The border guard sat back, shifting his feet between an open bottle of Johnnie Walker and a few plastic cups. The bottle was either half-full or half-empty, but discussing precisely what state the bottle was in could have invited heated allegorical argument. We were, after all, in Montenegro.
Hands clasped behind his head, the guard eyed me thoughtfully, lurching forward to examine my passport.
"Irish?" he asked rhetorically. "You are from Republic or North?"
"From Dublin."
"And Dublin is where?"
"It's in the Republic."
It was almost 11 a.m. and the sun was already stretching hot and high. The strain of lugging a backpack since early morning had distilled the first trickle of sweat on my neck. Not ideal for warm whiskey, but after some concentration the border guard lowered the intensity of his gaze and became a charming host.
"I am Irish too," he confided. "We are all Irish - MacDanilovic, MacBjeletic, MacPopovic." We laughed and in return he gave me back my passport.
"Whiskey," he instructed, pouring liberally and topping up his own. "Zivjeli!"
"Slainte!"
"This is the friendliest welcome I've ever got at a border checkpoint," I told him.
"We Montenegrins are a friendly people," he laughed. "Do you have drugs in your bag?"
"Yes!" I laughed.
He stopped laughing. I amended my statement: "Actually, no, I don't."
"OK," he smiled, shrugging. "Where do you go?"
"Podgorica."
"OK." I drained my whiskey. "Can I go now?"
"You are welcome in Montenegro."
Few hotels
Despite such unusual conviviality at its border, Montenegro is not really prepared for visitors. The capital, Podgorica, has only a few hotels, all of them priced into the stratosphere by international NGO staff on big expense accounts.
A strikingly disinterested assistant at the underwhelmed tourist information office suggested one with rooms for 75 deutschmarks. In the circumstances, perfect.
The hotel was being refurbished and I stepped through a battery of busy painters, dodging their brushes and ladders to reach the vacant reception desk under the whine of a high-pitched Hoover.
The Hooverer switched off the machine and became a receptionist. A room was available, but for 140 marks. I explained I had just been quoted 75 marks by tourist information.
"Seventy-five marks for Yugoslavs, 140 for tourists," explained the receptionist. "You can take it or you can leave it."
The owner appeared, a stocky man in his mid-40s armed with a cigar and mobile phone. The receptionist translated and after a bit of multilingual haggling he took 30 marks off the price.
A home at last. I signed the book, handed in my passport, got the room key and showered, losing a second skin of dust and sweat. Thus refreshed, I went back to reception. Rather than use up my remaining 50 marks I produced a traveller's cheque to pay for the room.
"No good." Credit card? "We don't use them here. Cash only." Fortunately I had just enough Yugoslav dinar.
"No dinar," she scowled.
"But dinar is Yugoslav money. Is this Yugoslavia?"
"Yes, but this is Montenegro."
"But Montenegro is part of Yugoslavia."
"It doesn't matter. Only Deutschmarks or dollars."
Loose alliance
Walking into the sunny, unspectacular city centre I began to wonder where exactly I was. Serbia and Montenegro make up what's left of Yugoslavia but the loose alliance is a dizzy illusion. Last April's general election gave pro-independence parties an edge, but not enough to force the issue. Neither half-full nor half-empty. And if Montenegro decides to formally withdraw from Yugoslavia, the rift could soon descend into open warfare.
The omens are not good.
That said, the immediate crisis was to change money and save my bed. Three banks to choose from. The first directed me to the second which directed me to the third. And there at the foreign exchange desk was a familiar list of exchange rates, including our very own punt.
I tendered a traveller's cheque.
"No good," shrugged the teller, already bored to distraction.
"Why?"
"It is American Express."
"Well, do you take those currencies on the list?
"Yes."
I produced a £50 note.
"No," she said, unimpressed.
"That's Irish money."
"No good."
"Why?" I wheezed, fantasizing about the Euro. "The Irish pound is on your list here."
"No good. Dollars and Deutschmarks only."
"What about credit cards?"
"Yes, OK." I exhaled in genuine relief, my stock of options run perilously low.
"We take only Visa. What do you have?"
"Mastercard."
Looking temporary
Returning rather gingerly to the hotel I realised my overnight accommodation was looking even more temporary. The 50 marks in my pocket was just about enough to get me out of Montenegro by bus or train, to Serbia, Bosnia, Croatia or Albania. A one-way ticket anywhere to return me to solvency.
The receptionist was not happy.
"I have a problem," I began.
The owner was not happy either. He made a few calls to see if anybody would touch Irska punti. There were no takers. I offered to pay for use of the shower. Looking increasingly bothered, the owner assessed the situation.
"Go and get your baggage quickly," translated the receptionist.
In the nanoseconds it took to stuff my backpack the owner's temper improved. The receptionist's humour lifted correspondingly.
"Everybody knows it is only cash here," she chided gently. "Dollars and Deutschmarks for everything."
"This is my first time in Podgorica," I ventured weakly.
"This is Montenegro," she smiled for the first time. "I come from Bosnia, but even to me this is a crazy place. Sorry. Here is our business card for next time."