"Adio" to Dubrovnik A tale of two refugees Full Monty Parlor Games Share My Fire Car - the relationship-saving device Going Straight West A year to expirience, a lifetime to understand Meeting Vuk Cultural insensitivity Sex in Serbia Buvljak experience What's news in Yugoslavia? part II What's news in Yugoslavia? Trust issues: Yugoslav Banks Hosting, Serbian style Flat-hunting Staying legally in Yugoslavia Welcome to Belgrade Border crossings The Paper Chase: Single - entry visas

Vojislav Seselj's assistant told a colleague of mine that he "doesn't talk to foreign journalists," and thus, the journalist left him out of the article. Djindjic was on the ball and granted an interview easily, while Lilic needed a faxed list of questions. But why was presidential candidate Vuk Draskovic such as hard one to pin down? His secretary apologized, telling us that Vuk had a photo shoot for the campaign the next day. When the friend proposed that he tag along, the secretary fumbled. "Though Mr. Draskovic would love to talk to you, he's feeling under the weather, and besides that, he's having a bad hair day."

I've always been of the opinion that hair can define the success of Serbian politicians. After all, Karadzic and Milosevic have both awed and intimidated those who got too close to their coiffed, full locks; so when Vuk traded in his lengthy bohemian do for a smooth comb-back and trimmed beard, I knew he and I were of like mind.

Maybe that's why fate brought us together the Serbian town of Kraljevo in front of the abdominable city hall building. It was the weekend of the Trubaca festival in Guce and I had little else on my mind than listening to eardrum splitting brass, trying homemade kajmak and meeting a few local Chetniks.

So when Vuk stepped out of the mini-van to shake hands with all kinds of guys who looked a lot like pre-haircut Vuk, all I could say was, "why am I the only woman here?" He stopped, aparantly taken aback by this brassy statement spoken in language other than his own. After stating my business, he told me to follow him and we'd have plenty of time to talk. It was that easy? Would we be having a drink together and chatting informally as well?

Unfortunately, my time with Vuk was brief. Having been rerouted by a body guards and a couple other SPO officials, I was sitting in Kraljevo's TV and Radio Station several hours later, waiting to finally talk to the man. Apparantly, I had been invited along with Vuk's tour of Studenica in the mini-van and they were all perplexed about why I hadn't shown up. The truth is, nobody told me personally about this golden opportunity and I was going to get a very, tuckered-out Vuk at the tail end of a busy day.

Was the screw-up an indication of Vuk's unpredictability, or were the funny-looking guys in polyester suits around him to blame? If he were to win the presidential elections and these same characters end up in his cabinet, how would a meeting with Eurocrats from Brussels transpire. I sensed more bad-hair days ahead.

Things got worse when a tubby, bearded local SPO official asked me a very profound question:

"Do you believe in God?"

Sensing that it would be wise to give an affirmative answer, I nodded.

"Well, to us, Vuk is like a god. He forgave the communists. He prayed for them..."

The modern-day apostles of Vuk immediately silienced as I entered the room. I took my place beside the man and his whiskey, wondering if his effect on me would be just as intoxicating. Would he succeed in convincing me that he, alone, could get Serbia out of its fix, or would I leave City Hall more jaded than ever? Could I at least make jokes about squatter toilettes with these guys?

While all attention turned on us, in slow, but perfect English Vuk told me of the SPO's plans to turn Serbia in the Balkan version of America and his idea of coming to some kind of mutually-beneficial compromise with Kosovar Albanians to improve human rights. Big score for political correctness there. When it came to the Hague, Vuk was careful not to lambast the international community for demonizing Serb war criminals over Bosniac or Croatian ones, but what he said made the room shake. "The West must know the truth about Croatia, that the roots of ethnic cleansing and genocide were there, on Croatian soil," he said, banging his fist on the table.

Wow. Finally, something juicy. "But, but, but, but...." I was cut off. Time for Vuk to exit the building.

But first, a kiss on the hand from the presidential candidate. The move which encited approval from his colleagues, but left me a little bit confused. Was this done to demonstrate his affiliation with the monarchy, or to prove what gentlemen Serbian men really are? More importantly, could I ever wash that hand again? Whatever the case, it was interesting to note that he considered me a member of the opposite sex first, a journalist and an American second.

But as I left the building, I wondered how he and his crew, with their antiquated ways, might address the Eurocrats if they were to land on Serbian soil. Slivovica might just be required.

by Jennifer C. Brown    

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Guce - Tamberlaine Harris
funny-- - northern star
Your writing - Zoran Vidanovic
Meeting Vuk - Dragan&Elizabeth Simonovic-van Grinsven