💾 Archived View for malinfreeborn.com › gen › serbia_2.gmi captured on 2022-04-28 at 19:00:36. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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Date: July 2017
It struck me that if one were stuck in a small cell and tortured with the levels of pain I was in, it would be a horrifying story. But sitting on the little bus suffering wasn't worth much simply because I'd chosen both to go to Hungary and to have a fat man with ear plugs cut into my finger earlier that day and shove a magnet in there. So the difference between horrible torture and a nice holiday seemed to be a faint feeling of agency based on a blurry selection of memories.
Five Polish men got on board, promised the driver they wouldn't dream of drinking, then pull out beer and vodka before making painfully clumsy attempts to chat up two American women. After failure, they reverted to sexist comments in Polish.
The tattoo artist had himself done one failed implant on himself but apparently some successful implants on others. At the end of the procedure he gave me a sticker advertising his shop, which he called 'a sticker for brave boys'. I suspect squealing like a little bitch when the needle pushed into my fingertip didn't impress him.
With blurry eyes I arrived in Hungary without any sleep, and received advice on how to get to the nearest train station from a nice Australian whose travelling history put mine to shame despite being only in his early twenties. We chatted on the tube for long enough to exchange things we normally wouldn't have told another soul, safe in the knowledge that we'd never see each other again.
The train trip showed me hours of scenes of sunflowers and wheat fields - nothing but. This image was what fields are meant to look like - not the empty plains, interrupted by half a cow then three towns, which we see in Scotland. The border patrol ordered passports from everyone's hands and left for half an hour without explaining why or what they were doing in that time. It still seems insane that they don't think of themselves as insane. Someone once fought a war to draw an imaginary line in the sand and now those people are paid to be keepers of the line. They watch it with all the focus of a hypnotised chicken.
Arriving in Belgrade the woman I came to see would not meet with me - she'd found work already in the West of Serbia picking strawberries for 10 hours a day, being paid 16 euros per day plus room and board. She's going to stay until she has enough money for an i-phone. I drink with two anarchists who tell me a non-descript revolution of non-governmental peace is coming, and they sit a phone on the table showing riots in Hamburg live. We all hope that Trump's head will soon exit, followed by Theresa May.
The hostel owner was raided about five days before and he hasn't slept since, having decided to drink in celebration of not going to jail for not committing a crime. The government regularly question his affiliation with anarchists and have put him on lists. In truth, despite radical views (like not letting refugees starve), he mostly simply manages the hostel.
Two deaf Serbians, recently back from playing football in Germany, chat in the kitchen, away from the rest of the group. We chat for the next two days and only need to use the phone to type every five minutes. I used British Sign Language and they understand enough international sign to guide me to the correct way to speak in Serbian sign.
Over the next hour, we discuss the refugee crisis, how they acquired deafness (childhood fever), the weather, the position of light bulbs, and how on earth two deaf Serbians managed to speak and write such excellent English and German (by which I mean 'some German and English'). We also discuss a lot of Serbian Sign Etymology.
I take some painkillers, rakia, beer, and eventually manage to sleep through the pain in my hand.
I wake with the recommended hangover cure - Rakia - thrown at me. Everyone drinks. One volunteer is arguing with his girlfriend and feeling irritated throws something across the room. Throughout the next three hours he occasionally wanders to the back to break brushes, bricks and more - we hear loud, dramatic smashes and some swearing. His girlfriend plays on her phone then rolls her eyes. He emerges to break all of her cigarettes then goes to buy more rakia.
I go to see the new work, get lost, the phone breaks down, everyone gives me opposite directions, and nobody's heard of the nearby streets. The actual address I have no idea of - only latitude and longitude. With 2% battery left I tell the employer where I am and he has to cycle up to get me. He tells me I'm clearly disorganised. In this heat I can't disagree, but at least I bring the gift of whisky to the office.
Later, while flat hunting nobody returns my calls or answers the phone except for one screeching Serbian woman - apparently drunk beyond all reason - and two people saying 'no foreigners'. My Serbian grammar needs working on.
The day's spent doing half-arsed laundry by hand. I complete a set of dishes without touching metal (because the finger-magnets would push against the wound), then when shutting off the tap a spark of pain races up my finger as the magnet resting inside the wound smacks me like an electric shock. I meet an amicable Irish fellow who wanders the world. He tells me one Bulgarian thought it so alien that he just wanders around that he made a documentary about him. I start following the Irish man around doing a mock Bulgarian accent voice-over.
An American man with shoulder length hair chats to him. He refers to people as 'cats' non-ironically and has precisely the accent you think he has. The hostel's falling to ruin with too many people and no cleaning (the brushes were all broken during yesterday's rampage).
Finally an old volunteer returns. The hostel's in working order in moments and nobody's sleeping in irregular places any more. Order is restored and the music switches from System of a Down to smooth jazz. I go to buy a new phone in order to navigate to a prospective new flat.
At the outer edge of the city is a hallway with a dozen unidentified and strange doors under another building. Two of the rooms are for me. They're empty except for two wardrobes. I tell my guide I don't speak Serbian. He lectures me in Serbian with a big smile on my face, apparently confident that I'll pick up the bones of the language by the end of the conversation. My phone's dictionary persistently breaks, then when it works the words he uses aren't there.
Back to the hostel.
I pull out my flat-hunting list at the main table while everyone drinks around me. A couple of helpful Serbians start insisting on helping. I protest but it's too late; they're calling landlords at 9pm with beer in hand. One responds. They promise to meet me the next day and take me to a flat. It's two months rent up front to ensure previous problems with previous tenants don't repeat.
The pain has diminished to a dull throb - almost forgettable except when using my hands or accidentally touching my phone with the wrong finger. I shower despite the broken shower head (the second this week) and take my clothes from the line, then dry my hair by having a cigarette outside. It's 40 degrees and humid. I replace my phone at the shop with yet another.
The two helpful Serbians arrive as promised and we get out 45000 Dinar then convert it in the only money-conversing place available on a Sunday to 375 Euros. An old man, working with a housing agency takes us to the location as the two smoke cigarettes and shout loudly in Serbian. They tell me not to worry about my Seatbelt. "This is Serbia", one explains.
The owner of the flat is famous footballer Toma Miličević who played against Edinburgh in Red Star, the Yugoslavian football team. He imagines I might say "It's an honour to meet you, sir. We know all about the Red Stars in Scotland", but in fact I spend the hour trying to sit like a normal human, waiting for him to stop making noises. He explains that the washing machine is, in fact, a washing machine, then tells me not to touch it as nobody know how to work one. I explain I can in fact work the machine. He expresses surprise, then later praises me once I claim that I will be using the filthy kitchen to cook. The surprise is that I can cook.
The room plays an old radio with room for tapes and has what must have been considered a large TV at the time it was made. Pictures all over the walls show Toma training young people and his trophies, obtained all over the world. Another shows a blond-haired boy in the style of the Hitler youth wearing the Red Star shirt. Another has all the players in the team arranged in a giant red star.
I suggest I might be putting the pictures aside politely, and Toma tells me the images and trophies must remain because they form part of 'The character of Toma'. I decide not to join the Serbian habit of direct language. I need this place and I have already paid for two months' rent.
Toma shows me around the area in his car while the two lads smoke beside us. One once trained with Toma as a child. Toma shows me the American, Israeli and Albanian embassy, all next to each other. 'We don't like Albanian people' explains one of the lads. 'Kosovo?' I ask, and he says 'yes'.
I wonder what the two lads want in exchange for all my help. I insist on going to a restaurant or pub and paying for the night, but they must leave.
I'm just getting settled into the flat, hoping to return to Green Studio for the rest of my things, to say goodbye, and to have a drink with the place when the lads phone up again and want a drink. I explain my plans, so they say they can come early at six, which turns into seven, then half seven. They're delighted I'm learning Serbian and are confident I'll have mastered the language within two months.
It soon becomes apparent that they want something far worse than money; they want friendship. The conversation is fine at first, but awkwardness quickly piles on. One makes persistent and new references to being stupid. Despite my mannerisms with friends, I generally do not act snobbishly in public, but many people seem self-conscious after talking with me for a while. They bore me and they know it, and I don't know how to set them at ease. It's not like I started talking about Pinker and Singer.
Futile attempts are made to impress me, such as repeatedly claiming to know the obscure music which they can see and hear on the laptop. They then introduce me to their card game, which is 'guess the next card'.
That's it. That's the game. They pretend to know poker, but it's quickly apparent that it's too complicated for them.
By 11pm the beer is gone, and so is the conversation. One suggests they can sleep there, the other is more aware and suggests they leave and we meet later. I agree it's time to retire, then have to explain the word.
Internet's arriving tomorrow. Right now it's just me, the computer, the dozen books I managed to carry all this way and a Serbian radio playing a combination of old American rock and Serbian imitations.
I wake at nine as Toma is knocking ferociously on the door to repeat questions about last night. Initially he pretends he left something in the flat, but it's clearly an excuse to nose about and criticize me for not having put away all my things properly yet. I explain I work nights, and he says that's good, but doesn't seem to understand that 'I'm on night shift and this is 9am' is a secret British code which means 'Fuck off and die in a fire, fuckface'.
The lads continue to say 'So shall I see you later?', and I have to ask 'Why?', but I wonder if I need to be less British and at one point say to the people who helped me set up, 'No, we are not friends'.
Roaches scuttle across the floor and the dishes must be done in the bathroom sink, but at least there's hot water. It's 45 degrees outside and my IQ is suffering.
At Western Union an old man insists on teaching me romantic Serbian songs to chat up the ladies. They're not bad, though the Arabic sounds are difficult to imitate. Serbian music is basically Arabic music with Serbian lyrics, though the locals might kill me for saying that. He sings of being a street rubbish collector. He sings "I find my joy in the rubbish". The old communist song was designed to praise workers, and to run headwords into every filthy capitalist pig who ever told someone to study or else they might work as a rubbish collector.
It's been a strained week, but currently I'm having a fag and a coffee in a pub with air conditioning and old Serbian rock, and it's been worth every second.