Last you heard of me I was heading out to hunt for the
basic necessities. Well that I did, buying
cheap cigarettes and a
turnover that promised 'cheese' but was probably lactose intolerant. I walked around a bit and am at a loss for a concise description of this place. People and cars act as if the other didn't exist so every
pedestrian who isn't killed accounts for a small miracle.
Shops have a hit and miss approach to
stock, so the most unlikely combination of items
jostle for space on shelves labelled in
Albanian, priced in
Euros, and held together by
string for the most part. It seems like there are no laws that enforce schooling and
children play in the streets quite happily during the morning. The atmosphere is a relatively mild one with no real extremes, maybe similar in a way to
North African cities and the Islamic influence can be felt occasionally. There is no religious fervour, no wailing from
minarets, no ladies covered in black and no suq selling dubious
shisha and silly carpets. Only the satellite dishes stuck to every rooftop and balcony face the
Mecca but it is only because free-to-air satellite comes from that direction. Stalls, little shops, tiny shops and holes in between buildings sell an enormous amount of
mobile phones,
phone cards and
cigarettes. Judging by the abundance of these wares one would think that
every man and his dog in Kosovo spent eight hours a day sitting around, chatting on his mobile phone while chain-smoking.
Curiously enough I saw none of this.
The city has no
soul and no
centre where all convene. There might have been either, or both of these but it must have been
bombed into last
century and is having trouble getting back here in a hurry. While shopkeepers wash the floor and pavement
fastidiously, this cleanliness is restricted to their own turf, and common areas are most often in an appalling state of disrepair. There is no real sense of discipline, such a lack of it in fact, that the void it leaves is perceptible even to a
Maltese person like myself. Parking just happens. Wherever a car can fit, there is bound to be one, parked at an odd angle to the pavement, on the pavement, touching a wall, peeking innocently through
Osman's front gate. There is also a curious lack of
fat people, especially considering that they eat plenty of
fried and
grilled meat all the time. They are also lucky to be quite genetically gifted, a privilege that girls tend to display in a truly non-Islamic
strutting of wares at all times of day.
Next stop,
Bulgaria. Our planned route was to drive out of
Kosovo, into
East Macedonia,
skirt Skopje, then cross the country to leave the car on the West Macedonian border, where we would then take a taxi for the two-hour drive to
Bansko, a ski resort in the Bulgarian mountains. We left
Kosovo at around lunchtime which warranted a stop for lunch about half an hour out of the city in a
Serbian enclave. The difference is that unlike the Albanians, they care about their surroundings and so
Serbian enclaves, while not all walled or in any way
delineated, can be told by their lovely
red brick houses, tidy gardens and clean surroundings. The restaurant was excellent, service polite and cordial and a huge meal for both of us cost around €8. An
auspicious start to our trip. Well, more of an epic journey than a trip, but at that point we believed it would be a trip.
We then drove across the border into
Macedonia where the customs and border police waved us through at the sight of a big white
UN vehicle and the hint of a
light-blue UN passport. We then passed south of
Skopje and started travelling east along the motorway that eventually leads to
Athens but turns off towards
Sofia,
Bulgaria. The sign that indicated
Sofia was missing since a new
motorway was being built and signage considered an unnecessary luxury so we cheerfully drove
south, stopping several times to ask for directions. It was one of those unhappy situations where the
navigator and
driver are the same person, who happens to be too
proud to buy a
map despite the insistence of a totally
disoriented passenger. We eventually
backtracked for about an
hour, drove through a
murderously tricky mountain road towards the promise of a
Bulgarian border, bought a map, and made it to the border on the southernmost tip of Bulgaria at around 10pm. We were
harassed by Macedonian police, allowed to walk into the
no-man's-land, only to be harassed once more by their Bulgarian counterparts. We were eventually treated to a stamp and a grunt and
begrudgingly waved onto Bulgarian soil. A solitary taxi driver was waiting at the border, chatting with the lonely
chef of a restaurant that depends on the occasional maniac who crosses that border and he was talked into driving us to
Bansko, a two hour trip deep into the heart of Bulgaria, home to the best ski resort in the region. I cursed the time of year, packed my little bag into the back of his ailing Mercedes, and gripped the edge of my seat for the unexpected
nocturnal rollercoaster ride.
We arrived at midnight, and throwing a defiant
birdie (not the golfing term) in
Baden Powell's general direction, we were spectacularly unprepared, having neglected to take the address of the
hotel we were staying at. We finally found the place and I was overjoyed to find out that it was a
gorgeous 5 star but somewhat dismayed that a minor detail such as advance booking was missing and that they were
overbooked. Although the pavement seemed smooth enough, the chill
dissuaded us from pursuing that kind of lodging arrangement so we
coerced a sleepy
night receptionist into calling another hotel and booking for us. The 5 minute ride to the hotel down the road cost us almost as much as the two hour ride from Macedonia but we gratefully flung our bags into the
princely suite that was provided and set out on foot to find a restaurant. Never have a bottle of
Merlot and half a
pig gone down so well.
Bright and early next morning we woke up and headed out to discover what the town had to offer. We were met by a surprisingly
anachronistic blend of
top-notch ski shops and
horse-drawn carts, 200 year-old wooden houses in
pristine condition and
designer hotels that look like an Italian furniture catalogue,
poncey faggot cafes and communist statues, and cars ranging from the classic
Trabant to the latest
German Vorsprung durch Teknik.
All around, towering
snow caps provided an alpine backdrop to the hundreds of taverns and cobbled streets and the river
Glazne noisily rushed through town as if in a terrible hurry to put a large distance between it and the
Pirin mountains where it originally came from. I kept looking for a banner that said '
Under Construction' with a silly
animated man-and-shovel because hotels and apartment blocks are practically springing up overnight in a flurry of over-
zealous capitalising on the sudden
metamorphosis that this town has experienced. What was a small agricultural village until a couple of years ago is now host to thousands of tourists from Bulgaria itself and from all over Europe who turn up in
drones seeking virtually unspoilt
trekking in summer and
fresh snow throughout winter.
The food varied from
good to
excellent and was consistently cheap and generous. The only downside was the difficulty communicating with serving staff who insist on repeating themselves in
Bulgarian slowly and loudly hoping that the change in rate and
intonation would prove to be of sudden enlightenment. Ordering
sparkling water verged on impossible so I found myself describing the product. I ask for "
Water." She goes "Voda?". My reply, "
Da, voda." Then I twist my fingers around an imaginary bottle cap and say "Tssss", imitating the sound of sparkling water. "Ah, soda!” And my
flawless Bulgarian reply, "Da, soda."
Sorted.
All this naturally had me in a
snap-happy mood, whipping out my camera at every possible occasion to shoot as representative a selection of photos as possible. When I was finally pleased with my little collection of pictures, I tried to review my
oeuvre only to be greeted with a large yellow, cheerfully
stylised question mark on my camera screen and the
cryptic message, "Corrupted data". I am not the type to deal with such
calamities with a resigned "Oh, bother." and I cursed the
digital entrails of my
memory card, wishing it stretched upon an electronic rack until it's
hexadecimal sinews ripped asunder, causing whatever pain the
bloody things can possibly feel. I was
ruthlessly overcharged for a replacement card that unfortunately only had one eighth of the capacity of mine and tried to make up for the lost pictures but as
clichè as it sounds, there is nothing that can quite recapture the moment.
On a lazy
Sunday morning an open-air market gradually occupies a portion of the pedestrian area. Unlike other markets I've seen, the Bulgarians are in no hurry at all and at ten they're still arriving and unpacking their wares with a
slovenly disinterest. They sell shoes, carpets, original
Pioner (missing 'e') speakers, more shoes,
blood pressure monitors, more carpets, bits of old bicycle, more shoes and live
rabbits and
chickens. The latter are
slaughtered on the spot when you're satisfied with the beast of your choice.
Having had breakfast we decided not to contribute to the
homicide and headed back to the border, this time with an
ancient grey man in an ancient grey car, sourced by a friend of a friend of an ex-UN lawyer who saw us there with the
meticulous caution of
cuddling porcupines and charged us more than a taxi would have. Once again we were mercilessly harassed on both borders by obstinate uniforms, that could possibly have contained intelligent bipeds, who were evidently bored and exacted exaggerated vigilance upon their only charge for the day. We reached our forlorn truck that beeped a warm welcome and started tugging our starving bodies back towards Kosovo.
Every mile or so was marked by a noisy rumble from my protesting stomach.
Beef,
poultry,
rabbit and other highly
palatable sources of sorely needed
nutrition were present in huge abundance but unfortunately were still blessed with the ability to move and I was in no mood to chase any of them. I decided to ignore the fact that I was
ravenous and enjoy the surroundings. Driving through
Macedonia is very similar to driving through
France in many ways. Old
furrowed, weathered men stand at
crossroads, ready to frown at you and bark directions in a foreign language, refusing to speak
English. A good road finds its way through vast,
fertile plains that are
punctuated by endless
vineyards, gentle hills and dark green valleys between dark dreen hills that join forces to gently steer a
crystal clear stream towards the rivers that dissect the country.
Solitary cows allow a solitary farmer to hang on to the end of a short string and in most cases one wonders which of the couple is taking decisions. As the cow turns to choose a different leaf to nibble, it waits for the farmer to pause his
introspective rumination and eventually change direction as well. Men and women of all ages can be seen bent over double at all times of day, their hands buried deep inside the
brick red earth,
buttocks pointing towards the sky in a backwards nod of gratitude to whatever
deity provided this year's
bounty. As the sun sets, entire families and their
harvest pile onto wooden carts and are slowly hauled back to the village, the dark wooden structures a deadly peril on roads that make up for the lack of lighting by providing a plentiful supply of blind bends and dips.
We made our way past
Strumica (pr. Strumitsa),
Radovis (pr Radovish) and almost past
Stip (pr Shtip) when our collective hunger drove us into the village in search of food. This one-cow town was quite
picturesque but only hosted one restaurant that would feed hungry travellers on a Sunday afternoon. I ate a horrible burger that swam in enough oil to keep
Siberia warm all winter and some cold and
droopy chips. We asked for
sparkling water, causing the
bubbly owner of the place to run out of the restaurant and return five minutes later, beaming like a
celestial floodlight and bearing a bottle of water labelled "
Good Water" in large blue letters. It all tasted horrible but was just as welcome as all the other delicious meals we had enjoyed.
A relatively uneventful trip back 'home' to
Pristina (that's Prishtina to you) was interrupted for a brief shopping spree at a brand spanking new supermarket that carried absolutely everything you could possibly imagine, possibly to satisfy the needs of all the 'internationals' (
ex-pats) that live in Kosovo. It even stocks a huge variety of pirate CDs and DVDs to ensure that wholesome family entertainment is available at a price to suit all pockets.
Photos of the trip would naturally help all this and pick up where I left off in terms of imagery. I'll try to upload these to some free hosting site and post the URL here. Anyone interested in visting
Kosovo may feel free to /msg me or send
email and I'll be glad to offer any help possible.