Rollerblades and Rakija: Impressions from Macedonia

The old man was weeping. It had taken me a minute to realize it. The gray, damp day had faded into darker and damper evening, and it was becoming more and more difficult to tell where this old leather-smith’s form ended and his dangling bundles of handmade moccasins and rugs began. We’d been sitting in his tiny shop in the Turkish Bazaar – the “Old Town” – of Macedonia’s capitol of Skopje for the better part of the afternoon, after I had stumbled in from the cobblestone street to get out of the rain. I was greeted with a warm welcome that led to strong Turkish coffee, stronger rakija plum brandy, and my buying a rug and a sad-looking pair of miniature handmade boots, the scrappy patchwork and faded colors an apt metaphor, in my mind, for the tough history of this place. I almost added a relic of an ashtray to my haul, before realizing that what in his words was “Very old – from Makedonija!” was actually a cheap souvenir from Niagara Falls. 

In addition to providing his only business of the afternoon, with the exception of a Dutch couple who looked more lost than interested, my visit had also given my host an audience. Over the course of a few hours I would learn a hell of a lot about this place about which, this being my first trip, I knew next to nothing – or at least a a lot about the way this old man saw it. He was everything you might expect in a relic of 20th century Balkanism: a short, unassuming shopkeeper with weathered features; cheap, baggy suit-jacket over a faded yellowish button-down, no doubt once one of many that his wife kept starched and immaculate; thick-accented English which, assisted by knuckly, pleading hands, was just enough to allow for interminable pontificating on family, women, wars, and the general decline of things – meandering stories filled with metaphors that didn't quite translate. He was cynical but proud, and above all, eminently dignified. A moment before, he had looked outside and commented that the cold rain was “like gold” for Macedonia, and would be good for the winter wheat crop. And now, he wept. 

More photos in the link on the righthand side ----->

The night before I’d fallen asleep to the sounds of Eminem and Beyonce thumping from the street below. I was awakened five hours later by the Saturday morning call to prayer – exotic and mystical to me in the first country I’d ever actually heard it. I looked out over the city – yellowing concrete buildings like corrugated cardboard shoe boxes, punctuated by minarets and glitzy steel-and-glass offices. With the sun rising over the snow-capped Shara mountains in the background, a half dozen other muezzins chimed in from across the river – wavering, drawn-out Allahu Akbars spilling over and through each-other, competing for my attention with the smells and sounds of bakeries and shops opening up below. 

When I first heard that I’d be traveling to Macedonia as part of my work for an economic development firm, over two years ago now, I immediately went to Google maps for help. Finding myself in Skopje a couple weeks later, I learned a few things quickly and in no particular order: Former Yugoslavia, Slavs, Albanians, Cyrillic, poor, urbanizing. One of the first things you notice about Skopje is the dizzying array of “café-bars," and that most are in full swing from about 11AM onwards just about every day of the week from May to October really makes you stop and think. Entire square blocks blend into a swirling mass of patio lounge furniture, artificial mist, black leather man purses, and deep trance music (this is the Balkans, after all). The vibe is eminently laid-back; business (or a lack thereof – more to come on that) is discussed over coffee and cigarettes. Friends and associates sit together for hours. A colleague put it well that the cafés here are simply an extension of one’s living space, which is generally crammed with extended family members. And it’s true; when you’re sitting outside in the shade, chatting over machiattos with a light spray drizzling down from somewhere above, a slo-mo samba-tronica version of “Paint it Black” pulsing in the background, it somehow feels like the most natural thing in the world. Even if it’s 3PM on a Tuesday and you have work to do. 

The cafe-bar AKA kaffana culture posed a serious question for me: How the hell can people get away with this lifestyle?? The entire premise of the economic development project I worked on is the fact that Macedonia suffers from massive structural unemployment north of 30% (or over 40% for certain youth and minority demographics). Sure, prices are cheap (shockingly so, in fact), but the cash has to come from somewhere. I asked some local businessmen about it at one point, and to my surprise they didn't really seem to know, either. The communal culture in this part of the world means that children often live at home until marriage, or even after. My local friends’ meandering response was that the cost of living is low enough, and there is enough money trickling in from the sizable Macedonian Diaspora spread throughout Europe, Australia, and the US, that people – and young people in particular – can get by on support from their parents and sort of just…coast. It’s not that they’re lazy (necessarily); more just content with living in the here and now. You can afford to spend hours at the cafés because, at the end of the day, you’re doing alright. For now, at least (and where else are you going, anyway?). There is none of the urgency of American or Western European cultures here. Things tend to move at a drastically slower pace, and many do just enough to keep the lights on.

The next thing you’ll notice (or the order could be switched around, depending on where you start out) are the manifestations of the government’s “Skopje 2014” campaign, which has transformed the central district into a series of glitzy monuments to a past more imagined than lived. Massive statues of Greek icons like Alexander the Great and his father Philip mixed in with smaller ones commemorating Slavic folk heroes clash with shiny marble institutional buildings in faux-classic styles, illuminating and completely overwhelming everything around. In fact, about the only thing that can compete with the cafes-per-capita in Skopje is the sheer number – and size – of statues. And cranes. Bars, statues, and cranes – that pretty much sums up today's Skopje for me. The strategy to yank the city and its people into the 21st century by reminding them of a past with which no one seems to identify has resulted in a Disneyland-esque vibe (“Skopje-Vegas” is a preferred local term), where massive pillared government buildings littered with marble statues (Greek philosophers and gods and all) shutter out the city’s humbler yet authentic bridges, mosques, and alleyways. 

No I've met here seems to dispute that the bigger-is-better approach to urban development rarely transcends pure kitsch; almost every conversation eventually leads to some level of philosophizing about a government’s monuments to itself and the self-serving policies it enacts. Indeed, folks who have been around the region note that the typical Balkan cynicism seems particularly well-developed here; one local slur goes that instead of one laptop per child, Macedonia, rather than investing in infrastructure or basic services or education, has taken a “one statue per citizen” approach. True to form, one trip coincided with local elections, and the talk of the town was that several dozen statues had been erected out of spite, literally overnight, after the ruling party lost the key central capitol district. What makes it even worse is that Macedonia’s history is so convoluted – some would say fabricated – that no one seems to know what’s going on with all these monuments, other than a colossal waste. The gigantic horse-mounted bronze Alexander two stories high and protected by water-spewing lions and hidden speakers blasting triumphant orchestral music dominates the central square, and is alternately a source of national pride or scorn, depending on one’s inner cynic, historical preferences, and political leanings. A few meters away is the Vardar River, splitting the cheesy business district from the cobbled Old Town, and a look up or downstream reveals towers of scaffolding, cyclone fencing, and piles of gravel amid the historic stone bridges. In later trips there would appear two hulking ships in the river flying the red and yellow national flag – not seaworthy vessels, but yet another tourist attraction. Jokes about the (nonexistent) Macedonian Navy were inevitable. At least there will be no shortage conversation topics anytime soon.

My handful of trips here in recent years mostly turned out to be at great times. In other words, I've managed to avoid the oppressive, gray months of winter. In the summer the weather was perfect – steamy, but an improvement over Washington – and the patios and bars were open for business. Early spring on subsequent trips was chilly but nice (I have to imagine this place is a little different in February). My initial trips also coincided with the Euro 2012 soccer championship, and the Olympics, respectively, so there was always something to watch at the bar. A later visit was timed just after the annual pepper harvest; the city’s crumbling concrete oozed with the warm, tangy aroma of local red and green varieties roasting over open hearths, smoke swirling from uniform terra cotta roofs. At one point I found myself parked in front of a soccer match between Russia and Greece, drinking a watery Skopsko beer and wondering who you root for in that match if you’re Macedonian. The nation, both geographically and culturally, is sandwiched between Greece to the south, and the rest of the former Yugoslavian states to the north and all around. In a country this small – and this young, politically at least – its people can, and do, ascribe to both Slavic and Mediterranean cultures (ie, the confusing statue proliferation). But depending on who you ask, there is also a real hostility towards both sets of neighbors: the Greek obstinacy over the very name of Macedonia presents a major hurdle to its hopeful EU accession (look it up, I had no idea), while life after Communism has offered little more than crumbling infrastructure and outsized state institutions, as the rest of the Yugoslav states have mostly catapulted ahead by comparison. I decided to root for Greece, since I figure the Greeks could probably use something to cheer about these days. As for the locals, ultimately there seemed to be much more interest in the also-televised handball game featuring the Macedonian national team than a battle between the lesser of two evils. (Side note – I’d never actually seen handball played. It’s like indoor soccer, with your hands…or lacrosse, without sticks.) 

I really hate not being able to communicate with locals. It irks the hell out of me. I suppose it's in part because my good Spanish has often allowed me a level of access to people and places where I don’t otherwise fit in. But I was amazed to find that an English speaker can get by totally fine in Macedonia, or at least in the capital and the more visited outlying areas, like the picturesque Lake Ohrid on the Albanian border. Most everyone speaks at least basic English, and armed with a few local phrases (Hello, How are you, Thank-you, Yes, No, Beer, etc.), one is frequently rewarded with a toothy – or sometimes toothless – smile. Which is, of course, the international sign of hospitality or alternatively, “I’m about to rob you blind you American idiot.” I was interested to find that the stereotypical Slavic-tinged English is mixed in with remarkably plain American accents, acquired during study exchanges in the US. I never quite got used to young, well-dressed businessmen opening their mouths against a backdrop of thumping Euro-club beats, male-only tea shops, and cobblestone alleys, and producing what sounded like folksy Ohio-talk. It's true that America enjoys a perhaps unusually high approval rating here, due in part to our much-appreciated interventions in the Balkans in the 1990s. My shopkeeper friend had wanted me to let Hillary Clinton know that she was welcome in his city any time. One night we stumbled upon a tiny, open air pub in the Bazaar where a group of what must have been 17-year olds were absolutely tearing through a set that included hits by Hendrix, the Black Keys, and The Doors. I guess it shouldn't be any surprise that the blues resonates so strongly here. It was fantastic - and completely surreal amid the bright green-glowing minarets and rows of gold shops occupying the rest of the dimly lit plaza. 

Somehow I expected to stick out like a sore thumb here the way that I did for three years in Peru, or have since then in West African and Southeast Asia – places made up of mostly short, dark people. Macedonians, generally speaking, are neither of those things. In fact, Skopje might be the whitest city I've ever seen. (Actually, the Northwest suburbs of Columbus, OH come pretty close.) Macedonians are generally pretty tall, too (the original Greek word for Macedonians actually means something like “the tall ones”), which is a big part of the reason that a tiny country with an anemic economy can field some of the better basketball and water polo teams in Europe, year after year. I was reminded several times of Macedonia’s strong fourth-place finish in the 2011 European basketball championships, and learned that the national water polo team actually beat the US a couple years ago (true?). I think those might be two of the only national teams that Macedonia fields, but maybe there’s something to be said for doing a few things, and doing them well. Of course, as homogeneous as the ethnic Macedonians are, they are far from alone in their country. What in Skopje and the south of the country is a small Muslim ethnic Albanian minority constitutes the overwhelming majority in the northwestern city of Tetovo, near the Kosovar and Albanian borders. Roma constitute another, much smaller minority group, although unfortunately they’re just as outcast in Skopje as anywhere else in Europe, and maybe more-so. At this point I’m no stranger to beggars or trash-pickers, but it’s startling to see those roles almost exclusively filled by a single ethnic minority.

A big first for me was navigating a city dominated by Cyrillic characters. This was actually my first time in a place that uses anything other than Latinic lettering. I had an idea of Cyrillic as something vaguely Soviet, and knew that it shared characters with my own alphabet. What no one had warned me was that the same letters can mean different things in different languages. This made for some interesting moments during my first few days in-country. I found myself often wondering why “HOBO!” was written all over billboards advertising sports drinks and home appliances. Eventually it dawned on me that these were not products marketed at homeless people, but that H=N and B=V, and so “HOBO” in Cyrillic = “NOVO” in Latinic, which means “New!” and not “Bum!” Similarly, after a few drinks one night, I found myself thinking about the “PECTOPAH” signs I saw everywhere. Which led to slightly boozy musings over what a “pecto-bar” might be. I later realized that I was looking at the word “RESTORAN,” which indicates a dining establishment and has nothing with pectorals, boobs, bars, or any combination thereof. From then on, I would be in constant decoding mode. After a couple trips, I had most of the alphabet down (with a few notable exceptions like this one – Ж – which I think represents a sound that doesn't exist in English). It certainly helps that many of Skopje’s signs and billboards include both languages, which makes for a constant series of language puzzles. It also fascinated me that many Macedonians speak a handful of regional languages that differ only slightly from each-other, but which are often necessary in a country with five international borders all within a few hours’ drive of one-another. An example: 

Me: “So, having grown up here, you probably speak a whole bunch of languages…” 

Gorgeous girl trying to make it as a model, residing in that tricky 18-to-25 age range: “Not really, just Macedonian and English, and some German and Spanish.” 

Me (already impressed, since this is stated without a hint of irony): “Really? What about, like, Bulgarian, Serbo-Croatian, Bosnian…?” 

Girl (laughs): “Oh yeah, I can speak all those…Albanian, too. That’s a given.” 

Yes, she seemed to have benefited from a good education - better than most. But they aren't teaching Albanian in school; that comes from everyday life. These are the same young people who can’t find work at home for lack of opportunities, or abroad because of immigration restrictions in EU markets or a skills mismatch. Most of them happen to speak about four times as many languages as me. 

Invariably, in any foreign environment I find myself reverting to my most obvious point of reference, my three-plus years in Peru. This means, among other things, that I have to fight the urge to respond to strange tongues in Spanish. (I've also found over the years that my immediate reaction to pretty much anything is a thumbs-up – really hope I don’t ever end up in a place where that means something other than “right on bro!”) But despite the obvious differences between a tiny, landlocked chunk of the former Yugoslavia and a Latin American giant containing most of the world’s microclimates, there are definite overlaps common to rapidly urbanizing, developing countries. Beggars dig through the trash for scrap material and recyclables. People drive like maniacs. The same Daewoo Ticos used as cabs in Peru are driven by little old men in Skopje. Feral cats stare you down, or worse. Alleys reek of urine and sewerage and garbage. It occurs to me how much this sounds like my former home base of H St. Northeast in DC...

In both places, the “haves” make as ostentatious a show as possible to distinguish themselves from the “have-nots,” (here, employing make-up and jewelry, tattoos, shades, and the ubiquitous shiny black Audis with tinted windows). Coke comes in a 16oz. glass bottle. The coffee is very good in this part of the world, but don’t expect an American-style cup of Joe unless you want Nescafe. The Turkish variety, although labor-intensive, is spectacular. People smoke Parliament cigarettes like there’s no tomorrow (there ought to be something like the Big Mac index for purchasing power parity, based on the average number of cigarettes smoked per person, per day, in urban centers of emerging economies. Not sure what it would indicate exactly, but there must be something there.)  And the music. What is it about the eighties that the rest of the world loves so much? I lost count of the times I looked up from a mug of Skopsko to see that Cher video where she’s on the Navy ship, straddling a cannon barrel in the leather jacket and whatever you call the rest of that outfit (if you’re unfamiliar, look that up too, after you find Macedonia on the map. Yikes). Finally, I had a moment of clarity while running along the river one evening, as a smell reached my nose that took me right back to Ica, Peru. The revelation: trash smells the same everywhere, especially when burned. 

Perhaps the most striking similarity that occurred to me was not between Peruvians and Macedonians themselves, but rather has to do with the public identity formed around what they aren't. Peru’s past and ongoing hostility with its neighbors – Chile, Bolivia, Ecuador – is very real. But Peru has a rich and diverse culture all its own, and the border issues seem comparatively mild next to to the situation in Macedonia and the Balkans generally speaking. For whatever reason (landlocked geography, entrenched bureaucracy, small size, all of the above, or other), since the nation’s birth as we know it today, carved out of the Former Yugoslavia in the early 1990s, Macedonia has lagged behind even its slowly-emerging neighbors in throughout the region, like Serbia, Croatia, and Bulgaria. Which means that nowadays, foreign license plates are a common sight here – but are usually mounted on an Audi or Mercedes driving too fast to be distinguished. The friction comes from not simply the presence of neighbors and émigrés, but that they come in the summer, apparently do as they please with little concern for the effects on locals, and leave again having not contributed anything lasting to the economy, other than a new summer home or two that remain vacant until the next go-round. The salt in the wound is the fact that these people – the Slavs at least – all share common roots, and until quite recently shared a national identity. Macedonia is like the little brother that stands out as troubled, even in a highly dysfunctional family. It’s extremely proud of its identity, even if it’s not entirely clear what that means. 

Mace-DO-nia, huh? I bet the FOOD was good! Some yahoo I had just been introduced to said this to me at a party a while back in Washington, with a thick helping of sarcasm. I felt like slugging the guy, but had to remind myself that until very recently I was equally ignorant. I didn't have a clue what to expect, but I had had images of something vaguely Soviet, gray, gloomy. As far as food, in my sad obliviousness I think I thought of…potatoes. Bowls of tasteless mush. Maybe vodka. I blame Disney. Also Reagan. More to come on that. 

In any case, my new friend and I could not have been more misguided. Macedonian cuisine absolutely blew me away. The meats and stews were more or less expected (but the flavors and complexity vastly exceeded my expectations), but the salads, sandwiches, and traditional spreads and artisanal breads were a real surprise. The moderate Mediterranean climate makes Macedonia an agricultural breadbasket, and everything seems to be amazingly fresh. Tomatoes, fresh mushrooms, and local peppers could be found in almost every dish, and the variety was amazing. The cuisine is really microcosm of the culture at large, incorporating bits and pieces from all the neighbors: ajvar spread made from bell peppers, eggplant, garlic and spices is a typical Balkan dish; preserves and pickled vegetables represent influences from farther North; sandwiches, pizzas, and some killer ice cream have made their way in from the West; and the home-grown shopska salad (fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, and fresh grated cheese) preceded just about every meal. I easily ate more tomatoes in three-week stints than in several months in Washington. Here’s an example of the multicultural influences at work: before I really knew my way around, I found myself returning every few days to a Spanish-themed restaurant that was the unofficial Netherlands fan headquarters during Euro 2012, and ordering a typical Yugoslavian Goulash soup and fresh, warm bread with an Irish beer. Of course, all this would generally be considered an appetizer, not a main course - the other thing about the Balkan culinary tradition is the prodigious volume. All of this cost the equivalent of about $4, and it was delicious. 

As much as Skopje epitomizes most of the unappealing consequences of rapid urbanization and less than thoughtful city planning, one thing that has struck me is that it’s quite clean. I’m not sure where all the trash goes (although I suspect there’s a huge, open, smoldering dump somewhere), but the streets and public spaces are orderly and surprisingly free of clutter. I do know for a fact that the Roma population is almost exclusively dedicated to informal plastics recycling (ie, trash digging, unfortunately), and converges on a makeshift tent-village across the river a ways upstream that looks like a refugee camp. But on the near bank there’s a nice path running west out of town, and after work or on weekends, it’s packed with runners, bikers, hulking juiced-up men doing inverted push-ups, and yes, rollerbladers. I had no idea people still rollerbladed anywhere in the world – figured they had gone the way of the Discman and Hula Hoop, and that emerging consumer markets might have just leapfrogged right over that phase. Apparently not. But at least no Segways. Yet. 

The other distraction that kept my mind off the summer heat while running was the fishermen; on some foggy mornings I would count up to a dozen of them casting their huge, surf-style rods into the river which is only about 20 meters across. I've realized that the bike path was one of my favorite things about Skopje, maybe because it partially validated the otherwise completely inaccurate visual I had had of this part of the world: groups of older men power-walking close together in beige polyester jumpsuits, or shirts off with gold necklaces lost in a sea of chest hair; women in headscarves scuttling along with little kids in Power Rangers tee-shirts, encapsulating the big questions about the role of religion in 21st century life; and the old fishermen in rubber boots and floppy hats, their rusting bikes flipped upside-down and converted into ingenious makeshift umbrella stands. The scene is less Dostoevsky than Garcia Marquez, with a Balkan twist. When I mentioned to a local friend that I never once saw a taut line or actual fish, the grinning response was automatic: “Of course not! They’re there to get away from their wives.” 

A bowed head cannot be cut off. The local adage reflects an almost morbid sense of fatalism in this part of the world. Macedonia has fallen behind for a variety of reasons, none of which the everyday citizen generally feels he has any power to affect. Education is a mess, politicians are hopelessly self-serving, new jobs are not materializing in what were supposed to be hot sectors, fulfilling the aspirations of the young, educated, and ambitious (ITC, financial services, and the like). The best and brightest continue to flee at the earliest possible chance. The laid-back culture, then, is also part-resignation to the general conclusion that the powers that be are unlikely to get Macedonia on the map any time soon. The country has been a candidate for EU accession for years, but it’s an agonizingly slow process for a nation whose Cold War infrastructure is matched by the patronage mentality if its leaders. Not to mention the fact that the EU is less keen than ever to bring in "risky" new members, or that membership in the shaky union is no longer as appealing as it once was. One immediate result would likely be a price shock, which could plunge everyday Macedonians into (further) despair. The result of all this is a communal malaise that registers somewhere between “whatever” and downright gloomy (but with a strong dose of cynical humor – can’t decide if that helps or hurts). 

So I had begun to understand my old friend's anguish (although the rakija helped, too, I’m sure). He’d been telling me about his family: his successful sons and nephews in the IT industry who always wore good suits, his relatives in Cleveland – the lucky ones who “got out” – and his dead brother whose words continue to echo in his head. I think it’s likely old men in antique shops are a particularly verbose and emotional group no matter where you are, but I couldn't help but feel the weight of this man’s life. He’d served in Tito’s army, had been a leader of men at 25, teaching “many boys” to become soldiers. They’d been a tough team – “The Albanese,” using his own translation for Muslim Albanians, “didn't mess with us.” He told me how they had trained by running with 50-kilo(!) packs, one of many exaggerations I allowed him, like an old fisherman telling tales. He’d had too many children in a proud effort to ensure the survival of his name, even though he knew better, having watched his father do the same before him, making life tough for his own brothers and sisters. It was harder for me to excuse his flagrantly xenophobic slurs, chattering through perfect false teeth about the thieving Albanese taking over in the city, “Fascist” Greeks, miserly Turks, drunken Russians, and something paranoid about Japanese tourists photographing and copying his embroidery designs. An “Albanese” shopkeeper next door kindly brought us some baklava from the Eid celebration that day, which we graciously accepted. After he’d gone, my friend explained that, differences aside, he was not above receiving this gift and reciprocating on the occasions of his own Orthodox holy days. Whether he actually does or not is unclear.

As tough as things were growing up getting yanked around and manipulated by the likes of Hitler, Stalin, and Tito for this man's generation, it was clear that people feel their lot hasn't really improved all that much. Anyone in Skopje, even those who are too young to actually know, will tell you things were much better for the average family thirty years ago when Macedonia was still part of Communist Yugoslavia. Everyone had access to quality education, healthcare, and social services. Each family owned a simple, compact vehicle: maybe a Zastava or a Yugo. Every year, working families could afford to vacation on the Albanian or Greek coast for a few weeks. Most importantly, these things were possible because everyone had a job. 

These days life is tougher, even in an economy that was relatively insulated from the global recession. I’m a firm proponent of capitalism as a driver of empowered global development, but I’m also no blind subscriber to the free-market dogma as my government has too-often promoted it to advance its interests abroad. My recent readings on Albert Hirschman have reinforced my inclination toward a middle road between the extremes. But it was amazing to realize how much my perception of Communism has been shaped by stateside Cold War rhetoric. Growing up an American kid in the wake of “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall” I’d really never been intimately exposed to the very tangible benefits of this system which I was raised to think of as backwards. Of course, it didn't exactly work out in the long run, and history has proven that in fact, it never really does. And yet, it's enough to give you pause.

It's hard to say whether most modern-day Macedonians would take their former lives as Yugoslavians over the current order of things, and whether EU membership would be an improvement or not. I wondered if the same debate went on in Croatia or Serbia - probably, but I'd bet it's lighter on the nostalgia. No matter what, if this fascinating, strange, beautiful little country is to get over the hump, it’s going to take some tough decisions that a lot of people probably won’t like. 

But hey, it's been that way for years. Another machiatto?