STUCK IN BEOGRAD (Belgrade)

In 2005/06 I was part of a University of Kentucky team teaching Community Development in Rural Serbia. My most precious extension memories were created during the time I spent in Serbia. This shares some of those memories. I have lots of others.

            I looked out the window of the taxi and wondered if I would 
ever see the Beograd Fortress again. Built in the third century B.C. Kalemegdan, guardian of the city, sits high on a hill overlooking the confluence of the mighty Danube and Sava rivers.  My co-worker, Ron, and I left the Belgrade Hyatt Regency at 4:00 am Sunday morning to board a plane home after teaching community development workshops in Eastern Serbia, a land where the English language is spoken by few.

           On the motion of the attendant I stepped to the check in counter reaching her my passport and tickets. “Liquids?” she asked. I traded liquids for my boarding pass.

 I asked for my passport and tickets. “I gave them to you. You cannot leave the country without passport” she said and called for the next passenger.

Ron and I frantically removed every item, one at a time, from my bag. The passport was not there. We dug through trash cans and around the desk with no success.

“I think they fell on the luggage conveyor” I said to her.

“Not possible” was her reply “search your bags; I gave them to Mister. You cannot leave Serbia without your passport”.

          Over and over again airport personnel asked us to look one more time in our bags. With each search I asked them to follow the baggage and see if they were on or beside the conveyor belt. They refused.

          A uniformed officer approached us “look in your bag” he said.

          “I’ve looked. It isn’t there. You look” I told him trying to stay calm.

          Airport security brought my checked luggage to a secure place to be searched. Ron was not allowed to accompany me inside the area.

          “It isn’t here” I said, “I know it must have fallen off the counter onto the conveyor belt, will you please look”. My body was trembling from head to toe. I certainly did not want anyone else to tell me “you cannot leave the country without your passport”.

          My guide escorted me back to the large empty waiting room. I looked for Ron but he wasn’t there. The pounding of my heart echoed off the blank walls. There were no

 windows. The stench of yesterday’s cigarette smoke filled the cool air. I felt trapped. “Your friend got on the plane to America”, She said.

          Tears wanted to spill out of my eyes but I held them back. How could he leave me here alone? A cold shiver captured my body and held on tight. “No” I said.

“Yes, the plane has left”, She said. “there is nothing else I can do; I must return to my post”.

Silently I spoke to myself. “Stay calm, Gwenda. You have to depend on her. Be nice. Don’t break down now. Eyes please hold the tears. Mind, stay strong choose your words wisely”. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and asked for God’s guidance. It seemed someone else was speaking the slow calculated words coming from me. “I had my passport when I got to the airport. I gave it to the attendant otherwise she wouldn’t have given me my boarding pass. My passport has to be in the airport”.

She pivoted several times on her red spiked heel as if she was looking for someone. “Come with me”.

My legs were rubber as I followed her through a maze of long halls with blank cold walls, turning corner after corner. An elevator took us to another floor. It seamed as if we walked miles through hallways, up and down stairs, round and round. Then we entered a room with only a desk, two chairs and a telephone, no flowers, no pictures. She dialed the phone and spoke in her native language. All I could understand was American and passport. Soon she guided me through security doors, past guards and down more hallways until we got to another office.

A man with unruly hair and three days stubble slouched in a chair behind a desk. “Anyone in America can FAX your passport” He growled in broken English.

It was midnight at home. I felt myself sinking into the chair hugging my backpack as if it were a long lost friend.

My mind was held captive in a dark locked room. I couldn’t think. I had no money, no where to stay and no way to contact my Serbian friends on a Sunday. Home was so far away.

At the moment my tears were ready to flood my face, a tall slender man in a security uniform came into the office. He was smiling as if he had won the lottery. Stress had seized my ability to control my emotions. Tension inside me wanted to lash out at someone, anyone. I wanted to scream at him for laughing at me. The three of them talked in Serbian and laughed. I thought he was going to take me away. To jail maybe? Then he smiled at me and pulled an envelope from his pocket; he had found my pass port and tickets!!!

My fear turned to relief. I crashed. My head thumped the desk like an apple falling from the top of the tree to the ground. Uncontrollable tears likened to a flash flood on a mountain stream poured across my face. My hands trembled. I remember babbling some forms of “thank you” and eternal gratitude.  The man behind the desk said “you need drink?  I think so? I think you need drink. I think Vodka?” he said holding a bottle in his hand. They drank the vodka, I accepted a bottle of Voda Voda, a Serbian brand of bottled water.

          The airport arranged for next day flights, a room at the Hyatt (at my expense) and gave me a ride to the hotel. It’s a good thing charge cards are universal. The next morning, the hotel furnished transportation to the airport. Everyone, from the bell boy to the flight attendant, made sure the American had her passport.

          I won’t let the passport experience cloud the beautiful memories of my work in the Stara Planina region of Eastern Serbia. I went there a stranger from a foreign land to teach them what small towns and communities in America are doing to help the economy. Many years ago Belgrade needed people to work in the factories. The government encouraged young people to move from the villages to the city. They offered good jobs and good education. The villages are dying now. Some have as few as nine people living in them. Young professionals want to revive their homes. We talked. Now the people are my friends. I’m one of them. Our languages were strange to each other, but as a person, they understood me. I’ve climbed their mountains and walked along their rivers. I’ve experienced Mother Nature’s endless beauty.

I shared their laughter and felt their sorrow. I heard them cry from deep within their soul “our villages are dying, we have to save them; we have to keep what is old.

We must save them to honor our mothers and fathers; so our children will be safe as they grow.

          My friends have a vision and a passion to build a future laced with gold. That gold is a culture—a way of life for people who love to live and live to love. It’s a world filled with wildflowers, butterflies, birds and free spirits; of children laughing and learning; growing and sharing.

          From Stara Planina in Eastern Serbia to the Appalachian Foothills of Eastern Kentucky, we share a dream – a dream for a better and happier tomorrow.

          These people, my friends, my comrades they stand strong and determined with a will that won’t be shattered. This will, this power, this dedication will make their dreams come true. And I, I am a better person for knowing them. For learning from them.

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