The Artists Formerly Known as Yugoslavia Pt One

Once upon a time a Kosovar Albanian shared a joke that went like this: If you have three Slovenes you have a workforce. If you have three Serbs you have an army. If you have three Croatians you have five political parties. I repeated the witticism just the once, to a Serbian girl who stared at me very hard and didn't smile. Welcome to the Balkans.

Slovenia

Fleeing from Western Europe I spent two nites in Ljubljana on my Eastern progression. The town itself is a pleasant, sleepy affair with little in the way of distraction. So much so that the inhabitants expect the slow meandering of life to be remarkable of itself. Common conversation pieces for foreigners are remarks varying on the theme of "Its very quiet here isn't it?" or "You must find it very boring here?" As I left my hostel in the early evening I asked the girl in reception what there was to do in Ljubljana on a Tuesday evening. I was met with the sort of blank expression i might have anticipated had I said "I am hoping to meet up with my girlfriend on Rigel Five tonite, could you please point me in the direction of the nearest Intergalactic docking station?" Things to do in Ljubljana on a Tuesday nite??!!

The following afternoon I strolled the quaint hill-top castle in the centre of town, its park and the surrounds. I strolled some more and i drank coffee and generally tried to contain my enthusiasm. That evening I scoped out an appropriate watering hole to watch Liverpool dispatch Barcelona from the Champions League. A small crowd gathered to watch the game. In the middle of proceedings the door opened and a young blonde lady wandered through, turning the heads of all away from the game. The most exciting thing in Ljubljana had just strolled in. The biggest pair of puppies anyone had ever seen. Two Irish Wolfhounds. Like small horses. They escorted her to the counter where she seemed to be well known, and after purchasing some cigarettes she led the small horses out the door again. Big enough to ride they were. We returned to the game. Liverpool finished the job.

Serbia

I passed gracefully on a train through the Alpine hills and pastures of Slovenia, a countryside that bore lightly an appearance of wealth and undisturbed calm. At the border passports were checked and the train slid into Serbia with an immediate and clanking change of circumstances. The cars outside the window rapidly grew older and less shiny, clothes looked more worn, the people labouring in the fields less well equipped.

Belgrade has a vibe. People are active, there are things going on. Markets are busy, street stalls sell books, magazines and CDs. The cafes are full and live music abounds in the evenings. It is in many ways the anti-Ljubljana. My hostel was a (slightly) converted communist-era state-built apartment. Three rooms: one bedroom converted (by insertion of close-proximity bunk beds) into a four bed dorm; another bedroom similarly converted into a six bed dorm; and a kitchen-come-living area, complete with computer station in an alcove with a bed (of sorts) nailed into the space high above. The hostel was full each of the three nites I stayed there; including a mattress on the floor of the six bed dorm, a guest sleeping above the computer and the gargantuan Serb owner-occupier sleeping on the couch. Among the guests were a third assistant director of film, a dude who was travelling Europe by attending matches at each country's premier football clubs, and a new-ager travelling the world with just the clothes on his back and a bag full of seeds. (Somehow I managed to redirect this guy to West Cork before I left). Beer was stored in the communal fridge in two litre plastic bottles and there never seemed to be enough at the end of the evening. There was ever present company, ever flowing beer, free internet and constant music and tv. The hostel had a bio-sphere of its own.

Outside of the bio-sphere Belgrade presented as somewhat of an open air museum. Serbs have a strong sense of their history, particularly their historical grievances (and the question of Kosovo rears its head in the most unexpected conversations from the most unexpected people). Close to the centre of town is the preserved site of what used to be the National Library and Archive of the Serbian people. It was deliberately destroyed in a Nazi bombing raid as punishment for the failure of the government to co-operate with the Wehrmacht. A poignant statement beside the ruins and bomb crater declares that here the collective memory and record of an entire people was instantaneously turned to ashes. Just as poignant is a similar site in Sarajevo where more recent bombs destroyed the Bosnian National Library and Archive.

Another symbolic and preserved ruin is a large office block bombed by Nato during the 1999 raids. The inside of the block is gutted. Floors fall down on each other in frenzied, frozen stasis; twisted metal piercing dusty broken concrete. The outer shell is largely intact, but filleted by the "strike" to reveal its insides, like a body opened up for a postmortem. Another memory. Another symbol. A souvenir from this conflict is housed in the Military Museum; the flight jackets of two American pilots shot down over Serbia. American weapons discovered at the crash site are also on display including a rocket launcher with a long passed 'best before date' and detailed operating instructions printed on the side. If you don't know how to operate a rocket launcher without first pausing to read instructions 1 to 6 on the side, then you shouldn't be allowed to have a rocket launcher?!

Serblish

The further i wander from the English speaking world the more mangled the 'tourist-friendly' translations become. Strolling through Belgrade i was presented with a flier for a hostel that read as follows:

"Did you sleep in the middle of a park with a full accommodation? Very cheap hostel in centre of Belgrade. 2, 6 and 8 bads. Always clean towells and lines.

Each bad is supplied with pair of mule, becouse of hygiene and comfort. Liquid soap, profy dryer, always clean with good ventiliation.

Free internet access and information about happenings."

I didn't stay there. With hindight i think i should have investigated the bad with two mules in the park with some good lines. That surely would have been a happening worth writing about.

Punk*d Serb Style

In an English language newspaper published in Belgrade i read an account of a candid camera style set-up of a famous Serbian NBA basketball player. The dude was on a visit home from the States. Wandering into a a supermarket he left his sports car parked across the street. As he strolled back out with his shopping his car was blown up. Masked gunmen sprang out from behind other vehicles posing as Kosovar guerrillas. Shouting this was a kidnap they fired (blank) shots in his direction and pursued him through the streets as he attempted to escape with his life. Punk*d mofo. Belgrade style. The paper said that he saw the funny side of it afterwards. What a guy!

Bosnia

I left Belgrade by bus for Bosnia and trundled through the Serbian countryside. This was no ordinary bus: it was part bus-part time machine. The houses lining the roadside were mostly old and/or poorly constructed. Exposed red blocks lined on top of one another seemed unlikely to survive even a minor shake - I am guessing they are not on a fault line. As in Morocco houses are frequently unfinished, metal rods reaching skyward from unplastered concrete. The ground floors were occupied, the windowless upstairs used for hanging out washing. Firewood piled under tarpaulin, fodder for animals kept in small, rickety, timber barns attached to houses. Most dwellings are surrounded by a small plot used for keeping chickens, sheep or goats, or for growing vegetables. The odd pig forages around the yards. In the fields men and women were bent double over seed-drills, planting crops. People dress for warmth rather than fashion. Cars are old and oftentimes rusty. Rural Ireland forty years ago, perhaps.

Approaching Bosnia the fields give way to hills. The border crossing sits on the banks of the Drina. Low, shabby offices house Serb border control and customs. Squat little spaces with flaking paint and aged cracks. Yellowing notices and posters are plastered on the walls. A passport check later and we cross the river to the spanking new Bosnian border control; a gleaming block of steel and glass with a broad sheltering canopy. Snappy uniforms, new computers. The smell of new leather. And a large sign denoting the works of the European Union.

Winding down toward Sarajevo beneath green forested mountains the bus hugged the banks of the river. Men were standing in the shallow waters on either side, fishing. Looking across at each other, Serb and Bosnian, competing for the same fish. Again the road was lined with houses swelling in places to small villages. Houses big and small, old and new. Some pock-marked with bullet holes, others with gaping fissures in their sides; the legacy of shells. The boarded-up, burnt out or abandoned houses of the dispossessed. There were some apparent ghost towns. Black soot clung to the frames around glassless windows. Doors were gone from hinges. Recent history. Here and there were churches and mosques, minarets and spires. Old survivors and new rejoinders. There is a raging fashion for new temples; to replace what was destroyed and as statements of intent. Climbıng into the mountains darkness settled to obscure the landscape. snow dropped quietly outside on the blanched landscape. A reminder that in happier times the Winter Olympics were held here.

Sarajevo

Poor benighted Sarajevo. Anyone else remember it on the TV, depressing evening after evening? Militias in the hills, food shortages, sniper alley. Grim bodycounts. If you don't recall, the reminders are everywhere. Most of the city centre has been reconstructed and restored as a chic central shopping district. Italian designer stores occupy ground floors on pedestrianised streets. The cafes and restaurants are full of aspiration. The shoppers are far more style conscious than their former countrymen in Ljubljana or Belgrade. Unarmed blue helmets stroll through the shopping throngs. However, turning to the skies you find the scars. The storeys above street level are bullet-riddled. Holes bigger than fists stud the walls. Splashes of absent plaster. Below people seek out the mundane - an outfit, a cappuccino, a bargain. Living beneath recent history.

Above the buildings, above the battered plaster, rise the hills. North, South and East, high above the terracotta-tiled homes climb the slopes. The hills surround the town. Not in the distance but rising sharply very close to the centre. Trees line the hilltops. Close enough for each individual tree to be visible. Standing in the centre is to stand in the centre of a cereal bowl. The snipers were high up but close in and all around. Three hundred and sixty degrees of imminent terror. And staring out from the green-black slopes and terracotta-tiles are the myriad cemeteries. Large and small. Forests of snow-white stumps shouting out against green grass carpets. Here lie the dead. But the wounded are still visible on the streets. Men without legs, in wheelchairs, struggling on crutches, begging for change.

In Liberation Square up to forty men gather at any one time watch and play chess beneath the loomıng crucifix spire of the Serbian Orthodox Church. Alternate black and white paving slabs form the board. The black and white pieces are knee high, the players bestriding the board as colosses. The spectators shout advice and abuse, they argue between themselves over the next moves. The forces of black and white in perpetual battle. A harmless battle in this small space.

Mostar

In Mostar i stayed with a Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim) family. As with Sarajevo much of the city has been restored, though there are many bullet ridden buildings, where every inch seems to be a bullet mark, and many more husks that were entirely gutted by explosions or shells or fire. Once a mixed city Mostar has now broken down almost entirely between its Bosniak population who occupy one side of the river and the Croatian population who live on the other. When it came to selecting a monument to place in a central part of town, so little agreement could be found between the representatives of the two communities that they could only agree on a tribute to one person. Bruce Lee. Yep, with absolutely no ties to Bosnia and no possible hint that he would have favoured one side or the other, they managed to agree to put a Bruce Lee statute in the centre of Mostar. Its a brittle peace.

Since the war the number of drug users in Mostar, as with Sarajevo, has multiplied. People smoked hash or took tranquilisers or anti-depressants to cope. Trapped in a city under siege, getting to medical attention with a bullet or shrapnel wound could be impossible. So morphine was freely distributed to the city's population during the war. The war has passed but for many the morphine dependency remains. Jobs are few and far between. Multi-national companies are reluctant to invest in a country that is effectively split in two and has three ethnic groups still requiring a considerable international presence to prevent significant hostilities. Some guys I met in Sarajevo told me of their mate living on the social in Dublin. Apparently he has used the income to buy two apartments in Sarajevo. Hard to believe. But for all the efforts of the EU and others to patch the place up and throw on a fresh lick of paint many young Bosnians have little to look forward to but immigration if they want to find work. Property here is cheap.

Having outlined the foregoing it must be said that Mostar is one of the most attractive cities in the Balkans. The surrounding sandy-brown hills are appealing and comfortable for hiking. A few miles away lies perpetual pilgrimage site, Medjugorie. I climbed this and other spots around. Though i was much amused afterward to discover that the locals believe that there are still landmines in the hills. The government swears they have been fully cleared, but brush-fires in the summer months have released explosive echoes through the valley. Yikes. Glad i didn't stray off the paths for a pee or any such.

On the run ...

To Perpıgnon and Beyond

Leaving Barce with my budget tucked between my legs I vowed to cross the rest of Europe A. S. A. P. A two-legged journey to Perpignon was as far as I could reasonably get that day; one train to the French border, where the Pyrennese meet the sea, and another to Perpignon. Severely sleep deprived, from a final nite's carousing in Barcelona, I sat in the dark on a platform waiting for the connecting train. It was late and the train was late. Fifteen minutes late. A lifetime later it was thirty mınutes late. Announcements blared unintellgibly from the speakers in French, Catalan and Spanish. Faic ar bith as Gaelige. I was perplexed but afraid to leave the platform for fear the train would shoot through in the manner of Spanish buses.

After a time a Scottish couple translated the mumblings of a passing attendant. Our train was late - thank you Monsieur Bleedin' Obvious. Another lifetime passed and the mumbler upgraded the train to "cancelled". Soon the next train was late. The nite had grown very late. An American college student had fallen into our circle of bemusement by the time the mumbler explained we would need to buy new tickets as the approaching train was a much swankier model than the one we had been intended for. Collective tempers flared and we made a musketeer pact not to pay another cent. When the creme de la creme train finally chugged up it was stuffed with the pallid bodies of passengers who had been intended for the earlier cattle cart. We piled aboard into the sweaty space between two carriages. I promptly fell asleep standing up, buffeted in slumber by the surrounding humanity.

As one and all decried their respective situations in broken multi-lingual exchanges, bovine interludes in the confined space, a ticket collector wıth a long neck poked through the crowds. Checking our tickets, he demanded we buy new, and even more expensive ones to cover the additional luxury we were receiving standing upright in the non-ventilated space outside the toilets between two packed livestock carriages. "Whats the French for 'Get f*cked'?" enquired the Scottish lad, with the indignation and bravado of a hurling fan refusing Garda entreaties to come down from a wall in Semple Stadium on Munster Final day. Too weary for an argument, I told the little monsieur in the peaky hat that I was not paying another cent and that talking to me further in this heat was a horribly extravagant waste of his breathing apparatus. The pen pusher threatened police; the train pulled into Perpignon, and we told him he could call Jehovah if he wished as we unbundled onto the plaform. Wandering down the main street from the train station I entered the first dive I laid eyes on. Rooms vacant over a dingy bar. Fine wıth me. A few morsels and bed.

Marseille

A brief stroll around a seemingly vacuous Perpignon in the morning and I returned to the train station, bound for Marseille. At Marseille I waited for a metro into town, meandering with my backpack up and down the platform. At one end was a plastic seat coated in blood and wrapped with one length of police tape. The blood was dark and sticky, but relatively fresh. Perhaps from the nite before. Echoes of a scream.

In Marseille's tourist information office I enquired after the cheapest room in town. A flurry of phonecalls, smiles and chit chat; the assistant asked if I minded having an external shower. Fine with me. And an external toilet. Also fine with me, I replied, but begining to wonder. Armed wıth directions and a map I headed off to find the cheapest room ın Marseille.

This old port city has the down-at-heel vibe of sunken grandeur. Crumbling old buildings, freshly painted, bespeak a past when they were greater than their younger neighbours are now. Witnesses to the launches and landings of countless Algerian and Moroccan adventures. Though of late the adventurers are mostly to be found lining up on the beaches of North Africa hoping to complete the journey the other way. A Presidentıal election was in the offing and Marseille's graffiti artists were expressing the views of many who lived there; "Nic Sarkozy = Nic Le Pen" scrawled in blood red near the old port.

My hotel was a patched up falling down microcosm of the town. Having once been a rather fine mansion, it is now the cheapest room in town. A young Arabic man greeted me, took my details and led me to my room. First along a corridor, then through a kitchen, then a laundry room and out back into a large overgrown garden. Winding around two trees bent low by weight of foliage a wooden staircase led up to three doors. One was mine. Downstairs on opposite sides of the garden were two cubicles; each one a three-sided timber frame affair set against the opposing cement walls. One was the toilet, the other was the shower; it was difficult to tell them apart. Fine wıth me. I think.

Later in the evening searching for deep sleep in my little room I had first contact with a new and irreconilable enemy. Hiding in the dark dinge, waiting until he thought I had fallen asleep, he suddenly swept down on my bed from above. In my ear was the rising, falling, soon to be familiar, buzzing of a hovering mosquito. I ignored the intruder as long as I could. I was willing to sacrifice some flesh but the infernal buzzing in my ear soon overrode all else. I flashed on the lights, rolled up a newspaper and leapt into battle. Furious swotting and more furious cursing, interspersed wıth futile offers of a cease-fire and even more futile attempts at sleep, led to the unavoidable conclusion that all mosquitos would have to be put to the sword. Lights back on. Rolled up newspaper re-drawn. A final showdown. For thirty minutes the lunactıc silhouette show raged for the benefit of anyone watching from the dark of the garden. Defeated and dispirited I eventually passed out and let his colleagues do what they would with my temporary corpse. In the morning I had my wounds and the mosquitoes had their dead.

In the afternoon I located an Oirish bar just in time to catch God Save the Queen blast out over Croke Park for the first time since the British monarch's forces last blasted out over Croke Park. A fitting massacre to match the occasion this time around.

When the Moon Hıts your Eye Lıke a ...

From Marseille I caught a train to Nice, from where the overnite train departs for Pisa. Rolling through the towns of the Cote D'azure I blinked out in through bleary eyes at the tree lined boulevards between the train tracks and the lazy blue sea. Flash cars and loud music idling along on one side. Plastic surgery platinum blondes on the other. Bright sunlight reflected from dark sunshades. Eyes hidden, bejewelled midriffs exposed.

On scrambling aboard the next choo-choo, I found I was sharing a cabin with the Griswalds; the other three beds being occupied by Chevy Chase, his wife and larger-than-life daughter Cassie, Krystle, Allie or something. The Griswalds hailed from Wisconsin and this was their first time over here in Europe. All three were terribly excited - not by Europe, but - to be spending their first nite sleeping on a train. This excited them even more than "doing Rome". On balance Tiffany seemed even more excited by her Hershy bar. God bless Rome and all who sail in her.

I prepared for some clickety-clack sleep with a final pee and a mild sedative. Clambering into the top bunk - initially assigned to insurance-salesman Chevy, who was not quite equal to the task (and neither was the bunk) - I noted the odour from my hiking boots diffusing into the atmosphere, suffocating conversation but somehow not my resilient companions. As I drifted away I thought Agent Orange might not be sufficient to suffocate this threesome.

So, like Hannibal and his elephants before, the Griswalds and I crossed the Alps. Hannibal lost most of his elephants crossing the Alps. I retained all of the Griswalds. Sadly history does not record whether Hannibal or the Griswalds inflicted the greater damage on the Italian peninsula.
When the train attendant woke me at about 6:00am I found all three Griswalds wide awake, unable to sleep due to their own excitement and the motion of the train. Marcy was sucking on some Chocolate Kisses and a bottle of Coke. We exchanged our goodbyes and well wishes and (their) hopes that we might meet again. I slinked away into the early morning with the gentle sound of slurping fading into the past.

Pisa train station was empty in the morning but the cafe across the road hummed wıth people waiting to commute to work. Ambulance workers and police officers filed in and out knocking back espressos and pain au chocolates. Not a fry up in sight. I chilled the mal-odourous boots for a couple of hours waiting for the baggage storage office to open. Backpack deposited I stumbled off into the morning to find the famed, negligently-designed tower of Pisa. It still leans over at an angle. No doubt about it. That much confirmed I recollected my bag and made the short trip to Florence.

Firenze

Florence I have long wanted to visit. Ancestral home of the the renaissance, seat of the Medici and host to Michaelangelo's David, the Ponte Vecchio and Sante Maria del Fiore. I happened upon an excellent hostel and stayed for a week. The Renaissance architecture is fulfillingly stunning, the cathedrals and museums superlative. But, even out of season, the place was flooded. Thirty minutes queing outside the Galleria Academia to see Michaelengelo's David. It did however not disappoint. A giant chunk of marble so life-like, it seems that at any moment of his choosing David could set forward and mooch out the front door to offend public decency. One college student whimpered that she felt sorry for all of the statues having such small peckers. But hey, its cold in here and there's nothing much exciting going on. And usually its much bigger ... I heard David say to himself, before smiting her like once he smote an impudent Hittite wench who shouted "Hey Smallknob!".

The Sante Maria cathedral is incredibly detailed and ornately beautıful, but ringed by traffic; the ever-present grinding buzz of scooters more annoying than mosquitos in the dark. Tourist groups flowed hither and thither, blindly slouching along behind their flag-bearers. One super-cool dude at the back of a group wears a beanie, sunglasses, chunky gold chain, wife-beater vest and lolli-pop in the gob. Walking so languidly that his shoulders may have been unsocketed he holds the hand of his girlfriend who was kitted out in the fashion of a school-girl uniform: knee-high grey socks, pleated grey skirt, white blouse, ponytail slung over her shoulder. How cool can you be? ... if you are dressed like pop's next greatest thing and travelling with a coach load of grey headed, gum toothed retirees.

Italy being Italy, nothing works quite as it should or as might be expected. Everything is ever so slightly through the looking glass. The newly elected Prime Minister loses a Senate vote and resigns. And is reappointed. And threatens to resign again a few days later. Online gambling is forbidden. Unless you gamble with one of the state licenced monoplies - the group of companies alternatively known as "Berlusconi's best mates." The chicks are beautiful and chique. But the men are more chique and cannot pass a mirror, or reflective sunglasses, or a refecting pool of water. Waiters have elevated ignoring customers to an art form - far exceeding the borders of a professional science. Its life Jim ...

Just one cornetto...


After Florence I had intended taking a ferry to Croatia. At the last moment - waiting for my train - I jumped on a train for Venice instead. So many people had said so many good things I decided on a detour. Florence is beautıful, but Venice more so and it has no grinding, lawnmower-engined scooters cutting through the sidestreets of your mind. Only cheesey looking gondoliers charging 'having a laff' prices for pushing through the canals. And Venice is so much cleaner. And so much more expensıve. €10 an hour for internet access forced an email black-out.


In St Mark's square people pay €1 for cups of corn that cause frenzied pigeons to flash back and forth the square, trailing great gobs of shit behind them. Arms wide, tourists pose with pigeons dangling from heads, shoulders, anywhere they can grip. As each new cup is spilled these flying rats flutter en masse decorating anyone unfortunate enough to be underneath. Kids run through the crowds of these vermin, ocassionally revenging themselves by managing to boot one or other of them. Feathers fly, parents scold then chuckle, sore-arsed pigeons fly off for the next cup of corn, the next tourist wıth a target on his head.

Is Ireland in the EU yet?


At the Doge's Palace I presented my ISIC card for the student discount. Curtly I was informed that the student discount applied only to students from EU countries. I said I was Irish and produced my passport. The lady, even more testily, replied that the discount only applied to citizens of EU countries. Eh, Ireland is in the EU I retorted as placidly as I could. She looked at me as though I had told a good joke and laughed something in Italian at her colleague. I pointed to the gold "European Union" print on the front of my passport. After deep inspection - including rubbing the print to see if it would flake off! - and with all the good grace of Silvio Berlusconi on election nite she finally issued me the half price ticket with a harrump. It was plain to see she felt she was beıng had. Which of course she was, in part. The other part.

Leaving Venice I headed off for new adventures in the former Yugoslavia ...