When I announced my intention of going to Bosnia and Herzegovina, located on the northwest Balkan Peninsula, I received a lot of advice from my friends, most of it cautioning me against standing on any landmines.

Nobody warned me about the taxis.

When the train pulled into the station at Sarajevo ― since 1992 the capital of independent Bosnia-Herzegovina ― the tattered ruins did little to calm my nerves. On the way to the taxi rank, I avoided every suspicious lump in the tarmac that might denote a mine. Safely inside a beat-up Mercedes, I relaxed a little and groped around for a non-existent seatbelt.

“You don’t need a seatbelt,” said the driver, and screeched into traffic. I clung to the door handle as he drove along tramlines, ran red lights and posed a menace to pedestrians.

Even though the buildings of Zmaja od Bosne street ― known as “Snipers’ Alley” during the siege ― passed in a blur, the remnants of the war were obvious. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls of flats, scorched buildings lurked amidst the cityscape and sunlight glinted on the headstones of overflowing cemeteries.

We stopped at a crossroads, and the driver pointed with his second cigarette of the short journey.

“I was with my cousin at that corner when a sniper shot him,” he stated matter-of-factly.

The fountain in the main square of Bascarsija, Sarajevo’s old town

I now understood his erratic driving a little better: He had narrowly escaped death, and was now blasé about his own mortality. When I exited the cab on shaky legs, I had my own near-death experience to draw on. Already, I felt a little more Bosnian.

After a sedate tram ride to the town center, I followed the flow of pedestrians along the Ferhadija precinct. Turbo-folk, a frenetic meld of traditional folk and electronic music, blasted out from the pavement cafés, where locals passed the evening sipping fruit tea and chain-smoking.

From 1946 to 1991, Bosnia-Herzegovina was a republic of Yugoslavia. Following the secession of other former Yugoslav republics (Slovenia, Croatia and Macedonia) Bosnia-Herzegovina, too, declared independence. The country’s ethnic diversity — Serbs, Bosnian Muslims and Croats — triggered a bloody civil war in 1992. Each group feared domination by the other. A peace agreement was finally reached in November 1995.

Today, Sarajevo is not only the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina, this city of about 300,000 people is also the most important metropolitan area of the Bosnia region. Sarajevo has a beautiful oriental-influenced old downtown area with several mosques, restored after the war. The city has a long and rich history. Founded by the Ottomans in 1461, Habsburg Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was murdered here in Austrian-annexed Bosnia-Herzegovina on June 28, 1914, which led to the outbreak of World War I. Surrounded by five major mountains Sarajevo was the site of the Olympic Winter Games in 1984. During the Yugoslav wars, the city on the Miljacka River was besieged from April 1992 until February 1996, believed to be the longest siege in modern warfare.

Strolling past the imposing Austrian-Hungarian buildings and up market shops, I could have forgotten this was a city recovering from conflict, were it not for the “Sarajevo Roses.” Random shellfire gouged these holes into the Sarajevo pavements. The authorities filled the wounds with red rubber to create the Roses, both a tourist attraction and a monument to the dead.

Before long, the pavement gave way to the cobbled lanes of Bascarsija, where minarets spiked the sky above rickety one-story buildings. Here, the shops were awash with engraved cartridges, ranging from rifle bullets to heavy-artillery shells, and bus companies advertised tours around massacre sites.

Although a touch ghoulish, the war has added an extra dimension to this fascinating city. Graceful architecture and natural beauty sit alongside stark reminders of mankind’s brutality, creating striking vistas.

I ordered a meal in the Bosanski Kuce restaurant and waited 45 minutes before the waiter informed me they had no chicken. Just as I had decided on an alternative, he rushed back to tell me the chicken had arrived. Squawking came through the half-open kitchen door as the chicken tried to leave again, and then an ominous silence descended. Another 45 minutes later, my dinner arrived.