Travnik // Stockholm Syndrome
© John Bills
I saw a dog chase a boy once. It was jarring. The boy, no more than seven years old, ready for the winter with a puffy coat, a beanie hat and gloves. He wasn’t ready for the dog, spurred on by two compadres. A burly man followed behind, shouting in the direction of the dog in the hope of scaring it off, although the canine wasn’t exactly receding with fear. It just wasn’t worth it. By that point, the kid had dropped his school bag and ran off in search of safety. I was with my friend Alena, and we stopped in our tracks, our only real option being to stand still and let the three black beasts pass. A terrified woman had taken refuge behind a gate. She had also shut the gate, happy for us to be devoured by the ravenous bastards.
Despite the pessimism of my late teens and the relentless negativity of my early to late twenties, I have blossomed into a bizarrely optimistic and positive person. Yes, I still seek out books that have melancholy as a central theme (I’m currently reading a History of Death, I shit thee nay), but that no longer bleeds into my own psyche like one of those weird bugs that take over an ant and forces its days to end. Shocking, I know.
This is particularly true when it comes to travel in Bosnia and Herzegovina. If you’re seeking melancholy, you’ll have no issue finding it here, from the dire economic conditions to the political malaise, the stubborn neglect of development and, of course, the tangible memories of a brutal war. Still, travelling in this beautiful country has dragged positivity from wherever it lay in the depths of my soul to the surface, allowing me to find curiosity and joy (seemingly) around every corner. To cut a longish story relatively short, Bosnia and Herzegovina has made me a more positive person, a cheerful chap committed to finding silver linings and better approaches.
© John Bills
The dog situation, however, is one that only inspires negative things. Admittedly, I’m no fan of dogs, never have been, never will be. The best way to describe my feelings towards them would be ambivalence. I’ve never found them particularly cute, and the entire concept of pets strikes me as a human desire to make Stockholm Syndrome acceptable through vanity. My ambivalence could also come from the adoration that people bestow upon them, in an effort to show that they are more of a dog person than the next. A cynical view, sure, but allow me the occasional moment of weakness as I try to continue growing. Besides, pets are unethical.
Yes, I am still unable to flesh that argument out, but I desperately hold onto it, for whatever reason.
The subject of strays always feels particularly pertinent in Travnik. A town of history in the centre of the country, Travnik is home to the best ćevapi in Bosnia and Herzegovina. That alone is a reason to visit, but the architecture, mosques and influence of the town in centuries gone by make it a must for anyone interested in this country. The grilled meat is the cherry on top, although yes, this cherry will make you want to nap and nap and nap.
Travnik is fantastic, but the stray dogs are not. I don’t want to be too harsh on them, being stray beasts and whatnot, but they give off a strange air of impending danger that doesn’t seem to be the case in other towns. They aren’t small dogs, maybe that is the thing. Maybe, I’m a coward. I am definitely a coward, but that isn’t the real issue here.
Why are there so many strays here? I don’t know. If you’ve come here looking for answers, I can only disappoint. If you’ve been reading for the last seven months, you should know that already. Where answers should be only introspection can be found, whimsical forays into vague philosophy and self-aggravation. I don’t know the intricacies of canine behaviour, I don’t know the history of pets in Travnik. I can guess that the war has something to do with it, but that was 30 years ago. Dogs only live 10 to 13 years or so. We are two dog generations removed from that.
© John Bills
That leads me to believe these are street dogs in the most complete of ways, pups born on the streets and only aware of this life. In a roundabout way, that makes them more dog than most pets. Yes, the Stockholm syndrome argument, the one I have never fully fleshed out, rearing its ugly head once more. If you died, your dog would eventually eat you.
The street dogs of Travnik would definitely eat you.
Travnik is a beautiful town. The buildings that line both sides of Bosanska glimmer with history, an intangible shine that reminds me how much I love being in this silly country. People wander up and down the street, stopping for coffee, or simply to admire where they find themselves. More often than not, the sizeable dogs go about their own business, jogging about together in search of, I don’t know, bones? What do dogs want? Food? Acceptance? Shelter? They aren’t that different to us, I guess. I mean, other than the whole ‘four legs’ thing, and the lack of literary history. I guess they don’t do maths either.
I have no idea what I’m trying to say here. I’m afraid of dogs, even though I am not really afraid of them anymore. They make me uncomfortable. That is my problem; the dogs haven’t done anything to me, but there is always the feeling that they might. One day, they might take a disliking to my appearance (I’m not going to blame them) and decide to chase me, forcing me to abandon my bag and scream for salvation. I can only hope that a burly man will try to help me or that the dogs will find a way into the gate to devour the selfish woman who abandoned her fellow humans.
