VILLAGE LIFE

Rotorua Morning Post, Volume 3, Issue 623, 30 August 1933, Page 7

VILLAGE LIFE

in old serbia RELIGION NOT REGARDED AS IMPORTANT BY PEASANTS HOW AN ISLAND WAS WON j Some people declare that village j life is dull. They would change thedr | minds rapidly • if they came to the small hamlet on the banks of the Drina in which I have been staying, writes a correspondent in the. "Manchester Guardian." 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 de■mand for tobacco," says the village storekeeper. Recently w© won an island for Serbia, and we are now 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 200 holiday s every year if only we obey the Serbian Church calendar. But this is how we won the islancl. All the village grandees repaired to the river where boats were in waiting. I 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. The spring filoods had been lcind to Serbia. We had gained four metres of mud and so redueed our distance from the island. Bosnia, it appeared, had lost some mud, and, consequently, the island, which had been i* her keeping for the last twelve months. Of course we invited the losers to the celebration, and they, of course, accepted 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 e.asy 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 caf e ; she must carry his baggage; she must stand until he has greeted a'll 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 colfee. I have seen her hoist the pig he brought 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. Recently we had a motor race in the village. More preeisely, we took part in the Sarajevo-Belgrade motor race. We were on the direct line of route. The first car was due to pass us at 10 o'clock. We were ready at nine, and steadily drank cup after cup of coffee until 12. Not wishing to lose our point of vantage at the cafe, we ordered lunch, and then drank coffee until 3.30, when the first car arrived. It was in clifficulties. Our good Velja, the black smith, was ready with hammer and chisel. He worked hara. 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 and replenished his vocabulary. May his words bring us bettei' roads! The Serbian peasant, judging him1 from this village, cares little for religion. He goes to church if there happens to be one near at hand. It is an excuse for a gossip, and it is useful to be 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 serviees when- he is born or marries or dies. In winter the priest is a social asset to the village; for he can play eards, 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 devasted 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 lie 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. The Yasha, a country fair, is an important event. For months before it is held the local committee spends 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-elass 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, jakja, and Turkish coffee to sustain us when we are weary of dancing — we all dance at some part of the day at the Vasha. We 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 dinas 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 outdoor oceupations. j A bundle or rags that lay at my feet a moment ago uncurled slowly. Two sloe-black eyes gazed into mitie and a grim'y hand slipped out from the filthiest part of the bundle. In the eyes there 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 balf the market pripe. The current price in the village is pure robbery, but the price I was offered /