Serbia welcomes us with open arms. Wow! Wow! The drum shakes

Because I was still working on the short recordings until 11:30 last night, it’s not easy for me to get up today. While Tanja drove to the post office to send our picture CDS home, I packed my trailer. Then we buy a few groceries with our last Hungarian money and follow a small road to the Hungarian-Serbian border. “Strange, there are hardly any cars here?” I wonder. “Do you think this is the right way?” asks Tanja a little uncertainly. “No idea. According to the map, it should be right. But normally there should be signs pointing to the nearby border,” I reply. “I don’t like detours. Hopefully we won’t have to turn back.” “Who knows,” I say, pedaling on. “Up ahead, it looks like there are a few officers on the street,” Tanja suddenly calls out. I can actually recognize the border post. One of the men seems to be watching our approach through his binoculars. “So, how do you feel?” asks Tanja. “I don’t know. I have a bad feeling in my stomach before every border.”

When we bring our bikes to a halt at the lonely border, the Hungarian customs officers are very friendly. In the course of the short conversation, they learn where we come from and where we want to go. They willingly pose for a photo and laugh. Some of them even take photos of us with their cell phones. “I don’t know if you can get into Serbia there. This is just a crossing point for Hungarians and Serbs. Try your luck,” explains an official and says goodbye. A little later we stop in front of the Serbian barrier. The publican is startled by our silent approach and hastily puts down his newspaper. He comes out of his little house looking friendly and explains to us in English that this border crossing is not authorized for international traffic. “You only have to go to Kelebija. That’s not far.” “What? Kelebija is a 40-kilometre detour for us,” I groan. “We’re really sorry, but this is only a local crossing. We can’t let them cross,” he apologizes. An official also leaves the border house, greets us in a friendly manner and admires our bikes. We have a little chat and talk about the war. “Oh, the war. We’re glad it’s over. We’re all fed up and long for peace,” she says. “Do you at least want a stamp in your passport?” asks the nice officer in the meantime. “Gladly,” we say happily. A little later we say goodbye to the officials and cycle the 200 meters back to the Hungarian border. “Passports please”, we can’t believe our ears. We now willingly hand over our passports. We watch in disbelief as the officials check our IDs by computer, copy them and stamp them. Then we can drive on. “Strange, just because we were in no man’s land between the two borders for a few minutes, they apparently had to check us and stamp our passports. They could see from the short distance that we only paid the other officials a visit and then turned around again. The bureaucracy is sometimes incomprehensible,” I wonder, shaking my head. “Who knows? The officials must be bored to death at this rarely frequented border. Maybe they just wanted a bit of work for a change,” Tanja replies. “Who knows,” I say thoughtfully.

40 kilometers later we reach the border crossing at Kelebija. Buses, trucks and many cars pollute the air. There is heavy traffic on the multi-lane road. Many people lie on the grass just before the border and pass the time waiting. Some of them are standing at the side of the road, looking excitedly towards the Serbian border. The driver of a van talks to them. Then he drives back to the border. People with Slavic influences come out of the nearby bushes through a hole in the fence. “Were they brought here by smugglers?” I ask. “I have no idea. But you’re right. It’s a strange scene,” Tanja replies. On the way to Serbia, hundreds of brand-new bicycles are lined up ready for delivery in front of some warehouses. Car repair shops and other small businesses offer their services. Then we reach the barrier. The serious-looking officials give us another stamp. This time we are allowed to enter Serbia without stopping and turning back. “Take care of your equipment,” warns a Hungarian who has also just crossed the border. “Your bikes are safe in Hungary, but definitely not here. There’s a lot of theft,” he says and continues on his way.

The streets are suddenly dirty. The cars are much older and there are far more cyclists than in Hungary. “Look!” I call out and point to a farmer who is still tilling his field with a horse-drawn plow. “Serbia must be much poorer than Hungary,” I say. We have been following a cycle path for a long time since crossing the border. Although there are more bumps and jolts, although we sometimes have to avoid large puddles, dirt and garbage, it is much more pleasant and safer than riding on a main road. Within half an hour, three horse-drawn carts pass our way. People are amazed as we drive past them. Some people really open their eyes, which makes us look even more exotic than in Slovakia or Hungary. There is no doubt that the high unemployment rate of up to 50% can be felt here. The war has plunged what was once an economically strong Yugoslavia into poverty. Our first impressions are shocking, indeed they hit us like a hammer. On the journey so far, this border crossing is the one that makes us most aware of how different countries and cultures can be. We cycle the first few kilometers as if we had entered another world. Despite the sometimes bleak appearance of the houses, the dirty streets and the poorer-looking people, we feel at home here. The country, which is new to us, doesn’t seem unpleasant at first. On the contrary, we feel as if Serbia is welcoming us with open arms.

We exchange a few euros for dinars at a petrol station. The gas station attendant takes a look at our bikes. He seems stunned by what he sees. With a knowing look, he examines every detail with great interest. Without a doubt, he is an absolute expert and has many questions about technology. “Have a good trip,” he wishes us with a friendly wave as we continue our road train journey towards Subotica. On the outskirts of town, we have to be very careful not to bump into a car parked on the cycle path. We bypass the support structures securing a few houses and join the traffic. “Right to the center!” shouts Tanja. “Do you think Centra means center? Could also be a place name,” I reply. Following our instincts and the sign, we actually reach the center of Subotica, a city that still belonged to Hungary before the First World War. “How can I help you?” a cab driver asks us. “Do you know where you can spend the night here?” I want to know. “Yes, I know,” he replies. “And how do we get there?” “I can only take them there by cab,” he tries to beat a deal out of us. “Can’t you at least point me in the right direction?” I persist, whereupon he gives me a brief explanation.

We then find the hotel in a side street. “60 euros,” I hear, startled. “Isn’t there anything cheaper here?” “Yes, there are private rooms for rent just a few meters away,” the woman behind the counter gives me a tip. The high price of 40 euros also scares us. “We are the owners. We can make it cheaper for you. Will you stay for 30 euros?” the friendly landlady and her husband offer us. “25 euros is our budget. If you can rent us your room for that, we’ll be happy to stay,” I negotiate. The two look at each other and immediately nod their heads. “Come in,” they invite us into their home. It doesn’t take long before our bikes are safely stowed in the backyard and our equipment is in the newly and tastefully furnished room. The landlord later describes the way to a local restaurant. Hungry, we set off in search of it. We take a seat outside in a backyard.

Wow! Wow! The drum shakes.

Late summer has suddenly returned and it is pleasantly warm despite the evening hours. We dine excellently. The German-speaking cook is happy to cook something delicious for us. A main course here costs 3 to 4 euros and a beer 50 cents. The prices here are apparently the same as in Slovakia. Tanja and I feel really at home in the Serbian restaurant. The waiter is absolutely courteous and goes out of his way. We fill our hungry bellies and enjoy the luxury of the balmy night when suddenly deep drumming and bright melodic girls’ singing enchant the night. “Where does this wonderful singing come from?” we want to know. The owner of the restaurant takes Tanja by the hand and leads her to a sports hall right next to the restaurant. We are amazed to see around 30 to 40 young girls and boys dancing and singing to the rhythm of deep drum beats and an accordion. The singing is so fascinating that we remain spellbound and watch the folklore group for a long time. “It’s definitely better than a live concert,” I whisper in Tanja’s ear. She nods, visibly touched, grabs my hand and I think I see a tear or two of joy in her eyes. “Wuuum! wuuum! wuuum!” the vibration of the deep drum shakes through our bodies. The perfect sounds of the harmonica unite with the singing to create a symbiosis of sounds. The drummer works the taut skin to a different rhythm. He is the teacher and his resonant voice gives the dancers concise instructions on what they need to improve or do well. He seems to be able to get young people really worked up. Her legs beat the wooden floor of the hall in perfect time and whirl through the air at an exhilarating speed. The dancers grab their belly belts in groups of four and spin around in a circle. They race past us, creating a warm air current. “Exercise, folk dance from Macedonia,” the restaurant owner explains. We remain fascinated and moved by the fantastic performance in the hall until we return to the restaurant. Because of the impressive experience, we decide to spend a day here in this city, perhaps to attend the beautiful dance again tomorrow.

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