Inhuman Beings

May 2025

So yeah, this is where I've travelled this blog...

Mostar to Sarajevo and back again, then riding to the Croatian coast and heading northwest ...

A cool morning and a hot breakfast welcomed me as I woke in my little hostel in the Bosnian city of Mostar.

Our host Majda had prepared the breakfast feast for a whole bunch of us, and we were instructed to enter the kitchen one at a time, where she would serve us our fare individually. When I was being served in there, a young Malaysian woman came in shortly after me, and was promptly and tersely sent right back out again by Majda, as "queueing is not permitted in my kitchen."

"Oh, ok, very sorry," spluttered the poor woman, blushing as she scuttled out, head down, and tail between her legs.

She has her ways, lovely Majda, our host, and rules her roost with an iron tongue.

I joked to the Malay woman about it afterwards, trying to relieve her of her supreme embarrassment and loss of face.

Our breakfast was to-die-for, which I knew in advance, as the three San Franciscan cyclists had already told me days before that it was the bomb.

Probably not the right word to use around here, but anyway.

Yeah, there were at least a dozen different mini-dishes included on each plate, including home-baked pastries, delicious cheeses and marmalades, salads and pickles, and a generous serve of French toast - fresh bread fried in egg, known in France as pain perdu, but, depending on where else you are, also called eggy toast, Spanish toast, German toast, nuns' toast, Bombay toast (a spiced-up version), and Poor Knights Of Windsor, a variety traditionally made by poorer people in England, who make it with their old stale bread.

I spent the morning chatting with travellers, including a very interesting woman from Finland, Vanla, who was very principled about her vegan eating habits, and who kept commenting on how good our breakfasts looked, referring to her own avocado spread as "very sad."

I loaded up my trusty bike Bewdy in the garden, with everything I didn't want to take on my two day non-cycling journey, put a raincoat on her (wrapped her in a large sheet of clear plastic I found around the back of the building), and headed off to the railway station, a short walk away.

Below Top Right: Waiting on the platform at Mostar Railway Station

I scored a good seat, and sat with Singaporean-Filipino couple Rye and Anton, and French Elise. It was a stunningly beautiful trip scenically, and the conversation was also super inspiring. Elise has worked for French NGOs in disaster zones all over the world, and had a lot to say about the current state of the world, and the struggles of the NGO sector, in the face of rising nationalism and funding cuts by many governments.

She also talked about how chance meetings with strangers whilst travelling can lead to many beautiful and long-lasting friendships, something I know well from my own experience, and which I've said a million times to you already.

Rye and Anton spoke of life in Singapore, where society is very structured, and  is basically geared towards work work work, with many people hardly taking time off. They said people's whole raison d'existence there appears to be to accumulate wealth for themselves and their families, and that that single gruelling quest generally lasts to their dying days. It was pretty sobering to hear, considering the significant wealth of the country.

Glad it's not my world, that's all I can say.

After a scenically beautiful two hour trip we arrived in the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo, walked into the centre of town together, and parted ways. Elise was flying out early the next morning, and Rye, Anton and I were staying at different hostels, but met up for coffee the next afternoon.

Yay! I've finally made it to Sarajevo, the capital city of Bosnia Herzegovina, a place I've wanted to visit forever. And it's just as beautiful and interesting as I imagined.

And it was cold. The city sits at an altitude of about 550m, about half a kilometre higher than Mostar, where I'd come from.

Above Centre: Sarajevo Railway Station

Below: The grand city centre

My hostel was way up the hill, and the view from up there was delicious.

It was dark before I headed down into town to change money and find food.

Sarajevo is a Muslim city. There's mosques everywhere, and the old town is a maze of beautiful stone alleyways packed with cafés, shops and restaurants. The town was buzzing with tourists, mostly Muslim, around a third of them are normally domestic tourists, and a huge number come from other Balkan countries and Turkey.

There's Turkish cafés everywhere, packed full of delicious sweet options, and of course I ended up in one, with coffee and baklava quickly ending up in my famished gob.

My hostel was called One Love. Asma, the wonderful receptionist from Mauritius, told me all about her very sad and distressing quest to get a working visa for Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands. She was encouraged to pay the £1,000 visa application fee by her employer, who had already guaranteed her a job in her field of financial services, but her visa application was inexplicably rejected for no reason, with no refund.

She was gutted, and wondered what the hell she was going to do with her life, as she'd left her comfy job in Frankfurt to make what appeared to be a big new and secure life move.

Now she's clutching at straws, the poor thing.

Life can be so mean sometimes.

Asma said she knows she'll pick herself up and find something else. But she told me that if anyone else said to her, "oh don't worry, the universe always provides," she'd scream and throttle them.

I instinctively stroked my own neck, feeling extremely relieved that I hadn't said those exact words.

"I feel so terrible, and just need to grieve until I'm ready to move on," she wisely proclaimed. I comforted her, and was so impressed at the quantity of emotional intelligence bubbling around that young being of hers.

The Siege of Sarajevo

It's important to tell you what happened here only three decades ago, as the tragedy is still so much a part of people's lives here, and has become one of the defining features of the Bosnian collective psyche.

As I've mentioned before, in the early 1990s the state of Yugoslavia faced sustained moves by its ethnically diverse member states to gain more autonomy within the union. But the Yugoslavian political leadership, which was dominated by Serbs, resisted these moves, leading to some of the non-Serb dominated regions to break away, and declare their own independent sovereign states.

In a 1992 referendum, Bosnians voted to form an independent state, but Bosnian Serbs, whose strategic goal was to establish a new Bosnian Serb state there called Republika Srpska, which would not only include Serb-majority areas but also Bosniak-majority ones, immediately reacted to the referendum results by attacking Bosnian towns and villages.

The Serbs' attacks were well-organised, and became horrific ethnic cleansing operations. They would go into Bosniak houses and apartments and ransack them, then burn them down. Civilians were rounded up, some beaten and killed on the spot, the men were sent to prison camps and the women put in separate detention centres, where many of them were repeatedly abused and raped.

Female survivors testified that Serb soldiers and police would visit the detention centres in droves, select one or more women, then take them outside and rape them.

In Sarajevo, the army of the Serbian Repulika of Srpska (a self-proclaimed part of Bosnia), encircled the non-Serb areas of the city, which was by far the majority of the urban area.

Their force of 13,000 soldiers positioned themselves in the surrounding hills, from where they completely blockaded the city, blocking all road access, and cutting off all supplies of food and medicine, as well as cutting essential services such as electricity, water supply and heating.

14,000 people were killed in the ensuing siege, and the besieged population within the city sometimes had to endure periods of up to six months without gas, electricity, or running water. One tunnel was clandestinely built under the airport, which became known as the "Tunnel of Hope," but the supplies that could be passed through the area were minimal.

The Bosnia-Herzegovina army had 70,000 troops within the city, and the Serbs were unable to fully take control of it, so they then commenced a prolific  bombardment of the city, with artillery, tanks, and small weapons, from an estimated 200 positions in the hills.

It's estimated that the Serbs dropped a half a million bombs on the city, and the indiscriminate nature of the shellings was barbaric, with huge bombs and missiles fired into crowded market places and residential buildings.

By the end of the siege 65% of the whole city was either heavily damaged or completely destroyed, and nearly every single building was damaged, including all cultural and government buildings, hospitals and medical facilities, libraries, media buildings, military and UN facilities.

The Serbs also controlled most of the major military positions within the city itself, and set up what became known as "sniper alleys," where gunmen would shoot at anyone in the streets below.

Law broke down in the city, as gangsters and opportunists took advantage of the chaos. A rogue Bosnian commander, Mušan Topalovič, engaged in a campaign of mass revenge killings of Serb civilians in Bosnian-majority areas. Many of them were transported to a mass grave near the city, a place called Kazani pit, where they were executed and buried.

The Bosnian army defended the city for nearly four years, without any heavy weapons or armour. But they were unable to break the siege, which was only finally lifted at the end of 1995, after NATO became involved.

NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation, which at the time included most Western and Central European powers, as well as the UK, the US, Canada, and Turkey, came out strongly in support of the Bosnians, but it took a long time for them to take meaningful action to stop the siege and the killings.

In early 1994 NATO finally began limited air strikes against strategic Serbian military positions around the city, with 400 NATO aircraft involved in the campaign. But rather than end the siege, it led to a further escalation of the wider war in Bosnia. The Serbs captured 377 UN peacekeepers, and used them as hostages. They then used their vehicles and uniforms as a disguise to drive into and take over other UN military positions.

By September 1995 the UN gave the Serbs an ultimatum to lift the siege or face further bombings. The Serbs ignored the deadline and air strikes recommenced. Bosnian and Croat forces immediately began to retake Serb areas, and the siege was finally declared fully over in February 1996.

70,000 Sarajevan Serbs then left the city, and moved to other Serb controlled areas in Republika Srpska.

It's estimated that two thirds of those killed in the siege were Bosniaks, a quarter were Serbs, and 6% were Croats. Nearly 15% of the total Bosniak fatalities in the Bosnian War were killed in Sarajevo alone.

And of course the ongoing psychological trauma has been devastating.

From the commencement of the war to well after it, the Bosnian government reported a soaring suicide rate amongst the population, a near doubling of abortions, and a 50% drop in births.

In 2003 the Intenational Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia indicted 161 army and political leaders for crimes against humanity during the wars that plagued the region after the breakup of Yugoslavia.

Radovan Karadžić, the leader of Republika Srpska, was found guilty of the Srebrenica massacre, which I'll briefly describe later, as well as 10 counts of war crimes and crimes against humanity, and was sentenced to life imprisonment. The Bosnian Serb army leader, Ratko Mladić, is also serving a life sentence.

Slobodan Milošević, the Serbian President of Yugoslavia at the time, was also indicted for war crimes in Bosnia, Croatia and Kosovo. He died of a heart attack in his cell before the trial could conclude, after refusing to take prescribed medications for his cardiac condition.

To this day, the siege of Sarajevo remains one of the darkest chapters in the history of Europe since the end of World War II.

But it's not the only one.

A new one is being carried out right now in Ukraine.

Strolling The Streets

The next morning I wandered about for awhile.

Below Left: Heading down my street.

Below Centre: Fasts were quickly breaking in the old town.

Below Right: This nice looking bridge is called the Latin Bridge, as during the Ottoman times it connected the Latin Quarter, the Catholic district, with the other side of the River Miljacka.

But the bridge is actually particularly famous because it's where Franz Ferdinand, heir presumptive to the colonising Austro-Hungarian Empire, was assassinated in June 1914, an event which led to the outbreak of World War I.

As an indicator of whose side the locals were on, the bridge was named Princip Bridge for many decades, honouring the name of the assassin.

Below Centre: Princip being taken away after the world-shattering event.

There was a huge tent across the road from this building when I was there, with local people providing information and seeking donations for the besieged citizens of Gaza, which is basically a modern, technologically advanced, and even more barbaric version of the siege of Sarajevo.

There was a huge screen airing live footage of the horror there.

And right now the world's governments, including our own, sit around and do virtually nothing about it.

It's incredible how little we've learnt from history.

The War Childhood Museum

In 2013 a Bosnian writer, Jasminko Halilović, published a book called War Childhood, which was basically a collection of short writings by Sarajevans who had been kids during the war. In it the victims detail some of the traumas they went through at the time, and what they did to try to cope with the horrors of the war, which of course they couldn't understand at the time.

After the book was published the response was so huge that the Sarajevan community set up a museum, and child victims of war contributed objects that were hugely precious to them during the war - things that, in some way or other, helped them to try to deal with what was going on.

It's been estimated from surveys that at least 40% of kids in the city were shot at by snipers during the war, half had seen someone killed, 40% had seen at least one family member killed, 19% had witnessed a massacre, half had their homes occupied by someone else, 73% had their homes attacked or shelled, and 89% had lived in underground shelters.

And remember, the siege lasted for nearly four years.

I cried a lot in the museum, and still well up now as I re-read some of their testimonies...

"A war chilhood is when a 14 year old girl gets the news of the Markale market massacre instead of a party."   Almira

"Four years of hauling water up to the 16th floor of our apartment block, when you're just 8."  Sadmin

"Growing up too fast, trying to understand what was going on around me, but still not losing my will to live." Selma

"A beautiful childhood cut off."  Hajrudin

"Four horrible years in besieged Sarajevo. War is horror!!!"  Samela

"One time my father brought bananas home. My little brother thought they were potatoes. Mom cried."  Dijana

"From my childhood I remember the days waiting for dad to come back from the war.... and then on 23/10/1993 he didn't."  Irma

"Two shells exploding in the apartment next to me and I coolly commented "RPG" and continued reading." Edin

"I didn't really know what the word war meant, but I did know that it was something terrible, that brought no laughter or joy." Amela

"I would look through the sheeting on the window, and cry because I couldn't go outside to play." Melisa

The Jungle Gym -  a Holy Shrine Of Iron

"The park behind my building was our childhood meeting place. There, we had two soccer fields, a playground with chin-up bars and swings, where we spent hours and days at play. July 12, 1992 was an unusually quiet summer day. Not a single grenade fell on our neighborhood Hrasnica. We, the neighborhood children, gathered in the park to play like in the good old days. My friend Ljubiša and I went a bit further from the jungle gym to play "rings". It was a game that we invented. We brought plastic rings back from a nearby engine factory, which we tried to toss onto twigs that we stuck into the ground. Whoever had more rings stacked on his twig would be the winner.

And just before we started to play. a grenade hit that structure that we had just moved away from and split it right through the middle. It was 2:50pm. The detonation knocked me to the ground and I lost consciousness. Ljubiša was a little further from the detonation than I had been, so he was able to run into the house. His father ran up to me and shook me. Only then did I regain consciousness. He told me to wrap my hands around his neck and began to crawl with me on his back toward the building. After a few meters I was completely conscious and told him that I could crawl on my own. Only when I entered the building did I realize that I was wounded.

On that day, Azmir Bradarac (1976), Sanela Hadžiomerović (1978), Aldina Čolpa (1979) and Admir Čolpa (1985) were killed at those chin-up bars. Dženita Hadžiomerović, Adriana Gligorijević, and I, Haris Barimac, were all wounded by the shrapnel. Later, after the war, the park was renovated and a monument was built. The two parts of the structure which are missing on the left and right sides are part of that monument. During a later renovation, they wanted to haul away our jungle gym too. Needless to say, we did not allow it. I have kept it for over ten years, first in the attic, then in the garage.

Haris.

Humanitarian Aid Package

In 1994 the children of Cazin received little care packages. I remember my excitement as I approached the house that was in charge of distribution. The shoebox was colourfully decorated. The package had toiletries, candy, and a photo and letter from Astrid. That gift was part of my daily life for a long time, as were the comb and mirror part of my make-up bag. I never used the crayons because I didn't know how long the war would last and I didn't want to run out of them.

I tried getting in touch with Astrid, but the address was incomplete. Maybe someday these items will find Astrid. The photo she sent me of her in a pool is still part of my family album. At that moment I wished I had that smile and that pool.

Lejla

English Language Dictionary

"During the war I wanted to learn English so that I could talk to UN soldiers and maybe get a chocolate bar or some other candy. Aiding me in these efforts was this dictionary, which was also one of my first books.

After dad was killed, the dictionary also served as an escape from a reality in which I found myself thinking about who I would lose next. As mom was afraid to return home from work on her own, my older brother would go out to get her. This meant that, in the evenings, I was alone in the apartment, which was lit by a single oil lamp. In those moments this dictionary doubled as my only friend."

Amila

After the sadness of being in there, I went wandering outside for awhile, unable to truly fathom the inhumanity of humanity.

Below Left: Josep Broz Tito was the President of Yugoslavia for many years. He managed to unite the rival ethnic groups in the country by allowing them semi-autonomous rule, supporting their own individual cultures, and encouraging a tolerant, multicultural society. When he died all of those societal features disappeared real fast.

Above Right: Rye, Anton and I met up for Bosnian coffee. It looks and tastes like Turkish coffee - strong, black, and muddy. The thing to do after it's served is to mix it, let it sit for three minutes, pour it into your drinking cup relatively mud-free, take a sugar cube, dip it in the coffee, suck ithe browning cube to get the sweetness on your tongue, and then take a sip of coffee.

It works. The sugar kills the coffee's bitterness.

So now, when you go to Bosnia (or Turkey), you know exactly what to do.

It was super nice to hang with Rye and Anton again. They're so sweet, incredibly warm, switched-on, polite, and, of course, complete foodies (they're Singaporean, remember). We fantasized out loud about Asian food, which was seriously unfair, as they'll be enjoying it again in a few days, and I'm gonna have to wait, well, for who knows how long?

[Spolier alert: As it turns out, in a surprise twist, I didn't have to wait too long at all!]

After we said goodbye I went for a long walk up the hill. It had been an emotional afternoon.

The Latin Bridge again.

Below Left: One of many cemeteries for the war dead in Sarajevo.

I climbed way up to what's known as the Yellow Fortress. There was no one much around, it was quiet and a little chilly.

Which is sort of how I was feeling.

Below Right: Strolling past the Malaysian Embassy.

Above Left: More pockmarked war reminders.

Above Right: They make Manus in this factory. They're Manufactured here.

Above Centre: Pope John Paul II, the first Polish pope, who was as conservative as they come. Unsurprising for a Polish male.

Above Left: Exhibition ad

Srebrenice

I'd had enough of pain and suffering for the day, and didn't go to see this gallery about the July 1995 genocidal killing of 8,000 Bosnian Muslim men and boys near the town of Srebrenice, which was perpetrated by Serb forces of the Republika Srpska, with the help of another Serb paramilitary unit.

As Serb forces rampaged through Bosnian towns and villages in the area, madly doing the ethnic cleansing thing, panic-filled Bosnians fled to the UN-protected base of Potemić, administered by 370 lightly armed Dutch UN troops.

But the troops failed to stop the capture of the base by Serbian fotces, who summarily massacred civilians, sometimes in full view and earshot of their supposed UN protectors.

Eyewitness accounts at the War Tribunal hearings included horrific descriptions of the brutal rapes and killings of women and children, many children witnessing the slaughtering of their own parents, which were sometimes carried out in indescribably violent ways.

The mass killings of the men was organised and systematic. After being killed, their bodies were immediately buried in mass graves which Serb soldiers had dug with bulldozers for that very purpose.

It's so hard to understand how humans can possibly do such things to each other.

And I guess I've said enough about it all now.

I feel sick.

Autumn and Yoyo

Fortunately for me, later that night I met these two gems of women, from a small city near the huge southern Chinese city of Shenzen.

They're the sweetest people ever, we talked a lot about China, about life in the West, and, unsurprising for Chinese people, about the glories of the Chinese cuisine.

The next afternoon we decided to take the train back to Mostar together, and, after another beautifully scenic train ride, we all went to my hostel, where they left their luggage with me while they looked for somewhere to stay, as my place was full, and their hotel had unceremoniously cancelled their booking.

Before they left however Yoyo announced that she was very keen to cook me a real Chinese meal, and a little while later, after portering their luggage to another hostel for them, I was treated to a delicious Chinese food extravaganza, complete with authentic spices they'd brought all the way from Shenzen, because Yoyo basically can't bear the food in the Balkans.

Let alone in Egypt, from where they'd just come.

Yoyo's spread was totally delectable, and, despite my praise, she insisted it was nothing more than food to fill the belly, and that when I visit them in China, which they insisted I do, she'll show me what real Chinese food is all about.

I'd love to do that one day. They both run their own businesses, so are quite flexible time wise. They're both wonderfully free thinkers, and neither wish to marry - well, they will if they find the right man, but both said they haven't come close to doing that.

They said they may well join the growing ranks of women who choose the single life over the married one, as, according to them, many societies, including in their own rural area, expect women in the latter category to lead appropriately devoted lives as wives and mothers, rather than as independent women.

In the meantime Autumn and Yoyo both plan to travel as much as they can.

The next day, despite their protestations, I took them out for coffee, where Yoyo gave me the most beautiful earrings, handmade by an old woman from Yunnan province, to give to one of my daughters. She said she felt embarrassed that she couldn't give me gifts for all three. How incredibly sweet of her.

They also gave me a huge packet of chocolate-coated dates stuffed with almonds, which they'd bought in Egypt just a few days before, in their month-long foray into that incredible country. Unbelievable.

We really connected, us three, and again we all felt really sad to say goodbye. I can't describe how good it feels to spend time with people like these, even if it's just for a few days.

Above Left: Heading out of Mostar

I didn't get going till late, and my idea was to try and get to the Croatian coast by nightfall, as I need to get to Zadar by a certain date, to store my bike, so I can leave for a planned hiking trip with my friends Phil and Isa.

The first part of my day's ride followed a part of the Ćiro Trail again, the cycle trail I'd ridden from the south of Bosnia to Mostar a few days earlier.

It was just as beautiful heading in the opposite direction.

Above Centre: There were loads of snakes about.

I eventually reached a tiny local border crossing between Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia, where the single border guard there only gave my passport a cursory glance. It was over in a flash, and I was his only customer.

Above Left: By late afternoon I was following the Neretva River, on my way to the Croatian part of the Southern Adriatic Sea.

Pretty soon it became forested, and I started to climb, as usual.

Above Left: Boaring sign

The scenery became more and more stunning the closer I got to the coast.

And then .. thar she blows! I finally made it to the ocean! It was the first time I'd seen the Mediterranean in weeks - in fact, since I left Thessaloniki and headed into those endless Balkan hills, which seems like an age away.

The coastline here, part of the Adriatic Sea, is called the Dalmatian Coast, which stretches from Dubrovnik in southern Croatia, all the way to the northern Croatian city of Zadar.

I'll be cycling pretty much all of it.

Eventually it got late, and I found a camping spot by the beach, in the small village of Podaca.

It'd been a long day's ride, and it was so nice to hit the beach.

But way too cold to swim though.

I'm not Finnish or Icelandic now am I?

Coasting in Croatia

The coast of Croatia is a completely different beast to anywhere I've been for a long time. It's not that coastline's more spectacular or stunning than I've been visiting, although it's definitely especially beautiful.

No, the difference here is the huge amount of tourism that's become a part of life here, in season. Every small town and village is packed with apartments and places to stay, and so many beautiful beachfront spots are now flanked by outdoor upmarket cafés, bars and restaurants.

Over the next couple of days I cruised north, my roads varying between gravel coastal paths, small roads through beachside villlages, and the narrow main coastal road, which sat a little higher on the hills, itself also occasionally dropping down to sea level.

Cruise vessels ply the coastline in some places, including everything from major cruise ships, scores of medium-sized ferries, luxury yachts, charter vessels, right down to small private boats, fishing boats and dinghies.

Below Top Right: I stopped in the town of Makarska for my bready lunch, the weather was actually quite warm, so I sat out the heat of the day, and jumped on Bewdy again late in the afternoon.

Below Bottom Right: Tourist gimmicks. What will they think of next?

Above Right: "Everything's Brelative." Punny billboard promoting the town of Brela.

I camped near a small town called Lokva Rogoznica, where I met another cyclist, Joss, an English DJ and singer, on his first long cycling adventure. He started his trip in Marseille, and has almost finished it. He's done with the cycling part, and is now driving back to Dubrovnik to fly home.

He was very philosophical and deep about what this journey had been for him. He explained to me that he's had a complete epiphany, and learnt that his life in Nottingham is really not for him, and he needs to slow down and do something else.

It was amazing talking and listening to him, as he shared some of the hugely difficult and equally beautiful phases he's been through on his trip, like struggling in the driving rain in southern France for days, then meeting a beautiful Italian woman in Bologna (and meeting up with her again later on his trip), meeting a friend of his who's seriously struggling psychologically, and helping him through some very difficult times, and intimately feeling the wild joy of being outdoors on the road, in the elements, in your element, in nature, as free as the birds flying around you.

I know just how he feels.

Split Personality

Yeah, the small Croatian city of Split certainly has a lot of that.

I headed off relatively early to get there as soon as possible, as I had a mission - to try and finally repair the dodgy gear situation on my bike.

Since I had my new back rim, new cassette and new chain fitted, way back in Bitola, North Macedonia, poor Bewdy's been a little crippled. All my middle gears have been unusable, because one of my chain rings (the cogs by the pedals) is badly damaged, so whenever I try to use it the chain just crunches and clicks straight out of it again.

So I've had to completely not use any of my middle gears, and have been unable to make quick gear changes if I need to climb, meaning I completely lose my momentum going up every single steep hill.

And there's been a helluva lot of steep hills between Bitola and Split.

It was a particularly beautiful stretch of coast north in the morning.

Below Right: Pastry heaven - garlic, spinach, olive oil and very thin pastry.

I wanna stop pretty much every time I see a pekara (bakery) sign.

Above Centre: Old men were working in this old boatyard.

Eventually I zipped through the extensive outskirts of Split, and reached the old city, the district where my hostel was located.

Above Left: Poor little injured Bewdy having a well-earned rest.

I went to a bike shop (no luck with the part), then another (again, no luck), and then, after the second shop recommended another bigger bike shop, bingo! I struck gold! Well, I struck stainless steel in this case.

The third shop had the right part. It'd take them 24 hours to install it, but hey, I'd been waiting weeks, so I was really happy. I also asked them to redo the strapping around my handlebars, as it was all ripped and embarrassing (for Bewdy, not for me).

The guy there, Goran, was really sweet and helpful, and happens to be a double bass player. No wonder he's such a nice guy. He's a muso.

So I felt so happy to finally get that problem sorted, and then just wandered around the old city for awhile.

Some parts of Split are seriously touristy, and as the day wore on there were loads and loads of them (I mean, us) about.

The old town of Split is quite large, and the incredible thing about it is that a good half of it used to actually be the massive vacation palace of the Roman Emperor Diocletian, who ruled there in the 3rd Century AD.

Actually it's sort of more like a fortress - half of it was used by Emperor Diocletian, and the other half was for his military garrison.

Above Right, Below Left: Mosaics from the 5th Century AD

Above Centre: There's some Roman centurions still living there. Wow, they must be pretty old. I guess they're Millenials by now.

I had a fun evening in the hostel chatting with Chinese-Australian Michael. He's a lovely guy, who migrated to Oz when he was 29. So he says he's very much Chinese still, which I gathered from both what he cooked for dinner (a mushroom-cabbage soup), and for his support for the current Chinese government.

We had to agree to disagree on the latter subject. His approach when discussing the brutal and nasty things the Chinese government's done to non-Han ethnic groups in, for example, Tibet, Yunnan and Xinjiang, is just to say that people are no longer poor in China, so it's all justified.

I suggested he ask any Tibetan or Uighur person what they think of that idea, as many of them are currently either imprisoned, (or, at the very least, completely culturally oppressed) and poor.

He then changed the subject to remind me of all the nasty things the US has done (and is still doing), so why should I focus on China. I agreed with him on that point, but gently reminded him that two wrongs definitely don't make a right.

Yeah, I beat up my wife, but my male friends do it too so that's ok.

Not the best logic.

Anyway, it was interesting to watch myself get a little heated on some points, especially as he kept pouring me large glasses of a strong cherry brandy.

The next day was rainy, but I was waiting for my bike to be fixed, so didn't get too wet.

Below Left: The view from the hostel kitchen balcony.

Below Centre: All the poor market stall owners had no business.

But the café and restaurants were even more packed, and the rain eventually stopped, and suddenly more and more tourist ants swarmed out of their nests.

Below Centre: World's Unique Collection Of Stuffed Frogs. 507 Frog People, 100 Years Old. It just cracks me up what people get up to with their lives sometimes.

Below Right: Cevapi are a very common Balkan spiced sausage, sometimes also called cevapcici. I remember them from my childhood.

Below: Gajo Bulat wqs a Croatian lawyer who served as the mayor of Split in the late 1800s, and was a member of the Dalmatian parliament when the place was ruled by the Austro-Hungarian empire. He fought for the use of Croatian in schools, and his ideas formed an important part in the renaissance of Croatian cultural identity.

I bet he was a right gentleman too.

Late in the afternoon I returned to the bike shop. Bewdy is healed!

More Distance To Cover

It's still at least a couple of days's north to the coastal town of Zadar, where I've arranged with a hostel owner to store my bike for a couple of weeks.

Yeah, a large chunk of my Balkan journey is already over.

I've come all the way from the Turkish border, from the Thracian Sea, and have now ridden almost the entire length of the Adriatic Sea, a total distance of over 1,500km.

Wow, that's a lot, now that I think about it.

It's felt like a lot too, actually, mainly because the whole place is super hilly.

But, as usual, I'm breaking it up, and soon it'll be time to take yet another holiday-from-my-holiday.

Soon it'll be time to get my pack on my back, put my hiking boots on (well actually I don't have any, my cycling sneakers'll have to do), and then get right out into the bush, with two dear friends.

I'm excited.

Soon I'll be in the steep rocky mountains of Crete❤️

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