When I first flew to Belgrade in 2002 it was quite an experience. I had the feeling that there were no other foreigners on the plane - judged by the appearance of the people, and the fact that I heard no English or German spoken. It was quite a surprise, then, to see the queue for "foreign nationals" at passport control in Belgrade nearly as full as that for the locals. The official rather mercilessly (like all officials, in all countries) asked me in rapid-fire Serbian what I was doing there, and when I said I didn't speak any Serbian (I hadn't even bought my first language book yet), she rolled her eyes and had to get somebody else who spoke English to ask me the normal immigration questions about whether I was a terrorist, a smuggler, infectious or whatever. [As an aside, today things are very different, and one even regularly hears English on the streets of Novi Sad in February].
I asked G. about this afterwards, and she told me that most of the "foreigners" where just people who had dual nationalities who had probably temporarily without a Serbian passport, or children of far-flung diaspora from Canada, the US, Australia, Germany, etc. Now that I sort of speak the language, I'm often reminded of the diaspora when I simply say something. Unless they presume I'm Hungarian or Romanian (in Novi Sad this is pretty common), people normally ask where I'm from and when I say "Canada", they then almost always say, "ali roditelji?" ("but your parents?"), whereupon I'm supposed to say that they are from Zrenjenin or Niš or Bjelovar or something. When I deny any true genetic links, people are always rather sweetly surprised. In fact, I once had a waiter in Novi Sad disbelieve me, perhaps thinking I was pretending to be something I was not.
For me, its deeply encouraging. For all of us who are sometimes frustrated with learning these moon-man, mega-complex Eastern European languages, it is good not to get the reaction that one gets (say) in Paris when speaking bad Canadian french to snobby French waiters who would rather speak appalling English than suffer your accent.
Having said that, people could be just a tad better at speaking to foreigners: as for all languages where few foreigners attempt them, people in Serbia or Croatia are a bit merciless when you show signs of speaking it - 1000km/h with all the complexities put in. Polako, polako. Gs mother is extremely good to me, speaking slowly and even having the patience to tell her mother to show a bit more understanding. Gs grandmother has little patience for me, thinking that people who don't speak properly are some kind of alien species, but on the telephone she now speaks to me like a tape-player and quarter speed: "Oooonnaaaa jeeeeeee uuuuuuuuu graduuuuuuuuuu. Daaaaaa liiiii razuuuuumiš?" (Shheeeeeeee's innnnnn theeeeeee towwwwwnnn. Doooooo yoooooouuuuu unnnnnderrrrrrstaaaaaand?"). Then she says, as ever, "Robert, trebaš da uceš" (you need to study) and continues at 1000km/h about some further details of which I understand about 50%, but growing steadily.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
On refugees and house restoration in Croatia
Refugees are still very much part of the scenery in the former Yugoslavia. As I've mentioned before, many of those with the most energy today are those who have lost everything in the past, and who now want more than anything to live life to the full: Croatian Serbs, Serbian Croats, Bosnian everythings, etc.
Many of my first encounters with refugees were during our searches for a suitable property to buy in Istria or Kvarner (i.e. the North Croatian coastal area). For example, we looked at one run down property in a place called Kunj in Istria, that was in a tiny terrace of four houses. Some friendly people came out and introduced themselves, and it turned out that they were from near Novi Sad. Serbian Croat refugees obviously. They said they missed Vojvodina, but had to flee, as did so many others during the various exoduses of the early 1990s. In the then common house-swap process, they ended up with a tiny ruin of a house in the middle of nowhere in a region that they didn't know at all, having lived for generations in northern Serbia. Anyway, they were very friendly and gave us pointers about how much it cost to put in a bathroom, and how we shouldn't trust Nekretine (Estate Agents - as if we needed to be told - I always thought the kretin part of the word was fitting).
We met several other displaced people during our search for a house, and I suspect that some of the circa 1989 renovated empty properties were probably once vikendici (i.e. little weekend houses) of owners who were no longer nationals of the country in which we were searching. But the parade of refugees didn't stop after our eventual purchase. We are pretty sure that the person who was actually living in the condemnable wreck of a house that we eventually purchased was a refugee. And strangely, or perhaps fittingly, as we started to do things on the house, we encountered ever more of them. For example, one summer Sunday two years ago, Gs father telephoned some guy who called some other guy with a truck to remove the gigantic heap of rubbish we extracted from the property after first aquiring it. The talkative Croatian landlord who was hosting us in an apartman asked quizzically, upon hearing this: Tko rade njedelje?!? (Who works on Sunday?!?) And everybody laughed when they heard: neki Bosanac. Of course it was some Bosnian Croat, keen as ever, so some stereotype apparently dictates, to work any day of the week to make money.
Before
The trio of builders we eventually hired to renovate and build was like some kind of homage to the former Yugoslavia: all originally from Bosnia, but one Croat, one Serb, one Muslim, all living happily in the stable that they lovingly converted into temporary and seemingly comfortable lodgings. Our attempts to rent them more suitable accommodation failed when one of our neighbors in the village who hosts the only rentable apartmani refused to rent to a bunch of dirty builders. And did I mention that the neighbor, herself, is a member of the most perplexing variety of refugees I've ever encountered? She is a Croatian Orthodox. Gs father has no patience for this, insisting that she is a Serb, but somehow she feels ethnically Croat and spiritually closer to Constaninople than Rome.
During
Perhaps the greatest house-building related refugee story comes from the people who are actually the greatest help to us of all: R & S from Slatina, in Eastern Croatia. They are second or third generation Serbian Croats, and great friends of Gs parents. At the moment, for legal reasons, they actually own a small piece of what is technically farming property behind our house as foreigners cannot easily buy agricultural land in Croatia. In other words, we bought a piece of land for them. When I was, at first, anxious about this - "I mean, who the %^&* are these people?" I said in some obnoxious North American tone - G told me the story of how they came to be so utterly enthusiastic about helping us, and why we should utterly trust them.
Up until 1991, this couple lived with their family in Novi Sad, and ran a successful rubber business. I'm not sure how they came to be such good friends with Gs father, but I suspect that business connections kept them close. They are great people: I like them a lot. She is a tough machine who seems capable of organising anything, and he is the strong and silent type, and they are both warm and affectionate people. Anyway, they and Gs parents get along like a house on fire. Perhaps house on fire is the right metaphor here, as around the time of the massacres in Vukovar and elsewhere, ethnic hatred rose to the boiling point even in the normally peaceful city of Novi Sad. Other Croats (in other parts of the country) had had their houses burned to the ground, and they perhaps sensibly decided that they had little choice but to flee to Croatia. In a turn of events that I don't know precisely - but which was repeated thousands of times on both sides of the war - they lost their business and were left with nothing but an apparently unfair house trade with some Croatian Serb refugees in Slatina. Gs father gave them 8000 DM - which was then a considerable sum in Yugoslavia - and told them to go and start a new life. The story ends happily as they now live in Croatia with another successful business and grown up children now successful in their own right, probably profiting from that refugee initiative that I've so often commented on in the past.
Anyway, Gs father, being the last of a breed of Yugoslav gentleman, naturally refused to take the money back when they offered a repayment. R & S decided that instead they could offer their considerable experience - at no cost - to help us build our house; if not to repay a debt of all debts, then to help out some dear friends. This is the kind of friendship loyalty that I've never experienced, and I think it goes without saying that I'll trust them - and for that matter their children and grandchildren - unconditionally.
Many of my first encounters with refugees were during our searches for a suitable property to buy in Istria or Kvarner (i.e. the North Croatian coastal area). For example, we looked at one run down property in a place called Kunj in Istria, that was in a tiny terrace of four houses. Some friendly people came out and introduced themselves, and it turned out that they were from near Novi Sad. Serbian Croat refugees obviously. They said they missed Vojvodina, but had to flee, as did so many others during the various exoduses of the early 1990s. In the then common house-swap process, they ended up with a tiny ruin of a house in the middle of nowhere in a region that they didn't know at all, having lived for generations in northern Serbia. Anyway, they were very friendly and gave us pointers about how much it cost to put in a bathroom, and how we shouldn't trust Nekretine (Estate Agents - as if we needed to be told - I always thought the kretin part of the word was fitting).
We met several other displaced people during our search for a house, and I suspect that some of the circa 1989 renovated empty properties were probably once vikendici (i.e. little weekend houses) of owners who were no longer nationals of the country in which we were searching. But the parade of refugees didn't stop after our eventual purchase. We are pretty sure that the person who was actually living in the condemnable wreck of a house that we eventually purchased was a refugee. And strangely, or perhaps fittingly, as we started to do things on the house, we encountered ever more of them. For example, one summer Sunday two years ago, Gs father telephoned some guy who called some other guy with a truck to remove the gigantic heap of rubbish we extracted from the property after first aquiring it. The talkative Croatian landlord who was hosting us in an apartman asked quizzically, upon hearing this: Tko rade njedelje?!? (Who works on Sunday?!?) And everybody laughed when they heard: neki Bosanac. Of course it was some Bosnian Croat, keen as ever, so some stereotype apparently dictates, to work any day of the week to make money.
Before
The trio of builders we eventually hired to renovate and build was like some kind of homage to the former Yugoslavia: all originally from Bosnia, but one Croat, one Serb, one Muslim, all living happily in the stable that they lovingly converted into temporary and seemingly comfortable lodgings. Our attempts to rent them more suitable accommodation failed when one of our neighbors in the village who hosts the only rentable apartmani refused to rent to a bunch of dirty builders. And did I mention that the neighbor, herself, is a member of the most perplexing variety of refugees I've ever encountered? She is a Croatian Orthodox. Gs father has no patience for this, insisting that she is a Serb, but somehow she feels ethnically Croat and spiritually closer to Constaninople than Rome.
During
Perhaps the greatest house-building related refugee story comes from the people who are actually the greatest help to us of all: R & S from Slatina, in Eastern Croatia. They are second or third generation Serbian Croats, and great friends of Gs parents. At the moment, for legal reasons, they actually own a small piece of what is technically farming property behind our house as foreigners cannot easily buy agricultural land in Croatia. In other words, we bought a piece of land for them. When I was, at first, anxious about this - "I mean, who the %^&* are these people?" I said in some obnoxious North American tone - G told me the story of how they came to be so utterly enthusiastic about helping us, and why we should utterly trust them.
Up until 1991, this couple lived with their family in Novi Sad, and ran a successful rubber business. I'm not sure how they came to be such good friends with Gs father, but I suspect that business connections kept them close. They are great people: I like them a lot. She is a tough machine who seems capable of organising anything, and he is the strong and silent type, and they are both warm and affectionate people. Anyway, they and Gs parents get along like a house on fire. Perhaps house on fire is the right metaphor here, as around the time of the massacres in Vukovar and elsewhere, ethnic hatred rose to the boiling point even in the normally peaceful city of Novi Sad. Other Croats (in other parts of the country) had had their houses burned to the ground, and they perhaps sensibly decided that they had little choice but to flee to Croatia. In a turn of events that I don't know precisely - but which was repeated thousands of times on both sides of the war - they lost their business and were left with nothing but an apparently unfair house trade with some Croatian Serb refugees in Slatina. Gs father gave them 8000 DM - which was then a considerable sum in Yugoslavia - and told them to go and start a new life. The story ends happily as they now live in Croatia with another successful business and grown up children now successful in their own right, probably profiting from that refugee initiative that I've so often commented on in the past.
Anyway, Gs father, being the last of a breed of Yugoslav gentleman, naturally refused to take the money back when they offered a repayment. R & S decided that instead they could offer their considerable experience - at no cost - to help us build our house; if not to repay a debt of all debts, then to help out some dear friends. This is the kind of friendship loyalty that I've never experienced, and I think it goes without saying that I'll trust them - and for that matter their children and grandchildren - unconditionally.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
An Eerie Sense of Homecoming
Those who look at this blog could be forgiven for wrongly thinking that I dislike the former Yugoslavia, or tolerate it out of necessity owing to my relationship. This tale, however, should convince people otherwise.
In early 1993 I was just flying back to the UK after a visit to Canada. It was one of those strange times in a young mans life (I was 24): love life just recently in tatters, no job prospects in the then depressed economy, an unfinished PhD and only six months left to deal with it. I didn't feel I had a lot to smile about. As I woke from my typical 20 minutes of sleep on the night crossing, I noticed the sun shining out in from the blinds and opened mine to see the countryside over England and experienced a strange feeling of thank goodness I'm home at last. I remember remarking to myself how strange this was at the time: I mean I'd just lived in this country a three years, and wasn't Canada still my home? Anyway, seven years later I left the UK somewhat reluctantly for Germany, and still consider it to be home. Formative years, you might say, define the man, perhaps in some ways more so than where one actually grows up.
Last week, we were in Opatija for a) a break, and b) a survey of the ever improving house on Krk. We lucked out, I must say, with the weather: it was mostly glorious, and being March, refreshingly empty, which proved ideal and just what we needed: quiet walks by the sea, some sunshine, and I even ate Lignje na zaru and enjoyed it for the first time in ages (I had, as readers of this blog might remember, an overdose on this some time ago).
Anyway, in thie middle of this break, I had to drive from Opatija to Genoa for a conference. It was a nuisance driving 700km there and back on two successive days, but easier, I reckoned, than any train or plane combination odyssey. The conference was in a lovely venue in the centre of the old city, we had fabulous food, the people were very nice, I had a great walk around the old port, the drive back was long but mostly painless, and when I got into Slovenia I felt for only the second time in my life: thank goodness I'm home at last.
What on earth? I mean Slovenia isn't even a place where I've spent much time. Two nights in Ljubliana on separate occasions and perhaps two meals in and around Bled. Upon self-inspection I realised that it was a kind of better the devil you know feeling than anything else. I mean I like Italy, but it drives me bonkers. The drive was mostly painless, but perhaps 10% of the time I had the crazy gesticulating Italian 50cm from my bumper at speed. I stayed in a lovely hotel room, had a fantastic view and the internet and phone didn't bloody work (as ever). The language frustrates me (I speak some Spanish and French, but as these are seemingly both muddled with Serbian now, Italian is like some kind of strange puzzle in my befuddled brain), and I don't really understand how Italians think. That's not to say that I couldn't one day figure the country and the people out, but certainly at the moment, it isn't home. At least in the former Yugoslavia I understand the crazy drivers (e.g.: Rule 17: in Istria/Kvarner, if you see "RI" on the license plate, it is best to get out of the way. Rule 18: do not drive in Belgrade, etc.). When stuff doesn't work, at least it is consistent (usually a bad view goes together with not working, and if you pay for stuff it work, unlike at least my most recent Italian episode). The people might not be my people, but I'm beginning to understand the way they think, and for the most part, I like them, warts and all. And I suppose even if they laugh/gawk at my Serbocroation or my wimpy foreign manners, they do, for the most part, accept me.
The nail in the coffin, if that is the appropriate metaphor here, is that I have never, not in nearly nine years of living and working in Germany, felt the same thing upon landing in Frankfurt or crossing the border by car. The devil I know better is definitely that of the south Slavic variety.
In early 1993 I was just flying back to the UK after a visit to Canada. It was one of those strange times in a young mans life (I was 24): love life just recently in tatters, no job prospects in the then depressed economy, an unfinished PhD and only six months left to deal with it. I didn't feel I had a lot to smile about. As I woke from my typical 20 minutes of sleep on the night crossing, I noticed the sun shining out in from the blinds and opened mine to see the countryside over England and experienced a strange feeling of thank goodness I'm home at last. I remember remarking to myself how strange this was at the time: I mean I'd just lived in this country a three years, and wasn't Canada still my home? Anyway, seven years later I left the UK somewhat reluctantly for Germany, and still consider it to be home. Formative years, you might say, define the man, perhaps in some ways more so than where one actually grows up.
Last week, we were in Opatija for a) a break, and b) a survey of the ever improving house on Krk. We lucked out, I must say, with the weather: it was mostly glorious, and being March, refreshingly empty, which proved ideal and just what we needed: quiet walks by the sea, some sunshine, and I even ate Lignje na zaru and enjoyed it for the first time in ages (I had, as readers of this blog might remember, an overdose on this some time ago).
Anyway, in thie middle of this break, I had to drive from Opatija to Genoa for a conference. It was a nuisance driving 700km there and back on two successive days, but easier, I reckoned, than any train or plane combination odyssey. The conference was in a lovely venue in the centre of the old city, we had fabulous food, the people were very nice, I had a great walk around the old port, the drive back was long but mostly painless, and when I got into Slovenia I felt for only the second time in my life: thank goodness I'm home at last.
What on earth? I mean Slovenia isn't even a place where I've spent much time. Two nights in Ljubliana on separate occasions and perhaps two meals in and around Bled. Upon self-inspection I realised that it was a kind of better the devil you know feeling than anything else. I mean I like Italy, but it drives me bonkers. The drive was mostly painless, but perhaps 10% of the time I had the crazy gesticulating Italian 50cm from my bumper at speed. I stayed in a lovely hotel room, had a fantastic view and the internet and phone didn't bloody work (as ever). The language frustrates me (I speak some Spanish and French, but as these are seemingly both muddled with Serbian now, Italian is like some kind of strange puzzle in my befuddled brain), and I don't really understand how Italians think. That's not to say that I couldn't one day figure the country and the people out, but certainly at the moment, it isn't home. At least in the former Yugoslavia I understand the crazy drivers (e.g.: Rule 17: in Istria/Kvarner, if you see "RI" on the license plate, it is best to get out of the way. Rule 18: do not drive in Belgrade, etc.). When stuff doesn't work, at least it is consistent (usually a bad view goes together with not working, and if you pay for stuff it work, unlike at least my most recent Italian episode). The people might not be my people, but I'm beginning to understand the way they think, and for the most part, I like them, warts and all. And I suppose even if they laugh/gawk at my Serbocroation or my wimpy foreign manners, they do, for the most part, accept me.
The nail in the coffin, if that is the appropriate metaphor here, is that I have never, not in nearly nine years of living and working in Germany, felt the same thing upon landing in Frankfurt or crossing the border by car. The devil I know better is definitely that of the south Slavic variety.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Communist relics everywhere
If you want to go swimming in Novi Sad there is a quaint but daft ritual you have to go through. You might, being logically minded, think that going to the swimming pool, paying something and then swimming might be a sensible plan. But oh no, you silly outsider. Of course you can't just go to the swimming pool, you need to buy a ticket at another little office about 200 metres away first. This office has (or at least had) opening hours that differ from the pool itself. One person issues the tickets, the other takes the money. Make sure, you dimwit, that you specify precisely when you are going to swim. There is 10-13, or 13-15, and naturally tickets for one time period won't work for the other, though they cost the same. Oh, and don't be surprised if the ticket office isn't open when the pool is open. What, are you new here?
Ok, Ok, so I don't remember the exact details I'm quoting above, and I'm exaggerating, but not very much. Anyway, I do this in order to introduce one of the most interesting and persistent themes in the former Yugoslavia: namely signs of communist lunacy lingering on.
Another one of my favorites is in the Rijeka airport. There are of course signs of modernisation everywhere - modern rent-a-car firms and travel companies - but if you want to eat or drink something before you get on the plane, you get exposed to one of these strange relics. The cafe (at least as it was circa 2007) consists of a long counter in large tiled atrium with tables and chairs. Behind the counter are four or five staff, all women, all angry. They're angry because nobody seemingly understands that they (or at least three out of four of them) are not there to serve customers or answer questions. One is there to take orders only without knowledge of the menu, one prepares things, another cleans, and still another seems to be employed only angrily tell-off customers who get the system wrong. Foreigners from five countries stumble around bewildered trying to spend the last of their money and often failing to do so in frustration.
JAT airways is (or was) another reminder of the communist past. Until a few years ago it was not possible to buy tickets online or indeed through any travel agency. One had, naturally, to buy the ticket at he airport before the flight or travel in person to the airline's central office. This used to drive me bonkers as I always had the feeling that I would a) not get on the plane or b) have to pay more, which was at least for me was always the case. Prices varied pretty wildly and at least in Novi Sad, one got a better price by flattering the ego of the woman in charge of tickets. One had to buy her a little flower or at the very least say nice things about her to get her (pretty please) to give you a ticket on a flight that would eventually be revealed to be empty. G said that as late as 1999 she still had to travel from Cambridge to London just to speak to somebody about the possibility of buying a ticket to Belgrade. Like many of these other relics of the communist past, people just simply refuse to work by telephone - and amazingly had the power to do so. In all of these things there is just a sniff of the corruption inherent in the system. Always the system assumed that people would serve their comrades, and always people found some way to abuse it, if not exactly for money or favors, then just for personal satisfaction.
The pool, the cafe and the airline are charming reminders of a system that once strove for full employment rather than customer care, being very literally run entirely for the convenience of the staff. And of course this makes them rather unpleasant on the receiving end. But mind you, there are good relics as well. We once spent a very pleasant three days at a hotel on Brijuni, Tito's one-time summer residence off the coast of Istria. There one is/was exposed to the very best of old communism - the service then afforded to visiting dignitaries. The hotel is/was like a time-warp to mid-sixties chic: Bakelite ashtrays, gigantic (but then high-end) radio/television console, funny looking phone and furniture from some sixties science fiction film. In the restaurant is the kind of service that one almost never gets in the former Yugoslavia anymore. Professionally trained waiters, complete with uniforms out of an Agatha Christie adaptation and bleached white towel over one arm, and charming manners.
I think it would be a shame to lose these things entirely. Clearly the swimming pool, the restaurant, JAT and the thousands of things like them are already disintegrating. Some clever clogs at JAT obviously realised they might even turn a profit if they just stopped people from little power-trips that were sending customers to the competition - never mind sacking them (i.e. now you can buy JAT flights via Opodo). But I would like to see some of this preserved. It would break my heart to find out (as is probably already the case) that the old communist hotel was purchased by Sheraton and morphed into some vanilla flavored Starbuck's latte type of establishment. Far better to preserve this time warp to show people what it was really like: kitch and all. I mean afterall it is still a great and unique hotel.
Perhaps too there might be some mechanism to preserve the screwy traditions of over-staffed, inefficient, customer-defocused cafe/restaurant. Maybe some ride in a theme park or an entire theme park (Tito's world?) would do the trick. Upon arrival you would stand in a queue for a long time before being tutted at, and told you were in the wrong one. You would then be forced to figure out a bewildering system of tickets and queues to get a coffee, and need to negotiate with some bored official smoking behind a desk to use the toilet.
Hmm. Maybe not, eh?
Ok, Ok, so I don't remember the exact details I'm quoting above, and I'm exaggerating, but not very much. Anyway, I do this in order to introduce one of the most interesting and persistent themes in the former Yugoslavia: namely signs of communist lunacy lingering on.
Another one of my favorites is in the Rijeka airport. There are of course signs of modernisation everywhere - modern rent-a-car firms and travel companies - but if you want to eat or drink something before you get on the plane, you get exposed to one of these strange relics. The cafe (at least as it was circa 2007) consists of a long counter in large tiled atrium with tables and chairs. Behind the counter are four or five staff, all women, all angry. They're angry because nobody seemingly understands that they (or at least three out of four of them) are not there to serve customers or answer questions. One is there to take orders only without knowledge of the menu, one prepares things, another cleans, and still another seems to be employed only angrily tell-off customers who get the system wrong. Foreigners from five countries stumble around bewildered trying to spend the last of their money and often failing to do so in frustration.
JAT airways is (or was) another reminder of the communist past. Until a few years ago it was not possible to buy tickets online or indeed through any travel agency. One had, naturally, to buy the ticket at he airport before the flight or travel in person to the airline's central office. This used to drive me bonkers as I always had the feeling that I would a) not get on the plane or b) have to pay more, which was at least for me was always the case. Prices varied pretty wildly and at least in Novi Sad, one got a better price by flattering the ego of the woman in charge of tickets. One had to buy her a little flower or at the very least say nice things about her to get her (pretty please) to give you a ticket on a flight that would eventually be revealed to be empty. G said that as late as 1999 she still had to travel from Cambridge to London just to speak to somebody about the possibility of buying a ticket to Belgrade. Like many of these other relics of the communist past, people just simply refuse to work by telephone - and amazingly had the power to do so. In all of these things there is just a sniff of the corruption inherent in the system. Always the system assumed that people would serve their comrades, and always people found some way to abuse it, if not exactly for money or favors, then just for personal satisfaction.
The pool, the cafe and the airline are charming reminders of a system that once strove for full employment rather than customer care, being very literally run entirely for the convenience of the staff. And of course this makes them rather unpleasant on the receiving end. But mind you, there are good relics as well. We once spent a very pleasant three days at a hotel on Brijuni, Tito's one-time summer residence off the coast of Istria. There one is/was exposed to the very best of old communism - the service then afforded to visiting dignitaries. The hotel is/was like a time-warp to mid-sixties chic: Bakelite ashtrays, gigantic (but then high-end) radio/television console, funny looking phone and furniture from some sixties science fiction film. In the restaurant is the kind of service that one almost never gets in the former Yugoslavia anymore. Professionally trained waiters, complete with uniforms out of an Agatha Christie adaptation and bleached white towel over one arm, and charming manners.
I think it would be a shame to lose these things entirely. Clearly the swimming pool, the restaurant, JAT and the thousands of things like them are already disintegrating. Some clever clogs at JAT obviously realised they might even turn a profit if they just stopped people from little power-trips that were sending customers to the competition - never mind sacking them (i.e. now you can buy JAT flights via Opodo). But I would like to see some of this preserved. It would break my heart to find out (as is probably already the case) that the old communist hotel was purchased by Sheraton and morphed into some vanilla flavored Starbuck's latte type of establishment. Far better to preserve this time warp to show people what it was really like: kitch and all. I mean afterall it is still a great and unique hotel.
Perhaps too there might be some mechanism to preserve the screwy traditions of over-staffed, inefficient, customer-defocused cafe/restaurant. Maybe some ride in a theme park or an entire theme park (Tito's world?) would do the trick. Upon arrival you would stand in a queue for a long time before being tutted at, and told you were in the wrong one. You would then be forced to figure out a bewildering system of tickets and queues to get a coffee, and need to negotiate with some bored official smoking behind a desk to use the toilet.
Hmm. Maybe not, eh?
Monday, March 2, 2009
On studying forever
One of my favorite subjects in Germany is just how long people seem to study without anybody else seeming to notice or care. One institute, which shall remain nameless, describes a ten semester (i.e. five year) programme on its web site, and then announces that the average time for students to finish is fifteen semesters (i.e. seven and a half years). And of course an average means a tail to the long end, since few students will finish in less than five years, so that means there must be a good number that take 8 or 9 years.
Precisely the same thing often happens in Serbia and probably Croatia and many other places in the region and around the world. I've been repeatedly astonished to hear that many of Gs friends are still studying for their first degree. This is something G herself finished in 1999 and something which is a dim and distant memory for me. At first I would ask if the person were very young, but now it is more or less established that many people just drift along for 8, 9, 10 even 11 years without anybody really commenting. Perhaps a dozen times we've tried to meet up with one or other of her old friends, only to be told (for example by parents) that they musn't be disturbed because they have an important exam and need to study. This at the age of (say) 32 when they've already been studying for 9 years, they live at home and almost invariably have a couple of older female relations cooking and cleaning for them.
What, I ask, is going on? I guess the truth is that when people have little to look forward to in the job market, they prefer to linger as a student rather than get on with their lives. Having all the home comforts around probably isn't the best thing either. I'd be willing to bet that students in (say) Novi Sad that come from (say) Srenjenin and thus pay more for lodging and experience all the usual pizza-boxes, rat-infestations and the like that student housing offers will finish quicker.
I think as well that the weaker the University in terms of international standing, the less inclined the faculty are to get people finished. I don't know if this is because the staff have something to prove (i.e. our course is too difficult to finish in the specified time), or if they want students to stay on as cheap labour when grants are non-existent or difficult to get, or for some other reason.
In the AngloSaxon Universities, at least as I remember mine from the eighties, a four year degree is nearly always done in four years. You can take longer (say five) if you can afford it but normally you would need to have a good reason (e.g. illness, family problems, etc.). The conventional wisdom is that if people can't handle it, they drop out and do something else.
Anyway, I don't have much to offer in terms of advice apart from obviously finish quicker. And perhaps be critical about advice from either your family (who probably wrongly think you can't handle the stress and why don't you take this exam next year) and academic staff who might have some hidden agenda to stop you from getting through too quickly.
Precisely the same thing often happens in Serbia and probably Croatia and many other places in the region and around the world. I've been repeatedly astonished to hear that many of Gs friends are still studying for their first degree. This is something G herself finished in 1999 and something which is a dim and distant memory for me. At first I would ask if the person were very young, but now it is more or less established that many people just drift along for 8, 9, 10 even 11 years without anybody really commenting. Perhaps a dozen times we've tried to meet up with one or other of her old friends, only to be told (for example by parents) that they musn't be disturbed because they have an important exam and need to study. This at the age of (say) 32 when they've already been studying for 9 years, they live at home and almost invariably have a couple of older female relations cooking and cleaning for them.
What, I ask, is going on? I guess the truth is that when people have little to look forward to in the job market, they prefer to linger as a student rather than get on with their lives. Having all the home comforts around probably isn't the best thing either. I'd be willing to bet that students in (say) Novi Sad that come from (say) Srenjenin and thus pay more for lodging and experience all the usual pizza-boxes, rat-infestations and the like that student housing offers will finish quicker.
I think as well that the weaker the University in terms of international standing, the less inclined the faculty are to get people finished. I don't know if this is because the staff have something to prove (i.e. our course is too difficult to finish in the specified time), or if they want students to stay on as cheap labour when grants are non-existent or difficult to get, or for some other reason.
In the AngloSaxon Universities, at least as I remember mine from the eighties, a four year degree is nearly always done in four years. You can take longer (say five) if you can afford it but normally you would need to have a good reason (e.g. illness, family problems, etc.). The conventional wisdom is that if people can't handle it, they drop out and do something else.
Anyway, I don't have much to offer in terms of advice apart from obviously finish quicker. And perhaps be critical about advice from either your family (who probably wrongly think you can't handle the stress and why don't you take this exam next year) and academic staff who might have some hidden agenda to stop you from getting through too quickly.
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