Leaving Mostar was not an easy thing to do. Although I had seen a lot, I wanted to see more. The place had a presence and a feel that, so far, no other place has.The road from Mostar to Sarajevo is a journey worth taking; the road is smooth and there are enough bends to keep you moving but the best bit by far is the landscape, or lack thereof! All around are walls, great sloping rock walls. The valley is the width of the river at the bottom. The rock just drops into the river. For the large part you have the railway line on one side and the road on the other. It feels, in parts like driving through a tunnel with no roof - Jaw-droppingly stunning.
Purple. That seems to be the colour of Sarajevo. The women are top to toe in it. It seems that a national campaign has been enforced that all woman must adhere to. The campaign for the gents is just to sit and stare as the women go by.
Walking, from the only campsite in Sarajevo, to the tram is not something I wish to repeat. Although Ilidza is an expanding suburb on the outskirts, it still has a cold dark core. The new streets are pretty, colourful and quite relaxing. Turn two more corners and I am faced with a skyrise style apartment block. Graffiti spreading as high as the second floor whilst spreading the width of the building. Just when you think it can't get worse, I pass under an arch way - then I realise it is the worst estate I've been in.
To the left once stood a similar building to the one in front, now all that is left is the ground floor, which is supporting layers of rubble. On closer inspection of the inhabited flats, amongst the graffiti, there are holes varying in size all the way up to dinner plate size. One wall still had a shell embedded in it, around the shell are markings from what ever incendiary device was released upon impact. Each city has 'an' estate, but this one makes St Matthews in Leicester look like a retirement home for the rich and famous.
Getting bounced between a window and a fellow passenger, it hits me. I have no idea where the tram will stop. I speak rather quickly to the girl I have done nothing but elbow and physically abuse since she sat down. She gives an apologetic smile and points forward. It doesn't really answer the question "Does this tram take us into the centre of Sarajevo?" It makes me smile, she then very graciously, allows an old lady to sit and be harassed by an idiot without a clue!
I pay the money and take the map. I suddenly relax and enjoy my stroll around the old town. Like a weight being taken off my shoulder, the map eases the tension. I flick through the map and I realise I have not just brought a map costing 10 euros, that a two-year-old child could have drawn, it's also a guide. Nothing can stop me now!
Two hours later and I am swaying to and fro again. One hand on the grab rail, the other holding on to my Nesquick. The thoughts running through my head aren't about the mosques, aren't about the eternal flame. They are focused on the grim, gloomy and graffit-ridden city.
Sarajevo is a place that the mental images of 15 years still ring true. Without a doubt the city has come on leaps and bounds, but it is so far off what I had hoped. Mind you I am not a big fan of big cities, faceless people and no sense of community. That is not what life should be about. Mostar has 'the feeling' but they do have 'the' bridge. Sarajevo should have a bridge... actually they do have one, and look what happened there!
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