Sarajevo

This must have been in late 1997, since it was the last year that I was with Price Waterhouse. We were doing a lot of international privatization and private finance work, and we had several contracts with World Bank and USAID. I got an opportunity to go to Sarajevo (this was just after the war) to put together an educational program for local transportation officials about private financing options for infrastructure (there was a tremendous amount of damage to roads and bridges as a result of the war).

When I first flew over there (I returned a couple of months later for a different project), there was no commercial air transport, and I flew through Frankfurt, to Zagreb, and from there got onto a military aircraft the rest of the way to Sarajevo. You fly the redeye to Frankfurt and then fly early in the morning the rest of the way, so I guess I expected to go straight to the office. As a result I was dressed for work, and at that time, PW dress code was business. Not business casual, but business. Which meant a suit and blouse. It had been a couple of years since they had lifted the “no pants for women” rule, but for some reason I decided that I would wear a pale pink skirt suit with a flaring tulip skirt, nude hose, and heels.

So, in this outfit, I finally find the boarding area for the civilian military flights into Sarajevo, and board the windowless aircraft with a troop of marines from the Ukraine in their distinctive camouflage pattern (I’d later learn to identify soldiers from different countries by their different patterns). They didn’t say much but certainly stared as a struggled to belt myself into the 5 point seat belt in my skirt. Oddly, although there were no amenities at all on the plane (I’m not even sure it had a bathroom), there was a sergeant that passed around a tray on mints before the flight.

When we arrived in Sarajevo, of course there’s no baggage handling, so they dump my suitcase and duffel bag (I was there for several weeks) next to the plane. I grab both bags, plus my laptop and purse, and start to wobble across the airfield to the fence where I can only hope my car and driver are waiting. It took about 15 seconds for two of the marines to flank me, grab my bags in addition to their own, and precede me over to the gate. I was, needless to say, mortified the entire time.