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.