Based on our calculations, the trip from Athens to Skopje, then in Yugoslavia, would take around 10 to 11 hours. So we decided to stop for a couple of days in Thessaloniki, the second largest city in Greece and home of the frappé coffee. Summer days are warm and dry in the Macedonian region. Lazing around on the beach has never been my cuppa tea. There were plenty of outdoor cafes near the seafront esplanade where the Greek gods and goddesses, all stylishly dressed, enjoyed their evening volta (stroll), smoked and drank like they were doing it for a living. Thessaloniki is not a shopping haven but for people who are keen on museums, there are plenty of them here, mostly archaeological and ethnographic. We spent our time strolling among ruins in that 2400 year old city, taking in as many impressions as we could, penning down our thoughts. Looking around and not feeling all that impressed, I realized I was beginning to have a serious case of ruin-fatigue. It was time to leave Greece.
The next destination was Skopje, Macedonia. Leaving on the night train was very pleasant. As the full moon revealed a mountainous landscape, the cool night air caressed our faces and the movement of the train chugging along put us to sleep in a matter of minutes.
We were woken up by the commotion of morning commuters boarding the train. These were not the usual morning commuters that you would see in London or even Oslo. Among the office workers were also gypsy families with their pots and pans, farmers complete with their chicken and the odd goat.
Skopje in those days did not have many alternatives for lodging. We opted for the youth hostel. Upon registration, we were given a key to the room upstairs. Six beds to a room but since they were not expecting many visitors that day, they said we would have it all to ourselves. Once the door was opened, lo and behold! six naked boys were still sleeping in the room. A conglomerate of sunny side ups and full moons! I marched down to the reception desk to a few giggling teen devils who straightaway handed me the key to our actual room, even before I opened my mouth.
From my window, I got a good view of the neighbouring Romany village. They must have been living there for years as quite a few of the caravans looked old and broken. The area was generally unkempt. Children were running around barefoot, bare bodied and enjoying the summer morning. As they caught me looking at them from my window and taking pictures of them, they waved and made funny faces. A universal act of friendship. Mothers and their young, beautiful daughters were tending to lunch out in the communal. Young Romany girls are among the prettiest girls on the face of the earth. With their long, wavy, jet black hair and eyes lined with black kohl, many of them were breathtakingly beautiful. That is, until they opened their mouth and revealed that they were mostly dentally-challenged in those days.
Skopje is divided into two. On one side of the Vardar River is the city and on the other side is the old town. The choice for me was easy. I crossed over the stone bridge and spent almost every single day in Skopje walking around the old bazaar and its surrounding area. Until the modern shopping centres were built in the 1970s, the bazaar was the main shopping area. Bustling with activities, this was the place that you could find anything that you could ever want. Tiny shop-houses on both sides of the main street, offering everything from herbs and spices to gypsy gold. To me, it could have been Turkish as much as Balkan. It was like walking in a different world altogether. I got the feeling that it was an arena that served the locals first and foremost and tourists only occasionally.
The Daut Pasha Hamam was another spot worth visiting. Although it is no longer an operating hamam since being turned into a National Gallery, walking around in the building was quite an experience. I was more interested in the buiding and its interior than the pieces of art that were hung in it. What life must have been like in 15th century Balkan and how rich the culture was in those days with the prominent cultural influences from different empires, near and far.
The beautiful Mustafa Pasha mosque from the late 15th century stood majestically on a small hill overlooking the Old Bazaar. Another glimpse of Ottoman Skopje. Our visit in the quiet afternoon was met with suspicious looks by the local elders. As soon as we said our salams, they approached us and started asking questions in the local language. One was rather hostile and showed us the door. Another one insisted on knowing whether we were indeed Muslims. As soon as we pointed at and read the prayers on the surrounding walls, they smiled broadly and left us alone to look around. The interior was modest. Blue calligraphy on washed out white walls and a chandelier in the middle. Out in the garden is a mausoleum where Mustafa Pasha’s daughter was buried. The rose garden, however, had seen better days.
As we packed our rucksacks that night, very pleased with how the holiday was going, little did we know that on our way to Beograd the next day, we would be thrown off the train in the middle of nowhere without a single word of explanation and marched straight to the nearest police station …
