How Not to Upset a Bosnian Cab Driver - Adventures in Not Having a Clue Where You're Going

My trip to Sarajevo was a memorable one. As I crossed the Serbian border into Bosnia, I took in dramatic peaks, verdant valleys, and lakeside towns.

During one of the many pit stops, I asked the young man sitting across from me where he was from.

“Bosnia,” he told me.

“Can you understand people in Serbia? I asked. “How similar are the two languages?”

“Pretty similar,” he said.

Eventually, this opened up the floodgates for a conversation that would span nearly the rest of the journey.

Milan, a 24-year old law student from Bosnia, took the seat next to me as we spoke for hours. His English was impressive, impeded only by a stammer he was thankfully unconcerned about. It sounds strange to say, but he was perhaps the most earnest person I’d ever met.

We spoke about politics in his country and mine. He asked nuanced questions like the relationship between African-American men and the police, my stance on gun control, and my take on the upcoming presidential election. I felt at times as if I were running for office.

This guy knows his stuff, I thought.

I offered my thoughts, however flawed. I tried not to claim I knew more than I did and told him how impressed how I was with the scope of his interests.

The only problem was he went on and on.

I nodded politely before becoming gradually more nauseous from weaving around the steep mountainside. He was so consumed by his own thoughts it seemed at times he didn’t even need me to share his musings.

There were brief respites, like when the bus broke down. I joked with three travelers from Poland about our chances of making it Bosnia.

“Are you staying in Sarajevo?” one asked during the delay.

“I don’t know anymore,” I joked.

Eventually, we were on our way as Milan got off at a stop just outside the city. We shook hands and agreed to stay in touch.

Soon after, I arrived on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Why the bus stop was not in the heart of the city confounded me but I had bigger fish to fry.

My AirBnb host had been shaky with communication. He’d informed me to contact his partner, Imran who I never heard back from. After nearly half an hour of waiting to hear back, I asked for a refund and connected with the other AirBnb host I had considered.

“Hi Aida, hope you’re well. Very last minute, but just curious if you’ve arrived back in Sarajevo. Just got in and haven’t heard back from my host who I believe is on vacation. Just wanted to quickly see if your place is still available. Very last minute. Understand if you’re out. If it is available I can make my way…”

After a few minutes, she responded telling me the offer still stood.

I hailed a cab and followed her instructions, which read:

‘The address is Aleja Lipa. Take care this is Grbavica and not Hrasno. You need to tell that to the taxi driver.’

A few moments after our exchange, I received a confirmation phone call from her.

Or so I thought…

I made my way to a cab parked nearby. I was tired but mostly relieved I’d have a place to hang my hat for the night. The man driving the car was probably in his 50s. He was tall, bald, and looked to be fit for his age, certainly not someone I’d want to upset, which I later would.

As we inched closer to town with a loud Bosnian news broadcast blaring in the background, it was clear the driver was disoriented. He stopped the car to ask for directions, but we were both totally confused as to where exactly the apartment was.

Of course, I had a slightly better excuse.

Just as we seemed to be on our way, I received a phone call from my host.

“I’m just checking to see where you are,” I heard someone say.

It then dawned on me the voice I was speaking to wasn’t the host I’d been texting.

“What is your name again?” I asked. “And what is your address?”

“This is Aidan. I am on Ferhadija,” the voice replied.

I’d made a huge blunder.

The person who called had a very similar name as my previous host, and both addresses ended with the number 9. And because Imran had failed to return my messages, Aidan had taken over communication duties; something I wasn’t aware of.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

I texted back Aida explaining the mix-up to which she graciously said wasn’t a problem.

My cab driver did not share the same sentiment.

I showed him the new address as he mumbled something in Bosnian, which you didn’t have to be a scholar to know wasn’t good.

All of that hassle in finding the first place was for nothing. I had caused him (and myself) several minutes of meaningless aggravation.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated profusely.

We arrived in one piece a few minutes later as I offered a very generous tip. Not surprisingly it seemed to settle everything.

Funny how money has that effect on people.

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How I Rediscovered Sinatra in Bosnia

My bus arrived in Mostar at exactly 6:40 pm just as it was listed online. As I stepped off the caravan I instantly made out the sunglasses and familiar hairline I’d seen in the photo of my host, Jan.

A timely arrival and a punctual local who insisted on picking me up gave Mostar a comfortable leg up in the first impression contest. I soon discovered the former was somewhat of an anomaly.

“Your bus is on time,” he said. “That’s rare.”

Jan stood about 6’3 and moved with a confident stride. He struck me as the type of person who’d grown self-assured by things seen or accomplished, or perhaps a little of both. I gathered we were around the same age as we made our way to his black Mercedes.

We spoke about my journey before he dove into a very interesting and slightly rehearsed history of the town, referencing the Ottomans and Romans on several occasions.

After a short drive we arrived at the place where I’d hang my hat for the next 3 nights — a newly constructed complex that doubled as apartments and a hotel. His place was clean, simple, and conveniently situated.

We made small talk in the kitchen as he ran me through the building’s features and amenities of which there were many. In between he told me he worked in IT. He’d left a low-paying government position for a private sector gig, which appeared to be working out quite well.

He also told me he’d once visited Pittsburgh on a student exchange program many years ago.

“That’s a really random place to go,” I said.

He seemed underwhelmed by the whole experience as I half-tried to convince him to visit New York or San Francisco on his next trip to the States.

Just as I was getting ready to rest after a tiring day, Jan insisted I let him drive me to Old Town. He wanted to help me get my bearings and probably share another Mostar anecdote or two.

“Sure,” I said. “Just let me run to the bathroom real quick.”

We got back into his car and listened to the playlist he’d chosen for our short ride.

“You like Sinatra? I asked.

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said.

This guy’s alright, I thought.

We drove past bombed out buildings that were either pummeled or shot up during the conflict that began here in 1992.

The contrast between a shiny new shopping mall towering above the skeleton of a home where lives were likely lost was stark and unfamiliar to me.

“What was it like back then? If you don’t mind me asking,” I said.

“I don’t really like to talk about it,” he responded.

He then delved into more history, throwing around names like Milosevic, while explaining the role religion played in the Balkan conflict. He skillfully elaborated then demurred leaving me just enough to consider.

Soon he dropped me off in front of the Cathedral of Mary, Mother of the Church, pointing the way to Old Town.

I thanked him for his generosity mentally wording the stellar review I intended to give him. It wasn’t lost on me this was probably his intention but I must say he also seemed to genuinely like and maybe even need the company.

Now I was alone.

I began to saunter through the city of about 110,000. I set out for the Old Bridge built by the Ottomans in the 16th century and perhaps the most iconic structure in the Herzegovina region.

Mostar, I learned, is derived from, “Mostari,” who during medieval times guarded the Stari Most or Old Bridge.

It really was as beautiful as the pictures I’d seen.

Almost instantly, I found myself in the midst of a mob of tourists clamoring for selfies and family photos with the Nenetva River as the backdrop. Not one for crowds, I glided past the madness in search of some tranquil adventure.

The shops that lined the cobblestone streets could just as easily stood outside the pyramids in Cairo or the begrimed streets of Little Italy in New York. I made it through unscathed and soon found myself eating at a very pleasant little Italian restaurant Jan had recommended an hour or so before.

As I sat alone nibbling on some bread in between scribbling notes, I stared at the mountains in front of me. A familiar feeling washed over me. It was the same sentiment I’d felt eating alone in Siracusa, Sicily ten years earlier as I gazed at the Duomo di Siracusa.

In both instances everything seemed to slow down, offering a sense of fleeting clarity. For a moment the world made complete sense.

Life is simple, I thought.

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What Bosnia Taught Me About Tolerance

This morning I woke up and showered before making my way downstairs to do some laundry. If the pinnacles of joy are found in the simplest of crafts than there are few experiences more sublime than pulling a clean pair of trousers from a hot dryer.

Dare I say it can even be emotional.

After folding my clothes and catching up on some reading, I hailed a cab and set out for Blagaj, a village about 12 km south of Mostar. Blagaj is known for its beautiful spring of the Buna river and Dervish monastery built around 1520.

My driver was an outgoing man named Amin. We drove mostly in silence during the 15-minute ride as I watched him skillfully weave between nervous oncoming drivers and stone walls hugging narrow streets dating back at least four hundred years. He let me off just in front of the historical tekke before recommending a restaurant I could get a nice piece of fish overlooking the river.

I thanked him for his help and made my way towards an imposing mountain that seemed on the verge of swallowing the entire village whole. It was quite the sight.

Eventually, I headed closer to the Buna River. It was a turquoise I hadn’t seen since a family vacation to Lake Louise in Alberta many years before. The color was alluring. I inched closer as if beckoned by the singing sirens in Homer’s Odyssey.

Soon it became clear I was not the only visitor with this agenda. I bobbed and weaved my way down a crowded and steep staircase. When it was finally my turn I put my hand in the ice cold stream.

After I’d had my fill I headed over to the restaurant Amin suggested.

“Do you want meat or fish?” a man asked me.

“Uh, fish,” I said.

It seemed like a unique way of dividing the masses — men or women, Republican or Democrat, meat-eaters or fish-eaters.

Thankfully, digging into a fresh piece of trout felt less polarizing.

I sat quietly listening to the sounds all around. Another expedition that took a little extra effort to make possible but had again paid off. There seemed to be a valuable lesson in all of this.

“We are a peaceful people,” he said. “If you see a Catholic priest wearing a long black robe you respect him. But if I am wearing something similar you don’t.”

Then the waiter dropped off the bottle of water I’d ordered. Below the company’s name it read, “Relax and enjoy life.”

After my meal I asked the waiter if he could call Amin to pick me up and take me back to town. He looked at me quizzically claiming the restaurant didn’t have a phone. I decided not to press the issue and just paid my bill.

I’d though briefly about making the 12 km journey back on foot. I’d done it before but with a slightly more forgiving sun.

As I strolled past the vendors that lined the quiet street, I saw a young man of about 22 playing on his mobile phone.

“Excuse me my friend,” I said. “Would you mind making a call for me?”

The man rose up and asked, “Is the number in Bosnia?”

“Oh, of course,” I assured him.

I handed him the number and told him to tell “Amin” that “Nick” was ready to be picked up in the same place where he was dropped off. A few second later the young man told me my ride would arrive in 15 minutes.

My new friend’s name was Abdel. We spoke for several minutes before the cab arrived. He was a very friendly, intelligent, and funny young man. He told me how the average family in Blagaj only made about 15 marks a month.

“It’s impossible to support a family on that,” he told me. “There’s just no opportunity,” he said.

I began to grow disheartened at the narrow prospects for someone so young and full of life.

“Well, what would you do if you could do anything?” I asked.

“I would stop the killing of my people,” he said.

“You mean, Muslims?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

He expressed his frustration in a lifetime of being misinterpreted, misunderstood, and even mixed up for someone else.

“We are a peaceful people,” he said. “If you see a Catholic priest wearing a long black robe you respect him. But if I am wearing something similar you don’t.”

He was convincing in his argument. I thought about some of the issues I was passionate about that I’d bottled up each day, perhaps unknowingly looking for an chance to also proclaim my message to anyone who’d listen.

We touched on lighter subjects, like the fact Abdel was getting married in two days.

“Wow, congratulations,” I said, extending my hand.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I can’t wait.” “You’re definitely not American,” I ribbed him.

Just then Amin pulled up. I told Abdel to stay in touch before we hugged and I got into my black chariot. I really did wish him well and hoped some day I’d return to find him feeling a greater sense of acceptance, understanding, and hope.

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