Easter Hustle

Sometime before I made my first Holy Communion, it was Easter and the excitement was palpable. We did not have an Easter egg hunt or anything like that, but my mother bought each of us a chocolate egg. These were held in the kitchen, high and out of reach but within view. My parents went to Mass, as they still do, but at the time they would go separately. My mother in the early morning and my father in the early afternoon.  I woke early. My mother had left for Mass.  I was not able to tell the time then. I went to the kitchen to watch TV.  At some point I was joined by my older sister. 

I had a small smarties egg with a tiny cut out puppet on the back of the box. I was eager to craft that finger puppet, but first I had to empty out the contents. Coaxed on by my sister I climbed the counter and retrieved my Easter egg from the high shelf. I opened the box and pulled out the chocolate egg. There was no sign of any sweets and we were sure there were some. The only possibility then was that they were inside the egg.

I removed the egg from its wrapper, and with my thumbs pressed a hole into the shell.  The chocolate cracked and fell in. Sure enough, inside there was a little transparent bag filled with multicoloured smarties. I shared out the smarties. I was promised that I would in turn receive chocolate and sweets from my sister@s egg. It didn't happen. We finished the sweets and started on the egg.  We chipped, and chipped away at the egg until there was none left. My mother returned from Mass and found us on the floor beside an empty box and wrapper. You have eaten all your egg!? She asked. I had. But it was ok, my sister said she would share hers. But she didn't.

Rivers That Stretch, Gorges That Tower And Bridges That Stand

Part III

A knock on the door stirs the senses.  Heavy eyelids are pushed up as the body slowly drifts out of slumber. The duvet is torn aside and the legs swing over the edge of the bed.  It is already morning and already bright. 

Filip is at our door fresh as a daisy. 'Sorry I had to wake you,' he tells us, 'but they told me you have to get up, get breakfast and ready.'

My movements are lethargic but after a dirty coffee, I feel that I am ready for life.

We are going to canoe down the river Drina. There had been talk of rafting, but thankfully, to my secret exaltation, there are too few to go rafting. So, we are going on the canoe which is ample excitement for me.  I liberally apply sun lotion. It is hot today and the sun is intense. We get our wet suits, life jackets and shoes and climb into the back of the Fiesta. In a Yugo 4 x 4, our fellow tourists set off and we follow. We travel quite a bit away, pockmarked and twisting roads.  Later we learn we were not far from the Montenegrin border.

The canoes are inflated. We watch a group of chilled beer guzzlers ride a crude raft down the river. There is a chorus of cheers. Solidarity of man in nature. 

We step into the water. It is cold.

I am not used to the water. I cannot swim. I try to get accustomed to the chill, lying and drifting in the hope of calming my nerves. But this will be a baptism if fire.

I dip into the water hoping my fear of not being able to swim will evaporate, it does not but we cannot wait any longer. I am directed to sit in the middle. Clutching my paddle I climb aboard. We wait, the three of us until a little distance come between us and the other group. Slowly we begin our journey ca. 25km of river. The river is gentle at first but I paddle with nervous anticipation. Every once in a while Filip tells us to stop and we admire the beautiful Bosnian countryside. At various points there are clusters of people by the river enjoying the sun or the shade, picnics, barbecues and water sports. Some cheer and some yell as we drift by. 

What did they say we ask? 

'Oh,' Filip replies, 'they asked us if we would like to join them for a beer.'

When we meet the rapids I tense up. I hug the bench,clenched between my legs and my backside, I do not want to fall out. They are not overly rough and while I get a surge of adrenaline I do worry my fellow paddlers are a little underwhelmed or even bored. It is sufficiently exciting for me!

We catch up on the other crew and pose for a few pictures. We have already travelled 10km. The worst is over. We can relax now it seems. We climb back in and carry on. Soon the other group slip out of view. We go on and on, the temperature drops and the sun has gone. A canopy of dark grey clouds covers us. There is a storm brewing. The weather breaks and the rains comes, drops at first and then a downpour. The thunder rolls and the lightening flashes. Unsure what our best course of action ought to be, we paddle on.  No one has brought a phone because of the chance of water damage.

Pelted by rain, and feeling fresh after a whipping, we reach the camp, Filip's father takes a picture and we wave our paddles like the mad seamen we are.

The rest of the evening involves, a shower, a change, food followed by rest and relaxation. There is also cake.

Our time in Bosnia Herzegovina is almost at an end. We have one more full day here before moving on to Dubrovnik.  The weather is not so good so we decide to give the national park a miss. On the walk on Saturday, Lola had mentioned an ancient bridge. Believing it to be nearby a short walk down the road we make a plan.

We travel to Višegrad.

Filip alerts to various speed traps and also fondly reminisces where he received his first ticket from the police. He even points out the location to us.

We get to Višegrad and park to take  a few pictures. We climb the slippery, jagged steps to a vantage point. We stop and admire the view. A little cat wanders over to us, curious and maybe hungry.  It begins to rain and so we hastily rush down to the car. We drive on to Andricgrad for some lunch.

Several sad stray dogs wander around. Some of them pause and stare before plodding on.

We dine and wander around the cobbled streets. A film of rainwater covers the stone making it treacherous and slippy. We step into a bookshop and I buy a copy of The Bridge Over The Drina. On the street Filip draws our attention to a mural above the cinema which depicts several heroes including Gavrilo Princip. We pass through a little tunnel, an artist sketches various personalities, some living some dead. Do you know who that is? Filip asks, 'How about him?' 'That is Nikola Tesla.' I tell him.

We step into a bakery and indulge in some sweet pastries. On the wall a painted picture of Vladimir Puten beams down on us.  Why have they got Putin on the wall? Because Putin stands up for Serbs. 

We debate the other personalities depicted, Castro, Che Guevara. Afterwards we are back on the street admiring fountains and statues, and wander into an Orthodox church. It is not yet finished.

We make our way back to the car, a small child scratches a rough looking dog on its belly. 

Filip drives us to up to health spa for the sulphur baths.  There, I get a swimming lesson.  It is 60 minutes of terror but towards the end my tense body does begin to relax.

We take the route back to the famous bridge for some more pictures.  A little gypsy boy bursts into song while we take pictures.  He is not looking for anything, he sings for the pure joy of singing.

We are quiet and tired on the way back to Foča.

At the camp we eat and drink and I try to impress some people with my few words of Bosnian aided by a printout. I pick up a few other useful words and phrases. And there is more cake. We have not really discussed or planned our trip to Dubrovnik but presumably there are several busses.  We agree on this notion and push it to the back of our minds.

There is one bus from Trebinje to Dubrovnik and it leaves at 09:30.

Our bus leaves Foča at half past three. We decide to take a cursory glance at the local museum.

At the museum we learn about how people lived in olden times, the traditional dress hung on one wall surrounded by cooking utensils and other tools. We also learn about the involvement of Bosnia in both World Wars, Tito and the rumours of fake Tito and his bad Serbian and of crimes committed against Serbs, murders and atrocities in the Bosnian war. There are weapons and tools on display. We cut our tour short as we have to rush to the bus station. We say our goodbyes and thanks.  We sip overpriced coca-cola from glass bottles purchased in the adjoining café.  

Our bus pulls in and we dive for the back seat.  For the next four hours we'll be boxed in here as the countryside rolls by.

Not without fear

Part 2

A typical cabin at Auto Camp Drina

Not without an element of fear, as strangers in this city of Sarajevo, we withdraw some marks from a nearby ATM.  Neither one of us had thought to check the exchange rate.  My companion quickly googles the answer and we win our tender.

Our guide arrives in a little old Ford Fiesta.  We deposit our bags in the boot and climb in.  I am glad we had had time for that coffee.  The car revs as we climb the hills and we begin to ask some questions about the city, the country and the war.  We will get to know our guide better in the coming days.

We stop to break our fast with pita, a pastry with your choice of filling, it's 7 o'clock in the morning.  We travel on towards the the camp weaving around mountains and hills, weaving around hills admiring the scenery.  We speed on to our destination, Foča in the Republika Srpska.  When we finally reach camp we all agree that a nap would be ideal  I'm not sure I'll sleep, but the little  40 winks I steal helps me function.  Slow to move, we get up, dress and make our way to the camp below.  We're ready to eat.  

After a dirty coffee it is time to get some food.  We are served fish and potato salad.  I have never eaten fish like this.  A trout sprung from the river and fresh into the fire.  We have a few hours of downtime.

Pjescane Piramide

After a while, Lola, the camp owner suggests that we go see the pyramids.  We take the 9km ride up in the 90s Fiesta to the sand pyramids, Pjescane Piramide.  This unique structure is crumbling bit by bit.  The harsh weather cycle of snow, frost and then warmth has created this natural phenomenon.  The cliff falls away revealing the orange-red stone underneath.  We take a collection of photos on various devices, and even attempt a few panorama shots.  We are not the only tourists viewing this spectacle.  We pose a few questions, ponder a few thoughts and decide it is time to move on.  We hop in the car and manoeuvre back down the old Sarajevo road.

 Later we set off on a hill walk.  Before we go I pull on my heavy hiking boots, an investment I hope to make a lot of use of, and we get a ride to the bottom of the hills.  Led by Lola we set off.  The path rises gradually.  There are a few occupied homes at first, likely small farmers, later we see old houses and huts over one hundred years old.  We walk on, stepping on the gravel and dried mud.  Part of the path has ditches, grooves made by rainwater washing downhill.  The walk is not exactly treacherous and we admire the flora  while stumbling occasionally.  But we power on like the good troops we are.

Lola talks about the countryside, the flowers, herbs and mushrooms. interposed with snippets of information on the war.  He collects some flowers and promises to make tea for us later and tosses away a mushroom  that was deemed inedible.  We carry on.  We stop and take some photos as a group, and then some photos of the Bosnian family.

We begin to descend and make our way over fences but pausing to enjoy the view of the mighty mountains, however, the Maglic is obscured by clouds.  We slip through a graveyard, pausing to deliberate the deaths of some of the cemetery's occupants.  Souls lost in The Great War, World War II and the Bosnian War.  Some people had lived to a ripe old age, some had been cut down in their prime.  The gravestones' have the likeness of each person.  One gravestone depicting an elderly couple states the man's date of death, however, there is a blank under the woman's image.  Why?  We ask.  Well, the woman is likely still alive.

As we continue on our way we meet the odd vehicle ascending the slope.  Is it a road or a path I am not entirely sure.  The sun is dipping behind the mountainous hills and the light is fading.  The moon imbues the countryside with a beautiful blue glow.  We pass through dense patches of foliage swarmed by clusters of fireflies in the pitch black.  We admire them and they dance around before each carries on their own way.  As Foča comes into view below I admire the clusters of glowing light, out of focus they look a little like the fireflies.  I stop and take an low quality image of this image so that I might have something to remember it with.  It does not do it justice, but then photographs seldom do.  Suddenly I follow the group into someone's back garden descending a sharp slope.  Their dog barks at this sudden intrusion, our guides chat to the lady of the house before we step out of the garden onto the road.  We march along the main road for a short while chatting to Lola.  He relays a few stories, sadly none of his own, on heaven and hell.  Bosnia is like heaven for him he tells us.  We reach our camp.

As promised, Lola prepares tea for us,  His tea is made from the plucked treasures of his hill walk.  I finish the fish I was not able to stomach earlier and we discuss the possibility of sampling the nightlife of Foča.  Filip takes us into town, it is alive with the rhythm and pump of Balkan vibes.  Some bars have live music.  We move around keen to soak up as much of the local scene as possible.  We even wander into the local disco, Black and White, before tackling our hunger with some pastry and making our way to a taxi and back to camp.  The day may have started off with a little fearful apprehension but here, we are in safe hands.

Heaving Through Heavens

I stepped out of my comfort zone and went to somewhere I had wanted to go for a long time.  While I held onto my lunch and I did not empty my bowels, I will deposit my experiences, thoughts and musings here.  Enjoy.


PART 1

Broad wholesome charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the Earth all one's lifetime.
Mark Twain

There's a green bag, and it cost more than the items in it.

I pack it to the brim, crowning it with an old pair of
converse, pressing them in and snapping the clips close.

I'm wringing wet when I get to the bus station.

My friend passes me a cold beverage, that I will spill on  a

lady shortly after the bus begins moving.  The carbonated

drink erupts with a blast that drenches every unfortunate

soul, and everything within the radius.  I clutch it and press

my hand upon the breach but to little or no avail.  One lady,

my neighbour across the aisle, suffers the brunt of my clumsy 

act.  I offer a sheepish 'Sorry,' in both English and German.
She won't accept my apology, it only adds fuel to her fiery disposition.

'Sorry?'  She repeats while giving me the cold look of Death.

My friend reassures me that most of passengers had found the 

ordeal funny.  I don't remember hearing laughter.  The hiss and gush

of foam were all I could hear.

I sip the pitiful remainder of my drink and begin a conversation with my

friend.  What follows is a twelve and a half hour journey, punctuated 

toward the end with multiple stops and passport checks.

I think about the hectic preparations and the worry that went into this

trip.

_____________________________________________________

Printing hastily pasted vocabulary

Zdravo

And stuffing balls of clothes into two bags

Kako ste?

I'm sweating heavier than in a cardio session

Ja sam dobro.

And dreading the twelve hour bus journey 

Sa screćom!

Have I everything I need?

Sretan put!

Probably not

Hvala.

But you can't prepare for every experience

Ne razumijem

And maybe that's okay.

Molim te napište to.

But it is good to try.  Despite the fear.

Putujem za Foča.

_______________________________________________________

Sunrise in Sarajevo

For the last stretch

The bus sped around twisty roads

Fog obscuring the countryside

We were rolling into the city

And the dark was fading.

I wanted the journey to last

A little longer

A little longer so I could doze

But it ended by a plum tree

In West Sarajevo.

In a nearby café

We drank hot coffee doused in cream

It could have been the best or worst 

Some stray dogs wandered close by

We left and as instructed began

To look as conspicuous as possible 

But

Also as instructed

We did not talk to strangers

We watched several VW Golfs drive by

Wondering

If the next one was our lift

It came

But not before we saw the sunrise

in Sarajevo.

Wishful Thinking

Wishful Thinking...

The dandelion explodes with optimism as I breathe my wish on it.  Its remnants scatter to the winds, and I wonder would it carry my wish to the universe.

Who or what I expected to respond to this request I do not to know.

But the potential of that bounding promise was too much to pass up as a child.  Dandelions, shooting stars and every wishful romantic omen you can think of, I tried them all.  And for what?  Mostly little pointless things.  Things I thought I wanted or needed.  Did I ever believe those wishes would come true and those treasures manifest or was I simply content to daydream.  I cannot say for sure now.
How I would explain the sudden material changes in my life?  Well the prospect of granted wishes excited me too much to worry about the logistics or explanations.  I thought I grew out of that.

It may not be toys, or gold I wish for now.  Not in their raw form.

We all grow older and more cynical, and while many hold on to the hope of a benevolent paternal being, not everyone's wishful thinking is so obvious.  We constantly make promises, deals and bargains, often with ourselves or some unknown entity.
Let this happen.
Stop this happening.
Give me a chance.
And that's okay.  If you work towards that wish, and you are not crying out for a sign as you drift through the muddy waters.  It may be purely comfort, but all too often I hear good things come to those who wait and what's for you won't pass you but these ideas, while comforting are also wishful thinking. You can fall into that pit waiting for the universe to align and give you the help you'll need.  It's hard.
To give up the comfort, after having shrugged off the responsibility.
But inaction is irresponsible.

Better to think of that dandelion as your options.
Some seeds are fruitful, some lost to the wind and elements.
But it is worth the breath you spell.

Lines

Diagonal lines, parallel lines and perpendicular lines but no curves and no optical illusions.  This could only be art.  With a glass in hand I wander around the rest of the exhibition.  I pause for a while in front of each exhibit and sip, determined to give each piece its dues in spite of my boredom.  The gallery itself is the most interesting thing and with my friend we speculate how it would make an awesome apartment.  After one short lap perusing each piece and eavesdropping on various conversations we decide to leave.
It had been a minor diversion on the way to the pub.  If it had been my goal, I would have been bitterly disappointed.  As it were, it was an opportunity to fluff up the credibility of my cultured self without surrendering too much time.

And yet I would find my mind wandering back to the exhibition and back to lines and what they meant and how we used them, in buildings and in building speech.  The lines that we cross, the fine line that guides us and the line we toe.  The deadline we must meet and the line we draw in the sand.  Suddenly, I got it.
The delayed realisation dawned on me, one ray at a time.  It all starts with a line, a dotted line, a swiggley line or  a curved line on the page.

We follow the line.

Even as our gaze turns out to the horizon, we follow the line and strain our eye to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, be that the receding object of interest or the impending object of curiosity.

Sometimes we step out of line, despite those guiding contours.
And sometimes we forget our lines, like the sloppy actors that we are.

Cherry Picker

The petals, dispersed by the sigh of the wind, gently danced to the ground.  Sometimes a gust would send them swimming in a brief flurry, before drifting down to blanket the playground and garden in a layer of pink.

The cherry tree, that majestic tower standing tall behind the kindergarten had bloomed as its fruit begun to ripen.  The tree greeted children and parents and bade them farewell as they tore themselves away and headed for home after another day.

A colleague mounted a ladder and collected a handful of cherries-some were not quite ripe.  This collection was hurriedly devoured.  With the children's curiosity whetted it was only a matter of time before it piqued.  And I was the smiling victim.

First I was asked for a simple cherry, a request to which I happily obliged.  Within an instant I was swarmed, surrounded by bear trap paws that clutched and grabbed and screamed.
'Cherry, please!'
I stretched reaching for chose cherries hanging from the lowest branches.  When I had exhausted my limited reach, I turned to face the masses of eager faces and frowning to convey the full weight of my disappointment I told them there were no more.  Most relented and turned sorrowfully away, plodding back to the swing, trikes or sandpit; empty handed.
I would have thought it'd end there.  I returned to my regular duties of being pulled, pushed, quizzed, sat on and being an  accessory to general mayhem and chaos.

However, the following day I was approached by one the smaller shier children, she smile a toothy smile and made a request I could not then refuse.
'Cherry, please.'
'Okay.'  I replied.  'I'll see what I can do.'  Unsure whether she had understood I followed her to the cherry tree at the bottom of the garden.  My movement in the appropriate direction had obviously signified that I'd accepted to grant this request.

After several laps of the tree, with my gaze arched upward and a multitude of sighs.  I tried jumping and clutching.  With much ado this initially unsuccessful comical effort worked.  My success was short lived; a hungry mob of spectators had gathered and they began to chant.  They wanted their cherries.

I was the ladder.  I was the stair, as they climbed up reaching for the branches and the cherries, laughing and yelling loudly and directing me in German.  I coaxed and pushed them to repeat everything in English.
'Left.'
'Right.'
'Back.'
'Stephen, back!'
This could have gone on forever, or at least until there were no cherries but I soon feigned a sore back, bending and stooping I made my way to the bench and lay down.  I pretended to sleep, snoring loudly with my hands cupped on my chest.  I soon got a smack on the belly and felt the wind knocked out of me.  Hands and knees pressed upon me as little bodies began to crawl on top of me.
'I'm awake!'  I yelled.  'I'm up, I'm standing up.'
No where is safe here.
Everything can be climbed; a peak or summit waiting to be conquered.  The trick then, is to never stand still.

Always be moving.

There is seldom a body that remains stationary here anyway, save for those that pause to shed a few tears, but usually within moments they too remember their momentum and their eyes dry as they rush off to some other adventure.  There is a multitude of stories unfolding every minute,  It's a time of experimentation and boundary pushing.  Their lives, like their playtime can encompass a multiverse of narratives, each clutching and begging to be fulfilled.

Always be learning.
Always be changing.
Always be growing.
Always be climbing.
Always be reaching.