Tirana
Tirana, the capital of Albania, has no central bus station. There are several different places scattered around the city that buses come to and go from. If you’ve read my Montenegro entry (http://trampingthewelltroddenpath.wordpress.com/2014/03/06/montenegro-concrete-and-craggy-coast/) you’ll know that this has struck the fear of the God of Bus Chaos into my heart. There is no way of knowing where the bus will drop me when I get there and I can’t plan my route to the hostel in advance. Argh. The hostel has given directions from the main square, presumably because they have no idea where I’ll end up either.
As I pick up my luggage, I ask the bus driver to point me in the direction of Skanderbeg Square. He points, grins, mimes lots of people shouting. I think he means I’ll know when I get there.
I do. It’s a very big square. There are millions of people milling about. It’s hazy with traffic fumes, loud with the honk of car horns. I’m tired from a long, hot bus trip and tetchy to boot. I decide that I hate Tirana. It makes no sense to me, it’s smoggy and noisy and people keep getting in my way.
One shower and one meal later, not to mention a glass of wine, and I’m sat in the hostel’s outdoor lounge area chatting to Luca from Peterborough, who is volunteering here through Workaway. He signed up for two weeks. He’s still here a month later and has no idea when he’ll leave. I guess Tirana can’t be that bad after all. “It’s a land of opportunity,” he grins, inhaling on a cigarette. “It’s only just opening up. Pretty much anything goes.” He’s here painting murals for the hostel. “You’ve got a good art gallery and the museum’s okay, but it’s just a brilliant place to walk around. You always see something worth seeing.”
I start to adjust my ideas.
As an aside, Luca is a lesson in why not to have a tattoo gun in your home. He used to work as a tattooist and has at least one piece of skin ink that is the result of a party game. A whole load of tattoo designs went into a hat. Whatever people picked out, they had to get tattooed. He ended up with a small pair of testicles tattooed on his upper arm in a cartoon style. His eyes laugh as he rolls up his sleeve to show me. You probably wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking for it - it’s nestled amongst that many others of a more sensible design.
Morning dawns bright and sunny. I’m up and out, doing as advised - just walking around. The sun is already warm enough not to need a cardigan, the sun hazy through the pollution fumes so that the distant mountains are almost the same hue as the sky. The buildings are brightly patterned, the cars constantly sound their horns, the traffic is chaotic at best. Vehicles mostly ignore the traffic signals, edging their way forward and honking anyone in their way. Pedestrians mostly ignore the pedestrian crossings, stepping out into the roads heedless of the cars that beep at them. The streets are full of bustle, with impromptu stalls set up on the pavement. Boxes of bananas and strawberries. Piles of fresh eggs. Buckets of olives. Socks laid out on a rug. Car parts, kitchen utensils, toy dinosaurs. A pet shop spills out into the street, small children pointing at caged guinea pigs and parrots, tugging at the sleeves of their mothers. People wander their way through it all in both directions. Rushing is an impossibility.
I love it.
The further towards the centre I walk, the more crowded it gets. Suddenly, I’m in the middle of a massive street festival. Music blares out of rival sound systems, mashing in the middle. All around me are laughing people pushing through the crowd. I remember that the hostel owner mentioned it would be the holiday for the first day of summer today. The spring equinox. It’s apparently party day.
I weave through the throng - there are people as far as the eye can see, all down the main road in both directions and filling Youth Park to the side. As I wander in front of a small stage, the band’s bouncing music drowns out all the other sound systems nearby. I’ve stumbled across a ska band.
I SERIOUSLY love it here.
In the UK, I am fairly certain that anything on this scale (and free to boot) would be overrun with drunken people and idiots, mostly aged between 14 and 35. The streets would be covered in beer cans and plastics. Here the streets are full of anyone and everyone. The entirety of Tirana seems to have turned out. Young kids run through, giggling, arms around each other’s shoulders. Families wander around licking ice creams, pushing buggies. Couples walk arm in arm. Old ladies sit on walls in the sun. Old men make their slow and careful way through the crowd with their walking sticks.
It’s brilliant.
I take a break from the baking sun and dart into the art gallery. I catch the eye of the girl at the counter as I go in, but she ignores me. It must be free. I walk around the poster exhibition downstairs before making my way back past the girl and upstairs to the permanent gallery. It’s full of wonderful Albanian socialist art - the worker man hammering over an anvil, all angular and strong. The war hero, naked of torso, powerful of chest, hurling a grenade into the top of a tank. The farmng girls, hoes over their shoulders, scarves on their heads, laughing together as they walk, a healthy glow about them.
I can hear a lot of loud chatter behind me, but it’s Albanian chatter so I ignore it. It can’t be anything I’m meant to hear. I carry on walking round. Eventually, the girl from the counter catches up with me, looking slightly harassed and a little nervous. She says something in Albanian. “Sorry?” I say, looking at her apologetically with a smile. She suddenly looks relieved and highly amused all in one go. She rolls her eyes and grins. “Oh! I’m sorry! I thought you were Albanian!” she laughs. “You have to pay for this part of the gallery. You can look around, don’t worry. Just pay me on the way out.”
She and several over people have been calling to me for about five minutes because I haven’t paid. Oops.
When I leave, I stop at the counter and wait for her to return from helping another visitor. “Are you a student?” she asks. “No,” I reply with a shake of the head. “Yes, I think you are,” she grins. “100 Leke, please.”
Tirana is truly wonderful.
Next Morning
I am at what is supposed to be the bus station from where my bus to Berat should depart. It is, in effect, a bunch of buses parked in a derelict flour factory. Hm. Maybe not derelict. Ruined would probably cover it better.
I look for a ticket office. Everywhere there are men yelling the names of destinations - “Berat! Berat!”, “Sarande, Sarande!” I assume they are furgon drivers. Furgons are private minibuses that take you where you want to go, but they don’t depart anywhere until they are full. I am sure I am looking for a proper bus because my hostel told me it departs every hour.
There is no ticket office anywhere, as far as I can tell. “Sarande?” a man asks me. I shake my head, giving in. Perhaps these are bus drivers after all. “Berat,” I reply. “Berat? Berat!” He points to a big bus near the entrance. I walk that way. “Gjirokaster?” a man asks. The one I just spoke to calls over to him. “Berat!” “Ah,” the new man says, pointing at the bus for me. I find the driver, who kindly takes my backpack from my back and stows it carefully in the bus. I try to pay him. “Later,” he says, pointing me up the bus steps.
It is utter chaos, but delightful chaos and it actually works.
We stop at a seaside town to let more people on. Suddenly, from both doors, men clamber up the steps carrying boxes on their shoulders. They call out their wares - crisps, water, Bake Rolls. A man squeezes past them with an armful of newspapers.
I love this chaos. I love this country.
I’m even beginning to like the God of Bus Chaos. I’ve only half an idea where we are and no idea what time we’re due in Berat, or if Berat is the last stop. I really don’t care. All will become clear. It always has done so far.
A little later, an older lady boards the bus, which is nearly full. She asks in Albanian if I can move my bags so she can sit. I do. She has a walking stick and asks in Albanian whether I can stow it for her near the window, propped up in the corner. I do. “Push it down,” she laughs. I have no idea how I know that’s what she’s saying, but she definitely is. She pats my hand in thanks and then tries to strike up a conversation. I think she’s asking if I’ve come from Tirana, but I’m not sure. “Sorry; English,” I say, apologetically smiling. She laughs in delight and pats my arm with a beaming smile on her face. The man in the seat in front turns around and also beams at me, his eyes twinkling. Luca told me the other evening that a lot of people in Albania have never seen a tourist. I believe him.
Further into the trip, the lady taps my arm and points at her leg, wincing. It’s in full sunlight through the window, which is incredibly hot. I wonder if her leg is too hot. “Shall I shut the curtain?” I ask, going to pull it closed. “No, no,” she says, in Albanian, patting my hand and holding it. I find myself covering her hand with my own in return. She points at her leg, her hip, her stick. She touches my leg, my hip and grimaces. “Ah,” I say, understanding. She needs a hip replacement. I wince at her sympathetically. She pats my hand, then pats my leg, smiling.
Later still, she starts talking to the girl across the aisle. “Hello?” the girl says to me, smiling. “I speak English too.” “Hello!” I say. “The lady wants to know where you are from,” she says. I tell her. “She wants to know why you go to Berat.” I tell her. “You travel alone?” I nod. The lady is looking at me all the while, a happy and fascinated expression on her face. I feel a little humbled. “She wants to know what you write,” the girl says. I have been jotting notes in a little notebook now and again throughout the journey. “It’s for my diary,” I say. We chat between the three of us for the rest of the trip. Before she gets off the bus, the girl gives me her Facebook name and tells me to contact her if I need any help in Berat. I thank her, surprised and touched.
Berat
Times when knowing the language would help, part four
I look around. There is no way of knowing which direction to head in, because I cannot spot any of the landmarks the guesthouse owner gave me. I try asking a passer-by, but she speaks no English. I pull out my phone and call the guesthouse. I can’t understand him and he only partially understands me. I tell him the name of the square I’m on and the name of the road I’m near. After much “Oh, la-la,” he eventually says “Two minutes,” and hangs up. Less than a minute later, there is a red minibus and a man waving at me. “Nasho Vruho?” I ask. He nods, grinning, ushering me inside. “Francais? Deutsch?” he asks. “Ein bisschen Deutsch,” I reply. “Ah,” he nods. “Ein bisschen Deutsch.”
We park less than a minute from where I was. He shows me inside a door in an old, stone wall that opens onto a small courtyard sided by guest rooms. “Hier,” he says, putting my backpack down in one of the rooms, miming me to do likewise with everything else. “Sehr schön,” I say. It is; it’s lovely. “Komm mit. Komm,” he says, gesturing me to follow him. We go into the courtyard. “Garten,” he says. “Sitzen.” He points at some chairs but keeps telling me to follow him. I nod. “Schön!” I say. I have a garden! We go up some stairs. He opens a door to a different room. “Schlafen hier? Oder Schlafen-” he points downstairs. Do I want to sleep here or in the room downstairs?
This room is lovelier and has a balcony overlooking the courtyard, the mountain opposite and the river below that. “Hier, bitte. Hier ist gut!” “Hier? Okay, alles gut.” He fetches my luggage. “Komm mit; komm,” he says again. I follow him again, this time to reception.
“Sitzen,” he says, pointing to a chair in the small restaurant. “Tee? Kaffe? Wein?” “Wein, bitte,” I smile. He goes into a small room that is stacked full of wine bottles. He dusts one off as he introduces me to his wife. “Ein Jahr in da,” he grins. Wow. He’s giving me what looks like homemade wine that he’s aged a year. He pours me a cup and holds out the bottle. “Deine,” he says. I think he’s giving me the wine bottle, but I’m not sure. “Danke!” I say, going to take it. He puts it on the table. “Acht Uhr, neun Uhr, saucisson, fromage…” he slips into French and mimes cooking things over the fire. I think he’s telling me I can eat sausages and cheese later. I look at him quizzically. “Komm, acht, neun,” he says. He finds a sausage, spits it on a metal stick and holds it over the ashes in the fire place. “Komm mit Wein.” Aha. He’s telling me to come down at eight or nine with my bottle of wine and we’ll cook sausages over the fire. I think. “Komm,” he says again, gesturing me to follow him once more. I pick up the bottle. He takes it from me and puts it on the table. I think he’s saying I can leave it there until we cook sausages. Maybe. So I leave it. He shakes his head. “Verstehen?” (Understand?) He holds the wine out to me. “Nicht meine. Deine.” I nod. It’s not his, it’s mine. He puts it on the table. Now I’m lost again, not sure whether to leave it or take it, but I nod, deciding to leave the wine where he has put it. “Komm.” He leads me out of the door. His wife calls to him, bringing the bottle of wine. She gives it to him and he gives it to me, laughing.
I have no idea what’s going on.
He takes me back up to my room, places the bottle on the balcony ledge and folds up one of the two chairs. “Du bist nur eine,” he says - there’s only one of me. I nod, laughing. “Komm,” he says. He takes me into a different room. “Schlafen hier oder da?” he asks. Do I want to sleep here or in the other room with the balcony? “Da ist sehr gut,” I say, pointing at my room. “Da?” he looks at me to make sure. “Ja,” I say. “Alles gut,” he grins. “Alles gut,” I agree. He grins some more and takes his leave.
My head is spinning. I’m thankful I have wine.
Later I head back downstairs to see if my interpretation about the sausage cooking was correct. It was. I am welcomed in with beaming smiles from Nasho and his wife, ushered to a table next to the fire. The table has a cloth spread upon it, along with plates and cutlery. Nasho spits the sausages and puts them near the embers. We share some wine and chat in a stunted mix of German and French as we eat fresh tomatoes, cheese and the hot sausages fresh from the fire. “What time is breakfast?” I ask, as I prepare to leave for my bed. He shrugs. “Eight, nine, ten… sleep as long as you want. But if ten, after a leisurely breakfast it will be eleven before you get to the castle, and then…” He trails off, as if disaster will happen. I smile, suddenly reminded of my mum. (Hello, Mum!)
Day Two
Breakfast is as welcoming as supper. Whilst eating my omelette, I discover that, of the two, I prefer Bulgarian folk music to Serbian. Nasho is channel hopping and finds several folk music channels. “Bulgish,” he says with a grin. I only have enough time to work out that I quite like it before he flicks again. “Serbish!” he says. This is more trite and more contrived. I’m sure all Serbian music can’t be this bad. He flicks again. It’s the corniest of the lot. “What’s this?” I ask in German, swallowing coffee. He shrugs, laughing, shaking his head. “Griechenland, buzuki,” he says, miming. “Chicago…” he plays air sax for me and goes off into peals of laughter. I grin, amused.
The walk up to the castle is steep. The road is made of cobbles that are as slippery as walking on wet marble. In fact, there are rivulets of water running over them and they could well be made out of marble. Cars struggle to get up it, wheels spinning on the steep, smooth surface, unable to find purchase. They wobble worryingly all over the road as they skid and swerve, even at a pace slower than I’m walking.
The castle is a living monument with Ottoman houses dating from the 16th century crammed inside the walls, still inhabited. Poverty is evident, the houses run-down. There are small shops, museums, ruined mosques and a lot of churches in various states of disrepair. It is peaceful in the morning sunshine and few people are about. It’s warm enough not to need a cardigan but the air is still fresh. The birds sing.
There is a litter strewn about, but not as much as I’ve seen elsewhere. I think I might be finally starting to tune it out. Church bells drift up from the town below on the subtle breeze. If I strain my ears I can hear the soft hum of distant traffic. Cocks crow in the distance. The snow-capped mountain a little way away is blue in the hazy sun, blending with the sky. I smile as I walk.
Down below a new road is being built next to the river in front of a row of shops and cafes. I hope it will be pedestrianized. It won’t take much to spoil the delicate beauty of this place. I have heard there are no planning laws in Albania. If the people rush too fast to develop for the burgeoning tourist trade, they will destroy the lure of their country. With any luck, the UNESCO status of the town will prevent that from happening here, but I am fearful all the same.
Possibly the Friendliest Country in the World
If I was to write about all the people I’m meeting here I could probably manage a novella. I think this is the friendliest country I have ever visited. People here just cannot do enough to help you and they are so interested in you and what you think of their country.
Ordering a pizza involved Albanian lessons from a pair of cheeky and charming lads behind the counter, one of which refused to give me my pizza until I agreed to have my photo taken with him. My hosts at the guest house cannot do enough for me. Even the Jehovah’s witnesses up at the castle did their best to find a bit in their book that was in English for me to read and accepted my ‘no thank you’ with good grace. Upon exiting the castle, a man offered to take me back and open up all the churches for me to see inside. Albania has the warmest welcome to give; a very warm welcome indeed.
Bus to Gjirokaster
The bus stops here and there in town to let more people on before we head out into the countryside. One man hands a cage of two pigeons to the driver along with some cash, but doesn’t get on himself. Buses here seem to provide a courier service as well as public transportation. The pigeons sit on the floor next to the driver just in front of my feet, cooing, fighting and occasionally getting amorous.
We’re not far out of town before the father of a young boy darts to the front and says something urgently to the driver’s assistant, who hurriedly pulls a plastic bag from a pile on the dashboard. Great, I think. Travel-sick child on a mini-bus. Judging by the amount of carrier bags on the dash, this is a common occurrence.
The roads are bad, full of craterous pot holes. The drivers seem more intent on saving their suspension than on not crashing into each other. They career all over the road to avoid the holes, heedless of what’s coming at them. Cars and vans and construction vehicles and buses (including this one) are all over the road, weaving in and out. I have to look out of the side window rather than the front in order to stop myself wincing.
Everyone drives too fast, too close and on the wrong side of the road as often as on the right one. Everyone overtakes on sharp bends, nipping out and swerving back in sharply if something comes in the opposite direction. There are numerous police roadblocks where everyone behaves themselves - the driver’s mate scrabbles madly to get the driver’s seatbelt round his ample stomach. The driver speaks quickly at him and I can’t tell if he’s telling him to stop it or hurry up and get on with it. The mate gives up in the end and they drive past the policemen cool as cucumbers, smiling and giving a little wave hello. Safely past, I can see the driver looking smugly in the rear view mirror as he puts his foot down once more and picks up his mobile phone to make a call whilst at the same time sifting through his CD collection. He’s steering with his elbows.
I have most definitely fallen out with the God of Bus Chaos. I wonder if I’ll make it to Gjirokaster with life and limbs intact. Everyone else on the bus seems calm about it, though, as so do the pigeons. I pretend likewise and stare intently out of the window next to me, trying not to feel too pale.
Gjirokaster
I am booked into a B&B for this town, partly because I couldn’t find a hostel and partly because I have a yearning for a bit of time to myself. Upon arrival, all I want to do is sit in the sun, drink coffee and read.
I head out into the old town under the castle on the mountain, all winding cobbled streets and falling-down houses, artisan shops, cafes and bakeries. Almost before I’ve put my bag on a table outside the café, a man coming out of the door smiles at me. “Hello,” he says. I wonder if he’s a waiter. “Hello,” I smile, sitting down. “American?” he asks. “English,” I reply. “Ah! London?” “Manchester.” He nods, appreciatively, although thankfully doesn’t make the usual enquiry about whether I’m red or blue. He sits down opposite me. He’s the café owner. He orders a coffee and drinks with me, chatting. He’s perfectly friendly and interesting to talk to, generous with his time and very interested in where I’m from and where I’m going and what I think of his country. He tells me I can come back and drink coffee in his café every day.
Albania really does have the hugest heart out of all the Balkans I’ve so far visited; the B&B owner told me that I might get invited in for coffee by the locals and that it was perfectly okay to say yes. They are so pleased that you are visiting their country.
Since I arrived in the Balkans, I’ve heard a few people discuss whether or not to come here; many have been warned away with tales of muggings, attacks and fears that they’ll be sex trafficked…
…slightly ridiculous fears of being sex trafficked, I might add - hold on to your passport; don’t give it to anyone who promises that they can get you a job waiting tables or modelling in New York or London. Oh hang on, you have more money than most people here, including the smugglers probably. Wait a sec, you already have a job in London or New York or Toronto and if you don’t you can find one yourself perfectly legally. You don’t need to rely on a dodgy bloke to sneak you out of the country so you can find a menial job in the western world and send money home to your family. You are lucky. You are not desperate for money, you don’t live in a poverty-stricken country, you either know you’re not model material or you actually are a model, you’re a traveller so you’re clearly not naïve (or you wouldn’t have made it this far) and therefore no-one is going to target you. Idiot.
I have no idea where these stories of muggings have come from, either. Just as you would anywhere else, don’t flash the cash and keep all valuables hidden. It’s not rocket science. Apparently Albania has one of the lowest petty crime rates in Europe. I have never met a more helpful and kind people.
However. All this friendliness and openness is really unconducive to time alone. Even sitting on a bench reading, you get inquisitive looks and people saying hello and asking where you’re from. Although I love this country and its warm-hearted people, being an antisocial git I find myself quite looking forward to the anonymity I hope to find in northern Greece.
Bah humbug.
Day Two
Today all I wanted was to walk by myself in the warm sunshine, through this startlingly atmospheric town, looking out at the snow-capped mountain opposite. I wanted a chance to sit, read and write in the sun, to get away from the curious stares. I decided to visit the castle, which I hoped would be as peaceful as the one in Berat.
I have never seen so many school children, all aged between 11 and 16. They ran and played and fought and screamed and laughed and chatted. Everywhere.
One look at me and suddenly, from all angles it felt like, there were shouts of “Hello! Hi!” followed by giggles. When I replied, there were peals of laughter. I know it was just friendly curiosity with no ill intent whatsoever, but all at once, constantly, it was more than a little overwhelming. A lovely girl of about 11 asked to have her photo taken with me. I agreed, obviously, but then quickly Ieft. I could see her running over to her friends to show them and the thought of being swamped by kids with mobile phones was a bit too much.
I could never be famous. I’d be rubbish at it.
Instead, I wandered through the narrow, cobbled lanes that run up the side of the mountain, past buildings both intact and falling down. It is an astoundingly atmospheric place in an astoundingly beautiful setting. Pack ponies are led through the streets, bells hung around their necks so you can hear them coming. Women hose down their terraces and the cobbles in front of their houses daily.
For a country where littering and fly tipping is so endemic, people are incongruously obsessed with washing the paths and streets. Apparently until 1990 there was no litter because everything had to be reused and recycled due to the poverty caused by the harsh communist regime here. 24 years later, this has to be the worst place for litter I’ve visited so far, along with possibly Montenegro.
While it is of course a good thing that the people of this country now have more and are far better off, it’s a shame the infrastructure and laws to deal with the fallout doesn’t seem to be there.
I have now found a low wall to sit on next to a cobbled road that winds around the hill below castle, running over a gully cut by a now dry river and around the opposite hill. The gully is full of rubbish, but it is shielded from view where I currently sit. I can gaze out at the curtain wall of the castle opposite and the snow-capped mountain behind, as well as the part of town that is visible up the valley, nestled in a cleft in the mountainside. People occasionally walk past, some look at me curiously, but I am mercifully left to myself. Peace at last.
Sarande
Times when knowing the non-verbal language cues would help. A lot.
I need sun cream. I’ve been sat on the beach for a couple of hours and I feel like I’m frying. None of the mini-marts seem to stock it, so I ask at a pharmacy. “Do you have sun cream?” The pharmacist shakes her head. I assume she doesn’t understand English and mime sun beams on my skin and rub some imaginary cream onto my arm. She looks amused and shakes her head again and goes into the back, mumbling “Sun cream… sun cream…” to herself.
I suddenly remember that Albanians shake their head when they mean yes and nod when they mean no. To add to the confusion, some have worked out that most foreigners do the exact opposite and so they now nod for yes and shake for no. It is therefore impossible to know what an Albanian means when they shake their head.
Beach holiday time!
No pontificating on paper for a bit. All you need to know is that I have a cheap hotel on the sea front with a balcony and sea view. It’s about 22 degrees out there. The sea is a clear blue. The beach is pebbly, but that’s fine; stops sand getting where it shouldn’t. The ancient ruins of Butrint, which date from pre-Roman times, are definitely worth the short bus trip. The air is fresh, the views are fantastic and I have a great, big, contented smile on my face.
