24.3.25 Sarajevo
Sitting in Ćevabdžinica Petica Ferhavatović, having ordered ćevapčići, of course. Half empty now, but when I passed here an hour ago it was jam-packed – as were many other restaurants in this zone, in Baščaršija. I thought this was strange for such an early time, but then I understood: it’s Ramadan, and everyone is starving, so eat as soon as they can, at sunset.
The presence of Islam is marked here – minarets and mosques abound. It feels distinctly different even at night, when it’s hard to see things properly. I arrived here just before 6pm, after an easy journey from Stansted, then a taxi waiting for me at the airport. The driver was concerned because he couldn’t find my accommodation’s address on Google Maps. I said to just drop me off nearby. On the way here were passed several vehicles broken down in the middle of the road. Needless to say, my driver just sounded his horn and drove on the other side of the road, pushing his way through. Surprising amount of traffic on the back roads.
In fact my driver was right: it is hard to find Tabaci 5, the address of my accommodation. When he dropped me off, I wandered around some fairly insalubrious streets, beginning to feel I had made a big mistake by choosing this place. In the end, a helpful bloke told me it was further along the street – which runs alongside the River Miljacka. In fact, my abode was pretty good: clean, warm, with a nice lady host next door, all for 100 euros for four nights.
Judging by all the umbrellas passing outside, it is raining, although quite mild. The weather is incredibly unpredictable here – all the mountains, I suppose. I have stupidly been looking at the forecasts for days, and watched with horror as sunny days gave way to rainy ones of varying heaviness. Ah well. The big problem is that I plan to drive to Mostar and Blagaj on Wednesday, and the through of doing that in torrential rain does not appeal…
25.3.25
During the night I could hear the monstrous low rumble of the trams as they passed a few metres from my room. Not unpleasant. Still raining, but less, and even some chance of sun. The weather here is even more changeable than in the UK…
Now in the Mooncalf Sarajevo for a Bosnian coffee. Some of the people here are speaking Turkish – a language I also heard on the streets. Not that there are many out yet – too wet and cold. But that seems the right weather to visit the spot where World War One was ignited. Down by the Latin Bridge, on the wall of what is now a small museum commemorating that fact, there is a plaque; Basically, it says “here stood the man who started World War One”. Pretty staggering that pure chance led to that moment – the driver of the Archduke’s car was not told of a changed route, and took a turning down this narrow street, where other cars were blocking the way. Gavrilo Princip was standing at the exact point, with a gun. He lifted the weapon and shot the Archduke and his consort at point blank range. They died soon afterwards. Princip was only 19, and thus escaped the death penalty.
Wandering around this morning, looking for an ATM. But judging by the reviews (yes, people review ATMs these days), most charge outrageous fees – around £4 per transaction. So, unusually, I went to a currency exchange booth, checking first what the rate was at several. Actually seems a better option in this instance.
Walked out to Hotel Europe, which is where I will collect my rental car tomorrow – from its garage, presumably. Ugly building. Next to it, Ferhadija mosque, one of the many quite large ones here. Also passed Gazi Husrev-Beg’s museum, an old madrasah. Nearby an old han – a roadside inn for Muslim travellers, now converted into shops, but still displaying its traditional form around an open courtyard. Even under the rain it’s an attractive area. I imagine it’s pretty crowded in summer.
Up to Logavina Street. It’s the subject of a remarkable book “Besieged” by Barbara Demick. The story of the people living on this street during the siege of Sarajevo, it’s a superb piece of journalism that brings home the reality of the terrible war by telling the stories of ordinary people on just one street.
The road is nothing special, which is the point. It rises quite steeply and has a good view back over the hills on the other side of the river, which is from where the murderous Serbian snipers shot thousands of innocent men, women and children. Life in Sarajevo became a deadly challenge – moving from cover to cover, hoping not to get shot by unseen killers.
Nibbling some lokum to go with (yet another) Bosnian coffee. Too sweet and scented for me, but when in Sarajevo… Even though there are supposedly street dogs here, I’ve only seen one, trotting away in the rain this morning, busy on some doggy errand. Quite a few cats, though…
After Logavina Steet I went along to the Pijac Markale food market – fruit and veg. A terrible mortar attack on this market forms the opening of “Besieged” – the author narrowly escaped because she was delayed on her way there. Today it’s a small, gentle place, nothing compared to the huge Central Asian markets of Tashkent or Bishkek. But they don’t have its terrible history, with a death toll of over 60 in a single attack.
After that, a stroll to the Eternal Flame, then down Ferhadija Street. There I saw my first memorial in the pavement – blood-red infills of the damage caused by shell. Looking back, I noticed a wacky Hotel Hecco Deluxe – really striking design. Bonkers.
Past the Grandska Tržnica market, which looks like a theatre from the outside. Inside, huge slabs of fresh and dried meat. A glance at the Sacred Heart cathedral – rather ugly – then past the New Orthodox Serbian church (nice onion domes). Back to my room to upload pix, then back out to here, Restoran Čaršija, to eat something that wasn’t heavy and lamb. Not bad. Place empty but for me. Ramadan, presumably.
Up at the Yellow Bastion – steep but easy walk, past a big Muslim cemetery. Fine view from the top. Next to the Ramadan gun, fired to mark the end of each day’s fasting – loud and audible throughout the city. Small café at the top too.
To the left, the very muddy river, then a weir, which makes it even more agitated and turbid. Another Muslim cemetery on the south bank (also another behind me). The river passes the striped City Hall, heading west. Several mosques visible in Baščaršia area. Beyond, more modern buildings, along with the Orthodox church and Catholic cathedral. Further west, modern office blocks, 20, 30, 50 storeys high. Meanwhile, louring over it all, are the hills, in the Serbian portion of Bosnia, and the scene of thousands of atrocities by snipers.
A Chinese family has come up. I’ve seen several tour groups from China – they are getting quite adventurous. Also a few solos and pairs from the region. Sun quite strong now. I’m not complaining. A lot of echoes here, and not just historical ones. The view reminds me of Bilbao – same, river, same varied architecture. The red-roofed houses remind me of Bratislava. The minaret spires, those little rockets of Islam, are the tell-tale difference.
As in Bilbao, there’s a cable car here (was actually a funicular in Bilbao), but I don’t think I’ll bother riding it. It goes quite high in the hills, and the clouds are so low that the top must have little visibility. Here is less high, but has a fine prospect of Sarajevo. It’s also getting a bit popular – time to move on.
Down the hill, past the City Hall, across to the south side. Traffic snarled up as a police “spider” removes an errant car – apparently the traffic police are fierce here, and deploy their car removal systems without hesitation. Now sitting by the Sarajevska Pivara (a distant muezzin intones). So why am I here, given I hate beer? Apparently the brewery has its own source of water, and during the siege people had to risk their lives coming here to get some for drinking. Many never made it back. Hard to comprehend now, sitting by this solid brewery in its maroon and yellow livery.
Sitting in the At-Meidan – presumably the “horse place” where Ottomans exercised their horses. A tram rumbles behind me, and the muddy river in spate roars. An elderly lady asked whether I minded her sitting next to me on the bench – the point being that she, like practically everyone here, was going to smoke…
Then across the river to the north side, to Febodija, got a seat outside Caffe slastičarna Badem, took a Turkish tea and baklava. Watched the (busy) world go by. Then a wander east to Baščaršija itself, now bustling too, then back to the room to plan for tomorrow. Weather still looks dodgy, so a visit to Blagaj probably not feasible if I have to drive in the rain.
Back out for supper, now the iftar crowds are diminishing. First, along Ferhadija Street, very full, lovely atmosphere. Then to here, Morića Han, the old inn. Practically deserted now. But food was good, big portion – and they are playing Safet Isović and his fellow Bosnians, singing their hearts out in sevdalinka songs. What more could I ask?
26.3.25
So, it is bucketing down, and there are weather warnings both here and in Mostar. Even if I were foolhardy enough to drive, I wouldn’t see anything along the way, would doubtless be stuck behind lorries and their sprays, and would end up walking around Mostar under the rain. So I won’t be going. Fortunately, there are plenty of museums here in Sarajevo – although quite a few are understandably about the Bosnian war, Srebenića, and the siege of Sarajevo. So there’s that…
Went out to cancel the car I had booked, but at the pickup point Hotel Europa, they knew nothing. Not surprisingly, since the pickup was actually Hotel Old Town. So I went there. They also knew nothing, and said that Europa Car often gave them as the pickup point, which was impossible, since they were in a pedestrian only zone. Fair point.
I didn’t want to ring the car hire company, because my eSIM wouldn’t let me do that, which meant switching back to my UK SIM, and paying absurd rates. But then I remembered that in Central Asia everyone used WhatsApp – as does my taxi company for my return to the airport on Friday. So I thought I would bang in their phone number in WhatsApp – and bingo, there they were. So I sent a message, asking where the car was. I got a reply straightaway, saying it was a white Škoda, parked on the road nearby. I asked which road, but then I saw it. And indeed it was my car, with a helpful man inside. I told him I was cancelling, which confused him a little, but then we agreed that was it, and parted. I expect I will have to pay the full day rate, but that’s only fair.
Since it was nearly 9am, I want along to the Museum of Literature, which was open. Theoretically. In practice, not so much…. The rain even heavier now, but I am inside the delightfully warm Gazi Husrev-Beg mosque. The only one here, aside from the cleaning ladies. A fine dome, characteristic honeycomb corners, as in Samarkand and elsewhere. Outside, the courtyard is flooded in places, soaking my shoes. They will stay that way for all of today, I think… Around the dome is a gallery, quite high. I wonder how you get up there, and what it is for… The cleaning lady has started vacuuming, breaking the tranquillity. Time to move on.
Now in the madrasah (makes me think of the Registan). In the visitor’s book, a message in Turkish, visitors from Istanbul. Old Gazi Husrev-Beg left a lot to Sarajevo (his waqf, or gift). As well as this madrasah, he gave the mosque, a hammam (now an institute), the covered market and even Morića Han. This could accommodate 300 travellers – impressive, but probably a bit crowded. I wonder what it was like to stay there back then…
After a resuscitating Bosnian coffee and baklava, to the Siege of Sarajevo museum, which I expect to be grim. The personal stories. In one room there is a 1300 page book “The Siege of Sarajevo, 1992-1996”. Amazing and invaluable oral histories – unprecedented in their number. Incredible. The personal testimonies in the museum are fascinating and important. But they are ill-served by the formatting (sorry, it’s true). There are around 200 characters per line – it’s impossible for the eye not to get lost as you read across…
A room about the attack on the market I visited yesterday. Probably the most brutal pix I’ve seen – shredded bodies, limbs lying around on the ground… Another room with an unflinching video of doctors trying to save people – children – with gaping holes in their bodies. What’s even more terrible is that exactly these same scenes are playing out now in Gaza. We never learn from the past.
Out into the never-ending rain. Which perhaps is the only weather for viewing such sadness. Coming out of the exhibition into glorious sunshine would be cruel. To the memorably-named ASDŽ for lunch. Interesting setup – you choose your dish from those on offer, and they bring it to you on what look like tin plates. Good value – just 10 KM (about £4) for chicken + mash + veg + bread. The bread is great – super soft, a bit like nan, but even softer. Incongruously, Madonna’s “Material Girl” is playing in the background. Still a great song. They also do takeaways here – and there’s a local delivery service called “Korpa” – with a bloke who brings it to you in a backpack.
To Despić house. Every room full of dark wooden furniture – a very particular aesthetic. Also a grand piano, slightly lower than usual. Fine carpets everywhere. Big tiled oven for heating. Crazy carved chairs (x6) in the dining room, which holds the piano. An ornate sideboard and grandfather clock. The view from the south-facing windows shows the river, now swollen with rains and faster than ever.
The floor boards particularly broad – a good 15-20cm. Strong Bosnian wood. Wacky wallpapers everywhere (e.g. what looks like endless rows of exploding brown marrows, separate by infinitely long millipedes. In the main reading/relaxing room, the stove looks like the world’s most insane boombox, with dozens of speakers.
To the National Theatre, where a children’s opera seems to be playing. Then to here, the National Gallery. A section with a few icons close off, which is a pity since they look interesting. A dramatic woodcut of a Bell Foundry by Đurić Milenko. Looks like a close-up of a Piranesi. A surreal “Flight to Egypt” by Đoko Mazalić. A very un-Middle Eastern landscape of mountains and green hills. Looks more like Georgia…
As I move around the gallery, Mazalić emerges as the clear leader of Bosnian painting. A wall with “Dependent”, showing a musician playing his lute-like instrument; very intent. A city behind, its tower full of foreboding. “At the Doctor’s” shows three women, sitting in front of a man – the doctor, presumably. He is serious, one woman on the right turns away; the role of the other two is unclear: relatives, perhaps.
“The Peasant Woman” shows a figure as fierce as a native American chief. “Coppersmith” depicts two men in shadows, surrounded by circular objects they have made (and still make in the picturesque backstreets of Baščaršija. Two other pictures are of female nudes. The first has two figures, the other just one. The skin is silky smooth in both.
But what is most striking are the distant landscapes, seen through an opening behind the women in both paintings. In “Summertime”, there is a river running between fortifications on two hills. Rounded mountains loom behind. The other is called “Heroic End”, and the distant landscape is even odder: a stumpy hill of rock just out of water – a river? Lake? - and on the top is a small conflagration burning red with smoke bending away. A metaphor, perhaps…? Those unexplained landscapes are clearly of the same stuff as the “Flight into Egypt”, and just as disconcerting.
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Đoko Mazalić's "Old Poplar" |
In the next room, more by Mazalić – rather attractive small landscapes. “Old Poplar” – where trees shoot out of the ground like geysers. “Village in Bosnia”, bathed in a gentle evening light. “Old Town” – which consists of of a few simple houses perched on steep, Georgian-like hills. “Vogošča motif” – a study in forms, where trees and houses and mountains dissolve to become pure volumes. “Early Spring” – abstract, almost Kandinskian in its twisting lines and colours. A self portrait in the next room. Mazalić wears thick round glasses, looking well away from the viewer.
To PekSar café. Unusual design – small space, but on three floors – the shop and two seating areas. All quite news. Photocopies menus. I asked for a Turkish tea, and they brought me English tea. <sigh/>.
After a rest, and quick catchup online, out to the Museum of Literature, which I find is semi-closed for repairs. No fee, but only a small temporary exhibition of set designs by Miroslav Bilać. Usual stuff, only of interest to historians. At least it’s warm here. It’s striking that many of his designs consist of a table with a few chairs. A bit melancholy, really… On the way back, I tried to visit the modern Gallery of Contemporary Art Manifesto, but they were setting up new works, so it was closed.
Back in the Morića Han, after failing to get into the Dveri restaurant – even though Google Maps falsely claimed it was “not too busy”. Ironically, a year ago I had a reservation here, but obviously couldn’t use it when I failed to make it to Sarajevo for various reasons. Slightly busier in here tonight.
Searching online for the Mazalić painter that had struck me in the National Gallery, I discovered that Google Arts & Culture put together a feature on his work, writing: “It would be difficult to find a person that left a deeper trace in BH art scene.” There are quite a few paintings online there, including many I did not see, even though they are listed as being part of the National Gallery collection. They certainly confirm his stature. I couldn’t help but notice that the National Gallery held an exhibition of his works, and that there was a catalogue for the show “Đoko Mazalić 1888- 1975”, published in 2017. Horribly tempting…
Food portion more moderate this evening. Good. Now trying hurmašica – pastry drenched in syrup. Apparently a favourite for Islamic holidays. It is very sweet, but surprisingly pleasant.
27.3.25
On tram #3 – one of the old ones. Looks very Soviet – rusty, dirty, old. But I like trams, paid just KM6.30 (`£3) for a day ticket. Needed to go out to the History Museum, by the station. Quite a way out. Miraculously, the rain has stopped for a bit. Quite cold now. Passed the market, thinking of the images I saw yesterday… The Eternal Flame. One of the digital ads in the tram had “Mubarak olsun”. Turkish soap operas on the TV in the restaurant last night. Already further out west than before – unknown territory. Amazingly, the old tram had wifi.
To the History Museum, one of the ugliest, most depressing modernist buildings I have seen – a huge parallelipiped of concrete, with everything rusted and decaying. Downstairs, an exhibition about the Second World War. Posters, rifles, 1942 newspaper, photos of women workers – sorry, heroines. Out to the garden, full of artillery. Plus a huge wooden grinder for grain. Rather impressive.
Fascinating photographic exhibition by Jim Marshall. Called “15 years” it shows locations around the city in 1996, just after the conclusion of the Bosnian War and siege, and again in 2011. Dramatic differences, from buildings pock-marked by shells and bullets, windows smashed, some ruins, to the modern-looking city. Shows the remarkable ability of the human spirit to repair and advance.
Another photographic exhibit. 75 pix of women and girls, taken twice: once smiling with a light background, and again frowning, angry, against a black background. Quite striking. Upstairs, more gut-wrenching scenes from the siege of Sarajevo.
To the National Museum. A rather steep KM20 (~ £8) but surprisingly modern and well designed. Presumably recently renovated. In the prehistory section, sitting under a huge log canoe… Upstairs, I find that the wood of the boat has been dated to 6000BCE…
Lots of good exhibits here – a reflection that this was a populous area for prehistoric peoples. Same is true for the Roman epoch, as evidenced by lots of archaeological finds on display in the west wing of the museum. Upstairs to the medieval section, less impressive. Aside from a huge “judge chair”.
Outside, in the garden. Some massive funerary monuments, hewn from single blocks of stone, some carved with figures, animals, others with old Slavonic writing. Overall, a very impressive museum, one I almost left out, assuming it would be boring…
A slightly long walk to the 142 metre high “twisty tower”, officially the Avaz Twist tower, then up to here, Caffe 35, on the 35th floor surprisingly enough. Pretty good view of the city, spoiled a little by the excessively blue-tinted glass. Will go up to the open observation deck afterwards. Rain has stopped, even the odd glimpse of sun. Ironically, they didn’t have Bosnian coffee here, so I’m drinking a cappuccino. Rather good, it has to be said. Disappointed that the sealed packet of the bicky I was given was open and thus had to be discarded…
Up on the observation deck, a watery sun above me. I can pick out landmarks of the old town. And see how utterly vulnerable it was to snipers… Air slightly hazy, maybe smoke. Car horns rise from below – they are used a lot here. Also striking how people will park anywhere – even worse than in Italy. Actually, looking towards the airport, pretty clear the haze is fumes. The air not too healthy, I suspect. The tower good and stable – I’ve not felt any swaying…. The railway below looks rusty and dilapidated – a bit like those in Tbilisi and Chisinau. I love these views from high places.
To the train station, which is as forlorn inside as it is decrepit outside. A huge hall, with several boarded up shops. A café, the ticket office. Two horrendous murals advertising Coca-Cola. No departure board, probably because there are so few trains…
Took (shiny modern) tram back to the stop near the National Gallery. I was hoping it might still have copies of the Mazalič catalogue from 2017. They kindly went off to look in their storeroom, but only found a catalogue for a different exhibition with some of his works. KM35 – too much, and too heavy, and not really what I wanted, alas.
Now back in ASDŽ – good quality, cheap and convenient. Fantastic local bread – a meal in itself. When I was in the tram, standing, a nice middle-aged Muslim lady offered me her seat. Very kind, but I refused, since I prefer to stand. She was a little confused when I thanked her anyway….
To Svrzo’s house. Steep road up from Baščaršina – interesting to see several Ottoman-style enclosed balconies on houses along the way. I note as I enter that this house was renovated thanks to funding from the USAID…
Outside the stable a binjektaš – a mounting stone (taš) for riding (binmek). Fascinating to see such an evidently luxurious house. Rich dark wood everywhere, places to wash, stoves for heating, and seats around the outside of most rooms, even the bedroom, which had its bed on the floor in the centre.
Amazing black window shutters made of metal – bronze? - they look like 3D versions of Rothko’s paintings, rich rectangles hanging in space more literally than in the pix. Overall, the minimalist vibe plus the use of wood has a distinctly Japanese feel. A big panel of thick planks can be folded down to close the staircase leading to the internal courtyard. As well as the beauty of the workmanship, what is striking about this place is the scale: room after room, all gorgeously appointed. Amazingly, I had the place entirely to myself. Also in the museums, this morning, no more than five other people.
To the City Hall. Rather disappointing inside. Slightly gaudy colours and fussy design. Of course its destruction was an act of barbarism, not least for the loss of 1.5 million books and manuscripts that were burnt by this deliberate attack on Bosnian culture. And it was right to rebuild it. But I just can’t get excited about in the way some others seem to. Then upstairs to the modern art collection. Mostly dire. People with no ideas, no originality. I feel sorry for them.
On my last night here, it seems right to listen to the intonation at the Gazi Husrev-Beg mosque. Interesting how similar to Gregorian chant – limited range, roughly a-b-c-d up and then c-a-g-e down. Quite a rich voice, and noteworthy how he sings the Arabic guttural sounds and aspirations – the former a swallowed sound, the latter a distinct voiceless break in the musical flow. Quite long, a slow and relatively undifferentiated. In fact, the melody seems to follow the a-b-c-d-c-a-g-e shape most of the time. Quite hypnotic.
28.3.25 Sarajevo airport
Waiting for the departure security gates to open.
Interesting chat with my taxi driver, who arrived early, and let me know via WhatsApp – efficient chap. I asked him what the main nationalities of visitors here were. Mostly Turkish, he said. That fits with my impression of hearing Turkish spoken on the streets. But the second most common nationality was surprising. He said lots of Arabs come here, especially in the summer. I asked why, and he pointed out that there are few trees and mountains in Arab countries, but here they are abundant. And in fact I had seen notices written in Arabic around the city. And here at the airport there’s one offering services to help buy land with Arabic support. I wonder how much land Arabs own now – and much they will?
I also wondered whether the man Turkish Airline flights my driver said arrived each day were because Istanbul is a hub, as I well know. But he pointed out that the telephone numbers of the people he picked up at the airport had Turkish national codes, and were therefore likely to be Turkish. Fair enough.
One final thought. From the moment I arrived until I left, my eyes were constantly drawn to the hills surrounding Sarajevo on all side. Whether enjoying the view from the Yellow Bastion, or the twisty tower, they were always there, as the backdrop. In part, that’s because I love high places – hence my abiding interest in Georgia, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kashmir, Nepal etc. etc. But here in Sarajevo there was a very particular reason – the main stimulus for my journey here.
It was the thought that up in those hills, year after year, Serbian snipers took aim at old ladies, young children and everyone else as they tried to run from cover to cover across the dangerous open spaces. With cold intent and deadly weapons they took aim at people they may have known and met all the time before the war.
And up in those hills there were the artillery and mortars that rained explosive death on innocent civilians, trapped in Sarajevo’s terrible, defenceless geography. Like the time the mortar landed in the fruit and veg market, killing 68 people, and ripping apart the body of one poor young man in particular, caught in a photographic image that I will not describe but can never forget, a terrible symbol of what was done to Sarajevo. Now, 30 years later, the city is beautiful and vibrant, a hopeful sign that even the most terrible wounds can heal.
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