Slatiny: The Place in Prague Where You Feel Afraid

Two ten-year-old girls ran up to me. One of Prague’s most dangerous neighborhoods was about to teach me a lesson I’d never forget.

“Got a cigarette?” The cute blue eyes of the blonde girl certainly didn’t match any stereotype about socially excluded families. The other one — dark-haired with dark skin — she wouldn’t have surprised anyone. But this isn’t a world of stereotypes; this is reality. Defaulters don’t come in a designated skin colour, hair colour, or eye colour. They’re simply defaulters.

“I don’t.” I lie. Nobody steps into these parts beyond Slavia without a pack of cigarettes — not even a non-smoker. I joke with friends that it’s like prison — currency.

The girls shout words after me that I don’t need to repeat. And I can say this is probably the first moment in my life when I’m afraid of ten-year-old girls. In my defence — I can see a whole gang waiting for these two in the deserted open space. And they’re shouting at me. Words starting with “F” and “C” with unoriginal adjectives fly through the air.

I pass several shelters made of dirty rags and old electronics, and it dawns on me that I’ll have to turn around and walk back past them. I missed the way to Slatiny on my first attempt. Instead of Slatiny, I’ve ended up in an overgrown jungle somewhere near the railway tracks. Even here, I expect someone to jump out at me from every thicket.

I don’t want to run — I don’t want to look scared. I walk briskly back, my heart pounding all the way to my fingertips, which are trembling inside my jacket pockets.

I give the children a wide berth and head for the path that leads into the first former shanty colony called Pod Bohdalcem, which today mainly serves allotment gardeners.

“Those kids are terrifying.” I speak to the first person I see.

“Those aren’t kids, they’re little thugs. Last week they beat up an old man here.” Clearly, playground games aren’t on their agenda, I think to myself.

“Are you from Slatiny?” I chat with a dark-haired man with a broken front tooth, holding a plastic bag and wearing a khaki military jacket. I explain that I’m looking for people who remember the old days in Slatiny. The shanty colonies Pod Bohdalcem and Na Slatinách are a Prague rarity — among the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods. They’re just a stone’s throw from Prague’s Eden stadium, yet the moment you step into them, you feel as though you’ve been transported out of the city and, above all, to a different time.

The colonies sprang up in the 1920s, when Prague was becoming a true metropolis and construction was booming. Workers flooded into the city looking for jobs, and right here the municipality leased plots for next to nothing. Shacks began to appear, cobbled together from whatever people could find. Today, allotment gardeners dominate the larger part of Pod Bohdalcem, but the rest — along with nearly all of Slatiny — is home to people on the margins of society. From long-time residents (fewer and fewer of them), to homeless people, illegal immigrants, drug addicts, and Roma travellers.

“Well, I’m not exactly old enough to be a witness of history, but my family lived in Slatiny — I grew up there.” He invites me inside to have a look at the double house where two families once lived. Each had a single room.

I study the man who introduced himself as Láďa M. and ask myself whether this is what a murderer and violent criminal looks like. I think: Yeah, he does.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I’ll show you the photos.” Láďa notices my hesitation. But I tell myself: he looks like a murderer and violent criminal, yet most murderers and violent criminals don’t actually look like murderers and violent criminals.

“Can I take your photo outside the house first?”

“Can’t we do it afterwards?”

“It’ll be dark by then,” I explain. Láďa nods, and before long he’s pouring me a cheap cola knockoff.

“Sorry, let me lock up — people steal around here.” And he reassures me again that I’ve nothing to fear; he just doesn’t want anyone wandering onto his plot. It sounds like a fairytale about the wolf and the little goats.

Paradoxically, I feel less afraid than I did outside among the ten-year-old children. Dusk is falling, we’re sitting at a table, I’m drinking cheap cola, and Láďa has already told me his entire life story. Now he’s showing me old photographs.

We use a torch for light because there’s no electricity or running water here. There never was electricity, and the water pipes burst years ago.

“My dad used to live here. I inherited it and now I’m doing it up. But I don’t mind there’s no power. I don’t have a television. I use a torch. I don’t need electricity. I love it here because time seems to have stood still,” he explains.

“So what do you do here? Read?”

“That too — magazines. But best of all, in summer I make a fire and just stare into the flames. It’s better than television.” And he’s already at the cupboard, pulling out magazines, handing me copies of 100+1 when I mention that I like reading too.

“I’ve already read them all,” he explains, and insists I take at least one several-year-old issue.

He offers me more cola, but I need the toilet, it’s getting dark outside, and I don’t want to walk home in the dark or stumble around looking for a dry latrine in pitch blackness.

“But don’t go to Slatiny alone. Call me, we’ll arrange something — I’ll show you around. You’ll be safe with me.” We say goodbye.

– – –

I still don’t dare venture into Slatiny proper. I wander the allotment colonies of Pod Bohdalcem and admire the most extraordinary local structures. While the most historically interesting ones are old railway carriages converted into dwellings, my personal favourite is a house with a children’s treehouse in the garden, built from whatever came to hand.

– – –

“This is Prague, you’re telling me?” František H. laughs at me. He’s lived in the colony his whole life. From spring to winter he works in his allotment and enjoys the peace that this corner of Prague provides.

František strikes me as a local Don Juan. He steers the conversation towards marriage, but since I can’t cook a proper roast, we’re out of the running.

František becomes my anchor in the allotment colony. He introduces me to the people who own my favourite house on chicken legs. They immediately invite me for a schnitzel. I decline with thanks and realise I’ve stumbled upon a place in Prague where you can still talk about genuine community life. Everyone knows each other here. Is this really Prague?

“Want to come mushroom picking with us? We’re going tomorrow!”

– – –

It’s time to move on. Time to see Slatiny itself. Petr Ryska from the Prague Unknown project helps me. I walk through Slatiny with his entire group, memorising places I need to come back to.

– – –

By now I feel at home in Slatiny. I know every alley, I know where not to linger, I can tell where a house has just burnt down — it simply happens here on a daily basis. A house I saw last week is gone today. Burned.

Today I’ve brought Lukáš along. We’re visiting a local witness. I don’t think anything can surprise me any more. I can see on Lukáš’s face that the environment full of filth, ruins, and charred houses and oddballs isn’t exactly pleasant for him. But he knows me by now. I’m in paradise.

As we leave our witness Anna Ch., it starts to rain. I decide to take a shortcut along the muddy path Anna showed us. And that’s when I saw it. An enormous white cloud of smoke hovering above a caravan. Nothing unusual — it’s well known that the air in Slatiny becomes unbreathable in the evening. Burning houses is something of a local hobby, along with everything else around. Alright, most of the smoke actually comes from people heating their homes in the evening. Very unecologically.

Until now, though, I’d never experienced the infamous clouds of smog firsthand. I’d always tried to leave by four in the afternoon. People had warned me. But now I know one thing. I have to get closer — towards the smoke from that caravan. The haze, the cold surroundings, and the frost that turns your blood to ice.

“Wouldn’t it be better to go another way?” Lukáš says, but only on principle. He knows me well enough to know that this is exactly the way we’re going.

“We’ll go along the fence — at least we’ll get to the bus quicker.”

Seven German shepherds leap at us, baring their teeth. Five small ones and two big ones jumping so high that for a moment we think they’ll clear the fence — which certainly doesn’t look like much of an obstacle. We run. A woman and a man are shouting in front of the caravan. At the dogs. At us, asking what we’re doing there.

“Be quiet!”

“What do you want here! Be quiet. Come on!” The dogs bark and we run along the fence, which seems endless. A bloke crawls out and starts shouting too.

“Run.”

“This is amazing.” I slow down and stare at the plot behind the fence. A caravan belching an enormous white cloud of smoke stands next to the remains of a house that recently burned down. On one side there’s a rubbish dump, on the other a pile of wood. And the roar of dogs. The barking and teeth of German shepherds.

“I have to come back here.”

– – –

“I’m going alone. I have to. I’ll call you if anything happens.” I’d been mentally preparing for this for a week. I knew I had to go. I knew it definitely didn’t look safe. And it probably wouldn’t be.

“Got your pepper spray?”

“Yeah.”

“Text me straight away that you’re okay.”

“Sure. But give me at least ten minutes.”

“You’re just running there and straight back, right?”

“Sprint there, sprint back.” I nod. And I run from the petrol station towards Slatiny to make the most of my time.

When I reach the alley leading to the German shepherds, I see a police car parked there. It’s a muddy, freezing day — luckily not so cold that I can’t take photos. Something must have happened. I imagine the worst things a homeless person could have done. They’re probably drug addicts. There are a lot of them here.

“Watch out, there are German shepherds. About ten of them,” I exaggerate, trying to work out whether the officers are heading in the same direction. The policeman just nods and glances at my camera.

“I’m photographing a school project here.” I launch into a frantic explanation of why I’m here, terrified he’ll tell me to leave. But the officer isn’t interested in the purpose of my visit to Slatiny — he’s interested in my lens. I let him have a look, and then I follow him calmly down the alley towards the dogs.

They bark themselves hoarse, baring their teeth, spreading terror. I stay calm. I stand in the middle of the fence line and photograph. I hear the woman shouting at me and refuse to flinch, even when a dog tears at the fence and looks like it might actually get through. My heart is pounding — I can feel it in my fingers, my stomach, my head. The thumping drowns out the screaming of the approaching woman. The only thing that matters is that my hands keep shooting. I’ve got the photo I wanted.

“What are you doing here? How dare you? Do you have permission to photograph?”

“I do.” I don’t feel like I’m lying. I’m certainly not telling the truth either. But there’s nothing else you can say at a moment like this.

“I can bring it to you if you like.” I pile on another lie and hope a piece of paper from school will suffice. The woman is clearly taken aback. She scolds the dogs now and then, and I edge closer, striking up a conversation. Now I see there’s nothing to be afraid of. She’s a small woman, brown hair curling towards auburn, eyes that have seen more than anyone her age should have — revealing that she’s neither a drug addict nor an alcoholic.

“We know people like you. You come here to film and then lump us in with the addicts who wreck the place and set fires, you know?” She attacks.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re looking after the place.” At these words, a spark lights up in the woman’s eyes, and I watch her slowly relax. The tension drains from me too.

“We’re fixing things up here. See that wood? Addicts set fire to it recently.” I nod, and already small wolf-pups are at my feet, having squeezed through a hole somewhere in the fence. They gnaw at my hands with alarming enthusiasm while wagging their tails. Her loving gaze at those bundles of biting fur dealt me yet another lesson in prejudice.

What inspires terror can also be the friendliest spot in Slatiny.

And so I made a friend.

A dog lover.