SATURDAY, MAY 25
Everything seemed to change in route to Albania. The land turned from rugged mountains and jade blue ocean to flat, rocky stretches and a distant view of the mountains. The houses, a mixture of old and new, in Montenegro, became concrete structures. The only hint of an ancient past were stone forts and churches atop distant hills. Montenegro is learning to contend with rampant capitalism in the form of tourism and property development. In Albania, cows grazed on strips of high grass by the main road, goats and roosters wandered fields, women and men cut grass with scythes.
The cities we drove through, and later where we arrive, are much larger than those we visited in Montenegro, and have a particular chaos, one I remember from Pakistan and Athens — old cars, kept alive with great care that dart helter skelter between lanes, constantly honking their horns, people crossing streets whenever they like, regardless of the frenetic traffic, and lots of people on bikes in the midst of the mayhem. I have not been back to a “former Soviet satellite” country since they gained their independence. The buildings and feel have not changed much since then, at least not in the towns from where we crossed the border to Tirane, the capital.
But what is markedly different are the signs for western companies — UPS, etc. — and there is, at least in Tirane, a lighter gate to the people’s walks. This may be cultural. It may be that Albanians are like their Greek relatives, a more lively people than I met in Romania, Czechoslavia, and other East European countries. Still austerity surrounds them in the form of communist style architecture, and buildings in decay. A general sense of poverty and struggle are visible, though there are extremes in wealth are apparent. The very rich are driving Mercedes and BMWs, not really unlike during Soviet domination.
THE BUS RIDE
The bus ride from Kotor, Montenegro to Tirane, Albania, took about seven hours. The border crossing was smooth, but then the driver pulled in to a gas station and we were told to get out of the bus…told through gestures, since the driver spoke no English. There were about eight of us on the bus, and everyone spoke English as a common language. By losing communication with those who seem to be controlling our fate, there was a natural bonding amongst the eight of us. One of the perks of traveling to places where you are truly a stranger. The others were all backpackers, mostly German, and an Aussie.
After about 30 minutes, another bus arrived. We were herded onto it, and off we went to the Tirane bus station.
THE TAXI?
After much negotiation with a woman in one of the bus offices, she walked with us to a man standing by his car. At taxi driver? Not sure. Off we went again into the unknown, trusting to fate. Few people would speak English from here on out, and our driver was no different. He didn’t really know how to find our address, but he was very nice.
When we arrived near the airbnb, he and I spent a lot of time walking down the streets asking people where the address was — until we found someone who spoke English and called our airbnb hosts. Poor Chloe sat in the “taxi” waiting, and I can only imagine how weird that must have been for her. The airbnb is on a street of vegetable/fruit vendors, in a market area. All very calm, but also very foreign.
PROTEST IN THE SQUARE
After dropping off our bags, we headed to the main square. What a scene…it was crowded with maybe a thousand or more men, there for some sort of gathering or protest, we couldn’t tell. There were a few people wrapped in flags, and groups were gesturing with their hands making a peace sign, but like a salute. It was a calm crowd, but intimidating as we didn’t know what was going on, and it was almost all men. We left when the groups in the square started to coalesce– there were four or five different groupings — and headed in one direction together. A firecracker went off in the crowd. The energy seemed to be rising.
We ate at a kebob restaurant on the main street to the square. The food was the first I’ve had in a while that had flavor…oh so good. Kofta kebob, beetroot salad, grilled vegetables with feta (Chloe’s was without feta), a tomato, onion, garlic, cilantro plate and thin as paper pita.
The physical characteristics of the people were different from the people in Montenegro, mostly they are much shorter, and almost all dark-haired. The language sounds unrecognizable, though at times we felt it had the lilt of Italian. Everyone was extremely friendly. At dinner, I thought our waiter might be frightened by us. He was quite wide eyed. It is usual for people here to see tourists, and then we are both so tall.
