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.