Sumgait: An unendurable legacy

On a previous visit to Azerbaijan in 2014, I had travelled from Baku north-westwards to Sheki, and from there on to Tbilisi in Georgia (see entry of 24 March 2015). Along the way I visited towns and villages that illustrated the diversity of the country’s history and heritage, the remnants of peoples and civilisations that had been swept away by the moving sands of history, the migrations of peoples, by conquest or assimilation. A notable recent example had been the abrupt obliteration of the Armenian presence in Azerbaijan amid the collapse of the Soviet Union and the conflict between the nascent post-Soviet states of Azerbaijan and Armenia over Nagorno-Karabakh. On this occasion, in February 2020, I travelled to Sumgait, a short distance up the coast from Baku. The town had become notorious for the “Sumgait pogrom” in February1988, when a rampaging Azeri mob had hunted down Armenian residents, murdered them and raped them, forcing the rest of the Armenian community to flee.

The Lonely Planet guide had a very brief entry for Sumgait, describing the city as a “dystopian nightmare”, referring to its Soviet-era chemical industry. Perhaps the most uncomplimentary entry in a guidebook I had ever seen. Sumgait is indeed rather a drab city, but its depiction by the Lonely Planet seems harsh. Long, broad avenues lined with apartment buildings, typical of many Soviet towns, do little to inspire. Perhaps it was even more grim in the Soviet period. But there is a park, and monuments have been erected to give the town a civic identity. There is a long sandy beach that could indeed have been much better framed by more imaginative town planners than the architects of Soviet Sumgait. We found nice places to eat. Notably a restaurant overlooking the beach, where we ate qutab, a speciality of Sumgait, delicious pastries served with a variety of fillings, including meat, herbs, cheese and pumpkin.

Peace Dove, Sumgait

The city’s most famous monument, dating from Soviet times, is the Peace Dove sculpture, a swirling abstract representation of a dove that is the symbol of the town. Given the 1988 events for which Sumgait is famous, the monument seems grimly ironic. In the late 1980s, Sumgait had a population of over 220,000, of whom around 17,000 were ethnic-Armenians. The backdrop of the tragedy of the Armenians of Sumgait was the escalating conflict over Nagorno-Karabakh. Armenians had long been aggrieved at the inclusion of the Armenian-majority province of Karabakh in Azerbaijan. As the last Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, loosened the Soviet regime, Armenians were emboldened to push for its transfer to Armenia. That February 1988, Armenians began demonstrating in Nagorno-Karabakh’s capital, Stepanakert, for their province to be joined with Armenia, and the province’s Supreme Soviet voted to that effect.

Disquiet among Azeris in Sumgait was aggravated by inflammatory statements by some Azerbaijani officials as well as stories told by Azeris from Armenia who claimed they had been beaten and forced out. As demonstrations erupted in Sumgait, some prominent local Azerbaijanis tried to calm the crowds, telling them that the rumours were false. But this message did not go down well. Others called for Armenians to be expelled or killed. Speeches ended with the cry “Death to Armenians.” Violence broke out on 27 February, as Azeri mobs entered apartment buildings seeking out Armenians. Unspeakable acts of savagery were carried out, including gang rapes. Some bodies were so mutilated as to be unrecognisable. Thousands of Armenians were given refuge by Azeri or Russian neighbours, but notably, the local police did nothing. Interior ministry troops tried to restore order on 28 February, but were attacked by the mobs. Some of their armoured personnel carriers were turned over or put out of action with Molotov cocktails. Finally, on the 29th, armed forces with tanks entered the city, imposed martial law and escorted surviving Armenian residents to safety. The official tally of victims released by the Soviet Prosecutor’s office counted 32 dead, of whom 26 were Armenians and six Azeris. Armenian sources claimed numbers in the hundreds.

Trials were held in Moscow. While some of the perpetrators received heavy sentences, many were treated lightly, being sentenced for mere hooliganism. While Armenians were dissatisfied that the main instigators had not been punished, many Azeris felt the punishments were too severe, and even campaigned for the release of the “heroes of Sumgait.” For Armenians the pogrom was quickly linked to the 1915 genocide, and a cross stone commemorating the violence was placed at the Genocide Memorial in Yerevan. But among Azeris a conspiracy theory gained currency that the pogrom had in fact been contrived by Armenians in order to discredit Azerbaijan. In Azerbaijan the pogrom is euphemistically referred to as the “Sumgait events.” There is something particularly distasteful about blaming the atrocities dealt upon the Armenian population of Sumgait on the victims themselves, and the failure of Azerbaijan to face up to this dark moment in its recent history is as shaming as the event itself. The massacre in Sumgait was followed by pogroms against the Armenians in other Azerbaijani cities, in Kirovabad (today known as Ganza), Azerbaijan’s second city, in November 1988, and in Baku in January 1990.

For most Azeris, the narrative is about the heroism and sacrifices of their own people, the hundreds of thousands of Azerbaijanis driven out of Nagorno-Karabakh and surrounding districts captured by the Armenians in the war of the early 1990s. Outside a school in Sumgait I saw a memorial to eight former pupils, young men who had been killed in the fighting over Nagorno-Karabakh, “our martyrs” my guide told me, a young woman who had not yet been born in 1988.

On a hill overlooking the city and the Caspian Sea in Baku, the Martyr’s Alley commemorates the Azeri dead of the fist Nagorno-Karabakh war in the 1990s, as well as the victims of the “Black January” crackdown by Soviet forces which followed the pogrom against the city’s Armenian population in January 1990 and mounting disorder in the city amid demonstrations against communist rule. More than 130 people were killed during the Soviet crackdown, which succeeded in largely uniting Azerbaijanis against communist rule and strengthening demands for independence. The Martyr’s Alley had first been established as a cemetery for Muslim victims of the so-called March Events of 1918, during the civil war that followed the Bolshevik revolution, when thousands were killed. Upon coming to power, the Bolsheviks destroyed the cemetery and replaced it with an amusement park, but after the end of the Soviet Union the site was reinstated as a burial site for national heroes. Lines of graves under the trees, many with fresh flowers, and pictures of the young men they contain, mostly casualties of the Karabakh war. At one end of the Alley, overlooking the sea, is the tall domed eternal flame memorial.

The Martyr’s Alley reminds us of the thousands of Azeri casualties of the conflicts with Armenia, not just the young soldiers killed in the war, but the hundreds of thousands of Azeris driven out of Nagorno-Karabakh and the territory surrounding it that was seized by the Armenians. Atrocities had also been carried out against Azeris, notably the massacre by Armenian troops of civilians fleeing the village on Khojaly during the first Karabakh war, in February 1992. Both sides focus on the sufferings and tragedies of their own people, and the crimes committed against them, often barely even recognising that people on the other side were also wronged. What hope that one day Azerbaijan might acknowledge the massacres of Armenians in Sumgait, Baku and Kirovabad, and that Armenia might acknowledge that there was no possible justification for the killing of civilians fleeing Khojaly? More than a hundred years after the Armenian genocide in 1915, such a prospect unfortunately looks far off, and the wounds of conflict look likely to remain open.

Melons and massacres in the Fergana Valley

From Khiva I made the journey back eastwards to Tashkent by train from Urgench. It was a slow, trundling overnight journey of almost twenty hours, but my sleeper compartment was relatively comfortable. Much of the journey took us across the bleak landscape of the Kyzylkum Desert. I had planned to have supper in the restaurant wagon. My host in Khiva had told me that, as this was a domestic, Uzbekistan train, there should be no trouble getting a meal. By contrast, he said, on the international trains from Russia all the food had gone long before the train reached Urgench. But my companion in the compartment had other ideas. To my surprise, when he entered the compartment he automatically started speaking to me in Uzbek. Was it not clear from my appearance that I was a foreigner? I felt quite pleased with myself. Once he understood, he seemed delighted, repeatedly shaking my hand and clapping me on the back. I was slightly dismayed when he produced a pair of two-litre bottles of beer which he insisted on sharing with me. The idea of a long booze-filled journey was not especially appealing. It could have been worse; he didn’t have vodka. He then produced a nan loaf of bread (the typical Central Asian loaf, known to Russians as a lepyoshka) and a pot of beef stew. Eating was with the hands. I was a little disconcerted by his habit, as host, of taking pieces of meat between his fingers and offering them to me. But it was tasty, and I was grateful.

Back in Tashkent for just a single night, early the next morning I made my way to the place where shared taxis set off for the Fergana Valley. There are trains from Tashkent to Fergana, but they pass through Tajikistan, and I did not have the necessary double-entry visas. The road over the mountains, through the narrow strip of territory that links the Fergana Valley with the rest of Uzbekistan, is a good, fast road. But for some reason buses are not allowed along it. On this occasion I waited several hours before the taxi had enough passengers to depart. Driving through the pass into the Valley, there is a big checkpoint, looking very much like a border post, at which IDs are checked, and at which all foreigners entering or exiting the Valley have to be registered. It was a formality, but, handing over my passport, it felt like I was entering a different country.

Fergana does feel different, distinct. The Valley, in fact a large plain surrounded by mountains, is divided up among three former Soviet republics, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, their borders twisting around each other crazily, breaking up the natural unity of the Valley and cutting off its different parts from each other. Fed by tributaries of the Syr-Darya River, it is the most fertile region of Central Asia, quite different from the mountains, desert and steppe that predominate elsewhere. It is the most densely populated part of Central Asia too, and accounts for a large share of its agriculture. Through millennia of shifting boundaries, Fergana’s unity had been maintained until the Soviet period, when Stalin, as commissar for nationalities, sought to impose a national division on to Central Asia that had never been known before. But the different nations were jumbled up, and could not be neatly parcelled out among the newly created republics. It mattered less during the Soviet period, when they were all united within the one overarching union. But since the breakup of the Soviet Union, it has brought no end of tension, especially between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan.

Despite the overlaying of national identities on the former Khanates of Central Asia, strong regional identities remain important, and have been the key to understanding political divisions in all the Soviet successor states of the region. In Uzbekistan, the Fergana Valley is regarded with suspicion by the Tashkent elite, which has resulted in violent confrontations. Among the distinctive traits of the Valley is its conservatism, and greater piety. It has also been a breeding ground for Islamist militants. The founders of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, which was active in Tajikistan during its civil war in the 1990s, and alongside the Taliban in Afghanistan, came from the Fergana Valley. The movement was largely destroyed along with the Taliban during the US-led invasion in Afghanistan in 2001, its remnants scattered, some of them taking refuge in Pakistan. While there has in recent years been little evidence of any Islamist threat in Fergana, it has nevertheless suited the Karimov regime to brand any manifestation of opposition in the Valley as extremist.

The Khan's palace, Kokand

My first destination in the Valley was Kokand, the former capital of the Kokand Khanate, which in the 18th and 19th centuries had ruled over eastern Uzbekistan, including Tashkent, as well as bits of southern Kazakhstan and much of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. Kokand does not match its one-time rival, Bukhara, for fine architecture and historical monuments. This is partly because of the extensive destruction that accompanied the Bolshevik crackdown in 1918 on the so-called ‘Kokand Autonomy’, a rival to Bolshevik rule, during which many thousands of the city’s inhabitants were slaughtered during a three-day orgy of rape and destruction by the Red Army. Among old photos from the early 20th century in the museum in the former Khan’s palace, there is one that shows the destruction of the medressas in Kokand at that time.

It rained during most of my short stay in Kokand, but still I trudged around the old city, seeking out the remaining historical buildings. The Khan’s palace sits in a park on the other side of the main thoroughfare that bisects the city centre from the maze of streets that form the old town. It was built in the early 1870s, just as Kokand was succumbing to Russian rule. Following the Russian seizure of Tashkent in 1865, Khudayar Khan was forced, in 1868, to accept vassal status vis-à-vis the Tsar. But in 1875 just a couple of years after the completion of the palace, a rebellion drove him into exile. His replacement by his anti-Russian son prompted the Russians, the following year, to abolish the khanate and bring it under direct Russian rule, as part of Russian Turkestan. The palace has been partly restored, and now houses a museum. Interiors are richly decorated with elaborate geometric and floral patterns. The harem was demolished by the Russians in 1919.

The Narbuta-Bey Medressa, Kokand

Among the few remaining medressas (there were once 35 in Kokand, and hundreds of mosques), the Narbuta-Bey Medressa, having been closed by the Bolsheviks, was reopened after independence, only to be closed again in 2008. It has an imposing façade, reminiscent of medressas in Bukhara. Built at the end of the 18th century, craftsmen from Bukhara who had been taken captive in warfare between the two neighbouring khanates were brought to work on its construction. An elderly man appeared at the entrance, and showed me around. Having visited many disused medressas in the region, it was interesting here to peer into one of the cells leading off the courtyard, which had been restored. Sparsely decorated, there was a platform at the back of the room where students would have slept, on the floor a carpet. The cells on the outside of the building, flanking the entrance, were occupied.

Behind the medressa is an old graveyard, including a couple of rather grand mausoleums where members of the Kokand royal family were laid to rest. Among them is Nodira, the wife of Umar Khan. When her husband died in 1822, leaving an heir who was still a child, Nodira took over as ruler, evidence that, in the Islamic world too, it was not doubted that women were no less capable of ruling than men, even if it was never publicly acknowledged. Nodira was most notable as a poet, considered one of Uzbekistan’s greatest. She wrote in both Uzbek and Tajik. Under her, Kokand became a centre of the arts. She remains a hugely popular figure in Uzbekistan, and Nodira is a popular girl’s name. She appeared on a postage stamp issued after Uzbekistan’s independence. Her son, Madali Khan, extended Kokand’s borders to their furthest extent, but his expansionism brought down the wrath of Nasrullah Khan of Bukhara, who had executed the two British emissaries, Stoddart and Conolly, that same year. In 1842, Nasrullah captured Kokand, and had Madali, his brother and Nodira all put to death.

The old town, Kokand

From Kokand, I continued eastwards to Andijan, not far from Osh, across the border in Kyrgyzstan, which I had visited the previous year. This time I decided to go by bus. Kokand’s bus station is right by the Dekhon Bazzar, with its busy little workshops, men hammering out pieces of metal into the desired shapes, rows of stalls selling nan bread, towers off water melons, and piles of grapes, oranges, olives and figs. I bought my ticket, in fact just a little slip of paper with something the seller had scribbled on it. And then I waited. Someone offered me a seat. Men came and chatted to me. Where was I from? Which football team did I support?

Then the colourful little bus pulled up, and we all piled in. Apparently the scrawl on my ticket included my seat number, but the numbers on the seats did not go as high as mine, and in fact any idea of reservations was a nonsense. Everyone took whichever they could. The friends I had made while waiting took care of me, and I was given a seat. As we trundled out of Kokand, more and more people piled in. Soon the bus was crammed full with people from the villages along the way, together with the provisions they had bought in the town. Some stood, others sat on their bags. It was all immensely cheerful. However crushed and uncomfortable, people laughed and joked and offered round pieces of fruit and biscuits, as if it were all a big party. The ticket seller, who had to push and shove his way around the bus, joined in the fun, joking as he went. He also spoke a little English. When he translated my humdrum answers to his questions about myself, my home, the ladies around us hooted with laughter. I smiled uncertainly, not knowing what he had told them about me.

There are many good things about Andijan. First of all, the hotel I stayed in was terrific; a big, comfortable room, a swimming pool, and a marvellous breakfast, all for a very modest price. The thing I enjoyed most of all was the melons. Fergana is famous for them. Andijan’s most celebrated son is Babur, founder of the Mughal Empire. Born in Andijan, he succeeded as ruler of Fergana near the end of the 15th century, at the age of 12. At 15, he conquered Samarkand. However, facing rebellions, he ended up losing both Andijan and Samarkand. His fortunes later rose, as he captured Kabul and ruled Afghanistan before moving on to the conquest of India. But it seems he never ceased to lament the loss of his homeland, or of Samarkand, the capital of his ancestor, Timur. In his memoir, the Baburnameh, Babur wrote repeatedly of the delights of melons. He knew what he was talking about. I have never eaten more delicious, juicier, sweeter melons than those I ate in Andijan. Other fruits were excellent as well. The figs were wonderful.

The Eski Bazaar, Andijan

I hopped in a minivan to go to the old town, clustered around the sprawling Eski (‘Old’) Bazaar, one of the most inspiring in Central Asia, with its piles of produce, the rich bounty of Fergana’s fertile land. I ate there two or three times during my stay. Everything seemed tasty. The salads were wonderful, the tomatoes sweet and delicious. It is something that had struck me before in the Fergana Valley, during stays in Osh, in Kyrgyzstan, as well as Khujand, in Tajikistan. The food is good in Fergana. It is typical, simple Central Asian fare, laghman, manty, shashlik and the rest. But somehow it is better, tastier, fresher. The chaikhana I frequented during my stay was bustling with life and colour. Each time I received a warm greeting, and a cheerful sense of fun as we tried to work out what I should eat. I found Andijan delightful.

A chaikhana, Andijan

Since 2005, the name Andijan is associated with something altogether more negative, the massacre that took place there in May of that year. The violence of the security forces, the huge over-reaction of the authorities, speaks volumes about the regime’s paranoia, its fear of its own people. Concerns about the oppressiveness of the regime had been growing for some time. Uzbekistan had acquired strategic importance for the United States and its allies following the invasion of Afghanistan. From 2001 to 2005, Uzbekistan hosted a US military base, which was used in supporting its operations in Afghanistan. The importance of this trumped human rights concerns. Things changed after the massacre. The Americans departed at the insistence of the Uzbekistan government following US criticism of the bloodshed in Andijan.

In 2004, the British ambassador in Uzbekistan, Craig Murray, had been forced to resign following his outspoken criticism of the country’s human rights record and what he saw as the tolerance of it by the US administration of President George W. Bush. In an interview with the Guardian newspaper, he had said that "there is no point in having cocktail-party relationships with a fascist regime". Murray fell out of favour with the UK Foreign Office. He was removed from his post in Tashkent, and agreed to resign from the diplomatic service the following year. Whatever the reasons for his falling out of grace, his case illustrates the dilemma faced by diplomats (and international organisations) when they have to maintain relations with a distasteful regime. Unlike many, Murray chose not to dodge that dilemma.

The backdrop to the massacre was the trial of 23 local businessmen, who the authorities, with precious little evidence, accused of Islamic extremist activities. Specifically, they were accused of membership of the Akromiya movement, inspired by an imprisoned mathematician, Akrom Yuldoshev, who in the early 1990s had written a pamphlet calling on businesses to pool resources for the common good of society, in line with Islamic principles. More likely is that they were caught up in a power struggle following the purge of a long-serving Andijan governor. In a country submerged in corruption and cronyism, the arrests may have been part of a crackdown on businesses not under the thumb of the authorities. When the trial began in February 2005, protesters gathered outside the courtroom, their numbers gradually swelling over the following weeks.

Matters came to a head following the arrest on 12 May of several protesters and relatives of the accused men. The next day, armed men attacked the prison, releasing the 23 men as well as several hundred others. Several prison guards were killed. The armed men also seized Andijan’s government administration building, taking several senior officials hostage. They tried but failed to take over the headquarters of the National Security Service. Their principal demand was the resignation of Karimov. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the trial, this was clearly a serious criminal act, an act of rebellion, to which the authorities had to respond. But the violent and indiscriminate nature of their response was beyond all proportion to the threat they faced. The massacre came not long after the colour revolutions in Georgia and Ukraine. Perhaps the example of those exercises in popular will impelled Karimov to such a fierce response in Andijan. Perhaps he thought the US-led ‘war on terror’ gave him cover for such violence against his own citizens.

During 13 May, protesters continued to gather on the central Bobur Square. That evening, the square was sealed off and security forces attacked the crowds, according to witnesses firing indiscriminately. The numbers of victims are disputed, but several hundred were killed, including children. The government blamed Islamist extremists for the violence, but most of the dead were ordinary civilians. Thousands of panicked people fled for the border, seeking refuge in Kyrgyzstan. The crackdown did not stop there. Following the events, many journalists went into exile. Several international NGOs and media organisations were forced out. Uzbekistan’s already sham democracy had been snuffed out, all pretence gone. This was now a regime whose legitimacy derived from brute force.

Since the events of May 2005, Bobur Square has been renamed Navoi Square, after Alisher Navoi, the great 16th century poet. The statue of Babur that had stood there has been moved (it is now close to the hotel where I stayed). A big open space, criss-crossed by major roads, there is nothing to indicate what happened there. All is now peaceful, no obvious sign of tension. A gang of colourfully dressed women tilled over the earth on a roundabout at one end. The people of Andijan went busily about their work. They smiled happily. They were welcoming and hospitable to the visiting foreigner. But it cannot be imagined that the events of 2005 have been forgotten. The scars are surely there.

Kavala and Mohammed Ali Pasha

To the east of Thessaloniki, on the Macedonian coast, Kavala is an attractive little town. The old town climbs up a hill above the bay, its narrow streets lined with Ottoman-era buildings, with their enclosed balconies reaching out across the road. The roads lead up to the Byzantine fortress, which was extended by the Ottomans. Beyond the hill is an aqueduct, built during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent, in the 16th century. I enjoyed an evening meal at a restaurant owned by Greek migrants from Georgia, some of the many Black Sea Greeks who have moved to Greece since the end of the Soviet Union, the final extinction of a community going back nearly three millennia. Looking through the menu, I spotted khinkali, a kind of big Georgian ravioli, filled with seasoned minced meat, and a delicious broth that has to be slurped out. It is a Georgian dish, explained the waiter, who then told me that he and his family came from Tbilisi. The khinkali were not bad either. Not the best to be had, but not bad, so far away from Georgia.

Kavala was part of the Ottoman Empire from the late 14th century until 1912. One of its main claims to fame is that it was the birthplace of Mohammed Ali Pasha, father of modern Egypt, which he ruled for the first half of the 19th century. He founded a dynasty that reined until Nasser’s revolution in the 1950s. In 1801, Mohammed Ali had gone to Egypt as second-in-command of an Albanian contingent of an Ottoman force sent to restore authority after Napoleon’s brief occupation. By a mixture of military campaigning, cunning and ruthlessness, he managed to seize control of the whole country. At its height, his power eclipsed that of the Sultan, and for a time his rule extended over much of the Near East, almost reaching Istanbul itself.

The Imaret, Kavala

But Mohammed Ali did not lose contact with his roots in Kavala. He commissioned the building of the Imaret, a Muslim theological college. Nowadays it has been renovated as a luxury hotel. From the outside, stretched along a hillside overlooking the sea, it is an impressive sight. It has been described as the best preserved Ottoman-era building in Greece. Unfortunately, it was closed for renovation when I visited, so I was unable to see the interior.

Mohammed Ali Pasha’s home, Kavala

Close by the Imaret is Mohammed Ali’s family home, preserved as a museum. Upstairs, a large living room has been restored in the style of a traditional Ottoman haremluk, surrounded by low divans, covered with cushions, a low round table in the middle, and a conical fireplace on the back wall. I had seen such recreations before, in Albania, but what I had not seen before was a restored privy and washroom. I confess I was fascinated. In concept, it was not much different from the outdoor hole in the ground toilets I have encountered in rural areas in the Caucasus and Central Asia.

In a square next to the house is a statue of Mohammed Ali on a horse, in the act of either drawing or sheathing his sword, a rare example of a Greek town honouring one of its sons who was a Muslim, and who was not Greek. But what was Mohammed Ali? I had understood he was Albanian, like the troops who were the backbone of the army he led to Egypt. When, in 2011, I visited the Alabaster Mosque in Cairo, which was commissioned by Mohammed Ali and which contains his mausoleum, my Egyptian guide too described him as Albanian (see post of 5 January 2012). But the young Greek guide at Mohammed Ali’s house in Kavala told me this was disputed, and that in Turkey he was claimed as a Turk. It was claimed, so he told me, that the notion that Mohammed Ali was Albanian was a misunderstanding caused by the fact that the troops that he led to Egypt were Albanian. The issue could apparently inflame passions. The young man told me of an occasion when parties of Turks and Albanians visiting the house at the same time had a fierce row over the matter.

Mohammed Ali Pasha, Kavala

In the Ottoman period, the question of Mohammed Ali’s nationality would have been of secondary importance. He was an Ottoman Muslim, and that was what counted. Although he ruled over Egypt, he never learned Arabic, and the language of his court was Turkish. Some contemporary diplomatic visitors claimed his native language was Albanian. But indeed, he might in any case have known the language of his soldiers. The young Greek at Mohammed Ali’s house in Kavala told me that at the time of his birth, in 1769, the population of Kavala was almost entirely Turkish, with just a very small Christian population. He thought there would have been very few Albanians there, apart from the soldiers of the garrison. Yet there were Albanians almost everywhere in Greece during the Ottoman period, including nearby Salonika. With the information I had, I could not conclude either way. I had liked the idea that an Albanian, a chancer from one of Europe’s smaller nations, had become ruler of an Empire in Egypt, Sudan, western Arabia and the Levant, and one of the most notable historical figures of his day.

Travellers in Šibenik

In setting out on a journey through Dalmatia, revisiting many places I had been to before, as well as some I had not, I was inspired by a book by the excellent Sonia Wild Bićanić on past British travellers in the region (British Travellers in Dalmatia, 1757-1935, Faktura, Zaprešić, 2006). I envisaged myself following in the footsteps of such travellers as Robert Adam, A.A. Paton, J. Gardner Wilkinson and T.G. Jackson in the 18th and 19th centuries. The experience today, in the age of mass tourism, aeroplanes, buses and tourist offices is vastly different to what those earlier adventurers found. In the 1880s Jackson could write of Dalmatia as “a strange, mysterious and almost unknown shore.” Nowadays you can fly there with Easyjet.

Yet in Šibenik I could look at the same old streets as Jackson, still dominated by the marvellous cathedral of St James, which so inspired him. Jackson approached the city by sea, passing through the narrow channel into the elongated bay that leads to the city and the mouth of the Krka river. He described it as “an imposing mass of picturesque old houses piled up the mountainside, with the great white-domed cathedral in the middle.” I arrived overland, but the impression is much the same.

Cathedral of St James, Šibenik

The architecture of the cathedral is noteworthy, built entirely by blocks of stone, pre-carved before being lifted into place. Great interlocking stone slabs make up the roof on one side and the ceiling on the other. It was built in several stages in the 15th century, but the principal architect was Juraj Dalmatinac, who was born in nearby Zadar. In 2000, it was proclaimed a UNESCO World Heritage site. Jackson, a leading Oxford architect, was astounded, describing the cathedral as one of the wonders of Christendom, its architecture ‘original to the point of daring’, adding that ‘it would be difficult to match it in singularity of construction.’ The cathedral’s ornate baptistery, to one side of the main alter, is particularly fine. A notable and unusual feature is the depiction of God the Father on the ceiling above the baptismal font, as an old man with flowing long hair.

Also appealing are little touches of humour in the cathedral’s construction. Either side of the side entrance, giving on to the central town square, are touching statues of Adam and Eve, naked and sheepishly holding hands over their private parts, their faces pictures of embarrassment. Around the outside of the apse are sculptured portraits said to be of people known to Juraj Dalmatinac, some of them plainly caricatures.

Out of the tourist season, Šibenik was quiet, nearly deserted on the Saturday evening when I arrived. It came to life on Sunday, as people gathered on the square outside the cathedral, drinking coffee in the sunshine, spilling out of the cathedral following the morning Mass. Among the devotees attending the Mass was a group of men and women from Bosnia decked out in traditional dress, who performed traditional dances for the onlookers, the older men intoning haunting, wailing, almost howling chants.

Sunday lunch was at a restaurant overlooking the cathedral entrance, Pelegrini. A marvellous place, highly unusual in my experience of Dalmatian restaurants, its cooking displayed a sophistication, ambition and adventurousness I had not previously associated with the region. Seafood in Dalmatia can be very nice, so long as you are happy with a narrow repertoire of grilled fish, crustaceans, seafood pasta dishes and risottos. Nice, but safe and unexciting. And unfortunately not always very nice, with a surfeit of restaurants offering poor quality, over-cooked fare aimed principally at ripping off easily pleased tourists. But Pelegrini is so far above all that. I started with an aubergine soufflé, perfectly executed, light and delicious. I followed it with a mushroom risotto with truffles – yum. And their home-baked bread was exceptional.

Šibenik is a charming and rewarding town to walk around and explore, with beautiful views around almost every corner in its narrow streets and alleys, and intimate little squares. So many of the buildings feature wonderfully ornate stone doorways and windows, attesting to the wealth once enjoyed by the town’s notable residents. Little churches abound, most of them closed at this time of year. Among them is a small Orthodox Church, the centre of the Serbian Orthodox diocese. Serbs have clung on in Šibenik, despite ongoing resentment from the war in the 1990s, when Serb rebel forces controlled territory inland from the city.

The Krka waterfalls

Jackson travelled by boat up the River Krka, marvelling at the waterfalls. With none of the tourist boats operating in November, I travelled by bus, but the falls are still splendid, a series of cascades interspersed with blue-green pools, framed by the greens, reds, browns and yellows of autumnal trees. Nowadays there are wooden walkways enabling the visitor to stroll around the network of pools and falls. There is a cluster of stone buildings, given over to tourism today, although closed when I visited. In their day they housed mills, powered by the water flows. Gardner Wilkinson also travelled up the Krka, continuing to the Franciscan monastery of Visovac, and then on to the Orthodox monastery of Michael the Archangel.

Blood sausage and chestnuts in Zagreb

Any time of year can be lovely in Zagreb. Walking up Sljeme, the mountain on the edge of Zagreb, on a crisp autumn day, with the trees a mass of golds and browns, and still some greens, is a delight. And autumn has its special food opportunities. Krvavice (blood sausages) on Sljeme, with kiseli kupus (sauerkraut) have me salivating even before the plane touches down at Zagreb airport. Nowhere else have I enjoyed black pudding as much as here, deliciously spicy, homemade. That’s what makes the food in the Sljeme mountain huts so special. Good simple fare, sourced from local peasants, homemade, luscious.

And it’s also the time of year for chestnuts, found in abundance on Sljeme. Sunday walks punctuated with long detours to pick them by the sack full. Roasted chestnuts on sale in squares and on street corners; the cooperative effort of roasting and peeling our own at home; pureed chestnuts served with cream; cakes made of chestnuts with cream and chocolate. Gorging ourselves on chestnuts.

None of this is sophisticated fare, just simple, traditional and delicious. Zagreb is in many ways a conservative place. I hope it stays so, and that all the things that delight me so do not change. Let them open new, fancier restaurants, catering to more cosmopolitan tastes. But let’s keep the old pleasures as well.

I was sorry to see that my favourite Kod Žaca is no more, at least not in the form it used to be. A cosy little restaurant near the Archbishop’s garden, run by a couple of young boys from Slavonia, but with cuisine from Istria. Can there be two cuisines more dissimilar than Slavonian and Istrian? One old gentleman from Rijeka told how, when he first married, he wondered whether his Slavonian wife was trying to kill him with the heavy food she served. But, as my Italian friend, one of their most faithful customers, put it, the mama of the two boys at Kod Žaca had taught them well. Wonderful food. Delectable steaks. Perfectly textured gnocchi with a truffle sauce. And such an atmosphere, and such generosity. It felt like we were their guests, in their own home. A grater and a truffle were placed in front of the eater, who was left to grate his own. It was at Kod Žaca that I first tasted the delicious Istrian honey liqueur, a wonderful aperitif. And again, no messing about; the bottle and glasses were simply placed on the table, the guests left to serve themselves. I have not tasted as good anywhere else. They had their own source. The restaurant was, I think, not legal, part of the grey economy; there was no sign outside the door. That did not stop prominent politicians eating there. Now there is a sign, still called Kod Žaca, but a pizzeria.

Plov and lepeshka in Kyrgyzstan

Leaving behind the modern comforts of Bishkek, we boarded a flight for the southern city of Jalal Abad, close to the border with Uzbekistan. The flight, in an old, rickety little aircraft, with seats that would not go into the upright position, and smelling much like the old and decrepit buses still found around the former Soviet Union, was not a lot of fun. The weather was atrocious, and the plane kept swooping and diving, leaving stomachs behind as it went. I concentrated hard not to spill the beaker of water the stewardess had given me, as she struggled up and down the floor of the plane, now sloping one way, now the other. One of our party sat next to an official from the transport ministry who told him that the model of plane we were flying in was now outlawed in Kyrgyzstan, but it was still flying – just.

Arriving, relieved, at Jalal Abad airport, we had to wait for our luggage in the driving rain. Turning around, there was a sign above the entrance to the runway wishing departing passengers ‘good luck’. After our flight, it seemed apt.

A short stop in Jalal Abad to eat samsa (samosas) and delicious little pastries stuffed with pumpkin. Then the bus journey on to Kerben, through the still lashing rain. We arrived during a power cut, a rare event, we were told, due to the weather. Supper was by candlelight, starting with tasty little scraps of mutton fat, followed by salad and plov, the ubiquitous plov, found all over central Asia, consisting of rice, laced with raisins and pieces of mutton, boiled until they resemble leather. All washed down with green tea and vodka.

We had been expecting the worst from the accommodation, but in fact it was not too bad, if basic. The rooms were clean and warm, and the beds comfortable. And though the water pressure was weak, I had a hot shower.

Kerben is a quiet little town, quite dark at night even when there is no power cut, with just the very centre dimly lit, and one solitary set of traffic lights – the central feature of the town. Walking along the dim main street in softening rain, we heard pounding music off to one side. Perhaps Kerben had a night life after all.

Aksi district

Then a couple of days off in the villages of Aksi district. Muddy, charming little places with smiley people and a spectacular surround of snow-capped mountains. Ladies with scarves and men with tall woollen hats. Some on donkeys, sometimes a man atop a sprightly horse, reminding of the nomadic Kyrgyz past. One old lady sitting on a donkey, asked by our interpreter if I could photo her, cackled happily; ‘does he love me’, she asked?

Then there is our most frequented eating place; a little shack in one of the villages, the only restaurant for miles around, if the word restaurant is appropriate for such a hovel. Goat soup; fried potatoes and chicken; fried potatoes and eggs; and truly the worst plov I have tasted – inedible for me and my Russian companion. Hailing originally from Kazakhstan, she professes to like central Asian cooking; her father spends hours preparing gargantuan quantities of plov for the whole family. But neither she nor I could eat this. Our interpreter and driver wolfed it down however. But somehow I grew fond of the place, and of the cheerful lady who served us. Arriving for a pot of hot green tea and the latest offerings from her blackened pots seemed almost homely. And her lepeshka (central Asian bread) was the most delicious of my whole stay in Kyrgyzstan, when it was fresh and warm.

Khinkali and other Georgian pleasures

It is so nice to be back in Georgia. Tbilisi seems a bit like a building site. So much construction work. Well of course, elections are coming. But I take much pleasure in the things that are just the same. The little restaurants near my flat. Prospero's bookshop has expanded, and is still a very nice place to sit in the shade on a warm Sunday afternoon. I only wish they would learn how to make decent coffee. Strolling through Tbilisi, down to the Old Town, and inevitably running into friends along the way. I am thinking of buying a carpet for my new flat in London, so today I went to my favourite carpet shop, where I bought two carpets six years ago. To my amazement, the lady said she recognized me. I will certainly buy one.

And then there is the food. Ah, to be eating khinkali again. An early visit to the excellent restaurant on Leselidze with the completely unpronounceable name. Khinkali are often described as Georgian dumplings, but I don't think that is quite right. A better comparison is to describe them as big ravioli. A thin layer of pastry, filled with minced meat, usually a mixture of beef and pork, well seasoned with herbs, and then boiled. Cooked inside the surrounding pastry, the juices of the meat make a delicious broth. They are eaten with the hands, gently biting into the soft pastry and then slurping out the broth before it spills all over you, and then gobbling them down. It is quite an art. After two years, I was out of practice, and I approached my first one gingerly. But after five of them, I was back on form. Before cooking, the pastry is closed by folding and twisting it at one end, making a kind of knob of pastry. This is usually left uneaten on the plate, serving as the proof of how many one has eaten. Khinkali eating can be a serious competitive sport as well as a great pleasure. A local driver tells us his record is 100 in 40 minutes. He is a big fellow, but this seems so improbable that he will have to be made to prove it. I have visions of something like the scene with Paul Newman and the hard-boiled eggs in "Cool-Hand Luke".

So many pleasures. I especially love the aubergine-wrapped walnut paste. And the spinach with walnut paste. And the Khachapuri, sometimes described as Georgian pizza. It comes in different forms, named after different regions of the country. I particularly like Khachapuri Megeruli, from the Megrelia region in western Georgia, which has sulguni cheese on top, as well as inside. Also Khachapuri Adjaruli, from Adjara, on the Black Sea coast, with an egg in the middle. Shashlik, of course, served with tkemali (plum) sauce. And the tomato and cucumber salads, covered in parsley. The tomatoes here, like all the fresh produce, are just so delicious. And a particular favourite, chicken pieces roasted in a pot with garlic sauce - yum yum.

Living in Georgia seems to be one long feast. The only antidote to the inevitable weight gain is the occasional bouts of food poisoning. A drastic, but perhaps necessary solution.

Lament for Dubrovnik

I find Dubrovnik a depressing place nowadays.

I remember the first time I stepped through the Pile gate into the old city, all those years ago. The main street, Stradun unfolded before me, funnelling down to the clock tower at the far end. The shiny flagstones shimmered in the fading early evening light. The immense city walls towering up on either side. I had never seen a more impressive sight.

I was young then. I sat on the steps climbing up the narrow side streets, overflowing with greenery from the tall houses. The little bars supplied cushions for us youngsters to sit on as we wiled away the carefree nights. It was beautiful.

In daytime, exploring the streets, the palaces, the monasteries, the old harbour, all the little narrow streets, walking the walls, taking the cable car up the mountain above the city, marvelling at the view. The sea lapping at its walls, a blue sky overhead. A city built on the trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest summits of European civilisation.

Then there was the war, the destruction, the vandalism of one of Europe’s greatest treasures and the careless slaughter and terrorism of its people, by barbarians. Returning a few years later, Dubrovnik’s charms were no less. The crowds had gone, the city was struggling. But it was still beautiful, and the endurance of the war seemed to have given it an even greater nobility. Dubrovnik was lovely in winter as well. Evenings in the Trubador jazz club, the random punters joining in the jam sessions of Marko and the regulars. Lunches at Kamenica, the oyster bar on the main square, or at Rozarij.

Afternoons on Lokrum, swimming in the clear sea, wandering the island, alone like it was my kingdom, strolling up to the castle at the top, sitting in the botanical garden. Lunch at the restaurant in the ruined monastery, whatever fish had been caught that day, the recommendation of the waiter never failing, washed down with wine, looking out over the garden, with the peacocks, to the sea beyond.

Things started to go wrong when the Lokrum restaurant was taken over from the hotel Argentina by another, lesser hotel. All quality gone, the waiters clueless and uninterested, the beautiful ruin made gaudy.

But still visits to Dubrovnik were delightful. Buying fruit on the market and taking it off to Lokrum, to sit and reflect between dips.

But then the crowds started to increase. And not the exuberant youths, the excited backpackers of 20 years before, staying for a pittance in private accommodation. Now it was the cruise boats, two, four at a time, spewing forth thousands of people for a few hours each day, clogging up the streets, the cafes, not eating, going back to their boats for lunch. The antagonism of the locals, for whom the hoards became nothing more than money fodder, people to be filched, the lowest quality they could get away with, for the highest price. Even the wonderful Kamenica succumbed.

This year I arrived at Dubrovnik in a huge thunderstorm, massive cruise boats towering above the harbour, others standing off at sea. I got out, soaked, as soon as I could, down the coast to Cavtat, still charming, still delightful, the locals still friendly. Lounging on the rocks, soaking up sun, coffee at Zino’s. Evenings on the dreamy terrace, the sea lapping below, figs by the armful. Alas, even Cavtat had its disappointment though. The once wonderful Leut, now with higher prices, the quality gone to pieces. This was the second year it was so. I gave it a second chance, but I will not give it a third. The once beautifully dressed seafood salad now flat and dull. The fried squid, once so crisp and delicate, so perfect, now sloppy and tasting of nothing but the oil in which it was cooked. The house white, once pleasingly fresh and fruity, now lifeless and not even chilled. Perhaps they just don’t care anymore. Perhaps they don’t think they have to. A shame. They had a reputation once. Gerard Depardieu had eaten there, and Misha Saakashvili. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone now.

Dubrovnik has become little more than a commodity to be sold. But it is being devalued. Nevertheless, the walls, the palaces, and somewhere, no doubt, the spirit of the people, the troubadours, is still there. Maybe still in winter.

Rucola or not

I love Rucola (Rocket). One of my favourite things to eat. In Albania recently, I ate it (with parmesan, olive oil and balsamico) until I was almost tired of it. That bitter, peppery taste is delicious. Quite a luxury in England, in the Balkans it is almost as readily available as lettuce.

So it was with pleasure that I awaited my Rucola and parmesan salad at the restaurant Opera, just off the Trg Republike (the main square) in Belgrade, next to the Hotel Majestic, the favoured haunt of British spies in the Yugoslav capital in the couple of years before the Germans invaded the country in 1941. The Opera is supposed to be a good place, but today there was a problem. The Rucola was not Rucola. I noticed at once that the leaves were completely the wrong shape, too wide and rounded. I had a taste to confirm, and indeed, there was none of the trademark herby pepperiness. I signalled to the waiter. I am afraid this is not Rucola. Not Rucola? Yes it is. Our Rucola is like that. What? So Rucola at that restaurant is different from Rucola everywhere else? No, I insisted, it is not. He took the plate away. Moments later the manager came over with the plate. She agreed that it looked unusual for Rucola, and that it did not taste like Rucola. But, she insisted, it was Rucola. They had been buying it from the same man for five years, and he had sold it to them as Rucola. Very patronising. When I still maintained it was not Rucola, she raised her eyebrows and grimaced impatiently, as if I were an idiot. At this point I got cross. This was not Rucola. Whatever her man said, she should know it was not Rucola. I had proper Rucola at that restaurant on a previous occasion. This was something else, possibly spinach. She agreed to take the plate away. At least my pasta dish was OK, but the dessert was a disappointment, a soggy cherry pie with not very good ice cream and, worst of all, they put on the plate some of that sweet, sickly red stuff from a tube, that is supposed to taste like strawberry, and is meant to make ice cream look more colourful for children. Awful.

I had a Rucola salad at Trebeca, near Kalamegdan, the next day, just to check I was not crazy. Hooray! Real Rucola. Confidence restored a little.

Beer and mountain huts

I like Zagreb in summer. Half empty, as its inhabitants head off for the coast, it is quiet and peaceful. No problem finding a place to sit outside my favourite cafes. Ice cream at Millenium, and coffee at Pif. Steamily hot, of necessity everything moves at a slower pace.

And there is nice beer to be found in Zagreb. As ever, the micro-brewery whose beers can be found at Mali Medo (Little Bear) on Tkalčićeva street are superb. The find of this stay was Kasačko, a bottled beer from Gospić. In style, it is very similar to many English beers, which must be a good thing, a darkish brown colour, bitter to the taste, very nice. Interestingly, it comes from the same region as the once marvelous Velebitsko, which is sadly not what it was since production was increased. I first tried Velebitsko about ten years ago, when visiting the Plitvica national park, in Lika, a region part-way from Zagreb to the Dalmatian coast. Both its dark and light versions were superb, without exaggerations among the finest beers I have tasted anywhere. It couldn't be found in Zagreb then, but each time I passed by Plitvica I picked up several bottles. Then it changed. Suddenly Velebitsko could be found in many places in Zagreb. It wasn't bad, still among the better beers in Croatia, but nothing like what it had been. What a shame. And now there is Kasačko, also from Gospić, different from and still not quite as good as the old Velibitsko. But it's good to have it.

I have drunk Kasačko twice this trip. Once at Kaptolski Klet, an old-style Zagreb restaurant opposite the cathedral, where pleasant cool breezes waft down from Sljeme on a hot evening. The second time was on Sljeme itself, at the Runolist "Planinarski Dom" (mountain hut, although rather more than a hut). It was a superb lunch at Runolist, confirmed as my favourite "dom" on Sljeme. It had rained heavily one day a week earlier, and was therefore an excellent time for mushrooms. I ate "vrganji" (ceps) in a sauce, with pasta. It was delicious, and a heaped plate for less than five Euros has to be good. There was also their excellent home-made bread, and a sour cherry and apple strudel. All washed down with Kasačko, and in excellent company.

Climbing Sljeme on a Sunday and eating well at the top is such a joy. Somehow everyone seems to leave their troubles behind at the bottom of the mountain, and all are happy, in good spirits. I climbed Sljeme four times in just over a week. It's not the same on weekdays. Fewer people, and not the same as the Sunday regulars. Not everyone observes the custom of greeting people they pass with a friendly "Dobar dan" ("Good day") on weekdays. And the doms don't make such an effort with the food. There was little on offer at Puntijarka on Friday, and the turkey with "mlinci" (a kind of Croatian noodles) I opted for were disgusting - virtually inedible, dried out, probably several days old. I used to like Puntijarka very much, but this was a disgrace. That said, their (freshly made) apple strudel was very good.

Pimms in short supply

This evening I went to the Queen's Birthday bash in Tirana. I always feel a little embarrassed on these occasions. Other countries have national days, but we don't have one of those. Just the Queen's birthday, which isn't even her birthday.

But this evening I was especially embarrassed. Usually, a Queen's Birthday do is at least a bit of fun. Often in the garden of HM Ambassador's residence, with lots of food and plenty of booze. A good excuse to slurp and cavort with international officials, and local politicians and others, not all of whom are altogether awful. But this time all I managed to lay my hand on was one measly glass of Pimms (rather well-mixed, alcoholic Pimms, but still), and a few rather sad canapes. And this is Albania, the land where hospitality is sacred. I've been to rather a lot of diplomatic receptions over the years, which is probably a sad reflection on the life I lead. The most important criteria for judging them are the quality and the quantity of the food and the booze. The best ones I've been to have been by the Spanish (very generous) and the Russians (caviar and vodka). But the Brits were generally pretty good. I suppose the stinginess this year in Albania is down to the belt-tightening of the financial crisis, which I suppose is reasonable. British taxpayers could reasonably ask why their money should be spent on the revelling of people like me. There wasn't even a band. Every other year I've been to one of these events there's been a band, or at least some buglers, or pipers (if the ambassador's a Scot). This time we had a recording of "God Save the Queen".

Even if taxpayers might reasonably be spared the expense of my Pimms, I couldn't help feeling a little ashamed. To me this evening spoke of a country without pretensions even to be second-rate. We should be able to do better.

Wild Strawberry Rakija

I love wild strawberries. One of the most delicious fruits there is. And the pleasure is still greater for the joy of coming upon them during a ramble through the woods, rummaging through the undergrowth in search of the delectable little red berries. And then there are those intimate moments when a companion, having got lucky and stumbled on a rich seam, offers you some of her find - what a sacrifice, it must be love. And then there is the dear friend who showed me the secret little corners of the garden, behind the bushes, where a precious crop of the fruit could be found. Real trust there, that I would not succumb to the temptation to scoff the lot.

So, visiting Belgrade last weekend, how could I turn up the chance to try a Wild Strawberry Rakija (Eau de Vie)? Friends had taken me to a restaurant in the hills out of town (roasted lamb and veal, and lots of salad - I preferred the lamb, nice and succulent - the veal was a bit overdone for my taste). the waitress proposed the Rakija as an aperatif. I have tried a variety of Rakijas, most often plum (Sljivovica) and grape (Lozovaca), as well as Travarica (Lozovaca with herbs) and pear (Viljamovka), as well as mulberry (in Albania). But Wild Strawberries. That sounded interesting. And what was it like? It smelt and tasted just like wild strawberries. How odd! I never before tasted a spirit that tasted exactly like the fruit it is made from. Wild strawberries with an alcohol kick when it hits your throat. Very nice of course. But if I want to taste wild strawberries would I rather just eat wild strawberries or take it as Rakija? Not sure. But an entertaining experience.

Fresh milk in Belgrade

Recently I spent a few days in Belgrade. How different it is from Prishtina. The streets are (more or less) clean. The air is not clogged with smoke. There's water in the tap all of the time.

And, what bliss, there is fresh milk in all the shops, for my tea and for cereal. I take back a litre with me to Prishtina, which lasts me for almost a week. What a difference it makes to my life. Such a simple thing, so easily taken for granted, and so missed when I don't have it. Oh there is fresh milk in Prishtina. It mainly comes in plastic bags that have to be snipped open with scissors. That's how milk came all over Yugoslavia at one time. What a stupid container for a liquid! It's not all that nice, and usually only lasts a day from the time of purchase, if you're lucky - sometimes it is bad when you buy it. Recently cartons of locally produced fresh milk have appeared in a few places, but to me it tastes the same as the long-life milk most people use here. I loathe long-life milk. Tea is still refreshing with it, but the taste is unpleasant. I just gulp it down quickly, no pleasure at all. Most people don't seem to have a concept of fresh milk. They seem to think it means unpasturised milk (you can buy unpasturised milk in the villages). Once a bemused shopkeeper who didn't understand what I meant by fresh milk suddenly understood: "Oh, you mean milk in a bag".

Belgrade was refreshing. So many nice places to go, nice cafes, restaurants, pleasant streets and parks to stroll in. And then it's back to Prishtina. But I mustn't be too down on the place. At least one thing is generally better here - coffee. And that is also important.

Serbs and bilberry juice

Today I was back in Mitrovica. It is a sad place. At each end of the famous bridge that divides the city between its Albanian south and mainly Serb north there is coiled-up barbed wire, ready to be pulled across at a moment’s notice, should there be trouble. Two NATO armoured personnel carriers sit at the northern end, with their big machine guns on top. Walking along the main road in the north, I pass a patrol of ten or so French soldiers, rifles in hand, who drop into a café on their route.

The bridge, Mitrovica

I’ve come to meet Oliver Ivanovic. He became famous in 1999 when he organised the Serb bridge watchers responsible for dividing the town. After that his image was transformed. Urbane, charming, fluent in English and Albanian, he came to be seen as a leading Kosovo Serb moderate, the favourite interlocutor for the internationals. Now a state secretary in Belgrade’s Ministry for Kosovo, he spends much of his time in the Serbian capital. He’s a busy man nowadays – I had been trying to get a meeting for weeks. Now his main battle is with the hard-line criminal elements that ran the north for years before the present government took over in mid-2008. He promises to root out corruption among the Kosovo Serbs.

Oliver is friendly, gregarious, an open smile ready on his lips. He knows who I am, and who I represent. He knows I argued for Kosovo independence years before it was declared. But he doesn’t seem to hold it against me. This is something I find strange about the Kosovo Serbs. I would expect them to hate us westerners, especially Brits and Americans. Did we not bomb them and support their Albanian enemies? Do they not see us as responsible for their misfortunes, for the loss of the territory at the centre of Serbian history and mythology? I would expect them to. Probably they do. And yet they are almost invariably friendly and hospitable towards us, welcoming us as their guests. How would I feel in their place?

I ate Prebranac (a spicy bean stew) in the restaurant I usually go to in Mitrovica. Quite tasty. I also enjoyed the homemade bilberry juice.

In a way the Kosovo Serbs’ situation is a bit like that of the whites in South Africa. Outnumbered, losing ground, a sense of siege, defensive, aware that they are widely vilified, and probably fighting a losing battle. Yet I’ve almost never found them aggressive. No doubt it would be different if I were an Albanian trying to return to north Mitrovica to reclaim my house.

Wines and labels

Kosovo wine is returning to the UK market. According to the website of the producer, StoneCastle, its wines measure up to the best of France or Italy. Well, no they don’t. I tried the StoneCastle Merlot recently, and it was actually OK – you can drink it (with the caveat that during extended periods in this neighbourhood my palate is highly unreliable). It tasted like Merlot anyway, which is a good sign.

I tried another Merlot the same evening, from a winery owned by one of Kosovo's most prominent luminaries. According to the label, it was a 1993. My host told me he didn’t believe it. He had never seen any vintage other than 1993. Well, it certainly didn’t taste like a fifteen-year old wine. Isn’t that a great idea? What if Burgundian producers were to label all their wines for the next fifteen years as Grand Cru from 2005?

But the proliferation of private producers in the Balkans is a good thing. Slovenia is well ahead of the pack. I prefer the wines of the Goriška brda region (Collio in Italian, in this border-straddling territory). I am a long-standing fan of the Sivi pinot (Pinot Griggio) from Ščurek, and the wines of Movia are worth drinking. The wines of Croatia are as diverse as that country’s geography and climate. So far, I’ve not been convinced by the heavy reds of Dalmatia which are so admired in some quarters. They just seem very big, usually flabby, often oxidised, and uninteresting. The wines of Istria are often more restrained and refined, like those of Matošević.

But I think Montenegro is especially interesting. I’m biased – I like Montenegro. The hills between Bar and Virpazar seem particularly promising. That Montenegro has an indigenous grape variety, the Vranac, adds to the interest (it’s grown elsewhere in the Balkans, in Macedonia, Bosnia and Kosovo, but Montenegro is its real home). Several small private producers have been springing up, and some of them are really pretty good. The prices some of them go for in Podgorica shops – up to 50 Euros for a bottle last time I was there – are also an indication of how highly they are prized. It’s really quite exciting.

Serb enclaves

Yesterday I went to Mitrovica. It was grim. After the recent troubles (a Serb youth stabbed, a café bombed, firemen attacked, a journalist beaten, and Albanian shops torched), armoured personnel carriers squat at key points, by the bridge and next to the court building. French and Belgian troops patrol the ethnically mixed Bosniac Mahala district where the trouble was concentrated. Some of the Belgians grin at passers by, trying to impart cheerfulness and good will. The burned out shops down one street are blackened, with broken windows and charred, damp little heaps of destroyed goods outside that once enticed shoppers to stop and buy. The grubby streets, with the filthy slush of the melting snow, spattering legs as cars drive by, are quite enough to depress spirits even without the latest damage the inhabitants have inflicted on their town.

Mitrovica bridge, under guard

Lunch starts with a spicy, greasy fish soup, with hunks of fat that did not come from any fish I am familiar with. It is followed by two trout, grilled according to the menu, but in fact fried and greasy. In the corner of the restaurant, Marko Jakšić, one of Serb north Mitrovica's duo of strongmen, holds court in his track suit. Who would believe that this silver-haired man could inspire such fear? Appearing relaxed, smiling gently, there is no sign that he is nervous at rumours that the Belgrade government is out to get him, or that he is concerned by media stories of corruption. Rather, the speculation has it, it is he and his cronies who have stirred up the recent troubles as a lesson to Belgrade and the internationals that they are still in control, and no one should mess with them.

The day before it was Štrpce, a Serb-majority area in the south, at the foot of mountains, with a ski resort that locals hope will one day bring prosperity. The 1970s hotels, even were they not shabby and broken now, seem a memorial to the shoddiness of that decade. To think that places like this actually made Yugoslavs feel optimistic then. Lunch is roast veal in a mushroom sauce - quite tasty.

I got in trouble with the police, for parking on a little bridge. Well, I couldn't find anywhere else, and there was no sign saying not to. And I was in a hurry to see the top man in the parallel Serb municipal administration. I returned to find a note saying to report to the police station, and that the front registration plate had been taken. They were very strict at first, and I was very contrite. I was in a hurry to meet Mr. Staletović, I stressed several times. They seemed to appreciate the fact that I, a foreigner, could speak Serbian. They let me off.

Štrpce is very different from Mitrovica. Isolated from Serbia, the Serbs here are interested in jobs, and ready to reach an accommodation with the Albanians who live all around them. Bizarrely, the official municipal administration and the Serb parallel one exist side by side in the same building. They rub along uneasily. Surrounded by spectacular mountain scenery, this is perhaps the one place in Kosovo where one can see Serbs having a real perspective. Here it will be possible to live well, so long as politics does not interfere. The locals probably know it.