Luckily, Enes had warned me that Bosnian customs officers might check my green card, so I had it with me. Satisfied, customs officer Muharem Hodzić next took a look at my passport, staring for a minute without turning a single page.
‘Where are you going, Vladan?’ ‘To Brčko.’
He was still staring at my photo, pretending that memorizing my birth date and permanent address was part of some hi-tech system for catching cottage cheese and smoked meat smugglers.
Muharem handed back my documents. A moment later I stepped out into the territory known as Bosnia and Herzegovina for the first time.