Filing afresh
Hi all. It's been a while since a blog shone on these pages, but I was in London and that didn't feel like travelling (does the Tube count?). Finally, I stepped onto BosnioHerzegovinian shores recently, and thought about my blog quite frequently. It's been two years since I've been to the homeland (of sorts) and coming back here is always a maddening experience. Sometimes I think - hell, I hope - I was adopted, other times I kiss my British passport while I sit alone in a toilet (the only place I can get peace and quiet) and other times feeling overly sentimental at the whole place, my insane relatives and myself in the midst of it all.
The whole trip started with an overly eager Croatia Airlines pilot, who refused to wait for his London passengers in Zagreb (we were 25 mins late) and sped off to Sarajevo, leaving us to wait for 9 hours for the next propeller-elevated machine to take off into the snowy winter night. Needless to say my memories of Bolivia and dodgy planes came to life with unforeseen vivacity, and I was focusing on the intensity of the snowflakes being sliced by the speedy propellers. Next to us (Rafa and me) was what turned out to be a famous artist from Mostar, who demanded more beer and tried to chat up the tired air hostess. He had Jamaican flags painted on all ten fingernails, and kept scratching his head and the plane walls with them. He and a friend discussed home grown tomatoes and how they have to be eaten immediately, otherwise they go off. 'He says to me - what an excellent tomato - it can sit in the fridge for 10 days and not go off! Hahahahahahaha!' Roars of laughter and beer breath across the narrow, shivering aisle. Turns out the artist's mother was the midwife at the birth of me, my mother told me later. Life really is random at times.
Anyway, Sarajevo was snow-stormed, and the crumbling street where my aunt and uncle live as knackered and peeling as ever. Their house is five million years old, and it has taken odd shapes in recent years, leaning every which way, but still somehow managing to stay up. Perhaps like the drunken Mostar artist. It's all to do with experience and resilience, I think. My uncle and auntie are professional hosts and take delight in forcing rakija down us, followed by a massive (delicious!) dinner at midnight. We slept on the sofa, with my mum, on little pink elephant sheets and pillowcases, and Rafa was provided with oversized pajamas that sent me into hysterics.
Since then it's all been a bit of a whirwind. Top ten outstanding details have, so far, been:
1. My auntie speaking slow and loud Serbo-Croat at Rafa, thinking he will eventually stop pretending and understand. I thought only the English did this, but obviously not.
2. Going to a British Embassy party, totally by fluke, where I met two of the people I examined at the Foreign Office language exams. Luckily, I'd passed them both, otherwise the party wouldn't have been that much fun. The British Embassy guy had an amazing flat, and I realised I only knew poor people.
3. I was told I looked 24.
4. In Dubrovnik, surrounded by the historical city and a pink sunset (etc all cliches), I heard an eight-year-old boy say: 'Listen guys, I'm deleting the hanging of Saddam Husein video, it's boring now.'
5. We stayed in an amazing 5 star hotel for little money (promotional offer) and I nicked a lovely linen napkin while Rafa wasn't looking.
6. I realised that my relatives communicate much like the parents of George Constanza of Seinfeld. Basically, constant disagreement about the most trivial of things and even the most innocent of questions or comments can trigger off this kind of mad debate.
Me: Should I take the key for the front or the back door?' (I am going out and will be back late)
Uncle: Take the front door, there are stairs, it's easier to get home that way.
Aunt: No, don't take the stairs - there are all sorts of criminals hanging out there at night!
Uncle: What criminals?! There are no criminals there! We are the only people on this street using this door!
Aunt: Lies! I see them all the time, hanging out there! Even today, that guy that came out of prison yesterday, he went up the stairs this afternoon!
Uncle: You're paranoid!
Auntie: No, I'm not paranoid. And tell Rafa not to speak too much in the street. When the criminals hear English or any foreign language, and see a helpless girl with the foreigner, they'll want to rob you! So tell him to keep his voice down!
7. A pair of young hooooligans decided to try and provoke us on the train from Mostar to Sarajevo by singing badly next to us for 15 minutes at the top of their voices. They also spat on the floor and swore a lot, but gave up when we didn't flinch. We stood our ground by staying seated.
8. I realised that boasting, blowing your own trumpet and banging your own bells is a commendable thing in present day Bosnia & Herzegovina, and that slagging off everyone else is the norm.
9. OK, perhaps there weren't top 10 moments.
10. See above.
The whole trip started with an overly eager Croatia Airlines pilot, who refused to wait for his London passengers in Zagreb (we were 25 mins late) and sped off to Sarajevo, leaving us to wait for 9 hours for the next propeller-elevated machine to take off into the snowy winter night. Needless to say my memories of Bolivia and dodgy planes came to life with unforeseen vivacity, and I was focusing on the intensity of the snowflakes being sliced by the speedy propellers. Next to us (Rafa and me) was what turned out to be a famous artist from Mostar, who demanded more beer and tried to chat up the tired air hostess. He had Jamaican flags painted on all ten fingernails, and kept scratching his head and the plane walls with them. He and a friend discussed home grown tomatoes and how they have to be eaten immediately, otherwise they go off. 'He says to me - what an excellent tomato - it can sit in the fridge for 10 days and not go off! Hahahahahahaha!' Roars of laughter and beer breath across the narrow, shivering aisle. Turns out the artist's mother was the midwife at the birth of me, my mother told me later. Life really is random at times.
Anyway, Sarajevo was snow-stormed, and the crumbling street where my aunt and uncle live as knackered and peeling as ever. Their house is five million years old, and it has taken odd shapes in recent years, leaning every which way, but still somehow managing to stay up. Perhaps like the drunken Mostar artist. It's all to do with experience and resilience, I think. My uncle and auntie are professional hosts and take delight in forcing rakija down us, followed by a massive (delicious!) dinner at midnight. We slept on the sofa, with my mum, on little pink elephant sheets and pillowcases, and Rafa was provided with oversized pajamas that sent me into hysterics.
Since then it's all been a bit of a whirwind. Top ten outstanding details have, so far, been:
1. My auntie speaking slow and loud Serbo-Croat at Rafa, thinking he will eventually stop pretending and understand. I thought only the English did this, but obviously not.
2. Going to a British Embassy party, totally by fluke, where I met two of the people I examined at the Foreign Office language exams. Luckily, I'd passed them both, otherwise the party wouldn't have been that much fun. The British Embassy guy had an amazing flat, and I realised I only knew poor people.
3. I was told I looked 24.
4. In Dubrovnik, surrounded by the historical city and a pink sunset (etc all cliches), I heard an eight-year-old boy say: 'Listen guys, I'm deleting the hanging of Saddam Husein video, it's boring now.'
5. We stayed in an amazing 5 star hotel for little money (promotional offer) and I nicked a lovely linen napkin while Rafa wasn't looking.
6. I realised that my relatives communicate much like the parents of George Constanza of Seinfeld. Basically, constant disagreement about the most trivial of things and even the most innocent of questions or comments can trigger off this kind of mad debate.
Me: Should I take the key for the front or the back door?' (I am going out and will be back late)
Uncle: Take the front door, there are stairs, it's easier to get home that way.
Aunt: No, don't take the stairs - there are all sorts of criminals hanging out there at night!
Uncle: What criminals?! There are no criminals there! We are the only people on this street using this door!
Aunt: Lies! I see them all the time, hanging out there! Even today, that guy that came out of prison yesterday, he went up the stairs this afternoon!
Uncle: You're paranoid!
Auntie: No, I'm not paranoid. And tell Rafa not to speak too much in the street. When the criminals hear English or any foreign language, and see a helpless girl with the foreigner, they'll want to rob you! So tell him to keep his voice down!
7. A pair of young hooooligans decided to try and provoke us on the train from Mostar to Sarajevo by singing badly next to us for 15 minutes at the top of their voices. They also spat on the floor and swore a lot, but gave up when we didn't flinch. We stood our ground by staying seated.
8. I realised that boasting, blowing your own trumpet and banging your own bells is a commendable thing in present day Bosnia & Herzegovina, and that slagging off everyone else is the norm.
9. OK, perhaps there weren't top 10 moments.
10. See above.
posted by Vesna at 3:33 PM
3 Comments:
It all sounds sooo familiar. Thank you for reminding me ;)
xxxxxxxx
Vesna, you DO look 24!!! Kisses from Brazil.
Anita - you get me, you know the way things work here.
Ana - thank you, let's celebrate OUR 25th together some time!
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