Mickey Disco & the Hen Night from Hell

---

As part of the drawdown of NATO forces in the Balkans a programme of rationalisation of Locally Employed Civilian posts has been going on. Coupled to this the contract for managing facilities at BLMF has been changed leading to many civilian cleaners and laundry operators changing from direct employment by SFOR to working for a UK based contractor. This contractor has profit margins to consider unlike SFOR and so needed to shed further employees. In a nation like this where employment is difficult to find and wages very low working at an SFOR camp is almost like winning the lottery and so the posts are hotly competed for. Part of this is because in a woolly liberal way of thinking we pay what would be seen as a fair European minimum wage, forgetting that this is wildly disproportionate in the local economic climate. Eventually the redundancies were made (with the Commanding Officer having the unenviable task of handing out the Bosnian equivalent of the P45) and those left standing when the dust settled decided to have a celebratory meal, to which selected military personnel were invited as guests. We jumped at the invitation as not only an opportunity to get off camp but also to see the people we work with socially, the walking out restrictions in place at the moment precluding this for most SFOR personnel.

Great debate was entered into as to a choice of restaurant, on the part of the hostesses as they wanted to go to go to the Banja Luka area’s number one party venue; from the military as we had to choose somewhere that was cleared for hygiene and security; and from Mirna, my clerk, as the Country Music at the proposed location is not to her taste. Mirna is a refugee from Croatia, young, highly intelligent and a bit of an urban sophisticate and so not a big fan of the Bosnian favourite “Turbo Folk” which she refers to with a curl of the lip that would do a British teenager proud when discussing her parents’ tastes. The decision to go to the Jezero (“Lakes”) Restaurant was further complicated by the fact that it had been cleared for use by SFOR in the past but has now dropped off the list of approved venues. On checking, Security said that if Environmental Health were happy we could go and vice versa, so I crossed my fingers, booked the table and prayed that nothing would go wrong. Looking at the wrong end of a court martial is no fun at all. The day of the dinner dawned and it became evident that none of us actually knew the way to the restaurant and so we set up a complex arrangement to follow Dragana, one of the locals, in her car to the Jezero. This was in itself amusing as the group in the car had to wait outside the main gate until our arrival, drawing suspicious looks from the Guard Platoon who thought that the Factory was subject to a close target recce by a group of elite middle-aged Bosnian cleaning ladies, and because said car had no lights which is somewhat hazardous after dark on Bosnian roads, especially as there’s no street lighting and someone could be taking the cow for a last walk up the main road before bed. Our frantic signals from the minibus for Dragana to switch the lights on were taken as a sign we wished to go faster but nevertheless we arrived unscathed, the military ashen faced and Dragana’s car load completely unperturbed. One wit quipped through clenched teeth that she hadn’t lit up to save electricity or wear and tear on the headlight bulbs.

The restaurant itself was very large, new and shiny and obviously the destination of choice for the Banja Luka haut monde, judging by the vehicles in the car park which were decidedly less ramshackle than Dragana’s transport or indeed ours. Outside one could also admire the white swans on the eponymous lakes and note that these were real rather than painted concrete as seen in the gardens of the local well to do. As it was howling down with rain and dark we eschewed further examination of the surroundings and made our way inside to a light, airy and huge dining room with a bandstand at one end for the advertised Turbo Folk Orkestar. The bandstand was devoid of instruments but ominously held a bank of electronic organs which would not have looked out of place with a 1970s prog rock band. Later speculation suggested that the Jezero is quite so pristine as it is run by local gangsters and no one would dare mess with their gaff. We were seated and awaited the arrival of the remainder of our hostesses. Soon the table was packed with the cream of the British Army and a fair selection of the seven ages of Balkan womanhood, and the first in an interminable series of drinks orders went in. Because of the walking out regulations the military were constrained in their choice of beverage (myself most of all as I was armed escort for the evening, in Bosnia the equivalent of designated driver at home with as severe consequences for transgression) but the ladies tucked in to vast quantities of brandy and glasses of gin that would make an Admiral blanch. Conversation, initially stilted because of the language barrier, soon began to flow as the slivovic was sunk and understanding exact meanings became less and less important. Drinking toasts is very important and barely a minute passed without a shout of ivjeli ! (cheers !) or nasdravlje ! (good health !), a clinking of glasses and the quaffing of deep draughts of drink. I was informed in translation after a whispered conversation that I had caused mild offence during a toast by failing to look deeply into the proposer’s eyes, not draining my glass and for drinking mineral water in the first place. It has been noted that the Balkan people could teach the Irish a thing or two about remembering history (the fourteenth century battle of Kosovo Polje seeming as real and recent as this morning’s breakfast in the local imagination); to this I would add that local cleaning ladies could offer a masterclass to a pub full of bibulous Dublin drinkers and have many of the students retire hurt.

Eventually the food arrived, in huge portions and as excellent as I have come to expect. As with the Dalmatian specialities I had eaten while sailing the menu tended towards assorted grilled meat but it would be unwise to point out the similarities between Serbian and Croatian food to all but the most broad minded inhabitants of either nation. For example even the difference in pronunciation between the “S” sound at the beginning of crno vino (red wine) can mark out one’s ethnicity or origin and there are three words for bread (two sounding almost the same to western ears), each of which could cause offence if used in the wrong area. What astounded us most was that after the cries of prijatno (bon appetit) the ladies descended upon the food like a plague of locusts, the more so as they all tended to the willowy of figure. One can only assume this was their only meal of the day, they work out like fury or they have worms as big as lizards. One note on Bosnian dining etiquette: spirits need not be merely pre- or post-prandial beverages but are consumed with great gusto throughout a meal and it is impolite to smoke between courses. Keep a fag on the go throughout the meal. It is also important to have a mobile ‘phone which should be kept on at all times to allow text messaging and loud conversations in impenetrable Serbo-Croat. It should also be noted that any dish named after Prince-Bishop Petar Njegoš, the Serbian hero of Montenegro, immediately doubles the price when set against the common-or-garden variety. The only person not too impressed with the food was one of our Staff Sergeants who was horrified when his cucumber salad turned out to be about half a pound of chopped gherkins.
Half way through the meal the main event started. The lights dimmed, the piped music was faded out and the orkestar arrived on stage. He was a bit thin on the ground as only one of him had turned up, but armed with his battery of organs and a microphone he soon filled the room with swinging Bosnian sounds. From the noises he produced he was rapidly nicknamed Mickey Disco by the British contingent after the spoof Euro-Entertainer of that name on the television. Turbo Folk can be described as an unholy collision between a Greek wedding, a Palestinian funeral and the Eurovision Song Contest and seems to instil similar emotions amongst its listeners. Audience participation is also important and singing along, brandishing tambourines and dancing are all the order of the day. “Ah, this is a favourite song about a girl and a boy who are in love but cannot marry because their families are having a blood-feud” explained Dragana as a burst of jigging broke out. Our hostesses, who are generally demure and who we normally only see on a professional basis or as they queue like medieval supplicants for their pay every fortnight, now let rip like a hen night of Visigoths who have just been told that they have only one party left to enjoy before the end of the world. Between bits of grilled meat and gherkins, drags on cigarettes and large swigs of slivo, which was now arriving in jugs of a size that the thirstier pub-goer in Britain would use for beer, the ladies hopped up and cut a rug. When seated they still maintained perpetual motion with much manual gesticulation and even the Colonel joined in with an energetic hand-jive. “Here singer is telling of a girl and man who cannot marry because the man is very much older,” said Mirna, curling her upper lip splendidly. “She prefers rock and roll,” pointed out my other clerk Zorica, waving cigarette in one hand, tambourine in a second and somehow a glass of gin in another. “Who are you calling old,” muttered the Colonel, giving one of his famous smiles to Mirna. The military stolidly declined to dance, my excuse being that my pistol was supposed to be covert and the energetic quadrilles would cause my jacket to fly up and the concealed holster to be revealed. Eventually I very nearly did cave in and hit the floor when our hostesses were joined by a group of local men and cynically I could see a good photo opportunity and PR for SFOR of the British Army joining in with the their fun, but the moment passed. “This is a very sad song about a boy and a girl who cannot marry because they are cousins,” Natasha translated. “Can’t see anything wrong about that,” commented a Cornish soldier who will remain nameless.

By now the level of general enjoyment was on the pleasant side of hysterical and even I began to regret that I had not drawn a couple of extra rounds from the ammunition store to let rip with some celebratory fire. By now the translated conversations had descended to huddled whispering before the spokeswoman would, in a fit of giggles, say something along the lines of, “she says you have…” (insert attribute such as nice eyes, handsome smile, or laugh like hyena. Only joking about the last one). In return we were reduced to the odd dobro or iveli ! and a wave of the mineral water glass. We felt a little left out that we could not entertain so royally with a folk song and a suggestion that we deliver a quick rendition of “Four-and-twenty virgins” was rejected as it would probably have lost something in the translation. At one point the translations became a little risqué and at one suggestion which I did not overhear the Colonel very nearly bit through the stem of his pipe. At just the right moment I noticed out of the window that our minibus had already arrived to take us home and slipped out to say we were on our way. The Naval leading Hand who was acting as escort noted that we’d better hurry up or we’d be adrift for the eleven p.m. curfew and so with regret I went in to explain that the bus would soon turn into a pumpkin if we didn’t get our skates on. There were some complaints from the military, but when I explained that staying for a drink would lead to charges, punishment and even worse driving home in a well refreshed Dragana’s car all insubordination ceased. Before we were allowed to leave we were asked to pose with the ladies for photographs which took some time as each wished to be photographed alone and then with her friends draped over each of the soldiers individually and collectively and this had to be done on a battery of cameras so none was left out. It was as bad as the photo shoot before the CO’s summer walk, which seemed like aeons ago.
Despite having to leave, it was a lively group of troops that piled into the minibus. We speculated how many of the ladies would appear in the office the following day, at what time and in what state bearing in mind that more jugs of slivo were ordered as soon as the cameras had been put away. In fact like true pros they were all in good and early. At around lunchtime I became aware of fits of giggling coming from the staff room and went off to investigate. A quorum of the ladies from dinner were gathered, one or two of them in such paroxysms that they could barely raise their heads. Although I may never get the full story, in the absence of husbands the celebrations had continued until approximately two in the morning, and had included further slivo and dancing including dancing on the chairs and then for the braver souls on the tables. Even Mirna had loosened the upper lip and joined in. One who had seemed particularly reserved and librarianesque (although willing to talk) had repeatedly fallen over before breaking off a heel from her rather high shoes. A group of Australian tourists was also befriended and enjoined to take part where the boring Cinderellas who were the British had to flee back to Castle Factory before the bell tolled. I could get very little more sense as one of my normally reliable interpreters was lying on the floor in stitches and the other had suddenly become coy, especially when the Australian men were mentioned. Only the photographs may tell the truth…

---

Photos

A pleasant duty...
...reading a medal citation for the head of the Military Working Dogs Section at BLMF.