A month into a hitchhiking journey across Europe, an unwanted advance and a screwdriver incident on the road from Sarajevo to Mostar, Bosnia, prove that every traveller’s luck eventually runs out. This story was selected as a finalist in our “When Things Fall Apart” travel writing competition.
Aljo spits at me as he speaks. A barrage of chip crumbs, wetted with beer, launches at my face. Hmm, what flavour is that? Cheese and onion? No, no, sour cream and chives, and with an enhanced adhesive quality, courtesy of Bosnia’s cheapest lager. I wipe one of the moist projectiles from my cheek while the oblivious Aljo continues his tirade. In normal circumstances, this uncomfortable social faux pas warrants a pause and an embarrassed apology from the speaker. Perhaps an offer of a tissue or serviette would be forthcoming, to wipe away the regurgitated residue. But Aljo, as I am learning, is not a normal person, and today has been far from a normal day.
I am one month into a solo hitchhiking and couchsurfing journey through Eastern and Central Europe. The journey begins in Hungary, and has so far taken me through Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Montenegro, Albania, and now, Bosnia, specifically, to a secluded turnoff on the highway between Sarajevo and Mostar.
At every point of this journey, I have been warned about the bastards that await me in the next country. The Hungarians warned me not to visit Romania, ‘they are all bastards there, don’t go, but if you do, be careful.’ The Romanians offered remarkably similar warnings about the Bulgarians: ‘They are all bastards there, don’t go, but if you do, be careful.’ The Bulgarians voiced their misgivings about the Serbians, the Serbians of the Albanians, and well, you get the picture. The Montenegrins escaped the wrath of their neighbours, apparently living a bastard-free existence.
Until today, the journey has been devoid of bastardry, plenty of characters, but no bastards. There was my couchsurfing host in Sofia who spent his nights getting drunk in his underpants and sharing stories of sexual dalliances with a waitress from a neighbourhood restaurant. A chauvinist, perhaps, but a bastard? No. Then there were the mad Serbian soccer fans at Belgrade’s Rajko Mitic Stadium, passionate and rowdy, sure, but bastards? No.
After a month of hitchhiking, these characters, and my fleet of drivers, have buoyed my faith in humanity. Through journeys long and short, they have offered me spare change, bought me lunch or coffee, while a lady in Romania made me a cardboard sign with the name of my next destination. If I’ve not mastered the art of hitchhiking, then at least I have grasped the basics, and my theory on catching a ride is so far proving successful:
- Take public transport to the city limits
- Stand where drivers can stop without causing an accident
- Bring a packed lunch and a bottle of water
- Keep a list of notable towns along the way
- Smile, and don’t look like a serial killer
On the first Tuesday after Ramadan, Sarajevo is yet to fully wake from its food-induced slumber. In the city centre, stray cats scavenge through rubbish bins, while greyed men with days’ worth of stubble sit on park benches, tossing breadcrumbs to swarms of pigeons. The morning air is warm, and clouds painted across a baby blue sky resemble the walls of a newborn’s bedroom. A map of Sarajevo’s tram network is folded in my pocket, with a circle around Ilidza, the end of the line. It looks close enough to a highway, and from there, so the theory goes, reaching Mostar should be straightforward.
The tram comes to a grating halt at the Ilidza depot, its brakes scratching against the tracks like a cheese grater on a frying pan. A shiver runs down my spine. None of the locals react, not even a wince. Really, not even a wince? I shrug and stroll towards the highway.
Hours pass at what feels like the perfect spot. There is shade, ample room for drivers to stop, and a big blue sign that says MOSTAR. In the immortal words of Avril Lavigne, can I make it any more obvious? So why is nobody stopping? Am I giving off serial killer vibes? How long do I persist? Do I give up and try somewhere else? I’m running out of stones to throw at the road signs, although my aim is improving.
All I can do is wait. Hour upon hour, riding the ebbs and flows of hope and despair. The crushing agony of waiting. How long will I be here? Where will I sleep tonight? How will I get there? It is both infuriating and exhilarating. The joy and frustration of travel all rolled into one contorted conundrum, though it is entirely self-inflicted, all because I am too cheap to pay a bus fare.
After more than three hours, my luck changes when a black Mercedes stops.
‘Mostar?’ I enquire through the wound-down window, smiling (no serial killer vibes).
‘Konjic,’ from my notes, I know this is halfway to Mostar.
‘Ok,’ and I open the door, toss my backpack on the rear seat, and sit in the front.
The driver, a lithe man in his 50s, is cheery and talkative, though I have no idea what he is saying. He soon realises, by my monosyllabic responses, that I do not speak Bosnian.
‘Australia,’ I explain, pointing at myself.
‘Ooh,’ he replies in amazement, drawing out the response, and then pats my thigh, his hand lingering just a little bit too long, ‘Australia good.’
After a few moments of silence, he continues the conversation in English.
‘Woman?’
‘What?’
‘Woman?’ he repeats, mimicking large breasts.
‘Oh, uh, yes, I have a girlfriend in Australia,’ but all he hears is yes.
‘Woman. Fuck?’ he asks with a cocked eyebrow.
‘Uh, yes? I have a girlfriend in Australia,’ I repeat, dreading where this conversation is going.
‘Bosnia, fuck? You want? You want fuck?’
‘What? No, no, I just want to go to Mostar,’ aghast at the thought of where he could take me.
‘Ok,’ and I sense the cogs turning inside his head. He is not done yet, ‘You me fuck?’
‘What?’
‘Fuck. You me fuck?’ and to emphasise the point, he curls his left index finger and thumb, then pokes his right index finger through the hole, ‘Fuck, you like fuck?’
‘What? Well, yes, yes, I like to, but,’ please keep your hands on the steering wheel, ‘I mean, yes for woman, if you, uh…’ stop saying yes, I scream inside, ‘No,’ I state, ‘no, I have a girlfriend,’ and shake my hands in refusal.
‘Is good, no?’
‘No, no, is not good,’ I reply, shaking my head, channelling my serial killer vibes.
Silence.
How far is Konjic I wonder. Are we going in the right direction?
‘Café?’
‘What?’
‘Café?’ he repeats.
Oh, coffee.
‘Yes, yes, coffee,’ I nod, not smiling anymore.
‘Ok,’ and he pulls into a roadside coffee shop.
I grab my bag from the front seat and open the rear door.
‘Is ok, is ok,’ he assures me, believing I am worried about the security of my backpack. Then he realises.
‘No, no,’ he pleads, ‘Is ok, is ok. I sorry.’
‘No, it is not ok. Goodbye,’ I announce, and walk away.
He does not protest and also decides against the coffee, returning to his car. The tyres crunch on the gravel and he cruises out of the car park and back onto the highway. The traffic swallows his black Mercedes like Jonah sailing into the whale, and my attention turns to the overhead road signs. Most of the names mean nothing to me. They are a jumble of unfamiliar letters, and none of the towns appear on my list. Roads to nowhere. So, while I have escaped the sexual curiosities of Mr Pokey Fingers, the coffee shop carpark is a terrible place to find another ride. The turnoff to Mostar is a kilometre down the road.
I return to waiting. Waiting and waving, waiving and smiling, smiling and wishing for a ride.
It is mid-afternoon by the time Damir and Aljo pull over. The red glow of their brake lights is a welcome sign, and I stroll up to the car.
‘Mostar?’ I ask, through another wound-down window.
‘Yes, get in,’ Damir says from the driver’s seat. Aljo looks at me and says nothing, then flicks a cigarette butt from the other window.
Damir and Aljo pay me little attention as we cruise down the highway. Damir has sandy, light brown hair, cut short. He is chubby, round, and hairy, like a sheep. Aljo is wiry, with short black spiky hair, and a silver earring in his left ear. He reminds me of a ferret, or a weasel. The two of them munch through packets of chips, brushing the crumbs from their laps to the floor. The salty snacks are washed down with cans of cheap-smelling beer, with the empties tossed out the window. Their taste in music is awful, and the stereo struggles with the bass-heavy electronica, sounds that could only be enjoyed after a significant intake of mind-altering drugs.
The town of Jablanica is the final one on my list, and an hour from Mostar. I reread the towns we have passed, fold the paper, and push it back into my pocket. The highway snakes along the river’s edge, passing through tunnels cut into the mountainside. The first rays of dusk shoot from above. They pierce the trees and bounce off the surface of the Neretva River. The day is coming to an end. Mostar is within sight.
Damir drives on, in and out of tunnels. Light and dark, dark and light. His eyes, and Aljo’s, flick back and forth in the rear-view mirror. Back and forth, forth and back. At the next tunnel, we do not go in and out. Instead, we go around and stop. Damir hurries towards some bushes, answering a call from nature. All those beers, in and out. Aljo meanders from the passenger side and opens the rear door to, I assume, offer me a chance to visit the bushes. What a chivalrous young man he is.
‘Am ok,’ I say, smiling (no serial killer vibes).
‘Phone,’ Aljo spits, and the first of many chip crumbs lands on my chest. In his hands, Aljo holds a pair of screwdrivers.
‘Phone,’ he repeats, and I laugh, indulging him in his practical joke. You are such a character, Aljo, pretending to rob me. Except Aljo is not laughing. He feigns a stabbing motion, jabbing the screwdrivers towards my thigh. Our eyes meet.
‘Phone,’ he barks, launching a salvo of chip crumbs.
Can this day get any worse? Yes, it can.
‘No phone,’ I lie, and hand him some money from my wallet, hoping he will be satisfied. He snatches the money and walks over to speak with Damir. I grab my bags and get out of the car.
Aljo returns, stands opposite, and repeats his demand. There is no awkward pause as he sprays me with his stinking beer breath, no hesitation as he commits another social faux pas, on top of his unfolding crime. I wipe the spittle from my face. Aljo’s hand is outstretched, and his eyes are darting, manic, and twitchy. We both know that in 2017, everybody has a phone. I hand it to him, then pick up my bag and walk to the front of the car. Damir is crouched in front, fumbling with the screwdrivers as he tries to remove the number plates. Aljo dances in front of me, trying to obscure my view. I hope his life of crime is profitable, because he would never make it in the Bolshoi. He scampers back and forth, waving his arms as if trying to land a plane. It is all in vain, though, as I repeat 025E586, 025E586, 025E586 in my head.
It takes an eternity for Damir to remove the front number plate. By the time he finishes, the situation has plateaued. The adrenaline has subsided. Aljo and I stand in an uneasy silence. What now? How does one conclude an interaction such as this? What is the etiquette? Do we wave goodbye? Do we shake hands? Aljo, will you call? Will I see you again? After all, you now have my number.
Damir tosses the number plate on the rear seat and calls Aljo to the car. He snaps out of his momentary stupor and hurries towards the passenger side. The car roars to life as Damir turns the key, Frankenstein’s monster awakes, and the tyres rip into the gravel. Amidst a haze of dust, they tear onto the highway, skidding onto the tarmac, before speeding away. In a final insult, they continue in the direction of Mostar.
Bastards.
So, what now?
I run towards the highway and wave down a white van, running into its path, forcing it to stop. I yank open the sliding door and, what is the collective noun for tradesmen, a crew, a wrench, a grip? Well, a van full of tradesmen stares back at me.
‘Police,’ I huff, ‘police, go, go’ and climb in without waiting for an invitation.
None of the men speaks much English, and I have to exhume the latent talent that saw me win a high school drama award to reenact the situation. In between scenes, I peer out the window, scanning turnoffs and side streets. There is no sign of the sheep and ferret; they are in the wind. We arrive at the village of Gornji Jasenjani, and the driver stops at the police station. The crew, wrench, grip, they wish me good luck, all while channelling their own acting skills to shield their elation at being rid of me.
Mostar, the reason for all this fuss and hullaballoo, will have to wait for tomorrow. When I arrive, the police are expecting me. An interpreter has travelled from Sarajevo to help with my statement, and with the detectives, we source CCTV footage from an intersection in Jablanica. The enthusiasm is confounding. Are the Mostar police the most well-resourced force in the Balkans? Or are there no other crimes to investigate? Over the next few days, in my own personal episode of Law & Order, we learn that the car is registered to Damir’s grandmother (that should make nan proud); we use Facebook to identify Damir and Aljo (thanks, Zuck); and discover a newspaper article recounting the story of Aljo stabbing someone on a tram in Sarajevo. So, does that make me lucky?
One week after ‘The Screwdriver Incident,’ I leave Bosnia on a bus bound for Split in Croatia. This leg is a one-off hitchhiking hiatus, and I vow to soon return to the roadside. Damir, Aljo, and Mr Pokey Fingers, who now seems comparatively harmless, will not be my last hitchhiking memory. The Bosnians, of course, provide me with a ringing endorsement of their neighbours: ‘You shouldn’t go there, but if you do, be careful. They are all bastards in Croatia.’
