The Weekend Rambler

African Music and Ancient Graves

March 16, 2019

If you are just joining now, welcome! You can read from the beginning here.

Long ago, the Kings of Sub-Saharan Africa ruled over modern-day Ghana and Benin. Men from the North would come, and they would purchase these Sub-Saharan Africans and take them back through the Sahara. These slaves, known as the Gnaoua were forced to work in Morocco and elsewhere, but they kept their musical traditions and now their only desire is to spread their music throughout the world. They play healing music, religious music. Music that puts its listeners into a trance, listeners such as 7 Slovakians and an American who have, in some way or another, ended up in the Moroccan desert in need of healing music to stave off sunburn and travelers trots.

They are overwhelmingly photogenic, but their entire village lives off of tourist revenue from their music so it is understandable. But damn, they do look good.

This is our final day in the desert, and we will soon be elsewhere and back to normal life back across the Strait of Gibraltar. We speed through the dust and park in the dirt, walking up a hill of monumental slate stones. They lead up to a single structure, a grave that has stood here for many centuries and has been filled with many souls. Nearby are some petroglyphs, showing the animals that once lived in this lush river valley. The mood is somber, as the souls that once lived here can still be felt centuries after their death. Only the sound of wind fills the air, blowing around the dust of old civilizations.

Now, the greenery has receded and a hoard of German tourists in 4x4s is speeding up the mountain directly next to the grave, rupturing the perfect silence and serenity of this sacred site. It can be hard to find peace in this country, but the peace is oh s o sweet.

Today is likely to be another long driving day, as we race North to the Gargantas del Todra. First, we pass more dust and vastness.

Here, we experience a massive gorge reminiscent of the Martian landscapes of Utah.

We park for the night in the city of Tinghir, staying at the hotel of Juanlu’s Catalunyan friend.

The night comes, and we have our final dinner together. Every night has been spent drinking together and being self-reflective, dealing with the inner linings of the soul and life itself. This has been one of those rare trips without bad feelings or hiccups in its entirety. We sit with our wine which we have carried since the beginning, reflecting on the trip. Morocco has an amazing way to turn a trip of five days and make it feel like a month long trip. Every minute feels like five in Morocco, and this is something I experienced on my first journey as well. There is another long day of driving ahead of us, and we make sure to get enough sleep to prepare.

I love road trips. I love the long highways and the long hours to stare out the window and allow the mind to wander. It was such a privilege just to sit and watch Morocco go by, and this was the best day to do it. We would be returning to Marbella, which meant driving through almost half of Morocco and taking a ferry back to Spain.

So we hit the road, driving by and waving at the wary sheep as we passed.

Juanlu, our guide, has opened all of his favorite places to us. He has been touring around this country for decades, and it has been an extremely humbling privilege to have seen what he has loved in this wonderful country.

The day was a bit of a rush, save a quick souvenir buying stop, but we made it to Tangier late in the night at around 9 pm for a heaping plate of fried calamari and fresh fish to nourish us from the long day drive. We arrive at the ferry station, and Juanlu is quite stressed. Apparently, the Tanger border is a bit different from the Ceuta border, and a bit more intense. We hop out of the van and allow for it to be searched by a gigantic x-ray attached to a truck, and for the dogs to give it a good sniff over. Once this has passed, we relax with some gin and tonics purchased from the duty-free store.

We left Spain quite early in the morning, and we arrived quite early as well. We get to Tarifa to drop of Juanlu and pick up Katka’s car at 2:30, but I was in such a haze of slumber that I did not even notice what was happening. By the time we get to Marbella and to Katka’s house, it is long past four in the morning, and I can not even hold my head up long enough to reminisce about the trip. Morocco may be in the past, but now three days of Spanish sun sit in my future before returning to Denmark. What will fill them, I am unsure.

Thank you for joining me on this amazing tour through the desert of Morocco. It was a beautiful time, and my time in Spain will be just as exotic. Thank you again for reading, and please like and subscribe if you feel the need!
Into the Desert

March 15, 2019

Just joining now? Begin the journey here!

Orange dunes roll like a never-ending ocean of sand. We have woken on the border of Erg Chebbi, a great sea of Ochre on the Algerian border were dust rules and camels graze on whatever can be found.

Yet even in this arid and unforgiving landscape, there is a Moroccan man searching for tourists to sell his varied wares to.

We begin the day with a stop in a mud-brick town at the end of the highway, where civilization ends and the desert begins. There is nothing other than dusty houses and locals curious by the presence of crackly Slovakians and a creamy American.

There is something about the colors of Morocco. It is as if the sun and sands have worn away all the bright hues and turned everything to a soft pallid tone. These colors would not look at home anywhere else, but here they complement the dust and sand like nothing else.

The sun is harsh, so we drive to a nearby town to visit the covered bazaar and browse the spices. Strong heady tea is handed to me by a man in a saffron turban, and we allow for the overwhelming scents of cumin, paprika, mint and everything in between to wash our senses with their flavorful aroma. Morocco is an overwhelming bash to all the senses, but wonderful just the same.

Soft light enters through the gaps in the corrugated iron roof, shading men rolled in kaftans selling their fruit and meat. People are reluctant to have their photos taken, and I reserve my urge to photograph every photogenic face out of respect. But I do accidentally capture a few shaded faces.

After a lunch of Berber pizza, we hop in the van and drive to a remote Oasis, where foreigners are usually not allowed. Our guide, Juanlu, knows the locals, and feels confident that we can drive around the streets of the towns in the Oasis without fear.

Juanlu has purchased some candy to give to children here and there, which always ends up with quite a tough situation of having to say “no”. I am always confronted with this whenever visiting an impoverished nation, and I am sure many volunteers are as well. How much aid is actually useful, and at what point do you have to say “No”? Candy is certainly not a good thing to give to children, and often the children or some of the adults take as many as they can fit into their pockets. So, what is fair, and where do you draw the line?

The sun has weakened in the Afternoon light, so we head to the border of Erg Chebbi to begin our journey into the desert. I feel as though I am coming down with the flu, to which Katka gives me a cocktail of pharmaceutical goodies to stave away the sickness for now. I am always skeptical of pills, but I feel that a mother of three boys under the age of ten can keep me healthy for now. I’m a little bit loopy, but we strap on our backpacks and head into the sands with some cranky camels and our two Berber guides.

One of them, Hamidi “shy”, a boy of maybe eighteen, has a bandage from a scorpion sting he received the day prior. He is sweating profusely as he runs barefoot up and down the dunes, and his saffron-turbaned companion not much older than himself berates him for his sluggishness. Tough job, Hamidi.

Other than the occasional daredevil ATV, the desert is completely silent. It feels as if being in a vacuum. No life other than our own, no sounds other than the air passing through your own nostrils. It is overwhelming in its deafening silence.

We park the camels in a little valley and head to a high dune to catch the sun fall below the dunes.

Our guides have a little tent settlement in the valley between two great dunes. They are both young, about twenty, and began taking tourists out into the desert as soon as adventurous Korean tourists started coming to Erg Chebbi. Apparently, it was featured in a Korean travel show, and now the tourist destinations of the Moroccan desert are filled with Koreans.

As soon as the sun goes down, the temperature drops dramatically. We huddle into the tent for dinner and some drinks, and then to the campfire where our hosts play drums and sing under the stars.

For two twenty-year-olds, this endeavor is quite impressive. They are running a business, cooking amazing meals, playing drums and singing, and speaking in several languages. Moroccans are extreme polyglots. A girl of about nine approached me on the street in Meknes speaking to me in English, then lighting up when I responded to her in French. Many adults can also speak Spanish. On top of that, they already speak Arabic and many can also speak Berber.

It is quite impressive, but Juanlu says that Africans live with their hearts, while Westerners live with their minds. After shaking hands with a Moroccan, they will instantly touch their right hand to their heart and give you a warm look. In this sense, Moroccans are learning languages with their hearts, and are able to learn many languages because they are simply connecting with them on an emotional level rather than breaking them into logical and abstract pieces like we do in the West.

We wake early to catch the sunrise and hike up the dunes to get the best view. The mix of Katka’s medication cocktail with hypnotic Berber rhythms have cured me, and I feel ready to take on another day of the desert. We head out of Erg Chebbi, saying goodbye to our hosts and hardworking camels who carried our backpacks through the desert. According to Juanlu, today will be the best day, but Uncle Roman isn’t convinced.

He doesn’t get out much, and he does not care at all about all of our photo taking hype. But I have never met a man that can make seven people laugh hysterically every time he opens his mouth. I only wish I could understand what he was saying.

Today we hop into some 4×4’s with Juanlu’s friend and local hotel owner at the helm, and into the desert we ride rolling with the dunes.

But we aren’t alone, in the distance we see dozens of tiny headlights scampering through the dust. We are greeted by tiny Renault rally cars filled with young French hipsters, participating in the 4L rally competition in the Sahara.

We speed past the little clown cars and head deeper into the desert, stopping in a little town to purchase some candies for kids and support a local desert shop.

Juanlu has been up and down this desert countless times, and thus his path is nonsensical and winding. All of a sudden he stops and takes us out into a valley filled with dark, glossy rocks. Upon closer look, this valley is a giant cemetery of ancient crustaceans who lived here millions of years ago.

Juanlu tells us that when he first discovered this site, he cried for fifteen minutes with the deep realization that “We are nothing.”

True, we are nothing. But at least we can have a kickass time riding in a pickup truck through the dunes of Morocco while we wait for Pachamama to turn us to stone.

After this somber stop, we hurled on further through the rolling dunes and dust, stopping at a makeshift tent and collection of huts.

A hunched over robed woman emerges from the tent, welcoming us. She is a Berber nomad, living with her daughters out in the desert. Her husband has three wives and only visits every now and then to check up on the goats and sheep. We sit in the tent together and are offered strong tea with peanuts, mashed dates, and pungent homemade goat kefir served in a dusty plastic cup. In this part of the desert, dates and goat milk are all you need to survive.

They live with the necessities, knowing that they will soon move on. The loom sits in the main tent, a large structure made of waterproof camel and sheep wool, which is also the dining room and bedroom. As soon as the sheep have grazed everything around, they will pick up and move elsewhere. It is amazing to see this way of life in a world where everything seems so sterile and controlled. They have neither of those things, only certain in the fact that they have their family and their well-fed livestock. Everything else will come after that.

(Nat-Geo worthy photo cred to Black Hummus Diaries)

We stop for lunch, roll out a carpet and start a fire for a Berber barbecue of roasted chicken and fresh salad.

We speed on, through valleys and oases and long dried river beds with the fossilized carcasses of ancient turtles. We pass fields of magic magma stones, and more martian landscapes before retiring for one last night by the desert.

I’ve spent time in the deserts of the American South West before, but the Sahara is a different sandy beast altogether. The silence is the most striking feature. After that, the fact that humans have consciously made the decision to live in a land of relative desolation and isolation for thousands of years baffles my mind. I was told that Berber nomads would occasionally be shocked to realize that there was anyone else other than themselves alive in the world because they so rarely came in contact with other humans. But now that I have visited and seen the colors, experienced the warmth of its people, and sang under the stars of the Sahara…I understand. The Sahara lives with its heart, which is something a lot of us have forgotten how to do in the West. This is what keeps people here, and what will keep me wanting to return.

Next: we leave the desert and begin the winding journey back to Spain.

I apologize for another long post, but as you can see, we fit a lot into not a lot of time. Thank you so much for reading and staying with me, and for liking, commenting, and subscribing! More Morocco is soon to come.
Moroccan Desert Roadtrip

March 10, 2019

Ever since visiting Morocco last January, I have thirsted to be back in Africa among the hectic dusty streets and crowded bazaars of this beautiful country. The colors, tastes, smells, and people made an everlasting impression on me in my first journey, one that stuck with me and built a craving to return.

A little over a year later, I found myself preparing for another journey to Morocco with a purely ‘go-with-the-flow’ attitude. Last summer when visiting Slovakia, Ivana’s Aunt Katka invited me to come to Morocco the following February. I shluffed it off, figuring it was too far in advance to actually plan or put proper excitement into. Even as I packed my bags the day of my flight, I could not properly address what I was about to do. This was mainly because I was not in any control over the planning of it. We would be guided deep into the Moroccan Sahara by Katka’s trusty Spanish tour guide, Juanlu of Huerta Grande Tours, who has spent the past several decades going up and down Africa on his motorbike. He knows Morocco better than the back of his hand, which allowed us all to sit back and watch Morocco pass by. With this ahead of us, it was time to venture into the Sahara and explore the secrets of the Moroccan desert.

Late at 9 pm, Ivana and I boarded a Norwegian Air flight from Aalborg to Málaga.

We arrive late, around 12:30 to be picked up by Ivana’s father, Patrick, and Aunt Katka. We’re all tired, and Katka is loopy from dealing with some sick children back home, but we all pile into her Mini Cooper and drive towards her home in Marbella. We arrive to meet Ivana’s well-liquored and often satiric Uncle Roman, who greets us with some beer and laughter. Roman rarely Slovakia, so it is odd to see him so far from home. By the time we get in bed, it’s nearly 2:30.

The alarm goes off at 5 am. Time to go to Morocco. Me, Ivana, Katka, Patrick, and Roman pile into the minivan equipped for Katka’s three fiery blond kids and shoot towards Estepona, where we pick up two of Katka’s friends, Peter and Janna. Piled in like a tin of sardines, we drive down the 6 am Spanish highway to Tarifa to meet with Juanlu. Under the stars, we throw our bags into Juanlu’s VW van and push ourselves. I grab some sleep, blessed with the privilege of being whisked away to an unknown destination.

I awake and find myself on the ferry from Algeciras to Ceuta, a Spanish city on the Moroccan coast that serves as one of Spain’s last colonial holds over Africa. My eyes are droopy with fatigue as I slurp vicious black coffee hoping it will cure my tiredness. Juanlu and I are the only members of this nine-person ensemble that cannot speak Slovakian, so we are completely unaware of the constant crackling conversation coming from our travel companions. I never have a clue of what people are talking about, but they are always laughing which leads me to believe that I am in good company.

The border procedure going from Ceuta is a little intense. This isn’t your normal border control: it’s a border between Europe and Africa. We pass through into Morocco and immediately get pulled over by a routine police stop. In Morocco, a country with a heavy police presence, it is almost odd not to be pulled over by the cops at one point or another. The policeman comes up to the window and tells Juanlu to get out. The two have a little argument, and the policeman hands him a speeding ticket of €15 for speeding 3 kph over the speed limit.

Welcome to Morocco, where even the cops have perfected the art of the scam.

After this brief stop, Juanlu pulls us into a smokey cafe looking onto the seaside. The barman brings us thick coffee and mint tea, bowls of large black olives, poached eggs in fresh spicy olive oil, local honey, fresh goat cheese, and sourdough bread. A good meal in Morocco will fill the soul with the most local and most delicious produce available. We dine and keep moving, South towards the final destination of Meknes. We pass weary looking strung out sheep and sip on beers in the back of the van, listening to Juanlu’s exotic and perfectly curated Spotify playlists.

We explored Meknes in my last journey to Morocco, but I must say that Meknes was one of my favorite cities we visited. It is far less touristy than the other big Moroccan cities, thus the weary traveler can be greeted by the wonderous sites and smells at their own pace without being hurried or annoyed by the typical Moroccan bazaar intricacies. Meknes is beautiful, and still one of the best cities to buy rugs, ceramics, and spices.

It’s easy to see why Morocco is one of the most photogenic countries in the world.

We walk around a bit and stop for heady mint tea in a Riad, a typical but always enjoyable fare for any Moroccan visit.

After some tea we wander out into the Medina and the main square for some wanders and entertainment.

The square is packed with people and plenty of entertainment and has probably been the main source of entertainment of the city for the past centuries. In Meknes, it feels like not much has changed in the centuries other than the introduction of electricity, and the patinaed walls of the alleys have endless charm.

We dine at the same Riad in which we had tea. Monumental tajines filled with steaming couscous and vegetables, freshly rolled lamb kofta swimming in sweet tomato sauce, and more olives and sourdough bread along with some red wine we smuggled in from Spain. It is rare to find a country that can satisfy the stomach quite like Morocco.

The next morning we wake early and make the journey South into the arid hinterlands, stopping occasionally for brilliant sunsets over the rolling hills.

The North of Morocco is quite beautiful in its lushness, but all of a sudden a border is reached where the green ends and the dust begins. We drive fast, passing more stringy sheep surrounding abandoned looking mud-brick houses and establishments.

Juanlu stops us in a small city to grab a break of delicious coffee and flatbread dipped in more spicy olive oil.

We keep moving, as today seems like a heavy driving day only. But we pass amazing dystopian landscapes with endless vastness.

A small town appears out of the desert, and we are greeted by some young Senegalese men that often dot the borders of many Moroccan towns. They come up to work, and then often ask passing drivers for money or for rides. Juanlu hands them a bundle of bananas, and they smile and wave thanks as we drive on. Juanlu parks and takes us to a hole in the wall, a place most people would avoid and most health inspectors would shut down. But Juanlu says that we could either go to a fancy restaurant, or we could eat at a place where the money will really count. While the restaurant may not have looked like much, the food they served was truly exceptional. Along with our meal, Juanlu purchases some extra meals for future customers. Juanlu is a mysterious man, with a sense of humor that takes a while to catch on to. His energy blossoms from his core, dancing to the Cumbia music he blasts from the van.

Back in the car we go, until we finally reach the desert of our desires.

It was a long day, but we finally made it to the border of the Sahara.

We sleep and prepare for our first big day in the vastness of the desert.

Sorry for a long post, but I am uncertain of how to fit so much into so little space. I have a lot of things to share from this Moroccan Desert Roadtrip, and a lot of beautiful experiences and photos to share with you all. If you have made it this far, thank you for doing so and I hope you will stay with me. Please like, comment and subscribe if you feel!
Walking with Monsters in Sofia

February 15, 2019

Fat snow fell as the bus from Skopje pulled into Sofia Station. The sun had long been down, and even though it was only 21:00, it felt as though the station had been asleep for a long while. I disembark, and immediately notice how much colder Sofia is than Skopje.

The buildings are grey, designed in a square in front of the main railway station. There is almost no signage pointing towards the metro, so I wander beneath the yolk yellow glow of artificial light before finally stumbling on to the metro system. Surprisingly, the metro station is spotlessly clean. It is a stark contrast from the grey and yellow above ground.

I had arranged to meet with my Couchsurfing host, we’ll call him Mark, at his place of work in downtown Sofia. Mark is a private programming teacher, and as the exam period is approaching he found himself very busy doing private lessons into the late hours of the night. After sitting on the spotlessly clean metro, I emerge and find his office, in the building of a co-op creative space. There are hip artists taking a smoke break outside, and a lecture of some kind going on as I walk in. I journeyed past the lecture and went upstairs, barging into Mark’s private lesson. The student gave me a look of shock and terror, deep in his craft. Mark only looked up and smiled, saying he would only be a little while longer. I sat on a big armchair outside, like a little kid waiting for his piano lesson to start, until Mark emerged from his lair and with a smile said, “He’s so screwed for that test.”

We left the co-op space and head back to the metro, stopping briefly at the corner store to pick up some ajvar, dark bread, and tomato paste to make a little late night dinner. Mark is reserved and soft-spoken, but quick to smile and laugh when I throw a stupid joke at him. Mark is a little bit of a metalhead, so our ride to his apartment on the outskirts was filled with conversations of metal bands I have never heard of. Mark does not have a big urge to travel, so couchsurfing allows him to experience the world in his own apartment.

We ventured out into the snow and trudged through the concrete blocks of post-Communist era flats until we got to his, on the absolute outskirts of the city. I jokingly remarked that he may as well live in Serbia, to which he turned to me and said, “Yes, at night we could see the light from bombs during the Kosovo conflict.” Sofia is so close, and I can not imagine how it must have been to be so near a conflict of that scale.

He prepares some lentil soup while I eat some ajvar, and we talked about music and politics and history and everything in between. We got so into talking that Mark completely forgot he was making soup nearly two hours ago and rushes into the kitchen to hurriedly finish it up. Nothing like lentil soup at 2 am.

I told him of my plan to see the monsters the next day, to which he shrugs unknowing of what I am talking about. I am surprised when he tells me he has never been to the festival, let alone even heard about it. Pernik, the town where the festival is held, is only fifty minutes by train or twenty by car from where Mark lives. Why am I the only person interested in this festival? After lentil soup, I rush to bed to dream of monsters. Finally, the purpose of my trip has arrived.

The next morning I awoke and hurried to the train station. The train was packed with tourists, internationals, and Bulgarians alike. It was a bitterly cold and grey day, and I fear that at some point I will have to cut my monster watching early to grab some heat. But when I arrive and hear the clanging of huge bells and the sickly hum of bagpipes, I realize I will be far too enthralled to feel cold.

In a square ring of people, a group of monsters dances as traditional instruments blare. Surva is a festival where tribes from all over the Balkans come to show off their monster dances. It serves as a way to preserve traditions and advertise the village. During my time, I was given little touristic pamphlets from different villages and even a rose shaped bar of soap from one. The monsters ran around shaking their bells, making a deafening cacophony of noise that could be heard all the way from the train station. Every now and then they’d remove a monster head to take a swig from the liquid in a dirty soda bottle stashed in their furs, and then dance with twice as much vigor. At this moment, I realize that this long but wonderous trip was absolutely worth it.

I am reminded of a time when I was privileged enough to see the Hopi Tribe’s harvest festival as a child. We were the only Caucasians in the village, watching dancers perform and help send spirits back home. It felt like stumbling upon an ancient scene from centuries ago, and Surva feels very much the same. I have a certain fascination with our interest as humans in disguising ourselves, and in dressing up as Gods or monsters for some religious purpose.

Each village had their turn to impress the judges and the audience, and would then parade out around the city and allow the next village to shake their bells. Often, the entire village would join in on the festivities, dressing up kids and the elderly and drag queens alike.

Some of the villages had nonsensical performances, but the best villages had great costumes and a story to tell. Some would have fake weddings which would be interrupted by a monster invasion, and some would feature a fight between two waring monster tribes. All involved a bit of vodka and a bit of violence.

Eventually, the cold did start to get the better of me at around -9°C/15°F, which led me to wander around the village and grab a big refreshing cup of hot wine. While the main stage was quite fun, I found that hanging out where the village buses were parked was the best place to catch the monsters without the crowds. Here as well, I had a better chance to get up close and personal with this wild creatures.

So much work has gone into this festival, but even still no one gives me a good answer as to how it all began. From what I can piece together, it stems from pagan beliefs that have existed since Ancient Greek times, and serves as a festival to scare away the winter. How romantic, but I’m pretty sure it is just an excuse to drink.

I spend a while longer with the monsters before the cold gets a bit too much for me and I take the train back to Sofia and back to Mark’s apartment. Another couchsurfer arrived while I was gone, a Berliner who has been on the road for nearly a year. When I return, I excitedly show some videos and ask if anyone wants to go back the next day.

Silence.

But I feel I had enough monster time, and the next day I chose to wander around the city and experience it a bit. The weather improved quite a lot, yielding me a lovely day to explore the city.

I was not expecting to like Sofia as much as I did. It is gritty, yet beautiful. It is Sophisticated, clean, and easy to get around. Sofia was a delight.

I spend the day wandering around town, going into little dusty bookshops and cafes. The city is perhaps the nicest I have visited in the Balkans thus far, mixing the grit of Berlin and the beauty of Vienna in one little bite-sized city. The locals are friendly and easy to talk to. They are some of the most approachable people I have met in the Balkans. Usually, I was the one approached just for a quick conversation with one of the locals. The conversations never lasted long, but they always ended with a smile and an “Enjoy your stay.”

That evening, I met up with Mark at a small club to hear some metal music. Mark is a reserved guy, but as soon as the band started his inner beast turned on. Soon, he turned into one of the monsters, thrashing like an animal in the moshpit. It was a beautiful transformation.

The next day was my last, and I had no plans of what to do. All I knew was that I would be spending the night in the airport before my early morning flight back to Copenhagen. So I spent my morning wandering through the National History Museum, then wandering the city more.

I am beginning to believe that the concept of price is a conspiracy. Why does a 2-liter bottle of beer cost $1.20 in Kosovo while a can of beer in Denmark costs the same? Why does a stamp in Kosovo, a country that is still developing its infrastructure, cost only $.50 while a stamp in Denmark costs about $2.50? Why does a ticket for a museum in Sofia with enormously valuable minerals cost $2 but a museum in (you guessed it,) Denmark cost $20? Or a delicious coffee of $.70 in Bulgaria cost $3.00 up North. I digress, and I know that there are a lot of taxes, bureaucracy, and property costs at play here, but it still peeves me off a wee wee bit. I apologize, Rant Over.

Sofia was a lovely wandering city, and I am confident that in Spring it would be even more beautiful. This is the kind of city I could revisit, and certainly a country I could revisit as well. Beautiful, affordable, and in a way quite unique. Cyrillic comes from Bulgaria, and its a country with an incredibly long and rich history. There are well preserved Ancient Greek burials, along with some of the most beautiful looking mountains in Europe. Bulgaria, I shall return someday.

As nightfall approaches, I move to the bar for my last bit of affordable beer before heading back to Denmark. I took one of the last trains to the airport and found a nice little bench to grab a few hours of sleep. Surprisingly, I am not alone. My flight was at 6 am, and there is no early morning public transport from the city, so some locals take the cheap option and grab some sleep on the cold metal benches along with me. Soon, I will be back in Denmark, and as I drift to sleep I think about this weird journey I have taken through Vienna and Serbia, only to see some monsters dance around a cold village and ring bells. When I say it like this, it sounds absolutely ridiculous, but it was well worth the journey and the people I met. It is always an amazing privilege to be able to travel, even in the dead of winter, and I am incredibly grateful to have been able to experience this wonderful tradition and see these strange cities along the way.

Thank you for sticking with me up until this point! This was my most recent trip, and I hope to be doing some other rambles soon enough. Thank you again and hope to see you soon!
Run Through Kosovo

February 10, 2019

The bus from Belgrade arrived in dark Priština late in the evening, snow drearily falling as I exit the bus and make my way to the hotel.

(In actuality, the route was much more direct but Google refuses to believe that such a route exists.)

No restaurants are open, only a little shop with a sign written that it closes at 22:00. The time is 22:30, but the lights are on so I open the door. A slouched over bald man with a wispy grey goatee peers up at me through glossy eyes from his phone. “Hello. Are you open?” I say, as he hurriedly stands up.

“Yes, my friend, open uh, 45 more minutes. What you need? Beer?”

“We’ll get to that. Got any ajvar?” Ajvar is my favorite spreadable eggplant and pepper goo that I discovered on my first journey to the Balkans.

“Of course.” He hands me a bottle of ajvar. “Bread?” he hands me a bag filled with bread. “Beer?” He takes out a 2-liter bottle of local beer.

“Maybe that’s too much.”

“Come on. In Balkans, if only have one beer is no worth.”

“Alrighty then, let’s do it.” He rings up all my goodies for a total of only around 3 Euros, and when I tell him I am from American he raises his thumb in approval.

“Welcome.”

Kosovo is where I have received the most welcome as in American in Europe. Generally, being American in Europe is more of a novelty for many Europeans. People instantly give me a smirk and ask about trump or about how many guns I have. It feels more like my existence is a bit of a joke for a lot of them. But for Kosovo, America has heavily aided the country since its independence. Take a walk down Bill Klinton street, marvel at the statue of Bill Clinton and countless American flags while being monitored by American security guards throughout the capital. From this perspective, Priština is one of the strangest capitals in Europe. This, along with their bizarre monument of the National Library which looks like cubes covered in fishnet.

Priština is not an overwhelmingly gorgeous city, but much like Serbia, Priština is rather real. You can see the growing pains that the city is experiencing, along with the changes that come from being the youngest nation in Europe. Though I must say, there is much more to do than in Podgorica, the capital of Montenegro. There is a cute old town with mosques and small shops reminiscent of the Ottoman old town in Skopje.

The city can be seen in several hours, so most of my day was spent in cafes reading and people watching, which is always a pleasure. Kosovars are more ethnically Albanian than Serbian, which lends them a great deal of hospitality from their Albanian culture. They are much quicker to smile than Serbs, and in general, have a much warmer approach to life. Kosovars also seem to act like a part of Albania rather than Serbia, as well. There are more Albanian flags than Kosovar flags flying, and there is a monumental statue of Albania’s national hero, Skanderbeg, in the main city square.

Priština is still in its development stages, so I head to Prizren in the South of Kosovo for a little day trip.

Reachable in only about an hour and a half, Prizren is considered the cultural capital of Kosovo. With the oldest mosque in the country and a beautiful old town, the city is worth a visit for a day. I spent the time wandering the old Ottoman town with its old bridge and countless mosques. Prizren also has an excellent cafe culture, so most of my day was filling myself with cheap coffees and people watching.

Above the city lies the fortress, which has stood to protect the city for centuries. From the top is the famous view of the cities red roofs, and I made it to the top just in time for the call to prayer.

Eventually, when I felt that I had wandered the city enough and filled myself with too many coffees, I hopped on the bus back to Priština. I had a jar of ajvar to finish, and meanwhile I tried to find some couchsurfers to spend the evening with. Thirty minutes later I was meeting up with Alexis, a bearded Parisian traveling back from his friends wedding in Russia. We meet in front of the Skanderbeg statue with a local, Shend, who takes us to a popping local pub for some beers. The entire place is packed, but we don’t mind because its full of life and suited political figures. Alexis goes to buy beers and Shend introduces me to his cousin, who works for an American NGO, and her boyfriend who works as a professor in Maryland. I feel as though I am drinking with the upper echelon of Kosovar culture, and once again thank the couchsurfing gods for such luck.

Alexis and I hit it off pretty quickly, as we have both studied the same thing and both feel that the educations we took are a little bit antiquated. Neither of us really know what we are doing, but we both know that we love to travel. Rather than go straight to college, Alexis took a five year gap year hitchhiking and working around Europe and South America before settling back in Paris to take his education. It appears I have found a kindred spirit far away from home in a packed bar in Priština.

Shend works for an American company in the IT department, which seems to be a pretty good setup. Working for an American company in a developing country has some perks, such as allowing Shend and his cousin to travel around Europe much more than the average Kosovar. They are knowledgeable and articulate, something I have noticed in a lot of Serbs and Kosovars alike. Here we spent much of the night until the bar kicked us out, discussing politics, music, and culture of the Balkans and Kosovo.

Nobody seems to know about the Monster festival I am going to in Bulgaria, and more importantly, no one seems to care. Why am I the only one so interested in this? Regardless, we set out of the bar early in the morning, I bid farewell to Shend and Alexis, and grab a couple hours of sleep before my next leg of the journey.

The time has finally come to go to Bulgaria. It has taken me on a week and a half long journey through three countries, and now I find that my destination is soon approaching. Next, a bus to Skopje and then to Sofia to meet with my couchsurfer and eventually the monsters.

Skopje is rather easy to get to from Priština. Buses leave often and only take about two hours. Snow falls down in fat clumps, and I am glad that I am leaving early in the morning. My head hurts a bit from all of the Kosovar hospitality, but its nothing a little bus nap won’t fix. Two hours later we arrive in Skopje, a city I visited last Spring, and I was excited to see what the city had to offer in the snow. With a five hour wait before my bus to Sofia, I took a stroll through the tundra to the sculpture encrusted downtown. I was especially excited to see how the city has changed since last Spring.

The city is still covered in nonsense sculptures and plastic buildings, and I even notice some new buildings and statues. Northern Macedonia is preparing to be signed into NATO, so the capital is continually being built up and given “class”. I reflect on something Shend had brought up the night before. He told me that he liked Priština, because, “it’s ugly, but at least it’s honest. Skopje is so fake.”

I can’t help but agree with him. The city is so absurdly designed, it can only bring joy in its sheer nonsense. But I like the city, I like how weird it is. I like the London-style double-decker buses built by the Chinese that parade around the streets. I like thousands of random sculptures and statues. I like thin, classical buildings that serve no purpose other than imposing an image of Macedonian strength. I only wish that all of this money could have been spent developing the country’s infrastructure or education. Or at least, some more original architecture.

But Skopje is still a very weird, beautiful city. Especially in these fat blobs of snow.

After a fresh ginger beer and some kebab, it is time to go to Sofia. Finally, the monsters are coming my way.

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, and subscribe if you feel. Monsters coming soon!