What drives a man to voluntarily go to a war? Beats me. But here's how it happened to me.
Sunday, 22 April 2012
Thursday, 12 April 2012
3
I'd been a full-time photojournalist since 1985, joining the 'Toronto
Sun' and it's small group of freelance shooters. During the late
1980's, the 'Sun' was a morning daily with circulation hovering around
300,000. I had been lucky to pick up a few awards and I loved working
with the photo desk editors - Barry Gray, Len Fortune and Bob Carroll.
The 'police beat' reporters were stars too, especially Rob Lamberti and
Lee Lamothe. On top of the awards, 'Time' magazine had used a picture of
mine.
The photographers didn't exactly enjoy having a new, keen shooter around. Some simply ignored me. But some were great. Jack Cusano, Mike Peake, Mike Cassese, Warren Toda, Mark O'Neill, Greig Reekie and Paul Henry were great guys.
My first opportunity to do an overseas assignment, a war assignment, didn't come through the newspaper directly. I was approached by a senior writer on the editorial staff. He said he was part of a group of politically-motivated people who would like to see a feature from the ongoing Soviet invasion and occupation of Afghanistan and the fighting with the mujahideen. Was I interested in going?
The basic idea was for me to fly to Pakistan, hike over the border into Afghanistan and shoot some 'bang bang' then fly back. I would get a 'plane ticket, some 'in-country' expenses money and a strict timetable - the group wanted the article and pictures in print before a set date. I said that I was interested but I needed to do some research first.
I hit the magazines in the newspapers library. There were three problems with the project. Firstly, it was strongly rumoured that the Soviet forces were deploying special forces soldiers [Spetznaz] to hunt down western photojournalists, reporters and TV crews. Secondly, the timetable didn't work. The time allowed me a couple of days over six weeks to get back with the story and pictures. From what I read, it would take three weeks to walk from Pakistan into an ongoing area of conflict so I would only have a couple of days actually alongside the muj. And lastly, the mujahideen had a habit of taking any media to the same old blown-up Soviet tank that everyone gets led to, then they shipping you back to Pakistan. For them, job done!
As long as I kept the Spetznaz story from reaching my then-girlfriends ears, that wasn't a problem. But the other two were huge problems. I asked for a later deadline but it wasn't moved. So, unfortunately, I had to turn this job down.
At the start of the war in the former Yugoslavia, Peter Brysky visited the Toronto Sun. He had just graduated from photojournalism college and was looking to expand the content of 'spot news' in his portfolio. One of the many 'part-time' jobs I'd taken on at the newspaper to fund chasing spot-news myself was to work on the night shift of the 'police beat,' listening to a couple of dozen radio scanners and dispatching other photographers to chase calls. So Peter dropped by a few times. His dream, to kick start his career, was to cover the ongoing conflict in Croatia. His 'leg up' was - he figured - his native Polish language skills as Polish is very similar to Serb-Croat.
Peter was dead just eleven days after arriving in Croatia. Whilst in Karlovac, a mortar fragment hit him in the neck and he 'bled out' en route to a hospital. The Toronto Sun sent three more photographers in the next few years, Greig Reekie, Alex Urosevic and Norm Betts.
By 1995 I'd been working back in England for a couple of years, freelancing and doing a contract for a string of local newspapers. By that summer, the war in Croatia was back on the front pages. It didn't take me long to figure it was my turn, although I'd not done much for the Toronto Sun in a while.
At the time, I was driving a small 'hot hatchback' which would be completely unsuitable to use in Croatia. I sold it and bought an eleven year old Volvo 240 estate. It had a huge roof-rack and a four speed gearbox with electric overdrive. I put four new Goodyear heavy duty van tyres on it, then strapped the best of the 'old' rubber to the roof-rack. I tinted the rear glass and put an air mattress, sleeping bag, twelve volt cooler and a single-burner stove in the back. I had the word PRESS printed on the side windows and taped the Canadian flag on both sides. I guessed it would be easier to peel the signage off if it was a liability than to try and get it done in Croatia if it made life there easier.
My camera gear was all Nikon F3HP's with motor drives and prime glass. There were incidents of camera gear being liberated from journalists so I bought two Nikon F601's and some inexpensive zoom lenses. My film stock was Fuji CZ135-36, an excellent colour-negative film. Through a contact at the Daily Express, I found a company that supplied UN/NATO spec 'body armour' so I bought a flak-jacket and ballistic helmet from RBR Armour. These cost almost as much as the Volvo had...
To say the war in the Balkans was dangerous for journalists was a bit of an understatement. It was insane. I'd heard stories of seasoned journalists who had covered conflicts all over the world quit or retire after a few weeks in the former Yugoslavia. During the Second World War sixty-three journalists were killed over seven years. Less than ten a year across the world. During Vietnam and Cambodia sixty-three to sixty-five journalists died over twenty-three years, or about three a year. In the Balkans, just under one hundred journalists died in five years. If you compared the danger you would face in the former Yugoslavia, every DAY you worked in the conflict area, you would be as likely to die as a North American police officer would in his or her entire career.
Nobody really knows how they will handle coming under fire. Would you freeze? Would you run? I'd been involved in two incidents involving guns being fired at me or close to me. While driving in Toronto, I'd unknowingly got between a bank robbery suspect fleeing the police. The speeding van almost hit me. As I jumped out of my car, a plainclothes police officer opened fire at the back of the van firing right past my shoulder. My reaction was anger. The shotgun-toting man was in 'plainclothes' and I turned towards him. He must've sensed I was going to go after him, even though he had a shotgun, and he identified himself as a police officer. Then, while covering a 'barricaded suspect' police call, a tear-gassed suspect opened the front door of his home. I was behind the closest police car. The police expected the suspect to come out on his hands and knees but some people are pretty impervious to tear gas. As I rose up to get my picture, the suspect raised the shotgun and fired. I dropped back behind the cop car as the store window behind me exploded. My reaction was mostly surprise. So on reflection, I thought I'd probably do okay.
Paperwork was optimistically simple. Passport, no Croat visa, no letter of assignment from the newspaper, no UN accreditation. Wing it. I did fill out a 'last will and testament.' I took the late afternoon cross-channel ferry from Dover to Calais and by late evening I was deep into Belgium. I slept in a lay-by and woke next morning in heavy rain. The Volvo wouldn't start. I had it towed to the closest garage and two junior mechanics messed around with it for a couple of hours. The senior man arrived and within minutes had the car running.
The rain continued through Belgium, Luxemburg and Germany. Stopping for fuel in Luxemburg, I bought a couple of cartons of Marlboro cigarettes and stashed them in the glove box. I'd heard that a cigarette or even a pack could pave the way through many road blocks in a conflict area. On one of the autobahn's I found myself in a small convoy of about five cars all travelling at 90-100mph. We were really eating up the miles. This went on for a couple of hours. Then, quite suddenly, all the other cars slowed down but, of course, I kept the speed up and, as the highway crossed a bridge over a river, a flash of light went off. I'd been caught doing around one-hundred-miles-per-hour in a much less liberal zone!
By late evening I'd crossed Germany and I was only a few miles from the Austrian border. The next morning I was looking forward to crossing the Alps. It would've been a memorable experience I'm sure, but that morning the mountains were shrouded in fog. I headed through Austria into Slovenia and past the capital, Ljubljana. This truly was the point on the trip where the old world met the new world. The highway, which for the past seven hundred miles had been at least two well paved lanes in each direction, became just a two lane road with dirt shoulders. The articulated trucks drove with one set of wheels in the centre of their lane and the other set in the middle of the shoulder forming a 'suicide' passing lane for cars down the centre of the road. I watched this, for a while, then joined in!
I reached the Slovenian-Croatian border post near Jesenice mid-morning. The border guard's brother lived in Canada so my visa didn't take long coming. Once I entered Zagreb, I was wondering how, exactly, I was going to locate the United Nations headquarters so I could get a media pass and plug into the UN's flow of information. As I bumbled along, I spotted a car with UN on the doors so I simply followed it. Luckily, it was heading to the UN HQ and not away from it.
The photographers didn't exactly enjoy having a new, keen shooter around. Some simply ignored me. But some were great. Jack Cusano, Mike Peake, Mike Cassese, Warren Toda, Mark O'Neill, Greig Reekie and Paul Henry were great guys.
My first opportunity to do an overseas assignment, a war assignment, didn't come through the newspaper directly. I was approached by a senior writer on the editorial staff. He said he was part of a group of politically-motivated people who would like to see a feature from the ongoing Soviet invasion and occupation of Afghanistan and the fighting with the mujahideen. Was I interested in going?
The basic idea was for me to fly to Pakistan, hike over the border into Afghanistan and shoot some 'bang bang' then fly back. I would get a 'plane ticket, some 'in-country' expenses money and a strict timetable - the group wanted the article and pictures in print before a set date. I said that I was interested but I needed to do some research first.
I hit the magazines in the newspapers library. There were three problems with the project. Firstly, it was strongly rumoured that the Soviet forces were deploying special forces soldiers [Spetznaz] to hunt down western photojournalists, reporters and TV crews. Secondly, the timetable didn't work. The time allowed me a couple of days over six weeks to get back with the story and pictures. From what I read, it would take three weeks to walk from Pakistan into an ongoing area of conflict so I would only have a couple of days actually alongside the muj. And lastly, the mujahideen had a habit of taking any media to the same old blown-up Soviet tank that everyone gets led to, then they shipping you back to Pakistan. For them, job done!
As long as I kept the Spetznaz story from reaching my then-girlfriends ears, that wasn't a problem. But the other two were huge problems. I asked for a later deadline but it wasn't moved. So, unfortunately, I had to turn this job down.
At the start of the war in the former Yugoslavia, Peter Brysky visited the Toronto Sun. He had just graduated from photojournalism college and was looking to expand the content of 'spot news' in his portfolio. One of the many 'part-time' jobs I'd taken on at the newspaper to fund chasing spot-news myself was to work on the night shift of the 'police beat,' listening to a couple of dozen radio scanners and dispatching other photographers to chase calls. So Peter dropped by a few times. His dream, to kick start his career, was to cover the ongoing conflict in Croatia. His 'leg up' was - he figured - his native Polish language skills as Polish is very similar to Serb-Croat.
Peter was dead just eleven days after arriving in Croatia. Whilst in Karlovac, a mortar fragment hit him in the neck and he 'bled out' en route to a hospital. The Toronto Sun sent three more photographers in the next few years, Greig Reekie, Alex Urosevic and Norm Betts.
By 1995 I'd been working back in England for a couple of years, freelancing and doing a contract for a string of local newspapers. By that summer, the war in Croatia was back on the front pages. It didn't take me long to figure it was my turn, although I'd not done much for the Toronto Sun in a while.
At the time, I was driving a small 'hot hatchback' which would be completely unsuitable to use in Croatia. I sold it and bought an eleven year old Volvo 240 estate. It had a huge roof-rack and a four speed gearbox with electric overdrive. I put four new Goodyear heavy duty van tyres on it, then strapped the best of the 'old' rubber to the roof-rack. I tinted the rear glass and put an air mattress, sleeping bag, twelve volt cooler and a single-burner stove in the back. I had the word PRESS printed on the side windows and taped the Canadian flag on both sides. I guessed it would be easier to peel the signage off if it was a liability than to try and get it done in Croatia if it made life there easier.
My camera gear was all Nikon F3HP's with motor drives and prime glass. There were incidents of camera gear being liberated from journalists so I bought two Nikon F601's and some inexpensive zoom lenses. My film stock was Fuji CZ135-36, an excellent colour-negative film. Through a contact at the Daily Express, I found a company that supplied UN/NATO spec 'body armour' so I bought a flak-jacket and ballistic helmet from RBR Armour. These cost almost as much as the Volvo had...
To say the war in the Balkans was dangerous for journalists was a bit of an understatement. It was insane. I'd heard stories of seasoned journalists who had covered conflicts all over the world quit or retire after a few weeks in the former Yugoslavia. During the Second World War sixty-three journalists were killed over seven years. Less than ten a year across the world. During Vietnam and Cambodia sixty-three to sixty-five journalists died over twenty-three years, or about three a year. In the Balkans, just under one hundred journalists died in five years. If you compared the danger you would face in the former Yugoslavia, every DAY you worked in the conflict area, you would be as likely to die as a North American police officer would in his or her entire career.
Nobody really knows how they will handle coming under fire. Would you freeze? Would you run? I'd been involved in two incidents involving guns being fired at me or close to me. While driving in Toronto, I'd unknowingly got between a bank robbery suspect fleeing the police. The speeding van almost hit me. As I jumped out of my car, a plainclothes police officer opened fire at the back of the van firing right past my shoulder. My reaction was anger. The shotgun-toting man was in 'plainclothes' and I turned towards him. He must've sensed I was going to go after him, even though he had a shotgun, and he identified himself as a police officer. Then, while covering a 'barricaded suspect' police call, a tear-gassed suspect opened the front door of his home. I was behind the closest police car. The police expected the suspect to come out on his hands and knees but some people are pretty impervious to tear gas. As I rose up to get my picture, the suspect raised the shotgun and fired. I dropped back behind the cop car as the store window behind me exploded. My reaction was mostly surprise. So on reflection, I thought I'd probably do okay.
Paperwork was optimistically simple. Passport, no Croat visa, no letter of assignment from the newspaper, no UN accreditation. Wing it. I did fill out a 'last will and testament.' I took the late afternoon cross-channel ferry from Dover to Calais and by late evening I was deep into Belgium. I slept in a lay-by and woke next morning in heavy rain. The Volvo wouldn't start. I had it towed to the closest garage and two junior mechanics messed around with it for a couple of hours. The senior man arrived and within minutes had the car running.
The rain continued through Belgium, Luxemburg and Germany. Stopping for fuel in Luxemburg, I bought a couple of cartons of Marlboro cigarettes and stashed them in the glove box. I'd heard that a cigarette or even a pack could pave the way through many road blocks in a conflict area. On one of the autobahn's I found myself in a small convoy of about five cars all travelling at 90-100mph. We were really eating up the miles. This went on for a couple of hours. Then, quite suddenly, all the other cars slowed down but, of course, I kept the speed up and, as the highway crossed a bridge over a river, a flash of light went off. I'd been caught doing around one-hundred-miles-per-hour in a much less liberal zone!
By late evening I'd crossed Germany and I was only a few miles from the Austrian border. The next morning I was looking forward to crossing the Alps. It would've been a memorable experience I'm sure, but that morning the mountains were shrouded in fog. I headed through Austria into Slovenia and past the capital, Ljubljana. This truly was the point on the trip where the old world met the new world. The highway, which for the past seven hundred miles had been at least two well paved lanes in each direction, became just a two lane road with dirt shoulders. The articulated trucks drove with one set of wheels in the centre of their lane and the other set in the middle of the shoulder forming a 'suicide' passing lane for cars down the centre of the road. I watched this, for a while, then joined in!
I reached the Slovenian-Croatian border post near Jesenice mid-morning. The border guard's brother lived in Canada so my visa didn't take long coming. Once I entered Zagreb, I was wondering how, exactly, I was going to locate the United Nations headquarters so I could get a media pass and plug into the UN's flow of information. As I bumbled along, I spotted a car with UN on the doors so I simply followed it. Luckily, it was heading to the UN HQ and not away from it.
5
A quick 'phone call to the 'Toronto Sun' and a fax back to the United
Nations and I had my UN accreditation. Then a drive to the Croatian
military offices and I had my Croat military accreditation. The UN also
provided me with a long list of essential medical supplies I needed to
have on me anywhere near the conflict area - essentially anywhere as
even Zagreb had come under attack. I found a cheap place to stay not far
from the UN but once or twice I'd simply sleep in the back of the Volvo
rather than drive from the conflict area and have to drive back the
next morning.
The accreditation nobody [I knew of] had was the one I'd need to pass Croat police roadblocks. To keep people away from the fighting, the first road block you ran into was either military or police. The military were fairly easy to deal with but the police would just turn you around back to where you'd come from.
The UN offered several informative lectures to 'new arrivals' and I chose to take 'mines awareness' and 'vehicle hijack.' Mines awareness was a must. There were hundreds of minefields and a dozen or so different types of mines including the nasty PROM-1 which, when triggered, jumped to roughly groin-height before exploding - a real setback if you are equipped with body parts usually found on the male human species, but not the female...
Within twenty-four hours of arriving, I'd also been approached by a Canadian officer who invited me to his office. The outer office had several NCO's working too. The officer explained that the UN soldiers had to get permission from the Croat military before they could go to any sensitive area's. The media, he explained, saw much more of the country than the UN. Would I mind coming by his office each night and letting him know where I'd been and what I'd seen? So this as the uniformed side of James Bond. This officer, no doubt, was part of CSIS - the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service. The Canadian equivalent to the British Security and Intelligence Service, as MI6 was now known. I suppose that although the chance of me passing on any useful information was slim, the cost was as good as it gets. I was now a spy of sorts. I did give him a chuckle, a few days later, when I asked about the possibility of Dutch mercinaries fighting for the Croats. I hadn't seen Croat military licence plates before and they are very similar to the Dutch national plates. He put me right, then pushed a large scale map of the conflict area across his desk. "I'm not allowed to give these maps to journalists." He then stood up, turn around and studied another map hanging behind his desk. It gave me time to slide the map from the desk into my jacket pocket.
My daily routine was to shower and shave, then drive the short distance to the UN HQ. I would park on some waste ground opposite the main entrance. No matter what the time was, I'd try and get in early. The Swedish UN troops guarding the headquarters got to know me quickly but still checked my UN accreditation every time I wanted access. There was always some shady-looking older men hanging around the gate - Croatian police officers, I was told. At the press office, I'd read the 'wire' output - all the previous days stories. I'd developed an inside contact, an Aussie or Kiwi civilian working for, I believe, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. If he saw me in the compound, he would wander over and give me tips. 'Karlovac, mate. Big battle. get there.' If it was something I hadn't read about in the wire copy, it was going to be very fresh. I'd often then forgo the daily press briefing, which was mainly a soundbite for the television crews, and head out immediately. If I stayed for the briefing, the fifteen minutes before the scheduled start was tough for me, a 'new guy.' Everyone got into their own chat groups.
Military roadblocks could be quite risky. If my plan was to head out to the conflict area, I would try and set off as early as I could. By lunchtime, some soldiers would have consumed quite a bit of alcohol, which could sometimes throw all the rules out of the window.
I had a small Sony short-wave radio which was invaluable for getting hourly updates on the fighting. The speed of the BBC World Service reporting was nothing short of amazing. You'd literally be watching smoke rise from a village in the distance and fifteen minutes later... 'We can report heavy shelling by Serb forces into the village of...'
There were times when it felt safer not to shoot a picture than to shoot one. One morning I was driving south of Zagreb when I chanced on a group of about twenty Croat soldiers crowded around a couple of benches outside a cafe. All the soldiers were each wearing a kind of straw hat. I guessed it was maybe a festival of some kind. They'd seen me driving past and had not reacted but as soon as I touched the Volvo's brakes, all the conversation stopped and every pair of eyes was on me. I simply kept driving.
I tried to go through the town of Velica Gorica whenever I was covering stories in the area's south of Zagreb, mostly beyond Glina and Sisak. There was a superb ice cream shop in Velica Gorica and I'd often park in the town and get my daily fix of comfort food. The owner got to know me and what flavour's I liked.
My experience of Zagreb fast-food was less pleasant. I parked the Volvo outside the railway station and walked over to a food stall outside the doors. There was a hamburger and a cheeseburger pushed to the front of the glass cover, both crawling with flies. But a fresh cheeseburger sounded like... paradise? Anyway, I pointed to the cheeseburger and waited for the assistant to locate the ingredients from below the display. But she simply took the cheeseburger from the display and put the burger on the grill. Never has food been faster... into a bin.
The accreditation nobody [I knew of] had was the one I'd need to pass Croat police roadblocks. To keep people away from the fighting, the first road block you ran into was either military or police. The military were fairly easy to deal with but the police would just turn you around back to where you'd come from.
The UN offered several informative lectures to 'new arrivals' and I chose to take 'mines awareness' and 'vehicle hijack.' Mines awareness was a must. There were hundreds of minefields and a dozen or so different types of mines including the nasty PROM-1 which, when triggered, jumped to roughly groin-height before exploding - a real setback if you are equipped with body parts usually found on the male human species, but not the female...
Within twenty-four hours of arriving, I'd also been approached by a Canadian officer who invited me to his office. The outer office had several NCO's working too. The officer explained that the UN soldiers had to get permission from the Croat military before they could go to any sensitive area's. The media, he explained, saw much more of the country than the UN. Would I mind coming by his office each night and letting him know where I'd been and what I'd seen? So this as the uniformed side of James Bond. This officer, no doubt, was part of CSIS - the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service. The Canadian equivalent to the British Security and Intelligence Service, as MI6 was now known. I suppose that although the chance of me passing on any useful information was slim, the cost was as good as it gets. I was now a spy of sorts. I did give him a chuckle, a few days later, when I asked about the possibility of Dutch mercinaries fighting for the Croats. I hadn't seen Croat military licence plates before and they are very similar to the Dutch national plates. He put me right, then pushed a large scale map of the conflict area across his desk. "I'm not allowed to give these maps to journalists." He then stood up, turn around and studied another map hanging behind his desk. It gave me time to slide the map from the desk into my jacket pocket.
My daily routine was to shower and shave, then drive the short distance to the UN HQ. I would park on some waste ground opposite the main entrance. No matter what the time was, I'd try and get in early. The Swedish UN troops guarding the headquarters got to know me quickly but still checked my UN accreditation every time I wanted access. There was always some shady-looking older men hanging around the gate - Croatian police officers, I was told. At the press office, I'd read the 'wire' output - all the previous days stories. I'd developed an inside contact, an Aussie or Kiwi civilian working for, I believe, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. If he saw me in the compound, he would wander over and give me tips. 'Karlovac, mate. Big battle. get there.' If it was something I hadn't read about in the wire copy, it was going to be very fresh. I'd often then forgo the daily press briefing, which was mainly a soundbite for the television crews, and head out immediately. If I stayed for the briefing, the fifteen minutes before the scheduled start was tough for me, a 'new guy.' Everyone got into their own chat groups.
Military roadblocks could be quite risky. If my plan was to head out to the conflict area, I would try and set off as early as I could. By lunchtime, some soldiers would have consumed quite a bit of alcohol, which could sometimes throw all the rules out of the window.
I had a small Sony short-wave radio which was invaluable for getting hourly updates on the fighting. The speed of the BBC World Service reporting was nothing short of amazing. You'd literally be watching smoke rise from a village in the distance and fifteen minutes later... 'We can report heavy shelling by Serb forces into the village of...'
There were times when it felt safer not to shoot a picture than to shoot one. One morning I was driving south of Zagreb when I chanced on a group of about twenty Croat soldiers crowded around a couple of benches outside a cafe. All the soldiers were each wearing a kind of straw hat. I guessed it was maybe a festival of some kind. They'd seen me driving past and had not reacted but as soon as I touched the Volvo's brakes, all the conversation stopped and every pair of eyes was on me. I simply kept driving.
I tried to go through the town of Velica Gorica whenever I was covering stories in the area's south of Zagreb, mostly beyond Glina and Sisak. There was a superb ice cream shop in Velica Gorica and I'd often park in the town and get my daily fix of comfort food. The owner got to know me and what flavour's I liked.
My experience of Zagreb fast-food was less pleasant. I parked the Volvo outside the railway station and walked over to a food stall outside the doors. There was a hamburger and a cheeseburger pushed to the front of the glass cover, both crawling with flies. But a fresh cheeseburger sounded like... paradise? Anyway, I pointed to the cheeseburger and waited for the assistant to locate the ingredients from below the display. But she simply took the cheeseburger from the display and put the burger on the grill. Never has food been faster... into a bin.
7
After the meeting, I'd decide what story I was going to chase. The
Volvo was pretty comfortable and I now knew enough to never drive off
the paved area of roadway. The flak jacket and helmet lived on the
passenger seat. The kevlar helmet wouldn't stop a bullet, it would only
protect you from shell or mortar fragments. The flak jacket, if you
were hit in the centre body mass, would stop up to a 7.62mm rifle
bullet. The rest of the jacket, like the helmet, would only protect you
against shell or mortar fragments. Through out my time in Croatia, I was
never wearing the flak jacket and helmet when either I was shot at or
there was a high probability of shots being fired, except an incident on
the Kupa River. Extreme violence is rarely expected, things just go
'pear-shaped' in a big hurry. The reason the body armour spent almost
it's entire life on the passenger seat was sandwiched between two huge,
heavy ceramic plates it was almost impossible to drive in it.
My ex-girlfriend had sent me 'Hell Freezes Over' by The Eagles, which I spent a lot of time listening to, but I had a couple of dozen tapes. You never listened to music close to the conflict area though. It was vital to be able to hear what direction any incoming fire was coming from so. regardless of the weather, the windows got rolled down and the music turned off. Two tunes from 'Hell Freezes Over' became lifelong favourites. Some of the lyrics from 'I Can't Tell you Why' and 'Wasted Time' really resonated with me in this weird environment. I didn't really pick any one or two tunes but I became a huge 'Bruce Hornsby and the Range' fan in Croatia too.
One of the first stories I wanted to get was about the Canadian peacekeepers in Rastevic. One morning I headed down the highway to Karlovac, where Peter Brysky had died a few years back. East of Karlovac, I passed a big UNHCR aid convoy being 'held' by Croat troops. Nothing ticked me off more. Sometimes these humanitarian convoys were held up for days, shot at and even looted as they waited for various warlords to let the convoy's pass through. The UNHCR had offered to take me on one of these convoys but I wouldn't be allowed to bring my camera's so, for me, there wasn't any point. The unarmed aid convoy's UNHCR driver's were simply the bravest people I've ever met.
Another very special group of the UN were the Military Observers. These guys stayed in extremely viscious area's to see how many shots and shells were fired an hour and, if possible, who was shooting and shelling whom.
South of Karlovac I joined a line of vehicles waiting at a military roadblock. When it came to my turn, I produced my UN and Croat military identity cards but the soldiers motioned me back towards Karlovac. They were on a short fuse. As soon as I hesitated, I found the business end of a Kalashnikov resting on the top of my door and the barrel pointed at my chest and neck. The previous day, BBC Radio reporter John Schofield had been shot dead just a few miles away near Vrginmost so, on this occasion, I didn't press my luck. I stopped a little way away and shot some pictures of an abandoned block building which had been a checkpoint until recently. I noticed my hands were not shaking, which seemed like a good sign.
My ex-girlfriend had sent me 'Hell Freezes Over' by The Eagles, which I spent a lot of time listening to, but I had a couple of dozen tapes. You never listened to music close to the conflict area though. It was vital to be able to hear what direction any incoming fire was coming from so. regardless of the weather, the windows got rolled down and the music turned off. Two tunes from 'Hell Freezes Over' became lifelong favourites. Some of the lyrics from 'I Can't Tell you Why' and 'Wasted Time' really resonated with me in this weird environment. I didn't really pick any one or two tunes but I became a huge 'Bruce Hornsby and the Range' fan in Croatia too.
One of the first stories I wanted to get was about the Canadian peacekeepers in Rastevic. One morning I headed down the highway to Karlovac, where Peter Brysky had died a few years back. East of Karlovac, I passed a big UNHCR aid convoy being 'held' by Croat troops. Nothing ticked me off more. Sometimes these humanitarian convoys were held up for days, shot at and even looted as they waited for various warlords to let the convoy's pass through. The UNHCR had offered to take me on one of these convoys but I wouldn't be allowed to bring my camera's so, for me, there wasn't any point. The unarmed aid convoy's UNHCR driver's were simply the bravest people I've ever met.
Another very special group of the UN were the Military Observers. These guys stayed in extremely viscious area's to see how many shots and shells were fired an hour and, if possible, who was shooting and shelling whom.
South of Karlovac I joined a line of vehicles waiting at a military roadblock. When it came to my turn, I produced my UN and Croat military identity cards but the soldiers motioned me back towards Karlovac. They were on a short fuse. As soon as I hesitated, I found the business end of a Kalashnikov resting on the top of my door and the barrel pointed at my chest and neck. The previous day, BBC Radio reporter John Schofield had been shot dead just a few miles away near Vrginmost so, on this occasion, I didn't press my luck. I stopped a little way away and shot some pictures of an abandoned block building which had been a checkpoint until recently. I noticed my hands were not shaking, which seemed like a good sign.
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