The Stone Hamza Gave Me

Day nineteen, Bosnia. „That's zultanite,“ says Hamza, turning a stone over in his hands. In the sun it is kiwi green. In shadow it goes through a cognac pink and comes out raspberry.

He shows us more and tells the stories that go with them: citrine, lapis lazuli, amethyst. The rare pieces, he says, are worth close to their weight in gold.

Hamza sells crystals and minerals from one of the first shops on the souvenir row by the tunnels. He is quiet and completely serious about it, and it is obvious that the money is not the point.

„Money is only paper. Sometimes you have a lot. Sometimes you have little.“

Some Bosnians would like to go to Germany, he says, and earn two thousand a month instead of five hundred. „But what for? For paper?“ He shrugs. People here have fewer things and more time, and the time is spent on family and friends. That, in his account, is the whole of it.

Nicky picks out a ring with an aquamarine in it. The price is more than fair. I tell him about my journey.

„You trust in Allah?“ he asks, with his eyes wide open.

„Yes. That's why I'm out here.“ Which is true, and I could not have said it in German three months ago.

„Here, take this stone.“ He puts a smoky quartz in my hand, grown that way, not cut. A gift. „Think of me when you look at it on the road.“

Tomorrow Nicky flies home.