Week 2: Freedom or Loneliness?

The storm that chased me from the Dolomites continued to pursue me across the Balkans. I was set to head to the coast as fast as possible to escape the rain and soggy boots. But, as is often the case, no plan survives contact; or as Mike Tyson so eloquently put it, "Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face."

After a relatively comfortable and importantly dry night in a youth hostel in Bled, I set off towards the Croatian coast. An hour after leaving the misty town of Bled, following a short walk around the lake and making some admittedly trivial and inane Instagram videos, I set off.

The rain instantly joined me the moment I got on the motorway, joy. Not only was I soaking wet again, but now I was also surrounded by heavy trucks splashing water onto my visor. The rain was seeping into my boots again, turning them into buckets. It was 7 AM and my morale was plummeting. As I sipped a warm coffee at a service station, I scoped out a motorcycle shop in Ljubljana to buy some new boots—a bit of an expensive investment, but at this point, I was about to snap. So, a few hundred euros lighter but with dry, safe feet, I reconsidered my choice to head to the coast.

Having been there before during a previous life on yacht week with a gang of drunk subalterns, I knew all too well what awaited me there: overpriced drinks, overhyped party people, and a pretty underwhelming experience. One guiding principle when riding or solo traveling, imparted onto me by a friend during a trek in Colorado, is "altitude is solitude." When applied to riding, it translates to better roads, fewer people, lower prices, and better sceneries. I have nothing against beaches, but they attract congestion, high prices, and are just not what I'm after. Time and time again, I've proved myself right by sticking to the mountains. With that in mind, I much prefer taking my chances with the weather and headed toward Sarajevo, a city that had always fascinated me during my teenage years from watching films like Welcome to Sarajevo and No Man's Land.

Dry feet, Gore-Tex layers on, and a fresh dose of curiosity invigorated me, and I was cruising through Slovenia at pace, albeit still pretty wet. Slovenia, beautiful as I'm sure it is, offered me a wet, misty, and cold experience. I unwittingly crossed into Croatia as the weather started clearing, and by mid-afternoon, I approached my first real border crossing out of political Europe and into Bosnia.

As I neared the Croatian-Bosnian border, the whole human landscape began changing, primarily in the form of war-damaged buildings. I rode through several hollowed-out villages, still functioning, but there was a distinct change from Slovenia. Bullet-holed buildings and abandoned homes became more prevalent as I approached the border. As the weather cleared, my mood darkened as I became more aware of what I was heading into. It's impossible to write about the Balkans without discussing the impact of the last war, and the further east I rode, the more this became evident. I'm by no means an expert on this complex and complicated period of Balkan history, but it's safe to say that the little I knew before coming was so far from what I now know from the people I've met and the places I've seen.

So back to my first real border crossing, I was inexplicably nervous. I had nothing to be nervous about, but as the customs officer asked for my papers, I started spouting some nonsense, and she began getting irate at me. When I finally got the all-clear, I turned the throttle and almost rode off without my passport... what an idiot.

 I made it into Bosnia and Herzegovina by late afternoon. The sun was setting, and I booked a room in a guest house for 20 euros. It was clean, tidy, dry, and they had a dog! Finally, some company that didn't require conversation and was just happy to hang out as I savored a cigarette while watching the sunset.

The guest house was in the flatlands south of Sarajevo, before the mountains. I had a relatively decent night's sleep when suddenly I was caught in a wave of panic and solitude. Charles Bukowski's quote burned in my mind:

"And when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. What do you call it, freedom or loneliness?"

At that point, I felt distinctly lonely. No more home, away from my friends, and furiously posting on social media to feel connected. I tried speaking to my girlfriend and sent a panicked message but couldn't respond to her. I turned my phone off and had a word with myself. I must confront this feeling and let it live within me without it taking over. I can't rely on others to comfort me about my choice to leave. Not answering has consequences on our relationship, maybe it's what I want. You can't build and leave at the same time. The wanderer can't be a gardener; it just doesn't work.

I finally managed some sleep, antidepressants helping, but this battle with my mental health isn't over yet, and the black dog is all too often at my doorstep, begging to be let in. Sleep didn't come easy; fear, loneliness, and excitement got the better of me. I woke up at 5 AM and headed deeper into the Balkans, direction Sarajevo, with the storm on my tail.

 The next morning was tough, a dispute on a broken phone line with Juliette led to us separating. Wandering around the world and building just doesn't work. Bukowski's quote is ringing in my mind: am I free or lonely?

 Bosnia is different; it feels different. The specter of war is omnipresent. Life is bustling, and the people are kind, but there's a hardness in their eyes, mixed with a pinch of suspicion toward foreigners. I had written in my notebook that I was tired of manicured, clean European towns; well, the Balkans is not that. It's chaotic, noisy, the smells of fuel, kebab food, garbage, and life all mix into the helmet and add to the sense of confusion and curiosity.

 Riding from Croatia into Bosnia, I didn't realise I was entering some of the most politically contentious parts of the region. I'm still a bit upset at my lack of knowledge and naivety, having just completed a master's in international relations; I should have known better. Nonetheless, ignorance meant I could judge things with no preconceived ideas. I rode up from a town called Banja Luka into the hills toward Sarajevo. The nature was becoming wilder and wilder; the quality of the roads was absolutely grand, and the fatigue from the night before started fading away as I gained speed and altitude. Up in the hills, I caught a glimpse of a signpost leading toward a mountain waterfall; I thought to myself, "Great, time to test Tara on some off-road!" Also an opportunity for some cool content—what a twat I am for thinking that every time I see something good. As if I need to capture it for others so it becomes more relevant, or perhaps I'm too afraid to be alone still, and making these stupid videos is a way of staying attached... Either way, I'm off. I put Tara in off-road mode and it's up on the foot pegs (standing on the foot pegs of your bike allows for all the weight of the bike to be centralized and lower, which makes you more stable on unstable terrain) to tear through some tracks!

She handles like a real wild beast! So much fun. As I turn a gravelly corner, I see an old Soviet-looking hydro installation, and suddenly two very angry dogs appear out of nowhere and start trying to bite my ankles off! Thank God for the new boots I had bought the morning before. The dogs distract me, and I take a wrong turn. I end up face to face with a river crossing full of rocks and no way of slowing down, FUCK! So I just pull the throttle, pray to Allah, and go for it! We make it onto the other side. Problem is, the road ends there, and I need to turn around and pass by the angry dogs again. So, I take a deep breath, somewhat turn the bike around on the rocks, and cross the river and the dogs the second time! Made it back to the road, adrenaline pumping. I do a quick check of the bike. I had dropped my new camera equipment I had fixed on the bike... I have to go back, AGAIN, and this time dismount to find it... Third time through the washer... This time I stop in front of the dogs and throw a stone at them and shout; one cowers away, the other goes subservient. I made a friend, so retreating doggo and I head down to the river by foot to find the camera. I find it in a pond, undamaged, saved myself 800 euros! Despite the loss of time and tiredness, I carry on to find the waterfall! When I find it, the sun is at its zenith, and the road to the waterfall is blocked by rocks, conscious of the time I have left to get to Sarajevo I decide to head back to the tarmac. Before that, I decide to go for a naked wild swim, alone on the mountain in freezing cold water. The feeling of liberation has started! I'm alive! No one to see me or judge me, just alone on a mountain, naked in fresh water, it's just pure bliss, freedom!

I hop on the bike and back on the tarmac, thinking that's enough excitement for one day. Heading down to Sarajevo, I find a small hillside shop overlooking a peaceful green valley, a great stop for a coffee. In my best Bosnian, I ask for a coffee. The lady points to what looks like an old Soviet coffee machine. It doesn’t work. She comes over to inspect it. Together we spend ten minutes kicking it to work and eventually give up. She invites me to have an iced coffee with her and a cigarette. Why not? We have a conversation using Google Translate. She has two sons working in Germany and asks me if I'm married. I say no. She starts flirting, it gets awkward, I’m blushing but the conversation is fun, we have a few more cigarettes and some Balkan sweets, and I wonder if I’m being courted.

Then she suddenly says, "Medvjed, Medvjed!" and points up the hill. "Bear" in Croatian... I can't see anything. She points at a cage about 50 meters away. She tells me to walk up, so I do. Up the hill in a 25 by 25 meters solid metal cage is a huge brown bear. At first, I'm amazed, then angry and sad at seeing such a majestic creature locked up. I ask Marta what the story is; apparently, he was rescued as a cub 21 years ago by the local villagers and is now too domesticated to be returned to nature, or so the story goes. In the end, this is not my culture and it's easy for Western city dwellers to judge others from our sanitized post-industrial Xanadu of a continent. The sad fact is there are hardly any bears left in Western Europe because we killed them all. So who are we to say anything about animal treatment? It’s just hypocrisy.

All the same, seeing a captive wild animal didn’t sit well with me, and I ride away from Marta's shop both warmed by having such a nice welcome and sad for Medvjed…

An hour away from Sarajevo the storm catches up with me… Once again I end up not knowing where to sleep, wet and this time there are bears in the woods. The prospect of wild camping in Bosnia wasn’t one I was overly keen on. So, as the rain started gaining intensity, I pulled up in a little village called "Puhovo" to put my Gore-Tex over layers on.

“You come here!” I hear booming from behind the rain in the direction of the house I had parked to put my gear on. I turn around and see a giant bald-headed Bosnian man, looking much like the bear I had seen on the hill but uncaged this time!

“Shit,” I think to myself, this could turn out hairy. He’s shouting at me and gesturing to come over. As he comes closer, I brace for a confrontation. He has a big open face, Slavic sharp blue eyes, a bald head, and the build of a Russian tank. If this goes south, I’m going to have to dig deep into my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu reserves… He comes up close to me and shows me his phone, on it are several pictures of bikes, including a Triumph. He doesn’t speak a word of English, and my Bosnian is limited to "Zdravo" (hello) and "Hvala" (thank you). I understand he wants me to get out of the rain to have coffee at his house. He owns a big warehouse full of tractors and trucks, I’m imagining him to be some kind of Bosnian Tony Soprano. What happens if I enter the warehouse and never come out? My heart and mind are racing, but I somehow trust this guy. And heck, it’s an adventure, no time to say no, this is about embracing the world and challenging my stereotypes and my fears. I go in.

We go to the back of his hangar, he shows me his motorbikes, an old 2000 Tiger Triumph, and a Kawasaki 650 KLR. I start to relax, he’s not after my bike! He shouts toward the main house, "Nadira, Kafe!" and invites me to take a seat at the back of the hangar out of the rain. We share a few cigarettes and I install Google Translate to try to improve our exchange. I hardly have time to write the first sentence when I hear a warm and booming greeting in perfect English coming from the house. It's Nadira, his wife, coming out with a platter of biscuits and Turkish coffee. She has a beaming white smile, dark curly Balkan hair, and exudes wit, charm, and kindness. She explains that her husband Svedad was worried for me and wanted me to get out of the rain. I feel embarrassed that I even doubted his intentions. I thank them profusely and tell them I'm on my way to Sarajevo. They look at each other, exchange a few quick words in Bosnian, then both turn to me: “No, now you stay with us. We're really sorry, but it will take 30 minutes for us to clean the house and get it ready for you. Now you are our guest and you stay.” I've been kidnapped by kindness in the Balkans. I want to refuse, feeling compelled by Western politeness to say no, but I fight my urge to flee and embrace the experience. Okay, I’ll stay.

30 minutes later, they lead me to their spare house, which has been cleaned by their babysitter, Kiki, a 60-year-old Bosnian woman. She looks at me with an amused and somewhat stern look. I look at myself and suddenly become conscious of my appearance. I'm covered in mud from my off-roading experience, my hair is all over the place. I must look like the bloody bear, not Svedad! She tells me I can't go in the house like this, half-jokingly. I like her already; she's sharp and funny. Nadira and Svedad show me their spare house that they recently moved out of after having their son Yussef. The house is spotless, with a wood fire and a dry bed. I can’t believe this is happening; just 30 minutes before, these people didn’t know me, and now they are offering me a house to stay in.

Feeling a little overwhelmed by the kindness and hospitality, I head into my room, still a bit suspicious but equally relieved and excited about the evening ahead. Before I can relax, Vedad takes me to his second construction site where he shows me his whole operation. Northern Bosnia is densely forested and very mountainous, requiring a lot of clearance work and deforestation. Wood is used for house-making and is a valued commodity in the area. Vedad’s company transports wood across the country and does various construction projects around his village and Sarajevo. I also notice at his yard that he is somewhat of a pillar of the community. He has 13 employees, including a mechanic with whom we have coffee, and he explains how he puts his team at the service of the village, if anyone is in need.

We go have our 18th coffee of the day before heading back to have dinner, and manage to communicate mainly using Google Translate. Technology does have its advantages. We go to the local bar; I get excited at the prospect of having a beer. We sit and order, I enthusiastically order a beer in my best Bosnian, and am greeted with an apologetic smile and a polite, "We don’t serve alcohol here." It dawns on me that at this point, I hadn’t even noticed I was in a Muslim village. I feel pretty stupid; Vedad laughs and tells me it doesn’t matter. His dad used to drink, but as he’s a practicing Muslim, he doesn’t. I feel like an idiot. I had assumed that because Vedad was blond, Russian-looking that he must be Christian. My biases run deeper than I thought. In the end, we laugh about it, and I get over my embarrassment. Nadira calls us for dinner and tells us a friend that speaks good English is coming over to join us.

Dinner is a feast of Börek, roast chicken, fresh vegetables from the garden, yogurt, soup, and fresh fruit. After the meager rations I had been eating in Italy and Austria to save money, this hits the spot! Vedad and I sit on the sofa and draw on our cigarettes with full bellies and content. That’s when the friend arrives, Nadia, the local English school teacher. She sits next to me, and we have some polite conversation. Nadira and Vedad get up with mischievous grins on their faces and leave the room. I’ve just been set up on a blind date! I start sweating; this is so awkward, nonetheless, we have a polite and interesting conversation until they come back, I’m sure much to their amusement!

Dinner goes on till late in the night and we all exchange stories and laughter; I feel at home in these strangers' house. The next day I’m due to set off to Sarajevo to visit the city, Vedad and Nadira insist that I leave my stuff at theirs, go for a day visit, and come back. How can I say no? They are my Bosnian family after all.

Sarajevo is a big city nestled at the bottom of a large valley surrounded by lush green hills. But the reconstruction that has taken place there still doesn’t hide the scars of war. There are impact holes in all the tower blocks surrounding the old center. As I draw closer to the old town, I notice more and more cemeteries. I found out later that this is not a normal feature of Bosnia, but during the siege, people couldn’t go to regular cemeteries to bury their dead. So, going against all religious customs, they buried people in the center of cities and at night to avoid being killed by snipers in the surrounding hills or to avoid being in groups of more than three as this would automatically call in mortar and artillery fires. For those that have seen what shrapnel from artillery can do, you can imagine the devastation that these people had to endure.

Arriving in Sarajevo, the city greets me with its unique blend of historical significance and bustling modern life. Sarajevo, encircled by hills and scarred by past conflicts, presents a vibrant tableau of culture, history, and recovery. The city's famous Baščaršija, Sarajevo's old bazaar and the historical and cultural center of the city, offers an immersive experience into the city's Ottoman past with its mosques, oriental shops, and cafés that seem to echo centuries of narratives.

The scars of the siege during the 1990s are still visible, with rebuilt sniper towers now standing as somber museums dedicated to peace. I morning wandering through streets that whisper stories of resilience, from the Sarajevo Roses—concrete scars filled with red resin marking where mortars fell and killed—to the vibrant cultural festivals that now fill those same streets with music and art

In the afternoon, I head to the Yellow Bastion to get a view of the city, tearing through the back streets on Tara. She's denuded of her luggage and it’s a joy to just ride without the added 60kgs of weight. We climb to the Yellow Bastion and end up on a back street adjacent to the castle with a nice view of the city. I sit there, having a cigarette, imagining what the city must have been like under siege. When a bunch of kids turn up and ask me questions about the bike. I ask them about the Yellow Bastion and whether I can go in; it’s a derelict building with no access for tourists. They show me a hidden entrance over a wall. So I go for some abandoned building sightseeing, weird and eerie place and clearly a hangout for drug addicts and various nefarious characters, I pull my knife out just in case I have to bump into one. I jump back off the wall and the kids have huge grins asking me if I saw any junkies… Thanks for the warning.

I head back to my Bosnian home sad that it will be my last day there; we have a simple and bountiful dinner and Vedad announces that he is going to ride with me tomorrow and show me a hidden village in the hills and a secret waterfall!

The next morning we gear up; I’m envious of the lightness of his KLR and a bit wary of taking Tara off-roading fully laden. But just as excited to head into the hills with my new Bosnian brother. An emotional goodbye to Yussef and Nadira and we are off. Tearing through the hills, Tara handles beautifully, but the higher we climb the more tricky the path gets. Snow water is still rustling down the tracks; I suddenly realise that I’m a bit out of my depth and definitely don’t have the right tires for this. My back tire skids in a muddy puddle and the front wheel stacks it; I’m flying off the bike. Luckily, on the hillside of the track and not the 20-foot ditch to my left. Vedad has torn ahead and I’m thinking, "shit, this is my first test of many more of these to come, can I lift my lovely 260kg Tara off the ground alone?" Deep breath in, get into a deadlift position, and heave! I get her up! Barely! Relief! I now know I can do it, but I also know I have to stay fit on this trip, it’s going to be physical!

After we lift the bike and have a giggle about it, we set back up the track to find the waterfall. I had introduced Vedad to Wim Hof the night before and was keen to show him that you don’t get sick by going into cold water. He is amused by the idea and wants to see if I can put my money where my mouth is. The waterfall is nestled in the hills and is just paradisiacal. Clear cold mountain water running over polished stones surrounded by lush spring vegetation. After my fall, I throw myself into it with joy, what a relief to feel the cold water energize my body and clear my mind.

After the swim, it's time to say goodbyes, we sit on the side of the waterfall and have the packed lunch Nadira kindly prepared for us. We don’t talk much, there’s no need. I have a new brother, we thank God for putting us on each other's way and promise to see each other again, inshallah.

I set off to Mostar with a heavy but full heart. The road to Mostar crosses from Bosnia to Herzegovina, North to South. Leaving the wooded, cold mountain regions toward the more Mediterranean climate of the coast. The air gets warmer and the vegetation sparser. Mostar is unique and attracts a different type of tourist. I settle in, covered in dust, arriving at a hostel on a motorcycle is never a discreet entrance. I immediately make friends with a multinational group of Dutch, German, and American kids. They invite me to go for a guided tour of the city, I hesitate and remember that the mantra for the trip is just say yes to everything (within reason).

Hostel life is fun but its demands, conversations can be taxing but all in all it's nice to meet people with whom you can talk the same language and have a taste for adventure, discovery, and curiosity about the world. Beats a lonely room in a hotel. I feel sorry for my roommates at times, a hairy, smelly biker makes for a somewhat challenging roommate.

We head off to the tour, I’m a little skeptical but the guys seem keen and more importantly, it’s free! We meet a few other tourists at the RV point with the guide. I notice one of them that doesn’t fit the mold. A tanned and lean version of Tom Hanks in Castaway. Long Karl Marx beard, Solomon running shoes, and a flowery baseball cap. My spider senses tell me he's ex-military. He's standoffish from the rest of the group and looks a bit taciturn, I know this type. I didn’t know it yet but he and I would become very good friends in a very short amount of time.

The tour guide appears, Shevo, a 48-year-old Mostarian Bosnian who had fought in the siege at the age of 17. He looks like a cross between ZZ Top and Gimli from Lord of the Rings, instant approval from me. His tour is nothing short of incredible.

The first half of the tour starts with the historical and geographical context of the region, dating back to the Romans and Ottomans all the way to the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand that led to WW1, WW2, ex-Yugoslavia, and the benefits of a benign dictatorship under Tito.

Then goes into the architectural history of the city, mainly the bridge. We stop on the bridge and he tells us that if you can jump from the 24-meter bridge you officially become a Mostarian, he tries to dissuade any would-be brave tourist to do so by telling us of horror stories, all true, of people dying, breaking arms, and drowning. The mood darkens, he then asks for volunteers, my hand goes straight up. He looks at me skeptically, probably thinking I’m just another brash idiotic Western tourist with a death wish. He might be partly right. He tells me that if I want to do it, I must register with the Bridge Diving Club and they will train me and assess whether I am able. If they do, it's on, do the jump, get the certificate and voila, you’re a Mostarian.

I start questioning my decision but too late, I’ve committed to doing it in front of my whole hostel, no backing out! More on this later, first the rest of the tour.

The second half of the tour ends with a more contemporary take from Sheva, our guide, on the last war and the current situation in Bosnia. Sheva was seventeen when he was asked to take up arms to defend his neighborhood. Mostar was divided into three neighborhood brigades, that defended their specific AOs (Area of Operations). He fought for two years, 9 months of which were under siege, at the time the life expectancy in Mostar was 26 mins. He took us through from the politico strategic landscape and chiefly the misconception that Bosnians and Croates fought together, they did, until the Serbo-Croat pact to divide Bosnia and the HVO turned on the Bosnians.

 On the operational side he explained the break out from Mostar siege and what it meant for Bosnia’s future.. Considering they had no means of resupply, in Sheva's words "you had to make every round count".  The Operational Headquarters had been transformed into an IED factory in order to produce enough ammo to resist the Serbo/Croate  siege.

The siege was taking too much of a toll on the Bosnians so they decided to plan a breakout operation with their limited resources. In order to break the siege and open a logistic supply route into the city. The operation was planned by ex-Yugoslav officers that had switched to the Bosnian side to protect their families. The operation was thankfully a success for the Bosnians, had it not they would have wasted their last resources and in a sense would have been a suicide operation . Failure meant the city would fall. The operation involved several deception plans and aimed to take the northern garrison of the city held by the HVO (Croatian Army that had turned on the Bosnians during the war) a once Austro-Hungarian Fort, thereby allowing a foothold for Bosnian troops to start working west and reconnecting with the Bosnian Army, it also involved an armory and considerable munitions depots, vital for the continuation of the war effort. The operation reopened a lifeline for the city. Mostar became a symbol of hope for the Bosnian Army and people, enabling the peace accords to follow.

During the operation, Sheva was charged with storming the Fort, and after the fighting, he captured his own uncle who was fighting in the HVO Army and made him a POW. His uncle, from a mixed marriage, had been drafted into the Croatian Army. It's hard to imagine how destructive a civil war is at all levels. They have reconciled now after the war, but Sheva's case is a minority in a region that is mired in complexity, grief, and vengeance.

So, after a sobering yet incredibly informative and human tour from Sheva, it's time to retreat back to the hostel. As we walk off the bridge and I take a final look from the top, I really ask myself, "Is this wise?" But I have an ulterior motive for doing it. The next day is my official last day in the Army, and what better way to capture it by launching oneself off a bridge into the unknown. A year before, I had come close to doing it without a river to catch me, and now here I am, living my best life. The moment must be marked. To add to the symbolic moment, I spark a conversation with the Tom Hanks look alike, and my suspicions of his military background are confirmed. Malwin is an ex-recon air force paratrooper with over 1500 jumps! He quit the Army 6 years ago and has been walking around the world by himself since then. We bond instantly and, a few beers later after a long conversation about the wild, the world, science fiction, nature, geopolitics, and poetry, we stumble back onto the bridge, full of Dutch courage, we agree to give it a try the next day.

Another sleepless night looking at YouTube videos of people spanking it on the bridge, I finally get some sleep.

The next morning, with little sleep and a lot of apprehension, I make it to the bridge diving club and register my interest to jump. On the way, I start making excuses with myself: too dangerous, too old, what if I get hurt, etc... Then I remember I was once an airborne soldier, jumping from planes was my job, and I'm on a round-the-world tour on my motorbike, no place for what-ifs, just go! What-ifs and doubts have plagued my mind for the last two years, I'm tired of fear guiding my actions. Malwin backs out, French... His reasons are solid, he has nothing to prove and another 1000kms of walking to do before his next adventure. No judgment, this jump is for me, this is to mark the end of 14 years of being in the Army, this jump is my leap of faith into my new life. I'm doing it.

At the divers' club, they ask me my age and background, “Max, 41, ex-paratrooper, midlife crisis wanker trying to prove he still has it. Okay, let's go,” they assign me a 19-year-old kid that jumps the bridge 4 times a week as a job... Emel. First, you have to prove that you understand the technique and the instruction. So they start you at the 8 m jump, easy, no probs, then you go up to the 16 m board. 3 jumps from there and you qualify to jump from the bridge. The day is getting warmer and more and more tourists are amassing around the bridge to catch a glimpse at any foolhardy tourists that might be stupid enough to jump. The last practice jump, Emel gives me the thumbs up, so we swim across the river to the bridge and walk through the old town to the apex of the bridge. Emel shakes my hand, “Don't worry, don't think too much, just jump,” my mind is racing, people are watching, I can see myself climb over the railing to jump, “Don't think too much, don't think too much, don't think too much, fuck it, go!” I launch. 4 seconds in the air feels like a long time. I brace for impact. Contact with the water, I'M ALIVE! I climb out of the cold water and instantly know that wasn’t a great landing, but I’m elated and full of adrenaline so it's time for some beers with Malwin and the boys!

As the adrenaline goes down, the pain starts to make itself known, chiefly in my bum... As a friend on Instagram said to me, enjoy the free enema... I realise I can't sit for more than two minutes. Not a great injury to have if you’re on a round-the-world trip sitting on a motorbike...

Last night with Malwin, there's no small talk between us but nor is there a break in the conversation, I know I’ve made a friend for life. We part ways that night hoping to meet in South America next year. He’s going to cross the Atlantic by sailboat and walk the length of the Andes, a wild kindred soul.

That night I prepare my gear and receive the coup de grace from Juliette, it's over, I'll spare the expletives but that's that. I also receive a nudge from my aunt to make more of an effort to stay in touch. I’m just a bit crap at staying in contact when I’m moving, it’s a flaw but it’s also about being in the moment, I make no apologies for my behavior but I recognize it’s a flaw.

So the next morning I head to Montenegro, with a very very sore bottom and a heavy heart, free or lonely…? The question remains. Every speed bump sends a shock up my spine, not fun. I won't be looking for off-road tracks on this ride.

The ride from Mostar is pleasant enough, long sweeping bends following lush green rivers. I arrive at what I think is a border crossing thinking I’ve made it to Montenegro. However, things take a sudden change when I arrive in a Serbian enclave, the decor changes, the graffiti on the walls tells a very different story. Posters of Vladimir Putin in the restaurants and no sign of any mosques in any of the villages. As I continue through this area I stop for fuel in a remote petrol station. It's 9 in the morning and in the petrol station are 4 farmers that are halfway through a two-liter bottle of rakija. We have a few laughs and exchange some banter and cigarettes and I’m on my way. Round the corner, I see a lonely Asian walking by himself along the road in a very remote area. I think no more of it other than it doesn’t really fit the area. A few kilometres later I see huge signs all written in Chinese. Behind them is a huge building site, solely manned by Chinese workers, it’s the Belt and Road Initiative. The start of a new sphere of influence and the end of another.

I ride through another few Serbian villages and end up at the border where I’m greeted by what I can only qualify as a total jobsworth Bosnian border guard, I kill his stupidity with kindness and can see that his opposite on the Montenegrin side finds it funny. I pity him to have to work face to face with the sour, smileless idiot. High five the Montenegrin border guard and I’m in Montenegro. The roads here are just spectacular, good quality tarmac, long sweeping mountain roads, lots of space, very little traffic, just pure fun road riding, and a relief for my poor backside!

I arrive on the Montenegrin coast, finally see the sea again since leaving Nice in France. The coast is like any riviera, overcrowded, overpriced, and underwhelming. I can't wait to leave and head for the hills. A pizza on the coast is 25 euros... The cost of two days' eating and accommodation in Bosnia. And the people just see you as a walking money pot. Time to go. I head for the hills and have a great ride over some amazing mountain passes, but I’m lonely all of a sudden. The paradox shift from freedom to loneliness has happened again, fuck you Bukowski.

I end up in the capital of Montenegro, voted the most boring city in Europe; it is, no need to say more. Stay in a shitty hostel owned by a greedy little man that thinks it's funny to provoke me on politics. I kindly tell him I’m tired and want to go to bed, before I decapsulate his head. Up at 5 am and off I go further into the mountains with the aim to get into Kosovo that day.

Montenegro is a biker's paradise, a cross between Scotland, the Pyrenees, and the Alps, interspersed with lovely little alpine villages and as per usual when you stay clear of tourist spots and bustling cities the people are kind, curious, and chatty. The country is developing fast and there are budding ski stations being built at high altitudes. As I near the Kosovan border I stop for a coffee in a wood lodge. That’s where I meet Yve the mad Swiss. He appears out of the woods on an old Honda 500, no riding gear, woollen clothes, a backpack, an old helmet, and bristling with mad energy! We have a ten-minute chat and exchange advice on the routes to take, I send him to Mostar he sends me to Prizren in Kosovo. Where apparently I can go and shoot pistols and drink some good beer, sold. Mad people attract mad ideas and feed off each other, this was one such encounter. Refuelled on energy and coffee, I head for the border.

Kosovo is not technically a recognized state and is emerging from a bloody war with Serbia. The spoken language is Albanian and the religion is 90 percent Muslim, it's one of the poorest countries in geographical Europe and you feel it when you ride around, despite every other car being a souped-up BMW or Audi. The men here are very macho, crew cuts, tattoos, tight shirts, and angry looks. The women are beautiful and fearsome looking, feeling more of an Ottoman than Slavic influence. Prizren is a bustling town with a beautiful mosque in the middle and a stunning river cutting through it, adjacent to the hills. But it has an edge to it, as I arrive there has been a shooting resulting in two dead, gang-related. I feel safe there but it’s a bit overwhelming and I crave some altitude and solitude.

I follow Yves' recommendation to go to the shooting range and really don’t get much pleasure from it at all... So I go for a solo walk around town to get a feel for the place, it's full of Balkanic tourists and not many Europeans which feels nice. I find an old Ottoman fort above the city to watch the sunset and listen to the call to prayer. Something about the minarets and the imams singing awakens some sort of spiritual mysticism in me, every time I'm in an Islamic country I feel drawn to Islam, not the dogmatic version we see today, but the spiritual one. I can't explain it, it just happens. The battery on my phone died as I walk up, at first I’m upset that I can’t get any content for my social media, then I get anxious and then I’m relieved to not have the fucking thing burning a hole in my pocket and taking me away from the moment. I sit there quietly with two stray dogs for company and I feel at peace.

I plan to get up early the next day to cross into North Macedonia. I heard on the traveller grapevine that you need to buy a 50 euro insurance to cross into North Macedonia, as I cross the last town before the mountain pass to get into Macedonia I look for a bank machine. None of my cards are working and I have spent my cash reserve, problem. As I wander around town I get invited by a German-speaking villager to have coffee, his name is Remy. He reassures me that I’m a guest in the village and we have a long conversation in my broken German. He tells me about his kids and family and how his home was completely destroyed during the war and he had to hide in the café we were drinking in. Another example of Muslim hospitality, we chat for a few hours but I still need to make it back to Prizren to get some cash to cross the border. By the time I get to a working cash point, I have been riding for 5 hours and I'm back to the point I started in... It’s going to be a long day.

So off I go on the same road I’ve been on twice before and head for the border crossing, as I reach an altitude of around 2500 meters everything changes. There’s no border crossing in sight but around me are snow-capped mountains not a car or person in sight for miles on end, the air is clean and pure, Tara is purring gently beneath me and suddenly my soul starts soaring. This is what I have come for, wilderness, open spaces, where nature dominates and the sky invites you to lose yourself in it. Tears of joy start rolling inside my helmet, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m overwhelmed, it’s been two days that I haven’t taken my antidepressants but I don’t care, right there in that moment I’m the happiest I have been for years, alone, free, and alive. Thank you, Bukowski! At that exact moment in time, I’m not Max, I’m not Major Clark, I’m not a motorcyclist, I’m not afraid, I’m just there, right there merged with my surroundings, there's not a critical voice telling me what to analyse or feel or think, the joy and awe is real, it's not artificial, it's not procured by drugs or substances. It’s just by being there in my body, present and alive. I could die right then and be content. These moments don’t last long, I try and capture it on my phone but it sounds false, you have to be there to feel it. I decide to crack on and feel this road and immerse myself in the feeling, nothing else matters.

 As I ride into a valley a pack of wild horses greet me, I turn a bend and am brought back to reality. A lonely Kosovan shepherd is sat on a rock looking after his sheep, well he’s on his phone and his 3 massive Kangals are looking after the sheep. I can’t help but stop and want to greet him and the dogs. As I stop he looks up from his phone, his eyes immediately go to his dogs. I can see the alarm rising in his eyes, he looks at me and looks at them I see fear in his eyes and fearsomeness in theirs. I forgot in that moment that in these places dogs are not companions they are there to protect their flock, they have spike collars on to protect them from wolves and bears. Right then in their protector's mind, I am a threat and they are about to tear me apart. Clutch in, revs up, I’m out of there! So much for the romantic notion of chatting to a lone shepherd. This jolts me back into action and I remind myself that I’m not entirely sure where I am, Kosovo, or Macedonia, still no border crossing. The asphalt ends and turns into rocky and muddy tracks. Through valleys and abandoned bullet-ridden outposts, I continue into the unknown. I’m up on my pegs fighting the tracks with Tara in off-road mode. The fear of dropping her is there but I know I can lift her so I give her a bit more speed and we trundle along.

Two hours of rocky tracks and still no checkpoint, eventually, I hit a tarmac road and hop off the bike to kiss it. Needless to say, my Mostarian bridge jump and bumpy tracks are not doing wonders for my backside. I follow the road for a bit and come across a strange meat packing factory. First people I’ve seen in a while. I overhear them speaking, it’s clearly not Kosovan, I’ve entered Macedonia illegally! I ask them if this is Kosovo and they stare at me angrily and say this is Macedonia and just glare at me. Best to move on. I ride along for a few more minutes until I find a mountain lodge where they speak English and are a bit more welcoming than the previous Macedonians I have met. I explain my situation to the owners and they burst out laughing! “You’re a Kosovan immigrant!” we laugh for a while and they tell me to report to the closest police station a few clicks away. I turn up at this sleepy mountain village where the police station doubles up as a farm house to be greeted by one kind cop and one grumpy cop. I explain the situation and a few phone calls later I get told on the phone by a gregarious official that it’s ok “Welcome to Macedonia!” the relief!

Legalities done I still don’t know where to sleep that night, I head to the closest town I can find on the map, Ohrid by a giant lake. The road to get there is pure bliss, canyons, lakes, and twists. I switch Tara into sports mode and we race to the lake as fast as we can. I arrive there by sunset as the caffeine and adrenaline in my veins start waning. I can’t think let alone ride, I stop at the first bar I see with a big Carlsberg sign outside of it, and yes at that given point in time it was the best beer in the world…

After a quick Google search, I find a hostel with some good reviews. I ride through the old town and realise that this is the end of my Balkanic adventure, Hellenistic influence is felt everywhere, quaint Orthodox churches replace the mosques. The buildings have white facades overlooking the sea-like lake. Ohrid is an old Macedonian town that is slowly turning into a sort of eastern Lake Garda type location for local tourists to take advantage of. Like most of these places, there is a crossover between antique history and unchecked new capitalism. Casinos and pubs are appearing all around it to attract new money. Despite this, the hostel I find is a pure gem. Hostel Old Town, run by Natasha and Alex, is a dream haven of peace and multiculturalism. It reminds me of the “Auberge Espagnol,” people from everywhere, a positive and inviting energy resides there. I turn up as the sun is setting covered in mud and sweat, must have been quite the sight for the other residents. I’m immediately invited by Simon, a young French guy that spots my French number plate, to have a beer with him and the rest of his gang. It’s good to be amongst people and to be able to talk. They welcome me into their international group and we have a few beers, but by 8 o’clock I’m done and retreat into my room for some much-needed rest.

I get up at 5 am and go discover the city, on the top of the hill is an old fort built by King Philip of Macedon, Alexander the Great's father. There are Roman and Hellenic ruins all over the old town, an archaeologist's wet dream. It’s 7 am and the town is empty, I have it for myself and can wander around without any tourists around. I feel inspired to follow in Alexander’s footsteps heading east, albeit without the same thirst for conquest and ten years older than him and somewhat less achievements than the ambitious young greek conqueror. I’m a wanderer not a warrior anymore.

I get back to the hostel and debate whether I should go or not, the place is so welcoming and warm, Natasha and Alex have really created a safe haven for weary travelers like me. But Greece is around the corner and my friend Alex is there waiting for me at his farm. Something in me can’t settle. I have to get to Greece, I had set it as my rest place and so I ignore my tired voice telling me to stay and I regrettably leave. The road to Greece is stunning but I’m so tired and realise I’m close to burnout, I’ve been riding at an unmanageable pace for 20 days now, my mind can’t keep up with my desire. I drink Red Bull after Red Bull and feel I’m about to have a heart attack. Just get to the fucking border and you’re home free. I finally make it to Greece, at passport control I explain my situation and a frustrated and somewhat lazy guard reluctantly lets me back into Europe!

I’ve made it!

As soon as I ride into Northern Greece I relax, my tiredness lifts, and I’m overcome with a sense of relief and satisfaction, I’ve made it to the last European country I will see for a while. More importantly, I’ve made it to a place I can finally rest! Riding through the northern foothills of Greece calm returns, I find a spot by a mountain lake and sleep for a bit letting the sound of the water nurse me to sleep for a bit as I lay on the ground next to Tara. The sting of tiredness out of my eyes and with the last rays of sun I ride joyfully to my friend’s house, we haven’t seen each other for over ten years, I can’t wait to see someone who knows me, to feel a semblance of home, I’m not a complete nomad yet, but that’s okay. I arrive at my friend Alex's house late at night, he lives on the foothills of Mount Olympus. He and the pantheon greet me as the sun sets. It's time to let Tara rest and to sleep!

After this will be a week of resting my sore bottom and working with Alex on his farm as I prepare my mind and body for the middle east and eventually to the caucasus, adventure await!