We Must Live

"Eh! Eh! Na zdravje!" said Boge, as he motioned his shot glass of rakia towards me. His friends, Jobe and Jove followed in suit, grins on their faces as they encouraged me to toast with them. It was my sixth glass of rakia that afternoon. I smiled wryly but, still very game gave them a cheeky wink, raised my glass and joined in cheer "Na zdravje!"

I was in Kratovo, Macedonia, a tiny village in the north east, set in the valley of a dormant volcano. Once a wealthy and vibrant mining town to over 50,000 people it was now home to around 7,000 residents living a peaceful existence in its winding cobblestone streets.

I had arrived on the early bus from Skopje that morning, and leaving my accommodation to fate, word spread quickly in the village of my arrival. Before long a kind looking man approached me, an expectant grin on his face. "Dobar den!" he said. "You look for hostel?" I smiled and replied that I was.

Offering me a room, Stevce and his wife Valentina spent the day walking me through the local produce. Walnuts soaked in honey, green figs cased in a crispy caramelised coating, and a lesson in making their famous salt seasoning, k'cana sol, with an oversized wooden mortar and pestle.

That afternoon I was led to the top of the Clock Tower where I was introduced to my new friends, Boge, Jobe and Jove. The trio were the musical maestros of the town, their skin leathered from eighty something years spent in the sunshine, swapping local gossip, drinking coffee and playing traditional ethno music.

Each adorned a traditional Macedonian outfit. Vibrant beads, gold tinted medals and braids dangled from white dress length shirts, with colorful woven scarves tied around the belly of their white pants. Black and red wool socks were pulled up high, the outfit completed with brown leather strapped shoes and a square shaped black fur hat. Boge was my favourite. He sported a full head of thick white hair, with tufts of an Elvis style quiff poking out from underneath his cap, a nervous laugh was never far from his saw-toothed mouth.

The trio played together that afternoon on wooden flute, bagpipes and drums. They told ancient legends of gold smuggling to Istanbul and secret languages amongst the villagers, all while we sat around a table with flying glasses of rakia and a spread of local food. I sat for a moment in a drunken daze. How had I found this rare gem?

It didn't matter.

"Eh! Eh! Na zdravje!" said Boge, my seventh glass of rakia already poured.