On the Road Again

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Over the past weeks it appears that the Factory Moles have been trying to escape from the confines of BLMF. A random series of trenches emanating from the main building have now circled most of the south western quadrant of the compound. These holes wind about the camp regardless of obstructions before them and it is not uncommon to see decking and walkways that seemed perfectly solid and permanent at nightfall cast aside like matchwood the next day. Later on the holes are filled with sand, which of course is washed away the moment that we have a Bosnia special rainstorm. Bearing in mind this is often the camp is now covered with numerous pitfalls for the unwary. The command structure maintains a complex charade that the holes are being dug to lay pipes and this is reinforced by lots of red plastic tape marked Opasno ! (Danger !), JCBs and local contractors leaning on shovels in a manner not seen in the UK since the days of union militancy. The only difference is that even the most dedicated British workman would find it hard to smoke as furiously as the Bosnians or indeed to start the day with slivo and continue it with regular ingestions of pivo. At the same time we had an assault by a pack of wild dogs, which mainly concentrated on taking over the helicopter pad. One of the aviators (no animal lover he) suggested breaking out the rifles to deal with the problem and expressed some consternation that aircraft were dodging the dogs rather than just landing anyway, although I imagine that apart from being messy this would be a potential source of foreign object damage to the aircraft.

For a change from this mayhem the Colonel decided to do a recce of another camp over which we may take command some time next year as part of the drawdown of British forces in SFOR. Our party was to include me as bag carrier and note taker, the Quartermaster in order to discuss QM type things and the new RSM as he fancied a drive out. The nightmare that Command and Control of this camp will present was rapidly made evident as it lies a good two hours drive away and this is on good roads that are still relatively clear before winter sets in. With any luck Communications will hold up and we can issue the necessary instructions to keep the place going once it is cut off, just as long as the Captain-Commandant of the camp doesn’t develop a Kurtz-like style and require termination with extreme prejudice. We were lucky enough to have as our driver one of the locals, known as Stoney, and so were treated to plenty of advice as to what to watch out for from the windows and some history, although understandably he was a little reticent about events during the war. Stoney’s explanation for the littering was about as probable as that of the chain of command for the mole holes in the factory as he attributed it all to the “F***ing refugees” who have “come from the country where they are all filthy”. In a couple of sentences he had displayed the Balkan lack of love for anyone different and also the propensity of some non-native English speakers (vide the previous RSM) to pick up profanity when learning the language. The Colonel, hearing our conversations about the local area and sights, speculated that Stoney and I would probably be in competition for the post of Minister of Tourism for Bosnia should one ever be required. Our business in Sipovo was completed fairly quickly, not least because the present Commander wanted rid of us as another recce conducted by an Infantry Company which was about to move in was to take place in the afternoon. Overall the camp is small but perfectly formed and while lacking the range of facilities at Banja Luka would be perfectly comfortable for a tour. Indeed the view of mountains from the outside dining area by the all-ranks canteen would rival the seating at many an Alpine café were it not for the immediate foreground of a hard-core paved parking area, lots of ISO containers and the ever present generators. There is, of course, a CD alley (where after a fierce price-war discs can be had for one Euro, as opposed to two-fifty elsewhere) and the town is within walking distance for real walking out rather than driving out as we have in Banja Luka (although I actually saw nowhere too auspicious to go). Sipovo being home to the Multinational Integrated Medical Unit including the helicopter borne Immediate Response Team, a sort of NATO “Thunderbirds”, the place is also jam packed with nurses but alas we saw none of these.

Having driven down via Mrkonjic Grad we decided to have a change of scenery and return on the Jajce road which incorporates a southern sector of Route Gull. The landscape included several villages and towns and so a further note bears making here regarding architecture in the Former Yugoslavia. As noted before even houses in the suburbs of large towns such as Split and Banja Luka have a fairly rural feel, surrounded as they are by haystacks awaiting onward transport, maize plots and assorted animals. No garden seems complete without an arbour of vines underneath which is invariably a table and chairs for al fresco dining and entertainment which must be most pleasant except when the vine grove is situated next to a busy main road and diesel fumes permeate the air. The houses themselves rise several storeys and tend to have at least one front door, one situated up a flight of stairs on the first floor, and an array of balconies. As noted before these can be a little hair raising as such necessities as banisters and balustrades seem to be the last feature added on the rare completion of the houses. Views through the windows can reveal anything from a completed sitting room through an unfinished concrete-grey box which is still fully furnished to huge piles of straw. Windows themselves are frequently rectangular but it is common to see ovals, circles and half circles letting in the light. As glass remains expensive this is only used for the best rooms and so many apertures are either left empty or covered in plastic sheeting. Roofs are generally covered in terracotta pantiles that could come from any era back to the Romans and beyond. A good tip to work out the ethnicity of a house’s occupants is to examine the roof. If it is pitched as familiar in the UK it is likely to be owned by a Serb, but if the roof is in a pyramid shape (known as the “four water” style”) it is likely to be the dwelling of a Muslim. Confusingly I have heard that in Sarajevo while the “four water” rule holds for the Muslims, a double-hipped truncated pyramid with no point indicates a Serb house and the pitched style that of a Croat. Pay attention, there will be a test. Because of the very heavy winter snowfalls in Bosnia some of these roofs can be pitched at extreme angles and the house underneath by comparison fairly tall and thin and when seen alongside the tree-clad mountains one expects to see Julie Andrews heaving into view wittering on about a few of her favourite things. Garden ornamentation is also popular and no Bosnian has really arrived until they have a selection of white concrete swans or unicorns for the very real chickens, goats and pigs to besport themselves around.

The road from Sipovo passes through a plain lined in the close distance by purple conical hills overlapping each other and sheltering the valley. To the side lies the river Pleva, a tributary of the Vrbas. At one point the river widens to form a huge lake which is popular for boating and has a several hundred metre rowing course marked out by buoys. Around the lake are picnic areas which were heavenly in the bright sun, and restaurants which for all their brutal modernism seemed magical places to dine and watch the sun setting over the nearby mountains. Of course this being post-war Yugoslavia and right on the Inter-Entity Border Line between Republika Srpska and the Federation, the area where some of the hottest fighting had taken place, several of the restaurants remain gutted, burnt and twisted by shells and other munitions. Furthermore the shore of the lake is choked with discarded plastic bottles and each lay-by vantage point has been used as a rubbish dump. “Refugees,” sniffed Stoney. At the end of the lake is a small waterfall and shortly downstream of this a weir where the turquoise water flows over a stepped series of giant horseshoes. On the bottom horseshoe stood a solitary fisherman, although we passed to quickly to see if he had had a good catch. Over the IEBL, Jajce was the next place of note. The town holds great significance in local history as it was here that Tito declared the creation of the Yugoslav federation during a conference in 1943. Before the war the town was predominantly Croat and Muslim, the latter shown by one bank of the river covered by “four water” roofs and a copper minaret catching the last of the sun filtering down over the precipitous hills into the valley. During the war the town, of strategic significance as it lies on a communication line to what was the Serb Krajina in Croatia, fell to the Serbs in 1992 after a siege lasting five months when the Croat HVO left the Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the other defenders, to fend for themselves. It was then seized back unopposed by both these armies when, in a further typically Balkan example of horse-trading, the Serbs retreated unmolested overnight. The town itself is built on a plug of rock rising from the floor of the narrow valley and in the middle of the river which forms some very pretty waterfalls. At the very top of this plug sits a castle within whose concentric defences are built the houses of the old town and a splendid square church tower. The high cliffs of the central massif have been eroded into strange patterns of holes and caves and some of the houses are precariously close to the edge. Indeed Stoney told us with some relish that he had witnessed one falling by degrees into the gorge below. Overall the town looks like an illustration from Tolkien, beautiful yet strangely unreal.

Heading north from Jajce on route Gull the valley closed in further. Having passed through a tunnel which looked as if a large drainpipe (complete with lip at both ends) had been laid down and the rock poured over it not completely covering each end, the road was now cut out of the vertical cliffs almost bare of vegetation. These cliffs are made up of diagonal strata in shades of grey stained in places with black and look like the pelt of a Siberian tiger. Occasionally the diagonals are interrupted by loops and whorls of huge fingerprints, the whole perfectly reflected in the calm emerald water of the Vrbas below. Naturally all this water has been put to use and at intervals along the river there are power stations, one with its insulators, capacitors and other general paraphernalia set in inverted teardrops hewn from the cliff like something from a Bond villain’s hideaway. Beneath the Jajce 2 dam the water boils over the rocks in the stream and indeed after the recent heavy rainfall the river overall seems more angry than before and because of the turbulence has taken on a sea green colour. In places there are standing waves and the river seems perfect for rafting or canoeing although it would probably take a helicopter to get the paddlers and their craft to the torrent. Route Gull continues in such manner, switching from bank to bank of the river over bridges (some destroyed in the war and rebuilt by SFOR, including one magnificent span painted a slightly incongruous red and yellow: relax, sir, it’s one of ours) and plunging occasionally into tunnels when the cliffs are too steep for the road to have been built in the open. From time to time an incredibly steep road leading to God knows where at the top of the cliffs cut away from the route up the side of the valley.

Soon we hit the familiar part of Gull, yet something was different. Whereas earlier in the year the valley was thickly covered with trees in leaf autumn had now arrived and the green all but gone. In some places there were no leaves at all and the grey tree trunks blended into the grey rock so the valley appeared totally denuded. Yet elsewhere the last leaves remained in a fabulous display of reds, oranges and yellows which followed the underlying strata in diagonal stripes to the river. This was magnificent and almost glowed in the sunlight set against the ice blue sky. Where the trees were out of the sun they took on a more muted hue as if an oriental carpet had been put out to air on the slopes, the colours darkened to more brick red, purple and copper shades. In places mist lay along the spines of the spurs dropping to the river adding to the beauty of the scene. As the valley opened out towards Banja Luka the herons and cormorants were catching fish, but not, unfortunately, stopping for a breather on signs saying “No Fishing”. On the way into town Stoney pointed out the outfalls from the hot springs which give Banja Luka (literally “Baths Port”) its name. Unnoticeable in the heat of summer they steamed in the autumn chill. Refreshed after a trip out, and content that the new part of the Empire was ripe for taking over, I returned to work to the inevitable heap of paperwork that had piled up in my short absence.

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