Behind Bars at HMP Banja Luka

---

A previous edition of this review of life in the Mental Factory mentioned the endless supply of barbecues and other festivities that occur at the drop of a hat out here. Indeed such events are so frequent that it could be presumed that hat dropping is a sport as common to the soldiery as littering is to the locals and that berets lie as thick on the ground as autumn leaves. However on the rare occasion that the thirsty tippler faces an evening without outdoor entertainment he can take solace at least that from seven until half ten each evening an array of bars lie open for a quiet half (followed by a noisy half dozen). There are also welfare facilities, such as the excellent Brithouse, where all Commonwealth Forces on camp can go for a coffee, get internet access or read a (three day old) paper from home. The Lonely Planet guide to Balkans military establishments goes on to describe how we can also get books from the varied library (although a recent book bundle did consist of a copy for each Anglophone here of the same Danielle Steele romance), pretend to be in the cinema with the huge-screen film showings and borrow from a good range of games, videos and DVDs. It is noted that the videos etc on offer tend towards the most incredibly bloodthirsty, boasting such titles as Jean-Claude Van Damme in Deathmetalhammerslayerfistwarrior III in 3D, just the thing to soothe the fevered brow after a hard day’s peacekeeping. ECHOS has been covered before, and apart from acting as the unofficial BLSS conference room (and full-time office to certain members of the Dutch contingent) is an excellent place for a bite of supper when the offerings in the Mess begin to pall. Indeed since ECHOS got a licence to sell with wine with dinner it is becoming the place for leaving dos, dining and to be seen, a sort of military/religious Le Caprice or the Ivy. Tommy Tuckers, the EFI dry canteen, also has its followers but as the cuisine tends more towards the Spam, eggs, chips and Spam (or similar transport café fare) and the air holds the chip fat aroma that goes with it the more discerning clientele tend to drink their espressos (ECHOS doesn’t have a machine) on the decking outside. It is, however, the places of alcoholic refreshment that allow the dreadful pun in the title of this piece and therefore without further ado let us proceed to the Good Beer Guide to Banja Luka.

As is to be expected from a British-run camp (and to the perplexion of the Dutch, who rid themselves of such symbols of the forces of conservatism several years ago) the bars are set up along mess lines. The Officers’ Mess (despite the recent influx of Naval Officers we are resisting attempts for a restyling as Wardroom) is attached to the dining room and rejoices in the name “The Warehoa”. Whence this name came about is lost in the mists of time, but judging by the Kiwi on the sign this is a Maori name, rather than a case of bad spelling or being short of the letters U, S and E when making up the nameboard. Outside we have a garden with decking, a huge barbecue and a fire pit where the more incendiary minded Canadians cause massive conflagrations on a regular basis Indeed one was heard to say, “Lets burn something, dude, fire is better than TV”. We are also keeping a sound eye on the Scots amongst us as comments about building a Wicker Man are beginning to worry the less pagan Officers. The garden is tended by the poor Junior Captain who was pinged for the task shortly after arrival on the basis that his predecessor in G6 had done it and thus so should he. He is now to be seen frantically weeding, watering, mulching, planting and sowing at all hours and has spent a sizeable proportion of his salary on gardening books from the Internet. However as talking to plants is meant to make them grow we should have a jungle out there imminently, if we consider the Junior Captain's propensity to go on a bit.
Presiding over the bar are Dee (rumoured to have been Miss Yugoslavia 1979) and Tanya, two locals who have been in the position since the Factory was taken over and who know every trick in the book and a few that haven’t been written down. The only way to get them worried is to take the rise about the quantities of cheese and cake they liberate from the mess buffet, or to suggest that SFOR are to pull out imminently and that we won’t need barmaids any more. The clientele is mainly British (split between the HQ MND (SW) beautiful people, HQ BRITFOR cronies and the rest) although the Canadians make the occasional appearance to burn things and consume tremendous numbers of cold ones while the Dutch seem to hide out in Dutch places. When a party is arranged (and the rumour of cheap beer goes round) mess members come out of the woodwork and it’s standing room only, as happened at the recent IEBL. This was not a seminar on the Inter-Entity Boundary Line but a beer and blues festival rejoicing in the title the International Evening of Beer and Lager during which there was music, dancing and the consumption of beer from each nation providing a contingent on camp. Note to connoisseurs: Bulgarian lager needs to be drunk at a similarly low temperature to HEKWAP to be even slightly palatable.

As is common in Regiments back home the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ mess is luxurious to the point that the Officers’ mess looks by comparison like a pigsty. The outside has the obligatory decking and barbecue in the garden and a family of feral cats who are to the vet as Road Runner is to Wile E Coyote: she keeps trying to catch them and they keep escaping. We’ve suggested investing in an ACME ten-ton anvil rather than sacks and a bucket of water (oh, OK, the trap and syringe of Green Dream as the injection is known) but can’t find a NATO Stock Number for the above. Inside are dartboards, pool tables and the biggest TV screen seen outside a James Bond villain’s converted volcano, although I’ve not seen this working and cannot testify whether the RSM sits stroking an albino cat and watching satellites circuit the world. In any case the vet would be after the cat. When a dining out is held for a BLSS member who is going home we are invited inside the hallowed portals and since the arrival of the new Master Chef and his henchman have been treated to some very fine food. Until you’ve tried orange-flavoured spaghetti as part of a pudding you haven’t experienced nouvelle cuisine. Fortunately invitations to this mess are fairly rare as the bar bills can be high and one doesn’t want to be spoilt completely. Familiarity, after all, breeds contempt.
The place for most entertainment (and for visions of commissions flashing before the eyes as slightly inebriated female soldiers in little tops decide to have some sport with Young Officers) is the EFI Junior Ranks’ Club, aka the Foundry. Run by a Mafia of JNCOs, the Foundry is the social centre for all of the young soldiers less the teetotallers (so all the young soldiers, really). All sorts of entertainments are organised (I never thought that I’d come across a bar full of silent troops, all taking a game of bingo seriously, but that’s what a tour can do for you), but the most popular seem to be those involving music. On karaoke night music can be used in the loosest possible sense of the word in most cases, especially when the Royal Engineers are doing their thing and enthusiasm rather than skill is the name of the game, although some of the soldiers do have a fine pair of lungs on them.

More vigorous yet are the party nights, sometimes with a fancy dress theme (a recent toga night led to the disappearance of half the sheets on camp) and of all nights Tuesday is the rowdiest of all. This is because the Happy flight back to the UK departs on a Wednesday, so the evening is set for farewells, troops in from the outstations away from the chain of command (how wrong they are !) and the deployment of every able bodied RMP, war dog and Brit available to do duty in order to stop a Lord of the Flies situation breaking out. Part of the ritual on these nights is a raucous rendition of “I’m leaving on a jet ‘plane” and no one who has served here will ever listen to that song in quite the same way again after leaving theatre. Generally the air can be like an armed and inebriated school disco as the shortage of young ladies and the inability of young soldiers to dance at all after a heavy infusion of HEKWAP, Breezers and Smirnoff Ice means that girls dance with girls and boys with boys. There is the occasional couple, but they will not get a chance for cheek to cheek stuff once the pride of the Army hit the dancefloor with twelve hours to go before they get on the flight home and have disposed of their remaining Euros over the bar. Party pieces are also popular: a crowd of flushed female juniors singing “I will survive” is sure on any disco night, while the Engineers favourite, “Bob the Builder”, has to be seen to be believed when performed by a gang of hefty Sappers. Everybody loves “Oops upside your head” and will prove their devotion by sitting on the floor in half an inch of cigarette ends and spilt HEKWAP, Breezers and Smirnoff Ice to do the rowing dance.

Individual units also have their own bars, which are open for special occasions only (Premier Chief of Tuvalu’s official birthday, anyone ?). Of immediate note is the Royal Signals Troop bar, which rejoices in the name of “Jimmy Riddles” after the affectionate name for the Mercury that is the Corps’ emblem. One of the Signallers is an extremely talented artist and has created a full sized pub sign depicting Homer Simpson as the Mercury cap badge, holding aloft a can of Duff beer and with a rather profane motto that only Signallers know the meaning of. Outside is again a garden and the Signals Troop Commander has Ground-Force style plans for transforming his place into the Factory’s premier al fresco nite-spot. We also notice a lot of free umbrellas down here for some reason, some of which seem terribly familiar from the mess. Rivalling the Signals for the moment is “The Hydra”. To gain admission to this one has to be nice to several Royal Engineers, but this is more than worth it. Passing into what looks from outside like a couple of corrimecs and some urban camouflage material a sort of Xanadu unfolds before the traveller. The first room is oak panelled and contains table football, television, darts and easy chairs. The next is panelled in blonder wood and holds the bar. Thence outside to the by now bloody predictable decking, but what decking ! The seating area leading to the trellis has a handy retractable roof, and beyond this cross the bridge over the pond full of fish (taking care not to be splashed by the gently playing fountains or step on the huge live frog) to admire the collection of gnomes in the rockery, surrounded by the Japanese-inspired gravel garden. I was only saddened on a recent visit to see that a favourite gnome had fallen over in a storm and had been prescribed araldite and light duties. One can only speculate that the reason a roof is currently being constructed on HQ MND (SW) is that the Engineers had pinched the old one to build their splendid edifice.
If this is not enough to entertain the troops there are also the foreign contingent bars. The Dutch ones are very good and the only way round the “no foreigners” rule is to gain an invitation or to be a member of the Royal Signals: the latter makes the CISCOY (Dutch Signals) bar an open house. Inside both of these are decked out in so much red white and blue and pictures of monarchy that one feels at home until one sees that the monarchs are of the bicycling variety and there is a dirty great windmill in the corner. The rules of the bar are also good: along with standard strictures relating to not drinking too much and leaving quietly to let shift workers sleep is one stating that sunbathing should take place on the upper terrace only. One can even get decent Heineken. War is hell. There is also a Canada House but as this is being rebuilt at the moment (or so they tell us) I haven’t been invited down there yet. A peep through the window did show that the Orderly Officer’s recent report of a faulty popcorn machine was not a wind up on the Adjutant from the mother country. This bar was the bugbear of the previous CO and he was known to leave the mess after dark and hide in the shadows outside Canada House, collecting information for his dossier. There is also a suggestion to open up ANZAC house as the Southern Hemisphere contingent grows, but God alone knows what would go on in there and Poms would definitely not be safe. Just be sure to go to the correct dung heap when going to the dunny as one doesn’t want to be caught in the ladies’.

Therefore I hope he reader realises that not all is bad at HMP Banja Luka. While not in the same luxurious style as Sarajevo we do have somewhere to go, and have the satisfaction of knowing it is all self built. We might not want parole, but there is one gripe: at least in prison one is allowed visitors !

---