Konjic, Bosnia

We took a local train through the mountains to Konjic, a small town in between Sarajevo and Mostar. I'd read an article about Tito and an underground bunker he'd built here, capable of housing 350 people for 1 year, in the event of a nuclear war. Recently, they had turned the bunker (already a tourist attraction) into a gallery of contemporary art. So the article said...

The town of Konjic is a hidden gem, just as pretty as Mostar with its own arching stone bridge above the utterly teeth clenching cold river. (8 degrees celsius). It isn't on the tourist radar however, so it has an absence of terrible souvenir shops and harassing women trying to persuade you to stay at their house for ten euros. The tourist office, when open, seems to be operated solely by 15-year-olds taking advantage of the free internet.
"Where does the bus leave to see Tito's bunker?" I asked the boy that seemed to be in charge behind the front desk. He looked at me. "I don't know," he said. "It leaves from the bus station," I said. "Where is the bus station?"
"There are two bus stations," he said. His friend giggled next to him, and the boy looked uncomfortable. He offered me the office phone, but it didn't work. "I can show you the bus stations," he finally offered, but I knew where they were. Only I needed to know what bus station. He shrugged.
In the end, we called from Michal's mobile phone. We should have just followed the giant hodge podge of a crowd, grouping up in one part of the road. Women in headscarves mixed with a German family, an Arabic speaking family and then finally a group of Belgian scouts. Where else would we all have in common besides Marshal Tito and his bunker?

The bus took us through the small town of Konjic and into a military area sectioned off by barbed wire. "Danger, landmines" was written everywhere. Bosnian soldiers ushered us into the front room of the entrance, and produced a map of the bunker. (See first photo above). A soldier then proceeded to explain everything in Bosnian, while an apologetic guy ("sorry for my English, I'm not speaking good") translated into English, and then the leader of the Belgian scouts proceeded to translate into French. It took a llllooonnnggg time. People got bored, and they were talking. "Quiet!" Shouted the soldier. We all followed him into the dark, cold underground, where the tour began.

A strange place indeed. You could feel the fifties and sixties everywhere, old orange carpet, gray linoleum, cheap desks, and old rotary phones. Once you got deep enough, past the air filtering systems, the water reservoir, and heating, you could see the art exhibits. The apologetic fellow was trying his best to introduce people to the art, though it sounded like this: "This unit is made by German artist, and he is trying to say uhh umm...he is meeting the time of Communism and uh he is saying he can't live in it." The Belgian scouts, all teenagers in soft canvas shoes (is this a scout thing?) looked bored. There was a soldier in the back, trying to get our giant group to walk more quickly. "Quel est son problème?" one scout asked another.

Offices, living quarters, endless hallways, unexplained abstract art displays, the tour was exhausting. When we got to the living rooms, most people sat down blankly on the tweed sofas and stared at the wallpaper, all vintage. When we finally emerged back into the sun, the apologetic fellow was thanking people for visiting. "It's not a museum yet," he was saying, apologetically.
"Oh, will it be a permanent exhibit?" I asked.
"We hope so. We must talk to the municipality and agree on it."
"So it's in transition?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, happy that I had given him the right word. "In transition." Then he added quickly, "Just like Bosnia-Hercegovinia." He laughed. Our big group got back on the hot bus, and drove back to the road side station. Then we all went on our separate ways.