Slovenia, Romania, Moldova, Transnistria, and Ukraine

Slovenia, Romania, Moldova, Transnistria, and Ukraine
In this episode, I:
-learn how to pronounce Ljubljana
-explore “Dracula’s castle”
-get drunk after one glass of Moldovan wine
-visit a country that technically doesn’t exist
-discovers that “perogies” are not even Ukrainian
SLOVENIA
Having seen every other country in the former Yugoslavia, I figured I might as well complete the set and so I headed to Slovenia, the first country to split away from Belgrade (and the one that did so with the least amount of violence). As a result, Slovenia never had to suffer through the years of war that plagued its erstwhile fellow Yugoslavians, meaning its gorgeous old town is still intact (in fact, I’m pretty sure it’s looking better than it ever did even in its hey day) and its economy was even strong enough for it to join the EU, which it did.
Coming the more “rustic” parts of the Balkans Slovenia was decidedly easy to travel in, although its prices were starting to approach more what I would expect in Western Europe. I stayed at a place called Hostel Park, which was really just the upper floor of Hotel Park and wasn’t terribly remarkable except that it was clean, in a hard-to-find park, and available (I tried to stay in a recommended former prison hostel, but it was booked solid).
To be honest, Slovenia was a crossroads, my last stop at the Balkans, and when I planned to decide how much longer I would travel in Europe and when I would finally go home. I booked my flight there and away deciding I would pop by the other countries in this chapter and fly out of Kiev, where I found the best deal.
Anyways, I did get out see the city in between looking for work and booking flights. I did the usual “free walking tour”thing to meet people and end ed up hooking up with a group of university students starting at the university in Lubljana (pronounce it if you can) who had just arrived from different countries (Canada, Australia, Poland, and Germany) and had somehow decided to become roommates despite the fact that none of them knew each other before hand and some of them couldn’t speak English that well (that may include the Australian). Anyway, they were an interesting group. The only girl (the Canadian) was from Vancouver and an Improv performer who was hoping to get in on the scene in Slovenia (in Slovenian?). She was also partly deaf and had hearing issues (and apparently permanent ringing in her ears) but being Canadian, I understand what she was saying more than any the others and she (perhaps due to her ability to lip read and study what people are trying to say) could sense of most of us when we couldn’t make sense of each other. The Australian guy was the other outgoing member of the group, always wearing his hipster cap and forgetting to pronounce his Rs, and thus confusing everyone else. The German guy, apparently a DJ back home, looked kinda nerdy actually and spoke with a stereotypical German accent, so much so that when you said something he didn’t understand, he’d say “WHAT!” with far too much authority. I think he understood sarcasm, but he couldn’t speak sarcastically in English, so even the most absurd statements such as “In Australia, the Koalas can come down from trees and kill you at any moment” to which he would respond in thick German-English “Yes, then we must to be very careful.”
Slovenia is a gorgeous city, and apparently a romantic place (so if you’re couple, knock yourself out). Ljubljana means “beloved” in Slovenian. One of the bridges was covered in padlocks, apparently this is a recent European fad (started by some cheesy Italian romance novel) where lovers put their names on a padlock and toss the key into the river (the idea being that they can never be separated or “unlocked” again). As a result you get all these decorative padlocks accumulating on bridges like barnacles. You have to be careful, though, as on some of the bridges, the floor is transparent, so if your lady friend is wearing a skirt, those on the river below might be in for a show.
But yeah, if you’re looking for Austro-Hungarian style classical architecture, complete with canals, bike lanes with traffic lights and angry cyclists with their silly bells, and a bridge guarded by dragons (dragons are the symbol of the city as apparently Jason and the Argonauts—of the Greek myth not the CFL franchise—fought a dragon here), its a great place to cafe away.
BUDAPEST
Last time I was in Hungary (a rather fleeting visit in 2007) I missed Budapest, much to the shock of many as this city is something of a legend on the backpacker circuit. This time though, I made a point of hitting it, between Slovenia and Romania.
Truth be told, while the old parts of town are definitely nice (although comparable to other European cities), its actually a fairly normal city at the end of the day (although a surprisingly big city). It’s a place to party, and certainly there are plenty of those, but i was disappointed to hear that the party in the baths was no longer in season. I did go to the famous Hungarian-Turkish baths, but basically they’re just luke-warm to quasi-warm pools that you share with a bunch of hairy Hungarian old men, although some were playing chess which I found interesting. At one point, my wallet fell out of my pants while I was changing my clothes and I thought it had been stolen, but a Chinese couple had found it and returned once they finished with the bath so I got it back right before I left. Thank God.
Anyways, I also did a walking tour here and I met a few interesting people most notable a Canadian girl who goes by the name of The Hungarian Girl (she’s of Hungarian descent) who works for Reuters and runs a travel blog on Eastern Europe which I’m hoping I might be able to write a piece for (she has offered to pay me a whopping $25 for a piece on the tunnels of Sarajevo. Woot!).
I ended up staying at the original hostel of Budapest (on the Buda side although most everything else is on the Pest side, and nobody from Budapest cares if you’re from Buda or Pest any more), which is basically a converted house. It was interesting place, and definitely famous, although it was average in terms of hostel services (although the staff spoke English fluenty—mostly because they were backpackers themselves—which was a nice change). Bit of problem with neighbours and noise complaints mind you. Anyways, I met a few people here, including a French girl with a rubber arm, (except when it came to referring to “frites francaise” as French cuisine) so i got to practice a bit of French with her, although when she started asking me for dating advice for the friend she loved who was returning from Afghanistan, my phrases about “pamplemouse” and “bibliotheques” were not so useful. Also met an American guy (one of the few) who had strong opinions about various subjects we were not actually discussing, such as things to do in Cincinatti. Anyway, we out “clubbing” one night so I got a sample of the nightlife, but I’m not really any good at a club unless I find someone who appreciates my style of terrible dancing, which is difficult. Anyways, wasn’t my night, but I guess it was for quite a few other folks.
On to Romania.
ROMANIA
Having set my Intern comic in “Dracula’s Castle” in Romania, I thought it appropriate that I actually visit the place while I was in the neighbourhood and so I went on to Transylvania (yes, there actually is a Transylvania, its a province of Romania). And there actually was a Dracula, although he’s more widely known in history as Vlad the Impaler (Bram Stoker named his vampire after the historical figure, although Stoker himself never came to Eastern Europe at all). “Dracula” was a nickname given to Vlad as a child because he was the son of another Vlad who was named “Dracul” (dragon), so “Dracula” literally means “son of the dragon.” Although it also means “son of the devil” in more recent Romanian. While Dracula in Hollywood, even the historical one, is generally depicted as being a mass murdering tyrant, apparently his own people actually like him somewhat (they see him as a man of the people, who fought off the Turkish invasion and interference from the crooked nobility). In any rate, evil or not, Romania’s definitely benefiting now from Vlad’s indirect fame as the entire region is geared towards a “spooky” tourism system.
That said, Transylvania does actually live up to its reputation in some respects. Brasov—the main city—has picturesquely crumbling old town, with tiled roofs, a black tower (not actually black), and a black church (actually black) that evokes the spooky feel you’re looking for. I even did the typical Dracula-story thing and stayed the night with a stranger, although in this case, they were elderly Romanians just offering the extra rooms in their apartment, which—while nicely furnished with antiques—where not actually haunted (although I did have to fumble my through a dark hall way to get there).
The Carpathian mountains, rolling evergreen trees intermixed with trees losing their leaves (I’m glad I visited in October, I couldn’t have picked a better time) make for some gorgeous scenery, and of course there are the castles.
Bran Castle, known as Dracula’s Castle although the link to Vlad the Impaler is tenuous (Lonely Planet says he may have taken a shit here), is still a gorgeously creepy place that doesn’t disappoint. It even has secret passages behind bookcases (that you can go through) and an odd well and towers that seem to rise out of nowhere. I gotta be honest and say the inner NES geek in me felt I was playing Castlevania for realsies.
But I digress, Romania isn’t spooky-spook. While parts of the country are still using old Cold War Dacias to get around (or even horse and wagon), the Banco Transylvania (yes there is such a thing) has a working ATM machine and the country appears to be modernizing fast (Its part of the EU now). Still though, I’d have say it was one of my highlights, even if I had to Skype with my parents from a pub (only place I could find working Wifi) that cranked the Electric Swing music (a genre that I hadn’t experienced before but am now sorta getting into).
MOLDOVA
After taking a circuitous route around the Carpathians, which involved heading south to Bucharest and then north to Chisinau in Moldova, I found myself in the capital of this oft-forgotten country that is so far removed from tourist hotspots like Paris or Amsterdam that even the locals are surprised that anyone would go there. Truth be told, my guidebook said that most Moldovan travel blogs are likely to be written by “melancholy Peace Corps volunteers” rather than travellers and indeed I was on the traveller I met there (although I did meet some melancholy Peace Corps volunteers, although they were still friendly).
Historically linked with Romania (the Moldovans speak a dialect of Romanian), Chisinau sadly lacks the architectural charms of Brasov, espousing more of a Soviet-esque look, but not extreme enough to make it interesting. That said, there are plenty of nice parts of the Moldovan capital, although good luck finding someone who can speak English.
Interestingly, Moldova is something of an upcoming wine destination (or perhaps undiscovered is the word I’m looking for here). There was a wine fest called Moldexpo on while I was in town and I was able to get myself quite a few samples of the red and white stuff (although a bit too many samples, which—considering I had slept in and missed breakfast—meant I got drunk pretty quickly). That said, it was tasty, tasty wine (this from a guy who usually doesn’t rave about wine) and pretty darn cheap at that (you can buy an “expensive” bottle for like $10). Maybe this is because Moldova has no shortage of wine, in fact hold’s the Guiness World Record for largest wine cellar as they took an old quarry and filled all 60 km of its underground tunnels with wine. Now there’s a party waiting to happen.
I also did some other things, mostly museums (history museum is alright, just a collection of old uniforms, coins from the Mongol invasions, and an impressive WW2 diorama, although not as cool as the one in Wroclaw; there was also a surprisingly fun Ethnographic and Natural History Museum, although I’m not sure where they got that combo from). Chisinau is another place that’s said to have a decent nightlife (although traveling alone makes enjoying the nightlife difficult at times), but I heard of this place called Deja Vu which was said to be a cocktail bar, so I thought why not. Turns out it was more of a dance club with few dubious characters, including middle-aged guys hanging out on their own or with women half their age (so either they’re gangsters or they’re creepy, either way, I kept my distance). At one point I found a quieter nook and met a friendly local girl, who spoke a little English. I asked her what she did, and she said she worked here. I asked her if she was a bartender and she said no, but didn’t explain any further (although she did give me a little wink. Figured it best to not ask any more questions at that point. Anyways, she and her “friend” soon left and I finished my drink and left a bit after that.
At the moment, I’m on a train to Ukraine leaving Moldova (hoping I can still spend my leftover Moldovan lei)
TRANSNISTRIA
What you’ve never heard of this country? Perhaps because its not actually a country. Well not really.
Basically, let’s do a crash-course in recent Moldovan history. Moldova, while Romanian in culture and language, was actually a province of the USSR up until its collapse in 1991. At that point, Moldova declared independence, but the local Russian population (based mostly on the east side of the Dneister river, along the border with Ukraine) didn’t want none of this independence business, and so they declared independence from the Moldovan independence. A civil war ensued, ending in semi-autonomy for Transnistria (sometimes called the unpronounceable Transdniester), but Moldova still claims the territory as within its borders. Transnistria is de facto independent though, as it has its own currency, own border officials, own flag (it uses the old Soviet flag with green and orange stripes on the bottom), and all the signs are in Russian (that is to say Cyrillic). It’s something of like Russia’s version of Kosovo, except that not even Russia recognizes Transnistria as independent (although they do have 5000 troups there guaranteeing its existence).
That said while sold as one of the world’s last bastions of communism, it’s about as “communist” as China is these days. Sure there are a couple of Soviet-style border guards and monuments hanging around, but these off-set by the huge number of advertisements in Tiraspol, often for American films (Ice Age appears to have been popular here, although the reference was a bit dated). While Transnistria has a reputation of being a bit out there (as recently as 2007, its tourism website said “Tourists are not welcome in Transnistria” and the Canadian gov’t travel advisory still lists it as “Avoid all Travel” which is a step more dangerous than the designation “Avoid Non-essential Travel” that they use for places like the DRC or Syria). That said, it was fairly normal, functioning place, and if you didn’t know any better (and ignored the occasional hammer and sickle and/or bust of Lenin), you might be in any run-of-the-mill city in the region. There’s even a beach (on the Dneister I presume) where you can swim or paddle a kayak (although I never figured out if you could actually rent the things). Despite being a weekday, there were also at least two separate wedding parties going around getting their pictures taken.
At one point, I crossed over a bridge into a forested island and I saw a lot of Soviet style uniforms so I got a little worried, but then I heard a brass band and I saw that these were members of a brass band that for some reason was playing a little victory song for runners of a marathon as they were coming up on their finish line. Every runner that came down the way would have the music start up for them (and two women would pull the ribbon across, although they eventually got lazy and stopped doing this) and the music would stop abruptly as soon as they crossed the line. Some of the runners (I think it was a charity marathon) appeared to be from Germany or other parts of Europe and looked a tad surprised to see a Soviet-style brass band inexplicably welcoming them to the finish, but there are worse things one could encounter when about to finish a race.
I never even had to bribe a border guard (fingers crossed, as I write this I’m on a train from Chisinau to Kiev which is apparently going through Transnistria, I’ve already passed one guard but there might be another issue on the way as it seems this train has taken me back into Transnistria and we’re sitting at the train station in Tiraspol waiting to move). To get here the first, time I basically had to take a “Maxi Taxi” to and from Chisinau (like the African minibuses, but not quite as crowded although some passengers did have to sit on little fold out stools in the aisles, but at least it was cheap). The first time through there were no problems, and I even met a friendly Transnistrian (although she called herself a “Russian girl”) who helped me get through the border with ease, although the border guards (as in Moldova) all had these big over-sized hats, which matched with their stern expression, made it difficult for me at times not to laugh, but I didn’t want to pay a 200 euro “fine” so I kept my giggles to myself.
I did have a bit more issues second time around entering Transnistria. No Russian girl to help me this time, I was all alone in my cabin in the train when a met in full Soviet get-up knocked on my door and surprised me. He said a few things to me in Russian, which granted could have been asking for a bribe or could have been telling me that the moon had fallen into the Pacific, either way I had no clue what he was saying. He looked at my passport and searched my bag, seemed to be complaining about the mess, and made a point of asking me what each and every pill in my shaving case did and was for (which I answered although I don’t know if he understood my answers). He checked every one of my bags and every one of my pockets, but the only suspicious was a copy of Command and Conquer: Red Alert 3 (a computer game where players take control of fancified versions of the militaries of the Soviet Union, Imperial Japan, or basically NATO, and duke it out, its a fun game if you like real-time strategy and is something of a more goofy version of Starcraft). I don’t know if he had ever heard of the game before, but I soon found myself in a surreal situation where a border official, in full Soviet-style get-up complete with hammer and sickle and everything, was holding and staring at a game case he found in my bag, featuring a scantily clad “Soviet” female commando and various other exaggerations of Soviet kitsche. He stared at the game for a minute and then asked “you... journalist?” (he couldn’t speak a lick of English and pronounced my name something like Rouen, so it took me awhile to get that he was reading my name off of my passport). To my relief, he tired of the game, put it back in the bag, and went on to quizzing me about my various over-the-counter meds leftover from ailments past.
Ukraine’s my last stop before home. Kiev, here I come.
UKRAINE
Arriving in Kiev I was once again presented with signs only in Cyrillic, but unlike in Belgrade, I was also in a massive city (and a massively confusing train station). Every time I went out the door in Kiev, I inevitably ended up lost, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing (good way to see the nice old parts of Kiev), although I could used a few more street signs in Roman alphabet (especially ones pointing the way I thought they would). At any rate, I couldn’t find the hostel I intended to stay at, but I found another one instead so it all worked out. The weather was really crappy (torrential rain), but I’d had good weather up until this point, so I can’t complain.
The hostel was actually the top two floors of an old Soviet apartment building with no outside sign (It was just dumb luck that I found it, looking for another hostel that was supposedly at its address). It was mostly empty save for a handful of Peace Corps volunteers, a 48 year old creepy German guy who got annoyed when I closed the door the dormitory (I only did to change when no one else was in there and I thought he was out, but he would inevitably come back at that time). He was the only other guy in the dorm room mostly.
There was also a heartbroken Frenchman (of American descent, his family apparently moved from the States to France, so he speaks English well but with a French accent), who had apparently just been dumped by his fiancé. Eastern European women are apparently (and quite justly) known for their beauty, and while I’d heard of Russian mail-order brides before, I didn’t realize it was so abundant. Apparently, my French friend—who was a muscular, 28-year old Frenchman who enjoyed cooking, so I wouldn’t think he’d normally have need to come all the way to Ukraine to find a bride—had met his ex-fiancé over the Internet a year ago, looking for a traditional girl he could “protect” (I don’t think he had the most political correct attitudes towards women, which may explain the problems he was having, but the guy just broke-up with his fiancé, so who am I to judge?). Unfortunately for him, the wedding was supposed to happen that weekend and his family were still flying in! Oh well, at least they could have a mini-vacation in Kiev.
Yeah meeting Eastern European brides over the Internet seems to be a widespread thing, especially in Kiev, a couple I met on a walking tour had also been courting over the Internet before meeting in person and were the opposite of the French guy—so lovey-dovey that I wanted to push them off a gilded dome. But again there were some major age differences and I don’t know how long term the relationship would be, but whatever. You gotta do what you gotta do.
The walking tours were cool and as always a great way to see the local side of the city. And Kiev is certainly both a gritty and beautiful place (depending on the neighbourhood). A major city in the former Soviet Union, it does have plenty of old Soviet era relics, although most of the classic architecture seems to date back to the Czarist times. While surpressed under the USSR, these days the churches are the highlight of the Kiev architecture, and with their gilded domes and colourful paints, its not hard to see why. St. Andrews, one of the most gorgeous, also a great little craft market on the cobblestone street beside it (called St. Andrews descent) where I bought most of my souvenirs.
While you might find Ukrainian ornate easter eggs, plates, and other goodies you’d expect at the craft market (where every thing is hand-made, and explicity “not from China”), the matrushka dolls are not Ukrainian; they’re Russian. Likewise, perogies, I was surprised to learn, are not Ukrainian (tell that to the Ukrainian Manitobans). Perogies are apparently Polish. The Ukrainians do have a dish that is similar (read the exact same) as perogies, but they call it varashni or something. Still tasty though.
It was rainy most of my days in Kiev, so I didn’t get to see as much as I would like. But I did see the Lavras Monastery (a monastery and church complex dating back to the 11th century and a holy site of pilgrimage filled with the mummies of dead monks in eery candlelit tunnels). It was a park area by the river and with the fall foliage, looked gorgeous.
I also went to the Chernobyl Museum which basically focused on the individual workers who risked (and in many cases lost) their lives trying to mitigate the disaster. I tried to go to Chernobyl itself (they offer tours to it), but unfortunately they seem to have restricted the number of tours these days (apparently its gov’t bureaucracy) and it goes so happened the nearest days available were both outside of my time period in Kiev (and because I had that flight, I couldn’t extend it). Oh well. Guess I don’t get to be radioactive. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Certainly standards, while not as bad as in Africa, are a bit questionable. While I was in Kiev, the Ukrainian government—the same gov’t that had come to power through popular support of the Orange Revolution—made news around the world, for convicted the leader of the opposition on dubious charges and sentencing her to 7 years in Prison. Unfortunately, it appears that the Orange Revolution reformers have become that which they despised, but hopefully fairness and justice will prevail.
I flew out of Kiev on Polish airline called Lot, first to Warsaw and then to Toronto, where I caught an Air Canada flight to Wpg (although I booked all these flights together as part of a cheap deal through Travelocity). Lot has a good reputation and its a Star Alliance airline, so I assumed it would be okay.
The seats were really cramped though, almost as if i got on another cramped bus. It was made worse by the fact that I ended up sitting next to a friendly but drunk-as-a-skunk Norweigan guy (he apparently dealt with his fear of flying by drinking, and also claimed to be a pilot for some reason, but he certainly didn’t help with my fear of flying). Lot is supposed to have a free wine and beer policy, and despite the fact that he was smashed before we even took off (and the flight to Warsaw was only like an hour) he still managed to have 5 glasses of wine before the flight attendants thankfully cut him off (at which point he even tried to get me to get wine for him). He was travelling with his father-in-law. He wasn’t mean or nasty or anything, just annoying. I deal with my fear of flying by meditating, which is difficult when a large Norweigan drunk is elbowing you at randow intervals and asking if you know “Jerry” (which turned out to be a reference to Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead of all things) and repeated statements of “you’re from Canada” as I he was bemused at discovering my citizenship anew every 5 mins (“Yep, I’m still Canadian. Haven’t changed my citizenship mid-flight or anything).
While I was lucky with my transfers (they all went smoothly and easily and were about an hour or three tops), but the flight from Warsaw to Toronto was a bit of a doozy. Once again I was in a cramped seat next to someone I didn’t really want to be next to in this case, a confused Polish senior citizen who seemed like it was his first time on a plane (yet he spoke decent English and claimed to live in Toronto, so I don’t see how that would be possible). Nevertheless, he seemed genuinely surprised at how high the plane was flying and when the landing gear popped out for landing he freaked out and shouted “what the hell was that?” (again, not good for my meditating to deal with my fear of flying). At one point, I went to use the washroom and I couldn’t get back to my seat for 45 minutes as he struggled to buy two bottles of liquor from the flight attendants using Canadian money (I ended up having to use his money, talk to the flight attendants and then give him his change and his bottles, at which he insisted on cramming the two boxes into his carry-on which would not work and was ultimately pointless as someone had arranged for a wheel chair to pick him up on arrival). To make matters worse, the flight not only had no personal tvs, but no entertainment whatsoever for the first half of the flight. We were basically over Canadian waters before they finally started playing the crappy romantic comedies on a camera so old it made modern movies look like they were shot in the 1960s with 16 mm (maybe that’s a cool effect).
Anyways after getting through Canadian customs (which was sterner than usual, perhaps because the flight was from Poland, but my passport is Canadian, so I don’t really have to say how long I’m planning to stay here). At any rate, soon I was seeing hockey on the TV and Tim Hortons so I knew I was back in Canada.
The flight from Toronto to Winnipeg was with Air Canada was actually pretty problem free (although it was slightly delayed), although Air Canada had been scheduled to go on strike so I thought I might have ended up stranded in Toronto. But Harper’s gov’t basically ordered the striking flight attendants back to work, so their loss was my gain and the flight itself was only half full and I got a whole row to myself (which felt like luxury compared to what i was used to) and happily spent the flight watching the personal tv, including the People vs. George Lucas (a doc about fans upset about the new Star Wars movies), some Parks Canada promo involving artists from Toronto in the NWT, and—appropriately enough—Idiot Abroad.
Well that’s it for this trip, probably going to be laying low for the next little while and looking for work. Maybe I’ll find a stable job at home and hang up my traveling shoes for good. Or maybe I’ll find another job overseas. We’ll see.
Thanks for reading.

Macedonia, Greece, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, and Bosnia-Hercezgovina

Macedonia, Greece, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, and Bosnia-Hercezgovina
In this episode, I...
-happen into Macedonia on its 20th birthday
-have fun with Bunkers in Albania
-Go “tunnelling” in formerly war-torn Sarajevo
MACEDONIA
After arriving in Macedonia’s capital Skopje from Kosovo, I assumed things would probably be a fair more developed than in Kosovo but not as developed as Belgrade (a fair assessment), but I was surprised to find getting a taxi driver to take you to your actual destination is quite an undertaking (not only was I taken by two separate taxi drivers to two wrong locations, my actual hotel ended up being only a few blocks from the bus/rail station anyway, so I could have walked). That said, the hostel was very hard to find (tucked away in alleys by the river, and devoid of any sign, or street sign for that matter) but somehow I managed to get to it (granted I think my guidebook had an error on its map which caused some of the confusion).
Skopje is actually a fairly compact city centred around its central river. You can walk most places although most of it seemed under construction, possibly for its 20th anniversary celebration which my visit happened to coincide. Despite the fact that if the country isn’t even old enough to drink in the US, Macedonian pride was on high and the flag—a striking Hellenistic yellow sun on a red background—was visible everywhere. Skopje’s showpiece square (which at the moment I believe is called Macedonian square), features a highly oversized statue of Alexander the Great on a horse on a pedestal above a series of other statues, lights, and fountain show (though at the time, much of this was behind scaffolding).
After hanging out in Skopje for a bit, I took a bus out to Lake Olhrud (Ohlrud? Ohrud? Ohruid? How do spell this blessed thing?) which is said to be the spiritual heart of Macedonia (although its shared with Albania). This is said to be the place where the Cyrillic alphabet (the one used by Russians, Ukrainians, Serbians, Bulgarians, Montenegrins, and of course Macedonians) was invented, apparently to confuse people who read the Latin alphabet. I’m not kidding. The Eastern Roman empire at the time was trying to distance itself from the Western Roman empire (ie. Rome), so it figured if it created a different alphabet (and made it based on local languages instead of Latin) it would be more popular locally and the Western Romans wouldn’t be able to read it (also Easterners wouldn’t be able to read Latin).
Lake Olhrud (let’s just call it that) is certainly a gorgeous setting to create a new alphabet, a scenic medieval town (with twisty cobblestone streets, old churches, and the like), dominated by an old Ottoman fort, overlooking cliffs and a freshwater lake, with café and beaches along the base of the cliff where you can swim and have a drink. Fantastic. It’s like Greece except affordable… and less salty.
Technically I was supposed to move on at that point, but the train appears to have been cancelled between Macedonia and Greece to the ongoing name dispute. In effect, Greece—which has a province called Macedonia with occasional separatist tendencies—has objected to Macedonia calling itself Macedonia for the last 20 years, but Macedonia refuses to budge (I suggested they just change the name to France, but apparently that’s another kettle of fish). I find it a bit odd that Macedonia and Greece’s squabbling over a name has caused more border issues than I had between Serbia and Kosovo (despite the fact that Serbia and Kosovo had legitimate concerns, like a war and genocide, to get all ancy about), but I was able to get a 6 am bus the next day so it was no big deal.
As a result of the layover, I was also hosted by Melka, a local Macedonian woman I met on the bus back from Olhrud who—a heavy metal enthusiast—took me out to party in Skopje. She showed me quite a few places in Skopje, but one thing she didn’t show me—despite its apparent Balkan popularity—is something called Turbofolk, which her (and the Serbian rocker) both were adamant about their absolute distaste for it. Turbofolk as far as I can gather involves twisted souped-up remixes of folk music (probably techno) involving in the words of Melka “a big breasted woman and some stupid people.” Turbofolk is probably as distasteful as its made out to be, but my morbid curiosity is starting to get the better of me.
Anyways, strange pop cultural phenomena aside, Melka showed me a fantastic time and we cooked up a Macedonian storm in her little apartment, including sausages (most of which I can’t pronounce), vegetables, and fun scaring her roommate who would freak out any time I spoke English to her. Sadly though, I don’t have time to linger on this trip so on to Greece I went.
GREECE
Greece, to be frank, was something of a disaster for me. Being a history and mythology buff, I had high hopes for Greece and had heard great things (most people have a great time), but a disappointing introduction to Athens, high prices, and the theft of my digital camera made me wish I’d stayed in Macedonia.
Getting to Greece from Macedonia in the first place was tricky, as Greece had inexplicably cut off rail links with other countries, presumably due to the economic crisis (although I don’t understand how making it more difficult for people to come to your country helps your economy). Having limited time, I decided to base myself in Athens and maybe check out one of the legendary islands of the Aegean.
On my first day in Athens, I tried to do a walking tour (one of the great ways to meet fellow travellers in a new city, well usually anyway) but the tour guide (a cynical American expat who apparently was only in Athens because he married a Greek girl) seemed more interested in pointing out where to find the city’s crack addicts than talking about history and myth (in fact, he complained about tour guides talking about history and mythology, saying “nobody gives a damn about that shit.”) Of course, he made sure to remind us to tip him after the tour (despite the fact that the tour wasn’t even free). Think I’ll stick to the free tours (and if I can’t find one, just go on my own).
The old remaining Greek and Roman ruins are impressive although what remains of them is being not-so-slowly eroded away by the steady march of tourist hordes, often fresh from a cruise boat. And its hard to get an appreciation for what Socrates must have been thinking while you’re being rushed through a mob and trying to defend yourself against pickpockets.
Being told that the islands were what made Greece legendary, I decided to check out one of them—Hydra, relatively close to Athens, but still considered impressive. It was fine, and the old harbor town was quite beautiful (and exactly what you’d expect from a Greek coastal town), but it was quite small, entirely touristy, and you could finish exploring it in about 10 mins. I spent the rest of the day on the island trying to find somewhere to swim (for free). There weren’t beaches per se (at least not sandy ones), but they did have a view ladders built off of rocks into swimming sections. I swam a bit around the rocks as the sea tossed me to and fro (mostly wakes from ferry boats) and was surprised to find that I seemed extremely buoyant (so much so that my head would actually stay above water, and I could breathe, even if I didn’t bother treading water). But swimming on your own is only amusing for so long, so I got back on shore and caught the hydrofoil back to Athens.
It was on arrival back in Athens when I believe disaster struck (I believe, because I didn’t notice them do it, but I had to pass through a notorious square filled with shady characters in order to get back to my hostel, and there were a couple times I got stopped by traffic or someone jumped in front of me and tried to distract me.
Keep in mind I was travelling with all my bags (I had thought I was going to stay on the island for a couple of days, but ended up deciding to come back the same day), so I was mostly trying to guard them and I guess I must have left my pockets unguarded as sure enough next morning I discovered my digital camera—the one I had bought to replace the one that was stolen in South Africa—had once again been stolen (this time with all my pictures of Macedonia, Kosovo, and Greece).
This was a disaster, and losing the pictures broke my heart. To make matters worse, my hostel wouldn’t let me have my bed back (despite the fact no one was using it), because that particular dorm room was empty (yes, not a single other person was even in the room). They reasoned if I got a dorm room to myself, then I should pay a single room rate, even though there were so many empty dorm rooms that that they could have easily scattered everyone they crammed into the one dorm room into separate rooms and given us all a better night’s sleep.
The next day, my last in Greece, was spent trying frantically to determine if by chance my camera had been left in the Metro or the Subway, but it became evidently clear that this was a chronic problem in Greece and nobody cared to do anything about. After hours of futility, I caught the bus to Albania and bid Greece a not-so-fond farewell.
The other countries in the Balkans sometimes refer to Greece as the France of the Balkans, because it strikes a lot, is expensive, and always causes a fuss. The description appears to be apt. Granted many people adore Greece (mostly college students, ladies and couples I find), but I’ll take Eastern Europe over it any day. That and its just way too damn hot.
ALBANIA
After Greece, I was looking forward to getting back into Eastern Europe proper (with its lower prices and smaller tourist hordes). Tirana, Albania’s capital, is practically the anti-thesis of Athens, under-developed, under-rated, and inexpensive. In other words, fantastic! I knew things were going to be different as soon as I bought my bus ticket from an Albanian tour operator, who couldn’t speak a lick of English, and has a big Albanian flag and a stuffed full-size Albanian hawk (yes a real one) overlooking the ticket counter.
While tourist attractions were few and far between there were plenty of cafes, old buildings, and old communist-era relics to amuse, in particular the pyramid built by the late dictator Hoxha as a museum to himself, that has since been re-purposed multiple times and is presently, it seems, being used as a monument to how detested the former authoritarian was (another legacy of the Hoxha era are the thousands of bunkers built along the coast, apparently to stave off a Western Imperialist invasion (because everyone knows Albania was target number one) and which have since been repurposed into parts of houses, restaurants, places to lose ones virginity, and of course public “toilets”)
Incidentally, while some Muslim countries (Albania is technically a Muslim country) maybe had a somewhat different opinion of George W. Bush, Albanians apparently liked him enough to name a street after him.
The nightlife situation in Tirana is perhaps a bit tame, I’m not sure, I didn’t really get to explore it. I tried to, but the street I thought the nightclubs happened to swamped with Albanian police in front of a do not cross line when I arrive and an Albanian newscaster was doing a story on it. Clearly something big (and most probably bad) had happened, but I couldn’t figure out what it was as no one spoke English. Deciding it best to maybe just head back to my hostel, I passed a fast food restaurant that was open on the way and I say they were watching that same reporter on the TV (at the same corner I just was) and I asked the guys hanging out in there if they could speak English (thankfully one could… a little) and he explained that two masked men with guns had tried to rob a casino, the police came, there was a shoot-out with police and a couple officers were wounded (one may have been killed), but they managed to arrest the robbers, of this 20 minutes before I arrived (I’m just glad I wasn’t a little more punctual).
The next day I headed one to Montenegro which was a little strange (Albania’s buses tend to defy regional logic, but they’re cheap) which involved switching a lot, but paying more for the cab to the bus station than for the bus itself. After being dropped off in a town near the border, but not at the border, myself and an Austrian guy ended up sharing a cab with local driver (he talked us into it) who took us to the border itself, and after a bit of a confusing time clearing customs and trying to find transportation onward to Budva (a coastal resort town in Montenegro) we decided we would probably have to hitchhike as the buses that were promised to be on the other side of customs were nowhere in sight. We needn’t have worried though, as before I was even able to stick out my thumb a bus came out of nowhere, picked us up and we happily went on our way, ending up in Budva well ahead of schedule.
MONTENEGRO
A tiny country, Montenegro used to be joined with Serbia until it went its own way just a few years ago. As such, it quickly became the latest Mediterranean ”secret” out of the former Yugoslavia (something Croatia was once upon a time), but it is clear that Montenegro is going the way of the Croatia (in many ways its already there) and adventurous travelers might even have to go as far as Albania to escape the hordes.
That said, Montenegro is still a gorgeous country (and cheap and easy to get around, as its so tiny). Budva was basically in the center of the coast and in between two highlights mentioned in my guidebook, Sveti Stefan and Kotor Bay.
We hit Sveti Stefan first because Kotor Bay was on my way to Croatia (where I was heading next). Sveti Stefan is a small medieval town on a small almost-island barely connected to the mainland. It is very scenic but unfortunately you can’t explore because the whole thing has been turned into an exclusive hotel (and if you’re reading my blog, you probably can’t afford it). Even the beach beside it had a big sign reading 50 euros for a swim (outrageous!). Needless to say, we did take a dip, but we ignored the sign.
While my Austrian buddy Michael sunned it up on the pebble beach that you didn’t have to pay 50 euros for, I hiked around the little park area (very pleased to see hills with trees on them after Greece) and asked a waiter what one does in Sveti Stefan.
“Fish or pick-up Russian women,” he replied. I was never a fan of seafood.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t speak Russian either.
Budva itself was a bit more down to earth (although still very touristy) and had its own summer fair-style theme park (filled with children) and right next to it an open air strip club (great for the kids). It seems in Croatia and Montenegro, the most affordable places to stay are at private guesthouses that you get from the old people who approach you at bus or train stations. At first I was a little suspicious of these (based on my experience in Africa, I always assume someone who’s approaching me at a bus or train station and trying to sell me something is not offering me the best deal), but it turned out okay.
Anyway, the next day I continued along the coast to Dubrovnik, but not before stopping for the better part of the day in Kotor Bay which is a gorgeous little town in a scenic bay with churches built on small islands. I could have easily explored it more, but unfortunately my time and budget are running short.
CROATIA
Dubrovnik may have been a hidden gem in past years, but any place with 14 cruise ships anchored off shore can’t make that claim any more. Gorgeous and picture-esque though it was, Dubrovnik had also become very pricey. I tried to save money by going to the island of Lokram (a nature reserve) for some hiking and swimming and this was a good plan (the island was gorgeous and still fairly natural, at least for Europe). Again you basically had no real beach, you just swam off of rocks (some being very treacherous to jump across while wet and unagile), but it was very scenic and you could usually find a nook or pool somewhere where you could take a dip. There were no change rooms, so changing basically consisted of finding a rock or bush to hide behind and hope no one walks in on you (that’s if you’re modest, that is, I saw a couple of Europeans get naked right out in the open).
Then it’s a mad dash back to the ferry and back to the mainland before 7 pm (otherwise you apparently get stuck on the island and presumably have to sleep under the trees—maybe not so bad).
Unfortunately though my bad luck with cameras continued, as moving my camera into a new pocket (to protect it from thieves) created a new problem. As I was moving my luggage down a series of steps (there’s always a series of steps), one bag hit my pocket, and somehow hit the camera turn on button. The camera turned itself on (and extended its lens) and because it had no where to expand, broke itself.
I stared at my broken camera (only 2 days old!) in disbelief. I’m hoping that I will be able to replace it under warranty (as we speak, I’m heading to Slovenia where apparently my warranty is in effect, because it’s EU, as it wasn’t in effect in Bosnia or Montenegro where I bought the blessed thing). This camera things really starting to get me down.
Anyways, Croatia was too expensive so on to Bosnia!
BOSNIA-HERCEGOVINA
I had originally planned to just stop in Mostar (a mountain town famous for its old bridge) before heading to Split in Croatia to catch a ferry to visit my friend in Italy, but that trip fell through when I couldn’t touch base with my Italian friend, so I decided to go to much cheaper Sarajevo instead (I’ve been to Italy before anyway, and Bosnia seemed more interesting).
First though, I stopped in Mostar, where instead of being greeted by an old person I was met by a stunningly beautiful Bosnian university student, Amina. While usually when beautiful women ask me to purchase something, this turns out to be a disaster, she actually was incredibly honest and very nice (and even helped me try to get my broken camera sorted out in Mostar to no avail). Unfortunately, I don’t think her guesthouse has a name (its basically her family’s apartment, and while you get a room to yourself, she lives with her mother, and two brothers). She was clearly the only one in the family who spoke English (and she spoke it well) and appeared to be the hardest working member of the family (I didn’t see her brothers do too much) as she went to the train station and back trying to recruit more guests as well as her studies and other work and Skype with her boyfriend, a Bosnian soldier in Afghanistan. Definitely speaking with her and her family (mostly her) was a highlight of Mostar as I got an insider’s peek at real Bosnian life.
She explained that while the town was still divided by the river into two ethnic enclaves (Bosnian Muslims and Croatian Catholics I believe), most of the tension today basically just centred around soccer games (while sports are presumably meant to spread world peace, soccer fans appear to have missed that whole thing). The town itself is an interesting mix of old Ottoman shops and cobblestone streets, modern rebuilds, and dilapidated relics from the war years (tragic but fascinating to see). Mostar’s Starimost (Old Bridge), it’s most famous attraction, was destroyed by Croatians during the war (apparently in an attempt to make Mostar part of Croatia) but has been reconstructed… now with steps.
While Dubrovnik was close enough that the bridge was covered in tourists in the day time, the town and bridge were basically empty at night. The bridge was so empty in fact at night that as I was climbing it I felt an ominous crunch beneath my feet.
I was shocked to discover that I had apparently stepped on a dead cat (apparently had been dead for some time) that was inexplicably lying on the bridge. It had crumpled under me like a mummy might if you stepped on its face. Sent a chill down my spine for the rest of the evening.
After Mostar, I headed to Sarajevo (only a couple of hours away). Sarajevo is a city with a reputation, but the war’s been over for a number of years now, so there’s no problem going to it; in fact its emerging status makes it more authentic and definitely adds to the charm.
It’s not like Bosnians have forgotten the war (it only ended in the 1990s). Indeed, the hostel I stayed at (which actually was chosen by accident as I got it mixed up with my intended hostel across the street), happened to be run by this elderly couple who apparently were Bosnian political big whigs during the war (or at least make convincing claims that they were). The husband apparently worked for the Bosnian war ministry and had to dodge sniper fire every day as he walked to and from work (he also apparently participated in the negotiation of the Dayton Accords in 1995 that finally brought the war to an end). The wife was also in the diplomatic service and apparently welcomed foreign dignitaries visiting Sarajevo during the war years, including the French president, the British prime minister, and various Hollywood celebrities. They took us on a driving tour of the Sarajevo Tunnel (which was used to smuggle weapons, supplies, and people in and out of the city during the 3.5 year siege by the Serbian military) and gave us a history of why the tunnel was built and how desperate the besieged city was.
Basically between 1992 and 1995, Sarajevo was almost completely surrounded by the Serbian military, who were attempting to subdue the city by siege to fulfill Slobodan Milosevic’s ominous dream of a “Greater Serbia.” The town, mostly Bosnian Muslims, outnumbered the Serbs, but the Serbs had stronger weapons so what followed was a standoff where Serbian snipers and artillery would pound the city from the surrounding hills and the Bosnians would try to link up with their friendly forces through the tunnel under the International airport (which was controlled by UN forces). You can still see places like the Holiday Inn (where journalists were trapped for months) and bombed out relics of the 1984 winter Olympics (which were held in Sarajevo while Yugoslavia was together and still relatively peaceful).
Of course, Sarajevo has a history before the war, being an important post in the Ottoman empire, the Austro-Hungarian empire, and Yugoslavia, and all three have left their mark on the city (you can definitely tell the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian districts apart, as well as the more modern sectors), but it has long been a city associated with tragedy. This was the place where the Bosnian Serb assassin Gavrilo Princip shot Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand, thus setting off the chain reaction that began the First World War (and set the stage for humanity’s bloodiest century). Still though, the Bosnians are very friendly (they have yet to be jaded by tourists coming to visit their city) and Sarajevo is magically place, bullet-holes and all.
I met a Canadian girl, Kat, and an Australian girl, Renee, (they had been roommates in London for the past three years where they had worked as nurses) who were really friendly and great to hang out with (the tunnel tour was their idea). The Canadian girl, like me, was about to head back to Canada and having some misgivings about attempting the “real life” again, something we shared sorrows over. Hopefully see them again, but for now I’m on a train to Slovenia (and its perennially unspellable capital Ljubljana).

Turkey, Bulgaria, and Serbia-Kosovo

Turkey, Bulgaria, and Serbia-Kosovo
In this episode, I...
-get my facial burnt off by a Turkish barber
-inadvertently tell a Bulgarian border guard that I am not Ryan Clement
-go to Serbia
TURKEY
After arriving from Africa with my broken shaving case conveniently packaged in a taped-up beaten up cardboard fruit box (see Kenya “international incident”), I wasn’t terribly surprised to see an inexplicably hole punched into it when I picked it up from the airport at Istanbul, but none of my stuff inside was damaged, so I just shrugged it off. Unfortunately, in a both fatigued (from traveling through 3 continents in 2 days) and anxious (to get to my hostel) state, I inadvertently left my box unattended at a bank machine when I had to put it down to draw some money. Realizing my mistake a few minutes later (thankfully before I jumped into a taxi), I hurried back to the ATM to find my box still there and a small crowd of Turkish airport police and concerned citizens gathered around the box, which they clearly thought might be some sort of explosive (the bizarre taping job and weird African symbols on the box probably didn’t help matters).

Sheepishly, I announced that the box was mine and gingerly walked towards it, the police watching me like I was approaching a hostage situation. I shook the box to demonstrate its harmlessness and explained my tendency to forget things (this is the first time I’ve left something unattended in an airport though). The Turkish airport security gave me a good talking to and then let me wander off with my box.
My hostel was an old townhouse type place in Sultanahamnet, easily within stumbling distance of the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofya (I know this because I stumbled into them on the first day). It was a decent enough place, although the staff were sometimes helpful sometimes moody (at one point I mentioned that the Wifi wasn’t working and was literally told “that’s your problem.”) and there a few too many sales pitches, but at least they had a great rooftop patio with views of the Bhosphorus ( the sea link between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean and Istanbul’s reason for being.
Just to give a crash history course, Istanbul first sprung to life as Constantinople, the Eastern Roman capital built by the Roman Emperor Constantine (the same guy who converted the empire to Christianity) on the east side of empire so they could move things away from Rome (which at the point was already starting to tear itself apart). After Rome split into two empires—one East and one West—Constantinople became the capital of the Eastern empire (later known as the Byzantine Empire) which persisted for 1000 years after Rome itself fell.
But fall it did to—guess who? That’s right, the Turks, whence why its called Turkey, although at that time they were known as Ottomans, apparently because they enjoyed padded foot stools. Constantinople was renamed Istanbul setting the stage for that song “Istanbul... Constantinople” many centuries later, which I thought was by They Might Be Giants, but apparently they were covering 50s version, at least according to a Bulgarian man who stopped me when I arrived in Bulgaria from Istanbul so I could—in honour of my arriving from Istanbul—hear his entire rendition of Istanbul-Constantinople.
Anyways, back to Turkey, I spent the first day or two just wandering around the fantastic old neighbourhood I was in. Granted it was touristy, but so what, the Aya Sofya was built as a church (later converted to a mosque) that was meant to rival those of Rome and many of the other ancient structures including the Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Palace (the Sultan’s old digs), and the Archaelogy Museum were equally as impressive. I also took in a Turkish traditional dance show that eschewed whirling dervishes for belly dancers (not a bad trade in my opinion) and covered the various regional dances in perhaps not the most conservative manner.
Walking to the dance hall, I slipped on a wet piece of sidewalk (to save socks, I was wearing flip-flops) and nearly took out a toe on a piece of cobblestone, but luckily it was just a touch bruised. Really smarted though.
I was visiting Turkey during Ramadan, but despite it being an overwhelmingly Muslim country compared to Tanzania which is only half Muslim, I had no problems finding food to eat at any time of the day. Granted, Turks are none for their love of the kebab and I doubt they’d close up shop for the Muslim rapture (if there is such a thing) nevermind Ramadan.
Having just arrived from weeks on the road in Africa, I was a pretty shaggy, unshaven, and generally suspicion-looking character upon my arrival in Istanbul. But I was planning to meet my friend Peri (a Turkish girl I knew from Rio) and planning to Skype with my folks, so it seemed an apt moment to pursue some grooming. There was a Turkish barber not far my hostel, so I thought “why not?” He didn’t really speak English, but its pretty easy to communicate “hair cut” to a barber with your hands (as a man, haircuts aren't normally a complicated maneuver for me). At first, things seemed to be going fine (I didn’t even have to wash my hair, as I’d just washed it). Soon, though, it became clear that my hair might be cut a tad shorter than I was expecting, but oh well—hair grows back and if it was longer until my next one all the better economically. Next, however, the barber swapped the modern electric razor for an old-fashioned flip knife—the kind cowboys used to shave with. Suddenly, I had a man who couldn’t speak anything but Turkish scraping a sharp knife along the side of my jugular. This made me a tad nervous, but so far wasn’t anything outside of what you’d expect a barber might do (at least an old-timey barber, the kind with the blood-soaked red rags wrapped around white poles). But this barber had a finale up his sleeve, and when I saw a flame shoot out about an inch away from my face—I flinched a tad. The Turkish barber explained why it was necessary—or at least that I had no choice in the matter—and then proceeded to lick my cheeks with the flames from his cigarette lighter. The feeling was something like running your finger quickly through a candle flame (except doing it with your face), and I will say he was a professional—I never got burnt, although feel strong sudden bursts of heat on my face and could smell the burnt hair smell of my stubble (a bit eerie to smell your own burning hair). All in all, though, it was my closest shave ever.


The next day I met up with Peri, who took me on a tour of the real Istanbul (where actual Turkish people live) including some shoreside parks, some tea gardens, and of course Beyoglu (which I’ve no doubt spelt wrong as I was hopeless at pronouncing it) which is like the Turkish version of Times Square/shopping mecca.
Capping off my visit with a tour of the Bhosphorus using a public ferry (rather than one of the tourist ferries) I caught a glimpse of the Black Sea before heading back to Sultanahamnet to catch my train to Bulgaria.
BULGARIA
The train ride from Istanbul was a tad stuffy (apparently Eastern European trains don’t have AC and they generally only open the windows to smoke), but it was quite decent compared to some of the transportation options I’d seen in Africa. I even had a sleeper bunk on which I could actually sleep while I traveled. I shared my cabin with a Ukrainian guy who couldn’t speak English but was quite talkative in French so I had to bring out my French (which was really rusty). Nice enough guy though.
After arriving in Bulgaria, I had a bit of difficulty getting cash as the train station ATMs didn’t seem to accept my card. Anyway, I managed to get a bus to old town and found a taxi and an ATM there was surprised to find things much cheaper than I was expecting (a lovely surprise!).
I stayed at the Hiker’s Hostel in Plovdiv (I was going to go direct to Sofia, but I was told it wasn’t terribly interesting and that I was better off going to Plovdiv instead). The Bulgarian staff here were great and very friendly (and could speak English). One guy even helped me do my laundry.
While waiting for my clothes to dry, I went out to get lost in Plovdiv’s Old Town, and get lost i did, at least 3 times, or perhaps it would be better to say I was just continuously lost.
I did find the old Roman theatre which was tucked away in a hard to find nook (I shadowed some Bulgarians to find it) and offers a great view of the neighbourhood. Apparently the Romans not only held shows here, but concerts and gladiator battles and its still used to this day (for plays and concerts, not so much gladiatorial battles). Unfortunately, there wasn’t any show on while I was there, as that would have been very cool.
My next target was a traditional Bulgarian restaurant called Diana’s which was much more difficult to find—mainly because it doesnt’have a sign that says Diana’s (its signs say something else). The waitresses dressed in the traditional garb and also wore the traditional Eastern European lack of a smile. The food was okay.
While waundering—lost—around Plovdiv, I stumbledinto a small exhibition by a famous Bulgarian artist (whom I naturally had never heard of). Now Bulgaria has a history of being pushed around by great powers: the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Ottomans, the Russians, the Germans, the Soviets, the European Union, etc (apparently it even at one point offered to join the USSR but was refused, the ultimate rejection), but I didn’t expect its own citizens to be quite as meek. The exhibit curator—who either snuck up on me or was so timid I was unaware of her presence—came up to me and said “дравей” (hello in Bulgarian), which startled me, so I said “hello” in English back as a gut reaction, at which point she said “hello,” and I asked what she had said before, and she had said “hello.” After a brief Abbot and Costellian exchange, I explained I wanted to know how to say “hello” in Bulgarian (so I didn’t look like a dumb North American tourist in every conversation who only speaks English). But she refused, saying “you don’t need to learn Bulgarian, don’t waste your time, its not worth it.” Granted I will probably forget any and all Bulgarian I learn a week after I leave, but that doesn’t mean the language has no worth whatsoever. I tried to be encouraging, or at least help her feel better about herself, country, and language, and so I asked what the admission charge was to the exhibition. She said it was 2 levas (Bulgarian currency, about $1 CDN), then it became 1 leva before I had a chance to respond and then it became whatever coins I had on me which totaled about 45 cents (in Levas, not dollars, so I really had about a quarter). She humbly accepted this as if it were a great gift (which it wasn’t) and showed me the exhibit, which she tried to explain was good for Bulgaria. The art was perfectly fine—maybe a bit impressionistic, abstract, and vaguely pornographic at times—but nothing less than what you’d find at many Canadian galleries. The only thing Bulgarian artists appear to need to work on is their self-esteem. It’s okay guys, you can do it too!
Speaking of language miscues, I love language miscommunications that work to my benefit. While at a café on one of the streets of Plovdiv, I tried—being thirsty after a day of getting lost walking around town—to order a “Fanta with ice.” The waitress didn’t speak English that well—but she was enthusiastic—and said that they couldn’t do Fanta with ice, but they could do a Coke with ice or just a Fanta. Why they could serve Coke with ice, but not Fanta was a mystery that piqued my curiosity—and it was really hot that day, so I wanted the ice—so I ordered the Coke with ice. I soon received a Coke with a scoop of chocolate ice cream floating in it—effectively a coke float for cheaper than what a coke would have cost me back home. This was even better than Coke with ice, and Lord only knows what Fanta with chocolate ice cream in it would have tasted like (will have to try that some time, I’ll call it the Bulgarian float).
That evening I participated in a bbq with a couple other people from the hostel, including a Bulgarian hostel worker who talked at length about the Bulgarian way of life: mainly Bulgarian history (did you know they invented the alphabet book and put the guy who invented it on their money) why Plovdiv was so much better than Sofia (in the same sense that LA folks talk of New York, or non-Torontonians feel towards Toronto), and their problem with stray dogs (which I hadn’t really noticed) which she wanted to solve using SWAT teams. Unfortunately I got in a bit of argument with a fellow Canadian from Quebec who seemed to think that Quebeckers only voted for Jack Layton because he had a moustache and that the French did nothing bad during their colonial history which makes me wonder about history books in Quebec. He also felt the suffering of the Quebecois under the English was equivalent to the Bulgarians under the Ottomans which got the Bulgarian girl a tad irate. Gotta love people who can’t look at themselves critically.
Having seen most of what I came to Bulgaria to see, and being anxious to stay on schedule, I decided the next day to catch a train to Belgrade (which I’m on now), so we’ll soon see what Serbia’s all about.
SERBIA
When you hear the word Serbia back home, it tends to bring up images of war, bloodshed, and the rocky ethnic tensions that the Balkans have been generally known for. As a teenager in the 1990s, I remember seeing the Kosovo War on the news (back in the days before our wars moved to the Middle East full-time) and in this instance, NATO forces (including Canada) were fighting on behalf of a primarily Muslim population (the Kosovo-Albanians) against a primarily Christian population (the Serbs). Belgrade, once the capital of mighty Yugoslavia under Tito, had become the center of a disintegrating empire after Slobodan Milosevic took over and the politics became increasing defined along ethnic lines. Slovenia, Macedonia, Croatia, and Bosnia-Herzegovina all declared independence from Belgrade some not so peacefully (notably Bosnia) (Montenegro would also secede in the early 2000s). A movement in Kosovo (at that time a region of Serbia that had its autonomous status taken away by Milosevic) to gain independence from Serbia was met with what many called a genocide accusing Milosevic’s government of trying to “ethnically cleanse” Kosovo of its Albanian majority. 1999 saw a NATO intervention, and many cities in Serbia were bombed (including Belgrade itself). I remember many Afghanistan-like news stories about American soldiers being captured and held hostage, planes being shot down, schools being bombed, civilian casualties, and the Chinese embassy being bombed which led to icy relations with Beijing. In the end, Serbia was defeated, Milosevic was overthrown by his own people and handed over to the International Criminal Court, and a United Nations peacekeeping mission was established. Nearly ten years later, Kosovo would officially declare independence and is a partially recognized state today (yet remains unrecognized by many important nations, especially Serbia).
With all this history in mind, I wasn’t sure how well I’d be received in Serbia. The war wasn’t that long ago (I’m not that old) and most young people in Serbia have vivid memories of growing up during the war times (the kids then are now young adults). That said, I’d heard that Serbia’s new government was much more open to the rest of Europe (and the West) and that Belgrade had even gained a reputation as a party destination (One of the drunk Serbian guys on my train, of which there were numerous, referred to Belgrade as “number one place for fun... in world,” a far cry from its war-time reputation).
Speaking of the Serbian train, I could tell right away that traveling in Serbia is a tad different than the rest of the Europe. While I was promised a sleeper bed on the overnight jaunt, this was soon changed to “my own cabin,” and then just a seat in a crowded cabin. Air Conditioning seems to be nonexistent and in the late summer heat, trains can be stifling hot, yet oddly people keep closing the windows (maybe I just have a low heat tolerance). Luckily, East European smoking addicts usually have them open again in no time. Serbia, by the way, seems to have got the wrong memo on that whole no-smoking in public thing—instead of getting rid of their smoking sections, they’ve seemingly eliminated their non-smoking sections (presuming they even had them to begin with). Serbians (and most Balkanites it seems) of all shapes and sizes seem to smoke like Pittsburgh as my Dad would say. I literally saw a few guys bust out a fresh cigarette every 15 minutes on an overnight train ride (how their lungs have not merely collapsed is a mystery to medical science).
I arrived in Belgrade in the middle of the night 4 am, and not wanting to brave this unfamiliar city in the dark (some habits picked up in Africa are hard to lose) I opted to take a cab to my hostel, thinking—foolishly—that this would be easiest solution. While my cab driver claimed he knew where he was going, he clearly did not as he dropped me off in a park in the middle of nowhere, nowhere near any hostel. Wandering around with all my bags in the dark some first-light-of-dawn-joggers tried to assist me but after passing where the Arka Barka floating hostel was supposed to be 3 or 4 times, I finally gave up and caught another taxi back down to another hostel (which turned out to have been turned into a high-end hotel) and wandered the early morning traffic of Belgrade to yet another hostel recommended in my book, which inexplicably didn’t open to 9. While waiting for this place to open, I found another hostel (Belgrade Eye) a block away that was nice, open, and available, so I booked in grabbed a bed, and slept.
Eventually I managed to wake up enough to meet my only other roommate a friendly girl who seemed to only speak a language that was unfamiliar to me. After doing my usual thing with languages I don’t understand, mimick and repeat what I’m hearing so at the very least I can get used to the pronunciation of things, I finally broke down and asked her in English where she was from. It turns out she was Australian.
My Aussie roommate had a bizarre obsession with conspiracy theories; at least I gathered that from her tendency to ask out of the blue questions like “Who do you think really killed Princess Diana” even when weren’t even talking about her (or anything related to British royalty) or “Why did the US stage 9/11?” After explaining some issue about a firewall on the Internet access on the computer, I was declared to be a “smart-ish person,” which I suppose is a complement.
After recovering my energy, I wandered out into the city (this time in daylight) and was surprised to see that Belgrade is a fairly clean, modern, and cosmopolitan town (I felt much safer walking its streets at night—or Kosovo’s for that matter—than any place in Africa) filled with cafes, pubs, cinemas, you name it, and more importantly people. The city was practically abuzz with folks around the main pedestrian mall leading up to the old fortress. This could be any city in Europe. You’d never have known that NATO had bombed it—especially considering all the KFCs and McDonald’s.
It was weird thinking that my country had bombed this country not that long ago, and here I was casually strolling around struggling to speak the language. That said, the Serbians themselves were overwhelmingly open and friendly to me, one of the hostel employees, who was about the same age as me, was apparently something of a Serbian punk rock star (she was recording albums and had made appearances on the Serbian MTV) and was quite open about her life here, her aspirations, and her extreme disdain for something called Turbofolk, which is a genre of music I’m not aware of, but as far she was concerned seemed to be the biggest current problem in Serbia.
My walking tour guide was equally friendly and welcoming, a plucky young—and gorgeous, like one of those Serbian tennis players—university student, she led a large group of us (suggesting that Belgrade is quickly losing its one-time pariah status) on a very interesting jaunt thru some of the key sights. While she touched on the war, it was quite clear that it was a sensitive topic for her (and for most Serbians, who generally don’t talk much about it), although of course for Western tourists (especially those from NATO countries) it’s never far from our thoughts. The city has long since rebuilt, so only a few destroyed buildings and landmarks—like the Hotel Yugoslavia and Miloseviç’s “Eternal Flame” (no longer lit)—stand as reminders. Our guide explained that while Milosevic (who died while on trial at the ICC) still had his supporters, about 60 percent of Serbians preferred to establish closer relations with Western Europe and even hoped to join the EU (no word on Serbia joining NATO).
I hooked up with a Canadian girl, an English girl, and an Australian guy on the tour and we ended up hanging most of the day, trying Serbian foods including Rakia (a strong Ouzu-like liquour), something called Muckalicka (some sort of stew), and of course Moussaka. Later on we strolled through the town and made arrangements to meet for drinks in the park by the giant statue of the naked guy with the sword (don’t ask). At the time, I thought the park would be quiet at night but it was actually buzzing, mostly with teenagers looking for places to lose their virginity. I made my own rum and cokes using a mickey of rum and whatever coke I could find, and then the plan was to hit up one of the floating nightclubs on the Danube that Belgrade is so famous for. Unfortunately, as more and more people started to get added to the group and we got more and more disorganized, and by the time we hit the Danube barges it was already past 2 am and people were still having their pre-drinks. Realizing I had an hour to walk back, I had to be lame and leave early (getting to sleep @ 3), but the barge parties were pretty quiet anyway (apparently the more raucous barges were on the other side of the bridge).
The next day I visited the Military Museum, which had a wide assortment of weapons and what have you, but surprisingly little on the Kosovo War, except a comparison of force numbers (which suggested Serbia faced overwhelming odds), made it clear that Serbian history books considered this to be the “war of NATO aggression,” much like modern-day Carolinians with Confederate sympathies refer to the American Civil War as the very objective War of Northern Aggression.
Having learned the Serb perspective, it was time to look at things from the Kosovan side, so I grabbed a bus to Pristina, Kosovo’s capital (yes there are direct buses from Belgrade, Serbia to Pristina, Kosovo). It was surprisingly easy to travel between these once mortal enemies and even festive (during one of our bathroom stops, we had to crash and navigate a Serbian wedding celebration, 2 ways, in order to use the toilets. Not sure what town that was, but there plenty of folk costumes and happy dancing people of varying ages)
The border itself was nothing out the ordinary, even though Serbia doesn’t recognize Kosovo as an independent nation (it considers Kosovo to be an autonomous region within Serbia due to its being the ancient birthplace of the Serb culture) going from Kosovo to Serbia is said to be tricky (as it means entering Serbia without an entry permit and therefore entering Serbia illegally), going the Serbia to Kosovo way is fine.
KOSOVO
On the bus from Belgrade, I could tell already this wasn’t a typical travel destination, as the only other English-speakers on the bus where three Irish documentary filmmakers hired to due to a Couch Surfing adventure through Europe (lucky bastards) and one Mexican UN worker (well he could speak English fluently, even if it wasn’t his first language) who referred to Kosovo as one of the coziest UN assignments as far as UN assignments go.
After we reached Prishtina (again in the middle of the night), the bus stopped inexplicably on an expressway. It had stopped previously for a break (despite being a half hour away from its destination) now it appeared it wanted to let us off here (and not, you know, at the bus station as I had kinda been expecting). The Mexican guy seemed to be sure this was where we got off (though none of the locals did) and when the Irish crew got off, I figured I’d better tag along as well, figuring there was only one cab around, and sharing a taxi with two pretty Irish filmmakers and that guy who tagged along with them and kept confusing me for an American was better than walking.
In the end, we all got to our required destinations and my hostel this time was basically in an old apartment building in a hilly residential neighbourhood, with a single room and TV for what i was paying for a dorm bed elsewhere. Eastern Europe—especially compared to Western Europe—is super cheap as it is, but in Kosovo you can actually buy a meal for a few cents—granted in this case, the meal consisted of three peaches and the cents were from euros, but they were awesome peaches.
Anyway, I digress. Also that night, I noticed every Kosovan person I encountered to be watching TV (the old hotel clerk, the late night grocer, even the guy in the pizza restaurant I ordered a late night movie). In fact, they were all watching the same movie, an old Hong Kong classic featuring a young Jackie Chan taking on an army of Western terrorists in inexplicably bright red jump suits. It was corny and dubbed poorly (which made it that much more corny) and included a scene where Jackie Chan and one of his enemies crashes into a Street Fighter II console and get magically transformed into various Street Fighter characters including Ken, E. Honda, Guile, Dhalsim, and finally Jackie Chan as Chun Li.
Unfortunately wandering in Kosovo on a Sunday (the next day) meant everything was closed, so I didn’t really get to see what their historical (or at least museum) perspective was on the recent conflict, although I did visit the Memorial Centre (no, not a hockey arena) near my hostel which includes a series of graves of Kosovan fighters I believe (all the signs were in Albanian and no one was around to translate for me) and a monument to Kosovo’s founding father, referred to as the Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi of Kosovo.
Compared to Belgrade, Kosovo’s capital was considerably quieter, smaller, and more rough around the edges (tourism had yet to really sinks its teeth in here, although you could definitely tell there were a few exploratory bites), but were once there was “mission creep” now there was “cafe creep” as Prishtina’s main downtown street corners sprouted cafes and patios (this is still Europe after all).
Hardly dangerous, my biggest issue in Kosovo was finding something to do, but I didn’t mind taking things lazily after weeks of hard slogging traveling (who’d have thought I’d go to Kosovo to take it easy) and enjoy having my own cable TV for a change. Taking advantage of cheap prices for a couple nights, I then headed on to Macedonia.
One last thing, when I was in Africa, there were a lot of concerns over Balkanization (ie. the splintering of a large nation into many smaller nations a la what happened in the Balkans), but judging from the fact that the Balkans have apparently gone from a place where war seemed inevitable to peaceful co-existence, perhaps its not such a bad arrangement after all (I’m looking at you Somalia). Its not like the borders in Africa were designed by African anyway.