SERBIA

click to enlarge

The Country | The Guca Festival | The Guca Photo Pages (elsewhere on site)

THE COUNTRY
Of all of the countries I visited in my travels -- Romania, Croatia, Slovenia, The Czech Republic, Austria, Hungary and Serbia -- the ones I would like to return to first are the last two. Serbs are the friendliest folks I have met, and the villages there are breathtaking. Southeastern Serbia is the home of hundreds of brass bands and a place I would love to spend a few months some day. Nonetheless, Belgrade is not exactly the elegant tourist mecca that Vienna or Prague seem to be. The first thing you notice upon entering Serbia from Hungary -- other than the three-hour delaly while dogs check for drugs -- is a giant garbage dump. People live here -- shacks line the dump, their tarp roofs held down with large stones. Children play in hosewater that turns the dirt under their feet into mud. The smell is awful, but not as bad as the sewage dump that greets you upon approaching Novi Sad, which ironically means New Garden. Belgrade itself is little better in some parts, with crumbling buildings or ones which look abandoned, yet have laundry strung across their soot-colored facades. The poverty is palpable for anyone used to Western Europe, but the people often seem happy and carefree (certainly this has not been and is not the case for many there, however). They are particularly nice to me, considering I come from a country that bombed the hell out of them four years prior. I guess they sympathize that people shouldn't necessarily be held accountable for the actions of their government. Serbian women are stunning. Though too made up and tightly clothed for me (much of Eastern Europe was this way), they seem flawless. One young man tells me there are a few girls for each guy, as so many of the men died in wars, so they all have to be beautiful to compete. Serbia seemed filled with such rumors. It's also a patriarchal country, it seems. I was the only woman meandering around the train into Belgrade, and when I walked into the smoke-filled bar car I got wide-eyed stares from the dozen or so men inside. I sat near a window until my braids filled with smoke, then returned to my little room.

All that being said, the main square in Belgrade is quite nice, with a large open area full of outdoor cafe seating (there must be half a dozen that all open out onto each other), a fountain complete with wading dogs, and high-spirited night life -- kids on skateboards convening around the central statue, chic looking women having dinner at 11 pm, shoppers browsing the glass-and-metal monstrosities that rose when the Iron Curtain fell. You can also get an espresso, an orange juice and toast for about two bucks. One advantage to a non-tourist flooded area like this is that the main square belongs to the locals, even at the height of the tourist season. However, finding food outside this square was nearly impossible for me for some reason (I heard it was because people can't afford to eat out, another rumor). Unless you want ice cream and liquor, I would suggest hunting for a pizza parlor at least 20 minutes before you want to find one to sit and eat. No one takes credit cards as well, not even banks -- there is only one in town that takes Mastercard. I have partial names of streets from passers by scrawled in Cyrillic on a napkin to guide me. Some streets have updated names from the post-Socialist era, some are in Cyrillic, some in Latin, some missing entirely. Of course, I planned for this money situation ahead of time and brought 95 euro, but being smart like that doesn't do much good if you are dumb after and forget about your little plan. By the time I storm into the bank, dripping with sweat (not an exaggeration), I have been walking up and down, mostly up, Belgrade's hills for four hours.

Hotels are also an adventure (cash only). I do not have one set up, so I meander around until I recognize a name from my Lonely Planet guide, which tipped me off to the lack of a tourist industry, and hence hostels, in Belgrade. This also means that there is no discount accommodation, as the hotels there are for businessmen -- who else comes? -- who have money for rooms... and hookers. I pay my staggering (for Belgrade standards) $37 for the night and get into the teeny elevator. With my backpack on, I barely fit inside. These are the elevators with no automatic doors, so when you get to your floor you have to remember to open the doors and get out. This took me three tries at least. I would get on, ride up, ride down again, and the doors would open again onto the lobby where three bewildered men were staring at me from behind the counter. Once in my room, I put down my bag on the cushioned chair. A plume of dust rises up and mingles with the shaft of sunlight coming in the window. The room is about 80 degrees. I open the window onto dilapidated buildings and the noisy street beneath. The carpet has not been vacuumed since Tito was alive and kicking, so I cover the path to the bathroom with towels. I also put one in the shower. My evening on the town is wonderful -- hanging out in the main square, shopping for discs at Mamot (I think that's the name), where the counter boys speak English, know gypsy music, and sell me amazing discs at six buck a pop. I am later told that I am one of the only people to buy legal discs in Serbia. People there are happy to meet me, but seem to wonder why I am there. I tell them I am going to Guca. This amuses them.

The villages, which I saw on the way to the festival three hours out of Belgrade, are beautiful -- lush and green, full of hay bales and cottages. The winding hills between Belgrade and Guca hold several small villages in their valleys. From the roads that cling to the sides of the mountains, it is difficult to see poverty and conflict.

THE GUCA FESTIVAL
This is an article I was working on, so it is long and includes background info on the festival, but I am adding my own experiences and may keep it published only here so that I can do what I want with it. It is still being organized and added to, but...

A documentary on the festival is coming soon here, and you can find the homepage for the festival here.

The August sun that threatens to melt the cracked paint of the carnival rides is finally sinking beyond the mountains. Locals in wood shacks hocking everything from homemade tablecloths to Reagan-era watches refill their tables. I'm trapped in a swarm of sweat and beer-soaked bodies that clogs the only artery back to the center of the tiny town. It reminds me of high school biology films, where 100,000 blood cells wedge themselves into a tunnel the width of dental floss. It could be any overgrown stateside festival or swap meet. Then a canon fires and I'm broadsided by a granny in a headscarf and comfortable shoes toting a semi-automatic rifle the length of her leg.

So this is Guca, the annual four-day "Serbian Woodstock" that overflows the village which gave the festival its name. It turns the normally sleepy town into a circus of Romani (gypsy) dancers, marching bands in elf shoes and more beer taps than all of Germany. Past and present collide as brass bands in folk costumes share the streets with Metallica fans and television crews. The hills of Guca, with their cottages and haystacks, rise above the modern (for Serbia ) apartments that line the main street. And at the town's entrance, a giant trumpet. This run of debauchery was the reason I came to Eastern Europe to backpack in the first place.

The fact that myself and 300,000 other revelers would flock to the far edge of nowhere (three hours out of Belgrade ) to see a bunch of pot-bellied trumpeters may bewilder many Americans. But these bands are to John Phillip Sousa what spiced wine is to grape juice. Thought to have originated from Turkish army bands, the music is a mix of Turkish, Romani and Balkan rhythms and melodies. It fuses the majestic blast of military brass and the hypnotic pulse of long gone Romani nights.

The musicians first convened in Guca in 1961, during the height of Communist oppression. Despite years of controlled repertoires and government suppression of "impure" (ethnically influenced) music, the festival flourished and so did its stars - most, but not all, of whom are of Romani origin. The Boban Markovic and Slobodan Salijevic Orkestars are among the more popular bands in Europe . Both are featured in Emir Kusturica's 1995 Palm d'Or winner Underground, the film that introduced the genre to an international audience. My first day in Prague (and Europe ), I lumbered up the hostel stairs to hear it blasting from a dime store ghetto blaster. Most orchestras consist of nine to twelve musicians playing a grab bag of trumpets, flugelhorns, baritones, a tuba and a tupan (two-sided) drum. On record they may add clarinet or accordion, but at Guca it's all about the brass.

In other festivals accountants don traditional embroidered costumes smelling of moth balls. They parade and sing stylized folk songs to delight tourists eager to absorb some "authentic culture." But Guca is not a tourist show. These are working bands competing for prestige, top dinar (or dollar) at the coming year's weddings and, ultimately, the Golden Trumpet (Zlatne Trube). Nearly all of them sleep on cots in the town's elementary school, as there is only one small hotel (you won't be staying there either, so leave your hair dryer and four-star fantasies at home).

Non-locals camp out, often on the lawn of a generous owner, or stay with a Serbian family, which is what I did. Signing up over the internet with a group of guys who offer a ride to the festival and a crapshoot of lodging options for about $120, I end up in a fabulous home. My roommate is a Spaniard who sleeps like Linus from peanuts, and my other housemates are Christina, a German taxi cab driver, and Alicia, an Oregonian who quit her job at a music store in order to come to the festival.

Our hosts are an older couple who greet us the first night with homemade blueberries and pancake type cookies. The Spaniard gets a shot of slivovice. The next night, there is slivovice for all of us. In the mornings there is gibenica, a layered cheese pie, and more blueberries and pancake cookies. Serbs are surprisingly thin. Our hosts have a trickle of running cold water for a shower, which is more than others have - such as Lisa, who rode in the car on the way up with Alicia and me and was staying nearby. We spend the first two nights on the town together.

During the day there are processions of musicians and town folk in traditional garb... and the faint smell of moth balls. Most hail from South Serbian villages, but some bands come from countries as distant as Sweden and the United States, such as Zlatne Uste from New York. I came into the garden one morning to find them drinking wine with our hosts. The more intrepid visitors catch the pageantry or peruse the tables of exotic knick-knacks. Some enjoy beer and a pork-stuffed pita under canopy-like umbrellas - the only refuge from the 100-degree temperatures. Most festival goers, however, are sleeping off the previous night's blissful mayhem.

Strolling down the streets the first morning, microphones in tow, I am bombarded by overlapping waves of sound - gypsy brass favorites blare from beer stands and open car doors, a nine-piece marching band turns the corner and nearly collides with a white-haired accordionist. The scent and smoke of roasting pigs, skewered snout to tail on rotating spits, slowly spreads through the town. It competes with the aroma of barbecued corn cobs, some strung like garlands over the food stands. There are plenty of brass bands wandering the streets and outdoor tables. Some of them play for tips at lunch; others you want to tip to get them to stop. But the real battle of the brass gears up as the sun goes down.

Alicia, Lisa and I hit the tents at about 8 to find beer-swilling revelers packed a dozen strong into long tables. Orchestras in matching jerseys meander through the tents. A generous host waves a fistful of dinars, and our table soon swarms with trumpets, drums and barefoot Romani dancers, strings of coins shimmering on their swiveling hips. Within seconds, Lisa is shaking it for tips, and elsewhere, girls wiggle with the Romani women on the tabletops. Men stuff dinars and euros into the skirts of the dancers. If you're good, your tips can buy your food and beers for much of the festival. Sorry guys, unless you're playing a trumpet, no tips for you.

Bands squeeze through the throng, competing with each other in volume and virtuosity. I turn around, snap my fingers and shake a hip and a passing band surrounds me, playing faster and closer. I curl my spine in a backbend until I'm face-to-horn with an upside-down trumpeter, a 1000-dinar bill plastered to his sweaty forehead (Don't get too excited. That's only about 16 bucks). Lisa and I later join the throng of bare-chested frat types who mount the larger-than-life bronze trumpeter that stands at the town's main crossroads. The statue, atop a concrete pedestal, is the symbol of the town and festival and ground zero for the young and rowdy. Slivovice flows freely from bottles stashed in pant pockets.

Our evening winds down a few hours before sunrise, and the streets empty, revealing debris that suggest a zeppelin-sized piñata has burst. A few who have succumbed to slivovice or exhaustion are sprawled on the concrete. The following morning I am awakened by the echoes of trumpets banking off the hillsides. Sanity has returned to the sidewalks: merchants are hocking, beer is flowing, the heat is blistering. Villagers rub red eyes and shuffle outside into gardens or onto porches. In the distance are lush rolling hills, trees and cottages. The heat makes movement difficult and hygiene pointless, so after some blueberries and waffle-like biscuits, I begin the slow descent down dirt paths that become gravel, then concrete that winds its way to the main streets. Umbrella shade is prime real estate, but it is early enough for me to snag a table.

I would be in town still if Alicia had not led me back home the night before. Recalling this, I write down directions as I meander into town. As there are often no street signs, my notes, scrawled on the back of a festival schedule flyer, consist of "curve left at the wheelbarrow" or "right after the third haystack." Behind rickety wood and wire fences, pigs eye me with suspicion, wondering if I will be eating their cousin come sundown. Other yards house vegetables, greenhouses and the hollow shells of rusty Yugos.

Somewhere among the CD shacks and flea market nonsense I find the elf-shoe man, a 70-something legend dressed in old-world threads. He is the unofficial huckster of the canoe-shaped shoes with toes that curl up like a prow. His stash ranges in size from keychain trinkets like the one I get to, well, canoes. They seem a bit absurd, but when you're walking down the avenue at 7 am sporting knickers and a flugelhorn, they seem to fit just fine. The CD stands have several compilations for six dollars a piece, and buy them all I do, but those looking for the wilder, more modern gypsy style should ask before buying. The older Guca style is more akin to traditional marching or even polka bands.

Friday, the eleven members of the Boban Markovic Orkestar, uniquely elegant in black and white outfits, wedge themselves onstage for an unforgettable performance. This is part of the official pomp of the festival -- a competition that runs all weekend on various stages. I caught about 20 minutes of the stage performances the first night before heading out to the unofficial stuff (my recommendation to you as well). But Markovic is the best of the best. Lisa and I climb lampposts, planters and each others' shoulders for a better view, though the band is only 80 feet away. I also am passed around several shoulders and sold for a trumpet to a balloon man (my recommendation to you as well).

Toward the end of the show, I see a figure out of the corner of my eye going up and down the aisle that divides the folding chairs in two sections. This hottie turns out to be a Serb living in Slovenia whose name, Ljubisha, means love. Completely unselfconscious and quite good at the walk-and-swivel thing, he becomes the center of attention, and I definitively decide we must hang. Noting that Lisa and I are the only other two booty shakers in the too sedate crowd (it's the "stage" atmosphere that does it), he shimmies his way over to us after a few songs and writes his e-mail address on my arm.

Alicia and I go into town the following morning and don't we see Ljubisha and his pal Dragan (a cousin?) lounging in a kiddie pool drinking beer in the front yard. Ljubisha is related to our neighbors and is staying with them for the festival. They invite us into the garden for a homemade vegetarian lunch of cornbread and honey, cheeses, wild strawberry preserves, etc. The sizeable group eat roasted pig themselves, as we weren't into it, and their stories make us want to live the village life. After inviting me to spend a few weeks on the beach in Buglaria with them (I went to Vienna instead) and showing us a variety of local dances done with bare feet and flutes, they follow us into town for the costumed pageantry of the international bands.

Ljubisha and I meet up that night at the main stage where the young trumpeters play. This is Saturday, weekenders have arrived and the festival has ballooned into a standing-room-only Lollapalooza. Enter the carnival rides and gun-toting granny, which made the aforementioned mooing mob that afternoon much more tolerable for Alicia and myself. After spending an hour searching for each other in a similar situation, Ljubisha and I exchange kolo (circle) dances with several of his friends.

I had learned a few such dances the previous night, having stayed late at our favorite local bar there. I appeared to be the only non-Serb, and when a 100-foot chain of hand-in-hand dancers began twisting its way among the tables, out the doors and back again, I joined right in. Saturday at midnight, our group slowly migrates with the herds to the stadium for a televised extravaganza - more than two hours of brass. The crowd rivals the audience of a Radiohead concert in size. Fireworks follow. Alicia and I plan to patent our "spontaneous potty" idea - finding two adjacent unlocked cars in a dark part of the field, opening their inner doors to form a cubicle, and making with the squat.

By the time the main competition rolls around on Sunday afternoon, we are so battered by the heat and lack of sleep that we give it a half-hour hunt (the stadium was hard to find) and give up. Thousands manage to make it, despite the temperatures and a steady three-day diet of beer and enough pig meat to fill a tuba. We head back that evening, playing Emir Kusturica's early band No Smoking Orchestra. Lisa and I end up in a hotel that, like the one I stayed in my first day in Belgrade, is full of hookers. They howl like wolves and scream to rival the woman in Psycho. We take turns showering in the other room and could hear each other laughing out loud through the thin walls. This hotel is somewhat nicer than my first one - I do not call for extra towels and line the way to the bathroom, and no dust billows up when I smack the desk chair. I turn on the television and the Sunday competition is on. The volume buttons - well, all of the buttons - are missing, so I can't turn it up. Lisa, more intrepid, reaches into the set to find the Volume Up button. I wake up early the next morning for a train to Vienna, my only Western European destination and quite a refreshing change from Serbia. However, within a few hours, I miss the fire of the Balkans. In the main square, Stephansplatz, I meet a Bulgarian dressed as Mozart, a Croatian I spend the week with, and all of his Serbian friends. I spent my sixth and last night in Vienna at a one-year-old Serb's birthday party, where they christened me the Guca Girl. Indeed.

Return to the Izvor Index
Return to the Eastern Europe Tales page