The Bright Lights of Sarajevo
As a child of the late 90s, the news stories I faintly remember Moira Stuart drily informing me of were the unstoppable rise of a generation-defining girl group, the sudden death of a beloved princess, a greying man in a suit “not having sexual relations with that woman” (with no clue what that meant), and of a thing so unspeakably terrible going on in a place called Bosnia. Unable to understand much more than that at the time I had still, however, been indoctrinated to associate the name of this nation with a host of negative connotations and I imagine I was not the only one. To this day, the country is still trying the shake off the image that many, not all, of course, hold of her.
Gratefully, I was able to dispel these associations when I interrailed through the undulating Western Balkan nation over a decade ago, encountering a number of extraordinarily special people and some exceptionally special places. On this trip, we would be revisiting much of my former route, this time on wheels rather than tracks (which led to its own host of problems you’ll read about later). The first somewhat noteworthy point that struck us as we crossed the Serbian border after exiting Belgrade was the lack of a major highway to its capital: Sarajevo. We wrongly assumed that two of the largest cities in the former Republic of Yugoslavia would be well connected, although the simple fact they are not gives you a minor glimpse into the knotty politics of the region.
Nevertheless, what did greet us the instant we entered the country were mountains: precipitous, unrepentant, overawing mountains. Vishnu cut a steady path through countless river-carved ravines until reaching the modest but humming town of Visoko, about thirty kilometres northwest of the capital and our home for the week. We were parked, not for the first or last time, on a couple’s front lawn and, although I am effusively aware that I write this every week, had the greatest welcome I have ever had the pleasure of receiving. Mirza was our generous host offering everything from unlimited chilled Gorštaks in the fridge to his own car to drive to Sarajevo to the t-shirt from his back. Too concerned I would reverse into a Bosnian’s front porch on the way there, we turned down his vehicle and took the local bus.
Following our fierce debate over whether the city is more well known for the Winter Olympics of 1984 or the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, we disembarked our comfortable carriage and began investigating. What wasn’t in question, though, was the boundless history and intrigue that every single side street and edifice unpretentiously oozed with, which few cities I have explored compare to. After the compulsory visit to the location of Franz’s shooting, which in turn allowed me to stamp another box on my assassination bingo card along with JFK, Trotsky, Julius Caesar, and Thomas Becket (just Rasputin left for a line), we ambled our way to the Old Town.
As well as a fascinating mishmash of architectural eras and styles, the “Jerusalem of Europe” is one of the very few European cities to have a mosque, Catholic church, Eastern Orthodox church, and synagogue all within the same neighbourhood. This has led to the fostering of a diverse culture which is incredibly pleasurable to absorb whilst aimlessly wandering the Ottoman bazaars. Much less pleasurable to absorb, although far more important to behold, was visiting the Museum of Crimes Against Humanity and Genocide. Whilst impossible to comprehend what the locals went through just a generation ago, it is clear to see the almost miraculous progress they’ve made in rebuilding their embryonic nation and leaving, but never forgetting, their sombre past behind.
Back in Visoko, we soon began to cherish our little Bosnian township; with a bustling marketplace and pleasant river-side promenade, it was the perfect tonic for our toils in our previous nation. It did, however, afford one last challenge when, upon attempting to leave our host’s garden for the final time, Vishnu got hopelessly stuck in Glastonbury-levels of sludge. Never fear when Mirza is near and, within minutes, his brother, who just so happened to own a burgeoning towing business, had tugged and returned us to the tarmac in no time at all. Keen to avoid the forthcoming snowstorm, we continued our journey southwest to the eponymous region of Herzegovina. Živjeli!
J
