It Is Whatever

Friday 26 October

Touch down in Belgrade airport and haggle our way eventually into a taxi. Already things have changed here in one year. The taxi, not only has working seat-belts with permanently upright seat-belt locks but has sat-nav and the whole works. This was a proper car.

The taxi pulls up outside a block of concrete flats which is pretty well constructed with a minimalist feel. Lack-of-money minimalist feel. But then that’s the whole majority of the town. Standing outside the entrance is Mirko, Gino’s serbian father-in-law.

Gino and I stayed with Mirko in October 2006. Mirko is the father of Gino’s wife, Jasmina. Mirko is an affable man maybe in his 70s but looks lean as a bean. You can’t help but have a good feeling about him.

Last year Mirko would tell me stories about how he used to win trophies for table tennis and how he’d parachute. He used to talk too about the football. I liked the way he used to say “Ar-sennill!” Almost like a man. (”Would Mr. R. Sennill please make his way into the office now please?”). Back to Mirko.

All of Mirko’s talking was done in Serbian. Gino has picked up stuff though and is able to do a rough translation. Very rough at times and none at all when he decides to pop out the door for a while without any explanation nor reason. Still Mirko and I would continue chatting away. Him in Serbian and me in general agreement with whatever language I felt like really. Made no difference to him. I used to blather away to him in Irish but it would have had the same effect if I had’ve talked in english, french or scottish. We had some great chats together. Sometimes I would lose my own thread and he would be able to remind me. Just by him sustaining the same facial expression or whatever it was he used. He was universal.

The thing about Mirko’s face is that when it’s neutral it looks very solemn. Very wise and worldly yet parochial at the same time. And when he smiles it’s like the someone’s given the town of Belgrade a new lick of paint and a funfair with the London Eye but much bigger and with proper speed.

For all of the specialness of our relationship however poor old Mirko could never remember my name. You could see the pain stretched across the length and diagonals of the face with Mirko, first of all, trying to understand “Cor-mac” and then the struggle and almost despair at the thought of having to remember it. He decided last time I was out there that he would be satisfied with the knowledge that my name was too much of a challenge for him for he had given me his own name. One that is popular in Serbia.

“Koki!” Mirko exclaims and clasps my upper arms with his hands and kisses me on the cheek. “It’s three times here our boy.” Gino reminds me. Aw it’s great to see Mirko again. In through Mirko’s door, cup of tea, drop the bags and out the door into a taxi for a good 40 minute trek to some new settlement for Internally Displaced People (IDPs). The houses that are complete in the settlement are in good shape. Sid says it looks like the wild west. He’s right, it is.

We meet the childrens’ carers and friends. One of them looks like Pablo Picasso. I explain this to him. He laughs. They offer us strong wine. We decline. Gino asks for beer but they explain in their Serbian that they are very sorry and that they have none. We get down to business: baseball caps and cameras for all the kids.

After that a smiling Serbian man walks in clutching a blue plastic bag. Out he pulls four beers. We all go “Haw!” and it is agreed to distribute the booze. Up we get and Pablo drives us to the local crossroads.

It is a busy crossroads. Sid, Gino and I were playing a game of ‘Guess What Car The Taxi Will Be!’. Imagine the laughter when we saw Pablo waving hello to a fast approaching Lada. Old skool Lada. The laughter was soon silenced when out popped a tree of a man all growls, cigarette smoke and sheer bulk. Mad Max IX?

We loaded our bags and our wits into the boot and climbed in. We were about 9 seconds down the road when he pulled out a cigarette and started smoking it loudly. Gino tried sporadically to strike up conversation but no real success. Just a grunt or an occasional dirty look and then a double-take. Gino then started to look at the old meter bolted onto the bottom glove shelf in front of his knees, touchingly. There was a thunderous noise and the car started swerving along the road.

The big oak of an oaf of a driver started shouting at Gino. Sid clicked into daddy mode and started saying in a calming way, “There! There! Big fella. You’ll be alright there big fella.” I explained it to the man that it would be best to just calm down and carry on with the job at hand and to get us back to Beograd in one piece. I didn’t mind him not understanding a bleeding word. It made me feel better. I didn’t get a good feeling about this man. He was like Mirko’s antidote or antithesis or aunt-uncle-giant-thing. Ghastly man.

After about another five cigarettes Sid turned round to me explaining that “Holy Jesus look at him now. Look! Look!”. “What’s he doing?”, I enquired as the man’s enormity was obscuring my view. Sid then explained that “He’s just after taking a big swig of whiskey straight out of the bottle”. Now I started to get fearful. But then it was all ok as he started to talk lightheartedly about politics, religion and immigration. We all just smiled and made agreeing noises with one hand and clenching the seats with the other. As well as with our buttocks. Me even moreso as all the water I’d drunk with Pablo Picasso had run right through me and I was in bad need of a wee.

Jumped out of the taxiride from hell and after visiting the nearest possible lavatory we headed up to Jelena’s office. Talked and laughed and sorted out cameras and kids’ rain jackets for the tomorrow’s events. It’s Jelena’s birthday today. Happy birthday Jelena! She is great and the kids love her.

We leave Jelena to her birthday plans and head to the Headquarters of the Serbian Magic Circle. It is a fascinating place with a fascinating bunch of characters: a couple of tango dancers; an old, mostly silent, moustachioed gentleman who seemed to prefer to hover in the distance whilst he informed his own private opinions of us and the evening’s events; the former Mr Magic of Serbia for many years in the trot and; George.

George is a guy Gino met a trip or two ago. He has perfect english and likes to laugh often in an eyes-closed and hands-folded-in kind of way. He’s ok. They all talk about the bar where all going to hit next but the daddy in Gino and Sid’s parently eyes inform us all that we must go home to our bed and fold-out sofa. Which we do. After a bit of Thai Chi. And some tango dancing. And more magic. And goodbyes. And then everything together all again at the same time and at different times. And then quick excuses.

Dimitri, one of the young lads, walks with us up the road. He lives in the same block as Mirko. He seems like a nice kid. Like Billy Bibbet in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

We sum up the day with a cup of tea and go to bed: Gino and I in the fold-out sofa and Sid in the neighbouring bed. We’ll take a turn each in getting the bed we all agree.