Pomegranates and Poverty

I looked at the carpets and rugs laid down in front of me coloured with natural dyes and hand knotted in Bosnia. Each one was unique with patterns woven in of stylised trees and animals and one in particular of a tree laden with pomegranates. Vibrant reds and yellows on an indigo background. It was beautiful, represented a year’s worth of work and would last a lifetime.                                                                        ‘How much would something like that one that cost?’ I asked faintly.                                
 ‘That one would be about 6,500 Eu.’ said the carpet sales-man.’ But we can do a good price for you.’


Yes, we were visiting one the obligatory craft outlet visits that all package tours include and for which you brace yourself to say ‘no’ politely, firmly and numerous times. But this one was slightly different in that it was part of an EU scheme to curb migration by facilitating work for women in a number of poorer countries across East Europe and Asia. Bosnia is one of these with its unemployment rate of 45%. Training and access to patterns, raw materials and markets is provided to communities and this was one of the warehouses that sells carpets directly to the public.
Not having the odd 6,000 EU or two in my rucksack or anywhere else for that matter, made it easier to start disengaging from the vending process but I was glad when Anita came in to rescue me. Next time I hoover my shabby nylon floorcovering though I shall think with longing of a pure wool pile and  pomegranates.


Moving on a few miles we stopped at a semi-dilapidated ancient settlement 
This is another Ottoman relict set on a steep hillside with paths running between houses, mosques and hammams up to ruinous battlements and Scheherazade towers.
The last flowers of summer are blooming in ones and twos between the stone blocks -pale pink cyclamen, blue chicory, French marigolds, yellow oxalis and, scattered whenever there is a patch of rough ground, the scrubby thickets of wild pomegranate. Miniature fruit, their polished skins glowing like hot coals between flames of ochre leaves, rooting themselves in front of ash-pale stone walls. On the way down we buy dried figs and amber grapes in paper cones from local gardens to munch stickily in the coach.


What more.
Travelling over the heights to Trebinje - elegant and peaceful in squares bordered by huge plane trees and the old town buzzing with families drinking coffee after Mass.
Into Montenegro and checking into another hotel by the sea.
Swimming as night falls in a steep ocean swell