I left Montenegro
A rickety wooden bridge leads me to the Bosnian-Herzegovinian border checkpoint.
I approach the border barrier, surprised to see a lone officer sitting in a small cabin by a plastic-striped gate, wondering if this is really the border crossing. I step up to the cabin window, hand over my passport through the glass opening, and quickly realize it’s just me and the officer here. When he sees I’m from Israel, he strikes up a conversation about Maccabi Tel Aviv basketball. We talk about famous players from the past, and again, I wonder—is this really a border crossing?
As we chat, he stamps my passport. For a moment, he complains about Bosnia’s best players leaving for the NBA, then hands me back my passport. Still sitting on my motorcycle by the window, I feel awkward riding off while he’s still talking. His phone rings, I wave goodbye, and head on my way.
Potholes, patches of dirt, broken asphalt—the road leads me into forests adorned in stunning autumn colors. The contrast between Montenegro and Bosnia is striking.
I’m heading north, noticing the temperature dropping sharply. It’s 3:30 PM, the sky is cloudy. Though it’s early, it feels like evening. My stomach begins to growl—I should find a place to stay, preferably not in a tent.
Amazing. I think of something, and it happens. There’s a guesthouse! “Open?” I ask an elderly woman standing at the gate. “Yes,” she answers, “15 euros a night.” “Is the restaurant open?” “Yes,” she says. I park my motorcycle in front of the restaurant entrance. As I step inside, the warmth of the wood stove greets me. An old man sitting with his back to me by the stove waves a hand in greeting. The mother explains what’s on the menu. I go for the slow-cooked lamb stew and sit with the old man by the stove while waiting for my meal.
When the mother serves the food, the old man gestures with his hands and asks if it’s good. I nod—yes, yes. His face lights up with satisfaction, and he returns to staring at the fire. Delicious doesn’t even begin to describe it. The lamb stew, with tender potatoes and spices I don’t recognize, smells as if it has simmered for hours. I use homemade bread to mop up the sauce—perfection. I finish, take the dishes to the kitchen, and the mother walks me to the cabin.
It’s a heated wooden cabin, and I’m the only guest. “Where are the bathrooms and showers?” I ask. “Outside,” she replies. The temperature will drop below freezing tonight—it’s safer to hit the road later in the morning to avoid ice on the roads. Too cold for a shower tonight, I decide to wait until morning.
9:00 AM—it’s even colder than yesterday. I force myself out of bed, take a quick shower, and hit the road towards Sarajevo.
“Oh mama mia.”
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The road winds between towering cliffs—massive, imposing. The Piva River flows alongside me. It’s surreal. I enter a tunnel, and as I exit—something feels wrong. Oh no. I lose control—ice on the road! I clutch the clutch lever, not daring to touch the brakes. No way I can make this curve. I keep the bike straight, heading for the opposite shoulder, and stop on the gravel. Shocked. I was so close to wiping out. A large truck skids and topples into a ravine below. Total chaos. I run to the edge to check—the driver climbs out unharmed. Lucky him, and lucky me. I have no idea how I got out of this unscathed. I sit by my bike for half an hour, trying to calm down. It’s not safe to head further north from Sarajevo. The roads are too dangerous. My heartbeat returns to normal, and I cautiously continue riding, wary of every patch on the road.
Finally, I see Sarajevo. I’ll head to the old city. The temperature is just above freezing. I park the bike in a public lot and wander through the narrow streets. The cold makes me hungry, so I enter a local restaurant. Unsure what to order, the waitress offers to choose a dish for me. While I wait, I watch the other diners—the food looks delicious and smells amazing. She brings me a tray with a hearty meal.
Satisfied and warm, I resume exploring the old city streets. It’s beautiful—small shops, cafés, restaurants. It’s hard to imagine that just three decades ago, everyone here was at war. The city was under constant siege. There’s no sign of the destruction now. I stroll through the streets and alleys, stopping at a café for some baklava. It’s not like the baklava I know, but it’s incredibly tasty.
Feeling the chill again, I head to my hotel. Tomorrow, I’ll return to Montenegro.
I choose a different border crossing for my return journey. A long road lies ahead, but I’m in no hurry—this is a chance to explore another region. The road climbs through forested mountains. The scenery is breathtaking—I can’t believe such beauty exists. I stop every few kilometers to take photos. The road passes through small villages, smoke rising from every chimney. Dusk is approaching, and I realize I won’t make it to the border today. Passing through towns, I stop at markets to buy cheese that doesn’t need refrigeration and some vegetables. I stop at a café and continue riding along a road that leads toward the setting sun. The stunning view prompts me to activate my GoPro to capture the moment.
“Oh wow!” There’s a restaurant. I should eat—going to bed hungry isn’t an option. Restaurants close early in this country, and it’s unlikely I’ll find an open one later, especially in the villages. I park my bike near the entrance. Inside, groups of men are drinking alcohol. I ask one of them where the bathroom is—he’s too drunk to answer, mumbling something incomprehensible, so I find it on my own.
The menu is in English, but the dishes are unfamiliar. I order a local specialty without knowing what it is—the waiter says it’s steak. It arrives, but calling it steak is a stretch. It’s beef wrapped in dough, garnished with mayonnaise stripes. Only the Coke Zero is decent. I eat to fill up and continue riding towards the nearest town. After 12 kilometers—then 5 more—I arrive. The streets are empty, the shops closed, and Google and Booking show no hotels in town. I stop at a place that looks like a hotel with a restaurant. The waiter says it’s only a restaurant and directs me to a hotel at the edge of town.
At the hotel entrance, I see a parking lot full of cars and hear loud music—there’s a wedding. “Any rooms?” I ask the receptionist. “No rooms, we have a wedding,” he replies. Despairing, I head back to my bike. It’s 9 PM, and freezing. The receptionist approaches me: “If you leave by 8 AM, I have a room.” “Perfect,” I say—I want to leave early anyway. He shows me where to park, and I head to my room. What a relief—the room is warm, new, and cozy, all for 25 euros. First thing, I take a hot shower, which thaws me out and leaves me feeling safe and relaxed. I crawl into bed, the sheets soft, wrapped in a warm duvet, grateful for my luck. Instead of riding on and searching for a hotel, I’m in bed, ready to sleep.
7:00 AM—I sit down for breakfast: two fried eggs, cheese, bread, and coffee. I have the whole day ahead, but I leave before the wedding guests wake up. I didn’t check the route before sleeping, and now, after just an hour of riding, I find myself at the Bosnia-Montenegro border.
Four cows roam near the line of cars, grazing on green grass. Three large stray dogs sleep by the border checkpoint. The line moves quickly, and within 15 minutes, I’m riding in the Republic of Montenegro.
The road winds through formidable mountains, eventually revealing a bay surrounded by peaks. I follow the road down to the water’s edge. At the first town I reach, I’ll stop to rest.
(In the next post—Montenegro, Albania, and back to Greece.)
