Moravia is the last place where you can dress up like an Indian

The Good, the Bad and the Boskovice

Jul 24, 2023

This is Edward Slavsquat’s second dispatch from Czechia. (Part I can be found here.) If you read this blog only for Russia-related news, I apologize and you can skip this blog post or even unsubscribe out of disappointment and utter disgust.

I wake up in a tent. My legs feel like melting Jell-O; my stomach is in constitutional crisis from the highly irresponsible medley of liquids I consumed hours prior. And my noodle is shrouded in an impenetrable fog of confusion.

Wait, why is there a wheelbarrow outside my tent’s foyer?

I slowly start to piece together the clues: my poor little aching feet, my agonizing nausea, the wheelbarrow (is it also mine?), and the undeniable fact that I’m in a tent somewhere in the South Moravia Region and I’m not entirely sure why—yes, it must all be connected somehow.

And then visions appear: A fierce Choctaw warrior sprinting to the porta-potty; a leggy squaw straddling a horse with her bewitching Injun thighs; a U.S. Marshal playing Angry Birds while maintaining public order; cowboys beating each other senseless with wood planks; darling Czech children shrieking with glee as they point excitedly at a giant pile of steaming horse manure…

…Yes, it’s all coming back. Now I remember.

I was in Boskovice—home of Moravia’s legendary Western Town—and I barely escaped with my life.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

The opening scene of our Spaghetti Western begins in Němčice, a village 45 km north of Brno. Němčice translates to “German-something-something”. German Thingy? Germany Place? Let’s go with German Yurt.

The village is renowned for its very handsome 16th-century bell—the only 16th-century bell in the surrounding area that survived WWII, or so I’m told. According to popular legend, the Wehrmacht thought it would be bad juju to confiscate a 16th-century bell from a place called German Yurt. I’m not sure what the Germans were doing with the other 16th-century bells. Melting them down into bratwurst, I presume.

Anyways, I was in German Yurt because a very dear Czech friend owns a cottage there. But once I arrived it dawned on me that there was absolutely nothing in this village, except for a 16th-century bell, and lots and lots of hills. There was an occasional pub hidden behind some of these hills, and it was very pleasant to walk up and down these hills and find these hidden pubs, but your Moravia correspondent thirsted for adventure.

The pub is that way. No, not that way. The other way.

The mission, should I choose to accept it: Hike 10 km to Western Town, take in the sights and smells, mingle with the locals and sample their beverages, and then crawl back to German Yurt.

My Czech comrade doubted I could make the journey. She claimed that because I was an American, and therefore hopeless by default, I would never be able to find Western Town, and even if I did find it I would probably end up killing myself in some ridiculous and embarrassing way. Fair point but Edward is no ordinary American—he is only half-retarded.

Oh, I found it alright. It was behind some hills. Nice try though, Czechia.

The moment you enter Western Town you are transported to a simpler, happier time.

Scam emporium Wells Fargo. A true American institution.

I am of course referring to the 2008 financial crisis, when Wells Fargo received a $25 billion bailout and defrauded the U.S. government in the process. Water under the bridge—and who could hold a grudge against a bank with such a charming office in the South Moravia Region?

They had Jack Daniel’s. I checked for research purposes.

The town also boasts a traditional Walmart sponsored by Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey. I drank what I hoped would be my last glass of Jack more than a decade ago. But I was in Western Town now, and I wanted to immerse myself in the local culture and learn how to be Western. (The Jack was disgusting.)

But is Western Town really Western? Do dumpling-shaped cops kick down the doors of law-abiding Western Town residents in the middle of the night, vaporizing all housepets in their path, only to realize they were supposed to raid the crack house (Wells Fargo) across the street?

Of course. This place was crawling with feds.

As I wandered down Main Street, I stumbled upon a United States Marshal tending to his business (feverishly swiping right on Western Town Tinder).

Obviously Western Town also has a NATO base. For purely defensive purposes.

I even encountered a Native. He was in a terrible hurry. (Maybe he “matched” with the U.S. Marshal? That would certainly be very Western.)

I think he was actually headed towards the Western Town restrooms.

I was impressed by the speed and agility of the Brave as he rushed to the bathroom, but I was even more enamored with his daughter’s (?) equestrian skills. She just appeared out of nowhere and started doing doughnuts with her horse:

It occurred to me that Western Town might be the last place on earth where you can wear feathers in your hair without being banned by PayPal and sent to Gitmo for terrorism. And for some reason the commander of the local NATO outpost tolerates this. Very peculiar.

Something quite unexpected happened ten minutes later, as I was cheerfully swilling my third potato rum on the porch of the “Desperado Saloon”:

Is this what Czechs think of Americans? We march around with timber, like fools? This is at least a micro-aggression, and I am reporting it to Western Town’s NATO HR Officer.

Sorry for the blurry photograph. Photo credit: Potato rum.

Although there was no performance on the day I was there, sometimes Western Town hosts the Prague Film Orchestra, which plays famous film scores as the residents of the town go about their daily routines.

Have you ever seen a mysterious man mercilessly flogging the air with a bullwhip as two ladies of the night dance on a rooftop? Ordinary and frankly boring behavior for anyone who has ever lived in Western Town, but tourists are fascinated by this custom:

You can tell the above video is not mine because the camera is not shaking uncontrollably (here’s the original source with the full one-hour performance).

The heartwarming final score:

Maybe next year I will organize the first-ever Edwardfest in Boskovice, and we can all go to this concert together.

I passed through Boskovice’s cozy and very pretty town center before starting the trek back to German Yurt. Regretfully for the residents of Boskovice, I found a pub with a piano and began to play rhythmically unsound fugues. The first fugue was passable, but the potato rum eventually caught up to me and soon I was playing chord progressions that only Igor Stravinsky would call music. (Oh relax, it’s a joke. Or is it?)

Actually, a fat man with a beard—the only other patron in the pub—bought me a beer and said I did a pretty good job tickling those keys. Maybe playing piano for hairy old men who buy me drinks is my true calling, and I can finally quit the terrible Internet forever. As my father would say, it’s important to keep all your doors open.

Boskovice also has an elegant castle, which I visited and took pictures of to prove that I’m not a liar:

It would be pleasant to live in such a place.

(It’s actually a ruin and I don’t think there’s much behind those walls. But don’t these formidable stones give you confidence and fill you with vitality?)

I was full of mind-altering liquids and still needed to walk another 8 km in the dark. There is a fairly straightforward path from Boskovice to German Yurt, but in the darkness I lost my way and ended up cutting my own trail across the hills of Moravia—like a true, rum-crazed American pioneer. I found a number of interesting insects on me the next day.

As I approached German Yurt, I noticed an unclaimed wheelbarrow parked on the side of the road. Well, a wheelbarrow is a very useful item to have around. And since no one was using it at that exact moment, I decided to borrow it.

“Care for a ride?” I asked my Czech companion as I pulled up in front of her cottage. She hopped in the wheelbarrow and I took the wheel (handlebars).

We zoomed down the only street in German Yurt, laughing uproariously.

At around 2 a.m. we tried to confiscate the 16th-century bell. The Wehrmacht might not have wanted it, but we certainly did. Unfortunately it was much too heavy.

If you’re in the area, stop by Western Town. Good times.