A year ago I wrote a poem, concerning nineties. I will translate it from my excellent Russian to my broken English as best, as I can.
I drunked "Rakia"
I have fucked Maria
I had my happiness accented
And commandant me "browning"
Such were years nineties
Were populated by the serbs,
Were truly wonderful those years!
Near Saraevo, amongst mountaineers
I was Iovan Tintor best friend
And Tintor wasn't guy with happy end
He was a military chef and he got lost
So president have Tintor fired
from his post
That time I have expressed
by the reportages
With the ecstasies, excesses
and with rages
O, nineties those years!
Maria's red moisty clitoris
And Serbian silent rivers
I hope that clumsy translation will, nevertheless, give to eXile reader some notion of my nineties. For me that decade was decade of adventures, of local wars, of political activities. As I have lived nineties first as a war correspondent for French and Russian newspapers, and later, after 1994 as a radical politician in Russia.
Nineties have started for me in November 1991, when peaceful, drunken Belegrade I have moved by the road in direction of Zagreb, where Serbs fought for the town of Vucovar. 115 kilometers from Belgrade I have catched THE WAR. War 1991 had a look of a war of 1941, as all local wars are archaical. Green, greenish and grey uniforms of soldiers, white freshness of young snow, red blood of wounds. Tired faces of living and peaceful faces of dead. "Tchetniks"-Serbian nationalists wearing beards and leather coats, regiment of paratrooper, wearing red berets: war have an exciting look. And a nasty smell, because dead bodes have smelled at Balkan's climate. I have eaten pea soup with soldiers, have drunk "rakia" with Orthodox priests. Once, badly wanting to piss, have stepped near planted mine called "pashtet" (paste or pate), probably because that mine can make paste of human body. It didn't make paste of my body, because Serbian soldier have pushed me off dangerous place, one of my feet, I remember was almost touching that fucking mine. When in January 1992 I was leaving that war, I crossed "23rd May Bridge," named so after Iozef Tito's birthday, on Danube River. On the other side of Danube I say hunters, peacefully waking with their dogs and hunting rifles, it was first day of hunting season. Some of the hunters carried dead hares.
In 1992 I went to Bosnian war, have visited fighting Serbian quarters Gerbovica at Saraevo, have slept some nights at frozen hotel room in mountain town of Pale, capital of Bosnian Serbian Republic. My neighbour at hotel was powerful member of government professor Bilana Plavschic, woman about 50 at that time. She had good coffee at her room and kerosin heater. It was great advantage because Pale was cutted of electricity. We have disputed with Miss Plavschic a lot, she was moderation politician. Now she is, nevertheless, serving her eleven years term in European prison at Haag. As well as another Bosnian Serb Kraichnik. At 1992 he was a chairman of Bosnian Serbian parliament. I have also interviewed for myself and for BBC television documentary doctor Radovan Karadzich, then President of Serbian Bosnian Republic. He have recited for me his poetry, we were both standing on the mountain ridge above Saraevo. Now Karadzich is hiding somewhere, despite the fact that he was also moderate politician, arguing with his minister of defense General Radko Mladich. Mladich was a hawk. But ironic of sort, both of them now in hiding, because they are defeated. Bosnian Serbian Republic is dead. Personally, I feel sad about that, because those Serbs from Bosnia were courages brave types, they deserved to have there republic no less that Americans their Independence from English crown. Serbs were defeated by foreign aggression, whole Europe came to fight Serbs. What is not fair.