Here are Turks
too: ladies in veil and trousers, and trousered kiddies with clothes of
orange, yellow and purple. Twice in the streets we were stopped by
authority. Our lunch was well cooked, one can clearly see this has not
been Serbia for long, for the Serbs are the worst eaters in the world.
Jo gave medical advice to a Serb, and on once more.
On the road were travellers never ending in their variety, and one
father was mounted with a pack behind him, and on the top of the pack
his little daughter clad in many coloured cottons, clasping him tight
round the neck and peering inquisitively from behind his ear.
About three p.m. we reached the Lim. The road climbs to a great height,
and the peasants in their gay costumes were reaping, some of the fields
so steep that we wondered how they stood upon them; on the opposite
cliff was an old robber castle like a Rhine fortress.
The Serbian town of Prepolji introduced itself by six Turks lying by
the roadside, then there were three Turkish families, afterwards an
assorted dozen of small girls in trousers, finally, an old man doddering
along in a turban and a veiled beggar woman, who demanded backsheesh.
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