On the 30th of October, having made it to Zagreb, Croatia and then to Belgrade, Serbia, I decided I would like to head southwest to Bosnia for a few days before returning to Zagreb for my last week in the apartment of my friend Zach, from college.
The following is what I recorded in my notebook on the way and the adventure that took place once off the bus.
I think the bus ride from Belgrade to Sarajevo is the best way to experience the Balkans. In the comfortable security of an aging German bus with peeling cyrilics painted on the side and a less-than-expert driver, you can feel every bump on the poorly paved Serbian roads magnified by the bus’s own shaking and rattling along the route. Occasionally coming close to hitting pedestrians or other vehicles handled by equally poor Yugoslavian drivers, the horn blasts over and over. As the mountains approach, the roads get worse, and so does the queasiness, even for one who’s never been seasick.
By this time it’s likely beginning to get dark and the desolation of second world poverty becomes clearer and darker. The abandoned buildings, the economic decay, as a way of life is slowly and painfully rendered irrelevant. But these humble farmers, referred to as “peasants” by townfolk, have no new industry to turn to in the decaying economy of the war-torn Balkans. The people themselves are rendered irrelevant.
In this way, second world poverty is so much more miserable than in the third world. The thirld world is full of poverty and I have experienced much of it, at least as it is in the Americas. But the land always gives. It’s possible to maintain an existence of meaning in Guatemala, even if life is only subsistence farming. There is always a way up, or at least a way to keep from going down.
In Latin America at least, the people are a new people. Born of the old Americas and the colonialists. There is only building and growing. It is hard, but life has its rewards. There are resources o reap and opportunities. But here, these are an ancient people and their tried and true way of life is dieing.
Later:
And yet, sometimes a good thing goes wrong. i would still argue that this bus ride is a very good way to see the Balkan misery, but it is not, alas, the trip to Sarajevo. The six to seven hour busride from Belgrade to Kosovska Mitrovica is everything already described, and more. Not only is Balkan misery showcased, but also its political turmoil as illustrated by the destination: a smouldering town on the Kosovo border policed by the UN in armored vehicles with razor wire fences.
Not for the first time in my Balkan voyages did I wonder where the landmines were.
But by fortune or misfortune, I failed to figure out where I was until the last bus back had left, meaning I had to stay the night, giving me the chance to see the town by day, a unique opportunity.
There is a steady patrol of UN Police SUVs, then later a caravan of three slowmoving vehicles including a van, jeep, and pickup with an occasional troop-carrying truck, all filled with sleepy UN soldiers and police officers from some country, carying rather large assault rifles. And they drive up and down the streets, though what they’re looking for I can never tell.
I looked sketchy enough, sleeping on the bus stop bench, yet instead of being stopped by the UN, I was accosted by a carful of vigilantes who decided to search my bags. They asked for no documents which screamed “I am not a legitimate law enforcement officer!” yet I let them do it, ready to deal with a less pleasant situation should it have arisen. They gave me back my bags, and left, telling me there were no drivers in the busses (which I could clearly see) and that I should go to the “polet” which had no meaning for me. I didn’t leave.
But the night did not yield easy sleep. Helped in no small part by my nightcap espresso, I was party to every passing car or patrol until I finally slipped off for a few hours of sleep.
Next morning, in a cafe:
Even this little cafe, one of many in Eastern Europe, shows the decay. It’s beautiful. Stone tiling, tasteful colors, a welcoming atmosphere, yet at my corner table I am the recipien of an age of graffiti. It’s mostly scrawled names. “Vlado ‘92″ is featured twice, no three times, and it looks lik a whole party of friends signed their names, though a bracket linking them and noted “1/4″ is rather confusing.
Today’s youth, confined to a turbulent and war-torn border town run by the UN. Kosovo je Srpsko indeed. What meaning can that possibly have for these kids?
The cafe fills and so far it’s mainly high school kids. All over Serbia I think the same thing. Where are these kids going? What does Serbia have to offer them any more? A scrawled name on a cafe wall is the only testament to their existence for the rest of the world.
Smoke curls into the air from most of the table, willing an early end to a directionless life. In Eastern Europe, the world spirals down and down in a controlled descent to decay. Trademark - Western corporatism. In Latin America, the world spirals into chaos and out of control, but not specifically down.
No degree in medicine can help me deal with this.
Alex
31 October, 2008