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We worldwide brick houses with pointed men, where out hung out to dry on us suspended from the beauty. Blofeld met us how the best was being developed — one with at a time — into a well hand. A den of fur and stone, a luxurious space real in Pre-Raphaelite services and modern flat everything singles. We were about to helping, to make our way across the mates to explore the other, matter-looking segment of the factory, when Nemanja created us over to try at something.
Not to worry, they said, telling us about an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city: It had been a period of rapid industrialisation, as the newly independent Kingdom of Serbia had only recently escaped its Ottoman yoke. This autonomy brought with it a belated industrial revolution, so gor the construction of the Belgrade sugar mill was just one of many steps in that era towards independence and self-sustainability. The early years of Ssrbia factory were overshadowed by a number of deaths resulting from a riot that broke out in Commencing on 13th February, hundreds of workers protested budyd a solid two weeks as they demanded increased pay and improved labour conditions.
The government response was to send in the police; and on 1st March, a bloody conflict ended with dozens of workers injured and four of them dead. By the time we got there, the factory had been out of use since The Yugoslav Wars of the s would see Serbia turn its back on the dreams of socialism, and as a result of that period of conflict and confusion many facilities such as this, machinery of the state, had failed to survive the transition into democracy and privately owned enterprise. According to one Serbian news sourcethe owners of the factory filed for bankruptcy in There has been talk of destroying the building to make room for new urban developments; a river marina, or perhaps a small business centre.
An Italian sugar refining company has even proposed a full redevelopment of the site… although the estimated cost of such an endeavour is no small amount, at 30 million Serbian dinar. These days, some units of the factory are rented by independent companies — although even here there have been problems. The management company expelled its latest tenant just one week ago, citing a debt of 3 million dinars in unpaid rent.
In the Talk to horny girls free in nonthaburi the condition of the factory slowly deteriorates, the property depreciating in value while the projected costs of renovation soar. It was a five-minute walk from the bus stop, off the main road and into the leafy backstreets. The first I saw of the factory was its red brick chimney, rising up from the horizon. We made a beeline for it: We passed brick houses with pointed gables, where washing hung out to dry on lines suspended from the windows.
Wolf and Nemanja led us close along the Looking for a lunch buddy in serbia of private homes, and into the bushes that grew around the back; but no one saw us pass, or if Looking for a lunch buddy in serbia did, they made nothing of it. Slipping through the undergrowth, we came to the factory itself. The trees ended abruptly as we hit a red brick wall. There was no way to see the ends of it, impossible to get a sense of scale; just one hard red surface cutting straight across the tree-lined glade, a smooth barrier broken in places by the rotten frames of wooden doors long since removed.
Four walls mostly and a ground floor space split up by pillars. Graffiti brought a splash of colour to the walls, while at one end of the hall, open to the trees, the undergrowth was advancing stealthily inside the building. It came on like a tide — as if we were stood in the hold of a shipwreck, capsizing slowly into a sea of green. At the eastern end of the building, a doorway gave us access to a flat roof area — and finally we were able to get a look at the entire factory site in all its fading glory. Stood on the roof of the smaller, northern building, we looked out upon an industrial wasteland ringed in red brick ruins.
A train track cut the space below us, a line that wound into the factory site from the west before terminating here at a derelict unloading bay. Beyond that, the bulk of the factory rose up some six floors from an overgrown forecourt; red walls, green growth and broken, sooty windows, detailed with an assortment of steam funnels, drain pipes and corrugated metal panels. The factory was a relic of time when industry and architecture had walked hand in hand; an age before function overtook form, back when factories were still built by the same architects who designed hospitals and schools. The sugar factory was magnificent, its dereliction merely adding deeper nuance to the scene.
At the other end of our building I saw a conduit, a narrow, covered walkway that extended out from this structure, crossing high above the tracks to reach the larger buildings beyond. Ducking back inside, we found the entrance to the passageway. After a little deliberation, I decided against crawling through it… it would have been a pretty hard landing, should the bridge have given way beneath me. We were about to leave, to make our way across the tracks to explore the other, larger-looking segment of the factory, when Nemanja called us over to look at something.
In one grubby corner of the hall, a corridor folded back behind the far wall of the building. The metal door at the end was closed, locked, but a busted sheet panel had been bent and propped open like a cat-flap. One after another, we squeezed through the gap and crawled headfirst into the dirty space beyond. It was an office, some kind of small workroom with desks, maps, wall-mounted cupboards and an adjacent washroom.
The windows were cracked and thick with dust; they let in more ivy Looking for a lunch buddy in serbia they did light, green fronds that squeezed through fractured glass to play across the walls. The ivy framed an assortment of largely nationalistic decorations that had been pinned up around the office. Serbian Orthodox icons, and a faded photograph of the Belgrade football team; a textured map of Yugoslavia formed from ridged green plastic, dust filling the valley floors while cobwebs blew from mountaintops. Beside the entrance, a wall calendar was pinned open to display a photograph of the Yugoslav president, Marshal Josip Broz Tito, smoking a cigarette.
In the office cabinet meanwhile, the shelves were filled with empty bottles, jars and paint tins. Bottles of Sodium hydroxide, marked with the skull and crossbones symbol, rubbed shoulders with a bottle of vodka — also labelled with a skull. The small washroom was filled with toothbrushes and oily rags. Stuck up on the tiles, a topless model torn out from a magazine. Another skull appeared in a poster on the wall. Dressed in a military helmet — complete with red star crest — the skeleton clutched a glass of wine between its bony fingers. The message, written in Serbian, read: Alcohol is the most deadly. Later, some factory worker had added their own comment to the state-sponsored warning.
The relics, the wall hangings and personal effects of some long-departed factory staff; utterly worthless, and yet at the same time it posed a window to another world. Even the trivial items — a receipt for groceries, a dog-eared ledger book — each one was a story, a puzzle to be deciphered. The Secret Lair of a Belgrade Bond Villain We crossed the train tracks towards the second row of buildings, expecting more of the same — dust and decay, mould and machinery. Instead though, we were in for a surprise. Around the entrance to the nearest building, fresh timbers had been built into a skeletal entry corridor; the air smelt of sawdust, and work tools lay scattered about the site.
Amongst the stray timbers, the plastic sheets and picture frames strewn across the forecourt, a small wooden table had been set for refreshments: We were stood amidst the construction tools — wondering whether to press on or turn back — when we were spotted by the builders. They looked at us… we looked at them… and then one of them shrugged and gestured towards the main building as if to say, Are you going in, or not? And so we did. We ducked through their half-finished labours, passing along the would-be corridor of bare wooden beams and straight through the breach, through the outer wall of the main factory building.
The room we stepped into was something I never could have predicted. A den of fur and stone, a luxurious space decorated in Pre-Raphaelite friezes and modern flat screen monitors. A grand piano sat at one end of the converted factory space, between art deco columns that framed an expansive dining area: Two girls and a guy sat lounging around a divan in the corner. They spoke to each other in hushed tones, laughing, occasionally, but never so much as acknowledging our intrusion. I just stood there for a time, bemused, disorientated, trying to place myself in this unexpected new environment. I was dressed for adventure, for dirt and danger: I took a Taste of Serbia tour in Belgrade a couple of weeks ago, and it was so much fun!
Goran did an amazing job of introducing my little tour group to local eateries and foods. He also explained a lot of details of the foods as well as the culture and the city. I loved the bacon wrap sub we tried, and the crepes were to die for! I highly recommend this tour! We have done a lot of food tours in Europe and this was easily one of the best, for several reasons. First, our guides, Djordje and his beautiful wife Maya were so much fun, and with the other couple on the tour, it did just feel like 3 couples out for a great night in Belgrade. I want to emphasise that this is really the best authentic Serbian food and drink experience and Djordje made sure we appreciated that, always explaining and showing video on his phone how the traditional foods are m… Pesti Hereford, UK Best day ever!
Had such a laugh and a great time with Djordje and Goran. Went with family and friends in a group of 5 on the munchies tour. A beautiful sunny day in an even more beautiful city, it was the first time in Belgrade for some of us and they were so knowledgable and informative, answering all our questions both in Serbian for some of the group and in English. The 5-hour roasted pork knuckle was the most fabulous rendition we had tasted even counting Germanyand the pancake dessert was a really pleasant surprise.