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Montenegro

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Nomads and Cuff Links

I was on the terrace of a fancy Dubrovnik hotel in jeans and a T-shirt. A big shot was at the next table with his hair just right, a coat and tie, and fancy cuff links. I thought, wouldn’t it make more sense if the poor and powerless were the ones who had to dress up like that?

In Dubrovnik, the cruise ship crowds were so intense that we literally could not do our filming in the middle of the day. The city was inundated…a human traffic jam. I got a bit down. Then, as is so often the case, things cleared out and the town regained its charm. Those who stay after the tenders have stopped ferrying people back and forth enjoy a town the thousands who blitzed it from their ship have no appreciation of. It’s sad to think that the vast majority of Dubrovnik’s visitors see a hellishly crowded city and probably leave with the wrong impression. Even if they think they liked Dubrovnik, they didn’t really get to meet it.

There’s a buzz about how humble little Montenegro is emerging as “the new Mediterranean hotspot.” The tourist board there put my film crew in an “emerging hotspot” designer hotel on the Bay of Kotor. It was so elite and reclusive that I expected to see Idi Amin poolside. (Actually, I think he’s dead…but I thought it would be cool if they had a blow-up version of him just parked next to the pool on a lounge chair with a cocktail.)

The hotel, open just a month, was a comedy of horrible design. We felt like we were the first guests. My bathroom was far bigger than many entire hotel rooms — but the toilet was jammed in the corner. I had to tuck up my knees to fit between it and the sink cabinet. The room was dominated by a big Jacuzzi tub for two. I am certain there wasn’t enough hot water available to fill it. I doubt it will ever be used, except for something to look at as you’re crunched up on the toilet. My bed was vast, but without a side table light or even access to a light switch. A huge rain storm hit with fury enough to keep the automatic glass doors opening and closing on their own. Nothing drained — a torrent ran down the stairs outside the front door, and everything was dripping. With the rain, a horrible smell drove us out of our rooms. Just as we sat down to our breakfast, the storm knocked out the electricity. Looking past the candelabra on our table, the overwhelmed receptionist explained with a shrug, “When it rains, there is no electricity.” The man who runs the place just looked at us and said, “Cows.” (I think he meant “chaos.”)

Looking in the mirror the other day, I noticed how white my teeth looked. It reminded me that when I asked my dentist the best way to get my teeth whitened, he said, “Get a tan.” It’s so great to be getting sunshine and exercise on the road.

We drove by a Gypsy camp switchbacking from the Mediterranean coast up into the interior of Montenegro. Our guide explained the local Gypsies don’t want to go to school and don’t want to work. I commented that they don’t want their children to be taught lifestyles that threaten their nomadic ways. The camp was absolutely filthy. Our guide said, “That’s their aesthetic.” I couldn’t really imagine a society with an aesthetic to be sloppy…as if moms bark at her kids, “You can’t go out to play until you mess up your room.”

All over our world, nomadic cultures like the Roma (or Gypsy) culture are struggling — I think because they’re at odds with societies that require fences, conventional ownership, and non-nomadic ways. I wonder how many nomadic cultures (American Indians, Eskimos, Kurds, Gypsies) will be here in the next generation.

Cresting the mountain into the Montenegrin heartland, we came to a village that looked like it had no economy. Then a man took us into a big, blocky, white building that looked like a giant monopoly house. He opened the door and we stepped inside, under tons of golden ham peacefully aging. It was a smokehouse — jammed with five layers of hanging hamhocks. Our Montenegrin friend stoked up his fire, filled the place with smoke, and we filmed. More industry than you realize hides out in sleepy villages.

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Tito Said ‘No’ to Stalin…and We Look Suspicious with No Beards

We’ve been filming new TV shows in Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, and Bosnia for nearly three weeks.

 

Tito may have been the father of his country, but he’s dead and the only image I saw of him in the 20 days I spent in the former Yugoslavia was on this T-shirt.
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Talking with locals about their memories of growing up in Yugoslavia (which broke apart in the 1990s), people have generally good memories of the times. Marshal Tito (its strong-arm dictator) is remembered in a single phrase: “He said ‘No’ to Stalin.” People remember the stability. And time and time again people said, “It was a good time…we could travel.”

Yugoslavians were free to travel when other Communist Europeans could not because they were happy to return. Locals here remember when their “Red Passport” was worth more on the black market than an American passport. That’s because Yugoslavia was on good terms with — and its citizens could travel in — both the First World and the Second (Communist) World.

People in these countries speak what used to be called Serbo-Croatian (or Croato-Serbian depending on your ethnicity). Today the languages are all still essentially the same but, as required by each new country’s constitution, they are called Bosnian, Montenegrin, Serbian, and Croatian.

Europeans differ in how their national pride compares with their pragmatic need to connect with the rest of the world. You can read it in the letters they choose to indicate their country on car license plates and road signs. Croatia is proud: “Hr” for Hrvatska. Hellas is pragmatic: “Gr” for “Greece.” Germany is proud: “D” for Deutschland. Östereich is pragmatic: “A” for “Austria.” Magyarország needs to be pragmatic: “H” for “Hungary.” France doesn’t need to show its cards since Franceis French for “France.”

It’s interesting to see how the images lodged in my mind from past trips ripen in my head over the years — or simply change with the country. I write a script calling for a great view, painting, café, or experience — we go there and my cameraman wonders “what were you thinking?” Years ago in Croatia, there were lots of goats roasting on spits. People’s tastes have changed, the cost is up, and a goat slowly spinning over a grill is no longer an icon of the region. (Actually, in three weeks traveling here, we’ve seen less than 100 head of any kind of cattle, sheep, or goats.) It’s like my image of Greece with old guys drinking retsina wine. The Greeks are into better wine now, retsina is considered rotgut, and it has faded away from the tavern scene.

I’ve noticed every region of the Mediterranean is pushing its wine industry. Occasionally, regional pride blinds them to quality. Each region of the former Yugoslavia seems proud of the wine they produce — and none of it is any good compared to what I drank in Spain, France, and Italy. I find wine here on par with Greece. The difference: Here waiters actually admit it’s overpriced. We paid $40 to try a bottle of the best wine in Croatia. In Greece, I asked a wine merchant what local wine he’d buy for $30. He said, “With $30, I’d get three $10 bottles.”

We’ve had some great people moments, especially in remote Montenegro. Dropping in on a mountaintop, Serbian-Orthodox monastery, the monks (their long black beards matching their long black robes) told me, “You look suspicious with no beards.” In prepping them for my interview, I said part of our mission was to help Americans understand rather than fear people who were different. They joked, “We’ll have to prove to them they have reason to fear.”

Later, in the middle of a Montenegrin nowhere, we met an American family traveling with their 91-year-old mother. We shared stories of beautiful times we’ve enjoyed and lessons we’ve learned getting to know the people in this region.

Later, the grandma gave me the most encouraging compliment I’ve heard on this trip. I had to call my film crew over so she could repeat it. “Your TV show inspires me to keep going when I should be staying home.”

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Cetinje: Monks, Track Suits, and Europe’s Worst Piano

 

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Montenegro means “Black Mountain.” The place evokes the fratricidal chaos of an age when fathers taught their sons “your neighbor’s neighbor is your friend” in anticipation of future demographic struggles. When so-and-so-ovich was pounding on so-and-so-ovich (in Slavic names, “ovich” means “son,” like Johnson), a mountain stronghold was worth the misery.

From the idyllic Adriatic, I love to drive up the 26 switchbacks — someone painted numbers on each one — which take you from the Montenegrin coast into another world. At switchback #4, you pass a Gypsy encampment. At #18, you pull out for a grand view of the fjord-like Bay of Kotor, marveling at how the vegetation, climate, and ambience is completely different up here.

At #24, you notice the “old road” — little more than an overgrown donkey path — that was once the kingdom’s umbilical cord to the Adriatic. The most vivid thing I remember about my last visit — decades ago — was that a grand piano was literally carried up the mountain so some big-shot nobleman could let it go out of tune in his palace.

As we crest the peak, the sea disappears and before us stretches a basin defined by a ring of black mountains — the heartland of Crna Gora (as the locals call Montenegro). And just down the road was Cetinje, the “Old Royal Capital” as the road sign proclaimed.

Every hundred yards or so, the local towing company had spray-painted on a rock “Auto Slep 067-838-555.” You had a feeling they were in the bushes praying for a mishap. We pulled out for a photo and noticed a plaque marking where Tito’s trade minister was killed in a 1948 ambush.

This is brutal country. And it’s poor. Desolate farmhouses claim to sell smoked ham, mountain cheese, and medovina (honey brandy) — but we didn’t see a soul. Up here, the Cyrillic alphabet survives better than on the coast.

Then came Cetinje. I’m nostalgic about this town — a classic mountain kingdom (with that grotesquely out-of-tune grand piano). Established as capital in 15th century, it’s the historic heart of the kingdom of Montenegro.

The capital was taken by the Turks several times. The hedonistic Turks would generally move in and enjoy a little RP&P. Quickly realizing there was little hedonism to enjoy here, they basically just destroyed the place and moved out. The people — I envision short men with long white beards — rebuilt.

Today Cetinje is a workaday, two-story town with barely a hint of its old status. The museums are generally closed. The economy is flat. A shoe factory and a refrigerator factory were abandoned with Yugoslavia’s break-up. (They were part of Tito’s ultimately unworkable economic vision for Yugoslavia — where, in the name of efficiency, things were made en masse for the entire country is one place.) Kids on bikes roll like tumbleweeds down the main street past old timers with hard memories.

At the edge of town is the St. Peter of Cetinje Orthodox monastery — the still-beating spiritual heart of the country. I stepped in. An Orthodox monk — black robe and beard halfway to his waist — nodded a welcome.

A classic old woman in black was at a candlelit basin. I photographed her. She snarled at me like a mad cat. I recalled hearing stories of how — just two decades ago — Serbs were raping old women in Catholic churches and Croats were raping old women in Orthodox churches; and realized I couldn’t imagine the scars that these people lived with (even in places like Cetinje, which saw no actual fighting).

A service was in progress. I stepped in and stood (as everyone does in an Orthodox liturgy) in the back. The action was amazing. People — mostly teenagers in sporty track suits — were trickling in…kissing everything in sight. Seeing these rough and casual teens bending respectfully at the waist as they kissed icons, bibles, and the hands of monks was mesmerizing.

And for the first time I understood what the iconostasis (called a “rood screen” in Western European sightseeing) is all about. Used long ago in Catholic churches, and still today in Orthodox churches, the screen separates the common worshippers from the priests and holy magic. Here, with flames flickering on gilded icons, incense creating an otherworldly ambience, and almost hypnotic chanting, I stood on the commoner’s side of the screen.

Behind the screen — which, like a holy lattice, provides privacy but still lets you peek through — I could see busy priests in fancy robes, and above it all the arms of Jesus. I knew he was on the cross, but I only saw his arms. As the candlelight flickered, I felt they were happy arms…wanting and eager to give a big Slavic bear hug.

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Montenegro: Let the Experience Breathe

 

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Driving south from Dubrovnik, we hit a border in less than an hour. In the next week, my punch-drunk passport will be stamped and stamped and stamped. While the unification of Europe has made most border crossings feel archaic, the break-up of Yugoslavia has kept them in vogue here. Montenegro declared independence from Serbia just a year ago. Presto! Another border. The poorer the country, it seems, the more ornate the border formalities.

By European standards, Montenegro is about as poor as it gets. They don’t even have their own coins. With just 620,000 people, they decided, heck, let’s just use euros. (And since it’s such a tiny place, the official Eurozone countries are willing to look the other way.)

Montenegro is pretty light on sights. But along its humble Adriatic coastline is the Bay of Kotor, with its delightful main town of Kotor. People love to call it “fjord-like.” (Too many people who say “fjord-like” have never really seen a fjord. If you’ve been to Norway, you know it’s rare that something routinely described as “fjord-like” is actually fjord-like. The Bay of Kotor, however, is worthy of the description.)

At the humble town of Perast, young Montenegrin swim-trunk-clad hunks riding little dinghies jockey to motor tourists out to the island in the middle of the bay. According to legend, fishermen saw Mary in the reef and began a ritual of dropping a stone on the spot every time they sailed by. Eventually the island we see today was created, and upon that island was built a fine little church.

Cameron and I hired a hunk, cruised out, and were met by an English-speaking young woman. (The language barrier is minimal here, as English is taught from first grade in school.) She gave us a fascinating tour.

In the sacristy hung a piece of embroidery — a 25-year-long labor of love made by a local parishioner. It was as exquisite as possible, lovingly made with silk and the woman’s own hair. We could trace her laborious progress through the cherubs that ornamented the border. As the years went by, both the hair of the angels and the hair of the devout artist turned from dark brown to white. Humble and anonymous as she was, she had faith that her work was worthwhile and would be appreciated — as it was today, two centuries later, by travelers from around the world.

I’ve been at my work for 25 years — hair’s doing fine so far. I also have a faith that it (my work, if not my hair) will be appreciated. That’s perhaps less humble than the woman, but, in that way…she reminded me of me.

I didn’t take a photograph of the embroidery. For some reason, I didn’t even take notes. At the moment, I didn’t recognize I was experiencing the highlight of my day. The impression of the woman’s loving embroidery needed — like a good red wine — to breathe. That was a lesson for me. I was already, mentally onto the next thing. When the power of the impression opened up, it was rich and full-bodied…but I was long gone. Hmmm.

Back in the town, I had a bijela kava (“white coffee,” as a latte is called here) and watched kids coming home from school. Two girls walked by happily spinning the same batons my sisters spun when I was a tyke. And then a sweet girl walked by all alone — lost in thought, carrying a tattered violin case.

Even in a country without its own currency, in a land where humble is everything’s middle name, parents can find an old violin and manage to give their little girls grace and culture. Letting that impression breathe, it made me happier than I imagined it would.

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Andorra: I Go There So You Won’t Have To

I like standing high on a ridge looking into a rugged mountain-ringed basin, where nature cradles an ancient tribe. Located in the former Yugoslavia, it’s looking down on the royal city of Cetinje, the historic capital of Montenegro — Europe’s newest country (independent for about one year)…a land where you expect to see short men with long beards. It’s so humble that when the Turks came in to rape, pillage and plunder, they decided it just wasn’t worth the trouble, rolled up their carpets and went home. (I’ll be there later in this blog.)

A few days ago, my TV crew and I drove and drove to finally stand high in the Pyrenees Mountains, which separate France and Spain. Before us lay the principality of Andorra.

Europe’s midget countries have an undeniable curiosity factor. In Europe’s tiny derby, the Vatican is the big little winner. Then comes Monaco…San Marino…Liechtenstein…Malta (which, while an island in the Mediterranean, is considered part of Europe) and finally — measuring in at about 13 miles by 13 miles, with 80,000 people — Andorra. (We’re now four-fifths finished with a TV show featuring these little guys. Only Liechtenstein — also later in this blog — remains.) All of these countries would fit easily into Europe’s next smallest country…the relatively vast Luxembourg.

Andorra has a long history. In their national anthem, Andorrans sing of Charlemagne rescuing their land from the Moors in 803. In the 13th century, Spanish and French nobles married. They agreed that the principality would be neither Spanish nor French. This unique feudal arrangement survives today. And, while they have co-princes from other countries (the president of France and a Spanish bishop), locals stress that Andorra is 100 percent independent.

Until little more than a generation ago, Andorra was an impoverished and isolated backwater. Puny 12th-century churches and their stony bell towers stand as strong as the Pyrenees around them.

Recently, Andorrans have become wealthy — thanks to the same mountains that kept them so isolated and poor for so long. Hiking and skiing are big business, stoking a building boom. Huge Vail-like ski-condos, built of perfectly crafted rustic stone, both contrast and match the historic stone buildings they now dwarf and outnumber.

And Andorra employs those special economic weapons so popular among Europe’s little states: easygoing banking, duty-free shopping and low, low taxes. The principality has morphed from a rough-and-tumble smugglers’ haven to a high-tech, high-altitude shoppers’ haven — famous for its bargain-basement prices. More than 10 million visitors — mostly Spaniards and French, enduring famous traffic jams — pour in yearly to buy luxury goods, electronics and other goodies while avoiding their high taxes back home.

The country’s capital and dominant city is Andorra la Vella. On my first visit here back in the 1970s, I remember it felt like a big Spanish-speaking Radio Shack. Today, it retains the charm of a giant shopping mall. I didn’t tell the tourist board, who kindly helped us film, but if people ask, “Why Andorra?” I have to answer, “I go there so you won’t have to.”