Bitsa is old, well she is now anyway, Bitsa is also the town gossip merchant, political activist, cultural advocate and she walks with a really big stick.. which as we all know demands respect. If she ever stood up straight Bitsa would without doubt be taller than she is bent over, but Bitsa is as Bitsa is and we all love her curved up ball of a self.

Early on a day which felt like a sunday I heard a clear crisp heavily Macedonian accented voice booming across my grandmaother’s back yard. The sound made me stand up to see what was going on. I cracked open the ancient plastic fly screen hanging from gran’s backdoor and peered into the garden.

Bitsa was peeking over the top of a row of string beans… her left arm stretched towards the sky, her right hand clutched a walking stick that was easily a foot taller than her entire frame, she waddled her way through the town this way, her oversize walking stick like a kid with a flag on his bike, recognising people as they approached by the sound of their shoes and the type of shit that clung to their soles.

I love Bitsa, for many many reasons… but it was the way she spoke, the way she structured her sentences, her mix of very modern and ancient cultural references and languages that will have her with me for ever.

I started writing down some of the things she said one day and rapidly realised that this wouldn’t be necessary as the level of repetition of theme was so intense that she could probably develop a new learning method, write a book and be rich beyond her wildest dreams… her wildest dreams would probably mean having about 300 euro more than her phone bill, which she carried with her everywhere in case anybody wished to discuss it further.. they often did.

here is a typical conversation, my grandmother plays the role of grandmother, and Bitsa well she is an old hand at playing … herself.

I see bitsa through my grandmothers kitchen window… my grandmother is in her chair staring at the spot on the opposite wall that she has been so captivated with lately.

Bitsa: Saddam! My grandmother doesnt respond
Bitsa: Saddam!!!
still nothing from my grandmother… but she sees Bitsa’s distinctive frame walk past the back door.
Gran: aaaah… Bitsa is here again,.. she’s going to bust me about something again… hopefully it’s not Lazaro…
Bitsa: Saddam.. dove sei
Yes Bitsa speaks some Italian… she knows how to ask where you are but if you were to respond in Italian she wouldn’t have a clue what you were saying.. she actually thinks she’s speaking german… maybe she is.
Gran: Bitsa, I’m in here, stop shouting .. come in…
She would have come in anyway. Bitsa emerges cane first and sits down at my grandmother’s table… i sit on the daybed opposite her, she sees me out of the corner of an upturned eye… i must have ben upside down to her… but that’s normal… for both of us.

Bitsa: Saddam hussein,.. ah saddam hussein… the americans are still looking for you, but you are safe here they won’t find you.
My grandmother has been dubbed the saddam hussein of the village by Bitsa, don’t tell Rumsfeld.
Gran: what’s happening Bitsa.
Bitsa: did Lazaro come and see you?
Gran: again with the Lazaro… who is Lazaro Bitsa!!?
Bitsa: he will come, … he told me he will come and you should tell him.
Gran: tell him … tell him what?
Bitsa: huh?
Bitsa wasn’t deaf she just was keen to make sure details were clarified… at least incoming details anyway.
Gran: Lazaro!!! tell him what… what do you want me to tell him?
Bitsa: did he come?
Gran: who?
Bitsa: Lazaro!!!!
Gran: Bitsa!! there isn’t anyone called lazaro … Bitsa, who are you talking about?
Bitsa: I saw him yesterday, he was asking me and I said you have to talk to Athina he said he would come.
Gran: yes good but who is he?
Bitsa: Lazaro!!!… I spoke to him yesterday.
Gran: What did you speak to him about bitsa!
Bitsa: huh?
Now i was begging my grandmother not to bite, but shes hasn’t seen enough Abbott and Costello to see it coming.
Gran: Lazaro!!!
Bitsa: ah… you told him?
Gran: No Bitsa, I don’t know what you are talking about, there is nobody called Lazaro in this village, I dont know anybody called Lazaro.
Bitsa: hmmm for 10 years… and he has never asked for a cent… not once… not ever… 12 years… never asked for a cent not ever.
Gran: who asked for a cent… for what?
Bitsa: once a year he comes and pays me the rent,.. I see him every year at the same time around now… october
(yes it was August)
Gran: Are you talking about Lefteri Bitsa? The boy that works your orchard?
Bitsa: Every year he pays rent never asked for any money.

Bitsa crosses herself for reasons I’m not sure of.

Gran: Bitsa his name is Lefteri not Lazaro,… why do you call him Lazaro.
Bitsa: Did Lazaro come… good… I told you to tell him… you did the right thing!
Gran: I didn’t speak to anybody Bitsa … about what!?
Bitsa: . Your grandson .. he doesn’t care about you… all he wants is the land… dont give it to him… Lazaro will work it and pay you.
Gran: Yeah yeah good.

I’m assuming Bitsa wasnt referring to me, but who can say for sure. 

Bitsa: hmm you listen to me. stick a 10 drachma piece on your tit and see how many people come around pretending to want milk!
Gran: Oh bitsa Lefteri you are talking about Lefteri, he came around months ago.
Bitsa: Well he’s coming back, i spoke to him yesterday, he came to pay me, he’ll come.

She looked towards the door and I almost expected this two headed farmer to walk in the door,… and suddenly… he didnt.

This went on for some time… Bitsa moving between descriptions of conversations with Lazaro, her income stream and the likelihood of my grandmother receiving visitors She would repeat the issues but never quite word for word, things would slightly change, expressions, dates, the amount of money my grandmother should stick to her tit.

After an elegant sufficiency she remounts her walking stick and drags herself out of the room, my grandmother would normally need a lie down immediately after.

Who needs television!?