I travel for beauty. I plan my adventures to look for the world’s natural wonders and the things people build around them. I saw a photo of Dubrovnik, Croatia and its cliff-perching beauty drew me to the country.
I travel to explore. I plan trips that allow me to move my body through those natural wonders I seek. For Croatia, hiking and biking topped the itinerary. I will clamber around castles and sprint up stone walls, but I have no interest in museum-strolling or hours of beach-lounging.
As with most of my travel, my priority was not to absorb Croatian culture or history, but, as with all my trips, it seeps in through my pores as my sweat drips out. In the early 1990s, Croatia was involved in a horrific, bloody war and the reverberations of the conflict hum in the background of daily life to this day.
I travel to explore. I plan trips that allow me to move my body through those natural wonders I seek. For Croatia, hiking and biking topped the itinerary. I will clamber around castles and sprint up stone walls, but I have no interest in museum-strolling or hours of beach-lounging.
As with most of my travel, my priority was not to absorb Croatian culture or history, but, as with all my trips, it seeps in through my pores as my sweat drips out. In the early 1990s, Croatia was involved in a horrific, bloody war and the reverberations of the conflict hum in the background of daily life to this day.
Early in our trip, Alison and I hired a guide to take us to Plitvice Lakes (PLIT-vitza), a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a national treasure (couples from all over the country go to the park to take engagement photos), and where the first shots were fired in 1991 when Croatia seceded from Yugoslavia and started a war.
Our guide, Ivana, brought up that war during our drive to the park. She was a teenager at the time, and was “obsessed with some boy,” but remembers how worried her parents were, the shelling, the food scarcity, the havoc and mayhem, the fear. She says war was not the answer, there should not have been a war, and there should never be another.
Our guide, Ivana, brought up that war during our drive to the park. She was a teenager at the time, and was “obsessed with some boy,” but remembers how worried her parents were, the shelling, the food scarcity, the havoc and mayhem, the fear. She says war was not the answer, there should not have been a war, and there should never be another.
At the time, startled by the frankness and intimacy of the discussion, neither Alison nor I felt prepared or knowledgeable enough to ask questions. That night, we pulled up this Rick Steves article to help us understand the conflict. Even gentle Rick Steves couldn’t soften the brutality of the fight. I read the article aloud over a dinner of pasta and wine on a garden patio in the beach town of Zadar, and I had to stop several times to catch my breath, my heart aching.
Leaving Zadar, we traveled south to start our bike tour. On the first day of the tour, we met Darko, who drove us from point to point on several occasions. We learned that there are nearly as many Croatians living outside the country as in, many of them in northern California (everyone we met has a cousin in San Francisco). We asked if he wanted to leave too, and he said he couldn’t because of family obligations. Darko has a fatalism we saw in many of the Croatian men we met. We were driving north out of Dubrovnik along the cliffs over the Adriatic, and the blue sea and green islands kept trapping my eyes. I said, “It’s not such a bad place to be stuck,” and Darko responded, “Yes, aside from the years of bloody war.”
A bit of a conversation stopper, that.
A bit of a conversation stopper, that.
We spent two days on Korcula (KOR-chula) riding mountain bikes on gravel roads through olive groves and along the coast, jumping into the sea as necessary, and then Darko came again to bring us back to Dubrovnik.
During our drive, we asked which of Croatia’s many (many) islands is his favorite. Darko named one that he spent nearly a year on as a young teen. He explained that it was just out of reach of Serbian shelling during the war, so many parents sent their sons there for safety. They “lived like hippies,” running to the docks every few days to meet the boats to see whether parents had sent food or money. It was a hard time, with hard memories, but Darko smiled thinking of the island and the youthful joy it allowed him.
Twenty years gone, yet still, the war is so close to the surface here. It seems to come up in every conversation.
During our drive, we asked which of Croatia’s many (many) islands is his favorite. Darko named one that he spent nearly a year on as a young teen. He explained that it was just out of reach of Serbian shelling during the war, so many parents sent their sons there for safety. They “lived like hippies,” running to the docks every few days to meet the boats to see whether parents had sent food or money. It was a hard time, with hard memories, but Darko smiled thinking of the island and the youthful joy it allowed him.
Twenty years gone, yet still, the war is so close to the surface here. It seems to come up in every conversation.
We spent our final days, after a day-trip to Sipan (SHIP-on) and two nights on Mljet (Myet), in Konavle, a valley south of Dubrovnik. Our host and hostess had turned their home into a B&B and cultural museum with heirlooms from their family. The original house dated to 1400.
Our hosts loved to talk to their guests. Miho, the husband, came into breakfast the second day, and in his spotty English said: “You know peyote? Peyote? The droga? I have some! I have it in my garden! Hah!” That was all. He also “forced us” to sample some of the local wine he had on hand. It was a special place.
Our hosts loved to talk to their guests. Miho, the husband, came into breakfast the second day, and in his spotty English said: “You know peyote? Peyote? The droga? I have some! I have it in my garden! Hah!” That was all. He also “forced us” to sample some of the local wine he had on hand. It was a special place.
After a day of cycling around the valley and up to Sokol Grad and its 15th century castle, we had a long conversation over wine and chocolate with our hostess (who’s name I never learned). In the darkness of the garden patio, she spoke of her war unprompted. As the Yugoslav army shelled Dubrovnik into oblivion and cut off the tiny strip of Konavle from the rest of Croatia, she gathered her young daughters and fled with the clothes on her back.
With hands crossed over her heart, she said how deeply she feels for the Syrians crossing through her country, because she too was a refugee.
With hands crossed over her heart, she said how deeply she feels for the Syrians crossing through her country, because she too was a refugee.
Croatia is a delightful country. The island-studded coastline is rough and rugged, the Adriatic shimmers and shines, the terrain ebbs and flows in castle-bedecked mountains and vineyard-filled valleys. Go there.
But this is not a travelogue. This is a story about war.
Our country has been at war since 2001. The US has had its troops fighting and dying in foreign lands for a decade and a half. How often do we discuss it? How often do we feels its pain and carry its burden?
During all our years of war, Croatia has been healing and rebuilding. And still, the scars can’t be hidden by new roofs, new walls, new roads.
We keep our war distant and place its hardship and heartache on the residents of those faraway lands rather than carrying the load and bearing the scars of war ourselves. Would we be so quick to pull the trigger on a declaration of war if our families, friends and neighbors might feel the bullet?
Croatia’s natural beauty and sites of historical interest have drawn tourists, helping the country rebound. You can rebuild cities, but people are harder to fix. We can learn from Croatia. Years of bloody war is never the answer.
But this is not a travelogue. This is a story about war.
Our country has been at war since 2001. The US has had its troops fighting and dying in foreign lands for a decade and a half. How often do we discuss it? How often do we feels its pain and carry its burden?
During all our years of war, Croatia has been healing and rebuilding. And still, the scars can’t be hidden by new roofs, new walls, new roads.
We keep our war distant and place its hardship and heartache on the residents of those faraway lands rather than carrying the load and bearing the scars of war ourselves. Would we be so quick to pull the trigger on a declaration of war if our families, friends and neighbors might feel the bullet?
Croatia’s natural beauty and sites of historical interest have drawn tourists, helping the country rebound. You can rebuild cities, but people are harder to fix. We can learn from Croatia. Years of bloody war is never the answer.