Rooftop

Local pastime: diving off of the Stari Most (Old Bridge)

Maybe wearing flipflops wasn't such a good idea. I pause for a moment to mop the sweat from my brow and gather my wits. How to get to the next flight of stairs without losing a toe? I take a deep breath, then continue inching my way forward. In the late afternoon light, the shards of glass at my feet flicker menacingly.

I am climbing the Ljubljanska Banka Tower, a derelict nine-storey building just a short walk away from Mostar's famous Old Bridge. Derelict, however, is a hopelessly inadequate description of the state of this building. Bombed out, utterly gutted by artillery fire in the 1990s civil war, all that remains today is an eerie skeleton frozen in time, silently watching how the town below shakes off the dust and rises to its feet.

The two faces of Mostar

I came to Mostar to get a brief respite from the Jadranska Magistrala, the coastal thoroughfare that runs the length of the former Yugoslav Federation, from Slovenia in the north to a place well south of the scope of my map of Croatia. Jadranska Magistrala. The sound of it is enough to give you the shivers. The road, hewn out of the precipitous cliffs of the Adriatic coast, cuts through top-notch scenery: barren mountains to your left, the bluest of blue waters to your right and each climb rewarded with a view of a delightful cove, or an island glimmering afar. But to fully appreciate the glory of the Jadranska Magistrala you would do well to bring four wheels rather than two. Cyclists have no choice but to keep their eyes glued to the narrow road, taking care not to get tipped over the edge by a passing lorry or an Italian family in a camper car. (It's your bleedin' holiday, why the rush?!).

However, Mostar wasn't as peaceful as I had hoped. Taking snapshots of young lads diving off of the beautifully reconstructed bridge, the ice-cream-licking crowds pushed me away from the cobbled lanes of the Old Town into a quiet area yet untouched by the careful hand of the restorer, the hand that covers everything. As I walked along the former front line, I lost count of the number of burnt-out houses I saw, their facades perforated, young trees peeping out of paneless windows. Across the river I stumbled upon a small cemetery. Each gravestone revealed a different name, a different face. There was one constant. The vast majority of the dozens resting there had died in the summer of 1993.

Climbing the Ljubljanska Banka Tower

On the rooftop of the Ljubljanska Banka Tower I am alone at last. I feel elated having made it all the way up without injuring myself. And no one here to block the splendid 360-degree city view. But after a minute or so it gets to me—the rubble, the hollow-eyed buildings I have seen that day, the fact that I am happily taking snapshots of things that are beyond my imagination. Suddenly, I feel horribly out of place. I clamber down quickly, eager to hit the tourist-filled streets again.