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Sometimes you learn lessons the hard way. The result of finding the cheapest flights on the internet was that they were all screwed up. Immediately I had to change carriers to a delayed flight and reroute through Dallas where I ran furiously to make the connection to London. Upon arriving at Gatwick Airport in London I again ran (this time with my luggage) to my Croatia connection only to find it was about to take off. My inconvenience was minor compared to the woman with whom I was running. She had missed any chance of meeting up with her scheduled tour group in Dubrovnik and would be delayed two days. My Plan B--or was it plan C?--was a flight to Budapest that also arrived too late to make my connection to Skopje, Macedonia.
Simon, an Albanian from New York City--a volatile ethnic combination if there ever was one--bickered loudly with the unfortunate young man Hungarian Airlines assigned to help those who missed their connection. Fortunately they sprung for separate rooms in downtown Budapest for all ten weary travelers. I eagerly washed off the smell of thirty-six hours of travel with a hot shower then went immediately to sleep.
I got up before seven and took a stroll around town. As I was taking pictures I noticed how clean the air was. The last time I was in Budapest in 2000 the pollution was so bad my eyes stung and I had to drive seventy miles out of the city before they cleared. I aw that people were now driving mostly new cars instead of their old commie-mobiles.
Good morning Budapest!
The Trabant, a commie classic
At the buffet breakfast I shared a table with Simon. He was on his way to Kosovo to visit relatives and chain-smoked Marlboros as he expressed his many opinions on the situation there.
SIMON SAYS . . .
It was hour ride back to the airport but only a forty-minute flight from Budapest to Skopje. I sat next to a young man from Ireland. He was going to Unite with his wife who was doing relief work in an isolated village in Macedonia. As I peered out the window at the Serbian landscape I warned him to expect poverty and hot weather.
We walked off the plane directly into a 115-degree oven, the tail-end of a June heat wave. Alexander the not-so-great airport reminded me of the Ugandan airport I had seen in a made-for-TV movie about Israeli hostages. I half-expected Idi Amin to walk out onto the tarmac and greet us.
I was nervous when my bags took a long time to arrive on the conveyor. Simon’s bags were also late and he was about to go into a tirade at any second. Our luggage finally arrived at the same time and we were soon moving quickly through Customs. The indifference of the agents erased my concern that they would harass me about the the electronic musical equipment I had brought with me. I could have been a heroin smuggler for all they cared.
My friend, Nikolce (“Nicholas”) had been in Skopje the night before to meet me but I was unsuccessful in my attempts to contact him. Fortunately he was there anyway to perform at a music festival. I had met Nikolce the previous year in a hotel in Ohrid where his band was playing. He talked me into coming back to team up with him to play American rock and roll in the clubs around Lake Ohrid during the tourist season. It sounded like too much of an adventure to pass up.
A taxi driver immediately latched onto me and followed my every footstep. He pleaded for my patronage even while I attempted to make a phone call and exchange currency. He was a big goofy looking guy that reminded me of Fuzzy Bear on The Muppets. His persistence paid off as we agreed that he would drive me 180 km to Mislesevo, the village of Nikolce and his family. We had yet to settle on a price when Simon told me he had already negotiated with a different driver to first take him to Pristina for twenty euro, then take me to Mislesevo for another eighty euro. This didn’t make any sense since Pristina was two hours and a border crossing in the opposite direction. His driver had to settle for the smaller fare and I went with Fuzzy whose real name was Victor. Simon and I did the “Balkan embrace” and he gave me his brother’s phone number in Kosovo in case things didn’t work out in Macedonia.
MISLESEVO (PRONOUNCED MIS-LESH-E-VO) IS 3 KM EAST OF STRUGA
VICTOR HAD TOLD ME HE HAD AIR CONDITIONING BUT FOR "SOME REASON" IT WASN'T WORKING NOW. REGARDLESS, HE EXTOLLED THE VIRTUES OF HIS RED 1996 FORD ESCORT AS WE WHIZZED DOWN THE FREEWAY AT WELL BEYOND THE SPEED LIMIT. HE WAS BOSNIAN AND WAS SHUNNED BY THE OTHER CABBIES WHO WERE ALBANIAN. “YOU ARE MY ONLY FARE TODAY,” HE LAMENTED. I ADVANCED VICTOR 20 EUROS FOR GAS AND HE BOUGHT ME A COKE.
WE STOPPED TO PAY A TOLL THEN THE FREEWAY TURNED INTO TWO LANES. THE GREEN ROLLING COUNTRYSIDE, FARMS, RIVERS, MOSQUES, AND VINEYARDS WERE FAMILIAR TO ME. I HAD DRIVEN THIS ROAD LESS THAN A YEAR AGO. OCCASIONALLY WHEN WE PASSED THROUGH A TOWN VICTOR WOULD SAY "THIS IS ALBANIAN VILLAGE." BESIDES THE OBVIOUS MOSQUE OR TWO, I BEGAN TO SEE THE DIFFERENCE. THE HOUSES IN THE ALBANIAN VILLAGES WERE BIGGER, HAD ROUNDED ORNAMENTAL FEATURES, AND WERE SOMETIMES PAINTED BRIGHT COLORS. MACEDONIA IS THIRTY PERCENT MUSLIM. MOST ARE FROM NEIGHBORING ALBANIA AND LIVE CLOSE TO THE BORDER IN WESTERN MACEDONIA.
ALBANIAN TOWN
AFTER 100 KM WE STOPPED AT A ROADSIDE SPRING AND HAD OUR FILL OF FRESH COOL WATER. LOCAL FARMERS WERE SELLING JARS OF HONEY AND HONEYCOMB. IN BROKEN ENGLISH VICTOR CONTINUED TO TELL ME HOW HARD IT WAS TO MAKE A LIVING IN MACEDONIA AND ABOUT THE DIFFICULTY OF PAYING UNIVERSITY TUITION FOR HIS DAUGHTER WHO PLAYED THE PIANO. BY THE TIME WE REACHED MISLESEVO AROUND 6 PM I WAS JUST ABOUT SOBBING FROM HIS HARD-LUCK STORIES.
MISLESEVO IS ONE KILOMETER OFF THE MAIN HIGHWAY BETWEEN OHRID AND STRUGA. IT IS NOT THE TYPE OF SCENIC VILLAGE YOU SEE IN TRAVEL MAGAZINES. ITS DANK HOUSES, UNPAVED STREETS, HORSE-DRAWN WAGONS, AND OLD CARS ARE REPRESENTATIVE OF POOR RURAL LIFE IN MACEDONIA. VICTOR NEGOTIATED THE POTHOLES AS I SUPPLIED DIRECTIONS. WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE HOME OF NIKOLCE HE HEARD THE CAR AND CAME OUT TO GREET AND EMBRACE ME. THE REST OF THE FAMILY WAS CLOSE BEHIND. THERE WAS NIKOLCE’S WIFE, SNEZA, AND THEIR TWO-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER, NATALIE, HIS PARENTS, PETAR AND DOBRILLA, AND HIS YOUNGER BROTHER DANIEL. I SAID GOOD-BYE TO VICTOR AND GAVE HIM AN EXTRA TWENTY EURO. HE RESPONDED WITH HIS PHONE NUMBER AND A PROMISE OF A PLACE TO STAY IN SKOPJE IF I NEEDED.
ROAD TO MISLESEVO
“FLY” TO MISLESEVO VIA MAPLANDIA. (ZOOM IN AS FAR AS YOU CAN--NIKOLCE’S HOUSE APPEARS IN THE BOTTOM RIGHT CORNER.)
http://www.maplandia.com/macedonia/struga/struga/mislesevo/
VICTOR THE CABBIE AND NIKOLCE
THE SMALL THREE-ACRE FARM WAS FAMILIAR. I HAD STAYED HERE ONLY TWO DAYS THE PREVIOUS OCTOBER BUT I HAD PLAYED THAT SCENARIO IN MY HEAD MANY TIMES. THERE WAS THE SMALL BARN THAT HOUSED THE MILK-GOAT AND PIGS, A STORAGE BUILDING WITH LIVING QUARTERS ATTACHED WHICH WAS USED AS A COOKHOUSE IN THE SUMMER, AND THE SMALL TWO-BEDROOM HOUSE. IN THE BACK YARD WERE SEVERAL PLUM TREES AND THE PLASTIC TABLE AND CHAIRS WHERE MANY OF THE FAMILY MEALS WERE TAKEN. BEYOND THAT WAS THE LARGE OVERFLOWING GARDEN. ON EITHER SIDE WERE SIMILAR SMALL FARMS OWNED BY AN UNCLE AND A COUSIN. AND ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THOSE WERE SIMILAR FARMS.
DOBRILLA PREPARED A MEAL AND WE ATE AS FIREFLIES DANCED IN THE YARD. I WAS GOING TO GET USED TO THE FAMILY MEALS WHICH ALWAYS FEATURED FRESH VEGETABLES FROM THE GARDEN--TOMATOES, CUCUMBERS, SHREDDED CABBAGE WITH OIL AND VINEGAR, A VARIETY OF PEPPERS, AND OF COURSE THE BALKAN STAPLE--FRESH BREAD FROM THE VILLAGE BAKERY. OFTEN SEPARATE PLATES WERE NOT FURNISHED. INSTEAD EVERYONE WOULD JUST SPEAR THE FOOD WITH THEIR FORKS FROM THE BOWL INTO THE MOUTH.
IT WAS SATURDAY NIGHT AND NIKOLCE HAD TO LEAVE TO PLAY A GIG AT A LOCAL HOTEL. I WAS GIVEN THE FOLD-OUT COUCH IN THE LIVING ROOM AND HAD NO PROBLEM GETTING TO SLEEP.
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