Cultural Confusions part 1: The Bosnian Grannys and me.

Being an English family in Tuzla we are fairly conspicuous. There aren't very many English families in Tuzla. In fact, I think it is just us. As such, there isn't a big expat circle to become a part of. Whilst this does occasionally make things more difficult, on the whole I prefer it this way. It meant that I didn't have any options, I had to get stuck in and involved in Bosnian life and this has, by and large, been wonderful. Bemusing most of the time, but pretty fun.

In particular it has bought me into regular contact with that very specific breed of Bosnian, the Granny. The Bosnian Granny (henceforth known as the BG) is a force to be reckoned with, particularly in any queue in the post office. Generally fairly sturdy and well wrapped up whatever the weather, nothing escapes her beady eye. Absolutely nothing. If there was ever to be a World Championships in gossip, the BG would win. Hands down. The rest of us, skilled as we may think we are in being able to pass on information about other people, are mere amateurs, school children in comparison. The BGs talk about everything, from the clothes you wear, to the time you go to bed, the behaviour of your children, to how they don't like to gossip but..., to how often you throw out your rubbish. There is nothing they don't know. We are obvious targets to speculate about and apparently they are fascinated by us. But I know that we are far from the only people being discussed, so it doesn't really bother me that much. They are enormously generous, always asking us over, stuffing us with food, never letting us go home without a bottle of homemade grape juice, some cake, a bit of pie and no doubt then analysing in detail how well my boys ate their food, our manners and how different we are.

I come into contact with the BGs a lot. Bosnian culture remains very family orientated. Many people continue to live at the same place as their parents/in laws after they get married, the Bosnians simply building another apartment as another story on top of their houses. Sometimes I envy this; the family all gets together for a coffee in the morning; aunts, uncles, other children all pitch in together for a big melee of people to hang out with. There's always someone around. What it does mean though is that the BG is often very actively involved in childcare, whilst the Mums go out to work. So the nursery gates are full of BGs gathered to chitchat whilst waiting for their grandchildren. They always involve me in their conversations; I don't often have much of an idea what they are talking about. They then pick up their immaculately dressed grandchild, who trots over straight away, leaving me chasing my two far from immaculate boys, trying to hold one down whilst getting boots on the other and stopping them from dismantling the climbing frame. The BG, who fully subscribes to the point of view that it takes a village to raise a child, has no qualms in stepping in to tell my two off (inevitably leading to tears, my boys not totally comfortable with being grabbed by a woman they have never met before and on the receiving end of a sharp volley of Bosnian). It took me a while to get over the 'leave my children alone' impulse - the English just don't tend to interfere like that. I have had to learn to not take it personally and the boys have learnt that if they run around in the supermarket, a BG will get on their case.

The BG's always have their children wrapped up warmly in layer upon layer of clothes, to me they look absolutely boiling. Mine are fully wrapped up at the moment, it is deep winter after all. But once in warms up, I don't tuck their tops into their trousers and they wear as few layers as I can get away with; my washing machine stuggles enough with the laundry pile as it is. The BGs look on at my boys in horror. 'That child is naked' one BG memorably hissed at me. 'Which child?' I wondered? Mine was the only child in the vicinity. His top wasn't tucked in. Ah, that will be my child then.

Then there is the chocolate issue. No BG is ever to be found without a bar of chocolate hidden in her bag, to be bought out whenever in contact with any children. My two, for who chocolate is a rare treat, love this aspect of Bosnian culture. They are present in a flash, suddenly all beautifully behaved, looking like little angels and waiting to be given the next sugar laden candy. Being the one who then has to deal with the inevitable sugar rush and less than angelic manic behaviour that will always follow, I'm less of a fan of this custom. However, I recently had a 'eureka' moment of understand finally realising that this chocolate thing is just a part of the BG assessment of my parenting. Usually in these situations I become very English and end up muttering something like 'gosh, thanks, how generous', wait until the BG is out of sight and then confiscate the enormous bar of chocolate from the boys sticky, sugary hands. I now realise that the correct response is to say, even insist, to the BG that the boys are not to be given chocolate and prevent the kids (despite protestations from the BG to the contrary) from laying their little paws on it. I only realised this the other day, when one particular BG who is a right terror for dishing out the candy and therefore adored by my boys, happened to bring her own grandson along. He was offered chocolate. She didn't let him have any. They offered again, she took it away. There was no way that this BG was going to let any chocolate anywhere near her precious boy's hopeful mouth. 'It isn't good for him' she offered to me as an explanation, leaving me spluttering and open mouthed in shock.

Ah hah, I thought, now I get it. So now there's a bar of chocolate that has taken up residence permanently in my pocket for the next time I meet them. I'll make sure the little boy gets some.  I might even stop him running around the supermarket and untuck his top whilst I'm at it. Heh heh heh.

Not here today, over there instead

Today I'm dodging flash photography and wondering whether my shades will do an adequate job in covering up my jet lagged eyes as I dodge the media scrum at Heathrow. Oh, ok, not quite. But I have been interviewed as for the Favourite Mummy Blogger spot for the My Child website - so go and have a read here. I'm off for a read as I'd had a few glasses of wine when I was answering the questions so I've no idea what rubbish I've been prattling on about. Ah hem.

Of mosques, medresas and beer

Given that we live less than 20 metres from a mosque, I am embarrassed at how little I know about the Islamic religion and practices. But it has struck me that the Bosnian way of being a Muslim isn't anything like the impressions of Islam that you can get from the media.

Bosnia's Muslim community is a legacy of the Ottoman occupation and as such, the Bosnian Islamic tradition echoes that of Turkey. It is the most Western country to have a (narrow) Islamic majority and the only European country apart from Turkey to have such a preponderance of Muslims.

Having said that, the Muslims here appear to have found their own way to practice their religion, which seems far removed from the Middle East. Here the mosques are small, intimate, cosy affairs. Not for the Bosnians the ritzy, glitzy, enormous buildings occasionally seen further east. Drinking alcohol is common amongst the Muslims here, a beer, some sljivovica, all quite normal almost expected.

Nor are the women covered up. In all my time here (approaching 3 years in total) I have only ever seen 2 women that have been fully covered, one in Tuzla, the other in the airport in Sarajevo and they really stood out. Quite a few women do wear headscarves. But in the rural areas, older women tend to wear headscarves whether they are Muslim, Catholic or Orthodox and seldom have I seen a rural younger woman in one. In the cities the younger Muslim girls often do wear headscarves and appropriate dress and my goodness me do they look glamorous. But many Muslim girls do not and there is no tension surrounding their decision. One look at the lakes in Tuzla in the summer and you will understand that this is a region that leans far more towards Europe than conservative Islam: the bikinis on display are spectacular.

There is a Medresa school in Tuzla (in other words, an Islamic school) as there are throughout Bosnia. But these Medresas are not the fundamentalist schools that concern people in other countries. The Tuzla Medresa is acknowledged to be one of the top schools in Tuzla, and runs regular courses during the summer which are attended by students of all religions and backgrounds. Friends of mine who teach there talk about how exceptional the facilities are.

That is not to say that there are no radical Islamists in Bosnia. There is an extremist sect, the Wahhabi, who number about 4,000 in total, but they tend to live in remote villages. Last week, one such village was raided by the Bosnian police and several of its members were arrested on suspicion of planning to use force to bring about change in the constitutional order. But the Wahhabi are unusual in Bosnia, in reality they probably number less than the number of extremist Muslims in the UK. They are closely watched by the police and many of the Bosnian Muslims make efforts to distance themselves from them.

Most of my Muslim friends are Muslim in the way that I am Christian. In other words, it informs my cultural background and heritage, but the actual practicing of the religion? Well that is probably best described as patchy. Here mosques say that people come during Ramadan, but outside of that, not so much. Perhaps on a Friday. Or for a funeral. They know how to pray, much as I can recite the Lord's prayer without too much trouble. They seem to pick up the aspects of religion that they want, when they want and put them to one side when it doesn't suit them. Another friend of mine put many Bosnian Muslims attitude towards their religion well - 'we'll never make good Muslims' he said 'we like too much being able to drink beer and chase scantily clad women'.

I find it fascinating that a European country has developed its own Islamic traditions and is happy that they are able to be both European and Muslim with no tensions in that. When a country that has a tolerant reputation such as Switzerland, votes to ban minarets being built and other countries are struggling with the juxtaposition of Islam in Europe, could it be that the continent should be looking to Bosnia to learn some lessons about how being Muslim and being European are not concepts that are mutually exclusive?

Food that shouldn't taste this good

Sometimes a situation leads to something becoming so much greater, more pleasurable than it actually is. To clarify with an example: when you have spent a few hours tramping up a cold wet mountain, the piece of melted chocolate that has solidified in an odd shape with all the weird white streaks that previously melted chocolate has will be the most delicious piece of chocolate you have ever eaten. Swiss chocolates have nothing on this squashed bit of Dairy Milk.

I had an example of this the other day. I had to go to Zvornik, a town right on the border about an hour's drive from Tuzla. This isn't normally a problem; I go to Zvornik quite a lot. It is a bit like hopping on the M4 to for a couple of exits, except it is more like the B4324. It's quite a pretty route, and just before you get to Zvornik you go through a range of forested hills and then you emerge, blinking, to see the Drina river flowing gently north and the Drina Valley stretching out before you.

This week it has been snowing, as is quite normal in February here. Everyone is equipped to deal with the snow so all the cars have winter tyres and carry snow chains by law, and pretty much everyone has a couple of rugs and emergency bits of food kept around their car somewhere. Just in case. Last year we forgot about our secret stash under the passenger seat and discovered it half way through the summer when the temperatures were 40C plus and all the chocolate had melted.

On this particular evening we had been to Zvornik and were on our way home.  It had already been a long afternoon, much coffee had been drunk which was making me a little more jittery than desirable. I was looking forward to getting home for some supper and a cosy glass of wine in front of an episode of The Wire, but it had started snowing again. The road hadn't really been gritted and it was very slippery. We could barely see out of the windscreen and were having to drive at about 15 mph. We were in the hills and it was very dark. Occasionally a car would flash past, a bus even came thundering around the corner at one point, but everyone was taking it pretty carefully and there were very few cars around. It's difficult to see the lines on the road at the best of times, but covered with snow it was impossible. Couldn't see the edge of the road either. We were moving so slowly that it wasn't really scary, more an acceptance that this journey home was going to be a long, dark, snowy slog. We carried on edging our way through the mountains, right up to the point we lost our grip on the road and the car set off on a gentle pirouette and turned a graceful 360.

We were lucky, nothing was on the road and we didn't come off it. We were going so slowly that we were not physically in danger but it would have been a real disaster if we'd slipped off the road and not been able to get on it again. We edged off again, taking it really carefully. But the combination of far too much coffee earlier and a lunch time that was now a distant memory and I was starting to feel a bit faint and in dire need of some food. A search of the car proved fruitful. I had been given a few days before some zeljanica (spinach pie) made by a friend's mother, complete with feta cheese. I'd eaten them hot, they had been wonderful, but that was a couple of days earlier. Now they were freezing cold. But they were without a doubt the most wonderful, delicious, satisfying meal I'd ever eaten. A small piece of me flew to heaven for a little while as we pulled over and sat munching on our stale spinach pie.

We set off again. It took us approaching 3 hours to get home. But I will never forget how wonderful it was to be sitting on the side of the road eating good, although not quite how it should have been served, food.

How about you? What food that shouldn't be good somehow became a deliciously memorable meal because of the situation you were in?

Shiny Happy Things

I'm getting progressively more hopeless at keeping up with my blogging etiquette. I've been tagged hither and tither and I can't remember who tagged me or what for. So, in a vain attempt to try and get back on top of it all, I'm sort of doing a meme that I look the look of, but can't remember if I've been tagged for it or not.

But first apologies to Muddling Along Mummy who wanted to see pictures of my wedding dress as part of the wedding dress meme - I've looked but it appears that we didn't bring any pictures of our wedding out to Bosnia with us. Can't think why as it was a cracking day and we had a wonderful time and I blogged more about it on our 5th wedding anniversary last October.

Then a big thank you to Gooner Jamie at the Life and Times of a HouseHusband (if you haven't read his blog go and do so immediately, it is brilliant and will make you laugh) for a tag for something, you are going to get an entry to Rosie Scribbles Shiny Happy Things - because that is what I feel like today. You have to blog about something that always makes you smile, makes you happy.

I like nothing more than a real feel good movie and Mamma Mia was right up my street, I adored it. I made my culture snob brothers watch it last Christmas Eve, I don't think they have forgiven me yet. But, not happy with inflicting pain and misery on them, I have now taken to playing it to my boys to encourage them to release their inner Abba, to not feel silly about leaping around the room looking ridiculous. Adam has clearly got some taste and rolls his eyes every time I put the DVD on. Luke, bless his cotton socks, humours his mother and does all the moves, from pointing at the screen, to the air guitar riffs and whooping with appreciation. The song we all like the best is Dancing Queen. And even my super cool 4 year old, lounging in disdain on the chair, will laugh as Julie Walters gets stuck sliding down the bannisters. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Dancing Queen and defy you not to smile at least once whilst you are watching it.



I've also been tagged by Sandy at Baby Baby in the welcome people meme, so I'm sort of mixing and matching and am going to tag a few blogs that are new to me, and encourage everyone to go and have a read of them too.

Last of the Mojitos
Mothers Ruin
Chic Mama
Mum's Gone To....
No Wine on Wednesdays
Young and Younger

I know I'm missing some tags. In particular I feel that Laura at Are We Nearly There Yet Mummy tagged me, but I can't find it. So really, I apologise if I've missed you out, a sign of a brain addled by too much indoor time with 2 energetic boys. Where's that DVD player, it must be time to make them dance to Abba again.  YOU CAN DANCE! YOU CAN JIVE! HAVING THE TIME OF OUR LIFE DO DO DOOOOO

Take a moment for a coffee

Take some good coffee (Doncafe, the red packet being my preferred version, I am far too much of a wuss to go for the super strong green packet) and a Bosnian coffee maker thing that has a name but it escapes me right now.

Put one tablespoon per person into the coffee maker thing

Heat up the coffee a little. When you can smell it add some boiling water

Wait a while, but pay attention. The coffee will soon start to bubble up. If you aren't paying attention it will go all over the hobs.

Take off the heat and add just a tiny bit more water

This will lead to a creamy sort of froth that looks as if you have added milk.

Let stand for a little while. Then pour into a cup

Enjoy.

If you are Bosnian you will have already added a fair amount of sugar at the beginning of the process with the coffee. You can now also dip a sugar cube into the coffee as well, or even a Bosnian Delight (same as a Turkish Delight). Take your coffee over to the computer and head over to Insomniac Mummys Best of British Parent Bloggers Carnival, for a moment of peace.

Purgatory

I now have my answer for the question that all teenagers hurl at their parents at some point 'What did you ever do for me anyway?'

All last week Adam's nursery has foregone normal morning nursery activities and headed down to the ice rink that opens every winter in Tuzla's central park, Slana Banja. I wasn't sure how he would take to it, he's not a big into making a fool of himself, falling over or doing things that he doesn't already know how to do. Ice Skating ticks all of these boxes, I was not expecting a success. To my enormous surprise he loved it. Adored it. Couldn't wait to get back onto the rink. He harrassed, harangued and battered his beaten down mother over the head until I agreed that we could go en famille at the weekend.

So en famille we did. Outdoor gear on, skates on, a relatively small amount of money parted with (a massive 3KM (£1ish) per person) and we were off. Well, sort of off. More gripping onto the side of the rink in sheer terror (me) as I try to support Luke who is jumping up and down shouting 'wheeeee wheeeee' and then 'faster Mummy faster!' as Dave and Adam disappear gliding gracefully over the ice. Then we swap children, Adam grabs my hand and pulls me straight off balance.

It led to 20minutes of sheer purgatory for me. Holding up Luke who was clearly having the most wonderful time, as we tottered around, it was all I could do to pray I wasn't going to fall down squashing a small child and slicing off his fingers in the process. That position, the slightly hunched over incredibly uncomfortable one known to all mothers, is a killer on the old, not too good at the best of times, back. The cold toes, the crippling boots, the aching muscles, good Lord I hated every minute. The boys adored it, can't wait to do it again. Obviously, we will go again. But I will remember this, and when they ask me what did I ever do for them in that teenage-ery huffing pouting fashion, I'll be able to say - I took you ice skating.