Bosnian Connections

An old man with a room to let. A half-Russian actor from Albany. A local bartender with a penchant for eco-tourism. A Serbian entrepreneur based in Stockholm. A man-about-town smoothie company owner.

And the way each one of them led to the next.

A series of anecdotes, and a deeper look at the oft-repeated statement: people are the reason why I travel.

I arrived to Višegrad one week ago. This village in Bosnia & Herzegovina is famous for its location in the plot of Nobel Prize-winning novel, The Bridge on the Drina by Ivo Andrić. Which no, I have not read. (Though I would like to.)

As has generally been the case with small Balkan towns thus far, my accommodation here takes the form of a vacant room in the home of anyone willing to host, or rather, anyone aware of online booking platforms.

So it was that I found myself in a cozy converted studio communicating solely via Google Translate with a kind man who called himself “Peter” (not his actual name) — my host for the next few nights.

He spoke Russian into his phone. The translation on the screen informed me that his previous guest who was leaving today also happened to be American, and that I should meet him. I replied, “Oh, that’s cool. But he’s leaving, so…”

”Maybe when he meets you he won’t want to leave,” Peter replies.

We laugh (him heartily, me half-heartedly) — but he was kind and eager to get to know me. We continued chatting via Google for some time until there was a knock at the door.

Then, a young man peeks his head inside, greets Peter in Russian, and asks if I need help with translation. But we’re okay. Google’s got us.

Peter soon leaves, but not before pouring the three of us a shot of rakija.

That’s when I meet Robert.

— 

Robert is from Albany.

In small-town Bosnia & Herzegovina — and moreover, the Balkans in general — meeting other Americans is not so common. This is already a trip.

And then.

After chatting about our present day scenarios for a moment, we loop back to life in New York, and the question of school comes up. I mention I went to school for acting.

So did he. At Columbia. The same time I was at NYU.

What are the odds that two people from the same state who studied the same thing at the same time end up meeting in a random man’s house in rural Bosnia & Herzegovina? 

I would like to know the answer to this. Statistically.

Turns out — unsurprisingly, at this point — we have a lot to talk about.

He’s half-Jewish. He knows what Grotowski is. And now he’s living in the Netherlands. 

We go for lunch, and afterwards he shows me around town, specifically suggesting a hidden riverside cafe that rents paddle boards. Then he leaves.

I am alone in Višegrad marveling at serendipity.

—

But I am not alone. 

The next day (and little did I know, the day after that) would be spent in full at that absolutely lovely little riverside cafe — nothing more than a handful of tables, a wooden bar, and stunning views of that same Bridge on the Drina — run by a man called Dejan.

I spend most of the afternoon working. No socializing. For a break, I take out a paddleboard. It was hot and the Drina was cold. It was delightful.

When I return to grab my things from behind the bar, Dejan, with whom I had exchanged but ten words at this point, places a box in front of me.

He had ordered a pizza for us to share.

Why? Because I had been working hard all day. 

We chat about life, rising rent prices, and the pros & cons of tourism. Namely, his desire to share the beauty of the Drina without exploiting it. After some hours spent facing a screen, I was grateful for the food and the conversation.

Top it all off? It was a damn good pizza.

—

The next day, I was meant to depart to Sarajevo. But prior to leaving the previous evening, Dejan had invited me back the following afternoon as his guest. His friends were arriving from Serbia and they planned to cook dinner by the river.

Be it the promise of homemade riverside goulash, or the perfect summer afternoon vibes of the previous day…

I stayed.

I worked as usual, enjoying a lemonade. At one point, again without any previous conversation, Dejan comes by and gives me a high five. Then, he tells me, wait — he’ll be right back. As if I was going anywhere.

15 minutes later, he returns and hands me a yellow travel hammock.

”What?”

”You’re traveling. You should have one of these.”

”You’re just giving this to me?”

”Yes! I have a bunch. You can’t refuse me!”

He walks away. I shake my head.

I have been meaning to buy myself a travel hammock for well over a year.

—

Another hour passes. Another random guy walks by and compliments my hard work ethic. I tell him I’m almost done. And since he’s alone too, he asks if I would like to have a drink. 

A lot of my life these days involves drinks with strangers, so naturally, I accept. Meet Dragan: from Belgrade, based in Stockholm for six years now, soon moving to Portugal to launch a new business.

Cool dude. Good listener. We end up gabbing for over an hour, and it’s one of those randomly but naturally sort of deep conversations about life choices that maybe only happen with total strangers because you have nothing to hide.

He invites me to join him the next day for a Balkan dance festival back in Serbia. But I have just crossed the border and it is time to move onwards. 

Sarajevo awaits.

—

The next day, I hop off a sticky bus in East Sarajevo which is… not the same central station near my hostel… I realize at that moment.

With the thought of another hour of public transport before me, I ask the driver how much a taxi is.

Before he can answer, a voice from behind me interjects, “I’m going to the center. I can take you.”

Enter: Faris.

Faris does indeed drive me to the center. But not before we pick up two boxes of smoothies from his storage unit to deliver to clients. (He used to own restaurants and now operates a smoothie company.) 

He’s a man about town. He knows people, he says. Which he then backs up with a booze-filled story involving law enforcement and getting away with something others might not have. Details unnecessary. 

On the ride, he gives recommendations for his favorite pie shop, his favorite cafe, and also the phone number of a friend who runs a tour company should I need someone to show me around.

Before the end of the ride, he asks where I’m coming from and I tell him Višegrad. Turns out he has a friend there right now…

Dragan.

Well then. Looks like he really is a man about town.

And before you tell me, Maggie, it’s dangerous to get into cars with strangers — I wasn’t born yesterday. My location is shared. I am aware of the risk. 

And forgive me, but I have a hard time feeling uneasy when every single person I’ve befriended in Bosnia is the nicest person I’ve ever met.

I’ve written two pages of anecdotes to prove it.

—

The next link in this chain of connection is yet to be determined. I will be back in Sarajevo in two days, and Faris’ friends are supposedly throwing a rave.

God only knows.

As for the others, I may very well never see or hear from any of them ever again.

But then again, I also might.

When I say people are the reason why I travel, this is really what I mean. Because while special, I don’t walk around expecting to form lifelong friendships and deep relationships everywhere I go.

Fleeting connections are special in their own way. Like last week’s ode to transient moments. Transient people, characters in the story of my life, are the color of my day to day.

In this way — as I also often say — while I travel on my own, I am never really alone.

ONWARDS,

Mag

—

ADDENDUM:

I am in Jajce. It is Thursday afternoon and it is August. I am sitting on the grass by an enormous waterfall in the middle of a fairytale town, eating an orange. Juice dripping down my wrists. 

No thoughts. Just the scent of zest and the sound of water on a summer afternoon.

If it sounds like I’m trying to wax poetic, I’m not. It just is.

When I say people are the reason I travel: I am people, too.