robertisenberg

Posts Tagged ‘Sarajevo’

Bosnia the Beautiful

In Bosnia on August 7, 2009 at 12:00 am

Archipelagos 188

Is this really Bosnia – a place where every mountain is more beautiful than the last? Where the river roils beneath us, and bold cliffs clump like clouds above? I’ve never seen the Alps up-close, but could they rival the snow-capped peaks in the distance, tinted eye-blue? Who built these bridges, which seem to fling their steel girders across the pass? How could highway tunnels look as natural as caves, blasting us through the dark, hurling us back into blinding sunshine?

No news footage prepared me for these sights – the ebb and flow of primeval escarpments, bronzed and thicketed. The afghans of evergreen forest drape into crevices, halting abruptly at the road, and the road drops abruptly to the frothy water, and across the river an opposing rock face surges into the sky. How many times have people told me of Bosnia’s beauty, and how many times did I not understand? And who could picture, in their wildest dreams, a countryside so crudely carved, where glaciers and hail have failed to smooth the crusty crags, and each apex is surmounted by another, brawnier peak? Buildings flash past us, along with occasional trucks and cars, but the view is dominated by jagged ranges, climbing exponentially higher, as if the cosmos struggles to contain them.

Our bus feels infinitesimal in such a place. A pinprick on the planet. Here we are, a dozen people scattered among our seats, our lifetimes hardly a clock-tick when measured against these prehistoric hills. How many merchants climbed through these gullies, thinking they had left the tangible world? Far from the Adriatic Sea, far from Grecian plains and nameable towns, Bosnia disrobes all at once, and its nakedness induces waking dreams.

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Bullet Holes

In Bosnia on August 4, 2009 at 12:00 am

Archipelagos 283

The holes are like acne on pale faces. There are big blemishes and long tears that scar the plaster, and in-between are hundreds of tiny blackheads, pocked by high-powered rifles.

Sure, I’ve seen bullet-holes before – in shop windows, the circular shatter of a stray shot. But I’ve never seen anything like this: Entire walls flecked and chipped, bitten and pecked. The widest gashes are like vertical potholes, oblong circles punched through the wall’s smooth skin, exposing the brick inside.

Most of the Old City is rejuvenated. I’ll pass an entire city block and see only fresh façades – bright signs, stone arches over doorways, clean shop windows displaying cell-phones and watches. But then I’ll turn a corner and see these galaxies of puncture-marks, holes unfilled, mortar broken away. Buildings on the main streets are lucky – they’ve been refurbished, rebuilt, made-over so that the war’s damage is invisible. Then I turn a corner, into a side-street, an alley, and I see the houses still nursing wounds. Some walls await a single spadeful of wet cement.