Olympic Bobsleigh and Luge Track

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Abandoned Bobsled Track, Sarajevo, Bosnia
As we watched the third taxi drive away leaving us still standing on the curb, we started to wonder if an adventure to the abandoned Olympic bobsled track on the hillside of Trebevic Mountain was going to happen. The first driver said he didn’t know where it was. The second simply said no. The third told us he hasn’t gone there since the war. When we had read about visiting the remains of the 1984 Sarajevo Olympic bobsled track no one mentioned any difficulty in catching a cab. However, getting there was proving to be a more difficult task than we imagined. Our frustration was mounting. We were on the brink of chucking the idea all together when a fourth cab approached. At first the driver was hesitant. We were asking him to take us to different points of the track and allow us about an hour of time tramping around the area. He set his price at the top end of what we were willing to pay: 40 BAM, about $22.50 USD. We would have negotiated, but with three taxis passing us by, we thought it might be our only chance for a ride. We jumped in the car while he removed his rooftop taxi sign and then headed south from the banks of the river.

Our driver easily navigated the narrow, curving streets through the hillside neighborhood. He waved to people walking along the street. He stopped the car and put down his window to talk to men standing outside their homes and cutting wood near the curb. When cars would approach from the opposite direction, he would simply put his car in reverse and find a space wide enough for the other car to pass. This was his neighborhood, he told us, and he knew it well.

The car groaned as we ascended the steep road. At times, I wondered if the car would make it. But, then my concern turned elsewhere. We kept going and going and I began to worry if the driver was taking us to the right place. My sideways looks at Kris were going unnoticed, so I looked out the window at the quickly changing landscape. The cluster of houses were left behind and we entered a wooded area. We passed a large building, well, at least what used to be a building. It was once a hotel, we learned. Now, it was nothing but crumbling walls surrounded by overgrown foliage. Eventually, we came to a parking lot, but we bypassed it and turned down a rustic, one-lane path barely wide enough for the car. Branches scraped against the doors. When we encountered walkers, the driver slowed to a crawl and then stopped to let the people negotiate their way around the vehicle. Finally we came to a clearing and we pulled into it. “The beginning part of the track,” announced the driver as he pointed in the direction of a concrete slab surrounded by forest.
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