Montenegrin Mountains, Part 1. Another true story. By Gersheimer gersheimer77@seznam.cz 1877: Excerpts from a travel diary of a 19th century botanist from his sometimes adventurous journeys through the interior of the Balkan peninsula in unsteady times. .............................................................................. ...................................................... Foreword: These are excerpts from a travel diary of baron Attila Forgacs, noted Hungarian botanist of the second half of 19th century and later a professor of the Budapest and Vienna universities, who had in his younger age in the 1875 ? 1890 era repeatedly crisscrossed the interior of the Balkan peninsula. The purpose of his travels was actually twofold: while he indeed was a skilled botanist, and during the mentioned journeys he revealed and described a lot of hitherto unknown species of plants (some of which still hold Latin generic name, forgacsii, to his honour), he also served as an agent of the Austrian-Hungarian government trying to assess the defence capabilities of the newly forming national states of Montenegro, Serbia and Bulgaria. He understood some of the local languages (or dialects), of which he left many citations in his diaries, but generally relied on a translation by a local guide/manservant. The whole set of his manuscript diaries, amounting to over 2500 pages in seven volumes written in German, is held at the Faculty of Natural Sciences of the Vienna University. Obviously, I give here only the relevant sections describing an encounter with a very special girl, and the adventures that followed. I generally translate as the text lies, omitting purely scientific and other non-relating parts and adding explanations only if necessary, in parentheses (e.g. modern measuring units). .............................................................................. ...................................................... When traveling with my Dalmatian manservant Jakov through the Balkan interior, we often attracted inevitable looks of every passerby due to our strange, almost comical appearance. The more literate observers often laughingly called us "Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the reverse." I have to admit that my stature was rather stout and thick, while Jakov, like his compatriots from the Dalmatian interior tend to be, was very slim and extremely tall (at least what I thought, before I first visited Montenegro, to be extremely tall. He stood one Viennese fathom and three inches (197 cm) - I will write more to this remark later). And while I mounted a stout mule, he was sitting on a small and meager one, so that his feet were constantly dragged on the ground... That country, Montenegro, is generally divided into two halves by the mighty and wild river Moraca, running in the north-southerly direction towards the Lake Skadarsko and the Adriatic Sea. While we were traveling in the opposite direction, we were warned that the central section of this river's gorge is not passable and that we have to get around it through the mountains either on the western or the eastern side. After passing the little town of Podgorica we decided to use the eastern route because it was shorter and not so precarious. Anyway, what I call a route here was rather a barely discernible rocky trail crossing several mountain ranges on its way to still Turkish-held Rozaje, from where we planned to travel to Yenipazar (Novi Pazar now) to meet the local Austrian consul and enjoy his protection... The regions we were now crossing had long since been renowned for their lawlessness. This mountainous area served as some kind of a buffer zone between the Ottoman Empire and Montenegro, its inhabitants - both Slavic and Arnaut (Albanians) - paid no taxes to either state and often clashed among themselves. However, at that very time everything was many times worse. Less than two years ago (1875-76) the remaining Christian subjects to the Ottoman rule had started a set of armed revolts in many areas ranging from Herzegovina to Bulgaria, that were supported clandestinely by the militaries of Serbia and Montenegro, as well as by the Russian Empire through delivery of firearms. The Montenegrins had come to the aid of the Herzegovinian rebels, and together they defeated the Turkish forces in battles at Vucji Do and Niksic, but at the end, even this revolt, like the others elsewhere, was suppressed and only diplomatic pressure from European powers prevented a bloodbath like those that had usually followed similar revolts in European Turkey in previous decades. Repercussions against the population were still severe; whole villages were burnt to the ground and their inhabitants forced to leave for poor and already overpopulated Montenegro. Its forests were now full of armed bands of whatever origin, looting and killing for a dime, while Montenegrin and Serbian governments longed for a possibility to start a new full-sized war with the Turks, provoking border clashes almost every week... As I have already mentioned, the vast no-man's land east of Moraca Gorge that we were just passing through was inhabited, without any formal dividing lines, by three tribes ? two Orthodox Montenegrin ones (Kuci and Vasojevici) and one Catholic Arnaut (Climenti). None of them recognized formal Ottoman sovereignty and, apart from a little agriculture and mountain pasturing, they were mostly engaged in petty warfare and raids on the neighbouring Turkish provinces... The beginning of October 1877 was extraordinarily rainy and cold in Montenegro. While the local folk generally stayed most of the year with their livestock in their summer cottages in the mountains and returned into permanent dwelling places in the valleys only at the end of October, we have noted that this year most of the herds had already returned downhill. Upon passing through Verusa, the last permanent village before the rugged Komovi Mountains, a local described us the journey that lay before us: "Don't be scared, the central peaks are rugged but there is a safe path around them, and even between them; just make sure that the weather is clear when you pass so that you don't lose your way in the ravines. If not, then wait at one of the cottages below until the weather improves. On the other side there is a big cluster of cottages named Stavno; if you are lucky, you might still meet someone there. Look for kuca Miljana glavara (the cottage of Miljan, the chieftain). He lives in a big house fit for a big man and a big family. He will tell you how to go further and give you a necessary protection." ... After having spent four days by makeshift fireplace in an empty and rather run- down katun (summer cottage) on the southern side of Komovi peaks, and having run out of food, we decided to find a way around the peaks even though the clouds hadn't lifted for a single moment since our arrival. We had neglected the warning not to proceed in case of bad weather, but we were almost desperate. And our decision turned out to be stupid very soon: a short time before sunset, my mule slipped on a steep gravel-covered slope and broke her neck in her fall. Luckily, Jakov was able to retrieve my bags with all my equipment and we continued on foot, dragging behind Jakov's meager mule that now carried all our bags. We spent the following night soaked with rain and shaking with cold under a fir tree. The next day, with visibility less than twenty steps, we lost the way completely. Trying constantly to find a passable path between numerous rocky crags, we got tired very soon. Despite making numerous stops to recharge, Jakov's mule started to cough bloody froth, and in late afternoon it collapsed and we were forced to camp and suffer another cold sleepless night. On the third morning we found the second mule already dead on the ground; carrying our belongings ourselves, our progress slowed even further. The rain ceased but the fog didn't lift for a single moment. After some hours, we finally emerged from the rocky maze to a forest. But, as the ground was soaked and slippery, walking there was almost as slow and difficult as before. It was slowly getting dark again; we were both hungry and tired to death and the prospect of a third sleepless night outside really scared us. Then suddenly, we heard clearly a faint sound of a dog barking in distance straight in front of us. It came as a great impetus to our exhausted bodies, and in about half an hour we exited the forest and came out on an open space ? a gently sloping mountain meadow. Still there was nothing to be seen as the fog was dense and darkness already started to spread, but the barking intensified and we could easily follow the sound. Jakov went first with most of the bags and I followed, careful not to lose sight of him in the dark and fog. And then I heard a powerful male voice crying in Serbian: ?Who might be there outside in such bad weather? Are you Christian souls or Turks or other Devil's servants?" I heard Jakov hastily answer, repeating who we were again and again because it was obvious that, keeping local traditions, the owner was holding a rifle and might shoot upon slightest suspicion. Then finally the contours of a house, much bigger that usual summer cottages, appeared in the fog. I thought I recognized the figure of Jakov, towering as ever, head and shoulders above a slim man, both of them being now engaged in a much quieter conversation. But, as I went few steps closer, the picture in the fog became clearer and I saw that, actually, the much smaller figure was ... my manservant Jakov... The other man was a Goliath; a veritable middle-aged giant, with long unkempt hair and a full beard, dressed in a fur coat. I would swear that he was, if that were possible, a full three Viennese elbows tall (231 cm). He introduced himself as Miljan, the chieftain of the Vasojevici tribe, and invited us to his house. It was only dimly lit by a fire burning in an earthen oven, but we saw that there was just one room, out of which almost half was covered by furs and rugs, serving thus as bed for all members of the family. There was a big woman holding a little baby and six other children standing nearby, the biggest of them a slim young lad a few inches taller than Jakov. The Goliath, despite his somewhat terrifying appearance, turned out to be very kind and friendly, and made it clear that we were now his esteemed guests and would enjoy his protection: "Feel at home, take off your wet coats; we will get them dry. Take our hot soup first and then we have some bread and smoked mutton and a rakija (brandy). Stay with us until the weather improves; then I will send my oldest son with a rifle with you so that you are not hassled during your journey at least till the borders. By the way, I forgot to introduce the rest of my family ? this is my wife Marika and my children, as you see them ? Jovan, six months; Pavle, four years; Jelena, seven years; Vuk, eight years; Spasoje, nine years; Jovanka, eleven years; and Milovan, thirteen years. My oldest daughter, Milica, who is sixteen already, is not here now, but will come in a day or two. She went with first part of the herds back to the village." I simply didn't know whether to believe my eyes or my ears. I mean the ages the man was telling us simply totally didn't match with the appearance of the respective children. I understand that human giants should have giant offspring as well, but this was ridiculous. A boy of just 13 years over one fathom and six inches (204 cm) tall? It was the same with the other children, especially the girls. As I stood on the earthen ground on the same level, I could clearly that even seven-year-old Jelena was taller than me, with my respectable height of two Viennese elbows and four inches (163 cm), while Jovanka, with eleven years, was standing barefoot full head above me and almost looking eye to eye with Jakov. Even Miljan's wife was extremely tall for a woman, almost as tall as Jakov. However, as we sat to eat and the children started chatting among themselves, I noticed their distinctly childish voices exposing that their ages given by their giant father were probably correct. Miljan saw us falling asleep straight at the dining table and offered us the best sleeping places next to the warm oven, and we both lost consciousness right after lying down. When we awoke, it was already late afternoon of the next day. The weather outside hadn't improved at all so we just made a short walk around the cluster of cottages. It was practically empty; Miljan and two other herders were the last to stay and preparing to leave once the weather improved. We watched Miljan's children playing some games, and got in conversation with Milovan, the oldest one and soon-to-be our guide. He seemed offended when we mentioned his age in connection with the dangers of traveling. "I am stronger than most men down in the village and I also know how to use a rifle! I was protecting the camp in Vucji Do a year ago, and with my sister we alone put twenty Turks to flight!" I considered this just bragging, so common with these folks in Montenegro, and went to talk some more with his father. Like most human giants, he had multiple health problems and because of them he walked with a limp, so when managing his flock he relied on the aid of his eldest children. But still he was an imposing figure, and no wonder that he was respected as a leader of the Vasojevici clans at this side of the Komovi Mountains, whose word was considered a law among them. He was very proud and enjoyed showing us how he constructed his house himself, "tailor-made" so that he didn't have to stoop down to get in the door etc., or his military decorations from younger age, when he had fought with the Montenegrins in their almost incessant wars with Turks since 1861. He showed us his tailor-made rifle that seemed rather a small cannon... Later on that day the fog finally started to lift and we were able to see for miles and miles around the mountainous countryside, even though raintorrents kept repeating now and then. Miljan promised us that we could leave with Milovan the very next morning, and with his help we could be in Yenipazar in three or four days, even traveling on foot. His tribe's lands, where we could enjoy his protection, extend some sixteen miles till the Mokra Planina range before Rozaje but then we would, according to him, have to be careful and bypass all settlements, even though Milovan would have a rifle for protection... However, Milovan didn't come to dinner that day and only returned after sunset when we were almost sleeping, yelping with pain at every step. I looked at him and saw his knee badly swollen ? he broke it having fallen from a rocky crag. It was obvious that he couldn't accompany us on our route the next day, and though we tried to persuade his father that we were able to travel alone, he wouldn't concede. "The times are too dangerous now. Let's wait then till Milica returns, it should happen tomorrow at the latest. She might accompany you as well. Everyone should recognize and respect her, even down there in Turkish lands," he said a bit cryptically before we all went to sleep. The next day was rather uneventful; we spent it enjoying again Miljan's "sveto gostoprimstvo" (sacred hospitality, i.e. drinking rakija, eating and chatting). Miljan created for us a makeshift frame backpack and affixed our saddlebags and all our other belongings to it. However, neither Jakov nor I were then able to lift it fully from the ground, it must have weighed at least four Viennese funts (64 kg). Miljan, however, was lifting and moving it with one hand as if it weighed nothing at all... And so another sunset came and there was still no sign of Milica. We took dinner and prepared to go to sleep. We were already lying on the ground in the rugs when the dogs started barking again and moments later, a strong but musically sweet female voice from outside called: "Father, mother dearest; I am baaaack!" And then the door opened and a beautiful smiling girl in full blossom with long black hair and green eyes entered -- and banged her head painfully on the doortop. It struck me even before we stood up to greet her, and my heart surely skipped a few beats. I recalled how her father had told us that he had constructed the house in a way that fit his own oversized figure; and that its entry door was so high that he didn't have to stoop down at all when passing through ? and I wasn't able to touch the doortop even when jumping high in the air. However, the door was still not high enough for his beautiful eldest daughter, Milica! She would be a sight to behold even if normal-sized. She wore a dirty white skirt that looked too short on her, leaving her long and visibly strong legs bare from the knee down. On her feet she had simple opanaki, sandals made from pigskin ? my two shoes could easily fit into one of hers. When she removed her cloak, we were greeted by even more marvelous sight - she was dressed only in "oplece," a local kind of female shirt cut in such a way that leaves breasts totally bare! And did she have really big breasts, each easily surpassing my head in circumference! However, I don't write this here to complain about the poor Montenegrin sense of modesty. Instead, I admit that I fully enjoyed that view in dim light, being sure that our future travels in the company of this young beautiful giantess would surely turn out very interesting.... (to be continued)