Stanišići // Solitude is the Outcome
© Boky // Shutterstock.com
“Age is so valued that it is far more often fake than real”
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Is Stanišići the most famous etno-selo in Bosnia and Herzegovina? Unfortunately, the travel list craze of the wider world hasn’t really descended upon BiH in any meaningful way, so we remain blind sheep without a shepherd. But, as the foremost Welsh authority on the subject, I’m going to go ahead and say it is. Stanišići is the most famous etno-selo in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
It is definitely the biggest. Officially. Like, it has a plaque and everything. I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of the plaque, but the dimensions of Stanišići put it way out in front on the size side of things. Is this important to the literary journey we are about to embark upon? Spoiler; yes, yes it is.
© Boky // Shutterstock.com
The journey from Bijeljina to Stanišići was swift, the well-oiled wheels of a taxi rushing me from the centre of town back towards the border, from scorned urban decay to the plains of Semberija. From rotting grey to calming Munsell. Buildings to fields. The driver spoke rapidly, simultaneously impressed by the little Bosnian I knew and visibly frustrated that I didn’t know more. We passed the shimmering golden domes of the St Petka Monastery, a nunnery of sorts, a still-living, breathing complex whose imposing aesthetics seemed a little out of whack with the spiritual focus of its function. Isn’t that the case with most big churches? Sure, but the two don’t necessarily need to be lined up. Contradictions can exist. They usually do.
Before long, the increasingly one-sided conversation with the taxi driver ended as the car turned into the Stanišići complex. I do not know why, but I had convinced myself that the etno-selo would be quiet (it was a Monday), and I’d be able to wander around at my leisure before shimmying back to the city. Well, this was not the case. As the taxi entered the car park, I lost control of my faculties and muttered a very audible ‘oh, fuck’. The place was heaving. Sure, it was a Monday, but it was a national holiday sort of Monday.
It is amazing how a swift change of circumstances can cloud perception. I had been looking forward to Stanišići, aware of its faults but eager to soak it in regardless. All that changed upon arrival, as my enthusiasm was drowned in slow-walking families and the increased rudeness that people develop on national holidays. I immediately sat down to eat, fearful that I wouldn’t be able to get a table if I didn’t grab the first one available. Where was I, Oktoberfest?!
No, I was in Stanišići. It wasn’t always this vast complex of Disney aesthetics. It started life in 2003, the brainchild of a man from Brgule (near Vares) called Borislav Stanišić. An entrepreneur, Stanišić wanted to build a homage to tradition, somewhere where old barn houses could live in peace and tranquillity. A barren stretch of land was acquired, and Stanišići began to grow. At first, it was simply a pond, a tavern and a brook. Today, it is much more than that.
Much, much more. Stanišići has grown into a vast collection of old buildings now overshadowed by newer creations. For every watermill and cabin, there is a big hotel or tourist train. For every idyllic stone bridge, there is a newly built chapel. Everything is designed to look old, but in doing so, the charm of the originals has been lost in the noise. I don’t remember the author of the quote that opens this piece (I read it in a Jane Jacobs book), but it isn’t there for fun alone.
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The stated goal of Stanišići is to look “back to our ancestors and nature and awaken an admiration in us towards the simplicity of a former lifestyle.” Cutting a long story short, this is the idea behind the etno-selo. By recreating traditional villages of yesteryear, the etno-selo becomes a beacon of serenity in an increasingly chaotic world. Forget work, forget stress, head to the etno-selo for a day or two, sleep in a simple wooden bungalow and relax. Silence is king. As Melville said, “All profound things and emotions of things are preceded and attended by silence.”
What to think when the deliberate pace and calming atmosphere are trampled under a wave of development and the demands of impatient visitors? There was no tranquillity in Stanišići on this day, only waiters rushing around in a sea of raised hands and rolled eyes. The food was decent enough, but there is only so much a team of chefs can do when faced with hundreds of orders. Walking around the etno-selo, the skeletal beauty of Stanišići was clear, but it was distorted by excess fat and platitudinous additions. Tradition and tranquillity had fought valiantly against tourism and trade, but tradition and tranquillity had come up short.
In short, it was all very jarring. I wandered around Stanišići in a daze, feeling rushed, unable to stop and ponder much all the while. Nobody else had the same problem, but then I must remember not to make assumptions about the feelings of others. Instead of admiring the bridges and the waters, I questioned why the water was the colour it was. Instead of embracing solitude in the chapel, I questioned whether solitude is conceivable in a place like this. I will stand alone as one, but solitude is the outcome. Instead of being charmed, I asked myself what the point was. Etno selos should be small, quiet, serene, peaceful. Stanišići was not. I jumped into a taxi and headed back to Bijeljina. The driver’s name was Mihailo, a medical student turned taxi driver who had lived in Germany for a few years. We talked about Bijeljina, we talked about Wales. We didn’t talk about Stanišići.
