We awoke in a daze,
not only because of our previous days in Berlin catching up with us, but to the
new surroundings in Skopje. Air con whirring in the corner of the room and
sunlight peering through the curtains, signified a new day in new
accommodation. A refreshing shower preceded our flight down stairs on to the
main square in search of breakfast.
We traversed the
square to a series of cafes and selected one at random. Our hunger was satisfied
with a light continental breakfast and coffee. Although it may seem that we
were eager to return to homely comforts, we were in the perfect location from
which to observe passersby and wake up more agreeably. Spritzers emitted a cooling mist from
the canopy intending to cool us patrons, however a slow breeze turned it away
from John and I, leaving a tumbler of water the only option to cool down in the
mid-morning heat.
We had an appointment
with our hostess’ father to take us to the police station at eleven o’clock. So
we strolled back to our apartment, all 90 seconds away, and paid him a visit.
The one thing to know
about Skopje is that it is basically a massive village – everyone knows
everyone. Our hostess’s father (let’s call him Mr Airbnb) took us on the “ten
minute” walk up to the police station. We arrived twenty minutes later, his
popularity evident by the peppering of greetings to passersby along our route.
Despite his self-admitted poor English, Mr Airbnb succeeded in pointing out
prominent buildings and monuments along our walk.
I have never been fond
of the grotesque mutilation of the modernist buildings in Skopje’s city centre.
On my first visit here, in 2009, the main square was a stoic blank plaza, with
either the Kale Fortress or Millennium Cross as its only backdrop. Over the
years as I have revisited, additions such as statues, new government buildings,
and even galleons on the Vardar, have all increased the sense that Skopje has
become what many have called ‘Disneyland’. Its main square littered with poor
representations of selected historic figures, the disappointment being that
Macedonia has a much more varied and diverse history than that which the Government
wants to present to its people and the world. Yet the resistance to these
buildings and monuments, and by extension to the Government pursuing the vanity
project, was all the more evident in daylight as we walked on. An ironic symbol
of the vast waste of money being spent appeared as we turned a corner, the
revamped Ministry of Finance, itself now the victim of the ‘Colourful
Revolution’.
We entered the local
police station, and John’s nerves piqued as he saw the ‘No Guns’ sign on the
glass entrance door. Several burly
Macedonian officers were speaking in raised voices to and over one another, between
an office to our left and a reception cubicle to our right. Being in a police
station is usually an uncomfortable experience, a sense that you have done
something wrong sweeping over you.
Our only comfort was Mr Airbnb being our bridge between sightseer and
illegal alien. He picked up two documents, and explained that we had to
complete them. After a couple of minutes, we completed our papers and returned
to the reception desk to hand them and our passports over to the officer at the
desk. He inspected our passports, to check that our details on the documents
were identical, and then recorded our stay in a logbook. Evidently, government money
had not been spent on IT equipment to register visitors. Once we received our passports and a
small docket that we had to keep on us, we departed. And so, after our first
experience registering our stay in a country, we thanked Mr Airbnb and ventured
off back to the main square.
As noon approached, I
decided that we should do a little exploring. As the day was slightly overcast,
we could spend a little longer outdoors than what we could if we had the sun and
heat bearing down on us. We aimed for the Old Bazaar, having first to pass
through a vanguard of kitsch neo-classical buildings on the rivers left bank,
there seemingly to thwart curious visitors from proceeding any further. The insinuation being that Macedonia was
Macedonian, and its history had to reflect that. We carried on regardless, to discover
another present and past that hid behind them.
The architecture of
the Old Bazaar could not be more different to the modernist buildings occupying
the right side of the river. Faint
yellow, single and double tier buildings, lined stone slab streets. Their terracotta
roofs hinting towards their near Mediterranean location, yet the overall feel
of the neighbourhood was primarily echoing its Ottoman lineage. Weaving narrow
streets branched out uphill to our left, or onwards towards the main market
space. Shopkeepers were making the most of the dry weather, sitting outside
their cosy shops, almost as advertisements for the shops themselves rather than
the wares contained within. After rambling along the main thoroughfare, we were
met by the bustling general market. Located on a narrow strip of land, between
the main road heading north into the Skopje suburbs, and the old town, the
market was a hive of activity.
This was the heart of
the predominantly Albanian part of town. Many of the stalls sold trinkets with
the Albanian national flag, mirroring those flown on nearby buildings. The
switch from Macedonian Cyrillic to Albanian Latin script in only a few hundred
yards was keenly felt, though not altogether unfamiliar for an English speaker.
Groups of older men sat with Turkish coffee and played dominos, whilst mothers
and children nosed at the offerings on food stalls or those selling household
items. It reminded me of my childhood in Wrexham. Not the coffee and dominos.
We turned back on
ourselves, and instantly took a right turn to begin walking up the hill. I knew
that ahead of us was the one experimental modernist building in the
neighbourhood – the Museum of Macedonia. I was aware of how empty the
exhibition was from a previous visit, but the grounds of the museum contained
an Ottoman building that I was curious to see. As we turned a corner, we entered the concrete stone plaza
that gradually rose to the museum further up the hill. We veered right to investigate
the rundown Ottoman structure. Kurshumli An was an old caravanserai, or what we
would call an inn. Although not open for us to have a look around, we studied
the architectural style - rather byzantine in look, with the use of slim
terracotta bricks. A hidden gem juxtaposed next to its modernist
neighbour. A group of 5 or so
children played football on the weed-strewn plaza, indifferent to us whilst we
took pictures. The marvel of these two buildings, and that they were not looked
after, brought home the extent to which the governments – both city and
national – fail to grasp the potential for tourism with the existing historical
buildings and monuments. But a part of me also felt that it was an adventure
was to seek them out, and an onslaught of tourists would begin to tarnish their
untouched grandeur.
And so onwards we
went, scaling the hill still further. After passing yet another small group of
domino players in this quieter area, we saw one of the neighbourhood’s larger
mosques peaking out above buildings ahead of us.
And this was the moment we were caught off guard. A smaller mosque we
were walking past sounded up its tannoy to deliver the mid afternoon call to
prayer. Then the main mosque ahead of us, evidently with a greater number of
tannoys producing a roaring loudness, competed with the smaller mosque for
attention. Then in the distance two or three more calls to prayer erupted. Although I had experienced the call to
prayer here previously, for John this was his first ever experience. An
immediate fear – had we trespassed on to someone’s land, or was some other
trouble imminent - immediately turned into marvel at the spectacle around us.
As the calls receded,
we continued our climb around past the main mosque, and up towards the Museum
of Modern Art. From its grounds we had spectacular views of the city below and
beyond. The Philip II stadium dominated the foreground to the south west, the
river snaking around it towards us, and then swerving to pass us below. Southward,
over and above the city, the Millennium Cross emphasised the Orthodox Christian
population residing on the right bank of the Vardar. We descended the hill via
the Kale Fortress. This was the first time I had managed to explore its
grounds, blocked on my previous visits by ongoing excavations. The grounds
contained very few standing structures, those being a number of guard towers on
the perimeter facing the city. Aside from the walls of the fortress, the only
things of note were the vaults that had been uncovered that resembled mere
stone trenches. We did a return
trip along the fortress wall, gauging the drop from its ledge to the ground
outside and pointing out possible past entrances Ottoman soldiers may have
used.
The sun was starting
the break through the overcast sky as we returned back to the city via the Stone
Bridge. But I, with the strange copious amounts of energy I tend to have, was
eager to point out further sights from my past visits. A burning desire to
‘show off’ Skopje came over me. John knew he had to keep up regardless. We
followed the river towards the City Park to gaze upon the monument marking the
Partisan take over of Skopje in 1944, in the grounds of the government
building. Unhappy bedfellows I am sure. We toured the block that would lead us
back in to the city, passing dated air con-pocked residential tower blocks resting
next to the byzantine looking Cathedral of St Clement of Ohrid. Avoiding a
return to the square, we turned south towards the City of Skopje Museum. This
is housed in the former Skopje Railway Station. Only a third of the modernist
1920s building remains, but the simplistic clock still points to the time the
devastating 1963 earthquake struck. The reason for a lot of the brutalist 1960s
architecture rose out of the ashes of this disaster, mostly as gifts from an
array foreign capital cities and countries. A nod to Yugoslavia’s then widely
regarded non-aligned status.
A natural finish to
the busy day led us next door to Ramstore Mall. I knew of a cheap supermarket
in the basement where we could grab basics for breakfast and lunch. We did a
shop to last us our stay, and strolled back to our apartment. Needless to say,
by 5pm we had knackered ourselves into an afternoon nap. Air con naturally on.
Around mid evening
time we woke up, just as the sun was beginning to set on the city. Our
apartment came with a narrow balcony that overlooked the square, so we sat on
the two campstools that were there to take in the transition to twilight. At
the supermarket I was keen to get my hands on some wine from the Tikves region.
M&S had only recently begun to stock it at £8 a bottle back home. Here, it
was £3.50 for the priciest. I bought one to take back home with me, and another
to enjoy now, as we soaked up the views from up on high. In the summer heat of
Skopje, a glass or two of red from the region eased me into the relaxing
evening that lay ahead.
Once refreshed and
dressed, we went down to the busy square and were seated on an outside table at
Pelister. An easy first choice for us to eat at, for it has an eclectic mix of
local and pan European food to satisfy our tastes at reasonable prices. We
could also people watch – our favourite pastime – as couples and families
strolled around Alexander the Great and his horses. After devouring my risotto,
washed down with a local crisp white, we departed the restaurant and walked
along the riverside embankment strewn with cafes and bars where we earlier had
breakfast. You had two sections to each bar; the main bar that protruded from
the brutalist shopping mall, and across a pathway from it an outdoor part with
seating, fans and TV screens. Beyond that, another pathway and then the river.
We chose a particularly rowdy bar, unsure whether the night may develop into a
club or party. Two strong vodka cokes, on par with Spanish resort levels,
arrived at our table, so that we finished our busy first full day in Skopje sat
outside taking in the mildly chaotic nightlife that Wednesday offered us.
