Serb Your Enthusiasm

If there is one country that influences, or at least attempts to influence, the Western Balkans more than any other it is Serbia. The beating heart of former Yugoslavia, it comprises many of the biggest cities of the erstwhile country as well as the largest ethnic population, not that that has caused any problems ever. These days, she only seems to appear in the British media when the almost inevitable, annual tensions erupt on her southern border with Kosovo – more on that later – or when Novak Djokovic refuses a vaccine. She also maintains a rather interesting relationship with Russia. Not going as far as to support them in the Ukraine war, their shared Slavic, Eastern Orthodox, and communist connections ensure a strong mutual cultural affinity, at least that’s what it says on the government’s website.

Given all of that, we were intrigued to see what kind of country would greet us as we made our way across the Serb-Croat border near the small town of Batrovci in the northwest of the nation. Leaving the EU for the first time on the trip also posed a number of new challenges in terms of SIM cards, insurance, and rules on bringing Croatian cheese from the smallest town in the world across the border; all fairly tedious issues but it did increase our sense of intrepidness upon queuing to enter the country. Following a swift and eventless search by the ever-glum border guards we headed in the direction of Novi Sad: European Capital of Culture 2022 and Serbia’s second city. Given that we were driving along heavily forested back roads on a bleak, murky afternoon in early December, our first impressions were not terrific.

Following a major struggle to locate anywhere suitable to rest for the eve, we happened upon an almost-deserted campsite about twenty-five kilometres north of the city limits. Almost deserted but for a spritely pup, who soon sullied my beige outwear by jumping up for a tickle, and an almost equally spritely owner who, rather thankfully, didn’t fancy a tickle. Within seconds, shots of locally made reddish liqueur and two cold Serbian beers were placed in front of us, and a warm welcome bestowed; all very much required after our mammoth leg from Zagreb.

Up with the cock the following morn, which sounded about an inch away from my face and started crowing uncontrollably at four in the morning, we embarked on our tour of Novi Sad. As we reached the rather intimidating, industrial-looking city centre we soon found out that parking a large, but buxomly beautiful, van anywhere near it was more difficult than finding an empathetic Tory and after a whole hour of profanities, ten-point turns, and getting trapped in the university car park by a guarding German Shepherd, we conceded defeat. In all honesty, the Brutalist architecture and continuing wretched weather did nothing to increase our waning motivation to investigate the city and, without a great deal of debate between us, soon turned our attention toward the newly built A1 super-highway, making our swift escape southwards.

The four-laned beauty runs right through the middle of the country, from top to bottom, connecting Hungary in the north to North Macedonia in the south. It also links Serbia’s largest two cities, the largest of which we were cruising toward: Belgrade. Well, by Belgrade I mean a small town called Dobanovci which was, again, about twenty-five kilometres outside of the capital, and this time we had no choice but to park in a young family’s exceedingly slanted and muddy front lawn.

What can be said about Dobanovci that hasn’t already been said? Not much at all really. We had planned to be there for a week while teaching and apart from a pint-sized Orthodox church, a couple of smoke-filled bookies, and countless intimidating street dogs there wasn’t much of note to see or do. After five days losing on water polo accumulators with Lazar and Luka, Lowri and I decided to push the boat out and book ourselves into a two-star hotel closer to the city. It was a wise choice. What it lacked in stars it more than made up for in stallion statues and in the dimensions of their jacuzzis which, after months of showering in a space no larger than a modest coffin, was unadulterated bliss. On to Belgrade.

J