Part Two
Montenegro, Here I Come
And so I went further south, past Dubrovnik, all the way to Montenegro.
When I cross the border of the republic at that time, I encounter a convoy of vehicles. They were waiting for the ferry across Boka Kotorska. Since I had a lot of time at my disposal, I decide to drive along the road around the bay. So I turn the signal light on and I want to drive past the waiting line of vehicles. But a policeman, then called a militiaman, stops me. What did I do wrong, comrade militiaman. You were overtaking a line of vehicles. But they are standing, waiting for the ferry, and I am going further down the road. It doesn’t matter, pay the fine! Since you can’t negotiate with officials, basically, I paid, swallowed my pride and drove away.
And hey, on the other side of the bay, there’s traffic accident again. The police diverted us to a side road, where we kind of circled around in the wilderness, back towards the main road. And I was behind schedule again.
Towards evening, I managed to reach the small town where they were expecting me. Considering how late it was, I decided to go get something to eat first. I had information that at the intersection where I have to turn off the main road, there is an inn with good pizzas. And the information that the owner is a die-hard Serb and that he smuggles weapons.
So I park and enter. The bar is half full, solidly impressive, Balkan noisy.
I sit down at an empty table, put the camera bag at my feet. As a precaution, I never leave cameras in the car.
The friendly owner serves me, one beer goes with the pizza. Of course, he soon guesses that I’m from Slovenia. When he sees the camera bag, he asks me if I work for Mladina magazine. I maliciously tell him that no, but even worse, I work in Cankarjev dom.
Anyone familiar with the situation in Yugoslavia in the summer of 1989 knows that both statements were a serious provocation.
For a moment there was grave silence. My skin prickled and I already thought that this time I just went too far with my teasing. But in the next moment there is laughter, the locals shout, this one is good for you. And another beer comes to my table, and then another. At the expense of the house…
When I pass by the next morning, the owner greets me from afar. He turns to one guest and says, he works in Cankarjev dom, shall we beat him? Oops! Don’t panic, we’re joking, what are you going to drink?
And that was the last peaceful summer. The following summer, clashes took place in Croatia. Next summer, war in Slovenia and Croatia. And next summer the war in Bosnia. And the following summers there were state borders.
The summers of our youth never returned…