I’m laughing as I write this because I genuinely cannot make this up.
We arrived in Bosnia at midnight with no running water. I should clarify that I had showered. We stopped at a family member’s house in Croatia after our last flight, so I was not arriving in Bosnia exhausted after multiple planes and another three hours in the car. But still, we had no water.
I slept for maybe five hours because I was so excited to be there that my body apparently decided sleep was unnecessary. By seven in the morning, we were already at my uncle’s house, sitting under the grapevine drinking coffee while its giant leaves blocked the already bright July sun.
Then we heard a car horn. Not one polite beep either. Someone was LAYING ON THE HORN while driving down the road on the other side of the house.
My uncle barely looked up. “Bread guy is here.”
My dad looked at me like, You gonna get that? I looked back at him like, …Čejfim. But fine.
I walked around the house and hailed Bread Guy. He backed his Volkswagen into the driveway, got out, and, with one swift motion, pulled back a blanket covering the contents of his car.
So much bread.
A few minutes later, I was standing there holding a bottle of drinkable yogurt and various loaves while my dad handed him Bosnian marks and, naturally, asked if he knew a plumber. Bread Guy knew a plumber, but Bread Guy was also apparently willing to come back with his own tools and fix the water with my dad himself if necessary.
I love Bread Guy.
At this point, I also need to introduce Zrinka, who walked over to say hello.
Zrinka lives directly across the road and has impeccable, yet deeply unfortunate, comedic timing. Our house actually faces away from hers. Technically, this makes sense. The fields, barns and animals are behind the house, so naturally that is where much of life happens. Still, the longer I stay there, the more I wonder whether Zrinka living across the road had at least something to do with the architectural decision to put the front entrance on the other side.
ANYWAYS. Best day ever. No running water.
There was nothing else we could do about it yet, so off we went to run errands.
I went to the bank to exchange Canadian dollars for Bosnian marks. I stood in what I thought was a line before realizing that the concept of a “line” was being interpreted rather loosely. If the teller knows you, they say hello and ask what you need. If they do not know you, apparently you just stand there until you are the LAST PERSON ALIVE IN THE BANK. Thankfully, my dad possesses a level of social confidence I simply do not have and will just start talking to people.
Later, I watched my dad try to get his Bosnian birth certificate reissued. The process made it seem as though this was the first birth certificate Bosnia and Herzegovina had attempted to issue since Yugoslavia.
And really, none of this was stressful because what else was I going to do?
Um, TAKE A SHOWER???
By three in the afternoon, Plumber Guy arrived. My dad stood on one side of the house while Plumber Guy stood somewhere in the field between the two barns near the valve, and they just kept yelling at each other.
“TURN IT ON!”
“IS IT ON?”
“TURN IT OFF!”
“NOW?”
“TURN IT ON!”
Eventually, they came up with a temporary solution and connected the water supply from my uncle’s house to ours.
For now, we had water. Beautiful, glorious, running water!
There was, of course, a much bigger problem waiting for us. We just hadn’t met it yet.
The day continued. We climbed the hill behind my dad’s village while he pointed out houses, fields and little areas with names that you will never find on Google Maps.
Eventually, we ran into two of his high school friends. Both were named Vlado.
For everyone’s sake, Vlado #1 and Vlado #2.
They were extremely happy to see my dad. Vlado #1 was already very drunk, but seeing an old friend called for further celebration, so he offered my dad a rakija too. Vlado #2, however, decided he would rather have a gemišt. White wine and sparkling water. Easy.
He disappeared into the garage, came back with what appeared to be a bottle of sparkling water and poured about half a cup into his wine. They said cheers. He took a sip.
His face changed immediately.
He looked absolutely horrified. He spat it out, stared at the glass, dumped half of it into the grass and tossed the glass down after it.
The sparkling water was not sparkling water. It was rakija.
(Our cue to leave)
We kept walking for maybe another 300 metres before we ran into a priest, Marko, who was talking to Zrinka (of course).
At this point, it was getting dark. I had been awake since approximately the dawn of civilization and had spent the entire day thinking about one thing: the shower. I was finally heading back to our house when Zrinka grabbed my hand.
Then she started skipping.
Before I really understood what was happening, we were both skipping down the road while she sang a Novi Fosili song. Naturally, I started singing too. I was delirious. I no longer cared.
She wanted me to come inside her house, which I politely declined approximately seventeen times before she finally released my hand because I told her I had not showered (Ha!).
I walked toward our house and realized I didn’t have the key.
My dad did.
I cannot adequately describe the disappointment I felt in myself.
So I went back and sat in the dark under the grapevine at my uncle’s house with some of my family. After about thirty minutes, I looked at them and said, “I honestly love you all, but I am so uninvolved in this conversation right now. I am willing to climb the facade of our house to get into that shower.”
I got up, walked to the road and peered down to see my dad still talking to Marko where Zrinka and I had left him. As I passed Zrinka’s house, she was sitting on her balcony. She looked down at me and shouted, “YOU HAG! YOUR HAIR IS FUCKING DRY.”
I was laughing, but I ignored her completely and continued toward my dad with purpose. Somehow, he was STILL TALKING to Marko. I quietly asked for the key, wished Marko a lovely evening and, in true Zrinka fashion, skipped back toward the house.
Nothing stood between me and this shower.
Nothing.
This was going to be the shower of my entire year.
I got inside, turned it on, but there was NO WATER.
I stood there staring at it.
No.
Absolutely not.
I put my clothes back on, walked all the way back, and somehow my dad was STILL TALKING to Marko.
At this point, I was just giggling. I looked at him and said, “You gotta help. I’m actually beside myself.”
Eventually, I took what felt like the greatest shower of my life. Looking back, the water pressure was probably comparable to someone gently pouring a glass of water over my head, but I did not care. I remember standing there laughing out loud because the entire first day of our vacation had been so comical.
Unfortunately, our adventures with water were not over.
The very next day, my dad and I left the village for a three-day road trip through Bosnia. Three days later, with the road trip behind us, we were making our way back to the village when my dad asked if I wanted to drive straight home.
Absolutely not.
“We’re on vacation. Let’s go sit by the river.”
We sat beside the river drinking Turkish coffee, smoking cigarettes, and talking about how awesome life is.
In retrospect, our conversation about how great life was very funny.
We had absolutely no idea what was waiting for us at home.
We arrived back at the village as the sun began to set, and my dad suggested we take a walk. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said we should go through the forest and take a photo inside the water reservoir, just in case there were more problems with the water.
Sure.
My cousin came with us, and we crossed the fields behind the house before walking the short distance into the forest. This is another thing I love about the village: within minutes, the houses are behind you, and you are surrounded by fields and trees. Somewhere inside that forest was the concrete reservoir supplying water to the village.
The reservoir had been built years earlier because, even though the houses were connected to the municipal water system, the village could run short during the summer months. The reservoir provided another supply, replenished by water coming down from the mountains.
My dad opened it, climbed inside and started explaining how everything worked.
Naturally, my cousin and I followed him.
My dad explained how it had been built, who had contributed, who maintained it and how the system had worked over the years. I stood there listening, looking around this concrete structure hidden in a forest in Bosnia, thinking that this was certainly not where I had expected to find myself on vacation.
And then we found the problem.
Someone had completely blocked the water supply to our house. But that was not all. Another supply had been partially blocked, with a pipe added to redirect some of its water toward their house. Our own pipe had been plugged with pieces of wood and little bits of plastic.
Now I had even more questions.
We discussed who might have done it, why someone might have done it, how long it had been like that, and whether there was an explanation we had simply not considered. I asked every question I could think of because I wanted to understand how we had somehow arrived at this situation.
But eventually I realized this was probably a the less you know, the better situation.
For the past few summers, my dad had been trying to understand why water simply would not reach our house properly. And now, after all that time, we were standing inside the reservoir looking at the answer.
It was a genuinely stressful situation. But standing there getting angry was not going to get the water moving again. What mattered was that we finally knew what was wrong.
…
Looking back, I could probably tell this story as the summer our water stopped working. Technically, that would be true. But that is not really what this story has become for me.
Here is the thing. You could have told me that I needed to spend the next week inside the reservoir fixing an even bigger problem, and I would have done it. You could even have told me I had to do it with the help of Vlado #1, Vlado #2, and Zrinka, and honestly, I still would have done it.
I would give so much of my time to see the people there succeed. I want their homes to have water. I want their families to be okay. Other people do not pack a suitcase and leave when the summer is over. Their lives continue there. Their problems need solutions there. I care deeply about what happens to them, but I cannot pretend I understand what it takes to live their lives.
I don’t know what it is like when running water becomes uncertain during the summer months. I don’t know the circumstances that led someone to put pieces of wood and plastic into those pipes. I could come up with explanations, but pretending I understand a life I have never lived would make for a much neater story than a truthful one.
So yes, eventually we figured out who had plugged the water. But knowing who did it did not suddenly mean I understood why.
Maybe that is why I keep thinking about this story. Community does not mean that nobody ever frustrates, disappoints or hurts one another. It does not mean pretending something didn’t happen either. Sometimes you fix what needs fixing, change the lock, and still wave when you pass each other on the road. You can protect what is yours and still hope the person on the other side of that lock has everything they need too.
I want to see those people succeed. I want them to have water in their homes. I want their families to be okay. I want there to be reasons for them to stay, if staying is what they want. And I know there is so much about their lives that I will never understand from the few weeks I am lucky enough to spend there.
Maybe that is one of the thousand little reasons Bosnia remains one of my favourite places on earth. I leave every time wanting nothing more than to see the people there doing well.
