If there is one thing I felt before entering Albania, it was apprehension. Why? Who on earth knows? For some reason, however, Albania felt like true Eastern Europe, and a country entirely cut off from both West and East, which little-to-no chance of EU accession, and very little English to be expected upon arrival, I was a bit nervous. On the other hand, I was a young, relatively inexperienced buck at the time, Macedonia being the first “off-the-grid” country I had been to, and Albania seemed wild and untamed.
Luckily for me, I was entirely right. Albania is wild and untamed. Said one friend who later visited, “Why didn’t you warn me about how out of control Albania is? It is the least in-control place I have ever been.” Said another friend, in retort, “You make it sound like being in control is an option.” It’s true. Take Sicily. Now sever its ties to Rome at all official levels (though, let’s be honest, is Sicily still even part of Italy? Is Italy even a country? Discuss.). Now, empty its inhabitants and put them somewhere in North Africa (though, it’s already been argued—primarily via t-shirt slogans at souvenir stalls in Palermo—that “Italy is Europe, Sicily is North Africa”), and then ask them to adapt. I know you’re thinking that I said the same thing about Skopje and with Russians, but the key difference is in how
My point of entry for Albania was Lake Ohrid. Sadly void of any railway connections, getting to the Albanian border required a series of public buses. The crossing—Sveti Naum, was an old monastery on the cliffs above Lake Ohrid. On a gray and mildly drizzly day, outfitted in gumboots, a half-blank passport and an intrepid spirit, I took the plunge and walked across the border, past Hoxha-era bunkers, the portable customs office, and through a 1940s-era wood-and-barbed wire gate into the famed Illyria. I proceeded to walk another three hours to get to Pogradec, the nearest city at the edge of Lake Ohrid. The first thing that greeted me was a tinted-windowed, black Mercedes Benz. The driver rolled down the window and said “Taxi? 5 euros.” And I said, “I’m walking. You’re in a Mercedes Benz. And you want me to pay you?”
Well, it turns out that everyone in Albania drives a Mercedes. Everyone. This is where Mercedes Benzes go when they are put out to pasture. And there is a unique quality about Albania which permits every Mercedes to have the magic ability to transform itself into a taxi. Several hollers from taxi drivers and stares from locals later, I was in Pogradec, and the darkness was closing in. All I wanted to do was get to Tirana, because it was the only city I had heard of. I assumed there would be buses going to Tirana all the time, and that trains would be running non-stop. Surprise!—they weren’t. In fact, the situation became a bit dire for me as no one could fully communicate to me when the bus was coming, if the bus was coming, and if there was a bus. What I learned in the end was that no, there was no bus. After an hour or so of waiting, an espresso, and a refused offer of a taxi ride to Tirana for 40 euros—“because [I’m] such a good guy. For everyone else, 60 euros. But for [me], only 40 euros.” What a tempting steal, but I decided against and began walking in the approximate (?) direction of Tirana.
Suddenly, and without warning, a van pulled up, a door opened and a man started shouting at me. Now, I’m not sure what it is about Albania, or what came over me, but all the sensibilities of my carefully-nurtured upbringing went out the window as I heard the word “Elbasan!” and thought, okay, yes, I will get in this empty van with this stranger who is shouting. For some reason, it felt right. Well, lucky for me, he continued to drive around the city in a circle screaming “Elbasan!” at people until the entire van—a Mercedes make, no less—was full of merry Elbasan-bound pilgrims. Reaching Elbasan by about 8 at night, and after paying the international rate of $5 instead of 4, the driver deposited me in the downtown and told me where to go to catch a group taxi—heretofore known as a ‘furgon’—to Tirana. But of course, he couldn’t tell me when or if there would be one available at this hour. There wasn’t. But you know what there was? A fleet of black Mercedeses waiting to personally chauffeur me for 20 euros.
So onwards I walked. Tirana can’t be that far, I thought, this is Europe, not western Canada. But after about 45 minutes of walking I was worried that I wasn’t going to make it. I began eyeing up potential places of refuge to pass the night in if need be, and was mildly comforted to know that there is no shortage of abandoned pre-fabbed concrete structures in Albania.* Deciding to use this as a last resort, I continued on until I felt I could walk no further, when I happened upon a police road check. They noticed me, noticing them, and I tactfully asked if they knew when a bus was coming. The meaning was understood: I’m a tourist and I am going to die if I don’t get to Tirana tonight. They stopped every car, put me in one that was Tirana-bound, and washed their hands of me. The driver, suitably perplexed, was empowered by his new charge and determined to deliver me to Tirana. He called everyone he knew who could speak a bit of English to talk to me, and we listened to Albanian radio as we headed towards the capital.
Growing up, the only exposure I have had to long-term night driving is going to and from Kelowna. So when I am in a bus or car at night, I always look for tell-tale signs that signal the coming emergence of the exciting metropolis of Kelowna, BC. Then when I was let off in the downtown of Tirana, Albania, of all places, I was naturally disoriented and a bit disappointed that I wouldn’t be getting at Sizzling Wok from the food court at Orchard Park Mall. But that soon became the least of my worries because I was not left to my own devices once in Tirana. My driver took me straight to the centre and found the nearest group of police officers and explained that I needed to be safely delivered to somewhere, if no one could ascertain where. I, of course, could ascertain where, but as I could not speak Albanian, they assumed that I had no idea where I was to go, how to get there, or how to even stay alive on my own. They pored over my map, arguing, making phone calls, asking passers-by on the street, wondering where this mysterious “youth hostel” could be. Taxi drivers, catching the sweet and presumably lucrative scent of fresh foreign blood, began circling their wagons, ready to swarm in. Passers-by tried to communicate with me in English that I should get into one of the taxis.
“No, thank you, I’ll walk.”
“But this address does not exist. You won’t be able to find it. You should go with the taxi driver.”
“But if no one knows where it is, what good is getting in a taxi going to do? I am fine on my own.”
“Then why are you asking all these people for help?”
“…I’m not.”
Finally, they let me go, off into the night, to fend for myself. I walked around the corner from where we were standing and, lo and behold, the youth hostel stood before me. 200 metres away from all that commotion. What I was able to take away from this experience is that while it’s commonplace in the West to laugh at my (specifically) for taking cartography classes, they clearly proved their worth for me, and their necessity in the Albanian school system.
*No shortage whatsoever, which possibly necessitates an entry unto itself.
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