Serbian Slopes
SERBIAN SLOPES
PART I
Having put the dreadful MRCEM SBA exam behind me – for the time being, at least – I found myself at the airport yet again. This time, I was accompanied by a former patient who told me all about her constipation and how much I had helped – sparing absolutely no detail.
Luckily, she and her partner also told me a little about their home country, which I was about to visit – Serbia. For starters, I had no idea that Serbia wasn’t part of the European Union. For some reason, I had always assumed it was. That nugget of knowledge came with a few additional questions, such as whether I needed to apply for a visa – no – and whether I should’ve exchanged some money – probably, given that Serbia uses the dinar rather than the euro.
They also told me about the political turmoil unfolding across the country and warned that I wasn’t exactly visiting at the ideal time. Student-led anti-corruption protests had spread across Serbia following the deadly collapse of a railway-station canopy in Novi Sad, which protesters blamed on corruption and poor government oversight. Prime Minister Miloš Vučević had announced his resignation that very day in an attempt to ease the growing tensions.
That didn’t deter me much. I lived in Malta, after all, where the assassination of an investigative journalist had exposed political divisions and institutional failures of our own. Coincidentally, the businessman accused of complicity in Daphne Caruana Galizia’s murder had been granted bail only a few days earlier. Right on!
Redemption in Kopaonik
So yeah, anyway… I was going to Serbia – specifically, Kopaonik, specifically for one reason. I had one goal in mind: to do something I had been putting off for years – learn how to ski.
As fun and cool as skiing looked, I had always assumed I’d suck at it. That was mostly cause, around a decade earlier, my friends and I had gone on a day trip to Mount Etna in Sicily, rented skiing equipment, decided against hiring an instructor and spent the next couple of hours falling and tumbling down the snowy volcano. I guess the experience had left me kinda scarred. At the same time, skiing was something I had always wanted to try again. This would finally be it. I would manage at all costs!
I chose Kopaonik for several reasons. First, based on my research, winter sports seemed to be the main attraction at that time of year, meaning I could focus entirely on skiing without feeling as though I was missing out on dozens of other things. In fact, Kopaonik is Serbia’s largest ski resort, with around 55 kilometres of alpine runs and plenty of areas dedicated to beginners. Second, it came highly recommended by Akash, Rohan and Zara, who had visited the previous year. In fact, they hooked me up with their former instructor, Nemanja, who, according to them, was the best they could’ve hoped for. Third, I had never been to Serbia before, so I might as well.
And so, after long night shift, a flight to Belgrade, a long overnight stay at the airport, and a five-hour bus journey, a complete zombie arrived at the skiing capital of Serbia. With the afternoon to myself and no real plans, I wandered around the resort, ate some traditional local food, sorted out my ski pass and rented the equipment I’d be using over the following days. Much like the Serbian couple had told me, everyone I encountered was incredibly kind and helpful, even though I’d have to overcome a bit of a language barrier at times.
PART II
Let the Skiing Commence
Finally, the time had come. I wasn’t so much excited to try the new sport as nervous, if I’m being honest. After the whole Etna fiasco, I knew it wasn’t gonna be easy. Having also heard about so many far less clumsy people injuring themselves while skiing, I found myself questioning why the hell I had chosen to come here.
Putting on the ski boots was a chore in and of itself. Walking in them was another – I had forgotten just how horrendous they were. I could barely walk in ordinary shoes, let alone in those rigid contraptions. Suddenly, it felt like karma for all the fun we’d made of the penguins in Antarctica as they trudged helplessly across the ice, stumbling and tripping every few steps. Even so, with one clunky step after another, I made my way to the meeting point Nemanja had sent me.
There was only one thing on my mind as I sat there waiting for him – how bloody hot it was. You’d think 0°C would warrant a few shivers, but with all the high-end winter clothing I had bought – basic Decathlon stuff – it was all I could do not to strip naked in the middle of the frozen tundra. Trying to distract myself, I considered putting on my skis. The second I clipped one boot in, that leg began sliding away from the other. Meanwhile, hundreds of skiers streamed past me through the resort. Children and adults, professionals and amateurs alike, zipped by in colourful ensembles while I struggled to remain upright with only one ski attached. Talk about feeling like a fish out of water!
As I stood there watching everyone and feeling more inept than ever, Nemanja finally arrived. He didn’t waste much time on introductions before leading me towards the children’s area, where he would begin teaching me the basics.
He started by having me clip into one ski at a time. Once it was secured, he showed me how to maintain a centred stance, keeping my shins against the front of the boots without leaning backwards. Using my free leg to push myself forwards, I began gliding across the flat practice area. It was challenging, but nothing I couldn’t overcome. Afterwards, he had me repeat the exercise with the opposite ski. Once I appeared comfortable enough, we progressed to a couple of tiny practice slopes, where he repeatedly emphasised maintaining the right position and using the snowplough – or pizza – technique to control my speed and stop.
I gotta admit that the second I felt even the slightest momentum building, I was equal parts exhilarated and nervous. I had seen many a broken bone during my time at the hospital and didn’t wanna become part of the statistic myself. Still, I wasn’t gonna let the fear of injury get in the way of learning. That was the entire point of this trip, after all.
My First Ski Lift
We spent around an hour going through the most basic techniques in the children’s area before progressing to our first proper beginner slope.
The point of those initial lessons was to develop and maintain the correct position. To that end, Nemanja told me to leave the ski poles behind so I wouldn’t rely on them for balance. We then joined the queue for a platter lift – a moving cable attached to a long metal pole with a circular disc at the bottom. The idea was to place the disc behind your thighs and allow it to tow you uphill while you remained standing on your skis. Ingenious. In theory, it sounded incredibly easy. In practice, it required every ounce of focus and concentration I possessed not to fall over and slide down the side of the mountain.
Once I reached the top, all I had to do was release the platter, glide out of the way and remain upright. That final instruction clearly fell on deaf ears. I immediately crashed into the ground – the first of many falls. I was still convinced I’d break a bone or two before the trip was over, but I gotta say, the snow did a pretty good job of cushioning the impact.
Although the slope’s incline was minimal at best, I can’t say it wasn’t intimidating. Sure, in theory, I knew how to brake. Actually doing it while accelerating downhill was a completely different matter.
We were also moving on to turning, probably the most complicated technique Nemanja would teach me that day. Once again, the theory seemed relatively straightforward, albeit a little counterintuitive. To turn left, I had to increase the pressure through my right – or outside – ski. To help me understand the movement, he gave me a little cheat: reach down and touch my right knee with my right hand. Simple.
Or so I thought. I messed up my first attempt and ended up braking to a complete halt. The second was a success. So was the third. And the fourth. The fifth, not so much, with the lady I ended up cradling in my arms serving as living testimony. Despite crashing directly into her, I gotta say it was a remarkably smooth and gentlemanly save.
Two Hours Later
We spent the second hour turning from one side to the other, practising everything he had shown me and gradually adding more movements to my repertoire. These included a reverse-wedge exercise (or, as he called it, the contra-pizza), skating across flatter ground and repeatedly using the platter lift whenever we reached the bottom of the slope.
All the while, Nemanja did his best to put me at ease. By repeating the instructions time and time again, he slowly helped me understand the process. In just two hours, I had gone from not knowing how to put on a ski to actually manoeuvring my way down a beginner slope. Frankly, I had expected to reach that stage by the end of the week, not by the end of my first friggin’ lesson. Even Nemanja said I was doing a pretty good job and that he was proud of me.
I gotta say that, by that point, I was already hooked. I had planned to ski as much as possible, but because I had no idea whether I’d actually be capable of doing it, I had also created a contingency plan. Had the whole skiing thing not panned out, there was an entire array of other activities I could’ve tried. I could go snowboarding or sledging, join a snowmobile tour or even try snowshoeing through the mountains. Alternatively, I could take it easy and spend my days wandering around, reading, writing and chilling after months of hard work and studying. The world was pretty much my oyster.
Given how much I already enjoyed skiing – and the fact that I wasn’t doing too badly – I decided to stick to the original plan and let it take centre stage.
PART III
The Routine Begins
After my first lesson, I spent another hour practising on my own. I then headed back to the rental shop to drop off my equipment, at which point I discovered just how foul the ski boots had been.
From there, I went to Maglič for lunch – the best – before returning to my apartment for a quick nap and a New Amsterdam binge. Then it was straight back to the slopes for an afternoon lesson. Completely worn out, I returned to my apartment, showered, had another nap, completed a short workout and headed to Alo Alo for dinner before finally calling it a day.
Without realising it, I had established the routine that I would follow almost religiously for the next five days:
- 08:00 – Wake up
- 09:00-11:00 – Ski lesson
- 11:00-12:00 – Free practice
- 12:00-13:00 – Lunch
- 13:00-14:30 – Rest
- 15:00-17:00 – Ski lesson
- 17:00-18:00 – Rest
- 18:00-19:00 – Exercise or night skiing
- 19:00-20:00 – Dinner
Eat, sleep, ski, repeat
Despite four full nights of gloriously perfect sleep and those two additional hours of napping every day, I was positively pooped throughout. That said, I knew I had very limited time to become as good as I possibly could, so I did everything I could to make the most of it. And that I did.
To Infinity and Beyond
Over the following four days, Nemanja did his best to impart as much knowledge and as many techniques as possible. He constantly reminded me to focus on my position, particularly keeping my weight centred and maintaining contact between my shins and the fronts of my boots. He also encouraged me to attempt new skills, including parallel turns, skiing backwards and introductory carving exercises.
I could tell that he was an exceptional instructor, mostly cause he always seemed to have a different exercise ready to address whatever I was struggling with. For example, he had me lift the tail of my inside ski during turns, helping me understand how pressure should shift towards the outside ski. Every time I fell or screwed up an exercise, he was there to explain what had gone wrong and how I could prevent it from happening again. By the end of the trip, falling had almost become second nature. So had sliding uncontrollably down the mountainside.
Battered and bruised, I’d simply get back onto my skis and continue with the lesson, ready for more. Pretty soon, my fear of fractures had disappeared, although the possibility of a ligament injury was beginning to feel increasingly realistic. But I couldn’t have cared less if I tried. My fear of speed vanished too. The adrenaline had taken over. And, while 40km/hr might not be anything for a professional, reaching that speed had me feeling infinite.
More than an Instructor
Throughout the week, Nemanja gradually became one of my bros. We’d chat about anything and everything – from philosophy and politics to sports and nature, and from girls and flirting to languages and linguistics. We’d stop at mountain lodges for short breaks, and we even went on a bobsleigh-style mountain coaster together, which was exhilarating as hell.
I truly couldn’t have asked for a better instructor. In fact, I attribute almost all my relative success to him. In only five days, I had progressed from being unable to attach a ski to confidently navigating the beginner slopes and tackling sections of a couple of red runs. On the gentler stretches, I could even link together some reasonably respectable parallel turns – something I would’ve thought completely impossible before the trip.
After our final lesson, Nemanja handed me my very own B1 certificate. He also gave me a bandana as a personal gift, telling me that I had been one of his favourite students and that he was incredibly proud of me. Five days earlier, I had arrived expecting to spend the week falling over. I had certainly done plenty of that. But somewhere between the snowploughs, bruises, platter-lift disasters and red runs, I had discovered a sport I absolutely loved. So yeah, thank you Kopaonik, and thank you Nemanja!