MY ROUTE TO THE TOWER TOOK ME THROUGH NEW BELGRADE’S MASSIVE HOUSING BLOCKS. The brown slab cities rose above the trees, concrete ocean liners riddled with windows, washing lines and hanging plants. Beneath the blocks I slipped down long, graffitied corridors where residents moved about silently with shopping bags or walked their dogs. In one place the corridor went up into a tall shaft and I stood below, squinting up into the square of pale sky. Carrying on, I passed through small arcades and empty playgrounds that looked uninviting in the grey afternoon light. The graffiti was always present, sprawled on every garage door and block corner, “Block 63”, “Ultra Boys”, “Heros” and other cryptic messages.
Going deeper into the blocks I heard loud carnival music but could not see where it was coming from. Then I emerged into a green, open space where four young gypsy boys were playing trumpets and drums. I guessed they were busking, trying to rouse the residents out of their spare dinar. They walked away up the path getting smaller until once more I could only hear their music. The tower was calling me forward, but I wanted to stay in the blocks. Why did this place have such a hold on me? I knew I was seeing a side of Belgrade unknown to most outsiders, but there was also a tension in this physical space which pulled between impoverished desolation and being in the womb. If I stayed long enough, among the concrete and the flowerpots and the quiet faces of the people living here, I knew I would find what I was looking for. But I also knew that to stay in the blocks meant never leaving. So, I urged myself on towards the tower.