An excellent thought

I read this today: "I feel like my conscious mind is a waiter working in a bar, slipping knowledge sandwiches through a slot to the "boys in the back room," and getting theorems back from time to time.

I am as much the boys in the back room as the waiter." (by T. Gaffney, a mathematician)

I spent the morning chatting to a random woman about Sai Baba (she was on her way to India, for a worshipping session) and the notion of spirituality, destiny, responsibility, the ego (or the self), consciousness and free will. Though I was sleepy and it was far too early in the morning for this kind of conversation, it was interesting, and it beat having coffee alone in the airport lounge, in any case.

There seems to be some consensus between what she was saying (or what she is saying that Sai Baba is saying), what the Buddhists are saying and what this mathematician guy is saying: that the mind works in layers, and that most of the good stuff is produced in the back room, ie. the unconscious mind, which is then either acted upon or vetoed by the conscious mind. And, apparently, and according to all these, we have some kind of mad, paradoxical free will, a free will we use in a limited capacity. Which kind of makes sense. Anyway, there you go. The quote made me laugh.

By the way, I got Bruce Lee.

The Elusive Mr Lee

I never thought I'd write these words, but I spent the day today looking for Bruce Lee. As some of you may know, there was recently a lot of keffufle (not sure if this is the spelling, but wha'eva) about a statue of Bruce Lee erected by a couple of serious jokers in Mostar. The BBC reported it, it was on t' telle, Lee's wife was invited, bus-loads of youngsters came from all over the former Yugoslavia for the unveiling of the statue. After the white sheet was pulled off his bronzed self, Mr Lee stood with a fierce, focused face and a pair of those chain-connected sticks used for Kung Fu fighting (any marshall arts experts out there?), and the crowd clapped happily, though Mrs Lee failed to show up.

A big row ensued in town about the significance of Bruce Lee in the city park, and a lot of words were exchanged between the two young men who started the thing and the people they were aiming it against. The idea was along the lines of Bruce Lee being the only childhood hero they had who was not related to the Serb-Croat-Bosniak thing, and who stood for justice and fairness. And how this would get Mostar in the news and not be about war and murder and destruction. Many protested, saying the thing was meaningless, and poor little Lee saw his first dawn with his weapons broken and several bits of his bronze body chipped or missing. Things weren't looking good. Bruce was being bruised.

So, thinking this would make a fun blog for the Lonely Planet website, I pursued the makers of Lee in hope of getting an interview and a glance at the statue, now hiding inside a government building, before being re-erected.

I got the interview, but getting a peek at Lee proved more difficult. The building in charge of city's parks (the statue had been in the park) was supposedly where Bruce was hiding. I walked into a '70s Yugoslav socialist-modernist-cubist building and asked a woman with a bulging neck where I could talk to someone who'd show me a bit of Bruce Lee. She said, with a faint smile you might direct at a mild lunatic, that she had no idea, but that I should go upstairs to room number 1 and ask someone there. The corridor, dark, damp, long and narrow, was populated by random individuals. They all looked as worn and exhausted as the corridor.

Inside room number 1 ('Knock, knock', 'Come Forward') two women were drinking coffee and smoking fags. 'My name is Vesna, I work for blah blah, and I'd like to see Bruce Lee.' Lots of confused shrugs later, I discover my mother knows one of the women personally, and suddenly they smile and take it upon themselves to start solving my Bruce Lee mystery. They call a man called Dragan, who is in charge of guarding Bruce. After chatting to him a bit, they pass the phone to me. Dragan, a seemingly simple man, is taking his role as The Guard of The Lee much too seriously:

'I was given orders' says Dragan, 'to wrap him up in two blankets and tie the whole thing up with selotape. I did that. Then they said I should also wrap him up in a newspaper, and that's what I did. They also said no one can see him unless the authorities say so, so I'm afraid you can't come here unless you have permission. And anyway, you're a journalist, and who knows what you might write about me if I show you Bruce Lee without permission. I can only say that I wish I was as well protected as he is!'

So off I go to look for the authorities in charge of an authorisation. I get a number. The woman in charge is out of the office. 'In the field' they say. So, thinking I may not have any Bruce Lee photos, I go to the city park to take a picture of where he used to be. The place where Bruce once stood is graffitied, unimpressive. The park is completely dug up and five thousand new lights are being installed, in order, apparently, to protect the statue once it's put back in. There's so much light in the park, the couples who used to come here exclusively for the darkness, will have to look elsewhere for petting grounds. The authorities are also planning on installing CCTV. All for the sake of Bruce Lee? I am thinking of erecting the bloody statue in the little park outside our building - the rubbish, darkness and general dodginess is serious there.

Once home, my well-connected mother tells me she knows the woman in charge personally and calls her. Connections are everything in this place, so I am invited immediately to the park to meet the woman and go and see Lee. I run, bits of lunch still fresh on my shirt, to meet the woman in the park. In the field. 'I'm gonna get Lee, I'm gonna get Lee' I keep thinking.

And I almost do. But, it's 3pm. The woman in charge realised that she'd forgotten the time and that everyone will have finished work for the day. Dragan will have buggered off and left Bruce to sweat under the polyester blankets all by himself. Tomorrow, she says, after 8am, I'll take you to see Lee.

Let's see what happens.

Filing afresh

Hi all. It's been a while since a blog shone on these pages, but I was in London and that didn't feel like travelling (does the Tube count?). Finally, I stepped onto BosnioHerzegovinian shores recently, and thought about my blog quite frequently. It's been two years since I've been to the homeland (of sorts) and coming back here is always a maddening experience. Sometimes I think - hell, I hope - I was adopted, other times I kiss my British passport while I sit alone in a toilet (the only place I can get peace and quiet) and other times feeling overly sentimental at the whole place, my insane relatives and myself in the midst of it all.

The whole trip started with an overly eager Croatia Airlines pilot, who refused to wait for his London passengers in Zagreb (we were 25 mins late) and sped off to Sarajevo, leaving us to wait for 9 hours for the next propeller-elevated machine to take off into the snowy winter night. Needless to say my memories of Bolivia and dodgy planes came to life with unforeseen vivacity, and I was focusing on the intensity of the snowflakes being sliced by the speedy propellers. Next to us (Rafa and me) was what turned out to be a famous artist from Mostar, who demanded more beer and tried to chat up the tired air hostess. He had Jamaican flags painted on all ten fingernails, and kept scratching his head and the plane walls with them. He and a friend discussed home grown tomatoes and how they have to be eaten immediately, otherwise they go off. 'He says to me - what an excellent tomato - it can sit in the fridge for 10 days and not go off! Hahahahahahaha!' Roars of laughter and beer breath across the narrow, shivering aisle. Turns out the artist's mother was the midwife at the birth of me, my mother told me later. Life really is random at times.

Anyway, Sarajevo was snow-stormed, and the crumbling street where my aunt and uncle live as knackered and peeling as ever. Their house is five million years old, and it has taken odd shapes in recent years, leaning every which way, but still somehow managing to stay up. Perhaps like the drunken Mostar artist. It's all to do with experience and resilience, I think. My uncle and auntie are professional hosts and take delight in forcing rakija down us, followed by a massive (delicious!) dinner at midnight. We slept on the sofa, with my mum, on little pink elephant sheets and pillowcases, and Rafa was provided with oversized pajamas that sent me into hysterics.

Since then it's all been a bit of a whirwind. Top ten outstanding details have, so far, been:

1. My auntie speaking slow and loud Serbo-Croat at Rafa, thinking he will eventually stop pretending and understand. I thought only the English did this, but obviously not.

2. Going to a British Embassy party, totally by fluke, where I met two of the people I examined at the Foreign Office language exams. Luckily, I'd passed them both, otherwise the party wouldn't have been that much fun. The British Embassy guy had an amazing flat, and I realised I only knew poor people.

3. I was told I looked 24.

4. In Dubrovnik, surrounded by the historical city and a pink sunset (etc all cliches), I heard an eight-year-old boy say: 'Listen guys, I'm deleting the hanging of Saddam Husein video, it's boring now.'

5. We stayed in an amazing 5 star hotel for little money (promotional offer) and I nicked a lovely linen napkin while Rafa wasn't looking.

6. I realised that my relatives communicate much like the parents of George Constanza of Seinfeld. Basically, constant disagreement about the most trivial of things and even the most innocent of questions or comments can trigger off this kind of mad debate.
Me: Should I take the key for the front or the back door?' (I am going out and will be back late)
Uncle: Take the front door, there are stairs, it's easier to get home that way.
Aunt: No, don't take the stairs - there are all sorts of criminals hanging out there at night!
Uncle: What criminals?! There are no criminals there! We are the only people on this street using this door!
Aunt: Lies! I see them all the time, hanging out there! Even today, that guy that came out of prison yesterday, he went up the stairs this afternoon!
Uncle: You're paranoid!
Auntie: No, I'm not paranoid. And tell Rafa not to speak too much in the street. When the criminals hear English or any foreign language, and see a helpless girl with the foreigner, they'll want to rob you! So tell him to keep his voice down!


7. A pair of young hooooligans decided to try and provoke us on the train from Mostar to Sarajevo by singing badly next to us for 15 minutes at the top of their voices. They also spat on the floor and swore a lot, but gave up when we didn't flinch. We stood our ground by staying seated.

8. I realised that boasting, blowing your own trumpet and banging your own bells is a commendable thing in present day Bosnia & Herzegovina, and that slagging off everyone else is the norm.

9. OK, perhaps there weren't top 10 moments.

10. See above.