Dream driven

by Aleksandra Arsova (Macedonia)

I didn't expect to find Macedonia

It all began with a dream. A couple of dreams, to be more precise, but I can only start with one since at the time I wasn’t aware that there was another. My brother and I have quite an insignificant history with trail running and a long, solid one with Dolno (Lower) Trogerci, it being the village of our ancestors. Somehow, we both wanted to merge these two into a competitive trail run that would go around the hills and fields of this and the neighbouring villages. So here we are, taking a walk (and a partial run), deciding on the route. It is a warm day. Sunny enough to blush our cheeks, but not sufficient to dry the mud on the roads which instantly starts layering up on our shoes, making them heavy. The first hill opens up a view of dark brown fields. It is that time of the year when the seeds are buried in the ground, patiently waiting for a drop of rain to induce their growth. On the other side of the path lay piles and piles of rocks, making simple, rectangular shapes. These were once wide houses that housed multi-child families. The first human encounter on the way shakes our confidence. He doesn’t speak Macedonian. He is an Albanian, we guess, since there is a fashion of hiring older people from the destitute parts of Albania as shepherds all around the country. “Kucinja”, he says, after greeting us by bowing his head, shyly. “Kucinja”, he repeats in a panicky manner, adding a whole explanation in Albanian of which we cannot catch anything. But his words, accompanied with mimics, soon get a meaning and we grasp the potential dog hazard of continuing our trip. We smile. We slow down our step, but we heroically move on to the next revelation. Soon enough, before we reach the next hill, we hear them, and quiet instantly see them - a few big, grey dogs, protectors of a herd. Their loud barking is a firm declaration of their strength and a switch on for my fear. Fortunately, the shepherd shows up, throws a glance at us and that is enough to calm them down. We make it to the top. The herd of sheep enjoys its brunch straight out of the ground. Some goats, blended in, drink water from the small pools in the rocks. The shepherd, an Albanian again, but a longer resident here, has a more informational and optimistic conversation with us. “If you follow this path, you’ll get to a church soon”, he says. After a short downhill and a tiring uphill, it shows up - a simple building with a cross on top. The sun reflects from the white walls which appear freshly painted. The guard sits under an almond tree which roots are intertwined with the edges of a sharp rock. “Whose children are you?” would be the literal translation of his question, which comes almost by default in conversations with elderly people here. Like there is always a chance for them to know exactly your family out of the thousands of people who used to live in the area. But, this turns out to be such a case. “Yes, it was your great-grandfather!”, he starts excitedly. ”He was in his older days when he had a dream. St. Peter and St. Paul talked to him. They made him do it, they were so rigorous! He was already old, but they wouldn’t let him in peace until he started building them this shrine. They found the place, they brought this holy water, and they gave him the strength to carry heavy beams on his shoulder.” Then, it comes back to my mind that amongst all the stories about a childhood in wars and poverty, my grandmother has told me this one, about her father. I’ve never visited that church up until now. We start running back through a tiny forest and wet left-overs of a creek. It gets easier on the legs, but a sudden lump starts growing heavier in my heart. Like guilt for being ignorant. Like the idea of an obligatory quest to continue a legacy. Through a race, at least.