Can I camp on your lawn?

Graffiti in Sarajevo (BiH is Bosnia and Herzegovina)

Rather artistic but deadly rocket splatter

Heavily damaged but inhabited buildings

The modern face of Sarajevo

The Holiday Inn where foreign journalists

where housed during the war.

This tunnel under the airport was used to carry everything into and out of Sarajevo 92 - 95 including power, gas and all supplies as well as evacuating the wounded. More than 2 million people passed through it during this time. The city was completely surrounded by Serbian forces apart from the airport which was held by the UN, after 600 people where shot in the first year trying to run across the runway at night, this tunnel was built under it instead. It was 800 m long and took 4 months to dig by hand. 25 m still exist, the rest has collapsed.

Sarajevo from the surrounding hills.

Many buildings are still in this condition.

Sarajevo

If a face could tell a thousand words.

One of the many mosques in the city centre.

The burnt out library awaiting reconstruction.

Downtown

Ornaments made from artillery shells.

A destroyed building awaiting demolition.

At least one wall has been renovated

A fountain in Travnik bearing Arabic inscriptions.

Jajce

Perfect village to camp in

Perfect camp spot

The remains of what once was a village.

Left or right? Hmmm...

Welcome to Bosnia!

Camp spot near the border in Croatia

All the border regions suffered heavy losses and damage.

13 years on and mines are still a major danger.

Near the Bosnian border.

Croatian countryside

Spectator in a manual grass cutting competition.

Home

Each time I produce the paper, there is a certain awkwardness as I can say no more than "Hello" in their language. This feeling lasts only as long as it take for them to read the carefully written words in a language foreign to me but so familiar to them. These words are something like:

"Excuse me, I'm from New Zealand

and I am cycling through your country,

could I please camp on your lawn?"

After a brief silence, there is always a waving of hands and a brief commotion as kids giggle and and point at the sight of some afro haired guy from New Zealand who has just appeared out of nowhere and now plans to sleep on their lawn, quite a story to tell the kids at school. The initial curiosity usually leads to extensive conversations where we each speak out own languages and somehow understand that it doesn't matter what language you speak.

With the adults it is somewhat different, once they realise that I am a actually serious, they usually offer tea or coffee and often food also. They also usually speak a second or third language, in this case Italian. I brush off my rusty spanish skills and finally spend two hours learning about life in this somewhat troubled but beautiful country.

This is my second night on the road and I am somewhere in the middle of Bosnia in areas that where (and still are) heavily affected by war. The people have, in some way, come up with ways to cope. Burnt out houses stand like headstones to the villages destroyed during those years. Some have rebuilt next door, others never returned. In desperation the dead where buried wherever there was space, be it a park, garden or just an empty lot. This creates a very surreal atmosphere as every gravestone is inscribed with either '93, '94 or '95. Another and another and another life snuffed out before their time. The mind boggles as the kilometers whirr past under my wheels.

As a 12 km uphill looms ahead, I won't deny that I sometimes wonder why I bother cycling in these places, but the answer is never far away. Arriving in Travnik after a rather tough 120 km over two mountain passes I stop to check the map before proceeding to a smaller village where I can find a lawn. I hear a voice over my shoulder "I'm glad your hear".

I wake up feeling rather sleepy on a short red couch in a large restaurant. The night watchman asks if I have slept well in German, I nod and begin to pack my things for the final push to Sarajevo. The generosity of his boss provided me with dinner and a place to sleep following my chance encounter with another of his employees. At 73 he is planning on cycling and was only too glad to pump into me in the street so I could help him with the required equipment.

When cycling, big cities are a nightmare! My final day started out with 22 km riding on a very narrow road with loads of trucks. I mostly had to cycle in the gutter which is not fun, then as I neared the city I twice ended up on the motorway, once having to climb over a barrier, over a fence and across a field to escape from trucks passing me at 100 km/h. Not good.

So after 5 days cycling and a bit over 600 km I arrived in Sarajevo, a city I only remember hearing about as a child during the war there. 13 year on and the scars are very evident. The city centre has been almost completely rebuilt but the suburbs bear the scars of 3 years of heavy attack. As in the villages, graveyards fill any available space. Hidden beneath this damaged exterior, the city is a cocktail of ethnicities, religions and people. The lilting whale of the call to prayer from each of the dozens of mosques brings feelings of the middle east. A synagogue and dozens of churches reveal to true multi cultural heritage of the place. The streets are filled with throngs of young people, some in head scarves some in modern fashion cloths and almost all eating delicious ice cream. A crane rises from a modern skyscraper revealing the new found prosperity of some in this otherwise poor country. Trams that certainly date back to the 50's rumble back and forth along the length of the city.

As the train pulls out from the station I can't help but hope that the future will be brighter for these people.