Some of the worst,” he repeated for emphasis.

 

He thrust a meaty hand at me and introduced himself as a historian from the local University. His gray hair was close-clipped and sat above a furrowed brow. His dark eyes were hooded and sad, which drooped with the weight of countless sleepless nights. He shot a cloud of pipe smoke across the table.

 

“Street-life and shops are now busy,” said the Professor. “Our ancient archaic muddle is once again pleasing.”

 

“But,” he continued, “There is much work to be done in areas that are beyond the tourist zones.

 

Then added as an afterthought, “…a shroud of ruin still taints Mostar.”

 

He told of how, over the past four centuries, mosques, synagogues, Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches had stood alongside one another. People of many cultures, who prayed to different gods lived and worked together, and respected one another’s ethnic diversities - it all worked out, despite the historical rulers. Until recently, that is.

 

The humidity stuck like glue. It was so hot and airless that even the flies lay down on their backs and just quietly gasped. The waitress brought us another round of cold beers.

 

The Professor spoke at length about the recent war. Clearly 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 re-stoke his pipe, then gazed at the far horizon.

 

With a slow manly sniff, he said “We were fearless fools and certain we were indestructible. I lost most of my friends, and many members of my family.”

 

The Professor thrust his beer glass deep into his beard. Evidently it found his mouth. He took a long pull on his pint then grew momentarily thoughtful.

 

I asked if he was still angry, immediately regretting the naivety of the question. He looked at me with a touch of wonder then erupted with a loose phlegmy laugh which turned into the lung-shaking cough of a hardened smoker.

 

“Anger becomes like old leather,” he said, “the longer you carry it around with you, the more comfortable it becomes, eventually you don’t know any other feeling.”

 

From a nearby mosque, a Muezzin warbled from a pencil-sharp minaret across the rooftops, to his flock, calling them to prayers; simultaneously bells pealed from a nearby Church spire, generating an astounding disharmony as ethnicities tussled for dominance.

 

Whilst self-imposed separatism is largely practised amongst the different ethnic groups of Bosnia-Herzegovina, its people are unified in the belief that theirs is the most beautiful country in the world.

 

“Beyond the war legacy, there is a Bosnia few people know,” the professor explained.

 

“We are big-hearted people, irrevocably committed to a better future,” he added sagely.

 

He made a sweeping gesture across a setting of incomparable splendour, asking that I see what lay before me, which was a landscape so timeless and rooted to an ancient past.

 

“And then,” the Professor observed, “there is all of this.”

 

Clearly it brought the Professor much joy to speak of his country and her future. I could not bring myself to tell him that I needed no convincing. Instead we exchanged smiles and toasted the future of Mostar, her people and the infinite possibilities which lay before her.

 

I drank, I profess, an immoderate amount of beer and arrived at my lodgings by way of several flowering shrubs and one uncompromising lamppost. I celebrated my arrival at the hotel’s entrance by making a complete circuit in the revolving door so that I emerged onto the sidewalk once again. I plunged back in and with surprising suddenness, was chucked into the lobby. I had one of those where-am-I flashes then grew vaguely aware that the night-staff were silently watching me. Summoning as much dignity as I could, I announced that all was well then jauntily proceeded to my room, but fell asleep in the lift instead.

 

The world was bathed in that predawn light that seems to come from nowhere when I awoke the following morning. I ambled through deserted cobbled streets in search of Turkish coffee and became quietly excited when I found a café about to open.

 

The bird’s-eye view afford me was both dazzling to the senses and soothing to the spirit. Tongues of dawn-flame kissed the meandering river and chilli-red roofs. Mostar was a city both irretrievably scarred and infinitely capable of renewing herself, I thought. Sheer pockets of perfection, entwined with bombed out hollow structures and walls peppered with bullet holes left one with a feeling that somehow God would reach out and heal the wounds caused by mans wrong-doings.

 

In contrast to Sarajevo, which hums with chic bars, exclusive boutiques and stylish teenagers, Mostar is yet to salvage her strength. She was battered to within an inch of her life and understandably it will take time for the physical scars of war to heal, as they are still painfully visible throughout the city.

 

I could not begin to imagine the emotional trauma that turned once-friendly neighbours into brutal and loathsome enemies. I reflected on the Professor’s wise words; he felt some of the buildings should remain untouched “or we will forget to remember”.

 

Later, when I stepped from my cool 4x4 into dry, oven-like heat, supervising the unloading of the rubber raft tied to the roof, I contemplated the rafting days which lay before me. I gazed in wonder at the raging waters of the famed River Tara, the same white waters which had hosted the Euro Rafting Competition in 2005, and said a silent prayer.

 

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