MALTA JE SRCE SRBIJE / MALTA IS A HEART OF SERBIA

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Petak. Zadnji dan te nedelje u kojoj sam jedan od „dežurnih“. Neispavan, seo sam u prvi jutarnji bus koji polazi u 04:20h i preleće stanice bez putnika. Hladan vetar koji je ulazio kroz prozorče busa me je lagano budio dok sam buljio u mrak. Videvši da sam blizu stanice na kojoj inače izlazim, poskočih do vrata. Vozač me je video u ogledalu i zakočio tako da se i onih četiri putnika probudilo iz sna. Bukvalno ispavši iz busa, jer je majstor samo otvorio vrata usporivši autobus na brzinu ljudskog hoda. Nagazio je papučicu gasa i ostavio me sa pitanjem kuda toliko žuri. Zavrteo sam glavom otresajući X–Y verzija razloga za takvu vožnju iz glave i nastavio, preko zelene površine ka marketu koji je radio 24h.

Otvorivši vrata ugledao sam prodavca, preciznije, ugledao sam novine koje je čitao prodavac zavaljen u stolicu. Na naslovu su bile sve same ružičaste vesti iako se radilo o žutoj štampi. „ Srbija na raskrsnici: Tijana Ajfon ili Tijana Bogdanović?! „ – pomislih u sekundi: Jbt. Kako nešto ovako uopšte može da izađe u štampu, novine u kojima se starleta, (šta god to značilo), poredi sa mladom sportistkinjom koja je upravo osvojila srebrnu medalju na Olimpijskim Igrama  u Riju? Otprilike: „ Deco il radite sa svojim telom šta vam volja – ili – postanite vrhunski šampioni u svojoj zemlji bez sredstava! „ . Proradio mi je želudac. Jak bol.

„ Jebem ti demokratiju! Ovo je bre čisto robovlasničko društvo! Kakva kurac demokratija!!! „ – Komentarisao je prodavac sam za sebe neki članak ne spuštajući novine, sa jakim bosanskim naglaskom. „ …dobro jutro…“ – „ Koje jutro?! Koje dobro, koji moj…“ – tek tad je spustio novine i pogledao me ustavši sa stolice. Na brzinu sam shvatio da smo približno istih godina. „  Pa, jutro je, jel?…“ – „ Ne znam poštar dal’ je tebi kukavcu jutro, al’ men’ je mrak od kako sam se rodijo! “. Iskrivio je usta u izraz „ Eto“ Nasmešio sam se tražeći pogledom raf na kom stoji kafa kako bih kupio 100 grama, toliko kinte se nakupilo jutros iz tegle. Naslonjen na pult, podbulih očiju i masne kose, posmatrao me dok sam onako nerazbuđen razgledao artikle tražeći kafu. „ A otkad pošta radi ’vako rano? “ – „ Ma… Imamo jednom u tri meseca nešto kao primopredaju pošte i paketa pa po dvojica nas kolega dođemo ujutro da to istovarimo i onda dalje na posao. Rutina…“ – „ E ? Prvo istovarate kamijon i radite ne znam ni ja šta, pa onda? Šta? Idete deliti poštu? „  – „ Da… tako nekako…“ Nikada nisam voleo prve smene a kamoli dežurstva. Nisam od onih koji vole da ustaju rano ujutro, jednostavno lakše mi je da radim noću. Ugledah sam raf sa kafom. „ Dal bih mogao da dobijem 100 grama kafe? „ – „ Da dobiješ , nikako! Da kupiš, to već može! „ –  Za divno čudo nasmejala me ova stara dosetka i poštapalica. Prišao je rafu sa pakovanjima kesica kafe od desetak različitih proizvođača. „ Koju ćeš? „ – „ Nemam pojma…“, Odgovorio sam iskreno i samo pogledao gde mu stoji ruka koju je već ispružio da uzme bilo koje pakovanje. „ Daj mi Turbo kafu…“ – „ Turbo ?! „ – Ponovio je za mnom sa zgroženim izrazom lica i podigao sa dva prsta pakovanje kafe bacivši ga na novine koje je odložio na pultu ispred kase. Jer „Turbo“ je bio naziv za TV stanicu koja je izgradila svoju popularnost na kiču i nemoralu uz podršku Tursko – Indijskih serija od ’90. – tih na ovamo i nema nameru da stane sa podizanjem rejtinga.  „ ’Oćeš još nešto ljubičanstveno? „ – Sad se već smejao pitavši me ovo. Što zbog toga jer je logo TV stanice „Turbo“ bio ljubičast, a i zbog toga što je tipično za treću smenu, ludilo koje počne kad bez sna dočekaš prelazak iz noći u dan. „ Ne, samo to.“ Odgovorio sam i vadeći novac iz džepa još jednom pogledao naslovnicu na kojoj je sad ležalo mojih sto grama kafe.

„ Jeli… A što ti čitaš ovo kontaminirano đubre? „ – Pitao sam ga pokazujući pogledom na novine. „ Ma, sad su mi doneli, pa da vidim šta ima novo u ovom našem diznilendu dok se ne rasprodaju do 8… Ne bi verovao, al’ ovaj narod ti sve ovo pokupuje pre 9 sati! Više ih zanima ko je koga i gde, nego kako da preživi! „ – „ Pa narod oduvek voli da tračari… „ – „ Ma prijatelju, šta da tračari?! Vidiš ti da je to još samo jedan oblik drogiranja? Gledajte vamo u sise i kite a nipošto u svoj frižider! „ Otkucao je onu moju kafu i strpao lovu u kasu bacivši fiskalni račun u kantu. „ Nego idem ti ja buraz prek’sutra sa Klise – pravac Dablin! “ – Pomislio sam stavljajući kafu u džep da priča o delu grada koji nosi ime Klisa i paba na drugom delu grada koji nosi ime grada u Irskoj. „ Hoće to nešto da se slavi? „ – upitah usput. „ Hoće! Al kad sleti avion! “ – „ Kakav bre avion? „ – „ Pa iz Hrvatske. Sa aerodroma Klisa u Trpinji imaš let direktno za Irsku. Mada možda odem prvo do Malte, zvao me jaran, kaže ima posla, nije nešto al se može živeti od prvog do prvog. Tako da odo odavde, pa gde god! „ – „ Čekaj malo…“, bio sam zbunjen, „ Misliš na mesto Trpinja pored Vukovara? „ – „ DA, da… A na šta si ti mislio? Pa odande su već svi odleteli nekud…Mada u stvari ’rvati to zvovu „Zračna Luka Osijek“ Al, bliže je selo Trpinja aerodromu neg Osijek.“ – za sekund sam stao i kroz glavu su krenuli da mi lete likovi svih koje poznajem ili za koje sam čuo da su napustili državu u poslednjih par godina otišavši u beli svet, „trbuhom za kruhom““.  Nisu prestajala da se ređaju… Stariji, mlađi od mene, oženjeni, neoženjeni, razvedeni, bolesni, zdravi, tek punoletni, svih socijalnih slojeva, svih mogućih nacija koje naseljavaju Srbiju…

MALTA IS A HEART OF SERBIA

 
Friday. The last day of that week in which I am one of those who are „on duty“.  Sleepy, I sat in the first morning bus which leaves at 4:20h and flies over stations with no passengers waiting. Cold wind that was coming through the small window of the bus was slowly waking me up while I was staring at the dark. Seeing I was close to the stop where I usually get off, I jumped to the door. The driver saw me in a mirror and breaked so hard that those four passengers on the bus woke up too. I literally fell out of the bus, because jack just opened the door and slowed down to the speed of the human walk. Then he stepped on a gas pedal and left me with the question where does he hurry so. I shook my head wearing off x-y versions for that kind of driving and continued over the green area towards the market that worked 24h.

Opening the door I saw a merchant, to be more precise, I saw the newspapers he was reading reclining in the chair. On the front page were all purple news, even though it was a tabloid. „Serbia in panic: Tijana Iphone or Tijana Bogdanović?!“-I thought in a second: How, the fuck, can something like this even come out in a press, the newspapers in which the starlet (whatever that means) is compared to the young sport who had just won a silver medal in Olympics in Rio? Thereby:“Children, or do with your body whatever you like, or become an ultimate champion in your country with no means!“ My stomach ached.

„Fucking democracy! This is pure slave-holding society! What fucking democracy!!!“–
Commented the merchant to himself some article not putting the papers down, with strong Bosnian accent. „..good morning…“ – „Which morning? What is good, what a f…“– only then had he lowered the papers and looked at me standing up from the chair. I quickly had realized we are about the same age. „Well, it is morning, right?“ – „I don’t know you poor postman is it a morning to you, but to me it’s dark since the day I was born!“ He crooked his mouth shaping the expression „So be it“. I smiled looking for a shelf with coffee on it, so I could buy 100gr, that much money I collected from the jar this morning. Leaning on the counter, with puffy eyes and greasy hair, he watched me how I, half asleep, am looking around, searching for the coffee. „And since when does a post work this early?“ – „We have once every three months something like handover of the mail and packages so two of us colleagues come in the morning and unload and then go on with our regular work. The routine…“ – „So, you first unload the truck and do whatever I don’t know and then what? You go on delivering the mail?“ – „Yes…something like that…“ I never liked firrst shifts, let alone the „on duties“. I’m not one of those who like to get up early in the morning, simply it’s easier for me to work at night. I spotted the coffee shelf. „Can I get 100 grams of coffee?“ – „Can you get, no way! To buy, you can!“ Surprisingly, this old wit made me laugh. He approached the coffee shelf with at least ten different brands of coffee.“Which one do you want?“ – „Ihave no idea…“ I replied honestly an just looked where his hand already stands. „Give me that Turbo coffee…“ – „Turbo?!“ – He repeated after me with a disgusted face and lift the package of the coffee with two fingers throwing it on the papers he put on the counter next to the register. Because „Turbo“ was the name of the TV station which had built its popularity on kitsch and immorality with support of Turkish-Indian series since nineties up until today and it has no intention to stop bringing the rating up. „You want something else purple?“ – He was laughing now. Some because the logo of the mentioned station is purple, some because that’s typical for the third shift. Madness which starts when you don’t sleep through the night and await transition from night to day. „No, just that“. I replied and taking the money out of the pocket glanced again at the front page where now lay my hundred grams of coffee.

„And why do you read this contaminated garbage?“ – I asked looking at the papers. „They’ve just brought it now, so I want to check what is new in this Disneyland of ours until they sell by 8… You wouldn’t believe but these folks buy all of this before 9 o’clock! They are more interested in who did who and where, than how to survive!“ – „Well, folks always loved the gossip…“ – „Oh, my friend, what gossip?! Don’t you see it is only another way of taking drugs? Look here at tits and dicks and by no means don’t look in your own fridge!“ He typed in my coffee and tucked the dough in the cash register, throwing the fiscal bill in the trash can. „Nonetheless brother, I am going the day after tomorrow from Klisa straight to Dublin!” I thought, putting the coffee into my pocket, that he is talking about the part of the town called Klisa and a pub at the other side of the town, which bears the name of the town in Ireland. „Are you going to celebrate something?“– I asked on the way. „I will celebrate! But when the plane lands!“ – „What plane?“ – „A plane from Croatia. At the airoport Klisa in Trpinja you have a flight directly to Ireland. Although I may go to Malta first, my friend called me, he says there is work there, it’s not much but you can live from first to first. So I’m leaving here to wherever!“ – „Hold on…“ I was confused, „You mean a place Trpinja near Vukovar?“ – „Yeah, yeah…And what did you think? From there everyone already flew somewhere … „Although Croats call it „Air Port Osijek“ but Trpinja is closer to the airport than Osijek“. – for a second I stood and through my mind started to pass all those characters I know, or I have heard of that they left the country in the past few years going to the wide world, „in search of bread“. They have not ceased to collate… Older, younger than me, married, not married, divorced, sick, healthy, just came of age, all social layers, all possible nations which inhabit Serbia…