TheTraveler

 

Sarajevo New Year
By Michael Logan

It's not every day your hotel receptionist tries to kill you. I had dumped my bag, and asked where to stroll before venturing out for a New Year's night on the tiles in Sarajevo. 'Ilidza,' replied the young woman behind the desk, 'is very pretty.'

Ilidza is indeed pretty. Volcanic springs belch smoke into the air, obscuring the distant snowy peaks of Mount Jahorina, and families wander amidst the sculpted parklands. As I wind my way along the paths, I make a mental note to thank the receptionist. Then I reach the ruined hotels that served as military headquarters during the war. Around this central square, yellow tape warning of unexploded mines cordons off the grass. At this point I realise nobody is leaving the tarmac or letting Rover off the leash. I delete my mental note.

This kind of war damage is why many come to Sarajevo, and on the tram-ride back along Zmaja od Bosne, known as Snipers' Alley during the siege, it's easy to see why. Bullet-holes pockmark the walls of flats, scorched buildings lurk amidst the cityscape and late-afternoon sunlight glints on the headstones of overflowing cemeteries.

It may sound depressing, but this kind of scenery makes Sarajevo fascinating. Other Austro-Hungarian cities, such as Prague, Zagreb or Budapest, are undoubtedly gorgeous, but sometimes one city can look much like another. In Sarajevo, beauty sits side-by-side with stark reminders of mankind's brutality, creating striking vistas. It's impossible to forget where you are.

The locals themselves are well aware of the war's marketing power. Many shops sell engraved cartridges, ranging in size from a rifle bullet to a heavy-artillery shell, and local bus companies tour massacre sites and provide as much gory detail as you can stomach.

This attitude is also apparent in the Sarajevo Roses that bloom on roads and pavements. The roses are not a civic initiative to beautify the city; they are holes gouged into the concrete by shellfire. Red rubber has been added to transform these wounds into both a tourist attraction and a monument to those who died.

Although the war still looms large in the architecture of the city and memory of the locals, this is not a city still in mourning. The locals know how to enjoy themselves, particularly on New Year's Eve.

Having survived my relaxing stroll, I take to the streets with the chain-smoking populace, many of them wearing silver tinsel wigs and clutching Sljivavic plum brandy. Within minutes, I get my first taste of what will become an alarming theme. A giggling teenager cavorts up the street, lights a banger, and tosses it into his friend's hood. A loud bang and a smouldering hole later, they're both throwing firecrackers at passersby.

I flee to where the main party is taking place, and it seems like hostilities have resumed. From the midst of the throng, rockets veer in random directions, looking like tracer fire as they ricochet off buildings. A mother forces her crying toddler to hold a tube which spews multicoloured sparks over the heads of revellers. A 10-year-old boy holds a banger between thumb-and-forefinger while it explodes. Despite extreme trepidation, and with the help of an impatient shove from behind, I venture into the chaos.

Above the banging and screeching of fireworks, Turbofolk blasts over the speakers. This bizarre mix of folk music and techno plays constantly in every bar, restaurant and taxi in Bosnia. After such brainwashing exposure, it's little wonder the bouncing crowd lap it up. The cacophony emanates from a terrifying female singer who has nails to rival Freddy Krueger and hair straight from an American soap opera. From the procession of singers that follow, this would seem to be the standard uniform for Turbofolk stars.

My cowering posture in the face of nearby explosions seems to give away my foreign status, and many people introduce themselves to me in English. The largely Muslim population of Sarajevo see the West as their saviours, so the hugs I receive are genuine and heartfelt.

When my nerve finally cracks, I slip into a side street, but there is no respite from the madness. In a moment of inspired stupidity, a man in his forties fires a huge rocket from a drain. This projectile cartwheels across the road and explodes feet above the heads of two well-dressed women. They duck to avoid the fireball shower, and then continue nonchalantly on their way. War has made the residents of Sarajevo a touch blasé.

By the time midnight rolls around, and the official fireworks display begins, I find myself wondering how much of the damage around the city has been caused by war, and how much by New Year's celebrations. I also vow not to give money to another disabled beggar unless he can prove the loss of the limb wasn't due to too much Sljivavic and a jumbo-sized banger.

The party continues in the square, but I follow the flow of people past the World War II Eternal Flame, which tonight many are using to warm their hands, and along Ferhadija, where Austro-Hungarian buildings tower over the pedestrian precinct. Before long, the pavement gives way to the cobbled lanes of the old town, Bascarsija, and softly-lit minarets spike the sky above rickety one-story buildings.

In Bascarsija, the call to prayer often warbles through the streets. At the appointed hour, the singers clash for supremacy from the numerous minarets, and each takes his turn to command your full attention. When the songs click into unison, the calls meld into an enchanting symphony and send a chill down the spine. Tonight, the voices ringing down the lanes are slurred and raucous, and more likely to cause a wince.

Fountains dot the area, pouring out spring water that is reputed to have healing powers. Queues have formed around these pipes as bedraggled partygoers douse their heads in an attempt to ward off tomorrow's hangover. I lean under a rusty pipe protruding from the wall of the 16th century Gazi Husrev Bey Mosque and come up feeling very cold, but refreshed.

When I emerge onto the riverside, the tattered hulk of the National Library brings the legacy of the recent war back to me. It may be something to do with the alcohol and the happy atmosphere of the evening, but in this firebombed building I see nothing negative. Instead, I see a symbol of the city itself: ravaged but still standing, battered but still beautiful, and in the process of slow regeneration.

I weave back to my accommodation, feeling that the future may be brighter for Sarajevo. Just as long as the locals stay away from the fireworks.

Michael Logan is a freelance writer and journalist based in the United Kingdom.

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