Sports Fans Denied (Khalwat)

 

 

The khalwat caning of the carpenter Affendi was carried out in Terengganu, Malaysia yesterday. In this case the public setting was confined to a mosque, where entry was restricted to seventy selected individuals (government officers, media & NGOs). Video & audio recording was forbidden.

A crowd of onlookers had managed to by-passed the first police barrier near the mosque, but were prevented at the second.

For this punishment carpenter Affendi was not stripped of his clothing and didn't cry out during it, an official reported. 

The officer administering the strokes did not raise the cane above his head and only used moderate force, according to the official. (In Singapore, at least in the past—present case was unknown—the disciplinarian danced toward the bound victim and used all his strength. This was recoded in the code and witnesses have testified. In the old days, not so long ago and again according to living witnesses, where a dozen, or even two dozen strokes were administered at one time, the rotan returned to the same tear that had been previously opened on the buttocks.)

This was the third occasion this particular chap, Affandi the carpenter, had been caught in a private place in close proximity to a female, one who was neither his wife, nor family member. (It was not reported whether the same woman had been involved on the earlier occasions.)

Previously the man had been fined and received four strokes, in private in those instances, in 2023 & earlier this year.

At least the woman here for some reason was saved the indignity.

A pair of females found a few years back in a car in some kind of compromising situation in the same Malaysian State ruled by the PAS Islamists were also publicly caned. Photos are readily available online.

 

 

Believer (It doesn’t take much) Oct25

 

I

BELIEVE 

MEDIA

IS ART

given the wagging finger as the lady passed.
         Graciously accepted with a smile, as if in fair agreement. Mid-50s innocent, gifted by an immigrant daughter, perhaps. The husband by her side raised no objection, as far as the moralist at the table could discern.

         Twenty minutes later on the return leg she was only noticed some way past, turning her head for a furtive look. ANDY WARHOL on the rear.

         A blockbuster’s advertising on these shores could easily have been missed. They came year round in succession here. 

Ping (The Dato) Nov24

 

Reappeared the Dato after an absence. Must have been up to visit his fellow notables on the Peninsula. Light-on here for a court this morning, only a couple Batam gals provided tehs smiling at his chat. Brilliant raven dye applied for his return the night before by the looks. Always dapper to the max—belted trousers, long-sleeve shirt, watch & polished lace-ups. Narrow eye-slits through this Ramadan period. In a glimpse a moment ago when he had risen from his chair and stood in place like a rooster ready for something, a definite ping again for Kenny Rousell back in the day. Bit taller than Kenny, at least the Kenny of primary school. Kenny the vital link in the chain for the playground lunchtimes, recess & home time. Win over Kenny you were untouchable. Lad couldn’t play any of the games himself, no good at athletics. Lower level academically, if there really was such a meaningful hierarchy at Spottie. (Certainly Andrew Meerman’s Russian mother in her leopard prints, with polished silverware, knew better than most, grooming her boy for the future with piano lessons, tennis & Anglicanism.) Ultimately Kenny ruled through perfect grace you might call it: steady, fair, respectful to all. Recall his life-saving kindness accepting the horrible, gross & disgusting birthday present offered him, bought by Bab for the occasion: a striped plastic pencil case in the form of a rocket or missile. Such as was going to the moon shortly, or else being fired from aircraft carriers in a war not very far away. This was once the invitation to the afternoon party at Kenny’s was obtained; when numerous boys failed to gain. (Surprisingly, puny step-over Stephen Mead too had been one of the chosen.) For a boy of eleven! Leader of the rat pack! Andrew you could imagine it. Andrew might have gleefully accepted coloured pencils, an ink pen, grammar & spelling book for birthday presents. Coolest dude in school, in the whole neighbourhood, Ken responds to the pre-emptive taunt, No, it’s a good one. I like it. Without slightest trace of irony. Two big brothers with cars; at least one big sister. Party hats all round, candles on a cake, little trumpets that uncoiled a long colourful snake. Oh! Meadie let off. Defended decently by K. Recall the memorable council convened in the playground under the monkey-bars  by Kenny, after Greg C landed at school with his shiner and cut lip, administered by his police sergeant father. (More or less deserved in fact for sexual relations with the beautiful new girl Yvonne, who shortly before had confessed in writing it was you she really loved.) Kenny masterfully prosecuting the horrid Brute’s crime, while the victim unable to utter a single syllable himself. By comparison Dato here was all puffed up pretence. In a little extended exchange the tissue-seller just now wholeheartedly agreed: bought the honour like all those other frauds up on the Peninsular.

 

NB. The royal passed away earlier in the year it was only revealed a short while ago.

 

 

True Radiance

  

Tall young chap on the counter at Crossways, the HK place on Swanston, gave off some radiance dishing up the meal. In the first moment it wasn’t clear whether he may have remembered the regular. 

         Extending the initial glow, he progressed a step further.

         After seeing you my mind is more calm. 

         Wattage! Booster charge! 

         Every reason of course for a ruffled, if not disturbed mind on that busy street. 

         The older Indians serving, and the younger too, managed it with ease and naturalness. The young local must have noticed. 

         Informed that the expression was widely used and in other cultures surprised the lad and he felt the need to defend himself. 

         I meant it. 

         Sure, sure. It was all good.

         Bab herself had never used the expression, or perhaps only the once at some particular occasion, with a little lightness. 

         Blazene oci koje vide te. 

         Blazene was tricky. Gifted with light or radiance; with pleasure and delight. Blazo & Blaze or Blazenka were male and female given names, common up on Village Uble. 

         Eyes delighted to see you; for greeting. 

         Sometimes those hill people had really lit up back in the day. You had caught some of the last of it during the first visit in the early ‘80s.

Melbourne

April ‘24

Tropical Promenade

 Another case of decided reluctance to record the matter. Again, there was nothing in it; the whole thing was all simple and rudimentary. Displays of that kind were common in all the cities of the world; in SE Asia and on the Equator certainly, not excluding Sin’pore. Only it did return to stab the brain, as had been well anticipated. Being so aged—usually these fossickers were rarely under forty—the old nene was particularly striking; in her case 9 - 10 years above the average. Well, upon reflection, perhaps that was more like 20 years above. It was only after the seat on the bench was taken that the KFC opposite was noticed. Arrh! Worse than the gelato back a way. The thought of the industrial farming. (One of your earliest teen jobs had been at the Colonel’s, remember, where an older lad named Laurie taught how to steal the succulent segment of the chicken breast. Customers never noticed.) Ten minutes later the heaped refuse bags were noticed, arranged around the lamppost almost touching distance. You would catch snatches of the sour tang when the bags came to be disturbed. Another 10 - 15mins passed watching the evening Malioboro crowd on their tropical promenade: children with their clackers & balloons, girls taking turns capturing friends leaning against lampposts, some oldies arm-in-arm, couples made or still making out. The pavement didn’t cost anything and not everyone felt the need to dress for it. After a couple days of sporadic rain storms there was some soothing evening cool. From behind the old, reed-thin nene rocked up unexpectedly in the midst, far from out of place in her person. Her business was common too, though in this case she arrived without her dirty white poly bag. An old, worn sarong and frayed, nondescript black top. Grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Reed more than pencil thin here; luckily there was no wind on the Equator. And there she was, at the bags without further ado. Four or five large black plastic bags. During her work there the Colonel’s man from indoors brought out another 2 - 3 more. There was no need of a bag of her own the nene knew. By picking through the lot, each bag methodically, extracting the recyclable plastic, there would remain a bag for her haul. The articles of value she heaped on the pavement and returned all the rest to the bags. Plastic cups still holding liquid or straws were emptied, the former into the roadside planter box, latter back into the refuse bags. Doing it all properly and thoroughly would need not 10mins. Not 15 or even 20mins would do. The old nene may have kept at her task almost an entire half hour. Working steadily and without hurry, unavoidably getting gunk on her hands and shaking it off, or wiping on the side of a bag. Patiently the nene worked. Being short, unlike in the padi, the nene didn’t need to bend very far. It was mostly drink containers that had value, regular, medium & large. Some chucks of ice remained in some. There were only a few plastic bottles—KFC no doubt refused food and drink from outdoors within their airconned dining room. Straws were mostly fluro yellow; lids were thinner and valueless. None paid the nene any attention. It was all routine. The becak & carriage drivers went about their own business, which during this particular hour of this particular evening proceeded with hardly a single  fare. At one point a fellow plastic fossicker, a tall male at the first impression, but possibly female, drawn effortlessly from Dickens or even Chaucer, stopped briefly for an exchange. There appeared a kind of smile from the figure during the course. Off they soon went with their dirty white poly bag over the shoulder. It was a brief pause in the nene’s work. From the distance of little over a metre she could not have heard the snorted wincing beneath the street bustle. The becak drivers that gathered, one taking a seat on the bench a number of times, might have heard and understood, without any reaction. Google Transl was deployed for 20 minutes. (Shameful to admit, 10s, 100s & 1,000s could still be confused even after almost ten full years in the region.) Twenty minutes working, the becak drivers needed to be told, but there came no opportunity to tell them. After 10 - 12mins a Rp2k was pulled from the pocket for when the lady was done. On she went, however. Ten minutes later a second two was added to the first. Jesus God! The notes were folded over and clenched tight. On the nene ploughed, taking no notice of the white guy, no notice of any of the drivers nor the passersby. Mostly she faced the bench, or presented a good part of her profile. A viewer could only avert the gaze so long. Two thirds through her labour at the KFC garbage a lavender Rp10k was extracted in place of the other two. For some reason the pair of twos (2 x $0.20c) were returned to the pocket. The nene needed to be waited out some more. The mental snagging was like flipping war atrocities in the newspapers. The lady here would not be satisfied until she had combed through every single corner of every one of the 6 - 7 bags. One of the becak drivers scored a passenger after having missed out a little while before. Earlier the chap had taken a couple over to his conveyance and it must have been some difference over the price that had the customers decline at the last moment. Still the grannie kept on. One plump, not particularly pretty shopgirl delivered what would in former time, in other circs, have been a stupendously sexy, sly routine on her little stage set, clasping the small of her back where she ached and walking a couple of slow paces with pelvis thrust; a thigh muscle began to twitch and needed attention. When at long last the nene was actually done and began to move off she took a little round, giving the bench a wide berth. Twice or three times she needed to be hailed before she heard and comprehended. Nene. Nene. Very nearly she got away. A wet hand received the note. It was uncertain whether the becak drivers heard or saw.

 

        Yogyakarta

 

 

 

Inching Forward (Oct25)

 

An hour & half after encountering the chap 200m up the road, here he was again almost arrived at the kopi shop. It was a slow crawl, or drag in his case; literally travelling by the seat of his pants. In the Malay quarter of Singapore a white songkok signified a man who had performed the hajj. Perhaps someone had paid for this man’s fare and he had somehow, just as here, managed the seven circuits of the Kaaba. No deformation was apparent; the left leg twisted inward, perhaps. A pair of flip flops for gloves, which would keep his hands relatively clean. Some kind soul did his laundry, provided or fetched food, helped him in his ablutions. Early-50s. In the 10mins it needed for the man to cross in front of the shop he had received alms 5 - 6 times. As he goes he often mutely raises his eyes to passersby. Many would take him as one of the street people paused beneath the veranda.

 

 

 

Source of Life (July26)

The water Pedler could no longer be ignored. Twenty minutes before when she stopped at the table she had been declined. Dark, with that kind of axe feature of African masks that sometimes appeared on the street. From the table she had gone to lean against a pillar, where she found no better luck. While stopped there another Pedler of the same came up before her, a younger woman, blind in one eye from some kind of mishap. There looked to have been no words exchanged, not a syllable. Without any communication, the Elder knew what was needed. From a corner of her own little stand, which she had removed from her neck, a bottle was taken and exchanged for a similar in the half-Blind’s shelf sitting on her midriff. The Elder’s may have been cooler, a more appealing product on the blazing street beyond the veranda. When the regular busker was given his Rp2k (20c), he was slipped an additional five to deliver across, something which gave him pleasure.

Malioboro, Yogyakarta 

Lesson Learned (Oct25)

This was very much a known, well-known and unforgettable from the earliest months in the republic to the north. Perhaps now the example could be found throughout the globe, best biz practise in the competitive service sector. Possibly it was connected to the introduced Christian purity in the region too. Was it a coincidence the place was manned by a Petrus, a Maria & Raphael? A chain, yes, young Maria answered. This morning was the first example of the cleaning of the broad leaves of the five pots squeezed into one corner of the entry. Maria armed with a moist cloth. In order to clean properly of course it was best two-handed, one beneath the leaf so that the surface was firmed & flattened, like on an ironing board. Couple minutes done. It was the last part that struck particularly.  A sec needed to untangle. Ya, the photo was group WhatsApp for the manager, Maria explained. Cleaning. And, Cina orang the topmost, owner of the chain, ya. Frequent visitor to the northern republic, if not resident, the latter, one could safely bet sheep stations.

Keeping Order

Footing up for the cafe this morning perhaps 2 doz. mid-teen boys proceeding along in the opposite direction in a long line of pairs on the outer path, green long-sleeved tees & caps many of them. Toward the rear the elder, early 30s, blew a whistle and called a command, which halted the line. More commands followed before the boys set off again in slightly better order, swinging arms more rhythmically and keeping in-step. The narrow path had them bunched closely abreast. Dull, blank faces; some cloud cover was in their favour. Yes, sekola, the button-holed lady under the veranda agreed. Or in her pronunciation, skola. (Otherwise they might possibly have been delinquents from a reformatory.) Fifty metres on there was more charm in a group of early primary girls in their other kind of uniform, full-length tunics in white with orange trim, sitting on the inner path around the teacher on the bench. With the former general, former head of Special Forces, accused war criminal banned from entry into a number of countries, in the Presidential saddle now after numerous attempts and one large organised protest at the last failure (very much ala Trumpet), you had to worry.

Street Speak (Jogja) Aug25

In the last 24 hours in Jogja the street spoke something of its former self.

As happens travelling in foreign parts, the particular day & hour had completely slipped. Suddenly arriving back in the middle of the gang with Suze and the Majalengka kids, the crowd of men appeared at the other end, scores of them in their bright attire filling the passage. More men entered as we progressed and when we began to pass pressed close, inevitably resulting in brushes against each other. At the losmen younger lads in some kind of white tunic top, perhaps from one of the hotels, had even come into the eating hall of Adhi's and lay bunched over the tiling, many propped against the wall fixed on their screens. Back in G Serai too it was always awkward walking against the tide Fridays as either the men were going across for the prayer, or leaving afterward. It was an unfortunate, but inevitable division. Head bowed, slowed pace and turning aside like a sail was the best that could be managed.

 

Mid-eve walking up to see the becak driver Agus an old man seated on the paving called one back for a closer look; called back and detained in order that he might be acknowledged somehow. The coin he used for his amusement seemed smaller than the one rupiah; shinier and smaller, perhaps viewed from standing height. In his mid and possibly late 70s, the chap had perfected the spinning of the piece across the smooth surface squares. Standing the coin upright with his thumb, it may have been his middle finger giving the flick. How the glinting disk spun on its axis a foot or more, causing the man to stretch reaching for it after each turn. Marvellous. 

When the man noticed the admiration he was equally chuffed, bowing modestly, before raising his smiling face and extending a small, brown, leathery hand. Doubly marvellous.

 

And then the morning’s plastics scavenger he may have been. The action that unfolded there was so impressive, so compelling and overwhelming, that memory of the man’s occupation could not be recalled. 

Possibly it was drinks he was hawking, or indeed collection of plastics. The man may have walked barefoot, though in the city usually only the odd ancient remained unshod. 

The becak driver he approached was sitting in his conveyance with others parked in the gutter. That man was well into his 70s, if not pitched beyond. The younger came up to the edge of the path and lent in to the driver, reaching his shoulder and around to his back, patting and caressing. 

Ten or a dozen touches were made by the brown hand over the blue tee, not including between times the alternating rubbing & squeezing. The words added were inaudible over the distance and would have been mostly unintelligible in any case. 

Plastics must have been the chap’s concern, otherwise he would have presented the driver an offering.  

Very likely the dirty white poly bag over his shoulder had immediately dropped from memory.

 

NB. It was the eve of the ancestral Saints Day back in the village, St Petka; Paraskeve for the Greeks.

Kerchief

 

We always had little embroidered handkerchiefs like that at home. It may have been only the women who kept them tucked in their left sleeve, where they made a little lump at the wrist. Real handkerchiefs did not appear for us children until around high school, and even then they weren’t the full adult size. Along the Mustafa passage here lunchtimes there might be five or six workers from the department store, all in their sky blue shirts and blouses, getting some shut-eye after their meal. Beyond Verdun corner there were more over the benches and within the alcoves. In the first section some of the regulars could be identified  by the backs of their heads and their rounded shoulders. One broad-backed younger chap was clearly struggling with the regime; there was never a pass without him down for the count in the middle section, head resting on his forearm. The lady with the little blue & white kerchief brought from home, little older than the lad, managed the heat no better. There were likely early rises and crossings over the Causeway from Malaysia here for much of this workforce. Naturally the department store was airconned; that provision was one of the great pluses for the commercial sector. Nevertheless, many of the Mustafa staff were zonked by lunch; like legions of others, they would snooze on the buses & trains homebound. After her meal each day the lady here lays her colourful cloth neatly over her forearm for some softer cushioning; overnight she might wash it with a fragrant detergent. It seems to be the only one in her wardrobe at home, or at least reserved for the purpose. In former time in some countries women would happily celebrate certain occasions twirling such apparel over their heads. Few in Singapore seemed to use handkerchiefs; the elderly hawked tissue packs on the street, 3 @ $2. Viet and Mainland Chinese groups flew in couple of years ago for intense four week peddling.

Serbian Legends

 

Getting off the bus from Belgrade—two and a half hours express—the chap manning the luggage counter immediately guessed from the description.

Deda Slaviša. Grandad Slavisha.

Most of the gypsies around the place knew him too and had a smile and a crack for Slavo when we went round the piazza later.

Seventy seemed inapplicable for a man like Slavo. Much of the vehemence and restlessness was retained. The local notoriety was first gotten for his football skills back in the early 60's, when Slavo was a star in one of Niš’s big teams. Played with heart, the old guys reported. Knew how to roll it.

The local Komren team had evidently done their region proud, providing a number of players to the national league.

Both Slavo and his side-kick Uroš got to the land of Oz through their football. Čika Danilo the Serb butcher in Acland St brought the pair out.

Čika Danilo had been one of the chief sponsors of Footscray JUST. The club President back then was the Dalmatian Čika Ante, who ran The Vineyard steakhouse behind Luna Park.

Slaviša's mate Uroš, a fellow primary schooler, was half gypsy. Truth be told, many in the region of Niš had something of the gypsy quality. The gypsy population in those parts was among the highest in Europe. Macedonia further to the south was even larger. (Isabel Fonseca in her book, Bury Me Standing, uses a verse from one of their songs for her epigraph: the gypsies call for vertical burial because they have been on their knees all their lives.)

Uroš lasted in Australia about a dozen years. Unlike Slavo, he couldn’t hold down a job. Through the early ‘80's you could have seen Uroš nights in the tram stop on the corner of Brunswick & Gertrude Streets, drinking with the blakfellas.

On the park Uroš was known as the Assassin, not for his football skills, but because when he got mowed down on his runs he would memorably curse his opponent and threaten various forms of imminent death. Laughable for a scarecrow like U.

A bit player on the field, Uroš’s talent was as a musician, mostly self-taught piano-accordionist.

Uroš played and sang his heart out on the second night in Niš. In Melbourne he had played weddings, christenings and the Yugo bars—the Rob Roy had been a regular venue, restaurants Macedonia and Yugoslavia down the road.

That warm June night Uroš quickly took up his instrument, with partner Žiža adding her voice when she knew the words. Occasionally Slavo entered third harmony.

Žiža was a little restrained in the circumstances. A couple of times she asked for lowered volume. Some years before, after his return from Australia, Uroš had enticed Žiža from her first husband over the back fence. An hour into the playing this neighbour began to return fire from his side with other old folk songs on his cassette recorder. The clacketing tape ran off the reel at one point and Uroš had no difficulty out-gunning the wheezy old box.

From the side of the case Uroš’s long thin fingers danced over the buttons. Getting muddled once or twice, he peered around the front of the instrument to straighten himself out. Despite the early June heat, before starting Uroš had asked Žiža to fetch a vest from indoors to lighten the load on his shoulders. Uroš’s lashes were long like his fingers; lips & nose conforming. In certain aspects, in particular movements, there was something of the assassin in Uroš, something of the blade.

When he took a smoke and there was no room for pause, Uroš placed the cigarette in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, playing on.

Uroš could not have weighed more than 45 kg. Giving Žiža the lead and encouraging her, Uroš threw out the accordion in her direction and brought it back from the rise. His own voice was thin and tuneless, but when Žiža retreated or didn’t know the words, Uros filled the breach, relying on the lyrics for effect.

Through the little concert on the patio outside the back door a screeching came up from the dark on the other side of the house that was put down to kokoške, chooks. A couple days later Uroš showed his vineyard behind the house and an orchard beyond. On one side of the house there was a vegetable garden and the other a sty and large chicken coop.

In the light of day the fowl was revealed as ducks, turkeys, chickens and pesky pheasants that were said to be deadly for snakes and rats. It was the pheasants that had let up those tearing cries through the concert.

The locals seemed acclimatised to the odour of the chicken poo. A large cage of turkey chicks hung a couple metres from our table, the light within the cage throwing shadows on the house wall when the chicks stirred. Regular unruliness in the cage needed Žiža’s intervention.

Underfoot a pair of dogs, one of whom died the day after, had nuzzled our legs and a number of kittens made movement precarious. Uroš played on from his store of songs, the old themes returning again and again: love & heartbreak, sons & mothers, fate & nevermore, the café and drink.

A mother reported the unfaithfulness of her beautiful daughter-in-law to her son, who let it pass, so besotted was he by the beauty. Startling turnarounds came one after the other. The recourse to the café and bottle, grief and its term, the domain granted love & beauty, all found uncommon reconciliations one after another. The verses stabbed and stabbed again, far too rapidly to be retained.

Uroš, Žiža and Slavo sang the well-known songs together, in a discordant, moving unison. There was time only for a brief gloss and clarification, before Uroš moved on, his long, thin fingers reaching further again.

Uroš kept fit and nimble. Younger, cleaner-living, non-drinking friends had peeled off. Slavo and Uroš often joked about their drinking. After a heavy night they mock-berated one another.

We’re not going to drink any more. // Nor any less.

One day near the end of the stay there were three separate deaths to mark. In the morning the first anniversary of Slavo’s brother Petar’s passing needed marking. Slavo wasn’t going to the wake at his nephew’s after the visit to the grave, as he had unaccountably been left off the list of mourners on the notice.

We followed the neighbours and relatives slowly in the car while they trudged up to the graveyard. Everyone brought an offering to share, the men a bottle of rakija and the women food. After the priest rattled through his verses each man and woman came around, taking care not to miss anyone in the circle.

During the course Uroš sidled over with perfect deadpan.

Majku mu jebem, Mother be fucked. Why was I born 30 years too soon.

Earlier, prior to departure for the cemetery, the news had come that another pal had passed. On the eve Vlasta Pečeni, Baked Vlasta—not to be confused with Vlasta Gumeni, Vlasta Rubberman—died in his bed.

Slavo had mentioned this Vlasta in the days prior. A telecommunication company had been attempting to erect a transmission tower adjacent Slavo’s land, in the midst of dense housing. This had roused neighbourhood protest, with Baked Vlasta the most effective and formidable.

Like a number of other relatives, neighbours and acquaintances, Baked Vlasta had served time. Mostly it was theft and larceny, sometimes serious violence. In protesting the tower, Baked Vlasta had threatened council officers and police too, reminding them of his form. All their addresses could be easily discovered, he warned.

Early in his prison term years before Baked Vlasta had managed a remarkable escape. That day the judge who had sat at his trial was paid a surprise visit. The trembling fellow was taken in hand and shown a long knife. No need alarm; the judge wouldn’t be harmed. Vlasta simply made the man swear the next time he sat in judgement, he would give the accused a fair chance to explain himself and tell his side of the story. Baked Vlasta had seemed perfectly well the day before.

Slavo and Uroš took the bottle of rakija to the widow for condolences, only to learn there of another death that same day. This acquaintance fetched back to the footballing days.

In the evening we drove to Upper Komren to pay our respects. As the lads were soaked by then, a driver was needed. Being further out from town, en route there were barns, orchards, green cornfields and browning haystacks. At the house the deceased was laid on a table in what must have been the living room, body covered by a blanket, with added towels on top, because of the odour, Slavo said. The days were hot, though nights cooled quickly. An air-cooler rattled at the head of the casket, to which the bereaved son regularly added water. Old women in widow’s weeds made up the circle. After a decent interval we went to stand under a large fig where some men had gathered.

Among the group was the star of the old team. Slavo, always considered and honest in judgement, acknowledged this Johnny as champion. Johnny had been a play-maker, highly skilled dribbler, tough and hard. The men in the group continued to hold their former star in highest regard.

It seemed Johnny reigned in Upper Komren for other than sporting talent too. The man quietly, unabashed, received the tributes from his former teammates. The deceased had been an occasional player in the team. Johnny recalled a game when the man’s father had come looking for his son to help with the work back home. Before the father could sight him the lad had run from the field and hid in the corn.

Uroš asked the precise age of their friend. It turned out he was two years younger than U.—born in Slavo’s year. Uroš had been drinking the entire day. He wanted company into the night, which led to words with Slavo. The pair had no reserve when they cussed each other. Even the most offensive fucking of mothers was included. There was I fuck you in the mouth, your sister/father/brain/elbow/all. A deft comic duet.

Two other outings at Niš included historical monuments. A short drive out of town was the place of the last stand of the great Stevan Sindjelić. Sindjelić led the local uprising against the Ottomans early in the nineteenth century that finally, after five hundred years (six hundred for Greece), liberated the Balkans. 2009 was the bicentenary of the battle. King Alexander had built a modest monument to commemorate Cega, where Stevan Sindjelić, surrounded and greatly out-numbered (betrayed by the Russian Tzar with a separate peace), fired into his gun-powder to take with the remnant of his own men a large number of besieging Turks.

An old pal of the boys was the monument’s custodian, a man named Miroselac (Village-Peace-Maker), who liked a drop and gave the history more smoothly when lubricated. The monument was in the form of a simple tower, from whose height the lie of the battlefield could be seen. The area remained unsettled; with the help of some maps the folds of land gave some hint of the old battle.

A couple days later we went out along the road to Sofia to see Čele Kula—the House of Skulls. After the battle at Čega the enraged Turks had severed the heads of the Serbs and mounted them on crude stands. Originally there were some nine hundred in the cube of lime and mortar about four metres square, the guide informed.

It was a simple structure initially. Again it had been Alexander who had sanctified the fallen, having the original monstrosity housed in a Victorian-style crypt.

Slavo recollected a visit in his youth when he maintained the skulls had stood at that time in the open, outside any roofing. The guide replied many made the remark on returns in adulthood, only the skulls sitting in the rows being retained in memory. At our visit there were a dozen or so skulls remaining, including what was reputed to be Sindjelić’s own, now encased in glass. Relatives had taken heads away for burial; others too mementoes.

 

NB. Initially drafted 2009 after the first visit to Niš, Southern Serbia.