But this belies its laid-back atmosphere.

Neighbors lean out of broken, gaping windows to talk to one another. Preschool children, unsupervised, chase stray dogs. The sounds of music emanating from several different apartments provide an upbeat soundtrack to it all.

Like in any isolated village, strangers arouse a mixture of excitement and suspicion.

I walked along blocks of apartments with a photographer, and a pack of children quickly surrounded us. They all wanted to be photographed. Girls clutched one another's hands and smiled sweetly into the camera; boys struck hammed-up poses before scrambling behind photographer René Jakl to see his digital camera's display screen.

In a place with no sources of entertainment save two small corner shops and a community center, this passed the time.

It seemed that one of the regular challenges Chánov residents face was boredom.

Some children grew tired of the photo session and went back to other diversions: playing in piles of garbage among broken toys and discarded chairs and appliances or along concrete balconies of abandoned apartments that often lacked railings.

Trash would regularly fly out of windows and land in growing piles. Chánov has daily garbage collections, but you wouldn't be able to tell.

It was election day, but the polls in Chánov's elementary school were quiet. "There's no point," people said. In June, only 50 of Chánov's 1,600 residents cast ballots in the country's general election.

As I prepared to go, children ran up to flash one more pose. They thanked us.

"Don't leave. That was fun," said a small boy in a grimy sweater. "When will you come again?"