Bosnia and Herzegovina Visa for Indians: Landing in Sarajevo and Immigration
Though I had cancellable bookings for 20 days, a bank account statement, life insurance, my itinerary on Google Maps, an idea of entering Montenegro from Bosnia and Herzegovina via a bus booked through Flixbus, and so on, I wasn’t asked anything at the Bosnia and Herzegovina immigration at Sarajevo airport.
The lady officer saw my US visa, looked through it for a few seconds, and stamped my passport. No questions asked.
I had flown in from Yerevan, where the exit immigration had been smooth too. They had stamped the passport easily as well. While boarding Pegasus Airlines, the young angry employee checked my passport, looked at my visa, and asked his colleague, “Hindustani America visa…” something something. The airline employee must be Turkish; his manners were definitely Ottoman. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and ironed pants, he was blonde, with blonde hair, and a temper that could singe anyone. He wasn’t easy.
A Chinese woman, dressed in a blue gown, was ahead of me. She carried a large suitcase that was constantly overweight on the check-in weighing machine. He told her, “Thirty is the limit. This is 35.” She was more confused every passing minute. “You have weighing scales there.” He pointed her to a location far from him, eyeing the waiting passengers in the queue. Her large bamboo hat was still on the counter, though. He shook his head, got up, picked up the hat, leaned outwards towards her, extending his hand holding the hat, “Ma’am,” so she could take it from him. I think he was still polite. I would have taken the hat and kept it for myself.
He, while holding my passport, turned around to speak to his colleague, his accent not disclosing much, but his words, “Hindustani America visa…” told me he was Turkish. “I am just checking your documents then we will let you go.” He was assuring me that everything was alright.
I have had worse experiences with visas and immigration on my Indian passport. Just a check was a breeze to me.
“Could you please give me a window seat?”
“The seats are already assigned, we can’t change them. Yours are not window. In Pegasus, seats are assigned at online check-in.”
I didn’t mind waiting, looking at him. He was handsome, and his anger suited him. I was given a boarding pass. “Should I not get two boarding passes?”
“This one has both boarding passes.” He knew his job well.
I walked around a bit, ensuring that the passport control was where everyone was going. A crowd can’t convince me that following it is the right thing to do. When I see a crowd, I become suspicious. Is that the right direction?
Passport control was smooth. Just one question, and my passport was stamped.
“Where are you going?”
“Sarajevo.”
“Bosnia and Herzegovina?”
“Yes.”
Done. Onwards to security.
I had to put my bag in one plastic basket, laptop sleeve, phone, and passport in the other. I also had to keep my jacket. The Chinese young man ahead of me in the Pegasus queue was taking off his belt. The officer chided him again, “I told you to listen to me. Keep everything, shoes, belt,..”
“I did.”
The officer pointed to the cart with his belt, “What is this then?”
This was pedantic of him, and knowing that, the Chinese traveler shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What do you want me to do?” On the other side of the beep machine, I saw that his shoes were also in a basket. No one had asked me to take off my shoes.
I asked him when he arrived at the belt, “All okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he gushed, his face flushed red.
I decided not to bother him further. I took my things, went to the toilet, and settled into a seat. I put on the Geography Now video of BiH and ate my sandwich I had prepared the previous night in the Yerevan hotel, elbowing two Iranian girls who weren’t ready to let go of the stove. The sandwich had hummus, omelette with coriander leaves, and tomato slices. At the airport, there were cafes too. For me, as a vegetarian, only a sandwich, probably just a tomato and cheese option, was available. I didn’t care. I didn’t have to buy anything apart from a 600 dram water bottle because the Yerevan airport staff had made me throw mine. I had gulped the water and thrown the bottle in the dustbin.
The Yerevan airport wasn’t big. Soon, boarding was announced. I was in the queue, walked to the airplane, watching the icy Ararat mountain shining on the horizon. The sun had just risen, and the sky was brightening up. Before entering the plane, up on the ladder, I took several photos of the Ararat, hoping to capture it in its glory. I had an aisle seat. It worked out well for me as the couple next to me also slept quietly throughout the flight.
At the Istanbul airport, I walked, following the international transfer blue stripe on the floor. All three, the international transfer, domestic transfer, and baggage collection, were clearly marked. For the first time, I paid attention to the directions and realized how easy it was to follow them. The officer checking the boarding passes of those in the queue said, “Welcome.”
He was the nicest person at the airport. There wasn’t much time at the Istanbul airport. Mine was a connecting flight, not a self-transfer. For those who don’t know the difference, let me explain. I was also confused before the flight. I am a person who travels by land, and sometimes I forget how flights work. In self-transfer flights, you have to collect your baggage and do the whole boarding pass, check-in baggage, and security thing again. You need transit visas for these kinds of flights. In connecting flights, you don’t have to collect your baggage, and you proceed to security. You don’t need transit visas for such flights. You just need to bring yourself.
When I was booking the Pegasus flight, the information wasn’t so clear. But later, I received an email from the airlines which mentioned that my baggage would be available for collection at the Sarajevo airport. I also recommend booking flights through airlines’ websites always, even if you have to pay more. Airlines provide better information; they can reschedule or refund your ticket if the flights are cancelled due to emergencies, and so on.
I went to security and put my things in the tray again. The beeper beeped, and so I was slightly frisked. I went to the toilet, filled my water bottle, and it was time to board.
Once again, the Pegasus staff welcomed us warmly. Air hostesses and hosts. I had a window seat near the emergency exit, and next to me was a seat for an air hostess, too. She would unfold it to sit at take off and landing.
My fellow passenger was a bulky Bosnian with bulging arms. His arms touched me often, though he tried to contain them as much as he could, squeezing his palms in between his thighs. I couldn’t see much out of the window as the hostess’s seat blocked my view. I could just see that we were flying over the blue Bosporus, which had welcomed me three months ago into my trip, and which I had ridden on a boat.
We flew over small and tall green mountains to land in Sarajevo.
At Sarajevo airport, our plane landed right at the airstrip, next to the red brick tiled-roof homes. Hills rose all around us, and I sprinted towards the bus awaiting us. The immigration, as I said, was smooth. No questions asked, just my US visa was checked, and a passport page next to it was stamped with the date of entry. The lady officer didn’t tell me that I could stay for thirty days at a time, and could stay for 90 days in a period of 180 days in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
I already knew.
I tried all the ten or so ATMs outside the exit door. They all charged varying fees from eleven convertible marks to fifteen convertible marks. I withdrew 200 marks from a yellow atm machine that charged me thirteen marks. I needed money for the bus.
Outside, a taxi driver abused me, made faces, called me an Indian monkey, and so on, and I almost called the police. Next time I will. I took a shared taxi to the city as the bus wasn’t coming for another hour and thirty minutes. In my taxi, there were four Arabic women who, I think, were hoping for me to pay a few euros for them.
When I got out of the taxi in downtown, I complained to a police officer about that taxi driver. He asked me if I had called the police. I told him I couldn’t, as I didn’t have a local SIM card. Of course, he couldn’t do anything. He was not surprised by my story, though. Even the airport security hadn’t done anything. They had just asked me to pick up my baggage and leave. I think they didn’t want a scene, and of course, they were friends with the taxi driver.
I walked over the Latin Bridge and climbed up to my hostel. The grumpy old lady said, “Check-in 1 pm.” I didn’t mind. I heated the other half of my sandwich, made myself a cup of coffee, and settled down.
Outside, the sun shone brightly, and the red-roofed homes seemed to rest for the afternoon.
Do you have any questions regarding the Bosnia and Herzegovina Visa for Indians? Let me know in the comments.
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