Bureaucrats

One of the most aggravating features of the world of international organisations is the poor breed of people that are all too often drawn to their corridors. Pasty, lily-livered, cynical specimens who would not know a principle if it fell on them, and yet are the ones who are supposed to defend human rights and democracy in the world. Such individuals are to be found even in field missions of the UN, the OSCE, the EU etc. etc., albeit usually in the headquarters in the capital cities, where they plot and scheme and tread over their colleagues in their ambition to land a plum job in New York, Vienna, Brussels or Geneva.

In field missions there are, thankfully, large numbers of admirable, committed people, working hard for the betterment of the communities they are living in. Feisty human rights lawyers, young idealists not long out of college, hard-bitten old timers who keep on trying to make a difference, despite any number of disappointments.

But their efforts are constantly undermined by the armies of career bureaucrats, with their petty regulations and mealy-mouthed language. Human resources departments which in the past ten years have steadily imposed their vision of mediocrity wherever their putrid tentacles have been able to reach. Human decency out the window. Plane-spoken standing up for principles shunned in favour of "diplomatic" fudge.

And why is it that diplomats, those masters of evasion and equivocation, have come to be seen in recent years as the natural heads of international missions, the standard bearers for human rights? Honourable exceptions aside, why were they ever considered to be qualified to promote the interests of the weak and powerless, the victims of unjust states and conflicts? Diplomats whose whole training and ethos is to deal with states, quietly, behind closed doors? That's not to devalue the importance sometimes of quiet approaches behind the scenes. But when the need arises to speak out loud and clear, with a strong voice, to shout to the skies for justice, why would anyone expect a diplomat to be the one to do that?

Today I am feeling angry. I had a confrontation yesterday evening with one of those horrible career international bureaucrats. A despicable individual who drew amusement from the trampling of a field mission that tried to stand up for the right thing in Georgia, and came up against the weight of organised international shame and ignominy. I wanted to smash the sarcastic grin off his face. I didn't, but I really wanted to.

Folklore

Yesterday I went to a performance by the famous Erisioni dance company. It was a tremendous spectacle of traditional dance, songs and costumes from around Georgia. The colour, the energy, the athleticism, the sheer aggressiveness of it all is truly impressive. A great evening out. The mainly Georgian audience lapped it up with pride, a celebration of their country's rich culture and heritage, which makes such an impression on most foreign visitors. It was, it must be said, all highly choreographed. The moves all perfectly rehearsed. Traces of Riverdance. No doubt the costumes and the moves are, in their essentials, genuine. But this is a show. It is circus. A marvelous display of traditions that are slipping into the past.

Folklore turned to theatre, performed in a modern, cosmopolitan capital city. A nostalgic spectacle. When traditions become circus, they are no longer a living thing, any more than the pageantry of the changing of the guard in London. Georgians, aspiring to be a modern, prosperous, western country, like most of the world gladly yield to the homogenising influences of hamburgers and cappuccinos. And even shopping malls are on the way. And who could begrudge them the fruits of globilisation?

Yet I admit to a twinge of regret for a passing world. Six years ago I had a walking holiday in the Georgian mountains, in Khevsureti and Svaneti. Remote areas, lacking decent roads or hotels, where I was the only foreigner anywhere to be found, apart from a few international observers close to the border with Chechnya. With my Georgian guides, I had the privilege of meeting and talking with local people, sharing their food, khinkali in Shatili, and cheese and yogurt, seasoned with herbs, in the high pastures of Svaneti. Now I hear that the roads are better, that hotels are being built, that tourism is starting to take off. All well and good for the local population, of course. But I cannot help being dismayed by reports that Mestia, the biggest village in Svaneti, may go the way of Sighnaghi, in Kakheti, a Potemkin town, a Georgian Disney world of fancy facades, any charm scrubbed away.

Yet for now Georgian traditions are still alive. I remember a summer evening two years ago, beneath the trees at Pasanauri, north of Tbilisi, eating the best kinkhali I have tasted. And then some of the Georgians started to sing, and some of them started to dance. The energy that evening was spontaneous, in no way contrived, none of it choreographed. And there were those afternoons, walking down from the mountains in Svaneti, visiting grandmothers in their summer huts, where they spent a few months with their cows, making cheese and yogurt, which they shared with us, washed down with vodka. For all the march of modernity, Georgia remains a country that values and holds on to its traditions. It is one of the reasons foreigners find it so irresistible.

Khinkali and other Georgian pleasures

It is so nice to be back in Georgia. Tbilisi seems a bit like a building site. So much construction work. Well of course, elections are coming. But I take much pleasure in the things that are just the same. The little restaurants near my flat. Prospero's bookshop has expanded, and is still a very nice place to sit in the shade on a warm Sunday afternoon. I only wish they would learn how to make decent coffee. Strolling through Tbilisi, down to the Old Town, and inevitably running into friends along the way. I am thinking of buying a carpet for my new flat in London, so today I went to my favourite carpet shop, where I bought two carpets six years ago. To my amazement, the lady said she recognized me. I will certainly buy one.

And then there is the food. Ah, to be eating khinkali again. An early visit to the excellent restaurant on Leselidze with the completely unpronounceable name. Khinkali are often described as Georgian dumplings, but I don't think that is quite right. A better comparison is to describe them as big ravioli. A thin layer of pastry, filled with minced meat, usually a mixture of beef and pork, well seasoned with herbs, and then boiled. Cooked inside the surrounding pastry, the juices of the meat make a delicious broth. They are eaten with the hands, gently biting into the soft pastry and then slurping out the broth before it spills all over you, and then gobbling them down. It is quite an art. After two years, I was out of practice, and I approached my first one gingerly. But after five of them, I was back on form. Before cooking, the pastry is closed by folding and twisting it at one end, making a kind of knob of pastry. This is usually left uneaten on the plate, serving as the proof of how many one has eaten. Khinkali eating can be a serious competitive sport as well as a great pleasure. A local driver tells us his record is 100 in 40 minutes. He is a big fellow, but this seems so improbable that he will have to be made to prove it. I have visions of something like the scene with Paul Newman and the hard-boiled eggs in "Cool-Hand Luke".

So many pleasures. I especially love the aubergine-wrapped walnut paste. And the spinach with walnut paste. And the Khachapuri, sometimes described as Georgian pizza. It comes in different forms, named after different regions of the country. I particularly like Khachapuri Megeruli, from the Megrelia region in western Georgia, which has sulguni cheese on top, as well as inside. Also Khachapuri Adjaruli, from Adjara, on the Black Sea coast, with an egg in the middle. Shashlik, of course, served with tkemali (plum) sauce. And the tomato and cucumber salads, covered in parsley. The tomatoes here, like all the fresh produce, are just so delicious. And a particular favourite, chicken pieces roasted in a pot with garlic sauce - yum yum.

Living in Georgia seems to be one long feast. The only antidote to the inevitable weight gain is the occasional bouts of food poisoning. A drastic, but perhaps necessary solution.

The EU failing in Bosnia

Here is a comment I wrote in response to an article by Daniel Korski for the European Council on Foreign Relations on the EU and Bosnia. Below is a link to Daniel's article and the comments it prompted. Below that is my comment.

http://ecfr.eu/content/entry/commentary_korskibosniathirdoption/

The EU should be the international actor best placed to help Bosnia out of its by now habitual crisis. It has the most important and worthwhile carrots to offer. Beyond visa-free travel, an immediate reward of great relevance to most Bosnians, the benefits of EU integration, economic, political and social, are well-tested throughout Mediterranean and Central Europe. Most Bosnian leaders, of all ethnic stripes, as well as ordinary Bosnians, appreciate that. Also, the reality is that there is no one other than the EU that can help Bosnia. For the past decade American administrations have, understandably, been keen to shift responsibility for the Balkans on to their European allies. This is unlikely to change. The EU cannot pass the buck. No one else wants it.

But the dysfunctional mess of Bosnia’s constitutional set-up, its inability to meet the requirements of EU integration, means that Bosnia is indeed not at a point where it can be treated as a normal pre-accession country. The EU needs to adopt a more muscular approach to Bosnia if it is to have any chance of tackling the country’s chronic problems.

And that is where the EU has been failing. For years now the intention has been for the OHR to hand over to a beefed up EU Special Representative’s office. Yet after all this time they are still not ready. Where is the beef? What mechanisms will the EUSR need? This has been much discussed, but the question of how the EU would take over responsibility has just been allowed to drift.

One issue had been the relationship between the EUSR and the European Commission, which holds the crucial purse strings. This should have been resolved now that the newly established EU High Representative for foreign affairs also sits in the Commission. It might have been encouraging that Lady Ashton chose to visit Bosnia and the Balkans so early in her tenure, as a signal of the importance that the EU attaches to the region.

Yet the lesson is probably rather less encouraging. Ashton’s visit to the Balkans probably signals that, like Solana before her, she has realised that the Balkans is the only part of the world sufficiently uninteresting to the larger member states that she will be able to take the lead for the EU there. Her visit was also distressingly reminiscent of Solana in the string of meaningless platitudes she mouthed about the road to the EU etc. etc. All from the same dull lexicon of Brussels spokesperson’s drivel. Don’t expect Paris, London and Berlin to let her take the lead in the Middle East, for example. In foreign policy terms, Bosnia and the Balkans represent the crumbs that have been left to the Brussels foreign policy establishment.

And that, unfortunately, is why the EU is so ineffectual in Bosnia. Because it just does not care enough to devote the attention and energy that is needed. Let’s hope Ashton may emerge from her current difficulties in Brussels strengthened and with the determination to give Bosnia the attention it needs.

EU opts for feebleness

European leaders have decided, with their choice of two nonentities as the EU’s figureheads, that they do not want the union to be a serious player on the world stage. To those who had hoped for more ambition, this was disappointing. It had been said that the relative importance of the two posts would be determined by the personalities who first held them. The choices that were finally made seem to reflect a determination by EU leaders to keep the EU, as such, subordinate to the national vanities of members states. Eurosceptics who want EU institutions to have as little content as possible have reason to be pleased.

In one crucial respect the new set-up will be a relief. Among all the media comments about how low-profile the two new top figures are, at least everyone seems to agree that they are competent. That will make a welcome change from the embarrassment of having the oaf Javier Solana as the face of the Common European foreign and security policy. Having been NATO Secretary General, he actually did have an international profile of sorts. It just goes to show that an impressive-looking CV can mean very little. It is quite possible to have done a string of responsible jobs, giving the appearance of great experience, but to have done them all badly.

Behind the EU’s latest choices is the reality that the union’s big countries still want to conduct foreign policy themselves on all the issues that count. Paris, London and Berlin never allowed Solana to take a significant role on any important issue, such as Middle East policy, for example, or Turkey. Solana was left to pick up the crumbs that national governments did not care much about, notably ex-Yugoslavia. Perhaps Solana will be best remembered for his doomed efforts to stave of Montenegrin independence, pressurising Podgorica to join a re-formed, very loose, unworkable union with Serbia dubbed “Solania” by Balkan wags.

But the shame is that a Europe that is no more than the sum of its member-state parts has persistently failed to count in the international big league as it could. It is not only in the Balkans that the EU continues to be ineffective, its significant resources not matched by political clout. During the growing crisis that preceded the Russian invasion of Georgia we had the spectacle of the Foreign Minister of Slovenia, supported by the Baltic states, attempting a diplomatic intervention, to the hardly disguised irritation of the bigger European states. That the EU appeared to do better a little later, when the invasion came, was because by then a big EU country, France, headed by an energetic president, led the European efforts. The episode actually demonstrated again that in foreign policy it is not the EU that counts, but that if Europe has any role at all, it is down to its larger members. Even when the EU big beasts, France, Germany and the UK, act jointly, as over Iran’s nuclear programme, their efforts seem to be no more than tolerated by the US for as long as it cannot think of anything more effective.

So most likely the EU will continue to have no effective voice collectively, and the European presence in international affairs will continue to be the small voices of the three largest members, occasionally trying to adopt common positions, and on such occasions annoying all the smaller EU members. And we will have to wait for another big new institutional re-jigging to see whether EU leaders can finally turn the aspiration of EU influence into reality. For the time-being, if there are any more crises in Europe’s backyard, effective action from the EU remains unlikely.

Ottoman Istanbul brought to life

Among the novels I have most enjoyed have been those that evoked a culture, a way of life that has passed into history, a world that is alien to us in the modern West. One outstanding example is Kurban Said’s Ali and Nino, set in the Caucasus before and during the Russian revolution. Like Ali and Nino, Jason Goodwin’s The Janissary Tree is set at a time of turmoil when older, oriental traditions and values are being challenged by new, modern, western ways. Set in Istanbul in the 1830s, it marvellously and convincingly depicts the sights, sounds and smells of the imperial city, from the secret world of the Sultan’s harem to the markets, coffee houses, baths and teeming, bustling streets. From the perfumed maze of the harem, to the foul-smelling tanneries, from the formidable Sultan’s mother, to the transvestite dancers-come-prostitutes of the seedy underbelly of the city, this is an expertly drawn picture of a bygone era.

Goodwin portrays the clash of civilisations, between the old world of the janissaries, the once feared shock troops of the Ottomans, and the new world of western, uniformed soldiers, drilling with booted feet, marching in line. The rich oriental world, with its fabulous colour, its exotic smells, its once glorious triumphs, doomed to failure by the march of modernity against which it can no longer compete.

The novel is more than anything a vehicle for Goodwin, an accomplished historian of the Ottoman Empire and travel writer, to portray the history of the Empire in a different form. The book is an illustration of how fiction can be a particularly powerful means of presenting history, of which Ivo Andrićs masterly The Bridge on the Drina is such a fine example. As a portrayal of Ottoman Istanbul, and of a difficult period in its history, this is a wonderful book.

As a novel, it is not entirely satisfying. The idea of a murder mystery in 1830s Istanbul is wonderful, and the choice of the well-connected, well-informed and well-educated eunuch, Yashim, as the main character, the investigator who unravels the plot, was inspired. However, as a character Yashim is never fully developed, beyond a suppressed anger at his neutered state. A more skilled novelist would have done better, which is why this book does not approach the heights of The Bridge on the Drina. And the denouement is rather rushed, the different strands of the plot not fully drawn together.

But despite those reservations, it is a wonderful, rich and delicious evocation of a world that is no more, a world entirely alien, almost as much, I suspect, to the inhabitants of today’s Istanbul as to a reader in Western Europe. In the West, in Britain or France say, one has a sense of continuity, that the world we live in is the direct descendent of the worlds of our forebears in the nineteenth, eighteenth of seventeenth centuries; that we came from them. But in Turkey, there was a break, or at least a succession of breaks, as modernising Sultans, and finally Ataturk, determinedly tore up the traditions of the past, stamped them out and replaced them with something different, imported. It is hard from our modern perspective even to imagine, let alone grasp that vanished world. The monuments to that age, above all the Topkapı Palace, give us at best a glimpse. Wandering through the gilded rooms of the harem, one can marvel, but not know the world that once existed there. It is so foreign to us as to be incomprehensible. Yet I think Goodwin has done as good a job as is possible of reawakening, in the pages of his novel, the bygone world of the Ottomans.

Lament for Dubrovnik

I find Dubrovnik a depressing place nowadays.

I remember the first time I stepped through the Pile gate into the old city, all those years ago. The main street, Stradun unfolded before me, funnelling down to the clock tower at the far end. The shiny flagstones shimmered in the fading early evening light. The immense city walls towering up on either side. I had never seen a more impressive sight.

I was young then. I sat on the steps climbing up the narrow side streets, overflowing with greenery from the tall houses. The little bars supplied cushions for us youngsters to sit on as we wiled away the carefree nights. It was beautiful.

In daytime, exploring the streets, the palaces, the monasteries, the old harbour, all the little narrow streets, walking the walls, taking the cable car up the mountain above the city, marvelling at the view. The sea lapping at its walls, a blue sky overhead. A city built on the trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest summits of European civilisation.

Then there was the war, the destruction, the vandalism of one of Europe’s greatest treasures and the careless slaughter and terrorism of its people, by barbarians. Returning a few years later, Dubrovnik’s charms were no less. The crowds had gone, the city was struggling. But it was still beautiful, and the endurance of the war seemed to have given it an even greater nobility. Dubrovnik was lovely in winter as well. Evenings in the Trubador jazz club, the random punters joining in the jam sessions of Marko and the regulars. Lunches at Kamenica, the oyster bar on the main square, or at Rozarij.

Afternoons on Lokrum, swimming in the clear sea, wandering the island, alone like it was my kingdom, strolling up to the castle at the top, sitting in the botanical garden. Lunch at the restaurant in the ruined monastery, whatever fish had been caught that day, the recommendation of the waiter never failing, washed down with wine, looking out over the garden, with the peacocks, to the sea beyond.

Things started to go wrong when the Lokrum restaurant was taken over from the hotel Argentina by another, lesser hotel. All quality gone, the waiters clueless and uninterested, the beautiful ruin made gaudy.

But still visits to Dubrovnik were delightful. Buying fruit on the market and taking it off to Lokrum, to sit and reflect between dips.

But then the crowds started to increase. And not the exuberant youths, the excited backpackers of 20 years before, staying for a pittance in private accommodation. Now it was the cruise boats, two, four at a time, spewing forth thousands of people for a few hours each day, clogging up the streets, the cafes, not eating, going back to their boats for lunch. The antagonism of the locals, for whom the hoards became nothing more than money fodder, people to be filched, the lowest quality they could get away with, for the highest price. Even the wonderful Kamenica succumbed.

This year I arrived at Dubrovnik in a huge thunderstorm, massive cruise boats towering above the harbour, others standing off at sea. I got out, soaked, as soon as I could, down the coast to Cavtat, still charming, still delightful, the locals still friendly. Lounging on the rocks, soaking up sun, coffee at Zino’s. Evenings on the dreamy terrace, the sea lapping below, figs by the armful. Alas, even Cavtat had its disappointment though. The once wonderful Leut, now with higher prices, the quality gone to pieces. This was the second year it was so. I gave it a second chance, but I will not give it a third. The once beautifully dressed seafood salad now flat and dull. The fried squid, once so crisp and delicate, so perfect, now sloppy and tasting of nothing but the oil in which it was cooked. The house white, once pleasingly fresh and fruity, now lifeless and not even chilled. Perhaps they just don’t care anymore. Perhaps they don’t think they have to. A shame. They had a reputation once. Gerard Depardieu had eaten there, and Misha Saakashvili. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone now.

Dubrovnik has become little more than a commodity to be sold. But it is being devalued. Nevertheless, the walls, the palaces, and somewhere, no doubt, the spirit of the people, the troubadours, is still there. Maybe still in winter.

Partisans in Montenegro

What a pleasure it was to be in Montenegro. Perhaps it is mainly due to familiarity, but I am hugely fond of the place. This year there was a splendid event organised by the UK embassy and the Montenegrin defence ministry. At the village of Brezna, between Nikšić and Plužine, there was a ceremony and the unveiling of a monument to mark an operation in 1944 when the British and other allied air forces rescued around 1,000 wounded Partisans who would otherwise have been slaughtered by the approaching German army. A makeshift airfield was prepared and the wounded evacuated, all in 48 hours. The event included a wonderful exhibition of photographs of the airlift.

An old soldier remembers

The attention given in recent times to the last few, very old, First World War veterans made the presence of a few elderly men who had participated in the events at Brezna in 1944 seem especially poignant. The 88-year old British gentleman who had helped build the airfield was sprightly and clearly delighted to be back and to reminisce. Among those who made speeches was the head of Montenegro's World War II veterans' organisation. He had been not far away during the Brezna operation. Beginning his speech with the nostalgic "Drugovi i drugarice..." ("Comrades" - male and female). He spoke warmly of lasting Montenegrin-British friendship. There were other old partisans there as well. What they achieved was remarkable, and in the midst of a very brutal guerrilla war, this was a humanitarian mission, to save lives. Some other ambassadors were there, including those of Russia and the United States, whose air forces had also participated. The German ambassador was not present. Apparently he did not consider it had been organised in a spirit of reconciliation. It is hard not to conclude that his presence, more than anything, would have helped stress such a spirit. But it is difficult to escape the nature of what had happened. The German army would have killed all those wounded, if they had got the chance. They had already massacred hundreds of innocents in that very area. While appreciating that this event may not have been comfortable for the German ambassador, perhaps on this occasion it was not appropriate for him to criticise the lack of commitment of others to reconciliation. But it was a happy event, and a wonderful recognition of the heroism of those old men.

Rucola or not

I love Rucola (Rocket). One of my favourite things to eat. In Albania recently, I ate it (with parmesan, olive oil and balsamico) until I was almost tired of it. That bitter, peppery taste is delicious. Quite a luxury in England, in the Balkans it is almost as readily available as lettuce.

So it was with pleasure that I awaited my Rucola and parmesan salad at the restaurant Opera, just off the Trg Republike (the main square) in Belgrade, next to the Hotel Majestic, the favoured haunt of British spies in the Yugoslav capital in the couple of years before the Germans invaded the country in 1941. The Opera is supposed to be a good place, but today there was a problem. The Rucola was not Rucola. I noticed at once that the leaves were completely the wrong shape, too wide and rounded. I had a taste to confirm, and indeed, there was none of the trademark herby pepperiness. I signalled to the waiter. I am afraid this is not Rucola. Not Rucola? Yes it is. Our Rucola is like that. What? So Rucola at that restaurant is different from Rucola everywhere else? No, I insisted, it is not. He took the plate away. Moments later the manager came over with the plate. She agreed that it looked unusual for Rucola, and that it did not taste like Rucola. But, she insisted, it was Rucola. They had been buying it from the same man for five years, and he had sold it to them as Rucola. Very patronising. When I still maintained it was not Rucola, she raised her eyebrows and grimaced impatiently, as if I were an idiot. At this point I got cross. This was not Rucola. Whatever her man said, she should know it was not Rucola. I had proper Rucola at that restaurant on a previous occasion. This was something else, possibly spinach. She agreed to take the plate away. At least my pasta dish was OK, but the dessert was a disappointment, a soggy cherry pie with not very good ice cream and, worst of all, they put on the plate some of that sweet, sickly red stuff from a tube, that is supposed to taste like strawberry, and is meant to make ice cream look more colourful for children. Awful.

I had a Rucola salad at Trebeca, near Kalamegdan, the next day, just to check I was not crazy. Hooray! Real Rucola. Confidence restored a little.

Archives in Belgrade

I have been having a nostalgia trip, going back to my old days as a graduate student, working in musty archives, poring through documents of times gone by. The last time I worked in archives in Belgrade was in 1994. Ultimately, it was a reasonably fruitful stay, but my word it didn't come easily. At the Arhiv Jugoslavije (Archive of Yugoslavia) the lady in the reading room was appalled that I had entered the building without handing over my passport (the guard at the entrance had waved me through without asking for it). How could they know who I was? I might be a terrorist. I might have a bomb in my bag. I kept a straight face and offered to let her see the contents of my bag.

But those were not normal times in Belgrade. Walking back to the flat where I was staying, in the elite district of Dedinje, I regularly passed the headquarters of the notorious Arkan, the football hooligan turned secret police agent turned gangster and war criminal, who nevertheless never lost his baby-face. It was scary just to pass the place on the street, with the menacing black-clad security guards standing outside. I just looked straight ahead up the street, avoiding looking directly at them or the building, lengthening my stride and hurrying past. One morning there was the news that one of the guards had shot a man dead in the street as he walked past the building. Apparently he had walked back and forth in front of the building, arousing suspicion. The headline was not that Arkan's men had shot a passer-by (who may well have just been trying to find his way, or else had a fatal curiosity), but rather who was this man? It was a warped country at that time.

I eventually got permission to work in the Arhiv Jugoslavije, with the help of a reference from a local historian. Help from a local contact was also crucial to getting into the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita (Archive of Josip Broz Tito). Initially I was refused permission. But then a friendly local historian who I had earlier met in London, visiting the archive himself, asked if I had been there. They phoned me to tell me I could use the archive after all. Connections mean everything in the Balkans. At the military archive the junior officer who dealt with me was very friendly, and I received a signed and stamped document confirming that "Comrade Palmer" was granted permission to use the archive.

Fifteen years later, this time things were easier at the Arhiv Jugoslavije (I handed my passport in at the gate, as requested), which had by now taken over the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita as well. All very friendly, the staff helped me find the documents I was looking for. At the Diplomatic Archive, at the foreign ministry, it was another matter. I should have applied to use the archive well in advance, as the approval of the foreign minister himself was required - excessive, surely.

Researching a visit to Yugoslavia by Brezhnev in 1976, I did not find exactly what I was hoping for. But it was fascinating to see the dynamic between these two "brotherly", yet long-estranged and deeply suspicious old dictators, Brezhnev and Tito. Behind the diplomatic niceties, the talking was tough. The Soviets were upset by the criticisms of the Soviet Union by Yugoslav politicians, writers and journalists. They wanted the use of the Adriatic ports and Yugoslav airports. They were reserved about Yugoslavia's prominent role in the non-aligned movement, with its many non-communist members - hob-knobbing with capitalists. They pressed for direct social contacts between Soviet and Yugoslav organisations, bypassing state and party (an opportunity for infiltration, the Yugoslav side clearly thought). The Yugoslavs, who had a good idea what was coming, rejected the requests and reacted defensively to the complaints about anti-Soviet writings. Tito, who talked happily with Brezhnev about hunting, was short and to the point on substantive matters: this is completely unacceptable; we do not work like that. The middle of the Cold War, Tito played Yugoslavia's hand between East and West firmly and skilfully, but communist or no, he knew that his regime's financial backers were in the West.