Trip to Bosnia: When you hear ‘No’, could there be something good out of it ?
Trip to Bosnia – Chapter 2
What a day…
One of those days when you know how it starts, but have no idea how it will end.
I woke up early, said goodbye to the Serbian family and their 6-year-old grandson, who smiled and told his father he wanted to sleep in my room. Then I set off toward Sutjeska National Park, still within Republika Srpska. The weather was gloomy, cloudy, and rainy. The park is famous and vast, with hiking trails, mountains, forests, rivers—everything that leaves you in awe.
I arrived at the complex that includes the visitor center, hotel, restaurant, and more—but that day, it felt completely deserted. A guy was standing at the hotel entrance, and I asked him about the trails I wanted to hike.
“You can’t do that trail—it’s blocked by snow from last week.”
“You can’t go to that viewpoint—it’s foggy and rainy.”
“You can’t go there—you don’t have the right gear.”
The same answers kept repeating. I realized he was only going to tell me what I couldn’t do, not what I could.
Then he said, “Wait a minute,” disappeared for a moment, and came back saying, “You’re lucky—our driver is just about to take a group to the viewpoint, he’s finishing breakfast.”
Just as he finished the sentence, the driver came out of the dining room, and the guy told me, “Go with him to the group—it’s really close.”
We drove 500 meters to the visitor center. Turns out, the “group” was a couple of tourists and a guide who was already halfway into the minibus. The guide told me the tour costs X, it’s a 9km hike, and I had to decide right now. It was raining, and I didn’t feel like walking 9km in the rain, so I passed. I walked back to my car via the park’s massive monument.
Looking at the map, I saw a place called Popov Most nearby. “Most” means bridge in Russian and Serbian. I figured I’d check it out. Google led me to a dirt road—2.5 km long. Perfect for a walk. I parked and started walking through a dirt path, passing through a small village and then into a large forest. The rain got heavier, and I got soaked.
I finally reached what was supposed to be the bridge—at least according to Google Maps—but there was nothing there. Just a point in the middle of the forest. I was wet and sweaty from the climb. Just as I was about to turn back, a van with eight Serbian lumberjacks passed by. They stopped and let me in, driving toward the village where I had parked. They were in great spirits, laughing, offering me homemade wine mixed with Coke (surprisingly good), and insisted I finish the bottle (I thanked them and explained I was driving). They also asked if I had sex today (nope), and kept filling my hands with jelly candies (which I really don’t like). It was a short and amazing ride. After five minutes, we reached my car, I thanked them, and they drove off.
I continued to a nearby café to warm up with some coffee. The woman there gave me good directions to the real Popov Most. The dirt road led through the forest alongside the fast-flowing Drina River. I parked near an abandoned quarry and walked along the river through the woods. The rain stopped, the sky cleared a bit, and all I could hear were birds and water.
Small creeks joined the river along the way. I crossed one and saw mint growing wild in the stream—picked some and put it in my bottle. Eventually, I reached one charming bridge, then another, until I got hungry and turned back. Just as I got back to the car, a downpour started. What luck!
I drove south, still within Republika Srpska. The scenery was stunning—reminiscent of Switzerland or northern Italy. Mountains on both sides of a narrow valley, a rushing river, everything covered in forest. So many places to stop—it was beautiful.
I arrived in a sleepy Serbian town and found a restaurant that seemed to be where all the young locals were hanging out. The menu had many items that looked vegetarian, but the waiter spoke little English and even less about vegetarian food. He called over the bartender—a tall, beautiful blonde—who spoke better English and actually knew what vegetarian meant. I ordered a margherita pizza, Greek salad, and Coke Zero—for the equivalent of 17 shekels.
After the meal, I got back in the car, started driving, and suddenly felt the steering wheel pulling hard to the left. Flat tire. Great. No spare tire. I was in a tiny town, barely anyone on the streets. Then I spotted the same waiter walking nearby. I showed him the tire. He typed on his phone’s translator: “Today is a holiday. No one’s working.” Disappointment.
But then he called someone. A few minutes later, a guy showed up—no English. He called another guy—a mechanic—who fortunately was very nice. At first, he said I might need a new tire. We drove to his shop. On the way, he told me that Muslims and Christians live together peacefully in Republika Srpska, and that during summer (June–September) thousands of tourists pass through this town, so he’s always busy—he’s the only tire repair guy, and people call him at 2 or 4 a.m.
It was great talking to him. He fixed the tire for just €10 (!) and gave me his phone number in case I needed anything.
I continued my drive toward the village of Blagaj in Bosnia, which I’d wanted to visit. The scenery began to shift—wide green plains with snake-like rivers cutting through them, broad basalt hills with few trees, shallow rivers with strange trees growing in their middle. A breathtaking landscape that was hard to absorb while driving—it begged for pauses.
The road was so beautiful I kept stopping for photos until I realized I’d never get there if I continued like this. It’s hard to fully describe the beauty.
On the way to the village, I saw a sign for a cave. It was getting late. A dirt road led to the cave—500 meters. I parked and walked. After 500 meters I reached a tiny village, maybe 10 houses, completely silent. No cars, no smoke from chimneys. Then I saw an old woman working in her yard. I asked her about the cave. She started explaining in Serbian—go there, up, down, 500 meters, come back, turn right, left… I told her I speak English, but that didn’t help. She seemed like someone who hadn’t left the village in decades—maybe still thought we were in Yugoslavia.
Eventually we said goodbye. I got back to the car and continued toward the village. Suddenly, the mountainous terrain opened up to a vast valley, blanketed by low-hanging clouds, with the village at its center.
I had arrived.
Less than 24 hours filled with moments that felt like one long, unfolding story.
/