Part 4
By Friday, the weekend masses had arrived. The streets were packed, lines for roast pork grew, and the stone trumpeter fountain in the main plaza, the central meeting place, was inundated in several inches of empty pivo bottles. Not only had more people arrived. A certain breed of more people had arrived— the universal spring break dudes. A transnational phenomenon, immediately recognizable by their penchant for shirtlessness, macho bravado, and all-around douche-baggery, the universal spring break dudes of Serbia added a small touch of chauvinist flare to this ensemble of traits: plastic whistles.
During the stage competitions that afternoon, whenever a gypsy band would take the stage, a chorus of piercing whistles would attempt to drown them out. Of course, it was a futile attempt, since drowning out a brass band with anything short of a mortar explosion is bound to fail. But the ill will was apparent, especially given the contrast of their behavior when a Serb (non-gypsy) band took the stage. Then, instead of whistles, wild cheering would break out and spontaneous circles would form to dance the kolo to the rather tedious and phlegmatic polka-like tune.
We fled this idiocy to a late lunch at a café, in a concerted effort to introduce something other than pork and lamb into our diet. The night before Marissa and I had lain in bed crapulent and with twisted guts, forswearing roast meat sandwiches forever more.This only partially worked, since we spoke no Serbian, the waiter spoke no English, and there was no menu. We ordered our meal by way of the handful of German words our waiter seemed to know and repeat. He took my words literally, and brought the very items we had discussed, unadulterated by any preparation: a bowl full of whole potatoes, a bowl full of whole tomatoes, a cucumber, a loaf of bread, and, thrown in for good measure, a platter of lamb parts.
On the way back from lunch we ran into a group of four gypsy children. The oldest, who looked about 15, was pushing a stroller with a toddler back and forth, while the other two, a boy and a girl of about 7, played with sticks. We were trying to get across a creek to reach a hill with a fine view of the town and had turned off the road to find a place to cross. We pointed to the hill and asked how we might get there. They seemed to understand perfectly and eagerly led us through the brush until we arrived at a giant trash mound next to a ruinous shack. It soon became clear that we were supposed to ascend this trash mound. Aaron and I helped the girl lift the stroller and we all proceeded to climb onto the garbage, the four of us with astonished looks as we watched the two younger kids scurry barefoot and gleeful through the piles of filthy paper, broken glass, and rusty machine carcasses.
This little behind the scenes stroll through human waste with our gypsy guides was the perfect counterpart to the official festival parade we watched that same day, with neat little squadrons of children outfitted in traditional Serbian folk costume—the girls in red patterned skirts and black aprons with red and white floral designs with flowers in their hair, the boys in black vests and breeches with red sashes, all wearing dainty wooden clogs that slope up into a point at the end, as though cobbled by elves. They marched along to the beat of the tuba and snare drum, enchanting onlookers with the image of a fabled Serbian past, a sartorial golden age compared to the tank tops and fanny packs that lined the curbside of the present.
We had been playing scrabble and drinking Turkish coffee under a café awning as the parade filed past when a cherubic Serb came to our table and gave Jesse a hug. As noted, strangers’ affection for Jesse was not unusual, but apparently the two had met earlier. The man’s name was Jelko, a Serb who, like us, was from the Bay Area. Jelko had earthy Germanic peasant features, with bright red cheeks and nose, and wispy blond hair that recalled a character from a Breughel scene. He was a bike messenger-cum-DJ in San Francisco, hosted a weekly Balkan music radio show, and returned to Serbia every summer to attend the Guca festival.
A charming conversationalist, despite being clearly drunk, Jelko was eager to tell us about Serbian culture and history. “You should go to Nis. It is a very good city. A lot of history. You know, Constantine of the Roman Empire was born in Nis.”
Jelko grew particularly excited when talking about the fall of Nis to the Turks at the end of the fourteenth century and the centuries-long battle against Turkish oppression that continued up through the nineteenth century. “The Turks, man, they were brutal. Absolutely brutal. They built a giant tower from heads of Serbs! Can you believe it?”
I remembered having read about the monument Jelko was talking about. After an unsuccessful Serbian uprising against the Ottoman Empire in Southern Serbia in 1809, the Turkish magistrate at Nis had a tower built out of the heads of the all the Serbian rebels to serve as a warning to all would be freedom fighters.
Jelko was somewhat less exuberant about his own history. He was struggling to get German citizenship, deterred by what he kept referring to as “some old trouble with the law.” “I got child support on my ass, you know. It’s a real bitch.”
But, when we returned to the topic of music, his eyes lit up again as he told us about his favorite brass bands. His excitement led us to a music stand where he instructed our purchases with a connoisseur’s authority.
I have since run into Jelko on occasion at Balkan brass shows in San Francisco. The first time, I saw him DJing and went up and shook his hand. At another show, I went into the bathroom and there was Jelko, joyfully peeing into the sink as he clinked beers with a man at the urinal. I forewent the shake that time.
That night in Guca, we cut the concert short. Aaron had developed a hearty case of the runs and the port-a-potties by the stage were guarded by burly gypsy men with feathered hats and thick mustaches who charged a handful of dinars per visit. These toilet guardians were turning a lucrative trade, and soon Aaron had used up all our coins. We retired to our porch, free toilet on hand, concert still audible, and resigned ourselves to the decanter of rakija.
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