The road from Sarajevo |
It also has people, 3.5 million of them, although the loss
of over 150,000 young and educated Bosnians over the past decade or so has left
an indelible mark on the demography country. It is a country accustomed to
change; it has swung between the Ottomans and Hapsburgs, the Yugoslavs (both
the Kingdom and the Socialist Republic) and ceded to the Nazis during the
second World War, it saw intensive resistance action as the birthplace of
Joseph Tito’s partisans.
And then, of course, came the civil war in the 1990s; an inevitable
conclusion, perhaps, of centuries of unfinished ethnic discord and the separation
from the Yugoslav Federation of Slovenia and Croatia and the subsequent power
realignment. It was a war of extreme brutality, and the cessation of
hostilities and the ensuing twenty years of peace has allowed tensions to
simmer down and the country re-establish a sense of normalcy.
Or as normal as Bosnia can be. It is a fine place for
visitors. Its people are welcoming and warm, the countryside spectacular, its
history deep and evident and the undying culture of hospitality that marks the
Balkan countries is unmistakable.
Mostar's Old Town
It is a good thing that I did, because I was miles away from
the hotel, and suitably redirected, I made it on the third pass.
It was at dinner that night (Podrum’s Restaurant in the OldTown) that I first talked about B&H with a local. Seno Hadžiosmaxioxić
is a delightful and interesting man. He has lived in the UK, Germany and
Portugal and now returned to the family business and Mostar mainly because of
the exodus of young people, including his son. “How can we rebuild a country
without our young people?”, he asked, only partly rhetorically. “They are all
going.” The lack of an agreement with the EU, Canada or the USA for migrants
did not seem to be a problem to emigration, and indeed, not for the first time,
I wondered about the immigration policies of the wealthy countries that seemed
to both encourage bright, young migrants, and simultaneously stymie their own
efforts at economic development in those same countries.
Mostar. From The Old Bridge |
I spoke later to a young man who worked in a small bar. I
asked why he was still there when so many of his friends had gone, and he said
that he was only waiting until he had finished his school year before heading
off. I asked where the most popular country was for his generation to go to,
and was only mildly surprised when he said “Ireland; now England has left the
EU, there is no point is going there.”
And so, as I wandered through this old and serially abused
town, I admired the reconstruction, wondered what the original Ottoman builders
would have thought of so many restaurants and shops competing to sell fridge
magnets and copper teapots, and decided that I liked the pictures much more
than the reality, and decided to leave early.
The Tekija Blagaj - The Dervish House
Seno had advised that I visit two sites before heading to
Sarajevo. The first, Blagaj was the home of sect of whirling dervishes, a group
that has always puzzled me. Both their obscure form of sermon, splendidly
called The Tasawwuf, and their almost maniacal, repetitive whirls. Many years
ago I witnessed Dervishes whirling in Istanbul, and lost for a moment in
tangential thought, found myself assigning day jobs to these rotating
believers. Dervishes come from all walks of life, of course, as do adherents of
all faiths, but “why the whirl?”, I wondered. “Are you still dizzy when you go
to the office or drive your bus in the morning?”. Here, they practice three
times each week.
This is, of course, only an aside to the very beautiful and
spiritually important Dervish House at Blagaj. It is stunning, and reflects the
overriding belief that the natural environment within which the house is built
is an integral part of the relationship with God, and this house, the Tekija,
is a wonderful example. Nestled at the foot of an imposing cliff of quite
magical geologic patterns, it lies by a river flow that rushes from under the
cliff itself. It is quite beautiful, and quite serene. The Dervishes have a
very fine place of worship.
Pocatelij as seen from thh road |
Twenty kilometers further along, lies the Ottoman town of Počitelj.
It actually comes as a bit of a surprise after the usual roadside scruff; a
partly built house here, a small tire dump there, a concrete bus-stop here and
a cluster of peculiar shops there. The road has broadened out as the mountainous
terrain heads toward the Adriatic, and the hills, while still commanding, lie a
little farther from the road. Yet coming around a corner, one is immediately
struck by this quaint, ancient and entirely improbable community lying by the
side of the road. Seemingly untouched by the centuries.
Pocetelij |
Dating back to the 15th century, it was a
fortified town that housed a Hungarian garrison between 1463 and 1471. Following
a brief siege, the Ottomans captured Počitelj, and from then on it lost its strategic
significance and its moment in the sun had set. It has remained dozy for five
hundred years, pausing periodically to mend a step, change a light bulb and
slowly toddle its way through the centuries. The slow passage of time, or more
precisely the lack of any apparent need for it to hustle, has left the town as
a marvellous and most picturesque example of the Ottoman Empire. I am assuming
that it is picturesque, because the sleet that was drifting down on the day
that I visited thwarted my photographic ambitions somewhat.
It is quite lovely. For the fit and able, the fortress lies
a hundred metres or so above the town; for others, simply wandering through the
ancient streets gives a distinct sensation of time travel. Perhaps the grey weather
helped; the stairways were empty and uneven, the roofs bare and uneven, the
mosques spiny and confident, and the entire blend of life and spirituality was completely
absorbing.
And so, after a coffee, I turned my car around from the
illegal position in which I had left it, and drove back to Sarajevo, the capital
of this enigmatic country, and the next piece of the puzzle.
The road back to Sarajevo |