Welcome to Bosnia

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On my first weekend in Bosnia, I went up to my American friend Knute's mountain house just outside of Sarajevo with some international as well as Bosnian compadres of his. His family has lived in the 'Jevo (as we annoying foreigners call it), for about a year for work-related reasons.

I ended up in a car driven by an overly-stimulated Bosnian girl named Tidza, who cheerfully honked and waved at all passersby as she stormed around narrow, winding mountain roads with one hand on the wheel, all the while either singing or maintaining a constant stream of chatter. Upon getting in the car, I had asked if there was a buckle for the lonely hanging seatbelt -- she only laughed. I draped the loose strap across my lap for mental comfort. When we finally made it there, dizzy but blessedly intact, Jim, a friend from England, emerged with his arm permanently stuck upright and knuckles white from clutching the coat hanger.

On the way up, we had passed a flaming pile of rubbish. Tidza joked: "Don't worry, we're just burning some Serbs." I stifled criticism -- it was clearly not my place. I knew from Knute that she had lost friends and relatives during the war.

At one point, after an afternoon hike and hours of sitting around sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes (Bosnia's favourite pastimes), Tidza picked up a large bread knife, fixed a crazy look in her eyes and started waving it around, giggling. Her friend Ina obviously took this as a sign that we were now in a weapons-free zone, and suddenly a black BB gun emerged from her purse. She proceeded to shoot Knute in the back, me in the, ahem, crown jewels and Owusu in the leg. At this, Owusu took control of the situation by comandeering the gun and giving them a verbal dressing down. An awkward silence prevailed as they went into the corner to sulk and, of course, smoke more cigarettes.

After all this, I thought to myself: "Welcome to Bosnia!"