30 years ago today: (May 1987) Sarajevo, Mostar and what came after.

Previously: ON THE AVENUES: My Franz Ferdinand heritage trail, 30 years ago in Sarajevo.

Granted, my 1987 trip notes were sketchy and inconsistent, but they were even less coherent in Sarajevo and Mostar. Maybe I was enjoying myself too much to write (read: drinking too many cheap draft beers).

Day 33 ... Monday, May 18
Sarajevo. "Mickey" $5.50 room, 170 dinar beer, affordable city

Day 34 ... Tuesday, May 19
Sarajevo. Chair lift (Neil/Caren)

Day 35 ... Wednesday, May 20
Sarajevo. Mosque, etc

Day 36 ... Thursday, May 21
Sarajevo. Rain, shut in.

Day 37 ... Friday, May 22
Mostar. Suitable 4,000 dinar room, decent weather

Day 38 ... Saturday, May 23
Mostar. Good day, up to SOC, Mostar's Moberly, sidewalk pivo, etc

A dollar bought around 500 dinar, which helps to make sense of the quoted prices. Beers at a pub were 40 cents, and even less if purchased in bottles at a shop. Meals were two or three bucks ... and so on.

SOC surely means Serbian Orthodox Church (more on this in a moment), and "Moberly" refers to my high school pal Jeff, who used to play acoustic guitar and sing as we sat around the bonfire and drank beer. There was just such a performer playing for tips in Mostar as I drank at a sidewalk cafe overlooking the famous bridge, hence my note.

There is considerable melancholy attached to my recollections of what is now independent Bosnia Herzegovina, given the country didn't exist in 1987, and was subsequently created only after the Yugoslavcivil war, a horrible conflagration that killed thousands.

The country then known as Yugoslavia always was intended to be a high point of the 1987 trip, and it definitely filled the bill. Just four years later, all of it went up in flames as I watched from America via television news. There hasn't been a return trip to the region during the decades since, although we keep talking about beginning the cycle anew with a tour of Slovenia.

Of all the places I've been, none seem as surreal in retrospect as this corner of the Balkans.

Roger, seeing as you were in Yugoslavia in 1987, only four years before the tragic and murderous civil war began, can you tell us all about the rampant warning signs you noticed?

Actually, no, I can't. I was entirely oblivious.

It should have told me something important about Yugoslavia that in the 1980s, Rebecca West's Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, still was considered essential pre-trip reading. West's book, a survey of travel and history in the region, was published in 1941.

In fact, I did read it, and came away from the 1,000+ pages with an image of the Balkans as not dissimilar from Appalachian stereotypes about the Hatfields and McCoys. Between West's book and my university studies, I arrived in Yugoslavia with a passing knowledge of the country's history as a tacked-together Great War creation, a jumble of multi-syllabic Balkan peoples, religions and languages cast together into a "Kingdom of South Slavs."

At conception, Yugoslavia suffered from a feudal Ottoman legacy of impoverishment, turbulence and suffering. Nowhere in Europe were urban residents and rural dwellers so far apart. History simply had not dealt these people a very good hand.

However, by the 1980s an entirely new narrative had emerged. In it, the non-aligned socialist government controlling Yugoslavia following the viciousness of World War II had admirably succeeded in molding a cosmopolitan "Yugoslav" identity, as opposed to separate ethnicities and faiths. 

Tito in Sarajevo.

Marshall Tito (Josip Broz) was the hero of moment credited with had put an end to the bickering, and in many respects he genuinely had, partly through an instinctive understanding of the human terrain in a difficult neighborhood (the Balkans), partly through an aptitude for judicially rendered totalitarian methodology, and partly through the common Communist trick of keeping ordinary people so relentlessly busy in pursuit of the tiniest details of reasonable life that they were too tired to rebel.

But, yes, Tito kept things together for so long as his heart was beating. When it stopped, in 1980, the genies began creeping from their prison bottles. Those few short years later, when the country went up in smoke, and an unbelievable stream of abuses and horrors unseen since World War II took a crumbling Yugoslavia back to medieval times, I asked myself the question dozens of times: What happened to make these seemingly ordinary people leave their homes and go berserk?

On the other, apart from the stock hellos, goodbyes and how much, I came utterly without communication skills … and, apart from people like Radojko Petkovski of Skopje and a handful of other natives closer to my own age, Yugoslavia in 1987 was not the exact a patch of Europe where one could find great numbers of English speakers.

Consequently, although it was always possible to get by, and sometimes even deeper insights could be gleaned, conversations of greater depth with natives were seldom possible. I met other tourists, but when one communicates with another tourist, especially an English speaker, there is a natural tendency toward self-fulfilling prophecies, and to reinforce what already is known, rather than to ask questions and learn the score … and most of us had read from the same elementary tour guide playbook.

There are hundreds of answers, but the point to me is that when I was there, the question wasn't being asked, and if it was, I didn't hear it.

Shame on me.

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The psychological highlight of Sarajevo was the chance to commune with the ghost of Franz Ferdinand, but my room was so cheap and Mickey such a genial host that I stuck around for two more aimless days of wandering, drinking local beer while reading the official vacation novel, Tolstoy's War and Peace, and plopping myself atop benches to watch urban life roll past.

I vaguely remember Neil and Caren, who were from Minnesota. They were following traces of their Jewish heritage; we became acquainted while riding a streetcar, and I joined them for their explorations. We had a meal far out in the suburbs, drank beer, and eventually found the chairlift. The recollections end there. Wherever the two of you are, I hope you're well.

I was headed for the coast on Friday, and Mostar was the next stop, three hours by train from Sarajevo. It was during this ride that Yugoslavia's mountains became a tangible, visceral presence.

One of my memories of this trip was a long period when the train stopped and sat, apparently waiting for another train coming in our direction to pass over a stretch of single track. Here's the view from my window.

I was in the compartment nearest the toilet, which in the typical European fashion of the time usually involved a foot pedal and trap door which deposited one's leavings onto the track.

However, some Yugoslav trains didn't have a commode, just a hole in the floor. Mine was one of them. It remains difficult for me to imagine squatting on a moving train, and perhaps this is why, with yet another contingent of soldiers on the train, as we sat stock still atop the high mountain pass for an hour, they marched one by one to the WC, and ...

I was very glad when the train started moving again.

As with Sarajevo, my room in Mostar was in a private home. It was roomier and slightly more expensive. The lure of Mostar was the city's multicultural reputation and its Stari Most, or old bridge.

Mostar is situated on the Neretva River and is the fifth-largest city in the country. Mostar was named after the bridge keepers (mostari) who in the medieval times guarded the Stari Most (Old Bridge) over the Neretva. The Old Bridge, built by the Ottomans in the 16th century, is one of Bosnia and Herzegovina's most recognizable landmarks, and is considered one of the most exemplary pieces of Islamic architecture in the Balkans.

As many readers already know, and as referenced in a previous installment, the bridge was destroyed during fighting in Mostar (1992-94) and later rebuilt. For more information on crimes against Yugoslavia's cultural and religious heritage committed during the civil war, visit Targeting History and Memory.

There were stray intact bits of the old Ottoman central district.

The market area.

The Serbian Orthodox Church (preceding and below; officially, known as the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity) was positioned on the hillside overlooking the heart of Mostar.

This Orthodox church was completely destroyed during the fighting, and its reconstruction finally was coming close to conclusion as of last year.

Travel writer Rick Steves offers this observation in a piece about Mostar, which looks as though it was written in 2007.

Now the bridge has been rebuilt and Mostar is thriving. It happens to be prom night. The kids are out, and Bosnian hormones are bursting. Being young and sexy is a great equalizer. With a beer, loud music, desirability, twinkling stars — and no war — your country's GDP doesn't really matter.

And yet, strolling through teeming streets, it's chilling to think that, just a few years ago, these people — who make me a sandwich, direct me to a computer terminal in the Internet café, stop for me when I cross the street, show off their paintings, and direct the church choir — were killing each other.

I know the feeling, although in reverse -- a few years after, not before.

Since Steves wrote, Mostar continues creeping up lists of must-see destinations. Cheryl Howard's 2014 account brings you up to date with text and wonderful photos.

I admit that Mostar took me by surprise. There is so much more to Mostar than the Old Bridge. From hiking through the nearby forested mountains, to taking in holy sites, posing with weird and offbeat statues, walking through medieval towns, swimming under waterfalls, exploring abandoned ruins and hunting down street art, I couldn’t help but wonder time and time again, why Mostar is not on more peoples’ travel radars.

I'd love to go back.

Next: Dubrovnik long before those trendy thrones and games.

THE BEER BEAT: Praljak, Yugoslavia's civil war, the brewery in Sarajevo and the bridge in Mostar.

This article is one in my series of 1987 travel recollections. Previously came an introduction to Yugoslavia in Ljubljana, then Zagreb and the way to Sarajevo. 

Next in the series: My Franz Ferdinand heritage trail, 30 years ago in Sarajevo.

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We'll be taking a look at an informative Atlas Obscura article about the Sarajevska Pivara's (Sarajevo Brewery's) heroic role during the siege of the Bosnian city amid the horrendous Yugoslav civil war of the 1990s.

First, there'll be an admission of editorial incompetence.

Earlier this year, it abruptly occurred to me that those 2017 dates steadily ticking past me on the calendar had become synchronized with the very same ones from way back in 1987, serving to recall the day-to-day progress of my summer-long backpacking adventure in Europe during the penultimate year of Ronnie Raygun's second term.

Consequently, without preparation or much of a plan, I launched an exceedingly disjointed "30 years ago today" retrospective here at NA Confidential. The accounts didn't proceed chronologically because the project didn't begin in earnest until June. Eventually I settled on a system, commenced digilizing the ancient slides, then backtracked to pick up what had been missed.

However, as of roughly an hour ago, there is an urgent need for me to dive into the 1987 series again and reorganize the whole shebang, seeing as time spent in the former Yugoslav cities of Zagreb, Sarajevo, Mostar and Dubrovnik was completely omitted from the narrative.

It is beyond the scope of this column to make the necessary corrections all at once, so let's begin with the brewery in Sarajevo, which dates from 1864 and remains in operation today. I drank the typical golden lager beer back in '87, although remembering exactly what it tasted like is another matter entirely.

Significantly, it would be difficult for any brewery anywhere to continue brewing without predictable supplies of barley and hops, but since old-school breweries were built in proximity to their water sources, the wells kept functioning -- and helped keep people alive.

As an added bonus, the author's explanation of the complicated Yugoslav civil war's origins is brief, yet sufficiently clear.

The Bosnian Brewery That Saved a City Under Siege, by Stacey McKenna (Atlas Obscura)

The springs of Sarajevska Pivara became a sole water source for many Sarajevans

IT’S NO SECRET THAT WATER sustains life, and that a lack of it can just as easily rip life away. That’s especially true of the natural springs that run beneath Sarajevo’s Sarajevska Pivara, which have been crucial to the brewery’s crisp, malt-forward beers since its founding in the 19th century: The vitality of the underground waterways goes well beyond brewing.

In 1994, as Sarajevo found itself under a siege that would outlast any other in modern warfare, Sarajevska Pivara—and its water—became a lifeline. Creeks dried up, rivers became polluted, and both water and power lines were sabotaged, but Sarajevska Pivara continued pumping water and distributing it to locals ...

 ... Nowhere was safe, and even collecting water could be a deadly task. In 1994, a disaster relief worker for the International Rescue Committee estimated that 90 percent of the deaths in the city happened along the exposed banks of the Miljacka River, where families sourced non-drinking water. Yet Sarajevska Pivara’s pump continued to draw water from its deep underground wells.

(Sarajevo native Haris) Hadziselimovic recalls trekking to Sarajevska Pivara each day with his parents to help them bring water home. “We were simply taking canisters of whatever type we had, and loading them on a bicycle or a sleigh in the winter,” he says. “We walked for about an hour to the brewery, then lined up with people for several hours.”

By the time Yugoslavia devolved into bloodshed, Rich O's Public House was underway. I remember reading accounts of the siege and being appalled, having visited the city only seven years before. The regulars would ask me if I saw "it" coming, and of course the answer was no; a few days on the ground couldn't possibly be enough to predict the gruesome future.

Now the "future" is more than two decades in the past, except it isn't gone, because we've only recently witnessed a considerable aftershock when the Croat commander Slobodan Praljak publicly committed suicide by drinking poison following the confirmation of his verdict by the International Criminal Tribunal at the Hague.

I highly recommend this article.

The Cultured Destroyers Of Culture, by Gordana Knezevic (RFERL)

Before the war, Praljak had been a writer and film director. He had also been the director of various theaters, including in Mostar. With the outbreak of the war, the man of culture became a general and an adviser to Croatian President Franjo Tudjman. He was eventually accused of command responsibility for the destruction of the Old Bridge in Mostar, one of the most striking Ottoman monuments in the Balkans, and a jewel of Bosnia's Islamic heritage.

Where did I go immediately after Sarajevo?

Mostar, where the Croats led by Praljak destroyed the famous 16th-century bridge over the Neretva River.

Yes, these are my original photos of the beautiful and (then) peaceful scene. In 1987, I spent several hours on each of consecutive days drinking draft Sarajevsko Pivo at a cafe overlooking the Old Bridge, which was rebuilt in 2004.

In closing, here are a few photos and a passage from a piece I wrote approximately ten years ago about my 1987 arrival in Sarajevo. It will be rewritten and expanded (with additional photos) when I get around to completing the 1987 travelogue.

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In 1987, the most recent translation of the Bible – that most valued of possessions, otherwise known as the Thomas Cook European Rail Timetable – showed a main line running from Zagreb to Vinkovci, then another line branching off southward Sarajevo, through Mostar.

The map showed trains finally reaching the Adriatic at Kardeljevo, now known as Ploce, where I’d been told a bus could be taken to finish my journey to Dubrovnik, the famous walled city widely known as the “Pearl of the Adriatic”.

Sarajevo and Mostar were projected as stopovers for me after departing Zagreb, Croatia’s largest city, where’d I’d stayed for only a day owing to the youth hostel’s unavailability.

In truth, I was eager to move toward salt water … and time wasn’t at all an issue. It still was May, and I had until the last week of June to be in Budapest, Hungary. Before that would come Bulgaria, and maybe even Romania.

Safely aboard the train, and foraging from the sandwich cart, it soon became evident that mile after mile of the route through Bosnia-Herzegovina would be filled with jagged, unforgiving mountain terrain, evoking stories of the murderous internecine conflict between ideologically disparate partisan forces fighting against the German invaders during the Second World War, as well as just as frequently against each other in the bloody positioning for postwar supremacy.

Marshall Tito’s Communists eventually triumphed, and a non-aligned Yugoslavia became a well-known player on the Cold War stage, but as we all too sadly know, the full bill didn’t come due until the cataclysmic civil war of the 1990’s, which brought with it the disintegration of the nation as well as wanton death and destruction in Sarajevo, Mostar and many other towns and cities too numerous to name.

As a foreign visitor in 1987, there was no indication of the approaching conflagration, and in fact, memories of my time in Sarajevo are fleeting. As noted previously, my primary reason for visiting was to examine the place where Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in 1914.

It was a bonus that the city, the center of Muslim life in Bosnia, had a historic reputation for tolerance, and housed mosques, various Christian churches and synagogues. Reputedly, budget accommodations were easy to find, along with burek, pleskavitsa (local delicacies), strong espresso-style coffee and pivo (beer).

It will surprise you to learn that I didn’t write a journal back then, although some photos were taken, but unfortunately, the film later was developed into slides, not prints, and these snapshots are no longer easily accessible without resorting to a 30-year-old slide projector that has a tendency to mangle to precious relics. It’s true that whenever I drank a different brand of beer, I’d record it, and the list documenting my drinking record survives intact, helping to explain where the money went.

In a scrapbook there is somewhat of a paper trail. As a card-carrying pack rat, I've always seen to it that ticket stubs, receipts and the like are stashed – even before they became the basis for tax deductions. These receipts show that on the chilly and overcast May afternoon when I stepped off the train in Sarajevo, I took a bus or streetcar to the vicinity of the central tourist office.

As was the case throughout my early travels, the very first objective when arriving in a new city (after the imperative to get there as early in the day as possible) was to master local logistics, and most important among these considerations was finding a place to stay, one in my price range, which at the time was no more than $10 a night.

In Yugoslavia, this could be achieved in two ways, both of which were legal (although the same could not be said for all the countries in the Bloc), and involved accepting the offer of what was called a “private room” for tourists.

On way to accept this offer was to book the room formally through the local tourist office, which kept the officially sanctioned list. The other way was to haggle with the housewives who typically met train and bus arrivals for the purpose of taking in visitors and making a bit of petty cash on the side.

In Sarajevo and Mostar, I chose the official route. Later, in Dubrovnik, the unofficial path was taken. All of them worked out quite well.

Naturally it was important to be oriented and to have a map, and one was acquired at the same office, along with directions to the high-rise building where I’d be staying. It was within easy walking distance, but as was often the case for an unworldly non-urbanite, navigating the perplexing numbered system of buttons for ringing the occupant took some time.

My initial rings were not answered, so I went window shopping nearby for a while, sniffed around the entrance of what appeared to be a tavern, returned to the building, and had better luck the second time around.

And so, after climbing w few flights of stairs, I stepped into the tiny foyer of an equally minuscule apartment occupied by a man nicknamed “Mickey,” whose coffee table boasted copies of tourist phrase books in English, French and German, and whose first words after greeting me and looking at my receipt was to ask whether I’d like slivovitz.

Before I could answer, and in a fashion that I would come to regard as routine in the Balkans, the bottle and glasses already were place between us on a tray. With the help of the distilled plum juice, we were briefly acquainted.

I was shown to my closet-sized room, and noticed immediately that nearby there was a washing machine. This was critical for a shoestring traveler who had been rinsing articles of clothing in Woolite and hoping they’d dry before the next morning, a system that usually works with t-shirts, socks and underwear, but fails miserably with jeans and larger items.

Mickey was happy to start a load of laundry for me, and he gave me perfect directions to a restaurant down the street where I could grab a meal, it now being early evening and the slivovitz settling queasily on an empty stomach.

At the eatery in question I was introduced to an institution that would be a constant throughout my ensuing Eastern European travels: The thoroughly egalitarian institution of the Socialist state-owned self-service cafeteria, a place where a foreigner was just as welcomed as the natives, and could point with ease to foodstuffs without the bother of an indecipherable menu … and, usually, a place that served cheap draft beer -- in this case, Sarajevsko Pivo.

I recall the lettuce being brown, the meat gray, and the beer sufficiently cold; moreover, the price for a plate of passable grub and a couple of half-liter mugs came to less than $2.

Sated and sleepy, I returned to my lodging to study the map and get a good night’s rest, because on the following morning, there was much Franz Ferdinand lore to indulge.

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Tangents.

They remain a problem of mine.