Fujoshi

This is my personal record in this sick japnese game.

Who can beat me-well done!

Do I look like a stranger to you?
There is a picture of myself on the blog, and if you've regularly read my blog, you could have seen many of my pictures. So, do I then look like a stranger? Ok, I might not look like a Bosnian (Bosniacis Vulgaris), but a stranger?
Anyhow, I decided to describe one story that I'd already promised to write about. Now that the summer heat is at its peak and there are no many novelties in my life, it's the ideal opportunity to finally do so.
The story begins in late August in the year of the Lord 2005. My volunteering summer in Sarajevo has just ended and I'm going back home for a few days and then back to the University.
I'm entering Sarajevo Railway Station, wearing gigantic red backpack (onetime Jimbo-treveler trademark) and a sort of gayish-youthful-formal bag is dangling on my shoulder. I'm still holding a cigarette butt in my mouth, wearing my, at that time still long, hair in a pony tale and greasy glasses (an actual trademark of Jimbo Vulgaris). Hanging on my neck there is also my former fancy SERIKSON pinned with the Sarajevo Film Festival drkadžulik (drkadžulik is that pendant one wears around one's neck).
I'm approaching the window and the lady there gazed at my tall-handsome-blond physiognomy, just as I really am.
-“Good evening. Ticket to Vrpolje please....errr...Strizivojna-Vrpolje sation.”The lady gave me somehow confused look:
-“So you are not a foreigner?”Now I give her a somehow confused look and said:
-“In fact, I am a foreigner.”
The lady from the window, now even more confused, said:
-“Well, I have to say that you are very good in Bosnian.”The funny thing was that exactly at that time I was struggling to pass the Bosnian language exam, so I just said with a smile:
-“Well, I really try hard, but with little success.”
-“No, no…you do great, you have this specific accent, but again, I’d never say you’re not Bosnian…according to your accent, of course.”
I didn’t know what this “according to the accent” was supposed to mean, I guess that it was more than obvious that I’m not Bosnian. As for the accent, that’s my idiosyncratic dialect that could be named Jimboz Unique which is the hodgepodge of Slavonic (from Slavonija, eastern part of Croatia), brodski (from Slavonski Bord, city in Slavonija) to be precise, Sarajevo slang, and central Bosnian dialect.
That’s why when I come to Brod they mock me that I speak like Edo Maajka while in Sarajevo they laugh at my Slavonic “stretching”. In the end, it’s only me being happy with how I speak.
Anyhow, I bought the ticket, took another cigarette from my Drina pack, turned around and saw a young lady with a sobbing face standing in front of me. The tears were gushing from her slanting, and beautiful I have to say, eyes. It was a real Japanese girl. Japanese, as she had that very moment flown from Yokohama.
You probably wonder how I can distinguish Japanese from, say, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese or some other Asian. Well, not long before that encounter, I found a military manual on the Internet that had been given to Americans when going to the Pacific battlefield and, if I remember well, it was called "How to tell Jap from our asian allies". A picture-book too crazy, but, it apparently helped me.
So I gave her the confused look, she looked at me through tears, I gave her a smile and continued my way. After only a few steps I heard how she, with a sobbing voice, tried to talk to that lady behind the window who didn’t pay a slightest attention to her. I stopped, took a deep breath and turned. Just to make it clear, I’m not some altruist acting like a Mother Teresa but, fuck, woman’s tears are my weak spot.
I reached the window and asked:
-“Off to Budapest?”She gave me a confused look with her eyes full of tears and nodded.
-“Please, a ticket to Budapest for a girl.”
-“One way or return?”-said the lady behind the window and I turned to my new friend:
-“One way?”- to which she just nodded again.
-“One way”.
-“82,50”-or some similar amount said the lady and I translated it to the girl.
My new friend gave me 100 marks, I gave them to the lady and then gave her back her kusur (change) and the ticket. She was still confused as I was leaving.
I made but few steps when I got that my little Asian friend had been following me like a lost poppy that I had just fed. So I waited for her.
She finally spoke: -“Do you go to Budapest?”As much as I wanted to go to Budapest, I had a yen for Slavonia at that moment.
-“No, Croatia.”
-“Croatia?”
-“Yeah, Croatia…small country for a big vacation.”
I’ve got no clue why I said that. The tears were still gushing from her eyes and I thought that I must have had some tissues somewhere in my backpack. So I stopped, took of my backpack and somewhere under the cigarette box I found tissues.
-“Here you go.”
-“Oh, thank you…”-she said and wiped off the tears.
Then I took her to the shop and bought two bottles of half-litre Jana. My new friend was looking and asked me to buy one for her too. So I bought one for her to which she started digging into her wallet while I simply waved and said:
-“It’s on me”-I might not be an altruist but I’m a gentleman.
She was surprised with what I’d just done, even though I have no clue why.We sat together in a compartment and then she began talking. From her story I found out why she was so surprised with my behaviour; that is, the guilty ones for her tears were, tan-tan ta-raaaaan!!-GRAS officers. The girl bought the ticket for the trolleybus but, of course, she didn’t know that she had to confirm it inside so she immediately found herself under attack of bunch of blue rebels called revizori. I do admit that they really are bastards sometimes. However, I explained her that she had only needed to send them to hell and they would have run away like rats when they escape from the sinking boat. Anyhow, in spite of so many times mentioned Sarajevo hospitality, she had to come across Šokac to get some help. I mean, it’s not that I’m blowing my own trumpet, but…
So we were sitting in that compartment, talking about everything. I got to know she was from Japan (surprise, surprise), that she studied German and English in Mannheim and that she was travelling around Europe (why on earth alone…). She’d already been to Turkey, then in Dubrovnik, Sarajevo and then she was heading to Budapest. As far as I remember, after Budapest she was supposed to go to Krakow and then back to Mannheim. I would have liked to have Ignjaz, a good friend of mine, next to me who is a Kendo expert, anima fan and generally freak when it comes to Japanese culture. I know that Japan is very trendy at the moment, but I’m not anyhow attracted to it or to its culture. Not that I wouldn’t like to visit Japan, I’m just not so fascinated with it. I’m like drug Katjusha, a Russophile.
We were then talking about Mannheim that I had visited twice, about Budapest that I visited one half of a time, and about Krakow that I had never visited.
So were we talking when a bunch of Federation soldiers gathered in front of our compartment. At that time, military service was still compulsory in B&H, and on weekends trains were full of guys from the Croatian military branch travelling from Čapljina to distant, northern parts of Federation, to Orašje, Posavina County.
They were staring at my new friend, at me, perplexed as if they’d seen Holy Mary or something.
They were army as any other, thinking only of booze and women.
They were staring at us, being all bold and sweaty when on of them, leader maybe and maybe not said:
-“See this, guys, a Chinese and a film director!!”I’m quite okay with the fact that in ex-HVO they don’t issue manuals how to tell Japs from other Asians, but the film director???? I looked at my chest and saw my fancy SERIKSON pinned to that drkadžiluk from Sarajevo Film Festival, as I already mentioned. Exactly at that time SFF was indeed going on. Next to me, my gayish-youthful-formal bag was standing. Maybe I even had a cap on my head, I don’t remember, probably I did since many people already told me I looked like Michael Moore with that cap. Not really a compliment, I know.
I was trying to ignore that drunken squad; I was talking to my new friend when one of them, in the brightest military manner said:
-“I bet the director’s screwing the Chinese!”My new friend, naturally, asked:
-“What do they say?”I told her this was something impossible to translate and got up and opened the door and like someone with an utmost authority said:
-C’mon guys, disappear!”And they all exclaimed:
-“Holy fuck, the director can speak!”Do I really look like a foreigner???

Edo Maajka - prominent Croato-Bosnian rapper
Drina - Bosnian cigarette brand, also a river in eastern part of the country
Jana - Croatian bottled water brand
GRAS - public transport Sarajevo
Šokac - inhabitant of Slavonia
HVO - Croatian Council of Defense, former Croat army in Bosnia and Herzegovina

First time published at Jimblog under the title "Fujoshi", on 25th of July, 2007 AD

Thanks to Ana Sekulić for translation

Underpants

In every corner of the Balkans, where there’s people, Balkan people, from villages to towns, there is something that could be called “cheap female love traders”. Mostly, those are hyperbolized stories of woman offering sexual services for this, and that reason, for a price which is a bargain, to the consumers of that kind of services. Reality, in fact, is that most of these woman are not prostitutes at all. However balkanian vanity is known to destroy other peoples life’s…. They call them nymphomans, hookers, vegetarians… those are the woman that always tickle a dirty mans imagination…

My personal favorite story is about some girl, supposedly from Kupres who charged for her services no more or less than – 12 HRK (around 2 USD). Allegedly she even returned the change of 2 bosnian marks if a satisfied consumer gave her a fiver (five KM… around 3.5 USD)

Our story, for which I got copyright rights, is true, however because of protection of participants I decided to change some details, names and places of events. Besides that, everything is true.
Plot of this story is in Bugojno, where lived a girl called Amra-fiver. Gossip was that she was offering sexual services for 5 marks for what she got her nick name. Has she really prostituted for a fiver, or has she prostituted at all, no one really knows. But word was on the street…
Two brothers, Goran (22) and Marko (19) lived near town of Bugojno (they still do) and at the time, they were working on a house which was burned during the last war.
They were doing electric installation for the house for which an electrician from Donji Vakuf (town close to Bugojno) was in charge. Electrician needed no help from these two, so they spent their free time in front of a local store where they drunk beer with their friend Zoran who was 16 at the time and was the youngest in the crew.
Teenagers had just one thing on their mind, two to be exact. Sex and the “other thing” (“if we didn’t have that “other thing”, what would the hell would we fuck then?”). So our heroes of this story often made jokes on young Zoran’s account like: “Zoka… how about we give you a fiver and you go and do Amra, ha? Wouldn’t that be awesome? To see how’s it like. And I’d earn a weekend in paradise (Bosnian saying).”… and things like that.
After few days, when job was done, Goran and Marko set in a car to take the electrician back to Vakuf. They also picked up Zoka by the store.
While driving through Bugojno they saw non other but young Amra herself, walking trough the city with some girl.
“Zox! There’s Amra! Hey, dude! I have 20 marks, you can do her 4 times! You’re young, and besides, you have a boner all the time! You could do her for two days!” – says Goran
“Zoka, dude, I’ll ad a ten, just to make you a man!” – adds Marko.
Electrician also made his contribution: - “Son… for 30 marks I think that you could do her friend as well!”
Zoran didn’t mind the jokes, he accepted them with no hard feelings.
White Škoda 150L was running at the incredible speed of 50mph on a state road witch connects Bugojno and Donji Vakuf. After they left the electrician in Vakuf, they went straight back.
“Zoka, dude… now when we come to Bugojno, Goran and I will go and grab some coffe, so you take Škoda, the back seat is your’s and let it rip!” – said Marko from a co-drivers seat, and Goran adds: - “Just don’t get stains on my seats. When you’ll be doing… you know… the thing…”
“Would you really mind the stains on your seats if I finally did it?” – young Zoran asked the smiling diver.
The trip from Vakuf to Bugojno, as expected just flew by while talking about sex and telling jokes on young Zoran's account.
White Škoda 150L sailing into Bugojno, making funny noises due to a defective belt which, in fact weren’t funny at all, become an attraction in a sleepy Bugojno afternoon. People on bar’s porches turned their heads to see Czechoslovakian technical miracle.
And Amra, still walking through the streets of Bugojno turned her head towards Škoda. Then Goran started to put his foot down on a brake, as if he was about to stop the car and said: “Here you go dude, and remember this! Today you’ll become man!”
Off course Goran wasn’t really thinking of stopping his car to ask a girl for sex, after all, no one really knew for sure if she was even a prostitute. Even if he knew… how do you ask such a thing?!
But young Zoran, seeing that Goran was really about to stop the car, and that the joke got too serious, grabbed the front seats tightly and shouted:
- “DUDE, DON’T DO IT! I HAVEN’T CHANGED MY UNDERPANTS!!”

First time published at Jimblog under the title "Gaće", on 16th of January, 2006 AD

EĪd mubārak

Bajram Šerif Mubarek Olsun

- “Hey pal… did you know they canceled Zdravko Čolić concert?”
Taxi driver snapped out of boredom when he heard this, raised conspiratorially his right eyebrow and he took a look at the passenger at the back seat through the indoor mirror. It was a rainy day before Eid, he was not in the mood, but this info snapped him out of boring day at the road and his ear turned into antenna just like ones in vast deserts of Nevada where Yanks hunt for all sorts of possible extra-terrestrial forms of living beings.
On this info, even I couldn’t stay apathetic, so I turned back from co-driver seat towards the friend at the back seat.
- “Really? How come?”
- “How the hell should I know? Word is on the street. Organization screwed something up as usual. It’s not final yet, however Čola could cancel the concert because they haven’t fulfilled all the terms. Some problems with money as usual. It was on the radio as well…”
- “Hm… Zdravo Čolić canceled Sarajevo concert… miles of woman will be disappointed.” – I said, taxi driver wasn’t still in the mood with one difference – he was carefully listening us this time.
- “Yeah, yeah…” – said friend at the back seat and story ended there.
Wet road in front of us, silence fulfilled with thinking.
Silence was broken with voice of dispatcher:
- “Vehilce 2-0-5, Franc Lehar street number 6. Vehilce 2-0-5, Franc Lehar street number 6….” …

Eid evening, three of us playing cards.
“On the table empty glasses, there’s no rakija” – from speaker of boom-box sings late Dražen Ričl.
I took a look at the table – empty glasses.
- “Do we have any rakija left?” – I ask
- “Hell yeah. Look under the table.”
I poured clear liquid from half a liter bottle of Jamnica, and then passed the bottle to a friend.
I dropped the card on the table and waited for the move of a friend who poured rakija in glass over table spoon with honey.
- “Well pal…” – I said to him wile waiting him to finish making his drink and answer my call – “What’s with the Čola’s concert?”
Meanwhile he finished with pouring, so he raised the glass:
- “Come on friend, let’s salute…”
While saluting I whised him a merry holiday
- “Happy Eid”
Friend frowned his face after he drunk shot of honey-rakija and said:
- “Ooooo… to sweet… Never mind… So… What about Čola’s concert?”
- “Word is on the street that it will be canceled….”
- “That’s what I told you yesterday in a cab.”
- “Yeah, I knew I heard it somewhere. Why are the canceling it?”
- “They aren’t. This is just disinformation I said in a cab. The best way to start a gossip is to tell something to the cab drivers. Did you just see how his ear turned into antenna? I bet whole town is talking about it.” – he laughed at the end, pulled a card and answered my call.
- “Brilliant gag.” – I said to him taking yet another shot of rakija while he was still smiling about it. Third player was making a face while thinking how to play and I was jealous because I wasn’t one how pulled this gag.
Crvena Jabuka was still coming from the speakers of boom-box
Then we remember you
In worm nights
When old singer
Your tune plays
And sings…

EĪd mubārak - common greeting during the Muslim holiday of Eid

Bajram Šerif Mubarek Olsun - Turkish greeting for Eid, used also in Bosnia

Zdravko Čolić (Čola) - Yugoslav singing star

Dražen Ričl - first singer of "Crvena Jabuka"

Jamnica - famous Croatian mineral water brand

Crvena Jabuka - famous Bosnian pop-rock band, meaning "Red Apple"

First time published at Jimblog under the title "Bajram barčula", on 13th of October, 2007 AD

The vehicle

This is another, presumably true, story that has grown into an urban legend. It reached me through its main character who told this story, strictly confidentially to my source. “The source” then told me and I then told, strictly confidentially, of course, Tunja from Đakovo, Rale from Sombor, Stipe from Makarska, Ruda from Zaprešić, Fadil from Maglaj. I also intended to tell Imra from Zmajevac, however, he’d heard it from the main character already, strictly confidentially, naturally.

In summer of 80 something, on the road from Osijek to Beli Manastir, towards the eternal land of salami and cheese, a police (militia!) stojadin (a legendary car brand from former Yugoslavia) was parked right next to the bridge on Drava with two law-enforcement officers of ex SFRJ sitting inside.
It was July, August maybe, pitch dark and around 4 o’clock in the morning. It seemed that apart from mosquitoes, two law-enforcers and sweltering heat nothing else existed in Osijek.
The blue guys had been already asleep when the engine-sound, far too delicate for a road of Baranja, lurked through the air; the sound delicate but strong. It wasn’t FAP (a legendary truck brand from former Yugoslavia), and it certainly couldn’t have come from a car.
The older cop lit a cigarette and said to his colleague:
-“Go and see what’s goin’ on.”
Young law-enforcer opened the door, came out of stojadin, took his hat and “lollypop” from the back seat and polished a red star on his hat.
He walked to the road, put on his hat, pulled his trousers and saw upcoming rectangular headlights sharply piercing the dark.
As he had adjusted his trousers, the young law-enforcer stepped in front of the vehicle and pulled the “lollypop” saying: STOP; MILICIJA firmly and decisively. Yellow light then flashed through the dark and the vehicle pulled over next to the policeman, militiaman to be precise.
Policeman walked toward the vehicle, firmly and decisively, as befits an officer of internal affairs. When he finally approached the vehicle he had plenty to see: a green limo with foreign yellow plates and on the top of the bonnet there was a chrome-plated leaping animal looking as it was just about to jump on our hero and bite off his neck. On the wing there was a chrome-plated V8 symbol.
Jaguar - something that definitely didn’t belong to the roads of our former state; something that one could have seen only in TV series like Dallas or Dynasty.
However, it was highly inappropriate for a young law-enforcer to show amazement for a western novelty, even though he definitely was amazed and paid respect to the vehicle.
As he reached the door, he knocked on the window and the window glass came down in a somehow weird way. Before he could even be surprised by the electric window that Zastava definitely didn’t install in its models, he was dizzied by the reek of alcohol emanating from inside. The reek consisted of the indistinguishable components like šljivovica (rakija made of plums), beer, vine…
The fumes stunned our militiaman so he didn’t even bother to ask for the documents as the policy required but he only bewilderedly asked:
-“How much have you drunk?”
The driver showed his head through the window and said:
-“Sir, I…I mean…a lot…fuckin’ hell…”-he stopped in the middle of the sentence and puked all over the door so it also reached otherwise impeccably clean officer’s uniform.
-“Why did you drink so much and then sat in a car?” – the officer asked more out of fear than of professional reasons.
-“Bloody hell…I was…I didn’t…I mean…I…I didn’t go for a Sunday service…I was on the wedding…fuckin’ hell…!” -he barely said that when the policeman tightened up and said:
-“Your ID and a driving license please”
-“Hey pal, I don’t have one! I’ve never had one. Once I tried to…well, get a license, however, they flunked me at the start.”
-“Commrad, you’ve got no identification! You’re stewed to the gills! How do you operate this vehicle?!”- raged the policeman.
-“I don’t!”- said the man using all his strength and then collapsed onto the leather seat.
-“You think you can fuck around with me?”- said the policeman and grabbing his baton stack his head inside the car. Once inside, he certainly had something to see…no steering wheel!
Then he looked towards the co driver and saw concentrated and sober man holding to the steering wheel.
-“I operate the vehicle, sir.”-said the co driver.
The law-enforcer pulled out his head and waving his baton told them to drive off.
Jaguar zoomed away, the militiaman, policeman, law-enforcer, officer, whatever I called him through this story remained standing on the road, obtusely gazing at the sticker on the Jaguar’s trunk saying GB.



First time published at Jimblog under the title "Vozilo", on 19th of January, 2006 AD

Thanks to Ana Sekulić for translation

Kafano, I’m fed up with you too*

*"I tebe sam sit, kafano" - legendary song on Balkans, kafana meaning the beloved pub/coffee house

“Five” and a burger with kajmak (Bosnian speciality)
I couldn’t get an appropriate picture for this post, so I uploaded this one that I thought it might have been nice for those who weren’t going to read but just take a look.
Ćevapbdžinica (a restaurant selling ćevapi – Bosnian most exquisite fast food, “five” on the picture above)”Mrkva”, Baščaršija (main street in Sarajevo)

Today I had a break between two lectures so we headed to the pub instead of, God forbid, studying.
There is this nice café, relatively new and the waiter has already noted us. And I like when waiter notices me. As soon as he saw us entering he exclaimed that he had a new betting offer. We took our place and he peeped out from behind the bar and said: - “One large coffee with cold milk, one short coffee with warm milk, glass of sparkling water and an ordinary one?”- “Yo!” – I said, and in a moment or two he reappeared carrying our order.
Then he got back to the bar and brought three pieces of paper, a pencil and the betting report.- --“Take this as well…”

-"Blamey, that’s what I call a service…anyhow, take the report back. I’ve got no clue about sports and I don’t bet usually. That’s just a time-killing activity.”

- “Ok.” – he said and withdrew behind the bar.

So were we sitting, my colleague and I, pondering into the daily betting offer; I looked for the longest names in the Hungarian football league to bet on. Not long after we had finished out drinks and made a new order, the waiter went towards the coffee machine when some guy bumped into the pub, being about right, as one might say.

-“Waiter! All right… get us another round, a drink to everyone else and get yourself something as well. Also, repeat the previous song.”

The waiter got us what we ordered and after he served the guys from outside he said to us:
-“That’s from the guys outside. They got fired so they feel like treating.”

Fuck, that’s how it is in Bosnia, all topsy-turvy. They treat when they get kicked out instead the other way round.
The colleague and I were chatting a bit more, we drank our coffee and at the time when we decided to leave, the guy bumped in again.
-“Come on, the bill please! And another drink for the guys!”
-“Guys?” – said the waiter, and we replied, at the same time:
-“No thanks, we already had ours, we’re leaving anyway.”
The guy then, being about right, shouted at us:
-“Hey, I’m gonna get angry if you don’t take another drink! And it’s a first time I see you…”
- “Sparkli….”
- “Get us some rakija (probably the most famous Balkan trademark, extra strong liquor)” – the colleague cut my sentence.
If we drink, lets drink properly! One doesn’t get fired every day, does he?
-“Get us loza (rakija made of vine) then”
Then the guy complained about his bad luck. He had this characteristic peasant accent and told us how he had come to Sarajevo 10 days ago, how he had accidentally well, got drunk already tonight (that is, the previous night) and lost his car keys somewhere around so the boss had given him the sack that morning since he couldn’t work. The job was to give a ride to the other workers (using his own car), and since he couldn’t do that because he clearly couldn’t get into the car, he was kicked out of job after ten days. But, he didn’t really liked Sarajevo anyway, he only knew his place and way to work.

The second Pub-Story

Nidžo had visited us for couple of days.
So, the last night we went for a drink. Since we couldn’t agree on where to go, Nidžo said – to Avaz.
Avaz, Radon Plaza that is, is this fancy bourgeois hotel that has a rotating restaurant on its top. There you sit and rotate and it’s apparently cool to see Sarajevo all around you.
The first time, and the last one up to yesterday, I was there was on my birthday. I wrote about this shortly already.
The coolest thing then was the waiter running to our table carrying my bag that was left on the window, while we had already moved meters away.

-“Is that your bag?”
-“Yep.”
-“Here you go” – he said and gave me the
bag.
The thing was that I left the bag on the window next to our table
without realizing that the window was steady while we were moving, subjected to
the ruthless rotation. Anyhow, my bag managed to reach some delegation that was
having a business lunch, meeting or something of that sort.

Back to the story, Nidžo works in a company in Zagreb. I’m not gonna advertise it here, all I’ll say is that I usually call it German Imperialistic Boot. Anyhow, Nidžo has, at least comparing to us, poor little students, a bourgeois income.
That evening we sat in the taxi (I never use taxi as much as when Nidžo comes to Sarajevo) that delivered us directly to the entrance of the hotel.
When I got out, I first stepped onto the red carpet. As if I had been to Cannes.
We bumped into the hotel when next to us passed a delegation wrapped up in nice suits and blabbering something in Arabic…if I had been teleported in that moment, I would have thought I’d been to some fancy hotel in Emirates.
We were lucky that we’d learnt how to use the elevator the last time. As we emerged to the top, the waiter appeared immediately:
-“Good evening. How can I help you?”
-“Oh, we’d like to have a drink, so we’d like to sit down.”
-”Oh yes, most certainly, here you go, table number 10…”
We sat down, and I made sure to place my bag on the chair right next to me…I wasn’t planning to make fool of myself again.
-“What would you like to order?”- the waiter asked
-“Large coffee with cold milk, please and, do you by any chance have Cola Light?”
Cola Light is a real rarity in Bosnian cafes. Well, in Croatian too. However, I thought that since it was a bourgeois place they must have had Cola Light as well.
-“Yes, we do have Cola Light…”
So he served us, removed the BOOKED label from the table and Nidžo and I started our discussion.
We discussed quiet fancily- religion, philosophy and politics in the end.
One can’t go to Radon Plaza and then chat about tits and asses. Isn’t it so?
As soon as we started our conversation, Miroslav Lajčak followed by the waiter passed by us.
If you don’t know who Miroslav Lajčak is, here comes a short info: Miroslav Lajčak is a Slovakian diplomat, currently a High Representative for B&H. High Representative is an alpha and omega in Bosnia. He’s got the power of a governor and he can replace whoever he wants and make whatever decision he fancies.
Exactly at that time we were discussing the future constitution of B&H. I suggested Nidžo we could have called him and rearranged Bosnia together.
Since the guy was already there, I mean.
And then, after we’d finished our drinks, being intellectually elated and me being very into this bourgeois story, Nidžo got up to pay and the waiter came and asked:
-"Guys, how did Inter play?"
That remark or question, whatever, completely fucked up our mood and all we’d said.
We went home by a rickety trolleybus.

First time published at Jimblog under the title "I tebe sam sit, kafano", on 3rd of October, 2007 AD

Thanks to Ana Sekulić for translation

Two hundred marks on Drina

Today at the bank, I saw some kind of a poster showing 200 convertible marks bill. At the 200 KM bill (which is the largest appoint by the way) the honor belongs to Ivo Andrić do be on its back side (btw, quick- info: Ivo Andrić was from Dolac near Travnik, a colourfull little town, known as a birthplace for some of the greatest men of modern history like Zlata Bertl (the inventor of Vegeta), William Clinton's uncle, ex- president of the United States, Neil Armstrong's great great grandfather- the first man to wakl on the Moon- supposedly. But, Miroslav Ćiro Blažević is not from Dolac. He's from the neighbouring Dolac on Lašva).
The interesting thing is that every bill has two versions- one Federal and the other one for Repulic of Srpska. So, Ivo Andrić ended up on the RS version as well but on 1KM appoint (which I have never seen btw). I guess it is Ivo Andrić in its Serbian phase.
But, the 200 KM bill is common for RS and the FB&H- Ivo Andrić while he was Bosnian, Croat and a Serb at the sam time.
Anyhow, at one time last spring while I was exchanging currency at a local bank I receive that 200 KM bill.
That was "One Million Dollars Check" in Bosnian version.
In a famous noir hit, "One Million Dollars Chek", if I can remember, and I don't remember it too good, some guy receives a check on one million dollars and it gets him everthing he wants without actually spending a single cent. He loses that check and then there's trouble. It' s the same here, 200 KM in a wallet and off to the City. One should eat something, right?
So I enter into a burek restaurant.
- "Good afternoon"
- "Good afternoon"
- "Can I have 300 grams of burek and 200 of cabbage pitta?"
- "OK, anything else?"
- "What's that?" - I point at something undefined
- "Potato pitta"
- "Give me about 200 of potato as well."
- "Anything else?"
- "Errrr... give me one yoghurt."
So that Albanian guy gives me pile of pitta, I swallowed it with pleasure and pour it with Dukat's yoghurt.
- "I would like to pay."
- "Just a second... ccc... 300 burek, 200 cabbage, 200 potato... yoghurt...3...5...8...9,5!"
- "Here's ten"- and I give the 200 KM bill to the man.
He' stares at me... I'm holding 200 marks in ma hand looking like a flood victim.... semi- dirty "Vietnamese" jacket on me, dirty sneakers, dirty trousers and a hat saying "Splitsko- dalmatinska County's Hunting Association".
- "I don't have the change for that, man" says the dealer.
- "Fuck it, I don't have a smaller bill" - I didn't have any larger bills either, but it sounded like I had at least ten 500 € bills in my wallet.
- "It's ok, you can pay another time."
- "When? Come on, go and change it somewhere"
- Come on man, there will be another time."
Godsbe. So I walk out of that place thinking is there a man alive to forgive 10 marks. In a burek restaurant...
So I keep on walking and realize that I do not have any cigarettes.
- "Two Drinas, please."
- "3,40"
I hand the miserable bill, when the lady behind the counter (whom I always thought that had something for me):
- "It's OK, some other time"
Uff, fuck... this went nicely...
So, I move on and in some coffee shop/ bistro/bar (who can remember where it was?) I run into some of my friends and after a couple of drinks I'm off to settle the tab.
You know the story by now...
Anyway, that's how I went through half of Sarajevo and wherever I have waved with Andrić in my hand, it was like having a get-out-of-jail-free-card.
Then I returned to the bank.
- "Good afternoon."
- "You want to "break" Andrić- , right?"
- "How did you know?"
- "You're not the first to come back. How do you want it changed?"
- " 20 times10!"
I've counted off my money and went on paying bills all over the town. It's beter to have a clear face than to have Andrić in wallet

First time published at Jimblog under the title "Na Drini dvjesto maraka", on 20th of December, 2006 AD

Thanks to Dorian for translation

By the order

Slavonian custom of dinning is done in a very specific "in the order" protocol. Meal starts with shot of hard liquor, slavonian plum brand, after which comes greasy beef soup, cooked meat, sarma or stuffed peppers, fried meat and lastly dessert. Meanwhile, plater with kulin and sausages is served.
This is what slavonian dinner looks like on Sundays or during holidays like Christmas, Easter or for weddings.
One old partisan was famous for eating in his own special order disregarding "in the order" protocol. He would start with meat, sarma and than he would finish with cooked meat and soup at the very end. Once old major of Yugoslav Revolutionary Army asked him why doesn't he eat "in the order" if he was authentic Slavonian.

Then he told the story.

At the end of the WWII, his brigade was preparing for offensive attack. While partisans in other parts of Yugoslavia ate tree bark and licked piss to gain a bit of salt, partisans in Slavonia ate good.
Hidden somewhere deep in the forest they caught some venison, fired up the food kettle and started to cook slavonian čobanac (slavonian stew with venison). Alongside they set up another food kettle in which they cooked various vegetables, making some kind of partisan-vegetarian stew. Vegetarian Cuisine was known to partisans, not for principal reasons but from necessity.
While waiting for meal to be done they lay down in the woods to rest, some counted munition and checked gear, some were reading little red books supplied by political commissary. Maybe some partisan was hoping for some guerila-sex with some young partisan girl....
All of the sudden they hear enemy mortar. In moment Revolutionary Army is on its feet, with riffels in their hands. They're looking for cover in century old slavonian oaks, they call God, in which they don't believe, for help. Everybody found cover and now they are waiting for the worst.
All eyes are focused on ammunition and explosive cases in one bush. They all fear they'll witness a burning bush.
"Fiiiiiiiiiii" - grenade whistles through air. Through the trees they see grenade falling down from the sky.
Big explosion rumble the forest.
Partisans come out of cover, checking if everything is all right with their commrads. Young major, the one that after this will never again eat "in the order" comes running to other partisans.
- "I saw where it fell!"
- "Where?" - commrads ask
- "Directly in the food kettle!"
- "Which one?"
- "The one with čobanac..." - said young major with tear in his eye.


First time published at Jimblog under the title "Sve po redu", on 5th of May, 2007 AD