Pink Sky at Night (Chapter 3 - Belgrade, Yugoslavia)
It was monotonous driving along the valley of the River Sava. And as we cruised along at a steady thirty-five miles per hour, with flat, marshy ground stretching for miles on either side of the concrete highway, I had plenty of time to reflect on the advice given us by the man in Zagreb. 'Look for a Fat Man in the Hotel Moscow' sounded shady and full of intrigue, even Orson Wellesian. Why would the man with crinkly hair want to give us more for our cheques than they were officially worth? It didn't add up. The official rate of exchange was 1,120 dinars to the pound sterling; our tipster had hinted at something much higher than that figure. It sounded attractive but risky. I shouted above the headwind to my wife. 'What do you think about meeting the Fat Man in Belgrade?' 'Not much,' she yelled back, 'it sounds a bit dangerous. I'm not keen to see the inside of a Yugoslav prison.' 'Nor I,' I bawled, 'but maybe it's sort of within the law. We certainly could make use of a more favourable exchange. Might be worth trying to see him, then if it's obviously illegal we can back out gracefully.' Nita, undecided on this diplomacy, wavered. 'Well. . .' So we left it open. We'd get to Belgrade first.
The Croatian countryside was dotted with villages, marshes, and a tremendous variety of bird life: duck and geese, both wild and tame, herons and smaller waders searching for fish among the reeds, flocks of rooks and pigeons. And although we saw little of the River Sava itself, the whole area, flat as a board, was soggy and insect-infested, a veritable bird paradise. On the far-distant horizons to left and right, purple mountains hemmed in the valley of damp. Bad country for camping, so we drove on through an insect-plagued dusk and far into the night.
We camped eventually in a meagre copse that was wet and uncomfortable, and Nita kept hearing footsteps approaching; I was glad when dawn broke and we could see our surroundings. Desolate fenland, heavy with mist. Even in daylight it was a gloomy spot.
We were still on the Autoput, though the Belgrade signposts did not now display such a formidable number of kilometres. All that day we drove without seeing more than a handful of people working in the fields and a dozen cars or so on the motor-road. Garages were few and far between, about fifty miles between each.
Towards evening, dog-tired after a hard day's riding, we were thinking longingly of a cosy camping spot, when the engine began to misfire-the usual trouble of plug-whiskering. I stopped to clean it and in the middle of the operation we were pounced upon by a bunch of knowledge-thirsty students, three young men and four girls all in their 'teens or early twenties. They spoke passable English and were excellent company. The ten-minute delay developed into a heated three-hour discussion on the various merits and faults of Communism and capitalism. They were all well read, with a shrewd conception of world affairs, perhaps a trifle misinformed in some respects, but tremendously interested in international politics and willing to assess our views dispassionately. However, they were unanimous in their respect for the British; three of them were even taking English instead of Russian as a second language. But unfortunately for this cross-section of the unified Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, their learning was unlikely to be broadened by travel. For apart from the lack of funds, they told us, it was almost impossible to secure passports. Not that these documents were ever actually withheld, but the formalities were so exhausting that applicants usually lost heart or ran out of stamp money. It was, they said, just not worth the effort. Perhaps, in a country striving to build and become prosperous, that is a good thing. If these boys and girls were an average cross-section of modem Yugoslavia they would be a great loss to their country.
It was again very late before we selected our open-air bedroom for the night, and by that time we were yearning for a good night's sleep. After the third day of fresh air, with only sparse patches of rest, we were prepared to sleep anywhere; so we did, about three yards from the road on the gravel verge.
We never found the man in the Hotel Moscow. How could we? During the whole time we were in the city-nearly a week-the hotel and its immediate environs, including a super-colossal boulevard cafe, were always teeming with jostling crowds. It seemed to be the social hub of Belgrade. And a surprising number of the men who sat at the pavement tables sipping and chatting were fat, crinkly-haired, and suitably furtive. We forsook the crazy idea and gave our custom rather reluctantly to Putnik, the Yugoslav travel agency.
We had enough trouble as it was, trying to coax Jugosped, the transport company, to release our new film stock which had been flown out from London; and at long last when that favour was finally granted, we had to start over again to persuade them that the exposed film, which we wanted returned to England by air, was not of their military installations, bridges, or factories. All this was finally accomplished by Nita, who threw aside all polite business procedure and ranted at the company director in no uncertain manner: did they want to trade with Britain? Because if so, they were hardly setting a good example by all this needless red-tape!
She said a lot of other things too, but I didn't hear them, for while this last desperate parleying was in progress I made a cowardly withdrawal to another office to fill in another sheaf of forms and smoulder in impotent fury. I must have completed hundreds in those four days, which was not easy as they were, of course, all in Yugoslav. During these negotiations to wrest our film from the clutches of officialdom and get them to accept the exposed stock for dispatch, we visited nearly every government office in the capital, accompanied by a young girl from the Jugosped office, to try and gain the necessary permission. Some of the forms, I was certain from the interpreted questions, could not have had the slightest bearing on the problem. My grandfather's Christian names, for instance, could hardly clinch the matter one way or another. Questions, forms, more questions.
'Why haven't you carried all the film you needed with you?'
'Because we are riding a scooter-weight and bulk, you know.'
'Pardon?' they said, with puzzled frowns.
'Newsreel material-London. Its prompt return is urgent.' 'Newsreel?' they said, 'British Government Newsreel? What have you taken pictures of? Have you travelled through any of the military zones?'
'No,' I replied. 'Scooted via Ljubljana and Zagreb and taken some scenic shots.' And so on, for four days.
In the middle of all this jousting I got an attack of gout, a legacy from a port-fancying grandfather, the same whose name now reposed in the archives of Belgrade. Fortunately, the most excruciating period coincided with our exhausting but triumphant conclusion of the film fantasy, so that I could hobble, gratefully relieved, back to the small hotel bedroom to endure the following two days of agony in peace. Nita fed me my usual non-alcoholic diet; stayed away from my foot, the big toe of which was then a superb, pulsating specimen the colour of an angry sunset; and kept the conversation down to a minimum. No one with severe gout is good to live with. The only light relief during this trying interlude was a letter from Rediffusion, which expressed concern at the delay in the arrival of film. After doses of colchicum tablets, my fiery toe subsided after forty-eight hours and once again was pronounced fit to press the foot brake.
We spent our last evening in Belgrade shopping in a market which stayed open until very late in the evening. The city centre was well lit, with a surprising amount of traffic in evidence, more than during the day, and multi-storeyed buildings, bathed in floodlight, punctuating the skyline. Some of the city-the older quarter-showed a distinct Turkish influence, but all that seemed to be overshadowed by the new building projects. There were plenty of essential consumer goods, but positively no luxuries. For example, we passed many jewellers' shops displaying watch-straps but no watches, and in most of the windows were articles strictly utilitarian: lengths of gas piping, a telephone tastefully set up against a coloured crepe-paper surround, and in yet another shop a few angle-iron brackets (non-rusting).
Yet for all the austerity, people seemed to move with purpose and springiness of step. Gradually, they said, the results of the five-year plans were taking effect. We heard one or two hinted asides that Tito was not quite all he could be, but most of the English-speaking people we talked to during that week supported the country's leader wholeheartedly, indeed, fervently. They had faith in him and in themselves. They were working, they told us, to create a prosperous and independent Yugoslavia. What did we think of the beautiful architecture of the new buildings? Were they not symbolic of the new country, with their glass and concrete silhouettes breaking the old, low skyline? Soon, too, all the major cities would be connected by the Autoput, and the dusty tracks would be but memories to the next generation. We both thought this last an excellent idea.
Certainly Belgrade today, built from the rubble of the Luftwaffe's savage onslaught, was proof of a national will to keep up with the world beyond the Balkans. Compared with Austria, their neighbour, they were poor; poor but proud, hardworking and eager. I liked the Yugoslavs and their country, despite the bureaucracy, the exchange rate, the gout, and the incident when I was nearly thrown into prison for filming a tramp in the city centre. The people we met, almost without exception, were friendly, helpful, and smilingly cheerful; I hope it will not be long before they can walk into their jewellers' shops to buy themselves wristwatches. And their politics? As one man said, they are neo-Communist because for them it holds the key to recovery; they are not fanatical about the creed, just quietly convinced that it is the right way. For their country's infancy it probably is: a parallel to our own maxim that a student must be a radical, before toning down his views with substance and maturity.
Over the Danube and out from Belgrade the road, at first metalled, deteriorated rapidly and, apart from a few tarmac stretches which seemed to end hardly before they had begun, was a trialist's delight. For us it was murderous. A repeat of the Ljubljana-Zagreb run, only worse. There were no smooth, restful part, it was all holes, huge cavities filled with dust and jagged flinty rocks which were unavoidable at times. When these gave out temporarily, we had variety in the form of deep, even corrugations from which there was no escape at all. The only difference in the country was the appearance of Cyrillic instead of Roman script on the infrequent signposts. The road, particularly near villages, was usually lined with apple trees. So much more practical than poplars or planes as shade-makers, they were heavily laden with fruit. I wondered how long they would have remained thus in rural England.
The mountain country of eastern Yugoslavia is really wild. Cultivation near the villages is intensive, but between communities we rode through remote moorlands and craggy peaks, with only wild birds, cattle, and sheep as our companions. We could look towards every horizon and see nothing but virgin landscape, rugged but green.
We camped in some lovely spots, almost always finding a fresh, babbling stream and soft mosses on which to lay our sleeping bags. I managed to get a fair amount of shooting and for a while we practically gave up tinned food as the dixie was usually full of game for the evening meal. But however remote the surroundings, after sunset we never managed to be alone. Magically, it seemed, we would find ourselves with company. Sometimes an individual would introduce himself, chat by miming, and generally make himself comfortable. But if the guests were in a party they often confined their visit, which sometimes lasted for as much as three hours, to silent, bovine stares. Very disconcerting. One night a shepherd boy-who was, I suspect, leading contender for the title of Village Idiot-stayed all night, sleeping just outside the tent flap. He spoke one word which he repeated hopefully at opportune intervals: 'Cigaretten.' He was still mumbling his German vocabulary as I fell asleep with one hand on the rifle, just in case.
On we went through the desolate, attractive mountains, winding our tiny way through gigantic gashes in the hills, up to the beginning of the majestic, barren Dragoman Pass, and on along the narrow path that led across the natural barrier between Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. We camped on top of a bare, windswept peak. Ahead in the valley below lay more of the unknown, which in a few hours would be revealed to us. The evening sky, a delicate, pastel pink towards the west, held promise of a fine day for the morrow. A good omen.
The Croatian countryside was dotted with villages, marshes, and a tremendous variety of bird life: duck and geese, both wild and tame, herons and smaller waders searching for fish among the reeds, flocks of rooks and pigeons. And although we saw little of the River Sava itself, the whole area, flat as a board, was soggy and insect-infested, a veritable bird paradise. On the far-distant horizons to left and right, purple mountains hemmed in the valley of damp. Bad country for camping, so we drove on through an insect-plagued dusk and far into the night.
We camped eventually in a meagre copse that was wet and uncomfortable, and Nita kept hearing footsteps approaching; I was glad when dawn broke and we could see our surroundings. Desolate fenland, heavy with mist. Even in daylight it was a gloomy spot.
We were still on the Autoput, though the Belgrade signposts did not now display such a formidable number of kilometres. All that day we drove without seeing more than a handful of people working in the fields and a dozen cars or so on the motor-road. Garages were few and far between, about fifty miles between each.
Towards evening, dog-tired after a hard day's riding, we were thinking longingly of a cosy camping spot, when the engine began to misfire-the usual trouble of plug-whiskering. I stopped to clean it and in the middle of the operation we were pounced upon by a bunch of knowledge-thirsty students, three young men and four girls all in their 'teens or early twenties. They spoke passable English and were excellent company. The ten-minute delay developed into a heated three-hour discussion on the various merits and faults of Communism and capitalism. They were all well read, with a shrewd conception of world affairs, perhaps a trifle misinformed in some respects, but tremendously interested in international politics and willing to assess our views dispassionately. However, they were unanimous in their respect for the British; three of them were even taking English instead of Russian as a second language. But unfortunately for this cross-section of the unified Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, their learning was unlikely to be broadened by travel. For apart from the lack of funds, they told us, it was almost impossible to secure passports. Not that these documents were ever actually withheld, but the formalities were so exhausting that applicants usually lost heart or ran out of stamp money. It was, they said, just not worth the effort. Perhaps, in a country striving to build and become prosperous, that is a good thing. If these boys and girls were an average cross-section of modem Yugoslavia they would be a great loss to their country.
It was again very late before we selected our open-air bedroom for the night, and by that time we were yearning for a good night's sleep. After the third day of fresh air, with only sparse patches of rest, we were prepared to sleep anywhere; so we did, about three yards from the road on the gravel verge.
We never found the man in the Hotel Moscow. How could we? During the whole time we were in the city-nearly a week-the hotel and its immediate environs, including a super-colossal boulevard cafe, were always teeming with jostling crowds. It seemed to be the social hub of Belgrade. And a surprising number of the men who sat at the pavement tables sipping and chatting were fat, crinkly-haired, and suitably furtive. We forsook the crazy idea and gave our custom rather reluctantly to Putnik, the Yugoslav travel agency.
We had enough trouble as it was, trying to coax Jugosped, the transport company, to release our new film stock which had been flown out from London; and at long last when that favour was finally granted, we had to start over again to persuade them that the exposed film, which we wanted returned to England by air, was not of their military installations, bridges, or factories. All this was finally accomplished by Nita, who threw aside all polite business procedure and ranted at the company director in no uncertain manner: did they want to trade with Britain? Because if so, they were hardly setting a good example by all this needless red-tape!
She said a lot of other things too, but I didn't hear them, for while this last desperate parleying was in progress I made a cowardly withdrawal to another office to fill in another sheaf of forms and smoulder in impotent fury. I must have completed hundreds in those four days, which was not easy as they were, of course, all in Yugoslav. During these negotiations to wrest our film from the clutches of officialdom and get them to accept the exposed stock for dispatch, we visited nearly every government office in the capital, accompanied by a young girl from the Jugosped office, to try and gain the necessary permission. Some of the forms, I was certain from the interpreted questions, could not have had the slightest bearing on the problem. My grandfather's Christian names, for instance, could hardly clinch the matter one way or another. Questions, forms, more questions.
'Why haven't you carried all the film you needed with you?'
'Because we are riding a scooter-weight and bulk, you know.'
'Pardon?' they said, with puzzled frowns.
'Newsreel material-London. Its prompt return is urgent.' 'Newsreel?' they said, 'British Government Newsreel? What have you taken pictures of? Have you travelled through any of the military zones?'
'No,' I replied. 'Scooted via Ljubljana and Zagreb and taken some scenic shots.' And so on, for four days.
In the middle of all this jousting I got an attack of gout, a legacy from a port-fancying grandfather, the same whose name now reposed in the archives of Belgrade. Fortunately, the most excruciating period coincided with our exhausting but triumphant conclusion of the film fantasy, so that I could hobble, gratefully relieved, back to the small hotel bedroom to endure the following two days of agony in peace. Nita fed me my usual non-alcoholic diet; stayed away from my foot, the big toe of which was then a superb, pulsating specimen the colour of an angry sunset; and kept the conversation down to a minimum. No one with severe gout is good to live with. The only light relief during this trying interlude was a letter from Rediffusion, which expressed concern at the delay in the arrival of film. After doses of colchicum tablets, my fiery toe subsided after forty-eight hours and once again was pronounced fit to press the foot brake.
We spent our last evening in Belgrade shopping in a market which stayed open until very late in the evening. The city centre was well lit, with a surprising amount of traffic in evidence, more than during the day, and multi-storeyed buildings, bathed in floodlight, punctuating the skyline. Some of the city-the older quarter-showed a distinct Turkish influence, but all that seemed to be overshadowed by the new building projects. There were plenty of essential consumer goods, but positively no luxuries. For example, we passed many jewellers' shops displaying watch-straps but no watches, and in most of the windows were articles strictly utilitarian: lengths of gas piping, a telephone tastefully set up against a coloured crepe-paper surround, and in yet another shop a few angle-iron brackets (non-rusting).
Yet for all the austerity, people seemed to move with purpose and springiness of step. Gradually, they said, the results of the five-year plans were taking effect. We heard one or two hinted asides that Tito was not quite all he could be, but most of the English-speaking people we talked to during that week supported the country's leader wholeheartedly, indeed, fervently. They had faith in him and in themselves. They were working, they told us, to create a prosperous and independent Yugoslavia. What did we think of the beautiful architecture of the new buildings? Were they not symbolic of the new country, with their glass and concrete silhouettes breaking the old, low skyline? Soon, too, all the major cities would be connected by the Autoput, and the dusty tracks would be but memories to the next generation. We both thought this last an excellent idea.
Certainly Belgrade today, built from the rubble of the Luftwaffe's savage onslaught, was proof of a national will to keep up with the world beyond the Balkans. Compared with Austria, their neighbour, they were poor; poor but proud, hardworking and eager. I liked the Yugoslavs and their country, despite the bureaucracy, the exchange rate, the gout, and the incident when I was nearly thrown into prison for filming a tramp in the city centre. The people we met, almost without exception, were friendly, helpful, and smilingly cheerful; I hope it will not be long before they can walk into their jewellers' shops to buy themselves wristwatches. And their politics? As one man said, they are neo-Communist because for them it holds the key to recovery; they are not fanatical about the creed, just quietly convinced that it is the right way. For their country's infancy it probably is: a parallel to our own maxim that a student must be a radical, before toning down his views with substance and maturity.
Over the Danube and out from Belgrade the road, at first metalled, deteriorated rapidly and, apart from a few tarmac stretches which seemed to end hardly before they had begun, was a trialist's delight. For us it was murderous. A repeat of the Ljubljana-Zagreb run, only worse. There were no smooth, restful part, it was all holes, huge cavities filled with dust and jagged flinty rocks which were unavoidable at times. When these gave out temporarily, we had variety in the form of deep, even corrugations from which there was no escape at all. The only difference in the country was the appearance of Cyrillic instead of Roman script on the infrequent signposts. The road, particularly near villages, was usually lined with apple trees. So much more practical than poplars or planes as shade-makers, they were heavily laden with fruit. I wondered how long they would have remained thus in rural England.
The mountain country of eastern Yugoslavia is really wild. Cultivation near the villages is intensive, but between communities we rode through remote moorlands and craggy peaks, with only wild birds, cattle, and sheep as our companions. We could look towards every horizon and see nothing but virgin landscape, rugged but green.
We camped in some lovely spots, almost always finding a fresh, babbling stream and soft mosses on which to lay our sleeping bags. I managed to get a fair amount of shooting and for a while we practically gave up tinned food as the dixie was usually full of game for the evening meal. But however remote the surroundings, after sunset we never managed to be alone. Magically, it seemed, we would find ourselves with company. Sometimes an individual would introduce himself, chat by miming, and generally make himself comfortable. But if the guests were in a party they often confined their visit, which sometimes lasted for as much as three hours, to silent, bovine stares. Very disconcerting. One night a shepherd boy-who was, I suspect, leading contender for the title of Village Idiot-stayed all night, sleeping just outside the tent flap. He spoke one word which he repeated hopefully at opportune intervals: 'Cigaretten.' He was still mumbling his German vocabulary as I fell asleep with one hand on the rifle, just in case.
On we went through the desolate, attractive mountains, winding our tiny way through gigantic gashes in the hills, up to the beginning of the majestic, barren Dragoman Pass, and on along the narrow path that led across the natural barrier between Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. We camped on top of a bare, windswept peak. Ahead in the valley below lay more of the unknown, which in a few hours would be revealed to us. The evening sky, a delicate, pastel pink towards the west, held promise of a fine day for the morrow. A good omen.
posted by Michael Marriott (c/o P McIntosh) at
20:40
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