Vogošća // Tell My Imaginary Wife I Will Be Home Late

© Vogošća // Facebook

“Good day gents, beer in Vogošća tonight at 20:00”

“What he said. You get to experience Vogošća’s and therefore the nation’s greatest pub”

When the message came through, I had just sat down and ordered a beer in the Baščaršija. That isn’t some literary device I have created, by the way, like imagining a vegetarian restaurant on Skadarlija or conjuring up a conversation that fits the story I’m trying to tell. Be wary of travel writers. They are liars.

But seriously, I had just sat down and ordered a beer in the Baščaršija. Boardroom, to be exact. I go there most days, enjoy a točeno Boardroom or two, read a book, and brood in the corner. Over the decade and more I have been doing this, it has become apparent that sitting with a beer and a book is my favourite pastime. When I eventually settle down with my imaginary Bosnian wife, giving that up will probably be the most difficult adjustment.

That and the sausage and bacon sandwiches. Sorry, Tuck Box. Love conquers all. Even Tuck Box.

© Općina Vogošća / Facebook

Tangents, you’ll be the death of me! Heart disease will more than likely be the death of me, but there’s another tangent! Getting back to the original theme, I was faced with a few hours before going to Vogošća to ostensibly drink more beer. Working out my way there wasn’t so tough (I’d get a lift, obviously), but a taxi back to Sarajevo late at night? With my Bosnian language skills? After, let’s say, six beers? I don’t like challenges. None of you does either. It was all looking a little too awkward for my liking, but how could I refuse a quiet evening of philosophical conversation in a small satellite suburb of Sarajevo? This is not how I saw my life going.

How I saw my life going was a newspaper story about me, a Welsh guy living in Sarajevo, ostensibly up a hill, with my imaginary Bosnian wife, two kids, vaguely clean-shaven. The feature photo would be me in a long-sleeved black top, arms folded, a cheerful grin and eyes down, as Sarajevo sprawled behind me. Instead, I stood next to a Turkish restaurant on Alipašina, chubby, in need of a shave, wearing a New Japan hoody, waiting for a car to pick me up to drink beer in Vogošća.

Information about Vogošća is scant. It was mentioned in 1445 as Gogošta, although searching ‘gogošta Bosnia’ does not bring up safe for work things. Did Evliya Çelebi mention it? Probably, but he cast his net so wide as to render most of it wisp-like. Presumptions dominate when considering the early years of Vogošća, although it doesn’t take a wild imagination to make those presumptions. A small village outside Sarajevo, pottering along, subsistence living. Farms? Probably.

© Vogošća // Facebook

The drive to Vogošća was uneventful, punctuated by conversation about Vlado’s upcoming wedding. I probably tried to make a prescient comment about my own softening stance on marriage. I never liked the idea, taking the Doug Stanhope approach of ‘if it didn’t exist, we wouldn’t invent it’, but time has assuaged my cynicism. How could I get the newspaper article without it? “John lives in Sarajevo with his wife and two children’ is immeasurably better sounding than “John lives in Sarajevo with his business duck and excellent t-shirt collection.” Imer needed to fix his car before the wedding, although I sensed an air of pessimism about whether it would happen or not.

It wasn’t until the second half of the 20th century that Vogošća made its presence felt on the map. It really began in the late ‘40s and early ‘50s with the establishment of Pretis, a military-industrial complex company thing that was originally called Tito, because of course it was. My imaginary first child (from the newspaper article, remember) was originally called Tito, but we changed his name after an ideological change in society before he turned six. Now he is called Džan, an awkward compromise between choosing a local name, and the ‘eldest son of the eldest son’ tradition that my family has, contractually obliging me to name my first son John. My imaginary wife and I are not happy with the compromise, but love is all about unhappy compromises. By 1967, Pretis was the biggest metal producer in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

The pub was busy, it being Champions League final night and all that, so we sat outside and ordered a round of beers. We talked about sport, specifically how ordinary people do not truly understand how good professional sportspeople are. The years of dedication, commitment, the god-given talent coming together in a perfect storm of moments that send thousands of people into delirium. Next time you slag off, I don’t know, Hal Robson-Kanu, take a moment to remember that he would tie you in knots if you ever came up against him on the football pitch. Much like he did to the entire nation of Belgium, pushing it into irrelevance and retirement back in 2016.

Best. Goal. Ever.

By the 1980s, Vogošća was doing pretty well for itself. One of the most industrious and productive municipalities in Yugoslavia, no less. Pretis made scooters for Maxi and Prima, among others. A contract with Volkswagen (signed in 1969) started the BiH automotive industry. VW Beetles were made here. Ties with Germany and Sweden were strong. Things were looking up for the town, even as it slowly got swallowed up by Sarajevo’s growing boundaries.

Talk moved to young brides of Daesh soldiers who had returned to BiH after their militant husbands had died. More specifically, we talked of the impossibility of the situation. These young girls had been abandoned by the state, and it doesn’t sit well with me. Young people shouldn’t be forever tied to decisions made in their teens, let alone decisions made with the heart front and centre. People are impressionable, fragile, desperate for a little piece of the world where they will truly belong. Sometimes, that leads them to Welshpool Cricket Club. Other times, it leads them to marry militant Islamic fundamentalists waging a misguided Jihad against a perceived enemy no more real than Casper the Friendly Ghost and just as pale. I’m not saying that the red carpet should be rolled out, but I am saying that they shouldn’t be left to die in neglected poverty. I tried to joke about how many would have been saved if the Nirvana they found was of the ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ variety, but it fell somewhat flat. The best jokes usually do.

What of Vogošća today? The war, predictably, did a number on it, and the Serbs left little of use when leaving. It retains portions of the old industry, but Vogošća’s primary function in the 21st century is more affordable housing for people working in Sarajevo. That and this pub, obviously.

The taxi back to Sarajevo was relatively painless. My Bosnian language confidence had been embellished by six beers, although that rendered my listening even more incompetent than usual. Moje čitanje i pišenje je dobro, ali moje razgovaranje i slušanje je loš. Yes, that is intentional. I got a little lost on my short walk, worried about what my imaginary Bosnian wife would think, fearful of waking up my imaginary kids, but happy that I’d spent my evening with good (real) people in a good (real) pub. Love is about forgiveness, after all.