It Happened in Vevčani: My Macedonian Embarrassment

The sun cast rays of warmth through the hostel’s common room windows.  I was sitting comfortably, on a couch deep in conversation with an assortment of other intrepid souls with whom I’d started to bond: the Macedonian brothers who own the Lake Ohrid Hostel; an Italian backpacker from Bologna; an American girl riding her bicycle through Europe; and an English couple whom I would meet again in Albania.

Keen for adventure, my ears sprung to life when mention was made of a semi-remote village tucked into the mountains on the other side of Lake Ohrid.

“It’s beautiful ... worth the effort of the journey,” relayed one of the group’s lively contributors.

If there was effort involved, then it sounded like an adventure I was ready to undertake. Without questioning the group, I consulted my infallible guidebook and discerned the most appropriate route - a befitting journey for the following day.

Getting to Vevčani

With paucity in Macedonian language skills, I managed - mostly by using an international form of sign language created for monolingual travellers - to get into a shared taxi, destination: Struga. Although not my final destination, I knew that from Struga I would somehow find my way to the village of intrigue. Overflowing with milk and honey is that which had been promised; expectations were, ergo, high.

With plenty of leg space, sitting in the back of the 1980s-model russet-coloured sedan, I cherished my seat at the window.  As I turned the silver handle partly attached to the door’s vinyl interior, the window opened and fresh air straight off Lake Ohrid rushed through my blonde locks. The ear-to-ear smile and kindred eyes directed at me in the rearview mirror induced a fleeting moment of contentment.

After paying the driver and thanking him and the other passengers for their company, I walked a short distance before stumbling across a small bus station. Written in North Macedonia’s adopted version of Cyrillic, discerning the destination written on each bus required linguistic ability, which I was lacking. Thanks to my ‘ingenuity’, the local to whom I showed ‘Vevčani’ - which I’d scribbled on a scrap of paper at the hostel - led me to the bus I needed.

Before long, I was traveling through mountain roads on my way to the promised land.

According to Lonely Planet’s newest edition of the Eastern Europe series, buses run hourly between Struga and Vevčani. 

Exploring the Town and its History

Lined by wooden houses with enduring, traditional-Macedonian features, arriving in Vevčani resembled stepping back in time: its origins, thanks to local archaeological finds, have been linked to the third century BC.

Complete with cobblestone paths, rustic structures exhibiting verandahs jutting into the street and various panoramas of Lake Ohrid, it is not surprising locals declared Vevčani a republic following the dissolution of Yugoslavia.  I was intrigued to learn that townsfolk went so far as to create passports and a ‘national’ flag, although no officialdom was ever initiated.

Despite its allure as a destination off the beaten track, walking through the winsome village revealed a beating heart and living soul: villagers smiled as they passed, carrying their shopping and tending to their children and animals.

Littered with churches, chapels and a monastery, discerning the ecclesiastical inclination of villagers is simple: Christianity has prevailed.

Getting to Know Vevčani

Common is the lament from people unfamiliar with bucolic life: ‘there is absolutely nothing to do here.’ Perhaps they lack imagination or haven’t visited Vevčani.

Just like a child in a sweet shop, the excitement at being surrounded by natural beauty bubbled forth: despite the steep incline, my legs swept me up the hill to the point of entry of the springs. Famous to Macedonians, the series of approximately eleven springs bubble down the side of Mount Jablanice, converging at various points and delivering pure mountain water to the lakes below. I spent time crisscrossing the springs on ­­­­wooden footbridges, listening to the sound of babbling water cascade over rocks and letting the crisp, fresh mountain air fill my overworked lungs.  

Aside from nature immersion and hiking, if visiting in winter, you can participate in The Carnival of Vevčani - a ritualistic masked and gowned affair steeped in pagan ritual, practiced for the last 140 years. It is a celebration of the New Year, according to the Julian calendar and welcomes visitors from all over Europe and the world. If neither of these activities inspire wanderlust, then perhaps food will.

Eating Out in Town

After walking a distance up the mountain, hunger urges commenced and sent me in search of food. Pansion Kutmičevica had been suggested as a suitable lunch venue by another traveller, mostly because of its sweeping valley views and open verandah setting.

After being escorted by the genial English-speaking host to the only table on the verandah, ordering my meal and sitting back to relax, serenity emerged: there was nowhere else I’d have preferred to be. I had unobstructed views of the valley and the shores of Lake Ohrid.

My appetite was healthy after the morning’s activities.

The aroma of roasting herbs and spices began wafting from the kitchen, out the door and directly up my nostrils, inducing salivation; thankfully, I was alone on the verandah.

The genial waiter laid a plate brimming with food before me and I thanked him. I then proceeded to devour the country meal - comprising locally sourced baked vegetables and roast meat - within minutes.

Afterwards, my seated composure became evocative of detachment from reality, as I philosophised over life: mine, at that point in time, was great.

Understanding What Not To Do in Vevčani

After lunch, while sitting at a park bench waiting for the bus back to Struga, a gentle yet odd sensation began gnawing inside my lower abdomen. I assumed a cramp from all the walking and peeled back the pages of my Maeve Binchy paperback, seamlessly engrossing myself in a new chapter.

Sometime later, during a momentary literary hiatus, I glanced sideways: I’d been joined on the bench by an elderly Macedonian woman, who was midway through chewing a mouthful of her homemade salad sandwich.

It was in this instant that the gnawing turned into cramps which I passed off as trapped wind. Throwing caution to the external wind, I nodded and smiled courteously at my co-bench dweller, then proceeded to let the cramps escape as nature had intended: silently and idealistically without odour, as flatulence.

The hope of initiating a new friendship disappeared before my eyes.

I could feel my face flush red.  It exemplified the expression of shock as well as my loss of humility and pride.  

The elderly woman was unimpressed. Her face contorted – understandably – into shapes indicative of antipathy, repulsion and disgust: through squinting eyes and a frown, she uttered Macedonian words I didn’t need a translator to comprehend. Nodding her well-combed grey-haired head from side to side, she marched back to town, never again to be seen in my presence.

As she walked away, the gravity of my predicament materialised: the flatulence I’d tried to pass with discerning and finesse had misfired.

More accurately, it had fired with a little too much ammunition, causing me to shit my pants.

I’d misread the cramps and foolishly trusted my instincts. That which I had thought to be wind was, in effect, remnants of my lunch which had emerged erroneously on a park bench onto near-white shorts.

Carrying my tiny daypack at backside level, I marched into the nearest restaurant and bluntly asked for “the bathroom?”

Noting my distress, the busty young woman pointed to a secluded area far from the seated customers. I entered the bathroom, stripped off and did what any other 26-year-old public-pant-pooper would do: I turned the hand basin into my own personal shower and literally washed the shit out of my pants.

Thanks to Spanish manufacturing, the fabric utilised to construct my shorts was hardy ... the brown stain - the size of a grape - was only partially visible. Unfortunately, its location was not ideal.

Picking my pride up off the floor, I continued to carry my daypack waist level at rear, looping my hands through its arms. It didn’t move, until I got on the bus.

As I’d offended the only other potential passenger, I travelled alone back to Struga. I watched the bus driver’s face with intent throughout the thirty-minute ride; there’d been no nostril twitching, so I was safe.

The only shared taxi I could find back to Ohrid already contained two moderately oversized backseat passengers; the front was occupied, too. I squashed myself uncomfortably between the door and a corpulent thigh, prayed and held my cheeks as close together as muscularly possible. Had I emitted an aroma, it would have been hard pressed to overcome the sweaty stench spiralling through the tepid air of the poorly ventilated sedan.

Needless to say, shortly after arriving back at the hostel, I lunged into the shower - fully clothed - and drowned the impurities of the day. My underwear were sent to their eternal resting place, inside a trash can.

Learning Valuable Lessons in North Macedonia

Of the many things to do in Vevcani, pooing one’s pants should never make it on to the list: it’s unattractive, embarrassing and frowned upon by little old Macedonian ladies. ‘Stained’ memories of the journey to this bucolic North Macedonian town will permanently be etched into the confines of my mind.

Following these simple rules will help avoid calamitous shame and embarrassment: never assume cramps are only wind, always know the location of the nearest toilet, avoid wearing light colours when travelling and always carry a change of clothing and a spare roll of toilet paper on long day trips.