The Way of Wanderlust

by Don George

  And plunged into a pool of understanding and wisdom older and more far-reaching and of a different order than anything I’d encountered before. She knew. She knew things I could never know—about the age and evolution of the earth, about her vast underwater world. And in that instant she communicated something that I can only convey as peace and understanding, and that surged through me as an all-knowing, and somehow pardoning, blessing.

  Call it projection if you want, but I know what I felt.

  And it flukes in the deep blue depths of my being, even now.

  Building Bridges in Mostar

  As I learned four decades ago in Paris, the world is the classroom. With this mantra in mind, in the fall of 2007, I decided that the best way to understand the perplexing problems, potentials, and politics in the Balkan region would be to go there, and I arranged to join a two-week Geographic Expeditions cruise to Croatia, Montenegro, and Bosnia-Herzegovina. On that journey I learned much more than I could have anticipated, not only from the onboard lecturer but from completely unexpected teachers, such as chefs encountered in markets and fishermen met on wharves. The priceless value of this worldly education was demonstrated most movingly in Mostar. As our engaging twenty-something guide took us around the town and described the heartbreaking history of that exquisite city and of her own young life there, the divisiveness and destruction of war became soul-piercingly clear. But what also emerged as she showed us her home was the irrepressible hope in her eyes.

  I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE, AND IT LOOKS like a bridge. In fact, it is a bridge, the very structure I am admiring right now: the Stari Most, or Old Bridge, in the Old Town of Mostar, in Bosnia-Herzegovina, which spans the Neretva River and connects the Muslim and Croat communities in this venerable and poignant place.

  On hearing the word “Mostar,” most people would probably not think “budding tourist destination” but rather “bombed-out war zone.” Mostar was in headlines around the world when it was besieged during the Balkan conflict of the early 1990s. The once charming and harmonious place was first bombarded by Serbian and Montenegrin forces in April 1992; that attack subsided half a year later, only to be replaced in May 1993 by brutal, bloody fighting between the Croats and Muslims who had co-existed peacefully before. Ripped apart along ethnic and religious lines, Mostar became a haunting site and symbol of the war’s destruction.

  That destruction is still powerfully visible fourteen years later. Walk for fifteen minutes in the Old Town and you’ll pass at least a few gaping, bomb-blasted, hulking shells of buildings and others with facades eerily pitted and pock-marked by bullet and shell holes. And you’ll no doubt pass a cemetery too, as I did just now, with row after row after row of flower-graced tombstones bearing poignant photos of handsome young men, with a numbing litany of dates: 1912-1993; 1967-1993; 1967-1994; 1969-1994; 1972-1994. They give mute eloquence to the pain at the heart of this place.

  But look beyond the cemetery and you’ll see symbols of another kind: here a freshly painted restaurant with bright striped awnings and a red-tiled roof; there a meticulously reconstructed shop with elegant stone walls and flower-bedecked windows; and over there a cobbled terrace with immaculate wooden tables and benches arranged under new pine-green sun umbrellas.

  The greatest symbol of all is the bridge. Originally constructed in the mid-16th century, for more than 400 years this ethereally slender, curving, 100-foot-long arch had been the icon of Mostar, a wonder people crossed oceans and continents to see. It had survived man’s invasions and nature’s earthquakes, but it couldn’t survive the heavy shelling inflicted on it Nov. 9, 1993, when it collapsed into the river. So it was of singular importance that UNESCO undertook to rebuild the bridge—using the same Tenelija stone and 16th-century methods as the original—and was able to officially reopen it on July 23, 2004.

  The Stari Most is important literally as a connector between the two communities of Mostar, the Croats who live on the western side of the river and the Muslims on the east; today foot traffic flows ceaselessly between the two. But its importance is even greater as a symbol of connection, of reconciliation and rebirth, of hope. And for me, it symbolizes the potential of this lovely, historic, and once all-embracing crossroads to again become a magnet for travelers from around the world, and for tourism to help heal the wounds of the war and to help cultivate a new economy and culture here.

  On this September day, the sky is a deep blue, the branches of the trees that line the emerald Neretva are waving in a gentle breeze, and the sun is glinting gloriously off the white and gray stone walls and streets of the Old Town. As my tour group listens intently to our guide, six Italians smilingly settle in at a riverside restaurant, a procession of Russian tourists snap photos of domes and minarets, three UN soldiers in green-and-brown fatigues stride toward the produce market, and a phalanx of French visitors amble from alley-side stall to stall, fingering their brimming jewelry, copperwork, and other treats. Energy and optimism surge through the streets.

  In the course of a morning walk through the eastern side of the Old Town, I have been touched by an exquisitely simple mosque and an exquisitely elaborate Turkish house that illuminates the life of a Muslim family here three centuries ago. But mostly I have been moved by the juxtapositions—the beautifully restored building next to the windowless shattered shell; the desolate cemetery two blocks from the bustling café; the tales of utter brutality and despair you hear and read and the laughter and hope in the eyes of the shopkeepers and students you meet.

  All this is embodied for me here in the engaging form of Lana, the vivacious twenty-something tour guide who has been leading our group through the Old Town, and who is now unfolding her own extraordinary tale. Lana was raised as a Muslim in Mostar, but before the war, she says, no one knew or cared about the religious beliefs of friends and neighbors; everyone got along. Then the war came and suddenly religion took on an inexplicable and chilling importance. One day, Lana says, she looked out her window and watched a soldier come and take away her bicycle. She cried and cried after that, she says. A few days later, soldiers came and took away her father.

  He was imprisoned in a concentration camp. After a harrowing period of separation, as their world collapsed around them, they were able by good connections and good luck—eventually hidden in the bowels of a UN convoy—to escape as a family to Norway. There they were able to live out of harm’s reach, but they were determined to return to Mostar as soon as the hostilities ceased.

  And return they did, Lana continues, only to find that their apartment had been taken over—by a judge. The only way to reclaim a dwelling at that time was to go through the legal system—that is, through the judge. So this situation posed a serious problem. But after a while, Lana finishes, a smile lighting her face, the judge moved out on his own and her family was able to move back into their apartment and begin the long task of rebuilding their lives.

  As she relates all this, Lana radiates a youthful energy and optimism and innocence that are astonishing and uplifting. Somehow, she has not been scarred by this; her dreams have survived intact.

  “Among my friends,” she says, “we don’t even ask what our religions are. We don’t care. We want to move on with our lives. We want to live in peace with each other.” She pauses, then opens her arms to the city around her. “We want to rebuild our beautiful home.”

  I look at Lana, and at the Stari Most behind her, and suddenly tears fill my eyes. How could people do such atrocious things to one another? And then, how could such a glorious flower take root and bloom in that wretched soil?

  I had thought the Stari Most was the great symbolic bridge here, a bridge between Muslim and Croat, past and present, but now I think that Lana is a bridge too, between Mostar and us, and between present and future.

  And as I stand on this cobbled square, watching the frothy flow of the Neretva below and the human flow above, watching the passion flame in Lana’s eyes, I realize that we are all bridges here—bridges f
rom horror to redemption, from intractable history to unbound possibility—and that every single one of us visitors also plays a crucial role: Through the money we have the privilege to spend and through the values of tolerance, understanding, peace, and goodwill we have the opportunity to embody and extend, we rebuild Mostar; we buttress all the Lanas of this beautiful, poignant place—and become in ourselves bridges across the divide of despair.

  I have seen the future, and it is here.

  Into Africa

  On the same adventurous summer when I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, after my year teaching in Greece, the family of my Greek students also organized a safari for me and a fellow teacher. This was an actual shooting safari, led by a grizzled guide described as one of the last of the great white hunters, and while all I shot was a tree, I ended this experience with profoundly mixed feelings. Three decades later, I was able to return to East Africa with pure, unadulterated anticipation on a photo safari choreographed by Micato Safaris, another Adventure Collection member. That exploration of Kenya and Tanzania bestowed lessons on many levels, but deepest of all was my sense of being a guest in the majestic home of the lion and elephant, cheetah and giraffe. I felt exhilaratingly small, alien, and alive, and I tried to recreate these feelings—and the gifts they gave—in this five-part series I wrote for the Adventure Collection blog.

  Part One: The Kiss of the Giraffe

  My introduction to the wildlife of East Africa was a kiss from a giraffe. No, this isn’t a metaphor. We’re talking about a real wet lip-smacker here, a come-here-big-boy-and-let-me-give-you-a-taste-of-my-long-black-tongue kiss.

  But let’s back up a bit.

  I arrived in Africa from London at about 8:45 on a humid Nairobi night. Almost immediately on exiting the plane, I was greeted by a smiling woman from the safari company that had organized my tour, and whisked through Immigration to the baggage claim area, where she introduced me to two fellow safari-mates who just happened to be on the same flight: Jennifer and Benjie, exuberant thirty-somethings who, she explained, were celebrating their new marriage with a safari honeymoon. Ah, romance!

  We gathered up our green duffle bags and before long were rolling through the night toward the Norfolk Hotel, a grand colonial-era establishment on the outskirts of the city, where I tumbled into a deep sleep.

  Early the next morning we met the fourth and final member of our party—Jill, a lively Southern Californian—and then met Duncan, the company’s director of safari programs, and our safari leader, Lewela. Pointing to a large map, Lewela presented an overview of our itinerary: We would spend the first day touring Nairobi and the surrounding area, then fly south the following day to Amboseli, where we would spend two days; in successive two-day stays, we would visit the Mount Kenya Safari Club; Masai Mara National Reserve; Serengeti National Park in Tanzania; and finally Ngorongoro Crater before returning to Nairobi. Duncan then introduced a tall, thin man splendidly attired in bright red traditional Maasai garb, who told us in a soft voice about the history and culture of his people, and said that as part of our stay in Masai Mara, we would be able to visit a Maasai village; he said the villagers welcomed this opportunity to teach us about their traditional ways of life.

  After that we scrambled into a minivan for a day-tour of Nairobi and surrounding towns. On first impression, Nairobi is a daunting city, a big, bustling, car-crammed and pedestrian-crammed, choking-air capital that seems to uncomfortably combine elements of the first and third worlds. On the one hand, there are shining skyscrapers, headquarters of international corporations and organizations, and businesspeople striding in sleek suits as they talk urgently on cell phones; on the other hand, there are potholed streets, broken-up sidewalks, and endless strings of people walking, walking, walking along the roadways, crossing haphazardly in the midst of perpetual-rush-hour traffic or threading a ragtag path between cars. In some places we passed small plots of lovingly tended community gardens and bright brand-name boutiques; in others, trash fires burned where sidewalks should have been, and muddy, tin-roof shanty towns sprawled and spread. While experience tells me that a sustained stay would open up the idiosyncratic wonders of the city, on first glance Nairobi seemed an intimidating, impenetrable place.

  Soon a very different Kenya revealed itself as we drove into the suburbs of Karen, past posh mansions and rambling walled estates to the gracious former farmhouse of Karen Blixen. A Danish aristocrat and coffee planter who settled here from 1914-1931, Blixen wrote the passionate memoir Out of Africa, which has probably introduced more Westerners to the country than any other single tome. On her expansive estate Blixen lived what was considered a life of luxury, but it’s illuminating to tour the farmhouse, now a museum, and see what kinds of cooking and cleaning contraptions constituted luxury in those days.

  We also drove into the green, tea-growing highlands of Limuru, where we visited Fiona and Marcus Vernon’s Kiambethu Tea Farm. This excursion presented another and even more unexpected view of Africa—lush green rolling hills of tea plants, punctuated by farmsteads with broad pastures and bright gardens. The Vernons are descendants of one of the original Kenya tea farmers, who settled here in 1910, and they opened their home to us, describing the process of tea cultivation and production in their living room and then serving a splendid lunch—featuring vegetables grown in the backyard gardens we had just toured—under sun umbrellas on their lawn.

  But the most memorable moment of that first day for me occurred at the Giraffe Center in the suburb of Langata. Founded by Betty and Jock Leslie-Melvile in 1979 as a refuge for endangered Rothschild giraffes and supported today by the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife, the Giraffe Center makes exemplary efforts to educate Kenyan schoolchildren about their wildlife and environment. Part of that effort includes the opportunity to feed the giraffes and, for a brave and foolhardy few, to kiss a giraffe.

  When Lewela asked our adventurous foursome if any of us wanted to be kissed by a giraffe, I felt sure someone else would volunteer—wouldn’t a giraffe kiss make that honeymoon even more memorable? But when no one stepped forward, I felt a professional obligation to put my lips on the line. Lewela laughed and slapped me on the back, then placed a long thin stick of some sweet treat—a kind of giraffe Tootsie Roll—between my teeth and instructed me to pucker up. Sure enough, within a few seconds, a Rothschild beauty was swinging her patched proboscis toward me and unfurling her prodigious leather-black tongue. With a swift tickle of chin hairs and a sloppy slippery scratch of the tongue, she took the Tootsie from my lips. Wow! Talk about interspecies communication.

  As I blinked in disbelief, Lewela draped an arm over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Don, the giraffe’s saliva is extremely antiseptic.” Ah, I felt much better.

  So what did it feel like? Make a dish of tapioca pudding and spread a thin layer over a sheet of very rough-grained sandpaper; now take that sheet and smoosh it across your lips. Mmmm. The kiss of the giraffe.

  That night we were treated to a festive feast at a private home in another gracious Nairobi suburb and I was able to regale the table with my tale of the giraffe’s kiss. Sometimes adventure travel takes you places you never expected to go. And this was just the beginning!

  Part Two: Dramas in the Bush

  We’ve just stepped off an eighteen-seat Air Kenya propeller plane onto the airstrip at Amboseli National Reserve. Vast brown savannah surrounds us. A nearby herd of ungainly, big-horned wildebeest stares at the noisy, propeller-beaked bird that just disrupted their grazing. Beyond them sleek-striped zebra munch, flanks twitching, on the grass. To their distant left a trio of Thomson’s gazelles leap toward the green foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, whose flanks disappear into masses of gray clouds.

  I look at the three others on my safari and blurt out the only words that come to mind: “This is so—Africa!”

  We climb into our minivan and set off for the tented camp where we will spend the next two nights. We’ve been driving for about fifteen minutes when we come up
on a swamp. Lewela, our safari director, suddenly points to the far shore, “Look! Over there!”

  Four heads swivel. And there it is: Three feet from the water’s edge, a lioness is lying next to the bloody half-carcass of a zebra, the remains of the pride’s dinner. “They had a big party last night!” Lewela laughs as we stop to absorb the scene.

  Another lioness is lying down about twenty feet away, sated, so exhausted from the effort of eating and digesting that we can hear her labored panting and see the bellows of her tawny body moving in and out. Soon a great African drama begins to unfold. First wiry jackals come on the scene, cautiously approaching the carcass, smelling the air, anxious in their hunger, waiting for an opening when they can dash in and make off with some lunch. Then two hyenas come loping across the savannah, eyeing the lions, warily working their roundabout way toward the glistening kill.

  For a long time the lioness lets them approach, head on paws, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious. Then she slowly raises herself, turns, and begins a purposeful stride in the direction of the jackals and hyenas. After a few taut seconds they scoot away, followed closely by the lioness’s eye. Then she returns to her resting place and curls up again next to the carcass. One of the jackals gives a disappointed yelp. Lunch will have to wait.

  Another drama begins to play out in the swamp as the wildebeest and zebras start to cross. They enter the water in a line, following the leader across the depths and out to the opposite shore. But suddenly, about a third of the way into the swamp, one of the wildebeests begins to flail wildly. It has strayed off the path into deeper waters and bucks in terror for a few seconds before it finds its footing and splash-charges into shallower waters and onto the land.