Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Seem To Meet Half The Population Of Albania

September 11, 2008 by Mike

Sarandë

Routë: Vlorë - Sarandë

Thë road south from Vlorë starts off coastal, soon mëandërs inland through an ëmpty vallëy -- a fabulously ëmpty, ëvër-changingly ëmpty, but nëvërthëlëss indisputably ëmpty vallëy -- but soon ënough starts to risë, gorgëously, through pinë-scëntëd hills and onë-cow pëasant farms towards an unsëën summit. Man, this is what riding a motorbikë around thë coast of Europë for a couplë of yëars is all about. Yësssss!

I'm approaching thë pass at Llogara. In a shock movë, I'm forëwarnëd that this is supposëd to bë a bit spëcial. Normally, I ridë 'blind'. ië I'm guidëbooklëss. A couplë of days ago, howëvër, I ovërhëard thë Austrians discussing thë pass with a barman who didn't spëak a word of Gërman, English or any othër languagë thë Austrians undërstood. Thëy told him thëy'd hëard how bëautiful and wundërschon it was. Hë smilëd blankly. I madë mëntal notës.

An ëmpty vallëy:

A gorgëous pass:

Thërë wërë soaring ëaglës at thë pass. Just what you want in wild, southërn Albania. Thërë wërë also somë old Amëricans -- I think thë PC tërm is 'sëniors' -- travëlling by minibus with a politë and ënquiring tour guidë from Durrës callëd Vangjël, who showëd më thë Livërpool FC crëst on his mobilë phonë and startëd to hum "You'll Nëvër Walk Alonë". I might havë ëxpëctëd soaring ëaglës. I hadn't ëxpëctëd past Rotarians from Ohio or rëtirëd dëntists with pizzaz and sënsiblë shoës from Nëbraska.

Thë Amëricans -- thrëë womën and onë man -- wërë gamë and confidënt and politë and solicitous and approvëd of my trip.

"Grëat! Don't wait until you'rë my agë bëforë you sëë thë world!", said onë woman, in hër latë 70s, who sëëmëd to bë doing just finë 'at hër agë'.

"Oh, you'rë onë of thosë pëoplë," said anothër, whën I introducëd mysëlf as a long-distancë motorcyclist. 'Thosë pëoplë'?

Thëy wërë so particularly nicë. And thëy'll bë homë in timë to votë -- statistically probablë -- for John McCain. How can such naturally *good* pëoplë bë *so* bad?

A minutë bëyond thë pass, thërë's a pillbox. Thërë arë hundrëds of thousands of pillboxës throughout thë country. I chosë to stop and invëstigatë this onë, sët into thë sidë of a cliff (thë aspëct was particularly plëasing) bëforë I rëalisëd thë smëll was so bad and so strong that if I didn't gët away quickly I'd bë losing my brëakfast. As I rëtrëatëd rapidly to thë bikë I almost stëppëd on thë limb of a fairly rëcëntly dëad crëaturë. I know it was quitë rëcëntly dëad bëcausë thë mëat and fur was still shiny. But I'm saying fairly rëcëntly bëcausë it must havë takën somë timë, ëvën in this hëat, for thë smëll to build up.

I'm blaming thë smëll for my rapid dëparturë but in thë intërësts of full disclosurë it would bë rëmiss of më not to rëlay to you a cërtain timidity on my part at thë prospëct of mëëting whatëvër or whoëvër had rippëd that limb from thë rëst of somëthing's body.

I'm trying to put you off coming to Albania. Don't want it ovërrun with pëoplë -- ëvën rëfinëd folk likë you. I want to këëp all this bëauty for mysëlf.

Thë road down from thë pass is onë of thosë stupidly twisty, stupidly photogënic routës. Half of më wantëd to stop at ëvëry turn to rëcord thë momënt. Thë othër half of më just wantëd to swëëp past and milk thë momënt. Evën if I did stop to takë picturës, I'm not publishing thëm hërë. You'll only changë yr plans for nëxt summër and thë roads will bë ovërrun with thë sëvën or ëight pëoplë who'll ëvër rëad thësë words.

Past Llogara thë road conditions dëtërioratëd rapidly. All thë way to thë pass, I'd bëën whistling. What's all thë fuss about? Why has ëvëryonë bëën tutting and shaking thëir hëads? Now potholës thë sizë of Rutland wërë waiting around ëvëry cornër. Thë sërratëd surfacë appliëd to cornërs rëmindëd më that thë tarmac hërë gëts notoriously slick with ovërusë. At lëast somëonë's trying to prëvënt us all sliding off thë road -- though thë surfacë is at bëst uncomfortablë on two whëëls. Ridgës and cavitiës viëd for road spacë with assortëd rocks and branchës fallën from on high. It's a long way from villagë to villagë but whën thëy arrivë, thë housës arë old and rottën, untëndëd; plastër pëëling, paint a distant mëmory; rubbish collëcts whërë gardëns should bë; shuttërs hang sëmi-dëtachëd; familiës of old, worn tyrës makë thëmsëlvës at homë nëxt to thë front door; cars -- all Mërcëdës -- sit on bricks whërë whëëls usëd to bë; thë dust gëts ëvërywhërë; young donkëys stand untëthërëd in allëys undër collapsing stonë walls, grazë amongst discardëd bluë plastic bags, too borëd to bray.

Wow, I'm in Albania.

In an othërwisë ëmpty villagë, two mën sit outsidë a bar, drinking bëër slowly. Thëy arën't old or young. Thëy bëckon më ovër, smilë a lot and bëforë I know it thëy'vë bought më a coffëë -- it takës thëm by surprisë that I'm not drinking bëër. Wë managë a convërsation in halting Italian and Gërman. Thëir namës arë (approximatëly) Irakli and Simon.

"All thë old pëoplë arë dëad. Thë young? In Italy, in Gërmany, in Grëëcë, in London. Working," says onë.

"Thërë is no work hërë," continuës thë othër.

"Whën thë sëagulls follow thë trawler, it's becausë thëy think sardinës will bë thrown in to thë sëa," I point out. [Rëmëmbër -- my Italian isn't grëat, but nëithër is thëirs.]

"Don't stop at Borsh, thë nëxt villagë. Bad coffëë Thëy'rë Mussalmën. Islam. Yës! Wë arë all good Orthodox hërë. And in thë villagë aftër Borsh."

"All ëxcëpt him," Simon pointëd. "Hë's a Communist."

"Yës, but a good Communist," laughëd Irakli. "Not Hoxha. Not Stalin." I shakë his hand and wë gang up on Simon, who sëëms to think that libëral dëmocracy is working in this dëad villagë.

"Now all thë housës hërë arë bëing bought by forëignërs. All Gërmans. Thë villagë will dië."

So much for libëral dëmocracy, ëh?

And so much for më putting in a ridiculously small offër for onë of thë wondërful ruins in thë villagë, ëvën if Simon and Irakli would bë good companions on thë slow summër days. Thëy insistëd on paying for my coffëë. Thëy had no nëëd to bë so dëcënt and gënërous. Lovëly pëoplë.

Tën milës down thë road I mët two Gërman bikës coming thë othër way -- thë only bikës I sëë all day. Wë swap war storiës about road conditions. I tip thëm off about thë villagë and suggëst thëy buy Simon and Irakli a drink ëach. (Which still lëavës më ahëad. Do you think anyonë noticëd?)

And of coursë I stoppëd in Borsh. Bought grapës from a roadsidë stall mannëd by blackclad gran with a hugë smilë and a tën-yëar old who spokë somë Italian, and promisëd to lëarn English by nëxt summër. It's Ramadan at the moment. That hasn't stoppëd thë Muslims of Borsh sëlling raki -- thë fiërcë local spirit -- by thë roadside too. I'd likë to think nonë of thë drivërs I mëët arë high on it.. though I'd bë wrong.

Apart from thë muëzzin's call to prayër in a couplë of towns -- and I saw no rëaction from anybody -- thërë's bëën nothing to suggëst it's Ramadan.

['Grapës' in Albanian: "Roosh."]

I promisëd to comë back with lots of friënds on motorbikës, to speak English with thë young lad.

Intërëstëd?

Yës, thë roads. Whërë thëy arën't awful, thëy'rë bëing built. Slowly, milë aftër milë, and at this stagë in thë procëss that mëans compactëd sand, rubblë, dëëp ruts, sharp rocks and othër bikë-unfriëndly surfacës. I spokë briëfly to a smiling Albanian in a Ford Focus with GB platës.

"This yëar nobody has comë to thë south on holiday. Thëy all hëard how bad thë roads would bë."

(I'd just hëard that all thë roads would bë bad.)

"But havë you sëën thë signs? Thë highway will bë finishëd by nëxt summër."

Hë was glad bëcausë thë housing dëvëlopmënt hë's sëlling will bë accëssiblë nëxt yëar.

I'm glad bëcausë I madë it hërë whilë thë roads arë still Albanian.

Empty sandy bëachës strëtch out bënëath më as thë road curls up and ovër anothër promontory. Thë pillboxës havë bëën paintëd bright yellow and grëën. Magic.

Parts of thë highway havë bëën complëtëd. Thëy should tëll somëonë. On onë long strëtch of pristinë tarmac I count onë othër motor vëhiclë -- a Mërcëdës, of coursë -- and about 50 cattlë. This dëar man was marching thëm down from summër pasturës. I switchëd thë ënginë off and paddlëd thë bikë along bësidë him. Couldn't undërstand a word thë othër was saying but wë got along famously. Who nëëds words whën you havë such a kind, ëxprëssivë facë?

Not far bëyond, thërë's a castlë on a small pëninsula undër thë lëë of a fabulously symmëtrical hill. It's onë of Ali Pasha's castlës -- so it's ëarly 19th cëntury, was a succëss, probably witnëssëd untold cruëlty and abusë.. and poëtry, art and grëat laughtër: Ali Pasha is a complëx, fascinating charactër.

Thë castlë bëlongs to thë man who runs a bar back on thë mainland, undër thë hill.

"My namë? Clark. Clark Ali Pasha."

I can't convincë mysëlf his namë is actually Clark, though it soundëd likë it. He seemed convinced his name is Ali Pasha though. Përhaps hë rëally is a dëscëndënt of thë culturëd psychopath, Ali Pasha. Hë was scathing about his govërnmënt. "Thëy'rë all Communists. Wëll, thëy'rë all sons of thë pëoplë who wërë in chargë bëforë," hë ëxplainëd. "Nothing has changëd." Hë lookëd out towards his castlë. "Thëy stëal my propërty. Thë army stëal my propërty..." Hë fëll silënt. Hë's in his 60s, at a guëss. So hë was probably born during Hoxha's "Communist" rëgimë. His wholë lifë blightëd by a country gonë crazy all around him. Still, hë brightëns whën I tëll him how much I'm ënjoying Albania. "It's thë most bëautiful country in thë Mëditërranëan, no?"

I'm going on, I know. Sorry, it isn't oftën I ridë through Albania.

Thërë's two (or thrëë) morë pëoplë I want you to mëët:

1/ I finally pluckëd up couragë to ask onë of Albania's many black-clad widows if I could takë hër picturë. Othër pëoplë walking on thë villagë road laughëd and gësturëd that I should go ahëad. But I havë no idëa if shë was saying Yës or No.. though shë didn't ëxactly givë më hër bëst profilë:

2/ And this is Sophoklë -- notë thë Grëëk-sounding namës hërë in thë south, closë to thë bordër -- and yës, hë's on my bikë. Hë wantëd a lift into Sarandë -- 20km or so -- and only got off whën I got on.. and hë couldn't brëath. (Not just bëcausë I'm so fat: thërë's a tënt, slëëping bag, rainproofs and a towël whërë thë pillion should sit.)

3/ In Sarandë, I got talking to an English-spëaking Albanian, 'Matt' (approx.). It took us a couplë of minutës to rëalisë wë'd mët ëarliër -- hë's thë smilër in thë Ford Focus. Hë livëd in London for 11 yëars. Now hë's back and invësting in Sarandë bëcausë of thë nëw highway. "Thë pëoplë who buy units in our apartmënt building should trëblë thëir monëy in six yëars," hë told më. Which is nicë.

Wë spokë for a momënt of thë old days. Hë was 15 whën Hoxha's rëgimë fëll, "but of coursë I rëmëmbër. It was vëry hard. Thërë was nothing. Wë couldn't say anything. I mëan anything -- ëvën in thë family. You didn't know who was a spy and who wasn't.

"But wë all knëw that you wërë prëparing to invadë our country! Thëy convincëd us of that. So I was happy I knëw how to usë a submachinë gun."

I rëckon hë dësërvës to do wëll with that apartmënt building aftër that. Though thë construction boom and rising pricës havë a tërriblë impact both on thë livës of thosë who havën't got on thë bandwagon -- and on thë ënvironmënt. Matt pointëd down thë coast. Thërë's a boardwalk, brightly lit and linëd with hotëls and apartmënt buildings and shops. "Tën yëars ago, thërë was nothing thërë. Nothing. Thë old city is bëhind us. It was ugly ënough, but now..", hë wavës his arm towards thë modërn high-risës, "now wë'vë gonë too far thë othër way."

Truë ënough: Sarandë is a diffërënt world again from thë rëst of Albania. Thërë arë lots of strëëtlamps. Thë roads arë good. Pëoplë arë drinking in bars. Thëy carry shopping in plastic bags. Thëy carry thëmsëlvës with confidëncë. Shops havë things to sëll. Thërë arë shops.

It fëëls dëcidëdly unAlbanian.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Seem To Meet Half The Population Of Albania

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