The parallel universe of Albania
The Parallel Universe of Albania
Albania is the second poorest country in Europe. God help Moldova. One can only imagine the levels of deprivation. Waking up in shell-shocked Shkodra - it looked like it had been shelled and I was shocked - I decided to plough on immediately towards the capital Tirana. I strolled along the soaked footpaths toward the train station, dodging between piles of stinking garbage and broken paving stones. Garbage disposal seems in large part to consist of piling refuse on the side of the street and setting it alight. Scorched earth and ashes mark the sites of previous bonfires. To hell with global warming.
The streets of Shkodra were awash from the storm of the nite before and were covered in places by inches of water. Cars crawled slowly through the mud eager not to harm their expensive high powered engines. For here is a curiosity. Albania is dirt poor and yet nearly two-thirds (as indicated by my unscientific scientific survey) of the vehicles on the road are Mercedes, BMWs or Audis of various vintages - though mostly modern cars. These sleek black luxury wagons glide contemptuously past donkeys and legion cyclists on the pocked and cratered roads. Have you ever read a newspaper article about Albanian criminal gangs stealing high-powered vehicles in Germany, Italy and elsewhere and driving them back home for sale or chopping? It is difficult to otherwise explain the number of Beamers when the country is falling apart and is hardly choc full of BMW dealerships!
The housing stock mostly comprised decrepit communist era apartment blocks. Though some newer developments stood out against the broken streets and the rundown morass. In a step up from Morocco - most else seemed a step down - the bicycle is a common form of transport for those unable to afford a knocked off Beamer.
Train travel
Looking into the hills outside I searched for and began to see the eyes peering out from the bushes. Small letter-box shaped eyes. For much of the cold war Albania was ruled by the paranoid despot Enver Hoxha who broke from Moscow, and then China, and feared invasion from everyone. From the Americans, the Greeks, the Russians, the Chinese; the threats were everywhere. So in this desperately poor country he put all the resources of the State in the service of the military to construct a country-wide network of concrete bunkers to repel the invaders. These bunkers resemble giant mushrooms. Round concrete stems sprouting from the ground, capped with semi-spherical concrete roofs overhanging the stems. Just beneath these caps, letter box shaped vents allowed soldiers to point their weapons in four directions. The size of the bunkers varied from those designed to hold one soldier to those that could hold many many more.
The bunkers were placed all of the country. Seven hundred thousand of them. The cold war came and went and so did the delightful Mr. Hoxha. The bunkers remain. They peer out from the undergrowth of the hillsides; form strategic lines across wide open collectivised farm fields; they sit outside people's houses in back gardens; they crop up all over the cities; at road junctions; and mostly bizarrely and dis-figuratively they litter the beaches. Great big mushroomed shaped legacies of a mushroom-cloud-threatened age. In places the populace have demonstrated their contempt and the bunkers have been smashed, their semi-spherical caps jutting out at incongruous angles from enormous bunker pyres. Elsewhere they are used to house livestock or fodder. People keep their dogs in them. Occasionally you will see one that has been artistically redeveloped; painted pink with psychedelic yellow spots. But above all you see them. Everywhere.
Evil eye
Tirana was tarred and feathered by comparison with Shkodra. And yet the writ of the tarmac only extended to the main streets. Stray off this grid of wide boulevards and as likely as not you will be driving through mud. After dark its best to bring a torch. There isn't always street lights. And where there are, there isnt always the electricity to power them. The city itself is pleasant but the inhabitants are desperately poor. There is little or no industry and little or no jobs. Men sit around drinking thick black coffee and playing backgammon. In the side-street markets people bargain hard for bread, vegetables and clothes that look suspiciously like cast offs from Western stores. And everywhere there is the evil eye.
Albanian is a mixed-religion country; there are Christians and Muslims living side by side with little apparent strife. Religion was suppressed under communism and is making a come back. But other superstitions also have a strong hold. People fear the evil eye; a form of malignant curse that does everything from turning your tea cold to turning your goose into a hen. People buy up trinkets in great numbers to ward off this threat. Across the country there can be seen the little dolls and blue ceramic eyes intended to protect the bearer against the pervasive evil eye.
The South
Heading South out of Tirana is an experience. This road is the main artery bisecting the country from North to South, all the way to the Greek border. It is a two lane road; that is one lane for traffic headed in each direction. For large stretches the tarmac evaporated and the buses slowed to near-halt. The black Mercedes, though careful with their paintwork, are generally too impatient to crawl along. They zoomed into the distance leaving great clouds of dust in their wake. I had targeted a small seaside village further down the coast. It took a ridiculous amount of time to get there and when I arrived it was raining. The one and only hotel was closed. However a local shopkeeper kindly phoned the hotel owner and he came around to open the place for me.
It had taken a long time to get here and now it was dark. I got out my torch and headed into the village for food. The options were slim. But there was a decent souvlaki joint. The menu was predictably short - souvlaki or souvlaki - but the hospitality was good. After a beer I headed back to the hotel, my torch leading the way in the absence of street lights. Walking by a swamp all thoughts were drowned out by the cacophonous croaking of unseen frogs in a large swamp. A clap of thunder burst out overhead and a forked streak of lightening illuminated the black swell. The rain came down in sheets and an unchanging weather pattern continued as before.
I spent one day in this little village waiting for the rain to break and it did not. Along the coast there were some new developments. Some canny Italians and Greeks were building holiday homes and apartments by the sea. No doubt foreshadowing a day when the only road into town will be more than the current gravel trail. Along the beach some EU-funded workers were installing a new promenade. It overlooked the abandoned hulks of three concrete bunkers sunk deep into the sand. That evening I had more souvlaki and beer and established the time of the (as in the only) bus out of town the next day. To be sure to be sure I arrived thirty minutes before the bus. I needn't have bothered. The bus was full to bursting when it arrived into town and refused to take more passengers as it breezed through. Come back tomorrow. So I spent one more nite under the thunder by the sea. The next day I finally got away and headed further South.
Albania, so poorly served by its leaders and history is a country of great beauty. A series of mountain ranges, a Southern branch of the Dinaric Alps, climb skywards and wind South all the way to Greece. The mountain tops are lined with white velvet snow and the valleys are green. Along the coast small beaches are protected by the slopes and offer up picturesque villages sliding toward the Adriatic sea. As a tourist enterprise the place could have a lot going for it. However, if Montenegro is the new Croatia, it will be some time before Albania becomes the new Montenegro.
Chased out by the weather I headed on for Greece.
Albania is the second poorest country in Europe. God help Moldova. One can only imagine the levels of deprivation. Waking up in shell-shocked Shkodra - it looked like it had been shelled and I was shocked - I decided to plough on immediately towards the capital Tirana. I strolled along the soaked footpaths toward the train station, dodging between piles of stinking garbage and broken paving stones. Garbage disposal seems in large part to consist of piling refuse on the side of the street and setting it alight. Scorched earth and ashes mark the sites of previous bonfires. To hell with global warming.
The streets of Shkodra were awash from the storm of the nite before and were covered in places by inches of water. Cars crawled slowly through the mud eager not to harm their expensive high powered engines. For here is a curiosity. Albania is dirt poor and yet nearly two-thirds (as indicated by my unscientific scientific survey) of the vehicles on the road are Mercedes, BMWs or Audis of various vintages - though mostly modern cars. These sleek black luxury wagons glide contemptuously past donkeys and legion cyclists on the pocked and cratered roads. Have you ever read a newspaper article about Albanian criminal gangs stealing high-powered vehicles in Germany, Italy and elsewhere and driving them back home for sale or chopping? It is difficult to otherwise explain the number of Beamers when the country is falling apart and is hardly choc full of BMW dealerships!
The housing stock mostly comprised decrepit communist era apartment blocks. Though some newer developments stood out against the broken streets and the rundown morass. In a step up from Morocco - most else seemed a step down - the bicycle is a common form of transport for those unable to afford a knocked off Beamer.
Train travel
The train station was a depressing communist era development. A vast concrete complex with a couple of levels, it was almost totally deserted. There were more cleaning ladies than passengers. One solitary employee manned the ticket desk and seemed to be the manager, ticket salesperson, signalling man, security guard and ticket check. On the platform there were numerous indications that this was once a flag-ship station equipped with the then-latest signal and communications technology. Sadly none of this seems to function any more or to be required. One rusty, decrepit train crawls toward Tirana and that is about it for traffic. Tickets are ridiculously cheap - a few cents - and the journey takes slightly longer than it might take to run the same distance. I share my carriage with some rusty springs poking up through the seat covers, innumerable flattened cigarette butts and a few decomposed banana skins. The window was broken; the smashed glass providing natural ventilation. In the corridor outside there were a number of small rusty holes in the floor. But at these prices one cannot complain. Outside the windows people on bicycles keep pace alongside the train. People are busy working in the fields. All labour seems manual. Even that of the kids throwing rocks at the carriages as we finally lumbered into Tirana.
Totally bunkers
Looking into the hills outside I searched for and began to see the eyes peering out from the bushes. Small letter-box shaped eyes. For much of the cold war Albania was ruled by the paranoid despot Enver Hoxha who broke from Moscow, and then China, and feared invasion from everyone. From the Americans, the Greeks, the Russians, the Chinese; the threats were everywhere. So in this desperately poor country he put all the resources of the State in the service of the military to construct a country-wide network of concrete bunkers to repel the invaders. These bunkers resemble giant mushrooms. Round concrete stems sprouting from the ground, capped with semi-spherical concrete roofs overhanging the stems. Just beneath these caps, letter box shaped vents allowed soldiers to point their weapons in four directions. The size of the bunkers varied from those designed to hold one soldier to those that could hold many many more.
The bunkers were placed all of the country. Seven hundred thousand of them. The cold war came and went and so did the delightful Mr. Hoxha. The bunkers remain. They peer out from the undergrowth of the hillsides; form strategic lines across wide open collectivised farm fields; they sit outside people's houses in back gardens; they crop up all over the cities; at road junctions; and mostly bizarrely and dis-figuratively they litter the beaches. Great big mushroomed shaped legacies of a mushroom-cloud-threatened age. In places the populace have demonstrated their contempt and the bunkers have been smashed, their semi-spherical caps jutting out at incongruous angles from enormous bunker pyres. Elsewhere they are used to house livestock or fodder. People keep their dogs in them. Occasionally you will see one that has been artistically redeveloped; painted pink with psychedelic yellow spots. But above all you see them. Everywhere.
Evil eye
Tirana was tarred and feathered by comparison with Shkodra. And yet the writ of the tarmac only extended to the main streets. Stray off this grid of wide boulevards and as likely as not you will be driving through mud. After dark its best to bring a torch. There isn't always street lights. And where there are, there isnt always the electricity to power them. The city itself is pleasant but the inhabitants are desperately poor. There is little or no industry and little or no jobs. Men sit around drinking thick black coffee and playing backgammon. In the side-street markets people bargain hard for bread, vegetables and clothes that look suspiciously like cast offs from Western stores. And everywhere there is the evil eye.
Albanian is a mixed-religion country; there are Christians and Muslims living side by side with little apparent strife. Religion was suppressed under communism and is making a come back. But other superstitions also have a strong hold. People fear the evil eye; a form of malignant curse that does everything from turning your tea cold to turning your goose into a hen. People buy up trinkets in great numbers to ward off this threat. Across the country there can be seen the little dolls and blue ceramic eyes intended to protect the bearer against the pervasive evil eye.
Irlanda - Molte cultura
The Albanians are a friendly bunch. But unhelpfully very few speak English. Italian is the most common second language. Most Albanians i encountered wanted to know where I came from, why I was there and what I do. "Estudiante ?" is usually asked, and - as part of my down-at-heel, please don't mug me, please don't rip me off, i-have-no-money cover story - I always reply in the affirmative. Usually the interlocutor explained this to their mono-glot friends who nod knowingly at the word "Estudiante"; the question and answer serving no more than to absolve the outrageous peculiarity of anyone wanting to come here. In ten days in Albania i did not meet or see another foreigner. When I revealed I was from Ireland the response was unexpected; instead of bafflement it was one of unabashed enthusiasm. Someone has been telling these guys about the Celtic Tiger. Responses to my Irishness were uniformly positive and included "Much progress", "Very green" and "Molte cultura". Perhaps the clearest endorsement came from one toothless old man who on hearing Irlanda smiled broadly, leaned toward me and said emphatically "Near Scotland." Yes, thats whats we're famous for.
Accomodation
Generally Albania is a place where you can wander cheaply. A large lunch can be had for a Euro or their abouts. The trains are dirt cheap; though its faster to walk. However accommodation is more of a problem. There being few tourists and almost no backpackers there is very little by way of reasonably priced accommodation. Most Albanians cannot afford to stay in hotels and if they have to travel around the country they will endeavour to stay with relatives. So a stark incongruity exists between the cost of living and the cost of sleeping. The cheapest i paid in Albania was €10; and more than once i was forced to extend to €25. So what does €25 get you in an Albanian hotel? Seeing as €1 got me beef and rice pilaf i was expecting jacuzzis, balconies overlooking the sea, minibars and sauteed shrimp. What i got was a water glass with mold, a bag of soiled diapers in the bathroom and a bar of soap wedged with curly brown pubic hair. Charming.
The South
Heading South out of Tirana is an experience. This road is the main artery bisecting the country from North to South, all the way to the Greek border. It is a two lane road; that is one lane for traffic headed in each direction. For large stretches the tarmac evaporated and the buses slowed to near-halt. The black Mercedes, though careful with their paintwork, are generally too impatient to crawl along. They zoomed into the distance leaving great clouds of dust in their wake. I had targeted a small seaside village further down the coast. It took a ridiculous amount of time to get there and when I arrived it was raining. The one and only hotel was closed. However a local shopkeeper kindly phoned the hotel owner and he came around to open the place for me.
It had taken a long time to get here and now it was dark. I got out my torch and headed into the village for food. The options were slim. But there was a decent souvlaki joint. The menu was predictably short - souvlaki or souvlaki - but the hospitality was good. After a beer I headed back to the hotel, my torch leading the way in the absence of street lights. Walking by a swamp all thoughts were drowned out by the cacophonous croaking of unseen frogs in a large swamp. A clap of thunder burst out overhead and a forked streak of lightening illuminated the black swell. The rain came down in sheets and an unchanging weather pattern continued as before.
I spent one day in this little village waiting for the rain to break and it did not. Along the coast there were some new developments. Some canny Italians and Greeks were building holiday homes and apartments by the sea. No doubt foreshadowing a day when the only road into town will be more than the current gravel trail. Along the beach some EU-funded workers were installing a new promenade. It overlooked the abandoned hulks of three concrete bunkers sunk deep into the sand. That evening I had more souvlaki and beer and established the time of the (as in the only) bus out of town the next day. To be sure to be sure I arrived thirty minutes before the bus. I needn't have bothered. The bus was full to bursting when it arrived into town and refused to take more passengers as it breezed through. Come back tomorrow. So I spent one more nite under the thunder by the sea. The next day I finally got away and headed further South.
Albania, so poorly served by its leaders and history is a country of great beauty. A series of mountain ranges, a Southern branch of the Dinaric Alps, climb skywards and wind South all the way to Greece. The mountain tops are lined with white velvet snow and the valleys are green. Along the coast small beaches are protected by the slopes and offer up picturesque villages sliding toward the Adriatic sea. As a tourist enterprise the place could have a lot going for it. However, if Montenegro is the new Croatia, it will be some time before Albania becomes the new Montenegro.
Chased out by the weather I headed on for Greece.
posted by Supertramp | 6:11 AM
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