Thursday, April 30, 2009






When there’s too much to say I’m most tempted to simply let photos do the describing- even though I was not paparazzi enough to snap people turning up carpets at the hotel and suspiciously checking through bins and rifling through the reception drawers and even brazenly trying to crack the safe in search of Physicist Aida’s passport. So yes photos alone would give you a false portrait of magnificent canyons and rivers taken en route to Albania, and various happy snaps atop ancient castles and beachy/ meadowy idylls. They could not convey the spooky reality- it felt like we were characters at the start of a horror movie, innocent and hopeful but with an unshakeable feeling of something sinister lying below the surface of our colourful, hollow new home. As our Elvira, Queen of the Night, put it, it was “creepy and creamy” – perhaps in fairness I should spell it as crime-y but that’s not how I heard it...

I’m hoping the Anthropologist is going to start an insightful, thorough blog which will remove the burden of having to explain everything, including the reason behind the thousands of tiny concrete bunkers peeping out of the rocky meadows like sudden patches of smooth grey mushrooms. I only ever received abridged translations of the tour guides interminable histories anyway so all I can tell you is that the resident Communist dictator forced the bunker sellers to test drive their product by climbing inside and being bombed for at least 15 minutes. Fortunately for them they seemed to hold up and so he ordered 350 000 and sprinkled them about the country.

We did manage to strike up a few friendly conversations in broken English/ Italian, which immediately brought some feeling of relief and reassurance that it wasn’t the chaotic, incomprehensible and impenetrable world it seemed at first. I lost my group at one point and sheltered from the rain with some copper workers who made beautiful cups and jugs and suchlike. The girl there had studied in Greece for 5 years but saw this place, which had a Bascarsija-like atmosphere, as her future- the business had only been set up one generation ago, by her uncle, but she saw it as a secure and definite future and showed me around the workshop under the store with the thick rolls of unworked copper- the proof of their skill. I also watched the rug makers weaving on their huge looms, although that kind of simple, painstaking work appeals to me less than the delicate, speedy silver filigree work I saw.

Somehow we became separated into fairly fixed groups from the beginning- a consequence of the geography of our coach positions I guess, because the first 10 hours of journey time must have been a crucial crucible in forming bonds. The queenly Ikbala taught me many Bosnian tongue twisters, and now I’m greeted by cries of “Screwdriver!” wherever I go. I have become her obedient performing monkey- my spirit resists the foolish recitals but my will is utterly submissive.

Photos will be forthcoming eventually I promise.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Pain in the Neck

I feel like Anne Shirley- I hopefully built up such a beautiful dinner party, carefully planning to eke out my meagre resources and stretch my £1.50 budget to the max. And in the end I have a mouse in my pudding and Diana Barry puking in the bushes. Or, in my version, an Anthropologist gagging on a fishbone and a grand tour of Sarajevo hospitals at midnight.

The day started proudly enough- I accomplished my market shopping without freezing with fear whenever the stall holder said ‘izvolite’ but actually spoke Bosnian to ask for my ridiculously small quantities. Somehow I managed to get carrots, mushrooms, onions and cooking cream with change to spare. I also had the fish that Nermina bestowed upon me while it was still flipping about in a bucket. So, thus armed, I was able to test a couple of the recipes I’ve been gathering from people at school- tarhana soup with pre-prepared dough rubble, and a dubious mushroom recipe that involved spices, cream, soya sauce and honey but turned out impressively successful I think. And I managed to do it all and still make it in time for my first class.

I booked my place to Albania- about 50 quid for a 5-day trip with friends, including transport, food and board is really and offer too good to refuse. I also bought my ticket back to Manchester for 16th May. It’s not been long enough for you to notice my absence particularly perhaps but it feels like forever to me (though I wouldn’t mind forever lasting a little longer)

My final ‘lesson’ with my tall Physicist friend was a trip to the house of Sevda, a place that has gone through many metamorphoses in its time- from storehouse for medieval caravans, to WW2-era restaurant, and has recently evolved into a museum and cafe dedicated to classic Bosnian music.

Bosnian class today was a trip to the annual book fair, which was set up as an publishing house convention, like the Twisted Thread show for books, rather than the flea markety haphazard piles that I was picturing. I managed to get Death and the Dervish in Bosnian and in English for which I’ve been unsuccessfully hunting for weeks, plus a book of lyrics to lots of Bosnian nasheeds that I actually have on mp3 somewhere. Suada my Otokan linguist buddy is an expert on this story and promises to be my literary guide, which is great- something to look forward to during my idle weeks here- and maybe my fellow Bosnian classmates will want to join in so it’d be like those book clubs you hear about.

So the dinner guests were collected at various points round town – Juliana at the fair, the Anthropologist at the eternal flame, and we came across the Otokan outside Merkur. Suada just started wearing a scarf last week but the fact that she was suddenly hijabi didn’t register for a good 10 minutes, not until I noticed that she was wearing it in an uncommon style. We talked about it plenty though while sitting around in hospital waiting rooms as doctors peered down the anthropologist’s poor throat.

My lord it was a farcical process getting her seen by anyone. We went from one hospital to another with our fishbone emergency- but without personal contacts more powerful than a med student friend and a doctor relative in Mostar it didn’t seem like she’d be deboned anytime soon. We had already tried olive oil, plain rice, bread at the flat and we’re currently holding out hope that a good night’s sleep will magically disappear it.

Before dinner they were all predicting that I’d end up poisoning them and considering how to handle an emergency situation- sometimes I think Fate has a very dark sense of humour...

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood



I just returned from a protest opposite the law faculty here against domestic violence. It was an unexpected turn – I had just finished having a chat about TEFL with the teachers at Djermana’s school, fulfilling my end of our deal, and my Bosnian teacher invited me along to the demo. I was quite surprised to hear of such doings actually as I’m continually hearing about how Bosnian people take a very passive approach and organised public activism is non-existent and they only come out into the streets to cheer about football victories.

This was a simple but striking demo- just people standing silently along the river bank with black cloth strips over their mouths or eyes and cloth banners pinned to their clothes. There were a few cameras and my teacher says it’ll probably be on a lot of the news as the issue ties in with a recent story about professors taking advantage of female students, promising them pass grades. I didn’t hesitate to join these guys today but at the same time I wondered if I might have become a little more timid than I would be in Manchester, cause I'm not sure what constitutes a social faux pas round here. There was no whooping and cheering back to cars that honked in support and I wore the cloth over my eyes instead of my mouth which lent greater anonymity, although that didn't occur to me til later. There weren’t any other hijabis in the line along the bank but there was one present with her little boy in a group across the road.

I saw a girl in proper Turkish-style scarf and long coat combo with a guitar strapped to her back earlier today. Only in Sarajevo..

I’ve reread the last few posts and really they’ve become far too one-note in their effusiveness. The blog needs a little leavening...

So- I can think of at least three things that are wanting in my situation. Firstly I’ve become suddenly insomniac- I had about 3-4 hours sleep last night and the night before but this wakefulness is not abating. At least the sunrise is pretty- right now the sun is a luminescent Irn-Bru orange disc.

I’m struggling with the dried chickpeas they have here. They’re not all precooked and ready to chuck into your chana moshola- these are some tough busters I got. I soaked them for two days, boiled for about 3 hours in salt, and then cooked in the moshola for maybe another hour or two and still they’re not exactly soft... I wrote ‘masala’ at first instead of ‘moshola’ but it sounded alien to me. I also haven’t located tamarind or soy sauce here yet, and I don’t have to time to grow my own fresh coriander or green chillies so everything lacks its usual zing. My diet is mostly meatless now too which is probably healthier in many ways but I don’t much like getting my iron through pills.

I said three things right? Ok well the whole foreigner thing works a treat when everyone is treating you as a guest, but not so much when you haven’t paid your tram fare and the inspector makes a beeline for you and strongarms you into paying the fine. There’s only so long you can feign confusion..

And then of course there’s the fast-approaching prospect of a long summer of call centres or unemployment- I’m not sure which is worse.

That’s enough of the trivial sad stories now. Speaking of sad stories though I’m spending my lessons with one student having the Bosnian opera Hasanaginica translated. It’s so tragic, in a way that kind of parallels Othello, with the Iago-like mother-in-law playing cruel mind games to destroy her son’s marriage.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Good Friday

It’s been a funny week. The weekend was lovely- the weather has turned to what they call spring and I call perfect summer- I had a fine four-course supper with the Smileys, and spent Sunday lounging with the Anthropologist from one cafe to another all the way from my flat to the town centre (a journey that takes about 40 mins by tram so a fair distance really) I had to repeat the 1 ½ hour trek (I’m slow) the next morning, minus coffee breaks, because there was a transport strike. I’d bought some flashy shades the day before but I couldn’t bring myself to wear them for more than 5 minutes at a time for fear of looking attitudey or having a glasses-shaped tanline. I don’t know, I’m not used to handling all this sunshine...

I also acquired a new student this week who happens to be the Arabic professor of just about everybody in the city. We walked to the shiny new shopping centre- it’s like one of those commercial temples like Boshandara City or the Trafford Centre which attracts people from all around, with familiar stores springing up unexpectedly like Lush. And then you go to the top floor and suddenly you find you’re in a spacious, well-appointed mosque. The professor, as I said, knows pretty much everybody in town, so i was introduced to another highly accomplished former student every two steps from one girl who was a hafidha at age 9, to a neighbour of mine who was officially the Best Student of her Generation. Sometimes the conversation would be in Bosnian, other times in English, Arabic or even Sign Language. I think I’m going to be learning far more than I teach...

The tram journey home today was slightly bizarre. My spice dealer buddy was with me and somehow she views it as A Disaster (many of her stories end with ‘It was a Real Disaster!’) while I just thought it was funny. So I’ve previously described the kind of undignified scrum that takes place when entering a tram. Well, an older gent took a shine to us and vigorously protected the empty seats beside and in front of him so that we could sit out our journey like elegantly idle ladies. Then he proceeded to inform my friend in Bosnian of how cultured and intelligent we must be- I’m not clear what his opinion was based upon. So my friend responded in a “that’s very kind of you sir,” kind of way while also translating his fulsome compliments into English for me but she was also like ‘hey man, personal space!’ and ‘omg everyone is looking- Disaster!’
I was standing again cause an old lady came (I like how mostly everyone here jumps up off their seat when an old person enters- they don’t wait for a reproachful glance) but when our gallant old man was leaving it seemed he would fight everyone off with his cane so I could take his seat. So yes perhaps we were causing a scene- but I was happy enough at any rate :)

There have been other interesting goings on but I can’t piece together a narrative for them- they’d work better as a conversation, only I haven’t had a conversation with any of my Mancunian people since forever. On the other hand it seems all I do is talk to people here, possibly too much, which may surprise those among you who can attest to the fact that stringing a coherent sentence together is sometimes entirely beyond my powers. Sometimes I feel slightly fraudulent- especially when I spend the lesson in a dissection of Snape's character- my friend says he's 'nice' and he's her favourite, I mean seriously, ma daj! Although I see that he's the most intriguing antihero I just couldn't accept that all his petty spite and meanness was a clever pose.

The last few weeks have flown by- only two weeks of lessons left! It’s nothing! I’m still hoping to go to Albania but the time for booking a ticket home is looming... I have a trip to Mostar coming up and possibly one to Tuzla. This Sunday apparently horses and carriages await in Ilidza, and in the evening I’m dining with the Dealer, Malaysian style...

Friday, April 03, 2009

La Traviata and the Steampunk Cafe




The title covers the main settings for tonight’s dazzling entertainment. My first opera- of course I understood neither the songs (Italian) nor the subtitles (Bosnian) except for the occasional keyword like love, insanity, and weird. The music was beautiful though and I was reliving it with tuneless humming afterwards until the jazzy beats of the steampunk cafe made me forget how it went. As it was a spur of the moment gatecrashing of my friend’s night out with her cousin's cousin I hadn’t brought my spectacles. I’m told that the heroine was played by three different actresses, one brunette and two blondes but I was struggling with the storyline anyway and had given up trying to distinguish between the soft focus faces. The hero Alfredo was played by a Chinese or perhaps Korean guy and there was a smiley guy standing behind us who might possibly have been his proud big brother videotaping the whole show.

I won’t waste too many words describing this place- the photos speak for themselves. My lord how I dream of having such a place- even just a little room filled with such glorious junk.






Later outside we found an abandoned umbrella which seem positively Providential as my good friend had been pondering the question to buy or not to buy a new brolly all day. On the one hand, she already had one at home, on the other thunder was crashing all around and the poor child was getting a little bedraggled. There was a little soul-searching over the ethics of taking the umbrella from the street- whether it was stealing, or depriving a homeless person from much needed shelter. I, having fairly hoboish instincts myself, saw no problem as the street was empty with no one laying claim and the eternal fire nearby to warm people’s hands. Eventually she was convinced that it was Fate providing her with a slightly broken brolly in her time of need.

The only fly in the ointment is the growing fear that I am becoming an irredeemable Minnie the Moocher. Take today for example- upon discovering that I had only foreign currency on my person the proper thing to do would be to politely refuse dinner and refreshments and survive on gum right? But I am far too weak, so I gobbled up the dolma at the restaurant, and even allowed the Tax Inspector cousin's cousin to pay for the juice at The Cafe of Dreams. As well as the bus fare home. I hang my head in shame. But I'm also singing the waltz from La Traviata inside that same incorrigible head.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Stormy Weather

Seems like Sarajevo is aspiring to cover all weather bases in one week. We had the height of summer yesterday, and now we have dark stormy thunder and lightening- I was soaked in the two minutes from tram to the flat and it seems like most people have been huddled under various tunnel and shop roofs for the last hour. We've also had pristine snowfall and an earthquake to boot so far this week so I'm not sure what there is left- spring, summer and deep winter have all been covered nicely, only autumn hasn't joined the party.

Happily I am able to document photo footage of the varying landscape and it's oddities thanks to the extraordinary generosity of my new norwegian bosnian antropologist friend who has lent me her 8mp canon. I have also sourced a spice dealer within the school- a teacher who studied in Malaysia and is well-versed in the asian culinary arts. It's not easy to find this stuff but she gave me a jar filled with elachi, bay leaves, coriander seeds, aniseed and other things that fill me with gladness. Contacts are everything..