Serbia
On the crazy 2012 Euro SC3/a.P.A.t.T. tour we caravaned all over Europe in two Sprinter vans. Between the bands and crew there were 16 of us, all told. It was a blur of highways. Anyway for no good reason here are a few vignettes involving Serbia
Our first entrance into Serbia was simply a shortcut between Bulgaria and Romania. We were driving all night, and in the morning I woke in the back of the van having to pee really fucking bad. And fully occupied Sprinter vans are such that there's no easy or private way to piss into a bottle.
So we had to stop. The tour manager was in constant freak-out mode about running late, and thus there was some resistance towards taking this unexpected bathroom break. Nevertheless we pulled over at the first obvious place after the border.
We couldn't tell if this dilapidated shack in the middle-of-nowhere was a gas station, but we stopped anyway. I was the first out of the vehicle, running from the dusty parking lot towards the crumpled structure, all the while wondering how the hell I'm going to convey to a Serbian "where's the frickin' bathroom?" Then I spotted the blessed, universally understood sign: "WC-1€."
Yes! The sign led me around back to a room with a giant pit dug deep into the earth. Need I really provide details about the nauseating visuals and terrible stench? I took an exhilarating wizz into the abyss for what seemed like a solid two minutes. Of course now that we stopped many of my tour companions took this opportunity to fill the pit as well.
Back at the vans the old Serb manning the premises emerged to collect his piss money. Since it was on me to stop in the first place, I dug into my pockets and basically handed him all my change which was likely not enough. He was disgruntled, but not knowing English he simply hobbled away with a dirty look on his weathered face. And we were back on the empty road.
The other van was leading for a while and going ridiculously slow. Eventually it came clear they were having mechanical issues. How confusing we must have seemed to the locals: vans full of American, British, and French people trying to locate the nearest/best garage off the highway. The lingual barriers were staggering. For example, the exit signs around these parts say "izlaz."
We did somehow find a mechanic, but of course they were out to lunch. So in the meantime we all napped on the curb or scattered and went wandering around the town. I took a trip up the hill by myself into this random, quiet neighborhood. Epic sonder material. I befriended a stray dog. Hours later the van was fixed well enough to make it to the next gig in Timisoara, but just barely.
The next day we doubled back into Serbia to play a gig in Belgrade. We kinda got lost and I was on navigation duty, which was stressful as the signs are in a completely different alphabet and don't match anything in our GPS devices. Eventually we stopped at the main train station and the promoter walked over to meet us there and lead us to the club. The venue was a shooting range by day, complete with bullet wounds in the walls and stage floor. Not very welcoming.
This ended up being a very fun gig with a great crowd, even though the power fluctuations on stage actually caused the computer to play samples out of tune. Afterward I reached my limit of tour exhaustion and fell asleep on a bench in an unoccupied area of the bar. When I came to all the gear was loaded out already. Thanks, guys.
We stayed at a hostel that night. In the morning I was struck by this little sign in the communal kitchen which happened to be in English - the first English I've seen in a while that wasn't the words: "Fast Food." It was instructions about how to make Turkish coffee. Completely and utterly wrong instructions. Not even close.
Unfortunately on the way out of town the other van broke down again, this time for good. So a.P.A.t.T. were stuck behind as that was all sorted out and missed the gig in Budapest. Eventually they'll get a temporary replacement van with a driver, because due to the rental company policy it was mandatory to have a Serbian at the wheel. The caused us grief when said driver tried to cross over the border into Croatia a few gigs later. But that's a story for another time...
Given that I slept through loadout last night I happily took the driving shift all the way to the Hungarian border. As an American you never really think about the long stretches in between these remote Eastern European cities. They have a unique charm, to be sure. Rolling hills, slightly different trees, impossibly large stork nests teetering atop tall poles. Google it.
The rest of the band was snoring as I enjoyed these visuals alone on this empty highway. I suddenly thought to check my speed and just about the time I saw I was going about 140kph I noticed the red lights approaching in the side view mirror.
Holy fucking fuck shit fuck. I'm about to get pulled over by the Serbian highway patrol. This is not good. My heart entered my gullet as I let up on the gas and continued to coast down this hill. I began practicing apologies and excuses in multiple languages as the cop approached. I visualized a future being held prisoner in a set from Kusturica's "Underground."
And then the cop passed by and kept going, apparently on the way to a greater emergency elsewhere. I made no noise during this brief moment of incredible panic, and then exhaled in utter relief. A couple hours later we hit the border, and that was it for Serbia.