Travelling to the Last Balkan Port

During his tour of the Mediterranean, Paul Theroux wrote "The difference between a tourist and a traveller is a tourist knows where he's going". Since my last entry I've gained a new understanding and respect for his words. Lately it seems like I've been on a bit of a run, not because I've been in a hurry, but because I simply haven't known my next destination, and have jumped at basically the first opportunities I have come across. To describe all of the random events that have transpired would require a novella, so no matter what this entry will not do the last two weeks justice. But enough of that, here's where I've been.

After spending five days in the snow of Zabljak in Montenegro I took the bus back to the capital Podgorica, with the only requirement for my next destination being either south, east, or southeast, so when I arrived in Podgorica I weighed my options. I could take the sleeper train to Nish in Serbia, though sleeping on a train with your luggage unattended is never an attractive option, take the bus to Kosovo and spend the night in it's capital, Prishtina, or an option I had not previously considered, Albania. The Albanian border was just 30 km away, so without thinking (thinking only bogs down travel) I agreed on a price with a cab and took it to the border. And it's a good thing too, for that very night a bomb went off in Prishtina, targeting the UN and foreigners. Although no one was hurt, it would have been a rude awakening, and it made any regrets about heading to Albania disappear. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Taking the cab along the banks of Skadar Lake I felt both happy and adventurous at deciding so impulsively to take this route, something I would have never considered back home. I arrived at the border and had no problem getting through. The only problem was that on the other side was nothing but mountains littered with trash, and I began wondering whether I was supposed to walk to Tirana in the pouring rain.

After about an hour of attempted hitchhiking I was able to negotiate a cab ride to Shkodar, a dirty, potholed (typical) Albanian city. On the way I noticed Albania's most famous, and most prominent feature; its bunkers. After breaking ties with Stalin, Albania's former communist dictator, Enver Hoxha, became paranoid that his country would suffer a similar fate to that of Czechoslovakia, Soviet invasion. And so he constructed his bunkers, all 50,000 of them. These bunkers, strategically placed along the whole of Albania's countryside, are now just concrete pills that disturb the Albanian landscape, almost like pimples upon fair skin, and now serve no purpose but as a nuisance to Albanian farmers.

Upon entering Shkodar it's easy to truly realize the difference a border can make. Whereas the Montenegrin roads were new and maintained, Shkodar's were dominated by potholes, some as deep as one meter, and some as wide as five. Monuments to past Albanian heroes had been stripped of metal and tiles, as had the sidewalks and even some manhole covers. They were just gone, and as far as I or any of the locals knew, stolen. This didn't surprise me, as Albania has had that kind of reputation, and deservedly. In the past, and still somewhat true today, if your car was stolen in Europe you knew it was heading to Albania. After about an hour walking around Shkodar and exploring it's central mosque (and getting absolutely drenched) I found another ride to Tirana. For the budget conscious traveller Albania is paradise. For the 30 km taxi ride in Montenegro the fare was 20 euros, but the journey from the border to Tirana, roughly 200 km, cost me just 6 euros.

Tirana is the shining example of how polarized Albania really is. Beautiful tiled sidewalks and paved streets suddenly give way to giant holes and mounds of mud, and beautiful modern buildings glitter in the Albanian sun while both man and dog rummage through the collection of dumpsters out front. It wasn't until I was enjoying a beer atop a revolving sky bar, overlooking the blinking lights of Tirana (daily power outages are not uncommon), I realized how polarized the city, and the country, really was, so the next day I headed out in search of a minibus to Pogradeci, near the border with Macedonia. Pogradeci was an absolute slum in every sense of the word, and immediately upon exiting the minibus I was grabbed my countless other drivers, all wanting my money for a ride to wherever they were heading next. Wrestling myself away from their grips, I went in search of a bank to exchange the large amount of Albanian lek I still had. I hadn't counted on a city like this. Finally after much searching I found a bank, but when I tried to exchange the lek for euros, she shook her head and pointed down the street, signalling what I thought to be an exchange office down the way. When I rounded the corner it wasn't an exchange office that was waiting for me, but a mob of Albanians, each with a wad of cash in one hand and a pocket calculator in the other. These were the city's money changers. Walking up to one, sensing a bit of fun ahead, I checked his rates, and the next guy's, and the next, and found that they all offered better rates than the banks in Tirana. In fact, they offered the official rate, only taking the cents left over from each transaction as commission. So finally picking one I typed in the amount of lek I had into his calculator, and he calculated the amount of euros, which came out to 55 euros and forty cents. Easier than any bank I had ever visited, I collected the 55 euros and went looking for a taxi to the border.

Immediately after crossing the border into Macedonia, south of Lake Ohrid, is the Sveti Naum Monastery. This ancient monastery stands on the banks of the beautifully serene Lake Ohrid, with a backdrop of snow capped, full-busomed mountains, and a flock of peacocks guarding it's gates. I cant describe the feeling one has when sitting in this ancient courtyard on a warm day being surrounded by peacocks, but it gave me an idea of what Heaven might be like. After spending a quiet hour of reflection inside the monastery's walls, I found a taxi to take me to Ohrid town. I had arrived in Macedonia.

The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia is a territory in a constant state of vertigo. Before Macedonia's absorption into Yugoslavia following WWII, Serbia, Bulgaria, Albania, and Greece all claimed that they had the sole rights to Macedonia, all while the poor Macedonians were shouting meekly for their own independence. But after WWII, in which Macedonia had been allied with Serbia, Macedonia accepted absorption in Yugoslavia, and nowadays you won't find a Macedonian who doesn't have a soft spot for Tito. Once Macedonia gained it's independence, it was forced to change it's name to the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia due to complaints by the Greeks, who claim that Macedonia is a Greek name and a Greek territory. Even now, with more and more nations accepting The Republic of Macedonia (instead of the FYROM), the Greeks are still outraged, and still openly conspire with Bulgaria to divvy up the country between them. To think, a highly nationalistic country in competition and political disagreement with it's neighbors, who would have thought in the Balkans?

Ohrid, while a lovely town filled with, yet again, some of the most beautiful ancient monasteries in Europe, was plagued by bad weather, so after a few days I headed off to the capital, Skopje. Skopje clearly displays its communist past through it's architecture, but I wouldn't call it ugly, just different. And like other cities in the area, it's soul is not amongst the concrete blocks but within the old stone Turkish quarter. This quarter was very similar to the one in Sarajevo, except it hasn't seen nearly as much maintenance (because there was no war here?). And it's market, while seemingly Albanian, was incredibly charming. An assortment of many different colored tarps hung over the stands, making it impossible for me to stand up straight. And the alleys of the market were no more than three or four feet wide, giving it a crowded, chaotic feel. And the variety. I walked by boxes of fruit, crates of chickens, cell phones, wallets, huge baskets of nuts and spices, designer imitation jeans, plungers, shovels, umbrellas, racks of dried meat, used t-shirts, and even cages of puppies and birds. While I enjoyed the unpredictability of the market in Skopje, my instinct told me to keep moving. And so I have. To Thessaloniki.

I would think I was in Miami if it weren't for the signs in Greek, or the abundance of ruins that today's modern city has built around. Thessaloniki, also known as Salonika, is one of the most historically ethnic cities not just in the Balkans but in Europe. Housing Turks, Greeks, Serbs, Jews, Bulgars, and Albanians it had a mixture of languages, cuisines, and religions, leaving a lasting and attractive imprint on the city even today, whether it be for the eyes or the stomach. And after quickly sprinting through Skopje I am more than content to enjoy the warm, cloudless days here in Salonika until I can plot my next move through Greece.

Well-Known Secret

The night before I left Dubrovnik the eastern coast of the Adriatic was being pummeled by a powerful thunderstorm, and several hours before my bus was scheduled to leave another had slid off the road and down a short cliff, killing three and seriously wounding 18. Because of the accident, and because of the relentless storm, I was quite apprehensive at taking the bus to Kotor in Montenegro. Apparently so were many others, as the giant bus had just three other passengers aboard. But in reality this was a blessing in disguise, and allowed us to cruise through customs in a matter of seconds. In just a two hours time I had arrived in the tiny town of Kotor, which is situated at the head of Kotor Bay, the largest fjord in southern and eastern Europe. Kotor is very similar to Dubrovnik in the respect that its old town is surrounded by high stone walls, but immediately upon approaching I could see that Kotor was much more real, more authentic than its northern brother. In addition, it was much more beautiful. Puddling my way through the flooded squares I came upon old churches, bell towers, and clocks that had much more character to them than any place inside the famed walls of Dubrovnik. And outside the walls rivers and pools boiled with rainwater and snow melt, lending it a moat-like atmosphere.

The following day I took a short bus trip to another similar town, Budva, on the coast. Again a beautiful walled old town greeted my arrival. I was shocked, but glad, to learn that Dubrovnik is no pearl, no unique city, but for this stretch of coast is the norm. And compared to Kotor, Budva, and Sveti Stefan, it is terribly original. After exploring the alleys of Budva's city with a friend of mine, we rented a car in order to drive through and explore Montenegro's famous, but little traveled (especially by Americans, a good thing in some eyes) geography. In a short time, still in sight of Budva, we came upon Sveti Stefan, perhaps the most amazing and unique community to ever have been built. This very small island, just a stone's throw from the beach, is connected to the mainland by a thin white stone bridge. For hundreds of years this fishing community was untouched by the outside world, its locals content with nothing more than a pole, a boat, and two oars. But they could only resist for so long, and now the community is one big hotel, and during the summer one can rent a beautiful small villa for a paltry 200 euros a night. Eager to see more, we hopped back into our little Daewoo (yes, Daewoo. Gimme a break it's Europe) and drove further south to the port city of Bar. Bar is nothing more than a typical port town, covered in a thin film of oil, and so we spent almost no time in its center, but headed up the hills to Stari Bar (Old Bar) in order to see the thousand year old ruins of one of Montenegro's oldest communities. The first thing I noticed, rather surprisingly, was the abundance of mosques. The fall of the Turks in the 19th century and the previous Yugoslav war led to the destruction of hundreds of mosques in the area. But not here. Upon entering the crumbling gate one comes upon what was once a small walkway, lined by trees filled with singing birds and fruit, and further on an ancient square, with a fantastic view of the modern city and the sea below. In my earlier travels in Greece and Italy I had seen countless ruins, some well known and others not, but none had enchanted and captivated me as much as this hillside city above Bar.

Well into our afternoon, and a bit incredulous at the fact that we had already seen much of Montenegro's mountainous coast in a matter of hours, we headed inland for it's capital, Podgorica. Approaching the mountains that cut off mainland Montenegro from its coast, we entered a tunnel that stretched for miles, shooting its way straight through the rugged mountain range as it if were made of butter. Waiting for us on the other side was no less a grand sight, a giant lake filled with reeds and pelicans, and above the opposite shore yet another mountain range, this one even more kingly, topped with crowns of snow. And then we reached Podgorica.

Montenegro's capital, while bustling and appealing with modernity, was by far the ugliest part we had witnessed so far, so again we sped through and headed for the mountains that stood watch over Kotor. By sunset we had reached the top, and at this point I became aware that I have a very real fear of heights. Our beds were waiting for us in Kotor, and we could see the city slowly illuminate itself with the growing dark. Problem was, the city we were looking at was immediately below us, some five thousand feet at least (I'm not kidding) and in front of us stretched the Bay of Kotor. We could trace the outline of the fjord with our eyes as it zig-zagged its way out to sea, as if it were nothing more than a puzzle piece at our mercy. But the mercy was not ours, but the hills, as we blindingly switched back and forth on our cold, one way road bordered by nothing but small stones marking where the road ended and the plunge began.

The car rental had been by far the best experience I have had during my six weeks in Europe, and it amazed me as to why such a beautiful place was not filled with tourists every day of the year. But there it was again, that shadow of fear and doubt that was evident in Sarajevo and Mostar, but only a spirit here. The war. Many people have heard of Montenegro, but shuddered at the thought of going. In fact, the place has only become more of a household name after the new James Bond film, Casino Royale, which is based here (but never filmed here, regrettably). But still the area is associated with both conflict (it shares a border with Kosovo) and it's former union with Serbia. But it appears that Montenegro's obscurity is rapidly decreasing. On the bus ride from Dubrovnik I spoke with a local from Tivat, a town near Kotor, about the recent vote that had taken place in Montenegro, the vote for independence. "I think it is good", he said, "many people, Russian, German, English, now buy property. It brings us money to build schools and hospitals. All of this happened after the vote." Many travel agents agree, as they claimed that growth in the tourist industry has jumped by more than 25 percent since the vote for independence. Despite the obvious benefits, the vote passed by only a narrow margin, nearly one percent. After conversations with many other locals it is clear that fond memories of Tito and Communism still exist, and many are apprehensive about the indecisiveness that can result from a burgeoning democracy. "You need a strong person to make strong decisions. Countries, democracies, can not spring up on their own. Not anymore. Tito was good for us." While political debate may be somewhat prominent here, the beauty of it is that there is debate. So while Montenegro may be in a transitional phase, it is clearly headed for bright horizons, and in order to beat the inflated prices and loss of culture that accompanies any influx of tourists, I would strongly suggest to anyone, everyone, that they cancel their plans, any plans, and find a little time for the true pearl of the Adriatic, Montenegro.

Rediscovering my high that had been missing since Sarajevo has been intoxicating, and as soon as I had arrived in coastal Montenegro I left it, but only to discover more of this fascinating country. I am now in a tiny ski village where no one speaks English and where I am once again victim to a dial-up connection. But I love it. Never have I felt so immersed in a country as now, though it wasn't easy. Last night I took the only bus from Podgorica to the town I am now in, Zabljak (pronounced Jabyak, with a soft J). But the bus itself was more of a minivan, and because of its nimble size our driver felt as if doing 90 mph on a one way, ice covered road, with the occasional oncoming traffic, was as perfectly normal and acceptable as peeing standing up. But these risks are worth it. After all, a part of travel, and being a traveller (not a tourist) is taking risks. And once you take risks, even if it is only a bus ride, its one more step towards discovery and self-creation. And without these risks I would not be able to look forward to tomorrow, which I will spend enjoying a foot of new snow on a pair of skis in this small Montenegran community, even if i do have to hike 6 km to get there.

Blood Lines or Border Lines?

After what turned out to be a vacation from vacation in Sarajevo, where I did nothing but people watch and indulge myself in the fantastic Bosnian cuisine, I headed out to Mostar, which is in the territory of Hercegovina (an entity inside the country widely known as Bosnia). While Sarajevo, which is in Bosnia, was a green mountainous region widely known for its cold winters (it hosted the Winter Olympics in 1984) Mostar, and Hercegovina, is a much more arid region, as its mountains slope downwards towards the Adriatic Sea, therefore exposing itself to the Meditterranean climate. Mostar is a small town by our standards, and is split in two by the beautifully green Neretva River. Perched above the Neretva River in a moon-like embrace is perhaps the most famous bridge in Eastern Europe, simply known as Stari Most (Old Bridge). This bridge, which has brought travellers for hundreds of years, was deliberately destroyed in the war in 1993. Sadly, but not surprisingly, it was the destruction of the bridge, and not the loss of thousands of human lives, that stirred the international community into action to halt an already bloody and senseless war. Yet while Sarajevo has been able to patch itself up and rebuild, thanks to generous international aid, Mostar has been somewhat forgotten. While the old town of Mostar has been rebuilt, lending it a somewhat cosmetic, touristy feel, the rest of the town has been left in ruin. Concrete skeletons which were once historic buildings stand feebly and neglected alongside the roads, including the grammar school for Mostars youth. Even the reconstruction that had begun has been left unfinished due to shortage of funds, and is nothing more than long, unkept stalks of naked rebar. Its this hopeless environment that quickly brought me down from my Sarajevan high and, as cliche as it sounds, made me thankful for my comfortable life back home.

After spending several days in Mostar I continued on my path through the former Yugoslavia and found myself on a bus to Croatia and its southern port, Dubrovnik. Dubrovnik, known as Ragusa before the establisment of the Yugoslavian state, is well known for its massive stone walls which surround its Old Town. These walls, which range from 15 meters to 50 meters in height, have repelled countless invaders over the centuries until it fell to Napoleon around 1800. Now the town is purely a tourist hot spot, and because of it I quickly found myself disenchanted abd dissapointed. After all, this is a city that has been highly praised by many an author and artist, but it appears that the city is now nothing more than a target for the large purses of swanky tourists (a category I would not include myself in!). So as quick as I could find a bus ticket to Montenegro I bought one, but am stuck here until Tuesday morning.

I found that this entry into my blog has caused me great difficulty, especially describing Mostar. It is not easy to experience something fully, like a bombed out ruin, when you have never experienced war, but even harder to describe it to those back home who are as naive as I was. While I most certainly feel safe in this region, I have come to understand that this is a backwards place, and, with exception to the geography, quite boring. Cities like Belgrade, Mostar, Dubrovnik, and especially Sarajevo were once cities somewhat like Seattle in the sense that they were a mixture of cultures, a flood of different ideas. Now, because of the rampant nationalism that tore through these parts like wildfire, the communities are no longer multicultural. I witnessed a political discussion about Yugoslavia between two Croats I had met here in Dubrovnik, if you can call it that. But instead of it being a debate, an exchange of differing opinions, it was more like they were propping themselves up into a feverish pitch of nationalist jargon and propoganda. I didnt dare interrupt them, but observed their words snaking between each other like the smoke from their cigarettes. But it all seemed so pointless and counterproductive to me. Simply put, if you always play chess against yourself, you always come out on top, and thats exactly the picture I had while witnessing these words. While this was a laughable situation, it was also frightening, but it also made sense. No wonder the Balkans have only known bloodshed for as long as history can be dated. They save their words for each other, and their fists for their enemy. The history of this region is long and troubled, maybe even moreso than the Middle East, and like the Middle East the fault lines of these wars and feuds lie in something we cannot help; our blood.