War and Pieces

There is a song by the band, Depeche Mode, called People Are People. Some of the lyrics go pretty much like this: " what makes a man hate another man, help me understand. People are people so why should it be that you and I should get along so awfully".
I am not going to pretend to understand the ethnic differences or racial strife that caused this former large nation, Yugoslavia, to get busted up into little pieces. But I can tell you what I have seen and felt by walking through parts of it.

When I last blogged I was on my way to the national park. I had no idea I was going to be walking through the former frontline of the war in Croatia in a place called Saborsko. It was a village filled with crucifixes and bullet holes. There were hardened faces and amputees. It was quiet and not particularly very big. But it still carried a feeling. Later when I made it to the park, there in the woods was a sign for Plitvicka Jezera, and above it, another sign, oddly, that simply said BREATHE. And I could. All the trees and mountains and then those gorgeous lakes and cascades. It was the follow up to Saborsko I needed.

From the beauty of the park I continued past Homoljac and then a side road through Frkasic (say that fast 5 times, I dare you. Actually, I dare you to say it once!). It was there I had my first invite into someone's home, a very basic place where I was given water, cookies and a chair to sit by a very nice man who spoke not one stitch of English. But kindness speaks volumes and it is often the poor who give the most of what little they have. I continued on. This road ended up going high into the mountains and for the next several days I was on the most remote roads since my journey began.
Croatia is a beautiful country. I mean, drop dead gorgeous. It has much to offer the nature lover and I suspect within 5 years it will be a major vacation destination. There were many times through the country where I just stared in disbelief at the beauty and stunning scenery. A crown jewel. Some of my best camping has been in Croatia too. Desolate, silent spots with only the forest animals making noises in the night.
But there was nothing in those mountains. Nothing. No food, no water. So I was very happy when I knew I would be coming to the big (on a map) Donji Lapac. OMG. Imagine my shock when I felt liked I'd stepped into the late 19th century. Shepherds with their flocks, a family skinning a slaughtered sheep hanging from a tree in the backyard, men in straw hats with pitchforks making haystacks. There was a store there to be sure, but it had so little of anything. I had so wanted to sit in a cafe and eat a meal. Instead, I bought what I could and figured I would find better in Srb. Not a chance. The whole area was empty. It was wonderful walking, amazing views that kept me dazzled the whole time. But no food and very little water. And that is hard when the temps are in the 90s (they had been for a solid week) and humidity is high. It meant carrying a lot of water. And I gotta tell you, water is a walker's best friend and worst enemy. It keeps one hydrated, joints lubricated, head clear. But it is also the heaviest thing to carry and so it becomes a catch 22; one has to carry more water to quench the thirst but the extra weight makes the sweat pour harder and faster.

I climbed another mountain, slept under a full moon on a lovely high plain and figured I would get amenities at the crossroads to the red road (I was on a yellow road that felt very much like a white road), in Sucevici. HA! as it turned out that place had but one house! That was it. But my walk to Knin was jaw dropping spectacular following this ridge alongside a narrow valley. I put up with the thirst until it got so bad I had to beg when an infrequent car drove by. Nobody stopped, I'm sure they thought I was crazy. Finally I came to a habited place with water (prior to I walked through some ghost villages, war remnants).

Monday morning I crossed the border into Bosnia Herzegovina. Getting there through Knin meant going 40km out of my way because the police had told me the day before that I could not take the small mountain road which straddled the border to the border town itself. A whole extra day of walking. But the landscapes made up for it. On the way out there were a lot of destroyed homes, and left over destruction from the war. The mountain red road I was on was deserted. No one was crossing the border here. Imagine me walking into this forested area with very little action at the border patrol. They looked at me, then my passport and were quite surprised I was an American (the police in Croatia had stopped me several times also to "routinely see your documents" and were equally surprised).

It was a long climb up a mountain for many miles with incredible views, a really wonderful walk and well worth the effort. Storm clouds were brewing too. A sign? I made it to within 1 KM to the town of B. Grahovo, about 20 km from the border, when the rains started. Man, it came down. Hard! I ducked into a place I was told was a restaurant but looked from the outside like the second floor to a home. It was, however, a small place with only 4 tables and no one else inside but the waitress/cook.  For the next 3 hours I ate while it poured outside.

The woman who was running the joint had a sad, sunken face. She watched the tv which aired some Bosnian movie while the jukebox played Bosnian music. None of it was too loud. But the jukebox flashed these lit pictures every few seconds of nature scenes, automobiles, and naked women. A family restaurant?

When the rain abated I had a look around the town. Oh my. Everyone had long, sad faces and I could see why. Poor Grahovo was in ruins and squalor. What looked like the former village center was in horrible shape. The municipal building was gutted. Homes collapsed, bombed. I was taking a picture of one building and a man on a bike came up and said it used to be a nice hotel. It was devastating. And very sad. And so went my introduction to Bosnia.

Now I was really scared where to pitch my tent; I had been careful for days and days. But I was lucky to find a spot in an off-road cinderblock cell covered with cow manure on the dirt floor. If the cows hadn't blown up then neither would I (although the walk out to the structure terrified me) . It rained and thundered more in the night. By morning there was just a dark gray, ominous sky with a COLD chill. I wore a coat and I walked all day. There was nothing again. No ameneities I should say. Each town on my map really didn't exist anymore. There were so many ghost villages, so many destroyed homes and buildings, so many bullet holes. For every new home I could see way back at the hill base, I saw a dozen places in ruin. It broke my heart. What these people have endured. The scars that can never heal. It was depressing. Oh, and the "mine" signs. The skull and crossbones markers all over the place. To think you cannot leave the asphalt and enjoy the countryside or your former home's land for fear of being blown up or losing your legs. This morning left a branded impression on me. Again, the things I am grateful for that others cannot enjoy.

In Crni Lug there was one tiny spot where an old man had beer and juice. A kind of cafe but not really. More like one little concrete block, dingy room with beer and juice. A trucker was in there drinking beer at 9AM. I asked for food, the old man said he had none. But within 2 minutes he came back with bread, green onions, tomatoes and homemade cheese (totally gross stuff). I was ordered to eat and eat a lot. It was hard getting the cheese down. But they were kind. They offered me a beer....no thanks. I offered to pay for the food. They refused. So I decided to buy a juice. I drank it and they would not let me pay for that either. I had been warned in Croatia to "be careful" in Bosnia because the people lost much in the war and I might be a target. But I was finding the Bosnians to be some of the best folks on this trip.

All day I walked through this sort of expansive valley with hills and mountains on both sides. The cooler temps and clouds made the lack of water available much more tolerable. Thank you. There was space to breathe too which was necessary amongst the ruins. One man pointed to me his destroyed father's home and his brother's too. The "Serbs" shot them up. Then I came to this long area that looked like a National Park. Just beautiful. But eeerily quiet and I knew. Nothing is here, no one, nothing, because the place is still full of mines. My suspicians were confirmed. I came to Celebic and things seemed a little different here. A home was being built and I went up the long drive to get water. A man who had "run away" was back with his family rebuilding. And so it was. He pointed out his window to a place where he said, "beyond there there are no more mines". The sun came out full on. And within a few miles there were fields being plowed, kids on bikes, new homes, flowers, color. And I could feel the heaviness lift. And it felt wonderful.

I walked through Livno this morning, a town with lots of life and very sweet people. There was a large grocery store so I could buy much needed food. And I bought a lot. Now I am on the shores of a lovely lake, which I believe is called Bisko.

I have caught myself a few days back starting to dream of the things I will enjoy when this walk is over. But I did not want to keep going there so I reminded myself that in (now) 35 days (I am projecting July 31st as my end date....a clean 4 months) it will be over and that sad notion reminds me to keep enjoying all aspects of this epic adventure, even the parts I am not digging too much anymore. My pants are tattered and faded with holes and a broken zipper ( not my fly), my shirt is fraying, my undies are ripped (all clothing lightweight and non replaceable on this trip so I must wear it). A tent pole has broke, my new pack has a few small tears and I am even feeling myself getting a little whacky which I am trying to keep at bay. I remember this point on my trip across the US. I am trying for better this time. (But I could not help dancing and singing in the grocery store to Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself" this morning). I am feeling like a homeless man, very much. And I don't care too much really. It has become my norm. But I know this all comes with limits. I am not living in a destroyed village. I have not been through war directly. I can quit anytime if I want (fat chance...I'm going for broke baby).

I am off to Mostar. Time for new shoes. I still have a lot of miles to go. But by the middle of next week, my days left will be in the 20s. And before I know it this will all come to an end.
Time to enjoy what's left.