Timișoara

You receive a text at 7AM. It's from Dejan. He says he's your driver, and that he'll be picking you up a bit later than expected. You've never received a text from your bus driver before. You did book a bus. But there's a first time for everything, and why not here, in this place that although nestling into the heart of Europe, feels like it's thousands of miles away across flat green plains under a oil-painting sky.

His name is Dejan, he says. Not quite knowing what to expect from your *alleged* upcoming bus journey back into Serbia (againnn), you turn up to the *alleged* bus station on time anyway, just in case. You walk there, across the canal and along a fully shaded side street, the sun barely poking over any roofs yet.

The 'bus station' is an barren lot, with cars parked round the edges and one abandoned coach. A yellow chain ropes off half of the lot, for the use of some kind of motorcycle clubhouse hangout area. An obese man walks up to a parked car and you wouldn't be surprised if it was to buy drugs.

You sit on a rickety bench and eat dry breadsticks, the only vaguely breakfast-like thing you could find in the only nearby, and woeful, mart. You begin to wonder if you might have somehow taken yourself to the end of the world, that the only way out is going all the way back to Bucharest, getting on a plane. The plains could stretch on and on forever into oblivion, it seems, Serbia and Hungary fallen over the edge and lost forever.

Dejan sends another text. Your bus has transmutated into a car, it would appear - he's a private driver, he says, and you make peace with the immediate assumption that you're probably about to get kidnapped, and this really will be the end of your world. The sun shines down on the weeds shaking in the breeze and the lightly rippling puddles from last night's thunderstorm. Your backpack gathers dust on a patch of dry ground.

You consider if you enjoy doing this any more, getting yourself stuck in weird situations in the middle of nowhere, not knowing what's going on, if this is for you any more.

Dejan, finally, texts again, an hour later, to say he's nearby, after having to drive all over the city to drop off his previous passengers. When his sedan eventually glides into the crunchy parking lot, all is explained. His private transfer company operates this route, not any bus company, but he sells tickets through the bus booking app you use. The app also refuses to advertise accurate timings for the journey. It always takes longer. He drives all the way here from his home, Belgrade, and back, every day.

It's all above board, if a little alarming and confusing initially. He is one of the most interesting people you've met on the trip so far. He use to work for the US Embassy doing logistics. You pass through yet another nothingy, lost plains town, and he points out how polluted the river is, which may or may not have something to do with the shiny new Chinese factory by the roadside. He tells me about all the different passengers from around the world and their different views, and his, and mine.

His teenage daughter calls him a couple of times. Back in Belgrade, she is waiting to pick up her little brother from coding school. She complains that she can't find a coffee shop. He directs her to one, and suggests a protein shake she might like. She calls back half an hour later, unhappy with the shake she got.

You reach the border, marked by nothing in the landscape, except a tiny guard station. The chubby young officer in the booth sees Dejan's plastic bag in the front seat, and asks him to give an inventory of what's inside. The woman officer behind him chuckles at his overzealousness. She calls to Dejan, who she sees almost every day, that the guy is new to the job, and following the rulebook a little too closely. They wave us through, and you're in Serbia once again.

Novi Sad is not far away. As you pull into the city, Dejan tells you to text him if you're in Belgrade and need a ride. What a class act. You didn't get kidnapped. You made a friend.Read more