BOSNIA, PART 1: UNDERSTANDING THE CLUES

La version française est en cours de traduction. Merci de votre patience. 

This morning, we just crossed the border from Croatia into Bosnia. Things are different here. I notice abandoned houses here and there. Churches too. When I am traveling, I’m always looking for cues, trying to understand what happened AND what’s going on now. Really going on now, not the story I’m fed.

After about fifty houses, I realize they invariably have four thick stone walls still standing, but no roof, no windows, no inside walls. It dawns on me: those are not old and abandoned: they were destroyed during the Bosnian War. They are left standing. A testimony to the massacres, to the endless horrors. A war waged on civilians. We have been doing a huge amount of painful research these past few days, and suddenly we find ourselves riding through the history we both have been having nightmares about.

I have a huge lump in my throat. With all the years I have spent creating artwork about genocides, wars and refugees, I have never witnessed any of it directly. I have never been in a country where what is left from the devastation of war is still visible, untouched. Silent witnesses. Based on what I read, I make up some stories: people left in a hurry. The ones able to come back built a new house practically touching the destroyed one. It takes money to remove a house. One thing people do not have here is money. They may want to keep the ruins as a reminder. Never again. And again: never again.

The further south we travel, the closer the destroyed houses are to each other. Until finally I see what makes me fall apart all the way.

I stop. I get off. I don’t remember looking for a safe place to pull over. I’m in a daze.

Ten, fifteen houses together. A village. A village of destroyed houses. As I’m standing there, I hear children playing, laughing. They are running. There is a ball. I immediately worry: one could run after the ball all the way to the road where there are cars. I see a woman walking to her neighbor to ask for a cup of sugar. I feel the breeze of a warm summer evening when the entire village gets together to roast a goat and celebrate. I see old people resting in the shade. I see young women bringing large platters of food.

I come back. Minutes have gone by. Nothing has moved.

Life here has long been gone.

I’m sobbing. 

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CROATIA, PART 3: A SPECIAL MEETING (PART 3/3)

La version française est en cours de traduction. Merci de votre patience. 

But he wasn’t done yet: we had to seal our connection with a special ceremony…

He invites me to drink his homemade raki. Alcohol and riding is definitely not my favorite equation but … really: I’m going to say no to this man who by now I’m convinced is my long lost father from a former life? We are like two peas in a pod, reunited at last. Of course I will have his raki. That makes him very very happy. 

By now you might be wondering: where is Mike while all this is happening? He is right there, near us. Completely invisible to Copic. I don’t think he ever looked at Mike. And if I had any doubt that my perception was false, I was about to get full confirmation that it wasn’t. He comes back from his little booth with the raki (the Coca-Cola bottle is always a good indicator of origins) and two glasses: one shot glass (emphasis on ONE: Mike is definitely not included) and a normal glass that is already filled with some murky liquid. Slowly he pours the raki in the shot glass. Still smiling. He hands it to me gesturing for me to drink it bottom up. No problem. It’s only 3PM and I am about to get on my bike. Great plan!

I will do nothing to disappoint Copic. Bottom up it is. As I come back to my senses, he hands me the other glass, which he has been lovingly stirring for a few minutes. I have no idea what it is. I trust him. I grab the glass and swallow its content. After all, what can go wrong: we don’t even speak the same language!

Whoa: sugar water, a superb complement to the strong alcohol.

You won’t believe it: as I’m sitting down today to write this blog, something else happens! This story just never stops on giving. I open Google Maps to make sure I had all my facts right, and guess what? It turns out we never did go to Una National Park! We went instead to Vrejo Une, which has absolutely nothing to do with Una. Une… Una? Let me tell you: BIG difference! Obviously Copic and I were meant to meet!

So now, when I go back to see him, I’ll ride another 20 kms to Una NP.

Or not. But this time, I’ll know where I am not.

If you enjoyed this post and would like to become a part of the worldwide community I am building, you can join a long list of supporters and purchase a piece of art. A heartfelt thank you to all of you who have chosen to support my project and “come with me” in recent years.

CROATIA, PART 4: AN INTENSE EXPERIENCE

La version française est en cours de traduction. Merci de votre patience.

Shortly after we cross the border into Croatia, we look at our cool moto-specific maps and choose a route that seems way interesting. Narrow and twisty. No towns. Forests. Perfect! We have no particular itinerary in mind, no place that we have to be, nobody waiting AND we are no longer in the Schengen area so we can finally let go of that constant worry in the back of our minds.

After a little while, in the distance on the right I see a village. It’s calling me. I ignore it when I see the arrow pointing in that direction. Just because we don’t have a schedule doesn’t mean we can stop every fifteen minutes, my Swiss side objects. But when another dirt road on my right comes along, my bike takes the turn and ten meters later stops. In front of me a memorial. A memorial here? In the middle of nowhere? Curious, I get off to investigate.

May It Never Happen Again: Male Mune, May 5 1944.

I know I’m in for something traumatic. I read on. In order to prevent Male Mune residents from helping or joining the partisan troops, on May 5 1944 the Nazis gave people twenty minutes to gather their things and leave, and then burnt the town. During the period of October 1943 til August 1944, a total of 45 villagers from Male Mune were taken to the labor and concentration camps in the area of today’s Austria and Germany.

According to records of the parish chronicle, Male Mune was the most beautiful village in the parish. During the early 1940’s there were 490 residents living in 100 households. At that time there were three stores, a bakery, a tavern and a carpentry trade.  

You sure can’t tell that from seeing the village today. We ride through it. It is frozen in time. It’s late afternoon but the clock tower still says 9. Seeing the grass growing through it, it hasn’t moved in years. Possibly in 72 years. What the villagers who came back after the war did is build new homes but leave the destroyed ones untouched. So nobody will forget. Ever. They live that moment of history every day.

I have a need to stay quiet, take it in. I decide to sit and paint. Every person I see looks more through me than at me. They barely respond to my greeting. A grunt. I am wondering who the memorial is for: themselves or for an occasional outsider? At first I took it as an invitation. Now I am not so sure it was. I feel like a voyeur. It is very awkward.  This is a tiny, out of the way road. I can’t imagine too many “tourists” driving by, let alone stopping and driving through.

As I am standing besides the road, painting, I am enveloped by silence. Heaviness. The air is made of darkness. I am asking myself: are you making this up because you KNOW what happened or is it real? I will never know.

If you enjoyed this post and would like to become a part of the worldwide community I am building, you can join a long list of supporters and purchase a piece of art. A heartfelt thank you to all of you who have chosen to support my project and “come with me" in recent years.

CROATIA, PART 5: FOLLOWING CROATIA’S ADRIATIC COASTLINE

La version française est en cours de traduction. Merci de votre patience.

Croatia is known for its beaches. Crowds flock here from Slovenia, Austria, Czech Republic and the rest of Europe for long weekends and holidays. Me? I have never liked beaches or swimming. But still, since everybody we talked to says it can’t be missed, we decided we wouldn’t miss it. We rode along Croatia’s Adriatic coastline from the Istrien Peninsula down to Zadar. And for sure, it is beautiful. From a biker’s point of view, the road is unbelievable: it follows the topography closely. No guard rails. Tight twistees. Seven hundred foot cliff diving into turquoise water on my right. Off the coast: striking rocky islands.

Located in the NW corner of the country, 90% of Istria lies in Croatia while the leftover 10% belongs to Italy and Slovenia. Like the rest of the Balkans, as we will soon find out, it has a very complicated (shall we call it “rich”?!) history, having been ruled by many, including the Western Roman Empire, the Holy Roman Empire, Venice, the Habsburg, the Napoleonic Kingdom, the Austrian Empire, Italy, the Nazis, Yugoslavia and now Croatia.

Nowadays Istria as well as the whole Adriatic coast are Croatia’s main tourist destinations, offering national parks, old towns complete with castles and churches, grottos, beaches, an amphitheater, an aquarium, climbing tours, zipline adventures, water parks, wineries, castles, and more.

I was completely overwhelmed.

A giant tourist attraction park.

World Peace is not on anybody’s mind – except mine.

On our second morning in Barbariga, we got up at 6 a.m. once, just to get the beach all to ourselves – and the sun graced us with its rising presence.

Still, to be fair: it IS beautiful and I want to share some of it with you so here you go.

To see the slideshow, click on the photo below

If you enjoyed this post and would like to become a part of the worldwide community I am building, you can join a long list of supporters and purchase a piece of art. A heartfelt thank you to all of you who have chosen to support my project and “come with me" in recent years.

AUSTRIA, PART 3 – VON DIE FRAU PÖLTZLBAUER KOMMT INSPIRAZION!

It is getting late. Rain is threatening. I see a “Zimmer” sign and on a whim I follow it.

Although the door opens, I sense hesitation in Frau Pöltzlbauer’s smile. She throws herself in a story about daughters in law, about 60th birthdays, about the importance of celebration. I have no time to wonder why: I have to focus on her fastpaced German. Finally I get it: no room because she is about to jump in her son’s car to go celebrate.

One detail however does not escape me: she doesn’t close her door. If I just stay here, both feet planted on the little carpet that says “Wilkomen”, if I don’t move, if I keep talking with this lovely 81 year old, the mom in her will take over. I can feel it. Thus starts a period of exchange silence exchange silence. I’m still here, haven’t moved an inch. Neither has she. Suddenly she shoves a set of house keys into my hand with a warm smile “you stay here, Zimmer 3. I come back late” and disappears.

MY INDIEGOGO CAMPAIGN

I’ll be riding my motorcycle through Eastern Europe and Turkey from May to November, with the goal of creating a web of human connections. To defray my trip expenses, I am selling art that will be inspired by my journey.