View Larger Map
Tuesday, September 17th - Split, 11,627 km
It is 11:30 am. Until four hours ago the 37 years of my existence have been mundane. That has all changed.
I woke this morning at 6:45, showered and washed my hair. I had agreed last night to meet Dushko on deck for breakfast at 7 am so I left my room in a mess: my clothing scattered and bags unpacked, my wet towel thrown on the bed. It would take six hours to get to Dubrovnik, our port of destination, so I’d have plenty of time to pack after breakfast. I donned my warmer clothes that I wore on deck last night and wrote my postcards and writing paper with me. I had missed Frenk and Irena’s departure. They had left just before 7 to catch a smaller boat leaving Split for the island of Brac to help a friend work on his cabin.
Dushko was already seated with his breakfast rolls and coffee and absorbed in reading a newspaper when I arrived on deck The morning air was fresh and cool. Half of Split was still is shadow but the sun was kissing the deck of our ship already. It would not be long before I wouldn’t need my sweater and jacket. I picked up a coffee, settled in at Dushko’s table and began writing a letter to my mother. She has no idea I am in Croatia. I didn’t want her to worry. I decided to write an account of my time here and send it to her once I am safely out of Yugoslavia.
I was busily writing the second paragraph of my letter as the Lubritanica disembarked slowly from the wharf. This was my last moment of serenity. It was only a couple hundred metres from the wharf when suddenly it idled. Dushko, being a marine merchant who has spent half his life on boats, was the first to clue in. “Something’s wrong.” He tells me, straining his neck as he turned around. “What do you mean,” I asked, half-interested. “The ship shouldn’t suddenly idle like this. I think it’s returning to the dock.” “Maybe they forgot something,” I suggested. “No,” he frowns at me as though that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “They never return to dock for something they have forgotten! I am going to see what’s up.” With those words he stood up and went to the other side of the ship to get a different view. I continued my writing.
Less than a minute later he is back. “Did you see? Come look,” he beckons me insistently. I follow him. Looking at his expression, I have a sinking feeling that something is seriously wrong, but it was nothing compared to what was to come. He points out to the outer harbour, glancing to make sure I was looking. I follow his aim and see three navy ships motoring like barracudas into the outer harbour, going faster than I believed possible for a ship to go. A large ship, possibly a destroyer, led the way with two smaller cruisers closely behind it. Oh Gawd, this doesn’t look good, I hear myself thinking.
The captain came on deck to make an announcement. His face was ashen white and his hands trembling as he spoke in Croatian. “What’s he saying?” I asked, but Dushko shook his head to silence me. When the announcement was over, he turned to me and said we’ve been told to gather our things and get off the ship as soon as possible. The destroyer has ordered us back to port and the captain isn’t sure if it will start firing.
I fled to my room and stuffed my belongings into my bags as fast as I could. I was panicking, thinking that I would not even be able to claim my bicycle from the car deck. I can live with that, I was thinking, as long as I get out of this alive. But a crew member recognized me as the owner of the bicycle and redirected me into the car deck to claim it. I exited through the car deck in as controlled of a manner as I could muster. In minutes the unloading was over and I was sitting on a bench outside the Terminal Building beside Dushko.
What now? I wondered, a question that has been ringing in my head since then. I wasn’t even sure what has happened, whether full-scale war had broken out or if this is just a local aggression. Panic gave way to bewilderment. Immediately, ideas were offered around by other ejectees from the ship that have become unfounded rumours. Someone has suggested there will be an evacuation of foreigners before any serious attack. If that will be the case, I don’t want to move from here. Besides, I have nowhere to go, I don’t know the language and won’t know what is going on without a translator. It is a hard decision though because the Terminal Building is set out in front of the city next to the water. If there is going to be an attack it might be the first building hit.
Dushko, the translator I had been counting on, disappeared for a few minutes to look into ways of getting out of Split. He returned with the news that the airport is closed and the bus depot was about to close. He had already bought one of the last tickets for the last bus and he had come to say his goodbyes and to wish me good luck. Perhaps I should have gone with him in case there was still room on the bus, but others had warned me not to venture into Bosnia, and the bus was headed there. Regardless, I have made my choice and here I remain, whatever comes on my decision.
Shortly after Dushko reappeared, Frenk and Irena reappeared. They explained they had been five minutes from docking on Brac when the destroyer ordered them to return to Split. The captain of their boat had picked up radio messages that said a naval blockade has been imposed by the Yugoslav navy along the whole Croat coast. This is it then. The war has spread to the full length of the country. My heart sank when I heard that.
We moved inside after sitting there another half hour. Several other passengers were seated there and discussing the situation. I met Jari, a middle-aged Croat man from Rijeka, here on business, who was cursing himself for coming to Split and not listening to the advice of his friends and colleagues. There was also Bohan, a lanky, quiet man who was and is extremely anxious about our situation. We all are, of course, but his anxiety was more visible and made others around him more so too.
So that is where we are at the moment, sitting here cursing our stupidity and trying to figure out what to do next, although that decision might be decided for us as the events unfold. I am sick with dread. What bothers me most at the moment is that no one other than Jochen and Lee Ling knows I am in Yugoslavia. I could disappear and my whereabouts never discovered. Employees of the Terminal Building pass through to check on us. I ask about news of an evacuation and they have heard no rumour of this. Most of the foreigners have left Split weeks ago I am told, so an evacuation is unlikely. I ask if there is a Canadian consulate in town. No, they assure me, but there may be a British consulate. They argue over whether it has closed down or not. I ask them for the address and set off on my bicycle to find it, my bags still on the bike.
I am cycling from the dockyards into the city proper, rounding the south and east sides of the inner harbour. I feel totally exposed. My heart is pounding and panic has restricted my field of vision to a narrow slit in front of me. I manage to find the building and leave my bike unlocked against the wall by the stairs to the door. The lobby directory says the consulate is on the third floor. The race up the stairs two at a time and knock on the door.
It seems to take an eternity for the sound of footsteps to reach the door. A slender, serious man opens the door and asks me what I want. I explain that I have just been forced off my ship and need to contact a Canadian embassy or consulate. He looks me over, trying to decide if I am worth his time. “I suppose I could try to reach the consulate in Zagreb. The lines to Belgrade have been cut,” he informs me. I ask if there could be an evacuation of foreigners and he laughs. “No, anyone with any sense has left weeks ago.”
“So you didn’t listen to the travel advisories and leave when you were told.” “I was trying to leave Croatia, which is why I was on the ship.” “But you should never have come in the first place. Now you are really stuck and there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” His chastising has turned into a taunting meanness. He sneers at me with obvious pleasure at my predicament. My panic transforms into a contempt of my own. “Well, I suppose that makes two of us,” I respond, staring at him coldly. He is taken aback by my change of tone. His face falls to reveal his own inner dread. “Yes,” he says softly, “this isn’t a good situation, is it?” Now we are equals.
He rustles through the papers on his desk to find a list of consulates and calls the Canadian consulate in Zagreb. There is no answer. “Let me try the British consulate,” he offers. I get the sense he is really trying to help me. The man who answers informs us that an air raid has just sounded and he cannot talk for long. He takes a message to pass onto the Canadian consulate for me. Air raids over Zagreb! That is nowhere near the coast. Perhaps a land invasion is coming and the ships will start their bombardment just before the troops arrive to ‘soften up’ the city. Undoubtedly, this will get much worse before it gets better. Before I leave, the Brit advises me to stay near the Terminal Building and if any news of importance comes up he will send a message.
My bike has not been stolen. I ride back around the harbour to the Terminal Building. I feel somewhat better knowing that I have at least left a message for the consulate. I am not sure what good that will do, but at least my disappearance will be partially explained if it comes to that. I stop at the PTT (telephone office) on the way, but the phones are all tied up. I get back on my bike just as the first air raid siren goes out, sending with it a dreadful chill that races through every inch of my body. I am only a few hundred metres from the Terminal Building so I race there as fast as I can.
I find Frenk, Irena, Bohan, Jari and several others sitting on the floor in the main hall where I left them. There is no basement here, no safer place to hide out. The sirens stop and discussions begin again about our options. The number of people taking refuge here slowly diminishes as a few passengers have relatives or friends nearby.
Another air raid sirens sounds and we are ushered back downstairs so sit on the hard floor again. Then it is quiet again. I go back to the PTT and manage to reach the Canadian consulate in Zagreb. It is good to hear a friendly, concerned voice on the other end, but I tell them more than they can tell me. They did not know that the phone lines to Belgrade have been cut. I give them my personal details and tell them as much as I know about what is happening here. They have heard that the Serbs are releasing prisoners from penitentiaries who agree to serve as snipers from rooftops of Croatian cities, randomly killing anyone they can. The Serbs are animals, the man at the other end tells me. They have attacked hospitals and severed the hands of the women and children in towns they have overrun. They have no ethics at all, he warns me.
I am back on the Terminal Building floor again. It is late afternoon. Jari has taken a hotel room in town and Frenk and Irena head off to do the same. An Italian woman in her 50s named Danica comes into the building to the Terminal Building to sell us on the idea of staying at her guest house in town. She speaks no English but manages to get out of me that I am from Canada. Now she is determined to have me stay with her, though there is no way I want to be somewhere where no one speaks English and I have no way of knowing what is happening as the war unfolds. She shoves her book of photographs of her guest house in my face as if I am here as a pleasure-seeking tourist. She won’t take no for an answer until I turn my face away and hold my hand up between our faces for a couple minutes. This incident has me more depressed than before and I am close to tears.
Bohan sits close and tries to comfort me after Danica leaves. I think if I was to start crying he would lose control of his feelings too, so I try to be strong for him. We are the only ones left in the Terminal Building. Night has fallen and we have decided to sleep on the floor here tonight. The management has other ideas. They tell us we are not allow to and we must leave. I plead with them. There is a curfew and we might just as well be shot by Croat militia as by snipers. They discuss the situation and finally one of them volunteers to lead us over to a major hotel about half a kilometre away.
It is a scary journey. The streetlights have been turned off and the few cars moving about have taped up all but a small slit of their headlights. There are no tall buildings around this area so the Croat militia, who might shoot without negotiation, are our greatest fear. Sure enough, there are some around. They shout menacingly at us from a few metres away as I push my loaded bike through a woodlot following our guide. Even though we cannot see them, they probably have night vision glasses. Our Croat leader explains our destination to them and they let us pass.
The hotel is typical tower design for patrons who want ‘no surprises’. They cannot make that promise tonight. They have been kind enough when asked to give us a free room for which we are very grateful. They don’t ask us to pay anything. The hotel bed feels wonderful, but it isn’t meant to be. I have just fallen asleep when an air raid siren sounds. We are marshaled to the “party room” in the basement. When it stops we return to our rooms, but a few minutes later another siren begins. I suggest to Bohan that we return with our pillows the next time and just sleep there. I am right. The sirens continue most of the night as we try to catch some winks in between as the other patrons are ushered in and out. As I am lying there it strikes me with mild amusement that this undoubtedly will be one of the most important days of my life and the only picture I have taken one picture, the shot of Split at sunrise from the deck of the ship, minutes before the chaos started.
PHOTO: Split harbour, taken from deck of the Lubritanica
No comments:
Post a Comment