I Didn’t Set Out to Make a Punk Podcast

I didn’t wake up one morning with a plan to do something called punk podcasting.In truth, I only heard the phrase recently, mentioned in passing, and it stayed with me as I went out for my daily walk. I try, as much as possible, to always have a recorder in my pocket. So I can record my steps as I walk, the dogs barking in the village, in other words, Bosnia, quietly getting on with things.

As I was walking, this idea suddenly dawned on me. I might already be doing it.

Not deliberately. Not theatrically. Just by stopping.

Stepping Away from the Noise

As you know, I live in a small village in northern Bosnia and Herzegovina. I’ve been here long enough for the place to stop being scenery and start shaping how I think and speak. These days, most of what I make begins with sound rather than a screen, walking audio, field recordings, spoken thoughts recorded once and left largely alone.

There’s no studio polish. No algorithm breathing down my neck. No sense that something has to justify itself through numbers or performance.

That wasn’t a creative strategy. It was a quiet retreat.

What “Punk” Means to Me Now

Punk, at least in this context, isn’t about noise or rebellion for its own sake. It’s about refusal. Refusing to optimise every sentence. Refusing to explain yourself into neat little boxes. Refusing the idea that creative work only matters if it scales.

Some episodes are short. Some drift. I’m so guilty of rambling.Some contain long pauses where nothing much happens at all, birds, wind, footsteps, the sound of thinking. That used to feel like breaking rules.

Now it feels like remembering what audio was always meant to do.

Why Bosnia Matters

I don’t think I could make this work from somewhere louder, faster, or more performative. Maybe like it would back in Kensington in London, where I was born.Bosnia gives me distance. From trends, from urgency, from the constant demand to be relevant. Life here allows unfinished thoughts. It allows walking without purpose. It allows silence without embarrassment.

Without realising it, that has seeped into my podcasting. The place I suppose has shaped the voice.

So… the First Punk Podcast from Bosnia?

Maybe.

I genuinely don’t know, and I’m not especially interested in proving it. There may well be others, in Bosnian or in English, doing something just as independent and just as unconcerned with the usual rules.

But in spirit and in practice, what I’m making feels close.Audio-first, independent. Not built for platforms, and made by someone old enough to stop asking permission.

A Quiet Invitation

If there’s a point to all this, it’s a simple one.

If you’re making something because you need to, not because it fits, sells, or scales, then you’re already closer to punk than you think. And if that work happens to come from Bosnia, carried on footsteps and birdsong, then so much the better.

This isn’t built to chase anyone. It’s built to exist.

Discovering a Village in the Clouds

Hello again, it’s David, and today I want to take you with me to one of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s most remarkable places. Lukomir. Perched nearly 1,500 meters up on Bjelašnica Mountain, it’s the country’s highest permanently inhabited village. Seventeen families still call it home. The winters bury their stone houses in snow, sometimes for months, while the summers transform the fields into wide open pastures.

On paper, it sounds like a postcard.

But Lukomir is more than its altitude and stone houses. It’s a place where traditions are lived, not displayed. And what struck me most wasn’t the scenery (though it’s breathtaking), but the people, and in particular, the women shepherds who keep this village alive.

A Morning with the Flocks

It’s nine o’clock in the morning. I’m chewing on some dry meat (yes, my mum always said don’t talk with your mouth full, but here we are). Around me, the village comes alive. Bells clink in the distance, whistles echo across the grass, and then suddenly, waves of sheep. To my eyes it looked like thousands, though it was probably just hundreds.

And who’s leading them? Not grizzled old men with staffs, as you might expect, but women. Older women, walking steadily with their dogs at their sides, guiding flock after flock up into the high country. It’s not just a novelty for visitors like me, it’s a way of life here, one that’s been passed down through generations.

Why Women?

Traditionally, herding was always a shared family duty. Men tended to the hay fields, fixed fences, or went off to markets, while women took charge of the flocks, milked sheep, spun wool, and made cheese. Later, as men left the village to work in Sarajevo or abroad, in Austria, Germany, or Slovenia, the women stayed. Their role as shepherds grew more visible, and today they’re the ones who embody the rhythm of Lukomir’s survival.

As one villager put it, you don’t herd sheep with strength, you herd them with patience. And patience is something these women have in abundance. Watching them, I realised resilience doesn’t always look like brute force. Sometimes it looks like quiet footsteps on a stony ridge, season after season, year after year.

Life Between Pasture and Hearth

Life here follows a steady cycle. In the mornings, sheep are led out to graze. By afternoon, the women are making cheese, spinning wool, and knitting socks that hikers like me inevitably end up buying.

By evening, barbecue smoke drifts across the village, neighbours gather, and the sound of rain patters on tin roofs.

That’s exactly how my day ended. After a long hike (six kilometers that felt like twelve, especially after the soles of my boots gave way!), we found ourselves sheltered under a small tin roof, rain hammering down as we tucked into a barbecue feast.Chicken wings, Zenica ćevap, and šiš kebabs, while across the ridge, women shepherds were still moving their flocks.

A Lesson in Resilience

Lukomir isn’t just a relic from the past. It’s alive, but under pressure. Young people leave, winters are unforgiving, and only a handful of families remain. Yet the image of women shepherds remains strong. They are the keepers of both knowledge and tradition, the kind you don’t learn from a book, but from decades of living in rhythm with the land.

I found myself getting unexpectedly emotional here. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe the long walk, or maybe just the sheer privilege of witnessing a way of life so quietly powerful. Resilience here isn’t about dominance, it’s about community, patience, and endurance.

Why You Should Visit

If you ever come to Bosnia and Herzegovina, Lukomir should be on your list. It’s not the easiest place to reach, and accommodation can be tricky, but trust me, it’s worth every effort.

You’ll find not only stunning landscapes but also living traditions that remind us what it means to survive and thrive on the edge of the world.

And when you think of shepherds in the Balkans, don’t just picture an old man with a crook. Picture Lukomir, where women guide their flocks across the high pastures, keeping alive not just their animals, but a culture, a history, and a way of life.

In this episode, I’d like to take you with me down a quiet country track here in Northern Bosnia and Herzegovina. At the end of that track lies the Sunny Shelter, home to nearly 200 dogs, many of whom would otherwise have been forgotten.

You’ll meet Mei Sawanoi, a Finnish woman who made the extraordinary decision to leave her life in Finland behind and move here permanently to care for these animals alongside her husband, Dražen.

You’ll also hear from Elin, one of the dedicated Finnish volunteers who travels at her own expense to spend time helping at the shelter. And behind the scenes, you’ll learn about Päivi Sillankorva, the co-founder who continues to keep everything running from Finland through fundraising and adoptions.

This is a story of compassion, resilience, and the kind of quiet determination that changes lives, not just for the dogs, but for the people who care for them too.

So settle in as I introduce you to the remarkable world of Sunny Shelter and the network known as Balkan Dogs.

A Quiet Track, A Loud Mission

There’s a rutted track winding through trees and farmland in Northern Bosnia, not marked on any map, unheralded, but at its end lies something extraordinary: Sunny Shelter, part of the Balkan Dogs network.

The video we just shared takes you there, and in retrospective reflection, I’m still struck by the contrast between the rural calm and the barking, tails-wagging chaos that greets you inside the gates.

Balkan Dogs: From Finland to Bosnia

Balkan Dogs is a Finnish-registered nonprofit founded in spring 2015 by Päivi Sillankorva and Mei Sawanoi, entirely powered by volunteers and donations. Their mission spans Kosovo and northern Bosnia, improving living conditions for stray dogs, whether providing basic needs like food and vaccines or supporting local shelters, both municipal and private.

In Bosnia, the organisation also backs a municipal facility in Preslica, near Doboj,, which had a poor reputation until a new manager began improving conditions .

The Daily Reality at Sunny Shelter

Sunny Shelter is not run from afar. Mei made the life-changing move to Bosnia in 2019, feeding, sorting, driving to Banja Luka or Gradiška for vet visits, and largely living there around the clock. Together, Mei and her husband Dražen tend to almost 200 dogs, several born in the shelter and others rescued from municipal pens or abandoned by owners.

Back in Finland, Päivi organises fundraising, food drives, vet bills, and adoptions. The two-part operation, one driving hands-on care, the other ensuring resources, makes Sunny Shelter possible. Volunteers join Mei and Dražen for weeks at a time, continuing that chain of in-person support I found so moving in the quarantine building.

Beyond Bosnia: Regional Struggles, Shared Missions

What’s happening at Sunny Shelter exists within a broader context. Across the Balkans, stray dogs often face neglect or cruelty, locked in dirty cages, starved, or worse. In Kosovo especially, dog cruelty remains widespread, despite laws to the contrary .

Why Sunny Shelter Matters

Sunny Shelter isn’t just another sanctuary, it’s a lifeline. Here, dogs are allowed to rally, to form packs, to run in open yards. They’re vaccinated, rehabilitated, sometimes shipped across Europe to Finland, where many find homes. The effort to get 93 dogs re-homed in Finland in 2024 is no small feat.

But beyond the numbers, what stays with me is the humanity in the shelter. Mei’s calm dedication after adopting one dog from Serbia more than a decade ago turned into a full-fledged mission: “I could live here,” she told her supporters. So she did. And that simple act, one person moving across countries, building a sanctuary, echoes through the lives of hundreds of dogs.

For sometime now I have become a permanent resident of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

This podcast episode isn’t about the beauty of the Vrbas river or where to find the best ćevapi (although there’s plenty of that on this channel). It’s about why, despite living here for over two decades, I choose not to talk publicly about politics.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am interested. I follow what’s happening. I see how decisions impact everyday life. But I also know, deeply, that this isn’t my country. And with that comes responsibility: to observe, not interfere. To listen, not judge.

When friends and visitors ask me about the conflict, the three presidents, or the state of the country today, I tell them what I can. But the truth? The truth depends on who you ask.

Bosnia and Herzegovina is many things. Complicated. Fragmented. Yes, dysfunctional. But also endlessly generous, rich in stories, and deeply human. It’s a living archive of history, culture, pain, pride, and resilience.

In this episode, I reflect on the minefield of discussing politics as a foreigner, the legacy of the Dayton Agreement, and why it’s better to explore Bosnia through its people, not its politics.

If you’re curious about this beautiful, complex place, watch, listen, and maybe even plan your own journey to this heart-shaped land.

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In this special reflective episode, I step beyond the familiar landscapes of the Balkans to the vibrant and complex South Caucasus.

Originally recorded in Tbilisi, Georgia nearly a decade ago, in 2015, this reflective and timely story explores how online radio became a revolutionary tool for connection, culture, and civil change.

Join me on the ground with media teams from Georgia, Armenia, and Abkhazia under the visionary “Radio Without Borders” project.

Coffee and Rakija is a reader/listener/viewer-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Hear how independent voices are harnessing digital airwaves to promote women’s rights, civil society, and even introduce the world to Georgian reggae.

Through candid conversations and powerful personal stories, you’ll meet resilient broadcasters and activists pushing back against censorship, overcoming geopolitical tension, and using media to bridge seemingly impossible divides.

🧭 What You’ll Hear in This Episode:

The role of online radio in conflict zones

Women-led media innovation in the Caucasus

Georgian reggae: yes, really!

Youth media empowerment in Armenia and Azerbaijan

Why independent voices matter, then and now

Whether you’re passionate about media freedom, international collaboration, or simply want to hear stories of hope in unlikely places, this episode will leave you inspired by the power of sound and the spirit of solidarity.

🎧 Tune in—and discover the radio revolution you probably never heard about.

Update – A Year Later in Tbilisi

Since first sharing my reflections on media training in Georgia back in 2015, I’ve had the chance to find another podcast episode that was recorded during a follow-up visit in 2016, where I reconnected with some of the original participants and met new voices shaping the future of digital media across the region. Their stories offer a raw and hopeful glimpse into grassroots media activism in the South Caucasus. I thought it only fitting to include it here as a companion to the original episode.

From Tbilisi to Baku. Stories of activism, hope, and media freedom in Azerbaijan and Georgia.

Behind the Scenes Content ⬇️ (from July 2015)

🗣️ Join the Conversation:

“How do you think online radio or independent media can make a difference in regions facing conflict or limited press freedom?”

Drop me a comment on Substack, reply to this episode, or find me on YouTube.

🙌 Support the Podcast:

If you enjoy the show and want to help keep it going, you can:

→ Share the episode

→ Leave a review

→ Or tip a coffee via Buy Me a Coffee