When I sat on Besim's balcony in Sarajevo and we sipped coffee while he showed me the hills from where the Serbs bombed his house.

I got the 6.30 bus out of Zagreb no problem. With a fair wind behind us we set sail for Sarajevo. At the Bosnian border checkpoint I was surprised to see a sign saying welcome to Republika Sprska. The Croatian woman with no nose beside me pointed and muttered darkly. I consulted my guide book.

It said that Bosnia-Herzegovina is divided into two 'entities'. The Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina (the Croat and Muslim 51%) and the Republika Srpska (the Serbian 49%). The country is ruled by three supposedly co-operating presidents with a good deal of prodding from NATO. For the record the Serbian border guard was very friendly. He made a joke about Ireland I didn't understand and went smiling on his way.

I had no idea the Bosnian countryside was so exciting. The bus hurtled along, twisting and turning, climbing and dropping, through jagged mountains cut through with charging rivers. Every now and again we'd stop for a little breath, which was just as well because the journey took nearly nine hours. The few flatter fields were decorated with ricks of hay, rows of vegetables and horses and carts. The towns were subdued and uneasy looking, a feeling heightened by bullet scarred walls and fresh graveyards.

This mood intensified when we reached the Sarajevo suburbs. Many buildings were shot up and some were just no longer there. A lone skyscraper, completely gutted, stood sentry over the bus station. Sarajevo was going to be no Disneyland. Back in Zagreb I had been advised to make sure to get some Bosnian currency (Konvertible Marks) before I arrived. I hadn't bothered. I was sure I'd be all right. That was a stupid mistake.

I spent the next hour and a half, rushing through the stifling heat from bank to bank with my heavy house on my back, trying to get someone, anyone, to furnish me with KM. No bankomat would take my card. No bank would cash my travellers cheques. During this time I was pursued by a mad eyed, straggle haired woman who wanted me to pay her to stay in her house. First off I didn't have the money yet, and secondly the idea of sleeping under the same roof seemed a bit mad. Finally I managed to give her the slip, and then I found a bank which I was assured had a bankomat that would take my card.

'About bloody time', said I.

'Your bank is not available at the moment', said the bankomat. 'Please try again later.'

This was not good. I stormed back inside to complain and demand to see all three presidents at once, but they weren't there and the kind woman agreed to change my travellers' cheques. So I could relax.

But not for long because I still had nowhere to sleep. Happily the tourist office is next door to the bank, and the smiling girl gave me loads of leaflets. I was walking through town, with my house getting heavier, struggling to follow my map, read my leaflets and keep my balance, all at the same time, when a small well dressed man with big eyes and a well oiled comb-over tapped me on the shoulder.

'You need a room Sir', he said. '40 KM'

'No thank you', I replied, turning away.

'35KM', he countered, bargaining himself down.

I stopped. He didn't look like he'd eat me. And I was tired. And 35KM was very reasonable. He gave me his card. His name was Besim D'irlo.

Me and my new friend Besim walked through the little market streets to his house. It was thankfully close. Besim's home was no Sultan's palace, but it's a lot more homely than the hostel in Zagreb. Woven rugs on the floor, pictures of mosques on the wall, the smell of coffee in the air, and a nice clean room all to myself. I lay back on my freshly made bed, enjoying the softness of the nice white sheets. Ah, I thought, this ain't so bad.

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