Worlds apart

The road to Gorni Stubal from Probistip was rough.  The tarmac was pocked with holes and heavy rains had washed gravel across the surface.  It was mucky from the traffic of cows, goats, horses and humans.

Wild flowers brought some softening adornment to the banks of the road.  Blood red poppies fluttered and bobbed as the car disturbed the still air.  On the rolling green hillsides beyond yellow patches stood out where the hay had been cropped.  Neat haystacks stood in muddy farmyards near dotted redbrick or brown plastered farm buildings.

We passed a small settlement.  A group of men sitting on the verandah of the local store looked up from their drinks.  A passing stranger was a mater of curious interest.

Ahead we saw our man standing behind a rusty metal gate, awaiting us.  We parked and were welcomed to what proved to be his uncle's property - a rather ramshackle building standing in an area of scythed rough grass, trees, outbuildings and an old well.  It had never run dry, he told me.  When his great grandfather had come to this place, he had picked the spot with the instinct of a man of the soil.

We sat on some old metal chairs with makeshift foam cushions in the shade of a sycamore tree.  The two men talked of life in Gorni Stubal.  It was a safe place where there was no crime.  A few people walked the 15 kms every day to Probistip, where the zinc and lead mine offered work.

During the communist years of Tito, people were encouraged to leave the land and travel to places where factories provided the industrial base for socialist progress.

Change had transformed the world outside their sheltered houses and fields.  Those left in Gorni Stuba continud to co-exist with the rhythm of the natural world.  Theirs was the a heritage of sowing and reaping, of making do with basic requirements.  Within their world, people looked out for one another, respected each other's property, found time to talk about life's questions, welcomed strangers of goodwill with interest and hospitality.

As we drove carefully back along the lane, I slowed to give way to an old man coming towards me.  He was perched on top of a heavily laden and weary-looking horse.  The old man looked at me with his rheumy eyes, deep-set in an ancient, wrinkled face.  The donkey plodded past, heading for home.  I drove on, leaving their world behind.