Modern Gonzo in Albania

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After spending a few nights in Tirana, I traveled south to the Ionian beach town of Dhermi. The views were wondrous, but the bus was torturous, and after seven, slow hours it dropped us off at a junction in the middle of nowhere. Immediately some locals offered to drive us to the beach and help us find accommodation, asking nothing in return. I have come to rely, almost count on this happening in Albania. Not since Jericoacoara in Brazil have I seen such a beautiful beach as Dhermi, with clear waters that easily out-blued Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of mountains. The air smelt like olive oil, and the pace was as slow as a glacier. We found a shack by the beach with mountain spring water piped into the bathroom, where I practiced the squat and cursed my bum knee. But it was easy to see why Dhermi is regarded as the best beach in Albania, and the few bars along its shores were marvelous: Large and open and under the stars, great sound, comfy couches, great food, lots of nooks and places to pass out. There was just one problem. The bars and restaurants were deserted. Although the temperature was well over 30C and the water was warm and blue, Dhermi lacked clientele. Everyone I spoke to was hoping for a big August, but I felt the emptiness of an amazing place not reaching its potential. Not for the first time on this trip, I wished for the sudden appearance of 200 of my closest friends (and all my readers). The full moon reflected on the Ionian Sea, good music drifted in the air, I smoked Phillipe’s last well-traveled Romeo y Julieta Cuban cigar, and wished you were here.

I had to hitch to the next town of Saranda to file a report for the Sun. Waiting for a bus that never came, I did meet a toothless old guy who played his homemade flute while his long-suffering donkey, Rocky, drank from a stream. Flutists are used to find water in this part of the world, and the notes seemed to find my well and lift my spirits substantially. The white-knuckle two-hour drive in an old Merc (what else) took me through a mountain pass that could easily be the second most dangerous road in the world. Endless bends and blind corners snaked along the narrow highway with the surface consistency of a spotty teenager’s face. Half-built buildings surrounded the port town of Saranda, perhaps too much con in the struction. Hotels were everywhere, but once again, the people weren’t. Here the water was murky but the beaches were full, and collapsing in a cheap air-conditioned room with a view, I lacked the energy to visit some famous Roman ruins 20kms away.

Albania is a mountainous country, and no visit would be complete without a visit to them. Destination Gijorakaster, a distinctly Peruvian-looking town, sandwiched in a fertile valley between two rocky ranges. The impressive castle that overlooks Gijoraskaster was built in the 1400’s, and the Turks lost over 30 000 men capturing it. I stood on the very wall where the Albanian queen, clutching her baby, threw herself off, rather than being taken prisoner. Just recently declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the castle was also a Nazi prison during World War II, and rusty, ancient barbwire was everywhere. Although we had to pay to enter, the interior was full of trash and ruin, with walls crumbling over old cannons. But it is rare to have entire medieval castle to explore by yourself, and even rarer to have war relics, including a captured Allied jet, lying around like clothes in abovementioned teenagers bedroom. I imagined the bloodshed and gazed over the valley, absorbing a violent sense of history beyond my understanding. Later that day I milked a cow, because it seemed like the natural thing to do. We had met Ilir (Number three) on the bus, and over a beer that evening, he invited me to milk his cow. It was as authentic an Albanian experience as I could hope for, and after squeezing the teat and playing with some calves, I vowed never to eat meat againÉat least until dinner.

That morning I had turned on the TV in my little room inside an old lady’s older house. There was Edvin, looking particularly dour in an oversized suit, presenting the latest news. Three car bombs had exploded outside a hotel in Egypt, and the death toll was at 90, so far. Targeting tourists is like shooting babies, completely unnecessary and the actions of barbarians. Over lunch, I argued that perhaps the only way to stop suicide bombers who want to die, is to wipe out their immediate families as punishment. Phillipe countered that this sort of collective punishment was a method of the Nazi’s. Neither of us could come up with a solution to stop this madness, grounded in centuries of hatred, but we both acknowledged it was a sad day to be a traveler in the world.

Later, feasting on lamb-on-the-spit with tzatziki, I tried to figure out the cheapest way north to Budapest, and discovered that Albania is like a casino - easy to get into but difficult to get out of. There is still a long way for this beautiful country to travel itself if it seriously hopes to corner some much-needed tourist dollars. It has the natural beauty and more local charm than anywhere I’ve seen in Europe. But it lacks the professionalism, experience and infrastructure needed to give places like Greece a run for their souvlakis. Perhaps that will change, when the new government comes in, whenever that may be. Driving past a dust-drenched little village called Qepara, I erased any doubt that Albania is the very definition of a third world country. But with the incredible landscape, the warmth of the people, the sheer affordability and the absence of a full-scale tourist invasion, third world travel has thus far proved to be the most rewarding of all.

Gijakaster
23 July 2005
Ferry to Corfu
25 July 2005

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