Miloš, the last remaining resident in Parada, Serbia / Ben Fuery & Lucy Pinnell
“We get a real sense of witnessing the end of an era. It’s easy to forget that in 5-10 years’ time this village will probably be completely abandoned, along with all its stories and memories, and even more difficult to accept that nobody really cares.”
High above the spa hub town of Lukovska Banja, along a bumpy gravel track that overlooks the dotted line of the disputed Serbia / Kosovo border, is the small village of Parada. Blink and you’ll miss it, or keep a firm lookout for the hand-painted wooden sign marked ПАРАДА, posted with a pedestrian crossing sign no doubt stolen from the town, and here you’ll find a small cluster of wooden red-tiled buildings. Rumour had it just one of the houses in this lonely outpost was inhabited, by a single 79 year old man- Miloš.
Upon arrival we found just one man in the village, but it wasn’t Miloš; it was his son, Dragan, who was busily making plum and pear rakija for the winter.
He showed us how it was distilled, boiled in a large 400L copper vat over the fire, before emptying the vat of hot steaming fruit onto the ground to begin the process again. As he spoke to us a clear hot liquid slowly emptied through a pipe into a blue jug marked “Phosphoric acid for humans food - 85%”.
Dragan told us how his family lived in Lukovska Banja, and how he had no desire to live in Parada- this was simply the place he came to brew his rakija.
He could not have been less enthusiastic about the future of the village, and couldn’t see any reason to try to save it. Feeling deflated at his lack of enthusiasm, we were almost ready to leave, when a Serbian military truck rolled obtrusively through the village. A dozen uniformed men piled out, eyeing our cameras with suspicion, and behind them stepped out an elderly gentleman who could only be Miloš.
Without even a hello they all filed round to his house where they were plied with rakija and snacks in return for the lift he’d hitched from town. We had no choice but to wait patiently, pointing our cameras awkwardly in any direction but the truck and its guards, who explicitly told us “No photo”. That didn’t stop us from sneaking a shot on our phones though.
Finally they all left, and we were able to introduce ourselves to Miloš. I don’t know what we’d been expecting, but it wasn’t him. Already half-cut from sharing shots with the military, he looked a picture in his suit jacket and camo cap, a bright white handlebar moustache attached to his face and a bottle of rakija clutched in one hand, and wasn’t the least bit surprised to see us.
“I’ve had TV cameras here before…” he slurred, via the Serbian translator, pouring us each a shot of neat yellow spirit at his table outside. “They promised me a car, but they never delivered. Liars!”
Above our heads hung a calendar displaying a cabbage, several boar tails and the skull of a wolf his son had killed in vengeance for taking his dog.
It turned out Miloš was already somewhat of a local celebrity, the last inhabitant of a rundown rural village of which there were hundreds scattered across Serbia. He was born and raised in the village, his father and grandfather had built the house together, but 7 years ago his wife had died, leaving him as the only remaining villager, and he expressed his loneliness to us.
“Do you walk into town to socialise at the hot springs?” we asked hopefully, trying to pull the interview back on track after learning of his daily 50 minute commute.
“Ne.” was his simple answer.
He continued pouring rakija for everyone, and we continued pouring it back into the bottle when he wasn’t looking. We tried hiding the glasses but each time he would only disappear into the house and reappear with more. Resistance was futile.
“A house is not a home without a woman,” he repeated several times, looking longingly at Lucy. He’d had to learn to cook for himself after his wife had passed. “No money, no life,” was another of his wisdoms.
Several drunken and fruitless hours later we were able to get a glimpse inside his home. Sparsely furnished with handmade furniture, photos of his late wife and family adorned the walls, along with a poster of ‘Srbija, Jugoslavia’. Turkish coffee pots hung above the kitchen sink on a wall of shiny foil, an old military cap hung from the coat rack next to a pocket watch, walnuts lay drying on the windowsill and a variety of medicines were scattered on the table. A blanket was strewn across the floor in one corner, piled with colourful peppers. In the next room hung his gun cabinet, fully stocked.
He showed us his garden, which was brimming with peppers, onions, fruit trees and an old overgrown Zastava. Our biggest regret was asking what the headless skinned animal was that was hung upon an outbuilding.
“Mачка,” he replied. A cat. A wildcat, no less.
As we neared the end of our tour it was time to leave Miloš alone with his rakija, and we knew little more about remote village life in Serbia than when we’d arrived. The only real insight we’d gained was that the depopulation of Serbian villages wasn’t stopping any time soon, and that it can be extremely difficult to find and interview anyone sober in the Balkans.
Whenever we find a villager such as Miloš we get a real sense of witnessing the end of an era. It’s easy to forget that in 5-10 years’ time this village will probably be completely abandoned, along with all its stories and memories, and even more difficult to accept that nobody really cares.
Lucy’s philosophical thoughts on the matter were short-lived however, as the following day it transpired that she’d caught COVID from sharing the unwashed shot glasses with the Serbian military and spent the next three weeks continuously coughing. What a day.
This is an excerpt from an ongoing project documenting the lives of people living in some of the most remote regions of Europe.
This project is the collective work of Ben Fuery and Lucy Pinnell. For inquiries, please email contact@lbjournals.com .