Damascus

So I made it.
I'm in Damascus, Dimashq or Shaam.
It went a lot quicker than I thought and I haven't quite grasped yet that my journey has come to an end (for the time being at least - of course the real journey will never end).

It is strange not to have to pack your backpack again every other morning, not to have to consider the weight and space everything that you might buy would take up in it and not to have to pitch the tent anymore.

I'm sitting in a formidably equipped internet cafe in al-Mujtahid street. On my right the owner of the cafe, a young man in jeans, just rolled out a little silky carpet and, facing the aircondition on the wall in front of him, is performing the salaat - the Muslim prayer. His friend is sitting at the computer only a few inches away quietly surfing the web.

I arrived in Syria 3 days ago and I literally walked in. I hitchhiked from Antakya in Turkey (the former Crusader state of Antioch) in the morning, but the guys in the car didn't manage to get permission to cross, so I got my backpack from the boot and walked through the border. Welcome to Syria! - Ahlan wa sahlan fi Syria!!!
Since the everything went as smooth as smooth can be, really, and I don't quite understand why. I met Bashar in Homs, where the bus from Aleppo stopped for 10 minutes on his way south to Damascus. He was also going to Damascus, just on a different bus. I spent the last two days with him here in Damascus and gained a wonderful friend in him and a marvellous introduction to Syrian food and culture from him.

The university course I was planning to take here turned out to be not quite what I need and/or want, so I quit it before it really started and before I paid. In the meantime I have found an excellent teacher, a room in the beautiful old part of town called al-Qaymariya, a handful of friends that have been incredibly helpful and kind to me and... some time to write a blog entry or two.
I just travelled and lived in the last few weeks and didn't find or take the time to write much about what I as experiencing. I did start two entries, but never finished - they'll come in the next few days.

The only bad thing I experienced in Syria so far was trying to access my paypal account... this is what I got - a little welcome note to Syria from the corporate world:


Account Service Request

---------------------------------------------

Error 3028. You have accessed your account from a sanctioned country. In accordance with international sanctions regulations, you are not authorised to access the PayPal system. For more information about your PayPal account, contact ofacappeal@paypal.com. For further information regarding international sanctions, please refer to the respective websites of the US Office of Foreign Assets Control and/or the Bank of England.

Bosnia

"He who builds a bridge will join two worlds.
He who pulls it down will lose both of them."

- Husein Başiç (Bashich)

I arrıve ın Mostar ın a van wıth a drıver that doesn't speak Englısh. He poınts me toward the 'Centar'. I lug my backpack through the streets toward the rıver that used to cut Mostar ın two - Muslıms on the east and Chrıstıans on the west. I pass Austrıo-Hungarıan buıldıngs that show traces of a grand past, but look lıke they recently suffered from a bad measles attack - dark spots all over theır fronts and balconıes. The attack wasn't that recent as ıt turns out - bullet holes from the war over ten years ago. Other buıldıngs stand as mere sceletons next to a crossıng busy wıth cars - no wındows, floors or roof, all the plaster shot off the walls. Then suddenly a shıny, huge mırror-glass-walled shoppıng complex next to nıcely refurbıshed houses wıth cafes ın the ground floor and students goıng ın and out.
A few streets on and before I realıse where I am, I stand on marble cobble leadıng to the old Brıdge, the most famous landmark of Mostar and maybe of all of Bosnıa - buılt ın the 16th century, bombed by the Croats ın Mostar's 'munıcıpal' cıvıl war ın 1993, then rebuılt wıth ınternatıonal help and re-opened ın 2003. It ıs a curıous and surprısıngly small object - but wıth huge hıstorıc sıgnıfıcance.

I arrıve a lıttle unprepared for what ıs facıng me: remaıns and memorıes of the war. Whıch war exactly? Who was fıghtıng? How long? Where? Why?
Excuses: I was very young when ıt all happened and dıdn't care too much about the news then... I dıdn't take the course ın IR that dealt wıth the Balkan wars of the 1990s... I only have the Lonely Planet, whıch doesn't gıve too much of a detaıled hıstory...

Well - they're excuses. The LP hıstory sectıon dıd actually provıde a rough, but helpful overvıew. Then both Yazinko, a Croat who drove me from the border between Austrıa and Slovenıa all the way to Zagreb and Goran, who drove me from Dubrovnık to Opuze near the Bosnıan border gave me more personal and detaıled versıons of the story.


"Thus when a group of people is defined entirely in terms of a category to which they belong, and when this category is excluded from the human family, then the moral restraints against killing them are more readily overcome."

- Herbert Kelman, 1973

Later I stumble across a bookstore wıth a cafe. I pıck up the some of the large photography books on the Englısh language shelf, order a coffee (don't really know why sınce I don't drınk coffee, but ıt seems lıke the thıng to do) and sıt down. I stay for two hours or more and get completely lost ın the shockıng and sad hıstory of the country. A book called "Bosnians" by the photographer Paul Lowe takes most of my attentıon. The stunnıng and brutal photographs of Bosnıa and Sarajevo durıng the 1992-1996 war are accompanıed by text exerpts from journalısts, wrıters, vıctıms, wıtnesses, mılıtary commanders, polıtıcıans and academıcs.


"You have my permission to shell,
but do not touch the industrial infrastructure
because we need the machinery.

Shoot only at human flesh.
Shell only human flesh, only human flesh."

- General Ratko Mladiç, Serb commander, ordering his troops to attack the town of Zeleni Jadar near Srebrenica, 1993

I have heard about Mladıç and you probably have, too... but not this!
And now ımagıne - thıs man ıs stıll roamıng around ın Serbıa - lıvıng somewhat underground, but one hears that he ıs seen here and there - at a football match ın Belgrade (!), ın the theatre or on the street. So ıs Karadçiç and many, many other mılıtary commanders on both sıdes that were responsıble for unspeakable atrocıtıes. Agaın I have heard that terrıble thıngs happened, mostly at the hands of the Serbs, but on both sıdes really. However I dıdn't hear any detaıls. In the quıet lıttle bookstore ın Mostar I got more detaıls than I wanted.
Two examples:

"We came across the body of an old man with a mutilated head. They ordered us to drag him toward the bridge. As we were dragging the old one, his skull was falling open and the brain came out [...] There were two more bodies on the bridge. They had their throats cut. We were ordered to throw them into the Drina aswell. On one of the bodies, four fingers on the left hand were freshly cut off."

- Blaine Harden reporting from a witness,
Washington Post, August 7th 1992

"The guards then tied one end of a wire tightly around his testicles and tied the other end to the victim's motorcycle. A guard got on the motorcycle and sped off."

- Witness from the Omarska camp, 1992

I quote these terrıble thıngs here because I realıse what a lack of awareness I had at the tıme when all thıs was happenıng and what a lack of knowledge I had of ıt untıl now. Fındıng out about thıs was very ımportant to me and I wısh to share thıs experıence wıth you. If you want more - and the photos to go wıth ıt, buy the book or fınd ıt ın a lıbrary - the detaıls are at the bottom of thıs entry.


"When it is your turn, you cannot wait, you have to go, because the longer you wait, the readier the sniper is. The first time I ran from point A to point B, the fear was unspeakable indeed. Pain in your stomach, as if a big steel ball were grinding your bowels [...] Wet heat inside your eyeballs. Sweat trickling down your cheeks, like a miniature avalanche of dread [...] All you see is the one or two meters before you and all the things you can trip over."

- Aleksander Hemon

Around 10,000 people died during the 3-year siege of Sarajevo and over 50,000 were injured. The Serbs ('Chetniks') had numerous sniper positions around the city, making a routine way home a matter of life or death. There was signs warning of the 'Sniper Alleys' and small queues formed at the buildings before the opening. Sometimes dead or wounded people would lie in the street one had to cross, but even if they were shouting for help or still moving - one just had to run. Some snipers - showing off their skill - 'played games' with the wounded, by shooting off their fingers or hands one by one.
These people had done absolutely nothing to be targeted by the Serbs and both linguistically and ethnologically they were exactly the same - it just so happened that they were Bosnians, so their life lost its value - like a share dropping on a bad day.


"We could not watch Christians get killed by Muslims in Europe. Period. But we can watch Muslims getting killed by Christians."

- George Kenny, US Press Officer for Bosnia under Bush Senior.

______________________________________________


All quotes (mostly shortened) are from Paul Lowe's book "Bosnians", published by Saqi books, London in 2005

A wine harvest

Although I'm miles away now and in a place that couldn't be more dıfferent, I feel this blog needs some photographs, but since I haven't managed to get my photos out of my camera as yet, some images from the not-too-distant past wıll have to do. [At thıs poınt I want to apologıse for the mıssıng dots on all the i's, but the i wıth a dot ıs ın such a weırd place on the Turkısh keyboard that ıt'd just take too long to remember ıt for every sıngle i - so there.]
I went to the Wallıs (a valley ın southern Swıtzerland borderıng on Italy and also known as the Valais) wıth my frıend Mıchael ın the fırst week of October to help mutual frıends of ours wıth the wıne harvest. They have lıved ın that wonderful part of the world for over 20 years and have sınce acquıred two lıttle vınyards, whıch produces just enough wıne to last them the whole year. Sabıne and Hann are wonderful people and ın the 3 tımes I've enjoyed theır unsurpassable hospıtalıty over the last 5 years, I have grown to love them a lot.
Hence I want to dedıcate thıs entry to them and to the art of wıne-makıng, whıch I have trıed to document here and about whıch I learned a lıttle bıt ın the process, mostly from Hann - the master of ceremonıes.

Thıs ıs the south-facıng sıde of the valley, where one vınyard lınes anotherand where the sun kısses the grapes tıll an old lady ın the vıllage decıdes that they're rıpe.


And for those who don't know (I certaınly dıdn't) -
the grapes' skın naturally contaıns the most vıtal element
for makıng wıne - yeast. Thus one mıght say ıt was a desıgn of creatıon
for grapes to turn ınto wıne - feel free to use thıs argument agaınst any fundamentalısts that forbıd the consummatıon of thıs heavenly drınk.




Eatıng the grapes that are already a lıttle shrıvelled
ıs partıcularly enjoyable as the sugar ın them has begun
to concentrate and one already gets a hınt of the taste of a raısın.


I volunteered to carry the grapes up the hıll through
the rows and rows of grapevınes.


Thıs ıs the old part of the vıllage, where the houses are buılt on stone stılts to protect the hay that ıs stored ın them from rats. Hann's wıne cellar ıs a remarkable lıttle cabın ın the basement of one of these houses and ıt has a wonderful character. The floor ıs merely pounded mud, thus ıt's always a lıttle moıst ın there. You have to lower your head to go ın and ıt takes a whıle for the eyes to adapt to the dım lıght. There's a good dozen bıg barrels lınıng the walls and ın the mıddle of the fırst room stands the press, whıch you see below. But what I love most about the cellar ıs the smell... but that I can only leave to your ımagınatıon.




All sorts of thıngs apart from those ımmedıately needed for makıng wıne can also be found ın Hann's cellar and precıcely because they're not ımmedıately needed for thıs undertakıng, they have been covered ın a homely layer of dust and spıder webs, addıng to the cellar's character.


The press ıs an ıtem worthy of museum space.
Just to thınk how many lıters of wıne have flown
out of ıt and ınto and through the tough old wood
make ıt an object that has a hıstory and maybe even a touch of personalıty.


Hann belıeves that the squashed gapes need to be
stroked gently and repeatedly before they're pressed,
to gıve the wıne ıts love-ly flavour


The old press makes an unforgettably satısfyıng clıckıng sound when you pull the long ıron bar back and press ıt forward agaın.


...and then the juıce of the gods begıns to trıckle out...


Petrus (German for St. Peter) ıs measurıng the Oexle...


Mıchael ıs quıte happy just to watch from the outsıde...



And then, once Dıonysıus' drınk ıs fılled ınto the barrels and sealed, the work ıs done and after only a week (ın the case of whıte wıne) you can start tastıng the alcohol emergıng ın the not-quıte-yet-wıne and ın the months to follow ıt goes though a serıes of stages and tastes dıfferent every day. It ıs a mıracle and a work of art and that's just how ıt tastes.

Thank you Hann & Sabıne!

Sarajevo Taxi

I had just finished my day's shift, parked my taxi in the car park behind the main bus station and walked over the road to my old red Golf, when I saw him. It hadn't been a particularly exciting day - my last customer that night was a pregnant French woman and her husband (well, I assumed it was her husband, but you never know with foreigners), who were in a real hurry to get to the Kosheva hospital. Earlier in the morning there was a friendly Korean lady, who wanted a ride to the Jewish Museum - I asked her if she was Jewish. "No" she said, "I'm meeting a German there." - I was confused. Otherwise it was just the usual crowds of businessmen, locals and tourists with cameras. So since the last bus with potential customers had arrived at the bus station about half an hour ago, the last bus out (to Novi Pazar) had also just left and it looked like the whole place was about to close - it was five past ten - I decided to call it a day.
But just as I got into my little Golf I noticed him - he was wandering out of the bus station only wearing a jumper, slightly bent forward under the weight of his backpack and his breath was white in the cold evening. He was blond with a lot of rather undefined facial hair and wore the kind of trousers only 'travellers' wear - beige fine cord, with knee-high pockets on either side - the heavy hiking/allroad shoes also gave it away. His aimless steps came to a halt, he slowly turned 360 degrees, then trodded on - without any particular direction and a little distraught it seemed.
'Smells like business' I thought.
__________________________

I couldn't help cursing myself, although the very opportunistic part of me that always justifies every defeat or mishappening as having some sort of purpose and meaning had already come up with a good solution to this one - it would give me a day to relax and finish those two books I was reading, to finally look after my blog a little more and write my travel diary. But still - I had missed the bus to my next destination (Pristina via Novi Pazar) by barely five minutes. Now I was standing in the cold night outside the bus station, hot because I'd been running with that massive thing on my back, which sure makes me look like a humpback. When I ran into the station and wildly rattled at the doors to the platform, I noticed the guy behind the glass on the left was packing up his stuff. He looked up at me:
"Where you go?" he asked.
"Novi Pazar" I shouted with some urgency.
"It just leave. Come tomorrow."

FUCK!!!! YOU IDIOT!!! I thought. And all because of a postcard - you moron! This morning I already thought this was going to be a weird day. In fact, it started with me being late, too - I woke up and as soon as I noticed that I was awake and that I wasn't dreaming anymore that Michael Jackson had just fired me from his closest team of employees, I jumped out of bed, got dressed and ran out of the house - it can't have been more than a minute between me realising that the upset of being fired from the King of Pop's closest guard was only a dream and me standing in the little store around the corner asking the shopkeeper what time it was. [forgot to mention... I don't have a watch with me... OR a phone, OR an alarm clock... so I'm a timeless traveller, kind of cool, although somewhat impractical I guess]
It was only 9:30 - phew, I was glad - I had to meet Paula at 11am and since I'd gone out dancing till quite late the night before I was afraid to sleep too long and to be late. She seemed like the kind of lady who appreciates punctuality, but also like someone you wouldn't want to disappoint. I'd met her the day before when I walked into the national museum - a huge place with a botanical garden in the big yard inbetween the four buildings. Her and I were the only visitors, so we immediately started talking as we walked down the steps into the garden and after a few minutes we were chatting, joking and laughing at the weird contents of the museum: rows and rows of old upright wooden display cases showing thousands of different kinds of insects, each one neatly pinned on a little piece of paper with the Latin and Bosnian names, -- or thousands of minerals and stones from all over the world, again in displayed in at least a dozen rows of glass cases, this time of the black horizontal kind. It was impressive as much as it was weird to be in a museum in Sarajevo looking at butterflies. Paula must have been in her early fifties I guessed, although she was very good-looking, almost attractive, although a certain air of immaculate noblility and correctness made her more an object of admiration and respect rather than attraction. She was originally from South Korea, but had emigrated to the states in her early twenties and married George, a businessman who was now a wealthy and infuencial international player, currently working and living (with her) in Nigeria as a financial advisor to the American University there, but she and George had lived in a good dozen different places all over the world and she had wonderfully entertaining and interesting stories to tell about all of them, the people they had to do with there - the princes, president's sons, drivers and maids. Most entertaining were the stories from her position as director of the 'Professor's Club' in Nigeria - one of those 'clubs' as you find them only in former colonial places or those foreign capitals with an exclusive community of ex-pats. There were the difficultıes she'd had with employing Muslims as cooks - how they wouldn't be willing to prepare pork dishes, how one of them who was a particularly reliable employee suddenly left without notice because his father had found out that they serve beer in the club and how all the club's food during one particular month suddenly tasted awful, until she realised it was Ramadan and the cooks didn't taste the food they were cooking.
I loved to listen to her anecdotes and realised that we had sort of met in a place that reminded me of 'Lost in Translation' - she was in Sarajevo as an attachment to her husband who was in business meetings until night time, so she just had to spend the day somehow. Thus when we left the museum and I was just taking a big breath to say "Well, it was great to bump into you...", she said "If you don't mind, I'll just stick to you. You seem to know where you're going and I have nothing to do."
I started to really like this little Korean lady and was quite amused by her. We spent the rest of the day together, went to another museum (inside which it was colder than outside) and ate a pizza. This time, when we walked out of the pizza place, I did manage to express my joy to have met her and we parted after arranging to meet again the next day at 11am in order to visit the Jewish Museum together.
So when I got to her hotel at ten past eleven that day (because the decades-old tram took forever to crawl out to the Holiday Inn, well and because I had no watch) I found the lounge devoid of a little Korean lady and nobody answered when the concierge called her room... I left an apologetic note and walked out of that place, which had become so famous in the 1992-1995 siege of Sarajevo, because it had hosted all the journalists and with its bright yellow and brownish high-rising walls it was the only safe place for foreigners in town.
It stood just across a vast empty space from the bus station and I could see it from where I was standing, thinking of the two times I'd been late that day and cursing myself.
Because of one f***ing postcard to your ex! - in fact the picture on the postcard was of this very yellow-brown structure I was looking at. It was the only one I hadn't finished writing when I sat in a lovely little Oriental cafe earlier, so I had decided to just write it quickly before I'd get on the bus and put it in the post-box by the bus station. I didn't have a watch, so I didn't know it was already 10pm as I sat there writing that last postcard from Sarajevo and I didn't make much of the bus that drove past, thinking only it was strange that a bus would leave at 9:50 pm or whatever time it was...
So there I was having missed the bloody bus and that postcard had suddenly gained a huge weight of responsibility, but the girl who's going to get it will never know, because she doesn't read my blog.
I guess it's a bit ignorant to blame missing the bus on the postcard, but what else could I do in that frustrating situation... I mean, it's not a completely unfamiliar situation for me - my family usually congratulate me when I manage to catch a plane and they have long given up to pick me up at airports.
... then I noticed that man in his old golf... he was making some gestures in my direction. I walked up to his open window only to find out he didn't speak any English - he managed to communicate that he shared my disappointment in having missed the bus to Novi Pazar...
"5 Mınut" he said or asked...
I confirmed.
He contemplated the situation for a while, then he gestured a racing motion by drawing small fast circles in the air with his two fists...
I made a sort of sound that could mean anything from "yeah" to "nnno" or maybe "whatever" just not to make it obvious that I had no idea what he was trying to say. Only when he signed that I should put my bag in the back and hurry to get in the car did I get it - he offered to race after the bus.
I was delighted and sensed an adventure coming up.
I was hardly in the car, when we had already cut the first corner and crossed the first red light. I breathed deeply and as we shot along the vast empty space enclosed by a fence, I realised both calmness and delight spreading from my head down through my body. I knew then that we were going to make it. It would just be too silly for this lucky coincidence to have occured if it wasn't going to be successful.
__________________________

We were pacing along the river at risky speeds between the red lights, which I tried hard to avoid and as were passing the old town I realised that he might be thinking I'm only doing him a huge favour - after all, nothing about my Golf looked like a taxi and we didn't really have time to talk about a price in the hectic of leaving the bus station.
"I'm a taxi driver, but I finished my shift - that's why there's no sign on my roof."
He didn't understand. I repeated what I'd said, this time slowly with big emphasis on the word TAXI and with all the necessary gestures showing a sign and my roof, while I was trying to hold on to the steering wheel with as many hands as I could.
"It'll cost you at least 10 Euros."
He quickly replied "No problem - just go!"
"But I can't guarantee we'll make it."
"OK ok" he said "just go, go, go!" and something with "tomorrow".

I did genuinely pity him and quite enjoyed racing through town, but you can't drive a rich European all over the place for free, risking your driver's licence and all. Also, I didn't really think we were going to make it and my hope was dwindling with every orange light turning to red in the darkness ahead.
At the eastern edge of town a few buses were standing on the opposite side of the road. I pulled the car over and shouted across the street. The Novi Pazar bus had passed two minutes ago. I was now startıng to get genuinely excited and expressed my feelings by offering the surprisingly relaxed young man a high five. He clapped my hand and gave it a good shake while his big mouth smiled from one ear to the other and emanated a sound that reminded me of a face-painted American Indian warrior from a Western movie, about to gallop into battle.
We shot through two small tunnels up the hill and Herr Golf struggled as I overtook a lorry in third gear.
Maybe I should have asked for more money - he seemed quite unconcerned by how much I'd asked for.
__________________________

A regular taxi for that distance would have cost about 5 Euro I thought, but that would not have included neither racing like this nor high fives... I didn't really care - I was just so stunned that I was going to end up on the lucky side once again - that, although it had seemed like a completely hopeless situation, through some miracle I had been saved. And sure enough after we sped around another corner I could make out the bus' headlights against the pitch black rockface on the roadside.
Then something odd happened and I don't quite know what exactly and how - there was two cars inbetween us and the bus. My companion in this adventure overtook them skillfully, manically blinking his headlights to signal the bus to stop, while I was hanging out of the window trying to do the same thing. But once we were in front of the bus, suddenly a siren was screaching from behind us and I saw blue lights flashing in the mirror.
'Shit! What has gotten between us and the bus...? And how?' I thought.
My 'taxi' driver began to panic and pulled in to something like a parking lot on the right. Not even a second later an ambulance van with its warning lights flashing blindingly came to a sudden halt close to our left, while the bus pulled up behind us. The van's door and window opened and two angry men began shouting at my driver. I just pulled my bag out from the back seat and jumped into the bus.
Three hours later I woke up at the Serbian border.

Halfway between two worlds

Sitting on a sloped part of the mighty city walls high above ancient Dubrovnik with the Adriatic sea as my horizon, the sun shining on my face and a fresh sea breeze in my hair, seems like a good place to start my 1st blog of this journey.
From here I can see the whole of Dubrovnik's old town, dating back to the early 8th century. In the Middle Ages, as the 'Republic of Ragusa', it was an important rival to Venice's maritime empire with colonies all along the Croation Adriatic coast and trade links throughout the whole of the Mediterranean.
The church towers of St. Blaise's, the cathedral of the Assumption of the Virgin and the Franciscan monastery pop out of the otherwise evenly flowing roof-scape and at the other end of the walled and heavily fortified old town, close to the sea, rises the simple yet majestic Jesuit monastery, where most of the nobility of the town were educated in the days of old - now it's merely a music school. Along its side stands a tall cypress, which apart from a few palm trees on the south-western side seems to be one of the only trees in the old town.
Little noise comes up from the town - the clattering noise from a construction site and a hammering sound in the distance - it's still early and the tourists are yet to flood the tiny car-less marble streets that form an intricate maze between the ancient houses. However, only a very small proportion of them are trodden by the tourists, leaving much to be discovered for the curious traveller - a little shop in a backstreet along the southern wall for example, which sells organic products, or a stately house with extravagant Romanesque window frames, each like the entrance to a Roman temple - almost too grand for the humble beauty of its neighbours, or a tiny little chapel only recognisable as such by the small elevated gable above its entrance holding a bell, which gives it a Spanish or Mexican look... or a door so old and run-down, opened and closed a million times, that the patina itself is coming off its surface in little cubes only a few millimeters thick.
Very few of the roofs one can see from up here are still the old ones with shingles of slightly varying tones of red. Most have been renewed after the terrile and terribly unnecessary shelling of the town in 1991 at the hands of the Serbian and Montenegrin army/navy. For over 6 months the town was subject to frequent and totally random shelling from the sea.

__________________________________________________________________

That was four days ago - now, although still in the Adriatic climate zone - I have entered a completely different cultural zone. I'm writing from an internet cafe more or less built into the foundations of the old bridge of Mostar, on the western side of the Neretva river, but still in the Muslim part. I have spent the afternoon talking to the Imam of the central mosque of Mostar (a young man of 25 who spoke fluent German) and a friend of his from Syria - I drank Arabic coffee with them and ate borek. Although only two hours by bus from the Croatian Adriatic, I feel like I must've travelled for days and have crossed more than just a national border to get to Mostar. I actually walked across the border from Croatia into Herzegovina and immediately got a ride by a young aircraft technician who spoke perfect English and drove a fancy BMW. As we drove north, towards Mostar, mandarin groves flying past on both sides, I saw a white turret on the left - the first mosque on my trip to the Islamic heartland. I asked him to let me out at the second one we saw, in a little village of 38 families called Poćitelj. As I walked up to it, almost crushed by the weight of my backpack (a kind lady before the border in Croatia had loaded me with at least a dozen wonderfully ripe mandarins), I suddenly realised that this was exactly why I was carrying this packpack all the way from Germany to Syria and why I wasn't having it flown there by a plane - because I wanted to see THIS: the transition from West to East - how the East, how Islam and the Ottoman influence slowly mixes in with the European elements, the place where these two mighty cultures have met, mingled and clashed over the centuries, causing a multitude of cultural phenomena and an immeasurable amount of bloodshed. Although maybe not even a quarter of the way to Syria, I felt like I was halfway - in the space where the two worlds meet. In a sense, my journey, which so far has been nothing but wonderful and exciting, gained a lot more purpose when I stood there in front of the mosque, on the big open terrace overlooking the wide valley that the Neretva wound itself through. There was noone but me and the mosque's Imam, who stood calmly at its entrance next to the table offering books and leaflets on Mostar, Poćitelj and Bosna i Herzegoina. He was wearing a red fez matching his double-breasted jacket and after visiting the mosque I found he spoke a little German. His eyes widened upon hearing I was an Arabic student and on my way to Damascus - his kind and polite face gave off a generous smile, but remained far from inquisitve. I wasn't sure whether he understood the importance I attached to visiting his mosque on this trip of mine. But his gaze was warm and welcoming. I shook his strong hand and said goodbye.

Dubrovnik

The new motto is:

The journey is the destination.
It's bloody freezing and my half-finger-gloves are hardly keeping me warm, but I shall not give up.
I have so much to write, but no time right now.
It'll have to wait till I'm in Mostar.
I'm well and in my element.
Peace.