Fare Well, Illyria

Chapter 5: Vlachs

Chapter 5 Vlachs Soon after I arrived in the Balkans, Mirijana Komarečki, my stalwart secretary-translator-office manager read in a newspaper that the rites of the Vlach people, including women falling into trances and talking to the dead, would be marked June 5—at the time of Pentecost—in the eastern Serbian town of Duboka (“deep” in Serbian). The only trance woman I had previously heard about was al Capp’s memorable “Mammy yokum.” So this struck me as worth exploring. I had never heard of Vlachs. Mirijana found me an interpreter who was an instructor at Belgrade University, a tall slender man who became rather skittish once outside the city limits. as the crow flies, the distance from Belgrade to Duboka is less than 100 kilometers, but the roads in those days made it seem twice as far and took nearly four hours. The plan was to view ancient memorial rites called Pomana, as practiced by the Vlachs of Homolje. The day was cool with showers followed intermittently by sunshine. Passing thick groves of beech, oak and ash as we neared the village, the road crossed rickety bridges above rushing creeks. Until the last swift stream. Too late. a dozen logs were missing from the bridge across the freshet on the edge of Duboka, probably washed out by high waters. The big Steyr Fiat hit the gap and sank nose first into the currents, drowning the motor. Villagers gathered on the bank, jaws dropping in wonderment. a young man stepped forward announcing himself as the mayor. “Why didn’t you have a sign saying the bridge was impassable?” I asked. “But we know the bridge is gone!” he replied with a logic that was irrefutable. 56 FARE WELL, ILLYRIA Then, making amends, he not only organized a team of oxen to pull the dead station wagon out of the stream, but also invited us to lunch. lunch was more like a feast, with seven courses—from soup to cakes for dessert. I ventured a few questions to our host: “are you a Marxist?” “Well, sort of.” “Do you believe that these trance women can talk to the dead?” “It is better not to disbelieve.” “Do you know any of these trance women?” “One of them is my mother.” Pointing to the woman serving the meal, I responded, “Please tell your mother that the lunch was splendid!” “That is my wife.” We walked slowly around the town of 700 or so inhabitants. Memorial stones in the graveyard were decorated with flowers and small mirrors, some with small cakes, flasks of liquor, bottles of water. The dead, it was explained, had not eaten, or washed, for a long time. In the town square young men in tall, conical, white woolen hats, sleeveless embroidered jackets, and shiny knives, garlic sprigs around their necks were dancing with girls wearing brightly colored kerchiefs. a slow two-step to a kolo tune was played by two violinists. In the center, an elderly woman spun slowly until her eyes rolled back. She crumpled to the ground, softly murmuring. Villagers entreated her to talk to their dead relatives, saying to her as if she were their intermediary, “We want to speak to you. We want you to eat lunch and dinner. Here is water. Speak to us.” Then silence. relatives of the trance woman brought water from the stream and poured it on her head to revive her. This was indeed one of the Vlach trance women of the Homolje region. (Sometimes, we were told, it took a pistol shot next to her head to bring a trance woman back from the dead.) at this ceremony, so far from urban life, there was a very tall young woman in a modern skirt, blouse, and sensible shoes, taking notes. Plainly not a Vlach. She introduced herself as Marian Wenzel (1932–2002), a thirty-one-year-old ethnographer from Pittsburgh. (Her remarkable research exposed bogus historical claims on the origins of decorated Bosnian tombstones by tracing them instead to itinerant Vlach herdsmen. I was happy to publish a report about her discoveries.) The festival continued into the night with the music growing louder as drums, an accordion, horns and flutes were added. Sleep in the inn was sporadic, especially when shots were fired. at dawn the interpreter tugged my arm. “Can we return to Belgrade now?” he pleaded. “This makes me jumpy.” We went back to the car and drove [3.141.0.61] Project MUSE (2024...