I realise that to write one’s travel blog from the comfort of the kitchen table at home is not quite in the spirit of travel journalism, but the truth is that, when you are paying an annual visit to so many people for such a short time in such a country as Bosnia, and you also have the responsibility for doing all the driving, some of the cooking and looking after your 95 year old Father, the available time for blogging is somewhat limited! Before I proceed with the tales, a quick report for those of you who may have been concerned about the A.P.’s welfare and the wisdom of taking him on such a trip. The first night we spent in the camper at the farm at home was a success. We both were warm and slept well. The small plastic B and Q paint kettle under the bed came in handy a couple of times a night, and neither of us snored, Father because he doesn’t, and me because Father takes his deaf aid out at night. The mornings started fairly early as neither of us are used to sleeping in much, and while Father got washed, I folded his bed away and converted it back to a dining area, and made the essential breakfast which he has eaten all his life, the porridge. 
Then, while he got dressed, I washed and dressed and we both sat down for breakfast. While actually with the families we visit in Bosnia, with the exception of breakfast, we ate all meals together with them. Meals in Bosnia are basic, but wholesome, and he put on ¾ stone in weight, and is almost back to his pre-illness weight. He stayed very well and his spirits soared. In company he was his usual bubbly self again, talking with the old Bosnians, often both sides at once in their own languages, whether there was an interpreter or not! In general a brilliant trip together and surprisingly, for the first time ever, he did not tell them all that he didn’t expect to see them again next year! The Archer may not have any more arrows to fire from his quiver, but it seems he’s not intending to let go of the First arrow he shot just yet.
So, back to the story. When we arrived, we were greeted by the self elected leader of “the five old pioneers”, who I had first met in 1999. Jefto is a remarkable man of 80
distinguished by his Stalinesque moustache. He never changes; same looking clothes, same cap, same twinkle in his eyes. He is tanned and wirey and always cheeky, mischievous and fun. He greeted us both with hugs and kisses and a lot of “Oyoy yoyoy” noises, “Moy doctore,moy doctore…moy Jon, moy Jon”. His wife Jela 
soon joined him with similar expressions of greetings and delight, particularly at Father’s arrival. She has always treated him as a very special guest, ensuring that he has cushions all around him and the best little bits of food. Neither they nor we speak each other’s tongue, although I know a few words of Serbo-Croat now, and yet their welcome needed no real language and our delight in seeing them, none either. Jefto grabbed Father’s arm and escorted us to their house and into the main room of their house, the kitchen. This is still much the same as it was in 2000 when I first returned. It is almost always hot in there from the wood burning stove/cooker. There is a corner bench with blanket and cushion covering and a small table with stools on the other two sides. The walls are furnished with photographs of them and their family, many of them doing agricultural jobs, but this year I noted last year’s and this year’s calendars were on the wall, the annual President Tito Calendars. Jefto in particular was a staunch admirer and supporter of the late President, the only man who has been able to unite the Balkans into a single republic under a liberal communism, and after whose death, the successful former Yugoslavia fell apart in civil war.
It was not long before the coffee was on and Jefto was getting out the Slivovic, motioning to me, out of Father’s gaze, by a gesture with his thumb towards his mouth that we should step outside with our coffee and neck a few! “Oy Paul, moy Paul, moy doctore….Kaffa?.....slivo? I slipped outside with him to the bench in the garden. Father was chattering and gesturing to Jela who was making him a milk coffee from the huge pan of milk simmering on the stove. Him in English, she in Serbian, both deaf and both communicating on some level. She bundled some more cushions behing his back and set a mug of Turkish coffee with milk and some of the special hot skin cram off the top, the Kymac. I sat down with Jefto, having a similar multilingual conversation, but with cigarettes, black Kaffa, and a full tot glass of Slivovic. “Givoli”, Jefto toasted, clinking my glass. “Givoli, cheers” I responded, and we both drained the glass. ( Now, once again, a word to the would be tourists amongst you. The average Bosnian mountain male drinks a very large amount of Slivovic ( pronounced ‘slivovitch’), and a considerable number of daily Pivos (‘peevo’) or beers. Slivo is a home made brandy made from either plums or apples or a mixture of both. It is lethal stuff, and if like me, you really only drink it once a year, the first one, especially if knocked back in a drain-the-glass toast, hits you like a red hot poker down the throat. First, the familiar slightly scenty taste, then the slight warm on your palate. This is followed by a sensation of heat spreading down your gullet and the warmth dribbling into your stomach. The heat dies down again from the throat and you become aware of the warm puddle of almost neat alcohol settled over the plug hole of your stomach waiting to pass your pylorus and then into the painless sensationless drainpipe of your duodenum. By this stage the glass has been filled for the second round! The only way to stop this vicious circle of social alcoholic downward spiralling collapse is to replace your glass upside down on the table, but at this early stage in the proceedings, this would be very rude, and besides, isn’t this ritual part of what I love about Bosnia? It’s quite controllable when you know how to control it, but very difficult to control on your first one or two visits!)
Soon after we have started the ritual, Jefto’s son Zarko arrives and he speaks a little, a very little English.
The greetings repeat themselves, the ritual recommences with a Pivo or two added and a second round of cigarettes. Finally about 5 slivos down, a couple of beers and a about 4 expresso coffees, our real interpreter arrives. Ranka is now 20, a lovely girl who I first met as a 12 year old when she was still exciled from home in a squat with Zarko her father and Milka her mother, in Mrkonjic Grad. She is Jefto’s granddaughter and even at 12 spoke some English and it was clear that she was intelligent, ambitious and had a lot of potential. 
Ranka is a kind, caring, eclectic young woman; a fair, open minded person who, despite all that happened to her as a child during the war, maintains a willingness to see Serbians, Bosniacs and Croatians in equal light. Ranka is my hope for the future in Bosnia and is now at the university studying Law. Father and I have both looked forward to seeing her again. Ranka bubbles into English, rapidly trying to translate all that her grandparents and Father and ourselves are trying to say to each other. These few days with the family are exhausting for her, but her language skills have become excellent, and she copes very well with all but the most demanding of our vocabulary.( Yes….dear reader…I DO occasionally have some extended and demanding vocabulary…especially after my first 5 slivos for the last 18 months). Finally, Ranka's mother arrived from work. Her name is Milka. She has a degree in agriculture and works as an adviser to the local community in such matters. Zarko has a degree in Forestry management, but since the British Army left and the United Nations have reduced their input, he has lost his U.N. Forestry advisory job and is again looking for work, which, in Bosnia, is rather like hunting for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Jefto and Jela live on about £70.00 a month in national support pension.
Then, while he got dressed, I washed and dressed and we both sat down for breakfast. While actually with the families we visit in Bosnia, with the exception of breakfast, we ate all meals together with them. Meals in Bosnia are basic, but wholesome, and he put on ¾ stone in weight, and is almost back to his pre-illness weight. He stayed very well and his spirits soared. In company he was his usual bubbly self again, talking with the old Bosnians, often both sides at once in their own languages, whether there was an interpreter or not! In general a brilliant trip together and surprisingly, for the first time ever, he did not tell them all that he didn’t expect to see them again next year! The Archer may not have any more arrows to fire from his quiver, but it seems he’s not intending to let go of the First arrow he shot just yet.So, back to the story. When we arrived, we were greeted by the self elected leader of “the five old pioneers”, who I had first met in 1999. Jefto is a remarkable man of 80
distinguished by his Stalinesque moustache. He never changes; same looking clothes, same cap, same twinkle in his eyes. He is tanned and wirey and always cheeky, mischievous and fun. He greeted us both with hugs and kisses and a lot of “Oyoy yoyoy” noises, “Moy doctore,moy doctore…moy Jon, moy Jon”. His wife Jela 
soon joined him with similar expressions of greetings and delight, particularly at Father’s arrival. She has always treated him as a very special guest, ensuring that he has cushions all around him and the best little bits of food. Neither they nor we speak each other’s tongue, although I know a few words of Serbo-Croat now, and yet their welcome needed no real language and our delight in seeing them, none either. Jefto grabbed Father’s arm and escorted us to their house and into the main room of their house, the kitchen. This is still much the same as it was in 2000 when I first returned. It is almost always hot in there from the wood burning stove/cooker. There is a corner bench with blanket and cushion covering and a small table with stools on the other two sides. The walls are furnished with photographs of them and their family, many of them doing agricultural jobs, but this year I noted last year’s and this year’s calendars were on the wall, the annual President Tito Calendars. Jefto in particular was a staunch admirer and supporter of the late President, the only man who has been able to unite the Balkans into a single republic under a liberal communism, and after whose death, the successful former Yugoslavia fell apart in civil war.It was not long before the coffee was on and Jefto was getting out the Slivovic, motioning to me, out of Father’s gaze, by a gesture with his thumb towards his mouth that we should step outside with our coffee and neck a few! “Oy Paul, moy Paul, moy doctore….Kaffa?.....slivo? I slipped outside with him to the bench in the garden. Father was chattering and gesturing to Jela who was making him a milk coffee from the huge pan of milk simmering on the stove. Him in English, she in Serbian, both deaf and both communicating on some level. She bundled some more cushions behing his back and set a mug of Turkish coffee with milk and some of the special hot skin cram off the top, the Kymac. I sat down with Jefto, having a similar multilingual conversation, but with cigarettes, black Kaffa, and a full tot glass of Slivovic. “Givoli”, Jefto toasted, clinking my glass. “Givoli, cheers” I responded, and we both drained the glass. ( Now, once again, a word to the would be tourists amongst you. The average Bosnian mountain male drinks a very large amount of Slivovic ( pronounced ‘slivovitch’), and a considerable number of daily Pivos (‘peevo’) or beers. Slivo is a home made brandy made from either plums or apples or a mixture of both. It is lethal stuff, and if like me, you really only drink it once a year, the first one, especially if knocked back in a drain-the-glass toast, hits you like a red hot poker down the throat. First, the familiar slightly scenty taste, then the slight warm on your palate. This is followed by a sensation of heat spreading down your gullet and the warmth dribbling into your stomach. The heat dies down again from the throat and you become aware of the warm puddle of almost neat alcohol settled over the plug hole of your stomach waiting to pass your pylorus and then into the painless sensationless drainpipe of your duodenum. By this stage the glass has been filled for the second round! The only way to stop this vicious circle of social alcoholic downward spiralling collapse is to replace your glass upside down on the table, but at this early stage in the proceedings, this would be very rude, and besides, isn’t this ritual part of what I love about Bosnia? It’s quite controllable when you know how to control it, but very difficult to control on your first one or two visits!)
Soon after we have started the ritual, Jefto’s son Zarko arrives and he speaks a little, a very little English.
The greetings repeat themselves, the ritual recommences with a Pivo or two added and a second round of cigarettes. Finally about 5 slivos down, a couple of beers and a about 4 expresso coffees, our real interpreter arrives. Ranka is now 20, a lovely girl who I first met as a 12 year old when she was still exciled from home in a squat with Zarko her father and Milka her mother, in Mrkonjic Grad. She is Jefto’s granddaughter and even at 12 spoke some English and it was clear that she was intelligent, ambitious and had a lot of potential. 
Ranka is a kind, caring, eclectic young woman; a fair, open minded person who, despite all that happened to her as a child during the war, maintains a willingness to see Serbians, Bosniacs and Croatians in equal light. Ranka is my hope for the future in Bosnia and is now at the university studying Law. Father and I have both looked forward to seeing her again. Ranka bubbles into English, rapidly trying to translate all that her grandparents and Father and ourselves are trying to say to each other. These few days with the family are exhausting for her, but her language skills have become excellent, and she copes very well with all but the most demanding of our vocabulary.( Yes….dear reader…I DO occasionally have some extended and demanding vocabulary…especially after my first 5 slivos for the last 18 months). Finally, Ranka's mother arrived from work. Her name is Milka. She has a degree in agriculture and works as an adviser to the local community in such matters. Zarko has a degree in Forestry management, but since the British Army left and the United Nations have reduced their input, he has lost his U.N. Forestry advisory job and is again looking for work, which, in Bosnia, is rather like hunting for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Jefto and Jela live on about £70.00 a month in national support pension.One thing that is always in good supply is potatoes, (krompir) and that evening we had a dish of roasted potatoes wedges with lumps of roasted lamb bits. It is eaten with a lot of home made bread , often dipped into the roasting pan, together with kymac, this being the skimmings from the constant warmed milk on the stove which are then drained through a seive and concentrated into a more solid form. The result, after several days drying out and being put into large pots, is something like a cross between clotted cream and a light cheese and is used instead of butter. It is a staple food, and appears at almost every meal. Do not even contemplate cholesterol! The first night, as I was enjoying the dinner , I was tugging at a piece of the crust of one of Jela's home made breads and pulled a tooth of my top denture plate. So infuriating, and, although most of the locals have missing or carious teeth, to me, it was embarrassing. I tried to stick it back on in the next 24 hours with superglue, then with Araldite and finally with some Plastic Padding I had in the camper. Each time it came off again. What the hell do they attach teeth to plates with? Are they welded? Anyway, resigned to being toothless for the next 10 to 14 days, I accepted it in good grace; Bosnia puts life and priorities into perspective very rapidly.
We slept soundly and woke to our porridge as usual. As we left the camper at 7.30, Jefto had already been up at least an hour milking the cow. About 2 gallons of fresh milk were in the big pan on the stove. Jela dragged Father inside and stuck him on the corner bench amidst his cushions, and Jefto dragged me outside and the Kaffa and Slivo routine started all over again. Another day dawns in Bosnia. Soon after we are called in for breakfast. Father protests that he has already eaten and can't eat any more, but in vain. He is presented with a fired egg and bread and kymac and a milk coffee. I am presented with 3 eggs, bread and kymac. Definitely DO start to contemplate cholesterol. Ranka has taken a few days off from Uni, but is not yet up and so our protests about being stuffed would be in vain. ( Ranka, like my own daughter, likes to "mong" when she is at home. She knows how to chill out and a long lie in is the order of the day. I can't blame her. When she is up and not at Uni, granny expects her to do a lot of the chores. Later today for example, she has to clean the entire house, bathroom, toilet, floors, and the washing up. Men do little to help. It is like pre-Second World War roles in England. When British women were burning their bras and wearing hot pants in the 60's, Yugoslav women were dressed in canvas bras and boiler suits. Now they are dressed in "western 1980's style" mostly, but their job roles haven't changed much. The men have the drinking to do and the women have the clearing up and support role to do. Granny pretty much rules the roost, both Ranka and her mother, Milka, do a lot in the house to support Jela and the men folk. Now, today, Friday, Zarko, is not going to go to work because he has a job to do here. Milka has already left for her work. Zarko is expecting a vist from the travelling "Moonshine man"!
Soon after 8 o'clock, a tractor pulls onto the croft with a trailer and some large container inside.
This is a chap from 500 metres up the road. His name is Branko and he owns.........a still. Yes, it's April, it's "Moonshine time" and they have planned it for us to join in! I hardly dared mention it to Father. He is a strict teetotaller and even Jefto has got the message that he tries to avoid letting Father see when he is plying me with Slico or Pivo. I broke the news gently. Father takes it in his stride and it is just another different thing of interest here. We are taken down to the old house, the house which used to be lived in by Jefto's uncle and aunt until they died. It is a traditional Bosnian peasant house, made of logs, like a Western block house, interlocked by tenon joints at each corner. The roof likewise is made of wooden tiles and even the guttering is mad from trunks, hacked out with an adze and supported on natural shaped bent branches which for the roof timbers. Underneath is the old cow shed and inside are 5, 25 gallon oil drums lined with polythene bags, 
in which we are shown a foul smelling mash of apples and plums which have been maturing there since they were picked last autumn. Gradually, Branko, Jefto, Zarko and I assemble the wonderful piece of kit which would of course be totally illegal here in this country. It consisted of a large steel burner with a door in the side and grate underneath in which was set a beautifully shaped copper boiling vat with acollecting funnel all hand beaten to shap. This vessel had a large screw down opening into it at the side and a large pipe from the lower side which came to a shut handle door on the outside of the steel burner. From the top of the funnel a pipe, almsost 6 feet in the air ran some 12 feet to another large steel vessel, about 50 gallons with what looked like a large silencer box in it. Inside the 'silencer', the connecting pipe joined a tight copper coil which came to a tap at the bottom which came out through the side of the large tank. Branko takes a tin from his tractor and inside it is a mixture of white and brown wholemeal flour. He adds some water from the cistern and proceeds to mould it with his fingers into a very dry dough and this is used as the fire cement to seal all the pipes. Jela id around with a large
polythene sheet collecting all the pieces of plum tree prunings and bringing them over. Branko lights the fire in the big burner under the copper vessel. Smoke wisps into the warm sunny morning air and the flames start to lap out of the door. Zarko and Jefto get buckets of the mash and start to pour it into the lock down opening in the top of the vessel.. It takes about 15 gallons of the thick stinking mash. The fire gets hotter. Zarko puts a pump down the deep water storage cistern. Water starts to fill the other tank around the outside of the 'silencer box'. Jefto sits himself down on a chair alongside the boiling vessel and starts to turn a big handle in the side which turns a ratchet inside which moves three paddles round inside to keep 
the mash from sticking to it. The process is underway. It lasts for the next 48 hours! Gradually the mash boils, the alcoholic steam passes along the funnel and the collecting pipe into the silencer condenser. The cold water jacket condenses the distillate and it comes out through the tap at the bottom into a bucket, which is periodically emptied into other large containers. When the mash is very thick and difficult to stir, the process is over. It is checked by testing the tap liquid with a hygrometer. When the alcohol concentration drops back, the process is stopped. The lever on the side of the boiling vessel is opened and boiling hot diarrhoea issue forthe with a wonderful scent of apples and plums. Steam and smoke rise together. The sludge is collected in a vast wooden trough and then taken for feeding to the pigs and cows. At the end, when all the mash had been boiled, the vessel wash washed out with fresh water and then the distillate was put in for a second go. Now the alcohol content of the first distillate was 42% proof. The second time round it was 78% alcohol! Bloody rocket fuel! Branko demonstrated that the stuff bursts into flame if it is thrown on the top of the boiling vessel!. The buckets have to be kept clear of the burner when being moved...they are explosive...it's as flammable as petrol...you could drive a car on it! He chattily related the story of the men who had been badly burned by exploding buckets of Slivovic when passing the boiler!
This is a chap from 500 metres up the road. His name is Branko and he owns.........a still. Yes, it's April, it's "Moonshine time" and they have planned it for us to join in! I hardly dared mention it to Father. He is a strict teetotaller and even Jefto has got the message that he tries to avoid letting Father see when he is plying me with Slico or Pivo. I broke the news gently. Father takes it in his stride and it is just another different thing of interest here. We are taken down to the old house, the house which used to be lived in by Jefto's uncle and aunt until they died. It is a traditional Bosnian peasant house, made of logs, like a Western block house, interlocked by tenon joints at each corner. The roof likewise is made of wooden tiles and even the guttering is mad from trunks, hacked out with an adze and supported on natural shaped bent branches which for the roof timbers. Underneath is the old cow shed and inside are 5, 25 gallon oil drums lined with polythene bags, 
in which we are shown a foul smelling mash of apples and plums which have been maturing there since they were picked last autumn. Gradually, Branko, Jefto, Zarko and I assemble the wonderful piece of kit which would of course be totally illegal here in this country. It consisted of a large steel burner with a door in the side and grate underneath in which was set a beautifully shaped copper boiling vat with acollecting funnel all hand beaten to shap. This vessel had a large screw down opening into it at the side and a large pipe from the lower side which came to a shut handle door on the outside of the steel burner. From the top of the funnel a pipe, almsost 6 feet in the air ran some 12 feet to another large steel vessel, about 50 gallons with what looked like a large silencer box in it. Inside the 'silencer', the connecting pipe joined a tight copper coil which came to a tap at the bottom which came out through the side of the large tank. Branko takes a tin from his tractor and inside it is a mixture of white and brown wholemeal flour. He adds some water from the cistern and proceeds to mould it with his fingers into a very dry dough and this is used as the fire cement to seal all the pipes. Jela id around with a large
polythene sheet collecting all the pieces of plum tree prunings and bringing them over. Branko lights the fire in the big burner under the copper vessel. Smoke wisps into the warm sunny morning air and the flames start to lap out of the door. Zarko and Jefto get buckets of the mash and start to pour it into the lock down opening in the top of the vessel.. It takes about 15 gallons of the thick stinking mash. The fire gets hotter. Zarko puts a pump down the deep water storage cistern. Water starts to fill the other tank around the outside of the 'silencer box'. Jefto sits himself down on a chair alongside the boiling vessel and starts to turn a big handle in the side which turns a ratchet inside which moves three paddles round inside to keep 
the mash from sticking to it. The process is underway. It lasts for the next 48 hours! Gradually the mash boils, the alcoholic steam passes along the funnel and the collecting pipe into the silencer condenser. The cold water jacket condenses the distillate and it comes out through the tap at the bottom into a bucket, which is periodically emptied into other large containers. When the mash is very thick and difficult to stir, the process is over. It is checked by testing the tap liquid with a hygrometer. When the alcohol concentration drops back, the process is stopped. The lever on the side of the boiling vessel is opened and boiling hot diarrhoea issue forthe with a wonderful scent of apples and plums. Steam and smoke rise together. The sludge is collected in a vast wooden trough and then taken for feeding to the pigs and cows. At the end, when all the mash had been boiled, the vessel wash washed out with fresh water and then the distillate was put in for a second go. Now the alcohol content of the first distillate was 42% proof. The second time round it was 78% alcohol! Bloody rocket fuel! Branko demonstrated that the stuff bursts into flame if it is thrown on the top of the boiling vessel!. The buckets have to be kept clear of the burner when being moved...they are explosive...it's as flammable as petrol...you could drive a car on it! He chattily related the story of the men who had been badly burned by exploding buckets of Slivovic when passing the boiler!Sorry...am tired and have gone to bed.......more to come in next few days. This Saturday I have to finish chucking things out at Evesham and tidying up the house. Wait for the results of the distilling, the trip to Zavidivici, the visit to Al and Sanja in Strasburg to see their new baby, and the cherry on top of the cake...the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Best wishes, Doc.
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