Ned works at a gas station that doesn’t sell gas.

A car stops to fill up. He tells them in Serbian, “I’m sorry, we’re all out. No petrol.” The confused yet understanding driver rolls off. Ned waves his hand upwards and rolls his eyes. “Hm…” he ponders, appearing slightly annoyed but still with a carefree step in his stride. “Do you have to tell people to go away often?” Asks Andrew. “Yeah,” says Ned. He starts his caged tiger pacing again and eyes the road. “They keep coming here, but I don’t know why.” “Ned. You work at a gas station,” I inform him, as if he didn’t already know. “You’re supposed to sell gas.”

The reason I like Ned is because he’s open. Talk to him for a few minutes and he’ll tell you about himself, about his past, his current business, but not too much about his current business. His past is dynamic and worth having a drink over, almost necessary to drink over. But his business is the reason there is no petrol and the reason that he’s pacing and staring down every tattered packing that travels by. Every once in a while one of the trucks pull in. Ned excuses himself and talks to the driver through his window, point him in a direction, and then let him continue on his way.

Ned isn’t in charge, but he’s got the scoop. He takes a generous swig of an orange Fanta and in his other hand inhales from a Marlboro Red. “The guy,” he starts to explain but a six wheeler passes by and his voice fades into a scowl. The truck moves away and his voice returns. “The guy who owns this place used to own fifty or so businesses just like this one. But the government kept asking him for money, two thousand Euros here, two thousand Euros there, and the guys says no. So they throw him in jail for two and a half years. Now he’s out and he owns fifty more gas stations again just like this one, from here to Belgrade.”

Ned lights up another cigarette as soon as he extinguishes the first and starts his habitual to and fro movement. We’ve already talked to Ned and he’s convinced us to camp in the abandoned building behind his gas-free gas station. He thinks its a bad idea to camp at all though. “Too many snakes and rats,” he complains. “I hate snakes and rats.” I told him that they usually don’t bother us but he rolls his eyes and gruffly laughs. I joke and stop telling him to be a scaredy cat. He pretends not to hear me.

“The Guy,” who Ned also calls “The Boss” has an office upstairs above the gas station. He informs us that its luxurious, leather couches and all.  ”Can we sleep there, instead of in the half built casino in the back?” I pry, knowing the answer before it comes. Ned informs us that The Boss hasn’t been there, maybe never. It’s an appearance factor, kind of like the dry pumps downstairs. But empty or not, we still can’t sleep there.

Us four cyclists sit on the edge of a gasoline platform and start on our second beers. We offer to buy him a beer but  he declines with a bitter face. “I don’t drink beer, not any more.” Why not? “Because you dirnk too much then you wake up in a Brazillian prison with blood on your face and you think, how didthishappen. You know what I mean?” Actually, I don’t. But I take another long pull from my own beer, happy that I don’t know what he means.

Ned asked where we came from and we tell him Sarajevo. “Sarajevo?” He snorts out a laugh. “They’ve still got bullet holes in all their buildings! It’s been twenty years, I mean, come on!” He takes in a deep drag and continues. “I was in that city once. There were Muslims on the first floor and we were on the second. It was crazy, man! I mean, war is about to break out at any time between those floors. Have you ever been to a Muslim prison?” We all shake our heads no. “Those prisons are crazy if you aren’t one of them. Not like in Brazil. If you know someone in Brazil, you’ll be fine. But in a Muslim one, ee…”

“How do you know that about Brazil?” We ask. “I used to live there,” he says. “I used to work at a jewelry store for a Jew. But at night I worked at a club. I used to take care of foreigners. English guys mostly. I’d give them passports, whatever they needed. They want drugs? No problem. We’d go to a room with a table maybe six, seven feet long. Anything you need. And there’d be big guys with machine guns, but its fine. So after the club, I’d go home, take a shower, then go back to work for the Jew. But I didn’t mind because I was young.”

Ned isn’t the most culturally sensitive man, but he’s honest in what he says and that’s why I like him. Despite his involvement in a business we begin to realize as arms dealing, he’s kind to us. He offers us shelter, gives us a place to camp, and gives us a glimpse into a part of a culture that we have otherwise been completely unaware of.

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We finished!!!! After a 2,641 mile (4,250 ks) trip taking us from Istanbul, Turkey to Sofia, Bulgaria over three months, Suzie and I finally dismounted our bikes and put the trip behind us. This trip has been a life changing experience I will not soon forget, nor will I fail to remember all the incredible people I met along the way that made this trip all the more special. For me, the true wealth in this adventure was exploring the Balkan culture and gaining an understanding of what the people there are like. This beautiful region of the world has quickly surpassed Western Europe and SE Asia to become my favorite spot to vistit on the planet. I only hope I can one day return and explore in greater depth some of the things I missed along the way.

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Taking the backroads in Bulgaria on our last day we expected relatively level roads that were in acceptable condition. We were wrong as we gradually climbed all day through construction projects and around hundreds of pot holes.

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