Bosnia
Hercegovina the OUTpsiDER
(decisions and consequences)
Bosnia Hercegovina,
unknown to most people until a ticking time bomb
of national identity, insecurities and propaganda
detonated in the very heart of the country. The
beautifully desolate hills and valleys. The sparkling
blue green lakes and rivers. The timeless feel
of the isolated villages and the unmistakable
tone of its cities have been brutally altered
forever. The hills are alive with the sound of
gunfire and the valleys are bruised and scarred.
The rivers have flowed red while carrying the
dead. The isolated villages are cleansed godforsaken
places, some devoid of life altogether while the
cities are submerged in the fallout of refugees
forced or escaping from the villages captured
by the advancing BSA. The whole country is now
polluted forever with fear, hate suspicion and
death.
While our eyes and ears fascinated
themselves watching episodes of the television
war drama “The Gulf War—Live!”,
atrocities not seen since the days of Nazi Germany
were being committed in the heart of Europe.
Politically the timing was brilliant.
The new infant leaders of Croatia and Serbia knew
the world media was preoccupied in the coverage
of events in the gulf. No news team would be heading
their way for a while yet. Strike now. Cleanse.
By the time the first Gulf War
was over the main bulk of Ethnic Cleansing had
been carried out in the Balkan’s. Heinous
acts of barbarism and brigandage had been committed
in the name of National Purity. Bosnian Serbs,
Croats and Muslims were at each other’s
throats and huge swathes of Bosnia Hercegovina
and Croatia were already annexed in the name of
the Greater Serbia.
It took a while for the press
to get an angle on what was going on and who was
who, but pretty soon, as exciting graphics and
attention grabbing headlines and by-lines came
into play, the whole world was tuned in to a new
real-life drama unfolding before them. This one
didn’t have any of ‘our boys’
in it, yet, so we could watch with impunity.
Sometimes something gets under
your skin and you just can’t get rid of
it. It gnaws away at you and bugs you constantly.
Demanding attention. The term Ethnic Cleansing
was doing this to me. I didn’t like it,
not one bit. It sounded like I might find it under
the same heading as Extermination Camp. It has
the same initials. When the first pictures started
coming out of the conflict they burned into my
conscience and kept me awake at nights. The shelling
of Tuzla and Sarajevo itself by the Bosnian Serb
Army (BSA) chilled and scared me. The destruction
of Osijek, Vukovar and Mostar appalled and angered
me. Pusillanimous snipers who were targeting old
people and children at play woke me up dramatically.
They ask you, “Why are
you coming to my Country?” It’s a
hard question to answer. Why am I here? Have I
nothing better to do? Do I really feel for these
people? Am I not, after all, just an unholy tourist?
Have I seen and heard enough shit to qualify”
Lost. Gnawing conscience. Those
pictures on the TV. The desperate lines of war
and terrorism being etched into every face. The
children were playing in the streets and pulling
at my heart. I knew I could go, but I didn’t
know why. So don’t ask me, OK.
The first time I succumbed was
a blast. The PSI were slowing and I was sick of
drugs, sick of touring, sick of clubs and sick
of worrying about girlfriends and mates and where
are we going and what you wearing. Sick of hangers
on and sick of the phone. My sister died in her
bathroom at the age of 18 from an epileptic seizure
and that was the final straw. After the funeral
I was on my way to Bosnia. It still took another
six months to get there, but get there we did,
on a fucking tourist bus to Zagreb. Then a hellish
journey down the Dalmatian coast to Split.
Help For the Forgotten.
We had been in Split less than
twelve hours and a big adventure lay just a few
hours away.
It was one in the morning and we were pumped.
Grinning madly at each other over the top of our
sleeping bags. It was pointless trying to sleep.
May as well grin. Rendezvous at four thirty a.m.
Leave at five.
Herbie was an ex-Austrian Army sniper and possessed
Aryan blue eyes and a long beard which he liked
to stroke often. Tall and confident, with the
manner of a council youth worker.
This was his third time in country, he knew the
people and the language. Herbie was the seasoned
Kommandant.
Benno, a contributor who had
recently been in Afghanistan and scored a heap
of hash, took it back to Vienna and sold it to
buy his contribution of potatoes and onions for
the people of Bosnia. He too was a volunteer.
He wore leather pants from South America and a
red, green and gold woolly hat holding in a set
of dreads which when unleashed from the hat reached
down to his waist. Benno is fifty years old and
proud to be Rasta
Christoph was the driver of
the Uni-mog. Quiet and drawn up inside his parka
with just his eyes and blonde head poking out
the top he watched and said little. He drank a
lot of beer though, which was a good sign.
I made a point of making sure Christoph always
had a beer.
Benno produced some of the source behind the potatoes
and onions, which was an even better sign. A couple
of joints later and I was impressing Herbie with
my new edition map of the Balkan area and he was
showing us the route we would be taking to Zavidovici.
A deal had been struck. We could
hitch a ride with the Austrians as long as we
pulled our weight and paid our own bar tabs. It
was almost midnight and we were leaving at five
thirty. It was hoped that somewhere along the
way we would cross paths with the SRT convoy.
Well that was the loose plan, things had taken
a turn for the better and we were content to let
whatever happened next happen.
Jim was not so confident and expressed his concern,
which we talked about and got over.
Jon felt a bit left out because this was as far
as he could go. He would stay in Split but other
commitments were forcing him to return to London
and it was a three-day trek back to Blighty.
Rendezvous time came, Jim was out of bed brewing
some coffee and we had time for a quick hit. Jon
had asked us to wake him but goodbyes had already
been said before he retired to bed slightly pissed
a few hours ago. After leaving a good luck and
goodbye note for him we headed out into the morning
to hook up with the Austrians across the road.
There was a bustle of inactivity
in the HFF camp. Josef, Patrik and Helmut were
introduced to us and we shook hands warmly in
the cold morning.
Josef came from Spain, spoke very little English
but the very competent driver of an old Dennis
thirty-eight seater bus he had converted into
half storage and half-living area. It was his
pride and joy.
Benno’s potatoes and onions were in the
storage part along with tinned foodstuff, loads
of party balloons and two or three kilo’s
of chewy sweets.
We were to travel in the bus
with Josef and Benno. Herbie was in the Uni- mog
with Christoph. Another young Austrian, Patrik,
travelled as radio-man with Helmut driving the
Volvo. Helmut was ex-German Army and an inspiration
in a bar.
All vehicles were fitted with
CB radios. The Merc was Wagon Ein, we were in
Vagon Zwei and the Volvo was Wagon Drei. Travelling
in that order we were to maintain visual as well
as radio contact throughout the trip.
Five a.m. and the activity in the Austrian huddle
was non existent. The inactivity was due to a
huge spliff being passed around the crew. We stowed
our bags away and partook in the morning ritual.
Herbie assured us that we were on schedule to
leave and this we did at five thirty on the nose.
Pulling out of the car park
and onto that road was a wonderful feeling. There
was that sense of change again. I knew Martin
felt it too because he had gripped my knee and
was a grinning Scottish fool.
This small convoy made its way steadily south
down a route the UN had named Gannet. The road
was a scenic affair with rolling hills and cliffs
on the left and the ever blue Adriatic on our
right. Makarska, a beautiful town that boasted
a sign calling it the “Croatian Riviera”
came and went along with numerous other Balkan
seaside hamlets. On our left now was a cliff face,
sheer and straight up.
Great climbing I thought to myself.
We hung a left at Podgora and
started a tortuous climb up the cliff on roads
with more hairpins than the Mercedes Fashion Week.
Wrecks of cars, mainly Yugo
Zastava models and VW golfs and Kombis, littered
the gullies. Victims of one hairpin too many.
Someone had had the idea of creating barriers
with the doors of the wrecks, they stood like
works of art, strung on the outside bend of a
tricky hairpin, all the colours in an east European
range of car doors. Strange shades of green and
mustard yellow, overlapping baby shit browns,
racing reds and blues. They had even gone as far
as to group the salvaged items by part and sometimes
even make. This made for interesting crash barriers
of Zasatva doors, Golf bonnets and kombi tailgates.
We climbed higher heading inland
and leaving the sea behind us. The terrain was
rough and rocky on both sides. The occasional
steep gully would appear just to remind us that
we were still climbing. In some of these gully’s
were patches of rich soil washed down by rains
from above. Fenced in with car wreckage these
plots of fertile land had been fully taken advantage
of, crops were being easily cultivated in an otherwise
barren landscape.
I was busy taking all this in
like a tourist, wowing at the wowable sights.
Martin was doing the same, Benno was smoking a
joint and listening to Bob Marley on the stereo.
Suddenly there was a frantic blaring of a siren
and horn from behind as a car overtook and came
up alongside Josef. I could hear shouting and
then Josef hit the brakes and the car sped off.
A man was leaning out of the passenger side waving
and pointing a gun back in our direction. Josef
got on the radio and warned Herbie of the impending
nutter on his tail. Herbie kept the channel open
and we all heard the car speed up and overtake
the Unimog with an outburst of shouting.
“Fucking idiots,”
said Herbie over the radio, “Catch up to
me and we will wait for a few minutes.”
This gave us the chance to stretch our legs. We
looked at maps and Herbie showed us where we would
cross the border into Bosnia a few k’s out
of Vrgorac. From there we would head south again
through Ljubuski and rejoin Gannet at Caplijana.
We had been on the road for three hours and the
morning air was crisp and fresh. A breakfast stop
at Ljubuski was in the offing and all haste was
made to get there.
But first there was the Checkpoint at the border.
Herbie assured us that missing
breakfast and the hour and a half we spent waiting
at the border was nothing. Nothing compared to
some people who had been there for days.
There was a whole assortment of transport from
small cars with whole families in to coaches full
of tourists bound for the holy town of Medjgore.
Trucks of every description, some empty some full,
all to be checked. We pulled up and killed engines.
Herbie jumps out of the Merc and bounds off with
a Lever Arch file full of papers under his arm.
He comes back with the same bounce in his step
and tells us to make coffee. He tells us it is
just a matter of finding the right guard.
He bounces off again.
“Some are easier to talk to than others,”
he says bouncing back in for a coffee, “and
some you can just outright bribe.”
Which is exactly what he did,
with a bottle of Ballantyne’s Whisky and
a couple of girlie mags.
I asked him about the bouncing. ”So what’s
with all the bouncing then?”
“Oh that’s so people notice me.”
He answers, “I let them think I know where
I am and what I am doing,”
He was right, it is better to be noticed. People
remember you from last time. They also remember
the whisky and razz mags.
We were to employ this method of crossing the
border many times. We seemed to have a good supply
of girlie mags and Ballantyne’s.
So far all the only signs that there was a war
of any kind going on was the distinct lack of
menfolk in the villages. The villages themselves
bore no scars like the ones north of Split near
Zadar. We were in safe country the front line
being some sixty or so kilometres away to the
east. This was Bosnian Croat territory. The chequerboard
flag was everywhere. It hung across the roads
into the villages, in shop windows, stencilled
on walls and doorways. Checkpoints at every village
and town bore the red and white shield of Hrvatska.
Underneath a brand new flag
of Croatia we breakfasted as planned in Ljubuski.
Delicious warm bread and cheese, they make a damn
fine Turkish coffee too. Bread and cheese was
to become our diet for the next few days, washed
down with either beer or coffee. The water was
not to be trusted unless boiled first.
This was reinforced later in the day when we went
to fill our canteens and containers from the River
Neretva south of Mostar. I chanced to look over
to the other side and there caught in a twist
of limbs and branches was the bloated wreckage
of a man. You could tell it was a man by the clothes.
Whether he was a violent victim of the war or
not was hard to tell but we became transfixed
by his grotesque relationship with the tree. No
one really said anything about it except, “Wow”,
and “Gross”.
Despite our Christian upbringing’s
we drove off leaving him there, it felt kind of
wild and irresponsible.
“Shouldn’t we inform someone of that?”
I asked, all naïve and innocent like. No
answer.
If we had found that in England it would be in
the papers for days and I would be in therapy.
We took to the road again after breakfast and
descended into Caplijana shortly after midday.
The Croatians still administered at the border
crossing south of the town in Metkovic, but one
got the feeling the European Community was firmly
in control of Caplijana. The red and white chequerboards
were there but not as prolific. This was a major
supply base for all the NGO’s and UN affiliated
programs in Bosnia. The town was awash with white
UN vehicles and white NGO vehicles and Press vehicles
that had been painted white to match the rest.
Herbie had to see some UN official and get a current
situation briefing before we could proceed. We
stayed with our vehicles feeling pretty conspicuous.
A splash of colour in this otherwise blank setting.
People looked at us with a mixture of curiosity
and envy as they drove by in drab white APC’s
and brand new Landcruisers.
Herb arrived back with the required
information and divulged. We can continue north
on Gannet, Mostar would be passed at around three
thirty and it would be getting dark then. There
would still be plenty of traffic on the roads
up until around eight. There was a ten o’clock
curfew and anyway after ten the roads belonged
to the bandits and it was unsafe to be out. All
the UN routes were open but anything else was
as you find it. We were going as you find it once
we reached Travnik, in territory held by the Bosnian
Croats. Our destination today was a Franciscan
Monastery on the outskirts of Bucici, a small
village near Travnik. Snow was on the ground passed
Mostar and all points north. The roads, we were
told, were passable but if it snowed again we
could be in trouble. We only had snow chains for
the Volvo and anyway, no one likes messing with
snow chains.
Josef just laughed and said, “no problem”.
His driving was truly inspirational.
Silence fell as day turned to
night and our little convoy passed through the
East Side of Mostar.
The whole place looked completely fucked up. Every
building, every home, every wall wearing scars
of confusion, hate and war. In the fading light
it was a surreal experience that Martin and I
Shared in silence, shoulder to shoulder.
People moving in slow motion, no lights except
the yellow of candles and the orange-red of a
fire here and there.
We passed a checkpoint on the
way in and another on the way out and each time
Herbie came aboard the bus to let us know in detail
our next movements.
The snow in the mountains was bad but not impossible
to negotiate and we had no choice now but to keep
going. No one felt like staying in Mostar .
Once we had cleared the CP out
of Mostar the roads took a turn for the worse.
The bridge over the River Neretva was down and
the UN engineers had extended the road by a few
kilometres, to where the river narrowed, and had
built a pontoon affair which was wide enough for
one way traffic.
We came to the end of the queue and waited our
turn to cross. The night closing in and the stars
blinking down, unaware of the tragedy that was
Bosnia. The Moon giving off a light cursed by
some and blessed by others. This was truly surreal,
in the air a sense of impending something or other,
maybe hysteria or just panic mixed with anxiety.
In the queue were small cars
and vans, trucks and UN APC’s. Coming the
other way were bus loads of refugees and people
on foot, empty eyes asking for a cigarette, in
silence we gave them our packet. The packet was
passed around and came back empty.
Mumbled thanks and “Nema Problema’s”,
we get back in the bus before we lose our shirts.
For some reason I couldn’t help noticing
the footwear. Tragic stuff, same brand as the
Croatian soldiers we encountered on the bus to
Split.
Slowly the traffic moved and we crossed the bridge
and started the climb north into the mountains
and into the snow.
Herbie rode with us for a while and we had a chance
to talk to him about the convoy’s mission
and where we were headed.
Zavidovici, our penultimate
destination was near the front line in northern
Bosnia. There we would unload the supplies we
carried and would stay for a few days while we
made trips out to smaller villages in the locality.
We would also be meeting the Mayor and finding
out what were the essential supplies he needed
on the next run. Zavidovici had taken a fucking
pounding, kids and old folk were living in basements,
and shelter from the harsh winter was hard to
find and keep warm. Since the UN had another route
into Tuzla which negated the need to go through
Zavidovici they had neglected the situation here
and things were looking bleak.
Herbie had adopted the town
as HFF’s main recipient, just as other NGO’s
were adopting towns and villages across Bosnia.
There was nothing special about Zavidovici, except
it seemed to be at the bottom of everyone list
of places that needed help. And it was five hundred
metres to the front line in three directions.
Most agencies were heading for the glamour spots
of Mostar and Sarajevo, Tuzla and Bihac. Places
that had been featured heavily in news bulletins
flashed around the world. Gorazde and Srebrenica
were also top spots for a while.
Herbie explained the HFF way of working in Austria.
They would stand outside of
supermarkets and get people who were going in
to buy an extra kilo of potatoes or onions or
carrots etc. At the exit they would have someone
else collecting the donated veggies and when they
had a truck full, which didn’t take too
long according to Herbie, it was then a matter
of getting the stuff to Zavidovici.
Corporate donations were always
welcome too. They achieved this through advertising
and plain old fronting up to a corporation and
asking for money. Herbie’s credentials were
good and HFF were active and had a profile in
their home town of Vienna.
Herbie organised everything. From the hits on
the supermarkets to the carnets for getting the
aid through the border customs and checkpoints.
He kept the organisation small and manageable,
hand picking the crew and drivers from a group
of friends who shared his humanitarian vision.
Except for Benno.
Benno was a bit of a loose cannon
and his looks attracted more attention than was
necessary some times. I liked him a lot, apart
from the fact we were both living in leather trousers
and long johns. He had great timing and only once
was it off but even then his reasons were sound.
We wound our way up and up and up some more. The
snow on the ground, which had appeared just after
we left Mostar, was getting thicker as we climbed
higher.
There was a small debate about
snow chains which petered out when Benno pointed
out that we only had chains for the Volvo anyway
and if we wanted to turn back and go get some
from Split that was ok with him.
Very funny Benno. He smiled and we smiled and
Josef laughed and said something about him never
needing them before and he sure wasn’t going
to start now.
The night was in on us now and we hadn’t
seen another vehicle for ages.
Bob Marley was back on the stereo and ‘Stir
it up” drifted through the bus. Josef had
an elastic band around the key-in button on the
comms so everyone could hear.
Zavidovici Snieg Rat.
We’ve been in Zavidovici
for two days now and it’s cold. The snow
is thick and wet.
We are trying to get across town but got pinned
down by enemy fire, a surprise ambush, they know
who we are too. We shoulda seen it coming, things
were too quiet, like a secret about to be told.
Where are they, twelve of them I reckon.
Well it looks like we got a
fight on our hands here. They’ve got spotters
making the marks too.
Get them first. Cut and run, dive for cover. This
is unbelievable, I thought we were safe here.
Cut and run, dive for cover.
Ah man I’ve had it. We’ve been fighting
for over an hour now. I’m exhausted, hungry,
wet and wild. I must have been hit cos I can feel
this wet patch on my neck, cold trickling sensation
as it runs under my collar and down my back.
We’ve taken cover under
some long planks of wood leaning against a wail.
It’s dark and safe, for now. We expect another
onslaught any minute, as soon as they work out
where we went to ground.
I start to prepare the ammo. Make sure we have
enough for the breakout.
Helmut wants to full frontal them, willing to
take his chances weaving and firing. I’m
going to take the left flank, Martin is going
for the cover of bushes to our right, he wants
to belly along in the snow until he is almost
behind them, wait for them to pass and then let
them have it.
We should have them pretty well fucked.
We persuade Helmut to hang back
a while, maybe we can make them run in his direction.
The plan is agreed just in time. We hear them
approaching, I sneak a look through a chink in
the planks. Martin is away on his belly, slithering
through the snieg (snow) he makes it to the bushes
just as they round the corner.
Breath bated, they didn’t see him.
I am ready to go, waiting for
Martin to appear at the end of the line of bushes.
They still don’t know where we are but they’re
heading straight for us. I see Martins head bob
up as he reaches his vantage and I take off at
full speed in a big arc towards them, their shots
are missing and I skid to a stop wheel round and
let go a few. First one misses but the second
catches one of them in the side of the head as
he tries to duck out the way. The cheers go up
as martin takes them totally by surprise from
the rear, he gets a few shots in and then breaks
towards them firing as he goes.
Jesus, I thought to myself,
he must have made loads while he was there.
The plan is working, they run towards our old
cover to find Helmut waiting for them and boy
does he let them have it. He fires fast and accurate,
hitting more than he misses, but he’s running
out of ammo fast. Suddenly they regroup and Helmut
goes down in a flurry of snow and giggles.
More cheers.
They turn on Martin and he hasn’t
got a chance. Overcome in seconds, his breath
coming hard as he takes maybe five or six hits
before his hands go up in surrender. We are outnumbered
by four to one and they sure can fight.
I am out of ammo, they turn on me, I think for
a split second about making some more but raise
my arms in surrender instead, in the vain hope
of avoiding the unavoidable. They let me have
it, all of them.
I hear one of the old folk, who have been watching
and laughing at our antics, reprimand the leader
of the opposition for firing on an unarmed and
surrendering foe so they let him have it too.
I am soaked to the skin, shivering,
icy cold melting snow is all over me after their
last assault. I am also laughing my head off as
Helmut picks himself up and heads over making
“lets have beer” gestures with his
hands.
It was a good fight. Probably the best snow ball
fight I have ever been in. The kids here really
know about tactics. They don’t take prisoners
either.
| Time
to make a snowman I reckon |
Image
Martin Kennedy 95 |
(Alex
spent nearly two years in Bosnia before moving
permanently to Australia with his partner
Natasha. He now has a five year old daughter
Arki Grace and is writing music again.)
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