Read Online By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong by Charley Boorman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charley Boorman
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reputation for being untrustworthy, and once you’re the subject of that kind of prejudice life can become a downward spiral. Danka was clearly passionate about them, though, and she works tirelessly for their welfare.
I couldn’t think of a worse place to live. There was rubbish everywhere; old fridges, chest freezers, beds. It was mad: a lot of stuff looked as though it had been brought back from trips to the city and just left where it was unloaded. But Danka believed that despite the seemingly hopeless squalor, these settlements - and the people who lived in them - had possibilities. It was just that the government couldn’t see it.
She introduced us to a middle-aged man called Tomas, who collected scrap in Novi Sad in a homemade cart pulled by a mangy horse, which he kept in a makeshift stable. He hooked the animal into a harness he’d made from bits of old leather and wooden poles he’d cut straight from the tree. He made the seat comfortable and we drove into the city. Tomas didn’t say much, but he seemed troubled - his family were in court in Novi Sad that day, for a reason I couldn’t quite get to the bottom of.
Danka was determined to do her best to represent the people living in the camp. ‘Serbia is a young democracy,’ she said. ‘We think we’re strong but we’re not. We don’t really know how to deal with this.’
Once we got to the main road we said goodbye to Tomas and headed off to catch a bus from Novi Sad to Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. We’d originally planned to take the train but Anna told us the bus was much quicker, and we thought we would see more of the countryside. We showed our tickets to the driver, who tore them in two and handed the bigger halves back to me. Bad idea. Somewhere between there and the back seats I managed to lose them - something we only realised when we got closer to Belgrade and the conductor wanted to see them. We hunted high and low but there was no sign. There was a hole in the floor under my seat where you could see the road going by and it was more than possible the tickets were long gone. The girl sitting in front vouched for us and when we stopped the driver acknowledged we’d paid. With these two testimonies the conductor was finally satisfied. I decided I’d leave ‘logistics’ to Russ in future . . .
This mini crisis over, we were off the bus and back in a big city, the streets clogged with traffic, people hurrying about their business. It was a far cry from the shanty town we’d visited earlier.
We arrived just in time for lunch, and soon found a cafe with a pavement veranda, separated from passers-by with a knee-high glass panel, the tables sheltered by massive red parasols. It was good to sit outside and watch the world go by. It was a warm, close day, and I could smell a hint of rain in the air.
‘What do we want to eat, then?’ Russ asked as Mungo and I grabbed a seat.
We didn’t get a chance to answer. A waiter came hurrying over and told us we had better come inside.
‘Inside?’ I looked up a little puzzled.
Nodding sharply, the waiter pointed. ‘The storm is coming.’
Before we even had time to move, a gust of wind howled down the length of the street, billowing in like a hurricane and almost tearing the trees from their roots. I could feel my hair being dragged across my scalp. The table tipped over and, dashing for the restaurant door, we looked back to see parasols picked up and hurled across the street, blown around like skittles on their concrete bases.
I’ve never experienced anything like it - so powerful or so fast. It was almost like an explosion; one minute everything was calm and the next the street was chaos. The cafe’s glass panel smashed into pieces, the metal frame buckled and the tables went flying. One parasol crashed into a nearby bus stop, another hurtled towards the road where the side of an empty bus only narrowly stopped it smashing into passing cars.
When the storm eased a little we rushed
I couldn’t think of a worse place to live. There was rubbish everywhere; old fridges, chest freezers, beds. It was mad: a lot of stuff looked as though it had been brought back from trips to the city and just left where it was unloaded. But Danka believed that despite the seemingly hopeless squalor, these settlements - and the people who lived in them - had possibilities. It was just that the government couldn’t see it.
She introduced us to a middle-aged man called Tomas, who collected scrap in Novi Sad in a homemade cart pulled by a mangy horse, which he kept in a makeshift stable. He hooked the animal into a harness he’d made from bits of old leather and wooden poles he’d cut straight from the tree. He made the seat comfortable and we drove into the city. Tomas didn’t say much, but he seemed troubled - his family were in court in Novi Sad that day, for a reason I couldn’t quite get to the bottom of.
Danka was determined to do her best to represent the people living in the camp. ‘Serbia is a young democracy,’ she said. ‘We think we’re strong but we’re not. We don’t really know how to deal with this.’
Once we got to the main road we said goodbye to Tomas and headed off to catch a bus from Novi Sad to Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. We’d originally planned to take the train but Anna told us the bus was much quicker, and we thought we would see more of the countryside. We showed our tickets to the driver, who tore them in two and handed the bigger halves back to me. Bad idea. Somewhere between there and the back seats I managed to lose them - something we only realised when we got closer to Belgrade and the conductor wanted to see them. We hunted high and low but there was no sign. There was a hole in the floor under my seat where you could see the road going by and it was more than possible the tickets were long gone. The girl sitting in front vouched for us and when we stopped the driver acknowledged we’d paid. With these two testimonies the conductor was finally satisfied. I decided I’d leave ‘logistics’ to Russ in future . . .
This mini crisis over, we were off the bus and back in a big city, the streets clogged with traffic, people hurrying about their business. It was a far cry from the shanty town we’d visited earlier.
We arrived just in time for lunch, and soon found a cafe with a pavement veranda, separated from passers-by with a knee-high glass panel, the tables sheltered by massive red parasols. It was good to sit outside and watch the world go by. It was a warm, close day, and I could smell a hint of rain in the air.
‘What do we want to eat, then?’ Russ asked as Mungo and I grabbed a seat.
We didn’t get a chance to answer. A waiter came hurrying over and told us we had better come inside.
‘Inside?’ I looked up a little puzzled.
Nodding sharply, the waiter pointed. ‘The storm is coming.’
Before we even had time to move, a gust of wind howled down the length of the street, billowing in like a hurricane and almost tearing the trees from their roots. I could feel my hair being dragged across my scalp. The table tipped over and, dashing for the restaurant door, we looked back to see parasols picked up and hurled across the street, blown around like skittles on their concrete bases.
I’ve never experienced anything like it - so powerful or so fast. It was almost like an explosion; one minute everything was calm and the next the street was chaos. The cafe’s glass panel smashed into pieces, the metal frame buckled and the tables went flying. One parasol crashed into a nearby bus stop, another hurtled towards the road where the side of an empty bus only narrowly stopped it smashing into passing cars.
When the storm eased a little we rushed
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