Sweaty Jovan

Saturday morning we weren't up so bright and early due to the Macedonian wine, central heating and the rather volumpuous and floral duvets at our disposal - real duv-ettes! On top of that the power shower meant another long delay as we each did our best to drain the copious mountain streams and wash away as many sins as possible before we shake the arm (or rather the forearm) of Sweaty Jovan

We finally set off for the Sveti Jovan Bigorski monestary (Saint John the Baptist or Sweaty Jovan to you and me) where we had unsuccessfully sought accommodation the night before - and which was fabled to contain the forearm of him truly - in heindsight it's probably a good thing as as waking up to something reminicent of The Munsters 'Thing' or of something you may inadvertently finding yourself purchasing in a Soho adult shop, wouldn't have matched the gradness of the Hotel Tutto.

[Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors, I am on a tight timeslot at the hostel, am typing at record speed and the spell checker doesnt work on Firefox]

The monastic interlude included the Baptism of the sinner Williams! (just to be able to say I did it) an array of gayly coloured icons (with dubious poses), Oh and Ben offered into sex slavery to Sweaty Jovan - and I'd like to say that the last I saw of him he had a smile on his face and a new more wholesome life purpose, but they wouldnt take him, even with the offer of a Kinder chocolate bar and half a bottle of Whiskey thrown in for free; you'd think these hairy monks got such great offers every day! Let's face it, these orthodox monks all need a bloody haircut and their troubled faces haven't seen the sharpness of a razor blade in many a year (I doubt even a Remmington beard trimmer is beknowenced to them) and the slave child Ben comes with chocolate, booze and his own beard trimmer and they scoff - righeous pricks! (or is that cock or nob' Ben?)

With no sign of the promised forearm of Sweaty Jovan we headed back into Debar with the intention of crossing back into Albania and making our way northwards to Kosovo - however a much needed Nescafe interlude, a review of the travel requirements and wanting to see some of Skopje on our way through had us heading northwards again through the beautiful national park. The transfer made all the easier with the help of a seven year old boy (who had the maturity of a seventeen year old) who on us asking for directions, without hesitation walked from the bakers where he was helping his mother, and walked us 5 minutes down the road to the now familiar and rather depressing bus terminal.

Debar was not high on our agenda, in fact it was merely a hub through which to pass but we left after only a few hours thinking and feeling there was more to Debar than met the eye and although not aestheticly pleasing it may have warranted further investigation, oh how we loved Debar but time was pressing so we were Skopje bound after a berry tea (weird but strangely refreshing) and a couple of mexican doughnuts.

Arriving in Skopje several hours later, and again paying too much for the taxi (although too much in these parts is a matter of paying 3 euros too, so not really bank breaking mistakes) we arrived at the psychedelic Art Hostel, 70s lamps, open stairs, old leather sofas, a bed in the living room and our host the Quebecois speed junkie - I should note she wasnt 'on' speed but if you were to immagine a Quebecous on speed she would be the image that formed in your brain.

More to come...
Free running socialists
Pickpockets fuck off!
7 o'clock curfew
Viva Kosovo the youngest country in the world- and its very fine Chinese food
BLUE! sofa