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In Which I Come Down Again

September 1, 2008 by Mike

Dubrovnik

Route: Mostar - Međugorje - Metcovič (Croatia) - Neum (Bosnia) - Slano (Croatia) - Dubrovnik

Phew. I went off on one yesterday, didn't I? Being in Mostar will do that to you. I can't think of another place that has had such an effect on me on this trip.

All that, and there's a brilliant bookshop close to the Old Bridge called Buybook. Brilliant name, too. I bought (and am devouring) Noel Malcolm's Bosnia: A Short history. The selection of English-language books was terrific -- politics, music, art, classic and brand-new literature, Shakespeare, Murakami and.. Victoria Beckham. Yes! I was so grateful. Finally, I could talk to a Mostarian about something that wasn't the siege. The bookshop assistant was charming and, I think, realised why I needed to talk about La Beckham. Anything but the ugly, brutal truth all around us. Maybe that's why they stock the book.

I left the city on the small road that winds west out of the valley. At every turn there's a spectacular view back down into Mostar. It's beautiful. And I can't look without imagining a Serbian or Croatian general standing blithely at each vantage point directing another round of murderous shells.

Onwards, across the roof of the world, away from war to Međugorje, where Jesus' mother, who I last encountered when she rowed a boat made of stone from Palestine to northwest Spain to deliver the body of St James, which is actually the skeleton of a sheep, recently showed up.

Here, in southern Hercegovina, a somewhat implausible 1,982 years after the birth of her first child, she appeared to a small number of skoolchildren and told them to be nice. In Croatian.

The skoolchildren happened to be Catholics, so this is a Catholic shrine. (I spoke to very religious Orthodox Christians 30 miles away who claimed never to have heard of Međugorje. Yet it's so famous amongst Catholics around the world that one of the busiest coach companies in this very busy town is called Paddy Travel.)

Also in town were two bikers from the "Fibra" bike club in Split: not only do they have their own website, they even had Fibra postcards to hand out to admirers.. like me. Crazy Joe and Dino were here to light candles.. but the chance for a speedy blatt up fast mountain roads certainly helped. With names like that, it's almost as though their parents knew they were going to end up riding Harleys and wearing leather on the hottest day of the year. Lovely men. Dino, you won't be surprised to hear, is a basketball player. He owns a Harley and a Triumph Rocket. I can't really picture him on a scooter:

While I was looking up to Dino, others were looking out for Mary. This is the spot on the hill where she appeared.. (though not today. That's not really her. It's a statue):

But I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression. It doesn't come across as a spiritual place. It's a bizarre bazaar, a temple dedicated to mammon, to the sale of plastic statues, genuine fake key-rings and Guinness. The woman in the Information Office agreed. In fact we agreed about everything except religion.. which is a bit of a stumbling block round these parts. Sadly, but I can't ignore it, disagreeing over religion can get you killed round here.

Back to Croatia and the coast, and turn south again. I'd been in Bosnia-Hercegovina for just over 24 hours. To which I can now add the 14-and-a-half minutes and 8.5 miles of Bosnian coastline, a corridor of land that cuts Croatia in two down in this most complicated of border regions. A sop to Bosnia's geopolitical need for access to the sea.. used less for trade and transport, as far as I could see, and more for apartment blocks and hotels.

There's a transit lane at the frontier and you don't have to stop, but I've been warned that the Bosnian cops here will stop you for any infringement.. and charge the earth. Luckily, my headlights come on automatically with the ignition so they can't get me for riding without them. Moreover, I stick resolutely to the speed limit -- and every vehicle in town overtakes me. Some of them do it twice. None of the locals has their lights on.

What makes it all the stranger, is that the large islands just a few hundred metres off the mainland are still Croatia. Someone told me that Croatia is going to build bridges round this little wedge of Bosnia so Croats don't need to transit through in order to get to or from Dubrovnik. But he was very drunk at the time, so don't take my word for it.

The road here continues to make me swoon. Forested down to the water's edge, the dark hills spill out into the Adriatic and the road is forced (I'm not complaining) in and out and in again. It's precipitous at times, when the slopes become cliffs and the hills, mountains. This is life on the edge.

One thing I'd like to point out, before I leave Croatia in the next day or so, is how useful old people are here. No need to have them clutter up the family home all day. Park them by the side of the road with a sign: "Sobe Room Zimmer", and tell them to wave it at every tourist vehicle that comes along. You can leave a big bowl of potatoes for them to peel when the traffic is slow, but they mustmustMUST remember to wave the sign with particular ferocity when a silver motorcycle approaches. It's the law.

Here's one old person hard at it. Using sex appeal as an extra 'come on' to tempt the tourist into his family's home.

I made my excuses and left for Dubrovnik's biggest campsite instead.

Yes! I'm in Dubrovnik. Bloody hell! Little old Mike from Norwich, riding a motorbike to Dubrovnik!

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Come Down Again

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