Foča // Conveniently Located in the Middle of Nowhere
A man at the end of the country // © John Bills
Breaking down in the middle of nowhere seems to be a theme.
It had been a gorgeous day until that point, all things considered. We had been exploring the wilds of the Drina Valley, heading up dirt roads in search of natural beauty and curious creations of time and science. Human creation too, as we passed a collection of rafting camps, each as exciting and prepared as the rest. There was Highlander, offering a little bit of everything with a stunning view of the Drina river, mountain huts for accommodation that allowed it to more than live up to its moniker.
There was Tara 87, right on the border with Montenegro. A dramatic route around the border brought us to Encijan, where 15 years of experience made for unforgettable adrenaline-fuelled memories. Rafting Camp DMD, Rafting Centar Drina-Tara, plenty more. If you are looking for rafting, following the Drina from Foča towards Montenegro will see you right.
The roads were difficult, but the views were stunning. We eventually stopped at an opening onto the river, Montenegro waiting on the other side. I sat down in a camping chair and thought all sorts of darling thoughts about making it to the end of Bosnia and Herzegovina, safe in the knowledge that I had years more of the place to go yet.
Not a bad place to be stuck, to say the least // © John Bills
All that was before we had broken down in the middle of nowhere, or at least the middle of the Drina Valley. It almost certainly wasn’t the middle, you can’t really get stuck in the middle of anywhere unless you have some serious luck. We’d broken down somewhere in the Drina Valley, a somewhere that also happened to be by a dude collecting sticks. Why he was collecting sticks, I don’t know, but it did make for a curious sight and a turgid conversation.
I might have mentioned it before, but my biggest fear in life? Being lost at sea, and then coming across someone else who is also lost at sea.
We weren’t lost at sea, we were just stuck in the Drina Valley. If you’re going to get stuck anywhere, it is better to be stuck somewhere gorgeous, right? Absolutely, you can just gawp at the wonders of nature, although maybe it is better to get stuck in a place where, you know, people go. That way, you can be helped.
The middle of nowhere aspect of it all made passing traffic unlikely. It also interfered with phone signals, meaning my guide’s attempts to contact someone were frequently interrupted by broken conversations. He eventually managed to get through, and minutes later, a chap from a nearby rafting camp turned up to drive us somewhere closer to town.
Who wants the last bite? Note the totally unnecessary and unused cutlery // © John Bills
That somewhere happened to be the camp in question, and the BBQ was as good as ready. There was cutlery, but the cutlery was utterly unnecessary. Why waste time with knives and forks when the hand does the same job? Okay, the global pandemic might make an argument for cutlery, but this was the before time, the long long ago, before Boris Johnson taught us how to wash our hands and disregard credibility entirely.
My lord, the meat was good. I was handed a beer and a plate and told to dig in. I didn’t take much convincing. There is something about being stuck and unsure of when the stuckness will end that increases hunger. When you finally come across food, you eat as if you aren’t sure where your next meal will come from. The whole idea was and is ridiculous, we were stranded for no more than 30 minutes in friendly territory, but still. I wolfed down ćevapi, chicken and pljeskavica as if in a weird game show. I retained enough mental awareness to avoid doing the same with the pivo, but I’m a weak man.
It was clear that this particular barbeque had been a long time coming. Many of the chaps were inebriated by the time we arrived, doubling up beer with Rakija and letting the meat soak up as much as possible. Stories were exchanged, and songs were sung. There was the token dumb one, not stupid in any way but almost always the butt of the joke. It was a world away from the stilted conversation of the stick-gatherer. I wasn’t sure when we’d return to Foča, but I wasn’t bothered. After all, what was waiting in Foča that I couldn’t enjoy a Divlja Rijeka rafting camp? Food, drink and conversation were all here, with the added string of a turquoise river and natural magnificence.
Pick a cabin, any cabin // © John Bills
The group returned to work, getting the camp ready for the forthcoming season, so I took it upon myself to wander the place aimlessly. A small stream ran through the heart of the place, adding to the weird juxtaposition of a quaint yet entirely feral part of the world. Divlja Rijeka was a fairytale in the truest sense of the word, an idyllic place that could easily house heroes and villains alike. The Romans had a village here, and they almost certainly felt the same thing. Okay, not almost certainly, but the point stands.
The little cottages that dotted the camp were constructed in the old Bondruk style, with visible beams and the filling made of organic material where possible, a sort of fill in the gaps approach to architecture that worked on common logic in the place of artistic value. That isn’t to say there wasn’t any artistic value in it, far from it, but the function was more important. Nature finds a way to be beautiful no matter the design, so practicalities could take some attention away.
There is a metaphor somewhere, but I am not a deep enough thinker to coax it out. We eventually left the camp and headed back to Foča, a short drive from the Drina Valley but an entire world away. The bustle of a small town felt more like the wilderness than the valley.
