20 years ago today - Day 199

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Wednesday, September 18th – Split, Day 2

I woke on the hard surface of the "Party Room" bench in the basement of the hotel we took refuge in last. Bojan looks a little rough this morning, rougher than his usual rough. But we are alive and safe, at least for now. It's sunny out, a deceptively perfect Mediterranean late summer day that is so much more enjoyable than the peak heat of July. It's the kind of day that inspires one to love the entire world. How can a war be launched on a day like today?

Bojan and I eat breakfast at the hotel restaurant. It costs more than I want to spend but we owe the hotel something for keeping us alive. After paying for my ticket in Rijeka, I don't have a lot of cash left. There is no saying how long I might be trapped in this city, and I don't yet know if my debit card will work here. There are a bottomless pit full of negative options of how my immediate future my play out. I don't want to think of any of them right now.

The next logical option seems to be to return to the Terminal Warehouse in case there have been further developments. I wheel my loaded bike back with me. No one else is there when we arrive, but a few minutes later Frenk and Irena arrive. They have spent the night in a rented guesthouse in the city. They seem to be taking this crisis in stride as though they are celebrating their honeymoon. Janunz does not return. There are just the four of us remaining, soaking in the sun and relaxing the best we can.

Half an hour or later a couple reporters from the local paper arrive to interview those who have been forced off the ship and have no place to go. They interviewing Irena, but she refers them to me since I am from Canada. Being from the other side of the world seems to make me more news-worthy. Irena translates while I tell them about how Bojan and I spent the night. I praise the hotel so they will receive public credit for their kindness. They ask other off-kilter questions, such as how do I like Croatia and what do I think about the war. I provide inane answers to match the questions. That seems to satisfy them and they disappear as quickly as they come.

An older German fellow named Gunther appears and asks us what has been happening. He had been camping in his van twenty kilometres from Siblenik, north of here, near where the Serbs and Croats are exchanging machine gun fire and mortar shells from either end of the bridge over the fjord. After couple days, the noise has driven him south because he couldn't sleep. I get the impression that he is an eccentric hermit who has little patience with humanity. He regards the war as a nuisance. We have heard that the highway south to Dubrovnik has been closed due to bombing around the army base at Ploce, 90 kilometres north of Dubrovnik. He gives a disgruntled sigh and slumps back to his van.

The Terminal Building opens up its cafeteria on the second floor. From there we can see the navy ships on one side and the city on the other. Frenk has just finished a two year stink in the navy. He has served on this destroyer and the sailors running it are his friends. It is a terrible irony that if they attack they may kill him and the rest of us. He tells us the ship is not prepared to attack the city as its bow is pointed towards us. It has been positioned to block the shipping channels, at least for now. We are safe as long as it stays like this, he reassures us.

“There has to be a song for a day like today,” Irena muses. ‘What?” we all ask in amazement. “There is a song for everything. We need to think of a perfect song for today,” she chides us. The idea is crazy, but it brings some lightness to our situation. “How about ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’”, Frenk suggests, using the Croatian reference to bombs as ‘rain’. “Or ‘I Can’t Stand the Rain’,” Bohan offers. Soon we are all having a go at it. “Oh No, Don’t Let the Rain Fall Down”, Elvis’s “Don’t Be Cruel”, the Beatles’ “Help!” and Maureen McGovern’s “There’s Got To Be A Morning After” round out the other choices. I think to myself that John Denver’s “I Want To Live” says it all, but that seems too serious to put forward. We unanimously agree that “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” would be the worst choice.

After our restaurant meal we stroll into town. Frenk, Bojan and Irena settle at an outdoor café while I walk around for half an hour to see the city. Most of the residents seem to be in denial. They lounge about the sidewalk cafes as though they are on vacation and war is a million miles away. This is probably in defiance of the state of fear the Serbians are trying to impose on the city. Storekeepers are criss-crossing their windows packaging tape to reduce the flying glass caused by possible shrapnel. Croatian flags are hanging everywhere in allegiance with the independence movement. A Croatian youth has the checkerboard crest of the Croatian flag styled into his most recent haircut. He is pleased that I want to photograph it.

I buy a samosa from a kiosk and climb up onto the rooftop of a low rise cinder block building that is boarded up. I dangle my feet over the edge, eat my treat and watch the Albanian money changers around the base of the building below me. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them. Without warning, Croatian security forces appear and start shoving and hand-cuffing them. The Albanians are not resisting as the Croatians have guns, but they are trying to negotiate and plead for reason. I cannot understand Croatian or Albanian, but that much is clear. The relative peace of the day is shattered by this and I expect the soldiers to come for me too, not having any idea what has precipitated this. I sit very still as the Albanians get slammed around a couple metres away without apparent reason. Then they are hauled away roughly and I am all alone, as though I was invisible throughout it all.

The city could be attacked at any moment. No one is concerned about money changers who happen not to have money to change during the crisis. It makes to sense to waste resources by bully minorities at this time. Perhaps it makes them feel powerful and effective. I assume that the Croatians feel set upon by the Serbs, and they want to exorcise their tensions on the helpless Albanians who are ill-respected by all other Balkan peoples. Of course, I don’t really know what was going on, but there seems to be so much hatred in the Balkans that no one is innocent anymore. I understand the urge for other countries to want to get involved to protect the innocent, but the hatred here is so intense I can’t imagine what good would come of trying to get between the two sides in whatever conflict erupts here.

Upset by the exchange, I wander back and look for the other three at the patio café. They are ready to leave so we walk back to the Terminal Building. Irena and Frenk are afraid of running out of money and are not sure if they should book a hotel room for tonight. Danica, the Italian woman with the bed and breakfast who I was so rude to yesterday when I was distraught, returns. She has brought me figs from her orchard outside the city. She cannot remember my name, only that it sounds like Canada, so she calls me “Poor Canada”. I am humbled by her kindness and ashamed of how I dealt with her yesterday.

She asks Irena to translate as she tells her that she wants to offer me a room at her guest house for free. Then, incredibly, she says Irena, Frenk and Bojan do no need help as they are Slovenians and are not so far from home, even though the way home has been cut off. It is an unwelcome offer. I don’t want to leave the other three, as I need their ability to translate for me and I greatly appreciate their friendship, yet I have no idea if we can stay in the hotel basement again tonight. Certainly that arrangement cannot last long. But I am also offended by her callous comment about the Slovenians not needing help. Irena had the grace to translate it without protesting.

I hesitate, not knowing what to say. Irena turns to me and says, ‘You don’t have to look so down, Ken. You were just offered free accommodation.’ The three Slovenians wait to see how I respond. Whatever I say Irena will translate but I feel the need to speak directly at Danica herself in words that she will understand without translation. I look her right in the eye and say two of the few Italians words I know, “Mia familia”, while gesturing at the three Slovenians.

Danica and the other three are shocked by my words. They each look down rather awkwardly to mull them over, not knowing how to respond. The Slovenians are deeply touched I stood up for them and called them ‘family’. Danica sees my point that I will not separate from them so, after a couple minutes of thinking about it, announces she has free room for all of us at her guest house. Suddenly, there are smiles all around and Francesca leads the four of us back to her place about a 15 minute walk away.

It is a ramshackle guest house that looks like it might collapse around us if a mortar shell lands within 50 metres of it. Bojan and I share one room and Frenk and Irena the other. Danica is very pleased to have me at her place. She takes us out to show us the neighbourhood and the way to the beach, which we wants us to visit to make the most of our troubling situation. She stays beside me and tries to teach me Croatian. She is definitely not a Croatian as a Second Language teacher. The first word she tries to teach me is the word for oleander when we pass a bush in bloom. It is such a worthless word when I don’t yet know how to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ that it makes me laugh and I forget it instantly.

No one is in a mood to visit the beach as it is late afternoon. We buy groceries and Danica make us dinner at her place. As soon as the others have their backs turned she beckons me into her kitchen and slips an extra piece of meat on my plate. “Poor Canada” she says. I am touched by her favouritism, but irritated by it too. I did not want to offend her, but I am seriously about feeling close to the others and do not want to be treated specially. I accept it so that I don’t create a scene, but if any of the others had seen us I would have refused it or I would have cut it up to share it.

It has been a second draining day, much nicer than yesterday, but stressful nonetheless, especially witnessing the incident with the Albanian money changers. We all want to lay low. Besides, the curfew is on and we cannot go outside. From time to time we hear a gun shot that makes us jump. Snipers? Croat militia? It is anyone’s guess where it came from and for whom it was intended. There is also the constant fear that Yugoslav bombardment of the city could begin at any time and there is clearly no safe place to hide in Francesca’s home. I feel for the tens of thousands of people in this city feeling this same fear tonight.

Frenk and Irena when I referred to them as ‘mia familia’ They looked vulnerable for a few seconds and their eyes brimmed with tears. Bojan is especially terrified. I spent this evening talking with him about his life and interests and distracting him from his fears by telling funny stories. He is a long-distance runner who has done a couple double marathons (52 km). He is somewhat estranged from his family as his parents have questioned many of his choices, but he misses them during this crisis. I would offer to hold him in my arms tonight if I thought he would let me.


PHOTO 1: Croatian flags and packaging tape on windows
PHOTO 2: Croatian checkerboard crest in boy's haircut
PHOTO 3: fortifications and flowers in the old city
PHOTO 4: statue and tower in the city centre