Keep Off the Grass

A little north of Gospic, we descended into a valley of assorted beauty amid madness. What were once farms were now vanquished reminders of pure evil. Entire villages desecrated beyond recognition.

Shelled humanity.

Every single house had been bombed. As well as every barn, every tractor, every garden, every animal, every telegraph pole. Even some of the trees had been torn apart. This was definitely an instance where the silence was indeed, deafening. Even the hardcore Catholics - four trucks ahead of us - were finally lost for words.

Where for days, everyone had proudly strutted their knowledge of designer suffering, silence, now took over the CB radio.

Silence, and countless jabbing, nightmarish thoughts.

One of mine was that of a shipwreck. I imagined the excruciatingly loud delirium of survival, panic and death, as a towering tomb to be, methodically oozed its way beneath the waves. What would follow, would be a death quell similar to this.

A deplorable silence, guilt and gratitude - the three things that bound us together as we drove through what has since 1991, been called the Valley Of Death.

Whether or not the crisis in the Balkans is another Vietnam, remains to be clarified. And whether or not it's in the West's best interest to intervene, depends on one's conscience (or lack of). Personally speaking, both arguments appear to be nothing more than a testament to not get involved.

It might not be in the West's actual ‘’best’’ interest to get involved, but it's certainly in it's long term interest. Even if only to save an iota of moralistic face. Or to show society that people - as opposed to economics - still count for something. Try telling that to the powers that be, and you'll be whipped like a dog for coming on like a socialist, pacifist, communist, ...ist this, ...ist that. This explains why Vietnam (and its all encompassing kick to the groin of God Bless America), is the world's most sought after and popular get out clause of 'em all.

More than money. More than oil. More than whatever flag it is you happen to adhere to. Definitely more than the (possible) domino theory that Greece and Turkey could get involved (which would ultimately entail Russia coming to the aid of staunch ally Serbia).

At the end of the day, the only reason no-one's really getting involved is because no-one really gives a fuck.

Croatia, and certainly Bosnia, are pretty piss poor. Unlike Kuwait.

Did George Bush and John Major and Francois Mitterrand et al, really care about freedom reigning forth in downtown Kuwait City? Surely it's blatantly obvious to anyone with so much as a tenth of a clue, that the only reason most of the planet got involved in Kuwait was because of one thing and one thing only: oil.

Nothing more, nothing less. That's it.

All this shake, rattle and roll about democracy and standing up for the little guy, was utter politico shit-speak. Money making mohawks - arms dealers in particular - were the ones being stood up for. If it wasn’t so, then what about the little guy somewhere in the Balkans, who’s wife’s in a rape camp, who’s son’s in a torture camp, who’s mother’s had her throat slit, who’s father’s died of a broken heart, and who’s home’s been blown to pieces?

What about him, or doesn't he count?

In April, I - along with 46 other vehicles - co-drove a truck of humanitarian aid from England to Croatia/Bosnia, as part of a Convoy Of Hope. Based in Cardiff, Wales, Convoy Of Hope is a non-profit making, charitable organisation, that has been delivering food and medical supplies to Croatia and Bosnia, ever since the disintegration of Yugoslavia in 1991.

Apart from being home for a week, our truck was half a ton over-weight due to an excess of pasta and flour and needles and toys and blankets and intravenous drips. Driving almost non-stop (through France, Belgium, Germany, Austria and Slovenia), we reached Croatia after 40 hours. On the way, the conversation would naturally collide betwixt Serbian snipers, whether or not the UN would allow us into Bosnia, PJ Harvey’s new album, the chances of being shot, how to avoid turning into emotional ravioli at the sight of so many orphans, our wives, the thought of driving over a mine, the UN, Kurt Cobain, and what the hell was meant by Keep Off The Grass.

Once over the Croatian border it was my turn to drive; thus to this very day, my an initial impression of Croatia remains that of overcast skies, UN vehicles, dilapidated infrastructure and endless police, pot-holes and children. The latter, more often than not, on sweet patrol. This basically entailed them reaching out a hand and us throwing them a sweet through the window. No questions asked, no funds exchanged, no big deal. For a few seconds, we got to play Jesus.

The sort of thing western governments do, on both a pathetic and regular basis. Only instead of a sweet, it's a blind eye or an occasional air-drop. Instead of a window, it's Downing Street or the White House.

An immediate, transient, distraction. Works wonders for kids...

What else? Among other things, my first impression also included an under-lying, all pervasive gloom - the sort of which is hard to define.

As we all know (and in a nutshell), in August, 1991, Serbia declared war on Croatia. It cast misery far and wide, killed thousands, destroyed lives, uprooted history, and bombed old monuments and churches (including the shelling of Dubrovnik). It also reclaimed land in the guise that it was once their own, but was in reality, reclaimed in the name of Greater Serbia. Behind the ethos of this ideology lurks Serbian President cum xenophobic evil, Slobodan Milosevic.

In April 1992, said evil also declared war on Bosnia. Since that time, Bosnians have suffered all of the above, only much, much more.

Ever since Milosevic, along with fellow fuck Radovan Karadzic (the Bosnian Serb leader) introduced the delights of ethnic cleansing, Bosnia has been caught in the midst of genocide. A genocide ripe for the picking care of CNN and ripe for the ignoring care of everyone else.

A medium sized town very close to the Hungarian border (and therefore, relatively untouched by the war), Virovitica is a juxtaposition of joy: dank, depressing, etched in history; safe, sardonic, riddled with military. Following 40 hours of fast food and hyper-active body odour, the entire convoy parked their vehicles in a lorry park - replete with over night armed guard - before checking into the town's equivalent of the Sheraton.

Prior to a briefing in the dining hall, fellow driver Kevin Caldicott and myself, each enjoyed a hot bath in beige coloured water and a meal of lettuce, mashed potato and some sort of baked badger. A search for beer ensued, but due to a severe lack of Kuna (Croatian currency), not a lot was to be had.

‘’From tomorrow onwards, we'll be passing through a number of pink areas," announced convoy leader Mike Rye, "so whatever you do, don't take any pictures. In fact, don't take any pictures of UN checkpoints, crossings, soldiers, gun installations, or of any such nature, unless you've got permission.’’

Before continuing, one of the nurses from Lancashire inquired ‘’what do we do if we come across Serbian snipers?’’

‘’Well for a start, don't take any pictures. Don't provoke them, and if you're so inclined, you might want to say a quick prayer!

‘’Now then, on every page of your instructions, you'll read Keep Off The Grass. If you'll pardon the pun, we’re deadly serious. If you need to take a piss or whatever, go behind your vehicle, or in front of it, or wherever you damn well please; just don't go on the grass. If you do, you might step on a mine. A lot of these Serbian cowboys have mined the side of the roads, so's Croatian farmers can no longer plant their crops. Not only are the farmers going without, but people like yourselves are every now and then losing an arm, a leg or a life.. So watch out and Keep Off The Grass. Meanwhile, have a drink and an early night, cause tomorrow we kick off at 07:00 hours.’’

Driving in close formation under armed guard, we made our way to Vocin. On the way, we encountered our first glimpses of ethnic cleansing: countless buildings (very much) still standing, but totally gutted by a mixture of hate and bullets.

And stillness.

Shutters may have clicked in grotesque awe, and trees may have swung in the breeze, but no-one spoke.

No-one said a fuckin word.

Dating back to the 12th century, Vocin is the most destroyed municipality within the Virovitica district. On December 14th, 1991, 45 people from the village, age 29 to 80, were rounded up by Serb forces, and murdered in the church of Our Lady. Built in 1494, the church was then blown up and surrounded by mines.

When we arrived on Easter Sunday morning, that's exactly how we found it.

Following an Easter Sunday service in a warehouse (adjacent to the remains of the church), the convoy departed for the orphanage at Pacrac. Due to skirmishes along the main road, the UN told us to take the mountain road, delaying us by a couple of hours but in the interim, providing for a disturbing drive.

Driving through the Daruvar Valley was like driving through a nightmare - bombed buildings, wrecked cars, teenagers on the prowl, children on the beg, soldiers on patrol, Mike Rye on the CB (telling us to keep in close formation). Plus, the skies opened up and, as the downpour arrived, so too did the realisation that we were probably in the sights of many a Serbian sniper's rifle.

‘’Hey Kev, any of that Heineken left?’’

Arriving at the orphanage raised the issue as to why people join these convoys in the first place. On the one hand you've got orphaned children in need of solace, on the other, you've got rabid adults in need of a souvenir: click, flash, pop, click, pop, flash, flash, "smile," click, flash, flash, "say cheese..." Say "fuck you, you off-handed, disrespectful, grown-up, who ought to know better than to treat us like a bunch of convenient freaks for your after dinner slide show."

Apart from the parade of photographers, the unloading of trucks in the rain (toys/food/bedding) made for more than a poignant moment. One not easily forgotten, and the same applies to the orphanage itself. Built by British troops under the command of Captain Mark Cooke, the bright pink building was a refreshing sight among the debris of death.

However, less than a week after I returned to New York (April 27th), the orphanage was bombed by Serb forces (in retaliation for the first Croatian offensive since 1991, against Serbian forces in the Krajina region).

How many of the children were killed, I don't know.

War.

What is it fuckin good for?



Over the next two nights, the entire convoy stopped in hospital car parks. The first was in the very picturesque, yet predominantly industrial town of Sisak, and the second in Karlovac (both of which have also since been bombed).

A mere 15 miles from the Bosnian border, Karlovac remains an active enclave of fighting between the warring factions. Just beyond the river Kupa were members of the HVO (Bosnian Croat militia); beyond the petrol garage where we filled up, were members of the Croatian forces; and in the forest facing the actual hospital, Serbian snipers. In the middle of it all were frantic doctors, peppered with nerves, and us, sitting it out with bottles of lukewarm wine and Eddie Cochran.

Throughout the night, UN designated ‘safe area’ Bihac - a Muslim enclave just across the border - was shelled by Serb forces. As a result, the UN didn't grant us permission to enter Bosnia (Bihac was going to be our next stop).

So, at 06:00 hours, the convoy - replete with hangovers - drove straight to Gospic, four hours south of Karlovac across snow filled mountains and some of the most beautiful countryside ever seen - including the infamous Valley of Death. Talk about traversing beauty amid misery.

As was expected, Gospic hospital entered the realm of chaos: vehicles parked here, there and everywhere; convoy members juggling boxes of toys, boxes of food, boxes of detergent, boxes of syringes, boxes of whatever it takes to keep a country alive; bloodstained doctors speaking Croatian or broken German, all smoking profusely and all asking questions about the hospital equipment we'd brought (that none of us could truly answer); workmen re-building a bombed ward; nurses handing out sandwiches and smiles; policemen screaming into walkie-talkies; mothers clutching bags of rigatoni; children clutching handfuls of sweets; the smell of petrol; the smell of snow; the smell of survival.

45 minutes later we were on our way again. More mountains, more forests, more madness, more UN vehicles, more soldiers; and from the dour reflection of bloodstained corridors, the vast expanse of the Adriatic Ocean. Then a warehouse in Zadar, then another orphanage, then another briefing in an army base (where the vehicles were parked overnight for safe keeping from looters and thieves).

Shortly after leaving the following morning and making our way to the beautiful coastal city of Rijeka, we were told of President Franjo Tudjman's semi-full acknowledgement of Croatia's black market frenzy. A tad distressing and off-putting to say the least.

Like ants scurrying back and forth with the meagre rations of (predominantly) working class donation, Convoy Of Hope trundled across Croatia in the hope of lessening that country, as well as Bosnia's, suffering. We weren't allowed into Bosnia, but if all the food and hospital equipment dropped off at assorted warehouses throughout Croatia were going to be sold to buy arms and weapons, then surely it defeats the object?

Of course it does. But then so do most things involved in war. And economics. And government. But what are you going to do? Nothing, ala most closet humanitarians?

At the end of the day, if it were you or your family, you'd hope to God someone would do something. Anything.

It's called the brute will to survive.