Campfire Vampire

Thumb and index finger come together; the universal sign for money brings a smile to the gas station attendant’s face. The station is old, as worn and beaten as the landscape it colours momentarily with signs of life. We rolled in almost running on empty, mere miles from the border out of Albania. Bunkers scatter the mountains like misplaced punctuation marks. The terrain is intimidating as it is inspiring. Small pockets of people dot the vast horizon; a network of isolated communities cut off from one other by the sheer immensity of their surroundings.

The men at the station welcome us with bemused expressions. Before money exchanges hands a common language has to be established, mime. Just as we’re about to settle on a price, our negotiations are interrupted.

There comes a sudden burst of music. It’s loud, pulsating, and completely unexpected. Doors burst open and a party spills out of the building; what I’d expected to be a shop is actually an events hall. The once silent station is now throbbing with energy, completely engulfed by a Roma wedding procession. Black-tie tuxedos on the men are met with loud, extravagant dresses on the women, vibrancy sewn into every sequin and seam. They dance coyly despite their ostentatious display of skin and blaring colour; raising their hands, clicking their fingers in the air, effortlessly moving under the weight of their heavily embroidered gowns. Astounded by the surrealism of the scene before me I throw the attendant a bewildered expression; he barely gives them a second look. It’s just another day.

All of a sudden the stifling heat, the haggling over gas prices and the empty, arid landscape that surrounds us fade away, silenced by the sound of Eastern Euro-pop. Later, after making it across the border out of the country, that moment stays with me. All is not what it seems. Whilst looking for the secure route out of Albania, I ended up discovering something, however small, to make me want to stay a little longer.