Somehow, I didn't think that I would arrive in Bosnia-Herzegovina in the front seats of the upper level of a double decker coach, but I did. Accompanied by Henrik, a Nowegian who decided on the spur of the moment to go to Sarajevo, we hurtled down the dramatic Croatian coast road, twisting and turning like on one of the roller coasters I design on my computer.
We crossed into Herzegovina at a friendly, efficient border post, and commenced the long climb towards Sarajevo, in the dark, but no less dramatically as tunnel upon tunnel lifted us up the mountains. Everything looked suspiciously normal, but we were in a solidly Bosnian Croat area and flags of Herzeg-Bosna, the putative state dreamt up by Croat Nationalists were occasionally suspended across the road, reminding us of tribal loyalties, reminiscent of similar displays of loyalty I had seen in Ulster.
Henrik and I had a rather pointless conversation about the number of countries he had been to- he wanted to count England, Wales and Scotland separately, but wouldn't count Monaco as he hadn't got off the train at Monte Carlo Station. Hours of mindless fun and games.
Not that I was counting, but back in the 31st country I had been to, we arrived in Sarajevo only to find that the pension I had booked into had been demolished. Not still under constuction, demolished. Doubly embarrassing for me, I had suggested to Henrik that
used to make the reservation and found the Pansion Konak's
A rather grubby-looking, obviously knife -wielding axeman
and booked in at the other hotel, but all was well in the end, and we went out and got a little drunk with some Hearts of Midlothian fans who were in Sarajevo for a UEFA
I left the Pansion this morning trying to escape an elderly Bosnian lady who was trying to grandmother me. The old town was my first destination for a visit to the 1531 Gazi Husrevbey
Mosque where I was given a personal guided tour by a rather earnest young Bosnian who seemed pleased to be bothered by me. The old town has a pleasant low-level collection of shops selling a variety of goods-I managed to find a new Bosnian flag to add to a Croatian one acquired in Split, but the level of souvenirs generally was a couple of notches above Sammarinese levels of awfulness.
It would be unfair to judge Sarajevo by that though- the city, eight years on from the end of the war does exude some sense of vibrancy, and there's a lot of work going on. It feels as though Sarajevo should be at the
heart of Europe, but severe doubts must remain about the loyalty of many citizens to the state they find themselves in- the Danes I had met last night had watched the Bosnia-Denmark game on TV in Banja Luka, the capital of the Bosnian Serb Republic, and found the local Serbs supporting Denmark.
The point where Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated now lies uncommemorated , as the plaque marking Gavril Princip's actions was removed....as he was a Bosnian Serb. I took a photograph of what I thought to be the correct spot, and noted the absence of a grassy knoll. Just further up lies the slowly resuscitating corpse of the former Bosnian National Library, burnt out by, (you've guessed it) Bosnian Serb fire in an act of national
