Knin trip continued...

28 Jan 1994 (Friday)

.

The UNHCR office is located at the UNPROFOR encampment, which is housed at an old Yugoslavian army barracks about 3/4 of a mile from the old part of town. The view is stupendous, since the barracks looks straight up the valley with the mount as its nearest neighbor.

Knin serves as headquarters for Sector South, a UN Protected Area (UNPA) in Kraijna. The UNPROFOR troops are a real mixed bag. Many of them are from Kenya, so many of them are bundled up in heavy Arctic gear while the temperatures are between 25 and 40F. There's a large Dutch contingent, as well as some Canadians, Norwegians, Czechs, Slovaks, Ghanians, and some others I'm sure I've missed. There are also civilian police (CIVPOL) from various countries, though I'm not quite sure what their role is beyond perhaps establishing some sort of civilian police infrastructure for the region. I saw CIVPOLs from Ireland, Jordan, Canada, Sweden, Russia, Colombia, and Portugal. There must be many others.

The Commander of Sector South is a Kenyan colonel, whose name I have forgotten. His office is on the top floor of the HQ building just down the hall from the UNHCR office. Two signs command "SILENCE PLEASE" on either side of his office area. I'm not sure whether that's a UN mandate or his own idea. The humor did not escape me in either case, especially considering the last two UNPROFOR commanding generals have resigned early and admidst great controversy over their frank comments about the situation here.

Unfortunately, Terry and I had missed lunch by about an hour, and the mess hall didn't open for another four hours. So we set to work immediately. We finally found access to the roof of the three-story HQ building through a trap door into the attic, then via a service door and a final eight-foot climb on the outside of the building.

Since the radio room was moving, we had to re-route cables from two HF wideband antennas and the 450 MHz cellular telephone. We had also hoped to improve the communications link with Zagreb on one HF link and the "mobitel" (cellular phone).

The weather had turned marginal, and it started to drizzle a bit, which made the metal roof very slippery. About that time I asked about safety belts, and Terry said there weren't any for any of the radio technicians. I think this is stupid, and I will not take any unnecessary risks for someone else's stupidity, so I plan to approach the boss about this on Monday. Given the UN's apparent concern for reducing insurance liability, there may be some hope here. I will try to get my own safety belt very soon.

One of the problems with this work is that the users tend to think that the technicians are general handymen. They'll ask us to fix their phone, lay in electrical mains extensions, and otherwise dabble in areas not necessarily in our realm of responsibility nor expertise. Diplomacy and innovation are two skills to have handy in the back pocket.

We did what we could before dark and headed for the mess hall just after 1800. Terry and I were both tired, wet, and hungry, and neither of us really cared too much what was on the menu, so long as it was hot and filling. Ulla-Britt, the radio operator, (more on her later) had given us a couple of meal tickets, and we trundled across the limestone-paved compound yard between the HQ building and the mess hall.

As mess halls go, it was pretty average. A woman took our tickets (or money -- meals cost US$2 or $3), and we queued up for a choice of potatoes with cheese or sausage and (instant) mashed potatoes dished out from a huge pot behind the counter. Then the server ladled out something that looked like very weak vegetable soup, which served as a kind of gravy for everything. We also could help ourselves to cold cuts like salami and cheese, and then farther on were fresh fruits, juices, milk, bread, butter, and so forth. At the very end of the line there were various salad stuffs like chopped cabbage, shredded carrots, beans, radishes, and peppers. I think I tried just about everything there. Only a few minutes into the meal I began to feel much better, and my head was clearing a bit. Good thing, because we still had some work to do afterwards. I had finally started to relax a bit.

Terry, Ulla-Britt, and I went back to the office to finish what indoor work we could. We got the two HF stations back on the air and called it a night about 2000. Ulla-Britt had some last messages to send out before closing the station. and Terry and I wandered over to one of several bars in the compound.

It's amazing. For several hundred troops there are at least four bars: the Dutch Bar, the International Bar, the Kenyan Bar, and Club Sector South. The latter is run by some locals right inside the compound. It's more like a giant living room with couches and rocking chairs, five televisions, a reading room, a small kitchen, and (of course) a bar. We actually went to the International Bar, which is more akin to a large walk-in closet furnished with chairs and tables you might find on someone's veranda.

There were about 15 people inside, chatting, drinking beer and wine, and smoking. A small woodstove warmed the room, and blue, green, and red spotlights on the ceiling cast multi- colored shadows around the dirty white walls and stone floor. The lighting and heavy smoke made for an eerie scene. A boombox played rock music well into distortion. At the bar stood a couple of Norwegian and Canadian soldiers, an androgenous Irish police(wo)man and one of her male counterparts.

A pretty, dark-haired woman about 23 served cans of beer from a refrigerator and collected one Deutschmark or one US dollar, depending on which brew she handed out. A couple of Kenyans sat against a far wall watching outward. They looked kind of lost, no one spoke to them, and I felt a little sorry for those two. Other tables had mixes of staff, both civilian and military. A few people were obviously very drunk. Still others looked like they would soon follow. The noise, the alcohol, and the darkness seemed perfectly well suited to insulate the occupants from the reality outside. Shades of M*A*S*H came to mind.

The local staff all looked very tired. Their appearance was very striking, since many were in their 20s and 30s, when one normally expects people to be full of vigor and hope. Weariness and uncertainty seemed to show. After all, when they go home at night, they may not have a nice place to sleep, hot water, or even family. Several very hard years have passed in their young lives, full of more hardship than anyone should have to bear, and more years are to come. And no one knows what the final outcome will be.

Terry and I drank two beers before Ulla-Britt showed up, and then we had one more before going to her house to sleep. We had come prepared to sleep on the office floor, but she rents a house just a few hundred meters from the main gate of the UNPROFOR compound. A warm house sounded like a better prospect than a cold office floor.

Ulla-Britt Englund is a lovely Swedish woman in mid- late 40s, I guess. She's tall and thin, and her full hair is a dark henna with nice waves and curls. She went to sea at 16, and soon thereafter she enrolled in marine radio school, where she spent 18 months learning how to be a radio operator for the Swedish merchant marine.

"It is a life I love very much," she told me with her sing-songy Swedish accent, while gesturing with the ever-present Prince cigarette in her hand. Her English is very good, but she does get tongue-tied on some words. She's not afraid to try new expressions, and the results are often humorous. Ulla-Britt has some fantastic stories, but she's modest. She is well travelled, especially through Europe and the Americas. She eventually married and served with her husband aboard ship, and she had a daughter, who is now grown. She obviously misses sea life, but there are no longer jobs for her in Sweden with the switch to Inmarsat. Ulla-Britt, like the radio operators here, came to this place because there was some opportunity. She likes sad country and western music, and one of her dreams is to go to Branson, Missouri.

The house was fantastic. Two bedrooms, and with nice modern apppointments. A wood stove for heat. Her landlords live in a house trailer behind the house, and they came by shortly after we arrived. (They're a bit nosey.) They don't speak English very much, but they insisted we take some of their homemade wine, cheese, and bread. Very nice. They also made the point that it was Krajina wine. No doubt.

Terry, Ulla-Britt, and I sat up a while longer and chatted, drank a little wine, and listened to country and western music. Ulla is a big C&W fan. Finally, about 2300 I was very tired and said good night, and turned in. It had been an exciting day. Even though I had seen many disturbing images, I was very relaxed and looked forward to a good night's sleep.

My sleeping bag was warm and secure, and I soon slumbered soundly... Until shortly after midnight, when a burst of automatic gunfire startled me awake.

It sounded like someone had fired about 20 rounds. The sound injected a major dose of adrenaline into my body, and my heart pumped wildly. I listened for more shots. Were the shots far away? Were they coming closer? Why am I here?

No one else in the house stirred. Since I heard no more shots, I eased into a fitful sleep for a couple more hours. Then the wind started blowing very heavily, and the outside shutters flapped about, waking me up again. All kinds of wild thoughts ran through my head, and I worried about working on the roof the next day. I was awake about an hour when I finally heard Ulla-Britt's alarm go off, and I was glad my restless night was over.

As the sun rose and my head cleared, I could see the day was perfectly clear and calm. (So much for worrying about the wind atop the roof.) The snow line in the mountains had moved down a few hundred meters during the night's storm, and visibility was unlimited. I downed a cup of coffee and ate a banana for breakfast, and the three of us walked back to the UNPROFOR compound.

I was absolutely overwhelmed with the beauty of the place, and I think the others got a little annoyed at my constant ooooohs and ahhhhs. My first task was to move the mobitel antenna to a new location, re-route the cable, and install the set in the new radio room. I have to admit I took my time up on the roof, because I was admiring the view and enjoying the sunshine. Terry worked inside for a while, then re-routed the antenna cable for one of the HF antennas. Before I knew it, lunch time!

Various sunny spots within the compund had begun to fill with soldiers and civilians enjoying the warmth of the day. It looked almost like a park. After lunch Terry and I wanted to re-orient one of the HF antennas, so it was strung between the HQ building and the building where the International Club was hidden.

The intent was to improve communications between Knin and Zagreb. The operation was a little tricky, since we had to avoid some telephone wires and trees, not to mention the other antennas on the roof of the HQ building. After about an hour and a half we had successfully transplanted the antenna, and operation had improved a bit. Most other work involved dressing cables, testing, and tidying up a bit. Easy. And by mid-afternoon I had really come to like Knin. I half wished I could sit out my three months there. I expect to go back one day when all the fighting stops and tourism is possible again.

About 1700 Terry and I went to Club Sector South for some beer before dinner, and we ran into some Danish drivers, who'd come down with a convoy that afternoon. They were having a good time blowing off steam. Just after 1800 Ulla-Britt arrived, her day complete, and we went over to the mess hall for another (relatively) fine meal of roast beef.

We made it back to Ulla-Britt's house around 2030, and shortly thereafter her landlady arrived with freshly baked sweetrolls. More conversation, more C&W music, a little more wine, and then bedtime for me. I had the best night's sleep since I'd left home two weeks before.

Terry and I had a leisurely drive back to Zagreb the next day. I drove, and we stopped at a few places to take some pictures. We got back to the city about 1330, where we heard the news about some British drivers who'd been shot near Zenica ("ZEN eetsa") in Bosnia. They were workmates of the other technicians (from the Overseas Development Administration - ODA), and so the mood was rather glum around the office.

Quitting time on Fridays is 1530, and I was glad the week had come to an end. It meant I had the weekend to think about what I'd seen and done and to try to put it down into words. My first week in Croatia had been very full, indeed.