A Different Lifetime: Stepping Back in Time in the Former Yugoslavia (11 page)

“Oh, wrong door,” she exclaims.

We quickly exit and then
enter through the other door. After climbing the stairs, we enter a large room;
it is quite dark because of the dark wood that adorns the walls and the low
lighting that gives the establishment a certain ambience. But most importantly,
it has a lively atmosphere, and judging by the many people seated around the
dark wooden tables engulfed in conversation, it is a very popular place to
visit. We are directed to a single bench seat at a small table situated at the
end of the bar. I follow Icca into the bench and amusingly we find ourselves
pressed together in an incredibly small area. But looking around us this seems
quite usual, as it appears that all of the seating is tiny.

When the waiter comes to
take our order, Icca orders coffee for me and green tea for herself. In
hindsight, I suppose I could have managed tea and coffee in the local tongue,
but at the time I felt happy that Icca had taken the responsibility. Looking
around the room, I notice from various clues (perhaps mostly from the poster
alongside us) that the premises are equipped for dancing, but where? There is a
tiny area against the wall behind us that looks like the shapes of a dance
floor, but in keeping with the dimensions of the seating, it’s big enough for
one or two people at most.

“Perhaps they move some of
the tables and chairs,” Icca decided.

“Well I think they’d have
to,” I reply.

But I’m becoming
accustomed to the seating arrangements now, and being squashed into one of the
tiny benches with Icca is now seeming quite normal, and I’ve just noticed that
our cups are empty.

“Would you like another
tea,” I ask.

“Yes, but perhaps we
should go back to eat now,” Icca replied, probably out of concern for saving my
money.

So we headed back through
the centre towards the bus stop. The rush hour is now long over and when the
bus arrived it is almost empty. However, the endless traffic lights are
apparently not aware of the diminishing crowds, and so we make our way very
slowly along the thoroughfare towards the apartment, stopping at virtually
every light. But I suppose we are in no hurry. Icca asked me about my book. I
told her that I had completed almost four chapters and added that I hadn’t yet
reached the point where she would be included.

“I haven’t decided what to
call you yet,” I added, “maybe I should call you Icca.” Icca being her
nickname.

When we finally alight
from the bus, we decide not go directly to the apartment as Icca wants to show
me a local square, which contains the local Orthodox temple – still under
construction, and the city’s library. I suppose it is because we are now away
from the bustle of the city centre, but for the first time this evening, I am
beginning to feel really cold. The square has quite a bit of snow covering it
and the fountain in the middle is not working because of ice. The temple is
very large and grand; it is white and brown and has a large dome above it. The
library, on the other hand, is a typical product of post-war communist design;
probably built in the nineteen-sixties and constructed mainly of concrete and
glass. I don’t remember any further details, other than it was dark and I was
really feeling ready to get out of the intense cold!

The apartment is just two
blocks away from the square; walking the short distance takes no time at all,
and we are soon climbing the stairs to the third floor. Icca unlocks the door and
we enter into the kitchen. It is a very modern kitchen, recently refurbished;
it has a glass covered hob and fitted wooden units.

 “This is very much like
the typical, modern western kitchen,” I remark.

For a few moments I sat on
the sofa in the living room, Icca switched on the TV and handed me the remote.
But soon I returned to the kitchen to resume our conversation. Icca is busy
slicing a smoked pork loin;

“My grandfather makes
these,” she tells me. 

I noticed there are a
couple of pictures of Icca as a child which on comparison I thought didn’t look
very much like her; but being an only child there is little doubt that they
must be of her.

After a few minutes,
Icca’s father arrives, bringing with him beer and cheese for dinner. He tells
me that he had once lived in the little community of Novaginja, but didn’t like
it there much and had since spent nine years in the Canary Islands before settling
in Belgrade.

I said: “I think Novaginja
is alright to visit and perhaps to stay for four or five months.”

“Five months!” he replied
smiling, “five weeks is too long.” 

We sat down together at
the dining table, which is also situated in the kitchen, and Icca said  something 
to  her  Dad  in  Serbian.

“It’s seems strange to
hear you speaking Serbian,” I said.

Smiling at her puzzled
Dad, she explained, “He only hears me speaking in English.”

Over dinner we talked
about Novaginja, Belgrade and about Spain and the Canary Islands, and Icca’s
father is especially interested to know about England and America. Our dinner
consists of the smoked pork loin, cheese, bread, and jalapeno peppers –
something which Icca’s father especially enjoys. But it’s now getting late, so
we begin to discuss what I will need to do in the morning, and we decide that I
will need to set the alarm on my phone to wake me at seven.

I awoke to the sound of
the alarm and woke Icca as we had arranged. She made me some coffee and gave me
some more of the cold meat and cheese that we had eaten the night before. She
joined me at the table, but just to eat a mandarin. I had a whole hour before
the airport bus departed, but somehow sitting at the breakfast table the time
got away from us; I suddenly noticed the clock and realised that the bus would
depart in less than twenty minutes.

“We will have to hurry
now,” Icca said, as she ran to get her shoes.

We rushed out of the door,
Icca carrying my bag and  me following  behind with  my  laptop around my neck
and dragging my case behind me: crashing it into the large flower pot that
stood on the second floor as we passed by. Once out in the street, we quickly
made our way to the bus stop; again crossing through the now busy traffic.

We waited several minutes
for a bus to arrive, and then as we had done the previous evening, dragged the
luggage as far up the steps into the crowded bus as it was possible. The
traffic is slow and again we stop at almost every traffic light. Finally, we
arrive at the square where the airline offices are located with one minute to
spare. The airport bus is loaded and waiting to depart from the other side of
the square. I suggest that we try to cut across the corner of the square,
running through the occasional breaks in the now busy traffic. Finally arriving
at the bus I am almost out of breath from dragging the heavy case behind me.
But we made it! I place my case in the luggage hold beneath the bus and Icca
places my bag there also. There are seconds left to hug Icca, thank her and
wish her luck, and jump aboard. The bus begins to move as I make my way towards
a vacant window seat. And when I look out of the window Icca is already out of
sight.

I began to think about the
time I had spent in Novaginja, and I began to realise that my departure had
turned out to be far more special than my arrival after all. Icca had turned out
to be a really good friend, and I was truly glad to have spent my final evening
in Belgrade with her.

The bus made its way
through the centre and towards the river. We stopped outside the city’s large
railway station before making our way across the Danube: crossing by one of the
bridges that I had seen on the previous evening enveloped in light. We drove
through several miles of large modern apartment buildings until finally at the
edge of the city, and then we followed the motorway to the airport. As we
pulled up outside the Departures area I noticed a large sign which read
‘Terminal 1’ and ‘Terminal 2.’ I was sure that I had no such information on my
ticket. I turned to the woman sitting at the window on the other side of the
coach: 

“Do you speak English?” I
asked.

“Yes of course,” she
replied.

“Do I need to get off here
for London?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, this is not
Heathrow,” she said, “here it is really small, just follow the sign for
International Departures.”

And she was right, what
was described as two terminals was nothing more than opposite ends of the same
departure lounge.

I still had quite some
time to wait for my departure. I thought it might be a good idea to exchange 
the  tiny amount of  Dinara  that remained into Euros, but I was told that the
amount I had left was not enough So I made my way to the upper floor of the
terminal to find the departure gate. The terminal is not as bare as I’d thought
on arrival; there is a selection of shops on this level. I bought coffee from a
machine with my remaining coins while waiting to leave.

The signs are now
indicating that the departure for London will be thirty minutes late, but the
queue to board is moving slowly. It takes time to ascertain that each
prospective passenger has the right to leave the country; however, on sight of
my passport I am waved ahead and directed straight on to the plane. Arkom’s
insistence that I would need to surrender my white card in order to leave has
proven to be wrong: no one even asked to see it. 

When I departed from
Belgrade it was still five days before Christmas, and now stepping off of the
plane in London an hour and forty-five minutes later, I have missed Christmas
by four days. Yet I find myself beginning an unexpected break – a week in England
visiting family – a week’s holiday that will cost me nothing. In fact, it is
saving me hundreds of pounds over the prospect of travelling directly from
Vojvodina to Greece.

Now having just arrived at
Heathrow, I find myself in the midst of crowds of travellers making their way
to various holiday destinations. My first priority is to change sufficient
Euros into pounds to pay for my bus fare; this takes no time at all, as few of
the lingering multitudes appear to be waiting to enter the country, and therefore
have no need of British currency. In fact the large crowds are waiting to
leave. In the days prior, Heathrow has been engulfed in dense fog that has
resulted in several days of flight cancellations: these crowds are obviously
the remnants who have yet to succeed in getting onto a flight.

I make my way through the
underground walkway that runs between the terminal and the central bus station;
it is only then when I emerge above ground that I find myself in the middle of
a horde of people who are either pushing and shoving their way towards the
buses or apparently doing nothing at all. The Oxford bus departs from the bay
farthest from the stairs, so I head in that direction, laptop around my neck,
bag in my left hand, with my right hand dragging the case behind me. But it’s
impossible, either people walk straight into me or else they stand totally
blocking my way. I’m getting nowhere fast! So I have no other choice but to
follow the example of the other people who are mobile. This means that I must
keep moving, charging through the crowd, pushing my way past people, dragging
my case behind me, and on occasions crashing into people who have no intention
of moving. But I’m making some progress; I can see my bus waiting for me in the
distance.

I finally arrive alongside
the bus as it is about to leave. So I swiftly stow my case and bag in the hold,
climb aboard, purchase my ticket, settle  into  my  seat, and  we  are  off 
in  the direction of the motorway. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so
many people! It may not be Christmas but it will feel like it spending time
with family.

Has my experience in
Novaginja been worthwhile? Yes I would say so. I wouldn’t have missed it for
anything. But after negotiating the Heathrow crowds I feel like I’m again in a
different world. It was a wonderfully unique experience to go back in time and
live life as it existed forty years or so ago, but already it seems like A
Different Lifetime. A week from now I’ll be headed for Greece, embarking on a
whole new experience, but that will be Another Lifetime.

Foggy Danube at Novi Sad

Novi Sad – the main square
in the city centre