Into the Heart of Darkness

Even though we have "joined civilization", this part of the world still throws up the occasional absurdity

Two weeks ago today I rented an automobile here in Zagreb from my friend’s agency so that I could go to my mother’s village across the border in Bosnia and Herzegovina. It’s a 70 minute drive from Split to Livno County, but you have to cross the border around 45 minutes into the trip. Croatia is both an EU member and part of the Schengen Area, the latter of which obliges members to have somewhat stricter than usual border crossing controls and protocols. Croatia has been in the EU for over a decade, but has only been within Schengen as of this past January.

The reason for my trip was that one of my favourite cousins was flying in from Switzerland (where she resides with her family) to visit her parents in her home village. Our mothers are sisters and we are quite close, and enjoy spending time with one another. An hour’s drive isn’t too much of an effort to make to see someone that you love very much.

I’ve passed through this border crossing dozens of times, so when I pulled up I assumed that it would be business as usual: I had them my Croatian ID card (we are permitted to use these to enter Bosnia and don’t require a passport) and they wave me through after some small talk.

This time was different.

The border guard inside of the hut turned to his colleague and asked him something about he saw on the screen once he ran my ID card through the machine. He then slid the small window to close it. Something was up. I waited for around five minutes or so, and he opened the window and told me to pull up ahead and park to the right side. They didn’t hand me back my ID card. I did as I was told. He exited the hut and approached me on my side and told me to wait until they could figure out what the problem was, as he clearly had no idea either.

That Friday afternoon was sunny and not too warm, so I exited the rental car and proceeded to loiter around in the area, not straying too far so as to be out of their eyesight. This border crossing is not a very busy one, as it mostly serves locals from both sides of the border making quick jaunts from one side to the other. The next border crossing to the immediate south of this one is much larger, and services trucks of all sizes. It makes this one a simple one to cross, with waiting times practically unheard of.

A line of cars began to form in the direction of Bosnia-Herzegovina, as no one was being allowed to pass through for the time being. I stood outside of my rental car about 20 feet away from the huts, one eye trained on the main office to see who would come out of it, and the other eye on the people stuck in the queue to see if they were upset with me. I had zero idea what was going on, but my mind was racing trying to figure out if I maybe did something wrong in the not-too-distant past that would warrant me being denied the ability to cross the border and exit the country. I was scratching my head, wondering what could justify this situation…..

“There’s something wrong with your ID card”, said the border guard who tried to process me after exiting the main office. “Stay there until we figure it out”, he added, as he returned to the hut and re-opened the border to the people waiting in line to cross into Bosnia.

“Okay, no problem” I replied.

What else could I say?

I proceeded to loiter in the area just off to the side of the border crossing huts, and decided to call my buddy R.¹ R. works for the Croatian domestic intelligence agency, and he and I have become close friends over the years. If I’m ever in a serious jam, I can call him to try and fix any situation that I find myself in.

“They say there’s something wrong with my ID card”, I tell him over the phone. “It’s probably nothing, but keep me updated anyway”, he replies.

Over half an hour later, the same border guard who tried to process my ID card comes out of his hut to tell me “It looks like it’s not a big deal, but we still can’t figure it out. Stay there for a bit longer.”

“Sure”.

What else could I say?

Another forty-five minutes pass and I begin to get quite worried. “If it’s a minor issue, there’s no way that it should take this long”, I think to myself. I begin to scroll through my memory once more, trying to think what possibly could have led up to this moment. Still no luck.

It’s at this point when the head border cop working that shift comes out of the main office and calls me by my name to come inside. I walk over.

“We’re really, really sorry about this, but I have to confiscate your ID card. There is something wrong with it. I don’t know what it is, though”, he explains, very apologetically.

“Okay. If that’s what you need to do, then do it”, I tell him in the most calm manner possible.

“Thank you for not being upset. I am trying to reach my boss up in Zagreb (the capital city of Croatia) to figure this out. Please sign this document here that indicates that we have confiscated your ID card. You will get a copy in return.”

“Sure.”

I sign the document.

“Thank you. Please go wait outside for a bit longer until we figure this out.”

“Okay, no problem.”

I return to the rental car, and assume my loitering stance. “Is this a bureaucratic issue?”, I ask myself, scratching my head.

Fifteen more minutes pass until I am called back into the office.

“I didn’t want to tell you this at first, but when we tried to process your ID card, three red alerts popped up on the screen immediately. One from MUP (Croatian Police), and one from Interpol”, explained the shift manager.

“What the fuck????”, I thought.

“What?”, I asked, once again in the most calm manner I could muster to display.

“We don’t get it either. Go back to your car and wait a bit longer until we figure this out”, he instructed me once again.

“I am wanted by Interpol”, I thought to myself as I returned to the rental car to do some more loitering. “Why the fuck would Interpol want me?”, I asked myself. “If Interpol wants me, why wasn’t I arrested in the spot and transported to the nearest jail?” A million questions bombarded my brain as I tried to make sense out of this news. The problem was that nothing made sense. A red alert from the Croatian Police should be enough to get me arrested prior to that day as I am not very difficult to find. An Interpol red alert should find me in jail awaiting a court date. Nothing made sense.

I called R.

“What? Did you do something while you were in Canada?”, he asked me.

“No. I did absolutely nothing in Canada over the holidays. The only thing I did that would warrant any attention was when I was in New York City during Christmas to meet up with Curtis Yarvin. I threatened to beat up Vladislav Davidzon two nights in a row, but I hardly think that warrants an Interpol red alert.”

“Okay, keep me updated.”

I could either begin to panic, or start laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I chose the latter simply because I had not been cuffed and put into a police van to go to jail. Something in the system caused this, but not through any fault of my own. The fact that there was a red alert from Interpol led me to start making jokes to myself about how I was headed to The Hague for war crimes. “Might as well make light of the situation”, I concluded.

A few minutes later I got called back into the office.

“We still have no idea what’s going on. All we have found is this.” He pointed to a print out of a speeding ticket. It seems that there was an outstanding speeding ticket from September of last year when I took a trip down to Dubrovnik. In Croatia, you generally know where all the photo radars are, as you will see signs on the road that say “Area Under Radar Control Up Ahead”, giving you advance warning to slow down. Sometimes they don’t do this, and I obviously got caught on camera speeding in an area where there was no warning.

“I never received any notice of this”, I explained to the shift manager.

“I believe you…but this all that we could find.”

I then proceeded to ask him the million dollar question: “If there is a red alert from Interpol for me, why haven’t you cuffed me and put me in jail?”

“We don’t get it either, as this has never happened here before. The only instruction that we received was to confiscate your ID card, and deny you the ability to cross the border.” The shift manager was incredibly apologetic to me, to the point where I had to calm him down by assuring him that I was not freaking out. It took me a bit longer than I thought it would to make him believe me.

“Okay, so what do we do now?”, I asked.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do: we’re confiscating your ID card as we are instructed to do, and I apologize for that, but I have to do it. You’re going to turn your car around and you’re going to pay this speeding ticket. When you pay this ticket, you’re going to send proof of payment to the police station in Ston (down near Dubrovnik) by email, as your offence took place in their jurisdiction. When you are done that, you are going to go back to Split and go to the nearest police station to your residence, and show them these documents and ask them what you are supposed to do from that point onwards.”

“Okay…but we still don’t know what the exact problem is, right?”

“Right.”

I’ve spent over two hours loitering about, and we still don’t have a resolution, but we do have a clue: the speeding ticket. But does a speeding ticket warrant a red alert from both Croatian Police and Interpol?

The shift manager and his colleagues proceed to apologize for the inconvenience one last time. I hop into my rental, turn it around, and head back toward Split.

“I’m sure that I’ll see you guys soon enough”, I assure them.

I head back down the mountainside and towards Sinj, the first town on the way back to Split. I decide to pay off the speeding ticket there so as to get that out of the way as quickly as possible. As I approach a roundabout in the centre of town, I notice a police van behind me signalling me to pull over immediately.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?????”, I thought to myself, on the edge of panic for the first time today. Was I about to actually get arrested this time?

I pull over at the INA gas station and roll down my window. One of the police officers walks up to me and I prepare myself mentally for whatever is about to go down.

“Were you just up at the border crossing?”, he asks me.

“Yeah.”

“They forget to return the rental car documentation to you.”

“Oh”, I replied, relieved that I wasn’t about to get taken down in public view.

“Are you going to go back there now to go get it?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that right now.”

“Okay, I’ll let them know”, the cop said to me, wishing me a good day.

“Phew!”

I do the fifteen minute drive back to the border crossing, and the shift manager is on the verge of tears, apologizing profusely to me.

“The next time I see you, I am taking you out for food and drinks. It’s all on me. I’m so sorry about all of this today….”

“It’s okay, shit happens. As long as it’s nothing serious”, I reassure him.

I return to Sinj and head to the nearest bank to pay off the speeding ticket. I immediately email proof of payment to the police station in Ston. I then proceed to head back to Split.

I still have no idea what’s going on, but I do update R. He is laughing hysterically by this point, convinced that this was some sort of bureaucratic error. “I hope he’s right”, I say to myself.

I continue to think of any issues that could have caused a red alert to be sent out for me by Interpol as I head to the police station in Pojisanska Street in Split. I prepare myself mentally to be arrested. I proceed to the counter with the documentation that I received at the border in hand, and explain to them the situation and what the border police instructed me to do.

“Okay. Lemme see what this is all about.”

The clerk returns to me in less than five minutes. The moment of truth is at hand.

“Alright. You paid the speeding ticket and Ston Police have already lifted the alerts for you. All you need to do now is to go to FINA (akin to the DMV in the USA) and get a new ID card.”

“That’s it? You mean I’m not getting arrested and going to The Hague? I know Luka Misetic and I have him on speed dial”, I joke.

“Hahaha…no Hague for you. That’s it. This was all about an unpaid speeding ticket. You can walk to FINA from here…it’ll take you about 15 minutes. Just show them this document.”

He hands me the document.

“Enjoy the rest of your day”, he says to me.

I walk over to FINA and they process my request for a new ID card within five minutes. The entire matter is resolved.

I’m still trying to process the entire thing.

1. We’ll use this in lieu of his real name for obvious reaons