still took the odd wrong turn. Often the route was plotted on what looked like a route and not having pre-ridden, a leap of faith in the maps and planners’ intuition was needed. Thankfully, we made it through each area with very little back tracking. Raytcho gained a reputation for visiting local farmers driveways, often calling to turn around over the Cardo. We saw many places we, or in fact anyone, would never have seen had Raytcho’ s planning been accurate. Our route popped us out on the Montenegro Border, high up the mountains, where we were processed and then sent a further 3km down to the Bosnia / Herzegovina border control for yet more processing and checking of our motorcycle insurance. By this time all of our fuel warning lights were on, but, fortunately, it was mostly down to the next gas station 60km away. We stayed the night in a small town by a river overlooking a golden mosque, one of many we would encounter. From there we transited via a couple of off-road diversions to the Hotel Monte 30 mins south of Sarajevo, near the 1984 Olympic Games ski area. The hotel was the base of the Bosnia Quest, which we were to join the next day.
A LAND OF CONTRASTS Stark contrasts abounded as just up the road,
the luxury Mt Igman Hotel lies in ruins. You don’ t just ride past the Mt Igman Hotel. You stop. You stare. This hulking skeleton was once the pride of the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics, a place built to impress the world. Now, it is a concrete carcass, ripped open by war, weather and time. Bullet holes, shattered walls, exposed rebar and rubble. I could almost picture the Olympic guests checking in, then fast-forward to soldiers ducking for their lives. The silence hits you. It’ s eerie but real, the raw unfiltered aftermath of something New Zealand has never experienced and, hopefully, never will. The Igman is not a monument, it’ s a warning and we couldn’ t help but feel for Ukraine. It is like that all over Bosnia Herzegovina, remnants of what was and what is, with bombed derelict building amongst new rebuilds. Throughout the ride, stark cultural contrasts were evident. We passed Muslim graveyards— plain and poignant and Orthodox Christian cemeteries with elaborate headstones. We stopped at mountain cafes that were really just local homes offering food and drink. Raytcho, fluent in several languages, helped bridge communication gaps. In more tourist-accessible areas, we saw hikers and mountain bikers, but often we were the only ones around.
KIWI RIDER 29