A FRIENDLY ANNEXATION

Greymouth Evening Star, 14 August 1933, Page 11

A FRIENDLY ANNEXATION

LIFE ON A BOSNIAN FRONTIER Some people declare that' village life Is dull. They would change their minds rapidly if they came to the small hamlet on the banks of the Drina in which I have been staying (writes a Manchester Guardian correspondent). Across the river lies Bosnia, where they pay no tax on tobacco. We are in Old Serbia, so we pay! The village reeks of tobacco smoke, but “there is very little demand for tobacco,” says the village storekeeper.

Yesterday we won an island for Serbia. To-day we are celebrating the victory by a holiday. According to the postman, who, of course, reads all our postcards and comments freely on them, we are entitled to two hundred holidays every year if only we obey the Serbian Church calendar. But this is how we won the island. All the village grandees repaired to the river, where boats were in waiting. 1 was invited as a guest and as a witness to see that fair play was observed. We entered the boat and were rowed to the island in midstream. A similar fleet came from Bosnia. Solemnly we measured the distance from Bosnia to the island, and that from the island to Serbia. We had gained four metres of mud and so reduced our distance from the island. Bosnia, it. appeared, had lost some mud, and, consequently, the island, which had been in her' keeping for the last twelve months. Of course we invited the losers to the- celebration, and they, of course, accented the invitation, as the Serbs had done as losers the year before. Not many of the peasants from this area migrate to Belgrade. They consider that life in that city is far too expensive for an honest man. At home in the village their wants are few, and it is easy to become affluent if one uses one’s wits and one’s hands. Besides, a man cannot control his wife in a city, Stefan told me.

I have seen what Stefan means by controlling his wife. She must walk two yards behind him as he comes from home to the cafe; she must carry his baggage; she must stand until he has greeted all his friends and wait till he has been served with his glass of “rakija,” before she sits down at the table to consume a cup of Turkish coffee. I have seen her hoist the pig he bought on to her shoulders and march back home with it. I can believe that it would be difficult for him to control his wife in Belgrade. A T.T. RACE. Last week we had a- motor race in the village. More precisely, we took part in the Serajevo-Belgrade motor race. we were on the direct line of route. The first car was due to pass us at ten o’clock. We were ready at nine, and steadily drank cup after cup of coffee until twelve. Not wishing to lose out point of vantage at the cafe, we ordered lunch, and then drank coffee until three-thirty, when the first car arrived. It was in difficulties. Our good Velja, the blacksmith, was ready with hammer and chisel. He worked hard. The second car, and the third, and the seventh crawled towards Belgrade. Then, he declared that the car was ready for

the’road. No doubt the driver eventually reached his destination arid replenished his vocabulary. May his words bring us better roads! The Serbian peasant, judging him from this village, cares little for religion. He goes to church if there happens to be one at hand. It is an excuse for a gossip, and it is useful to bo able to say, “I am an orthodox believer” when there is to be a distribution of Government benefits or jobs. The peasant does not object to the priest himself; on the contrary, he pays twopence a year’ to the Parish Council for the maintenance of a minister of the faith, and he takes full advantage of his services when he is born or marries or dies. In winter’ the priest is a social asset to the village; for he can play cards, sing, tell tales, and will rarely refuse to test the inside of a bottle of fiery spirit when asked to do so. This was a devastated area in 1918. The only sign we can see now of- the war is a monument on the mountain top to the right of us. Under it He 70,000 dead Serbians and Austrians. Young Ivan, with a gun over his shoulder, called at my house this morning on his way up the mountain. He was in search of the wolf that has been devouring local sheep. A FAIR. The Vasha—a country fair—is taking place this week. For months the local committee has spent many weary hours listening to requests for stands and booths. The funds thus collected go towards the upkeep of the roads. A weekly fair would not suffice to make them first-class ones! We have brass bands, string bands, fiddlers, gusla players, and organs, each producing its own melody in defiance of its neighbour. There are roasted pig, broiled sheep, rakija and , Turkish coffee to sustain us when we are weary of dancing —we all dance at some part of the day at the Vasha. Wo eat our food under the. shade of the trees that border the main road. Merry-go-rounds, lotteries, shooting ranges, tempt the venturesome. Oxen at 10,000 dinars a pair are offered to the serious-minded; and the thrifty housewife can bargain for her winter fuel or examine cotton thread from Lancashire which she will use to make the household sheets when the weather is too cold for out door occupations. A bundle of rags that lay at my feet a moment ago uncurled slowly. Two sloe-black eyes gazed into mine and a. grimy hand slipped out from the filthiest part of the bundle. In the eyes lurked mystery and cunning and the fullest joy of living. I slipped a dinar into the hand, and the gipsy woman chuckled as she darted off to try the same trick on another unsuspecting- stranger. Two small boys stopped me as I turned homewards. They offered me cherries at half the market price. The current price in the, village is pure robbery, but the price I was offered needed a robbery to account for it. ‘‘Truly' Methuselah was a happy man to live so long in the country,” murmered a wizened old peasant of nine and ninety summers as he sipped slowly the glass of burning plum brandy I offered to him. In this village I am inclined to agree with him.