Mysticism in Bosnia and Hercegovina

This is an article that I wrote that was originally published on travelhoppers.com

Twelve Dervish musicians sit hunched over their easels, the hem from their long black capes resting on the floor. In unison they begin to pluck the strings of their wooden instruments and tap the skin of their kettledrums. This marks the beginning of the ancient Sama ceremony. The first monk stands up, shedding his black cloak in a spiritual rebirth before crossing his arms against his chest, representing the number one, an interpretation of God’s unity. With a camel’s hair hat perched atop his head, the first monk begins to rock and then slowly spin round and round. With speed his white skirt fans itself out, shedding all concern and worry for the outside world. He outstretches his arms, his right reaching for the sky, open to God, while the left points to the ground, revealing the Earth’s gifts. He continues to spin until he cannot see the others in the room, until he cannot hear his own voice hum the old Islamic hymn, until he cannot help but feel God’s presence enveloping him in a numbing trance. 

The Sama ceremony, or more commonly known as whirling, is but one of many Sufi traditions of the Dervish monks performed to achieve greater religious enlightenment and ecstasy. Originating with the devotees of the Mevlevi order in Turkey in the 12^th century, Sufi whirling spread throughout the Middle East, various parts of the Balkans, and along with many other Turkish traditions, prospered in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Just 15km southeast of the city of Mostar, in the resurfacing village of Blagaj, lies a religious phenomenon not many of us are familiar with; Sufism.

Built in the 16^th century under the rule of Mostar Mufti, Tekija, a Dervish monastery, is a symbol of faith for the Sufis, an ascetic sect of Islam. The Dervish order promotes a life dedicated to prayer, Islam, and meditation. A vow of poverty teaches the monks a life of humility through begging which they may never use to subsidise their own needs but must instead give back to the poor in the community as an act of selfless charity. This particular group of devotees also offers religious counselling for people who seek their assistance.

The Tekija, its interior walls adorned with Islamic art and old scriptures, is nestled alongside a 200m high cliff where the Buna River surfaces in a steady emerald stream. It has been protected by the State since 1952 and is considered an iconic stronghold for the Bosnian people. Beginning at the monastery is a 30-45min heritage trail that tours the ancient Ottoman village, by-passing the 17^th century Velagic house and a handful of old flour mills powered by the Buna River. After a leisurely stroll through the old village, seat yourself along one of the river’s many restaurants and dive head first into the mystical energies that float along the Buna with some local eats. Give your taste buds a whirl with a steaming plate of Ćevapi, accompanied by a traditional Bosnian beer.

 

Experiencing a foreign country’s religion requires an open mind. It can be controversial, unnerving, and downright confusing at times. I understand that the Bosnian Dervish monks are of a peculiar sort and a million miles away from ordinary. But half the fun of traveling is packing your curiosity and leaving the comforts of home right where they belong. If you’re able to make that hurdle past the nitty-gritty technicalities, and really submerse yourself in a foreign culture, you won’t be disappointed. With the Persian translation for Dervish meaning “one who opens the doors”, ask yourself, will that be me?

Mostar, Bosnia and Hercegovina!

Next stop: Montenegro

Two furgons, two buses, and one taxi later, I was in Kotor, Montenegro.

The “Black Mountain”: Coastal Montenegro

Monte-what? Referred to time and time again as the “Black Mountain,” Montenegro is a tick-tack sized country squeezed smack dab in the middle of the Adriatic bordering states. Just a thumbtack on the map of Europe, but full to the brim with exquisite landscapes, Montenegro leaves you wondering how this tall drink of water is often overlooked when discussing Europe’s Fave Five.

First mentioned in the 9^th century as a Byzantine vassal, the country has spent its entire existence shuffling from one umbrella’d wing to another. But Montenegro managed to remain unsullied goods through times of war and bloodshed, plague, and decimating earthquakes. In 2006 it was granted independence from Serbia, becoming the Republic of Montenegro. But because of this shared dominance between the Balkan states throughout history, Montenegro has grown into the flourishing multi-cultural haven we know and love today.

Mary, the American Doctor I bounced around the Balkans with.

But let’s fast forward to what you’ve all been waiting for; coastal Montenegro. It’s characterized by its rocky beaches and unparalleled sapphire waters, warm and sub-tropical climate, and tiny shore hugging villages. The Bay of Kotor, named one of the world’s most beautiful bays, is agreeably one of the country’s most cherished jewels. As the dwelling place for Montenegro’s most squandered and romantic treasures, the Kotor Bay dazzles the eye and captures the soul of the Montenegrin people. Confused with being a fjord, this naturally submerged river canyon looks as though it was hollowed out with a deep spoon, filled with dripping emerald waters, and then sealed together by a U-shaped wall of shrub covered mountains.

Kept polished and pristine, the Bay of Kotor is home to the picturesque towns of Risan, Persast, and Kotor. UNESCO recognized heritage site, Kotor remains the highlight of any trip to the Bay. Settled in 168 BC by ancient Romans, it was ultimately chosen due to its advantageous military position along the coast in protecting the Montenegrin people from pirates and other invaders.

Built into the face of the treacherous cliffs that surround the city is St.John’s fortress. Having seen many a day, the strong hold is a compilation of Kotor’s history, but its Byzantine influence is undeniable. The city walls that surrounds the Old Town were built in the 14^th century by the Republic of Venice and much of Kotor’s architecture depicts a Venetian influence.

Within the city walls is the St.Tryphon Cathedral, rebuilt in 1124, which harbours a unique collection of important relics and artefacts that tell the all too enticing story of the city’s history. But let’s not shy away from Kotor’s involvement in the arts. Playing host to various Montenegrin festivals and celebrations each year, Kotor’s managed to captivate artists from around Europe and give fuel to the fire by providing continuous inspiration.

Although the city of Kotor has experienced an influx of tourists, it has yet to be purged of its elegant and somewhat smouldering charm. Sophisticated bars and cafes string along the criss-crossing paths of the city’s Old Town and dip into the coastline that runs outside the city’s walls. Past the souvenir vendors and gelati windows lies the glistening calm water of the Bay that for some reason or another you won’t be able to take your eyes off of.

Crna Gora, monte nero, the Black Mountain, Mali i Zi, Montenegro; known in a thousand different tongues and dialects, but remembered just the same, this golden nugget of a country with its illustriously narrow coastal strip paralleled by dark dramatic mountain peaks is sure to stir the curiosity and passion of even the most bashful of crowds.

How to Make the Dough While Traveling

Here's a link to the article I wrote for Travelhoppers about working while traveling. If you have any questions or need some more information regarding visas or the sites I reference, feel free to comment!

http://www.travelhoppers.com/2011/08/24/have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too-work-and-travel-abroad/

Near Misses: Leaving Albania #1

One of the hardest things to get used to while in Albania was the transportation system; or I should say lack there of. While most countries choose the organized route with bus timetables and working bus stops, Albania's managed to take a much more rocky approach to the whole getting its people around and has scraped the whole timetable and bus stop idea. Instead, the country's replaced the Western World's idea of civilized travelling with beaten up white mini vans that may or may not make you feel like you're being kidnapped, gathering places for the vans that seems to change on a daily basis, and of course there's the issue of the unpaved roads. But what is traveling if you don't come home a little shaken up? So here's my story of the two day excursion to Montenegro.

The sun was already creeping its way onto my aching back when I managed to climb over the last of the crumbling steps. Ahead of me lay a last look at the beautiful town of Berat; an Ottoman city tiered into the mountainshide, white houses with brown roofs stacked neatly ontop of each other. I crossed the suspention bridge one last time before turning right down the main street to where the furgons were to meet that day. Greeted excitedly by one furgon owner I was told that the next bus was due to leave. So I lugged my pack into the back of the van, squeezed behind the seats, and plopped myself next to the only open window that allowed for a small breeze. When my bottom made contact with the seat, the cushions sank in and the entire seat bobbed on its spring. I ducked down between my legs for a closer look at the seat and found line after line of duct tape holding the seat to the rest of the van.

Slowly the furgon began to fill up with local Albanians and in no time the driver turned the key, awakening the gurgling, chugging, grinding monster under the hood. We were off to a rough start. As we left the city limits of Berat our poor little engine that could, couldn't. The engine huffed as the driver forced the pedal into the floor, swerving into oncoming traffic as to pass slower vehicles, parked cars, and bikers. Once we hit the "highway" I began to question whether or not the hot wheels tires that kept this beast rolling would hold out as the road ahead seemed unfinished. I guess in this case unfinished is a bit of an understatement; chunks of the highway had been ripped out or unfinished and as such, the driver became a game of cat and mouse with oncoming traffic.

By this point my stomach had already begun twisting and knotting itself thanks to my bobble head seat that sent me flying at every swerve, and the smell of sickly sweat was so dense I took to pressing my cheek against the only open window to breathe in another other than BO. Just as I began to drift asleep, a pinging noise shook me awake. SMACK, PING, SMACK. It had begun to hail and chucks of ice the size of golf balls were hitting the rusty white van at all angles. The rain added to the storm; the poor little van was taking quite a beating. Being the only foreigner on the bus, I was the only one in panic. The van was pelted left right and centre, pot holes the size of Texas were strewn throughout the highway, and to top it all off the front window was fogging up and the driver took to sticking his head out the window in the rain to keep us from drifting off course. Looking around at the other passengers I noticed a dark haired man in a worn suit picking at his nails, an elderly woman riffling through her purse, and a couple jabbering on about God knows what. No one seemed nearly as bothered as I was.

The rain conitnued for nearly an hour until we broke through the mountain pass and were nearly in Tirane, the capital of Albania. The land outside the city was shockingly the opposite of the Berat I had fallen in love with. Half raised concrete buildings littered the flat bare lands, heaps of garbage ran alongside the highway, and community watering holes ran clean water into the ditch all day long. For the first time in this country, I felt a sense of guilt. I was no longer seeing the beautiful oasis of Berat's back country or hiking through its historical mountains. What I was seeing now was what a photographer would turn his back on. But something about the people walking along the road put me at ease. They weren't starving and they weren't begging at the van's window. They were simply living. This was life; without highrise apartment suites, 5-star restaurants, and shopping malls. And for some reason or another, I was okay with it.

A-Cup Confusion

While working at the hostel in Berat, I made some pretty good friends. But one of which, was as unpredicted as it was unusual and as I look back on my time spent in Albania, I can’t help but laugh out loud at some of the predicaments I've gotten myself into over the past year...

 

 

For the past 20 minutes all I've been able to think about is how awkward this seemingly innocent gesture made by a fellow co-worker has become. I can't decide which of the materials strewn across the counter before me will cover my now all to obvious chest and avert the gawking stares of the 5 Albanian women crammed into the tiny shop. My choices are a pink frilly bundle of lace or black satin scraps begging to suction themselves to a stripper's behind. If I didn't love Chachay's quirky sense of humor so much I'd march my newly laced ass out that front door, across that dirt road, and back to the hostel full of other Westerners who understand that the gesture of buying someone lingerie as a going away gift is better left to the sleazy husband types.  

 

 

But let's forget the undergarments for a minute so I can give myself a chance to rid my cheeks of their now ruby color and start at the beginning. I met Chachay at the hostel in Albania. The thing that first made me take a liking to Chachay, with her mousy reddish brown hair and short stubby legs, was the fact that even though I don't speak a lick of Albanian and she knew it, instead of using hand signals to go about our business, she took to speaking at a snails pace and yelling the same jumble of synonyms in the understanding that by doing so, I'd miraculously become fluent in Albanian. I didn't have the heart to walk away from the smile that all too clearly mentioned friendship.

 

 

As the days rolled by, Chachay got creative with her communication and resorted to smacking my ass or just plain laughing at me whenever I walked by her. It was comical, to say the least, seeing her waddle across the kitchen with a wooden spoon brandished in one hand and a mischievous smile sprayed across her face.

But when the time came for me to move on, I knew I couldn't leave without a proper goodbye. I invited myself to Chachay's for some tea and before I knew it she had armed herself with a photo album and was relieving each of her son's childhoods to me. When the reminiscing had ended, or else I think it did because she was speaking Albanian the whole time and I didn't really catch much, she stood up and started pointing at her boobs. Weird, I know, but stranger things have happened. I tried to go along with what the point she was trying to make with a strained and confused expression playing across my face. That is until she made me nearly faint when she motioned to lift her top up. What the hell? After convincing her to keep her clothes on, she started writing in what looked to be More Code until I guessed right that she was asking for my bra size. I figured I'd humor her and went along with her game before giving her a hug and heading back to the hostel. 

The next morning at breakfast Chachay came bustling into the kitchen dripping in sweat from the sun that had decided to set to work early. She handed me a plastic bag and when I opened it I could barely control the waves of laughter. Staring back at me was a hot pink bejeweled wonder bra that looked as if it belonged on a Can-Can Girl or Jennifer Lopez. I removed it from its casing in pinched fingers and held it at an arms length while I examined the most goddy thing I have ever seen. I even had to shield my eyes when the sequins and gems caught the sun's light as to avoid being blinded. It wasn't until I found the bra's size that really made me crack up: A32 a.k.a the cup size of the spokesperson for the Iddy Bitty Tittie Commitee.

When I explained the sizing issue to Chachay she looked at me through determined eyes, grabbed her purse and hauled me down to the main street where I now stand with five pairs of shameless hands doing their best to embarrass me further. With one look at the pile I spot the right size, pull the tag and the red satin piece attached to it and stuff it in my bag before making a break for the door before Chachay and her middle aged friends decide I need matching knickers. Once in the confines of the bustling street, I hold back a minute or two so Chachay catches up and, like that experience is one she sees to everyday, she slips her arm into mine and we stroll back through the foreign streets of Berat.

Thawing Communism

Drip, drip, drip.

The sound of the thawing winter leaves me aching, driving me mad from its incessant trickling. It streams down the jagged mountain side like a run-away tributary, seeping into the villages and oozing a steady flow after its people.

Drip, drip, drip.

As it courses through the veins of placid by-standers who’ve been numb for so long, it warms their frozen limbs like a spreading flame.

Drip, drip, drip.

With a wide yawn and an exaggerated, drawn out stretch, the mountains no longer breathe in the stagnant air. Instead they look out over their vast lands. If you listen closely as the wind shuffles the newly thawed lawns, hear it whisper and rejoice with the new telling of freedom. 

Taking a Breather: Berat, Albania

Helping out at the Backpacker's hostel in Berat, Albania was one of the best decisions I think I made all year. Hesitant at first to be traveling through the Balkans as a single female traveler, I was soon able to squash my worries when arriving at Berat Backpacker's. The energy that hung throughout the place was astonishing and I had this strange feeling that this was were I was meant to be.

 I was lucky enough to befriend some of the greatest people while in Berat. Nick and Lucy, an English couple were light-hearted and had a way of making even the worst situations seem like a walk in the park. As for Jandrew, the dynamic Australian duo, well their charismatic energy made it hard for me to leave Berat.

During my stay, Andy, Jade, and I decided that the good weather was best enjoyed at the waterfalls. Joined by a most interesting couple, Jen and Noam, we set off for the falls, taking in the brilliant Albanian scenery. The waterfalls themselves were a sight, like we had uncovered this untouched oasis. Berat will always hold a special place in my heart, and I know deep down that one day I'll return and that upon my arrival I'm sure to feel just as alive I did when I was 19 and carefree.

Albania: Undercover

This is the link to an article I wrote about Albania for Travelhoppers, enjoy!

http://www.travelhoppers.com/2011/07/21/albania-home-of-the-nodding-no/

Fresh Off the Boat: Next stop, Albania

Thanks to a very handsome Australian, I was given the contact details of a hostel in Berat, Albania that was looking for helpers. I jumped at the opportunity as my Schengen Visa was about to expire and I had to get the heck out of dodge. So I made my way to Bari, Italy where the 9 hour ferry would take me across the Adriatic to Durres, a port city along the coast of Albania. Well that 9 hour journey stretched itself long and thin until it reached 14 hours. From Durres I took a furgon (privately owned van that shuttles paying customers from city to city) to Berat where I was greeted by an Ottoman oasis. The important thing, I must recognize, is that I made it to Albania, but the getting there wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. So that's where the juicy bit comes in...

The sun had long since set and after a long, bumpy bus ride to Bari's port, a dark dust had managed its way across the entire harbor. As I stepped off the bus, only to be greeted by a toothless grin and shaky hands. A middle-aged man stood between me and my exit from the bus and from what broken English he had, he was going to escort me through the haunted harbor to the ferry. I humored this "gentleman" and followed a few paces behind him as if to allow him the feeling of leadership and importance and after a few minutes was led astray by a shorter route.

Waiting in line for customs, I took in my surroundings. Dark, worn eyes were plastered to my own and I couldn't help but feel like a black dot on a clean sheet of loose leaf. The ferry was, as you already know, delayed due to a growing mass of human bodies that squirmed against each other while waiting to have their papers signed. In an attempt to avoid the unnerving stares of the queue, I dragged my pack to a welcoming corner as to wait out the crowd. When my turn finally came I approached the customs window with a bright smile and an open passport. He closed it, read the country name on the cover and ushered me to join the rest of the cattle.

Boarding the ferry at nearly 2am, arms dragging and head swagging, I was called to attention by the thick cloud of smoke that hung lazily all throughout the ferry. I had forgotten about the lack of smoking restrictions in Europe. I walked past the groupings of people with their hoards of bags and Italian goods and meandered through the isles. With eyes piercing the back of my skull I knew there was no seat for me there and so I found a smaller room used for film viewings and set up camp in a nearby corner. It was in these hidden nooks, those forgotten corners that I felt the most at ease.

Using a sweater as a blanket I shivered my way through the night, waking up occasionally to curious eyes scouring over me. Exhausted and frustrated, I pulled the sweater over my face and forced myself back into sleep. I just had to get through the night. Once in the night I woke to a different face peering over the sweater. A salt and pepper haired woman with deep tell tale lines that ran across her face in a drooping half-smile shook her head at me once and reached down towards my feet. Naturally I flinched at her touch but was then calmed by her soft old hand when she took the sweater that had fallen askew and covered my feet with it. She was my guardian angel.

When the sunlight began to pour through the portholes and swirling cigarette smoke and voices filled the tiny room, I knew that there was no chance for sleep. I left my bags in the corner and as I stepped out onto the top deck I passed by two of the men who had watched me the previous night. I cringed as our shoulders brushed and thinking it as an invite, they leaned in leaving me with a hissing sound that rang through my ears long after they passed. Forgetting my initial desire for fresh air, I high-tailed it back to my corner and remained hidden beneath my pack until the ferry docked.

In over my head and shaking, I once again lined up for customs. By this point I was already expecting the probing stares that awaited me in the queue and I the second time around I took them with a grain of salt, sure that any Westerner would be greeted the same. Not quite 11 in the morning, the sun already began to blister the streets and left me panting my way through the bustling crowds. Every taxi driver in the vicinity could smell the fear and confusion the clung to my body and they attacked in a disheveled ferocity. I was pulled back and forth like a pack of wolves devouring their prey and had haggles thrown at me with excessive force from every which way. Looking for an out, I broke through the buzzing drivers and ran towards a security officer in uniform. I breathed a sigh of relief when he smiled with my approach that I quickly exhaled upon finding his sole language was Albanian. I was on my own, once again, and in Albania to boot.

Then, like you see in movies, the security guard laughed a deep bellowing laugh and said in perfect English, "Just kidding, I speak perfect English. Now how may I help you?". Pfft, yeah right. What happened next was something no one could have predicted and still, to this day, leaves me stumped. A tall, broad shouldered young man with short brown hair that had a tenancy to fall over his eyes came bouncing up beside me and said, "Hi. Are you lost?". Hallelujah! And hell yes; the answer to his question was and absolute yes.

His name was Bori and he was a 23 year old Albanian truck driver who as it just so happens managed to be in the right spot at the right time. I followed him through the broken cobblestone streets, that looked as if they had just seen a World War, where he led me to the bus station, an ATM, and finally to a cafe for lunch. Halfway through the meal that he had persuaded me to join him in, I asked him the question that had been churning in my gut from the moment we met. "Why are you being so nice to me?" His answer was simple. It was concise and to the point, but the weight of his words stretched further than his mouth would take them. "Because no one else would."

My first impression of Albania was one from a girl still living in a dream world. From a girl who wasn't ready for the toll that was to be taken by a country that's never been given enough. But now, when a stranger asks my opinion of the country, I reply with an open heart and a melting smile that takes me back to the stranger that unveiled to me the good of this world that's sometimes hidden in the forgotten corner.

Mi Scusi

I think we can all agree that hostels are wonderful places. Practically 5-star with their roomy en-suites, big feather down pillows you can get lost in, and of course, the gourmet breakfasts. On the top floor? Don't worry because the bell-man is here to help. He'll carry your bags up those steep steps and offer you a complimentary bottle of sparkling water when you reach the top. Ah yes, don't even get me started on the roof top terrace and the mile long swimming pool. In. your. dreams...

Hostels are an experience. I think what I just described was an experience alright, but not the kind I'm looking for. Adored for their budget friendly nature, hostels give you exactly what you pay for; A dorm room nearly choked to death by the number of metal bunk bed frames squeezed into it and 6-12 other sweating bodies all competing for the remaining fresh air in the room. And you can forget about using the toilet alone. With one communal washroom, your given a free pass into the digestive tracks of every guest in the place. Enticing, isn't it?

When I finally reached Rome, ready to take on the world, my adrenaline high disappeared quickly when I found my hostel. The owner greeted me with a crooked yellow smile, tossing my stomach as if it were on tumble dry. His name was Marco and he was what a serial killer should look like. He was tall and lean, his dark curly hair plastered to his head with a thick layer of engine oil, he smelled awful, and to top it off, he was lonely. I had booked the hostel last minute and wasn't given much choice in lodging. I took the first hostel whose reviews didn't mention bed bugs and didn't ask questions. But when I got there, I found the place next to empty, save for a few American couples so lost in each other's eyes that  I didn't bother. There was a reason I was the only one there, a really good reason. The place was in the middle of nowhere, covered in a thick layer of grime and other unmentionables, I'm sure, and looked more like a half-way house than a functioning business.

 There was nothing else in the entire city of Rome, so this would home; Id learn to love it. But because I've got a shamrock stapled to my forehead, Marco decided that I was going to be his new best friend. He'd wake me with offers for gelati, corner me and discuss his oh so appealing sleep habits,  nag me about going out clubbing with his "hip" friends, invite me out on long romantic strolls, and convince me to let him show me his "art" (plastic masks painted with glitter). He even took to calling me bella, which might be cute if he was 20 years younger and didn't resemble a wanted pervert. I was desperate to shake this middle-aged creepy-crawler before my Roma experience turned into a train scene from "Eurotrip", so I took to sneaking out of the hostel as the sun came up, and not returning until I knew he was off "creating life" with glue sticks and sparkles. I used every excuse in the book to avoid the ultimate "mi scusi" moment (check out the link below to see what I'm talking about). I left the hostel on the third day, only after arguing for 20 minutes over the 10 cents change he didn't have but insisted I needed to continue my journey with. One very long and excruciatingly uncomfortable hug/massage later, I outta there and ready for my next 5-star experience.

Mi Scusi