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Prime Minister Mirko Cvetkovic said the deal was a 'forced move' caused by the global economic crisis and that the government aims to restructure and resell the plant. He formally signed the agreement with U. Rintoul in Belgrade. The departure of the Pittsburgh-based giant is a blow for Serbia, whose cash-strapped economy already has been hit hard by the global crisis and a sharp drop in foreign investment. In Smederevo, a sense of uncertainty prevailed, though the town's mayor Predrag Umcevic praised the government's 'timely and good decision. Before U. Steel purchased the plant known as Zelezara Steelworks Smederevo in , the factory was completely idle, and workers grew mushrooms in its sprawling halls. Steel poured millions into the plant, turning it into the Balkan country's single largest exporter. The plant's revival injected life in other smaller businesses and the town itself, following an era of wars and economic sanctions during the conflict in the former Yugoslavia in the s'. But as the global economy slowed down in recent years, so did the plant's incoming orders. In the first nine months of last year, it operated far below the annual capacity of 2. Cvetkovic said the plant's troubles 'showed how serious the global economic crisis is and how big an influence it has on Serbia. But some analysts were skeptical. Steel would have sold it for two dollars to someone,' Brkic insisted. The Serbian plant's working week has already been cut to four days as global demand dropped for its low grade steel. Cvetkovic said the government will now appoint a new general manager and seek to resell the plant. He suggested informal contacts have been made with potential buyers in Ukraine and Russia. Steel's other factory in the region, in Slovakia, has been more profitable because it makes higher-grade steel for the car industry. More from CBS News. Chrome Safari Continue. Be the first to know. Get browser notifications for breaking news, live events, and exclusive reporting.

Serbia buys U.S. Steel plant; Price: $1

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The date is Thursday, 12th September, and Iggy the Hymer motorhome is parked next to a broken fortress in Smederevo, Serbia. We have no internet data and Jay is playing Skyrim on the other side of the dinette table. Marley is sleeping peacefully on the sofa, and DM is nowhere to be seen. The skylights are open, but the mosquito nets reduce the breeze, and I feel lazy with the heat. I think about going to the bar across the way and sitting out in the slightly cooler air for an hour or two. So I stay where I am. Listening to the voices of young men walking past outside. When we set off from Camp Borovik in Croatia this morning, we had a long drive in front of us. The distance was similar, but the toll roads were twice as fast, and Co-Pilot estimated that off toll it would take us around six hours to reach Smederevo. The exact same style of villages, the exact same grain fields between them. On and on they marched, in a relentless, unyielding conformity, that was making my brain hurt. This was only our third day of this and I was feeling a growing, gnawing, claustrophobia from these surroundings. I felt a twinge of guilt at my negative attitude. And also, bizzarely, a fascination for the very landscape that was sending me slightly barmy round the edges. What would it be like to come from a place like this? To be born in one of these villages? Stay here for an entire childhood? Never climb hills? How would my perspective on the world be if I had come from such a place? I drew parallels in my head with the prairie lands of the U. But there people were far apart on their farms — not clustered in these identical villages. I remembered the desert interior of Morocco. Tiny houses and hamlets alone in huge emptinesses. I had similar feelings there of wanting to get to the end. Of wondering if people were content in these landscapes. Or did they wish, always, to climb a mountain for the view? Talk to people more. Learn about their lives, their thoughts, their feelings. But at the same time my mind was itching with the flatness and the uniformity and I really, really wanted to not spend hours driving through it again. Re-routing us as fast as I could press buttons on Co-Pilot. Almost cheering as we saw the toll road sign after just one more village. Free at last! The feeling of relief as our speed almost doubled was almost tangible. And the increase in cool air passing through the van was going to be worth the toll fee in itself. The internet signal had come back again, and with co-ordinates set for Smederevo, and a straight road before us I alternated between reading Jay some autocorrect bloopers off Facebook, casting a quick glance at the Brexit news, and starting to read up a little bit about the effects of the Yugoslavia Wars on Serbia. I should have read a little faster, as suddenly the toll road pay station was upon us. A few Euros later, and as we were spat out the other side I wondered if that meant we were nearly at the Border with Serbia? I switched over from Co-pilot to Google Maps, and sure enough there was the line for the border. Just up ahead. In fact I could see it through the windscreen right now, as I went through my usual panic of being unprepared, and not having the passports up front with me. And then we were rolling to a stop in front of a jolly faced, booming voiced Croatian Border Policeman. He waved our passports away with a huge grin. And Jay, naturally, did just what he was told, and drove straight past the waiting, Serbian, Police Checkpoint. Thank goodness he was only just moving and heard the indignant shouts of the Serbian Border Policeman! Who was definitely not grinning. Or jolly faced. Or in anyway whatsoever, not in a month of Sundays, happy with us, or our disgraceful behaviour. Knuckles well and truly rapped by the cross official, we were never-the-less two middle aged motorhome owners with EU passports. The young man could have made life difficult for us, and have the Customs boys give us a leisurely search. Thankfully he was not so minded, and waved us on to a third stop where another jolly Serbian heard Jay ask if we would get a stamp. You have stamp! And so saying he raised the barrier and passed us through and beyond. Into a little patch of non EU land in Europe. With lorries queuing for customs on both sides of the road. No phone. No internet. No quick look up on Google Translate. Not unless we wanted to pay through the nose to UK providers for the privilege. Either that or find somewhere that sold local SIM cards, which for a two day transit seemed hardly worth the effort. It was both exhilirating, and annoying, to pass through into the different world beyond the imaginary line. Having travelled exclusively within the EU for the last three years we had grown accustomed to the easiness of it all. Open borders and accessible mobile phone and data deals are wonderful things that make our lives so much easier. At the same time, being without them is kind of fun. Plunged into data silence. There is more challenge this way. We are more alone. More reliant on just ourselves. And at the same time, conversely, more in need of asking others for help. It was a small city south of Belgrade, and we would find free WiFi there for sure if we needed it. On we drove, and onto the easy, quiet Serbian toll roads. The landscape here continued flat, much as in Croatia. Fields of grain were interspersed with groves of trees, also much as in Croatia. And the morning heat continued to rise steadily towards somewhere in the low thirties. But there the resemblance largely ended. The impression, almost immediately, was of a country both a little poorer, and a little more in disarray than Croatia. A bit faster, a bit more chaotic, and a whole lot dirtier. The orderly rows of village farmhouses were replaced with shabby, dilapidated blocks of towering utilitarian flats. The same flat landscape. The same flat European plains. But here we drove through an increasingly industrial, urban world as we approached the outskirts of Belgrade. The toll road gave way to jostling ring-road motorway. Green, wooded and pleasant. In places with not a house to be seen in any direction. Just the odd patch of grainfield in among the wild woods. The long, hot drive was drawing to an end, and the shabby flats crowded around once more as we approached Smederevo. The traffic grew busier, and for a moment we felt almost as if we were back in Morocco, as everyone played chicken for right of way at a busy crossroads with no lights. But for all the shouting men, and insane near misses, this was not quite Morocco. There were no donkeys, no men with baskets of chickens balanced on the back of rusted scooters. Iggy breathed in and we were safely through and on, past welcome traffic lights, over a barely existant level crossing, and into the large piste parking beside the Fortress of Smederevo. The fans and time have brought the temperature down to a more bearable level — if only just — and everyone is asleep but me. I want to join the others in sleep. And escape the two flies who have been crawling all over me these last two hours. So I will rush the end of our day, and Smederevo itself. Which is a shame. But there are only so many hours to a day. And never enough room to write it all. Smederevo fortress is a giant shell of 13th Century walls round an open, litter strewn, park. It is strange to drive through these countries, only twenty some years from war, and wonder what we are really seeing. It is hard enough to answer such questions about countries I know well, and with Serbia I can only guess. The litter reminds us of Africa and Sicily. Here and there broken hulks of men and women sit stupefied on park benches, or poke through rubbish for plastic bottles. Perhaps they can make money from them? A recycling fee? They remind me of the traumatised addicts sleeping rough on the streets of the UK. I think of how short a time ago people of our age raised weapons here, and committed mind breaking acts in war. I wondered if some of these ragged figures were carrying those scars with nobody to help them. A nice young man helped me find a bank-o-mat ATM , so we could get some cash for a beer and free Wi-Fi. People stopped to say hello to Marley. Two boys kicked a football down the pedestrianised shopping centre. People shouted. People laughed. Yes this is a real railway, with real trains, but they go real slow…and blow their whistles a lot. Marley was allowed too, and it was an otherwordly mix of fabulous and awful. The moat was full of rubbish and slimy plastic bags. The high wooden platforms and steps literally crumbling to dust in some places. The smell of human excrement from the toilet area quite overpowering when we ventured into that corner. And yet it was something that could have been a great attraction, with just a little bit of money, and a big helping of health and safety. We took pictures of the Danube from the high walls. Not so blue today as when we first met her in far away Ulm. And finally, we wandered home, via the circus boys in their trucks, parked up beside Iggy, and a helping of pancakes and ice cream, in the cafe across the rail tracks. Our brains were, as we like to say in Scotland, mince. The litter. The human excrement in the turret by the river. The friendly circus folk. The disabled woman pushing a wheelbarrow of rubbish bags through the main street, as people drank evening cocktails on the pavement cafes around her. The laughing women in the pancake shop, as we made up an order with no words between us. The father dragging his tiny child from the car by the elbow. Making it cry. The other father, gently making his tiny child come along, without it ever realising it was being led. Making it stop crying, and smile. We promise to send you no more than one email each week. We will never give your Email Address to anyone else. Easy unsubscribe at anytime. Your email address will not be published. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. And, of course, the goodwill of strangers. All to soon we see the plains approaching below. What for? Big queues at the Border, but thankfully just for lorries. I hate how you never know whether there is anyone in the booths. Have a good holiday! Jay stops for a quick minute of WiFi at the hot, flat, motorway services. The huge plains of Europe. Rolling hills replace the big flatness. Time to play chicken as everyone tries to move at once. The entrance to the paid part of the fortress — most of it is free. And trains. Clacking, and grinding, and squealing along the tracks. It is hot. It is late. I shall listen to them better in my dreams. Don't Miss a Beat! Email Subscribe. Submit a Comment Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Pin It on Pinterest.

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