Belgrade

Ok so I'm doing a blog, I figured it was about time I tried to keep a record on one of my trips. This time I'm starting in Belgrade, capital of Serbia, before heading down into the countryside to the legendary (in these parts anyway) festival of the trumpet, Guсa. From there I'm going to somehow get across the border into Romania, hopefully grabbing a lift from some Romanians at the festival. Then it's crossing Romania from west to east, hopefully avoiding Bucharest and crossing instead through Transylvania, time permitting. Into Moldova I'll stay in Chisinau (the capital) for a day before going into the secretive breakaway republic of Transnistria, a relic of the Soviet Union frozen in time. A final train from there to Kiev in Ukraine, then fly home, 15 days after starting in Belgrade. Not much time for so much travel! But that's the plan, who knows how it will go.

Day 1

Waiting to board the JAT airlines flight at the gate in Copenhagen the captain comes out to greet us in both Serbian and Swedish, which I thought was a nice touch as looking around it seems that pretty much all of my fellow passengers are Serbs who live across the bridge in Malmø. Due to Sweden's somewhat looser immigration laws (at least in comparison to Denmark) there is a sizeable community of people from the Balkan region in Sweden, particularly in Malmø.

The feeling of sticking out a bit is reinforced when boarded on the plane, just about half full. The steward hands out Serbian newspapers to everyone, children included. Pausing at me however, he purses his lips, furrows his brow and moves swiftly on, no newspaper forthcoming. Snubbed! I hadn't even opened my mouth. I know already then that I'm not passing for a Serb, I obviously don't have the nose for it...

On arrival at the airport I paid twice for my bus ticket, the first guy selling me a ticket to a bus that was already full to bursting, cheeky bastard. I get on the next one thinking my previous ticket would suffice but no, pay again. Good start! Had a chat on the bus to a bloke who offered to show me to the hostel when we got to the city centre, the first of many acts of kindness I'd experience in my short time in Belgrade.


After a nap, shower and some dinner (Serbian pork stew with tons of red peppers) I find out that there's a football game on tonight, champions league qualifier, kicking off in an hour. I ask a random guy on the street for directions to the stadium, he mutters something in broken English while gesturing for me to follow him. He takes me to his car where his girlfriend, who speaks excellent English is waiting for him to give her a driving lesson, at rush hour, in the city centre. They offer to take me to the stadium so I hop in, sitting in the back while she crunches the gears, changes lanes constantly and suicidally and screams back at her boyfriend who is barking instructions at her in Serbian. All the while trying to have a conversation with me about her country, which she loves and hates with equal passion. Somehow we make it to the stadium in one piece and I thank them profusely. Another act of kindness.



The stadium is rocking when I arrive, a guy gives me a ticket he had spare for free so I sit with him and his mates. It's 0-0 going into the last 10 minutes and the crowd is about delirious now, jumping up and down and singing non-stop, urging Partizan on to get the one goal they need to go through to the next round. I'm getting drenched in the sweat of a hundred Serbs, and I can feel the sunflower seeds being spat on my head from behind me, the word 'pitchka' being screamed pretty much every couple of seconds. Partizan attack and attack, inspired by Djemba-Djemba (remember him) who is hugely popular with the crowd. I thought Serbs were supposed to be racist?? They hit the bar, the post and have one cleared off the line before the Bulgarians get a counterattack in the last couple of minutes, penalty, last man, red card. They score the penalty and all hell breaks loose, the riot police (who make up about a quarter of the sellout crowd) are pelted with lighters, flares and coins. After a short delay everyone is ushered out of the ground leaving the players to play out the last couple of minutes on their own. I lose my new friends in the melee so ask a couple of blokes for directions back to the city centre. They are severely pissed off about the game but offer to drive me back there, and invite me for a beer. I take them up on the offer and they turn out to be great blokes, we talk about football and it soon gets to politics, even though I promised to myself I wouldn't talk about that in Serbia. I won't bore you with the details but they were very open and honest about what went on during the war, although they are proud and extremely nationalistic they admit that things got out of hand. They feel that the West misunderstands them and they aren't the wicked, evil Serbs we can sometimes be led to believe. The sad fact is that as proud of their country that they are (almost ridiculously so) they all want to leave. There's no money or jobs here, and they have watched as all the neighbours that they have looked down upon throughout history have joined the EU, while they are left behind because of their leaders brutality in the war. But despite some of the sensitive subjects raised it was all very fatalistic and good natured, lots of beers, a good laugh and I learned a lot from another perspective. They wouldn't let me pay for my beer even though they don't have jobs. Evil Serbs my arse.



Looking out over the city from the hostel balcony with a nightcap whiskey and a cigarette I find it hard to believe that just 14 years ago these night skies were full of tracer bullets trying to shoot down stealth bombers sent by NATO. The nightlife in the city is thriving, the people are generous, fun and passionate but there are still big problems in Serbia, the corruption, the mafia (most of the leaders of the mafia were at the football, they control the 'ultras') and violent nationalist undercurrent is holding her back while all the best and brightest young people flee to other countries in search of a better life. It's a shame to say so, but it seems that the scars of the war are still far from healed here.

Next stop, Guca.