28 Jan 1994 (Friday)

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In short, WOW.

The trip to Knin was nothing short of fascinating. I maintain my assertion that this is a land of unbelievable contrasts, as I think you'll see.

I arrived at work at about 0830 on Wednesday. Normal time for here. Terry and I packed up the truck, a small Nissan four-wheel drive, and headed out of town. I had (again) not slept well the night before, and so I was tired and anxious. I had no idea what lay ahead, except that it was an "easy 3.5- to 4- hour trip" down there.

We departed about 0930, headed across the Sava River, and down towards a town called Karlovac along a modern, four-lane divided highway.

Terrain was generally flat, but with nice stands of hardwoods interspersed with farm fields along the way. I could easily imagine driving down through parts of Ohio or Indiana along Interstate 70. The highway is a toll road, but UNHCR doesn't pay the tolls, so we just coasted through the gates without stopping. Weather was cloudy but visibility very good. Only a little snow in the fields here and there. Temperature was surprising mild at around 35F.

We needed to get fuel (diesel), so a few miles north of Karlovac we stopped at a gas station (INA) and tried to fill up. The UN gives us coupons to use instead of money, and some stations don't accept them. After a great waving of hands and serious vocal inflections from the fellow who came to pump our fuel, we figured out this was one of those stations. Down the road again to Karlovac proper, where the fellow accepted the coupons, but he didn't give change in cash. So we came away with a box of nice orange cookies and a full tank of diesel.

Speaking of tanks... About 2 km from there the highway narrowed to two lanes, twisted, and there at the narrow part of the road I saw several tank barriers pushed aside, and it became apparent "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

We passed several abandoned buildings, wound our way towards a green bridge over a small river, then... *POOF*, I saw my first real evidence of civil war in this country.

The first thing I noticed was a barrier from a Croatian checkpoint on the far side of the bridge. More tank barriers, too, looking like some giant had been playing jacks there. We had to stop, show our IDs, and sign a form. While stopped I looked more deliberately at my surroundings.

The only words for it are absolute and complete devastation. The ruins of what once was a beautiful riverside farming village almost screamed at me. Colorful brick houses with red tile roofs were no more than burned out shells and random piles of rubble. Bullet holes pockmarked every facade still standing. Bits of shattered glass, charred timbers, and twisted wrought iron from fences formed bizzare sculptures in the yards. One section of a front yard was surrounded by razor barbed wire. Red signs warned "MINES!" along with a skull and crossbones. Charming. (Still, it gives me ideas to discourage trespassers.)

We had entered a no-man's land of sorts, where the UN stands guard between two warring parties. On the other side is Serbian Krajina, a UN protected area.

We moved slowly towards the next checkpoint, where a somber UN soldier approached with surprising (for this place) miltary form: stiff back, straight, deliberate steps, no expression on his face beyond his serious, straight-ahead look. He looked possibly North African, and Terry greeted him in French. (Could this be one of the French Foreign Legion detachments here?) He was dressed with bullet-proof vest and a light blue helmet, rifle in hand, but pointed downwards. He checked our IDs again, and then moved away slowly to lift the barrier.

We continued through this village a bit more until we came to the last checkpoint. A sandy-haired, young woman dressed in a black shirt and a brown skirt came to the truck, and more IDs shown, more forms signed. This was "the other side." Off we went. Suddenly, signs turned to mostly Cyrillic.

In many places, signs using both Croatian and Serbian spelling had been partially painted over. References to places in Croatia had been deleted from most highway signs. There was no mistake. It was Krajina ("Krai-yee-na" on BBC casts).

The terrain became hilly, and mountains loomed in the distance. We worked our way from village to village. Some had been destroyed, others were very well preserved. In some cases, almost every house in vast areas were destroyed, while a couple were left virtually unscathed amongst the rubble. Signs of "ethnic cleansing." People had been uprooted house by house, and the fighting had raged obviously inch by inch.

I really wanted to take pictures of these places, but I decided not to on the trip down. We didn't need any hassles from the locals or the soldiers around. So I waited until we were pretty well beyond the border area and concentrated on the scenery.

Every once in a while we could pass someone walking along the road or standing near it. They were mostly old people- except in the villages- dressed in dark colors, women's heads wrapped in scarves, old men's heads covered with caps. They watched us drive past, and their deeply lined faces told a million lifetimes of stories, and their eyes -- that's the key, their EYES -- seemed to ask as many questions. It was like driving through a National Geographic article with sharp, poignant images leaping off the page telling the story with only a few words to help.

Then Terry threw me a surprise. We didn't have a road map, and he'd never been to Knin before!

Good Lord!!! No road map in a place where a wrong left turn could put us on the front lines. Great. Just great.

"No problem."

Yeah, right.

We crossed through some high ground and then into a beautiful village called Slinj, where two rivers came together in a dramatic waterfall. The water looked rich green from snow melt in the higher mountains. The terrain was still quite open but rolling. The hills were mostly brown, though.

Higher ground still and into the mountains, where the road turned snowy and icy. Four-wheel drive time. An evergreen forest surrounded us for a few miles, and eventually we got out of the rough stuff.

We began to look for a UN outpost to ask for directions to Knin. We passed one such place on a godforsaken high point far from any town. It was HQ of the Polish Batallion. Poor guys. Onwards for a few more miles, and finally another blue flag. Aha! Another Polish outpost, but set up at what could have been a nice motel at one time. We pulled in, and a guard let us through the gate.

While Terry went in, I sat in the truck keeping an eye on things. An old man, distinguished looking but dressed very informally, came up to my side and motioned for me to open the door. When I did open the door he asked, in excellent English, if I needed help. I explained our situation, and he assured us it was easy to get to Knin. Just follow the signs.

He then seemed to shift mental gears and asked, "What do you think? All these refugees, I mean." I fumbled for words, and he said, "I have been working here with UNPROFOR for over a year. I used to be hopeful, but now I am not so sure. It is a terrible thing."

All his despair seemed to well up at that point. His tone became uneven, and his eyes looked far away, and then he looked back at me. He looked almost crazed in a way. Something else was on his mind. "Are you a delegate?" he asked, almost whispering. "You see, I'd like to discuss certain matters. Privately, you know." What little hope he had shown in his face faded when I told him we were just radio technicians.

By then Terry had come out, and the old man wished us a safe journey. We drove off, me a little bit wiser, Terry a little bit reassured, but both of us still mapless, and feeling it in more ways than one.

We came down to a valley and a fork in the road. To the left the road invited us to follow it into the broad valley between two mountain ranges. There was a gate and a STOP sign there. A couple of small shacks on either side of the road. Some UN signs near one. A gangly looking fellow in blue camouflage near another. He came to my side of the truck, and Terry pondered left or right.

"Bosnia?" he asked, pointing to the left. We assured him that Knin was our destination. "Ah, straight on!" meaning in reality to the right side of the fork. Phew. That could have been a bad left turn.

More mountains and more snow, and finally we came to a tee. There was no sign with Knin in either Cryrillic or Latin alphabets, and we tried calling Knin on the radio for verification. No luck. (The HF radios in the vehicles do not work well.)

We had passed four well-dressed ladies who had been walking on the road, each carrying small suitcases or bags. They looked like they were each in their forties. They headed for a makeshift bus shelter made from an old camping trailer. I rolled down my window and hollered "Knin?", and in perfect synchronization, they all pointed to the left with their gloved hands. It was almost artwork.

I thanked them as best I could, and they made noise and motioned to ask if they could have a ride. If they had ever earned a ride, it was then, but the rules say we can't pick up riders. "Mostly for insurance reasons." They seemed to understand.

After passing by a couple of huge lakes, we hit a high plateau of sorts, and it reminded me a bit of the high desert in California. Low scrub brush, volcanic rocks, and snow-capped mountains in the distance. At last a left turn sign pointing the way to Knin. What joy!

The few villages we passed out on the plateau were showing obvious signs of reconstruction. New plaster, new windows, new roofs. They had begun to recover. Knin rests at the head of a valley guarded in the distance by several high mountain ranges. The view coming into town from above is spectacular. The town appears to sprawl down the valley, with a thousand tiny red roofs creating a most remarkable mosaic.

There is obviously some industry there. I saw several small factories, but I'm not sure what they were. However, the most notable feature of Knin soon came into view. The older part of town is build on and around a huge mount, perhaps 1000 feet high. There's a flag atop the mount, and remains of an old castle or fortress, and then some newer buildings, too. The tan buildings, which are made from the local sandstone rocks, red roofs, snow- capped mountains, and the brownish- purple scrub on the foothills make Knin one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen.

The town is obviously having a hard time. Shops are far from full, and in the market square I saw many people out with just a few belongings, fruits, and vegetables to sell. But there is activity, which is more than I can say about some of the villages we passed. There must be hope.

Got to take a break now. I'll pick this up later...