Montenegro Diaries: Kotor snapshots

Dodging cats and communists in the Bay of Kotor

“In Montenegro, don’t talk about religion or politics,” our local tour guide Fedja tells us, “and stay away from sport too, because sport can quickly turn into politics.”

While we wait to start a city tour outside the old town walls, we watch competitors in a race being set off, one-by-one, to run through the old town and up the steep walls on the hillsides up to St. John’s Fortress, perched in the mountains above. We start our tour at a more sedate pace.

We’re at the Sea Gate, the main entrance to the old town, where Kotor’s complicated history is on show. Built in 1555 while the city was ruled by Venice, it is adorned with the Venetian winged lion, but also with a quote from Josip Broz Tito, former leader of Yugoslavia. Then there’s the Communist star, with a date commemorating the city’s liberation from the Nazis.

Tourists searching for less complicated sightseeing may instead turn to the enormous bench that sits by the Gate. At least twice as big as any of the other benches, with no explanation, it sits there looking out at the harbour. There’s no religion, politics, or sport on this bench.

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We stand in the Square of the Arms (guns, not limbs) and hear Fedja tell us that some in Montenegro think things were better under Tito, breaking his own rule about not talking politics.

A Canadian woman on the tour gently points out that Tito was, all things considered, a murderous dictator. She’s right, says Fedja, but things were also very well organised. Things don’t work like they used to.

There’s a welcome distraction as one of the runners in the race gets lost in the square, and the same Canadian runs after him and shows him the way. “She’s a helper,” her husband tells the group.

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Fedja tells us about rakija, the Balkan liquor. There are many different flavours, but Fedja’s favourite is cherry. It comes in shots - it’s usually at least 40% ABV - but Fedja tells us he can drink a whole bottle on a good day.

Later, in a bar with the Canadians, we try some. The grape tastes and feels like paint stripper. My throat protests, but then as it hits my stomach a pleasant glaze comes over me. All is well, I’m in a pub in a foreign country, my belly is full of food and murderously strong alcohol, and my limbs hang relaxed and loose.

We move onto the cherry. Fedja was right, it’s much nicer, much sweeter. But the glaze becomes unsteady. I stop drinking before things start to spin. A bottle of this would land me in the sea.

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Kotor crawls with cats. Around every corner and in every suntrap lie the city’s felines; they live out in the open. They’re strays, but well-kept. The city looks after them, and is hence rewarded with more cats. Fedja tells us locals who have an unwanted animal come and drop them at the gates of the old town, they know they will be taken care of.

They kept the rats away for decades, but they’re slacking now. “I left some stuffed shrimp on my plate last night,” the Canadian tells the group, “but the owner said not to worry, the cats will love it.”

Fedja tells us that’s the problem. The cats were once good hunters, now they prefer shrimp. Shrimp don’t run away, and they’re stuffed. The rats are returning to Kotor.

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The old town doesn’t have street names. It’s small but maze-like. Palaces built by the Venetians are now apartments and hotels. They rise at least three floors above narrow streets paved with tiles polished by the shoes of many tourists.

But after the tour in the evening we sit outside a jazz bar. It’s off season and Kotor is quiet. The bar has no working toilet, and I size up the two-minute walk back to our apartment. I make it, but on the way back I lose my bearings.

I hurtle down street and alley, cursing their no name policy, expecting at each corner to round it and find my group, to no avail. Eventually I ask a local to help me. He immediately understands and leads me down some streets to the bar.

I stop to thank him, and consider asking him what he thought of Tito. Does he still wish he was around? But Fedja’s advice runs through my head. I shake his hand and take a seat at the table.

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Thank you!

There are now more than 200 of you, which is ridiculous to me. My first blog was sent to about 3 people, all of whom are thankfully still here. But this feels like quite a milestone, so thank you so much for your support, it really does mean a lot.

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Some housekeeping.

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