LACHLAN MURDOCH visited the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo last September and found a city struggling to attain its former glory.

The faint light of early morning reveals row after row of greying communist era tower blocks in Alipasino Polje. There are so many they seem to stand sentry-like as they ring the fields of Sarajevo’s new town. I wonder to myself "am I lost or does everybody feel such intimidation when confronted with this much concrete?"

Howls of stray dogs fill the emptiness of Zavnobiha Square, its pavements scarred with shell fractures clustered so tightly and evenly together that they look well spaced for a giant game of hopscotch. The windows of the stairwells are covered in plastic embossed with the familiar stamp of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. Aid money is yet to touch this part of Sarajevo, and it shows. Past one after another graffiti daubed entry halls to the tower blocks I walk, till mercifully I find something familiar.

The city is stirring now and newly painted trams rattle noisily down the central boulevard towards the old town. As I make my way along what was previously known as ‘Snipers Ally’ I’m impressed with a city getting back to its feet even though there remain reminders of the destruction wreaked by the war. A massive rebuilding programme is gradually mending the physical damage to Sarajevo overlaid in colours of red, blue, yellow and orange.

But beneath the surface of the bright paint and acres of smoothly finished concrete, Sarajevo is restless. My hosts complain that reconstruction has not kept pace with the promises of the politicians and the international aid organisations. The war-damaged roof of a relative’s flat had caved in only days before my arrival, though thankfully nobody was home at the time. I hear of how politicians, bureaucrats and the ‘mafia’ are exploiting ethnic divisions to hold on to power and amass wealth. The same people who profiteered from war have now positioned themselves to profit from peace.

Everywhere there is evidence of renovation, and yet Sarajevans bemoan what their city has become. Over small cups of syrupy coffee, conversations turn to the ‘Swedes’ that have overrun town - not a reference to the many NATO troops that patrol the town centre’s elegant streets, but disdain directed at the blonde headed refugees from the villages of rural Bosnia that now populate much of Sarajevo. The city is a haven for the displaced and Sarajevans feel they have been overtaken by outsiders. Most disquiet is reserved for those outsiders that have made good from the misery of war, the petty mafia that have now become the beneficiaries of reconstruction through bribes and kickbacks.

But for all the distasteful elements, law breaking and the strong hint of underhanded dealing do have a curious attraction and my friends’ invitation to a restaurant meal overlooking the city is an opportunity for exposure to the nouveau riche amongst the Swedes.

Upon arriving we are ushered outside, past the enclosed portion of the restaurant fitted out circa 1970. The walls are heavily panelled with dark stained timbers, the carpet a deep, rich red and the chairs upholstered in nasty velour. The exterior décor, although not immediately apparent, gradually comes into focus. Stone lions sit at the foot of our table spouting water into an unconvincing fishpond. The waiters in their ill-fitting half buttoned shirts, half-master ties and rolled up sleeves resemble dodgy bookmakers. This, I am told, is the Alemko experience- one of the ‘petty mafia’ run restaurants of Sarajevo.

The restaurant is just part of an empire that includes a vertically integrated chain of delicatessens and an abattoir. An Alemko hotel, seemingly out of place in the food services industry, is trumpeted all the same in the multilingual booklets that grace our table. Not only does the Alemko group meet the culinary needs of Sarajevo but there are plans for an Alemko shopping centre and even an Alemko Bank. I chuckle to myself as I think how enthusiastically Sarajevans would make their deposits.

As we enjoy our meal, Alemko himself makes an appearance. He is truly larger than life, a huge man with a massive girth, his bald pate accentuating an egg shaped head. Alemko relaxes in an orange tennis shirt and orange and black checked pants. He shows little interest in his diners and we concentrate on the food. My friend, Jasko, explains that Alemko’s attention is presently focussed on avoiding the long arm of the law that is finally catching up with him. After finishing our meal and helping the waiters with their arithmetic the evening is rounded off as we retreat through Sarajevo’s equivalent of Mc Donald’s golden arches, a huge neon lit golden A.

The next morning is devoted to reliving Sarajevo’s Olympic glory on the mountains that ring the city. Jasko is upset, even angry, that I would put myself at risk of encountering land mines to inspect the Olympic sites on Trebevic and Mt Igman. The strength of his concern is that of a friend but comes also with the intensity of one who knows the pain inflicted by the explosive force of war. At twenty-four, a wartime shell has left him walking with the aid of a stick and with a pronounced limp as one leg remains shorter than the other despite numerous bone reconstructions. The unevenness of his stride is now slowly but surely twisting and wearing the discs in his spine.

Thankfully, Jasko’s concerns for me do not materialise as the minefields near the bobsled run on Trebevic are well signposted and access to the public is denied. The single sight of an Olympic venue comes at the ski jumps on Mt Igman. Here, against the backdrop of bullet pocked concrete, the twisted and wrecked Olympic rings at the medal presentation podium provide an ironic commentary on the credibility problems of the IOC.

The sporting odyssey continues when Jasko suggests an afternoon visit to Sarajevo’s premier soccer club, FK Zeljeznicar (Zeljo), founded by the city’s railway workers. My very limited Bosnian is sufficient to have me understanding and blushing at the abuse thrown towards the players as Zeljo struggles to beat lowly opposition. The Maniacs, Zeljo’s most avid supporters, are in full voice, and Jasko shouts loudest. He is momentarily lost in the game and has forgotten everything else, even the pain of his war wounds. Buoyed by the urging of their fans, Zeljo manage to scrape home 1-0.

Despite the unconvincing win, Jasko insists that it calls for celebration at the aptly named Zeljo restaurant, famed for serving the best cevapcici in Sarajevo. Spirits are high as we relax, bask in the reflected glory of victory, and take in the beauty of the old town. I look across at Jasko and see Sarajevo in him. He appears untroubled sitting in front of me, his youthful face masking the scars that lie just beneath the surface. Again we drink thick coffee and I, as has been my custom since arriving, refuse Jasko’s offer of sugar cubes to neutralise the sharp edge of the Bosnian brew. He stares back across the table at me and says knowingly, "You drink [it] bitter and live sweet, we drink sweet but live bitter." I’m not sure how to reply and don’t.

That following day finds me heading from Sarajevo towards the sun and crystalline waters of the Adriatic. As I stare out the bus window at Bosnia’s rolling hills destroyed villages come into focus and Jasko’s words remain with me, ringing in my ears.