AS I cruised the final Bosnian kilometres towards Livno, a perfect rainbow arced over a skeletal cluster of derelict houses, yet more of the war-torn ruins that had shadowed my four-hour drive in perpetual rain from the Croatian border. To an outsider, the tragedies behind these burned-out, shot-up reminders of four bitter years of ethnic infighting defy imagination and leave no real winners, only a broken country trying hard to rebuild. I’d also quickly learned about ‘Balkan vision’ – a local syndrome giving fast drivers the reckless ability to see and overtake around blind bends.
From a high crag, a crumbling Turkish watchtower has overseen Livno for centuries, a small Bosnian market town in the political district of Canton 10. Pantiled houses, hilly streets, a new shopping precinct, ranks of apartment blocks and the familiar domes of mosques all rise from a vast green plain that local Bosnians call their Big Field, cultivated less since communist collectives became extinct a decade ago. And then there was the war.
In the warm Balkan sun, butter churns, cowbells and counterfeit CDs were selling well in the market square as chattering school kids wandered the town. Life seemed much like my native Devon, but for the Dutch crew of the Stabilisation FORce (SFOR) assault vehicle relaxing in nearby shade. Another difference – I was riding upfront in the A-Team Land Rover with CISCENJR MINA plastered over the bumpers, Serbo-Croat for a dirty, dangerous job with an uncertain life expectancy – mine clearance.
A glance of recognition passed between the professionals as our blue-liveried Defender bumped through urban potholes with Adrijana at the wheel, her other hand radioing today’s destination to Sarajevo HQ, 200 kilometres away. Later I would also meet the B-Team, literally at work in the field.
Trained by British Royal Engineers, these A-Team men and women of the Federal Organisation for Civil Protection are kept busy disposing of the legacy of assorted loose ordnance that turns up daily around the Canton, often via the local police, SFOR or the International Police Task Force. Even rescuing victims who find themselves marooned in a minefield can be in a day’s work.
We headed out towards a remote location in the hills - in back was a volatile cargo of grenades, aircraft cannon shells, a hand rocket and half a dozen bombs - war souvenirs surrendered anonymously from someone’s attic. I tried to remain nonchalant as Stipo Butic, A-Team leader, enlightened me that, throughout the ten Cantons that make up Bosnia and Herzegovina, 25 of the lSO workforce are no longer alive due to the hazards of the job. And all at a meagre wage that bears no relationship to daily risk levels.

picking flowers
Adrijana dropped a gear as we ascended the twisting highway to rise above the treeline – I thought of Dartmoor. Just before we swung off the tarmac she pointed to a black marble memorial covered in fresh flowers at the roadside. “The man was killed a few months ago by an anti-personnel mine whilst picking flowers in the woods. He leaves five children,” she continued, between jolts on the twisting track. We stopped on a ridge beside what had obviously been wartime trenches. “I was three years here,” said Stipo, strapping on his protective vest, “watching the Serbs over there.” He pointed to a not-so-distant clump of trees.
Boris, the medic and third A-Team member, scribbled down my blood group, a necessary formality, while I watched Adrijana pass benign-looking ordnance down to Stipo in a much-used crater. Then, as he attached explosives and ran detonation wires to a well-protected bunker, Adrijana was reversing the 110. Procedure required us to spectate from the safety of the road, half a mile away.
Once there, a short exchange on the handsets preceded a dull boom and a puff of grey smoke dissipating across the valley. Job done; all that remained on our return was a slightly bigger hole in the ground.
Meanwhile, down on the farm, the B-Team were on their lunchbreak as we headed their way.
Thirteen kilometres out of Livno, a rusting sign to Donji Rujani village sent us down a narrow country road beside an occupied house without window frames, and rafters open to the sky. Small plots of maize, pumpkins like footballs and a handful of cattle indicated that people were returning to an area that possessed more than its share of packed cemeteries.
A silver mist clung to the slopes of the distant Dinara Mountains as we drove across the level plain. To left and right, elderly country folk were building hayricks and cutting winter logs, often enduring the leanest of conditions as they try to resettle in the aftermath of war.
The sight of laughing kids playing around a gutted Serb tank seemed ironic, having just read that over 50,000 children died in the conflict.

And then our road petered out. As tarmac became gravel we made dust along a winding cart track among trees and pasture. Skull and crossbone signs, flapping yellow tape and red, and white posts suddenly became the norm. This was still bad ground. “The Serbs bombarded Livno from here. This was the fire line,” said Adrijana as she killed the motor beside shell-torn masonry resembling a farmhouse. Through the branches, two more blue Defenders like ours were parked in a field. The one with an English P-reg plate was donated by the European Union, I learned.

it's a grim task
A sunny day seemed inappropriate for the grim task these men were doing. All were unmarried and in their twenties. Their leader, Ivica Tecic, explained that the B-Team’s role is to clear one defined area at a time of sewn mines and booby-trapped houses in advance of resettling displaced owners, the returnees, as they’re known.
“We’ve been at this location a year,” said Ivica. The work is slow, diversified and very dangerous because we search sixty percent to maps, with the remaining forty percent, guesswork. Sarajevo sends us a red folder describing the area but it’s difficult as all three sides had access to mines during the war. Right here was the Serb front line, and the place is full of mines; so far, we have dealt with 50 anti-personnel, 22 anti-tank, and about 100 assorted bombs, shells and grenades.”
We walked past the farm buildings that they had already made safe, to where surrounding 360-metre fields were taped into 15-metre rectangles; walkways between the divisions had been painstakingly cleared using detectors and feeling sticks, centimetre by centimetre, in readiness for trained dogs to deal with the larger areas.
“There are 20 canines throughout the federation. At 30-40,000 DM each to train, they don’t come cheap. The men work in pairs, always fifty metres clear of anyone else for safety; sometimes they may find two or three mines together so there is a great need for care and patience.”
As we walked, Ivica pointed to green plastic fragments amidst the torn earth. Everything is destroyed on site because of the booby trap risk of an extra fuse. Then, only when we are finally satisfied that the site is cleared, is it handed to a supervisor for inspection; at that point the Mine Action Centre in Mostar issues a certificate which allows refugees to come back from places like Split, Fagreb, Serbia or Germany. With so many people now returning, there is much to do; already they are anxious for us to begin on the far side of the valley.”
Back in Livno I spoke to Director Martin Pavic about their massive task. His job is to co-ordinate the entire operation throughout the six municipalities that make up the Canton, a lot of kilometres.
A table in the corner displayed a variety of lethal looking ordnance that his men defuse daily. Above, a map on the wall depicting known minefields nationwide, looked as if someone had randomly splashed red ink all over it, such is their proliferation throughout Bosnia and Herzegovina. “With the current low level of finance that we receive, this lot will take 50 years to clear,” he said.
Lack of state funding and government understanding of this essential task so crucial to restructuring Bosnian society was a constant thread in our conversation. Much of the support seemed to be foreign aid through Sarajevo, including the other two Land Rovers that came via HRLP, a German humanitarian organisation, which also finances the servicing of the vehicles.
“Our region, Canton 10, has between 60,000 and 80,000 mines, one for every citizen living here,” said Martin. “Ironically, Yugoslavia used to be Europe’s third largest producer of mines.
“The worst are those disguised to look like corn; a trip wire triggers the stomach level, killing to a range of 30 metres. Since the end of the war, and especially helped by the capable Land Rovers, we have successfully destroyed l0,000 mines.”
Martin made a special point of paying tribute to the efforts of the multinational SFOR, in particular the UK’s Royal Engineers, for their instructional support to his teams and their intensive programmes of mine-awareness lectures to schools, utility companies, and environmental workers like roadmenders and foresters.
“Our Canton has the most mines but the least number of victims because of their public information campaigns,” said Martin, “but there is still much to do.”
Back home again, I strolled around my few Dartmoor acres and pondered on the past few days. It’s so easy to forget that there are people less than two days’ drive from here who still dare not step off the highway, let alone walk safely in the woods or venture more than a few metres from their bombed out dwellings for real fear of being blown up.