In the last installment of her Bruce Lee adventure in Mostar, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Lonely Planet author Vesna Maric meets the martial arts star in his final resting place.

I'm rushing over to the city park, convinced I am going to see Bruce. I arrive and wave at 'the woman in charge' who is standing in the distance, mobile phone glued to her ear. Excited, I approach, but she starts making apologies, saying it's 3pm, everyone has finished work for the day, including Dragan, who will have gone home and left Bruce to sweat under the polyester blankets all by himself. Tomorrow, she says, after 8am, I'll take you to see Lee.

Disappointment sweeps over me and saying goodbye to the woman, I am incredulous at the difficulties I am encountering, and wonder how the world's most famous martial artist has come to embody the physical and metaphysical struggles of contemporary Bosnia & Hercegovina?

The next day, early in the morning, I call the woman. She tells me that Dragan is waiting, ready to open the gates of Sesame. I go, imagining Lee underneath the synthetic winter blankets, safe in bondages of sellotape and chains.

I find Dragan in a bare office, feet up on the desk. He wears a large moustache and a technicolour shellsuit that crackles when he moves. He looks at me with piercing blue eyes, and I'm thinking he doesn’t like journalists. 'Follow me' he says, crackling off, and I walk behind him through puddles, towards a small warehouse. I am nervous and excited. Nearly there.

Dragan opens the door and reveals Lee wearing nothing but a small blanket over his head. No sellotape, no uber-protection, none of that stuff. Dragan was all talk. Now I give him a piercing look, one that says: 'Where's all the blankets?' but he doesn't flinch or explain himself. Instead, he yanks the blanket with disgust, revealing a battered and bruised Bruce. Then he shouts at his friend outside: 'Hey! There's a young lady here, a journalist, came to see Bruce Lee! Maybe you could give her a closer look?' And roars with dirty-old-man laughter. Within seconds, a small group has formed at the door, watching me take photos of the statue.

I decide I've snapped enough photos and realise the impotence of the bronze Bruce against brutes. So, barraged by double-entedres I leave, smiling, thanking everyone very much, and apologising to Bruce Lee in my mind, for leaving him behind.