Bosnian Goulash

The crowd waiting for me was a jolly group of Bosniaks with a huge bogracs* full of tasty goulash.  All I could think about is how, if I lived here, I'd be home by now.  And trust me, there are few places I would rather live.  The beautiful Bosnian countryside splayed before me, spicy goulash in a massive cauldron over the stove, and a LOT of beer continuously proffered me by an exuberant and enthusiastic Russophile all led me believe that I have been going about this whole "life" thing wrong altogether.  

LOLz, I am loving these Simpsons screenshots.

One of the women in the crowd spoke English, as most Bosniaks who live in Germany apparently do.  Whether she speaks German or not is neither here nor there, because English is more than enough for me.    In any case, they were so warm and friendly and they served me stew, and beer, and talked to me about all sorts of things.  I really, really valued this time I had.  We also jimmy rigged a tarp over the picnic table when the rain came in.  The food was so good, and everything was so good.  Usually I have something cheeky to say but I just don't.  This was a really nice experience.  

In any case, like all nice experiences, this one had to come to an end when I realized that I needed to be hitting the old dusty trail and get to Sarajevo.  I started walking and one of my hosts tried flagging down cars.  No such luck.  So then two of the ladies drove me to the nearest village where I thanked them profusely and got out to find a French motorhome on the side of the road complete with a French family inside.  They were not even remotely interested in helping me.  Like, not even.  And I even speak a bit of French. Like, I spent some time in Tunisia in case you were familiar. 

Anyway, I continued to walk and approached a group of villagers who I assumed would be just as interested in me as the last group was.  They weren't!  They were mildly amused, but none spoke English.  I asked if they spoke Russian.  No one did and shyly turned away.  I asked, "Hungarian?" and they all burst out laughing.  Actually, we all had a good chuckle about that one.  And we needed it.  Sometimes, after a long day, it's good to laugh.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to be picked up by a kindly older man and his daughter. They were from Uzice and he was driving her back to medical school in Sarajevo.  We stopped for a Turkish coffee and Turkish delight and then continued on our way.  We went through the backroads to Sarajevo and he told me all about the Bosnian war and how awful it was.  They dropped me off at a remarkably convenient place (I was hoping I could get to the train station to catch the evening train to…Zabreg?) but they dropped me off at the next best place: a cafe with wifi, where I was able to check that the train left an hour before.  So Sarajevo was mine.  More than Milosevic can say. 

*Look, I live in Hungary.  So naturally I'm going to toss in Magyarisms like they are a commonly accepted thing.  And you're just going to accept it.