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By Chris Deliso
No place in Bulgaria has quite the ambiance of Veliko Tarnovo, famed ‘City of the Tsars.’ The grandest of Bulgaria’s mediaeval capitals, its remains today include an evocative old quarter with traditional artisans’ shops, numerous well-frescoed churches, and the enormous Tsarevets Fortress, brought vividly to life at night amidst a flood of colour and rumbling music (the so-called ‘Sound and Light Show’).
Encircled by protective hills along the winding Yantra River, Veliko Tarnovo enjoys a spectacular setting, and naturally a strategic one. The Romans built the first substantial fortifications, which Byzantine Emperor Justinian (r. 527-565) later enhanced. However, Bulgarian Slav tribes arrived in the seventh century, and Tarnovgrad (as the city became known), would become prominent during the wars between Bulgaria and Byzantium over the next few centuries. It was a hotbed of revolt under brothers Petar and Asen, who established the Second Bulgarian Empire in 1185. Being the capital, Veliko Tarnovo flourished, leading Western Crusaders, Byzantine emperors, Bulgarian pretenders to the throne and the Khans of the Golden Horde to intrigue for influence. The Ottomans captured Veliko Tarnovo in 1393, and were only expelled with the Russo-Turkish War of 1877.
Veliko Tarnovo today has a youthful feel, due to its prestigious university. Tourists include backpackers, tour groups and weekending couples. Tarnovo’s increasing popularity means a wealth of accommodation options, ranging from youth hostels and guest houses to boutique hotels and five-star places. Some enjoy stunning views over the river and fortress.
History lies under every stone in Veliko Tarnovo, as you will see while wandering Trapezitsa Hill, where archaeologists contain excavating ruined churches and royal residences. In town, visit the Church of the Forty Martyrs, Church of Sveti Petar & Pavle, and Church of Sveti Dimitar, all dating from the 12th-14th centuries and containing valuable mediaeval wall paintings.
Tsarevets Fortress, however, is clearly the main attraction. Its impressive walls contain ruins of dwellings, churches and shops. The extensive palace ruins and the partially restored patriarchal residence indicate the grand scale of that bygone empire.
Nevertheless, for many the most interesting spots here are those associated with violent legends, such as ‘Execution Rock,’ from which traitors were hurled into the Yantra. Even Count Baldwin of Flanders, a leader of the infamous Fourth Crusade, has lent his name to a Tsarevets tower, where he was allegedly imprisoned and killed in 1205. Having aided the overthrow of Christian Constantinople a year earlier, Baldwin’s execution at the hands of the Bulgarians is regarded by some as ironically fitting.
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Chris Deliso wrote about Veliko Tarnovo in Lonely Planet’s guide to Bulgaria. This article was originally published in BBC History magazine.
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Book Review:
In Sfakia: Passing Time in the Wilds of Crete
By Peter Trudgill
Lycabettus Press, Athens (2008)
Reviewed by Chris Deliso
Crete has long been acknowledged as one of the most singular and unique parts of Greece. Its people keep a fierce hold on their traditions, customs and history. Practically a country of its own, this vast island looms over all others in Greece. Nevertheless, as In Sfakia author Peter Trudgill aptly notes in his preface, “some parts of Crete are more special than others, and Sfakia, on the remote south coast, is certainly one of those.”
While Crete receives around a quarter of Greece’s annual tourists, most of them are sequestered in the north coast’s package-tour resorts. Still, some find their way to the strongholds of the south coast for extended periods of time, and it is not surprising that such folk tend to develop strong and lasting relationships with this serene, unspoiled region where the cliffs meet the sea. Having lived there myself, I can testify that barely a day goes by during which I am not reminded of it in one way or another (even though that period was some ten years ago now). The landscape, the people, the food and drink, the traditional music and so on- all of these cumulatively create the conditions for clarity of mind, for pure experience, making southern Crete an unforgettable place indeed, and one that has an irresistible, almost inexplicable pull, urging you to return again and again.
And this is precisely what happened to the author of this lovingly told, frequently humorous account. In Sfakia tells the story of decades of local experiences and anecdotes amassed by the author, a British academic, and his American wife, Jean, who have returned again and again, in all seasons and all weather to seek the solitude of the south. In essence, the book combines aspects of travelogue with memoir and light academia, weaving in linguistic, social and historical details of importance to the identity and traditions of the Sfakians. These facts and the author’s astute observations reinforce the sense of a unique people and place reflected also in the lively dialogue with local characters, people who over the course of years become good friends of the Trudgills.’
For any author having to tell a story of experiences going back four decades in a limited number of pages, issues of structure and presentation constitute the major challenge. Faced with this problem, author Trudgill chooses the approach of organizing each chapter more or less according to a key historical tale or essential concept, with a generally chronological thrust driving the book forward.
This method has its strengths and its weaknesses. From the point of view of a publisher, particularly, it is certainly necessary to find a way to introduce a varied readership, much of which may presumably be ‘beginners’ when it comes to things Cretan, to topics such as the 19th-century Daskaloyannis revolt against the Turks, the beachfront Venetian fortress of Frangokastello, the Samaria Gorge hike, Sfakian customs concerning marriage, traditional dance and so on; these and others are all essential aspects of the experience that have to be covered.
However, in presenting information to readers who may have little or no knowledge of the place within a generally chronological narrative structure, the author is forced to make a sacrifice- essentially, to ‘flatten’ himself as a character, obscuring the true level of experience he has gained over time, a process that likewise affects the presented interaction of himself with the book’s other characters, and their depicted perceptions of him. In parts, this introduces an aspect of improbability to the account. Indeed, it would not seem likely that the well-read author would remain uninformed about certain major local historical events for many years, though it’s necessitated by the exigencies of chapter structure. And, though he is unfailingly modest as a rule, one suspects that Mr. Trudgill’s knowledge of the Greek language is far better than he lets on.
But this tone is in any case also in keeping with the gentleness and humility special to In Sfakia, a tale that derives much of its insight from interactions with local Cretans, as they become closer to the author and his wife over the years. These local anecdotes are both humorous and enlightening. For example, when questioned about the limited public role of women in this traditional society, Sfakian local Yorghos retorts: “of course, it’s true that men appear to make most of the decisions in public. But don’t you realise that most of them have been told exactly what to say by their wives and mothers!” (p. 161). Long years of local interaction also allow the author to make some keen insights into the nature of society. He notes that a Sfakian restaurant owner might consider it an insult to their honour and perceived honesty if a patron methodically counts out his change, or how communication is often more subtle and unstated than in the West, something that can also lead to misunderstandings.
The great span of the author’s experience in Crete is remarkable, and represents perhaps the most valuable aspect of this book as a testament to future travelers and future generations. He remembers, for example, a time when the north-coast resort of Bali was a ‘fishing village’ and details precarious travels along rocky roads that have long been well paved (though other routes, like the bridge over the Aradhena Gorge, remain just as rickety and nerve-wracking now as they were when the author describes them).
Most intriguing from the point of view of living history, some of the locals who go on to be great friends of the author were encountered so long ago that they recalled the dark days of the Second World War, when Crete was under German occupation. Indeed, one of the most interesting sections of the book comes when the author recounts his presence at a 50th-anniversary ceremony for the evacuation of Allied forces from the island. Witnessing elderly British veterans come to revisit the island they had fought for a half-century earlier, searching for the caves where they had hid, is a touching moment.
On that note, In Sfakia does have one odd omission, which would seem, given the cast of characters with whom the author interacts over the years, a natural subject for discussion: Patrick Leigh Fermor, the great travel writer and former leader of the covert resistance to the Nazis on the island. While he is mentioned, there are unfortunately no great tales of his lesser-known exploits presented from the point of view of Cretans who may have actually known him. Since there is no acknowledgment of this omission, it is unclear whether the author never actually came across any such individual (which would seem rather unlikely), or whether they simply had no tales to tell.
All things considered, however, In Sfakia does succeed on a number of levels, and is especially good for those who have never been, and who seek a fundamental introduction to the area, its people and its customs. The book certainly does constitute a helpful guide, from the cultural point of view especially, to Sfakia. Yet even for those who already know the region well, but who have not been there in a while, the descriptions and dialogues conveyed on each page do make one feel homesick indeed for the greatness of the south.
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This article was originally published by Balkantravellers.com in 2010.
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By Chris Deliso
Among the most promising Macedonian industries, when it comes to branding opportunities, is wine (and wine-related tourism opportunities). Macedonia’s long history of winemaking has made it one of the most distinctive and culturally significant aspects of the local economy, though there is clearly much more potential to be tapped in terms of making Macedonian wine more visible on the shelves of foreign supermarkets- and, crucially, in the minds of wine lovers worldwide.
The operative challenges, of course, are shared by other, lesser-known wine-producing countries also afflicted by low international visibility. But the challenge is even more difficult – and more unique – in the case of Macedonia, the very name of which is chronically contested by Greece, with its own province called Macedonia. With wine, as with other objects of economic and ideological production, Greece’s tacit determination to monopolize use of the name has made it even more difficult for Macedonia to compete on an even playing field. The dilemma affects everything from ambiguous Google search results to complex international arbitrations, this unhappy state of affairs is still contributing to Macedonia’s inability to get beyond the initial stages of product branding.
Macedonian vintners and leaders are aware of the need for concerted action to make global wine lovers aware of what everyone who lives in, or visits the country already knows- that Macedonia makes some really good wine. “The government’s policy is to create a national brand for Macedonian wine as ‘Macedonian’, not merely as brands of individual companies,” says Aleksandar Panov, mayor of Kavadarci, one of Macedonia’s major producers of wine. Nevertheless, much remains to be done in terms of public-private sector cooperation. With an abundance of sometimes dueling strategies, leadership uncertainty, and technical and legislative issues, the challenges are numerous.
“Putting Macedonia on the map is the challenge of our generation,” says Jordan Trajkov, CEO of Popova Kula Winery in Demir Kapija. During former Yugoslav times, the majority of Macedonian wines was shipped out in bulk or, when bottled for export, branded as a ‘Yugoslav’ product. Trajkov echoes other local vintners in saying that it’s time for winemakers to work together to develop the brand. One of his ideas – creating a unique-looking bottle that would become instantly recognizable as ‘Macedonian’ – exemplifies the sort of practice by which a strength-in-numbers approach could work.
“Research shows that when shoppers decide to purchase a bottle of wine, their decision-making process is informed by the question: ‘which country is it from?” says Trajkov, who points to the hearty red Vranec varietal as an ideal candidate for building international awareness. “It is thus very important that we build the name-brand recognition of Macedonian wines.”
One difficulty so far has been a lack of know-how in terms of global marketing and branding strategies. It is true that some visionaries, like former banker Trajkov, can speak rapturously of visiting Napa Valley and compare it to plans for Macedonia. Indeed, global viewers witnessed just this during CNN International’s groundbreaking recent segment on Popova Kula. “This exposure resulted in a 300 percent increase in unique visitors to our website in the first week,” he notes. But few Macedonian wineries have reached such levels of sophistication for collecting the relevant data and analyzing what it means for their marketing and branding efforts. Many do not even have websites, let alone staff who can enlighten foreign visitors and customers about their wines in flawless English.
To be sure, industry leaders such as Tikveš – the largest winery in the Balkans – are actively engaged with their marketing and branding activities. Yet it is not necessarily the oldest or largest wineries that are capable of achieving results. For example, Tristo Winery, located in the village of Sujaklari near Veles, is only a few years old and does not even export at present. Yet it has developed a very good reputation among consumers and is consciously shaping its branding efforts to fit its product.
“Our target is for our winery to be famous as a small winery with premium brand wines,” says Uroš Tašev, Tristo’s financial manager. “Our activities for increasing our brand recognition are print campaigns, promotions, face-to-face marketing and the organizing of various events.” The courteous Tašev can be found explaining the intricacies of Tristo’s wines at specially organized tastings at the winery.
For other smaller wineries, branding remains an issue to be tackled, but one within a larger context. Efrem Ristov, general manager of the Negotino-area Disan Hills Winery, notes how difficult it is to get Macedonian winemakers divided by personal interests, political affiliation and differing views to work together. “The question I always asked myself is: how did Chile create a strong brand for itself in only 20 years? How did Australia, California, and the others develop their brand? An important part of the answer is that they all had strong support from their governments.”
Even in a small country like Macedonia, understanding the extent to which official support exists is complicated by numerous factors. Party affiliation can make or break an enterprise, a risk that can partially be mitigated by having the indirect diplomatic “protection” of a foreign investor. Clear leadership and follow-through later down the line are often lacking.
Other factors are more mundane but equally vital. Kavadarci mayor Panov notes that increasing government subventions for crops such as tobacco, as well as chronic failures to pay grape farmers, mean that fewer acres may be devoted to grapes in future. And fewer grapes, he suggests, will mean higher wine prices down the line- as well as the diminishing of an activity that is at the very heart of the history and culture of a whole region.
The mayor notes that Macedonian exporters currently do not have a strong presence on the EU market. “We are trying hard to expand our exports to Russia.” This vast market alone would end the current state of grape “hyper-production” and surplus, says Panov. However, associated costs such as transport are significantly higher than those encountered by neighboring countries like Serbia, which has more advanced relations with Russia. Thus, “our bilateral relations have to improve in the area of customs and transport agreements,” the mayor concludes.
While hoping for such knotty issues to be resolved, Macedonian winemakers must remain determined to focus on their branding activities. “Everything is brilliant (with the government’s recent CNN advertising and segment on Popova Kula),” says Efrem Ristov. “And I would very much like to see Vranec be a Macedonian-branded wine. But who will get the different wineries to work together? Who will give the order, and how will it be coordinated?”
For now, this remains the key underlying question in a small, yet all too often divided country. Fostering a spirit of common action for the common good is always prudent but, when it comes to wine, can be profitable as well.
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This article was originally published in the American-Macedonian Chamber of Commerce’s magazine, Emerging Macedonia, in June 2010.
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By Chris Deliso
While traveling in Macedonia this summer to research a new travel guide, I encountered a number of interesting things. There were the usual vexations (littering, incongruously overpriced accommodation, poor infrastructure, etc.), but there was also something that really struck me, partly because it is often expressed so subtly. It’s also something that I also consider extremely important: that is, the idea of hospitality, and the economic implications of expressing it for tourism providers.
All types of tourism have their own unique service-oriented goals. What might be the ideal style for interacting with the clientele of, for example, a large urban business hotel would not be relevant for, say, a little place on the beachfront reserved for escapists. Owing to its size and specific offerings, Macedonia has the greatest chance of success with small- to medium-sized guest houses, the sort of places that are often family-run and that can be self-sustaining, in a country where tourism has been understood (from an industry perspective) as an activity conducted frenetically in hulking structures that then lie dormant for nine months of the year.
If Macedonia indeed has a strategic advantage in ‘going small,’ then understanding the real spirit of hospitality becomes very important. Media-driven talk of new tourism fads and faint promises of EU funding can prove tempting for people looking to get rich quick. However, tourism is not generally such a business, and anyone wishing to seriously be involved in it must first do some soul-searching. The business is not for everyone, and aspiring tourism providers would do well to ask themselves some fundamental questions in advance.
And so the issue of hospitality. To succeed, tourism providers must have a genuine love of providing a dependable service to complete strangers- people often coming from completely different countries, cultures and walks of life. This takes enthusiasm, patience and above all the willingness to see things from the visitor’s unique point of view, to try and understand what that individual prefers, how they wish to be treated, what sort of things affect them positively or negatively, etc.
Since these things might be expressed very subtly indeed, communication errors that compound the problem can occur when people are not paying attention. One good example is when a host mistakes expressions of politeness for real enjoyment or approval (as when the guest does not like the food they are served, but also does not want to hurt the feelings of their host by saying so).
In the same way, guests can be timid about saying what they really want when they perceive that doing so will irritate their hosts. In both cases, the problem is most often due to the latter’s failure to perceive the unfolding situation, and ultimately this affects the guest’s feeling of well-being, and indeed their entire experience. And one can easily imagine how much more complicated such things can become when the host is not automatically attuned to the needs of their guests, has guests who are not ‘easy’ (i.e., families with children, people with health conditions or specific dietary needs, the elderly, etc.).
Therefore, the first thing that goes into providing real hospitality is temperament. One expends an enormous amount of energy when constantly thinking of things from the guest’s perspective, and so must be naturally attuned to doing so. Not everyone has the character for this, and the difference between someone who is in their element working with guests, and someone who is not, is easily and immediately apparent. After all, one can pass off a fake historical artifact or tall tale easily, but faking hospitality is impossible- guests can easily see through it.
In addition to the importance of being aware of visitors’ needs, there is a second key element that goes into sustaining a real spirit of hospitality, and that is inclusiveness. With the type of tourism that I believe Macedonia can best exploit, this becomes extremely important. In the likely scenario, guests are most often going to be in a relatively constrained physical environment that facilitates conversation and interaction. To some extent this sort of situation needs to be ‘managed’ well by the host, who must at least be aware of the situations going on at all times, and who ideally can create the conditions whereby a fun, lively and respectful feeling of community can flourish.
Since today’s travelers have an unparalleled range of destinations from which to choose, and can take part in activities targeted to their every desire, the cross-comparison of experience becomes increasingly relativistic. As a result, the need to differentiate, to create preferences, involves this extra element.
For people today, creating a memorable vacation has less and less to do with the physical ‘things’ on offer, and more to do with their personal sense of connecting with others, and with generally enjoying the positive vibrations of places that they will remember not only for what they did and saw, but from the interesting people they met, stories they were told and experiences shared.
Since the basis of any sustainable tourism business is the need to develop a repeat clientele, it is thus vital that guests go away with a positive feeling of having been truly welcome, that their presence was valued, and that they can reasonably expect to enjoy such an experience again and again.
One man who clearly understands this is Petar (‘Pece,’ for short) Cvetkovski of the Villa Dihovo, a small guest house in the bucolic village of Dihovo, 5km from Bitola in the foothills of Mt Pelister. It’s easy to like the traditional furnishings and relaxing lawn, as well as Dihovo’s rustic wooded setting, pristine mountain river and open pool; but what really sets the place apart is the spirit of hospitality cultivated here by Pece and his family.
For him, there are two operative rules. One is to “welcome guests in the way that you would like to be welcomed,” he says. The second is to “respect the value of people’s money.” And this is precisely what led the Cvetkovski’s to make a marvelously unorthodox decision: to allow their guests to pay whatever they like for their accommodation and meals.
This decision – one that would give most Macedonian hoteliers an instant heart attack – brings the concept of investing in hospitality to its logical conclusion. It signifies both an expression of inherent confidence in the quality of one’s offered service, and a show of trust in the critical faculties and general goodness of the guest. Both add up to creating confidence and good energy around the product and the place.
Of course, it is not necessary or even desirable for every tourism provider to employ such a business model; the operative factors that underpin the approach to hospitality are what remain vital. After all, as Pece cheerfully notes, “a smile does not cost anything.” But it does cost quite a bit, on the other hand, to heat hotel rooms that go unused just because no one took the trouble to invest in something as simple as a smile.
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This article was originally published in the American-Macedonian Chamber of Commerce’s magazine, Emerging Macedonia, in Sept. 2010.
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By Chris Deliso
Although Crete hosts one-quarter of Greece’s annual visitors, one can escape the crowds by heading south. Thanks to the rugged mountains that stretch across much of the island’s spine, southern Crete remains a place apart.
Known for their hospitality, traditional music and healthy home-cooking, Cretans are also fiercely independent. They often rebelled under Venetian and then Ottoman occupation, with southern strongholds like Sfakia (a rocky, barren territory centred on port village Hora Sfakion) remaining unconquered. Here, the towering cliffs overhanging the sea ensure that the region will continue to stave off overdevelopment. (And then there are the good-natured bullet holes pock-marking all the road signs around Sfakia).
Due to the mountains, the Sfakia area remains peacefully isolated; nearby settlements like Loutro, shimmering white with little houses, or Sweetwater and Marmara (Marble) beaches, are accessed by boat (the intrepid can hike there instead). Boat trips hug the coast westward from Hora Sfakion to Paleohora, via Loutro and Agia Roumeli; the latter is where throngs of tired hikers stumble out of the Samaria Gorge- at 16km, Europe’s longest.
This boat trip is ideal for traversing the south coast. It concludes at Paleohora- a little town that has preserved its laid-back character, despite being the jumping-off point for popular Elafonisi Beach on Crete’s southwestern tip. The soft pink sands and islet here are undeniably enticing and, except for in high summer, serene. Palaeohora also offers great live traditional music; in the songs, known as mantinadhes (15-syllable folk verse accompanied by the Cretan lyra, or violin), is fully expressed the island’s powerful and melancholy spirit.
Crete is big enough to be its own country, and its people love distinguishing themselves from other Greeks. Lakkis Koukoutsakis, a young tour guide/restaurant owner in Azogires, a placid hamlet seven kilometres north of Paleohora, sums it up: “among us here live about 13 Cretans, eight Greeks, two English and one Dutch,” he quips. It is this sense of otherness (amply displayed in Lakkis’ splendidly curling, pencil-thin moustache- a relic of centuries past), that makes the Cretans, and especially those from the south, such good company. They can entertain one with eccentricity or anecdotes, vex with their stubbornness, seduce with hospitality and amaze with feats of strength. It almost goes without saying that being among them is rarely dull.
The southern mountains are dotted with tiny traditional villages, great spots to buy hearty local olive oil and thyme honey, though Azogires alone has a freshwater lagoon where the itinerant nereids – those beguiling sea-nymphs of ancient Greek myth – can allegedly steal a man’s soul on one specific sacred night.
Additional otherworldly characters – the so-called drosoulites, or ghosts of fighters killed by the Turks in 1828 – can sometimes be seen marching around dawn each year in late May, over at Frangokastello. This magnificent 13th-century Venetian fortress stands above a tranquil beach east of Hora Sfakion.
Occasional yoga groups visit Azogires, though unruffled Agios Pavlos, further east on the south coast, is more established. Just three kilometres west of it, the outpost of Triopetra comprises barely one set of domatia (rent-rooms) complemented by a seafront terrace restaurant. Here, all sense of time quickly recedes, and the menu varies according to whatever fish they happen to catch each morning. Keenly aware of the irreplaceable value of Triopetra (a place were some regular visitors book rooms three years ahead), locals protested vociferously when a Chinese consortium sought to build a huge container ship port- as ever through the centuries, the Cretans stubbornly resisted a much bigger foreign foe.
Triopetra’s relative inaccessibility and tiny size have kept it blissfully quiet. Yet even the places that attract more visitors, such as lazy Plakias, west of Preveli, stand apart from the north and its resorts. Having one of the south’s longest beaches, Plakias has attracted some smallish hotels and restaurants, though the truly extraordinary Youth Hostel Plakias (open from Greek Easter through October) also attracts devotees of all ages.
Part of the reason why Plakias and other southern getaways have remained relatively immune from mass tourism is the terrific summer wind that roars through everything, pelting beach-goers with sand and whipping up whitecaps on the sea. But the winds also do drive away the mosquitoes, and break through that solid wall of summer heat. Channelled up and down Crete’s mountain canyons – veritable wind tunnels – these stiff breezes are known to locals by individual names, depending on from where they come, how long they stay, and what gifts they bring with them.
How To…
Good but winding paved roads connect the south-coast towns, where the terrain allows. Paleohora, Hora Sfakion and Plakias get regular buses from the north-coast hubs of Hania and Rethymno.
The informative website www.sfakia-crete.com offers local information including updated timetables for the Hora Sfakion-Paleohora ferries.
