Meeting The Serbs

For those of you who don't know, my Grandfather was Serbian, Yugoslavian if we're getting technical. Hence me having the not-very-British surname, Malbasa. Seeing as I am currently ascending through Eastern Europe I figured I'd take a pilgrimage to the homeland if only for a couple of days.

On discovering that I planned to visit Belgrade, the capital, my Dad decided to get in touch with some rather distant relatives who live there to see if they wanted to meet me. To my surprise they did, and a lovely time was had by all.

Now I'm not sure if it's a British thing, or if it's because I come from a pathetically small family (I have one cousin) but anybody who I don't see on Christmas is considered distant to me and therefore a polite nod and small grin is an acceptable greeting. However this is not the Serbian way. My knowledge of this culture is somewhat stunted and comes purely from my Father's God Father and his wife. Visits to them typically consisted of my face being squeezed and kissed repeatedly upon entry, then I would be force fed buttery biscuits and Ocean Spray until I thought I would ruin their nice clean floor with my (by that point no doubt very pink) vomit. Whilst I was being told that I was too thin and should eat more (what a great thing to say), my brothers were being handed plates of salami and glass after glass of Slivovitz, a plum brandy with a percentage ranging between 50 and 70. These were people I had known my entire life and so it was alright to skip the 'nod and grin', but I had every intention to resume said protocol when meeting my new relatives. I would soon discover that British formality is not allowed in Serbia, my initial intention to the bring it to the east failed immediately and spectacularly when I first met Duska.

But lets not get ahead of ourselves, first I had to get from Thessaloniki in Greece (a really fabulous city, far better than Athens in my opinion) to Belgrade.

The Night Train

If for some bizarre reason you were unaware, there is currently a migrant crisis in the EU and hopping between borders isn't as easy as it once was. The former ethos of "It's Europe, if you've got a passport come and go as you please!" has been replaced with several large fences, tear gas and water cannons. As a result of this, the first leg of my train journey actually took place on a bus. I didn't really mind, having read all about the Macedonian border controls, I had that sort of sick inquisitiveness to see it all first hand, like when you can't not watch a car crash. I had envisioned a sea of distraught looking families all pleading to get through the border, thousands of police pushing back this tidal wave of mothers and children in a vain attempt to protect their country from the flood.

This is not what I saw. In the half an hour it took for my passport to be verified I probably saw around 15 cars trickle through. The enforcement was somewhat lapse also, three bored looking men waving all the cars through, bar one, who's boot they searched (it was an old Fiat Punto, you can barely fit a weekly shop in there let alone a family of Syrian refugees). After being processed and deemed not to be a threat, myself and the other 13 people on the bus were dropped at the Macedonia train station.

CUT TO:

EXT. MACEDONIAN TRAIN PLATFORM - NIGHT
Several confused people huddle around murmuring quietly in the pool of light from a solitary street lamp.

CONDUCTOR

There might be a train in 10 minutes. Then again there might not be.

PEOPLE

*Sequence of obscenities*

Oh f...abulous. By now it's around 11pm, I'm three hours into my 14 hour journey and I have moved about 10 yards. And then it appeared. My golden chariot to Serbia. My bed for the night. My God it looked like something that Soviet Russia would deem 'too depressing'. The loud grinding noise that it produced was accompanied by an exterior coated in graffiti and a conductor who looked like he might *definitely* want to kill me in my sleep. I did find myself in the fortunate situation of having my own cabin, I assumed that this would mean that at least I could get some sleep, and dream that I wasn't on a train that had a very distinct smell of sweat and urine, but you know what they say about assuming. The hourly torchlight-in-the-face, passport and ticket checks impeded the sleep idea to such an extent that at 3am I decided to just quit trying and become nocturnal.

This is when I encountered my first (and only) group of migrants, accompanied by two police men. With the vast increase in numbers I assumed that I would have cabin partners imminently, and I did, but not how I imagined. After asking one of the officers for the time it was made immediately apparent that he spoke no English and I no Serbian, however, this didn't deter the officer from deciding that we were in fact now pals. Through various drawings, graphs and several metaphors involving my handbag, he managed to explain to me the current financial situation in Serbia, politics, religion and Germany's role within the EU. At around 6am he told me (through the art of mime) that I should get some sleep and he would watch my bag for me.

For me this little 'conversation' and hospitality more than made up for the fact that the journey took three extra hours and that the toilet was a hole in the floor.

After that very tiring journey I was more than happy to meet my extended family. At this point I'll explain how relations work in Serbia through the people I met. My Grandfather's sister, Anka, should technically be my great Aunt, but she is just 'Aunty Anka'. That one isn't overly difficult. Her daughters, Dragana and Milena, my first cousins once removed, are also my Aunts. Their children, Borjan and Iva, my second cousins once removed, are my brothers and sisters. Their children, Lukas and Mia, some sort of third cousin once removed (perhaps), are my nieces and nephews. This took far too long to work out and only exacerbated my sleep deprivation.

In addition to this I also met my 'aunty' Duska and her sons, (also my brothers) Stefan and Nikola. As I mentioned earlier, the greeting was one of traditional Serb style, I was invited to their house, kissed, face squeezed and fed. It was quite nice I'll admit, but the Brit in me will never admit this again.

Having lost my grandfather at a very young age a lot of my memories of him consist more of memories of photographs, so seeing a whole new set of images was like seeing him again for the first time which is something really priceless. As well as learning more about my family history, having people there who wanted to show me all of the city meant that I saw Belgrade in a very different way to most people, which I greatly appreciated.

I have since left Belgrade, with a very full stomach and very fond memories, and am currently in Novi Sad in the north of Serbia before I head into Budapest tomorrow.

I understand that this post is a little long so here's a nice little summation for you;

• I am a bit Serbian.
• Thessaloniki is beautiful and full of life. Go there.
• Serbians like to feed you.
• Only accept Slivovitz if you are prepared to get real turnt up real quick. (The link is there purely for my mum. There you go mum, hope that helps.)
• See John, I did listen in my film script classes.
• The night train smells.
• You can have meaningful discussions with anyone if you have a pen and an appreciation of mime.
• Everyone in Serbia is somehow your aunt or brother.
• Even if you are only distantly related to a Serb they will give you everything they have because they put family in front of everything.
• Also the Serbian Dinar isn't worth a great deal so you can live like royalty for zero money.

Suck it Nuneaton.

Sunset over a secret nature reserve
in the centre of Belgrade.

Thessaloniki nights.

My new 'sister' Iva and I.

Duska and I.

My Great Aunt, Uncle and myself.