Goražde // Our Colour Green

© John Bills

In the big list of beautiful sights that Bosnia and Herzegovina offers, the view across the Drina in Goražde is right up there. I don’t know if the Drina is the widest river in the country. Such a thing is easily worked out, but I’m not here to waste time with specifications and dimensions. Quite the opposite, these are matters of the heart, and you can’t measure heart (yes, you can measure hearts, but you know what I mean).

All of which distracts from this view. Turquoise is a word I continuously spell incorrectly, but it is the perfect colour for water. Perfect. A word bandied about with glee abandon that only takes meaning when used correctly. For the cerulean shimmer of the water that cuts Goražde into two, its usage is spot on. From either side, too. No matter which bank of the river you settle your feet, you’re looking at something pretty damn beautiful.

It was no great shock that all the riverside tables were occupied. Zauzet, indeed. It was to be expected, and, in truth, it saved me the pathetic neurotic temptation of hurling everything I owned into the river. I get that whenever I’m by the water. I’m never tempted to hurl myself in, but I can never be sure if my possessions will remain on my person. I sat at a table, ordered a coffee (black, milk is for babies) and observed. Admired. I looked at stuff, in short. It reminded me of Laško. The town, not the beer, although those two are for all intents and purposes inseparable.

Comparisons are futile in this sort of thing. They are also inevitable. When we look at things, be they beautiful, ugly, mediocre, whatever, our brains immediately search the vast vault for something similar. Call it comfort bias, I don’t know. Maybe our brains are full, and by linking new images to old ones, we can insert these fresh views into old folders, fooling Father Time as best we can. A man in a purple polo shirt stumbled onto the terrace, and made a beeline for the barrier between the cafe and the water. Was he thinking about throwing his phone into the river? A couple of chaps soon joined him, one in a royal blue puffer jacket, the other in a leather jacket, shirt and jeans, the classic Bosnian ability to wear multiple shades of black at the same time. None of them gave me the impression that they were there to discuss Luddite-like impulses. My guess is they were going to talk about fishing, like all old men. Pleasantries exchanged, they all settled into the view.

© John Bills

A view that reminded me of Laško. Green hills rose behind the town, looking for all the world like the idyllic hills that children draw, curved in the right places, impossibly green. The word ‘impossible’ is contradictory, of course, because I was staring right at the things, and they were green beyond belief. My eyesight is wretched, but my understanding of the colour green is not. Forest green, racing car green, moss green, seaweed green, shamrock green, fern green. All green. Not all shades of green, although I wouldn’t have been shocked to have been proven wrong. Believe me, it was green. More accurately, it was greens.

The Kajserija Mosque was the obvious landmark down in front. I’m not keen on these two-minaret behemoths, although my opinion on mosque architecture hardly carries much weight. The central idea of mosque architecture is community, humility and subtlety, These two-minaret boys veer a little too close to imposing temples for my liking, but the Kajserija Mosque in Goražde seemed to transcend my pre-ordained opinions. Why? Well, distance, for one, but it was just as likely that the avalanche of beauty that surrounded it had rubbed off, for want of a better phrase.

Pear green, army green, Sacramento green.

© John Bills

A small collection of residential towers sat by the mosque, themselves experiencing a lift in aesthetic splendour thanks to the greens that rose behind him. Admittedly tired, the walls on some of the balconies provided little splashes of colour of their own, pastels that didn’t jump out from the chalk-white of the building but rewarded the attentive observer. Either that or my well-documented wretched eyesight was making things up again.

Am I making all of this up? Every self-obsessed narcissist goes through a Truman Show phase, but all thoughts of being the Messiah tend to dissipate by the late 20s. The view of Goražde that spread out in front of me was the product of powers far greater than the piddling nonsense I am capable of. The three men were now deep in conversation. Uniform green. Mint green.

It reminded me of Laško. That little town in Slovenia has the same blessing, the same blueprint, the same template. A river through its heart, a small smattering of buildings hugging the water, and gorgeous hills as a backdrop. It is a terrific template. Other towns must be jealous, if towns are capable of human emotions.

They aren’t.

Honeydew green. Artichoke green.

A fourth man joined the excitable trio, wearing the sort of teal green zipped jacket Ben would wear in summer. He didn’t stay long.

© John Bills

I crossed the Alija Izetbegović Bridge, eager to sample the view from the other side. Goražde’s central bridge is arguably best known for the makeshift walkway underneath, the so-called Bridge Under the Bridge, an ingenious piece of civil engineering that allowed people to cross the river during the war. Goražde was a designated ‘Safe Haven’ during the war, but all such designations did was prove the toothlessness of the UN, not to mention its total lack of knowledge of the meaning of the word ‘safe’. Conceived by then-Head of Traffic Selver Sijerčić, the ramshackle wooden walkway saved countless lives during the war.

The view from the other side of the Drina followed the same regulations, a base of concrete backed by a swelling of green. Crocodile green, parakeet green, basil green. The rusted red of the bridge and the proud blue of the lampposts added more juxtapositions, although the only contrast of impact came from the aquamarine of the Drina and the dizzying greens of the hills.

Mantis green. Celadon green. Kelly green.

Goražde is a small town with a big history, a charming homage to urban architecture within the comforting embrace of nature. Above all else, it is green, very green, all of the greens. I walked back across the bridge, resisting the temptation to throw my cap into the river. Welshpool Cricket Club green.