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It had been a particularly grueling interview.
On our last day in Bosnia, Saturday, Oct. 18, 2003 The hacking cough I’ve been fighting
for a week jerked me awake. I looked at the clock. 7 a.m. Friday, Oct. 17, 2003 Some days, you just need a Jeep. Beth and I had a translator, Din, along for the ride. He coaxed directions out of an old man carrying a basket of eggs just outside Cajnice, but we soon discovered that the route was a bit more complicated than the man had let on. Farther down the dusty road, we encountered a man fighting the cold air by wearing a knit cap and layers of military-style jackets and sweaters with his knickers. “Mahrevici?” we shouted out the window. The man smiled, and pointed down the road with his walking stick. His response was quickly deemed our latest Quote of the Day. “When the asphalt ends, take a left. And by the way, have you seen my cows?” he asked, as Din choked with laughter through the translation. We told him that, regretfully, we had not seen any stray cows, and waved a hearty “hvala” before proceeding deeper into the forest. “Just be careful,” Din, a former soldier for the Bosnian army, said. “Many things happen in places like this.” “Many things” echoed in my mind as I surveyed the thick forest that threatened to swallow the road. The forests of east Bosnia, mere kilometers from Serbia, provided cover for many Muslims as they fled Serbian forces during the civil war. It was here that people were massacred and dumped into mass graves. It is also known to be a continual hot spot for landmines. The asphalt soon ended, just as the man had said. The left turn hurtled us down a rocky path. I thought 5 km per hour was a reasonable speed, but this road was just barely manageable even then. Stones clunked beneath the car as I gingerly guided it out of the ruts, moving dangerously close to the grassy cliffs that lined the road. “I lost an entire gas tank on a road like this once,” Beth commented from the back seat. Shortly after her comforting words, there was a sickening “scraaaaaape” followed by a “cluuuunk,” then a “thuuuuuuddd.” A giant boulder had suddenly evolved right in the middle of the road, and the car was lodged on top of it. I could move neither forward nor backward. I jumped out and peered beneath the car. The rock was pressed against the underbelly of the car, ready to puncture the gas tank and leave us stranded in the land of “many things.” “Let me have a go,” Din said. He climbed in behind the wheel and began to spin the wheels. Miraculously, the car slowly moved forward, scraping all the while as I prayed that everything would remain intact. Everything did, and we were in business once again. But even with the undisputed advantage of mobility, the search for Mahrevici was frustratingly fruitless. Back and forth we drove, anxiously memorizing our turns. We would venture into the woods as far as we dared before turning back. Stopping each time at the place where the asphalt ends, we would take a deep breath and dive right back in, to try a side road we’d passed by. I held my breath around every corner, hoping the village would appear. We approached a steep hill, and I got out of the car to see if any houses were visible in the valley below. There was nothing. My breath froze in the air in front of me as I took in a view that was miles of forests and meadows, extending into Serbia, right across the valley. I resisted the urge to shout, “Mahrevici!” in a last effort to find the village. Dejected and disappointed, I slumped back to the car. I imagined myself sitting at my desk in Utica, always knowing that we had been so close, but hadn’t made it. My mind saw a newspaper article with entire paragraphs of empty space, waiting forever expectantly for the story from Mahrevici. But those nightmares weren’t meant to be. As we rounded the bend, we met a logging truck, headed straight for us. After backing up to create passing space, Din discovered that the driver was passing right by the village. We followed the truck until he pointed us down another turn. And there it was. Had I shouted “Mahrevici” from the ledge an hour earlier, I might have heard a response. I had been standing just above the village, but had stared so intently straight across the valley that I hadn’t looked straight down, where a small handful of houses and a few sheep make up the livelihood of the people there. We have seen the largest cities in Bosnia
as well as some of the smallest enclaves. With two days left in
Bosnia, I'm fully expecting to be blown away by this diverse and
fascinating country at least a few more times. Thursday, Oct. 16, 2003 In Srebrenica, the ravaging of civil war
and ethnic cleansing is not only visible, as in many other Bosnian
towns. Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2003 The woman on the side of the road whom we had stopped to ask directions looked at our car with uncertainty. She shook her head and motioned toward the road we needed to take. It was a one-lane overgrown dirt path that cut straight through a field and disappeared around a corner into a forested area. "She says we need to park the car and get out and walk," Ifeta said. We grabbed our stuff and began to slalom between the haystacks and through the field. Just around the bend, there were small shacks and outbuildings and rows of corn. Cats chased each other amid the flowers and chickens clucked their way around the yard. A cow grazed in the meadow and enough firewood for the window was sheltered in lean-tos. The door of the white shuttered house in the center of it all opened and Aisa, Ifeta's aunt, rushed out. They embraced and clung to each other. Nineteen years of separation and uncertainty melted away on that worn front porch. The layers of handmade rugs blanketing every floor in the house were inviting as we left our shoes outside in the Muslim tradition. Aisa served the requisite coffee as the kitchen filled with the smell of the cheese pita she was baking. The kitchen was warm from the woodstove but the rest of the house was cool with the autumn air that blew through the open windows, bringing with it the scent of apple trees outside. The house is filled with whimsy. Two feathers stick out of a lace kitchen curtain. A cluster of walnuts hangs above the doorway. Bowls of apples and gourds and pumpkins pepper the room. Though a slight woman of 73, Aisa was a steady current of motion. She rubbed kernels of corn off the cob and fed the roosters by hand. She stood beneath the grape arbor heavy with the harvest holding a bowl as her husband Mustafa clipped clusters for her guests. When she heard her cow calling from the field, she marched over the muddy bed of a small stream and straight through the meadow to move its stake to greener pastures. The haphazard flowerbeds are not dictated. They flourish with little guidance. Aisa carefully broke the stem off one fully bloomed with her work-worn hands and offered a few words in Bosnian and a smile as she gave it to me. Aisa and Mustafa do not own a telephone. They communicate with their 10 grandchildren, some of whom live in Florida, via a cell phone owned by their son, who lives up near the road. The impassibility of their own little path is of no consequence for them. There is no car parked anywhere near their home. The couple has experienced the rise and fall of several governments. Their property has been under the jurisdiction of several different countries since they were married. But here, out of sight of the road and the ebb and flow of the changing world it brings, none of that really matters. Here they have all they need. Monday, Oct. 13, 2003 We spotted the red and white sign from the road leading up to Velika Kladusa's Stari Grad castle. It was down an embankment, displayed just beyond a sidewalk covered in debris from the trees hanging over it. "Would you be scared to go down there and stand by the sign?" Beth asked me. Without a second thought, I pounded down the embankment and grinned for the camera, the sign designating the line of safety for an area with landmines right above my head.
As Americans, the first landmine sign we saw was a bit of a novelty. We pointed and exclaimed. We made a habit of slowing the car for a quick photo shoot. There was something fascinating about the danger. It was just yesterday that I stood laughing beneath that sign. What a fool I was. How the locals would have sneered, had any seen me acting in such a way. Countless lives had been stolen by these landmines, and I was reducing a horrifying reality to a scrapbook photograph. It wasn't that I hadn't thought seriously about landmines. Here in Bosnia, I scan the area for signs of life before stepping off concrete. Wheelchair-bound civilians roll through the streets, just making do in a city with virtually no handicapped access points. Three of Ifeta's relatives in Sarajevo hobble on prosthetic legs because of landmines. One, a slender woman with long dark hair and intensely black eyes, laughs tightly whenever she has to sit down or stand up. During these moments, she smiles brightly for her 1-year-old son, but the smile quickly fades as soon as he turns away. Troops from all around the world patrol the streets of Bosnia's towns to keep the peace, but there is nothing immediate they can do about landmines. At the rate the minefields are currently being cleared, it is estimated that the job will not be finished for another 20 years. Even when a minefield is "cleared," the best the government can guarantee is 99.6 percent. Daily, men form lines and examine every inch of known minefields, risking their lives so that Bosnians displaced by the war can return safely to their own property. It is a dangerous, intense job even for highly-trained mine experts. All of this risk, for 99.6 percent. For families with nowhere else to go, that 0.4 percent can be all-consuming. Until the minefields in Bosnia are cleared as much as they humanly can be, and the rest of the mines are detonated over the course of time, Bosnians will live with a daily reality of the war. Driving back from Velika Kladusa, we passed a forested area with bombed-out homes peeking around the trees. The area was taped off in bright yellow, blue and red plastic labeled "landmine site." We tumbled out of the car and interviewed the Bosnian major who was in charge of the clearing operation. After the interview, Nufeta, our translator, breathed deeply and turned around, surveying the area. "Two years ago I brought my family
here on a picnic," she said. "There weren't any landmine
warning signs then." Saturday, Oct. 11, 2003 The landscape of Bosnia is as diverse
as its history, and we should know. But nothing in Bosnia can happen without a little excitement. We'd been wondering what the speed signs with exclamation points on them mean. Now we know. On Friday, headed south from Sarajevo to Mostar, just around the bend from one such sign, I noticed a policeman waving at me. He was holding a mini stop sign on what looks like a popsicle stick. I will always remember it as the Stopsicle. I pulled over and the policemen approached my window and pointed a gun at me. Not a shotgun, a speed gun. It said 84 in blinking digital gray. He began to talk, and I looked at Ifeta, who was in the passenger seat. "He says the limit is 80, you went 84," she said. I began to pull out all the identification I had -- passport, N.Y. driver's license, international driver's license, media pass. He took them all and flipped through the stack. "Just stay calm," Ifeta said. No problem. Somehow I just wasn't intimidated by the Stopsicle. "You need to give him some money," Ifeta said. Not again! Hadn't I already turned enough money over to the Bosnia PD? "He says it's 30 (Bosnian marks), but because you're an American journalist, you can pay 10 or 20 or how you'd like," she said. "How about 5?" I whispered. Ifeta's eyes widened and she looked panicked. "No, only 10 or 20 or how you'd like." I decided that pushing my luck would not be wise. I handed over a 20, the smallest bill I had. The policeman pocketed it and waved me away. If only it were that easy in the United States. Bosnia lesson learned: Slow down when you see the exclamation mark, and always carry cash. Quote of the day: "I had to figure out
how everything worked before committing," Beth Mundschenk on the
water closet that consisted only of a hole in the floor with treads
on either side. Thursday, Oct. 9, 2003 It was a cold, dreary day in Sarajevo. Yesterday's snow clung to rooftops until mid-morning, when rain washed it away, pooling in potholes – and bullet holes, for that matter. But urbanites still tended to their beloved city in the valley, and continued their daily sweeping of streets and washing of windowsills. The ever-fashionable downtown crowd was not put off by the dark sky, and merely opened sleek black umbrellas over their tailored clothing. After what I felt to be a lengthy interview
considering it was all in Welcome to Bosnia. Stumbling back to the elevator ("It's not like it's easy to get back downstairs, either!" Kristina mumbled) we headed for the front desk. "Can't we get our keys programmed to work for our entire stay?" I asked. The receptionist just looked amused. "I can make it until the 19th," she replied. "But we're staying until the 20th," Kristina said. The receptionist shook her head – again – amused. "Then I need an authorization letter so you can stay until the 20th," she said. Of course. We should have known. Why didn't we think of an authorization letter? Nothing is simple. Point A to point B will have ten detours, and of course a stop for coffee. But after the initial frustration, after being forced to walk instead of sprint, I realized that when I'm walking, I notice the life around me. And it's beautiful. The sprint reveals a destroyed shopping center, gray and sprawling for an entire city block. But a walk allows time to notice the men sitting beneath it, playing chess, smoking cigs and sharing life. Sprinting, it's the news story of grenades and land mines. Walking, you see the roses, still blooming in October, climbing over the crumbling walls, on which "Never Forget Srebrenica" is graffitied. In America, Bosnians say, people work so much that the money doesn't mean anything. In Bosnia, they say, people don't have any money, but they enjoy life, and the company of others. Wednesday, Oct. 8, 2003 "Noooooooooo!" When that cry flew from my mouth Tuesday morning, it echoed off the onion-domed Kremlin in Moscow all the way to cafes of Santiago and back again. The auto, our beloved black Opal Astra, was gone. As much as I frantically pressed the unlock button on the key, that familiar and reassuring "bleep-bleep" was nowhere to be heard. After an early-morning wake-up call, I filled the tank with gas in preparation for our trip to Gorazde. Returning to hotel to pick up the rest of the team, I decided not to hassle with parking in the hotel lot. Instead, I pulled around behind the Holiday Inn's yellow block structure and parked where the locals do, and where I had several times before. But a mere 20 minutes later, when Beth and I rounded the corner, my eyes glanced at the little orange Yugo I parked in front of, but my spot was empty. It was as empty as a robbed grave. Every other car around it was still there, but ours was nowhere to be seen. "It's gone!" I shrieked to Beth. Her face turned to stone. Not only was the car gone, our bags, including money and laptops and all they held were also gone. "My pictures," she moaned, with a look that said she was prepared to don a burqa and go into mourning for the rest of her life. We raced back to the hotel, where Kristina and our Bosnians were waiting. I pounded on the hotel's front desk, demanding fast service in a country where "hurry" is a swear word. "They steal cars here!" Ifeta
told me seriously, then patted my back in a manner that is usually
reserved for reassurance. "Oh, don't worry, guys, the police have it!" Ifeta said. Oh, sure, I thought to myself. Don't worry?!? Stories of steep fines and bribery requirements filled my head as Fikret and I jumped into a taxi. "Take your money!" Ifeta yelled after me, Kristina and Beth collapsing into each other's arms next to her. We drove through Sarajevo, never bothering to rush even as I frantically searched the roads for a renegade Chetnik tearing away with a rental car. The cab pulled up next to a large gate topped with barbed wire, and guarded with stoic men who squinted at us through a haze of cigarette smoke. Fikret adjusted his sleek black leather
jacket, cleared his throat, and exchanged words with the guard.
They opened the gate, and I rushed through after him, into a gigantic
lot filled with cars. I sprinted down the rows, my eyes darting
back and forth like a crazed, wild rabbit, jabbing at my key all
the while. "Pay now," Fikret said, using probably the only two English words he knows. He wrote "131 km" on my notepad, the equivalent of about 75 or so dollars. I shuffled out the bills, and Fikret distributed them among the guards. We got in the car, and I slumped over the wheel. "Dobro!" Fikret said brightly, then waved us along. The team was still waiting in front of the Holiday Inn when we returned to cheers and high-fives. All the other cars parked in that area were still there, too. Bosnia Lesson Learned: if they know you have money, they will get it from you somehow. Bosnia Myth Debunked: "Bosnian drivers are crazy." They're not really crazy, per se. I prefer the term "confident." Quote of the day: "This coffee is 'strong'. As in 'er'." Monday, Oct. 6, 2003 The car skidded to a stop alongside the country road, and Beth jumped out, in hot pursuit of a very picturesque shepherdess who was meandering down a narrow, muddy path, just wide enough for a single tiny car. Fikret, Ifeta's brother-in-law, climbed out and chased after her, calling out to the stooped woman. As soon as the car was parked, I tore down the road, hoping to catch a snippet of the daily life of a Bosnian Muslim villager. But Ifeta and her sister-in-law, Fatima, are not the type to be left behind. They were right behind me, and when the shepherdess called something out to us, they burst out laughing, doubling over the muddy grass. "She said, 'I'm not a refugee!'" Ifeta said when she caught her breath. The woman obviously had been the subject of other photographs. Ifeta explained that the shepherdess probably sells wool as a home business, as she carefully picked through the mud in her velvety black heels. "This woman has done this through the whole war," Ifeta said through Fikret's shouting and the scrambled moment. "And oh, this other woman is from Srebrenica!" That stopped me cold. "Srebrenica?" I said, turning to see the beautifully lined, smiling face of a Muslim woman, who was standing in the yard of her dilapidated house. There were two moments to capture. Beth was already down the road, stomping through the puddles, so I stood and listened to the heart-wrenching story of a woman who had lived to walk away from one of the war's bloodiest massacres. Her eyes told the story before the words left her mouth. It was Bosnia, in one beautiful moment. After we left the family home in Semizovac later that day, Beth and I decided to take our chances with another jaunt up our mountain, the same mountain that enthralled us the first day in Bosnia. Around and around we drove, barely turning around on those crushingly narrow roads when I went the wrong way. We stopped next to a cemetery that clings to the side of the mountain. The gravestones are as crowded as the houses that surround them, and freshly turned mounds of dirt are packed against the steep side of perimeter and stuffed into every possible place. A chill swept over us as the sun arched and fell, and suddenly the cry of the muzzein echoed from a mosque in the city below. And then another song, and then another. A dozen mosques from a dozen neighborhoods began to call out together, and they could all be heard from our cemetery on the mountain. As we moved between the graves, another muzzein became audible. I stood in the center of the cemetery and heard them from all directions, even from above me, higher up the mountain. The Koran echoed between the tombstones of so many who had died because of it. The moment was inexpressible. Were I told that I had to return home tomorrow,
I would leave knowing that today made the trip worthwhile. Sunday, Oct. 5, 2003 I saw the little boy approaching our car
just moments before he held up his squeegee, and asked if he could
wash the window. At that moment, a small girl thrust her hand through
my open window, murmuring for money. At the soccer game in Sarajevo later in
the day, the wild fans weren't at first as out of control as I had
heard they were. Then they cracked open the fireworks. The shouting
and cheering was augmented by flying balls of fire, often headed
straight for the police that lined the field, holding riot shields.
Saturday, Oct. 4, 2003 It was a day of chess and a night of dancing.
Friday, Oct. 3, 2003 It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was driving a black Opal Astra, trying desperately to keep up with the tiny red car that led the way. In downtown Sarajevo, other cars jerked themselves between our car and our guide. I lost sight of the car three times, but our "guy" (not guide, guy — that's the way things work here in Bosnia. It's forever "this guy knows so-and-so," or "we'll send a guy with you" or even, as I negotiated a way to drive the car to the curb of the terminal, the rental car representative said, "let me call a guy" — and the chains blocking our way dissolved into thin air) directed us somehow, in nods and grunts, and no English. But the multi-lane city driving, with its jumbled autos and desperate, wandering children, was nothing compared to the single lane that trailed up the mountain to the Bektic home. An extension of the city of Sarajevo, this suburb overlooks the entire city. Back and forth and back and forth we drove, zig-zagging up and up and up the mountain, with each turn revealing yet another breathtaking view. Children scrambled among themselves in the narrow road, and fruit stands and small grocers fit into nooks between houses. Despite the very slender space, cars behind honked impatiently when I slowed to ensure that I did not hit anything. Somehow we arrived safely at the house — a concrete block among a thousand like it. Many were in various states of construction; most sported bullet holes and grenade blowouts. But each home, perched on its own ledge of the mountain, had a spectacular view. In the United States, there would be million-dollar homes on such property. In Bosnia, neighbors help each other pour new concrete blocks and plant rows of tomatoes. To get to the Bektic house, any vehicles are parked near the road, and one must pass through the yards and gardens of several other houses. On a dirt trail, then a hop over a half-finished brick wall, through a mound of gravel, then down another pathway before we finally reached #127. It had already been a long day. When we burst through the clouds and descended upon Sarajevo, this small city looked as though it could have been in a mountainous region of Germany. But the closer we got to the buildings, the more apparent it was that many of them were partially or totally destroyed by bombs or grenades. Certain lots had been reduced to piles of rubble. The plane landed, and Amela, with Beth and Kristina, went right through to see the waiting relatives. It was an emotional reunion, but Iki and I were stuck behind with "luggage search man." After he demanded "nominal" fees from a woman who has waited 10 years to see her family, she and I finally emerged from customs. Tears flowed, then it was action time. We left the airport to experience Bosnia — a beautiful land full of contradictions. |
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Sunday,
Oct. 19, 2003
