Road to Bosnia

As we have now finally arrived at the camp site in a little village called Amaljie, it is now probably a good time to turn back and reflect a bit on our 24 hour train journey. Starting from Zurich, we took the night train equipped with small, but nonetheless cozy bunk beds. It would be the last time we’d sleep in such comfortable beds and had we known that ancient hospital beds in little shacks on a field awaited us, we’d probably have paid more attention to these simple luxuries. The journey took us through Austria, Croatia, and Serbia. From time to time, we’d stop for the obligatory border controls, hoping to get at least a stamp from the stern officials so we could boast our now well-travelled, red passports at home. Everything went well, apart from the last border-crossing in Serbia, which involved one of our delegates, a Venezuelan passport, and an unrelenting Serbian border

official. But all’s well that ends well, and despite the occasional throwbacks we’d find ourselves reunited after all in Bijeljina.

From our last stop in Belgrade we took the coach, which was surprisingly air conditioned and ran smoothly on lit highways and narrow streets. Because our train ended up behind schedule, we just about missed our connecting bus which left us stranded for two hours at the train station in Belgrade. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the rare sights of Mladic t-shirts, one-legged pigeons, and lost back-packers. It could have been worse, and munching away on a giant and delicious Pizza, we kept our spirits up. The bus ride only lasted two hours and enveloped in cool air we sat back and took in the scenery; never-ending landscapes, a sunset, trees dipped in pink and gold, and many people resting by the street on blankets, accompanied by food and laughter.

After one and a half hours we finally crossed the Serbian border into Bosnia. Once again, we showed our passports to a stern border official, who probably took some pleasure in keeping ours, and a few others, for routine checks. On returning them he barked our names through the bus:

-Alleshandro!

(Alessandro raises his hand)

-Nadi-Enn!

(Namira looks on in confusion)

-Namira!

(Namira smiles, nods ‘yes’, receives her passport)

-Adé-Lia!

(Margarete, obviously used to administration and border officials calling her by her first name, nods

and says ‘yes’)

Reunited with our passports, the journey went on. I didn't notice it, but one of our observing volunteers pointed out the absence of street lights as soon as we left Serbia and a certain degree of 'bumpiness' of the streets themselves. We found ourselves unmistakably on Bosnian soil. The darkness hid most of the buildings and fields from us, but a starry night sky greeted us nonetheless. 

Having finally arrived in Bijeljina, Goran, one of the Red Cross workers welcomed us with a big smile and some German greetings. He and Boris, another Red Cross volunteer from Bijeljina, loaded our pile of baggage up into the trunk of a white van and drove us in breakneck speed to the camp site in Amaljie, avoiding potholes and probably some living creatures as well.

The camp site itself would be full of unexpected surprises, too: no running water, dirty toilets, a kitchen probably dating back to the 1940s, and an army of mosquitoes, ready to test its newest bite-technology on unsuspecting tourists. 

But all this would be quickly forgotten, after our first shower in over in 24 hours -even though the water came from PET bottles- and a well-deserved cigarette under a star-lit sky.