Our Wizz Air flight had actually departed right on time, which was 15 minutes late. My eldest had driven us from his Gillingham home to Luton Airport with enough time for him and his mom to perform the farewell routine for all of one hour. They could actually do all this online and save time. The scene was the exact rerun of what had happened just five days ago when we met him at Heathrow.
He was just happy that we'd made good on our promise to visit him and attend his graduation at Durham on 3 July. What a joyous occasion that day in Durham. Waiting and watching the procession from the pews among the colourful congregation of parents and children in the half-lit 1000 year old Durham Cathedral was truly once-in-a-lifetime experience. I'd not trade this moment for anything. Everyone in attendance including my two granddaughters and their Labubu, were all ears and on our best ever behaviour inside. Once it was all over, we staggered out and all hell broke loose.
We surprised even ourselves by coming here quite well-prepared - me in green Batik shirt and black songkok, and wife in green baju kurung or something. Thank God for keeping me around long enough to be part of this pomp and circumstance.
Believe it or not, it's his fourth graduation, fifth if you include that kindergarten farce. We attended each and every one of them, starting with Northwestern in July 2006, where Obama (yes, that Obama) kicked off with an inspirational commencement speech. He was still a junior senator, but the fire was unmistakable.
Oh, I mustn't forget to thank Jafni (real name) and his wife Suhaima for hosting a sumptuous dinner at his home in Durham. Their Kuih Lopes were top-notch, more authentic than the variety we normally bought at Kg Pandan. Jafni and my eldest were classmates at MRSM, and he was here in Durham finishing his PhD. We knew him quite well because he 'd occasionally turn up at our old house in USJ to link up with my eldest and other heavy-looking classmates for some serious merrymaking. My wife still knows all their names. While this MRSM mob were all nice and polite, I'd never for once thought that any of them would want to do a PhD in anything.
So it was all well and good until 5 July when we'd to part ways. We'd to leave him and Azalia and their two lovely girls (and their Labubu, don't forget), and moved on with our plan. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about our onward itinerary, which looked like a car chase from a Bond flick. Bosnia, Croatia, Montenegro and Naples. Naples!
I can understand his jitters. Me and wife, our combined age in 2025 is around 138 years. We're not really in the pink of health, so to speak. I'm carrying two blocked arteries that require daily statins. An orthopedic specialist had a five-minute look at my wife's knees and recommended a complete knee replacement if she wants to lead a normal life. It took me less than five minutes to decide not to replace any part of her.
And now we'd be romping across the Balkans, just the two of us, all on our own. A Bosnia travel advisory issued by US State Department reads "exercise increased caution due to terrorism, crime and land mines". That's pretty rich coming from a country ruled by Donald Trump. I dismissed it outright.
I've done a fair bit of travelling since retirement, but it's always been in the safe company of my two daughters, Aida and Sarah. They're good with all the Apps and GrabFood. But their geography and sense of places requires substantive side reading, I mean, they can't tell you exactly where Gdansk or Genk is.
But they bring the much-needed energy and vitality, and the way they move from one cafe to another cafe is truly inspiring. We'd almost covered the good half of Europe together, leaving only the Balkan and the Baltic states in the bucket. Then it happened. Sarah got married, and Aida six months later, leaving me out to dry.
This generation, they're so unpredictable. They'd lie low and quiet like they're never interested, only to suddenly spring into action, all at the same time, like there's no more time left. Just a few months ago we were stalking in Stockholm and now they were somebody's wives. With marriage, come new plans, different priorities and mother-in-law. How to start a gas stove? How to correctly fold men's pants? Can I hug my father-in-law? Can I hug my father-in-law in public? With all these woes and worries, Bosnia had to wait.
So it was only me and wife now on this flight to Sarajevo. Did we feel lonely? You bet. Were we scared? Not technically scared, only a hint of helplessness now that we'd nobody to blame if things go rogue. I could picture them both looking out for us from their seats across the aisle, giggling at their mom snoring away hardly ten minutes into the flight.
It's hard to do anything useful in a short flight like this. I brought along my old Sennheiser, but the time I'd take to untangle the wires and line up Uji Rashid (3 hours) is longer than the flight (2 hours). So no point. Somehow it was still long enough for the crew to wheel in with piles of duty-free leftover Lancomes. Nobody fell for this. Perfumes and low-cost flight in one breath is an oxymoron, if you ask me.
The pilot came over the PA to remind the crew to prepare for descent. Sarajevo! Wish you were here, girls. The plane shook and rattled its way down into the thick clouds before nosing up sharply to abort the landing. My stomach sank.
The pilot came on again to report that he'd to divert to Belgrade due to thunderstorms. Things could get complicated if we'd to disembark because I'd need a visa to enter Serbia. I'd lump Serbia in the dark half of Europe, up there with Romania, Belarus, Georgia. The spectre of Slobodan and Srebrenica was enough to give me shivers. As it turned out, I was overthinking, you know, like Pep and his endless line-ups. After a short refuelling stop, we flew off again when it was all clear at Sarajevo.
We finally landed at Sarajevo and stepped out to gusts of fresh Balkan winds. The airport didn't surprise me. The terminal was slightly more modern than the old Subang airport. But immigration and baggage were very fast, and in no time we were outside. Now, where's he?
But there he was, our prebooked driver, waiting to whisk us away in his Skoda. I must tell you girls, this guy's young, tall, fair and smooth with sharp jaw and thin whiskers. Why can't our Grab drivers dress and smell like this, I wondered. We talked throughout, and the way he calmly fielded my barrage of questions, he'd better be a college graduate. I forgot his name, a Muslim name. But his good looks easily reminds me of the great Edin Dzeko, my one-time favourite footballer.
It was already eleven when we finally pulled into Mula Mustafa Street to find our apartment. Edin Dzeko was kind enough to help us with our bags, up the stairs right to the door. He made sure that everything was in order before he left. We shook hands long enough for me to slip in the biggest tip in history.
We were just happy that our Balkans break started well. Sarajevo was safer than Seremban. Only once did I see a police car, yes, a Skoda. The city was clean and quiet without skyscrapers and massive malls to intimidate you. Its old town, called Bascarsija, was a lively and diverse cobblestoned quarter with charming cafes and gift shops, all overrun with summer tourists. We spent almost two hours here. Mosques were everywhere, less than 100 metres apart. You should hear Azan breaking at every solat time. It was pitchy and out of tune, but it's azan alright.
I went for Maghrib at the Ali Pasha Mosque just behind our apartment. Small but imposing with heavy Turkish influence, it was built in 1550, about 200 years before Masjid Kg Laut, the oldest in Malaysia, according to AI.
I'm an architectural idiot, so I'm not sure what to make of this Sarajevo mosque style. I'd come across some pretentious parlance like Classical, Baroque, Gothic, Neo-Gothic. I'm happy with "old", or maybe "Ottoman" just to sound more educated. Almost everything here is Ottoman, anyway. Ottoman this, Ottoman that. The Ottomans have been largely blamed for all of Europe's major miseries, including Manchester United.
We tried a kebab-like lunch at a cafe in the old town. It was tender and juicy but more on the bland and dull side compared to, say, ikan bekak or gulai serati. Unfair comparison, but you'll get the idea.
After two nights in Sarajevo, we hopped on a bus for our next leg - to Mostar - in the Herzegovina part of Bosnia-Herzegovina, a pretty and poetic name for a country with a brutal history. My only regret so far is not snagging a collectible FC Sarajevo shirt on sale (about RM75) at the FC Sarajevo Shop on the way back from the mosque. I didn't bring along my purse and passport on the advice of my wife. You'd struggle to find a more suspicious mind than my wife. To her, everybody else is a probable pickpocket.
It's another two nights in Mostar before we moved along to Dubrovnik in Croatia, about four hours by bus. Part of our Dubrovnik day-out was crossing over to Montenegro to see Kotor, another historic town. My initial plan was to drive from Dubrovnik to Kotor, but I'd to scrap it after reading about bottlenecks at the border checkpoint. My eldest in Gillingham celebrated this change of plans with a bucket of halal KFC with his two girls.
We joined a bus tour instead. For RM250 each, it's affordable, fuss-free, and low-adrenaline. Looking back, I should've driven and taken some risk because the border was clear. But the tour came with a guide, who talked non-stop with standard jokes like a person from Montenegro is not a Dutch, but a Montenegrin (Actually I made up this joke). Not everybody can be a tour guide. You'd need the right skills and strong knees, not to mention a healthy body mass index. I've not seen a tour guide heavier than 75 kg. Our guide came from North Macedonia, if you know where it is. Her weight was about right, but my wife didn't quite agree with her fashion sense.
This time around I've decided to skip the details and technicalities of the places we visited. If you're still interested, you can ask ChatGPT. Maybe one thing. Dubrovnik is bloody expensive. What you get in Sarajevo, you've to pay twice in Dubrovnik. An Uber ride from our hotel to the bus station set us back 14.40 Euro or RM 70 for a distance of about one km. To think that this is all legal and proper, with receipt and thank you from Uber, I could only wish I'd been scammed.
For sheer beauty, I thought Sarajevo was just average by the high European standards, although its old quarter was delightful. Maybe I've to venture outside and brave the land mines (hahaha). I'd rate it five out of ten, nothing like Prague or Budapest (both easy nine). But Mostar, Dubrovnik and Kotor are all brilliant and stunning masterworks, a fitting homage to human creativity, persistence and industry. All the rage and reputation are totally deserved. You'd think I've been paid by Uber or somebody for this minor marketing.
Of the lot, I think Mostar deserves a shoutout for its timeless beauty. Perching precariously on craggy cliffs along a river, majestic Mostar is a city in abeyance. It's been there for more than 500 years, and for 500 years it's been feigning with the impression that it's about to crash and collapse at any moment. I've no doubt it'll survive another 500 years.
The main draw in Mostar was, of course, that iconic and romantic old bridge, known locally as Stari Most (meaning, well, Old Bridge). Built by, hold your breath, the Ottomans, in 1500s, the bridge was destroyed by the Croats in 1993 and rebuilt in 2004 (not by the Croats).
So technically this old bridge wasn't old. Neither was it complicated. I'm not very good at Physics (and many other subjects), but I could tell that it wouldn't be too difficult to build, destroy and build again and destroy it again. I've seen impossible steel or glass bridges in China spanning two or three mountains for no reason. This epic Mostar bridge was a devilishly simple arch stone bridge across a gorge, but it was steeped in history and folklore. From a distance, I'd all the the luxury of time to appreciate and admire its sublime beauty. And I even took an extra time to decide whether it was concave or convex. It's concave, in case you're unsure.
There was so much joy in merging with the endless crowds and gasping at every turn. Each and every little souvenir shop lining up the narrow and treacherously tilting alleys was a treasure in itself. The salespeople were all pleasant and friendly, some went overboard, screaming "Malaysia, Malaysia". My wife wanted to buy just about everything she touched. I reminded her of her knees and our depleting supply of Celebrex. It was uphill, but I just had to try everything to stem the frenzy.
There's one shop that showcased bridge replicas made of stones from the original bridge. I enquired in jest whether she had new stock coming in the next few days. She took it well and just laughed it off. It's not too expensive, so we bought one and just prayed that it's an authentic Ottoman piece. You can scroll all the way up and see for yourself.
Both Dubrovnik and Kotor are globally glorified for their medieval walled towns. It's hard not to be overwhelmed by the exquisite engineering and architecture of these towns. Uncannily similar in structure and character, they're separated by just 100 km of breathtaking coastal route that literally laps the blue waters of the Adriatic sea. Our bus followed this route and the sight was simply unbelievable.
Exploring these two ancient towns, you've to walk the walls and choke the narrow and mazy alleys, together with throngs of other like-minded tourists. The vibe and atmosphere was quite similar although Kotor was more compact and rowdy. Signages were scarce, so it's easy to get lost and some vertigo. But I can promise you'll find your way out. The trick is to tag along any Chinese tour group, who don't stay long in places that don't sell LV bags. These medieval cities don't sell LV because they're medieval.
I was impressed with how well-kept these cities were. For 1000 years these city dwellers have managed to keep all their homes and plumbing functioning while my cousins in Kelantan are still waiting for clean water. Still it's difficult to appreciate this insular idea of a walled city with one massive gate. You need to farm and fish to live, and socialize with other towns to bring in potential investments. I'm forever an economics student, so things like this don't just go away.
I thought the Portuguese had the same idea when they ruled Melaka in the 16th century. They built one fort called A'Famosa with one big gate, but no walls. So Melaka was gated but not guarded, haha. It prospered and attracted Arab traders, Indian fund managers and Chinese fortune tellers.
But unfortunately it also attracted the Dutch, who invaded and easily took over Melaka and controlled world's biggest supply of spices (Actually it's never about spices, I mean, you don't fight over spices. Most likely it's opium or Ketum). After 200 years, the Dutch withdrew and, being Dutch, they left without building any walls or bridges or anything useful other than Jonker Street. Sorry for making small talk like this.
I'm done with the Balkans part. Sorry if it's all disjointed and disorganized and you've found it difficult to read without feeling depressed. I still hope it's piqued enough curiosity for you to rush out and book your flight to Sarajevo. A number of travel agents are targeting unsuspecting Malay retirees and housewives with offers of Balkans tours where you get to visit seven or nine countries in ten days. Don't do this. On the 11th day, you'll be tired, or dead tired, or dead. It's impossible to enjoy nine countries in ten days. Marco Polo took three years to travel from Venice to Hangzhou.
I've uploaded some photos of me and wife at various places. Most were taken by my wife and some by kind strangers who were all excited to help good-looking people like us.
If you like this, there's a Part 2. It's mostly on our last leg - Naples, Italy. I'm still writing it and will publish it here if I can finish it.
Dandy Day In Durham
Old Man In Old Town
Swinging In Sweden With The Girls (1924)
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