Smoking Within the Hospital Doors

Final stages of my work visa here in Bosnia are underway. My passport has been passed around so many times it that it’s either alien or too overly familiar to me now. It’s part of my person I never have much contact with, which in itself I am enjoying. Having a need for my little red book as opposed to it collecting dust is a good little feeling.

In my short time here I’ve signed many papers stating where I am working, applied for temporary residency at my house, handed over my DBS records and a copy of my degree to the director of the organisation (whom I have no doubt, has plenty more to do in respects to my being here than I do, so why complain) and today, I went to the doctors for a physical.

Walking through the doors I look left to right, assess the area. Remove a Marlboro from the pack. I place the butt in my mouth and again, look left to right, scanning for an official to stop me. That not happening spurs me to spark my light.


Not even a titter or whimper in opposition that I am now smoking in a hospital. Not having a smoking ban can be a bad thing, people! It felt oddly satisfying but still rather wrong.

My mentor and I ascended to the particular health practitioner we needed to see for my physical. As we entered the office, and my man spoke to the doctor, I was given an ocular pat down from head to toe. And from four feet away I looked relatively healthy. No signs of HIV or SARS. So as far as she was concerned I am the picture of health, still nestled in my four layers.

Papers stamped and I am given the go ahead with a new set of papers to add to the visa pile. All this bureaucracy is taking it’ toll of tediousness but is necessary if I wish to stay and start to do the good work I came here to do. Hopefully that will come soon. For now, I’m going to enjoy the little things that geographic limbo has to offer.


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