Blidinje // The Sun is in Our Eyes

© John Bills

Try to look into the eyes of everybody you pass on the street. It is hard, believe me. Actually, it is impossible unless you are in a village and you only pass one or two people. On the streets of Sarajevo? Yeah, okay, impossible. Still, give it a go. Try to look into everyone’s eyes, and see how many people there are, how many lives, how many stories, how many perceptions. It won’t give you clarity of perspective; it will probably just confuse you.

It will also show you how small you are.

Without labouring the point, all of this is meaningless. We are born, we live, we die. The world continues to turn. We get carried away with our lives, ignorant of how little it all matters. Everything matters, so much, but not in a grand scheme sort of way. Expectation leads to disappointment. If we don’t expect something big, huge, and exciting, then, maybe, I don’t know.

The drive from Mostar to Blidinje was sweaty. Why? Heat. You don’t need me to explain that. It was Herzegovina in July, after all. Aldina picked me up early, and the mercury was already flirting with the 30s, with the intention of going deep into them later. The best way to deal with the heat? Ice baths, I guess. The second best? Go into the mountains.

© John Bills

So we went to Blidinje. We almost didn’t make it because the road is tight and Herzegovina drivers are insane, but make it we did. I was excited because I was talking to you. Aldina was a couple of days away from announcing an engagement. We talked about love, life and the rest, but you could argue that all of existence is found in those boxes.

Blidinje is a nature park in West Herzegovina, although you must believe that words aren’t able to do much justice here. The photos don’t, either. Established in 1995, Blidinje is smack-bang in the heart of the Dinaric Alps, a stunning expanse of serenity between Čvrsnica and Vran that encompasses lakes, fields, crags, valleys, churches, monasteries, microrepublics, wild thyme and more. So much more, although the ‘more’ in this case is also ‘less’. Less is more.

I had high expectations for Blidinje. Expectations that were impossible to meet. Its reputation for beauty sang loud in a country packed with gorgeousness, but there is danger throughout such beginnings.

Truth be told, Blidinje met the most important expectation we had of it, namely that it was 10 degrees cooler than down in the city. On a 37c day, 27c feels like heaven. The wind only added to the magic. If going back to Mostar and the searing heat was the other option, I wanted to stay in Blidinje forever. That wasn’t going to be the case, obviously, but there remained plenty for us to explore in the park.

A micronation, for one. Established in 2002 after a disagreement about electricity (there is more to it than that, obviously, but I’m not here to talk about utilities), Hajdučke Republika Mijata Tomića has developed itself a reputation that is largely responsible for the lofty expectations placed on Blidinje. A republic of hajduks (bandits, for the record), the little slice of autonomy was established by Vinko Vukoja Lastvić but is now run by her daughter, the irrepressible Marija. Stana once described her as ‘superwoman’. It takes a strong woman to run a nation, after all.

© John Bills

We ate at Hajdučke Vrleti Blidinje (HQ for the micronation) and basked in the combined wonder of air conditioning and chips. I love chips. I don’t care how old I am, every meal is better if it comes with chips. It was busy, so I couldn’t pester the staff with questions about anything, which in turn made the whole thing feel a little impersonal. But, again, expectations. The world does not spin for your personal edification, little piggy. Still, there was a sweet taxidermy bird, and I love taxidermy.

And again, out into the wild. There was nothing in Blidinje. Not true, there was everything, but hungry eyes searching for totems remained ravenous. The views stretched and stretched, punctuated by distant hills and nearby plains, the green of the land meeting the blue of the sky. It was beautiful, very much so, but those expectations remained out of reach. I stopped to take in a nearby church, the cemetery of which contained the eternal resting place of Vinko Vukoja Lastvić. The nearby Masna Luka monastery took the ecclesiastical atmosphere up a notch, but my heart continued to hum at its normal pace. I was impressed by the aesthetics, but nothing more.

Was my response to Blidinje akin to my feelings toward Christianity? I fear we are approaching uncertain ground, but there might be something in there. Blidinje was beautiful, but it didn’t blow me away. Christianity was functional but hollow. Beauty was all around me, but I couldn’t take it in. The writing was on the wall, but I was illiterate. The sun gave me life, but it shone directly into my eyes. I wasn’t about to find Jesus.

© John Bills

And then, we found Jesus. Not actual Jesus, he has been dead for a long time now. Instead, we found a ramshackle Jesus biding his time on a cross next to Lake Blidinje, a massive Alpine lake that sits pretty as the most significant in the country. Lakes are stunning, but Blidinje suffered from the same problem that plagues Bohinj, or at least plagues me when I ponder Bohinj. It was too big. I couldn’t take it all in at once. The shimmering cerulean water was the real treat, but my focus moved to Jesus and a roadsign to Dugo Polje that had been turned upside down, presumably by youthful rapscallions.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression here. I loved Blidinje, and dearly hope to return, sooner rather than later. My inability to properly accept and appreciate its beauty was exactly that, a problem born out of my lack of ability. We drove back towards Mostar via Posušje and Široki Brijeg, a road punctuated by churches and a distinct lack of toilets. The temperature was close to 40c.