Presence. My trip to Serbia brought a bounty of being present. When you get close enough to anything, you can actually feel its texture. My arrival took me to cousins in my father’s village. The Sfera family: kind folks who plug away at daily rural small town farm living, make sure I’m fed and warm. There’s a life that comes with aches pains where if you’re unlucky, you show missing fingers to prove it. The last few generations there have more than dreamt a bigger and better life. When my small wood stove burns out mid evening in my room, the few opportunistic flies keep me up by landing on my warm skin. I suppose I wouldn’t have minded if they didn’t move around looking for food in my ears and nose. Thursday morning farmer’s market has gone on for years. Rain, shine, snow….storing up Costco style for the week bring out the old folks who’ve been doing it decades. The young mostly have taken flight. The rest are existing. The long short bus ride to the Mancu cousins in Vrsac got me to glance everywhere and take notice. Where when one driving focuses on the road ahead…you glance around, fixate onto the curious and register a memory. I see the gypsies walking the recent cultivated corn fields collecting by hand the fallen behind. Backs bent, mud caked on the shoes no doubt made the corn tastier. The harder the work, the more precious the earnings. Man over machine….and the poor man, gets to eat. Adrian has got game. We’ve chatted often about business and humanitarian projects for years, now one has come to fruition. This generation isn’t waiting to be lead to the chapters in their history books. Integrity and transparency will add to their success. The introductions quickly find us collaborating. The stray dogs of Vrsac are lovers. Somebody loved them well and they’re going to be fed for the winter…..permanent homes in the making, aquaponics systems going to be built…and seed money left behind to assure that the diaspora reaches across the ocean to be present….Florence Nightingale leading in spirit to heal a country. Plus, making at least one large meal to feed my tribe has become a tradition. I like it on the spicy side. There were walls, doors, homes, trees, and faces all over that I photographed. Forms, angles, design…that’s just the people. Then the other animations and still life. Colors came out. Woke up to sunrises, danced with the sunsets. Brilliant pastels in reachable shapes and color changes like somehow mother nature made us her Rubic’s Cube. No intent in aligning the puzzle for us to figure out. Its her game. Recognition of all the hands that have played a part in building and installing every cobblestone road, coppola, church wall, bridge support, door handle, awning, water well, park bench, tree lined sidewalk, coffee cup and beer bottle swirled in my head. There were memories I wanted to impression for as long as I could….the camera helped. A few faces and a quick moment eyes staring at the eyes of a lens. The men often stoic and chiseled looking quick to build up a city or break down in war….the women folk lovely. Many tall, lanky, fashionable and so easy for the eyes to take more than a quick glance. The coffee Turkish. The sediments still in my teeth. I do get to walk around town. I have my camera in hand and several bags of dog food to feed the few I find. I see old doors, fragmented and weathered paint, people reading the obituaries along the town pinup board, the leafs changing colors, the young couples holding hands reenforcing affections promised, the government workers firing up cigarettes indoors, kids kicking the piles of fallen leafs, dogs sleeping on the grass absorbing warmth of the sun, the old folk congregating on park benches even as they quietly count attendance, and the service folk light up when I walk in somewhere humming a tune. A smile is the handshake to the soul of those you’ve haven’t met yet. The music school in Vrsac has lots of kids. Jazz night was promising. Teens doing some old school rhythm and blues with a Cyrillic flair. I shared a guest guitar performance version of “Into the Mystic” by Van Morrison. It was their night not mine. The classical night days later showed off talents of all ages under 18. Chopin stood out. The youngins prepared well, even when their bows were quick and too the point. The Muncan family in Banatsko Novo Selo take you in a home of homes. Hot food on the table daily. A Slavic Rockwell painting throw back in time where you picked your dinner and then plucked it yourself. The dogs and cats wait by the door of the kitchen to collect the warm pulsating scraps. Their conscience is reserved for the familiar. They only eat whom they don’t know. I’ve downloaded lots of hymnal choral gospel music to float in the air, mostly in the kitchen. We all gather in the kitchen…almost every food form is there except sleep. Romanian and Serbian bounces back and forth. The mind has its own way of communicating. Throw in a lost prodigal son and new words come to the conversation. French press coffee comes immediately to mind. The corn field gets harvested, even at night. Driving a tractor is a first for me. Lots of firsts on this trip. Lots of machine parts moving. Explains where fingers here and there have been a part of its gears. Stuffed peppers and soup are a favorite of mine. Silvija Muncan feeds me momma’s home spun cooking. Scratch….all from scratch. The patriarch, Tima Muncan throws in his food for thought aligning with my sense of humor. Jeshua is at the center of many of our conversations. We were brothers in a past life apparently. He’s 70. Who cares, he’s youthful and very quick to find some humor in lots of our dialogue, even when the callused hands tell another story. The half dozen interviews on television and in print help spread the message of humanitarianism…both personal and governmental scales. Serbia needs that pulse of an in-house disaster relief and preparedness organization. It was my main reason for coming. Big words are thrown around. Yes, big words come with big shovels. How else are you going to get the larger foundations set in concrete? Having discussion with the ex pats of Serbia is favorable. Vlada D Slav in Smederevo is a sage on every continent. The bus ride to my birth town of Novi Sad was tedious. The weather chilly and the bus stations has its own Grand Central Station feel. There’s a bustle to get in and out…while the few have a last needed cigarette smoke before they endure the long ride. I have chocolate for the ride. Cousin Tatjana has that frenetic “let’s get things done” step in her walk. We’re getting it done. The interviews were successful and the word is out…..’doing accomplishes’. We run around to get my birth certificate so that I can get my dual passport. In the event the USA don’t love ‘no mo!” Didn’t get to visit with the many friends I was anxiously hoping to re-embrace. Distance even when you’re close leaves you with a bouquet in hand when it was designed for someone’s vase. My time in Serbia dotted Belgrade, Novi Sad, Smederevo, Pancevo, Banatsko Novo Selo, Lokve, Vrsac and many bus stops that connected us in between. You get lots of kisses in Serbia. On both cheeks and on the top of your head...no matter of age or gender as if old spirits are loving the child within. Pecks of affection....effect your day well. In all, there’s a well stoked fire kindling for something better, Their tomorrows have seeds more understood. Grass roots searching deeper to take hold. I’m peering in through that door. Not just present on the other side. Note: most photos were taken with my cell phone. Sorry if some are out of focus. Musical thoughts: Into the Mystic, Van Morrison https://youtube/watch?v=cpPSBzGEklE
Posted on: Thu, 11 Dec 2014 17:31:13 +0000
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