• which Serbian writer drew her inspiration from sojourns in graveyards
• how Montenegro functioned for centuries under an odd, priestly political system
• the importance of religious icons in the Orthodox Church
• why black humor has been raised to an art form in Serbia
• where locals and foreigners alike flock to each summer for the world’s biggest trumpet festival
• which Montenegrin leader sought to seduce half of Europe with his diplomacy and daughters
• just how many international medals Serbian water polo teams have won

Culture and Customs of Serbia & Montenegro is a book that fills a gap in the average Westerner’s knowledge of these two Balkan nations, amicably separated by referendum in 2006, but historically and culturally conjoined forever.

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With both countries frequently in the media today for reasons ranging from the troubled status of Kosovo and Adriatic vacationing to European Union ambitions, Russian tycoons and sexy tennis stars, Serbia and Montenegro are increasingly the subject of world interest. Read Culture and Customs of Serbia & Montenegro to learn more about these marvelous nations, their people, history and achievements.

Along with text and photos by Chris Deliso, the book also contains evocative local shots by professional photographers Patrick Horton and Rafael Estefania.

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Unless you take the other one, in the dead of night, the train arrives in late afternoon and by that time you just want to sit down and sleep against the window. But usually the press of people, all pushing and clamoring to board (grandmothers with glass jars and double-wrapped boxes can be surprisingly fierce) forestalls this luxury.

Meanwhile, the cleverer young guys have already jumped down into the gravel and skipped across the worn steel rails, ripping open the opposite door like a ripe orange and bounding up the narrow stair first. So you stand in the corner of the entranceway, with somebody else’s luggage piled up besides you, and gaze out the window at the melancholy concrete of Platform 4, with its disappearing stairs and benches and satisfied policemen and orange soda and snacks for sale.

By the time the train arrives in Skopje it has already swept up many stories in its wake. And, with great triumph, it has also negated others. Its very arrival means that this time there was no strike or technical failure or bomb placed on the track in the wilds of the Albanian north. The positive stories include transnational heartbreaks in waiting, family reunions rewarded with blocks of cheese or fiery rakija. There are the elderly without a car and the young without a care. In summer, there is the happy chatter of Belgrade students bound for vacation in Greece. In winter too there are pretzels and Coke and chocolate passed around, but the smoke lingers in lazy circles longer then, because the frosty windows are kept closed. This bothers no one save the odd lost American who is already launching indignations about the rough-handed border police and is vowing to never come back to Macedonia once he can escape it for good and all.

Very few have come all the way from Ljubljana, where the lumbering Yugoslav-era train originates two times a day, every day of the year. The trip might last less than twenty-four hours, but in reality it is a million years from smug Balkan émigré Slovenia, perched on the doorstep of Central Europe, to the humble (yet happy) Macedonia, in the heart of the Balkans.

Having left Slovenia and Croatia behind, the train must also have crossed the length of Serbia, with stops in every hamlet of crumbling houses and smoke curling up from the rooftops. This is the part that really kills travelers. The wiser ones (there are inevitably only a few; it is always dearer to display wisdom) have already occupied the more expensive sleeper cars. They are left alone. The others just darken the cabin and close the grimy curtains and brace the sliding door in an attempt to keep out the Skopje rabble.

The cars must be at least thirty-five years old. When the clock face of the Skopje train station froze at the moment of the 1963 earthquake, they were no doubt top-of-the-line. But that was another time and another station across the town, where the clock is still frozen above what is now the city museum. The taxi men who prey on ignorant villagers and foreigners have their own dreams and they know as well as anyone the difference between the old and new train stations, as they are still known; at the former you might find old pictures of new train cars, while at the new station you will just find old train cars.

But now it is loaded up and the blue-coated old man on the platform has waved his hand and with a warning whistle you’re off. But still you can’t see inside the cabins. There is only the dirt beaten into the parchment-colored floor sometimes visible, the narrow hall thronged with standing people, the cardboard boxes and black trash bags and nylon sacks brimming with forgettable items stacked high and their ostensible minders cracking cans of beer and carrying on amongst themselves.

Most of the people usually get off at Veles, some forty-five minutes later, and then you can sit. But first there is the conductor. He pushes through the throng, displaying a heavy shopworn coat attesting to former authority, with a beaten leather bag slung across the shoulder and over the chest, little ticket-book and change in hand, and then it’s dobre vecer… billet?

At this point the occasional gypsies, but not only them, will try to negotiate free or discounted passage, especially if the train is so full and you are in the last car and Veles is practically a fait accompli. But it’s debatable whether one’s chances of success at mild corruption are better when the train is full or when it is empty. When the train is full and there are many people and also the train is classed medjunarodna (international), it seems more unlikely that the trainman will have any sympathy for pocketing a few multicolored ten-denar notes in exchange for not giving you a ticket. That’s something more likely on the meditative 10:35 PM Kumanovo-Skopje local which not many take – and then, only if he likes you.

If you are not from Macedonia and you are going to Thessaloniki then you have already bought the long white stapled ticket with blue letters and the destinations scrawled across the inside of it by one of the ladies behind the glass downstairs. But this is a mistake. It is a better idea, because you will save enough euros to buy a beer or a phone card upon arriving in Thessaloniki, to buy a ticket to Gevgelija, the last town on Macedonia’s southern border. Then you can just stay on board as the train silently crosses the border and buy another ticket, a tiny cardstock chip with the price still inscribed in drachmas, at the border crossing. But that is not for a few hours and you don’t need to worry about that now. Still, it is better not to forget to do so, because the price for buying on the train (the Greeks always think you are trying to trick them) is steep.

So to make sure you’ll remember, you can write the word ticket in whatever language you wish on the back of your hand with a pen someone lends you. And don’t forget to be nice to them, because you will need the pen back when filling out the white card for the policemen at the border. But again we are getting ahead of ourselves.

In summer it is hot and there is still light for a good long ways after Veles; in winter, the cabins might or might not have heat, and the darkness falls quicker too. Veles is a damned town but its people are kind. It is famous for the purity of its Macedonian, spoken without the interference of harmful dialects, and the pollution of its old lead smelter. High up, there is a beautiful old section of the town with an unusual church and steep streets small enough for old Yugos and Zastavas and not much else. But the railway traces the course of the Vardar far below, and you can see only the steel bridge over the river and the miniature church in the rock cleft on the right, as the train starts up again.

All the way south you follow the river, which eddies and twists around rocks and small trees in the froth. Fishermen with their pant legs pulled up to their knees wade in at different points, casting lines for the occasional fish or plastic bottle. Almost every summer one or two children will drown while swimming in this tricky part of the river, where the water swirls and there are plenty of roots and the banks have collapsed and there is nothing to hold on to.

Meanwhile there is the measured clicking of the rails and slow chug of the ancient motor. You become acquainted with the soft, sagging seats, of deep blue or red or even green, the color always conveying a lost regality heavily soaked with the smoke and dirt and ash of its passengers and their memories, with the headrests made of some imitation leather and cool to the touch. The curtains of the high pull-down windows that take up the whole breadth of the cabin were originally off-white and are always filthy. Unless the sun is so bright and you are trying to sleep, you just try to push them behind the inside corner of the seat where they can be less malignant.

For all that, it isn’t really so bad. Your mobile loses reception for a few minutes as the small canyon walls come and go, but someone offers you a candy or a conversation and if you know the language it’s even better. And there are many things to hear. A swarthy fieldworker with a tracksuit and jug of firewater might tell you with feeling that his grandfather was Aleksander Makedonski (Alexander the Great) but that his cousin Goran lives in Detroit.

Then he might ask what the salaries are like in America, but you feel he already thinks he knows the answer. And an old man with carved wooden staff and sweater adds that everyone in America is rich. Except those poor black people, did you see how that Bush treated them in that hurricane? What kind of a country is that? And they think they are the best! For shame!

Still, Goran’s cousin would like to move there. This Macedonia is such a stupid country; the politicians are all corrupt. The elder’s wife, who has lived through much darker times than has the cousin of Goran, curtly reminds him to remember who his grandfather was and are not the Macedonians actually the best people in the Balkans, or at least the world? He agrees and they drink and the train chugs on.

It passes the small villages, stopping in some for twenty seconds or so though rarely does someone get on or off. At Vinicani, the Bregalnica River – a tangled ribbon dropped onto the map, winding from near the border with Bulgaria and then up and down – emerges, emptying itself into the Vardar.

At Gradsko there is almost nothing. But it is the beginning of the wine country, and the soil starts to change to the color of rust, like the buildings and loading docks in this forsaken tiny town. If it is summer, and there is still light, there is a wonderful view of the undulant vineyards rolling south in staked rows through Negotino. This is the Macedonian heartland, where the water is rationed in summer but the heat is limitless, making the horizon shimmer and sharpening the buzz and croaking of giant crickets and bullfrogs. It is a place of magical storms; last year, a woman was struck by lightning and died while harvesting her fields during a brief frenzy of rain for which many were thankful.

The fields are heavy with the grapes that make the area famous. Numerous small wineries lie tucked away in the areas of Negotino, Rosoman and Kavadarci. The farms also produce glistening purple aubergines, plump tomatoes, knots of garlic and more; and the people here are friendlier, if slow, and all the more so if you consider the poverty and hard labor.

But there is a winter here, a real one, and it does not produce oranges or grapefruits. So on the train in December and January you might find men and even teenagers hoping to get a couple of months of work in warmer climes, on southerly Greek farms in Crete or the Peloponnese. Invariably they have opened a Skopje newspaper and dialed a number listed in a minuscule classified ad, next to the ones from alleged lonely twenty-five year old girls looking for friendship and, possibly, marriage. Both groups are locally organized but you won’t see anyone from the latter riding anything like a train.

As for the former, a Macedonian collaborator generally organizes the trip for these aspiring illegals on behalf of the Greek landowner, by train or by car. They are picked up from Thessaloniki and taken to the farm. It draws all kinds. You might find a half-Croat, half-Serb injured in the latest wars and unable to make enough money to support his Macedonian wife and child, shepherding gently a teenaged Turkish Muslim from a mountain village where everyone else is working in Italy.

On the border, money alone discriminates. “You a tourist? What are you going to do in Saloniki with twenty-seven euros, boy?” scoffs the Greek guard. And he is put off the train to wait for the next one back to Skopje. But with still more than an hour to go, that is still only an unrealized fear.

But most of the passengers aren’t on a mission. Boisterous university kids going home for the weekend, or older people traveling between relatives, off-duty-policemen, mothers with their babies: these are the usual sorts. By the time you pass through the wine country and into the iron gates of the Demir Kapija Gorge, the most breathtaking part of the trip, it is no more than an hour to Gevgelija. Here, with these stripped canyons circled over by graceful hawks, is undeniable proof that territory has indeed been gained, though the hypnosis of the rails had compressed time to one weary instant.

And you are also now in the Mediterranean scrublands. In the tawny dusk of summer you can see the floating heatbaked rock outcroppings, a cowboy country once full of dust and bullets and undisturbed veins of marble, where one-hundred years ago scores of bandit gangs and saddlebagged revolutionaries roamed the mountains in search of tribute and Turks to kill.

In all the small villages the conductors stand outside tumbledown station houses, paying careful attention in their crisp caps and faded old uniforms to the overhead wires and the red and green lights, making their tiny contribution to the continued order of the world by waving the train on with such simple integrity that you feel like crying for the simple beauty of it. But the moment is gone in a second and so is he and there you are again with the wind flowing and outside it becomes open country once more.

And then the methodic lethargy of the train is overridden by the euphoria of the last stops. At Udovo, the Vardar makes its final determined turn straight south. By little Marvinci, when the happy foul-mouthed youngsters disembark, you have been invited to come another time to a disco which no outsiders have heard of but whose immorality is gospel for locals.

Finally there is Gevgelija and the train comes to a halt. Those passengers depart who will depart and then you can see who is going all the way. There are almost never any Greeks; it is now only the laborers and vacationers and occasional foreign tourists and only in summer are there enough of the latter to make you late. The police come aboard, first the green-suited customs officer and then the blue-coats who stride more energetically than they need to through the corridor. It is better to have asked for a pen by now because the little white cards are being handed out and you must quickly scrawl your name and place of birth and nationality and passport number and vehicle registration number (except you don’t have one) and place of residence and then hand it back.

Sometimes the Macedonian police are difficult, but usually not so much. The funniest is when they peer for whole minutes over your visas and stamps as if the passport was some book of revelations. Consider it the pretense of professionalism and authority that prefigures the definitive slamming of the metal stamp down onto the page. But despite their vigor, there is never enough ink to find the stamp afterwards.

Unless there is some electrical problem or maybe another train coming from the other direction that must be awaited, in twenty minutes you are on your way- or not – for sometimes they inexplicably untether the final train car. If you’re in it, just hope that they inform you in time to jump up and onto the next car, or you will be left behind in Gevgelija. That is not really the end of the world, however. Gevgelija is hot, the hottest town in the republic, with a casino frequented by Greeks from across the border. The town has pleasing restorative springs near Vardarski Rid, a hill on the outskirts with half-dug ancient ruins. As in the wine country, there is a hearty pastoral spirit, and eating and drinking hold a place of high honor. Before the building of the railroad in 1873, barges had been used, Mississippi-style, to float goods down the Vardar to Salonica and the sea.

So again the train heats up and you leave the long yellow station to the right behind, moving slow and easy into the uninhabited dark of a two-kilometer border zone that was once militarized. And so you leave Macedonia and enter Macedonia.

Even if you aren’t aware of that paradox, don’t forget that the time changes now and it is one hour later than it was a minute before. Time, like everything else, moves forward on the Greek side. After five minutes there is the station at Idomeni, and the train slows down and stops precisely with a shudder and you wait.

Once again the same ritual, but with different police. Passports are taken and – after ten minutes – please come down to the window to wait to get them back. You survey your new environment, the long, low building with innumerable doors and old writing and the sun of Vergina, of Alexander the Great, painted defiantly across the middle wall precisely to point out the illogic of the Slavs. And there are the strains of the bouzouki wafting up from the delicious smoke of an outdoor grill, where you can get grilled sandwiches of pork souvlaki or beef soutzoukakia with ketchup and old chips and a liberal handful of salt the bald old proprietor throws in. It’s only two euros, and comes with a napkin too.

Behind the grill to the right is a duty-free shop that is sometimes open. On the other side is an uncomplicated café shop which is always open and populated by overweight or mustachioed station men employed in one capacity or another, and an elevated TV in the corner animating the room with the rapid-fire staccato of passionate Greek football announcers shouting about the match that’s happening then. The middle-aged wife of the owner is blonde enough and from Russia or the Caucasus and she smiles and rings up what you select from inside the old glass counter, filled with soft drinks and profiterols and Greek yogurt and Greek beers like the ones the fat sedentaries are drinking.as they gaze at the screen through the smoke.

If you remember to look at the back of your hand, and if you haven’t licked it off along with the stray ketchup from your sandwich, there is the word ticket inscribed on your skin and you are reminded to follow the walkway to the ticket office, past the card telephone peering from the wall and before the other one with it’s guts ripped out and just wires showing.

The ticket office is a big room with a small egg-shaped window you have to stoop down to see through and which is blocked by a wooden slab that must be removed from the inside. But there is usually no one behind the window and you have to go around to the other side of the office, all lit up and ask the old man to please come. But if he’s not inside, you have to ask the policemen sitting at the picnic table under the little chalkboard where the train timetables have been inscribed to please find him. The ticket to Thessaloniki costs six euros and sixty cents and try to have exact change because they might protest that they don’t have any. The ticket itself is a small rectangle of yellowed cardboard, the printed black letters still in drachma prices, and the ticket man on the train punches a hole through it with a metal punch to void it.

Also there is a bathroom and it is always funny to watch the people come back from it for the first time. It is straight back in between the buildings in a concrete pillbox usually unblemished by the honesty of lighting. There are swinging doors like in an old Wild West saloon and you can bluster through them, take a few steps and indiscriminately open fire, because there is no one there and the floors and walls are soaking wet already. In terms of cleanliness the Idomeni toilets rival those of the train itself, except that at least the water from the tap is potable here. Still it is better to wash off or fill a bottle at the spigot outside, set up right before the bushes. At least you can see what you’re doing there. The spigot has fierce water pressure and the water is very cold. It doesn’t freeze, even in the dead of winter.

There is now nothing to do but wait with the other people in front of the police window, a little further down. The windows are long and you can see the men inside at their desks; curved metal black bars in front of the glass keep them safely away from the barbarian supplicants to the Greek state clamoring in a collapsed circle outside. The policemen stack the passports in opposite piles like Tarot cards, handing them back first to those with the good fortune to be Greek, followed by whatever EU nationals there may happen to be. Then are returned passports issued by traditional ally Serbia. At the penultimate moment the ill-fated Macedonians are processed, their passports filled with the painful full-page inserted visa that took months to acquire. Finally, the ‘others’ of the world take their passports back and now it is only a matter of time.

Back on the train, if you didn’t have a compartment to yourself already, you do now, unless you’ve met someone promising and have forgotten all about the pleasures of solitude. Eventually comes the double chime of the intercom and the announcement that the eight-forty train to Thessaloniki is about to depart. And so begins the final push to Thessaloniki. Most of it transpires in blackness, with few villages along the way. It is almost haunting, this absence of life, especially when considering the traumas of the twentieth century that thrice uprooted whole peoples and forged a brand new Macedonia out of its oldest region. The fledgling states that emerged out of the ruins of the Ottoman Empire saw huge forced migrations. The Turks of Macedonia were sent to Turkey, the Greeks of Asia Minor taking their place. The Bulgarian and Macedonian Slavic populations were sent north to Bulgaria and Yugoslavia, respectively. By the 1940’s, when Hitler eliminated the Jews of Thessaloniki and the Greek Civil War did away with thousands of Macedonians identified with the Communist side, the process was complete.

Sometimes, just when you can see the far-off shimmering lights of a city the train comes to a dead stop in the middle of nowhere. It waits for a few minutes. Why? It goes backwards. Again, why? If you didn’t know that there was another train coming from the other direction and they were waiting as a precaution you might feel with dread that you are leaving Macedonia after only thirty minutes and going back to Macedonia again.

If you don’t know this, you might ask a Greek policeman on the train and he might explain. But when the conversation arrives at its unfortunate truncated conclusion the border policeman has made it abundantly clear that he would never visit up ‘there,’ because those people from ‘Skopia’ had tried to steal his history. In any case, it’s probably better; visiting a country one names after its capital city usually ends with one getting lost. And what if they were to steal not just one’s history, but one’s wallet? A sobering thought. You talk about Greek beaches instead.

Coming in to Thessaloniki is always the same. Stealthily, you cross first through the urban peripheria, the industrial stretches, disused railway cars and agricultural pallets to the right, to the left the first real streetlights and thickset buildings of white along straight city roads. If you feel beat, it’s a good kind of beat and Jack Kerouac would certainly have approved. Things start to look less industrial and there are more cars on the streets and pretty soon there are more empty tracks running along with you too, like well-wishers giving support at the end of the marathon. And the people have already clutched their bags and started to amass in the hallways and, now that it’s almost over, you wish you had a little longer to talk with your new acquaintance.

It’s a strange sort of longing, considering that you have by now endured the whole five hours without heating and with the thin metal panel guarding the precious fuseboxes and antiquated electronics knobs flapping open and shut at the end of the hall. And you’ve faded in and out of sleep innumerable times, like the dull cabin light that makes someone’s tongue click every time it dies out and interrupts their crossword puzzle, gazing upon the very essence of weariness as it stared back at you from the cracked mirrors above the seats. And then there were the very old warnings written identically in Slovenian and Serbian and Italian and German that you respectfully noted on the way to the bathroom, a foul cupboard at the end of the car, where the connecting rods grind and twist underneath and you sometimes find both the outside doors were left unclosed and there is a whole exhilarating whoosh of frenetic wind from all directions and that wakes you up again.

But then the train gracefully alights and there’s no time for that. For now is Thessaloniki and out the window you can see people there excitedly waiting for other people to jump down, and you jump down too and it’s time to buy a phone card or take a bus and begin the next part of the adventure and even you’re on the Aegean coast. But always first you must thank the old train for having the decency to not give up and somehow make it back home after all.

………………………………………

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(Note: this article was originally published in BBC History magazine.)

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 12^th-14^th 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.

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 19^th-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 50^th-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.

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.

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.

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 13^th-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.

Moment Magazine (2006)

Once a year, in March, Moritz Romano returns to his hometown of Bitola in southern Macedonia. There he walks up the Sirok Sokak, the old Turkish name for the grand pedestrian avenue lined with open-air cafés and neoclassical edifices. At 84, his hearing is weak and his gait slow, but his dark, melancholic eyes have no difficulty seeing the Bitola of his youth: The Jewish world that vanished forever on March 10, 1943, the day the city’s entire Jewish population was deported. Today, there are only a few Jews left in Bitola and only 200 in this entire southern Balkan nation of two million, bordered by Serbia to the north and Greece to the south.

“I still recognize every house-which one belonged to this Jewish family, which to another,” says Romano, who, like most of the country’s remaining Jews, lives in the capital city of Skopje. He speaks hesitantly at first, but warms to his subject. “I see the great sports club, the club for Jewish women, the music clubs where our traditional Latin rhythms were played, the dance hall and the orchestra.

“We had six synagogues; my father was rabbi in the biggest and most beautiful one, Aragona,” he adds. Romano grew up speaking Ladino-the medieval language of Sephardic Jews-and Macedonian. In those days, Bitola was a cosmopolitan place and the sounds of Ladino, Macedonian, Greek, Serbian and Bulgarian rang through the city.

In those days, the rich resided on lovely streets, while the poor lived in cramped houses huddled along narrow, muddy alleys. Though not wealthy, the majority of the city’s Jews managed to live with dignity. Horses laden with watermelons, tomatoes, red peppers and more carried goods into the city, inspiring Jews to prepare such Mediterranean dishes as dolmas (stuffed grape leaves), spicy Spanish rice and zucchini stuffed with minced beef. Eggplant dishes, fried and baked, were mainstays of the Sephardic diet, according to Yamila Kolonomos, author of Sparks of the Macedonian Sephardim. “There was no Jewish house where they were not used in different ways,” she recalls. Two local butchers sold kosher beef-and-lamb sausages seasoned with garlic and hot pepper. Thick bunches of aromatic wild teas, thyme and oregano, picked from nearby Pelister Mountain, adorned doorframes. On hot summer afternoons, children raced to the Turkish sweet shop for baklava, cakes and ice cream.

Despite the rich bounty of Macedonia’s soil, frugality with food was the rule among its Sephardic Jews, a trait honed over centuries of dislocation. Kolonomos says her mother made use of every bread crumb and that baby girls posed a lifelong hardship- the work required to earn the money for their dowries began immediately after birth. A wry saying of the time was a wish for “neither Pesach without matzot, nor an unmarried daughter.”

Among the Roman ruins of Stobi, in central Macedonia, lies a synagogue dating to the first century B.C.E. Macedonia’s Jewish community is one of Europe’s oldest, but it was the massive influx of Sephardic Jews who fled here during the Inquisition that most defined it. The Jews prospered under the Turkish sultans who ruled the Ottoman Empire, but the empire’s decline and resulting Balkan Wars foreshadowed the bad times to come. In 1941, Bulgaria, Hitler’s main ally in the southern Balkans, invaded Macedonia. While Bulgaria famously saved its own Jews, it was willing to sacrifice those living in the territories it occupied. In March of 1943, Bitola’s Jews were sent to Skopje, then shipped to the Treblinka extermination camp and killed along with the rest of Macedonia’s Jews. Altogether, some 7,148 Macedonian Jews-98 percent of the country’s Jewish population at the time-perished.

That Moritz Romano was among the surviving two percent was due to pure luck. Most Macedonian Jews who avoided death did so either by fleeing the country, blending in with the Christian population or joining the partisan resistance led by Josip Broz Tito, the future Communist Yugoslav president. But Romano and four young comrades had been arrested before the deportation, accused by the Bulgarian army of being Communist sympathizers. As punishment, they were sent to a prison in far-away Varna, on Bulgaria’s Black Sea coast, where they were held until the Soviet army entered from the east, signaling Hitler’s defeat in the South Balkans.

They came home to find that the vibrant Jewish world of Bitola gone. With other survivors, they regrouped in Skopje and began the painful process of resuming lives without friends and family. Romano credits intermarriage with saving what was left of the country’s Jewish community. He laughs as he recalls his own romantic fate and that of his fellow Jewish prisoners of Varna: “Within one year after the war, all five of us guys had gotten married to five Macedonian Christian women, from five different towns!”

In the war’s aftermath, Macedonia was carved up by Greece, Bulgaria, Albania and Serbia, which itself became part of Yugoslavia in 1945. Macedonia was now a republic of the new communist federation and Romano settled in Skopje, eventually serving as a government minister, a parliamentarian and an ambassador to Chile. A small and politically obedient community, the Jews fared well under the iron-fisted Tito, who struggled to keep a lid on the ethnic tensions among Serbs, Bosnians and Croats that would turn violent in the 1990s. Tito’s secularist regime discouraged religious expression-Jewish or otherwise-so Romano kept in touch with his Sephardic roots mostly through his love of Ladino music. A skilled pianist and guitarist, he has created over 90 compositions and last year released a music CD.

Macedonia gained its independence in 1991 as Yugoslavia broke apart. As befits their numbers, Jews were bit players in the overall drama of new nationhood as the country’s Orthodox Christians (70 percent of the population) and Muslim Albanians (25 percent) competed for power.

Since independence, Macedonia’s Jews have relied on financial and political assistance from Israel and U.S. Jewish groups, such as the American Jewish Joint Relief Committee. “The community probably would have dissolved without their support,” says 50-year-old Zdravko Shami, its current leader. Shami’s father was one of the five Jews, including Romano, who survived the Holocaust by being jailed in Varna.

The local Jewish community center near central Skopje is located in a spacious old building that hosts a synagogue and kosher kitchen. It is filled with youthful laughter and conversation, belying the fact that there are only around 30 young Jewish people in the entire country, a source of serious concern for a community that now relies on conversions rather than births in order to grow.

A few of these young people- like 26-year-old Miriam Sadikario- have a Jewish parent. Others, like 26-year-old Viktorija Sarkisian or 24-year-old Avi Kozma have a Jewish grandparent or great-grandparent. The fragility of their broken lineages has prompted many of Macedonia’s young Jews to renew their vows to Judaism.

Kozma lost members of his family to the Holocaust in Croatia, while his infant father and grandmother nearly died in a Nazi camp in Serbia. These painful memories fueled his interest in Judaism; although young, he is already a trained hazan. “I feel like these are my people, like I belong to them,” he says.

Zaklina Mucheva, the secretary of the Jewish community, is married to a Christian Macedonian. Only after the birth of her daughter did she decide to reclaim her Jewish roots. “Before marriage, you think only for yourself,” she says, “but I wanted my daughter to feel her Jewish identity.”

Mucheva is credited with revitalizing Isha, Skopje’s long dormant Jewish women’s club. “The ladies were just meeting in the kitchen upstairs, drinking coffee and exchanging recipes-there was nothing Jewish about it!” she says. Mucheva convinced the community’s board to establish an art course two years ago, teaching traditional glass painting and other crafts. Today, the community has five trained artists whose creations include candles, traditional terra-cotta plates and kippahs.

Anti-Semitism in Macedonia is rare, and successive governments have been sympathetic to Jewish interests. The country has an admirable record, even compared to Western Europe, in passing progressive legislation for Holocaust survivors. Approximately 1,700 properties nationwide have been identified as having belonged to Jews, most of whom left no heirs. In 2000, the government approved an heirless property restitution law that was hailed by the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee as the most comprehensive such law in any former communist country.

Zdravko Shami, the community president, has led the quest to reclaim Jewish property, the largest being a 29,000-square-foot parcel of land on which the Jewish Quarter of Skopje once stood. It’s now prime waterfront property along the River Vardar, which winds through the city. While the Holocaust eliminated most of its inhabitants, a massive 1963 earthquake demolished its buildings. They were replaced with monotonous gray apartment blocks and other Yugoslav architectural oddities, including a bus station, “a temporary location that lasted 40 years,” says Shami.

The bus station has finally been torn down and will be replaced with a Holocaust Memorial Center-complete with community center, museum and exhibition space-scheduled to open in 2008. “The Jewish community is overjoyed,” says Shami. “We want to focus on the future, not on the horrors of the past. But at the same time we need to show how things can turn out,” his voice trails off, “when people stop paying attention.”

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2005 (Travel Intelligence)

In the expansive darkness, under a vast, star-clustered sky, they gather. These hooded shadows, flitting noiselessly through a maze of columns and arching passageways, are enacting a ritual greater than themselves. They melt into the church, from where emanates the soft chanting of the Byzantine liturgy. It is 3:30 in the morning at Dionysiou Monastery, Mt. Athos.

Athos, or the “Holy Mountain,” is the spiritual centre of Orthodox Christianity, where the traditions of a long-vanished world have continued for over 1,000 years. Here, the lives of the monks are filled with constant prayer and hard labour. The forgotten names of emperors and saints are invoked in cavernous churches grown unfathomable with age. On Athos, one walks through dense woodlands for hours without seeing a soul. And here too one awakes to the insistent echo of a wooden sounding-board, ringing out in a resonant, irregular rhythm.

And that is how I found myself awoken on that cold January morning- by the strangely pervasive sound of wood. After two years at Oxford, I had now come to the only place where my subject- the lost world of Byzantium- can still be experienced.

I was not off to an auspicious start, however. For a few minutes I resisted the call, until the insistent hammering outside forced me to get up. Still groggy, I stumbled down the stairs and out through the darkness to the church. I had seen it the evening before with a jovial, elderly monk. He had proudly pointed out the church’s priceless treasures: its prophetic biblical frescos, its altar-stands of ivory, and the miraculous icons of Jesus and the saints. Then, in a dark recess near the back of the church, I found it: the icon of the Virgin-and-Child in wax and mastic.

Only the icon’s shape is discernable. Blackened by age, the figures have long since lost their features; all that remains is a thick, flowing form, seemingly frozen in the process of liquefaction. This icon is revered for its alleged apostolic provenance. Legends also abound of its miraculous powers.

In the year 626, under a combined siege of the Persians and Avars, the desperate Byzantines were on the verge of surrender. The patriarch rushed around the city walls, waving the icon. The siege failed, and Constantinople was saved. The Virgin Mary got the credit for this miracle. Since then, many others have followed: sudden cures for the blind, cancer patients, and of course other private, spiritual ills. Despite this story (which I recalled from my studies), I was underwhelmed. Certainly, this humble, featureless piece of wax could never have wielded such power?

The importance of icons (the painted portraits of holy figures) may seem strange for the uninitiated. Not a magical device, they are rather a channel for the divine. By locking one’s gaze on the icon, the Orthodox believe, one can communicate with God. Such audacious theories had always seemed to me too archaic, too primitive, relics of a long-forgotten worldview.

My cynicism, however, was having a tough time of it; Dionysiou’s mystique was winning out. In the hazy, incense-laden darkness, the ethereal chanting of the monks filled every corner of the church.

Then my bleary eyes caught a glimpse of it- the famous power of this humble, unassuming piece of wax. Shielded in its bubbling coat of silver, illuminated only by flickering candlelight, the icon began to throb with a stern, ethereal power that seemed as unsearchable and inscrutable as the mind of God itself. A vertiginous sense of endless falling gripped me. For an unknown amount of time, I could not remove my gaze. I confess that I was half-hoping for some miracle, some supernatural occurrence, some undisputable proof of the icon’s power.

Needless to say, my vain hope was not answered. I was released from my improbable reverie, and realized I was exhausted. I had been standing for over three hours.

Although dawn had overtaken the land and sea outside, in the church all was still cloaked in darkness and incense. An old monk, white-bearded, glided up slowly from out of the shadows. “Where do you come from?” he inquired in Greek. “Massachusetts, America,” I responded. “And your name, friend?” he continued, with a gentle, beatific smile. “Christopher.” I said. “Ah, of course,” replied the monk, pointing to an icon on the wall behind me. “You see- St. Christopher.” And indeed, there was my more famous namesake, keeping his own silent vigil.

Organized monasticism on Athos is first recorded in the 9th century, though monks had probably sought out its refuge for two centuries before. Surrounded by water, thickly covered with woods and mountain, the Athonite peninsula was (and is) a haven of tranquility from worldly chaos.

Patronized by emperors and wealthy nobles, the monasteries rose quickly. In 1060, emperor Constantine IX Monomachos promulgated the Holy Mountain’s most famous decree, which banned the presence of all females. (This law is still enforced). Despite frequent accidental fires and marauding pirates, Athos flourished. After the fall of Byzantium in 1453, it was ruled by the Ottoman sultans. They were generally tolerant of the monks, who continued their rites unhindered. A ‘golden age’ came during the 16th-17th centuries, with the heavy patronage of Serbian, Romanian and Russian rulers. The Greek War of Independence in 1821 led the vengeful Ottomans to slaughter monks and burn monasteries.

The first half of the 20th century saw numbers fall dramatically, due in part to the Communist hold over large parts of the Orthodox world. Several monasteries became derelict or were abandoned altogether. Over the past thirty years, however, a renaissance has taken place. A rising number of new initiates, predominantly young and educated, have brought a renewed sense of vitality. A tenacious desire to preserve the past can be felt today on Athos.

I spent three weeks on the Holy Mountain. Mostly, I was captivated by its serene atmosphere, and by its magnificent treasures of art and architecture. I soon realized, however, that for the monks these were completely insignificant in comparison to the spiritual dimension. And so I grew aware of the most amazing aspect of Athos: the monks’ constant vigilance and discipline. Their harsh lifestyle of constant prayer, physical labour and solitude, a hardy diet and little sleep- and all this with no days off, with neither weekends nor holidays- boggled my mind. I half-expected to see the crazy, foaming elders of Byzantine hagiography, the saints who live for decades atop pillars or who rushed naked through the streets, smashing bottles and urinating in the name of God. Yet all I saw were ordinary men, eminently sane, the only mark of their piety being their humility, patience and peace. In waiting for some dazzling display of divine pyrotechnics, I had got it all wrong.

In the end, I didn’t get my miracle. But what I got, perhaps, was better: an undeniable feeling of peace, as if my life had somehow been graced by performing physical rituals that I didn’t really believe in anyway. This was not uncommon, I was told. The Holy Mountain’s ancient traditions, its serene setting and unearthly church services, have an impact on anyone who visits. Athos’ power is somehow real, yet intangible. A Greek friend, like myself not particularly religious, summed up this vague reality perfectly: “whether you believe or not, Athos definitely has some strange energy, something really unexplainable.” What exactly that is, remains for the visitor to discover.

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Aug. 11, 2006 (Balkanalysis.com)

The coveted Caucasus nation of Azerbaijan is enjoying increased oil revenues on the back of rising prices and larger production, along with some of the political advantages that come with it. According to respected economic forecaster the Economist Intelligence Unit, Azerbaijan is set in 2006 for an astonishing 27.5 percent growth in GDP, following a just slightly lower growth result (24 percent) registered in 2005. A recent article from the Power & Interest News Report added, “Baku expects 2006 oil revenues of $650 million or more, a figure that is predicted to reach $15 billion annually and reach $160 billion by 2025.”

This surge is helping towards financial independence as well. Azerbaijan plans to repay all of the $150 million it owes the IMF next year, the Azeri APA News Agency stated recently.

On August 8, Russia’s Interfax reported that oil exports from Azerbaijan from January- July 2006 had registered a year-on-year increase of 65.3 percent, amounting to 11,085 million tons. The exploitation of the Caspian Azeri-Chirag-Gunashli oil fields has helped to shape a leading role for Azerbaijan, with the creation of the 1,768-kilometer-long BTC oil pipeline, which stretches from the Caspian Sea to Turkey’s Mediterranean port of Ceyhan, via Georgia (the first 443 kilometers of the pipeline lies in Azerbaijan). By 2008, the pipeline is envisioned to reach its daily capacity of 1 million barrels. The pipeline commenced operations in May, with an inauguration ceremony held in Ceyhan on July 13- to coincide with the arrival of the first pumped oil in Italy, PINR noted.

The pipeline, which cost $4 billion (over a billion more than had been originally planned) was financed by a consortium of 15 international commercial banks (led by ABN Amro, Citigroup, Mizuho and Societe Generale), export credit agencies and political risk insurance companies, as well as the International Finance Corporation (IFC) and European Bank of Reconstruction and Development (EBRD). The leading stakeholder, with 30.1 percent, is British Petroleum. Other major players involved include state oil company SOCAR, Unocal, Chevron, Statoil of Norway, Turkey’s national oil company and Italy’s Eni SpA.

In the early 1990’s, the BTC pipeline was purposefully envisioned by the Clinton administration to bypass Iran- even though it meant taking a longer and costlier route, westward through Georgia. Now that the Bush administration is taking a hard line with Teheran over its nuclear program, the decision to keep Iran out of the pipeline seems to have justified itself for the project’s Western sponsors.

Indeed, Azerbaijan’s priceless location between east and west and on the energy resource-rich Caspian has won it many a suitor among international oil companies and governments. Part of this has had to do with the West’s antipathy to reliance on Russian energy exports; now, other proposed pipeline projects, Baku is set to benefit from the larger political machinations involving the US, EU, China and Russia.

“The BTC is now a serious option for numerous Caspian oilfields seeking an exit to market,” says Scottish oil and gas industry consultant Paddy Docherty, recently surveyed by Balkanalysis.com. “With the South Caucasus Pipeline due to add a sizeable gas export capacity, Azerbaijan is very well placed to become the key regional oil & gas [conduit] as well as a major producer. Politically, this bolsters the country against regional rivals, and guarantees the continuing interest and support of outside powers such as the US.”

As the recent PINR report notes, other oil and gas projects intended to subvert Russian influence are in development. “The Nabucco pipeline, a major part of the European Union’s diversification strategy, will carry natural gas from Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Iran to Austria and Western Europe. Construction is slated to begin in 2008 and conclude in 2011; Nabucco is expected to achieve a maximum transport of 30 billion cubic meters of gas per year.”

The construction of the BTC pipeline, meant to solve certain geopolitical problems, has only increased others. The question of possible new interconnections to the pipeline, the direction of oil flow and the security of the pipeline through certain areas of low-intensity conflicts are all hypotheticals that have numerous possible outcomes- with greater or lesser advantages for various parties.

“With the BTC now in operation, Caspian exports have been transformed at the strategic level,” says Paddy Docherty. “Since it offers new options for crude exports from elsewhere in the region, through connecting pipelines across the Caspian, the export dilemma for neighboring producers becomes more complex, especially Kazakhstan.”

Enormous Kazakhstan, on the other side of the Caspian from Azerbaijan, anticipates its annual oil output at 100-110 million tons by 2010, and 150-160 million tons by 2015 and thereafter, reported the Jamestown Foundation on August 3. Its Kashagan oilfields, three in number, were discovered in 2000 and 2001. They are believed to hold between 9-13 billion barrels of oil, according to the US Energy Information Administration.

The West has several potential pipeline ideas for moving Kazakh oil into Europe. One, the Constanta-Trieste route, would contact the Romanian Black Sea port of Constanta with Italy’s Adriatic port of Trieste, via Serbia, Croatia, and Slovenia. Along with the other potential Balkan pipelines (AMBO, Bourgas-Alexandroupolis) and the Turkish Samsun-Ceyhan project, “these projects rely largely on Kazakhstani oil arriving from Novorossiysk and other Russian Black Sea ports and heading for the open seas,” states the Jamestown report.

How exactly will Azerbaijan, as a transit route to the West, be affected by high-stakes politicking over the Kashagan development and export routes? “One of the big questions is over the exit of Kashagan output when it begins production in 2008,” says Docherty. “Since a link to the BTC is a possibility, the issue has the potential to lead to a US-Chinese struggle over access to this crude: will it go east or west?”

The Kashagan fields are operated today by a largely Western consortium, led by Eni SpA, Total, Shell and ExxonMobil. So it would seem that Azerbaijan’s future profits, in terms of transit revenues from Kazakh crude, are decided. However, despite the Western composition of the consortium, Docherty believes, “that doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ll sell it west. Oil companies are interested in profits not national loyalties, and in any case the decision for large projects such as a new pipeline involves the highest level of government.”

Indeed, as the Scottish analyst reminds, a pipeline linking Kazakhstan to China has been substantially finished. It was constructed by joining existing lines with new pieces, and built by KazMunaiGaz and CNPC. “This doesn’t mean it’ll carry Kashagan output, but of course the former has a small interest in Kashagan… the question of how Kashagan production will get out has not been settled, and it seems that it could still go either way. Since full production won’t be reached until 2016, there’s still some time to settle it.”

With important issues such as this one still up in the air, Azerbaijan is taking steps to improve its energy sector elsewhere as well. The country plans to improve its power generating capacity with several new stations. Together with Iranian experts, a commission recently met in Tabriz to plan for building two 36-megawatt hydroelectric power stations on the Araks River. According to a press release from JSC Azerenerji electricity company, this project involves a dual agreement: “under the terms of agreement, Azerbaijan will build the first station in Ordubad province, while Iran will build the second in Maraza province.”

The country also plans to repay, in kind, its close ally Turkey for electricity supply given in the 1990’s to the vulnerable Azeri province of Nakhchivan — isolated within the territory of Armenia. The construction of new power plants in this enclave, aided by growing natural gas supply, will enable Nakhchivan to pay the debt back in electrical energy, APA recently reported.

Another new investment in this strategic though economically needy area of the country has been announced. According to the Trend News Agency on August 8th, China’s fourth-largest auto maker, Lifan, plans to begin construction next month on a car factory in Nakchivan- an enclave of Azerbaijan that is not territorially contiguous with the rest of the country, but actually isolated within Armenia. The Chinese investment will help to improve the local economy of an Azeri island which is for that very reason of strategic value to Baku.

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