Part 14: A massacre of my dreams and grandmothers in The Republika Srpska

---

---

Disaster at the crossing

Northern Bosnia was the beginning of the end. In retrospect, if it had to happen – this was the place for it.
It started ominously enough. As I attempted to cross the border from Croatia, there was a problem – just a little one. The loosely-uniformed border agent at Bosanska Gradiska (who wore a tired old uniform that didn’t entirely match his partner’s and more closely resembled a costume from Kevin Costner’s best-forgotten “Postman” cinematic catastrophe) informed me that I’d need a “green card.”
So typically American, I tried to explain that I wasn’t intending to work in Bosnia.
In Bosnia and several other countries, the term “green card” refers to an automotive insurance card for non-EU countries. Green cards cover insurance claims in countries not covered by my EU insurance policy. Apparently I wouldn’t have needed it if I’d brought my motorcycle from America – but being licensed in England, it was required. Don’t ask me why.
As chance would have it, help was on the way. Amazingly and unexpectedly, there happened to be a kiosk located directly next to the border crossing that sold temporary “green cards” for travelers to Bosnia and Herzegovina. The border agent advised me that I could purchase a 3-day card for just €10; I rolled my eyes.
A heavy-set blonde woman of unidentifiable age sat at the kiosk. She led me to the town ATM and watched intently as I drew the money out. I took out a total of 50 Bosnian convertible marks, which I hoped would last me for my entire stay in Bosnia.
Then she took me to her office, and showed me a price list. She asked me for 70 marks. I said that was impossible, and stormed out of her office, unsure if I was being shaken down, or if I needed this Green Card at all - since I felt that I was already insured.
An inch away from creating a national incident, I returned to my bike. I told the guard that they had tried to take twice the money he’d told me it would cost. He was upset, and he went with me to the booth to argue my case. In the end, it was €20 euro for 3 days. The guard had been looking at the price for a trailer, not a moped. I paid and went on my way.

Postcard

to Mom
Dear Mom,
I don’t know if you were aware, but whenever I find myself feeling lonely or afraid – either on the streets of a foreign city somewhere, or on a dark highway – I always find myself whistling Summertime, and it makes me feel alright.
Love,
B

On the road to Banja Luka

I drove through beautiful, open and undeveloped farmland in northern part of the federation, known as Republika Srpska. Banja Luka is a spectacular place, set at the foothills of many mountains. The rest of the country is high and hilly. This place is magic. Open space, trees, new buildings. Randomly, I saw the first animated pedestrian “walking” sign in my life. It seemed so out of place on a country highway, in the developing world.

Meeting my host

I met Predrag at a bus station after only having to ask one young woman for directions, several turns away. I’m someone who usually ends up asking three or four people before I find my destination, but it seemed significant to me.
Predrag saw and recognized me immediately, rushing over with his massive mop of long curly hair.
He didn’t have a car, so he hopped on a bus, and I followed him eight stops until he got off. We found his flat, and brought my things inside. He’s a young college student and an avid world traveler working as an English tutor.
We caught up a bit, and he told me he had been contacted for the night by two other travelers a short walk from his flat.

An international gathering

In the town square we met several other Couchsurfing guests. It was just a short night out on the town. An American, a Bosnian, a Macedonian, A Lithuanian, a Norwegian and a Serbian - the most international evening of my life. We were all united by our strong command of English, I being the only one for whom it was my first language.
We walked along casually, and I got a dinner-snack at a local bakery. It was like a pocket pie filled with potatoes. Then through the churches and cultural area to a bar, where the richer, film-producing Macedonian bought two rounds of drinks for everyone.
We chatted about life in the Balkans, Balkan and American politics and economy. They were extremely knowledgeable, and it was an amazing chat. They explained the “other side” of the Banja Luka massacre, explaining it as revenge for the attacks Muslims were carrying out on the nearby villages.
We told stories about the craziest hosts or travelers we had met. Predrag told about the traveler who came on a golf cart, and was on his way to Burma for a humanitarian statement.
As we were about to separate for the evening, the hip and wealthy Macedonian with the gorgeous Lithuanian girlfriend was stopped by a hilarious queer, who recognized him. He had to interrupt our conversation to speak with the Macedonian, so he stood, nervously crossing and uncrossing his legs like he had to urinate, twisting his arms over and posing with his wrists flipped backwards. On another plane of existence, he was bursting with a silent song that radiated from his whole body; the lyrics were simple: “I’m GAY!” Even though he’d interrupted to speak with the Macedonian, he showed his clear interest in our shorter blonde-haired and blue-eyed Norwegian friend, and they chatted for about 20 minutes.

Postcard to Juliet

Dear Juliet,

It caught me completely by surprise that Bosnia turned out to be the most beautiful country I have seen. Its supple mountains and emerald rivers slipping through the tightest cracks remind me of making sweet love to you, and fill me with innumerable pleasures. Yesterday I stopped along the highway and crossed into an ancient village – the only access being a narrow, wood and rope bridge that led over a river canyon. I watched a grandmother slowly drag her sad frame across the planks, and I realized once again, that I will be loving you this intensely even when you are even too crippled to cross the bridge by yourself. On that day, I will carry you in my wrinkled old arms, and kiss your sweet mouth like I did when you were young. Until then… I wait for your bridge to stop swaying.
Love,
B

The next morning

Predrag made breakfast the next day, a sweet fried local bread treat and I ate about a dozen of them. I would have eaten twice than many if the option were given.
We walked through the town market, and my friend helped me negotiate a good price on some unwanted music that I had been gifted during my stay in Zagreb. It was too much for me to carry, and after approaching several venders, I was able to get €25 for it on the Bosnian black market, where seemingly everyone deals in ripped and stolen merchandise.
When we came home and I checked my email that night, I knew my trip was coming to an end.

The beginning of the end

An email from my mother informed me that I owe at least 3,400 in taxes. I’d had no idea. It’s over. Over over over. I will have to fly out of Tirana or Skopje most likely. It’s horribly sad. I knelt down with my head in my hands, wishing I had a few more months, wishing I’d made it to Greece.
I hadn’t expected that Sarajevo was so incredibly far away, and when Predrag told me it was about 300km, I knew I had to leave immediately. I threw my things on the bike, and went off to find a petrol station. After filling up, I re-sorted and tied down my luggage and set off toward the bombed-out capital of the Bosnian Federation.
I had no expectation that it would be the most beautiful drive I had ever experienced.

The best drive ever

Soon I was following the emerald river through the gully of the softest green valley, as it curved gently along its lonely path. Small villages dotted its shores, with young and old people wandering about, as they do everywhere in the world. As I followed the main 2-lane road that connects Bosnia’s two largest cities along the river, it suddenly made a sharp turn, and cut directly through the narrowest mountain crack I have ever seen. Sparse green vegetation lent a surreal graphical effect on the steep and textured stonewalls of the mountainside. The river, now turquoise, led on directly between the mountain halves. Throughout this passage are stations for accessing the river for the purpose of rafting, which is very popular in Central Bosnia.
After some photos, I moved further on, passing natural rock tunnels and the intersection of several rivers, until I came to a small village along the highway with its primary access being a rope-drawn and plank wood bridge that led across the river. I did a double take as I drove past, and came back. I’d been looking for a bridge like this my entire life. I’d seen them in cartoons and films, but here was a tiny village that actually had one.
As I prepared to photograph it, a bus stopped along the highway on the opposite side of the road, and five teenagers and an old grandmother exited. The kids skipped along happily and waved at the foreigner. They hurriedly crossed the bridge and entered their village. The grandmother moved with an excruciating slowness and paused before stepping onto the first plank. She waited for the teenagers to finish crossing. Then she waited for the reverberations of their movements to calm the swaying bridge, before continuing her stride with deliberation and experience.

Fuel and Sonce

An hour later I needed fuel again. I saw a station, and pulled off the highway into an odd valley that seemed to be shaped like a corrugated ashtray. One of the ashray’s sides was shaped like a pyramid. Here I was helped by the best and friendliest station-hand I’ve met on my journey. He didn’t speak a word of English, but he happily assisted me with my baggage, and told me that the valley was seven million years old and called Visoko. The man’s name was Sarac Sabit Visoko; I know this because, without prompting, he wrote it down for me on a slip of paper and gave it to me – complete with a drawing of a pyramid and the word “Sonce”.

Cut from the story

…We walked down and saw their city market – the best I’ve seen outside of Cleveland, and noticed the lights of the city went dim from a short brown-out…

---

Photos

Serbian Orthodox Church
Posing in front of Banja Luka's Serbian Orthodox Church dedicated to Saint Bonaventure.

Crack
The river cuts the roadway right through the heart of Bosnia

Brennan and Predrag
Chilling with my Couchsurf buddy Predrag before leaving for Sarajevo.

Mountain stream
Brennan with Motorcycle hair along a mountain stream that cuts through Bosnia's magnificent mountains.

Grandma waiting
An older woman waits for the planked bridge into her village to stop swaying, after watching teenagers cross in front of her.

Grandma Crossing
An older woman crosses a planked bridge in rural Bosnia, after waiting for younger people to complete their crossing.