What the Clutch Cost

Day twenty, Bosnia. The last few days have been a lot: almost no sleep on Friday night, then the pyramid, then the tunnels, then people, more people.

This morning there was a business with the man in the next room. He went past a line. To be able to look at myself with any respect, I stood up and went to him about it. Adrenaline. An Egyptian. No way to know how he'd take it.

He went defensive, his room-mate talked him down, and I made it clear that I can be extremely unfriendly if the occasion calls for it. He understood. We shook hands and said goodbye.

I stayed wired all the way to Sarajevo anyway.

Nicky and I want to see the Dzirlo tea house by the old market. Merima had put me on to it before I left.

Parking in Sarajevo is a thing in itself, and with a trailer it is a subject. We circle. A cobbled street climbs away to the right, and something about it suggests there might be a free space at the top. Up we go. Second gear, then first. It keeps getting steeper. The tyres start to spin.

I get the little car and the trailer over the kerb at the top on a slipping clutch and a prayer, come within a coat of paint of three parked cars, and make it.

There is a free space. It cost a good deal of clutch.

The Dzirlo is worth the drive. We meet four lads from Germany on holiday and swap numbers. The owner, Hussein Dzirlo, is an unusual man.