Trafika Europe 5 - Slovenian Interlude

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.


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


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