Mudijada Festival: Serbia Has Balls
“The Scots have their Scotch; the Swiss have their cheese; we Serbs have balls.”
Undoubtably, Serbia has balls. Look at their history. Hard times breed hard people. It’s no surprise people here aren’t afraid to eat…testicles.
Mudijada began in 2004 as a regional festival in Sumadija. With the exception of 2020 (for obvious reasons,) it has gone on every year in various cities around central Serbia. For 2021, the festival was back in Sumadija, in the mountain city of Gornji Milanovac.
Sumadija is perhaps the most authentically “Serbian” region of the country. Many of the oldest Orthodox Monasteries, and Serbia’s most common folk costumes, including the Sajkaca hat, are from here. Plums grow well in central Serbia, so their national drink, rakija, is abundant and high-quality here.
On a hot August morning, I waited on The Germans. Although the Mudijada happens in small Serbian towns, its online presence has attracted a significant number of foreigners curious to witness – and to cook – at this unusual event. At Mudijada in 2019, I had met two Germans, Olly and Julian. They were driving from their city of Dresden to Gornji Milanovac. They offered to pick me up in Belgrade on their trip south.
South To Sumadija
“We’re going to win that testicle trophy this year.”
The Germans were chefs, very determined chefs. First, we met at a café for coffee. Immediately, they asked me to take them to the nearest supermarket. They had a long list of ingredients they needed to buy for cooking. After shopping, we loaded their car with supplies. They showed me the devices they were using to make their masterpiece. One was an electric meat grinder. The other was a hand-operated steel sausage maker. They were going to make traditional German wurst stuffed with…testicles.
Wieners stuffed with balls. Let the jokes begin.
“I remember you like craft beer. We brought this for you from Germany.”
Olly handed me a bottle of Atlantik Ale, from a craft brewery named Stortebeker Brauhous near Hamburg. It was clean and light. I provided them with cans of Serbia’s Dogma Brewery. We toasted to the trip. Julian grimaced, realizing that he had to drive two long hours before he could drink.
Serbia becomes mountainous as you go further south. The highway from Belgrade winds through this Balkan mountain range. On the trip, we took in the incredible scenery. At one point, I recognized one of the peaks where the town of Rudnik is. A nearby village, Muntaj, was where I first experienced Mudijada in 2017. It was on a property known as “Serbian Hollywood,” where the owner had built and erected large wooden cutouts of various movie figures. As we drove by the mountain, I pointed at the large Hollywood sign – written in Cyrillic – where that festival had taken place.
Olly deadpanned, “Wow, all the famous Serbian celebrities must be there.”
Soon, we arrived in Gornji Milanovac. We drove through the center of the town to the outskirts. In a neighborhood called Lunjevica, in front of a large green field, a sign welcomed us to Mudijada. It was early afternoon on Friday. People were unpacking umbrellas and tables from a large delivery van. Instrument cases sat on a concrete stage. A few tents were scattered around the perimeter. It was quiet.
“We Will Carry On The Balls”
The Germans set up their tent and prepared camp. I was not staying with them. My friend, Luka, invited me to stay at his house in Gornji Milanovac. He is, so to say, very deep in the balls. His late godfather, Ljubomir Erovic, was the man who created Mudijada. Erovic was the spokesman, leader, promoter, and genius behind the balls until his tragic passing from brain cancer. In the family tradition, Ljubomir’s daughter, Jovana, took over the festival. She is Luka’s kuma, roughly translated as godsister.
As Jovana told me, “We will not let Mudijada die with Erovic. We will carry on the balls.”
Mudijada is a small festival, and it has a friendly family atmosphere. It was my fourth time at Mudijada, so I already knew many people. I saw several familiar faces that evening, but most of the participants were coming the next day.
As nighttime approached, the Germans lit a fire. We cracked open more beers. People from a nearby campsite overheard us speaking English, and invited us, the foreigners, to drink some of their homemade rakija. Consequently, we became friends.
Late the next morning, I woke up in the back of the Germans’ car. They were in the front seats, half-sitting up, still asleep. As it turned out, thanks to the rakija, I did not make it to Luka’s house. Immediately, I got out of the car and went to find a strong Serbian coffee.
Mudijada Festival In Full Swing
“You will be famous in Serbia. That guy filming you is Marka Zvaka.”
I stared at Luka for a moment before comprehending.
“Fuck fuck,” I slurred, “I bet he…loves finding…drunk foreigner…to film.”
It was about 3pm. I had just warbled out a haphazard version of ‘Kafana Je Moja Sudbina,’ a traditional kafana song familiar to any Serb. Thanks to rakija, I was connecting with many people.
Mist hung in the grey sky. A light rain had been falling intermittently since morning. Yet I was bound to get sunburned. I had been stumbling outside on the festival grounds for hours. Thanks to Serbian hospitality, the rakija I drank from last night was making friends with new rakija I was getting today. Mudijada Festival was – like the balls – in full swing.
It started with my morning coffee. I thought I would drink the coffee, eat something, then rest another hour or two.
But I found Luka first.
Luka was wandering the field dressed as Mudijada’s mascot, a mustachioed chef cooking his own balls in a cauldron. He already appeared tipsy. When I approached him, he embraced me, call me his kum, and produced a plastic bottle of homemade rakija from under his chef’s apron. I complimented him on his beautiful red balls, then swigged from the bottle. COVID be damned.
Shiny Disco Balls
Notwithstanding vegetarians, Mudijada is a great festival for trying a variety of Serbian cuisine, not only dishes with balls. The Serbian teams had come from around the country, and they all brought food from their towns. Throughout the day, I went from campsite to campsite, sampling homemade meats, vegetables, and, of course, more rakija. One campsite had two whole pigs roasting on spits, and they were generous with sharing portions.
Unfortunately, in the end, the Germans’ testicle sausage only received a second-place award for innovation. The first-place award went to a Serbian team for their goulash. There’s always next year.
We didn’t dwell too long on the awards ceremony. Many had only come for the daytime and had to return home. Those who stayed were – for the most part – too drunk to care. It didn’t matter; they had a blast.
After the ceremony, a band started playing classic Serbian rock. As night approached, a DJ set up on the concrete stage to prepare a “Disco Balls” set. When the sun set, he began. A crowd gathered, and the DJ called everyone onto the stage. With our stomachs full of pig, rakija and balls, we danced until the early morning hours.
