The Elusive Mr Lee
I never thought I'd write these words, but I spent the day today looking for Bruce Lee. As some of you may know, there was recently a lot of keffufle (not sure if this is the spelling, but wha'eva) about a statue of Bruce Lee erected by a couple of serious jokers in Mostar. The BBC reported it, it was on t' telle, Lee's wife was invited, bus-loads of youngsters came from all over the former Yugoslavia for the unveiling of the statue. After the white sheet was pulled off his bronzed self, Mr Lee stood with a fierce, focused face and a pair of those chain-connected sticks used for Kung Fu fighting (any marshall arts experts out there?), and the crowd clapped happily, though Mrs Lee failed to show up.
A big row ensued in town about the significance of Bruce Lee in the city park, and a lot of words were exchanged between the two young men who started the thing and the people they were aiming it against. The idea was along the lines of Bruce Lee being the only childhood hero they had who was not related to the Serb-Croat-Bosniak thing, and who stood for justice and fairness. And how this would get Mostar in the news and not be about war and murder and destruction. Many protested, saying the thing was meaningless, and poor little Lee saw his first dawn with his weapons broken and several bits of his bronze body chipped or missing. Things weren't looking good. Bruce was being bruised.
So, thinking this would make a fun blog for the Lonely Planet website, I pursued the makers of Lee in hope of getting an interview and a glance at the statue, now hiding inside a government building, before being re-erected.
I got the interview, but getting a peek at Lee proved more difficult. The building in charge of city's parks (the statue had been in the park) was supposedly where Bruce was hiding. I walked into a '70s Yugoslav socialist-modernist-cubist building and asked a woman with a bulging neck where I could talk to someone who'd show me a bit of Bruce Lee. She said, with a faint smile you might direct at a mild lunatic, that she had no idea, but that I should go upstairs to room number 1 and ask someone there. The corridor, dark, damp, long and narrow, was populated by random individuals. They all looked as worn and exhausted as the corridor.
Inside room number 1 ('Knock, knock', 'Come Forward') two women were drinking coffee and smoking fags. 'My name is Vesna, I work for blah blah, and I'd like to see Bruce Lee.' Lots of confused shrugs later, I discover my mother knows one of the women personally, and suddenly they smile and take it upon themselves to start solving my Bruce Lee mystery. They call a man called Dragan, who is in charge of guarding Bruce. After chatting to him a bit, they pass the phone to me. Dragan, a seemingly simple man, is taking his role as The Guard of The Lee much too seriously:
'I was given orders' says Dragan, 'to wrap him up in two blankets and tie the whole thing up with selotape. I did that. Then they said I should also wrap him up in a newspaper, and that's what I did. They also said no one can see him unless the authorities say so, so I'm afraid you can't come here unless you have permission. And anyway, you're a journalist, and who knows what you might write about me if I show you Bruce Lee without permission. I can only say that I wish I was as well protected as he is!'
So off I go to look for the authorities in charge of an authorisation. I get a number. The woman in charge is out of the office. 'In the field' they say. So, thinking I may not have any Bruce Lee photos, I go to the city park to take a picture of where he used to be. The place where Bruce once stood is graffitied, unimpressive. The park is completely dug up and five thousand new lights are being installed, in order, apparently, to protect the statue once it's put back in. There's so much light in the park, the couples who used to come here exclusively for the darkness, will have to look elsewhere for petting grounds. The authorities are also planning on installing CCTV. All for the sake of Bruce Lee? I am thinking of erecting the bloody statue in the little park outside our building - the rubbish, darkness and general dodginess is serious there.
Once home, my well-connected mother tells me she knows the woman in charge personally and calls her. Connections are everything in this place, so I am invited immediately to the park to meet the woman and go and see Lee. I run, bits of lunch still fresh on my shirt, to meet the woman in the park. In the field. 'I'm gonna get Lee, I'm gonna get Lee' I keep thinking.
And I almost do. But, it's 3pm. The woman in charge realised that she'd forgotten the time and that everyone will have finished work for the day. Dragan will have buggered off and left Bruce to sweat under the polyester blankets all by himself. Tomorrow, she says, after 8am, I'll take you to see Lee.
Let's see what happens.
A big row ensued in town about the significance of Bruce Lee in the city park, and a lot of words were exchanged between the two young men who started the thing and the people they were aiming it against. The idea was along the lines of Bruce Lee being the only childhood hero they had who was not related to the Serb-Croat-Bosniak thing, and who stood for justice and fairness. And how this would get Mostar in the news and not be about war and murder and destruction. Many protested, saying the thing was meaningless, and poor little Lee saw his first dawn with his weapons broken and several bits of his bronze body chipped or missing. Things weren't looking good. Bruce was being bruised.
So, thinking this would make a fun blog for the Lonely Planet website, I pursued the makers of Lee in hope of getting an interview and a glance at the statue, now hiding inside a government building, before being re-erected.
I got the interview, but getting a peek at Lee proved more difficult. The building in charge of city's parks (the statue had been in the park) was supposedly where Bruce was hiding. I walked into a '70s Yugoslav socialist-modernist-cubist building and asked a woman with a bulging neck where I could talk to someone who'd show me a bit of Bruce Lee. She said, with a faint smile you might direct at a mild lunatic, that she had no idea, but that I should go upstairs to room number 1 and ask someone there. The corridor, dark, damp, long and narrow, was populated by random individuals. They all looked as worn and exhausted as the corridor.
Inside room number 1 ('Knock, knock', 'Come Forward') two women were drinking coffee and smoking fags. 'My name is Vesna, I work for blah blah, and I'd like to see Bruce Lee.' Lots of confused shrugs later, I discover my mother knows one of the women personally, and suddenly they smile and take it upon themselves to start solving my Bruce Lee mystery. They call a man called Dragan, who is in charge of guarding Bruce. After chatting to him a bit, they pass the phone to me. Dragan, a seemingly simple man, is taking his role as The Guard of The Lee much too seriously:
'I was given orders' says Dragan, 'to wrap him up in two blankets and tie the whole thing up with selotape. I did that. Then they said I should also wrap him up in a newspaper, and that's what I did. They also said no one can see him unless the authorities say so, so I'm afraid you can't come here unless you have permission. And anyway, you're a journalist, and who knows what you might write about me if I show you Bruce Lee without permission. I can only say that I wish I was as well protected as he is!'
So off I go to look for the authorities in charge of an authorisation. I get a number. The woman in charge is out of the office. 'In the field' they say. So, thinking I may not have any Bruce Lee photos, I go to the city park to take a picture of where he used to be. The place where Bruce once stood is graffitied, unimpressive. The park is completely dug up and five thousand new lights are being installed, in order, apparently, to protect the statue once it's put back in. There's so much light in the park, the couples who used to come here exclusively for the darkness, will have to look elsewhere for petting grounds. The authorities are also planning on installing CCTV. All for the sake of Bruce Lee? I am thinking of erecting the bloody statue in the little park outside our building - the rubbish, darkness and general dodginess is serious there.
Once home, my well-connected mother tells me she knows the woman in charge personally and calls her. Connections are everything in this place, so I am invited immediately to the park to meet the woman and go and see Lee. I run, bits of lunch still fresh on my shirt, to meet the woman in the park. In the field. 'I'm gonna get Lee, I'm gonna get Lee' I keep thinking.
And I almost do. But, it's 3pm. The woman in charge realised that she'd forgotten the time and that everyone will have finished work for the day. Dragan will have buggered off and left Bruce to sweat under the polyester blankets all by himself. Tomorrow, she says, after 8am, I'll take you to see Lee.
Let's see what happens.
posted by Vesna at 3:18 PM
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