Leaving Brcko, Heading for Tuzla
June 26, 1999After Brcko, Leon and Rob head on to Tuzla, which served as the base of operations for the U.S. peacekeepers after the war in Bosnia ended.
The producers' mission there would be to record a concert being given by an inter-denominational choir. But that was not the only thing they would find, as both their journals recount:
Rob's 
Journal
The alarm goes off at 3:55 this morning so we can catch the bus to Tuzla by 6:00. We leave Gunja and cross the bridge into Brcko we call Erica back in Maryland at 11 pm her time. She seems pleased to hear about all the great stories we got in Brcko. She's especially excited to hear that we are on our way to Tuzla to tape an interfaith choir and meet Father Ivo Markovic. She's heard of him from a colleague of hers.
Once in Brcko, we look for Simo, our driver. But when we don't see him, we decide to press on by foot to the bus stand. I'm pretty tired, or so it seems because today has been an endless day of hiking, waiting, and carrying full heavy bags of equipment and it's not even breakfast time yet. We've been carrying two cameras, batteries, tapes, and mics in one bag and tripods in another for miles now and still manage to reach the bus stand about 30 minutes early. Simo, of course, arrives 10 minutes later.
Leon's
Journal
It is Sunday morning, around 5:00 a.m. We arrive at the small bus station in Brcko. Tired and unrested, with all our equipment. The bus station consists of one small shack with a bar that is not open at this early hour. Looking around, I would never guess that this is a bus station. There are only narrow roads and a destroyed house across the street. No signs. I guess everybody knows it is a station. The early morning mist makes it look even more deserted.
The cold finds its way under my skin. It is summer but is very cold. Our driver Simo, who has come only to help us to carry our heavy equipment from the bridge to station, seems more tired than us. He says he was drinking with his relative till the early morning hours.
The station is really empty. The only moving object is an elderly lady heading in our direction from the corner of the street. I am starting to doubt that our bus will ever arrive or even worse that we are in the wrong place. But Simo is so confident that our bus is coming. He doesn’t use words to assure me. With his eyes closed, he moves his hand up, then down, meaning to say "don’t worry." Now, one more lady has moved to our side of the sidewalk.
Rob
Simo's a good guy and promises he'll be there when we get back to give us a ride to the border. With that, we say goodbye and board the bus for a mere 10 deutschmarks.
Leon
At 5:30 a.m, the bus has arrived. This is not one of the nicer-looking buses. Actually, it is an old city bus with a few bullet holes in the front windshield. Big Serbian letters decorate the side of the bus. This worries me a bit, since I don’t know how a Serbian bus will arrive safely in Tuzla, which is a predominately Muslim town. I start to recreate possible scenarios in my mind of how the bullet holes occurred. But I don’t want to mention anything to Rob. I feel he might want to get some sleep.
Sleep seems to be impossible though. This particular route connects every small village in the steep mountains in Bosnia. Rob’s face turns pale when he sees how narrow and wiggling the roads are. Another factor that makes it impossible to sleep is the fact that roads have large potholes -- some due to grenade explosions and some to low maintenance.
Rob
The bus winds through the Bosnian countryside and the scenery is amazing. Traveling through the mountains on switchback turns, I finally am able to doze off, until the bus sways and slams me against the window. On several occasions, the bus doesn't seem able to negotiate the switchbacks and has to stop, back up, and cut a sharper turn. I'm really not seeing everything there is to see (maybe just as well), but I'm not getting any serious sleep either.
Leon
This four-hour trip for me has been really emotional. While Rob has been bouncing around on the last row of benches, I look through the window. My mind races. This is my first time traveling in such remote villages. I try to imagine the life of peasants and how they live. Some houses stand so far away from any roads and civilization, but up small hills with breath-taking views. I begin to wonder why and what made this land so war-thirsty? The faces of people only illustrate the hardship of life but I have not noticed any anger in the eyes. Why did they kill each other? My eyes scan over every little detail of the scenery, as if I could find the clues.
The countryside looks so beautiful and peaceful. All the destroyed houses that have sprung across this landscape painting seem to have been placed there deliberately just to destroy this faultlessness. There is an answer for sure. But it will take time for me to find out what really made people tick in this manner.
Rob
We finally arrive in Tuzla. The first thing that strikes me is the sheer ugliness of the block apartment buildings. The places we have seen so far have been smaller cities or villages. This is an industrial city. Mostly Muslim, according to Leon.
We walk toward the center on town with our gear hung over our shoulders. At the hotel we are asked where we were from, then charged double the rate when they find out we're not from Bosnia. I tell Leon that that is the problem with this country.
Leon
Tuzla is very cold and gray. Rob and I have decided to stay there only for one day and night since we want to film the Catholic priest Markovic and his chorus and nothing more. So we have enough money for the cheapest hotel and a few bills for food.
Our first step is to find a hotel. A few passers-by point to a hotel in the center. It takes us a painful 20 minutes to find it. The Hotel Bristol is located next to an old Turkish bathhouse. It is square building with no color, maybe in the class of cheap motels. But we don't care -- it would only be for a night.
The reception desk sits in the corner and behind it there is a middle-aged man with large glasses. Rob and I stand there for about half a minute before he acknowledges us. After explaining to him our need for one double bed room that is cheap he asks where are we from. Diplomatically, I say, "From here." But that is not satisfactory for him. The reason for his persistence is that foreigners are charged a higher fee than for local people. That really makes Rob furious. Especially, because we can’t afford to sleep even in the cheapest hotel. This is the first moment during our trip that helplessness looms over us.
I am determined to solve our problem but I have to figure a way. While sitting on the front steps of the hotel and rolling a drum cigarette, Rob looks in the direction of the Turkish bathhouse and laughs. I look up and see a huge drawing of a few American men (they wear shorts with an American flag) in a bathtub. They are fully dressed with legs hanging from the side and they are laughing. This composite, amateur painting reminds me of paintings of great Latin dictators painted on the sides of their homes. Then my eyes see a large painting of a man with glasses. Aha, it’s the same man from the reception. But how? Rob and I guess that he probably owns or manages both the hotel and the bathhouse.
Now I look around for a taxi. Surely, a taxicab driver would know where we can sleep overnight. After a few futile attempts, I stop a taxi and ask him to find us a space for a night. His young face looks puzzled for a minute and then he drives us next to the open street bar. It is still early in the morning, but there are a few loud men sitting at the bar. The taxi driver sticks his head out and calls one by name. Let’s just call him "A."
A. is a little tipsy walking to the car. After a minute of introduction and A’s stinky breath of plum brandy panning down our neck, he agrees to shelter us for 35DM a night. He says that he lives close by and that we should walk there. After a few blocks, we enter a hallway. Musty and stale air hits my nostrils. I was hoping that the apartment would be semi-decent. A. opens the door and a small lady with covered hair looks at us with disbelief. A. says to her: " Woman, these two men will sleep over tonight." The imposed will of her drunk husband makes her face twitch. She just moves away and places coffee on the stove.
A. passionlessly walks us to the room where his two old sons are sleeping. He says, "You could sleep here." Looking across the room. I am not able to locate the spot where we could sleep. There was only one sofa bed and one of his sons is sleeping on it. Then A. says that his son is a taxi driver and works during the night. So he must mean that Rob and I will sleep on that sofa during the night and, in the morning, after we vacate it, his son will take our place. This seems so repulsive to me, but I play it cool.
We are still standing in the foyer. His wife slowly approaches. As A. turns to her to ask if the coffee is ready, I interject. I say that we are in hurry and that we have already had coffee. A. insists that we should leave our stuff there so we don’t have to carry it around. I refuse, saying that we need everything with us. After his insisting, we leave only a small transformer.
As we leave the apartment, I take a look at the woman’s face. Those sad eyes and twitched face lines tell me a lot. Her posture seems to have absorbed many years of abuse. She hasn’t said a word.
I sense that Rob is also getting the same vibes even though he doesn’t understand the language. A. walks out with us. He just keeps talking and his lurid nature emerges. He boasts about his war time achievements as a Muslim solder. He says that, after the war, he lost everything because they accused him of war crimes. He was arrested on charges of gang rape and looting. He had to spend two years in jail and has not received any compensation for fighting against Serbs. He is trying to get our sympathy but I have none for him. I feel sick. I just want to run away. Many other reporters would probably try to get his story on tape but that is not even in my consideration. We are not there to sensationalize horrors. He is neither worth our tape nor the attention of people who would be watching this documentary. I know he is not remorseful and that he would do it again in a heartbeat. He is an animal and I could not find any words or even questions to ask him.
Those few minutes of his talk seem like hours. I say to Rob in English that we should split from him and I will explain to him why later. So we do.
It is such a relief to be away. I must admit that he scared me. His brainless, spiritless, hollow mass of muscles mixed with the smell of alcohol from his mouth pit was as explosive as the sharp, twisted words coming from power-grabbing politicians. This is a first hint of the possible mixture that sparked a war.
Rob
After we leave the apartment and find another place to stay, we wander around the center of Tuzla, which is a contrast to the block buildings we saw on the edge of town where we got off the bus. The narrow cobbled streets are typical of some old European city, but the old mosques are what really stand out.
We are so tired. I think the experience with the hotel and at that apartment have made Leon pissed at the world. He is threatening to leave Tuzla and just go back to Brcko. I am trying desperately to put him at ease and assure him that this interview with Father Markovic will be worth sticking out the hardships for...
...And indeed it is. We not only get to meet Father Markovic, but this interreligious choir he has set up. They are based in Sarajevo and they are made up of young people -- Serbs, Croats, and Muslims. There are even a few Americans in the group. Today we got to see them perform songs from all faiths (even what sounded like a Hare Krishna song) and hang out with them in the cafes of Tuzla. We also film Father Markovic giving a sermon at a local Catholic church and interview him in the church. Even though I could not understand the language he and Leon spoke, I could feel something special. When Leon tells me later about the interview, he seems much happier. It was worth it to stay in Tuzla after all.
Even after all the ups and downs, Rob and Leon are pleased with the stories they are getting in Bosnia-Herzegovina. They next plan to head back north, return to Cro
atia, and see how the war has impacted everyday life in the cities and towns of Eastern Slavonia.