Finding a reservation for the Mayan Apocalypse: Armageddon Tourism
We’ve neglected to believe other Mayan tenets, like rain dances or believing that the first men were made of maize dough, but somehow we’re all supposed to desperately believe that their calendar accurately predicts the end of the world will happen next Friday, December 21, 2012.
Okaaay.
Apparently, this is enough of a concern that NASA has issued a statement saying that it’s not the end of the world. But that’s not enough to stop thousands of media outlets from reporting on it, or from enterprising tourism agencies to take advantage. Even in Serbia.
Hotels near Eastern Serbia’s Mt. Rtanj are booked for the main (non) event next Friday, thanks to the mountain’s supposed mystical powers. British sci-fi author Arthur Clark declared the mountain to be “the navel of the world.” Sounds kind of gross to me, but it’s not gross to the hundreds of people who are trying to reserve rooms in nearby B&Bs. Until they try to use a pit toilet.
Some believe Mt. Rtanj contains a pyramid inside that will somehow save people nearby. If the pyramid-in-a-mountain sounds familiar, it might remind you of the story of the Visok, Bosnia pyramids I wrote about last year. I’m sure Visok is enjoying a brisk tourism trade as well. (Tip: Visok pizza isn’t bad!)
But the Balkans aren’t the only destination for apocalypse tourism. Pic de Bugarach in the French Pyrenees is also enjoying popularity from people who believe that aliens will rescue anyone there on the 21st. The Bugaraches (I’m sure they’re called that) have been fleecing these tourists for all they’re worth. It’s reported that one local is charging $1,870 a night for a four bedroom house. Don’t worry, you can also rent a camping site for $400 Euros. December camping in the Pyrenees IS the end of the world, as far as I’m concerned.
I hope these people negotiated refundable deposits, because the French authorities have announced the mountain will be shut down on the 21st.
Personally, I’d avoid the cold spots and book a room in Chichen Itza, Mexico. Not only is it warm, but the pyramid’s front and center rather than hiding in a mountain. Nearby hotels are already used to celebrations around the end of the Mayan calendar, and have planned fireworks and concerts at archeological pyramids. No word on whether REM will perform “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” there.
Finally, I’m fortunate to recommend Tical, Guatemala based on personal experience. Muz and I first heard of the end of the Mayan calendar on a visit there in 2007. It’s an awe-inspiring site. On December 21st, it’s also reported to be the site of the “New Dawn for Humanity” world summit, featuring Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, Placido Domingo, Elton John, U2 and the Jackson brothers. And, based on memory, delicious bananas!
However, we aren’t traveling on December 21st. Instead, Muz and I have planned to go dancing. Like there’s no tomorrow.
Ponce: the Puerto Rican Subotica
RHOB: “Ponce is a lot like Subotica. If I write a blog post about this place, I’m going to title it “Ponce: the sister city of Subotica.”
Muz: “No one will get that.”
RHOB: “My Serbian readers will know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Muz: “Okay, so twenty people will get it.”
RHOB: “That’s all I need.”
Muz had some time off between meetings on a Sunday in San Juan, so we decided to explore Puerto Rico’s second largest city, Ponce. Our guidebook noted that Ponce was home to a beautifully restored town center featuring fountains, a 300-year old church, and artistic carnival masks. “Let’s check it out!” I said, and dragged Muz away from the beach and into the rental car. (Before you feel badly for him, trust me. That pale man does not do well in tropical sun.)
We drove for about 45 minutes until we saw the “Ponce” sign across the highway. People were taking their photos by the big letters, but we pressed on. 
Ponce’s city center is largely pedestrian, so we parked on the outskirts and wandered in. I was excited to see masks and pretty buildings and…well, I didn’t know what. I had read that the city had spent half a billion dollars restoring its architecture, but we entered the town center via a street lined with gently rotting wooden houses painted in bright colors. I wondered where the money had gone.
“Let’s see the church,” I said, and we walked to the Ponce cathedral, an impressively large white building that started out as a tiny chapel in 1670, and expanded as the town’s power grew. Our guidebook noted its beautiful stained glass windows and declared it a “must-see” of Ponce. We walked to the front door, with thoughts of Church on Sunday posts swirling in my head, only to find it locked. On Sunday. Hmmm.
We then wandered through the sleepy, largely empty town square toward the famous lion fountains. Even they seemed subdued.
The wildest building was the old firehouse/current museum, with a red and black facade that seemed at odds with the pastel colors all around us.
While it was all quite picturesque, I felt none of the energy that I expected in Puerto Rico’s second largest city. The colorful buildings, empty storefronts and quiet atmosphere made me think of Subotica. They both share ornate pastel buildings and a sense that their best days were sometime in the last century.
Ponce
And just like in Subotica, we found a locked church, a sleepy town center, and a pedestrian area with expensive but elusive renovations. COINCIDENCE? Maybe I was watching too many telenovelas, but it seemed like I had stumbled on the world’s best plot twist: a secret twin!
Subotica and Ponce may be thousands of miles apart, but they had the same relaxed attitude and shabby charm. One sold mangoes, and another sold local honey. Though it wasn’t what I expected, it was a relaxing way to spend an afternoon and remind ourselves of our Serbian life.
The time I talk about the thing I’m not sure how to talk about
“Odakle Ste?” Where are you from?
“Ja sam iz America.” I’m from America.
It’s a conversation I have on a daily basis. This time I was on Skadarljia, negotiating a bulk price for copper votives on behalf of our latest guests. My accent is decent, but I don’t sound Serbian. The question wasn’t surprising. His response was.
“I have…a problem with Americans.”
He said it apologetically, almost conspiratorially. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to upset me or if he was thinking about the sale. After missing a beat, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Razumem.” I understand, ok.
During almost a full year here, I haven’t personally encountered anti-Americanism. However, a cab driver once cheerfully noted, “these are the buildings you bombed,” as we drove down Kneza Milosa. These buildings—crumbling, weedy, and imposing—are the remnants of the Building of Internal Affairs bombed by NATO on April 2, 1999. It stands there in tatters: a faded, handwritten letter that’s difficult to decipher. Who is it for? What does it mean?
Image source HERE.
People don’t always like American policy, but they tend to like Americans. I once joined a group of Serbians as a woman started ranting about American presidents and politics in Serbian. I fidgeted in silence until someone said, “You know, RHOB is from America.” She said “I know—I like RHOB. I just don’t like Bill Clinton!” She smiled and moved on. I knew her well enough—but I didn’t know the votive seller, and he didn’t know me.
He turned his attention back toward the votives. “This is Studenica Monastery,” he began to explain. “I’ve been there!” I replied. We spoke about various churches, their history, and my travels. As friends selected their votives, he showed me another one and said, “This is Gračanica Monastery.”
I nodded, feeling a bit solemn. Gračanica is one of the most historically important Serbian Orthodox monasteries. It’s located outside of Pristina, Kosovo. I would love to see it, but it’s not a safe passage at this time. Gračanica is listed on UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites in Danger, partly due to its politically precarious location. He wasn’t just showing me a votive; he was telling me his own history. As we looked at it, he said quietly, “My grandfather is buried near there. We had a house there. Now…I cannot even visit.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hear stories, from all sides, about heartbreak, loss, anger, violence. My response is simply to listen. War is difficult for me to comprehend, let alone discuss. What I do know for certain is that makes me very, very fortunate.
My friends chose their votives and he placed them in the flimsy red plastic bags I will always associate with Belgrade. “Something for you?” he asked, and when I shook my head, he plucked the Gračanica one from the display. “I give this to you,” he said, and pressed it into my hand before I could say no.
A conversation doesn’t change the world. It doesn’t mean that a stranger will suddenly like Americans, American policy, or decide that the shell of a building is an icon of a former era. But learning, and above all, listening—can change so much.
***
This may be a contentious post to some people. I seem to have a some new readers—hello!—and I welcome comments. I only ask that you read some of my other posts before you comment, to get an idea of who I am and where this sentiment comes from. Hvala.
(Two-fer) Church On Sunday: Subotica’s Synagogue and St. Theresa of Avila Basilica
That’s right folks, this weeks’ CoS is another twofer! Muz and I made a special trip to Subotica, Serbia this weekend. Subotica was already on our Belgrade (er, Serbian) Bucket List, but it was also a chance to meet Lana and Chris, the Americans-in-Serbia bloggers of “Live Life Like a Bestseller.” I think it should be subtitled “Live Life Like a Leapfrog” because they are always posing in a hilarious jumping style. You’ll have to visit the blog to see what I mean. If they have children, I predict an Olympic triple-jumper is born.
We agreed to meet at McDonald’s, aka European Meeting Point Number One. Insert-McDonald’s-hate here, but I can’t deny they’re easy to find and usually in the center of things. In Subotica, McDonald’s is inside the fabulous, art-noveau style Town Hall. Not a bad place to get a Big Mac.
This light and my photo skills stunk, sorry.
As pretty as it was, we didn’t stay for long. Chris and Lana led us to another lovely cafe-lined avenue where we lingered over drinks in true Serbian style. Afterwards, they graciously led us on a tour of the town.
Subotica is a leafier, smaller version of Novi Sad. It has Hungarian/Secessionist architecture, lots of wide avenues, and little parks around every corner. A few miles away is Lake Palic, ringed by a Poconos-ish collection of Hungarian villas. We “oohed” at every street like idiots. Then Lana asked us the money question: “Want to see the synagogue?”
Does the Pope wear a big hat? RHOB could not resist. It may surprise readers that I started writing about churches not out of pious devotion, but sheer laziness. I joined NaBloPoMo last November. That first Sunday, out of desperation for things to write about, I described Belgrade’s Sveti Sava. The next Sunday, when I was struggling for material, I decided to talk about St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Budapest. A habit was born. Now, I need to see a new church every week. This is how addiction starts, kids!
The Synagogue is still beautiful, but in a state of serious disrepair. Windows are broken and the doors are locked to prevent people from wandering in and possibly injuring themselves. The local Jewish population was decimated in World War One, and there are no funds to renovate the building back to its original glory. Still, it was a lovely sight.
After that, we walked to St. Theresa of Avila, Subotica’s Catholic Basilica. St. Theresa is known for being a writer and also appears on Subotica’s coat of arms. Sister was doing doing it for herself, indeed.
The church was built in 1779. It’s been renovated several times but now there are large cracks in the facade. I realize this isn’t good for the building, but it’s awfully cool to look at. The “100” sign above the door celebrates the 100th Duzijanca, or harvest celebration.
The church was designed by a Hungarian architect, which explains the colorful detailed painting pattern along the ceiling. There is a beautiful stained glass window facing the altar, but my camera couldn’t quite capture its beauty.
We left the church and parted ways with our new friends, with promises of a Belgrade tour in the near future. I hope Lana enjoys the White City; certainly Subotica was all it was “cracked up” to be.
Zen and the Art of Making Rakija
One more item was crossed off the “Belgrade bucket list” this week when I was invited to watch grape rakija (lozovaca) being made in a village outside of Fruska Gora. Fruska Gora is national parkland about an hour outside of Belgrade. It’s known for its fresh air, gorgeous scenery and wineries. Yet we weren’t there for that. We were there for the rakija.
My friend Lisa, a professional photographer working in Serbia, invited me to join her to document the experience. I don’t have her photography skills, so I can only guess I was chosen for my drinking skills. Whatever it takes, people. We arrived just as the grapes were being poured into the distiller.
The grapes had been sitting in barrels for about a week. Normally they might ferment a bit longer, but Serbia’s late summer moved the natural process along quickly. This weather has also been great for wineries—the drought forced grapes to produce more sugar than usual. Look for 2011 vintage wines over the next couple of years. We couldn’t wait that long, so we tasted some of the young wine that our gracious host provided.
I normally don’t like young wine, but this tasted more like fresh grape juice with slight carbonation. The best part is that there’s nothing but fermented, pressed grapes in this pitcher. It doesn’t get any more natural than that. After a toast to the harvest, we turned our attention to the giant, slightly scary distiller. The machine looks crazy, but it’s actually pretty simple. Fermented grapes are poured into a container heated by a wood stove underneath. (Grapes go into the container closest to the camera.)
The stove must be kept very hot, and the grapes must be stirred via crank to prevent burning or sticking. A flour paste is pressed along the seams of the distiller to prevent steam escaping.
After two hours or so, the mixture becomes hot enough that it begins to boil. Steam then rises from the first container, travels along the long pipe and moves the second container, which is filled with cold water to help condense the steam and cool the liquid, which is—almost—rakija.
I say “almost rakija” because the first liter of liquid isn’t rakija at all. It’s methyl alcohol, a substance that is highly flammable and poisonous if consumed. One must wait until the methyl alcohol has been passed (the prvenac, or first batch) to start collecting the drinkable ethanol/grain alcohol. You should know when the methyl alcohol has passed because the smell (like rubbing alcohol) will make you recoil.
After the prvenac, you can start collecting the rakija in glass jars. Our host first stores rakija in glass for about three months, then decides if he wants to age the rakija in barrels or glass. If rakija is golden, it’s likely because it was stored in wood, and not necessarily because of how long it aged. Or it’s because coloring has been added–a big no-no in the homemade rakija world.
We tasted the first drinkable batch of rakija, but it was pretty harsh. It takes several months for rakija to be smooth enough to drink comfortably, and years for it to taste like the rakija I’ve come to enjoy. Good things come to those who wait, I suppose.
It was a special day of Serbian sights, tastes and sounds, but my favorite part of the day was waiting for the grapes to boil. I was happy to sit around the distiller eating fresh goat cheese and bread, sample grapes and apples from our hosts’ orchard, and smell the wood burn. It was a surprisingly meditative process that resulted in a feeling of accomplishment: making one of the oldest beverages known to man. Serbians may not practice zen, but the art of making rakija comes pretty close.
If you’d like to see Lisa’s photos that day, you’ll have to wait–but you can see other amazing shots of Serbia on her website http://lisaquinones.photoshelter.com/
(Kinda) Church on Sunday: A question about Orthodoxy
I haven’t had much luck photographing churches lately. Most of the churches on our Balkan Bonanza tour didn’t allow photos, and even in London cameras were forbidden in places of worship. Yet there’s one kind of church that I can always photograph, despite the fact that I can’t explain it: the roadside “altars” (shrines?) in the form of a church.
Can anyone explain what these are? Do they mark a site where someone has died? Are they simply a way of expressing religion? Or is there some other explanation? I might write about churches every week, but I must confess my complete ignorance when it comes to these roadside wonders.
They remind me of spirit houses in Thailand, but I’m certain that they don’t play that role in Orthodox Christian nations. I don’t have many photos to show as examples (we’re usually past them before I can whip out my camera) but I do love to look at them. I’ve seen in them in Greece, Macedonia, and occasionally in Serbia. Some have tiny bouquets of flowers or crosses inside. They have a dollhouse quality that I find appealing, though I’m sure they play a more serious role than religious dioramas.
What do you say, readers? Anyone care to enlighten me on what role these tiny churches play in the Orthodox religion?
Balkan Bacchanalia: The Guca Trumpet Festival
When we told Serbians we were going to the Guca (Goo-cha) trumpet festival last Saturday, they replied, “That’s great. Guca is so Serbian,” or “You’re going to Guca?!!? It’s a mess!” Either way, we figured it was a worthwhile trip.
The Guča trumpet festival is a weeklong celebration and competition of Balkan brass music. The festival started in 1960, when musicians gathered in the sleepy and picturesque town of Guča, Serbia for a friendly competition. Over the next 51 years the competition, visitors and the consumption of alcohol increased. This year it was estimated that Guča’s
population of 3,000 increased to 400,000 over the weeklong event.
Which explains why the water supply ran out on Saturday. Sigh.
Guča’s two hotels can’t contain the masses, so most visitors rent rooms in nearby houses or camp along the outskirts of town. Regular readers will know that this city girl/Housewife opted for a solid roof over her head and running trickling water. We rented bedrooms from wonderful people who promptly plied us with Turkish coffee and rakjia. It was a sign of things to come.
People come to Guča to hear music, dance wildly, and drink. A lot. Beer cans and rakija bottles littered the streets. Even when we couldn’t get a bottle of water, the liquor cases were fully stocked. Though it’s a little crazy, the only danger is turning deaf from hearing hordes of trumpets or falling off a table while dancing.
Guca isn’t just a trumpet festival; it’s a Serbian festival. The music is quintessentially Balkan: no “Misty” or jazz riffs here. (However, “Hava Negila” has mysteriously become a local tune.) People walk around in traditional costume and Serbia shirts are worn with pride. There is a small nationalist contingent at Guča but overall it’s a place to celebrate Serbian music and culture.
The core of the festival is a music competition. However, we missed the finals on Saturday night. I thought the schedule was on “Serbian time,” but the musicians, unlike RHOB, were punctual. We consoled ourselves with carnival rides, eating svadbarski kupus (wedding cabbage), and watching the Miss Guča pageant.
As the night wore on, the music and people became a bit disheveled. We turned back around midnight and were woken at 6 am by children playing toy trumpets in the street. Muz and I walked downtown at 9 am. We thought Guča would look post-apocolyptic but the streets were full, the beer was flowing, and people were dancing. God may have rested on the seventh day, but the Serbians did not.
As hard as we try to adopt the Balkan way of life, we knew couldn’t hack another 24 hours of nonstop horns and bacchanalian dancing. Our friends were right about Guča: it was Serbian, it was a mess, and it was great.
Freaky Friday: the Tower of Skulls in Niš, Serbia
Sinđelić
Many months ago, Muz had a conference in Niš. Naturally, I demanded to tag along to Serbia’s third-largest city (or second-largest, depending on who you’re talking to). Niš has all the “typical” makings of a Serbian city: a riverbank, fortress, pedestrian avenue and bohemian quarter. It also has a most atypical monument: the Tower of Skulls.
The tower, also known as Ćele Kula, was built after an 1809 battle between Serbians and Ottomans. At the time, revolutionary Serbs from the North sought to liberate Niš from Ottoman rule. Serbian Commander Stevan Sinđelić was losing a battle against the larger, more powerful Ottoman forces when he carried out his sacrificial plan to blow up the gunpowder depot. The explosion killed 3,000 Serbs and 6,000 Ottomans. Enraged at his losses, the Ottoman commander ordered the heads of Serbian soldiers to be removed. Some were sent to the Sultan, and 952 others were used to adorn a tower. Surviving Serbians were forced to build the tower as a warning for anyone who defied the Ottoman Empire.
Creepy AND historic? I was hooked. I arranged to go there with Muz’s Serbian colleague, who I’ll call Vodič (guide). The tower is now housed in a building for its protection, which makes it look almost quaint. I had no idea what to expect. Vodič said I’d have to see it for myself.
Source: Travelpod.com
As we bought tickets, I wondered if it would look like something out of an Indiana Jones move or an old Bones episode. But this was no movie prop.
Many skulls were looted or destroyed over the years
Frankly, it was upsetting. I consider myself to be somewhat hardened against gruesome things, but I had not expected this. I know what you’re thinking: RHOB, it’s literally called the Tower of Skulls. What did you expect? Yet hearing the words and seeing the tower are two different things. I kept thinking about the horror these men had endured, and the terror of the Serbians who had to build the tower. Maybe I couldn’t hack it on Bones after all. Well, that and the fact that I have zero science background.
Sorry, guys
The woman who took our tickets accompanied us to the tower and gave us a short history lesson in Serbian. She didn’t speak any English, but Vodič translated what I couldn’t understand. She then showed us the case that (supposedly) holds the skull of Commander Sinđelić. His skull was rumored to be at the top of the tower, but I read that it was given to the Sultan.
A long back-and-forth began between Vodič and our tour guide. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but watched in complete fascination as he leaned his head to the bottom of the glass case and took a long sniff. After that he hurried us out of there. I think he knew I was going to ask a lot of questions. And I did. “What was that? Why were you smelling it? What was she talking about?”
Apparently, there is a belief that Commander Sinđelić is due for sainthood. There’s also a belief that the remains of a saint give off a particularly sweet odor. The tour guide insisted my friend smell the skull, and he hustled me out of there before she made me do the same.
“Did it smell like anything?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just wanted to get you out of there,” he said. Sigh. Serbian men can be very chivalrous, but obviously he didn’t know that American women are straight-up nosy. “I would have smelled it!” I said. He gave me a look I’ve come to learn very well: the seriously, American women are weirdos look.
I guess I had adjusted to being around all those skulls fairly quickly. I wonder if Bones producers want create a new show starring a Serbian housewife…
Detective RHOB and mystery of John…D’oh! *
It had been a while since my last case, and I wasn’t too broken up about it. I figured the lack of Belgrade Mysteries meant that I was finally understanding this joint. I was no longer searching for clues about ice trays or dumpsters. In fact, I was now able to give directions or help people weigh their vegetables at the Mini Maxi. But just as I thought it was all over, another mystery pulled me back into the fray.
I was having lunch with American visitors when one of them returned from the bathroom. He had a puzzled look on his face, and I knew something was up. In a low voice, he asked, “um…so how to I flush the toilet here?”
Detective RHOB was on the case. I asked, “Can you describe the toilet? I’ll need the approximate height of the tank.” After some discussion, I realized he was talking about something like this:
I solved the case faster than a DC meter maid gives tickets. “There’s a tab on the top right side of the tank,” I said. “Push the right side of the tab and the toilet will flush.” Case closed. But I realized that it wasn’t the first time I’ve been presented with a bathroom brain-twister. Here’s a breakdown for the Balkan travelers presented with a “Dear John” case of their own.
Most toilets here have a dual-flush system. Press the bigger button for, um, bigger events and the smaller button…you get the idea. Here’s an example from an OMV rest stop. Most people could figure this one out, but I’m giving this john extra points for his buddy, “Big Willie.”
With other commodes, the mystery lingers like cevapcici with onions. I encountered the head on the right in Budapest. I thought I had to turn the knob, but nothing happened. (That I know of. I probably caused a small flood somewhere.) After using my detective skills I realized that the lever below was not fixed as I had previously thought. Another mystery solved. I was becoming an expert on Balkan toilets. And my guidance counselor said I’d never amount to anything…(Actually, he said I’d regret not taking typing class. FALSE.)
My detective skills were no match for the loo on the left, but it gets an honorary mention for being overly complicated. There’s a large panel, a lever, and a sort of aerodynamic design to it. Someone is spending a lot of time thinking about designing toilets. Then again, I devoted a lot of time photographing and writing about them. Who am I to judge?
Finally, there’s the deepest, darkest mystery of them all: pit toilets and the people who install them. If confronted with a pit toilet in the Balkans, stay away. Or bring tissue, soap, and quads of steel. I hesitated to post this, but I didn’t get my detective rank by turning away from the ugly cases. Sorry if you’re eating lunch right now.
The Balkans are full of mysteries large and small, so I’ll keep my detective hat on a little longer. I never know when I’ll open the door to a new case.
* Confused or non-native English speakers, the post title is a play on “John Doe,” the legal name given to an unidentified person, and the word “John” which is slang for toilet. I can’t get away from puns, sorry.
We’re not in Kansas anymore…
Or are we?
For a (relatively) smaller country, Serbia has a diverse topography. There are rolling green hills in central Serbia, dramatic rock formations in the Southeast, and green mountains along the western border. This photo was taken in Vojvodina, about 20 minutes from Belgrade. After leaving the urban core, it doesn’t take long to reach flat farmland and fruit stands on back roads. It looks remarkably like Kansas, America, and even more so when the sunflowers are in bloom.
Sadly, no flying monkeys were spotted. Now THAT would have been an interesting photo…
Silent Disco at the EXIT festival
What do you get when you bring together a DJ, a dusty arena, and a lot of headphones? A silent disco, of course!
This was one of my favorite stages at the EXIT festival. I felt like I was seeing someone dance in their living room while I was walking the dog. Or that I was watching a local crazy person mutter, clap, and shout to themselves in public. Kind of like living back in D.C., now that I think about it…
By the way, you might be wondering why this photo is so blurry. That’s dust from over 100,000 people dancing and walking on “grass.” Crazy. I’ll post more about EXIT this week.
Artistic license from New York to Novi Sad
Oh, Novi Sad. Critiquing street graffiti AND citing one of my favorite artists? I heart you.
Basquiat was a NYC graffiti artist who eventually broke into the high art world, becoming friends with Andy Warhol and briefly dating a little-known musician named Madonna. His art continued to be influenced by graffiti until his fatal overdose at the age of 28.
It seems that someone in Novi Sad saw a little too much similarity between the work on this wall and the work of Basquiat. It seems more like inspiration than copying to me,
but it does remind me of Picasso’s quote that “good artists copy, great artists steal.” Here’s hoping for (more) great art–and artists–stemming from the lowly spray can.
Belgrade Bounty
Hello, my name is RHOB, and I am a fruit-aholic.
This is my loot from my last pijaca (farmer’s market) trip: zucchini, eggs, cherries, currants, raspberries, nectarines, and whatever these tiny pear-things are. Even better, I bought all of this for about what the flowers alone would cost in the U.S.
Serbia is an amazing place for fruit lovers. Cherry and apricot trees grow all over the place-even in a nearby parking lot-and markets are bursting with colorful fruits and veggies. The grocery stores can’t catch up with the farmers, so I’ve been making regular trips to the pijaca and buying fruits I can’t identify. For instance, I’ve discovered the amazingly tart taste of fresh currants, but it took the wonders of Twitter (and @Cneable and @Erasfa) to figure out what I was eating. Though we travel around the region quite a bit, wandering around the pijaca is a great adventure in itself.
Playlist Petak (Friday): Balkan Brass
Image source: http://www.guca.rs
Regular readers know that I’m a fan of the classic Balkan tune Đurđevdan (and the accompanying dancing/glass throwing that goes along with it). I’m also a fan of Balkan brass, also called trubači. Its unique staccato brass beat is heard at festivals, weddings, and occasionally in the streets. Serbian friends will roll their eyes and say, “ugh, it’s so LOUD,” but then they’re the first people dancing when the roving band comes by. Even if you don’t like the music, you have to dance to it, because (1) it’s infectious and (2) you can’t talk over the noise, so you might as well have a good time.
Americans might want to get ready for these Balkan brass beats. According to the Guardian, “gypsy music” has been gaining international recognition over the past 10 years. They note that the sound originates from Turkish military bands but has morphed over the centuries to become the aggressively celebratory music it is today. 
Muz and I will be celebrating the unique Balkan sound at the Guca trumpet festival this July. It’s a wreck of a music festival, from what we’ve heard: brass bands playing from 10am to 6am, drinking and dancing in the streets, and people driven wild by the music (and copious amounts of beer). We’ve been warned that it’s crazy, that our clothes will get ruined, and that we’ll be deaf afterwards. When we wondered out loud if we should skip it, everyone said, “Oh no, you must go. Once.”
It’s hard to pick one brass song to highlight, but I ultimately had to choose this one because of the beat and the name: Kalishnikov, by Goran Bregovic. The complicated trumpet tune has so many short notes, it sounds like a machine gun firing. I used to play the trumpet, and this tune is hard, y’all. I can’t endorse the red and blue dancers, but you can’t deny the beat.
Readers, what brass tunes get YOU ready for the weekend?
Novi Sad: new now, but with an old-world feel
My posts about Vojvodina wouldn’t be complete without mentioning Novi Sad. Novi Sad is Serbia’s second largest city and the capital of Vojvodina. Though the city has an urban feel, there’s a slower pace and speech there that made this Belgrade lady feel at ease. In fact, the Serbian spoken in Vojvodina is considered to be quite clear, and several language schools have sprung up there as a result.
“Novi Sad” historically meant young vineyard. It literally translates to “new now,” but the city has been populated since the Stone Age. A fortress was built there during the 4th century (B.C.) by the Celts and improved upon by various conquerors of the region. During Hapsburg rule in the late 1600s, the Serbian Orthodox population was forcibly moved out of the fortress to the other side of the Danube. Novi Sad now encompasses both areas, and the fortress is a popular tourist destination and site of the EXIT festival.
The fortress also features “the drunk clock tower,” whose hour and time hands are reversed to make ships see the time more easily. But I’ll bet more than a few drunken sailors thought they were way off schedule.
The pedestrian area is the jewel of Novi Sad. Hapsburg architecture flanks at least three main pedestrian avenues, several orthodox churches, and a beautiful Catholic church (shown at upper left.) It’s an unusual sight in the middle of this mostly Orthodox town. I was told that the Catholic church was originally on the outskirts of town, but the avenues expanded to include this area.
The prominent Catholic church is unusual but not surprising. Vojvodina is known for its history of ethnic and religious diversity. In addition to the Catholic church, there’s an historic Jewish synagogue just off the pedestrian area.
Walking through picturesque streets lined with shops and bakeries, it’s hard to believe the the city has suffered so much damage in its past. It was bombed by Austria, Hungary, Germany and the Allies in WWII, and in 1999 by NATO forces. Though most buildings in the area aren’t over 150 years old, the town has a timeless essence that makes Novi Sad feel like a Veliki Grad (old city).
Church on Sunday: Cathedral of Saint Nicholas, Sremski Karlovci
I’m continuing my Vojvodina trend with the lovely Church of St. Nicholas (Crkva Sveti Nikola) in Sremski Karlovci, a few kilometers away from Novi Sad. It’s a small town, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in history.
The town boasts of holding the first international treaty at a round table. (“At a round table” is quite a modifier, but think of how common that is today.) The treaty determined how Serbia would be handled, i.e., carved up, by the Ottoman and Hapsburg Empires in 1699. Sremski Karlovci and many other areas of northern Serbia became part of the Hapsburg Empire.
In 1712, Sremski Karlovci became the seat (patriarchate) for Orthodox Serbs in the Hapsburg Empire. Around this time, thousands of Serbians under Ottoman Rule emigrated to this area, now known as Vojvodina. The result was a powerful Serbian and Orthodox religious center. The oldest Serbian seminary was established there in 1794, and the Cathedral of Saint Nicholas was completed in 1762.
The amazing iconostasis (below, left) was painted in 1780 by two famous Serbian painters, Teodor Kracun and Jakov Orfelin. The paintings were the most impressive I’ve seen in an Orthodox church to date.
After we toured the church, we walked to the archives building next door. It’s a pretty building with a courtyard in the rear and a slightly hidden museum off to one side. The museum houses religious artifacts from orthodox churches. (If you were walking by this building, you’d have no idea what was inside. It’s basically screaming to be featured in a Serbian version of National Treasure.) Even if you have no interest in religious history or art, you can’t argue that it takes serious skill to make some of the objects we saw.
After seeing the church, we visited the local school (Serbia’s oldest/second oldest if you’re from Kragujevac) and walked around Sremski Karlovci’s quaint streets. Before we left, we threw coins in the main square fountain, making wishes for a return during sunny weather. Since it was only about an hours’ drive from Belgrade, I’m pretty confident my wish will come true.
Salaši: the Cure for the Urban Serb
When we told a friend that we were exploring Vojvodina (Northern Serbia) with my šurnjaja zaova, she asked us if we were taking her to a salaš. “A what?” we asked. I wasn’t sure if it was a park, restaurant, or dance club. As it turns out, a salaš is a bit of all three.
A salaš is a working farm that provides lodging, activities, and giant portions of home-cooked Serbian specialties. Some salaši even offer live music at night. They are unique to Vojvodina, but the emphasis on food can be appreciated by all Serbians. Most salaši are named with a number that I think is the registration number of the salaš; let’s hope I have Vojvodina readers who can weigh in on this. Based on recommendations, we decided to try Salaš 137, a few miles outside of Novi Sad.
The grounds feature horseback riding, a children’s playground, and sheep and chicken pastures. We nixed the horseback riding but stayed for a few hours to smell country air, eat great food, and bask in the satiated happiness of everyone around us. It was a true Serbian experience, but American visitors have nothing to fear: there are English menus available, and waiters responded to our bad Serbian with English when things got too confusing.
mmm.....delicious, fluffy dinner
Once again, Serbian guidebooks get an F for not mentioning this wonderful respite from city life in Belgrade or Novi Sad. I love living in the heart of Belgrade, but our salaš visit reminded me that Serbia’s rural areas are great tourist destinations, too.
Old dogs, new tricks: Serbia’s efforts to reduce stray animals
Belgrade Animal Week wouldn’t be complete without a discussion about the stray dogs and cats that literally run Belgrade. A U.S. article states that there are 15,000 stray dogs in Belgrade, and 50,000 in Serbia. A BBC article contends that there are 100,000 stray dogs in Belgrade alone. Whatever the number is, it’s high. I’ve never seen so many strays in another European city.
There seem to be several reasons why the stray population is so high here: other legal priorities in a post-war society, a dearth of pre-existing animal welfare laws, shoddy shelters, and a lack of spay and neuter programs. A lot of fingers are pointed in the stray animal blame game; but everyone, including private citizens, has a role.
Most of the strays in downtown Belgrade are aloof and peaceful dogs. They’re a lot like my favorite stray shown below. I secretly call him Mr. Whiskers. He’s well-fed, friendly, and likes to watch the crowds while lying in the middle of Knez Mihailova.
Unfortunately, some strays aren’t so friendly. They roam in packs and have a reputation for attacking cars, bicycles, and, occasionally, people. In one suburban area, two dogs have been known to lunge at children. But it’s not clear what to do when dogs become a danger to Beogradjani.
These dogs were fine-just crossing the street
Animal control is almost non-existent here. Some people resort to getting rid of strays on their own, with cruel results. And placing friendly strays in a shelter can be a worse fate than leaving them on the streets. Shelters are underfunded, overcrowded, and often have inadequate food supplies and health care. Belgrade only has shelter facilities for 500 hundred animals; that’s one-tenth of its stray population.
Conflicting laws are partly to blame. Serbian Animal Welfare law mandates that shelters provide standard conditions, and Serbian criminal law prevents euthanasia unless an animal has a terminal illness. The result? Overcrowded cages, limited supplies, and terrible stories of non-medically euthanized animals. I prefer Mr. Whiskers on Knez Mihailova, thank you very much.
an animal welfare law in 2009. This year, Belgrade assigned eight police officers to a new animal welfare division to combat cruelty. And several organizations, from Bridgette Bardot’s foundation to volunteer medical students in the United States, have offered spay and neutering services to limit the number of stray dogs and cats. It remains to be seen if this will be an effective strategy. Serbians love their dogs, but they’re not too keen on making them sterile. I think it’s a machismo issue-but dealing with lots of unwanted puppies isn’t too macho in RHOB’s opinion.In any event, this animal lover is not alone in Belgrade. I know many people who adopt strays or try to find homes for them. Until laws are clarified, shelter funding increases, and spay and neuter programs are the norm, strays will be a common sight in Belgrade. But don’t tell that to Mr. Whiskers-he thinks he’s the only stray worth looking at.
Monastery on Sunday: Studenica, Serbia
- Open sesame!
In an earlier post, I mentioned we bought rakija from a monastery. What I didn’t mention was that it was one of the most important monasteries in Serbia-and one of our best experiences here yet.
We decided to take the long way home from Zlatibor and see the historic and beautiful Studenica Monastery. The monastery was built by Stefan Nemanja, the first leader of medieval Serbia. Long after Nemanja fought for Serbian independence from Byzantine rule, he abdicated his throne to become a monk at Studenica. Two of his sons became Serbian leaders, and another, Saint Sava, founded the Serbian Orthodox Church.
(To think I was proud of getting the laundry done today.)
We were excited to see it, and plugged “Studenica” in our GPS. We promptly followed the directions- to Studenica, Kosovo. Oops. We figured this out before we got to the border, but it made the trip significantly longer. Studenica’s gates were closed when we arrived.
We were devastated. A passing monk explained that the doors had closed five minutes ago, and asked us about our Belgrade license plates. After we explained our roundabout way home, he said he could show us around a little. We couldn’t believe our luck.
There were once 14 churches in the complex, but now only two remain: Church of the Virgin, and the Church of the King.
Church of the King
Church of the Virgin
Photos of the interior are not permitted, but I’ve pulled some off the net. Trust me, they look much better in person. The frescoes below, from the Church of the Virgin, date from the 1200s. Time and Ottoman forces have damaged the images, but the colors remain vibrant. The image on the right is Stefan Nemajna, from answers.com.
Image from naturalpigments.com
Door detail on Church of the Virgin
The King’s Church is smaller. It’s not as awe-inspiring as the Virgin’s church, but its frescoes are in better condition. Some of the frescoes featuring the king’s life were even used to teach people about hygiene. I’d love to show a photo, but I couldn’t find one I thought I could use freely.
We admired the marble carvings on the Virgin’s Church exterior. As our host pointed out a sundial carved into a wall, he offered us coffee. He treated us like guests, rather than the gate-crashers we were.
We sipped and watched the sun set on the countryside. The Bishop wandered over to say hello. We talked about our families, our travels, and the monastery. It was a memorable example of the Serbian spirit and hospitality. It was also memorable for another reason; we were able to have this conversation almost entirely in Serbian. At last, we could participate in the Serbian community, not just observe it.
We bid farewell to our hosts and went back to our car. We had a long drive to an apartment, and a city, that felt like home.
Detective RHOB and the Riddle of Homemade Rakia
This is your brain on commercial rakija
I’ve written quite a bit about rakija without revealing our secret: we didn’t have any in our home. Why was this a problem? Rakija is essential for Serbian hosting. A home without rakija is like a Nationals game without unforced errors. It’s like Charlie Sheen without a prostitute. It’s just…odd. We wanted to buy rakjia, but there was a dilemma. The best rakija is homemade, and we didn’t know anyone who distilled it. I had to don my detective lipstick and get to the bottom of my new case: the riddle of finding homemade rakija.
Not willing to die for rakija
For those who think I’m just being a rakija snob, well, you’re right. With homemade rakjia, taste buds and local reputation are on the line; it’s not mere swill sold to tourists. And store-bought rakjia doesn’t just taste bad-it’s possibly dangerous. Serbia experienced a rakija scandal in 1998, when 56 people were poisoned by rakija made with methyl alcohol rather than ethanol. Not exactly what this drinker/shopper/detective wants to hear.
So on a recent trip to Zlatibor, I kept my eyes and ears open for clues about homemade rakjia. Fortunately, the spirits of Cagney and Lacey were with me, and I saw this sign on the way back from Sirogojno.
It was a strong clue. I drove up the steep driveway, parked by a tractor, and dodged chickens to cross the yard. A man emerged from the house. I mentioned his sign and he gestured toward a small wooden table with two rickety stools underneath. I didn’t take photos of the house-I didn’t want him to think I was being disresptectful, somehow.
He brought me a thimble-sized glass and poured me a drink from a flask. It was a nice plum rakjia but I was looking for medovica (honey rakija). He didn’t have any, but offered a sample of his juniper rakjia, poured from an old Courvosier bottle. I guess distilling is like making jam-use whatever containers you have on hand. Four hundred dinars later, I was the owner of a liter of juniper rakjia. To keep things mysterious, I received it in a sparkling water bottle.
The case seemed to be over…or was it? Later, I toured the Zlatibor market in the center of town. Rakija isn’t openly sold in Belgrade markets, but it was plentiful there. I looked for the least sophisticated label I could find and settled on the Terzic Jelena stand. She offered a sample, and I was as hooked as a three-eyed fish in the Anacostia River. We bought a bottle for five hundred dinars. It doesn’t look fancy, but at least it’s not in a water bottle.
We left Zlatibor content with solving the mystery not once, but twice. On a roundabout way home, we stopped at Studenica Monastery, where we were offered coffee and a smooth plum rakjia. When we complimented the bottle, we were informed us that it was made in the monastery. Ah, capitalism. We bought some as a souvenir.
Were my detective skills sharpening, or was this just a holy coincidence? Either way, we are now proud owners of not one, but three locally made bottles of rakjia. Now we just need to find rakija glasses…but that’s a mystery for another time.
Sirogojno, Serbia: the land that time (almost) forgot
I took one morning during our stay in Zlatibor to visit the museum and village of Sirogojno. The drive was pretty,
if not a bit slow, thanks to the numerous farm equipment on the road.
Sirogojno’s ethnic village/museum was founded in 1980 to exhibit preserved buildings from the 19th century. At the rate that Zlatibor is undergoing construction, this was a prescient move. The wooden buildings were removed from their original sites and reconstructed in Sirogojno’s ethnic village. The village features wooden houses, some built with wooden nails.
In addition to houses, the village has preserved grain houses, chicken coops, and what I think are woven beehives below. I’d love to give you more information on these, but my Serbian isn’t quite good enough to figure it out.
Before I left, I had to look at the famed sweaters of Sirogojno. Their history makes a RHOB proud. In the 1960s, local women formed a company to market the wool sweaters they knitted by hand. Fashion shows and international interest followed. In 2009, Sirogojno exported 500,000 Euros ($709,305 USD) of hand-made wool knitted items. (I knew I should have learned how to knit.)
The sweaters seem to follow two kinds of patterns: scenes from village life,
Image from http://tinyurl.com/44hxp88
and simple ones with a looped, hooded collar and cuffs. After comparison shopping, I chose a simpler sweater that was shorter and more fitted than the traditional style. It was pricey, particularly for Serbia, but I was happy to help the local economy-and get a useful souvenir in the process.
It’s getting warm in Belgrade, but the sweater made a great jacket in the mountain air of Zlatibor. Now that we’ve returned, I’m hoping to put it away until next October-or my next trip to Serbian mountains.
Church on Sunday: Saints Peter and Paul in Sirogojno, Serbia
Today’s featured church is one of the smallest I’ve seen yet: the Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Sirogojno, Southwestern Serbia. This Serbian Orthodox church was built in 1764 and is dedicated to the apostles St. Peter and St. Paul. English information on the church is slim, but it is either a reconstruction based on another church in the same location, or was moved from a different, original location to Sirogojno. 
- The church is next to an open-air museum that showcases Serbian architecture and life in the 19th Century, but I’ll write about that later. We’ve just completed a marathon return back to Belgrade, and it’s time for RHOB to dream about her next Serbian adventure.
Zlatibor, Serbia: land of fresh air and kajmak
I had the (meal) of my life....
If there was a Serbian version of Dirty Dancing, it would be set in Zlatibor. It’s a popular mountain resort area nestled among pine tree forests and known for its fresh air, hiking and spa treatments. I haven’t spotted a dance hall yet, but I’ll bet there’s one somewhere in the little shops that surround the town center.
The town’s charm is somewhat manufactured, but the natural setting isn’t. The region has been a vacation spot since the early 1800s, when Prince Miloš Obrenović summered here. (I hate to use “summer” as a verb, but he was a Prince.) The air is noticeably nicer here, and it inspires a rare sight in Serbia: physical activity. People come to Zlatibor to ski in the winter and swim and hike in the summer. But true to the Serbian spirit, it’s also known for its smoked meat, kajmak and lepinja, a special sandwich. You’ve got to love Serbia: they don’t take their exercise too seriously–and if they do, it’s followed by a meal of 3,000 calories.
True to the Zlatibor spirit, I started my first evening here with a hike to the monument. I was with several Serbian women, one of whom was wearing heels. Based on their footwear, I figured it was a short walk and brought our own Prince Miloš along for the walk. After 40 minutes of walking uphill, I felt like I was carrying a watermelon. Actually, I was luring a French Bulldog up a hill with a giant stick.
I carried a watermelon
Miloš and I have a long way to go before being considered Serbian. It was a nice walk, but there was no way I could have done it in heels. Even for this lovely view.
At the top of the hill, we stopped to admire the Zlatibor monument to fallen soldiers in World War II.
We returned to town with revived lungs and a hearty appetite. Fortunately, our hotel obliged with a buffet fit for Kellerman’s, I mean, King Aleksandra. The highlight of the meal was Zlatibor kajmak. Kajmak in Belgrade is a cross between cream cheese and butter. In Zlatibor, it’s denser and more feta-like, thanks to the fresh raw milk in the region. I like kajmak in Belgrade, but I love it in Zlatibor. Looks like I’m going to have the time of my life…and hit the hiking paths again.
Could the Ex-Yu Revive Yugo Next?
Over a decade ago, New York artist Kevin O’Callaghan decided to re-imagine the Yugo as art. It was 1995, ten years after the Yugo was introduced to America and three years after U.S. sales ended. He bought 39 Yugos for no more than $92 apiece, and commissioned students to turn them into new objects. The project was called Yugo Next.
The exhibit was a surprising success; it toured the United States and revived Yugo-mania for a second, brief period of time. The cars were remodeled to become new objects ranging from a portable toilet to a movie theater. I’ve included two favorites below:
You can see other Yugo Next cars here.
What RHOB wants to know is, whatever happened to the exhibits? Were they auctioned to collectors? Sold as scrap metal? Despite my extensive research 5 minutes of using Google I can’t find any information about them. I wonder if somewhere in America, a Yugo-phile is lovingly polishing his Yugo-confessional.
Heavenly father, it's been 3 days since my oil light came on...
I don’t know if any of the cars made it to Serbia, or whether the exhibition even made headlines here. There are still Yugos on the streets of Belgrade, though not nearly as many as in Kragujevac. Yet the days of Yugo sightings are numbered; the car hasn’t been manufactured since 2008. I imagine any old Serbian Yugos would be used for spare parts, not art.
Still, it’s fun to think of how Serbian artists might reinterpret the Yugo. Would they create a mini-Kalemagdan? A ćevapčići stand? The lighter has already been done—a shame since Belgrade is synonymous with smoking, but perhaps someone could redesign a Yugo as Belgrade’s “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” sign:
Of course, there would have to be a Tesla Yugo, with a ball of lightning at the top. And a small tennis court in honor of Serbia’s recent Davis Cup and Australian Open victories. That would certainly top this foosball table Yugo:
What do you think, readers: any ideas for Ex-Yu artists to re-imagine Yugo Next?
Real Housewife of Belgrade 
