Post No. 2 | GORAN & DONCHO
The last smear of espresso slides onto my tongue and the only solace I will find is at the bottom of another of the same. “Uste edno kafe,” I ask the waitress. It’s been a few days since I’ve had any sleep to speak of. My body is just starting to unknot as the work I came to Macedonia to do wrapped up a few hours ago. Rather than place myself in a temporary coma, as my body would prefer, I chose to quietly slide away from my hotel to find the band-aid of coffee to patch the bullet wound of jet lag.
The heat of the day has broken like a fever and the cool slide toward evening is a salve to my blistered brains. The crow marches on foot toward me from the parking area settles near my table. I am not surprised to see him here. It seems as though he always turns up while I'm traveling. What energy I have left in my tank is used to turn to snap his photo. Even the shutter of my camera seems reluctant to unhinge itself one last time after a long day of shooting.
The crow eyes the cookie provided with my Turkish sludge and I toss it his way. The dome of his right eye is fixed on me as he pecks the cookie to crumbs. His presence everywhere I go is a constant exercise in patience. Him, waiting on me, that is. The creature’s one-dimensional desires are absolute and I begrudge his insistence, and yet, the cookie is now his. The bird pecks until it’s satisfied, and departs on foot around the corner of the cafe patio.
The rattle of a wrought iron chair up to my table severs my communion with the bird. I turn to see the man wielding the chair, he grins and mimes the process of taking a photo of the bird. “You friend bird,” he asks?
“He likes the cookies,” I reply. Unaware that I was being watched, my face flushes adding to the already sunburnt hue of my skin. I realize how odd It must look for me to be so familiar with the bird.
“He like cookie,” repeats the stocky man a few years older than myself giggling and covering his eyes with his hands, the Macedonian man fidgets like a ten-year-old who recently downed two orange sodas. “The cookie is his friend!” The stranger plops into the chair and introduces himself. When I say he introduces himself, I mean he let loose a string of Macedonian sentences that ended with him placing his hand on his chest and ending with “Goran,” and then hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward his comrade at the bar and saying “Doncho.” “It’s nice to meet you Goran,” I reply, employing the full power of assumption that I had their names correct.
Having achieved their round of beers and delivered them to our table, I shake Doncho’s hand and welcomed him to join us. He is fifty, wire-thin, and has the grip that matches his no-no-nonsense demeanor -a pretense he would later abandon at every opportunity. While Doncho doesn't speak much, his eyes shine as if they are setting up a particularly dirty joke.
Goran’s English is spotty but much better than my Macedonian, which consists of two greetings, the phrase, can I take your picture? and, one more coffee. Over the next hour, we jackhammer our way through a conversation that wanders through, family, the weather, what we do for a living, and anything else we can communicate with our limited common vocabularies. To this day, I don’t know how we navigated the conversation but as the sun started to set we all have sore cheeks from laughing and hungry bellies.
An American acquaintance of mine who lives in the area happens to drop by the cafe and Goran jumps at the chance to communicate via a translator. Their rapid-fire conversation becomes clear when my friend turns and tells me that Goran would like me to come to his house for dinner.
My hesitation about jumping in a car with two men, whom I've just met, in a foreign country, who live an indeterminate distance away and speak very little English lasts about half a second before I enthusiastically accept his offer. We settle our tabs and I wave goodbye to my acquaintance, who is doing her best to hide her hesitation of my departure with the strangers. I don't care.
I didn't know it at the time, but the simple act of jumping in a car with strangers would lead me to Rule #1: always get involved. Now, I am not an advocate for foolhardy risk-taking, but I am a firm believer that without some risk, life gets stripped of all of the gritty bits that make it interesting. Risk therefore should be measured and then entered into with the trust and belief in others that they will reciprocate. I sincerely think that by trusting first, animosity is disarmed and understanding will follow.
All that said, I am a big believer in contingency plans. If a risky situation has the potential to turn south, I make every effort to have a foolproof way to get out, or at least I do now. This being the first employment of Rule #1, there was no contingency plan. The practicalities of always getting involved left me completely exposed to all manner of treacherous circumstances.
Still new to Rule #1, as it had just occurred to me, I had no plan B when I threw my camera over my shoulder and said yes to dinner. Was the decision to go foolish? Yes. Did it have all the ingredients of an interesting evening? Yes. Was I exhibiting the very thought process that leads the occasional tourist to be dumped in a ditch after having one's organs removed? Yes. In spite of all the grisly outcomes possible, the decision to go turned out to be a very interesting evening indeed, and I don't regret making it in the least. After all, the two men didn't seem like guerilla militants, or at least I didn't know they were at the time.
Goran bounces away from the cafe, leading Doncho and I to his canary yellow Yugo. Without so much as a second glance at my nervous friend, I toss my camera bag inside and fold myself behind the driver's seat. Two rickety sheets of post-soviet steel posing as doors slam shut and my life is at the mercy of my two newest best friends.
Known as one of the worst automobiles ever produced, the Yugo was built from the mid 70’s to the late 80’s in the former Yugoslavia. Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Dan Neil once wrote, “the Yugo has the distinct feeling of something assembled at gunpoint,” and I will attest to his assessment of the machine. Having compressed myself into the allotted space more fitting for a bag of oranges or a small goat I surmise that the total of all space allocated for all automotive interiors in the former Soviet Union must have been equally divided amongst all cars and the Yugo was dealt it's equal, but less-than-meager portion. The back seat of the Yugo did provide me with protection from crashing into the windows by forcing my knees up around my ears. A safeguard I would be grateful for should we recklessly engage a sharp curve or wandering livestock along the route.
With minimal coaxing, the engine of the Yugo putters to life with the burbling report of a two-year-old blowing bubbles in the bathtub and we set off to the village of Disan Kavadartsi.
As a crow would fly down the road from Negotino to Disan Kavadartsi the distance measures ten kilometers; a span which an average vehicle could cover in a matter of minutes. But after the day I've had, I empathize with the Yugo’s struggle to mobilize. Its engine frantically churning at full RPMs to propel itself forward at a pace that could easily be matched by a grandparent on a brisk walk.
The lights in the streets and doorways are just beginning to blink on as the Yugo trundles out of Negotino. Doncho suddenly pivots in his seat and looks me in the eyes, “No Muslim?” he asks. Caught off guard by his suddenly stern question I utter a “No.” He waits, pausing to search my answer, and then cracks a smile. Goran deteriorates into a fit of laughter covering his eyes with his hands. With the wheel momentarily unattended the Yugo weaves uncontrollably and I follow suit, laughing, as my temples bounce from knee to knee. Doncho is obviously messing with me and loving it. As control of the Yugo is regained, we putter past vineyards and small farms.
The laughter subsides and Doncho launches into a string of thoughts and thumps Goran on the shoulder to translate. “He says, Good you no Muslim, you move to Disan. No Negotino, no Skopje, Disan. He find you a wife.” It doesn't take a rocket scientist to decipher the look on Doncho's face. He’s teasing me again. Refusing to move to such a beautiful place seems like I might be jumping the gun so I hedge my answer and reply, “We'll have to see.” Again, we wait while Doncho gauges my response. He cracks a smile and Goran giggles covering both of his eyes as the road makes a slight right turn. His hands finally return to the steering wheel just in time to dissuade the Yugo from destroying a rogue goat. We all laugh at the near miss and pull over to the side of the road. Goran and Doncho swing the doors wide and set me free of my pen. Leaving the dirt road behind my hosts walk into a vineyard, “This is our vines,” states Goran.
The two men meander the paths worn by their feet, clearing the occasional stone or weed. Like many of the families in the area, the two men grow Chardonnay grapes and press their own wine. I follow in lockstep agreeing wholeheartedly that American John Deere tractors are far superior to the British Fergusons. “Fergusons no power, someday I drive John Deere,” says Goran, while he mimes driving a tractor. “We find you good wife here in Disan and you bring us John Deere ok?” says Doncho as he slaps me on the back sealing the pact he’s just proposed.
I respond with a non-confrontational, “I'm not sure if I can work that out.” True to form, Doncho knits his brow and looks at me as though I’ve insulted his mother. I can't help but feel like there’s a barb hidden inside the joke but he laughs so hard when he breaks that I know that he’s just a world-class wise-ass.
The night continues with a stop by Doncho's apartment, where his wife Petra serves us fried potatoes and homemade cheese. Petra pops the cork from a gigantic bottle of beer and we imbibe of its contents between questions and laughter. The apartment is beautifully decorated with crystal bobbles hanging from every light and perched on every shelf. Throughout the apartment, light is refracted through the crystals and shimmers across ornately framed portraits of relatives like fireworks. It’s beautiful. And the company sparkles and swirls to match the thousand tiny rainbows around us.
We are about to leave when Doncho’s daughter arrives. She is beautiful, blond --and sixteen. “Your wife is here!” says Doncho. All the jokes about getting married and moving to Disan, not Negotino, not Skopje, Disan, become clear. It turns out he had been partially serious about his future plans for me. And more than that, he had a specific bride in mind. The intention of each fit of laughter following the joke about finding me a wife is brought to light as he plopped us down on the couch next to each other.
The awkwardness of a few minutes of conversation peaks as Doncho raises his glass and gives a toast, or what I presume is a toast, in Zoritsa and I’s direction. My suspicions surrounding the subject of the toast are confirmed when Zoritsa’s cheeks flush and Petra slaps Doncho on the arm, scolding him for making everyone party to his joke The scolding seems to slow, Doncho’s shenanigan, much to the relief of Zoritsa and I. But as soon as Petra's back is turned he resumes the googly eyes in our direction.
We are all overflowing with questions about life, family, and work. Zoritsa tries her best to translate. She is bubbly and thrilled to use the English she is learning in school. Occasionally she comes up short in her vocabulary but we adjust at each dead end and we move forward. The meal ends with big hugs, laughs, and goodbyes as Goran shoos us out the door to the next stop on our tour.
The Yugo, now proven itself to be a trustworthy means of transportation, welcomes us into its arms and carries us to Goran’s home. Word must have traveled that my new friends were bringing a visitor because as we approach the door my senses are filled with the best things life has to offer; the laughter of family, music, and the smell of home cooking.
If I had walked into my own parent’s house on Thanksgiving I wouldn't have received a warmer welcome than the one offered by Goran's family. When I am finally released from the onslaught of hugs I am introduced to Goran’s mother Zora, father Vangel who is referred to as Majstor, his wife Dragica. Their son Darko sits on Dragica’s hip as she finishes setting a second dinner on the table. When the table is set and the bottle of their wine is opened I am seated next to Majstor. As the plates are filled with pork, potatoes pickles, and wine glasses are filled the conversation slows and all eyes drift to Majstor. Everyone waits for the older gentleman to take his first bite before resuming the frenzy of conversation.
Majstor is stoic but a deep bed of coals is smoldering with kindness just beneath the surface of his work-worn exterior. His overalls and faded blue cap are clean and timeworn to the point that they shine. With a grunt that accompanies achy knees, the gentleman rises, retrieves, and opens a beer from the kitchen, his left hand remaining comfortably in his pocket at his hip at all times. On the other hand, his right hand is stout and capable. He uses it alone as if to say that one is simply enough to accomplish the simple tasks.
In Macedonian, the word majstor means artificer or jack of all trades and the dignified gentleman at the head of the table seems to embody the word perfectly. I later learn that he built every inch of the house we are in.
Having settled at the table Majstor reaches over, clasps me on the back of the neck, and gives a toast. Goran translates, “Majstor says you are welcome to our house. He says we never have a foreigner here and is very happy you here to see our life.” Majstor pats me on the shoulder as he sits down. Humbled is hardly a strong enough word to describe my feelings. I settle for the words that are most readily available, knowing that they won't come anywhere close to the sentiment I'd like to communicate.“Thank you for making me feel so welcome. Your home vineyard and family are beautiful. I am honored to be here.”
“Nasdravye,” says Majstor satisfied with the formal welcomes. The rest of us respond with the same and sip the wine pressed from the hard work of the family sitting around the table.
Goran mixes his eating with fitting around the house and grabbing photos of the family and artifacts from their life --explaining the history and significance of each as they are handed to me for inspection. A photo of his grandparents, school papers, and a newspaper clipping in a frame proudly featuring a young Majstor holding a clarinet pass through my hands between bites of fried potatoes and pork. When asked about the clarinet Majstor suddenly grows somber and focuses his eyes on his dinner. The family exchanges glances and I realize if touched something painful. Goran takes it upon himself to explain in proud but very measured words that Majstor was a great musician but he can no longer play.
The fact that Majstor doesn't speak English is irrelevant. I watch him react to Goran's explanation of the photo and sense that I've inadvertently happened upon a sorrowful subject. I nod in silence. Majstor’s eyes drift to the mantle of the fireplace where the clarinet in the picture lays lifeless. The dust and tarnish seem to mock him. The cobwebs holding the instrument to the mantle are more like chains that serve as a reminder of a talent lost in plain sight.
Doncho, who has been quietly observing the evening unfold takes it upon himself to change the course of the conversation. “No Muslim, yes?” “No. I'm not a Muslim,” I reply. Doncho laughs breaking the tension and reaches across the table to shake my hand.
Dinner continues without incident. Goran returns from an adjacent room with both arms full of a sculpture made from the root system of a grape vine. It is carved and polished to look like a giant crow. Not unlike the one I know is pacing somewhere nearby cawing incessantly at an abandoned tractor tire or some nonsense.
When the last of the meal has been wiped from our plates with the bread a collective sigh fills the room. Bellies content and coffee in hand Goran and Doncho are standing in the kitchen whispering to each other. At first, I think nothing of it but their sideways glances at me and serious faces make me uneasy. Doncho returns to his seat at the table and lights a cigarette. The look of anticipation on his face is interrupted when Goran reappears holding a gun.
I'll stop here and say that I am not a stranger to guns; I grew up around them. Shooting and hunting were constants throughout my childhood. But the appearance of “Guns for war,” as Doncho puts it, reminds me of the risk I've swept into my lap. Goran brandishes the rifle and the rest of the family rises from their seats as if a new honored guest has entered the room. To further fan the flames of my angst Goran announces, “Now we see under the house.”
The warm smile plastered on my face is battling with my feet, suddenly frozen to the floor beneath me. The icy presence of the unknown radiates through my boots from whatever is “under the house.” My host’s smiles are twinged with mischief as they lead me out the door and around the back of the house. The combination of alcohol and adrenaline spark the subconscious instinct to decide between three options. #1, Flight, I rule this out as sprinting alone through the Macedonian countryside would inevitably lead to my hosts picking me up in the Yugo. #2 Fight, which I decide against, as engaging in combat with armed strangers in possession of firearms only seems like a good recipe for getting shot. And finally, #3, Soil, my body leaves this option as a maybe. After all, the likelihood of relieving myself out of fear is the most plausible option.
Goran cradles a rifle under his arm and twists an iron key into the padlock. He rattles the chain holding the door to the cellar closed free. With the unsettling cry of iron dragging against iron, the thick hatchway swings into the moonlight.
As I descend the short flight of stairs into the void, option #3 comes dangerously close to becoming a reality. Majstor is somewhere further down leading the way into the blackness. Doncho lights a cigarette and in the momentary flash of light, I see saws drills, and other tools in varying states of decay. A fluorescent tube flickers once, I see photos on the wall of Goran dressed in full military uniform. A second flicker reveals dozens of guns in various states of assemblage. With a burst of certainty the light blinks and remains. The world pauses for a moment as my eyes adjust to the greenish light. Goran stands with his arms raised toward the makeshift armory, lined with hundreds of guns, His face is beaming. “Guns for war!” he exclaims.
“No Muslim, yes?” asks Doncho. This time, the meaning of his question is clear. He doesn't break into laughter and slap his knee after a pause for dramatic effect. He nods and exhales a grey cloud of smoke.
By force of habit, Majstor finds himself at a workbench. He is straightening tools and sweeping sawdust and metal shavings to the floor. His left hand, free of its pocket, clumsily grasps a rag brushing debris to the floor. I catch a glimpse of the hand that has spent the evening safely tucked in the hip pocket of his overalls. What fingers Majstor has left are mangled and scarred.
“This is what we do,” Goran says. “The Albanians come to take our homes so we make guns for war. We fight to keep our home.” Two ideas hit me at once. The first is, I'm not the enemy, so I no longer have to fear for myself. The second is more complicated. While I am not the enemy, my new friends are making weapons and using them to kill their neighbors to the west.
The stone fist of complexity falls from my mind into my guts once again. The whole evening falls into questions. Haven't we laughed together? Haven't we shared meals and wine? And haven't we enjoyed the simplest good things in life? All those good things are now mixed with the rawest aspects of life. The fuzzy picture I have been viewing throughout the evening snaps into focus and the grotesque presence of hate, fear and war are prominently featured.
In 2001, conflict erupted in Macedonia as a result of nearly 350,000 Albanians fleeing Kosovo and the conflict there. At first, they were accepted as lesser but protected people segregated into settlements in the western part of the country. The Albanian National Liberation Army (NLA) began fighting for increased rights of their people within Macedonia. At that time 22% of the population of Macedonia was Albanian and the restrictions on their use of their language and flag added fuel to the fire of what would eventually surface as an armed conflict. The unconfirmed goal of the NLA was supposedly to return western Macedonia to what they believe is Greater Albania. The Macedonian military and citizens fought to ensure that this would not happen, bringing us to this basement and the reason my new friends have taken it upon themselves to manufacture weapons for themselves and their countrymen.
I've only been in Macedonia for a few short days but I understand enough about the conflict to know that the Macedonians are not completely innocent. Doncho’s questioning about whether or not I am a Muslim is evidence of a deeply seated prejudice that stems from years of friction.
Just as Majstor followed his instinct to clean and straighten when he entered the workshop, I follow mine and start shooting photos and asking questions. My work is my defense mechanism and I default to gathering information instead of fixating on the hate and fear that motivates my new friends. Half of my mind knows that it is the only way I will be able to understand this evening and the other half knows I never will.
Majstor returns from his workbench awkwardly grasping a rifle. Goran acts as his translator as he walks me through the various components of a rifle and how they are machined. Eventually, my introduction to gunsmithing brings us to a table saw where Goran's translation is no longer needed. Majstor mimes the process of running what will eventually become the stock of a rifle through the saw and makes a slicing motion with his right hand. It's hard to believe that the injury that cost Majstor his fingers, his ability to play the clarinet, and even hold a rag happened right here where I stand. Visions of his blood and panic scatter my thoughts which are only refocused when Goran hands me a framed award from the Macedonian government touting his marksmanship. The award is not specific regarding what exactly Goran was particularly adept at shooting. I don't ask. There are something's I would rather not know.
We all return to the living room of the house and I shoot photos of each family member holding their guns. Something deep is flowing from each of them as I shoot their pictures. Something I don't understand. Maybe it's nationalism. Maybe it's the flood of confidence that having guns brings in its wake. I don't know. But each member of the family took the weapons and held them with stone faces. They look straight through my camera and into the eyes of any individual who would dare attack their homeland.
Once the photos are taken, Goran’s son Darko is hoisted into my arms. It amazes me that the small fellow is still up. I wonder how his father will explain the Albanians someday. Regret and understanding are more than I dare to dream, though nothing would make me happier. I would be content to think he would tell Darko a simple, “It’s complicated,” but I know that is unlikely. The boy’s heavy eyes begin to drift away and he lays his head in the crook of my neck. I can't remember being trusted so readily something awakens inside me that has been asleep my whole life. The part of me that I now refer to as Rule #1. Always get involved.
Having crawled out from another pile of hugs and kisses on the cheek, Goran, Doncho and I crawl in and slam the doors on the Yugo. I think about calling shotgun so I don't have to sit in the back seat but the concept might be difficult to explain to the pair of gunsmiths.
Our last stop of the evening is a quiet little bar. The place feels like a church where old men come to remember the feats of their fathers. A soccer game is on TV that no one is watching. If their eyes drift from their beers or belly buttons it's to the portrait of Tito hung high on the wall. The portrait of the leader of the former Yugoslavia calls down from the wall like a crucifix. Asking patrons to remember their country as it was.
I catch a glimpse of black wings flutter and disappear out of the window as Goran and Doncho raise their beers. My coffee joins their beers in the evening’s final toast. More solemn than celebratory, the toast fits well in this place. Glancing around, I can tell that this is the bar where men come to sit quietly with others doing the same and I follow suit. With the exception of brief introductions to a few of the other patrons, we sit in silence. Doncho overcomes the last cigarette in his pack. Goran briefly confirms that I know that who Tito is, I nod. And I smile. And we sit. Complicated. And wonderfully so.
