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57
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.’
‘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.
‘Goooood.’
Muharem handed back my documents. A moment later I
stepped out into the territory known as Bosnia and
Herzegovina for the first time.