After a baking hot, 3 hour bus journey I arrive in Guca after dark accompanied by a couple of blokes I've met along the way, Peter and Jose. First impressions on getting to the village are incredible, rows of pig rotating temptingly on the spit, the streets teeming with people drinking beer, and trumpets, so many trumpets.
Brass bands are in every bar and restaurant as well as marching up and down the streets, stopping every now and then as people stop for a spontaneous jig, attaching notes and cash to their instruments while they play. And it's only Wednesday.
We hurriedly search for camp, set up through couchsurfing by a generous Serb (Miroslav) for a small donation of your choice. We are offered the use of a tent as its dark and we just want to get back to the village. Can't be arsed faffing around putting mine up just now. There's already a group of about 30 in the camp and its easy to make friends, a few shots of rakija (the first of many many to come) and then it's off to eat some of that rotating pig and get to know the layout of the village.
The next day I'm woken up way too early by the blazing sun on the tent, so I pick up my mat and walk off a bit to catch a few more winks under a tree. This becomes the norm in days to come. Spend the day at camp meeting people, throwing frisbee, playing football and chess.
I'm pretty much the least hippy person there, the vibe is very much peace and love, man, with some juggling and jamming (with trumpets of course) thrown in. I'm made really welcome and have a relaxing day before heading out with everyone for the first of 4 big concert nights in the football stadium.
Surprised to find that there's a rock/pop band on tonight, having had a few rakijas have a ball anyway, they seem like a Serbian Red Hot Chili Peppers, and judging by the size and reaction of the crowd are massively popular around here. Go back to the village after and find Marko Markovic playing randomly at a restaurant and have a few more rakijas and a dance, if you can call it that, it's more just jumping around wildly with the people around you. Marko Markovic is the son of Boban, THE legend of this type of music who has won the completion for best trumpeteer at the festival so many times he's not allowed to compete anymore. He tours together with his son and band around Europe and America, having outgrown the local scene. Ive seen them in both Copenhagen and Malmø in the last couple of years, and are a big reason why I began to like Balkan music and hence came here.
This is Marko in the picture. They will play the headline act at the stadium on Saturday, something I'm really looking forward to.
Go to bed at what became the regular time of 5am after a few beers back at the camp, sleep won't be a feature of this festival.
The next day is spent hiding from the 37 degree heat again, nursing a hangover and playing cards. Haven't eaten nearly as much as I usually would, starting to lose the belly I picked up in the UK. I'm doing maybe 1 meal a day and its usually just rotating pig and potatoes, although there were a few late night drunken plejevica (awesome burgers) thrown in. The food cooked at camp is mainly vegetarian, reflecting the hippy feeling around the place.
Fridays concert is brilliant. Heavy metal band fronted by two prissy looking dudes wearing suits (?) belting out tunes in deep, booming voices, a bit like a Serbian Rammstein. Then they bring out one of the best local gypsy brass bands and they play together, a fusion of metal and huge, powerful brass that gets the place heaving.
Exhausted afterwards, head back to camp for more rakija.
Saturday is supposed to be the big one. Boban i Markovic in their own country. Head to the stadium with a group of Spaniards that I've met, quietly smug with myself that I can still understand and speak a small amount of Spanish, though Danish words keep getting in the way. Just 10 minutes before the concert is to begin and just around the corner from the stadium the heavens open, in a big way. Cool, I think, dancing in the rain and mud will be even more fun. It really is pelting though and it's starting to flood, by the time we get to the stadium people are streaming out. We try to force our way in but a guard grabs a woman's umbrella and starts thrusting it at me, telling me basically to piss off or he'll stab me with it. The owner of the umbrella shouts for her umbrella back and he throws a punch at her, narrowly missing her face. We look at each other and decide to retreat with the rest of the crowd, leaving the arsehole there waving the umbrella menacingly at anyone else trying to get in. What now? Every inch of shelter is taken and we are soaked to the bone, there's a bit of concern about the state of our tents, which aren't well covered and likely to be getting flooded. So we decide to go back and rescue what we can before it gets too bad and passports, laptops etc get ruined. I'm cold and pissed off when we get back, my tent is indeed soaked so I drink rakija with gusto. The rest of the night passes in a blur, the rain eases up and people who had made it in to the stadium and stayed there came back covered in mud, deliriously happy at how good and how much fun it was. I'm jealous but at least my phone and passport are ok, some of theirs weren't.
Next morning hangover and drying out all my stuff. The water in the whole village isn't working and it will stay that way for the next two days. No shower and brushing of teeth, the toilets (I'd just gotten used to crapping standing up again) not flushing so by the end of the festival it really wasn't pretty. I lost my wallet on this day, I wasn't sure if it was one of the sly, skilled gypsy pickpocket kids or it fell out while I was jumping around. I suspect the former. Luckily I'd taken out the important stuff and only lost a bit of cash. Oh well. I won the camp chess tournament today so I'm happy.
It's the last concert tonight and I'm determined to make up for last night. Tonight is Goran Bregovic, the most famous musician of this genre in the west. He did a lot of the music for the Kusturica films and is brilliant at what he does. He is the one most of the people in the camp have come to see. He doesn't disappoint, the concert is wild and hugely enjoyable! Lots more rakija and another late night to finish it off.
Wake up under the tree for the last time to find that almost everything has been packed up already. After goodbyes it's time to head back to Belgrade.
The festival has been brilliant and it certainly won't be my only time. I met lots of fantastic people, particularly at the couchsurfing camp, had tons of meat, rakija, beer and great music. What more can you ask for?? Although there were obvious signs of Serb nationalism around the place, crazy dudes in military gear chanting patriotic songs it was never at all threatening. I went out one night wearing a shirt with a Polish flag on it and was greeted with smiles, and was basically mobbed by the many Poles there, especially when they found out I wasn't Polish myself. I had my picture taken countless times that evening, which felt a bit weird. Finally, a word about Serbian women. They are incredibly attractive, almost unbelievably so, most of them walking about with their short short skirts, patriotically coloured tops, draped with flags and wearing little military hats.
A slightly bizarre, but very sexy sight. I've got my lovely girlfriend Ninna back in Denmark but I can imagine that for the single bloke this could add yet another dimension to what is already a fantastic festival.
So there you have it, skip Glastonbury, Roskilde and the likes for a year and try Guca! Guaranteed good times :)
Next stop, Romania
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