Albania Border Crossing
Sorry for the randomness of this entry guys, it is from my email to Charlie. I only have about 30 min of light left and I plan to make it back to the hotel by the time it is dark.
First of all, I met two guys from Ecuador and Venezuela who went to
Carnagie Mellon who were on their way to Kotor on the bus yesterday.
We ended up getting an apartment and wandering up the city walls on a
hike and eating dinner.
So, this morning, we make the bus not knowing the bus schedule, by
like 3 minutes. It was awesome. However, one of the guys cursed it
by saying it was going to be a good day because we got to the capital
of Montengro and two very unhelpful women informed them that they had
to wait until the next day to go to Kosovo and I, well, I was fucked.
There was no bus to Albania. None. Despite what the tourist people
told me in Kotor (and they were also very unhelpful/unknowning), and
LP, whatever route there was, it was now closed.
HOWEVER….I could take a taxi for about 20 euros. Mike, of the guys,
talks to a cabbie who speaks fluent Italian in Spanish and when I get
out of the bathroom, tells me that he can take me for 30 euros, ’cause
it is a euro a km and it is about 30 km away, but I have to go,
because there is a minibus on the other side that leaves at 1, and he
doesn’t know when there is another one from the border to the big town
35 km away. So, I jump in the cab and race off…where the cabbie,
who is already ripping me off, stops for gas and tells me, well, if
you want to make it by 1, I have to speed and to do that, I need
another 5 euros. I am like, fuck, sure, fine whatever, get me the
fuck out of here, and we take off, inches from bumpers, zig zagging
you name it.
While he is taking years off my life, he starts telling me, in
Italian, that Albania is a dangerous country and I cannot walk around
at night, unlike Yugoslavia and I should go to Macedonia as soon as I
can. Great. Absolutely fantastic.
We make it to the border, which is, of course, about 15 km away, with
15 minutes to spare. I cross it on foot, with a compter imput of my
passport and a salute from the guard, hurry past the 100 m of no mans
land with 4 desolate duty free shops and literally, like, 4 cars
between both borders, get to the other side and the guard looks at me
like I have another head when I ask about a minibus.
So….I’m a this fucking border, in the middle of nowhere, in a
dangerous area of ethnic tension and I have exactly 31 euros to my
name after my 35 euro rip-off-lying-cabbie ride. It’s another 10 to
get into the country, at which point, a taxi driver comes running for
me and tells me, via typing numbers on his cell phone, that it will be
20 euros to take me to the next big city, where I can catch a bus to
Tirana (having decided, by now, that I want to get there as soon as I
can). This leaves me with 1 euro, the preferred hard currency.
Sure. Why not. I think the border guard had negotiated on my behalf,
because he nodded when I said I was going to Tirana and said that he
was a ‘good chauffer’ as we walked to this car.
So the car…it’s an old Mercedes (I read that most of the cars here
are old Mercedes stolen from Western Europe) and the driver, when
finding out I am from the States, says, “Where? New York? Detriot?”
I am thinking, how the hell does he know Detriot? Eminem? GM? I
have no idea. ‘No, Oregon.’ I say, moving my hand left, ‘North of
California.’ His eyes light up ‘ ah, California!’
We continue on past the border land of trash and not much else, with
this beautiful lake in the distance…half Albanian, half Montenegran.
He asks me if I am Christian and nods approval when I say yes. He,
too, is Christian and crosses himself to show me that he is a good
guy.
A short while later, while looking at the very unexciting stamp for
Albania (the visa is literally the date…with nothing else. No
country marker, nothing, but the date, with the month in Albanian), he
takes my passport and flips to my picture. I see him figuring out my
age and sure enough, after handing it back, he points to himself and
says that he is 50. I hold up two and four for my age and he grunts
as I wonder if I am the same age as his daughter or someone else he
knows.
After another lull of me looking out the window and wondering what the
hell I have gotten myself into, he points at his middle finger on his
left hand, where there is a gold band, and motions to my hand. Hoping
that he is asking if I am married out of ‘what man would allow his
wife to travel alone in Albania’ curiosity, versus asking me to marry
him, I smile and and say no, but maybe, which I figure he doesn’t
understand any better than ‘boyfriend’.
By now, 45 minutes later, we are on the outskirts of town, and the
potholes are enormous. I look around and ask myself, where are all
the women? But I am afraid to ask, both because of the effort it
would take to convey my question and his answer. The one thing I
think to myself, as the traffic goes every which way and the wind
blows trash along side the car and we dodge bikes, walkers and DOZENS
of people being pulled by animals is, oh my god, I am in Africa.
The driver seemingly reads my mind and smiles indulgently at me, ‘like
Africa!’ and he moves his hand side to side to indicate the rocking of
the car. I nod vigorously, ‘yes, yes’.
We enter the town and he drops me off at the bus, which, he conveys
frantically, leaves for 2 minutes to the capital. I thank him and dart
off, backpack straps flapping in the air, small backpack across my
chest, to the atm across the street, taking my chances with the
no-holds-barred traffic.
I get cash, make it to my seat…and sit for 15 minutes while a hawker
crows ‘Tirana’ at passerby. We finally set off and I made it to the
city about an hour ago, taking the first room I saw, for 20 euros, or
2500 leke a night, a ‘good price’ the professor of linguistics who is
manning the front desk tells me.
Unfortunately, the professor has a friend who speaks no English, only
German, and he follows me into the city, pestering me about coffee. I
try to be nice, but he is licking his lips and creeping me out, trying
to grab my arm and indicate to a bar…where women don’t seem to go.
A 20-something guy, nicely dressed and standing at his shop, notices
this. He leaves his shop and follows us, walking with me to the city
center after I ditch this guy without saying a word but, ‘ok?’ when we
reach the center and shaking my hand.
Gotta be honest…not so sure how long I will be sticking around here.
Tags: Albania