Thus behold! For I am too lazy to make a better introduction.
Tales of the Balkans
- Taking a dump in a minefield
So it's been a long trip. You and your dad are taking a nice drive through the country (lets say in Bosnia). The idea is to have some nice together time.
You've been driving in silence for an hour and a half, apart from the two times you mentioned how much cowshit indeed, stank in the countryside.
"I need to take a dump," You say with a scowl. Your Father gives you a long look.
"Me too."
"I believe we just passed the last diner on the road, now there's just nothing for another half an hour."
"When you gotta go, you gotta go," your father informs you wisely.
He pulls over (he's been driving). To a sort of a pit stop in the road where the abandoned skeleton of a Yugo lays, along with a rubbish bin. The countryside is overgrown with bushes.
"I'm first," you inform with finality.
"Here take these tissues, what are we barbarians? What were you gonna use without them?"
"I just need to take a dump old man."
"Hurry up, so do I. You do know we're in a minefield?" Your father scratches his nose
"Yep."
"You gotta go, you gotta go, remember, behind the sign mind you."
"Indeed if one must go, one must go. But one must make sure one is behind the sign." I said in my best old Chinese voice (which sounded Italian).
Two signs warn you not to walk onto the field, in the bushes or anywhere but the road, proclaiming: MINES Do not approach. The skulls and crossbones on the signs seem to be watching you critically.
"I need to poop," You inform their sightless eyes.
The friendly relaxation inducing sign.
But you are well versed in tradition. You walk directly to the signs. Drivers go by, each one craning to see you as you take part in the pooping ceremony.
Your logical mind knows that someone had had to check the area around the sign for mines before walking in there and sticking the MINES sign in the ground. You hope.
You place yourself behind the sign, as disappointed drivers go by without catching you pooping in their line of sight. Their chance of righteous indignation at the sight of wild pooping mashed by your crafty logic. Every time a driver and their passengers crane there neck to see your ass in action and to shake there heads in disappointment at humanity they are greeted by the skull and crossbones and large red letters proclaiming MINES or Do not Approach.
You are indeed a man.
2. An inherent distrust at gypsies.
You've been driving in silence for an hour and a half, apart from the two times you mentioned how much cowshit indeed, stank in the countryside.
"I need to take a dump," You say with a scowl. Your Father gives you a long look.
"Me too."
"I believe we just passed the last diner on the road, now there's just nothing for another half an hour."
"When you gotta go, you gotta go," your father informs you wisely.
He pulls over (he's been driving). To a sort of a pit stop in the road where the abandoned skeleton of a Yugo lays, along with a rubbish bin. The countryside is overgrown with bushes.
"I'm first," you inform with finality.
"Here take these tissues, what are we barbarians? What were you gonna use without them?"
"I just need to take a dump old man."
"Hurry up, so do I. You do know we're in a minefield?" Your father scratches his nose
"Yep."
"You gotta go, you gotta go, remember, behind the sign mind you."
"Indeed if one must go, one must go. But one must make sure one is behind the sign." I said in my best old Chinese voice (which sounded Italian).
Two signs warn you not to walk onto the field, in the bushes or anywhere but the road, proclaiming: MINES Do not approach. The skulls and crossbones on the signs seem to be watching you critically.
"I need to poop," You inform their sightless eyes.
The friendly relaxation inducing sign.
But you are well versed in tradition. You walk directly to the signs. Drivers go by, each one craning to see you as you take part in the pooping ceremony.
Your logical mind knows that someone had had to check the area around the sign for mines before walking in there and sticking the MINES sign in the ground. You hope.
You place yourself behind the sign, as disappointed drivers go by without catching you pooping in their line of sight. Their chance of righteous indignation at the sight of wild pooping mashed by your crafty logic. Every time a driver and their passengers crane there neck to see your ass in action and to shake there heads in disappointment at humanity they are greeted by the skull and crossbones and large red letters proclaiming MINES or Do not Approach.
You are indeed a man.
2. An inherent distrust at gypsies.
Indeed most can agree that racism is indeed bad. Many of your neighbors claim to be open minded and whatnot.
But alas. Most of the population has had the ancient knowledge beaten into them. Don't trust the gypsies.
Since a young age you see that SOME gypsies (apparently to be politically correct you have to call them Roma's or somewhat- no matter) send there kids to beg instead of to school and hear stories of how they break and disfigure their children to get more begging money, deal in stolen goods... the list goes on and on.
But you've probably been taught by being pounded on the head, Do Not Trust. If your parents are progressive open people than they'll teach you to make an exception for the ones that gather metal junk (to resell for recycling) or those that made a neat living smuggling (that's practically what everyone's family did at one point). As always there are some good people and some bad people. But who's fucking parents were progressive and open minded? Anywhere? Well hippies I guess. But they're fucking hippies.
It's easy for Westerners to frown on the people here, but it is very difficult to muster a lot of respect for someone (anyone) who doesn't wash and doesn't sent their kids to school.
How westerners imagine gypsies. The harsh unwashed reality.
Moving on. Ah I mentioned smuggling.
But alas. Most of the population has had the ancient knowledge beaten into them. Don't trust the gypsies.
Since a young age you see that SOME gypsies (apparently to be politically correct you have to call them Roma's or somewhat- no matter) send there kids to beg instead of to school and hear stories of how they break and disfigure their children to get more begging money, deal in stolen goods... the list goes on and on.
But you've probably been taught by being pounded on the head, Do Not Trust. If your parents are progressive open people than they'll teach you to make an exception for the ones that gather metal junk (to resell for recycling) or those that made a neat living smuggling (that's practically what everyone's family did at one point). As always there are some good people and some bad people. But who's fucking parents were progressive and open minded? Anywhere? Well hippies I guess. But they're fucking hippies.
It's easy for Westerners to frown on the people here, but it is very difficult to muster a lot of respect for someone (anyone) who doesn't wash and doesn't sent their kids to school.
How westerners imagine gypsies. The harsh unwashed reality.
Moving on. Ah I mentioned smuggling.
3. Smuggling tobacco and booze.
The people of the Balkans will agree, smuggling weapons, people and drugs isn't very good. But everyone's morality goes a bit mushy when it comes to cigarettes and hard liquor.
If you live in Eastern Europe (anywhere not just the Balkans) chances are your grandparents, parents or you smuggled stuff across the border. Not the small couple of bottles happily unnoticed by the border control, but the cases of stuff you don't want the government to get.
Many politicians and generals had humble beginnings as booze smugglers (at least the ones not born into rich families).
It's quite easily justifiable:
If the corrupt government is going to try and cheat me all the time I'll cheat it more. We'll see who's more underhand dirty politicians!
It was more impressive for the grandparents and some parents as the commies would have you buggered for a bag of tobacco (if you were lucky).
And with that rather humourless entry I am done. Hurrah me! (You may interpret Hurrah any way you wish especially if there is peanut butter).
If you live in Eastern Europe (anywhere not just the Balkans) chances are your grandparents, parents or you smuggled stuff across the border. Not the small couple of bottles happily unnoticed by the border control, but the cases of stuff you don't want the government to get.
Many politicians and generals had humble beginnings as booze smugglers (at least the ones not born into rich families).
It's quite easily justifiable:
If the corrupt government is going to try and cheat me all the time I'll cheat it more. We'll see who's more underhand dirty politicians!
It was more impressive for the grandparents and some parents as the commies would have you buggered for a bag of tobacco (if you were lucky).
And with that rather humourless entry I am done. Hurrah me! (You may interpret Hurrah any way you wish especially if there is peanut butter).
