MY WANDERLUST: A Travelogue

On a trip to Barcelona last year, my Couchsurfing host José took me to Cementiri de Montjuic, the main cemetery of the city. Just a 15-minute walk from Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, the 57-acre cemetery sits on one of the rocky slopes of Montjuic hill. It contains more than 1 million burials and cremation ashes in 150,000 plots, niches and mausolea.

While superstitions and magical thinking have existed in Europe for centuries, most modern Europeans think nothing of them. Similarly, religion is unimportant in their day-to-day lives. The Catholic churches in Barcelona and other European cities I’ve been to remain largely empty, and are mostly there for historical and nostalgic purposes. Walk into a church on Sunday mass and you’ll only see the elderly in attendance. As a non-believer, that doesn’t bother me, but some religious young tourists would find that sad. The irony is that you’ll find more religious folks in Singapore than in parts of Europe.

José wanted to show me the decorations on the tombstones and burial niches of gypsies who – if you want to be politically correct – are also known as Romani/Roma. He – a native Spaniard – wanted to show me part of Romani culture, and how this often discriminated minority ethnic group commemorates their deceased loved ones. While the Romani forms most of the underprivileged population in Europe, José says that they spend a lot of money decorating the burial plots of their relatives when they can afford to do so.

In this cemetery, the tombstones of the gypsies are very easy to spot as they are usually adorned with brightly coloured plastic flowers. Some burial plots are huge, and even have statues of the deceased standing by. José told me that most gypsies in Spain carry the last name Jiminez or Cortes.

We walked past a niche decorated with blue and white plastic flowers and I stopped to take a look. José commented that the man in the photo looked like a flamenco dancer. In my ignorance, I asked, “Are most flamenco dancers gypsies?” He responded with a “Yes!”  He went on to tell me about Carmen Amaya, the greatest flamenco dancer of her generation. She was a gypsy. While flamenco originated in Andalusia in Southern Spain in the 17th century, the dance style has gradually been influenced by and associated with the Romani in Spain. That makes sense, considering that the Romani are known for being entertainers, with music and dance playing a huge part in their culture.

PUTTING THE ‘A’, ‘R’, ‘T’ IN ARCHITECTURE

As we continued on our walk, we reached a part of the cemetery where most of the mausolea are located. A few of them contained coffins of an entire family, stretching back generations. Some were at least 200 years old. Others were constructed like a mini chapel. One tombstone was accompanied by a classical Roman statue.

I got to see mausolea constructed in different architectural styles: Neo-gothic, neo-Egyptian, roman, and more. The neo-Egyptian one was particularly new to me; I was fascinated by the elaborate carvings on the door of the mausoleum.

Neo-gothic mausoleum

Neo-Egyptian mausoleum

Seeing these mausolea really drove home how small Singapore really is. Cemeteries in Singapore have been, and still continue to be exhumed to make way for roads, train stations and housing estates. Being a 54-year-old country, you’ll hardly see tombstones that are more than 200 years old, let alone mausolea in any cemetery. There is simply no space for them.

SIX FEET UNDER

Even though it wasn’t my first time walking through a cemetery, Montjuic Cemetery opened my eyes to the history, culture and architecture one can see on a burial ground. I began to wonder what I was missing out on in my own backyard.

Taking leisurely walks through cemeteries is unheard of in Singapore, but I found out about the guided walks on Bukit Brown cemetery. It’s a volunteer-run initiative which started recently in 2015 – in hopes of bringing awareness to the culture, heritage, and nature on site – after the historical cemetery was affected by a proposed road construction in 2013 as well as the construction of the Thomson-East Coast MRT line.

Appetiser, usually served on a “hassun” named for its length of eight “sun” (about 24 cm)

Sashimi (Otsukuri)

Soup (Suimono)

Deep fried dish (Agemono)

Steamed dish (Mushimono)

Salmon roe on rice (Ikura don)

Dessert

“It’s so un-Buddhist to be having a fancy Kaiseki,” I thought to myself as the Kimono-clad waitress set plate after plate of food on my tray in 10-minute intervals. We were in Kennin-ji, the oldest Zen temple in Kyoto, founded in 1202. This meal seemed never-ending; it felt a tad excessive and I was stuffed by the time the fifth course arrived.

Kaiseki is a traditional Japanese multi-course haute cuisine from Kyoto. Its origins can be traced back to the Cha Kaiseki, a meal served in a Japanese tea ceremony. Maruta Jukō – who studied Zen under the monk, Ikkyū – founded the Japanese tea ceremony in the 15th century, and developed it as a spiritual practice. Cha means tea, and Kaiseki means breast stone. The name originated from a time when Zen monks used to eat two meagre meals a day. To curb their hunger pangs, some would place breast stones in their robes. The aristocrats adopted the tea ceremony, and Cha Kaiseki evolved into the lavish Kaiseki we know today.

My shallow, uninformed perception of Buddhism was that it’s about simplicity, austerity, and vegetarianism. But this meal, which contained seafood, contradicted these values. This contradiction piqued my curiosity: Are Zen monks allowed to get married? Do Zen Buddhists have to be vegetarian? I later learned that Zen monks, especially in Japan, don’t have to strictly follow the monastic vinaya – the moral code of conduct for Buddhist monks and nuns.

After all, Ikkyū was an iconolast in Zen Buddhism. He rebelled against the monastic life, wandered the streets, and gave teachings to laymen. He was known to drink in excess, hang out in brothels, and believed that sexual intercourse was a religious right. Above all, he believed in living an ordinary life with mindfulness, and refused to be bound by the rules associated with Buddhism. While his version of Zen died with him, it seemed like we were all practising elements of it whilst dining in Kennin-ji.

The rustic meal came in an elaborate order, starting with an aperitif of a sake shot, and ending with a dessert of grape jelly atop a vanilla cream custard. We enjoyed ocean-fresh sashimi, and a light yet flavourful seafood broth, amongst other dishes in between.

Kennin-ji’s website states that Zen Buddhism imposes on its monks “a strict training system stressing work and mediation.” Even though the chefs who cooked us this meal weren’t monks, Kyo ryori (Kyoto cuisine) showcases the rigour of its craft, grounded in Zen Buddhism. The principles of the Japanese aesthetic values of “wabi-sabi”, which also has its roots in Zen Buddhism, were also present. According to tea master Sasaki Sanmi, and author Taro Gold, Wabi represents quiet refinement that celebrates the time and care imparted to an object, while Sabi represents the material side of life. The food we ate involved highly sophisticated cooking techniques that brought out the natural flavours of the seasonal ingredients; that was simplicity right there. Every course was beautifully plated on patterned serving dishes and elegantly simple utensils. It goes without saying that the food tasted as good as it looked.

I wasn’t expecting anything less from the Japanese, who are known to take immense pride in everything they do. This pride stems from Bushido (the way of the warrior/the samurai code), which “comprised an ethos of self-discipline, self-sacrifice, single-mindedness.” Bushido – born from Neo-Confucianism and influenced by Zen Buddhism – is deeply embedded into the Japanese identity.

Mushroom ragout with thyme rice

Bamiya. A traditional Bosnian dish made with three types of meat and okra.

Barley soup with minced veal

It was 6am, and I had just stepped out of the overnight coach I took from Zagreb to Sarajevo––an eight-hour journey. It was a chilly, grey-sky morning, despite it being in the middle of summer. With my 10kg backpack on my shoulders, I made the 17-minute walk from the bus station to the block where my Couchsurfing (CS) host, Zjelko, lives.

My first impression of Sarajevo wasn’t a good one. It looked post-apocalyptic. Some buildings still had bullet holes in them; roads weren’t smoothly paved, and the city looked like it was slowly crumbling. Perhaps it was the silence of the early morning that creeped me out, but having seen Ljubljana and Croatia, Sarajevo was aesthetically a shocker. Whilst making my way to my host, there was no one around, save for a man walking his dog. A murder of crows flew above my head, cawing loudly; they sounded almost angry. There was a pack of stray dogs across the road. They seemed hungry. I hastened towards the direction of Zjelko’s flat, just in case these dogs eat me alive. Someone once told me not to show fear when faced with a hungry pack of stray dogs. They can smell fear.

I arrived at Zjelko’s place safe and sound. He welcomed me with a hug, and introduced me to his cousin, his mother, and his sister, who were visiting. He offered me a cup of tea, and we all shared a tasty traditional Bosnian breakfast of Burek and Pita. Burek is readily available everywhere in the Balkans, but Bosnians take it more seriously. In Bosnia, Burek is made of minced beef stuffed in phyllo dough, while the spinach and cheese version is called Pita. Both exist in other Balkan nations, but they’re all called Burek.

After breakfast, Zjelko and his sister took me to explore Sarajevo. We went to a bar called Tito Express, named after the president of ex-Yugoslavia. In the Balkans, people are nostalgic about the great country of Yugoslavia, made up of six “states” that speak roughly the same language, and share a similar culture. A country where everyone had an education, a job, a home, and the freedom to travel on a strong passport. A country where socialism worked for everyone, and nationalism and religion were banned. To an unpatriotic atheist like me, it sounded like Utopia, and for the people of the Balkans, it was Utopia.

Then the Yugoslav Wars happened in 1991 to 2001. The history of it all is too complex for a foreigner like me to recount to anyone. You have to hear it from the people who’ve been through the hardships caused by the wars. But what I’ve learnt from Zjelko was that it had a lot to do with politically driven ethnic cleansing (What ethnic cleansing? Liberal people of the Balkans would agree that they’re all the same ethnicity, which is south Slavic) of Muslims in Bosnia (called Bosniaks), by the Serbs. And Croatia was at war with Serbia too. Bosnia, a country where Serbs (Orthodox Christians), Croats (Roman Catholics), and Bosniaks (Muslims) resided in peace when it was part of Yugoslavia, was torn apart. Suddenly, these three different groups of people hated each other whilst living in the same country. The city and its people crumbled. Even today, the country is divided by religion, which is also in part politically motivated. Politics and religion and war are always complicated.

After hearing these stories, I felt guilty about my first impression of Sarajevo. For thinking it was ugly. That wasn’t its fault. Everything was falling apart because it got attacked by its neighbours. It’s still trying to pick itself up. Depending on who you meet and which country in the Balkans you’re in, you’ll hear a different side of the story. Everyone suffered, but it seems that Bosnia, being caught in the middle, suffered the most.

It was the day before the anniversary of the Srebrenica Genocide. On our way to the city centre, we saw a march going on outside a mosque. The sombreness in the air was palpable. We then took a walk uphill to the Yellow Fortress. Standing on the vantage point overlooking the city, I realised how completely wrong I was. Sarajevo isn’t ugly at all. It’s where the cultures of the East and West meet, with influences of the Austro-Hungarian empire in the New Town and Turkish in the Ottoman Old Town. It’s evident in the architecture, and especially the food.

Knowing that I wanted to try traditional Bosnian food, Zjelko and his cousin, Mirna, took me to Zara iz Duvara, a cosy little 18-seat family style restaurant, for dinner. All the dishes are cooked by the owner Sabina’s mum. And despite having a full menu of a few different appetisers, soups, salads, mains, and desserts, the restaurant only serves limited portions of a few dishes on rotation each day, depending on the season, ingredients available, and what the owner’s mother feels like cooking that day. Sabina plays host to every diner that walks in. She is welcoming, genuine, friendly, and personable, like a friend who’s invited you over for dinner would be. Apart from dining in a Bosnian home, the food here is as traditional and homestyle as it gets in a restaurant.

For a start, my dinner companions ordered a beer and a cherry rakija. Rakija is a traditional alcoholic drink in the Balkans. It’s fruit brandy and also moonshine. Everyone drinks it. In fact, if you’re a tee-totaler in the Balkans, people would think you’re weird. They drink a lot. Perhaps it’s part of their culture, but with all the war, the ongoing conflict, and weakening economy in the region, drinking helps them forget.

We then ordered a barley soup with minced veal meat, a mushroom ragout served with rice, and Bamiya, a stew made with veal, beef, lamb, fried okra, and tomato sauce, served with thyme rice. They told me I wouldn’t be able to find this dish anywhere else in Bosnia. A quick Google search of Bamiya tells me that it’s an Arabic dish, available in the Middle East. But I doubt I would ever have it the way it’s served in this restaurant, on a traditional Bosnian plate covered with a dome-shaped lid, anywhere else. With Middle Eastern influences heavily featured in Bosnian cooking, spices are abundant in its cuisine.

The soup, and the sauce of the Bamiya were piquant, tangy, slightly spicy, and perfectly savoury. The meat was fork tender, and melted in my mouth. Each spoonful of soup, meat, sauce and rice put a smile not only on my face, but also on my companions’ faces. My Asian, spice-loving, tastebuds sang and danced.

“Jebiga! (Translation: fuck it) It’s good,” Mirna exclaimed, midway through her plate of Bamiya.