Catching a bus from Split, Croatia to Mostar, Bosnia
It’s 9:00 am in Split, Croatia and I have to pee before catching a bus to Mostar, Bosnia. Near the bus terminal, there’s a smattering of cafes, tourist offices promoting day trips and far too many ATMs charging exorbitant transaction and conversion fees. It’s a busy morning. People spill off buses, ferries and cruise ships. A third of them puff cigarettes, a third of them sip coffee from Barbie sized cups and the remaining third bang roller suitcases clumsily into curbs, benches and other pedestrians.
Finally, I see a “WC” sign which stands for “water closet” aka bathroom, toilet, loo, etc. The term is used widely across Europe and dates to the late 19th century when indoor plumbing began being installed into homes. One common place to install a toilet was in a remodeled closet because of its dedicated size and door, thus the name water closet.
This WC reminded me of a tour I once took of Alcatraz. Two, floor to ceiling turnstiles stood in the way of much needed relief. The bars were black and thick as baseball bats. Instructions for gaining entry were all in Croatian. Signs alerted visitors to the presence of video cameras. I’ve never encountered a pee gauntlet of this magnitude.
Gaining entrance to the bathroom near the Croatia Bus station was a odd and I questioned whether I would be allowed to return after.. um… taking care of business.
“One euro, no bag,” barked the female bathroom attendant from a tiny alcove. She was maybe seventy, short and stout and wore a dress that was likely purchased when this part of the world was called Yugoslavia. Her face was tan and cracked from years of smoking. Her eyes were tired and bloodshot. What a way to make a living.
“One euro, bag here,” she said pointing to a rickety wooden chair. I quickly removed my backpack and dug into my pocket pulling out coins of varying currency. Kuna, Euros, and USD. Coins were mixed with crumpled bills. The attendant quickly grabbed a 2 Euro coin from my hand, twice the “going rate” one might say.
After navigating the turnstile, I was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness. The floors were shiny. There was no graffiti and I had the place to myself. If only the US would adopt this “pay as you go” approach to public toilets.
Enough of the potty talk, I have a bus to catch.
I booked my trip using GetbyBus.com which is a very user-friendly app where you can find 278,113 and 173,347 connections to thousands of domestic and European cities. Surprisingly, online reviews were less than favorable, but I had no problem, whatsoever. What’s more, my four-hour bus trip from Split to Mostar cost $22.
Finding my bus was not as easy. Although there were platform numbers, there was no indication where my bus might be parked. There was no arrival / departure board showing that the Globtour bus to Mostar will depart at 9:30 on Platform 7. My bus ticket also gave no indication. It turns out, the best way to find a bus was to simply walk down the row of buses, numbering only 10 or 12 at this time, and read the placard in the buses’ windowsills. Passengers were queuing up for destinations like Zadar, Dubrovnik, Sarajevo and Zagreb.
The bus to Mostar was parked at Platform 4, and I’m pretty sure I walked past it three or four times. My driver looked like Barney Rubble but with thick black rimmed glasses. He checked my ticket and collected the baggage fee. One Euro for each bag which brought the bus fare to Mostar up to 24 Euros.
I’m fairly confident that the people in charge of choosing bus seat fabric in the Balkans are the same folks that choose carpet designs for hotel meeting rooms. The seats were a puke of conflicting colors and designs to the point I was afraid to sit down. I shimmied my way into a window seat that felt like it was half the size of the basic economy seat on a European budget airline. Prior to departure, I watched a bit of drama unfold. A young couple frantically searched for a missing phone. I joined in the search by crawling about the sticky aisle and blindly digging my hand between seat cushions deftly afraid that a tetanus shot would be in my immediate future.
Her phone was buried deep in one of the many pockets or her mini fridge sized purple backpack. Crisis averted, for now. The couple hugged and high-fived. I dusted bus gook off my knees.
Splitting Split was no easy task. The roads were surprisingly narrow and chock-a-block full of morning commuters and tourists desperately trying to figure out where the reverse was in their compact Citreons and Skodas. We were passed twice by one woman pushing a baby buggy.
Upon exiting the touristy area, quite a few, towering apartment buildings came into few sporting that unflattering cold war look. Big and boxy with no thought whatsoever of creative touches. They were Imposing monsters of the Adriatic. Most were the color of wet sand or that odd teal color of kitchen appliances of the 1950s. Air conditioners teetered precariously on most of the windows. Shirts, panties, undies, shirts and flapped in the wind, providing the only color to a rather drab view.
Before too long, we escaped the city and hopped on Highway 8 South which snakes along the Adriatic for more than an hour. The views were beautiful, and the steep cliffs were harrowing. I recalled a news story about a bus crash that killed 12 Polish immigrants a few months prior and hoped it wasn’t along this stretch of highway. Eventually, we turned inland and made our way to the Bosnian Border.
Two hours in, and I had to pee yet again, And the bus’s sign on the bathroom said “out of service” in English.