05/12/2025
While I was traveling through Montenegro, talking to locals, listening to their stories over strong coffee and stronger homemade rakija, I kept thinking the same thing: my biggest regret was not being here in 2020.
Amidst the global pandemic, Montenegro saw a peaceful overthrow of a thirty-year political regime—not through traditional political movements, but through an unprecedented wave of church-led protests. The government had passed a controversial law seeking to transfer church property to a newly established, state-backed church, which, as you might expect, did not go down well with the populace. The result? A historic standoff that forced people to question faith, identity, and power in ways they never had before.
That same year, the BBC published an article with the cheerful title: Order of Nine Angles: What is this obscure N**i Satanist group?—which sounds like the name of a metal band, but was, unfortunately, something far more sinister. The exposé followed the arrest of a 16-year-old in the UK, whose foiled terrorist attack had been inspired by this delightful organization. Shortly after, rumors began to swirl that a Lodge of the Order of Nine Angles had taken root in Montenegro, allegedly infiltrating the very same state-backed church the regime tried to establish. Reports claimed that the priests were, in fact, members of this sect, using their positions to sow discord and manipulate society from within.
All of that, it was whispered, traced back to the lingering shadow of a false Jewish messiah—Sabbatai Zevi—who had once preached that redemption would come through transgression, and who, according to certain esoteric circles, was secretly buried somewhere in the labyrinthine alleys of the old town on the Montenegrin coast. His name, long forgotten in mainstream theology but fervently remembered in the fevered minds of fringe mystics, was said to echo through time via cult leaders who believed themselves to be his reincarnation, each more delusional and charismatic than the last.
While researching those elections, I came across a Green Party political advertisement depicting the then-dictator as a totalitarian hologram terrorizing his citizens—a true Orwellian nightmare in Balkan style.
It was the perfect storm—history, politics, radical ideology, and the eerie sensation that reality was quickly outpacing fiction. Thus, this book was born—not just as a thriller, but as a deep dive into radicalization, manipulation, and the seductive nature of extreme ideologies. By shedding light on the tactics of such groups, this book hopes to act as both an exposé and a cautionary tale.
Our heroes? Students of environmental protection. Idealists in a world ruled by profitable cynicism. They study dying ecosystems, protest laws written by men who’ve never seen a tree they didn’t want to cut down, and wrestle with the big question: Are we doomed, or is that just what every generation thinks?
As the title suggests, High in Montenegro is a journey—a dive into altered states of consciousness, reality-warping experiences, and the profound questions that inevitably arise when humans start playing with drugs, philosophy, and the nature of existence itself.
Following recent events in Montenegro—namely, the sale of the Great Beach to the Arabs and the resulting uproar among environmentalists—I felt compelled to publish this work. After all, most of it takes place on that very beach and follows those same idealistic, slightly deranged, sometimes naked activists. Not to brag about it, but the book is more than timely—so go ahead, buy it, dive in!
But actually, the idea first struck me while traveling through the Balkans, when I stumbled upon a photograph titled A Monk and a Naked Woman by Montenegrin photographer Andrija Kasom. A robed Orthodox monk crouched beside a n**e woman perched calmly on a rock? I booked a ticket to Montenegro the next day.
Another spark came while I wandered Podgorica’s sweltering streets and ended up at a cinema showing old films. Živko Nikolić’s The Beauty of Vice (1986), also set on the nudist beach, played like a sun-drenched dream laced with soft eroticism. I left the theater determined to write something equally absurd—and possibly profound.
This is a work of fiction. Yes, it may have been inspired by true events, but let’s be honest—so is most of history, and that hasn't stopped anyone from embellishing the details.
Yes, Montenegro has its eccentricities. Including, but not limited to, an actual ta**ra festival on that very nudist beach. Any resemblance between real festivals and the fictional one in this novel is, of course, purely coincidental. (My lawyer insisted I say that.)
The main characters are entirely fictional, though some settings and themes might feel eerily familiar. That’s called artistic interpretation. Or, if you prefer, a deliberate exploration of possibilities—not objective truth.
I may have once been jailed there over a couple of joints hidden in a box of chocolates, but unlike my protagonist, I wasn’t in for six months.
Montenegro serves as the backdrop—and not just because it looks like a fantasy novel accidentally wandered into real life. As an outsider who stumbled upon this rugged, myth-drenched country and promptly fell in love (or possibly under a mild enchantment), I found its landscapes, legends, and general air of unspoken secrets impossible to ignore. This book is, in many ways, a tribute—a wide-eyed tourist’s love letter disguised as a conspiracy thriller, tucked inside a philosophical satire, then casually set on fire for dramatic effect.
Montenegro is also, officially, the first ecological state by constitution, which sounds impressive until you remember that titles mean very little in a world where countries with "Democratic" in their names often aren’t, and "United" nations rarely agree on anything. Yet, despite the grandeur of this declaration, Montenegro remains home to two of Europe’s last remaining rainforests, ancient ecosystems so untouched they make time itself feel like an inconvenience. And yet, even here, climate change has begun its slow, insidious work—melting glaciers, drying rivers, and ensuring that summer heat waves feel less like seasons and more like threats. Is it a divine punishment, or can our characters still be free to live as they please and somehow protect nature in the process?
On the edge between spiritual seeking and a wild escape from reality, this group of young ecology students protest illegal exploitation of sand from that nudist beach and plunges into a world of ta**ra festival, psychedelics, and ecstatic s*x. This is a story of downfall, an encounter with darkness, and inevitable catharsis—when, after touching the depths of their souls, they face themselves and begin the journey back toward the light.
So, if you're expecting a neat narrative with tidy resolutions and morally upright heroes, you may want to set this book down gently and back away. But if you're ready for a tale where satire meets conspiracy, where the sacred and the profane sunbathe side by side, and where a few stoned students might just save the world—or at least try—you’re in the right place.
Welcome to High in Montenegro.
Don't forget sunscreen. 🌞
(And if you start questioning reality itself by the end of it—well, that just means you’re paying attention.)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7GHHVMV
