A Different Lifetime: Stepping Back in Time in the Former Yugoslavia (3 page)

On my third day here the
need has arisen to venture out to the shops and the bank: to the local grocer’s
shop which belongs to Lenna’s cousin for some food, to the baker’s next door
for some bread, whose fresh crusty bread turns out to be delicious, and then
across the street to the bank to change my pounds into the largely numbered,
brightly coloured local currency. 

Over the next few days I
find myself venturing to various local shops. I find a small, or should I say
tiny, “Supermarket” as it is called; it is no bigger than an average corner shop,
but it has a larger stock than the one owned by Lenna’s cousin, and it also
boasts a butchery department. On my first visit, I find the butcher, a young
man named Ivan, to be somewhat unfriendly; he says I sound like a Russian. It’s
the way I pronounce the word “meco” (meat) that triggers his reaction; Serbian
and Russian are in some way sister languages and therefore share the same word
for meat. But it’s really my inadequacy in Serbian pronunciation that causes
meco to inadvertently come out sounding Russian. But there is an assistant
working in the shop called Denna, and she speaks English well, and she is very
helpful to me. She is able to explain to explain the situation to Ivan, though
it is of course not quite clear to me how she knows who I am: a mystery that
will present itself on many occasions. But she translates my requirements to
Ivan whose demeanour has now quite changed and he proceeds to show me the
different cuts of meat and indicate which one would be the best choice to have
ground up in the mincer. And from that day, Denna has always greeted me with a
wave, a ‘hallo,’ and has assisted me with translations and helped me with my
shopping on all of my visits.

There is also another
slightly bigger shop, or supermarket, located farther along the main street;
this one is a little cheaper but doesn’t have such a diverse stock and although
there is a delicatessen counter they have no fresh meat, and nobody here speaks
English.

On my next visit to the
“Supermarket” meat counter, I find Ivan is much changed; I am greeted with a
“Hallo” and even the friendly advice, through Denna’s assistance with
translation, that I shouldn’t be buying the most expensive meat for mincing. Of
course, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I had previously bought the expensive
meat; the prices are remarkably low compared to any I have ever seen before. So
I purchase the much cheaper cut that Ivan is holding up for me to inspect, from
which he promptly chopped off a lump and put through the mincer. With my
limited cooking facilities: I have a kind of small cooker consisting of two
small hotplates, so I can only buy food that can be cooked either by saucepan
or frying pan; so you see, mince is the only practical form of meat that I can
possibly cook.

I have for some reason
chosen Saturday morning to be the time for shopping, and on my return I set
about cleaning the apartment. The cleaning of one’s apartment is not something
to look forward to when one considers that the invention of the vacuum cleaner
is not common knowledge throughout Novaginja. Cleaning up with witch’s broom
and dustpan is a pleasure I will save for Saturdays when the sofa is folded
into its upright position: it’s really not worth the effort of folding up the
bed every day and then remaking it when I get home at ten pm.

But other than the more
primitive lifestyle, things are not too bad. There is surprisingly never a
shortage of television programmes and films in English: they show them here
with the original English dialogue and subtitles in the local languages; and I
am able to receive quite a choice of programmes from both the local stations
and those of neighbouring countries.

I am beginning to notice
the oppressiveness in the local society and have attributed it to the
community’s former status of communist rule. I have been told to hand over my
passport to Arkom so that he can give it to Lenna’s father who in turn can take
it to the local police. This prospect is a little worrying, but after two days
I have my passport back complete with a white card which acknowledges my right
to remain in the community. But apart from this, I am beginning to sense that
everyone knows who I am and what I’m doing here.

I have decided to write
some letters home, as this appears to be the only form of communication with
the outside world. I have paper but I have needed to ask Arkom for two
envelopes. And now, the only thing remaining is to take the letters to the post
office; but where is it? If it is in the main street as Arkom has told me, then
I cannot see it. I begin to ask directions in various shops but no one seems to
understand ‘post office,’ that is until a well-dressed customer in a dark suit
and tie turns to me and says:

“Ach! der Post,” and
proceeds to give me thorough directions all in German. But for this I am
grateful; it seems that the post office is in fact the crumbling white building
opposite the supermarket/butchers. The reason that I have not been able to
ascertain this myself is because the one sign outside the building is written
in the Cyrillic alphabet and bears no resemblance whatsoever to any
international form of the words ‘post’ or ‘post office.’

When I enter the post
office, I am directed to a young woman who speaks English. She is very nice and
she is very helpful; she finds the right kind of airmail envelopes for me, the
letters I have written and sealed in regular envelopes cannot be accepted, and
helps me with the forms and of course sells me the stamps. But although I have
never met this woman before, she knows exactly who I am and where I live. She
tells me that she knows Arkom and informs me that she will notify him if I
receive any mail. I suppose I may be instantly recognisable as the only English
speaking foreigner in town, but to know where I live and what I do is a little
suspicious to say the least, and why will Arkom need to be told if I have mail?
And generally, I am beginning to sense that people seem to know a little more
than would be pertinent when encountering a total stranger. 

At the school, the classes
are going great except for the adults, whose classes seem to be terribly
mismatched; some of the younger students’ English is far more advanced than the
older class members, many of whom appear not to be at the required level for
their classes. I am, however, soon to discover the politics of class
management. It would appear that the school is firstly run for the purpose of
profit and the act of teaching English must take second place. It is obvious by
the levels of English attained by some of the students, that they are passed on
to the next level every year in the interest of keeping them enrolled in the
school, and thus maintain the school’s income by receiving another year’s
tuition fees, whether they are competent to be in that level or not.

There is also a sense of
laziness amongst the older students who form part of a new middle-class: a
society of store-keepers and café-owners. These people want to conduct their
lessons in their own native language; slowly translating the words so that they
can do the exercises in their own tongue. Similarly, they want to decide what
components of English they would care to learn. 

“We don’t do this.”

“This is too hard for us.”

“We don’t know this,” are
some familiar comments.

So consequently, they
grumble that the teacher is giving them material which is too hard for them.
Then when it comes to the crunch and a test contains some material that they
don’t know, the criticism is of course, that the teaching is bad and they don’t
understand. Evidently, on tests it is the school’s policy for teachers to give
the students the answers, and then tell the said students how to spell the
answers. So I am currently trying to adapt to these strange customs as fast as
they present themselves.

One such class contains a
diverse age group of the students: the younger students have more than the
required level of English for the class, while the two older class members are
hopelessly inept for this level. The two older members, Turin and Verna, sit
together at one end of the room, and because of their importance in the
community are able to control the progress of the class, while the younger
members sit aimlessly waiting for them to catch up. In fact, during our first
class, Turin got up from his seat and left the school after thirty minutes
mumbling:

“This is too much English
for one lesson.”

“Well isn’t that what
we’re here for?” I thought to myself.

Turin and Verna’s main purpose
for attending the class seems to be that it enables them to spend time
together. Verna is related to the property owner who owns the building which
houses the school, and this gives her a lot of influence over the school; and
as I am to find out later, entitles her to free lessons. So with this much
authority over the proceedings, she is able to ensure that Turin remains the
focal point of the class; and the class can be centred around Turin talking
about his exploits. But all of this is rather a difficult experience for me,
primarily through my lack of knowledge of the local language, and it is very
hard for me to understand the nature of conflicts between the two factions.
Thankfully, the problem here is mutually resolved by creating a new class for
Turin and Verna to attend on their own. Arkom will teach them English in
Serbian, which will keep them happy as they can move at their own pace and they
can talk about Turin’s adventures; meanwhile, the remainder of my class can
proceed at their own speed with me.

There is another class
comprising entirely of women in their forties and fifties, all of whom are
local café owners. They all seem very nice and tell me that they like the
class. Arkom, however, is telling a much different story; though, I have come
to believe that when Arkom sits waiting for the students to come out of the
classroom he is in fact inviting them to make complaints. For instance, these
four ladies have asked me about business English because it is of great use to
them being in the business world. So I have found exercises for them to do from
the business English books as well as their class course book. I know for a
fact that this is what they want; however, I hear from Arkom that they have
complained because they are not doing the exercises in their course book. I am really
glad to have my two teenage classes and my advanced classes because they have
the required command of English, and more importantly, they want to learn. But
there is a domino effect from these events, although I have never heard one
single complaint myself.

There is one advanced
class with only one student, Lena, and Lena is apparently dropping her class
because of personal reasons. She makes a point of telling me that she is
enjoying the class and her decision has nothing to do with me; however, there
are a couple of raised conversations between her and Arkom in their own
language. I know that Lena is a nice person, she is an intelligent young woman
who has once represented her country as an athlete, but I also know that her
mother is dying and she feels unable to concentrate enough on her class work.
This is in fact all I know when Arkom confronts me with the question:

“Has she been talking?”

However, at our last
meeting, Lena seems unable to look me in the eye, and I sense that there is
much more to this than I am aware of. She does, however, tell me of:

“Cheaters who want people
to work for them for three months and then get rid of them.”

She is at this time
waiting for Arkom to arrive at the school to tell him that she will not be
attending her class after today. When we hear Arkom arriving we wish each other
well, and this would be the last time I would see her. The word “cheaters” has,
however, remained in my mind since this time. Although the following weeks have
progressed without any further incidents, I know full well that “cheaters”
refers to Arkom and Lenna and is intended as a warning for me.

Meanwhile, I have decided
to give the younger teens something of a Halloween party during their class
time. They have been asking about a party; it appears that there is usually a
Halloween party every year, but Arkom seems loathe to participate or spend any
money on it. They are going to come to class in Halloween costumes and watch a
film, and I will give a prize of a dollar bill, one remaining bill that I have
in my wallet, for the best costume. A One Dollar Bill, cheap you might think,
but they are all keen to win it, and one dollar is quite a bit of money here,
let alone something of a status symbol – a little piece of America. The teens
bring their own movie to watch – it’s ‘The Fog,’ and I’ve decided to invite the
students from the older teens’ class to come along. Arkom has finally decided
to give a two litre bottle of cola for the class and a bag of pretzel sticks
for each student, now that he realises how popular the event has become. And
although only two of the students from the older teens’ class come along to
join in, the evening is very successful.

Sasha in particular is
eager to win the dollar; she has dressed herself in a witch’s costume complete
with very realistic make-up and spiders and cobwebs that hang down over her
face – in fact quite a scary figure. In contrast, Delana’s costume is quite
grand, I would have guessed a princess, but she assures me that she is an elf.
She is wearing a pale blue dress, perhaps a party dress or even her best dress,
and she has had her hair styled. I do not, however, want to say that there is
one obvious winner since both girls have made such an effort, so I slowly
deliberate on who the winner should be. But of course there can only be one
winner and of course there is no real doubt that it must be Sasha. After
announcing the result of the contest, I hand the prize to the obviously excited
Sasha and take some group photographs and one individual photograph each of
Sasha and Delana: Sasha proudly holding up her dollar bill at all times.

A similar attempt to
organise a party for the adult students is, however, more fruitful. Arkom has
shown more interest in this idea and has provided wine, snacks, and the
materials for the making of witches’ hats and the playing of games. However,
most of the students have shown little interest in Halloween – it’s not considered
of any importance in local culture anyway. But perhaps it is Arkom’s insistence
on childish games: ‘apple bobbing’, ‘musical chairs’, ‘the mummy wrap,’ which
involves the students covering each other from head to toe in toilet paper, and
making witches’ hats that is discouraging.

Only Philmore from my
First Certificate class turned up for the party, bringing with him his
girlfriend, Alisa. Thankfully, Alisa immediately calls some of her friends to
invite them to come along, which adds four more people to the number. But alas,
out of the six people who have attended, only Philmore is a student of the
school. However, Alisa’s four friends soon get into the swing of things,
dipping their faces into the bowl of water to retrieve apples and
enthusiastically tying each other up with yards of toilet paper; and even Arkom
is joining in. Although the adult Halloween party has been saved by the
unexpected guests, it isn’t really a success. The guests are unable to stay for
long; all six have called in on their way to a real party. But at least Arkom
is happy and takes many photographs to add to his collection that documents the
school’s history.