23.3.11 – Tea in Croatia (Whyalla, South Australia)
A painting of a Croatian castle, round white towers, red cone-shaped tops; polished wooden kitchen doors; a wooden table set with a crisp checked cloth, yellow and green; white china cups, lace at the windows. ‘You treat it like your home. I from Croatia – that is how we do it’.
We had been idly strolling along the dusty lane behind Bill’s old house, retracing his path home from school and looking over the corrugated iron fences into the Nicolson Avenue back gardens. Bill’s old garden at 24 was much changed – gone were the fruit trees, vines and chicken run.
But just two doors along at No. 20, it was a very different story. It was the chickens that caught our eye – brown and plump, scratching at the red soil. And there was a cockerel, metallic blue-green tail erect, chest puffed out.
We exclaimed over them, and from the vegetable patch a figure stood up. ‘You like my chickens, yes?’ A grey headscarf tied at the back of her head, white curls framing a weatherbeaten face, in which two bright eyes shone adding to her wide smile of welcome. She came over to us, wiping muddy hands on her black gardening trousers. I explained that Bill had used to live at 24. ‘No!’ – in disbelief – ‘I live in that house long time ago. My husband, he buy it when we come – maybe 1960’s?’ It turned out that it was quite likely that it was to her husband that grandpa had sold the house, over fifty years ago. (They had later moved two doors along to a slightly bigger house). She was delighted. ‘You come in for tea! I ask you because you live in 24!’
We walked through the garden, and it transported me away from Australia and back to Romania, where we had spent long periods in the 1990’s. A shaded path, covered with vines, dripping grapes now a bit over-ripe; a lime tree, heavy with fruit; vegetables, chickens – I was back with the Costiuc family, our friends in the town of Cristian, and Mama Costuic, her red headscarf tied behind her head, wiping her hands on her apron and insisting we come in for tea.
Anz, for that was her name, had come to Whyalla as a refugee – ‘I come with nothing, nothing. They give me everything – nice house, everything’. She’s never been back, but she has a sister in Dubrovnik who wants her to visit. But she’s not sure. ‘It not in my heart to go. Maybe one day, maybe’. Bill asks if she knew the Bradburys, who had lived in 22, the house between. Her eyes light up. ‘She was a mother to me. Very, very good people. I cry when she died.’
We stayed, drinking tea and eating huge slices of cake, while her tall, shy grandson came in from school. She showed us photos - the family in Croatian costume, little girls in white and red embroidered dresses, the men in black waistcoats, edged in red; her granddaughter at some presentation, tall and slim, with long black hair, holding a shining silver cup. We parted at her garden gate. ‘Next time you come, I show you whole house!’ A magical moment.
There is some graffiti and vandalism here – not a lot, but it’s there. However, one set of items that are too sacrosanct to be destroyed are the stainless steel electric barbecues. You see them everywhere, and they’re free. Tonight, we decided to try one. Lorne sausage, bought from the Scottish butcher mentioned earlier, sizzled on the big square hotplate in no time. You simply press a button on the side, it heats up, and you cook! Easy! Next time I must barbecue something more adventurous!
A painting of a Croatian castle, round white towers, red cone-shaped tops; polished wooden kitchen doors; a wooden table set with a crisp checked cloth, yellow and green; white china cups, lace at the windows. ‘You treat it like your home. I from Croatia – that is how we do it’.
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| Lane |
But just two doors along at No. 20, it was a very different story. It was the chickens that caught our eye – brown and plump, scratching at the red soil. And there was a cockerel, metallic blue-green tail erect, chest puffed out.
 |
| Chickens!! |
We walked through the garden, and it transported me away from Australia and back to Romania, where we had spent long periods in the 1990’s. A shaded path, covered with vines, dripping grapes now a bit over-ripe; a lime tree, heavy with fruit; vegetables, chickens – I was back with the Costiuc family, our friends in the town of Cristian, and Mama Costuic, her red headscarf tied behind her head, wiping her hands on her apron and insisting we come in for tea.
Anz, for that was her name, had come to Whyalla as a refugee – ‘I come with nothing, nothing. They give me everything – nice house, everything’. She’s never been back, but she has a sister in Dubrovnik who wants her to visit. But she’s not sure. ‘It not in my heart to go. Maybe one day, maybe’. Bill asks if she knew the Bradburys, who had lived in 22, the house between. Her eyes light up. ‘She was a mother to me. Very, very good people. I cry when she died.’
We stayed, drinking tea and eating huge slices of cake, while her tall, shy grandson came in from school. She showed us photos - the family in Croatian costume, little girls in white and red embroidered dresses, the men in black waistcoats, edged in red; her granddaughter at some presentation, tall and slim, with long black hair, holding a shining silver cup. We parted at her garden gate. ‘Next time you come, I show you whole house!’ A magical moment.
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| Bill barbecuing |
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