Sokolac // This Hot Air Balloon is Not Quite in Tune
© John Bills
The hills don’t exactly undulate, but they do loll. Not loll in the modern parlance, I am talking loll in the traditional use of the word, a slight roll, a level or two calmer than undulating. This part of Bosnia and Herzegovina has its own pace, its own folklore, its own way.
No cow goes hungry. I cannot verify that, obviously, I haven’t been in touch with the cow union recently, but the abundance of fields gives me the impression that any grass-friendly Heffer is going to have plenty to chomp on here. In the distance, a village goes about its business, although once again this is steeped in assumptions. Maybe the village is currently undergoing a serious crisis? Maybe there isn’t actually anyone in the village? Maybe the village is a figment of my undernourished imagination? This hot air balloon is not quite in tune.
Sokolac is not a figment of my imagination. I had been here briefly once in the past when Slobodan and I came in search of extra places to bulk up a guide. We met with the tourist office, who subsequently showed us the many sights of Sokolac, although none of the attractions was actually in the town itself. There was the mosque and monastery out in little Knežina (you know, the time machine), some stećci, and a church/cemetery combo that was very impactful. In Sokolac? They had their office, I’ll say that much.
By the time I returned some three years later, even the bus station had stopped functioning. The bus I travelled in stopped in the vague area, and it took me longer than I would like to admit to realise where we were. I stumbled off the bus and wandered in no particular direction whatsoever, hoping that my hotel would magically appear out of thin air. It didn’t, obviously, although it took a friendly local chap to point in the right direction. He had quite the chuckle, I’ll say that.
I see no point in describing the check-in process at the hotel. There is no value in such things. We can just say that it was awkward, and my initial excitement at the shower pressure dissipated once the flooded state of the bathroom became apparent. Win some, lose some. This hot air balloon, rapidly deflating.
© John Bills
Sokolac has very little to offer the prospective tourist, but who cares? I don’t mean to repeat myself, but the world does not revolve around tourism. People have to live in places, and the reasons for that are as varied as, well, the people themselves. Sokolac is a town surrounded by glorious nature, it has decent enough links to Sarajevo. I sat in a cafe and did my best ‘travel writer’ impression, taking notes of the faces and demeanours around me. Mostly young, mostly cheerful, generally energetic. A group of floating heads and hands wandered into the cafe, although I have experienced this phenomenon enough to know that they might have just been soldiers.
Settlements have existed here since settlements began in these parts, a point continuously made and long since rendered superfluous. Very little is known about the development of Sokolac, and why is that a surprise? We are high in the Romanija hills here, secluded from the hustle and bustle of cities. Several stećci have been found here, but nothing was really written about the place until the Austro-Hungarian takeover in the late 19th century.
It was at that time (there or thereabouts, anyway) that Jovo Mijatović was born. Uncle Jovo (as he came to be known) was born in a small village called Zagajevi, 20km or so to the south, in the direction of Rogatica. Jovo built himself a reputation as a master herbalist, although the hardship of youth came first. When other kids were out playing in the hills chasing animals and generally being, you know, kids. Jovo was helping his grandmother collect grass.
© John Bills
That isn’t quite as mundane as you might presume. Life ambles differently in places like Sokolac, and the dependence on modern medicine isn’t quite as slavish as in the cities. Other methods were required. Herbs played a bigger role. People like Jovo Mijatović’s grandmother were priceless in these isolated areas.
And so, Jovo Mijatović's grandmother taught young Jovo all she know about the healing powers of herbs. She taught him when to pick, how to dry, how to store. She taught him how to mix. She taught him specific recipes for certain diseases. She wasn’t long for this world, and someone needed to carry the torch. That someone was Jovo.
Jovo took everything his grandmother taught him and took it up a level. Of course, expectations must be tempered, it wasn’t as if Jovo Mijatović went to establish himself a dispensary in the big city. Rather, the big city got wind of magic happening in the hills. The big city came to Jovo. Stories soon spread of the miracle worker in the Romanija hills.
Those stories spread far and wide as the years passed by. Jovo treated celebrities of all shapes and sizes as celebrities became more and more entrenched in 20th-century society. He treated actors, athletes, politicians and the rest. Rumour has it he was even whisked off to the US to treat Richard Nixon’s son.
Jovo Mijatović // © TO Sokolac
Predictably, the socialist authorities were not exactly enamoured with the herbalist from the hills. Uncle Jovo was imprisoned on several occasions, although some of that might be put down to his passionate personality. How passionate? Well, he had 16 kids, for a start. The authorities would come to give him grief, Jovo would respond in kind, and another stint in prison would begin. Of course, the magician from Romanija was let out to treat those in need, but he would then be swiftly brought back to his confinement. It wasn’t much of a life, despite the help being provided.
The crushing intensity of life eventually broke him. His wife died in 1983, and Jovo stumbled along for a few more years before committing suicide in 1986. Nobody knows exactly why, but it isn’t difficult to figure out. He was over 100 years old. His life’s work had been constantly interfered with. His wife had died. Sometimes, enough is enough. This hot air balloon, grounded.
A girl skipped across the road to surprise an old man. I assume it was her grandfather, but who am I to judge? A father and daughter had a very serious conversation in the cafe, although the ‘very serious’ there should be tempered by the fact the daughter was no older than four. At one point, the conversation stopped so they could dance.
