Welcome to Albania
Weclome to Albania
Dubrovnik
Two nites in Dubrovnik. An exceptionally beautiful old town, perched on an isthmus surrounded by blue sea and encased by perfectly preserved/restored city walls. A bar on a rocky outcrop between the walls and the depths provides the perfect spot to sip a beer and watch the evening sun slip beneath the tide. These are some of the fantastic up-sides.The down-sides are the prices and the people. This is a town that likes a show. The girls are pretty and clad in Prada. Or imitation Prada. The guyz fancy themselves as tough but spend even more time prettifying themselves than the girls. They like fast cars and big motorbikes, popular music at ear-shattering decibels and sunglasses that are large and mirrored. In the calm of evening people sit in and outside the bars. They shout over the music, and wear their shades, tank tops and goldie chains in darkened clubs. Everybody is trying hard to be something. I don't know what. But its far, far too much trying.
Montenegro
On the advice of a fellow traveller i arrived at the bus station in Kotor. Another preserved old town, of a very small scale, sitting beneath ancient mountainside fortifications on Southern Europe's longest fjord. The paved lanes and alleys of the town are blissfully sealed to traffic by its ancient walls and still-surviving moat. Coming off the bus i was met by Marco, a bull necked, one eyed, sixty-something year old local granddad who was offering homestay accommodation for €25 per nite. Way, way outside of my budget dear boy. No problem. We settled on a tenner for a room on the ground floor of Marco's house. Marco slept in the room next door, the daughter and grand-kids upstairs. Every morning Marco greeted me with a smoker's gurgle as he asked "Dobro?" (meaning "Good?"). "Dobro" i would reply with my thumb in the air. "Dobro, dobro" Marco would gurgle smiling as though he was let in on the best joke of his life.
The hiking in Kotor is good. There is a reasonably stiff haul up to the old fortifications overlooking the town, but the outstanding views are from the mountaintops, a good three hours further up. This stretch of the coast was long fought over by the Venetians, Ottomans and Habsburgs. Today the fight is back on. A new gold rush has broken out, but its the Paddies, the Brits and Russians in the vanguard. Kotor is swamped with property speculators and developers. Since Montenegro's very recent split from Serbia it is touted and promoting itself as the "new Croatia". A new Klondike and the gold diggers are here with bells on. The cafes and bars are abuzz with Irish and British accents discussing strategies for how to convince the locals to sell up; how to convince them the speculator is on their side; and most importantly how to deal with the local mafia. For the boys with the guns want their cut.
Welcome to Albania
From Kotor I arrived late in the afternoon in Podgorica. The Montenegrin capital was to be a mere jumping off point for Albania. A quick internet trawl threw up no suitable sleeping options - Podgorica does not feature on many travel itineraries. A crumby €40 per nite hotel on the outskirts of - what seemed from behind a bus window during a thunderstorm to be - a pretty crumby town. So after some debate i allowed myself be talked around by a taxi driver who figured it was far better to pay €20 to go immediately to the border and pay €10 to sleep in Albania that nite. Listening to taxi-drivers is generally not a good idea. But hey Podgorica wasn't offering much. So in the darkening evening, under monsoon rain and booming thunder claps we set off for the border crossing deep in the nearby mountains.
Out of Podgorica we bounced along ever-narrowing roads, passing stationary police and army vehicles at many crossroads. Through mountain gaps, over hills and into a valley where a lake shimmered out from a thickening darkness, the driving rain dimpling its surface. The taxi driver abandoned me 100m from the Montenegrin border post; a couple of small offices, a dozen or so army, police and customs officials, feet on desks sipping coffee; all covered by an EU-funded canopy. The rain coming down on the canopy sounded like the obscured shouting of a crowd at a football match. There was not a village, farm or dwelling visible for miles. The only sound was the rain. Out of this pitch black night and soaking downpour plodded a figure clad in a black raincoat, hood pulled across face, carrying a large backpack wrapped in a bright yellow plastic cover. Officials of all stripes set down their coffees, bemused and amused.
Assorted officialdom mustered very little English but had enough to ask "no vehicle?" and laughed in gut-busting, nose-snorting unison when i replied no. With generous chuckles and - no doubt incisive - quips in Serbian, they stamped me and waived me off into nite toward Albania, shaking their heads at the tourist idiot.
At the Albanian checkpoint, rainwater running down my red cheeks, i was again being the evening's chief entertainment. The Albanians also spoke no English but managed to raise the question in sign language "no car?". No car brought out the house down. Idiot tourist. How did i plan to get to the nearest Albanian town. "Bus? Bas? Autobusi?" brought further gales of laughter. "Bus?" roared the official in hysterics pointing into the oblivious darkness beyond the terminal. And, finally as they picked themselves off the floor one of the superiors offered to call "Taxi?".
The border guard examining my passport asked for €20. My severely out of date guide book suggested the visa fee was €10 but i figured i was either being had or the fee had been upped in the previous seven years. I was left in little doubt as to the correct interpretation when the guard promptly leaned forward, raised one arse-cheek and stuffed the notes into his rear trouser pocket. A beaming smile drew across his face as he did up the receipt, clearly marking his copy €10 and my copy €20. When i affably pointed out the discrepancy he smiled broadly and indicated he did not understand. I persevered. And he persevered with his me-know-nothing-me from-Tirane grin. When i persevered a little too long he suggested that perhaps he should conduct a search of my backpack. Out of concern for what he might "find" i thought it better to wish him happy birthday and relent. It was only a tenner after all.
Shkodra
At this point the officer in charge returned with his offer to call a taxi. Seeing as i was stranded in a thunderstorm in the middle of nowhere and with no means of egress i said yes please. He mumbled into his mobile and a car engine roared into life somewhere in the rain-soaked nite. Lights suddenly illuminated the potholed road about 200m in the distance. A red Mercedes - with no taxi plates - drove up at speed to where we stood. Out jumped a young man in blue jeans and black leather jacket sporting a pock-marked face. The border official explained that the "taxi driver" wanted €30 to take me to Shkodra. How much??? Where??? €30 seemed steep for an Albanian taxi. And indeed it clearly must have been, for i immediately bargained it down to €20 and regretted trying to get it down to €15 seeing how quickly they had capitulated. It wasn't as though i had a strong bargaining position - standing on an isolated mountainside at night-time in a thunderstorm in a country where i did not speak the language.
So my friend (anonymous stranger) and i headed off down a narrow, potholed single lane road reminiscent of West Cork's best dirt-tracks. The heavy unrelenting rain had caused part of the road to flood up to twelve inches deep. My driver spoke no English. But as we crawled into the Albanian countryside he turned to me out of the blue and asked "Catholique?". I thought, oh fuck. I'm in a car with a dude i don't know, in isolated mountains and the guy wants to identify me by religion. Following as much vacillation as my mind could manage in a couple of seconds i plumped for yes. And to my relief he was delighted, and pointed to a Jesus badge on the dash board. Me also catholic he managed to say through a bright smile. Well, thank fuck for that then, i thought.
The road continued to narrow, widen and turn at will. It was in part tarred, in part gravel. In places were Olympic-sized pools of water, rain-filled craters that passed as potholes. Eventually we arrived into town. Shkodra. As we crawled around the back streets of Shkodra it was immediately apparent there was no street lighting. The streets were mostly mud-tracks, with splashes of long-ago dissolved tar. The footpaths, such as they were, were mostly broken into little pieces as though in careful preparation for a soon-to-break-out riot. Many buildings seemed to have no electricity, for there were long stretches with no lights. And the buildings themselves seemed to divide into two categories: those that were half built; and those that were half fallen down.
The dude dropped me at a hotel mentioned by the border guard. The owner spoke french and this was the lingua franca of our bargaining. He wanted €20, we settled on €12. Again a reasonably happy outcome to the bargaining process, for, whether i had been ripped off or not, its not as though i had any leverage in my attempts to get him down from €20. I mean, in this weather, in this town, in this country, where the hell was i going to go!!And so i was in Albania. And Shkodra was as good a welcome and as good an indication of what lay before me as any.
Dubrovnik
Two nites in Dubrovnik. An exceptionally beautiful old town, perched on an isthmus surrounded by blue sea and encased by perfectly preserved/restored city walls. A bar on a rocky outcrop between the walls and the depths provides the perfect spot to sip a beer and watch the evening sun slip beneath the tide. These are some of the fantastic up-sides.The down-sides are the prices and the people. This is a town that likes a show. The girls are pretty and clad in Prada. Or imitation Prada. The guyz fancy themselves as tough but spend even more time prettifying themselves than the girls. They like fast cars and big motorbikes, popular music at ear-shattering decibels and sunglasses that are large and mirrored. In the calm of evening people sit in and outside the bars. They shout over the music, and wear their shades, tank tops and goldie chains in darkened clubs. Everybody is trying hard to be something. I don't know what. But its far, far too much trying.
Montenegro
On the advice of a fellow traveller i arrived at the bus station in Kotor. Another preserved old town, of a very small scale, sitting beneath ancient mountainside fortifications on Southern Europe's longest fjord. The paved lanes and alleys of the town are blissfully sealed to traffic by its ancient walls and still-surviving moat. Coming off the bus i was met by Marco, a bull necked, one eyed, sixty-something year old local granddad who was offering homestay accommodation for €25 per nite. Way, way outside of my budget dear boy. No problem. We settled on a tenner for a room on the ground floor of Marco's house. Marco slept in the room next door, the daughter and grand-kids upstairs. Every morning Marco greeted me with a smoker's gurgle as he asked "Dobro?" (meaning "Good?"). "Dobro" i would reply with my thumb in the air. "Dobro, dobro" Marco would gurgle smiling as though he was let in on the best joke of his life.
The hiking in Kotor is good. There is a reasonably stiff haul up to the old fortifications overlooking the town, but the outstanding views are from the mountaintops, a good three hours further up. This stretch of the coast was long fought over by the Venetians, Ottomans and Habsburgs. Today the fight is back on. A new gold rush has broken out, but its the Paddies, the Brits and Russians in the vanguard. Kotor is swamped with property speculators and developers. Since Montenegro's very recent split from Serbia it is touted and promoting itself as the "new Croatia". A new Klondike and the gold diggers are here with bells on. The cafes and bars are abuzz with Irish and British accents discussing strategies for how to convince the locals to sell up; how to convince them the speculator is on their side; and most importantly how to deal with the local mafia. For the boys with the guns want their cut.
Welcome to Albania
From Kotor I arrived late in the afternoon in Podgorica. The Montenegrin capital was to be a mere jumping off point for Albania. A quick internet trawl threw up no suitable sleeping options - Podgorica does not feature on many travel itineraries. A crumby €40 per nite hotel on the outskirts of - what seemed from behind a bus window during a thunderstorm to be - a pretty crumby town. So after some debate i allowed myself be talked around by a taxi driver who figured it was far better to pay €20 to go immediately to the border and pay €10 to sleep in Albania that nite. Listening to taxi-drivers is generally not a good idea. But hey Podgorica wasn't offering much. So in the darkening evening, under monsoon rain and booming thunder claps we set off for the border crossing deep in the nearby mountains.
Out of Podgorica we bounced along ever-narrowing roads, passing stationary police and army vehicles at many crossroads. Through mountain gaps, over hills and into a valley where a lake shimmered out from a thickening darkness, the driving rain dimpling its surface. The taxi driver abandoned me 100m from the Montenegrin border post; a couple of small offices, a dozen or so army, police and customs officials, feet on desks sipping coffee; all covered by an EU-funded canopy. The rain coming down on the canopy sounded like the obscured shouting of a crowd at a football match. There was not a village, farm or dwelling visible for miles. The only sound was the rain. Out of this pitch black night and soaking downpour plodded a figure clad in a black raincoat, hood pulled across face, carrying a large backpack wrapped in a bright yellow plastic cover. Officials of all stripes set down their coffees, bemused and amused.
Assorted officialdom mustered very little English but had enough to ask "no vehicle?" and laughed in gut-busting, nose-snorting unison when i replied no. With generous chuckles and - no doubt incisive - quips in Serbian, they stamped me and waived me off into nite toward Albania, shaking their heads at the tourist idiot.
At the Albanian checkpoint, rainwater running down my red cheeks, i was again being the evening's chief entertainment. The Albanians also spoke no English but managed to raise the question in sign language "no car?". No car brought out the house down. Idiot tourist. How did i plan to get to the nearest Albanian town. "Bus? Bas? Autobusi?" brought further gales of laughter. "Bus?" roared the official in hysterics pointing into the oblivious darkness beyond the terminal. And, finally as they picked themselves off the floor one of the superiors offered to call "Taxi?".
The border guard examining my passport asked for €20. My severely out of date guide book suggested the visa fee was €10 but i figured i was either being had or the fee had been upped in the previous seven years. I was left in little doubt as to the correct interpretation when the guard promptly leaned forward, raised one arse-cheek and stuffed the notes into his rear trouser pocket. A beaming smile drew across his face as he did up the receipt, clearly marking his copy €10 and my copy €20. When i affably pointed out the discrepancy he smiled broadly and indicated he did not understand. I persevered. And he persevered with his me-know-nothing-me from-Tirane grin. When i persevered a little too long he suggested that perhaps he should conduct a search of my backpack. Out of concern for what he might "find" i thought it better to wish him happy birthday and relent. It was only a tenner after all.
Shkodra
At this point the officer in charge returned with his offer to call a taxi. Seeing as i was stranded in a thunderstorm in the middle of nowhere and with no means of egress i said yes please. He mumbled into his mobile and a car engine roared into life somewhere in the rain-soaked nite. Lights suddenly illuminated the potholed road about 200m in the distance. A red Mercedes - with no taxi plates - drove up at speed to where we stood. Out jumped a young man in blue jeans and black leather jacket sporting a pock-marked face. The border official explained that the "taxi driver" wanted €30 to take me to Shkodra. How much??? Where??? €30 seemed steep for an Albanian taxi. And indeed it clearly must have been, for i immediately bargained it down to €20 and regretted trying to get it down to €15 seeing how quickly they had capitulated. It wasn't as though i had a strong bargaining position - standing on an isolated mountainside at night-time in a thunderstorm in a country where i did not speak the language.
So my friend (anonymous stranger) and i headed off down a narrow, potholed single lane road reminiscent of West Cork's best dirt-tracks. The heavy unrelenting rain had caused part of the road to flood up to twelve inches deep. My driver spoke no English. But as we crawled into the Albanian countryside he turned to me out of the blue and asked "Catholique?". I thought, oh fuck. I'm in a car with a dude i don't know, in isolated mountains and the guy wants to identify me by religion. Following as much vacillation as my mind could manage in a couple of seconds i plumped for yes. And to my relief he was delighted, and pointed to a Jesus badge on the dash board. Me also catholic he managed to say through a bright smile. Well, thank fuck for that then, i thought.
The road continued to narrow, widen and turn at will. It was in part tarred, in part gravel. In places were Olympic-sized pools of water, rain-filled craters that passed as potholes. Eventually we arrived into town. Shkodra. As we crawled around the back streets of Shkodra it was immediately apparent there was no street lighting. The streets were mostly mud-tracks, with splashes of long-ago dissolved tar. The footpaths, such as they were, were mostly broken into little pieces as though in careful preparation for a soon-to-break-out riot. Many buildings seemed to have no electricity, for there were long stretches with no lights. And the buildings themselves seemed to divide into two categories: those that were half built; and those that were half fallen down.
The dude dropped me at a hotel mentioned by the border guard. The owner spoke french and this was the lingua franca of our bargaining. He wanted €20, we settled on €12. Again a reasonably happy outcome to the bargaining process, for, whether i had been ripped off or not, its not as though i had any leverage in my attempts to get him down from €20. I mean, in this weather, in this town, in this country, where the hell was i going to go!!And so i was in Albania. And Shkodra was as good a welcome and as good an indication of what lay before me as any.
posted by Supertramp | 6:02 AM
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