Skopje, Macedonia - A Tale of Two Cities

According to the Macedonian Weekly News, 330 earthquakes had occurred near the Macedonia-Bulgarian-Greek border only a few days prior to our arrival. Earthquakes are not a laughing matter in Macedonia; a particularly bad one had flattened the capital in 1963. Luckily for us though, according to experts, these recent tremblings would not amount to a major quake. I told Michael we could put off buying hardhats for a little while at least.

The border formalities were simple enough, and we were soon on our through the Macedonian countryside. Our driver was a young Albanian man called Elton, who together with his girlfriend, Kiki, had agreed to drive us from Tirana to Skopje, with a brief stopover in the town of Ohrid.

I only knew two things about Macedonia. One was that Alexander the Great had done some fighting here (and I only knew that because of an old Iron Maiden song), and secondly, the country had an eye-catching flag, consisting of a yellow spiky sun splashed across a red background. Others had noticed the flag too. In 2002, the editors of the World Almanac, a US reference book, decided to hold a poll to find the top ten flags of the world. Macedonia came second, only losing out to the Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan.

Farmland featured prominently outside the window, with fields of crops interspersed with the occasional sheep, goat and hoe-wielding farmer. I also spied lots of small tractors, but none seemed modern.

The town of Ohrid was famous for its lake, a huge, cavernous expanse of crystal clear water. After parking we agreed to meet back up in two hours. Elton and Kiki wandered off to look at some shops while Michael and I sought out a bank to get hold of some dinar, local currency.

The old part of town looked very pretty and with a fistful of dinar we were soon heading down a street until we came to the lake itself. Stretching for miles, it was flanked by some picturesque mountains. There were lots of people about and the boat touts were out in force. We declined their offers and instead turned right, eventually coming to a cobbled path leading up hill. After twenty minutes we found ourselves at a small monastery called Sveti Jovan at Kaneo.

The monastery had a prime location overlooking the lake, and because of this, it features heavily on postcards of Ohrid. Bizarrely, apart from a man leaning against a wall. we seemed to have the whole monastery to our ourselves. After traversing the building a few times, we were just about to leave when the man approached us. He turned out to be a savvy boat tout, there on the off chance a couple of tourists would show up, too lazy to walk back into town. For a small price the man led us to his boat and we were soon sailing past a glorious panoramic sight of the town and its surrounds.

The road to Skopje was a vista of dramatic mountains, deep gorges, lush vegetation and the occasional farm house. Along the way, I saw Elton's girlfriend flicking through a Skopje guide book until she got to the section describing places to stay. The list ranked hotels in order from exclusive to low budget. Kiki was looking at the offerings in the low budget section but Elton spotted her gaze and turned the page. This new list was entitled dirt cheap. Apparently Kiki didn't like the look of the flea pits described and quickly flicked back. Elton mumbled something in Albanian and turned back to the dirt cheap list. Resigned, Kiki turned to a section entitled shopping. No doubt she would get her revenge there.

Somehow we ended up being lost in Macedonia. It was late evening and sunset was fast approaching. The highway was long gone and we were on a minor road frequented by tractors and sluggish lorries. Elton looked crestfallen. “This road will increase our journey by one and a half hours. I'm not sure how this happened and I am sorry for this.” Michael and I were not bothered in the slightest. We had no deadline to meet and we told Elton this. We carried on as the sun began to drop below the distant mountains.

Our eventual arrival in Skopje was filled with a slight twinge of trepidation. After all, Michael and I knew next to nothing about the city and as we drove through the outskirts what I could see did not look inviting. Grey, concrete tower blocks, pot-holed roads, and graffiti was everywhere. Bangers clogged the streets and unshaven men stood on street corners, looking like they were waiting to rob someone.

Elton looked agitated. For the previous ten minutes, he and Kiki had been trying to follow a woefully inadequate map. Finally he gave up and pulled over at the bus station. There was a van parked in front being loaded with beds. The loaders were a couple a shady looking men. Elton got out to speak to them, soon disappearing around the side of the van for a beating, I presumed. Evidentially Kiki thought the same thing too because she got out too, following on after them.

I looked at Michael. It was almost dark and we wondered what to do. Should we wait in the car, or get out and and see what was going on? Just then though, Elton and Kiki returned safe and sound. “These men will show us where the hotel is,” Elton informed us. “ We will follow their van.”

I shook my head in wonderment. This sort of thing would never happen in the UK, but here, some complete strangers had become our saviours. Fifteen minutes later we were outside the Hotel Ani and the men drove away, waving as they rounded a corner.

After some debate, Elton and Kiki decided to stay in the same hotel as us, one from the low budget list. Agreeing to meet in the hotel bar after we'd sorted things out, Michael and I went up to our room where I had my first encounter with a hotel toilet turd. It floated there, mocking me, bobbing up and down, resolutely refusing to be flushed away. Michael eventually dispatched the beast with some serious flushing and poking and came out sweating but triumphant.

To celebrate we had a Skopsko, the local beer, with Elton and Kiki, and as we talked about the tourist trade in Albania, I remembered a book I'd read by British author Tony Hawks called One Hit Wonderland. In it, he'd taken a bet that he could score a hit single somewhere in Europe, and his adventure had taken him to Albania. Mr Hawks was joined by well-known British comedian, Norman Wisdom who would sing on the track. In his book, Hawks described Norman Wisdom as a hero to Albanians, and that a song featuring the great man could not fail to chart. I wanted to test Tony Hawks' theory out on Elton and Kiki. I said, “Have either of you two heard of a man called Norman Wisdom?”

Both visibly cheered at the very mention of the comedian's name. They smiled and began speaking in quick Albanian, no doubt recounting some of Mr Wisdom's finer moments. Elton spoke first. “Norman Wisdom is like a folk hero to the Albanian people. During the communist era he was only one of three Western comedians to be allowed on TV. The other two were Laurel and Hardy. Enver Hoxha was a big fan. Is Norman Wisdom still alive?”

To be honest, I had no idea, but Michael seemed sure he was still alive and this seemed to please Elton and Kiki. We bid the pair of them good night and went off to see a bit of the city.

Street lighting was evidently not a priory in Skopje. Dark and dingy alleyways led us between tower blocks that seemed to bask in shadows. We passed the 'Sexy Shop,' it's gaudy red neon lettering advertising private video booths for the more discerning patron. Another store sold only sellotape, the first shop of its kind I'd seen anywhere in the world. Reels of it hung in the shop, or sat coiled on shelves. Five minutes later we arrived at the central square, thankfully well lit, and found a bar.

"Have your testicles started swelling up yet?" I asked Michael, causing him to almost choke on his Skopsko. "It's just that Macedonia is having its biggest mumps outbreak of the last 25 years and that's one of the symptoms." After regaining his composure, Michael assured me that his tackle was normal sized and so we went to get something to eat.

Dal Met Fu was a good place for three reasons. Firstly, the food was decent and cheap. Secondly, all the waitresses were gorgeous and wore the shortest skirts possible (a fact proudly illustrated in their advertising leaflets). But the third and best reason could only be found in the toilets. “Wait till you see the sinks,” Michael cryptically told me upon his return from the gents. With my interest piqued, I paid a visit, only to be confronted with perhaps the greatest invention in toilet architecture since the toilet itself. The sinks were standard apart from one key feature - they had no taps or sensors! instead they utilised a couple of foot pedals, red for hot, blue for cold, and I pressed both with childish glee until a man arrived and stared at me with suspicion.

The next morning was as hot as the previous day. As we wandered towards the old railway station, I was once again struck by the sheer amount of dilapidated cars about. Ancient Yugos, Ladas and Skodas were all over the joint. If ever there was a city where old communist cars could go to die, then Skopje was that place. Many were left abandoned on paths, with plants and weeds growing over them.

Most of the drabness and ugliness of Skopje dated from the 1960s when the city was forced to rebuild itself after a massive earthquake flattened eighty percent of the buildings. The Macedonian authorities hired a hotshot Japanese architect who liked his concrete and set him loose. Skopje was the result: A tale of two cities.

South of the river (where the majority of the earthquake damage occurred) had grown into a concrete jungle dominated by ugly tower blocks and drab buildings. Conversely the North of the river was pretty, being made up of the old Turkish Quarter. Later we would visit this part, but for now Michael and I crossed a busy road towards the City Museum.

The earthquake took place at 5.17am on the 27th July 1963. Despite only lasting a few seconds it killed over a thousand people. The old railway station, now the City Museum, was a sort of memorial to this event. Flanked by a main road overlooked by more concrete towers, the clock face on the old railway building was frozen at the exact time the earthquake stopped it. The museum itself was rather dull, featuring a collection of ancient pots and other such artifacts, and after precisely seven minutes we'd seen the lot and were back outside, heading to the rear of the building.

Once there, we found a collection of old railway carriages damaged in the quake. Left to rot, a few makeshift cafes and trees had grown up around the abandoned carriages. “Let's head for the centre,” said Michael, who for once had grown bored of taking photographs. “I want to see the memorial to Mother Teresa.”

Mother Teresa was actually born in Skopje, a fact I was unaware of until I read the guidebook. To commemorate this great fact, a large statue of her stood near a small rectangular church in the centre of town. Michael was particularly impressed with it, circling it over and over again while I waited on a nearby wall. “I've seen a lot of modern churches," he told me, "but this is one of the best I've seen. Whoever designed it, got it spot on.”

I was less enamored. Yes, it looked pretty enough, and yes, it housed a floor dedicated the history of the great woman, but to me it looked decidedly average. Eventually we moved towards the Stone Bridge, Skopje's landmark construction.

The bridge was built by the Ottomans in the 15th century and somehow survived wars, fires, floods and even the dreadful earthquake of 1963. Today it's a major pedestrian link between the more modern south of the river and the old Turkish north. As we traversed it, we observed the Vardar River below. It was a torrent. White spray from the eddies and undercurrents meant no boats plied the river, in fact the only people taking advantage of the river were a trio of fishermen below, their rods dangling in the rapids. Surprisingly, in the middle of the bridge was a group of Japanese tourists, the only tour group in town, I suspected.

The northern side of Skopje reminded me a little of Sarajevo with its distinctly eastern flavour. Stalls sold brightly coloured carpets and others peddled exotic spices. On our right was the old-domed bathhouse, now converted into an art gallery. Minarets and distant mountains made up the horizon while at street level, the smell of kebabs filled the air.

Soon we found ourselves at the bazaar, a ramshackle collection of stalls selling the usual array of goods, but just beyond it was a tall structure known as the Clock Tower. It towered over the whole city and somehow I persuaded Michael that it would be a good idea to climb it.

Clock Towers are familiar features of old Ottoman bazaars. When the call to prayer was sounded from the tower, trading in the markets below had to cease. This stopped one merchant from taking advantage of another. Skopje's tower dated from the 16th century.

“Do you reckon it's open?” Michael said as we neared the massive structure. The whole area seemed deserted and covered in overgrowth. At its base, the tower had an ancient wooden door which appeared locked. Undaunted, I wandered around for a few seconds until a man appeared. I made it clear that we wanted to climb the tower and he nodded, shouting across to a small building opposite. After some time, an elderly man emerged and approached us. After working out our intentions, he produced a large metal key, the sort seen in medieval films, and beckoned us to follow him.

The man turned out to be the Imam of the nearby Sultan Murat Mosque and after unlocking the door he led us in. Immediately I regretted my decision to visit the tower. From the inside, the wooden staircase that led upwards appeared dark and decidedly rickety. The Imam was straight up, pausing only to tell us to watch our heads. At the half way stage I was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. My head for heights was not good at the best of times, but here I could feel my heart pounding and my hands sweating. Questions began to run through my head. Were the stairs strong enough to hold us? When was the last time they had been used? The groans and creaks they made with every step suggested imminent collapse. I followed the old man wishing I was sat in a bar somewhere.

Incredibly we reached the top and found ourselves in a small compartment. Above our heads was the bell and I began to look through some gaps in the wall at the city below. Unfortunately for us, the Imam had other ideas. “Follow me please! We go outside!”

A tiny doorway led out and we followed the Imam out. If climbing the tower had caused a growing feeling of dread, stepping onto the tiny platform was terrifying. As Michael later pointed out, the tiny metal railings would not have halted our descent had we slipped, they would've merely added to the head trauma. For me, I could easily imagine the railings not being there at all. As we moved around, I began to feel truly afraid.

“There are thirty three Mosques in Skopje,” said the Imam, blithely unaware of the terror he had unleashed. As he described one below,I tried to concentrate but all I could imagine was falling to my doom. “But there are over five hundred mosques in the whole of Macedonia. And down there is the bazaar.” I looked down briefly before gripping the walls even tighter and slithered after the Imam as he led us around to the other side. Here we could see houses with orange terracotta roofs leading up into the quite lovely mountains, but with each step I took, I felt less secure. My legs were literally shaking.

Just when I thought we had done a complete circuit of the tower, we came to a gate blocking any further travel. "Now we go back around!" said the Imam. "But you will get more of a view, yes?"

Five minutes later we were back inside the tower, where thankfully my eyes stopped wobbling. The Imam was smiling at us. “Good, yeah?,” he said. “You enjoy Clock Tower?”

Back on ground level, I told Michael I needed a drink to settle my nerves and so we sat in a bar overlooked by another statue of Skanderberg, the hero of Albania. “I enjoyed that!” said Michael. I had to agree with him. The views were impressive, the Imam friendly, and the adrenalin rush out of this world.

Kapan Han was just around the corner from the bar. The guide book said it was well worth a visit and so we headed inside. Built in the 15th century, Kapan Han had once been a medieval inn. The pretty courtyard was where the animals of passing merchants were kept while the men slept in the rooms above. Nowadays, the courtyard was free of animals except for a curious cat who stared at us as we took our seats in the courtyard cafe. Serving traditional Macedonian food, I ordered country meats in sauce and Michael went for meat covered in vine leaves. Both meals were delicious and very reasonably priced, as everything in Skopje was.

I am not a great fan of museums, but Michael enjoyed them, and so I found myself wandering around the National Museum of Macedonia. Like the City Museum of earlier that day, this bigger museum offered more of the same - pots, ancient coins and weapons, but it did have the benefit of a penis-shaped drinking vessel. Upstairs was more interesting. A darkened room displayed beautiful religious icons dating back to the 11th century. The gold leaf and vibrant reds and blues made the whole room look magical.

Skopje, I was surprised to learn, actually had an old fortress, perched up a slight hill just north of the city centre. Known as the Kale Fortress it was used by the Ottomans as a barracks, who built seventy towers, of which only three remain. Much of the fortress was destroyed in the 1963 earthquake but a rebuild was in the offing because men with cement mixers were working on one of the towers. The walls did offer a good view of the city, and we could easily make out the hideous monstrosity that called itself the post office.

“Let's visit the Liberation of Skopje Monument,” announced Michael. “It's down there past the post office.” When we reached it, it looked like a lot of other old communist statues Idd seen, consisting of brave women, heroic children and men reaching skywards. After circling the monument a couple of times, we wandered away, heading for a row of brightly coloured Macedonian flags just along from it. The flags were in front of a grand looking building, and spotting a photo opportunity, Michael stopped to take a picture. Just then, a guard quickly approached. “No photo!” he shouted. “Government building! Please leave!” Suitably chastised, Michael put his camera away and we headed back to the hotel.

One hour later a hellish storm erupted with thunder and lightning blasting the sky, sending rain down in torrents. Rivers formed in roads and every pothole became a pool of dark water. But none of this concerned Michael and me because we were sitting in our hotel bar enjoying a couple of Skopskos. For a good hour the storm raged on before it finally weakened. We ended the night by stopping at a few bars to watch Manchester United lose to Barcelona in the Champions League Final.

The next morning, the ravages of the storm were gone, leaving only a fine mist clinging to the hills. We arrived at Skopje Bus Station at just after ten, and after buying our tickets, we boarded the bus to Pristina, Kosovo. It was time for part three of the adventure.

Strengths:
-Cheap food and beer
-The Turkish Quarter is a pretty part of the city
-The clock tower is an adrenalin rush

Weaknesses:
-Fumes and traffic
-A bit of a concrete jungle
-Not that many sights to see.

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Part of trip: Balkan Odyssey Part II

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