Bosnia: Buffalo-Nickel Charm on a Road That Does Not Exist

Enlarge photo

Enlarge photo

Enlarge photo

Enlarge photo

Today we drove from Dubrovnik in Croatia inland to Mostar in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Everyone takes the main, scenic coastal route: head north along the coast and then cut inland at Metkovic. But, with a spirit of adventure, we took the small road: inland first, then looping north through the Serb part of Herzegovina. When asked for driving tips, Croats — who, because of ongoing tensions with the Serbs, avoid this territory — actually insist that the road doesn’t even exist. From the main road just south of Dubrovnik, directional signs send you to the tiny Croatian border town…but ignore the large Serb city of Trebinje just beyond.

But there is plenty past the border. (And, we were relieved to find, an actual — and surprisingly well-maintained — road.)

While Bosnia-Herzegovina is one country, the peace accords to end the war here in 1995 gerrymandered it to give a degree of autonomy to the area where Orthodox Serbs predominate. This “Republika Srpska” rings the core of Bosnia on three sides.

The complex nature of things here comes across in the powerful language of flags. Over the day we saw several: a car charging with the old quasi-fascist Croat flag (echoing Croatia’s WWII Nazi puppet government), a Serb flag, and another with a circle of yellow stars — a tip of the hat to the EU…membership is the hope of many here.

Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks come from virtually identical ethnic stock. They just have different religions: Orthodox Christian, Catholic Christian, and Muslim, respectively. Because of intermarriages during the Ottoman occupation, some (but not all) Bosniaks also have some Turkish blood. Studying the complex demographics of the region, you gain a respect for the communist-era dictator Tito — the one man who could hold this place together peacefully.

As we enter the bustling and prosperous town of Trebinje (the one that doesn’t exist in Dubrovnik), police with ping-pong paddle stop signs pull us over — you must drive with your headlights on at all hours. The “dumb tourist” routine gets us off the hook. I get cash at an ATM (even here — in perhaps the most remote place I’ve been in Europe — ATMs are plentiful). We enjoy a vibrant market, noting that there’s no way the casual tourist could determine the religion and loyalties of the people just by looking.

Bosnia-Herzegovina’s money is called the “convertible mark.” I don’t know if they are just thrilled that their money is now convertible…but I remember a time when it wasn’t. I stow a few Bosnian coins as souvenirs. They have the charm of Indian pennies and buffalo nickels.

Later, after a two-hour drive on deserted roads through a rugged landscape, we arrived at the very humble crossroads village of Nevesinje. Towns in this region all have a “café row,” and Nevesinje is no exception. It was lunchtime, but as we walked through the town, we didn’t see a soul with any food on their plate — just drinks. Apparently locals eat (economically) at home…and then enjoy an affordable coffee or drink at a café.

A cluttered little grocery — the woman behind the counter happy to make a sandwich — was our answer. The salami looked like Spam. Going through the sanitary motions, she laid down a piece of paper to catch the meat — but the slices of Spam landed on the grotty base of the slicer as they were cut. Buying strong Turkish (or “Bosnian”) coffees with highly-caffeinated mud in the bottom (for the US equivalent of a quarter apiece), we munched our sandwiches in the adjacent café, watching the street scene.

Big men drove by in little beaters. High-school kids crowded around the window of the local photography shop, which had just posted their class graduation photos. The girls on this cruising drag proved you don’t need money to have style. Through a shop window, I could see a newly-engaged couple picking out a simple ring. One moment I saw Nevesinje as very different from my hometown…but the next it seemed just the same.

Looking at the curiously overgrown ruined building across the street, I saw bricked-up, pointed Islamic arches, and realized it was once a mosque. In its back yard — a no man’s land of broken concrete and glass — a single half-knocked-over Turban-topped tombstone still managed to stand. The prayer niche inside, where no one prays anymore, faced an empty restaurant.