It’s not every day I have an eye-watering shot of rakija with my morning coffee, get stopped by the police, and ride beside still active land mine fields on my way over a dauntingly steep and gorgeous mountain range. But then again, it’s not every day I ride through Bosnia. The past two days of my trip have unexpectedly been among the most beautiful and richly interesting thus far. To think I almost didn’t come this way. 

I left Kulen Vakuf after a delicious breakfast in the company of the very friendly woman, Saraj, who prepared last night’s baklava. 

As I rode, the morning mist and sunshine cascading into the Una River Valley was spectacular after two days of rain. 

 A short ways up the valley, I stopped in Martin Brod, an even smaller town with a gorgeous series of pools waterfalls. As seems typical in Bosnia where there are so few tourists, the waterfall was deserted but truly lovely. 

 At the one small cafe in town (which was really just the living room and patio of a private home) I stopped to ask directions and for a morning coffee. The owner, another extremely friendly woman, laughed when I asked if three Bosnian Marks were enough, disappeared for a moment and then reappeared with coffee and two shots of rakija, a very strong clear fruit brandy. I must have looked alarmed because she laughed again, wrapped our arms together and threw down her shot. Then I did the same. Pow!  

Followed by a cup of very strong and sludge-thick coffee with local honey, any fear of the day’s mountain passes quickly disappeared. But what was actually the most interesting, perplexing and ultimately heart breaking about my morning is this. Kulen Vakuf and Martin Brod are about 10 kilometers apart in the same beautiful river valley and are home to the really sweet ladies who befriended me. But this is where the people of Kulen Vakuf worship. 

And this is where those from Martin Brod do. 

The former are Muslim Bosniaks and the later are Serbian Orthodox. And for generations they have been in conflict. In the past century, each of their places of worship has been burned to the ground or otherwise razed three times and massive atrocities have been committed, including the murder of an estimated 1,600 people in Kulen Vakuf in the 1940s. Trying to understand this, but finding it ultimately incomprehensible, I rode out of the valley, a bit uneasy at the warning signs for land mines on both sides of the road. 

 As I continued, the mountain scenery just kept getting more and more spectacular, and the hills longer and longer. Way down there is the valley floor where I started.

 
 
Which is where the Bosnian police come in. As I was grinding my way up one of the long hills, I noticed a police car up ahead, with two officers using a speed gun. As I got closer, they trained the gun on me and then one of them, rather severely, motioned for me to stop. He showed me the speed gun: 9km/hr. He frowned. Then, made a fist and jabbed it ahead and said something I didn’t understand but that had an unmistakably clear meaning: “9km/hr is pathetic; get moving!” He and his colleague smiled and cracked up, as did I when I realized they were just having fun. But I did get moving just in case. 

More hills, more big skies and gorgeous views later, I crossed into Croatia and could almost make out the ocean in the distance. I’ll be there tomorrow.