"Mo-lim?" I said groggily into the phone on a Saturday morning. I was still in my pajamas, lounging in bed, my journal tucked between the folds of my lap.
"Ey," said the voice on the other line. It was Safet.
"Willl you do me a favor?"
"Sure, šta?" naively thinking for a moment he actually needed a favor.
"Will you get dressed and wait outside your apartment in ten minutes? Amir, Alma, and I are going somewhere. So. Ok. We'll see you..." he was quickly hanging up.
"Wait! Where are we going??" I had just made a to-do list and had been planning on a productive Saturday. "Productive" is not a word used often in Bosnian. In fact, they have a common word that means precisely the opposite. ‘Čajf’ means to partake in an activity with deliberate slow pleasure. I'm instructed to do this a lot. "A little more čajf Rebecca," when they see me becoming restless in my chair after several hours sitting at the cafe.
"I have a lot of work to do," I heard myself mumble into the phone. Safet waited patiently on the other line for me to finish.
"Not work. Today is for vacation. Vidimo se. See you." He hung up.
...
It was a lot longer than ten minutes before Amir and Safet pulled up to the curb. I'd been waiting, sitting in what little shade I could find outside the pharmacy, trying to balance my daypack and a hot bag of white and dark kifle and kukuruzni hljeb (corn bread) for at least 25 minutes. I'd given one mark (local currency) to one of the women sitting on plastic crates outside the building. Today there were two, not more than three feet from each other, dressed in layers of clothes and scarves despite the warm weather, their small hands held out and faces wearing a similar polite toothy grin. Occasionally one woman would stand, bag in hand, her swollen feet too big for her wool socks and clogs.
Finally Amir and Sajo pulled up to the curb and Sajo jumped out. "Where are you going? Where are we going?" While sitting on the curb I thought the nice weather meant we were headed south to Hercegovina; a scenic route to the Adriatic dotted with villages offering fresh fruits, cafes and dramatic views of the Neretva River.
"We are going to Goražde," he replied smiling. "How much bread do you have?"
...
It was about a two hours drive. Usually it's a bit less but Alma ended up driving, and since she is a new driver, and the route is through the mountains, everyone was in favor of her cautious navigation around the steep curves and "crni tačka" (literally meaning "black point" these signs indicate the locations of common and lethal accidents).
"Ey," said the voice on the other line. It was Safet.
"Willl you do me a favor?"
"Sure, šta?" naively thinking for a moment he actually needed a favor.
"Will you get dressed and wait outside your apartment in ten minutes? Amir, Alma, and I are going somewhere. So. Ok. We'll see you..." he was quickly hanging up.
"Wait! Where are we going??" I had just made a to-do list and had been planning on a productive Saturday. "Productive" is not a word used often in Bosnian. In fact, they have a common word that means precisely the opposite. ‘Čajf’ means to partake in an activity with deliberate slow pleasure. I'm instructed to do this a lot. "A little more čajf Rebecca," when they see me becoming restless in my chair after several hours sitting at the cafe.
"I have a lot of work to do," I heard myself mumble into the phone. Safet waited patiently on the other line for me to finish.
"Not work. Today is for vacation. Vidimo se. See you." He hung up.
...
It was a lot longer than ten minutes before Amir and Safet pulled up to the curb. I'd been waiting, sitting in what little shade I could find outside the pharmacy, trying to balance my daypack and a hot bag of white and dark kifle and kukuruzni hljeb (corn bread) for at least 25 minutes. I'd given one mark (local currency) to one of the women sitting on plastic crates outside the building. Today there were two, not more than three feet from each other, dressed in layers of clothes and scarves despite the warm weather, their small hands held out and faces wearing a similar polite toothy grin. Occasionally one woman would stand, bag in hand, her swollen feet too big for her wool socks and clogs.
Finally Amir and Sajo pulled up to the curb and Sajo jumped out. "Where are you going? Where are we going?" While sitting on the curb I thought the nice weather meant we were headed south to Hercegovina; a scenic route to the Adriatic dotted with villages offering fresh fruits, cafes and dramatic views of the Neretva River.
"We are going to Goražde," he replied smiling. "How much bread do you have?"
...
It was about a two hours drive. Usually it's a bit less but Alma ended up driving, and since she is a new driver, and the route is through the mountains, everyone was in favor of her cautious navigation around the steep curves and "crni tačka" (literally meaning "black point" these signs indicate the locations of common and lethal accidents).
Barely 15 minutes outside of East Sarajevo we were in thick countryside. The car hugged the curves and we passed tiny villages like Foća, places where really terrible suffering was endured. "There's the memorial to the Partisans... there's the bridge where they cut people's throats..." someone mentioned. Sting's melodic "Shape of My Heart" was playing over the speakers. The lyrics seemed to mingle in the air and bite at my thoughts. I peered out the window watching the steep rocky cliffs melt into thick, dark green grassy hills...
"I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart..."
And then as suddenly as we came upon it, we were past Foća, the car speeding along the little road, the sparkling Drina at our side.
"I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart..."
And then as suddenly as we came upon it, we were past Foća, the car speeding along the little road, the sparkling Drina at our side.
As we neared Goražde, Sajo tapped on the window.
"There's a house there. Teci Drina, tecni i pričaj. Like the river that flows, so we must talk."
"About the war you mean?" I said, my neck craning out the window hands juggling my camera.
"About what happened." He said it casually, in his normal half-monotone used when speaking about the war. As we passed the sign, the blue sky and shimmering river beckoning us onward, to the naive outsider the sign had the appearance more of an advertisement than an echo of a recent tragic past.
"There's a house there. Teci Drina, tecni i pričaj. Like the river that flows, so we must talk."
"About the war you mean?" I said, my neck craning out the window hands juggling my camera.
"About what happened." He said it casually, in his normal half-monotone used when speaking about the war. As we passed the sign, the blue sky and shimmering river beckoning us onward, to the naive outsider the sign had the appearance more of an advertisement than an echo of a recent tragic past.
We followed the sparkling green-blue Drina river into Goražde, a town also famous from the last war but for Sajo, a place with personal roots. He used to visit his grandmother here, his mother grew up here, and the family still maintains the tiny stone house and garden overlooking the Drina and surrounded by comforting thick green hills. We turned off the main road onto a long dirt driveway and the car rocked back and forth struggling to navigate over the rocks and curves while avoiding chickens, cats, and a herd of sheep, all combing the edge. At the top of the small hill we parked and got out and stretched in the afternoon light.
We gathered some firewood and pulled out the small sacks of čevapčici we'd carried from Sarajevo. Sajo found a large flat steel circle (perhaps part of a large BBQ set once? It was unclear...) and laid it on top of the grass. Slowly, he and Amir built a fire. Alma and I sat lazily at the table, sipping drenjak sok (a thick, homemade fruit syrup that when mixed with water becomes fruit juice), occassionally swatting insects from our line of vision over the river.
After several lazy hours of sipping juice (the boys Sarajevsko beer), eating, napping in the shade, and then more eating, (a true afternoon 'čajf') we got back in the car and headed into the small town to catch the end of the day.
After several lazy hours of sipping juice (the boys Sarajevsko beer), eating, napping in the shade, and then more eating, (a true afternoon 'čajf') we got back in the car and headed into the small town to catch the end of the day.
Goražde is a small village separated on two sides by the Drina. During the war the residents built a footbridge underneath the main bridge so that both sides of town could be reached and out of the view of snipers on the hills. The bridge is still there, holding tightly to the steel beams that fasten it. Open to visitors we walked to about halfway, Sajo's tall frame having to crouch every few meters to avoid the beams. I recalled hearing of people who were desperate to escape jumping into the river. Standing on the wobbily footbridge, hovering merely over the deep rushing water, I contemplated how absolutely unappealing that option seemed.
...
We stopped at a cafe along on the main street. Filled with teenagers, seemingly dressed for a night out but from glimpsing the town I realized that the cafe and the pizza shop around the corner might be their only destinations.
Before heading back to Sarajevo we sipped espressos and slurped ice cream scoops, breathing in the last rays of sunlight before saying 'good night / laku noć' to special Goražde.
...
We stopped at a cafe along on the main street. Filled with teenagers, seemingly dressed for a night out but from glimpsing the town I realized that the cafe and the pizza shop around the corner might be their only destinations.
Before heading back to Sarajevo we sipped espressos and slurped ice cream scoops, breathing in the last rays of sunlight before saying 'good night / laku noć' to special Goražde.
MORE GORAŽDE HISTORY
NY Times Article September 1994
http://www.nytimes.com/1994/09/04/world/desperation-drives-escape-of-muslim-refugees.html
NY Times Article April 1994
http://www.nytimes.com/1994/04/19/world/conflict-in-the-balkans-the-overview-gorazde-pounded-by-serb-gunners.html
http://www.nytimes.com/1994/04/19/opinion/failure-at-gorazde.html
Bosnia Beyond Words, Joe Sacco
https://www.nytimes.com/books/00/12/24/reviews/001224.24riefft.html
NY Times Article September 1994
http://www.nytimes.com/1994/09/04/world/desperation-drives-escape-of-muslim-refugees.html
NY Times Article April 1994
http://www.nytimes.com/1994/04/19/world/conflict-in-the-balkans-the-overview-gorazde-pounded-by-serb-gunners.html
http://www.nytimes.com/1994/04/19/opinion/failure-at-gorazde.html
Bosnia Beyond Words, Joe Sacco
https://www.nytimes.com/books/00/12/24/reviews/001224.24riefft.html
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