Serbian commentary 6 — Signs from last summer’s trip IV

This is central Sarajevo, and here’s the ćevabdžinica I mentioned in the previous post in this series. The mici-like pieces of barbecued meat, called ćevapi or ćevapčići, are everywhere in Serbia and Bosnia. They normally come with pita bread (as you can see in the picture), smântână, and kajmak (a kind of cream). As I said in the previous post, in the word ćevabdžinica the unvoiced p has changed to a voiced b, matching the voiced . Further above, you can see Izdaje se (For rent). This comes from the verb izdavati, and is an example of a reflexive verb. The se indicates that the property is “making itself available”. Reflexive verbs seem to be common in Serbian, just like in Romanian. To ask in Serbian what someone’s name is, you say Kako se zoveš?, literally “How do you call yourself?” You reply with Zovem se Robert, or whatever your name happens to be.

This is a fairly rare example of Cyrillic from Sarajevo. It’s a plaque on the Serbian Orthodox Church; Cyrillic is often used in Serbian. Without Google Translate I was pretty clueless. In Latin, the text reads:
U slavu božiju
Ovu kapiju podigoše i podariše sabornoj crkvi i gradu Sarajevu, Olivera i Milinko Mlađen. Za blagoslov i napredak svoje porodice, a na ponos naroda srpskog.
Slava bogu za sve!

Google Translate gives me:
In the glory of God
This gate was erected and donated by the Cathedral Church and the city of Sarajevo, Oliver and Milinko Mlađen. For the blessing and progress of his family, and for the pride of the Serbian people.
Thank God for all!

There are some things I can pick up. Slava means glory: this word also exists in Romanian. Napredak comes from napred meaning “forward”, which appeared in my first post in the series. The surname Mlađen means “Young”. Porodice is the genitive of porodica, “family”. (Familija also exists.) Porodica comes from the verb poroditi, to give birth. This word has the po-prefix, which is very common. Po- signifies completion. The roditi part comes from rod, which means fruit, crop, family relation, or even gender. Rod, with a similar set of meanings (but mostly used for crops and fruit) also exists in Romanian.

There are two words for God used on the plaque, a formal, ceremonial božiji and a more general (bog-standard?) bog. Interestingly, the word bogat, which means “rich” in both Serbo-Croat and Romanian, comes from bog.

This says “Bosnia & Herzegovina public spending counter”, and is a good example of why Serbo-Croat is a notch up in difficulty from other, better-known European languages. You simply don’t get as many words for free. Counter is brojač; this comes from broj (“number”). Number is not numero or număr or nummer, it’s broj, something totally different. Javne is “public” in the feminine genitive. No, it isn’t anything nice like publico. Potrošnje is spending, again in the feminine genitive. And BiH is short for Bosna i Hercegovina. Without having some idea of Serbo-Croat, this sign could be telling you practically anything.

The sign on the shop above comes with a handy English translation, although the Serbo-Croat actually means “House of Healthy Food”. Both zdrave (healthy) and hrane (food) are in the feminine genitive. Variants of these two words also exist in Romanian: hrană means food, but I hear the word more for animal food than human food, and zdravăn describes somebody who is big and strong. The word zdravo, by the way, is used all the time in Serbo-Croat as a greeting, either “hi” or “bye”.

The name of the restaurant above, Dva Ribara, means “two fishermen”. Ribar is fisherman (this comes from riba, fish), and to talk about two fishermen you need the genitive singular, which gets an extra a in this case. It’s hard to see, but they serve Sarajevsko beer. There’s an -o ending because beer (pivo) is neuter; if it were masculine it be Sarajevski; feminine would be Sarajevska. It’s really common in this part of the world to simply name beers after the city they come from. In Montenegro I seemed to drink Nikšićko (named after Nikšić, the country’s second city, or town) most of the time. The local Timișoara beer is Timișoreana (beer is feminine in Romanian).

Mneh

I had a pretty shitty 48 hours from Tuesday afternoon to yesterday afternoon. Almost no energy. Fatigue. Extreme weakness. Clumsiness. Just how I often feel for a few hours after one of my sinus episodes (or maybe migraines), but worse and longer. I managed to work, but everything else was a write-off. Obviously my thoughts quickly turned to coronavirus, and Dad was scared witless when I told him my symptoms, but I could still smell and taste everything and had no sign of a fever. I’m still kind of mneh, but that’s a massive step up from yesterday.

This morning I went through Roald Dahl’s The Magic Finger with my latest (adult) student. I realised my Romanian is nowhere near good enough to instantly translate something like that into her native language, even if I know maybe 97% of the words. You can’t duck and dive like you sort of can with speaking, and my grammar and syntax just aren’t up to it.

In the UK they’re celebrating the 75th anniversary of VE Day, while many who remember that day are dying in nursing homes. In Romania we’re gearing up to come out of lockdown – this will be our last weekend. I’m a bit concerned – the cases and deaths haven’t skyrocketed as I feared, but this menace is hardly going away either.

Flashback to ’95

Last night I lay awake thinking about when I’ll see (and hug) my mother again. I feel I have an almost complete relationship with my father just though voice calls and emails, but with Mum it isn’t the same.

This Friday will be the 75th anniversary of VE Day. I remember the 50th anniversary well. I was fifteen, it was a sunny Monday, and we had a barbecue and drinks in the garden. I took Seagers gin from the cabinet at regular intervals, added it to my orange juice, and nobody seemed to notice. I doubt I would have been in much trouble anyway – my parents weren’t big drinkers, but they had fairly relaxed attitudes to their kids getting hold of the stuff. Vera Lynn (still alive today at 103) was rolling out the barrel. It was a happy occasion, and of course so many World War Two veterans were still alive, including my grandparents. My grandfather, a squadron leader during and after the war, already had quite advanced Alzheimer’s by then.

It was a different world in 1995. The internet was this new thing, touted as the information superhighway, with all its cyber-slashes and dots and dashes that normal people still had no need for. Normal people made do with 1471, a handy number you dialled to tell you who called last. (And people still talked about dialling numbers then.)

When I think of ’95, I also think of sport. Costantino Rocca’s 50-foot putt at the Open, Blackburn’s Premier League title and various ups and downs through the divisions, and then Jonah Lomu’s destruction of England in the rugby World Cup. (I remember I switched over from that ridiculous match – it felt like a boxing match that I hoped could be stopped – and instead watched a very long third set at Queen’s Club which Pete Sampras barely survived.) I also think of an essay our English teacher asked us to write, called “The Class of ’95”. We had to imagine a school reunion taking place this year – in 2020. She told us that statistically, one or two of us (out of 25 or so) wouldn’t make it. I didn’t enjoy the essay – the idea of a reunion didn’t appeal at all – though I imagined I’d be living in New Zealand by then. I never would have guessed I’d have moved to NZ and then to Romania. Where even was Romania?

I wonder how Britain would have handled coronavirus in ’95. The government response would surely have been more sober, more dignified. Those were not partisan times. John Major would not have declared 20,000-plus deaths a success – that would have been too obscene. There would have been less information, but less misinformation too. Right now though, living thousands of miles from the rest of my family, I’d take having the superhighway during this pandemic over living in 1995 and not having it.

May Day blues

Yesterday was a crappy Friday. My sinus pain or migraine (I’m not sure which) started the night before, and I didn’t sleep a lot. I took plenty of paracetamol which helped, but I still felt washed out and sapped of energy. Four trips up and down the stairs were all I could manage. I had two lessons, and I had to apologise for yawning in my session with my UK-based student which started at 9pm. In the middle of the lesson we had a storm here. Today I’ve still felt lethargic and have done little other than read and talk to my parents (where they taunted me on FaceTime with lumps of Whittaker’s chocolate). I did my full eight laps of the stairs but was slower than usual. It’s bucketing down right now. We were in need of a good deluge.

It’s our penultimate weekend under full lockdown. I hope by the end of this month I’ll be able to read a book on a park bench while eating a punnet of strawberries. I have no desire to eat out or go shopping. I was surprised to see Piața 700 – an open air market I’ve mentioned several times on this blog – in full swing when I passed by on Tuesday. I kept well away from the produce and people. Another market, Piața Iosefin, has shut down after one of the stallholders tested positive.

Mum keeps me updated on cases and deaths from Covid-19 in New Zealand. Those who die in NZ are invariably old, often from care homes. In Romania that is not the case. The list is updated two or three times a day, and it’s full of not-that-old people. So far, 57% of deaths have been under-70s, including 27% under 60 and 10% under 50. Why? My first guess was that, even though I see old people all the time, Romania has a smaller proportion of elderly than a prosperous country like New Zealand. But no, Romania’s proportion of over-70s is in fast slightly larger than NZ’s (1 in 8 against 1 in 9, roughly). That’s not because Romanians live longer than Kiwis – they don’t! – but because so many young people have left the country, and women have just about stopped having babies, so the elderly make up a sizeable chunk of the population. In other words I’m puzzled by all the premature deaths here.

Here’s the first ten questions from Tuesday’s game of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? with the twelve-year-old. I made these up pretty much on the fly. After the Boris Johnson question, I was tempted to ask how many kids Boris had, and make all the possible answers correct.

Serbian commentary 5 — Signs from last summer’s trip III

Now we’re in Mostar, in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I knew that Crvena Armija (which you can see in the shadow) meant Red Army, and I thought the mural had some sort of military significance, but it’s for the local football team, Velež Mostar, which was founded in 1922.

The picture above was taken on Braće Fejića (Fejić Brothers) Street. The noun brat (brother) does not have a plural; instead you use the collective noun braća (think of the word “brethren” in English). There are dozens of collective nouns in Serbo-Croat. And guess what, the collective noun for brothers is feminine! Mad or what? Because it’s the street of the brothers, you need the genitive case, where the final a changes to e. The slogan on the mural means “Never forget, never forgive”, and it references the 1995 massacre of Srebrenica, where many thousands of Bosniaks were killed. Here we are on the east (Bosniak) side of Mostar. As the guide told us, the dividing line separating the Bosniaks and the Croats is the Boulevard that runs north–south, to the west of the river, not the river itself as some people mistakenly believe.

We’re hiring. But only females. Radnica is a female worker (a male worker is radnik). Potrebna is the feminine form of potreban (“necessary”). Once again, when you add the ending, you also remove the a before the final consonant. This gender-specific job advert is familiar from my time in Romania. Vânzătoare. Barmăniță.

This was my train from Mostar to Sarajevo. The text means “Railway Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina”. Now we see a difference between the Serbian variety of the language and the version spoken elsewhere. In Serbia, the j in željeznice wouldn’t be there. There are many, many words where an e in the Serbian dialect is replaced by je, or sometimes ije, in the variety used elsewhere. In Serbia and Bosnia, the same word is used for both “Sunday” and “week”; in Serbia this word is nedelja, but in Bosnia they say nedjelja with an extra j. “You are beautiful”, if talking to a woman, is Ti si lepa in Serbia, but Ti si lijepa (with ij added) in Bosnia.

Now I’m in Sarajevo. What’s a buregdžinica? It’s a place where you get burek, a kind of meat-filled pastry. The word burek comes from Turkish. This particular place had a huge variety of bureks, of which I ate several (and a yoghurt). I was amazed how cheap it all was, and I’m not someone to splash the cash. If the word for the pastry is burek, why is there a g in buregdžinica and not a k? This is due to something called “assimilation by voice”. Some consonant sounds (like g, b, d, v and z) are voiced – they employ your vocal cords – while others (like k, p, t, f and s) are unvoiced. If you say the g in “goat” with your finger on your Adam’s apple, you can feel the vibration, but if you say a k sound you can’t. In fact, g and k are a voiced–unvoiced pair; voice (or lack of it) is the only difference between the sounds. The same is true of b and p, d and t, and so on. The in buregdžinica is pronounced like the j in English “jump”, and is a voiced sound. It is much easier to pronounce two voiced consonants (or two unvoiced) side-by-side than a combination of both, and so the unvoiced k converts to voiced g, to match the “voicedness” of the following . There are lots of examples of these assimilations in Serbo-Croat. A ćevap is a piece of minced meat, much like mici in Romania, but a ćevap-seller is a ćevabdžinica, with the unvoiced p changed to voiced b.

And guess what – we do these assimilations in English too. The s in dogs is pronounced as a voiced z, to match the voiced g, but the s in ducks remains unvoiced, because the k is unvoiced. Of course, these sound changes aren’t reflected in the spelling, but that’s only because English isn’t a phonetic language, unlike Serbo-Croat. If it were completely phonetic, we would indeed write dogz. One example I can think of in English where the spelling does change is in the pair absorbabsorption. The -tion suffix begins with an unvoiced sh sound, so the voiced b changes to unvoiced p to match it.

Back to the picture above. On the window you can see the word mliječni, which means “dairy”. It’s an adjective that comes from mlijeko, “milk”. In Serbia, these words would be mlečni and mleko.

And finally, if you’re ever travelling to Sarajevo and want to visit Olimpik Buregdžinica, it’s in a square called Gajev Trg, off a main street named Ferhadija in the middle of town.

Serbian commentary 4 — Signs from last summer’s trip II

The pictures in this post are from Bar in Montenegro. I call the language Serbo-Croat for simplicity, even though we’re not in Serbia or Croatia.

I dalje si felje, with lj ligatures, written on the pavement. What does it mean? Google Translate says “You’re still a fella.” Dalje means “still”, and seems to be related to daleko, meaning “far”.

A bookshop. You can see here that all foreign names are transliterated into Serbo-Croat phonetics. Jamie has morphed into Džejmi. The same happens to foreign words. This would be like me writing that I’d eaten a crwasson or that I like paintings by Clawed Monay. Jamie Oliver’s book is called Meals in 15 Minutes in English, but the translated title just means All in 15 Minutes. The title of the book about mushrooms simply means What is this Mushroom? The word koja really means “what” instead of “which”, but “which” is used more generally than in English. It’s the same in Romanian: Care este numele tău? literally means “Which is your name?” It’s more complicated in Serbo-Croat though, because “which” has to agree with the noun. Here it’s koja because gljiva is feminine, but if it would be koji for a masculine noun and koje for a neuter noun. Gljiva is one of two words they use for mushroom; the other is pečurka, a cognate of Romanian ciupercă (meaning the same thing), but it’s a mystery how the consonants got swapped between the two languages.

The large brown book on the right is entitled Sto događaja iz istorije Crne Gore: One Hundred Events from the History of Montenegro. The local name for Montenegro is Crna Gora – Black Mountain. The English name (which obviously also means Black Mountain) comes from Venetian, and I wonder why we don’t now call it Black Mountain. Some grammar: because we’re saying “history of”, Crna Gora needs to go in the genitive, which means the final a‘s become e‘s. As for “event”, that’s događaj, but when you’re talking about 100 of them, you need that final a. If it were just “events”, without a number, you’d have a final i instead.

You don’t see much Cyrillic in Montenegro but you can see it on some books here. Поуке старца Тадеја (Pouke starca Tadeja) means “Lessons of the Old Man Tadej”. Star means old, starac means old man, and “of the old man” requires the genitive (add an a to the end but remove the a before the c). The old man is Tadej Štrbulović, a Serbian Orthodox elder who died in 2003. His name Tadej is equivalent to Thaddeus in English. I did once meet a Thaddeus in New Zealand, back in 1997 – he was a friend of a friend of my grandfather’s, and was known as Thady (rhyming with “lady”).

In the top right we have a book with a Cyrillic title in quite a traditional font, similar to one commonly used in Romania (but to write the Latin script). When reading something in an unfamiliar script, unusual fonts only complicate matters. The title is Тешко побеђенима, or (in Latin) Teško Pobeđenima, which either means “Hard to Beat” or “Badly Beaten” (two very different things, but I can’t tell which it is). Pobeđenima is some sort of passive version of the verb pobediti: to win or to conquer.

Blissful

It was blissful outside today. The river, the trees, the birds and not much else. I’ve been getting used to the quiet⁠—it’s easier for me than for most people⁠—and weekends are when the difference is most stark, but we now only have two weekends until the lockdown begins to ease. On a day when Romania has recorded 34 deaths, the highest daily figure so far, there are articles (advertorials?) giving advice on where to fly for 100 euros, after flight bans are lifted next Saturday. Ugh.

Yesterday morning I woke up, felt cold, then immediately hot and clammy. My forehead was sweaty. Oh no. This can’t be, can it? I don’t have a thermometer at home. Luckily it was time to get another batch of antidepressants, so I rang my doctor and soon I was able to pick up a repeat prescription from the clinic and get my temperature checked at reception. It was fine. Everything slightly out of the ordinary is magnified right now. (I pretty much always have a productive cough, so that doesn’t count.)

Today is Anzac Day and my sister-in-law’s birthday. I spoke to my brother this morning—he still thinks the British government is doing a decent job. I disagree. I think they messed this up right from the start. They were nowhere near proactive enough. The lockdown was too soft and came two weeks too late. And it still isn’t much better now. Testing is a joke. Fifteen thousand people are still flying into the UK every day, and nobody bats an eyelid when they arrive. I’ve watched a couple of the press briefings—what a waste of time. No real information, no real questions. At least nobody has advocated injecting Dettol yet. My brother reckons everyone needs to be supportive of the government and blindly optimistic no matter what, but then again he said the same about Brexit. All those years of immature chaotic faff surrounding Brexit are partly to blame here—Britain’s resources for an emergency on this scale have been shot to pieces. He also said that New Zealand is being unduly smug over their low casualty rate. Yes, time and space have been on NZ’s side, but that’s only part of the story. They’ve been dealt a good hand but they’ve played it jolly well.

Update: Just had a good chat to my sister-in-law on her 35th birthday.

Lockdown breakdown

There are signs of breakdown in our lockdown. The official case and fatality numbers here are low compared to the tragic figures in western Europe, and there’s a sense that we could be over the worst of it. Foot traffic was up today. I’m concerned by all the non-essential work on our pavements, carried out by men in orange hi-viz jackets, often centimetres apart from each other. Some of it has already been completed, and it looks smart, but I doubt any of it would have happened in normal times. There are also people working in the parks and gardens, as usual (Timișoara has always done a good job there), and honestly that’s fine – you can keep your distance fairly easily.

Our shiny new footpath, complete with bike lane

I’m still watching John Campbell’s videos with interest. How and when will countries (or parts of countries) relax their lockdowns? Just how terrible will it get in Africa? Does warmer weather help significantly? Of particular interest to me: Can New Zealand eradicate the virus completely? (He thinks they can.) There are so many inter-related difficulties and issues that I never would have imagined. For instance, an oil from a specific type of Chilean tree is often used as a binding agent in vaccines, but that tree is only harvested in the Southern Hemisphere summer. Glass is used extensively in medicine (it’s inert, unlike plastic), but there’s a shortage of sand because so much has been used in construction.

The lockdown cracks are only emerging in the daytime, as yet. It’s 9:45 pm and I can hear an owl and intermittent trains.

Serbian commentary 3 — Signs from last summer’s trip I

It’s a long time since I wrote about the Serbian language (summer of 2018, here and here), but I’ve had a bit of extra time on my hands, so here I’ve decided to post some signs from last summer’s trip to Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia. (Montenegrin and Bosnian are basically the same as Serbian, as is Croatian.) Most of the signs presented some kind of puzzle, which I’ve attempted to solve, so here goes:

Belgrade wall plaque

The main text on the plaque above would read SAVEZ ENERGETIČARA SRBIJE in Latin. This means Serbian Association of Energy Workers. The G is pronounced hard, as in goat. Serbia is Srbija in Serbian, but here it’s in the genitive case (“of Serbia”), where the a changes to e. At the bottom it says Beograd (Belgrade), Zetska 11, which is the address.

Buskers Belgrade

The buskers above have a sign that says NISMO NA BUDžETU, meaning We’re not on a budget. “We are not” is a single word, nismo. They’ve taken budžet directly from English ( counts as a single letter in Serbian and is pronounced just like the j in just—sometimes the ž part remains in lower case even if the rest of the text is in caps, as in here). The word budžet gets an extra u because it’s in the locative case. Cases tell you what the word is doing in the sentence—they’re an essential part of Serbian, which has seven of them.

Belgrade biilboard

The billboard above is printed in italic Cyrillic, and that opens up a whole nother can of worms. Some of the letters look quite different from upright Cyrillic. What looks like a g is in fact a д, equivalent to latin d. The barred u is actually a п, equivalent to p. The barred upside-down m is a т.

In non-italic Cyrillic, the slogan above would read “Ко сме, тај може. Ко не зна за страх, тај иде напред.” In Latin, that would be: “Ko sme, taj može. Ko ne zna za strah, taj ide napred.” This means “Who dares can. Who knows no fear goes forward,” and is a quote from Vojvoda Živojin Mišić (1855-1921), a commander in Serbia’s wars. You can partly see his name at the bottom.

McDonalds billboard - Belgrade

Still in Belgrade, the billboard above has the word “shake” printed in Serbian phonetics. The milkshake has been reduced to 100 dinars, or about 75 pence.

Handwritten restaurant sign - Belgrade

We’re still in Belgrade, where these handwritten Cyrillic bar signs weren’t easily decipherable. Handwritten Cyrillic is very similar to italic Cyrillic, only harder to read. The large sign in the frame reads:
Марина Милорадовић П.Р.
Услуге припремања и послуживања пића
Лутић
Београд – Стари Град

In Latin, that would be:
Marina Miloradović P.R.
Usluge pripremanja i posluživanja pića
Lutić
Beograd – Stari Grad

The top line is the name of the woman who owns the place, I guess. I don’t know what P.R. means. The second line means “preparing and serving drinks”. The word for drink is piće which is a neuter noun. The e changes to a in the plural. I think we need the accusative case here, but pića is the same in both nominative (vanilla, if you like) and accusative. I think it’s only masculine nouns whose plurals change between nominative and accusative, but don’t quote me on that (!).

They’ve switched to Latin for small signs on the right; the top one simply says otvoreno with “open” in English, while the bottom right sign says radno vreme (opening hours), which are 4pm till midnight, except Fridays and Saturdays (a subotom i petkom), when the place is open from 5pm till 1am. The words for Friday and Saturday are subota and petak in the nominative, but this sign is using the instrumental case, just in case you haven’t had enough cases yet. Nouns which end with the letter a followed by a consonant (like petak) lose that a when a case ending (the -om here) is added. Note that Serbian has two “and” words: i (a general “in addition” type of “and”) and a (a “but” or “whereas” kind of “and”).

Now it’s my first morning in Bar (Montenegro) after my long train journey. Although the language is substantially the same, there’s virtually no Cyrillic in sight now.

The sign on the right above is a road safety message. It says Ne brže od života: “Not faster than life”.

Brz (one of those no-vowel words) means “fast”, but it has comparative forms (“faster”) which are brži (masculine), brža (feminine) and brže (neuter). The z changes to ž, which is equivalent to the sound at the end of “massage”. I guess you use the neuter version in this general situation. Od can mean “from”, “since”, “of”, or (here) “than”. Od is followed by a noun in the genitive case, which is why the word for life (život, masculine) is written with an a on the end.

This beachside restaurant is built around trees, and that’s why I was confused when I saw the sign. I knew drvo meant tree, so I thought Pizza na drva probably meant “pizza in the trees” or something. It actually means “pizza on wood”, i.e. “wood-fired pizza”. I don’t know what case drva is in – Wiktionary isn’t helping me. Roštilj na ugalj (it should have an accent on the s, making the “sh” sound) means “barbecue on coal”.

The big four-oh

Forty. I’ve made it. I’ve had a fairly busy day of birthday phone calls with people in New Zealand and the UK, mixed in with a pair of lessons. I even got a knock on the door from the chap on the sixth floor – he handed me what looked like homegrown apples, some sarmale and more pască. Bizarrely, he also gave me a pair of trousers that he said were too big for him.

After last night and this long weekend in general, it’s pretty clear that Orthodox Easter is a really big deal for Romanians, and something that they find hard to let go of, lockdown or not. Older Romanians, even more so. I’ve had eighty Easters goddammit, and I’m gonna have my Easter even if kills me. Last night they told me that grocery shopping is a three-hour round trip from them. I’ll do it for you in a fraction of the time, I said. But they didn’t trust me to get “the right stuff”. I trotted off to the supermarket this morning, masked and gloved, but it was closed for Easter Monday.

I can make no complaints about the weather for my lockdown birthday, a day when US oil prices dropped below zero. They are paying you to take it away. Oh, and I just tried on those trousers, for a bit of a laugh. They’re enormous, and far too short.