We get into the coupe that Maple and Nicole have rented for the trip, and drive over the mountains of the Croatian coast into Mostar's valley. By now, I have adjusted to the windy one-lane highways and breakneck passing. Maple drives and I resign myself to the constructs of the guided tour. I am no longer the chief arbiter of my own well-being, but rather a passenger, a spectator situated to receive the data that enters my field. We cross the border into Bosnia-Herzegovina.
Traffic stops at a guardhouse.
Two soldiers sit under an umbrella at a table. A third, during short breaks in their conversation, peruses the papers of passing motorists. He takes our passports from Maple's hand, doesn't look at them and then hands them back to Maple. That it feels more like a checkpoint than a border, I learn, is not accidental. Rather, nationalists in Croatia feel that, as most of those who live there claim Croatian heritage, southern Bosnia should rightfully belong to them.