Thursday, July 26, Berat

Just telling this story is humiliating because it, again, reveals my ineptitude at life in general.

First:  I learned two years ago, when I got stranded in northeast Laos with no funds, that it pays to carry a couple hundred US dollars secreted away for emergencies. I did that this year. Except that, early in my trip, someone in Croatia--I forget who--insisted on dollars. So I ended up spending most of my secret stash before the trip really got started. (Why I didn't replenish my fund with euro's I can't explain).
When I got to Berat I had about 10,000 Leks, the Albanian currency; equivalent to about a hundred dollars US. I also had my ATM card and two credit cards. And, unlike Northeast Laos, there were several ATM's in Berat.
My first day here I tried to use an ATM. No luck. But I didn't worry since I'd taken out nearly $300 the day before. I figured I'd taken the daily maximum and things would straighten out the second day here.
On the second day the ATM's (I tried three) all rejected my card. Now I began to worry. But I still had my credit cards if something went really wrong. I wanted to call the bank but my phone (despite what a T-Mobile guy told me before I left) wouldn't function here.
Today, the third day, I went to a mobile phone company to get a SIM card. But even after the card was installed I couldn't use the phone. I needed badly to call the bank to get my ATM card reactivated. I knew that there had been three fraudulent transactions on my card and assumed the bank had temporarily suspended the card while investigating the false charges.
I went to a local bank for help. The banker said she couldn't do much for me but she did ferry me to a nearby convenience store that had an international phone in it--for a fee, or course.
I called the bank.
"Your account is cancelled and I can't reopen it," said the Wells Fargo lady. I asked if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance. She seemed to think I could, so I hung up and headed for another bank.
"Put your credit card in out ATM machine and enter your PIN," they told me.
I told them credit cards didn't have PIN's in the US. They were nonplussed at that. I tried this at three banks. All had the dame answer:  no cash advances for your credit card.
Now I was very concerned.
I went back to the convenience store and called the bank back. The woman on the line was solicitous and said she'd try to help me. She put me on hold......for twenty minutes. With every minute my funds were evaporating at about two dollars/minute. Finally she came back and said...you must call back in two hours when our Executive Office opens at 6am, PST.
Dejectedly I hung up. I was down to my last $40 and worried that I couldn't afford another phone call like that one.
Ninety minutes later I returned to the shop. The lady shop owner, knowing that I had to scrounge my pockets for the last call, looked askance at me. Somewhat dubiously she allowed me to call again. This time I got the Executive Office quickly. I explained my dilemma. At first he didn't understand the depth of my problem, but finally I got through. He pondered, then suggested he could send me a Western Union wire transfer. How much would I need? I said five hundred dollars would probably get me back to New York in August. He agreed to send it to me. I rejoiced. He put me on hold.......for 25 minutes. As the minutes went by I kept glancing at the lady behind the counter, and at my wallet. I was fairly certain I wasn't going to be able to pay for the call, but I couldn't bring myself to hang up. I felt like, if only I could hang on for a little while longer this guy will save me.
Then he came back on....and told me he couldn't send the money. Western Union demanded to be able to call me before they'd authorize the funds. But they couldn't call me, this was just an outgoing phone. And how would I explain to this lady, who spoke only Albanian, that I wanted her phone number so my bank could call her. I went into major despair, and hung up. I poured through my pockets and found some loose American dollars, enough to fund the call, and leave me with 100 Leks (about one dollar). That was all the money I had left.
I owed about $70 at the hostel where I was staying. And there was the matter of eating. I was dead broke.
I trudged back in the direction of the hostel feeling defeated. Before I got all the way back I recollected a friendly banker I'd spoken to who offered to lend me cash. I skulked back to his bank and asked if he'd lend me his cellphone so I could make one more call to my bank. He agreed. I dialed the number and got back in touch with the guy I'd just spoken to.
"I'm glad you called," he told me. "I think I can get the $500 to you." My spirits brightened, but no completely. After all the previous near misses I didn't trust this ray of hope.
He put me on hold. For 15 minutes! I kept my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with my banker friend. I was afraid he'd make me hang up.
"I need my phone," I imagined him saying. And I couldn't blame him.
At one point my California banker came back on line.
"Mr. Heverly, are you still there?" he asked, then put me back on hold. I'd missed my opportunity.
"Hey, wait! I can't stay on hold here," I wanted to tell him. But he was gone.
Another five minutes passed.
Then he came back. He had the code number. With that number I could go to Western Union and collect my $500. I was saved.
Except I didn't believe it. I was certain something else would go wrong. And it did.
Western Union was closed. I trudged dejectedly back to the bank, where they explained to me that the Western Union office, like mos
 t of Albania, closed in the heat of the afternoon. It would open in 40 minutes they told me.
So I plodded back to the office.  And, sure enough, at 5pm the office opened. I was first in line. At first the lady behind the counter was encouraging. She showed me the yield I'd get in Euro's (404). I remained patient.
Then she began speaking, at length, to someone on the phone. He intonation told me all was not copacetic. This went on for ten minutes. Finally she gave me the phone. I heard another woman talking. I didn't understand all that she said, in her thick Albanian accent, but eventually I heard something intellligible:  "(muffled)....problem. Can you come back tomorrow?"
And thus, here I am in the hostel, broke, but hopeful. Tomorrow will tell the tale.      

Wednesday, July 25, Berat

View from my hostel, Berat.

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My body was sore all over from days of hiking up mountains so I decided to loaf all day here.

The one thing worth mentioning at this point is that we don't often hear in the US about secular muslim states, yet Kosovo and Albania clearly are such. There are fewer scarves and birkas here than in San Francisco, and more short skirts on the streets of any Albania city than in Hollywood. There doesn't seem to be much capitalist buzz, however. Life is at a slow pace and hanging out in cafes is the main recreation for men of all ages. There is some construction going on but you don't get the impression that there is much 'industry' hereabouts. Making money is, of course, on people's minds but this seems to amount, mostly, to opening a shop selling cellphones or tourist trinkets. 

Albania has been bounced around so often in the past century it's a wonder there is any Albania identity left. Turkish occupation till 1912, brief democracy, a king for twenty years or so, invasion by Mussolini, occupation by Hitler, then the Commies. Enver Hoxha's dictatorship of the proletariat was as rigorous as any on the planet. He found Mao insufficiently socialist and cast the chinese out in the 70's. Then, finally, this soporific democracy that they have now.

I get the impression that most Albanians would like to incorporate Kosovo within Albania. But in Kosovo I heard only pride about independence. So Kosovo's independence seems genuinely tentative with the Serbs on one side and the Albanians on the other, both coveting their territory. 

Tuesday, July 24, Berat, Albania

Another day, another mountain-top castle to reach.

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I found a great hostel in Berat but not till I'd botched the trip here. I got the bus out of Gjirokastra no problem. But when the bus let me off I consulted my Lonely Planet guide. At the same time I was besieged by half a dozen taxi drivers wanting to take me to Berat from where the bus had dropped me off.
I decided to walk. A kilometer down the road I stopped for lunch and learned I'd gone in the wrong direction. I had to backtrack the 1 km., then go west to Berat. I caught a city bus (25 cents) then, serendipitously fell into a fourgon (van) headed for Berat. I considered walking but decided to take the van. What I didn't know was that Berat was still 70 km east!. But my luck held out. The fourgon took me all he way for $2.50. How often have I benefited from my own stupidity. If I'd known the true distance to Berat I might have hired a taxi, which probably would have cost me $10-$15.

Hollyhocks are weeds in Albania:

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Monday, July 23, Gjirokastra, Albania

Part of the road up to the castle at Gjirokastra.

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I'm back inland, which means I'm back in the 35 degree heat. Gjirokastra's claim to fame is its castle, high atop a mountain on the west side of town. I trekked up there today, then hiked way up a mountain nearby. I was wondering if my conditioning was still good enough to pull off a really vigorous walk/climb. Fortunately I was able to do it. Straight up for about 90 minutes on cobblestone streets.The castle was no great shakes but it certainly provided a great view of the valley of the Drinos River. I have no wifi here so I can't post photos yet.

Sunday, July 22, Saranda

Forgot to put my memory stick in the camera this morning so no pictures of my fascinating trip to Greek/Roman ruins south of here. Diplint, an ancient city, was largely preserved thanks to its remote location. Theater, enclosing walls, Roman bathhouses, like going back 2,400 years.

Left over from Tirana

I meant to include a few photos of paintings I liked at the National Gallery in Tirana:

Something happened in Albania around 1980. It wasn't as if the country suddenly joined the larger art world, but there did seem to be some kind of loosening. Things shifted from Maoist to some sort of playing around with socialist realism.

Saturday, July 22, Saranda, Albania

I've lost track of the day. Is it Saturday?

The Ionian Sea is about ten feet to the left in this picture. 

Things have not been going well. First I decided to spend two days in a seaside place that looked interesting on the map;  Vlore. What a garbage pit that turned out to be. I'll try to post some photos later today if I can find a wifi place hereabouts. Vlore Bay is one of the fastest developing places I've seen. Hotels are going up as fast as they can build them. Albanians apparently flock to this place because it's accessible easily by bus or train from Tirana, Kosovo, or other inland spots. But this place made me seriously reconsider 40 years as a libertarian. These fools are spending countless millions building hotels; while treating the bay like it was a sewer. Every beach is covered in trash. The water is foul with pollutants, yet people swim in it. I saw one isolate little cove that had an oil slick lapping against the shore.Unfortunately I discovered all this after I'd committed to two nights at a nice hotel.
Then my Kindle crapped out. A third of the screen is covered with an image that seems burned into the machine. I consulted Kindle troubleshooting on the web but no one seems to have had a similar problem. So I'm without reading material.

When it came time to finally leave Vlore this morning it turned out to be a minor adventure. Lonely Planet said the bus to Saranda left Vlore at 7am. So I trekked over to the traffic circle at the heart of Vlore, where I'd seen the mini-vans picking up passengers the day before. I got there 8 minutes early. Just as I turned the corner to the circle I noticed a white van headed south. I tried to catch the destination from the piece of cardboard that the vans always have in the front window. But the angle wasn't right. So I proceeded on.
When I got to the circle I asked one of the van drivers: "Saranda?"
He motioned to a spot about 50 meters from where we were so I contently drifted over to that spot, peering around the corner for the van I expected to see headed my way.
But the guy I had spoken to followed me, gesturing to me in Albanian. I gave him a perplexed look. Then I got it. The van had already left. (the next bus wasn't till 1pm).
But the guy didn't give up on me. He turned out to be a taxi driver. He motioned vigorously for me to follow him, that we could still catch the bus. So I ran with him to his cab.
And off we went. Mario Andretti time. Fifty miles an hour on city streets, careering from lane to lane. I gripped the door handle, praying no one would have the temerity to occupy the oncoming lane. A couple time we had to slalom quickly back into our lane. This went on for about five minutes until, as we came around a bend, a smile came to my driver's face. That van I'd seen earlier was up ahead. We were going to catch up; and we did. He swerved the car to the right as we passed the van and raised his left arm out the driver's window to tell the van driver he had a passenger. In seconds he had my backpack to the rear of the van, and I headed up the steps into the bus--which was full.
But that turned out to be no problem. The van held small stools, about 18" tall, that could be set in the aisle for latecomers and the overflow. A helpful passenger reached into the overhead and dragged out a stool, then unfolded it for me. I sat down. A pleasant morning breeze wafted into my face. No first class compartment in an airliner could compare with the comfort I felt in that aisle. I was out of the Vlore sewer. 

The beach at Saranda. It turned out to be not quite as clean as I thought. Like Vlore there is no municipal effort to keep things clean. Even the guys who rent umbrellas at the beach don't bother to clean up at the end of the day. But it's lots better than Vlore. 

On the positive side I chanced into the prettiest city I've ever seen today:  Saranda. It's a crowded little place crushed around a small bay, but the water is clean and blue and the sea breezes are pleasant. An old gentleman convinced me to rent a room from him in his 'guesthouse', actually just a couple rooms in his apartment. But it's comfortable. My first impression is that this is the kind of place I won't want to leave.There are some greek ruins 20 km. down the road that I'm going to check out tomorrow. I'm due back in Tirana on Friday for my tour of Northern Albania. In the meantime I might just hunker down here for a few days.

Wednesday, July 19, Tirana

There's cache in American branding on the streets of Tirana. This is just  a sampling. 

When I go to foreign cities I generally check out the public parks. I do this because I have a role in maintaining our local park in my neighborhood. And the one thing I can almost always say is that our park has about 1% of the vitality of any city park I've ever seen.
Today I went by a city park in Tirana.  It was about 1/4 the size of our Oakland park, yet it had hundreds of people, mostly adults in it at 8pm on a Wednesday night.
Our park closes at dusk so the comparison is not completely on the mark, but even an hour before dusk our park would have, at best, one or two adults supervising their kids on the play equipment, plus a few guys playing basketball.
The Tirana park had whole families, sometimes three generations, enjoying the night together. There was no special kids equipment but they found ways to entertain themselves. Some smaller kids had improvised a soccer field using an old TV box with a circular hole in the side.
What are the factors that make their park so successful, and ours so much a failure? I'll speculate since I can't ask the people of Tirana:

• it's hot out and many folks don't have air conditioning, so being in the cool park is comfortable
• their park has benches, lots of benches. Adults sit and talk on the benches. We have nowhere to sit.
• Albanian TV is probably dull:  soccer and guys in suits I'd guess. And people don't have home computers with internet. 
• the park is surrounded by commerce. Shops line three sides of the park. Vendors sell magazines, roasted corn, and other goodies either within the park or on its border. 
• the streets of Tirana are teeming with people. I'd guess half the city is out and about. Obviously no such thing happens in my neighborhood.

I'm headed south tomorrow. I'm going to make a grand circuit of Albania, south to the beaches, then inland to some archeological sites, then back to Tirana on the 27th. I've signed up for an interesting tour of Northern Albania beginning here on the 28th. The tour ends on August 1. I'll motor over to Macedonia right after that. 

      

I like this 1980's Hopperesque painting.

I hit the museums today. I spent a couple good hours in the National Art Gallery. To their credit they have retained the socialist murals of heroic steel workers while at the same time showing more contemporary stuff. I liked a few things I saw.

Enver  Hoxha's idea of childhood, I guess.

I've apparently reached the maximum number of photos I can put on one day's blog so I'll include a couple more paintings tomorrow. 

Tuesday, July 18, Tirana, Albania

I took an immediate dislike to the female hostess at my hotel in Shkroda. She was officious, opaque, and generally unfriendly. It didn't help that I misunderstood her and thought I'd paid for two nights when I'd only secured one.
But when she rousted me out of bed on Tuesday morning ("we need to clean the room. We have reservation.") I ended up grateful to her.
Firstly she got me on the road to Tirana, which helped. I was able to connect with a tour group, outdooralbania.com, that set me up with an interesting trip next week. But once I got my things out of the room my hostess bent my ear for an hour about the frustrations of being a young Albanian.
This was a college educated, approx. 30 year old woman, dressed all in white, chain smoking her way through a job that could be fairly said to be under employment.
She just wants to move (with her husband and infant son) to Canada or the US.
{must do laundry, will finish later.}
The hotel was modest, about four stories, perhaps a hundred rooms. It wasn't four starts, as my hostess lamented, but it was serviceable. But when I asked her about prospects for advancement she waived me away. She'd been at the job for six years. "It's like a family here," she told me. But life was hard. "We work to eat," she complained. Her husband worked on air conditioning so he was busy in July, but idled in the winter. For some reason people didn't work on heating if they did air con.
School cost money, even kindergarten. She paid $25/month to put her kid in a premium school instead of the state school where, she said, the staff were indifferent. Later grades also required money if you wanted your child to have a chance for a university education. Except that she had such a degree and it yielded nothing.
I asked about the government. She opined that everyone in the present power structure was someone who had participated in the Hoxha, soviet-style, regime, and they apparently retained the socialist mindset. There was evidence all around that the country was rebuilding, tearing down the old block housing and replacing it with Euro-style apartments. The roads were being paved. A four-lane, limited access highway was being constructed to link Shkroda with Tirana.
But my hostess was very pessimistic. I tried to gently hint that money might influence one's prospects in the New World just like in the Old, but she was hearing nothing of it. A friend had told her of the visa lottery for a chance to emigrate to the US. They have them everywhere. She was keen to give it a try. Canada was off-putting to her because she might end up in a french speaking area. She, versed in English, German, and Albanian, could add one more tongue, but her husband? She didn't think he could do it.
Stuck in a deadend job, hoping to escape to some other country. That was her story. 

Sunday, July 16, Peja, Kosovo

Statue of Bill Clinton in Pristina. I'd love to know what the grafitti says. 

Monday, July 17, Shkodra, Albania

Left Kosovo on a bus at 4 am, thence to a plebian resort town on the coast in Albania. Lonely Planet said the water was so toxic that you'd get sick swimming in it, but the Albanians, I think, are busting ass to upgrade their infrastructure and tourist industry. The beach was lined with hotels, the kind that speak of working class vacation spots. The beach was crowded with Albanians, swimming--with no evident bad results.
I was gunning for this city. I found a bank to get some Albanian money and ran into an Albanian emigre who lives in Phoenix (27 years, he said). He helped me translate questions about how to grab local minibuses to get to Shkroda. The bank guard even went out on the street to hail the van for me. So I made it and spoiled myself with an air conditioned room in a downtown hotel. $27/night, the most I've spent on this trip. They stuck me in a corner, first floor room, obviously embarrassed at the weird backpacker appearing at their door.
I found a tour provider ("OutdoorAlbania.com") that has some interesting jaunts. I hope to find out tomorrow if I can join one.

Saturday, July 15, Pristina

Walking in downtown Pristina I came upon a front yard with two statues of this fellow. He looks vaguely familiar though he is probably some sort of Kosovo patriot.

It was too hot to do much walking today so I decided to take a bench on the main promenade and watch the Kosovoan world go by. I was there for about three hours. My mathematical sample says I saw about 4, 000 people pass by. What I saw was:

• zero burkas and but three women heavily scarved. Of the remaining 1,997 females I estimate 1,000 wore skirts or shorts; 497 wore jeans. Why is this place so westernized? It was under Ottoman/Turkish control for 700 years yet it is more like Croatia than Bosnia (where about 20% of the women wore scarves). The neighborhood around my guesthouse resembles Noe Valley in San Francisco, upscale, middle class, tidy, owner-occupied. 
• only about 10% of the people were smoking. My sense is that the smoker percentage for the city is similar to Oakland or Philly, maybe 25% of men altogether and a lesser percentage of women. In Sarajevo and in Croatia the percentage was much higher. I'd guess nearly 75% of men and 50% of women in Sarajevo smoked. Why the difference? (One clue might be that, during the Serb bombardment of Sarajevo, the defenders had no cash so they paid for supplies with locally manufactured cigarettes. Thus perhaps smoking is associated with Bosnian identity. But that doesn't explain Croatia--or the high rate in Budapest.)
• family sizes seemed small with most couples shepherding one or two kids. 
• like many cities Pristina seems mostly populated by young adults, ages 20-35. There were some older folks but they were in the minority. 

The heat is sucking all the energy out of me. I sleep late and often take a siesta in the late afternoon. I feel like I'm not doing my usual tourist investigating. I'm tempted to make a run for the coast tomorrow hoping for cooling breezes, but I noticed a couple interesting places inland so my plan is to head for the city of Peja (Pec) on the Albanian border before plunging into Albanian proper on Monday. 

Friday, July14, Pristina, Kosovo

I'm not sure if this grafitti is protesting EU presence in Kosovo, or, since it is Xed out maybe someone else is praising the EU.

I expected to find Kosovo a primitive, mini-Albania with peasants in scarves tending pigs and geese. Instead I found Switzerland. Or what I imagine Switzerland looks like. Up in the mountains but prosperous, industrial, Western. When you enter the new nation of Kosovo, created, according to the locals by Bill Clinton and the USA, your passport is inspected by someone who looks like he just left his job in Brussels or Hamburg to come here to be a cop. The EU is here longterm as best I can divine. The 7% Serb minority is either 1)in danger of being killed off by the 88% Albanian majority if the EU wasn't in the way; or 2)ready to call their kin (and their tanks) from across the border to take back this key ancestral land that once was mostly Serbs. 

We passed many military vehicles on the way into the country, those little mini tanks that peacekeepers use because they are fast and light and sufficiently armored to put down a rabble. 

Yet this new country seems to be thriving. The host of my guest house, when he saw my American passport, thanked me effusively. "We were under foreign domination for 700 years," he said. "First the Turks then the Serbs." Now, since Bill Clinton, we have our independence." And they seem to be making use of it. The farms look well tended. The cities are neat and modern---though there are a surprising number of weedy vacant lots for some reason. Just in the past year or two, despite the world wide recession, Pristina seems to be spending lots of bucks on prettifying the city. They've just about finished a nice central promenade in the center of the city.
I've only been here a few hours and I have one full day here tomorrow so I'll see what I can discover.

But I had to put this in for Melody:  you should show Eugene this:

Thursday, July 12, Sarajevo

Little to report as I spent yesterday reading. This is my last day here. I did, finally, get a few roommates, four kids who arrived in the dorm last night. One of them recognized me from the hostel in Budapest.
Overall Sarajevo seems like a smaller version of Istanbul. It has the same bazaar selling endless souvenirs. And the glitzy broad avenue of expensive shops like Beyeglu in Istanbul. There is an active cultural life here with a film festival, a book festival, and nightly outdoor concerts but the city seems in stasis with too few visitors. Yesterday was the anniversary of the Sbrebenica massacres so many folks headed over there for the ceremonies.
I do not know exactly how I am going to get to my next stop, Pristina, from here. The only regular bus lines take me toward the coast while I want to stay inland. I will try to find a way tomorrow.

Tuesday, July 10, Sarajevo

After my one day here I've concluded that Sarajevo is a city best described as grimly waiting. Waiting for the next war with Serbia. The last one ended inconclusively with a UN-brokered compromise that left Bosnia truncated between three competing ethnicities:  Serbs, Croats, Bosnians (referred to derisively by the others as 'Turks').
The Serbs encircled and bombarded this place for over three years, killing, by Bosnian count, 11,000. This all started with glasnost  and perestroika. The Soviets let down their guard and the Iron Curtain disintegrated in 1989. Tito died. Yugoslavia began to fall apart. First the Slovenians escaped the 'South Slav' federation that Tito had created and maintained. There was a brief, ten-day, war but the Slovenes gained independence.
Then the Croats--Catholics and a remnant of the Austro-Hungarian Empire--declared their own independence.
My guess is that the Serbs began to realize that they were in trouble. They'd dominated Yugoslavia and created enemies amongst all the little republics (Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Macedonia, Kosovo) that made it up. Soon they'd be surrounded by hostile peoples all eager to take a bite out of Serbia.
So the Serbs made war to try to preserve some sort of south slav empire with Serbia as putative leader. They began by attacking Bosnia. They didn't have the stomach to do the street-to-street fighting that it would take to annex Sarajevo so they relied on bombing, hoping the residents would flee. It didn't work out. By 1995 the world was sick of seeing dead Bosnians on the streets of Sarajevo so they sent in the fighter jets and persuaded the Serbs to back off. Then they met in Dayton and forced a peace on the warring parties.
Bosnia was given a hodge-podge government with three presidents and three prime ministers, one Croat, one Serb, one Bosnian. No one was happy.
My sense is that the people of this city expect to resume the war at some point. In 2015 it will be exactly one generation since the Serbs went back to their barracks. Just enough time to raise a new generation of fighters.
My guide today said things are sad in Sarajevo. People don't have enough money to travel or buy nice things so they sit endlessly in the sidewalk cafes drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Wages are low. There is some investment evident, a few skyscrapers going up, but mostly things seem stagnant. 

The heat has me off my feed. I have been spending half my time sleeping. It's too hot to do much walking, my normal approach to a new city. I visited some museums and ate some local fish, but I can't report that I've accomplished much.

Monday, July 9, Sarajevo

Made it to Sarajevo with only minor difficulties. I'll be here three days so I'll save comments for tomorrow and Wednesday. I had one piece of unfinished business for Mostar. This might be silly but I became fascinated with the doors in the tourist section of Mostar. Everything touristy centers around the old bridge, built in the 16th century (destroyed during the last war; rebuilt). 

As I walked around the tourist section I began to notice the doors. Somehow they fascinated me. I took some pictures. Can you guess which picture is the entrance to my hostel? (it's actually a nice place, though you wouldn't think so from your first view of the building). So here goes:

Sunday, July 8, Mostar

The sign in Old Town Mostar said it was 39.3 degrees C this afternoon. That is 102.7 F. I could not take it and retired to the hostel for a long nap. I can not handle this heat and fear that Sarajevo will be worse. I walked around Mostar for a few hours, noting the sights, but with no real energy. Maybe I should have stayed in Vis a few more days. The NY Times says you all are getting relief from the heat. I pray we are delivered.....soon.

Saturday, July 7, Mostar

The bank rescinded the fraudulent charges (except one I forgot to email them about) so that is a weight off my shoulders.
I took the ferry back to the mainland (Split) and immediately hopped a bus to Bosnia. I only had a couple hours to explore this evening so I have no real feel for this place yet. I did see some bomb damage left over from 20 years ago. I also noticed that there were no burkas evident and the women seemed to be divided between the conservatives who wear scarves, and the modernists who look no different from the babes who parade around Zagreb and Split in short skirts and tight blouses.
My hostel is in the slummy part of town near the bus station but there does seem to be a wealthier part near the old city. My plan is to stay here one day and then head for Sarajevo.

Friday, July 6, Komazi

A new day, a new crisis. First I'm losing my ATM card, then I'm dieing, today someone is pilfering my bank account and I can't do anything about it. Three purchases using my ATM card, one in St. Louis, two in Ohio. I don't know how they got my password, possibly via the spam email I stupidly opened yesterday. Wells Fargo can't help me unless I phone them, and from here I can't phone. I emptied my checking account, putting the funds in my savings. I hope that stops the bleeding for now.
One of the pleasures of these summer travels is to take a day off and simply read all day, which is what I did today. The island is beautiful, the water is warm, but I spent most of the day in my room reading Richard Ford's new novel, Canada. I like it very much.

I don't think I'm suited for paradise. This place has to be as close to that status as you could find. The weather is hot but tempered by the sea breezes. In winter I'd bet it's equally temperate. The sea is several shades of blue, all so vivid it seems four dimensional, the last dimension being some kind of brighter than life beauty. You can see the sea bottom. There isn't enough pollution apparently to have clouded the water. The landscape would be familiar to any Californian:  grapes, citrus, aged carob trees, lilacs, cypress trees, artichokes. Tourism seems to be the only business in town and people generally seem to have unlimited time to lounge in the many sidewalk cafes and drink beer or coffee. You can rent a scooter for $50/day and travel over to the other 'city', Vis, on the other side of the island. Rents are not outrageous. I paid $45/day for a clean, tidy little room with a TV, a nice shower, a fridge, a large bed and, most importantly, an efficient little fan that keeps me cool on demand.
In my first hours here I worried that I'd be so taken with the place that I wouldn't want to leave. But after a bit more than 24 hours here I'm ready to depart. Perhaps if I'd had a life crowded with people I'd relish the isolation here but I've been lonely most of my life and this paradise lacks the excitement of every day life. The pain I feel from my many failures-at-life is preferable to being smothered by the quiet certitude of a place like this.

Thursday, July 5, Komazi

Vis is an island in the Adriatic off Split. It has two towns, Vis and Komaji. I'm staying at the latter. You can see what kind of a place it is. You get here by a 2.5 hour ferry ride. Tomorrow I'm scheduled to visit the big local tourist attraction, the Blue Cave. 

Imagine a stack of granite blocks. Each block is rectangular, about six to ten feet on each side. Stack these blocks as high as a New York skyscraper. Now make another pile of blocks. Between these two stacks run a river. The river is only about thirty yards wide. The river bed is made up of more blocks, worn somewhat smooth by ages of water flow. The river runs through these blocks, sometimes wide enough to allow you to float for five minutes or so. But much of the bed is navigated by stepping carefully from block to block. 

This is called 'canyoning' in Split. I signed up for a three hour hike through the canyon. First we descended slowly down the canyon. That took about 15 minutes. (I couldn't bring a camera as we were going to get very wet). They dressed us in wetsuits and life vests so that we wouldn't freeze in the cold water and could float through those occasional pools of water. 

To walk the canyon, though, took intense concentration. Each step was potential disaster. Some were slippery, some sharp edged, some submerged in the river so that you couldn't really judge how deep they were. It was exhausting work. The scene was beautiful but there wasn't much time to admire the view. My group had about a dozen young folks in it (a Norwegian couple, a man and wife from Scotland, two Australians, a Croatian family with two small children, and others). There was only one geezer, me. All I could think of at first was how do I keep up? 

It was the last few minutes that scared me. As we hiked up the last rise to get to the vans that were to take us back to Split I started feeling a tightness around my chest. Was I having a coronary? I wasn't sure. My two concerns weren't about death. 

I didn't want to embarrass myself by collapsing and forcing the guides to rescue me.

I didn't want to think that my days of nature trekking were over. Was this the official end of my ability to participate is these adventures? 

But I wasn't sure if I was really ill. The damned wetsuit and life vest had been tightly gripping my chest for three hours. Could that be the source of my pain. My shoulders and chest hurt like hell from climbing in and out of the water and from trying to propel my weak little body down river. Could my tightness be just that? 

Then I started feeling some acid reflux. Didn't I read somewhere that when you have a heart attack this is one of the symptoms? I couldn't remember for sure. 

And I was terribly dehydrated despite the drinkable river water. so maybe that was another complication. 

I still don't know what the true cause was. When I took off my wetsuit my tightness went away--but, of course, that was also when we stopped climbing. I had to wait till we got back to Split to find something to drink. I chugged down some Sprite and headed for my room. It took four hours of lieing prostrate to get me back to near normal. But even today I'm not quite fully recovered. 

Wednesday, July 4, Split

These ladies were part of the sales force for some fort of business at the docks at Split. 

I was thinking about dieing today. I took a canyoning trip today that I want to tell you about but I am having wifi problems so it may be awhile before I get to it. I am headed for Vis Island tomorrow. Check your Google Maps for that one. I doubt they have wifi there but we shall see. I will be there two days. More anon.

This was the public beach at Split. Nice until you realized that the the water in the entire cove was no deeper than four feet at any spot. 

Tuesday noon, July 3, Split

To eat in Split you must either pay $20+ for a fancy meal at at sidewalk cafe or settle for 'Fast Food'--hamburgers, turkish-style sandwiches, pizza...grease, grease, grease. I decided, since I had a fridge and oven in my room, to use the local grocery store. First I visited an ATM then I bought bread, yogurt, and fruit juice, then headed for the outdoor market to buy cheese and fruit.
Timid dude that I am I always try to rush through the grocery line, fearful someone will scowl at the foreigner holding up the line. I stuffed my goods in my backpack and put my wallet back in the outer pocket of the backpack where I could get easy access to it. As I put my wallet away I thought about all the stories I'd heard of pickpockets walking behind you to pluck things out of the pack. But I knew that things like that never happened to me, and I wanted my cash near at hand so I wouldn't hold up any lines.
When I found a cheese place I gestured to the woman so she could cut me a moderate-sized piece. I pulled my backpack to the front and reached in to get my wallet.
The back pocket was open. "Odd," I thought, "I'm usually punctilious about closing those pockets."
No wallet was inside.
My heart stopped, my face, I'm sure, went chalk white. I stared at the lady with the cheese. Then I began racing for the bank. I rehearsed my speech. I'd ask, first, for them to help me cancel my ATM card. Then I'd find out if I could use my credit card to get cash. I imagined all the problems ahead, all the contemptuous stares from the banker, the traveller infamy I'd face when everyone found out what I'd done.
I opened up the main part of my backpack. My wallet was there. I stopped in mid stride and hustled back to the cheese lady.
It was a particularly enjoyable lunch. The sea breezes conveniently waft up the hill towards my room. I was able to sit on my veranda and over-eat in the shade, massaged by a gentle cool wind.

It isn't any warmer here, though. It was 37 C at 9:15 this morning so I expect it will hit very close to 100 F by 2pm. But if I stay down by the water it's quite pleasant. I'll take some pictures and add them later today. I'm going 'canyoning' (some sort of floating down a river thingee) then, maybe, sea kayaking over the next couple days. I'm also thinking about renting a scooter for a day trip. All to be decided later today.

Split seems to remind me most of the obvious comparisons:  Malta and Piraeus (the port at Athens), but there are elements of the Jersey shore, too.

Monday, July 2, enroute to Split

An air-conditioned 7 hour train ride to Split. Very relaxing. For the first time I feel like I'm starting to get to somewhere. I tried two hostels in Split but at both places there was no receptionist so I traipsed back to the train station and found a little old lady renting out a room. She speaks no English but we got by.
This is a different sort of city from Zagreb. The latter place is inland and insulated from the corruptions of foreigners. Here we are a short ferry ride from Italy. This place, I think, will have all the warts that Zagreb lacked, and will be more interesting and more blighted by commercialism. I plan to settle in here for two days, then, maybe ride a ferry to Vis. But lets see what happens tomorrow.
The sea breeze is cooling things this evening but I get the impression that even here it will be over 90 degrees tomorrow.

Sunday, July 1, Zagreb

Why would a country like this ever have a war? From the moment you enter Croatia on the railroad you see the perfect country. The farms, of wheat and hay and corn, are perfect, in perfect rows, harvested by perfectly modern equipment-harvesters and tractors and such. Zagreb seems to be a city without slums. The suburbs are immaculate with modest-sized homes all made of some kind of reddish wood. None are garishly large. The city is clean, the trams are efficient and air conditioned, mostly. Everyone has the same religion, Roman Catholicism, and the city shuts down on Sunday like perfect little catholics would.

The only hint of discontent is the grafitti. I've never seen so much grafitti. Every wall seems to have some. And the railroad cars in the Zagreb rail yard are all covered in that ugly pseudo-gothic lettering that once infected every New York City subway car. I also saw a short cartoon on the TV in the hostel this morning that parodied students living off the sweat of the working class. One disheveled 'student' had a joint in his mouth, the universal signal of the wastrel. Apparently there is some disagreement within the country about the merits of subsidizing college educations. I'm glad we never have that debate in the States. (irony alert)
I didn't accomplish much today--too hot. I spent hours searching for the local swimming hole, a beach that they set up near the Nava River. Really it was just a Lake Merritt writ small. But it made for a nice, cooling experience once I found it. I got lost--as usual--despite good directions from the hostel manager. All I seemed to do all day was walk and drink apple/orange juice. Walk a few kilometers, then stop and buy a fruit juice. Repeat endlessly. But at least I found the lake and had a dip.
I'm hoping to grab a train to Slip on the Adriatic tomorrow.