The first impression I got when we pulled up was of the similarities it had with the shanty-style villages I've seen in Africa and Cuba. Elegantly constructed houses are mingled haphazardly with lean-to shacks, houses built in a strange hybrid manner mixing regular brick and plaster with corrugated metal walls and roofs. Some houses had clearly been extended after being occupied, others were built entirely out of waste materials.
Garbage is everywhere, in every gutter, lining every street, clustered and piled and clogging every corner and playground and park.
The bazaar sells mainly practical goods such as clothes and batteries etc. The most powerful aspect of the visit was the friendliness of the
people. Having been to Morocco where even taking a picture incurs a charge and every stall is manned by the pushiest man in the world, this place was incredibly relaxed by comparison. The people were all smiles, every wave and nod of the head was returned and we were chased down the street by kids who didn't want money, they just wanted me to take a picture of them and then show it to them. I've never wanted a Polaroid camera more in my life.The domestic pet of choice appeared to be the lamb,
of which there were numerous examples being led on strings by barefooted children or carried by their hind legs by the presiding adult. Everyone said hello, gave us a wave and generally acted as if we weren't there rubbernecking at their lifestyle, which, as time went on, I became very painfully aware of doing. It was difficult for Gene and I not to nudge each other or shake our heads when we passed a particularly large pile of garbage or a kiddie playground strewn with trash and broken glass. The biggest discovery was what, as the conversation in the title of this piece indicates, had to have been a brothel with the lowest average age of working girl either of us had ever seen. We passed down a side street and there was a man getting into a car. In the doorway were four very pretty but very young girls, all provocatively dressed even by gypsy standards. As we passed by and I was about to take a picture, Gene stopped me when he caught sight of their pimp giving me the fish-eye from inside the house. We left well enough alone and later passed the girls doing their shopping in the market. Considering the closeness of the community, the way they were treated by the rest of the gypsies seemed to be very respectful.It was very hot and the air was loaded with dust, petrol fumes and lamb stink. We passed through a market selling live rams, ewes and lambs. One of the trucks had a man sitting in the back sporting one of the most pristine mullets I have witnessed in a long time.
As with everyone we encountered, he was more than happy to have his picture taken and waved to us happily when we walked away.After soaking up as much as we could in about an hour and a half of promenading, we got the bus back to the old town and had lunch - salad for him, more kebabs for me. It was a real shock sitting down at a table on a quıet square and eating calmly in clean surroundings. I hadn't had any kind of surreal feeling anywhere in the Balkans until Gene and I got back from Shutka and had to re-adjust to the 'normal' way things were in Skopje.
Then it was time for apocalyptic battle to commence and we settled into the tea shop for another dose of crackgammon. This time I prevailed, although I was gracious in victory and did not gloat, unless writing about it on the internet counts. In which case I'm a douche.
Now I'm back at the hostel posting this before getting the 19:00 bus to Istanbul, which will get me there at 07:00 tomorrow.
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