Tuesday, 6 April 2010

 

Start: Kotor: 09:30

Arrival: Makarska: 19:00

Total: 380 km

 

 

 

 

Brrr, the night at this hotel had been so cold. After we had brought our muscles and bones back to an acceptable living-human-being temperature, we went downstairs for breakfast. The food was again excellent, and the owner of the hotel told us about her life. She was from Sankt Petersburg, and a friend of her used to work at the Russian embassy in Luxembourg. Small world.

 

We set off. The hotel owner had offered us some postcards for free, so we kept a lookout of a post office, to send home some stamps from Montenegro to our philatelist father. We found a post office in one of the small villages on the bay. Inside, it was all smoke and cigarette stink. Odd, that they would still allow smoking in a public office. But the postcards arrived alright a few days later, so we won't complain.

 

Montenegro is not a large country, and soon we reached the Croatian border. The border formalities were resolved in no time, and we were on our way to Mostar, our destination for the day. The coast road was in excellent condition and we made good speed. On the internet, I had read that this road was supposedly the "most dangerous road in Europe", with crazy drivers overtaking you right before dangerous hairpin curves. We didn't meet any of those, maybe they only appear in the summer, when the German tourists arrive... Anyway, I enjoyed the ride and since it was still very early, we spontaneously decided to visit Dubrovnik, before driving on to Bosnia.

 

 

 

Dubrovnik had not been on our to-do-list, as I strongly suspected it to be a tourist trap, and I try to avoid such places. "The road less travelled by" is more to my liking and it really does make all the difference, in a very positive way. But the walls of Dubrovnik lay imposing and picturesque and tempting in the morning sun, and so we followed the tourist route down to the city gates. There were tons of parking garages pointed out, which re-enforced our notion of "tourist trap", but as it was still early in the season, we found a convenient parking slot and walked down the many stairs towards the old gates. Here, throngs of tourists wrestled for the best spot to take a picture of the Adriatic Sea. An Italian tourist asked Sonia to take a picture of him at the seafront. Sonia is a very good photographer, and he seemed to enjoy the picture very much.

 

As it was noon, we decided to have a bite to eat before exploring the old town. A bite, we got and not much more ... We found a very nice restaurant overlooking the sea. Prime location, prime prices too, but hey, let's not be picky, this is Dubrovnik after all. I went for fish, Sonia ordered pasta with scampi. The food arrived – delicately arranged on a fine china plate – and it was indeed one bite and not more. Ehhh, maybe we can at least have some bread with this? I'm not a big eater, but this main dish wasn't even much of an appetizer. More like an amuse-bouche. But we didn't feel like throwing in yet more money for a miniature cake or a quantum-sized fruit basket. We left the restaurant with our stomachs still grumbling but our wallets much lighter, ready to see more of this tourist place.

 

The old city was a very nicely renovated affair of souvenir shops, restaurants and tourist boutiques. Unfortunately, we didn't have much leisure admiring the masonry, as the street was populated with overeager waiters trying to drag you into their eateries. I hate pushy people and so we soon fled upstairs, to the cathedral. Inside the church is was cool and quiet. Outside, Sonia met the Italian tourist again, and obligingly took another photograph of him in front of the cathedral.

 

Before heading back to our car, we visited a small market in the town square. I bought a beeswax reproduction of an old map of Ragusa, better known as Dubrovnik nowadays, from a very enthusiastic young artist. Then we set out to face three more border control points. There is a very small strip of land, called Neum, which gives Bosnia Herzegovia access to the Mediterranean. So we first had to cross into Neum/Bosnia, then back into Croatia and finally inland into Bosnia once again. But we flew through the border checks like a breeze, they never once checked our car and only had a furtive glance into our passports. Smashing! Soon we were in yet another Balkan country, heading towards Mostar, when we saw a signpost for a teqe. Again one of these holy houses/monasteries for the Muslim order of the Dervishes. The one in Tirana had been closed for renovation, so I decided that we could visit this one instead. It was a little detour, but as it was well pointed out, I supposed it had to be a tourist attraction. Unfortunately, this was not such a nice experience.

 

 

 

We parked the car in a tiny village and followed the signs. There were three more tourists, talking German, also walking that way. The way wound down and down, all along the river, and still there was no house in sight. Were we even on the right track? After what seemed like a few kilometers, we reached a sign saying "Visite", pointing down broken stairs. Odd. Gingerly, we climbed down and walked on, through grass and dust, trying not to think about the fact that in this area, land mines are still a very real possibility. Finally, we reached a wall with a desk in front of it. Here, you had to pay 2 euros to get into the teqe. So one had to pay to see a place of worship? Does this also count for pilgrims? The German tourists complained about a ripoff, but, hey, we were tourists and not pilgrims and we had walked far to see this, so we payed and were allowed past the gate.

 

Behind the wall, we discovered a small cafe and a souvenir shop. Further on, there seemed to be some sort of park with a grotto. And where was the promised teqe now? "What are they looking at?" asked Sonia suddenly. In front of the cafe, there was a group of young men positively ogling us. Odd, seeing that we were quite warmly dressed in boots and jeans and jackets. Hardly Penthouse material. "They're not salivating over us, are they?" I wondered, nonplussed. Anyway, let's focus: that teqe. In front of the shop, a staircase led up into the house. I asked one of the guys if that was the entrance to the museum. Yes, he said, but to get in, you need to leave your shoes down here and cover your head with a scarf. Just then, a man walked up the stairs. Head uncovered, of course. I didn't think my head was any more offending than his, and declined the stuffy cloth that the man wanted to rent us for the visit. The woman at the gate could have told us that we weren't properly dressed to visit the museum BEFORE taking our money.

 

We decided not to visit that dervish house after all, and made our way back to the car. Now for Mostar, the city with the famous bridge. As we understood it, there was a Croatian/Catholic part and a Bosnian/Muslim part of town, separated by the river. Unfortunately, back then Google Maps didn't offer a detailed street map of the town and we only had a very bad satellite photo to go by. The search promised to become interesting. Our hotel was located on the Muslim side, in a beautifully restored old house. We hoped that there would be street signs pointing it out.

 

Driving into Mostar, we noticed the sad state of disrepair of the houses. The bombing during the Bosnian War in the early 1990s had taken a heavy toll on the town. We had hoped that 15 years later, most of the damage would be repaired, but this was not so. Ruins and crumbling houses everywhere. Of course Bosnia is not a rich country and I understand that getting rid of all of the ruins is costly and time consuming, but even so it was a disheartening experience. The atmosphere in the streets was strange too, gloomy and somehow dark, angry. Most women were wearing headscarves, we even saw the occasional burqa. Skopje also has a sizeable portion of Muslims, but the Turkish quarter with its bustling market was young, cheerful and alive. Not so here. It didn't help that we couldn't find the hotel. Should we ask someone? I didn't feel like talking to anyone in the street. We just wanted to get out of this area. I've only twice felt this queesy before, the first time in a Tunisian souk, the second in a sleezy part of Bilbao, Spain. After some more driving around, we decided to visit the famous Mostar Bridge and worry about the hotel later. We crossed the Neretva river and saw the Old Bridge in all its restored splendour. It seemed like there was money for reconstruction after all. The Croatian part looked less run-down, the streets were in a better state, wider and the houses were well cared for. But the traffic was heavy and we couldn't find a parking space. At a red light, a little girl ran up to our car and knocked on the window, asking for money. As we ignored her, she wiped a soapy cloth over our windows and again asked for money. Great, now I couldn't see anything, the windows were completely besmeared. The traffic light changed to green. I quickly activated the wipers, the little girl stuck out her tongue at us and ran on. Charming. Neither of us was in a sightseeing mood anymore. "Let's drive on to the Croatian coast", I proposed, and sped along the main boulevard, out of Mostar. Somehow, this wasn't our lucky day.

 

 

 

Having come this way only a few hours ago, we knew that the coast was only an hour away. It was now late afternoon, so we could easily make it to Ploče and look for a hotel there. Crossing the Bosnian/Croatian border was quick and easy, they just glanced at our passports and waved us through. Right after the checkpoint, I noticed a large blue sign announcing the highway to Split. There was no highway in Southern in Croatia! Or was there? Sonia checked the map. The highway was only supposed to begin right before Split, much further to the North. But here it was, bright and new and inviting: a wonderful, much welcomed dual carriageway. I changed lanes, entered the highway and sped along. In another hour, we would be in Split! According to the highway signs, that city was only a little more than 100 kilometers to the North, which is no distance at all on a newly-built dual carriageway. Tomorrow, we would have a much shorter journey and plenty of time to visit Graz, our last stop before home. Sadly, "No distance at all on a newly-built carriageway" sometimes equals "An endless journey on a not-yet-built carriageway". After only a few kilometers, the highway ended and we were on a much smaller road than before. But there was that blue highway sign again, pointing us in the right direction. "They probably haven't finished all of it yet," I guessed, following the sign. "Maybe we better turn around?" said Sonia sceptically, "I wouldn't want to be stuck in these hills, in case this highway doesn't even exist." Now that was silly. But they wouldn't point the drivers toward a highway if there was none, right?

 

Forgetting that this was not our lucky day, I drove on. Soon enough, there was another bright new highway sign for Split, telling us to leave the main road and turn right. Right we went. Along the road, we noticed the huge concrete pillars that would one day soon carry the brandnew speedway. As for now, no highway came into sight, but every few kilometers or so, the reassuring sign popped up again. By now we were deep into the Croatian hills, and the villages became few and far between. "Over there is Bosnia", said Sonia, and pointed to the East. I wasn't in the mood for countryspotting, I just wanted to get onto this highway, presto. "Turn around, please," Sonia urged me. But it would be madness turning back now that we had come that far. "They wouldn't put up roadsigns for Split if there was no highway to Split," I insisted, against all evidence to the contrary. Sonia tried to find the hamlets we passed on her map, but there was no town, not even a ruined castle, church or hamlet, mentioned in that area. Just hills and countryside. After a while, that's exactly what the landscape around us looked like: apart from us, there was not a single car on the road and the hills loomed dark and deserted to all sides. Nervously I checked the petrol gauge. Almost a quarter full. Could be worse. Suddenly, Sonia pointed to the left. "That must be the road to Makarska!" Makarska? Where on Earth was Makarska? I came to a full stop after the crossing and checked the map. "There, see." She pointed to a tiny dot on the Adriatic Sea. The road leading there was an ultra thin white line winding up and down in endless curves before it finally reached its destination. I shook my head. "The blue highway sign said drive straight on." "We've been following these stupid traffic signs for the last hour. Face it: There is no highway to Split. They put up the signs before they finished the road. Turn – left – now." "The highway might start after the next bend," I argued desperately, "soon it will be really dark and then I don't want to be on a bumpy, deserted country road somewhere in no man's land." Sonia wordlessly showed me the map. The road that we were on wound on northwards and the next minor road to the coast was very far up, with not a single village mentioned in between. "We WILL be on a bumpy, deserted country road after dark. Be smart and let's make it at least the road that leads, eventually, to the coast." There was no arguing with the voice of reason. I made a U-turn and entered the dusty little road into the hills. Soon, the last rays of sunshine disappeared behind the mountain range in front of us and in the dusty twilight, our lonely car sped along the moon-like desert plain. We didn't meet a single car on our way. Sonia guessed that the coast was maybe 40 kilometers away, but one never knew with these mountain roads. After a short while, the petrol gauge came to light. Neither my sister nor I mentioned this fact.

 

Finally, we were up on the last hill and far to the west, the coast with its lights beckoned in the darkness. When we wound our way down towards Makarska and met the first houses and cars, I heaved a sigh of relief. We had made it. Makarska wasn't much to write home about. A noisy, smoke filled little town catering to low-budget mass tourism on the beach. We checked into a hotel that looked like it might offer a quiet night's sleep. It didn't. The music blared on until midnight, and we lay in our uncomfortable beds, thinking that this was the punishment for not giving Mostar a fair try. If only we had tried harder to find our beautiful hotel in the Bosnian quarter. By now we might have been in love with Mostar, have enjoyed a good evening meal, explored the sights on foot and lie snuggled up in a comfy-cosy bed. But no – we wouldn't give Mostar a chance, and so we had run out of our usual luck. I promised myself that one day I would return to Bosnia and find plenty of interesting and beautiful sights there. Re-reading this three years later, I think about Ivo Andrić's book that I've just read. I would love to see his hometown Travnik, where the story takes place. But back in Makarska, I just wanted to get some sleep and be on my way home the next day.