Radovan Karadzic, Sarajevo is not your city, and you have no right to say that it is, just as you do not have the right to say in public, even if it’s in court, that someone has dug up bones around Bosnia and brought them to Srebrenica to make a fake graveyard. This is insulting.
Things to do in Guca when you're sober
| 13 August 2008 | By Slobodan Georgijev in Guca
We have left our car in Lucani in order to avoid the hassle with trying to find a parking space in Guca, which is around ten kilometres from Lucani. We are driving in a rickety van on a twisty road peppered along its sides here and there with houses with neglected yards. Mild slopes and small hills typical of this part of Serbia, and valleys cut through by numerous streams, are yielding under pressure of thick and grey clouds in the sky and bunch of cars and other vehicles on the ground.
Everyone is going to Guca, but a few of the local guests are pretty annoyed, because they had to provide all kinds of things to their numerous friends from other parts of Serbia: "I am sick of my buddies", we are told by our co-passenger in the van while we are crossing an check point before entering chaos.
Someone who has visited various gatherings across Serbia in the last twenty years and has a good mileage at Serbian weddings, will find little to get him going in Guca. Alcohol, barbeque, cabbage in huge earthen pots and people prone to making fools of themselves, shirts with images of war criminals and international stars, fur caps, Chetnik insignia, and cowboy hats is such a familiar iconography that we hardly even notice it. We are dragging our feet through town in the cold Saturday evening held down by the cacophony made of mixture of live performances and music blaring from all kinds of loudspeakers.
"There are more foreigners than ever," everyone will tell you in Guca. The majority are from Bosnia and Herzegovina and France, but many came from Australia, Spain, Canada, Britain, and Germany as well. Their reasoning is obvious: this is pure exotica, this kind of indulgence in five-day drinking binge and orgy they do not have the opportunity to have at home. Foreigners have invaded all the hotels and houses in town and neighbourhood, they have occupied the surrounding hills putting up tents everywhere. The main event in the town, before the dark and "going wild" starts in the tents, is at the main square where various bands and orchestras are taking turns, drunken men are climbing the monument probably in an attempt to stick out from the crowd, pouring beer into the sculpture in an attempt to make the bronze trumpeter come to life. Half the people are jumping at the sounds of brass orchestra while the other half is recording it with video and photo cameras.
The Roma girls, belly dancers, are seizing the day by roaming the town and getting warmed up for tonight's dancing on the tables. In the churchyard where the main event used to take place in the past there are no more tents, only groups of exhausted tourists who are trying to catch their breath and occasional marijuana smoke. We are passing by casting longing glances towards them , praying to be inspired at least by the Holy Ghost who lives in the church located in the centre of town.
We make a couple of circles just to see what is on offer, then decide to sit down somewhere and have a bite. We opt for the local restaurant avoided by orchestras, where colourful international groups are gobbling up cabbage and roast, drowning everything in local brandy and beer. Maybe we should have found a seat inside the tent, but we decide it is for foreigners after all, and we, the local guests, have a need to eat in peace in the middle of this conundrum, in the day when everyone is waiting for the rain to wash off the mixture of sweat, spilled bear and gusts of smoke from people, streets and buildings.
Waiter smiles a warm smile when he realizes that we are locals, since he grew tired of foreign languages and faces in the last several days. As if he were saying, it's good that you are here, I feel better now. This clash of local people, who know the world only from television and who did not have the opportunity to travel around the world and acquaint themselves with other customs and cultures, with various foreigners is the greatest achievement of Guca, which, with strong support from the government, managed to outgrow its local character from previous decades – we conclude while cabbage grease is dripping from our jaws. This clash is good for everyone: the locals realized how to make a profit, guests feel safe, and for several days they are having fun trying to be freed from restraints they have back at home.
We finish our cabbage and go once again strolling around town with heavy stomachs to see if we can find anything interesting. The night is descending fast and with it hordes of new visitors who came from the only possible direction, on foot, by car, buses, vans. Everyone parks wherever they please and although everything looks pretty much like outright chaos, there are no raised voices, no frowning faces, everyone is rushing towards the sound of trumpets knowing for a fact they will have fun.
Before turning back, we refresh ourselves in the road house above the main road, listening to the orchestra playing on its stage, while loads of people are sitting above town sipping bear and gearing up to finish themselves off under some of the tents lined up along the river and by the merry-go-round.
From the terrace we are watching the town being slowly engulfed in dusk which cannot be held at bay by weak light bulbs or deafening noise coming from all sides, catching drunken guests by surprise who think this is the thing, all of their problems are finally gone. Drunkenness mixes with darkness while we hurry back to a dark Serbia.
