The man with a heavily line-face approached me again. As he got close, he suddenly pulled from under his thick sweater a gun! Initially I felt numbed rather than shock. Waving the pistol in his hand, he nervously motioned for me to walk on whilst he followed a couple of yards behind. This was not a moment to argue....
As I gathered my thoughts for a few minutes, I began to feel increasingly uneasy about having a gun trained upon my back! So I decided to stop and slowly turned to face him. Gesticulating pleadingly with my hands in a prayer pose, I asked if he would put his pointing pistol away. Although reacting rather jittery, he amazingly agreed and returned it to the position under his beige jumper. I was relieved, even though he made it clear that I had to continue walking for what proved to be all the way down into Višegrad, over the old bridge and through the streets of the town until we reached the police station.
Bridge over the River Drina, Visegrad (Courtesy of ImageFree.com)
At the time, Višegrad and the area surrounding had seemed a sedate and peaceful place to be. Still in my early twenties and on my first major trip abroad, I had set out for a day’s leisurely autumnal walking whilst staying in this corner of Yugoslavia.
Looking back now, I wonder if this event was in some way symbolic of tension in the region. After all, it was only 10 minutes beforehand that I had asked this apparently local man by hand gestures, if I could walk along the track that traversed the slopes above the Drina River. He had clearly indicated it was okay to do so. It therefore seemed to be more than just him being upset with me crossing his land.
Map of Bosnia Hercegovina today.
Visegrad is located east of Sarajevo close to the border with Serbia.
© Geographic Guide
Today Višegrad is located in Republika Srpska, the Serb administrative part of Bosnia Hercegovina. Its bridge over the River Drina provides a major route between Bosnia Hercegovina and Serbia. Prior to the Bosnian War, Višegrad had a Muslim majority. In early 1992 a campaign of mass murder and violence began against the local Muslim population that included throwing bodies into the Drina River. These acts formed part of the wider ethnic cleansing of eastern Bosnia by Serb police, military and other paramilitary forces under the direction of the notorious Serb leader, Radovan Karadzic and his General, Ratko Mladic, who would both later be found guilty of war crimes at the International Court in The Hague. Today the town is dominated by ethnic Serbs.
....Turning away from the town along an unpaved track running above the Drina river, the weather was cloudy and the distant visibility poor. After perhaps half an hour, the track swung round to the left, and I was immediately confronted by a large sign in several languages.
“NO APPROACH
NO PHOTOGRAPHING!”
Further down the lane a high imposing fence crowned by rolls of barbed wire blocked the lane ahead. It was unclear if the armed guards on the gate of this facility had spotted me or not, but I realised instantly this was some kind of military base and not a place to linger.
Quickly reversing my steps, I searched for a different route. Within minutes, I found a beaten path that appeared to link with another track running along the ridge top that would take me away from the menacing establishment I had stumbled across. With the autumnal sun breaking through the mist rising from the River Drina, I now felt so much better.
This route soon opened up into pastures and came out into what seemed like an abandoned orchard. An array of wild flowers grew in the lush grass along with masses of untouched blackberries which all made for an attractive scene.
Resorting to hand gestures, I made a point of asking a couple of locals, if I could walk up to the track I wanted to reach. One local man greeted me, shook my hand and confirmed that it was fine to continue, clearlypointing the way. Ten minutes later, having stopped to absorb the valley view, I noticed this same man was now coming my way. This puzzled me as I had last seen him walking back down the sloping pastures. Assuming he wanted something, I waited…. and then the drama began!
The people we walked past in the town were no doubt unaware of my situation but all the time I was conscious that a pistol was trained on me from under his sweater as he followed more closely behind. I was soon ushered into a gloomy room at the police station. “Passport!” demanded a plain clothes officer. He wrote down my particulars and asked the arrestor questions. Needless to say I could not understand what was being said. I asked for an interpreter, but he held up his palm as if to say ‘in a moment’.
He then methodically emptied my wallet and daypack, looking carefully at receipts, bus tickets and my address book. To me, it all seemed quite futile whilst he gave an impression of it all being a lot of hassle for him. However, he became more animated when discovering the rough little map I had drawn earlier that morning from my larger, unwieldy road map. This especially intrigued him, and holding that along with my camera, both men left the room.
My mind was now working overtime trying to work out what was going on. Why was I being held? Had the guards at the bases alerted somebody? Who was the guy with a gun? Given his jittery, even frightened behaviour when he ‘arrested’ me, it did not feel like the reactions of a trained official. I was coming to the view that I was apprehended in an area where it was not permitted to walk for some reason, even though the locals had gestured that I could.
On their return to the dreary room, I repeated my demand for an interpreter but was met with indifference. Instead, I and the arrestor were driven in a slightly battered car to the campsite where I was staying. There, the youngish English speaking reception lady told me that I would have to remain at the campsite for the night so that another policeman could ask me questions the following morning. The policeman then asked what I had been doing up on the hill. I replied that I was walking in order to enjoy the picturesque surrounding countryside. I couldn’t have been more truthful.
They then asked me to take them to my tent. Inside, they scrutinised my large map before searching the rest of my belongings. My big fear was that they would jump to conclusions about my used film canisters and confiscate them. Upon discovering them, the officer asked what they were. “France, Switzerland, Italy....” Seemingly satisfied with my answer, he thankfully chose to ignore them. They then left indicating they would be back at 8 am in the morning but still retaining both my passport and camera along with the roughly sketched map.
Drina Valley at Visegrad (Courtesy of ImageFree.com)
It all seemed so crazy. The fair, long-haired receptionist reassured me things would be alright. I obviously hoped this would prove true, rather than finding myself being charged and tried. That evening my mind again went into overdrive. People being held, tried or expelled by a foreign regime may often hit the headlines in dramatic diplomatic cases that happen to others. However my situation led me to feel this could actually be happening to me! I began imagining various scenarios including diplomatic tensions and the UK ambassador getting involved!
When the same policeman and a younger colleague from Sarajevo belatedly arrived, they quizzed me (with the receptionist translating) on where I had been travelling and intending to go next and for how long I was intending to stay in Yugoslavia. I replied Sarajevo, and then west to Split and eventually northwards for about 3 weeks.
Without conveying any reaction, they quickly left again still clutching my camera, papers and passport, but promised to be back in 10 minutes. It must have been nearer half an hour when they reappeared and I sensed a more formal air to the gathering in the reception foyer. The receptionist went on to explain that I was being given three days to leave the country. I was stunned as I had not seriously considered this outcome but felt that I accepted my fate quite calmly. More seriously though, I was being banned from returning to Yugoslavia for a year which completely took me aback. It was further explained to me that I could go to the British Embassy in Belgrade where I would be given a fuller briefing. Since I eventually wanted to move on to Austria, I told them that that was pointless and out of my way. They then told me that I could have my camera back but surprised me by stating the film would be returned to me in England. [The film never did show up!]
Still trying to absorb what I had been told, I was then driven back to the police station to retrieve my possessions. Whilst the elder detective typed out a note, the younger policeman placed my sketched map on the table and drew a camera with a thick cross through it, clearly indicating that no photography was allowed in the Drina Valley. Then passing over my camera, he astonishingly gestured for me to remove and handover its film. I had assumed it had already been confiscated and developed overnight to check for anything incriminating. Evidently they had only been acting on suspicion and didn’t actually know what I had photographed!
Back at the campsite, the helpful receptionist translated the typed note, which was a receipt for the confiscated film on suspicion of its use for photographing forbidden scenes. Cheekily, I asked for a replacement film which I knew I wouldn’t get… and didn’t!!
Speaking to them all, I asked if it was only forbidden to photograph in this area, but it was okay to walk in it. The receptionist stated firmly both were prohibited and went on to explain that many people – Germans, Italians, Canadians and others, had been similarly apprehended in this area.
“So if it is forbidden to walk in this area, why are there no notices or information around? Why did local farmers point me in the direction I headed?” I asked with bewilderment.
The older officer shrugged his shoulders. I then asked her to convey to them that I found the whole thing rather farcical. The Sarajevo officer gave a wry smile. Perhaps he sympathised, but still had his duty to carry out.
Then astonishingly, the receptionist said, “The officers would like to invite you to join them for coffee!” Conscious of needing to pack up quickly and catch the midday train to Sarajevo, I thanked them but had to decline politely. Perhaps this was a gesture of ‘no hard feelings’ and they accepted I meant no harm.
I never did learn who the guy with the gun was, but as the policemen left, the lady again expressed her sorrow. “It is trouble for you and trouble for me.” “Did it really cause you much trouble?” I inquired. She replied sweetly, “No, but it troubles my heart.”
Letter later received from the British Embassy in Belgrade, having tried to obtain a fuller explanation for my expulsion.
Despite my anxiety and disappointment at the time, a small part of me was also quite excited by being caught up in this dramatic situation. I was conscious of how calm I was when the gun was trained on me and was probably more focussed on trying to work out who the guy was and to make sense of what was happening – it’s amazing how the mind becomes flooded with a multitude of thoughts at a time of apparent crisis or threat. I suppose I felt confident knowing that I had not done anything obviously wrong or prohibited, at least in my mind. This was reinforced by being allowed to stay alone at the campsite rather than detained in a cell. May be there was also a touch of naivety running through this stance?
Once my fate was decided, and my plans for continuing my travels became clearer, I did not harbour any grudges or hatred towards those involved. Rather I remained very favourable towards the country and the hospitality of the people I met, not knowing that a few years later their lives would get caught up in the horrors of the Bosnian War and the break-up of Yugoslavia. I always vowed to go back to the region at some point, but the troubles there and its immediate and uneasy aftermath took that off my agenda for a good while. Now though it feels like it may be time to return and see how this region has moved on from this recent painful episode.
N.B. After spending the afternoon and evening in Sarajevo, I took the overnight train to Graz, Austria. This blog draws upon my diary of the experience that I wrote in the days immediately following my expulsion.
