Retour-Blogspot HTML source

Here is the story that got me the 2nd place of the CBC Literary Awards in the category of "Travel Writing", The jury was composed by Hugues Corriveau, Claude Godin and Dany Laferrière. The text was published in the April 2004 edition of Air Canada's EnRoute magazine, with illustrations by Martine Huot, and was available on all Air Canada flights that month. The text was also read on Radio-Canada's Chaîne culturelle in 2004.

RETURN FROM SARAJEVO, FIRST HAND ACCOUNT *

In the Autumn of 1997, I was returning from Bosnia for the second time. Eerie as this feeling was, I once again felt as though I was leaving home for… home. This country was in many ways the cradle of my adult life and it has once again stretched my eyes wide open.

I had just bought my bus ticket when Feda gave word of his own trek toward Zagreb. He was to attend a « Faith No More » concert. A friend of his father’s, himself conducting business between the two countries, was returning and offered us a lift. I was saving 40 Marks. As if I need convincing, Feda piled it on : « Come with us, it will be faster ». He explained that the official trip taken by my bus, the new Sarajevo-Zagreb route, was in fact a road traced for the distinct purpose of avoiding the Republika Serbska. The old road they were planning to take had been laid by the Yugoslavian government in the era of Yugoslavia, while the new one had been determined according to the Dayton accords. Going with them meant a trek through the mountains, the crossing of a river, and a 30k drive through Serbian territory, a zone widely considered hostile toward non-Serbian ex-Yugoslavians. Feda and the driver, both Bosnian, would perhaps feel uncomfortable, but they seemed to think it was worth the trouble. This old route took seven hours instead of twelve. It had been widely circulated that people had been robbed, beaten, and sometimes even relieved of their car. We were crossing this section at night. Armed with my Canadian passport, and in spite of my almost complete ignorance of the local tongue, I was not altogether worried. Typical boldness of the arrogant wandering youth that I was, an awkward echo of the curiosity that tempted mankind from his caves.

I had taken advantage of this time away from my Penelope to once again reach Sarajevo, a mere 18 months after my first trip. In May of 1996, this first chapter had emerged from necessity and dumb luck. I had returned with over 3000 photos, post-war images still humbling to me. This time armed with a small video camera, I had filmed a short video about the U2 concert in Sarajevo and its impact on the city’s youth. Bono had finally made good on his satellite-spoken promise made during the siege. With my video equipment and fuelled by the fine beer drank in the company of Feda, I had the distinct feeling of having, I too, made good on my promise to return to Sarajevo. In May of 1986, I had to leave the city, my supply of cash quickly dwindling in a country’s broken bank system. At this time, my hasty return had also been prompted by the urgent need to see a friend languishing under the heavy Damocles of cancer. I had not returned pleased, and worse, I had not returned in time.

Despite the bags, the boxes of samples, and operating with a slow and calculated hand, Zoran at last emptied the back seat, clearing just enough room for me to sit comfortably. We sped off at noon, and barely a minute has passed before their vociferous deliberations fell upon a consensus of pizza. They ordered to go. Standing, smoking cigarette, they conversed with each other as I surveyed the land one last time. I stood here, in the very center of Sarajevo’s northern edge, casting upon the bruised city one last “Ulyssian” gaze before heading home. It was at this moment that I noticed the car’s plate. Keeping with pre-war Federation regulations, the plate was comprised of the two first letters of its origin city followed by a string of numbers. ZA 27634. This alphabetic clue stirred in all ex-Yugoslavian drivers, and with good reason, a certain degree of anxiety whenever they found themselves outside the confines of their own (new) countries.

Once the pizza arrived, I found myself puzzled as they rushed bad to the car without taking a single bite. Take out, take home. Zoran was going back to Zagreb where he had his business, his house, and a Croatian girlfriend. Ah, Croatian women! Elegant and distinguished - true sirens. Yours truly suffered the shock of these creatures upon his first step in Zagreb and has yet to recover. Indeed, your humble narrator was in the process of wrapping up the painful Milan-Zagreb train route after a single stop in Venice. Two hours in Venice is itself somewhat traumatic : long enough to taste the city’s magic, short enough to suffer the aftermath of its spell. In the role of photographer’s mule, inoculated with the syndrome of Stendhal, the Croatian women had left him profoundly affected. In keeping with the local legend, which he had read in some ancient book of dated rituals, a man would kidnap his wife-to-be from her own region for a village wedding in his neck of the woods. It was all true - they were, every one of them, ravishing.

My fellow travellers gorged on the pizza as we drove. This small sinuous road, snaking along narrow cliffs lined with trees, I assumed required the use of two hands. Zoran now driving at an impressive speed, debating with Feda, a slice of pizza in one hand and a napkin in the other, occasionally lifted the former from the wheel for a quick dab at his mouth with the napkin. For but a moment, yes, for less than even one second, but long enough for me to envision a few sheep appearing suddenly before us and the resulting voyage into some great abyss. Without even a hint of suddenly appearing sheep, the pizza was half gone. Zoran paused amid his gluttony and went silent.

A suspicious sound. The front left wheel. He then readily embarked upon a path reading to small farm ahead. We were greeted by the dutiful bark of a dog, though it remained at a distance. One working a job so dependent on the voice can certainly perform from a distance. It’s safer. Indifferent to this canine racket, our driver crouched over the wheel and popped the hubcap.

Although they were still all present, the bolts had been deliberately unscrewed.

In Sarajevo, Zagreb plates were not especially popular, and so we’d given the car a once over with the wrench to soften our trek as best we could. Zoran took care to tightly re-screw the bolts. The coutryside was suddenly silent and Feda and I stated in perfect harmony : « Where’s the dog »? The infamous dog, watching us from the corner of an eye, was happily devouring the rest of our pizza.

Our wheel secured, we at once continued our journey, tossing our furry customs agent a much appreciated toll. As we ascended the mountain’s incline at a steady pace, fog and snow fell upon us as does misery upon the poor. Visibility : less than 4 metres. Zoran, his head darting forward, squinting in hopes of clarity, had not for a minute the urge to slow down. Hordes of sheep appeared in my mind’s eye. I attempted to relax, but as soon as I successfully tore myself from the hypnotic spectacle of furiously falling snowflakes, tracing sharp diagonals before me, my eyes plunged into the gully to our right. I forced myself back onto the road, praying that all Bosnia’s sheep were being shorn.

As we drove back down, the snow gradually gave way to rain. Fog obscured increasingly large patches of road. After the wait for our pizza, the bolts of vengeance and the weather, we had emerged from the mountains only upon the day’s decline. It was November, after all.

We then arrived at the river. A black skin bubbling and one long line of lights on the other side. We waited for a great while, gaining 10 to 20 metres with the boarding of each new shipment up ahead. The barge crossed along a steel cable thanks to the traction of a coughing engine, this was a plain floating plaque coming and going over a thick black soup. All about the pot, two terrestrial contingents met face to face. In the middle, seamen waited patiently, hoping to arrive as soon as humanly possible. I did not wish to linger any more than did those seamen in a river whose name was still wholly unknown to me. It was matter or respect for my mother who would undoubtedly be made to suffer the shame of having to reiterate this to each guest streaming into my funeral:

- (grieved question)?
- He drowned…
- (morbid curiosity which does not attenuate nor amplify the condolences)?
- We aren’t sure where… a river somewhere in Bosnia…
- (repeating name of country? – a grasping at trivia for future reference.)
- Bosnia, you know, in Ex-Yugoslavia… The war... you know…
- (comment about the incongruity of dying in such a place).
- (my mother’s sigh – the nth sigh of the day) There or elsewhere, it doesn’t really matter…
- (common Six Inches of Bathwater rhetoric)
- (re-Sigh) Indeed…

The line of cars waiting at the other side of the river stretched along a km, the first of this line at a full stop, while the other rolled slowly along at increasing distance between them as we drove farther away from the river. Our path now open, we crossed them at breakneck speed.

It was not the flocks of sheep that I should have feared.

A truck suddenly deviated from its path and our driver had just enough time to pull up alongside the road. This truck had left its row, exposing us to a one-on-one in a manner so bold that, following our initial stupor, we were left with the unpleasant impression that this gesture was a voluntary one. The truck had been perfectly aligned and had not deviated from its position. Not even the cough of a horn. Zoran had avoided catastrophe by inches without ever leaving the road. Our Odyssey continued. I had nonetheless a renewed respect for drivers who eat at the wheel.

Alone on the road, the river incident now far behind us, we drove along a dark countryside, such an obscurity as to be pierced only by our headlights and the villages we passed—luminous cones in the night. The front seat discussion now continued, and as I stared into the darkness, sometimes identifying the emaciated silhouette of a house, one among innumerable vestiges of the fratricide. In this country where post-war sang sweetly, they had stopped dying, but had not yet begin to live again.

Feda turned to me to explain that we were nearing the Serbian zone. We would cross an invisible border, after which we would endure 30 dreadful kilometres. Farther off, a billboard embed with Cyrillic script confirmed that we were, in fact, already there. My companions fixed the dark road. In eerie silence, the car pushed into the night.

We had been holding our breaths ever since the billboard-border and in retrospect, I feel as though we could have crossed the entire Serbian section on a single breath. It was then that the rear right tire exploded. We’d been moving at about 120km per hour when we heard the bang and then the hiss. On the side on which I was sitting, the car crumbled under its own weight. Zoran sputtered a single phrase : « Anywhere but NOT HERE! ». He sharply slowed to 60km per hour, but continued his routs, clenching tightly the steering wheel to numb the occasional zigzag. Our tire whined noisily, yet our pace was surprisingly relentless. After 5 minutes of reprieve, as we reached a small plateau, the verdict fell : our tire came apart completely, torn to shreds, forcing us to stop on the side of the road. The night surrounding us was opaque and it was at this moment that it came to be known that not one of my companions had in his possession a flashlight. However, by some stroke of dumb luck, I’d always lugged one around on my trips, a small number that clips on to your belt. Another second and we were out of the car. Our captain removed a few large pieces from the trunk and removed the jack and the spare tire. We hadn’t much time. Humidity bit our bones, keeping us from questioning the origin of our shivers. Our tragedy affected in no perceivable way the zeal of surrounding crickets.

Behind us, car headlights appeared. All at once, we turned around to look. Feda was holding the flashlight, Zoran operated the car jack at a frenzied pace, I thus hurriedly bestowed upon myself the title of signaller. Knowing full well that I was being watched, I walked toward the car, and theatrically waved it along to our left, indicating with wide gestures the proper detour. It was in this strategic position that I was able to hide the licence plate. Here, too, ZA 27634 was liable to attract unwelcome attention. My face remained serene, my gaze calm. The car slowed, deviated slightly and continued on its way. Collective sigh of relief.

They were changing the tire when another pair of lights revealed itself in the distance. An immense truck was nearing the top of the hill. I once again adopted my position, trading my wide gestures this time for a general nonchalance, for I had decided that I might be better off with a less zealous demeanour.

Deceleration, grinding brakes, hydraulic relaxation.

The truck stopped about ten meters behind us. Blinded by the headlights, unable to discern what lurked behind the black windshield, I continued my little choreography, straining to keep my growing discomfort properly hidden. Behind me, Zoran persevered, expertly tightening the bolts. I cannot now recall how long I stood there, waving. I was frozen at the prospect of the truck’s door slowly opening. We’d have had to talk to them, and in spite of a common tongue, my friends held a telling accent. I was not altogether convinced of the danger, though I understood that my friends were not in the mood to double-check. A drunk trucker can happen any day. Facing the Cyclops, I held no weapon but my wide smile.

Transmission clutch, the heaving giant’s gasp, the motor’s growl.

The mastodon turned at once and, accelerating, passed us. Even the crickets sighed. Zoran tightened the last bolt and loaded what was left of his tire. Feda gave back my flashlight: « Thanks, man ». His gaze spoke volumes. Off again. Non one voiced a modicum of concern that we were driving well over the speed limitations of a spare tire.

The rest of our drive toward Zagreb was pleasantly uneventful. The car eventually sped onto a four-lane, brightly lit highway and, though still an hour lay before us, the light stirred in me the feeling that I was already there. When the perimeter of Zagreb appeared before us, our expert navigator, though relieved, felt no need to slow down. Subsequently…

Siren. Flashing light. Papers. Licences. Ticket.

Zoran quietly raged. We were perhaps five minutes from our final destination.

After having stepped up to the station, bid my farewells to Feda and cordially thanked Zoran, I stood upon the platform, taking in the crisp evening air. I would have to patiently wait until the early morning. I heard in the distance the city’s bustle, the platform was empty and midnight hung upon the face of a station clock. The trip had, all told, taken twelve hours. Eventually, I would be in my darling’s arms. I still had to get to Geneva by train—seventeen hours—then, two days later, hop on my plane. I have a meeting with Nicolas Bouvier, I was in no hurry to get back to Montreal.

© Denis McCready 2004
* This version was translated from French by Susannah Rubin and revised to use the correct name of certain people.