Small Change
1. At first, she's a tiny speck in the distance, at the other end of the path I'm jogging on. It's still early morning, but the sun is already determined and strong; it will be a fiercely hot day. The concrete path is flanked by the green of the wild grasses and the purple of the chicory bushes, all growing uncontrollably, savagely. A fine dusty haze of the early summer morning hangs among leaves and stalks like gossamer spiderwebs. We are now getting closer to each other, the only two people on the path. She has a funny way of walking: every now and then she crouches to the ground, seems to do something there, then straightens up and walks on, only to repeat the same procedure over and over again. Now I'm curious and keep my gaze steadily on her as I approach her. I try to come up with possible explanations but they all sound silly. Then I am close enough to see what she's doing: every time she notices a snail on the road, she bends, takes it between her thumb and her index finger, and places it into the grasses on the side, to prevent it from being stepped on by oblivious passers-by. This seems to be a popular time for the snail traffic - they are emerging from every direction and they all want to cross the road; I have myself seen quite a few crushed shells while jogging. She's a snail warrior and protector.... I like her, and smile as we pass by each other (and wonder, only half facetiously, if she is maybe ruining these snails' trajectory, and slowing them down by putting them on the wrong side of the road....)
2. Summer rain in Belgrade is a whimsical thing. It can start suddenly, with little or no warning, the clouds momentarily whipping up a pocket of meteorological fierceness, which might rage over Karaburma for five or ten minutes but not touch Vracar at all. If you live in one of the downhill streets close to Mirijevski Bulevar in Karaburma, you get to witness the surge of an instant river sweeping down the streets, created by the limited capacity of the sewers which simply can't take in that much water in such a small amount of time. During one such turbo rain shower, I'm standing by the window, admiring the rush of the water down the street in rapids, waves, and ripples, which even create small vortexes in some places where the surface of the street is irregular. And then I notice the city street sweeper, clad in fluorescent orange, with one of those primitive brooms in his hand, made of twigs tied together. He is tall and lanky, the orange jacket hangs from his shoulders, which are slightly hunched. He doesn't seem to be paying the smallest attention to the deluge around and above him; he is doing his job, calmly, without rushing, sweeping the wet and glistening sidewalks and collecting the garbage into a wide dust-pan. There is something about him, tall and unhurried and diligent, this man on the bottom rung of the working ladder, something arresting and admirable: the way he moves in the rain, the way he works.
3. The bus terminal in Karaburma, where buses 16, 23, and 25 end and start their routes, is a whole universe in itself. It's a jumble of small kiosks, tiny pharmacies, and minuscule shops, selling an incredible range of things: from newspapers and magazines, to underwear, frozen foods, fish and eggs, regular grocery fare, drugs, bread and pastries, seeds, cookies, dried fruits -- and all that as a competition to the covered market place next to the street, made up of about 20 stalls, selling fresh vegetables and fruits, as well as cheese. On top of all that, the street is full of street sellers, who display their goods in boxes lined up on the curb: fresh flowers, church candles, watermelons, and any seasonal fruits and vegetables, as well as small household cleaning products. Most of these street sellers are regulars: you'd see them there, in their usual spot, every day. There's Ilija, a broad-handed man on the far end of middle-age, with thick bushy eyebrows and meek eyes; his little carton stand offers a mix of thin church candles, a handful of flowers, and any seasonal fruits, which he will wrap in plain newspaper for you. Often a local stray dog or two sleep somewhere behind him, sprawled on pieces of carton. Once, I bought shiny ripe blackberries from him, and his clumsy large fingers squashed a few as he was weighing them, leaving dark stains on the wrapping paper, which I didn't notice. I must have pressed the package against my leg somehow because later I found black traces, like old blood, on my shorts, which were difficult to take out. I remember wanting to be angry at him, but couldn't. Then there's a woman selling strictly flowers standing tall in buckets with water. Her face has a very prominent distortion on one side, mostly visible in the right eye and the right corner of the mouth, which seem to have been pulled up and elongated. When you buy flowers from her, she'll pull the stalks up from the bucket, and shake them free of water droplets, before she wraps them in newspaper rather sloppily and hands them over to you. And then there's the sponge lady. She's probably around 60, with dyed hair which should be blond but is really yellowish. Her main goods are sponges, usually 3 per pack, and she'll talk and reason in a friendly way with the passers-by about the need to buy sponges; if you happen to pass by multiple times, she'll address you with the same refrain each time, "Why don't you get some sponges?" or "How about some sponges? It's good to have them!" A few times I passed by with my father as we were doing our morning grocery shopping; he always waved her offers away, and I'd turn to her and say, "See, what a man; he doesn't care about sponges...." or I'd roll my eyes and say with a mock-melodramatic voice, "He still doesn't want them!" and we'd smile at each other with some mirth. Last time I was there, one morning I was shopping on my own, and happened to wear just one earring: I had lost the other one a long time before but I liked the remaining earring and decided it was pretty and intriguing enough to be worn on its own so I sometimes did. As I was passing by the sponge lady, just as she was about to offer me her sponges, she spotted the earring irregularity, and said right away, "Where's your other earring?" I said I'd lost it, many years before - and she just shook her head with a serious expression, like a concerned aunt who takes losses and failures of the family kids personally, and would fight the whole world to protect them if necessary.
And so it goes, unmistakably and reliably: chaos and familiarity coexist on the street and create a reference point for yet another day.
4. It's not like I wait for them each night during the few weeks in the summer when I visit Belgrade, but in a way I do. For some reason, in Karaburma the garbage truck comes to pick up the garbage around midnight or just before, every night. The nights are warm, the windows half-open, all the lights are out except maybe the bluish glow of the tv, and then there it comes, the garbage truck, with flashing orange lights spilling across the angled glass of the windows and onto the opposite wall. The clanging and jangling of the metal garbage containers being lifted and emptied into the truck resonates in the night and lasts less than a minute; then they are gone, and in the newly descended silence, the day can finally go to rest, in anticipation of a not very different tomorrow.
2. Summer rain in Belgrade is a whimsical thing. It can start suddenly, with little or no warning, the clouds momentarily whipping up a pocket of meteorological fierceness, which might rage over Karaburma for five or ten minutes but not touch Vracar at all. If you live in one of the downhill streets close to Mirijevski Bulevar in Karaburma, you get to witness the surge of an instant river sweeping down the streets, created by the limited capacity of the sewers which simply can't take in that much water in such a small amount of time. During one such turbo rain shower, I'm standing by the window, admiring the rush of the water down the street in rapids, waves, and ripples, which even create small vortexes in some places where the surface of the street is irregular. And then I notice the city street sweeper, clad in fluorescent orange, with one of those primitive brooms in his hand, made of twigs tied together. He is tall and lanky, the orange jacket hangs from his shoulders, which are slightly hunched. He doesn't seem to be paying the smallest attention to the deluge around and above him; he is doing his job, calmly, without rushing, sweeping the wet and glistening sidewalks and collecting the garbage into a wide dust-pan. There is something about him, tall and unhurried and diligent, this man on the bottom rung of the working ladder, something arresting and admirable: the way he moves in the rain, the way he works.
3. The bus terminal in Karaburma, where buses 16, 23, and 25 end and start their routes, is a whole universe in itself. It's a jumble of small kiosks, tiny pharmacies, and minuscule shops, selling an incredible range of things: from newspapers and magazines, to underwear, frozen foods, fish and eggs, regular grocery fare, drugs, bread and pastries, seeds, cookies, dried fruits -- and all that as a competition to the covered market place next to the street, made up of about 20 stalls, selling fresh vegetables and fruits, as well as cheese. On top of all that, the street is full of street sellers, who display their goods in boxes lined up on the curb: fresh flowers, church candles, watermelons, and any seasonal fruits and vegetables, as well as small household cleaning products. Most of these street sellers are regulars: you'd see them there, in their usual spot, every day. There's Ilija, a broad-handed man on the far end of middle-age, with thick bushy eyebrows and meek eyes; his little carton stand offers a mix of thin church candles, a handful of flowers, and any seasonal fruits, which he will wrap in plain newspaper for you. Often a local stray dog or two sleep somewhere behind him, sprawled on pieces of carton. Once, I bought shiny ripe blackberries from him, and his clumsy large fingers squashed a few as he was weighing them, leaving dark stains on the wrapping paper, which I didn't notice. I must have pressed the package against my leg somehow because later I found black traces, like old blood, on my shorts, which were difficult to take out. I remember wanting to be angry at him, but couldn't. Then there's a woman selling strictly flowers standing tall in buckets with water. Her face has a very prominent distortion on one side, mostly visible in the right eye and the right corner of the mouth, which seem to have been pulled up and elongated. When you buy flowers from her, she'll pull the stalks up from the bucket, and shake them free of water droplets, before she wraps them in newspaper rather sloppily and hands them over to you. And then there's the sponge lady. She's probably around 60, with dyed hair which should be blond but is really yellowish. Her main goods are sponges, usually 3 per pack, and she'll talk and reason in a friendly way with the passers-by about the need to buy sponges; if you happen to pass by multiple times, she'll address you with the same refrain each time, "Why don't you get some sponges?" or "How about some sponges? It's good to have them!" A few times I passed by with my father as we were doing our morning grocery shopping; he always waved her offers away, and I'd turn to her and say, "See, what a man; he doesn't care about sponges...." or I'd roll my eyes and say with a mock-melodramatic voice, "He still doesn't want them!" and we'd smile at each other with some mirth. Last time I was there, one morning I was shopping on my own, and happened to wear just one earring: I had lost the other one a long time before but I liked the remaining earring and decided it was pretty and intriguing enough to be worn on its own so I sometimes did. As I was passing by the sponge lady, just as she was about to offer me her sponges, she spotted the earring irregularity, and said right away, "Where's your other earring?" I said I'd lost it, many years before - and she just shook her head with a serious expression, like a concerned aunt who takes losses and failures of the family kids personally, and would fight the whole world to protect them if necessary.
And so it goes, unmistakably and reliably: chaos and familiarity coexist on the street and create a reference point for yet another day.
4. It's not like I wait for them each night during the few weeks in the summer when I visit Belgrade, but in a way I do. For some reason, in Karaburma the garbage truck comes to pick up the garbage around midnight or just before, every night. The nights are warm, the windows half-open, all the lights are out except maybe the bluish glow of the tv, and then there it comes, the garbage truck, with flashing orange lights spilling across the angled glass of the windows and onto the opposite wall. The clanging and jangling of the metal garbage containers being lifted and emptied into the truck resonates in the night and lasts less than a minute; then they are gone, and in the newly descended silence, the day can finally go to rest, in anticipation of a not very different tomorrow.
A garbage container in Karaburma, in the morning
posted by Tijana | 2:37 AM
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