Serbia - East of Neverland

Chobane, Vrati Se

2010-03-25T22:17:00.002+01:00

A good friend of mine is visiting from Australia. I'm not a full-time mum anymore and all I really have to do with my days is run my writing company as well as complete my own projects, so talk has turned to the attractive prospect of poking around Europe a bit.

That means the inevitable wandering from west to east... Plenty of countries between here and there, but sooner or later Serbia calls. See you soon crazy country. Unless Bosnia's more fun.

Visa Free Travel for Serbs... And the walls begin to crumble

2009-11-18T18:25:00.006+01:00

My confusion and slight disgust over Serbs not being able to travel is becoming obsolete.

Finally, the EU Parliament has realised that Serbia isn't going to be enthusiastic about joining the Union until it's citizens have a chance to see it.

The final vote will be cast on November 30, but (fingers crossed) it is only a formality. To read more about it, WikiNews has the goods.

Meanwhile, be prepared for hordes of blood-thirsty Serbs to race across the border looking for pillage and taking your jobs... Oh wait, I'm not writing for CNN today, sorry...

Instead, keep your eyes peeled for a few excited-looking folk who have been waiting years for the simple pleasure of taking a peek at the next country over.

Nice to see you guys... hope the hospitality over here is a tenth as good as the hospitality at your place.

One to make the parents cry...

2009-03-17T17:48:00.003+01:00

I woke up this morning remembering a story told to me by a Novi Sad friend.

It´s about his grandmother, who was very small when this happened. It is pieced together from her own memory and her mother´s retelling of it.

A woman and her children are parted from the man of their house. It is during the war (which one?) and Hungarian soldiers are being slightly less than wonderful.

This is not a political story though, so we will let the facts state simply that the man of the house was sent to an encampment... a prison really.... and the woman and her children were left to face the world alone.

What is a woman to do with no income, in fear for her quite obviously Serbian children, and with the constant terror of her husband dying in the camp: disease, starvation, a bullet. It´s all the same result isn´t it?

She picks up whatever she can and walks with them to the border. She is fortunate - she speaks a little Hungarian and can ´pass´ as one of their own. Her little ones are told, quite literally on pain of death, not to speak. Their cover as pseudo-Hungarians will be blown for sure if these little guys say anything.

They make it, after a few frightening moments.

Months later, they are in pretty desperate circumstances.

They live in a single room. An empty room. There is no furniture, no heating, no food. The woman has had word through the grapevine that her husband is alive and will soon be released. She waits for him in the street. Every day. It is a long walk for a half-starved man from a prison camp. There´s no schedule for that sort of thing.

One afternoon, she finally sees him. He approaches and they stand facing eachother, simply looking into eachother´s eyes. She is ashamed you see, that he is coming ´home´ to an empty room with nothing to feed him with. Nothing to greet him with but hungry children. She wants to warn him before the little ones see him again.

She breaks the silence with tears. He takes her in his arms and gives her comfort while she cries "We have nothing, we have nothing."

Together they climb the stairs and walk into the room. The little ones look up at him and watch, dumbfounded as he falls to the floor. It is his turn to cry now... and his wife feels her shame more deeply.

He turns to her, and she thinks he will chastise her for their meagre conditions. But this is not the case. He has seen all of his babies, and the woman who bore them, in one room, alive. Finally he speaks through his tears: "We have everything. Everything."

Please excuse my insensitivity....

2009-01-24T14:17:00.003+01:00

.... But am I the only one who thinks this is funny?

There's something about an Aussie summer, some plastics chairs in the hands of Balkanites and the breathless American hyperbole that makes me laugh.

It's not cool, I get that... But 'riots'? Please.

When in Serbia, stop thinking of distance in Australian terms

2008-10-27T14:32:00.004+01:00

In Australia, everything is far away. To visit a national park, its a days drive at least. People die out there. You need to be prepared.

Serbia is smaller.... But sometimes I forget.

I have been in Novi Sad for weeks... months probably, if you add up the total time.

There is a place called Fruska Gora National Park near here... Beautiful mountains, monasteries, the real deal. I have been meaning to visit it for ages.

Because we are lazy tourists, it has been put in the 'Too Hard' basket for a while now. Do we catch a bus, a train, hitchhike? Do we need to organise a room, or buy a tent? I want to hike, but I'm an amateur... Are there rescue options - believe me, I am the kind of person who would get ridiculously lost and need St Bernards sent in to find me and get me liquored up for the Long Haul Home.

I finally got off my butt and made some enquiries today.

'How far is Fruska Gora from Novi Sad' ?

"It takes me about 40 minutes on my bike."

'A motorbike'?

"No. Bicycle. If you just want to camp, walk over the bridge and take the path. It's a nice stroll."

Oh.

We're going camping now. See you in half an hour.

Slow travel and Slow food

2008-10-24T12:09:00.003+02:00

Someone I never met commented on my blog today.

This is not astounding news for anyone who blogs. You are all used to it, no doubt. For me though, it is huge. It has not really occurred to me before that anyone apart from a couple of friends would read it. Let alone like it.

So, bashful, humbled and pleased, I took a shy look at the blog of my Commenter.

She writes on lots of things, as freelancers often do, but has a particular interest in good food. By good, I mean non-poisonous.

Food safety was pretty big in my household growing up. I was raised by a hippy, no two ways about it. Before words like Organic and Biodynamic were invented, I was being humiliated in front of my white-bread white-bred neighbours with delights like Liver Crumbed in Wheatgerm and Molasses Lollies.

You can take the girl out of the vege patch but you can't take the vege patch out of the girl.

I have a love of good food. The thing I lack is a love of cooking.

Here, then, is an example of a Serbian-style staple dish. This is a salute to Nanditha as most of the food in Serbia has that lovely bug-nibbled look about it (a perfect looking tomato tastes crap, believe me... Veges are like lovers, its almost impossible to find Good Looking and Worth Eating in the same place).

It is also a salute to Slow food. Shopping locally and organically, eating seasonally - which means getting as much variety into you as possible before they are over for the year.

Thirdly, its nice to know how to pronounce a couple of ingredients.

And lastly, I only own one pot.

Serbian Stew/Casserole/Gulash Thing

Diced meat. I like beef, but pork is used a lot here, and so is chicken. Just point and make animal noises. 'Pet Sto Grama' means five hundred grams. 'Kilo' means kilo. Nema problema.

Krompir - Potato. Roll your 'r' when you say it. Easier is to grab a bag and put some in. Give them about fifty dinar to pay for it.

Luk - Onion. Sounds like 'look'... .Make the sound of this short. If you make it long, like looook, then it means 'arch' To specify brown onion, ask for Crna Luk. Crna is a bitch of a word. Sounds like Ts-r-na and yes you have to roll the 'r' ..... Stick with Luk, and point.

Beli Luk - Garlic. Literally 'white onion' but its definitely garlic.

Paprika - Capsicum. Emphasis on the first syllable. Make it sounds like a swear word. PAPrika!

Paradajz - Tomato. Sounds like paradise. Tastes like it too.

Ajvar - A mush made out of roasted capsicum. Put it on/in everything. Its wonderful.

Whatever other veges you like. Point at them, or pick one up and inspect it critically until the stall holder begins bagging a few of them for you. Smile your thanks. Watch the scales carefully to see the price being punched in. This is a formality. You won't be cheated, its just part of the market routine.

Fry onion and garlic, brown meat, throw in chopped veges with salt, vegeta, wine, beer, pepper, ajvar, any other random spices on the shelf, water.

Simmer for as long as it takes to have a few drinks, a few laughs, a walk. A few hours really. Put water in it sometimes, if you remember.

Serve with bread. LOTS of bread. If bread is not on the table, you are not Serbian.

If you are alone, eat out of the pot. Less dishes. If you are in company, pour more drinks and maintain eye contact when you toast.

Prijatno!

Serbia is not on the map

2008-10-21T07:59:00.004+02:00

It is pretty difficult to get money out of this country.

Western Union is a no go, American dollars are simultaneously valuable and suspicious and its not easy to organise a debit card that lets you purchase online.

The bit that surprised me is how hard it is to get money INTO the country. I have been battling to be able to withdraw my savings to an Eastern European account. Apparently its just not the done thing. Never mind that its my money and I need it. Never mind that we are stranded without cash. This is Serbia and the rest of the world seems to conjure up images of leather clad mafioso with bad accents and worse moustaches. IF the person on the phone even knows where the country is.

And if you need to set up a Paypal or Moneybookers account from a Serbian address, forget it.

Luckily I have these in place already - the life of a freelancer depends on them - but if you are trying to work as a Serbian freelancer, you are out of luck.

When did the Balkans become the Bermuda Triangle? Or was it always this way and I wasnt paying attention?

Serbian Moment Number 749

2008-10-09T22:30:00.000+02:00

Please understand I love this country.

But things don't work the same way here that they do everywhere else.

For instance.... the Belgrade City Museum. I was really looking forward to this. I was really proud of reading the Cyrillic carving above the entrance that reads 'Belgrade City Museum'. I was really baffled when I got inside, walked to the end of it then turned around and took a picture of the entire museum. Really, the whole thing.

Just because this is the address given on the website and just because it is named the Belgrade City Museum does not mean this is the museum. This is Serbia after all. So there's nothing to do but ask around.

Turns out that the exhibits are actually held at Princess Ljubica's place... A kilometre or two away.

Just another Serbian moment.

World Class British Snobbery in Serbia

2008-10-09T22:15:00.000+02:00

Ever had to find a public toilet in a new city? How about finding 40 public toilets in a new city?

This was my latest assignment. I'm a freelance writer and some projects are a bit off the wall.

A writing assignment like this means three things: A good giggle, surprisingly good money and a chance to walk around Belgrade exploring places I normally wouldn't have.

One thing in particular caught my eye and I had to share it with you....

A world class WHAT? Here in Serbia? Will wonders never cease...

Serbia is quarantined

2008-10-08T03:34:00.000+02:00

One of our Serbian friends is going to the UK for ten days with his girlfriend.

Not exactly ground-breaking news is it?

Unless you are Serbian and need to get a visa to travel. Getting a travel visa is something that alot of today's travellers no longer need to bother with. Most countries are pretty open to anyone visiting for a month, two or three without any extra paperwork.

This is absolutely not the case for Serbian citizens. Our friend needed to supply documents relating to his studies, financial position, booked flights (yes, booked, even if his visa was denied), itinerary, accomodation details, father's workplace, mother's workplace, parents financial details (yep, seriously) and a ton of other things. Then he needed to make an appointment at the embassy in Belgrade for an interview. Belgrade is an hour from Novi Sad and five hours from Nis, where his girlfriend lives. She had to be there too, with the same documentation for herself and her family. There is a joke here - actually more than one. More than a hundred I think - about visa applications always requiring 'just one more document'. One that doesn't exist. In this case, it did exist but there was a frantic mercy dash by our friend's brother from Novi Sad to Belgrade on the day of the interview to drop it off.

And this guy is extremely well organised.

He is also one of the lucky ones. He is still a student. Students are granted visas for travel much more easily than other Serbs because it is assumed they will want to return and finish their degrees. Anyone else is almost guaranteed to have their application denied.

If you think this expensive, time consuming and harrowing application process is peculiar to the UK, think again. Even the most 'Serb-friendly' country, Greece only offer travel visas to groups. This means that Serbs who want to go to Greece for a holiday need to travel on a package. If all members of the travel party are not present at border crossings, no-one gets in and no-one gets out. Better not miss the bus.

There are exceptions to these hassles, usually business related visas. But not many. Serbia, as far as the tourism industry is concerned, is quarantined from the rest of Europe. No-one goes anywhere, even if they could afford it.

The insanity of this is staggering. One side effect is the bemused disbelief that anyone would actually like the country when they travel through it. Maybe want to stay for a while. "Just because it's cheap right?" Well yes, it's nice that my miserable dollar goes further here. But no that's not the only reason, promise.

Serbia is a very cool country, but its not easy to explain that to someone who has never had the chance to leave. A fish will never notice water and if they do, they'll probably resent the monotony.

The Red Yugoslavian Passport was once the door-opener to almost any country. Now it's just another bitter irony.

If the European Union Council would like a cooperative Serbia, perhaps it's about time to let Serbs take a look what they are supposed to desire so badly. Just a thought.

Stay long enough for the gloss to wear off

2008-10-08T02:58:00.000+02:00

I thought I was just a lazy tourist.

But I found out I am actually part of a new social awareness. It's called Slow Travel, a part of the Slow Movement that encourages Slow Food (organically grown local produce that you eat seasonally), Slow Cities, Slow Families, Slow Slow Slow.

Isn't that nice? I'm not slack at all, I'm simply assimilating gently into the culture.

And if you stay long enough, the gloss wears off. This is happening now here in Serbia and I kind of like it.

It's the part when you have fallen in love and the honeymoon period is ending. You begin to notice the way that your beloved sucks his teeth at the dinner table. It's the time when you begin to roll up your sleeves and get on with the business of staying devoted.

So now it is time to either get busy really learning this language or be forever fated to not be able to make a phone call without help. It is time to learn to gently smile when I'm informed that I'm are getting fat, that I'm not allowed outside with wet hair or bare feet, I am highly suspected of being a well-meaning but terrible parent - for a number of reasons - and that my hair looks much better when I let the natural curls show. It is time to balance my normal snarling reaction to interference with the Serbian habit of being involved in each other's daily lives like chewing gum in hair.

The plan is to rent an apartment here and use Serbia as a base. My girl and I love Novi Sad and it is an inexpensive country to live and work in. Save a little money and head off for a while. Not for too long though... This place is addictive.

Maybe that's the key to getting the best from Slow Travel. Let the gloss wear off and then leave for just long enough to get a replacement coat.

Dark alleyways at night alone

2008-10-07T17:57:00.001+02:00

In your hometown you should avoid dark alleyways at night.

In Serbia, you should walk down every dark alleyway you find.

This is not great advice in the isolated areas, but ... in the cities the alleyways are where you will find the best bars, most friendly shops, scrappy signs that advertise the cheap rooms you never find on the internet, chess players, people playing instruments you've never heard of, food that makes you rediscover the bliss of eating and pools of calm only 15 metres from the main street.

Your alleyway might hold a few hermits and smell like a Saturday night urinal, but that's what happens when you find humanity.

Penniless

2008-10-02T18:35:00.000+02:00

After a negative experience in Hungary (cocktails + dancing + handbag+ thieves = Lesson) we have replaced a passport but are still waiting for a replacement debit card.

This leads to pondering on the general state of being in an unfamiliar country with around $2 in ready cash.

The conclusion is that it stinks and has led to a set of sneaky places to hide cash when traveling.

In a bank account seems logical. Most of your money can go here.

Next is a small stash of larger notes in the back of your wallet. This won't protect you from thieves but will protect you from drunken largesse.

Where to hide cash in your luggage? Socks, shoes and lipstick cases are pretty good, but frankly the king of all luggage-based hiding places is a tampon box. Preferably in a tampon applicator tube. Most thieves are men ... or at least, most thieves who are CONVICTED are men, which either means most thieves are men or the really good thieves are women. If it is the latter, then my theory is rubbish .... and if most of them are men then they will probably have the universal aversion to all things Uterus-Related. This makes tampon tubes, pregnancy test kits and any strange-looking items (especially with rubber bulbs) a good deterrent.

Holes in the wall: Not the Cash Points, but literally a hole in the wall. Before you accuse me of a weird disorder, think about how many crumbly buildings are around. A few loose stones and a covert wriggling-stashing operation can hide you a couple of ten Euro notes around your city of choice. Pick them up if you need them, don't cry too much if they're not there when you go back. You can collect them before you leave, or create a secret network of Travelers Who Pay It Forward. Similar to the way hikers will leave food and fresh water for each other on the trail. Break Rock In Case of Emergency.

On-The-Fly-Work. A fast couple of freelance gigs, especially if your note contains words like 'will work for cheap in exchange for fast turnaround and Western Union payment' might just save your life. Also, the time you have to pay for at the Net Cafe to get the gig complete will dissolve your usual fluffing around when you're working.

Leave money with someone before you travel. Ok, this one takes massive amounts of financial discipline, organisation and forethought, so of course it doesn't apply to me. Its still a good idea though. Leave cash with someone you trust (someone who possesses massive amounts of financial discipline, organisation and forethought... but not your mum because she will freak out if you are stuck somewhere with no cash). If you are robbed, get them to send it to you by Western Union. NOT ALL OF IT. This WILL happen again, I guarantee it.

Walk. This will stave off hunger pains and get you to your next destination faster. Enjoy. Smile. You're not dead yet

The Serbia Effect

2008-09-23T14:44:00.001+02:00

It is a paradoxical truth that Serbia is curing my procrastination while enhancing my laziness.

I can now feel completely comfortable leaving a task undone - for weeks instead of days - happily drifting in the warm haze of Serbian timelessness. This is partly the Serbia Effect and partly because I am living my dream of only working enough to fund our mischief.

That is the laziness.

BUT... When the day arrives that something must be done (anything involving banks, post offices, government agencies of any type, or really anything that involves another human being or machine), I no longer waste time.

Serbia has taught me NEVER to assume there is enough time in one day to get something done. Serbia has taught me there is no time to linger over a morning coffee. There is no time to stroll, or to check emails. There is no time to dress well or apply makeup.

Often, there is no time to even sleep. I have been out of the house at dawn after a night occupied with a freelancing project because I dare not risk closing my eyes and losing precious seconds when the bank/office/department have opened their doors.

Serbia has taught me that none of these tasks will go smoothly. This is a basic law of survival, second only to Really Looking Carefully Before You Cross The Street Even When The Green Man Is Blinking.

If you are one of those who walks away thinking it has gone well, you have missed something, and Darwin says you have lost your spot on the food chain. It is survival of the fittest my friend, nothing personal. If you walk away thinking you have managed to open a bank account, or that a Western Union sign means Western Union agent, or that a signed document means you can now access the money/information/country you need, then you have built your nest on a runway and don't say you haven't been warned.

The Serbia Effect teaches you that deep holes in the road do not come pre-equipped with pretty orange barriers. The Serbia Effect teaches you that 'why' is the stupidest question ever asked. The Serbia Effect teaches you that there is howling, tears-down-your-face laughter to be found in the places where your old life would only give you frustration, a frown line and a fast-track to Type A cardiac arrest behind the wheel of your shiny new Volvo.

Serbia's a bitch... and I love her madly

My teenage daughter flying alone

2008-08-31T14:38:00.000+02:00

After my month in Europe, it is finally time for my girl to join me.

She has been staying with my sister in Australia (actually I am an only child, but love creates families just as easily as genes do I guess) and now it is time for her to get on a plane.

My beautiful daughter is 13 years old. Too old for the unaccompanied minors program, but way to young to negotiate airports and a long haul flight alone. Please let us remember the lass has never been to an airport before and has certainly never been on a plane.

The night she flew I was not in a good way. Although I knew she would be fine, there is nothing like the Terrified and Paranoid Mother to defy all logic. The Professor kind of saved the day without knowing it. We finally caught up (after not seeing each other for a year or so) and walked the streets of Belgrade until 7 in the morning, talking about everything and nothing. For a quiet guy, that man can really talk when he builds up a head of steam, so although I didn't really have much to contribute except an ear, it was brilliant for taking my mind off my baby being in the air.

She rang me from Malaysia briefly, completely au fait with everything already. Then she rang me again from Frankfurt to say that she was working behind the desk at Lufthansa and didn't want to leave. OK, yes she really is fine. Oh and PS, she was upgraded on all three legs of the trip.

Seeing her little face again in Belgrade was THE BEST THING EVER. And it took us almost 6 hours to begin bickering, practically a World Record for us!

Cyprus and cancelling Estonia

2008-08-31T14:07:00.000+02:00

I have a client from Sweden who is based in Cyprus.

He is a pretty cool character even though we had never met (this is common in the world of freelance copywriting).

My best friend and I have dubbed him D-from-Cyprus-the-Lead-Singer-of-the-Hives and frankly there is no higher compliment. From Serbia my friend is going to Spain (I think, I am no good at remembering itineraries) so after messing around with cheap ticket-finders online, I am booked for 9 days in Cyprus to hang out with D-from-Cyprus-the-Lead-Singer-of-the-Hives.

This also means that I will miss the date I committed to in Estonia. I housesit and had arranged to sit for an Estonian family for a year. A few complications and a deep, abiding love of Serbia means that I will be cancelling. To be honest, this feels pretty shit. I hate committing to anything, but when I do, I REALLY hate letting someone down. There is no other way to do this except completely screw over the Estonian family and I have no excuses. So, there it is.

Skipping the self flagellation and guilt, lets instead go to the (god there is no way to do this except with cliches) azure blue beauty that is the birthplace of Venus.

I caught a JAT flight direct to Larnaca and was completely charmed by the applause of the passengers when we landed. Applause, really.

D-from-Cyprus-the-Lead-Singer-of-the-Hives sent his driver for me (and if I ever get to write that sentence again in my life, then dip me in honey and roll me in gold) and my 9 days in the Land of the Permanent Summer had began.

To be honest, Cyprus is never going to be my favourite place. This is not the fault of the place or the people, it is simply because my grumbling self does not like the heat very much. I also have a mild aversion to sunburnt British tourists eating hot chips with every meal and honking to eachother like bewildered geese who have suddenly found themselves off their flight plan. This is a cheap shot, I know... After all, I have a distinctly Autralian accent, and I do find myself saying 'mate' alot more than I ever have before, as well as throwing a litre of beer down my throat for breakfast,.I really can relate to the knee-jerk stereotyping response.

Nevertheless, like every other Space Consuming Anglo Saxon Tourist, I am constantly in search of the 'authentic' nature of a place, and the cities of Cyprus do not hit the sweet spot. They do drive on the left though, so driving was an option.

The internal hills of Cyprus are where I found a piece of peace. Because it is a rocky, scrubby landscape, there is not the amount of wildlife I am used to. A drive through the twisting, tiny roads of the mountains found me sitting on the side of the road listening to the deepest silence I have heard since being in the dust of almost-outback Australia as a hitchiking teenager.

Just remembering it brings a feeling of Hush over me that begins in the centre and spread outwards like molasses. Thankyou Cyprus. Not just for the quiet, but for the chance to really see the night sky. None of the stars are the ones I am used to seeing but they did manage to seem so close that I was tempted to pull one down and bite into it, just to see if it ran with fig juice.

Cyprus - and D-from-Cyprus-the-Lead-Singer-of-the-Hives - also gave me the first chance I have had in years to simply 'be'

I really went nowhere and did nothing while I was on this island. Slept when I was tired, ate when I was hungry, made no effort at all to be interesting or entertaining, watched 5 seasons of NipTuck, drank beer and vodka in copious amounts, walked (very very slowly) when inspired, mostly just sat and navel-gazed. Although I give the impression of being quite a lazy person, I burn alot of energy on useless tension and constant fretting. This week in Cyprus was the first time in years that I put all that down for a while and it was a gift.

New Zealand passports and the Schengen Treaty

2008-08-31T13:35:00.000+02:00

This European adventure has been a bit of a last minute thing.

Subsequently, while I have been having the time of my life for a month, it has been interspersed with organising passport, flights and a million small details in order for my daughter to join me.

There are a few unusual factors at play here:

1) She has never been on a plane. I had booked a short domestic flight for her birthday in October. I thought - at the time - that it would be fun for the two of us to take a little plane ride together, you know, a quick trip so she can hear the rumble of the engines and feel the G Force of take-off with her ever-loving mama by her side. As things turned out, we won't be using those tickets and the first time she ever gets on a plane, I am halfway around the world obsessing over the million and one tragic ways it can all go wrong.

2) She has never had a passport. This is not the easiest thing to rectify from half a planet away, especially as she is getting a passport from a country she has never been to. Let me explain: I have dual citizenship, Australia and New Zealand. My daughter was born in Oz but is eligible for NZ citizenship through me. New Zealand has this great tendency to develop really good international relations, especially for travellers, so the advantages of an NZ passport over an Australian one are pretty high.

In this case, there is a deal called the Schengen treaty. Most EU countries are part of this treaty and the idea is to make crossing borders alot simpler. If you are an EU citizen, it's brilliant as one ID card will take you everywhere within the Schengen area. If you aren't an EU citizen, you might have the same problems as we were facing. Australians (along with a whole lot of other approved countries) are allowed 90 days in the Schengen area without a visa. Sounds great, until you realise how ENORMOUS the Schengen area is. It includes France, Germany, Italy and pretty much all the European countries you will want to visit. If you are on a whirlwind tour, it's no problem, but if you want to really get stuck in to travelling, it's not enough time.

Brilliant little New Zealand immediately realised the hassles involved with this and got busy negotiating bilateral treaties with each of the Schengen countries. This means that anyone from the Land of the Long White Cloud gets 90 days in EACH Schengen country. It's still true that after your 90 days are up, you will have to be out of the country for 6 months, but at least that rule does not apply to the entire Schengen area as it does if you are an Aussie... and theoretically you can entertain yourself in a few other countries while your 6 months lapse, if you really fall in love with a place.

So, in order to put the border-hopping advantage to good use, I needed to get my daughter citizenship and THEN get her passport.

A note here: Although there are the usual bureaucratic delays involved when dealing with the NZ immigration office, these guys are ALOT cooler to work with than any other I've dealt with so far. Paperwork is light, people are more proactive and the whole thing is relatively simple. This has happened twice now, since her passport was stolen in Hungary, but I'll get to that later.

For now, let it be noted that as much as I love Australia (and I really really do), I am thanking my lucky stars that I come from New Zealand, where things like this are deliberately simple, instead of deliberately difficult

Serbia loves: Ice cream, Popcorn and Corn Cobs

2008-08-20T18:50:00.000+02:00

Really, there is ice cream everywhere.

In summer you can't walk more than 50 metres without finding an icecream seller who - without fail - will smile patiently at you while you decide, then unwrap it for you and hand it over stick-end first so they never touch it.

It is a sweet ritual (no pun) and maybe helps account for the amount of strolling beautiful couples, families and elderly who roam around this beautful city chatting about nothing in particular and enjoying all this icecream.

There are other ice cream sellers too, but these ones are by the cone and the flavours are pretty amazing. There is a not-quite-sweet biscuit here called a Plazma (i don't think it refers to white blood cells but anything's possible) and you can find it in anything, including icecream flavours.

When icecream meets Plazma you have cold cake in a cone. Bliss. This is a country that knows its dairy products.

There are also popcorn stands everywhere and their unpopped cousins, the cobs. The warm cobs are sold by little entrepreneurs who sit next to their plastic tub of warm water and dish out a cob for between 50 and 100 dinars. I have no idea how the water stays warm, there's no heating, but I picture Mission Impossible style backup teams swooping in to bring fresh hot water.

Because strolling is a national sport, its important to spend alot of time wandering while snacking on corn or icecream. Is this really the highest priority I have this week? Yes. Yes it is.

To the left to the left

2008-08-20T18:24:00.000+02:00

I have always lived in countries that drive on the left.

Although I still can't bring myself to only look left when I cross a European road, I have developed a manic neck swivel that covers left, right, backwards, forwards and a little up n down as well. This odd looking habit probably won't make me any friends (no-one likes to make eye contact with a lunatic) but it has kept me alive so far.

The most terrifying experience I have had with the switch from the left side of the road to the right was the first time I was a passenger in a car.

The gorgeous people at The Happy Hostel were completely booked after our first night there, so they contacted friends who own The New Inn, who had room for us. The equally gorgeous owner of The New Inn came and picked us up (can I repeat this please? Came and picked us up, along with all our luggage, for nothing) and so began my first adventure in the front seat of a car in Serbia.

The owner of the The New Inn is a good driver. He is patient in traffic and doesn't break alot of road rules - at least it didn't seem that way. He was, however, driving in Belgrade Traffic and the upper case T in 'traffic' is no typo. He also had the unfortunate luck to have next to him a woman who had only ever sat in that seat with a steering wheel in front of her.

I think - I hope - that I looked perfectly normal from the outside. The inner view was quite different. In my head, not only was I doing the insane neck swivel thing to watch the traffic and pedestrians, but I was also stomping pretty regularly on the invisible brake pedal and pulling violently on the invisible steering wheel to GET US OFF THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD. All in all, I'm sure I was quite chatty and relatively functional. The truth that will never be seen is that I was more like a cougar that has been freshly shot in the arse with a dart full of wasps.

And its not quite noon yet.

Belgrade Hostels

2008-08-20T18:19:00.000+02:00

If you are a budget traveller, you will be used to hostels.

You might be used to filth, you might be used to overcrowding, you might be used to rude and dismissive staff. If any of this is true, for a true delight you will have to stay in one of the following two places.

The Happy Hostel (which we stayed in for a night when we first arrived) and

The New Inn (which is not only homely and impeccable maintained... but is owned and run by people who are so wonderful that even though I'm writing this in Hungary, I am literally homesick for Belgrade because of them).

And on to Belgrade....

2008-08-20T17:40:00.000+02:00

After not quite long enough in Novi Sad, the moment becomes right to move on.

With the devoted help of one the best people I have ever met, we are safely on a bus to the capital. At least, we were pretty sure we were safely on the bus... It became difficult to distinguish reality from cosy dreams brought on by the exhaust fumes. We're not talking about a waft here and there, we're talking about something that smells like a punch in the face. Luckily, high doses of carbon monoxide makes everything feel warm, comfortable and hilariously funny... so in between involuntary naps that are more like narcolepsy than sleep, the ride is a laugh a minute.

Our beautiful friend in Novi Sad had mentioned that the ride would be pretty easy as there aren't too many hills. We only understood what that meant the first time the bus stalled. This was also hilarious.

The only thing that wasn't funny was how badly I needed to go to the toilet by the time we chugged in to Belgrade. Of course, I wouldn't have needed to hold it if I had realised that there was a perfectly good toilet right there on the bus. In my fume-stoned state (and, let's face it, just because I do have a natural history of Stupid Moments) I had spent two hours puzzling over where all these passengers were going when they disappeared down a little set of steps onboard. I had also spent two hours wiping my watering eyes (a combination of needing to pee and my body desperately trying to combat the pollution) and praying for a Warp Speed arrival.

The bathrooms at Belgrade station were a welcome sight. Until I got in one. Even getting in was a major ordeal... I am unused to the European custom of paying to use a public toilet. So, hopping and squeezing and watery eyed I fumbled for coins then ram-raiding myself and my ridiculously overpacked bag through the barrier, I flung myself breathlessly into the nearest cubicle....

... And discovered the horror.

There are toilets on this continent that look alot like a ceramic tray on the floor. After realising that the idea is to stand on the edges and squat to pee, I was faced with the dilemma of where to put my bag. The obvious place (after looking for a non existent hook on the back of the door) was down on the floor... Which was liberally covered in urine. I guess I'm not the only one who is slow to get the hang of the Tray.

Well, needs must, so down the bag goes. Now I am faced with a new question. Do I face the door when I squat (which someone has kicked a hole in at the most unflattering and exposed height) or do I face the back and Windsurf by holding on to the pipe?

Its all too much. Just forget all dignity and hygiene. Forget everything you thought you knew about functioning as an adult woman. Just pee.

Oh the bliss of peeing when you're really busting. The complete ectasy of it. It is a universal pleasure... And the upside is that I know I have had the worst of Belgrade now and it can only get better from here.

2008-07-31T21:54:00.000+02:00

I miss toasters.

Not being a big fan of breakfast, toast usually happens around lunchtime, or dinnertime, or whenever I've been up long enough to smoke enough cigarettes and drink enough coffee.

But a toaster is a scarce commodity here in Serbia. I would use the grill of the oven but I seem to be lacking one of those too. The answer is of course the frying pan. A little butter on each side of the bread, a couple of burned fingers and one or two slices of casualty when I wander off and forget what I was doing... And hey presto, there you have it. Toast. Sort of.

The big reason for wanting toast is - apart from really liking it - Serbia has jam. No, I mean Serbia REALLY has jam. Runny goodness with fat fruit and the tart tang that means it doesn't only rely on sugar to get it in the jar. This stuff is more like dessert than breakfast and I can't get enough of it.

I also can't get enough meat, cheese, mayonnaise, kajmak, cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh baked bread. And its already beginning to show. No I'm not pregnant, I'm just very very hungry. It's the humidity making me swell, that's all. Pass me the butter.

It was a mystery to me how Serbian women stay so slender. I mean, look at this food. Then my friend pointed out (when we were out for dinner of course) that it's not easy to find a Serbian woman actually eating. They will chat through dinner, smoke through dinner, pick through dinner, but very little actual eating goes on.

Forget the wars, to me this is the ultimate fighting spirit. The women of Serbia are a picture of strength to be able to resist these offerings, I am in confused and bewildered awe. Humbled. And hungry. Sendvic anyone?

More to Novi Sad than Exit

2008-07-19T15:43:00.000+02:00

I am in love with the town. A few days here has turned into a rented apartment and cancelled plans. Someone once told me that being in Serbia is like jumping through black of holes of reality and possibility.... Indeed. I like the tumble down the rabbit hole.

Serbia so far:
- One argument with a cabbie who became so impassioned about overcharging us in his illegal taxi that he ripped up the money (after carefully lining up the corners, presumably for re-taping later)

- Getting used to the staring. People just stare at eachother, you are constantly on promenade. There is absolutely nothing discreet about the staring and absolutely nothing uncomfortable or offensive about it either. Note to every Western Country, looking blatantly at eachother is so much more honest than pretending your girlfriend is the only woman on the street. And you can take a proper look at that pair of shoes that have caught your eye.

- Finding an internet cafe called Godfather (well, Kum, but that can be misread) that we have renamed Cheers because sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. Good friends, good times.

- Bumping into the Professors brother and feeling like you've spent an hour with a long lost friend

- Loving tomatoes for the first time in all my 32 years.

- Discovering this stuff called kajmak, which is a dairy product that comes out of the udder attached to Gods Cow.

- Becoming resigned to how fat I will be before my love affair with Serbia is over.

- Striking up a conversation at 4 in the morning with one of the hundreds of people hanging around in the street drinking beer bought from the corner store. Wondering what they want and realising half an hour later that the conversation is the whole point. Purely chatting for its own sake.

- Being taken under the wing of a couple of locals, toured around, showed off, helped in every way, translated for.

- Renting an apartment and kidding myself that I really don't have to leave.

- Being smacked on the bum by a 9 year old begging kid because I wouldn't give him money, or a cigarette.

- Standing still for minutes at a time mouthing the spelling of Cyrillic signs... and then still not understanding the words.

- Learning the art of what one brochure called "uninterested hanging around" ..... Cafe hours, with no major commitment of time.

- Not understanding the language. So relaxing to be swimming in a pool of ambient noise that holds no meaning and so frustrating to not know the word for tampon

And as for Exit, yes its amazing, yes a 500 year old fortress is about the best place ever for a party. Thankyou Manu Chao, thankyou Gogol Bordello, thankyou the beautiful Danube. No Thanks to American Gangsta Group N.E.R.D who seemed to have no understanding of the irony of his "Serbian Warrior Spirit" speech. Nice Work USA.

There are guys in orange vests. They work at the festival but 'work' is a subjective term. When I grow up I want to be a Guy In An Orange Vest.

As well as 21 stages of music there are 4 stages of Orange Vest acitivity:

1) The sitting stage. Where clumps of Orange Vests gather and, well... sit
2) The SMS stage. Where Orange Vests gather to communicate electronically. Perhaps they are communicating with eachother to arrange rendezvous at the next stage....
3) The dancing stage. This is the best one, Serbian Orange Vests dancing in groups, totally ignoring the crowd and loving the tunes.
4) The Pointing Stage. This is the most interesting Orange Vest Stage. If you are having trouble finding your way around the 500 year old fortress and would very much like to lose the Hotel California sensation, you ask an Orange Vest the way. Simple, right? No. The whole point of the Pointing Stage is to give directions.... In the wrong direction. Every time. The Pointing Stage is also found in the City Centre and usually means the person you are talking to is not in the mood to talk to you and will point in any direction that makes you leave.

There are variations on these stages. My favourite was watching and Orange Vest carefully inspect a passed-out drunk guy sleeping in his path - and then casually stepping over him while lighting a cigarette. Who said men can't multitask?

Nike - The brand that was once a goddess

2008-06-28T16:40:00.001+02:00

Nike is the winged goddess of victory. You might not have heard of her but she's on the back of every Olympic medal and she loves to win.

She embodies strength, speed and triumph and it's a shame that her name was hijacked by a bunch of cobblers. Maybe Nike is coming full circle though.... In the spirit of the Dove Real Beauty campaign, the Nike Foundation are throwing a little of their corporate weight behind the world's silent majority with The Girl Effect.

Take a look at an ad that is one of the few worth watching... And try to ignore the Sweatshop irony. We have to start somewhere. If petrol companies can bang the drum for alternative fuel research and beauty product manufacturers can tell you to love yourself just as you are, Nike can point out that a girl can change the world. I think the real Nike would agree.

Maya has gone - er - MIA

2008-06-12T05:07:00.000+02:00

The hard news is that M.I.A has cancelled her European tour.

This of course means she has pulled out of her confirmed Exit gig. It's pretty tough to hear for a lot of ticket holders, but she makes a good point in her Vulture interview:

“I’m an artist and it’s really difficult when you become the art, and you’re like, ‘Look at me!’ every day”

“[Touring] takes a lot out of you, physically. I make club music, which means I’m clubbing every night for, like, six months. Know what I mean? So now and again you finally just want to be gardening and get your nails done or something like that.”

Yes yes yes, we know what you mean.

I was hoping for some prima donna reason for the cancellation. All I get is yet another reason to like the girl. This isn't helping my grumbling self-pity one little bit.

Exit organisers are working on a replacement act. I have every faith in them to do it... But if there's a big gaping hole where M.I.A. was supposed to be standing, that's ok.

Anyone for fortress karaoke?

Exit Summer School (aka Educating westerners - Part 2)

2008-06-09T14:33:00.000+02:00

The Exit festival is only 31 days away.

I check the website pretty regularly to see which new artists have confirmed to play and today I saw this: Exit Summer School

This little stroke of marketing genius is being run by the University of Novi Sad. A three day Serbian Appreciation Course, it's a laidback beginners guide to Serbian culture and history and includes field trips each day. Dinner is a field trip too and (oh bliss) wine is considered part of the curriculum.

I won't be there for Summer School (my flight won't land in Europe until its over) but if anyone takes it up I'd love to hear your impressions of it. I'm hoping it will be so popular they'll run another after Exit as well, although the standard of student will probably be lower. I'm pretty sure I'll be sacrificing a handful of IQ points over the four days, can't speak for anyone else.

Exit Summer School runs over three days in the lead up to the festival and will cost 150 euro a head. A bargain price by most European countries standards but still pretty lucrative for the university if they get good numbers.

Reciprocal promotion between the festival organisers and the university. A chance to learn a little more about the town you're stomping all over. And a little profit thrown in for good measure. Enterprising folk indeed.

Learning Serbian - it's funnetic

2008-05-15T16:25:00.000+02:00

Serbian is pretty tricky to learn apparently.

I can see how people would say that, especially with this thing called noun declension. You change the end of a name to match up with what you're doing to it. So if Imogen is in Novi Sad, she's "u Novom Sadu" (and no, I don't speak Serbian so I can say all of this from the deep comfort of ignorance).

The upside is: No spelling bees. Ever. Why would you bother when you spell it as you hear it? One letter, one sound. The blissful simplicity of it. Compare this to english, the mother of all mish-mashed languages...

Try this particular phonic: "ough" If you look at these letters and sound them out, you get something along the lines of "oh, ugg" ...... Which is exactly what non-english speakers WOULD say when they are introduced to it.

There are six ways to pronounce this ugly phonic

off - cough
oo - through
oh - though
uff - slough
ow - bough
or - thought

And that's just one group of letters.

I read a great blog that I can't find now by a guy who hitch-hiked through Poland, Hungary and Serbia (probably others and I'm forgetting them). A Hungarian he was talking to told him that to 'fish' in english is spelled 'ghoti'....

The 'gh' from 'enough'
The 'o' from 'women'
The 'ti' from ammunition

Makes sense to me.

I'll never complain about noun declensions again.

EDIT: I found the story about the fish. Er, ghoti I mean. I got it a bit wrong, apologies to Ian

note your nearest Exit

2008-05-02T03:58:00.000+02:00

For anyone who hasn't heard of Exit, it's a four day music festival held on a centuries old fortress in Novi Sad.

For an Australian/Kiwi, the idea of stomping all over a heritage site is a bit sacreligious, but this is how they do it so I want IN at least once before its banned. This will also be my first trip to Serbia. Sixty Eight days to go and the excitement has already kicked in.

Arranging accomodation from overseas in a country you've never seen is a hairy experience... Especially when I asked the Professor for advice and was told "try Google" (note to self, never ask a smart arse local for tips on places to stay.... Not only will they jump at the chance to laugh at you, they've probably never needed to crash at a backpackers hostel in their hometown).

I'm meeting my best friend in Hungary (she's been travelling for two years) and we'll jump on the train to Novi Sad from Budapest. The most exciting bit is how many things can go wrong... But we'll keep that for a future post. For now we've booked an apartment in Novi Sad that works out cheaper than a hostel and there's probably no need to wear shoes in the shower. No chance to inspect it of course, so there's a bunch of money in someone else's pocket based on a few photos on the internet. It looks pretty cool, furnished in that unintentionally vintage way that makes me feel perfectly at home. Its tiny, one room and i suspect the pics are 'shown actual size' but i'm working on a 17 inch screen so thats plenty big enough for me

Meantime... Exit. The lineup is already juicy: MIA, Manu Chao, Gogol Bordello (a crazily talented group who look like the love child of Borat and The Village People) and the Sex Pistols just for a bit of old skool jump-around fun.

Apparently Exit has been voted 'best European music festival' but I can't seem to find out who did the voting..... I hope it was the kids who organised the damn thing. They deserve it.

Exit was started as a typical Serbian response to the Balkan madness of the late 90's and early noughties. There seems to be two Serbian responses in times of crisis.... Fight to the death and/or any excuse for a good party.

PS: Keep your Kitsch-hunting eyes on Belgrade next month for Eurovision..... The campest and bestest reason to get up at 4am to stream the finals live. Ahhhhhhhh

How to lose six hours: Ask a Serb where he's from (aka Educating westerners Part 1)

2008-04-15T03:55:00.000+02:00

I know this guy. Let's call him the Professor.

He's quiet at first, unobtrusive and it would be easy to miss him if it weren't for the strong feeling of being watched. Those sharp black eyes catch all the details, study and store them for future reference. There's a hint of the child about him - his whole body joins in when he laughs and believe me there is nothing more gleeful than seeing this guy tickled by a joke - but he's an old soul and he sometime reminds me of a tree on a mountain, patient and enduring and kinda wistful.

He's a pretty balanced guy who lives his life simply and does his research carefully before he forms an opinion. But first and foremost he's a Serb and when you tap that, it flows like lava. It's like accidentally stumbling across a trip wire in your lounge-room if you say something stupid like 'So, what's up with Serbia.'

It's fuelled in part by the innate Serbian drive to educate an ignorant and superficial Western people on the realities of life (and yes it really can feel that condescending, even when it's done with the best of intentions). It's also fuelled by a powerful loyalty to ancestry that many of us simply haven't experienced before.

There's a profound difference between East and West when you ask the question 'where are you from.'

(There's also a profound difference in concepts of East and West. I was born in New Zealand, which on a flat world map is about as East as it gets, but in this context we're talking about Eastern European countries vs. America and Americanised countries . It's almost nothing to do with geography and everything to do with the politics of economy, community and imperialism and that's about as specific as it gets.)

So when the Professor asked me where I was from, I said New Zealand. No he said, gently, where are you from?

So I told him where my parents were born and this wasn't good enough either. He wanted to know my ancestry, traced back into the mists of time. Well that's easy, it's a 50/50 split between Scottish and Irish, good Celtic stock. Ahhhh he said and leaned back in his chair, finally satisfied. Then after a pause, Did you know that Celts originally came from Serbs?

And this is how the conversation will go if you talk with a Serb about Serbia. Everything good comes from Serbia, just ask for the list. It also won't matter where they were born, or how many generations of their family before them were born in Australia or the United States or China. They are Serb and when they say that one word you will see their head go up and their chin jut forward. It's an unconscious movement - and fleeting (blink and you'll miss it) but it holds a couple thousand years of stubborn pride.

The Professor can rage for hours on the history and politics of Serbia (with a table-thumping combination of pure emotion, cold logic and the occasional conspiracy theory all pouring out of a frighteningly well-educated mind). He can also weave a story so well that it will haunt you. To be in the same room when this happens is entertaining, exhausting, illuminating and completely unmissable.

Even so, it was that single gesture of the head that told me everything I needed to know about Serbia.

Compromise? Diplomacy? Quiet acquiescence to international demands? A wider understanding of the wide Serbian heart? A concerted Serbian effort to win over the world with a few slices of that unique playfulness? Great theories. Won't happen. I can complain all I like that slanina should be sold in the supermarket alongside prosciutto and dancing kolo should be just as easy to find as a Dragon on Chinese New Year. But the only way I'm going to know anything about this place is to dig. And learn from people like the Professor.

Alright then I will. Celts are stubborn too.

Blogging on blogging

2008-04-12T07:31:00.000+02:00

There's something pretty raw about the idea of blogging.

I'm chatting online with someone I know and told him I had dipped a toe in the water of musing publicly. He asked for the link and when I gave it to him his reaction was to laugh.

Now luckily, this is a person I can trust (as much as you can trust anyone) so even though he's commenting on my first post right now I can only assume he was laughing with me instead of at me. The fact that I wasn't laughing isn't something i want to think about now.

So what do you do when your thoughts and feelings are out there in the public realm. What crazy person would do that right? Alot of us it seems, and the list keeps growing. We read eachother's blogs and we throw more words into our own..... Well, maybe not 'we'. But all of you brave souls who have more than two posts to your names certainly have.

I have to applaud you, and admire the way you balance your need to speak with your need to protect the softest parts of your spirit.

So, I'm going to raise a glass to those in the world who are brave and humble enough to say 'here I am, take what you will and do as you please.'

Now that's community.

Cherry picking

2008-04-11T08:26:00.000+02:00

This isn't a post on fruit picking, although that might happen later.

Just the first post of a late-blooming-blogger.

You have to start somewhere so let's see if this ends up being Imogen's Ink or Imogen Sink.

That's enough for one day, cherry officially picked.