Only in Belgrade: Anecdote #4

Morning Madness on Kalenić Market

It was the morning after the night before. My Saturday headache was exceeding its usually intensity, thanks to a combination of MB (Maim your Brain) Pivo, the deafening night time noise of squealing water pipes in the building and the grating whines of cats on heat.

I needed something to wake me up and sort out my shakes and, contrary to my French friend’s advice, I didn’t fancy a beer for breakfast. I put on my extra dark shades and headed up the street to the market in search of some vitamin ‘c’ and tuna steaks for homemade sushi.

I was almost at the market when a freaky 16-legged beast jumped out at me, spinning like a top and almost knocking me to the path. The beast appeared to be a canine-like mutation of mammoth proportions. Its four tails were all raised and rigid and it appeared to be attempting to perform a clumsy dance to the accompaniment of a cacophony of snarls. I stamped my foot with a “mrš(sh)” and the four dogs were temporarily taken aback, dropping their quarry.

Now it was my turn to be taken aback as I saw that the thing they’d been fighting over was the bloody, mutilated head of a calf.

My macabre fascination led me to stare for slightly too long at the eye-less, putrefying skull and I contemplated going home for my camera until my attention was grabbed by a high pitched woman’s voice.

“Mirko! Mirko!” wailed an elderly woman who had suddenly appeared at the side door of a white transit van that was slowly but surely rolling down the street with nobody at the wheel.

“Mirko! Mirko! Nisi zakočio” (you haven’t applied the brakes) she shouted frantically, gripping the sides of the runaway van tightly and swaying back and forth as if she were contemplating jumping to the street.

I moved towards the van in an effort to assist. The vehicle advanced in slow motion as Mirko – her grossly overweight son (I presume) – appeared at the top of the street and began sprinting towards the van, the action of his wobbling gut causing his too tight t-shirt to lift to expose a gargantuan belly button that could have housed a small family of immigrants.

“Mirko! Nisi zakočio”, she repeated anxiously, glaring fearfully at the street below, still unsure whether or not to abandon the transit van.

Mirko, who was now pumping one arm to assist his sprint and using the other to pull his tiny t-shirt over his crater-like navel, arrived just in time to witness his van’s collision with another white van.

Mirko buckled over and heaved with exhaustion after the five-second sprint, before examining the sizeable dent in the other van and shrugging his shoulders. “Jebi ga!” (fuck it!) he proclaimed to the group of onlookers, before climbing in to his own van and making a quick getaway, with only a slightly dented bumper and a sore head from his mother’s slap for his troubles.

I tutted and moved on. I had my own gauntlet to run: the challenge of navigating the ‘cheese crones’.

Turkey meat is good for a number of reasons: it’s cheap, it’s almost fat-free, it’s tasty, it’s easy to prepare and not one religion opposes its consumption. But turkey’s not easy to find in Belgrade and, in fact, the only place I’ve seen it sold is at Kalenić Market.

Sadly, though, it’s sold up in the elevated indoor area of the market and lies beyond the dreaded defenders of the wooden churns – a frightening group of hunchbacked black-clad crones.

Every time I feel like buying turkey or čvarci I hesitate at the bottom of the steps and wonder if it’s really worth it. But eventually I bite the bullet, hold my breath, close my eyes and enter their dairy-scented den.

A soon as one enters the cheese trading pit, the pleas of the bearded village women descend upon you. ‘Sine, sine, probaj ovo’ (son, son, try this) they insist, shoving knives laden with soft cheese in your face. “Brate, brate, imam najbolji mladi sir” (brother, brother, I’ve got the best ‘young’ cheese) one overly hairy aggressor claimed, pushing her milk churn into my path and brandishing a butter knife. Using my rugby side-step to bypass the hag, I found myself confronted by yet another – this one sporting a large facial wart and offering her cheesy wares with a pleading request. I smiled disarmingly, spun 180 degrees and almost broke into a jog as I passed the last of them and approached the safety of the male-dominated meat hall.

I had made it unharmed. I had resisted the bearded sirens and this time I wouldn’t be carrying home unneeded kilos of salty soft cheese that would only end up adding to the stench of the street skip.