history

by

every place has a story, some of them are dark

Two days ago we walked the walls and streets of the old city of Dubrovnik, Croatia. It is positively humming with life, with every accent on the planet, good food, beautifully restored buildings, and stands as a proud testamant to the people of Croatia and all of its history. It is a beautiful old city. But, it bears the scars. Walls are pock-marked with bullet and shrapnel damage from the 1990’s war that the city was engulfed in, and maps show the extent of damage done during those days. The same city walls that were blasted from a seaborne assault now carry tourists, and cafes and bars. It’s a fascinating juxtaposition.

And then yesterday we visited the city of Mostar, in neighbouring Bosnia-Herzegovina. This city too, brims with life and energy, built along the banks of the beautiful Neretva River that flows through its centre (with a little more force today after fierce storms lashed the region overnight). We walked with a local guide visiting street art in the city, along the way encountering the damage still evident here from that same war – where opposing forces faced off across the river, hurling destruction at one another. Where Dubrovnik’s old city has been largely rebuilt, here that’s not yet always the case – streets and buildings stand as mere shells, bearing witness to the horrors that happened here in the 90’s. Beautiful street art calls the city to new life, right across the street from crumbling hulks that 30+ years on tell a story.

I’m not sure what to make of it all. The challenge of unpacking centuries of human cultural conflict? The ability of people all over the world to be violent and cruel in pursuit of power, or money, or ideology? Or the determination that means no matter what, we always find a way to emerge, and to pursue life and love and happiness?

The conflicts that engulf this region are still in living memory. One person we spoke to told us her mother was pregnant during the war. Another who escaped with their parents to Norway, only to return years later. These are real people who lived through things we barely understand.

I don’t have a nicely bound conclusion here, just the recognition that every place has a story, and a history. Some of it is cruel, and violent and shocking. And some tells of determination, and possibility and peace. Those themes are true all over the world, it seems. I pray to be part of the latter, not the former.

Turns out being a tourist is not only about beautiful views, good food, and fun times.

by

on mr whippy and lip balm…

It was a balmy Sunday afternoon, the kind where you’ve finished the jobs that need doing, there’s sport on tv in the background and the outcome is an inevitable dozing off on the couch while the kids do who knows what. Perfect right?

Into this nirvana came the distant, but distinct sounds of the Mr Whippy van. I’m guessing Mr Whippy and its unmistakable melody is a thing in the rest of the world too, but in Australia it’s akin to the pied piper – an ice cream van serving soft serves cruising suburban streets and calling to anybody within earshot. Kids come running. Parents too…even if they’re being dragged.

Those tones echoed up the street, cut through my dazed state and immediately had me reminiscing about my childhood in the southern Townsville suburb of Wulguru. That same tinny Greensleeves tune some 40 years earlier was a well known calling card. The connection on this summer day was instant and even as I remembered Kelvin St, Wulguru, the song called me to my modern day footpath where I flagged down Mr Whippy and ordered a soft-serve (with embedded Kit Kat of course!). Bliss.

There’s something extraordinary about the human brain and it’s capacity to make those kinds of connections over a sound, a smell or a taste. Just a few bars blaring from the ice cream van’s over-worked speaker and I’m transported 40 years in time and 1500km in distance.

Continue reading →