I’m awake and up at 5am. I can’t actually remember the last time I stood at the side of a road and stuck my thumb out; and it’s terrifying me. I feel I’ve regressed. A summer of debauchery has fattened my lethargy. It’s almost like I’m back to square one and I’ve no idea how to do this. What isn’t going to help is the complications of this particular route. In spite of being two important capital cities, there is no direct road link or highway between Sarajevo and Belgrade. It’s all B-roads and backwaters into the middle of nowhere. The snow is heavy on the ground and rail drizzling, and the wind has whipped up a chill through the bones. It’s not safe for female hitchers at all, but regardless of not fitting that bracket, I’m still nervous as I hold up my cardboard sign for the first time since May. My GPS tracker has its reassuring green blink, and my pepper spray is within easy reach in my breast pocket. Bring it on Bosnia.
After trekking half an hour or so to reach Sarajevo city limits, I’m getting wet. It’s that kind of subtle fuzzy rain that hangs in the air, knowingly deceptive. It tricks you into thinking you and your stuff isn’t getting damp, then it sneaks up on you and BAM! Everything is soaked. I’m also not sure I’m even on the right road. Nobody appears to be giving me any clues, and asking a couple of passers-by (“SERBSKA, SERBSKA?!” and jabbing a finger in some direction), isn’t yielding any fruit. I look up into the hills, shrouded in mist and from where Bosnian Serb forces besieged the city, and I suddenly get the totally irrational fear that I’m a sniper target. I’m convinced my head is going to get blown off by some crazy with an old rifle taking a pot shot at a tourist nobody would miss. I’ll take anywhere but here, any driver that comes. On the hour mark a battered tin can on wheels pulls up. The cabin thick with smoke, nicotine stained fingers and a dodgy eye beckons me in. He looks like Worzel Gummidge on crack. I don’t hesitate and climb in.
He can take me as far as the next turn off. From here it’s all minor roads, and with several routes into the hills, I’ve got options to try to get across the border. It’s not going to be easy though, as I’m not sure where I am at any given time. The little printed google map I’m clutching is invaluable, but due to the scale, it’s not really telling me anything accurate. Buses zip by with unpronounceable town names adorned in the windshield, but I can’t locate any of them. It’s total guesswork, until I’m picked up by a nice guy who speaks good English. It feels a little strange as I enter the Republic of Serbska, as although still in Bosnia, the road signs change to the Cyrillic alphabet, and Serbian flags bluster from street lamps. Nonetheless, my spirits are high as I’m reassured I’m heading in the right direction.
Little by little I’m edging closer to the border, but I’m still significantly off. It’s just gone 10 am, and I reckon I’ve come maybe 30 KM in a 300KM journey. It’s not looking good unless I get a real distance hitch. An old man pulls in driving a VW Golf from the dark ages that is still going strong. I wedge myself in, and he drops me at a little town called Sokolac. I’m marching confidently though looking for a Serbia sign, when my legs go out from under me on the black ice. The calamity happens while passing a set of traffic lights, with a number of vehicles backed up in both directions, their occupants already watching this strange character with two massive back-packs, a guitar, a board that reads India and a large green foam finger. I face plant into the snow and mud. Struggling for ages to get up, like an upside down tortoise, I don’t stop to appreciate everyone doubling over with laughter.
One side of me now looks like it’s covered in turd. Like someone has used me to clean up a turd. A long hour goes by with the wind thrashing through, the sun hints at coming out but decides against it, and nobody is biting. Local hitchers are getting picked up fast, but I’m not so lucky. The poo stain down my jeans isn’t helping, as nobody wants a traveler covered in shit on their leather seats. I’m trying to hide that leg behind my pack, but to no avail. With the weather so poor, it feels like it’s getting dark at midday. The traffic dies to nothing. Maybe one vehicle every ten minutes, usually rammed with locals. Then a bus comes. A bus that is going to Belgrade. My arm shakes as I hold up my sign and he pulls in.
“Gratis?” I inquire, to which the driver flatly denies my request. He’s clearly not affiliated with the laws of hitching. I look back towards the empty road. The wind bites my face. I hesitate. A decision needs to be made fast. It is to my eternal shame that I throw my bags in the luggage store and collapse onto the bus. I’ve failed. I’m going to have to pay for the rest of the journey.
So dear readers you must forgive me. It’s not going to be the first time that I have to pay I’m sure, as I’ve heard that nearly all drivers in central Asia will ask for a contribution. But I still feel I’ve let myself down. My one saving grace is getting off on a technicality. A friend gave me a bunch of Serbian money back in Croatia, which just about covers my fare. So, if we’re splitting hairs, I’ve not actually paid for this trip. I pass out for pretty much the rest of the lengthy ride. I certainly wasn’t making Belgrade tonight if I didn’t take this option, and instead of being in a warm bed in a new country and city, my other self would still be standing by a freezing cold road overnight in Bosnia. Four rides, eleven hours, 296 KM and I finally get a new flag sticker for my guitar. Come at me Serbia! But just take it easy I’m fragile.
Hitchhike to India leg 15: Sarajevo to Belgrade
I’m awake and up at 5am. I can’t actually remember the last time I stood at the side of a road and stuck my thumb out; and it’s terrifying me. I feel I’ve regressed. A summer of debauchery has fattened my lethargy. It’s almost like I’m back to square one and I’ve no idea how to do this. What isn’t going to help is the complications of this particular route. In spite of being two important capital cities, there is no direct road link or highway between Sarajevo and Belgrade. It’s all B-roads and backwaters into the middle of nowhere. The snow is heavy on the ground and rail drizzling, and the wind has whipped up a chill through the bones. It’s not safe for female hitchers at all, but regardless of not fitting that bracket, I’m still nervous as I hold up my cardboard sign for the first time since May. My GPS tracker has its reassuring green blink, and my pepper spray is within easy reach in my breast pocket. Bring it on Bosnia.
After trekking half an hour or so to reach Sarajevo city limits, I’m getting wet. It’s that kind of subtle fuzzy rain that hangs in the air, knowingly deceptive. It tricks you into thinking you and your stuff isn’t getting damp, then it sneaks up on you and BAM! Everything is soaked. I’m also not sure I’m even on the right road. Nobody appears to be giving me any clues, and asking a couple of passers-by (“SERBSKA, SERBSKA?!” and jabbing a finger in some direction), isn’t yielding any fruit. I look up into the hills, shrouded in mist and from where Bosnian Serb forces besieged the city, and I suddenly get the totally irrational fear that I’m a sniper target. I’m convinced my head is going to get blown off by some crazy with an old rifle taking a pot shot at a tourist nobody would miss. I’ll take anywhere but here, any driver that comes. On the hour mark a battered tin can on wheels pulls up. The cabin thick with smoke, nicotine stained fingers and a dodgy eye beckons me in. He looks like Worzel Gummidge on crack. I don’t hesitate and climb in.
He can take me as far as the next turn off. From here it’s all minor roads, and with several routes into the hills, I’ve got options to try to get across the border. It’s not going to be easy though, as I’m not sure where I am at any given time. The little printed google map I’m clutching is invaluable, but due to the scale, it’s not really telling me anything accurate. Buses zip by with unpronounceable town names adorned in the windshield, but I can’t locate any of them. It’s total guesswork, until I’m picked up by a nice guy who speaks good English. It feels a little strange as I enter the Republic of Serbska, as although still in Bosnia, the road signs change to the Cyrillic alphabet, and Serbian flags bluster from street lamps. Nonetheless, my spirits are high as I’m reassured I’m heading in the right direction.
Little by little I’m edging closer to the border, but I’m still significantly off. It’s just gone 10 am, and I reckon I’ve come maybe 30 KM in a 300KM journey. It’s not looking good unless I get a real distance hitch. An old man pulls in driving a VW Golf from the dark ages that is still going strong. I wedge myself in, and he drops me at a little town called Sokolac. I’m marching confidently though looking for a Serbia sign, when my legs go out from under me on the black ice. The calamity happens while passing a set of traffic lights, with a number of vehicles backed up in both directions, their occupants already watching this strange character with two massive back-packs, a guitar, a board that reads India and a large green foam finger. I face plant into the snow and mud. Struggling for ages to get up, like an upside down tortoise, I don’t stop to appreciate everyone doubling over with laughter.
One side of me now looks like it’s covered in turd. Like someone has used me to clean up a turd. A long hour goes by with the wind thrashing through, the sun hints at coming out but decides against it, and nobody is biting. Local hitchers are getting picked up fast, but I’m not so lucky. The poo stain down my jeans isn’t helping, as nobody wants a traveler covered in shit on their leather seats. I’m trying to hide that leg behind my pack, but to no avail. With the weather so poor, it feels like it’s getting dark at midday. The traffic dies to nothing. Maybe one vehicle every ten minutes, usually rammed with locals. Then a bus comes. A bus that is going to Belgrade. My arm shakes as I hold up my sign and he pulls in.
“Gratis?” I inquire, to which the driver flatly denies my request. He’s clearly not affiliated with the laws of hitching. I look back towards the empty road. The wind bites my face. I hesitate. A decision needs to be made fast. It is to my eternal shame that I throw my bags in the luggage store and collapse onto the bus. I’ve failed. I’m going to have to pay for the rest of the journey.
So dear readers you must forgive me. It’s not going to be the first time that I have to pay I’m sure, as I’ve heard that nearly all drivers in central Asia will ask for a contribution. But I still feel I’ve let myself down. My one saving grace is getting off on a technicality. A friend gave me a bunch of Serbian money back in Croatia, which just about covers my fare. So, if we’re splitting hairs, I’ve not actually paid for this trip. I pass out for pretty much the rest of the lengthy ride. I certainly wasn’t making Belgrade tonight if I didn’t take this option, and instead of being in a warm bed in a new country and city, my other self would still be standing by a freezing cold road overnight in Bosnia. Four rides, eleven hours, 296 KM and I finally get a new flag sticker for my guitar. Come at me Serbia! But just take it easy I’m fragile.