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Living In Britain vs. Living In The Balkans

“What’s it like, living in the Balkans?” Back home in Britain (I can’t bring myself to use the old Imperialistic adjective anymore) during the annual orgy of consumerism, excess and family stress that we call “Christmas”, the question was often put by family and friends.

Confessing to really not knowing where to start, I used the old mirror trick. “What’s it like, living in Britain these days?” My question was only partly rhetorical.

During those few short days, mercifully before a snowfall that would not have raised an eyebrow in Belgrade brought my old country to its knees, closing roads, schools, railways and airports, I had seen enough to remind me why I find life generally more civilised in ‘deprived’, ‘backward’, and ‘isolated’ Belgrade.

It starts soon enough after landing at Heathrow. Wait for an anxious eternity for your bags to arrive, find your way somehow to the bus station (queues are involved, naturally) and then try to while away some time before your bus arrives. Try to ignore the faint smell of fear and paranoia that terrorism has indelibly left hanging in the air. Be careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Study the departures board, with its rash of ‘delayed’ and ‘cancelled’ notices (no snow yet, remember). Queue again, for the privilege of paying 15 euros for terrible coffee and an indifferent sandwich and sit among rubbish and uncleared tables.

Much later, after a couple of expensive drinks (no table service – wait at the bar) and an hour or so of happy nostalgia with an old mate, walk home through the streets of your affluent, middle class home town. It’s only around 9pm, but there are already people throwing up in the street. Gangs of young girls, drunk before they left home, their micro skirts barely covering their “Christmas” underwear and their wilfully exposed cleveages and thighs glowing seasonably red in the bitter wind, hold each other up as they stagger on their high heels. They screech like sirens as they wobble to their next port of call, their heads adorned with flashing reindeer antlers or plastic mistletoe branches. It is hard to imagine their evening, or their lives, ending happily, somehow. Some of them will probably wake up with a hangover, a stranger and a present that may last for life, not just for Christmas.

Walk past shops that are still open, long after anyone is interested, in a desperate attempt to sell just a few more things that nobody really needs. Walk past many others that are boarded up, early losers in the game of recession. Stop to give a few coins to one of the homeless kids lurking in a freezing doorway. Wonder what Christmas means to her. Chose your route home carefully, to avoid potential danger, real and imagined, from drug-craving muggers and drunken yobs. Think about taking a taxi, but quickly forget it – 20 euros for a 10 minute ride, if you can find one at all. You are not allowed to hail one in the street. There are no buses at this time of night, naturally.

Mercifully, there are still a few individuals – kind, generous, loving people who selflessly offer welcome refuge and solace from the madness outside, and ask for nothing in return. They know who they are.

What’s it like, living in the Balkans? Well, it’s many things, both good and bad. But one thing I am sure about; it’s different. I love my country. We all do. That’s why it’s sad to see it suffering economic collapse, moral bankruptcy and social decay. I love my family and my friends dearly too. I just wish I could pick them all up and bring them back with me. Oh, and my local pub would be welcome, too. Especially if they leave the smoking ban behind.

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