‘It has apricot, plum, cheese, peanuts and…balls. Amazing.’
‘No idea you could do that.’
‘Me neither, and I’ve been going to this festival for three years already.’
There is no other way to describe the Mudijada International Testicle Festival. So I will just say it. I ate balls all weekend. And drank craft beers. With Serbian bros. Balls, beers and bros.
Undoubtedly, many people have stopped reading. They must suppress their gag-reflex or, even worse, they’re vegetarians. Therefore, I ask: Do you have the balls to eat balls?
Mudijada International Testicle Cooking Festival
Mudijada is Serbia’s International Testicle Cooking Festival. This testosterone-fueled festival brings people from all over the world to compete for cooking the best balls. It began in 2003, and only last year has it found a regular home at Eco Farm Milanovic in the village of Lipovica. Eco Farm Milanovic is a farmhouse and B&B in the beautiful countryside near Despotovac. They host various events throughout the year. But Mudijada is their biggest ball.
(Plenty more puns.)
Three years ago, I first visited Mudijada when it was in another village, Rudnik. An American at any village festival is an unusual thing – much less one featuring testicles. Instantly, I was introduced to the organizers. When they heard I had a band, Gipsy Strippers, they invited us to play the following year.
“You will be village stars!”
First, I had to secure craft beer; alcohol is a band priority. Surprisingly, there is a craft brewer at Mudijada, Homoljsko Aca Pivo. In broken Serbian, I messaged Homoljsko Aca Pivo’s brewer, Aca. He said they would return to the festival this year, and agreed to give my band two liters of beer. Generous, yes, but that wouldn’t last us through the first set.
Luckily, Dogma Brewery stepped up. They gave us 16 bottles. In exchange, I agreed to take promotional photos of the beer and bring them Homoljsko Aca Pivo. I saved 4 bottles for Aca and the rest for the band.
“Guys, I know it isn’t enough. The villagers have plenty of free rakija. You call yourselves Serbs and you don’t drink fucking rakija!? Fine. I’ll buy two liters of Jelen when we’re in Lipovica.”
Eco Farm Milanovic Lipovica
From Belgrade, the first two hours passed quickly on the open highway. We left the highway at Despotovac. During the final hour, we wound precariously up a two-lane road through forested rocky canyons and rolling hills. The view was breathtaking. After a beer stop in Lipovica, and a bumpy drive up a rutted, one-lane dirt trail, we arrived at Eco Farm Milanovic.
The farmhouse itself sits on a cliff’s edge overlooking a wide green valley. Handicraft stands, tents, trailers, campfires and crowds of people covered the property. Maneuvering the car anywhere was difficult, but eventually we parked next to the wooden stage.
Inhaling deeply, I stepped out into the fresh country air.
Smells of Serbian barbecue and ‘gulas’ stew, the preferred dish for cooking with balls, wafted through our noses. Cooking teams were stationed at their campsites. Each teams’ chefs were gathered around their fires, monitoring iron Dutch ovens that held their creations. Little kids with their mothers in tow ran about playing with toys. Village men with overalls, big bellies and cherry red faces toasted each other with glasses of rakija.
Serbian village men, regardless of age, behave like basic American college fraternity bros: loud, drunk, and politically incorrect. But they are friendly, hospitable, and lots of fun. Appropriately, a common greeting in Serbian is, ‘Gde si, brate?’, or ‘What up, bro?’
Beer And Rakija With Serbian Bros
Several village bros recognized me from the previous year and effusively greeted me with ‘Gde si, brate?’ shouts, high-fives and plum rakija.
They had no idea what to do with us. When do we play? Do we have a place to stay? Do we have food? I was accustomed to such lack of organization at Mudijada. Time to grab the situation by the balls, both literally and figuratively.
(Another pun…)
Sometime after the Third Crusade, we found the boss, Ljubo. He reassures us that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’ This is exactly why we worry. Maybe the Eco Farm Milanovic staff will be more useful.
More chaos ensues, but the owner’s son promised us an empty room. We followed him across their wide terrace and inside to the guestrooms upstairs. He opened a thick door and showed us three clean, well-made beds. Passed out on one of the beds, fully-clothed, was Mudijada’s other organizer, Zoki.
“Ohmygod. Sorry, I was drinking all night. The bed is clean…?”
Precariously, he stood up, stared at an indeterminate space on my shirt for a minute, then slouched through the door. We threw our bags on the floor, checked the comfortable beds, then went back outside. Finally, time to eat balls.
More Balls That An 18 Hole Golf Course
Ljubo brought us to a picnic table where a man served us a thick gulas pork stew with fresh bread and forest-picked mushrooms. Later, the balls came (rimshot). In short, I will say they were good. If I describe them in detail, I may lose more readers: soft, creamy, spicy…
They weren’t even the best ones.
Over the next 4 hours, we ate enough balls to finish three tennis sets – with all six games each. Food, beer and rakija waited for us at every campfire. My condition was rapidly deteriorating, and we were expected to perform at 8pm. I managed to get Dogma Brewery’s bottles to Homoljsko Aca Pivo’s outdoor bar. He kindly let us chill our beer in their refrigerators.
Sunset marked Mudijada 2017’s closing ceremony. Croat and Macedonian guest chefs gave speeches; ‘The Ballsiest Man In The World’ was crowned: Kim Jong-Un (yes!); and finally they announced the winners. First place went to a Serbian team, but one would think the 3rd place team from Finland won with all their stage accolades. Serbs like their foreign guests. With the ceremony finished (Finnish?), it was time for us to perform.
Now, who is that other band on stage?
Gipsy Strippers Play for Balls
Ljubo had not mentioned that a punk band, Karta Crvena, was playing at the same time as us. Seems like he had not mentioned us to the band either. Grudgingly, we let them play first, hoping there would be an audience later. Our band waited around a fire, relaxing. Regardless of the loud punk rock blasting from the stage, it was peaceful.
Peaceful, even with the sounds of a friend banging a cougar in a tent behind me.
Compared with the chaotic day’s events, our concert was anticlimactic. Our rock groupies were eight wasted, shirtless, fat village bros. They danced on stage for every Serbian song. Aca brought us several free rounds of his American Pale Ale, which I had to chug rapidly before finding them in the hands of the villagers. Eventually, our groupies passed out quietly in the straw piled in front of the stage.
After the show, we dined on Serbian barbeque, rolled a joint and drank the last of the Dogma craft beer. And more rakija. My band returned to the room. Meanwhile, I continued drinking with the villagers until the last lights of the property flickered out.
My Serbian language was fluent by morning.
Real Serbian Breakfast on The Farm
I awoke in a blur. A quick shower cleared my head slightly. Down on the terrace, I saw the band in a gazebo built on the edge of the cliff. They were already halfway through a hearty breakfast the farm had prepared for us: omelets, cevapi sausage, young cheese, bread, coffee and, well, more rakija.
Bemused, the drummer asked if I would leave with them now, or with other friends later. Vaguely, I recalled some commitment back in Belgrade. Miners Pub’s staff wanted me to try Tron Brewery’s new beer, Pandora.
A villager filled my shot glass with rakija. Everyone toasted to the great Mudijada International Testicle Festival, and downed the burning liquid. Through the gazebo’s windows, I stared over the valley to the receding green hills, as hazy and as distant as that commitment now.
I was having a ball.
(Couldn’t resist.)
