The singer ran across the stage with the charisma of 1970s Meat Loaf and the physical appearance of in-his-seventies Meat Loaf. Parading around in white boots, white pants and a salmon-coloured linen shirt was a Macedonian man who had been given the final spot on stage at the Ohrid Wine Festival. Though I was unsure of whether being given the eleven o’clock spot meant that he was the headline act or the least popular act, it was clear he didn't care.
The singer sang Macedonian pop-rock with energy, intensity and enthusiasm. As his salmon shirt became overwhelmed by rivers of sweat, he did not relent. Clasping the microphone cord, he ran from one side of the stage to the other, encouraging the crowd to dance and sing along with him. He had no band, just a backing track and a sense of self-confidence which I envied. I wondered if he was a famous local singer or just the local plumber who was quite good at karaoke. Nevertheless, the singer pushed through, even providing the audience with an encore after his last song, giving into the Macedonian calls for more.
That night I only managed to catch the last two acts on stage at the Ohrid Wine Festival. Though the festival was relatively small, made up of a main stage and about twenty or so wine vendors, all of the town had come out for the first night. The stalls were set up just off of the main street of Ohrid along the banks of Lake Ohrid, a large body of water split between Albania and North Macedonia. With the Mediterranean sea one-hundred and fifty kilometres away, the lake provided some respite from the warm weather that overwhelms land-locked North Macedonia in the summer. The so-called beaches dotted along the lake’s edge welcomed local tourists with a pebbled shoreline and pristine waters. On a sunset boat tour on the night prior, I watched the sun go down over the Albanian mountain range on the other side of the lake, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink.
The night of the wine festival I had missed the sunset and, in fact, I also missed the start of the festival. My hostel put on a weekly Macedonian buffet dinner. Often hostels will put on these types of events as a money-grabbing exercise where the activity is overpriced and the end result leaves attendees unsatisfied. But the hostel I was staying in was a family-run place with a very friendly atmosphere and I was sure the meal would live up to expectation. It did not disappoint.
Just after eight o’clock we were handed a glass of homemade rakija - the incredibly high-proof alcohol found across the Balkan peninsula - and invited into the common area. The room had been transformed, with a long set table in the middle adorned with plates of ajvar (roasted capsicum dip), tzatziki, olives, feta cheese and pickled peppers. Behind the main table was the buffet with a huge pile of spinach and cheese burek, a chicken and mushroom stew, fried zucchini fritters, grilled vegetables and a large pot of Macedonia’s famous baked beans. Topped off with some local wine, which admittedly the hostel staff dispensed quite ungenerously, the mountain of food ensured we were ready to be rolled back to our dorms when the meal was over.
We sat and ate. We talked about the various places we had all travelled to in the Balkans. Some, like myself, were travelling for a long or undefined period of time. Others were just away for a week or two. We discussed the challenges of long-term travel and the unexpected delights. We shared hostel war stories, competing to see who had seen the dirtiest bathroom or had had the loudest snorer in their room. We talked for a while. We eventually left the table and made our way to the last half of the wine festival when the hostel staff told us that they really had to start cleaning up.
