The prodigal son returns...

 

"Well, I’ve certainly been unnecessarily lazy in keeping you all updated! I’m not even in Bosnia anymore, so the ‘Bills in Bosnia’ tagline doesn’t make any sense, and ‘Bills in Welshpool’ is ever so slightly less exotic.

 

So yes, I’m back in ol’ Powys, to save up some pennies before whatever happens next year. I can’t second guess what, or where, or when, but I’ll do my best to make it (vaguely) interesting. My last week or so in the Balkans were really eye opening however, for reasons I really did not expect.

 

After leaving Mostar, I spent a few days in the north of Bosnia, in Banja Luka and Sarajevo. Banja Luka is Bosnia’s second biggest city and the capital of what has become to be known as Republika Srpska, or the Serb Republic in Bosnia. As a result, all traces of Bosnian culture have pretty much been eradicated from the town, to the point where it was very easy to forget I was in Bosnia.

 

Much in the same way that Mostar is dominated by ethnic Croats and Croat graffiti, Banja Luka is the same with Serbs. The four Cyrillic C’s are everywhere, and the beer that you buy is Jelen, Serbia’s main beer. It is a lovely town, set on the banks of the Vrbas River, and with a male: female ratio or 1:7, or seven ladies for every male. Blimey. It was here that I met three cheery Italians, who offered to drive me to Sarajevo the next day if I agreed to join them at a party on the hill, a situation that sounded infinitely better than getting a bus at 7.45am the next day. Needless to say, we got back to the hostel at around 7.45am.

 

Sarajevo was as great as it always is, and it was good to see my friend Juliet’s laundry business thriving. Juliet is one of my best chums out there, a young lady born in Norwich, grew up in Australia and has now been living out in Sarajevo for going on three years. She genuinely is everything that is good about western backpackers in the Balkans, incredibly helpful and passionate about the region despite the inevitable frustrations that come with Balkan customs.

 

I wasn’t there long, but I had time to savour one last Kino Bosna (ouch), before completing my circle and getting the train back to Belgrade, where I would meet up with Eric ‘Wideman’ Wiedemann, for Belgrade Beer Fest 2012.

 

Nobody needs more details about Beer festivals, but I can honestly say that it was the first time in my life that I have had a personal cheering group of children whilst playing beer pong.

 

On my penultimate night in Belgrade, I was sat in the hostel with the super awesome Jovanka (don’t argue with her, she is terrifying), and there were two guys from Guinea staying in the hostel for a few hours. So far, so standard. As football is the universal language of males, I thought I would impress the Guineans with my outstanding knowledge of pointless football, and mentioned Pascal Feindouno, current national captain and a player I remember scoring a goal in the 93rd minute as an 18-year-old to give Bordeaux the French title in 1999. Strangely enough that has never come up in a pub quiz. The conversation moved on from football to Guinea, and the guys started to explain to me the political situation in Guinea.

 

Now, I generally feel like I’m fairly well clued up on the post-independence history of African countries, but this was astounding. It was a 60-year story of misery, dictators and horror. It turned out that these two guys were illegal immigrants, who had escaped out of Guinea towards Europe, had spent a year or so in Greece before going across Macedonia and into Serbia. That night they were hoping to cross into Romania, where they would eventually attempt to move on to the free movement Schengen area of Europe.

 

Now, it is one thing to read about illegal immigrants, and it is another to see an interview with one on television or a documentary. But, this really is nothing compared to a face to face conversation.

 

At this point, my only real worry was finding a flight home that I could afford. I wasn’t paying anything for my accommodation and was able to spend my days reading books surrounded by chums. These guys were essentially living non lives, slowly moving from country to country, smuggling themselves across borders with no identification, no planned destination, no aim other than survival and something approaching peace.

 

They had escaped from the violence of their homes and found themselves in a strange limbo, a space where nothing is certain except that very fact. It was absolutely heartbreaking to hear, to see, to listen to. One of them, Amadou was his name, had an 18-month old child that he hadn’t seen as he had to leave before he was born. Amadou also said that money wasn’t the problem, and never has been the problem. The problem is security and peace, of which there is none in Guinea.

 

I’m not going to get all Bono on you now, mainly because Bono is a fool who has an addiction to patting himself on the back. What I will say, is that we take a lot of things for granted here. I certainly do. There is also a lot of animosity and well, hate, directed towards immigrants, both illegal and legal. What we are forgetting when launching into tirades of abuse however is that we are all human beings and not a single one of us chose to be born where we were. I am incredibly lucky to have been born in Wales, but that doesn’t give me an unquestionable right to a better life than someone who was born in Guinea. So before lamenting foreigners ‘taking your job’, try to understand things from the other perspective. Please.

 

Thus ends my Bono impression.

 

So yes, I’m now back in Welshpool, even making an unplanned comeback to the mighty Welshpool Thirds cricket team, all be it with a golden duck and some questionable shouting from mid off. I’m not sure if these little blogs will continue, that is up to the good people of mywelshpool, but I’ve certainly got plenty of things to say. I can’t promise relevance, but I can promise more Bono impressions!

 

Hvala, vidimo se uskoro.