A Different Lifetime: Stepping Back in Time in the Former Yugoslavia (6 page)

“Weeeell, I have to go
home now,” he replied “but thank you.”

So I thanked him again for
his help and headed off towards the main street. Walking home that freezing
night through the falling snow, I understood Arkom’s keenness to go home. I too
was glad to get home to my apartment. But I had finally succeeded in going
beyond the boundary of Shangri-La (Novaginja).

Since the warm and sunny
days have returned again, I am enjoying my regular late morning walk by the
river. Following my usual routine, I leave the apartment at around ten, walk to
the school to prepare for the evening’s classes and then head for the river.
Usually, I walk along the lower esplanade, along the edge of the river. It is
great to sit in the warm sunshine watching the river and looking at the
colours. The trees have virtually lost all of their leaves now, but there are
still some colours of autumn to be seen. The River Tisa still resembles a dark
blue-green mirror; on these beautiful sunny days, there is no wind to cast a
single ripple on its surface. It is quiet and it is peaceful here, sitting on a
bench by the river. I feel that I am sinking into the pace enjoyed by the
Novaginjans: they are a retiring people; you hardly see them or really get to
know them: for them, life exists at a slow relaxing pace. I am wondering if I
can ever get used to the pace of life in the west again: to the fast moving
lifestyle of the city where the people are in a constant hurry, always racing
backwards and forwards along motorways, always rushing to work and then rushing
home again afterwards

Meanwhile, every Sunday I
am continuing to explore the perimeters of the community. Today, I have decided
to explore what I believe to be the east side of town; it is the direction that
I can see from my window. Rather than follow the main street, I have decided to
turn right out of the front door of the building and to follow my street in the
said direction. I have heard that there are factories in this direction and I
have heard rumours of a railway station. I discover, after walking some
distance that my street turns sharply to the right and dead-ends into the main
street near the edge of town. I have been here before, I am one block past the
larger supermarket, and I have walked here along the main street before. It is
here that the road splits: the right fork going toward the channel and the edge
of town, but I follow the left fork around the curve and pass the small church
that I can see way in the distance from my window. The church is succeeded by a
large cemetery, and I notice that many recent grave stones carry pictures of
the deceased: a very large proportion of whom were born as late as the 1960s
and 1970s, presumably the disastrous result of the fairly recent hostilities
within Yugoslavia.

Next there is some kind of
factory; I am guessing that it makes the red roof tiles that are so prominent
about the town, as there is a tall pile of some reddish clay looking material
stacked outside. As I continue to walk, a wide area of grass begins to separate
the path from the road, which eventually turns into a large triangle consisting
of a playground and a large area of wasteland. I decide to move over to follow
the road, and after passing the triangle, I realise that I am at the extent of
the town. Looking to my left, beyond the few houses that lie there, I see an
area of ploughed fields: an oasis in a vast expanse of rugged land that
resembles the terrain of my previous expedition around the wastelands of the
flood plain. Straight ahead the road seems to disappear into the horizon; and
it is accompanied by railway lines, which after following the edge of the
triangle curve sharply away from the point at which I am standing. Ahead to the
east lies Romania, or Transylvania to be exact, but still the terrain is flat
as far as I can see – no sign of Arkom’s hills yet.

I decide to follow the
tracks to the right, or south, following the course of the triangle and head in
search of the mysterious station. At first I follow a path that has been
trodden into the grass of the triangle as it follows the contour of the tracks,
but soon I have to climb up and follow the tracks themselves. At times I must
walk down the centre of the tracks and at times when there is room, I am able
to walk alongside them. I pass some deserted signal boxes and an old man on a
bicycle who says:

“Good morning,” literally
in English.

Just behind him a stray
looking dog is also busily making his way along the tracks. I look down at the
rails and see that they are in fact quite rusty, but decide there is some
evidence of use: there are some narrow streaks where wheels appear to have removed
the rust. Up ahead on the right, I see a fairly large crumbling building which
is situated alongside the tracks; I’m guessing that this is the station.
Directly opposite the building on the left side of the tracks stands a large
silo, which I immediately recognise as being the furthest most object that I am
able to see from my window.

I walk in through the
large open door in the centre of the station building and find myself in a
large, bleak, cold waiting room with wooden benches and walls painted in a cold
grey-green colour. There is a closed ticket window to the left and one single,
small timetable positioned in the centre of the room

“So there are trains that
stop here in Novaginja!” I thought, somewhat excitedly at the meagre
possibility of being able to explore beyond the confines of the town. I make an
attempt to decipher the timetable, but alas it is in the Cyrillic alphabet that
is used for all official functions here. A second door towards the far end of
the building appears to be the station offices, but the premises seem to be
unmanned at this time, and so I will have no opportunity to find out  any 
information about  the  local railway system.

So I make my way towards
the road, which I can see crossing the railway lines just ahead. Not having
brought my camera with me, I turned to take one last look at the station and
take some notes on its description:

A large sandy coloured
building, with crumbling mortar and the typical red tiled roof, a couple of
dusty grey seats positioned facing the tracks where once privileged travellers
waited for the arrival of trains and the waiting room: cold in its dirty
green-grey surroundings and grey benches.

I began to walk along the
road; this according to my sense of direction must be the way back towards the
town. I pass several factories; the one on my right adjacent to the station is
quite impressive: it looks new and doesn’t bear the familiar markings of
economic depression that have enveloped every other structure in the town.

“Perhaps this is one of
the new German enterprises I’ve heard about,” I thought to myself. Here, there
are neatly trimmed hedgerows and a paved forecourt with marked parking spaces;
the doors leading into this structure are glass, and are clean and shining.

I am again following the
boundary of the cemetery, but I’m now on the opposite side. The cemetery’s
dimensions are enormous. I cannot see as far as the road I followed on my way
here, but I can, however, see the small church in the distance that I passed
earlier: it must be a mile off. As I’m looking at the view, an old lady passes
by, smiles and says:

“Dobro jutro,” (Good
morning).

There are a few people
dotted around the landscape and flowers lying here and there. Most of the grave
stones on this side seem to be older, but there are some groups of more recent
stones that again bear the images of those born in the 60s and 70s. The
cemetery covers much of the distance between the station and the town, and then
after passing a handful of houses I find myself back at the ‘east’ end of the
main street at the position where the street re-joins the one I had taken on my
outbound journey.

I later try to gain some
information on the station and its few apparent trains from Arkom. 

“Yes, I know there are
trains I can see them from my window. Where do the trains go to” I asked, “do
they go to Novi Sad?”

“No, the bus goes to Novi
Sad,” I was told.

As for where the trains do
go, I am left still wondering. I had experienced the same result when asking
about the wasteland and its signs.

“I walked over to the edge
of town,” I had said, “and found an area of land between the town and the river
marked by large white signs. What do the signs say, are they a warning,” I asked.

“I don’t know where you
mean” and “I haven’t seen any signs,” was Arkom’s reply.

I suppose this is just
part of the secrecy that envelops the community, that remnant of communist
times that prohibits strangers from wandering into areas they are not supposed
to see. 

Well, some cool and
inclement weather has again prevented me from going out walking much over the
past week or so, but this Sunday afternoon the weather appears to be agreeable
for me to resume my exploration of the surrounding areas, and I have decided to
head towards the southern boundary of the community. This is the one direction
which I have still as yet not explored. So I head out towards the river and
follow the esplanade and the flood wall in search of the channel: the man-made
body of water that marks the border of Novaginja on its south side. I know from
previous walks that if I merely followed the flood wall I will eventually get
to the point where my path is blocked by a locked gate, with the view of the
mouth of the channel still ahead in the distance. The only other route I could
take is to follow the wall as far as the tiny football stadium and then follow
the narrow road that provides the only vehicular access for the teams and
supporters.

As I followed the narrow
road it began to wind around the stadium and follow the length of the far side
of the pitch. The area beyond the stadium is apparently a somewhat new development;
there are many houses which appear to be of fairly recent construction and many
partially constructed houses whose empty shells appear to have been abandoned.
There are houses that consist of outer wall and nothing within, and there are
odd combinations of houses that have some of their inner walls but no exterior.
But strangely, some of these said houses appear to be, or to partially be,
lived in.

As yet I’ve not seen one
single person, and no vehicles have passed me. And this apparent new housing
project is also deserted. Perhaps there really is a connection between bad
weather and the apparent disappearance of the local population.

Several streets turn off
to my left and head towards a road that I can see bears a certain amount of
traffic: this I conclude must be the main road entering Novaginja. But I decide
to keep walking straight ahead until finally reaching the point where the
houses end. Up ahead, I can see a tall grassy bank that appears to run at a
right-angle to the course of the river: this I decide must be the flood bank of
the channel. I continue ahead, crossing the short area of waste ground and
climbing the bank. Reaching the top, I affirm that I am right, I have reached
the channel. Immediately to my right are the large metal floodgates that are
closed to act as a dam, blocking the waters of the river from entering, and
just beyond I can make out the gateway that bars access from the river path.

Turning to the left, I
continue in the direction I would have followed from the river. There are many
boats anchored here amongst the tall reeds that grow along both banks, and
there are people fishing from many of the small wooden moorings and from
various points along the edges of the banks. The waters are the same deep
blue-green as the Tisa, but the channel is much narrower. And with its wild,
green grassy banks on either side looks like a typical canal.

 It is quite a short walk
along the bank to the bridge that carries the main road into town. Looking
ahead along the channel, I see that it is making its way towards the vicinity
of the railway station, way off in the distance.

“Where does this channel
go to,” I found myself thinking, “I saw no sign of it in the vicinity of the
station. And such a large body of water must at some point carry the overspill
from the Tisa into some other waterway.”

But, for now, I decide to
climb up onto the bridge and follow the road back towards the town.

I proceed along the edge
of the road towards the petrol station, (the only one I have seen in the town);
this, I remembered from my initial arrival at the community, marked the
boundary of the town. The road by local standards, standards, would I suppose
be considered to be quite busy; however, compared with the levels of traffic in
the west, it is fairly quiet. After passing the petrol station, I decide to
take one of the turnings to the left, heading back between the partially constructed
houses towards the stadium: it seems a good idea to head back to the river
rather than continue along the road. Following the main road into town might
prove to be quite a long walk as it enters at the eastern end, that is to say
the far end of the main shopping street, and it may be a tiring walk
considering that I have already been walking for almost an hour.  And anyway,
it is sure to be a nicer walk following the river back towards my apartment.
Perhaps it is the time of year and perhaps it is because of the cold weather
that has prevailed over the past week or so, but this has been the most
solitary of all my expeditions. I know that it has been the norm on my previous
walks to pass only one or two people who might smile and say “hello,” but today
I have seen no one, only those figures fishing in the distance. But the
following day, before class, Bella, one of my students, said to me:

“I saw you out walking on
Sunday by my house. You should have stopped for coffee.”

“I didn’t know you lived
over there,” I replied, “but perhaps another time.”