We'll be landing in Sarajevo shortly, me and my wife. It's high summer with long days in the Balkans, but it's already dark outside the stuttering aircraft, except for some lazy streaks of lightning.
This is a journey years in the making. Like a big-budget movie, it's been conceived, cancelled, reimagined, cancelled, reworked, cancelled, and finally, revived. But even a perfect plan has a way of floundering. We're only 10,000 feet away now, and nothing's in the way. The plane is shaking. Please, God, make this happen, just this one time.
The onboard audio crackles and the pilot comes on to announce my worst fear: he's going to abort the landing and divert to Belgrade. My stomach sinks.
Dandy Day In Durham
Our Wizz Air flight had departed right on time, which means 15 minutes late. My eldest had driven us from his Gillingham flat 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 it turned out to be. 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 a 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 eyes and ears. I'd never seen them this somber and serious. Finally his name was called, and up he went to receive the scroll, the culmination of a ten-year postgraduate pursuit. With that, he's now the most educated person in our family, at least in theory.
We surprised ourselves by coming here well-prepared - me in green Batik shirt and black songkok, and wife in what looked like green baju kurung. Our daughter-in-law, Azalia, also had something on that looked like green baju kurung, although she wore it better than her mother-in-law, being a lot leaner, younger and all. It's just my random opinion, I mean, me and wife could always go back and argue about this later. But for now I must 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.
A Lovely Dinner
Oh, I must thank Jafni (real name) and his wife Suhaima for hosting a sumptuous dinner at his home in Durham. Suhaima's kuih lopes were nothing short of spectacular, truly top-notch stuff, more authentic than the variety we normally bought at Kg Pandan. By her own admission, she's a passionate cook who'd try out new dishes for fun. Jafni's friends would drop by at half a chance, and hang around long enough for all the food ideas to finally transform into some real, physical food.
Jafni and my eldest were buddies at MRSM PC, and he's here at 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 a few other heavy-looking classmates for some serious merrymaking. My wife still knows all their names.
While this MRSM mob all looked eager and ready for all eventualities, I'd never for one moment thought that any of them would want to do a PhD for any reason.
Four Countries For Old Man
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 lovely daughters and their Labubu, and moved on with our plan. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about our onward itinerary that reads like a car chase sequence from a Bond flick. Bosnia, Croatia, Montenegro and Naples.
I'd assured him earlier it's only Bosnia. I'd also assured him Physics was easy when he was in Form Four.
I can understand his jitters. Me and wife, our combined age in 2025 was around 138 years. We weren't really in the pink of health, so to speak. I had two blocked arteries that require daily statins. An orthopedic specialist had a five-minute look at my wife's misshapen knees and recommended a complete knee replacement if she wants to lead a normal life. We'd been together for more than 40 years of our lives, both normal and abnormal.
The idea of replacing her knee or any part of her now, well, I thought it's better never than late. I sought a Tiger Lane classmate's advice. He thought the better idea was to replace her. A classmate is always a classmate.
And now we'd be romping across the Balkans, just the two of us, all on our own. A Bosnia travel advisory issued by the US State Department reads "exercise increased caution due to terrorism, crime and land mines". That's pretty rich coming from a country trampled by Trump. I dismissed it outright.
Gone Girls
I've done a fair bit of travelling since retirement, but it's always been in the safe company of my two grown-up daughters, Aida and Sarah. They're good with Google Maps and GrabFood. But their grasp of Geography and their sense of place and space requires substantive side reading. They can't tell you exactly where Gdansk is, or how far is Ghent from Genk (Neither can you ha ha).
But they bring the much-needed energy and vitality to the journey. The way they swagger from one instagrammable cafe to another instagrammable cafe is truly inspiring. Lining up for an hour outside Cafe Central in Vienna for casual coffee and cupcakes incapsulates all the essentials of hard work and persistence.
We'd almost covered the good half of Europe together, leaving only the Balkan and the Baltic states in the bucket.
Then the unthinkable happened. Sarah got married. And Aida six months later.
Marriages are as natural as naps and nuts when they're not in quick succession. I know we've to let them go, if not now, eventually. Only there's this sudden sense of distance and disconnection. And the sweet scent of their presence every time I open their empty bedrooms. Just a few months ago we were stalking together in Stockholm and now they were somebody's wives.
With marriage, come new plans, different priorities and the proverbial 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 just had to wait.
Fright On Flight
So it was only me and wife now on this flight to Sarajevo. Did we feel lonely? You bet. Were we scared? Not technically, 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 under ten minutes into the flight.
It's hard to do anything useful on a short flight other than just sitting back to let your idle mind wander off. It's only a two-hour flight but it's long enough for the crew to wheel in with piles of duty-free left-over Lancomes. Nobody fell for this. Perfumes on a low-cost flight is an oxymoron, if you ask me.
Finally the onboard PA system came alive. The pilot reminded the crew to prepare for landing. 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. The pilot came on again to report that he'd to divert to Belgrade due to thunderstorm. My big Bosnian neighbour groaned and swore in Slavic language.
Things could actually get complicated if we'd to disembark because we'd need a visa to enter Serbia. I'd lump Serbia in the dark half of Europe, up there with questionable concepts like Romania, Belarus, Georgia and Tim Burton's movies. Will I end up in Slobodan's cell tonight?
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 was very fast, and in no time we were outside. Now, where's he?
Strolling In Sarajevo (5 - 7 July)
There he was, our prebooked driver, waiting to whisk us away in his Skoda. I must tell you girls, this guy is 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 battery of inquiries in fluent and polite English, he'd better be a college graduate. He's a Muslim with a Muslim name which I quickly forgot. But his height and good looks easily reminded me of the great Edin Dzeko, my one-time favourite footballer. I've not forgotten his thumping header for City in that epic title-winning game in 2012.
It was already eleven when we finally pulled into Mula Mustafa area to find our apartment. Edin Dzeko was kind enough to help us with our bags, up the stairs right to the door. He looked all around and up and down before putting down our bags. Was he sweeping for land mines? Hahaha.
We were just happy that our Balkans break started well. Sarajevo was safer than Seremban. The city was clean and quiet, without pointless skyscrapers, massive malls and traffic jams to intimidate us.
Its old town, called Bascarsija, was a lively and colourful cobblestoned quarter overrun with tourists. There were rows after rows of charming cafes and gift shops brimming with original Bosnian arts and crafts and soaps, pots and plates. My wife's knees suddenly felt better, and there would never be any need for knee replacement. We spent almost two hours here, crisscrossing and almost colliding with each other.
This is the place to be in Bosnia. Mosques were everywhere, less than 100 metres apart. You should hear the Azan breaking at every solat time. It was pitchy and offkey, but it's azan alright.
We stopped for a kebab-like lunch at a cafe in the old town. The dish had a Balkan name that was easy to forget. It was tender and juicy, but the taste was bland and uneventful compared to, say, ikan bekak or gulai serati. Unfair comparison, but you'll get the idea.
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 the magnificent Masjid Kg Laut, the oldest in Malaysia.
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.
Mad About Mostar (7 - 9 July)
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 can't find a more suspicious mind than my wife. To her, everybody else is a probable pickpocket.
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 hanging on just like that, waiting for the right time to crash and collapse. I've no doubt it'll survive another 500 years.
Mostar's claim to fame 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 had been destroyed by the Croats during the brief Bosnian War, and rebuilt in 2004 (not by the Croats).
So technically this old bridge as it stood now 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.
The bridge was devilishly simple - a stone arch structure laid across a narrow river. I've seen indestructible steel and glass bridges in China spanning over two or three mountains for no reason. The same Chinese guys can build two Mostar bridges in less than two weeks. But no amount of modern engineering can bring about the rich history and folklore that have drawn millions of tourists to Mostar.
From a distance, I'd all the the luxury of time to gawk at Mostar Bridge in full flight, and savour its sublime beauty. I even took an extra time to ponder upon an old geometrical conundrum: is this concave or convex? It's concave all day long.
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 treacherous alleys was a treasure in itself. We could even hear shouts of "murah, murah" as we passed by.
There's this one particular shop offering bridge replicas made of stones from the original Mostar bridge. I asked 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.
Dazzled By Dubrovnik. And Kotor (9 -11 July)
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. Our initial plan was to drive to Kotor, but we had to ditch it due to possible bottlenecks at the border. A minor disappointment for us, but a cause for celebration for our man in Gillingham, who'd been religiously tracking our movements every half-hour.
We joined a bus tour instead. For RM250 each, it's affordable, no fuss, no fluff, no meals. And it 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. I've never seen a tour guide heavier than 70 kg. Our guide came from North Macedonia, if you know where it is. Her weight was about right, although my wife didn't quite agree with her sense of fashion, which was literally over the top.
I'll skip the details and technicalities of these places. If you're still interested, you can ask Meta AI. Maybe one thing. Dubrovnik was 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 was all legal and proper, with receipt and thank you from Uber, I could only wish I'd been scammed.
Both Dubrovnik and Kotor are glorified globally for their medieval walled towns. You'd be instantly bowled over by the exquisite engineering and architecture on display. Uncannily similar in character, they're separated by just 100 km of breathtaking coastal route that literally laps the blue waters of the Adriatic Sea. Our bus took this route and believe me, girls, the sight was insane.
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 vibes and atmosphere were quite similar although Kotor was more compact and rowdy. Signages were scarce, so it's easy to get lost and some vertigo. We finally found our way out of Kotor. The trick is to follow a Chinese tour group. They won't stay long in places that don't sell LV bags.
Some Serious Thoughts
On the way back to Dubrovnik, our girl guide became more subdued and less prolific. Maybe she was all in and exhausted from trying to correctly call all 45 names in the bus. Or she'd no more Montenegrin jokes left.
Whatever the reason was, it didn't bother my wife who was already deep in dreamland. I could now seize the moment to recap and reflect on our Balkans expedition.
First thing first: we were still good, no leg cramps, no heart attacks. In six days, we'd toured through three Balkan countries, four if you include that brief incursion into Serbia. Not too shabby for a 138 year-old couple. And tomorrow we'd be flying out of Dubrovnik. No, not back to KL. We'd be flying to Naples, Italy. Sorry, girls.
As for now, what immediately struck me was how clean and orderly these so-called medieval cities were. For 1000 years these city dwellers had managed to keep all their homes and plumbing fully functioning while my cousins in Kelantan are still waiting for clean water in 2025.
Only it's difficult to make sense of this insular idea of a walled city with one massive gate. You need to farm and fish to live, and make friends with other cities to bring in potential investments or borrow money. Maybe security was paramount, with the Ottomans (ha ha) lurking from neighbouring Bosnia.
Which reminded me of what had befallen the old Melaka. The Portuguese built one big gate (A'Famosa), but no walls, nothing. Melaka was attacked 24 times before it finally fell to the Dutch. The Dutch, being Dutch, kept the gate but decided not to spend a guilder on walls. When they had to pull out later, they left nothing of value except A'Fmosa and Jonker Street as permanent tourist traps.
Sorry for making this small and silly talk. I'm forever an economics student, so things like this don't just go away.
For sheer beauty, I thought Sarajevo was, borrowing the words of Simon Cowell, "very average". Agreed its old town was pleasant and joyful, but the city surrounds and atmosphere was restrained and unexpressive in every way. You'd expect more from a city that had started a world war. Maybe I've to venture outside and brave the land mines (hahaha).
But Mostar, Dubrovnik and Kotor were all brilliant and stunning medieval masterpieces, a fitting homage to human ingenuity and industry. All the rage and reputation here were well-deserved. Which make you wonder why are these far-flung places so gorgeous and good-looking while back home we're left to marvel at Batu Pahat, Kuala Sepetang etc.
One Final Word
We're done with the Bosnia, or rather the Balkans, part of the journey. Sorry if it's all disjointed and disorganized and you've found it difficult to digest without feeling slightly 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 actively promoting Balkans Tours, targeting unsuspecting Malay retirees, wealthy housewives, professors and even medical specialists, with offers of nine countries in ten days or ten countries in nine days for less than RM10,000. It's easy to get motivated by these numbers.
Nine countries in ten days! Just don't do it. 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 travelled through eight countries on his way to China. It took him three years.
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 assist 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 ever finish it.
Dandy Day In Durham
Off To Sarajevo
Old Man In Old Town
Mostar Old Bridge
Malaysian Old Lady
Mostar (old) Mosque
Finally Found Our Way Out of Kotor
Is this Dubrovnik or Kotor? They All Looked The Same
Another Day, Another Pretty Town
Swinging In Sweden With The Girls (2024)
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