 |
| "Syracuse"; painting by Vladimir Dimitrov-Maystora |
 | |||
| Kiev from my hostel |
I'm off to New York in about 30 minutes.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Thursday, continued
I spent about 7 hours just wandering through Sofia, poking into little shops and spending a bit of time in art museums. The national gallery had an exhibit of a famous Bulgarian painter whose work I didn't like very much--lots of idealized peasant women. He did have one short period in the 1920's when he traveled to Sicily and Istanbul and got away from home. The paintings he did during that brief period were interesting.
My flight to NYC had an 18 hour layover in Kiev so I hustled in to a downtown hostel to spend the night.
Even in this brief visit it's clear that Kiev is a whole other ballgame. It's massively larger than anyplace I've been except maybe Tirana. One of the first things I saw were two guys getting ready to duke it out in front of the train station. Behind them were a row of guys selling beer out of the back of their pickup trucks. Kiev is the wild, wild West. Tolstoy Square, just down the block from the hostel, was packed with kids drinking and smoking and generally carousing.
I'm off to New York in about 30 minutes.
I'm off to New York in about 30 minutes.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Thursday, August 9, Kiev
I'm not sure where the time went. Suddenly it's Thursday where I am, Wednesday where you are.
I had one full day in Sofia. At this stage of my travels each Summer my energy and interest level begin to wane.
The heat weighed on me though it was ten degrees "cooler" in Sofia than Skopje (95 degrees instead of 105F). I found myself falling asleep as I walked.
Of all the places I've visited I'd say Sofia seemed to be the most "livable" city. It is modest in size and full of appealing -looking places to live, small apartment buildings over well-kept shops. There's building going on but not so much to make a big impression. As we entered Bulgaria from the east I saw a succession of small towns and cities that haven't changed much from Soviet days. Endless rows of Soviet-style apartment buildings that haven't seen a paint job since 1962. And vestigial smokestacks atop moribund factories. Even the outskirts of Sofia to the east were like that. It was only when you penetrated into the heart of the city that you began to see a different, gentler place. I've never seen so many art galleries in such a small city.
WiFi problems...I'm going to try a new post to continue this....
I had one full day in Sofia. At this stage of my travels each Summer my energy and interest level begin to wane.
The heat weighed on me though it was ten degrees "cooler" in Sofia than Skopje (95 degrees instead of 105F). I found myself falling asleep as I walked.
Of all the places I've visited I'd say Sofia seemed to be the most "livable" city. It is modest in size and full of appealing -looking places to live, small apartment buildings over well-kept shops. There's building going on but not so much to make a big impression. As we entered Bulgaria from the east I saw a succession of small towns and cities that haven't changed much from Soviet days. Endless rows of Soviet-style apartment buildings that haven't seen a paint job since 1962. And vestigial smokestacks atop moribund factories. Even the outskirts of Sofia to the east were like that. It was only when you penetrated into the heart of the city that you began to see a different, gentler place. I've never seen so many art galleries in such a small city.
WiFi problems...I'm going to try a new post to continue this....
Monday, August 6, 2012
Monday, August 6, Sofia, Bulgaria
I don't know if I can recharge my laptop in this place so I must be quick with this post.
I bussed to this hostel in downtown Sofia today. It must be one of the hippest, most signal hostels in the world. Dozens and dozens of young hipster travelers here. My dorm has about 30 beds laid out in rows on the floor of the upstairs of the building. And that's just one dorm of several. They have WiFi, tours of the city, free breakfast, cheap dinners, laundry services, etc. etc. For ten Euro's/day, about $13/day.
I get one full day in Sofia, tomorrow, then fly begin my return flight (with an 18 hour layover in Kiev).
I bussed to this hostel in downtown Sofia today. It must be one of the hippest, most signal hostels in the world. Dozens and dozens of young hipster travelers here. My dorm has about 30 beds laid out in rows on the floor of the upstairs of the building. And that's just one dorm of several. They have WiFi, tours of the city, free breakfast, cheap dinners, laundry services, etc. etc. For ten Euro's/day, about $13/day.
I get one full day in Sofia, tomorrow, then fly begin my return flight (with an 18 hour layover in Kiev).
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Sunday, August 5, Skopje
For many reasons today is a day of rest.
The enveloping and smothering cloud of heat makes it impossible to be motivated to much physical activity.
I need to write my column for San Leandro Patch.
I need to read more than I've been doing this trip.
Yesterday I got myself stranded, again. Lonely Planet touted a lake, Lake Matah, above the city that they recommended as a place to visit. They explained that you could get there cheaply (seventy cents) on the #60 bus from downtown. So after I finished a small foray into the old city in the morning I sought out the bus. The avenue that seemed correct (remember there are no street signs) was, alas, treeless. That meant standing out in the afternoon sun with temperatures above 100F, waiting for a bus that I wasn't certain would come. Then I found two blessed sycamores offering shade near a bus stop. There I ensconced myself and hoped. Buses came, buses went, all belching black smoke, with no evident air-conditioning, with numbers like #2, #24, #88, but no #60. My only solace was that there were other folks standing with me who had been there for as long as I had.
Then #60 arrived. I sprinted for the door and paid my fare to the driver. There was only one other passenger. Could it be possible that no one else wanted to take refuge at the lake on a sizzling Saturday afternoon? Perhaps I was on the wrong bus.
The bus itself seemed a parody of public transportation. The seats were clearly salvaged from old school desks. You may remember the kind, hard, made of shiny tan plastic made to look like wood. There were no advertisements on the bus walls, really nothing on this thing except the bare walls and those uninviting seats.
I sat down. We headed for the city outskirts then came to a river, which we crossed. After about 15 minutes of travel I saw a body of water to my left. Several people got off. I figured this must be the lake so I exited and walked towards the lake.
It wasn't a lake, just the river that emptied the lake. I was in the wrong place. Sullenly I returned to the main avenue and found a shady spot to wait for the next bus. And I made some friends.
First an old guy tried to talk to me. Once he realized I was a tourist he asked if I spoke German.
"Bischen Deutsch," I replied.
We then tried to converse in a language that where I knew, at best, one hundred words. All we got established was that I was from California and a teacher. After a few minutes of staring, trying to think of some way to overcome the language barrier, he drifted off.
Then some schoolkids came over. We talked a bit, mostly via hand motions. Their English vocabulary consisted of two words, "Justin Bieber". We did establish that I was headed for "Matah".
I waited. And waited. An hour passed. Someone called over a friend, from London, who told me the bus was due at 6pm, in twenty minutes. Six o'clock came and went.
Finally, after nearly 90 minutes a bus came. I jumped on along with the schoolkids. We traveled uphill for about five minutes when the bus stopped.
One schoolkid looked back at me and yelled, "No Matah".
I got off and started walking. At this point I was so hot and tired I would have descended to the level of hiring a taxi if I could find one, but none came. Three other people were walking with me, or at least in the same direction. One of the walkers, a woman, told me Matah was "far".
I trod on for about 30 minutes till I came to a gathering of folks around a rushing stream. The water was too cold for swimming but the coolness of the air was a splendid antidote to my dyspeptic mood. I kept going. The road narrowed and I found myself marching with dozens of locals towards the lake. The path was carved from out of the mountain and was somewhat scenic. But the lake, when I found it, was a bummer. Full of trash and forest refuse, small, unusable except as something to gaze into. Had I endured all the preceding to visit this dump?
I had.
The only sensible recourse now was to retreat back to Skopje, except I didn't know how to do that. There were no taxis. No bus had passed me on the way up. Had the buses stopped running? It was past 7pm now and the skies were showing their first signs of darkening.
I bought a drink and asked the proprietor about buses. She told me there was a bus at 7:30. Hallelujah, I was saved. Other folks began gathering nearby, apparently to take the same bus. I sat and waited.
The bus came, headed upstream. It passed me and, in the tight space provided, turned around. No one got on. I sensed that he would go around and pick us all up.
But he didn't. He barrelled quickly past me and was gone in a flash. All the folks who I thought were waiting for the bus, were not. I ran after the bus but he was long gone. I was bereft. I put my hands to my head and nearly burst into tears.
The thought of walking the two or three hours back to Skopje seemed impossible even for someone like me who is accustomed to these kinds of treks. It was just too hot and I was too tired. I stumbled around for a few minutes until one of the people in the group surrounding me sensed my discomfort and asked about what had happened. This woman understood enough English to get the drift of my plight.
"Let me ask our tour guide. Perhaps we can give you a lift," she said.
They were Polish tourists with their own luxury bus. Soon several of them became solicitous. Was I going to Skopje? If I was, they would give me a ride. Which they did, in their honey of a tour bus.
That's how I got home.
The enveloping and smothering cloud of heat makes it impossible to be motivated to much physical activity.
I need to write my column for San Leandro Patch.
I need to read more than I've been doing this trip.
Yesterday I got myself stranded, again. Lonely Planet touted a lake, Lake Matah, above the city that they recommended as a place to visit. They explained that you could get there cheaply (seventy cents) on the #60 bus from downtown. So after I finished a small foray into the old city in the morning I sought out the bus. The avenue that seemed correct (remember there are no street signs) was, alas, treeless. That meant standing out in the afternoon sun with temperatures above 100F, waiting for a bus that I wasn't certain would come. Then I found two blessed sycamores offering shade near a bus stop. There I ensconced myself and hoped. Buses came, buses went, all belching black smoke, with no evident air-conditioning, with numbers like #2, #24, #88, but no #60. My only solace was that there were other folks standing with me who had been there for as long as I had.
Then #60 arrived. I sprinted for the door and paid my fare to the driver. There was only one other passenger. Could it be possible that no one else wanted to take refuge at the lake on a sizzling Saturday afternoon? Perhaps I was on the wrong bus.
The bus itself seemed a parody of public transportation. The seats were clearly salvaged from old school desks. You may remember the kind, hard, made of shiny tan plastic made to look like wood. There were no advertisements on the bus walls, really nothing on this thing except the bare walls and those uninviting seats.
I sat down. We headed for the city outskirts then came to a river, which we crossed. After about 15 minutes of travel I saw a body of water to my left. Several people got off. I figured this must be the lake so I exited and walked towards the lake.
It wasn't a lake, just the river that emptied the lake. I was in the wrong place. Sullenly I returned to the main avenue and found a shady spot to wait for the next bus. And I made some friends.
First an old guy tried to talk to me. Once he realized I was a tourist he asked if I spoke German.
"Bischen Deutsch," I replied.
We then tried to converse in a language that where I knew, at best, one hundred words. All we got established was that I was from California and a teacher. After a few minutes of staring, trying to think of some way to overcome the language barrier, he drifted off.
Then some schoolkids came over. We talked a bit, mostly via hand motions. Their English vocabulary consisted of two words, "Justin Bieber". We did establish that I was headed for "Matah".
I waited. And waited. An hour passed. Someone called over a friend, from London, who told me the bus was due at 6pm, in twenty minutes. Six o'clock came and went.
Finally, after nearly 90 minutes a bus came. I jumped on along with the schoolkids. We traveled uphill for about five minutes when the bus stopped.
One schoolkid looked back at me and yelled, "No Matah".
I got off and started walking. At this point I was so hot and tired I would have descended to the level of hiring a taxi if I could find one, but none came. Three other people were walking with me, or at least in the same direction. One of the walkers, a woman, told me Matah was "far".
I trod on for about 30 minutes till I came to a gathering of folks around a rushing stream. The water was too cold for swimming but the coolness of the air was a splendid antidote to my dyspeptic mood. I kept going. The road narrowed and I found myself marching with dozens of locals towards the lake. The path was carved from out of the mountain and was somewhat scenic. But the lake, when I found it, was a bummer. Full of trash and forest refuse, small, unusable except as something to gaze into. Had I endured all the preceding to visit this dump?
I had.
The only sensible recourse now was to retreat back to Skopje, except I didn't know how to do that. There were no taxis. No bus had passed me on the way up. Had the buses stopped running? It was past 7pm now and the skies were showing their first signs of darkening.
I bought a drink and asked the proprietor about buses. She told me there was a bus at 7:30. Hallelujah, I was saved. Other folks began gathering nearby, apparently to take the same bus. I sat and waited.
The bus came, headed upstream. It passed me and, in the tight space provided, turned around. No one got on. I sensed that he would go around and pick us all up.
But he didn't. He barrelled quickly past me and was gone in a flash. All the folks who I thought were waiting for the bus, were not. I ran after the bus but he was long gone. I was bereft. I put my hands to my head and nearly burst into tears.
The thought of walking the two or three hours back to Skopje seemed impossible even for someone like me who is accustomed to these kinds of treks. It was just too hot and I was too tired. I stumbled around for a few minutes until one of the people in the group surrounding me sensed my discomfort and asked about what had happened. This woman understood enough English to get the drift of my plight.
"Let me ask our tour guide. Perhaps we can give you a lift," she said.
They were Polish tourists with their own luxury bus. Soon several of them became solicitous. Was I going to Skopje? If I was, they would give me a ride. Which they did, in their honey of a tour bus.
That's how I got home.
Sunday, August 5, Skopje
The most remarkable thing about Skopje is its monuments. They are everywhere. Monuments to past glories (Alexander the Great and his dad, Philip); monuments to religious figures; monuments to past revolutionaries (mostly unsuccessful and killed off by the Ottomans or Turks); monuments on walls (many on random buildings); monuments in city squares; monuments on quiet side streets. I'm certain that Skopje leads the world in per capita monuments.
I took photos of a sampling, but realize that this is just a tiny percentage of what I saw.
If I were to describe the Balkans in one word it would be 'unsettled'. Which might partially account for the large number of memorialized heroes here. In each country that I visited there is a museum of history, and in each museum are listed the past heroes who conquered the surrounding areas (mostly from the Ottomans) and expanded said country into a regional power. The Croats took over present day Bosnia and Montenegro and parts of Serbia. The Bosnians, at some other time, swallowed up Serbs and Macedonians and Albanians. Same for Albania and Macedonia. They've all had their times as masters of the region. And each museum contains at least one map showing that the 21st century borders of their country don't truly represent where their borders should be. Macedonia, for instance, claims ownership of a sizable chunk of Greece around Thesaloniki.
Nobody's completely happy with the status quo ante.
Whether anyone has a yen to duke it out and reclaim 'lost' territory, that I couldn't divine. That would take a longer stay and a higher level of engagement with policy makers.
But you can understand why a place like Macedonia, which has been repeatedly absorbed by its neighbors, would celebrate heroes of the past. If nothing else it at least asserts that there is a Macedonian identity, and that, at one time in the past it was a masterful identity.
Tomorrow I head for Bulgaria.
I took photos of a sampling, but realize that this is just a tiny percentage of what I saw.
If I were to describe the Balkans in one word it would be 'unsettled'. Which might partially account for the large number of memorialized heroes here. In each country that I visited there is a museum of history, and in each museum are listed the past heroes who conquered the surrounding areas (mostly from the Ottomans) and expanded said country into a regional power. The Croats took over present day Bosnia and Montenegro and parts of Serbia. The Bosnians, at some other time, swallowed up Serbs and Macedonians and Albanians. Same for Albania and Macedonia. They've all had their times as masters of the region. And each museum contains at least one map showing that the 21st century borders of their country don't truly represent where their borders should be. Macedonia, for instance, claims ownership of a sizable chunk of Greece around Thesaloniki.
Nobody's completely happy with the status quo ante.
Whether anyone has a yen to duke it out and reclaim 'lost' territory, that I couldn't divine. That would take a longer stay and a higher level of engagement with policy makers.
But you can understand why a place like Macedonia, which has been repeatedly absorbed by its neighbors, would celebrate heroes of the past. If nothing else it at least asserts that there is a Macedonian identity, and that, at one time in the past it was a masterful identity.
Tomorrow I head for Bulgaria.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Friday, August 3, Skopje, Macedonia
Thursday was a travel day. For some reason there is only one bus, at 4pm, from Tirana to Skopje, the capitals of the two respective contiguous nations. It's a comfortable bus, a nice change from the wrecks I usually ride.
We didn't get to Skopje till midnight. Luckily there was a money changing booth still open, but I still fell prey to a predatory taxi driver. I could never have found the hostel in the darkness so I felt I had no choice but to take a taxi. But I hadn't mastered the exchange rate and he pillaged me for over ten bucks for a short ride. This happens once a summer to me. (And Lonely Planet, which I read, warned not to take the taxi from the bus station, but I ignored their warning due to fatigue.)
Today was my day to get lost in Skopje, which I did. In retrospect these misadventures always have a nostalgic patina but when they are happening they are a pain in the butt. I discovered the Old City, a splendid market area where I hope to buy a gift tomorrow. But the temperature posted in the Old City was 41 degrees (106 F). I think that was artificially high due to the acres of paved streets with nary a shade tree about, but it was still damned hot. So when it took me three hours to get back to the hostel I was in bad shape.
There are few street signs in the Balkans--none in Croatia as far as I know. The ones here are in cyrillic and so almost impossible to decipher. And most of the main boulevards have no signs whatsoever. Thus the map that I dutifully carried when I left the hostel this morning did me no good at all. And without street names I quickly wandered in the wrong direction.
Tomorrow I hope to go the the big lake near here. Then Sunday I'm due to motor over to Sofia, Bulgaria, where I'll spend one full day before flying back to New York. I've enjoyed the trip but about this time I'm always ready to be done with living out of a backpack.
I know absolutely nothing of the Olympics. I hope there is some left by the time I reach the East Coast on Friday.
We didn't get to Skopje till midnight. Luckily there was a money changing booth still open, but I still fell prey to a predatory taxi driver. I could never have found the hostel in the darkness so I felt I had no choice but to take a taxi. But I hadn't mastered the exchange rate and he pillaged me for over ten bucks for a short ride. This happens once a summer to me. (And Lonely Planet, which I read, warned not to take the taxi from the bus station, but I ignored their warning due to fatigue.)
Today was my day to get lost in Skopje, which I did. In retrospect these misadventures always have a nostalgic patina but when they are happening they are a pain in the butt. I discovered the Old City, a splendid market area where I hope to buy a gift tomorrow. But the temperature posted in the Old City was 41 degrees (106 F). I think that was artificially high due to the acres of paved streets with nary a shade tree about, but it was still damned hot. So when it took me three hours to get back to the hostel I was in bad shape.
There are few street signs in the Balkans--none in Croatia as far as I know. The ones here are in cyrillic and so almost impossible to decipher. And most of the main boulevards have no signs whatsoever. Thus the map that I dutifully carried when I left the hostel this morning did me no good at all. And without street names I quickly wandered in the wrong direction.
Tomorrow I hope to go the the big lake near here. Then Sunday I'm due to motor over to Sofia, Bulgaria, where I'll spend one full day before flying back to New York. I've enjoyed the trip but about this time I'm always ready to be done with living out of a backpack.
I know absolutely nothing of the Olympics. I hope there is some left by the time I reach the East Coast on Friday.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, NE Albania
 |
| Along a mountain trail |
From there on we spent four or five hours getting ourselves back to Tirana where I am now.
Tomorrow I head for Macedonia.
Tuesday, July 31, Thethi Valley, Albania
 |
| Add caption |
Tuesday, July 31, Thethi Valley, Albania
An easier
day, a leisurely day, a rainy evening.
We left the
guesthouse around 8am as usual and descended a few hundred meters to the
village below. The weather was cool, the scenery was scenic; mountains to the
left of us, mountains to the right of us, mountains all around us. We found the
local waterfall:
The water
was too cold for me. The best I could do was to enter up to my ankles, but
Francesco was more thick-skinned:
Tomorrow is
our last day and it will be spent driving back to Tirana.
“Johnny”,
Francesco’s dad was our most voluble and enthusiastic member despite the fact
that he is 72 years old. If we met other travelers, as we repeatedly did today,
it was Johnny who quickly found openings for rapid-fire, animated
conversations. It helped that he spoke respectable amounts of several
languages, his native Italian, Albanian, French, German, English, and Arabic.
There were probably others that he didn’t get to use here.
It is from
Johnny that I learned three lessons:j
1.
Don’t give up on learning the local language. A
little grasp of the tongue gives you opportunities to communicate (and thus
rapidly increase your fluency with that same language). Because I spend so
little time in any one nation I give up on the idea of trying to use at least
some of the simplest words.
2.
Every year I ask myself if I’m too old to keep
doing this traveling thing—or at least too old to do the athletic things. But
Johnny showed me that you can still bound over rocks and climb steep pathways
in your 70’s.
3.
I need to get back into the gym and do at least
some minimal exercise every week so that I can remain active in the summers.
Johnny hikes in the Italian Alps every Sunday.
 |
| Francesco in the waterfall |
It’s amazing how far away Oakland
seems from here. By here I don’t only mean an isolated valley in NE Albania; I
also mean five weeks into the summer. I hardly feel as if that other part of my
life exists.
Monday, July 30, Thethi Valley, Albania
A hard day,
a tiring day, a satisfying day.
 |
| River at the base of the Thethi Valley |
 |
| Our group plus the Poles and a Frenchman meeting at the top of the pass separating Valbona from the Thethi Valley. |
We hiked
uphill to 2,000 meters to start the day. I was very worried, after yesterday’s
difficulties, that I’d not be able to accomplish this day’s hike, but I got it
done without great difficulty and without any pain or discomfort. It was a
wonder to me. The summit today was a pass between two mountains. We arrived at
the pass to find a group of Poles with one Frenchman resting after a climb from
the other side.
 |
| There were springs everywhere, very convenient for refilling water bottles. |
Next we
descended the other side. That turned
out to be the most arduous part of the day. Three hours of walking steeply
downhill made my knees almost rigid and unbendable. And my back seemed to acquire
a permanent scoliosis. Yet we had one more bit of business, a thirty minute
trek directly uphill to our guesthouse. It was during that last portion that my
body really began to give out. There was no pain, just deep fatigue. That last
few steps to our destination seemed immense.
The
remarkable thing was that I had none of the real pain of yesterday. It seems as
if my body will allow me to finish these five days. That is a great relief.
Sunday, July 29, Mt. Ribot above Valbona Village
A
depressing day, a pain-filled day, a hot day, a disappointing day.
We began
our day with breakfast in the guesthouse, and then set off to bestride the
surrounding mountains. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep up. Even
before I got out of bed I could feel my heart pulsing in my back and soreness
behind my left foot. What brittle part of this elderly body would betray me?
Would my heart give out? But at least it was cool when we began.
I glanced
up to the jagged, bald peaks around us.
 |
| The mountain we were about to climb. |
“Could we really be going up there?” I thought to
myself.
We hadn’t
gone more than 300 meters when our Albanian couple dropped out. I couldn’t
understand what they said to Enric, our guide, but their body language gave
hints that they weren’t happy.
“This is
too much for us,” is the gist of what I think they said. Enric made a quick
phone call and soon the couple were headed back to our first-night’s lodgings.
They would be getting a lift to the next rest stop. The remaining group of six
would be continuing our trek.
One part of
that decision affected me directly. I had counted on the Albanians, who I knew
were the least fit of the group, to slow us down so that my failings wouldn’t
be so obvious. Now I was the weak
link. No telling what that might mean.
The other
part of my angst was the fact that I felt so isolated. Remaining in our group
were a father and son from Italy and two young Australians who had hit it off
seamlessly. As the only two real English speakers they were my only possible conversation
partners, but it looked like they were so into each other that I would be a
relative exile.
The
guesthouse sat at about 1,000 meters above sea level. The mountains looked to
be about 3,000 meters. How much of the difference would we make up with our
mountaineering? I didn’t know and Enric wasn’t saying.
On we
marched. I tried mightily to keep pace with Enric at first, and then it became
a matter of simply maintaining contact with the group. I didn’t find it easy.
Enric was a different kind of leader than the ones I encountered in Laos and
Guatemala and elsewhere. He had little interest in chatting up our group
members or doing much of anything to build comradery amongst us. He set his
nose upward and strode briskly in that direction. Every 20 or 25 minutes he’d
glance back.
For the
first hour I kept pace with the others. Giovanni, the dad of the Italian pair,
or Francesco, his son, kept behind me to monitor whether I was having any
difficulty. Giovanni testified that he spent every Sunday trekking through the
Italian Alps, so he was clearly ready for anything Enric was likely to throw at
us. His son was a triathlete—‘nuf said.
Robert and
Natali, the two Australians, took the lead behind Enric. As youngsters they had
the toughness to handle any climb.
 |
| Resting at 1,700 meters. |
The
question was whether I could keep up.
The first
hour was a riverbed full of sharp stones but the slope was modest and I had no
trouble with it. But then we entered a pine forest. The slope was steep. There
was blessed shade but my body took much punishment.
My
breathing became labored, my legs felt like two lead anchors that had to be
dragged forward. I wanted badly to be a part of the group’s journey but my body
wasn’t feeling the same way. We stopped for breaks periodically and that saved
me but the pace that Enric was setting was daunting. We walked for about an
hour in the shade but then reached the tree line. Suddenly we were in full sun,
which added one more agony to my suffering. We rested at 1,700 meters. The peak
of Mount Rosit was to our right. Enric announced that we’d climb for about one
more hour, and then eat lunch (which we’d brought along). My back was sore, my
feet were heavy, the air was cool, which helped, but I had doubts about my
ability to make that last hour.
Then
Francesco, the triathlete, decided to retreat. He parted ways with us and
headed down the mountain. There were four of us left plus Enric.
I told
Enric I didn’t know if I could make it all the way. He’d told us that the
return route was simply a doubling back on our upward path so I knew I could
stop and wait for the fit ones to crest the mountain and return to pick me up,
if that was necessary. But I really wanted to make it to the top. I really wanted to eat lunch with the
group. I’d felt so alone, so much an outsider on this climb that I passionately
wanted that vindication of a shared lunch.
 |
| The fit ones disappearing. They made it to over 2, 000 meters. |
But it
wasn’t to be. The four fit folk quickly advanced ahead of me. Soon they were
hundreds of yards further up the path. And my head began to spin. I sat down,
hoping that a brief rest would help me reclaim my equilibrium, but it didn’t
work. As soon as I stood up my whole body felt like I’d just gotten off one of
those carnival rides that spins you round and round till you don’t know how to
remain erect.
I slumped
down, defeated. I lay out for about twenty minutes (the group had long
disappeared over the next rise) then sat up and ate my lunch. I made it, by my
rough estimate, to 1,800 meters, but the pain of my failure was all I cared
about.
Dejectedly
I began the long, slow descent, following the path I recently trod upward. My
back pain increased and my legs began to lose their turgor. Natali had found me
a walking stick, which saved me from crashing to the ground repeatedly. I
dreaded the thought of having the fit folks overtake me and leave me, once
again, behind.
I made it
reasonably far down the mountain before Enric and his crew caught up. We took a
long rest under a nearby tree, long enough for my legs to recover most of their
former glory. It took us about another hour to finally return to the elevation
from which we’d originally ascended. But there was one more bit of pain
awaiting me.
 |
| The view from 1,800 m. This is as far as I got. |
There was
one more segment of our journey, a 20-30 minute flat walk to our new
guesthouse. It was hot. Our path was across a dry riverbed filled with stones.
I quickly fell behind the other five (Francesco had rejoined us). All my
frustrations of the day came to the fore. Enric and the fit group were 200
meters ahead of me, oblivious to my feelings of isolation and abandonment. Why
couldn’t they slow down to include me in their journey? I didn’t understand.
And I held Enric mostly responsible.
So when
they came to a rest point I asked him:
“Do we need
to be at the guesthouse at any specific time?” I asked.
“No,” he
replied.
“Then, do
you think you could slow down a little and let me be a part of your group?”
Behind his
sunglasses I could “see” Enric glaring at me.
“You think
I’m going too fast?” he asked with a sharp edge to his voice.
“All I can
say is your going faster than I can walk,” I replied.
“Sir, I
wish you’d told me this before. I like to know these things.”
“What did
you think when you saw me so far behind?” I queried testily.
Now I’d
angered the guide. Would he ban me from the next day’s hike? Would he speed up
his pace tomorrow to humiliate me? Did the other group members hear my
complaint? Would they ostracize me?
I didn’t
know the answers to any of these questions. And I didn’t know if I was
physically capable of doing tomorrow’s climb, anyway.
What should
I do on Monday? Quit the tour? Try to skip one day’s climb? Try to join the
climb as if nothing had happened? I didn’t know.
And should
I explain to the other group members my sense of exile?
All good
questions.
Saturday, July 28, Valbona Valley, NE Albania
A very crowded ferry on Lake Koman.
Once we
finished the boat ride we boarded an eight-passenger van for a torturous two-hour
ride over unpaved mountain roads. We are seven (eight counting the guide): two
Italian men, a middle-aged Albanian couple, and two young Australians (who
hadn’t met before this morning). The bad part about all that is that everyone
has a partner except me, but that’s the usual lay of the land when I do these
tours so I’m accustomed to it.
We’re just
about at the level where the broadleaf trees, mostly beeches and birches, give
way to pines and firs. About 1,000 m. above us is the tree line, finally
surmounted by about 500 m. of treeless mountain tops.
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| Add caption |
Saturday, July 28, Valbona Valley, Albania
The Valbona
Valley is in Northeast Albania. I’ve never been to Yosemite (!) but I have been
to Mt. Zion in Utah, and this place reminds me of there. To get here we boated
up a reservoir for about three hours. Albania’s Hetch Hetchy. As you ferry up the lake you can
sense the lost valley below the water.
 |
| Mts above our guesthouse, first night. |
Albania
resembles California a bit. It has a broad central valley with Tirana, the
capital at its northern extremity. To the west is the sea; to the east are
mountains. Here in the northeast the mountains are large, 3,000+ meters, and the land is remote from the
urbanity of the rest of the country.
We are
staying in a guesthouse that someone has appended to their farm. The farm sits
in a small valley surrounded, of course, by the mountains. They have their
portion of corn and other row crops plus some cows, a horse, and other farm
animals. You need to watch your step around here owing to the cow poop that is
everywhere. They have apples trees and prunes plus the inevitable grape vines.
It’s cool
up here, a pleasant change from the heat we left behind this morning. Any lesser
smells are overmatched by the cow dung aroma that dominates your nostrils
wherever you go.
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| Stream near our guesthouse, first night. |
Friday, July 27, Berat and Tirana
My money troubles were not over. I got to the Western Union
office early. The manager of the place and her assistant were there. They knew
I was coming and welcomed me. They asked for my passport. They sat at the
computer and began, I thought, to put through the paperwork that would get me
that precious cash.
Time
passed. The manager and the assistant engaged in an energetic conversation in
Albanian. Their body language bespoke some kind of trouble. I began to despair,
again. I read every map in the outer office of the little building that housed
WU. Then I read them again.
“This name,
Alan, this is your other name?” she asked me.
“Yes, my
middle name,” I plaintively responded.
More heated
conversation from the two ladies.
“This name,
Alan, it is not on the paperwork. It is only on your passport. I don’t think we
can give you the money.”
Fury and
frustration warred inside me. But I kept my cool. I simply gave them a pained
look.
“Let me
call Tirana,” the manager offered.
That took
ten more minutes.
Then there
was some scuffling around inside, then she called me inside again.
“There is
your money, please count it,” she said.
I was so
nervous I miscounted the first time, but she was certain she’d counted
correctly and, after my second count, I was on my way. I paid my bill at the
hostel and bounded down the hill towards downtown Berat and the bus
station. I quickly found a fourgon with “Tirana” in the windshield.
After a bit of a wait I was on my journey back to the capital.
I got lost
in Tirana, as usual (my Lonely Planet map was safely stowed in my backpack) but
this time the gods were with me. As I drifted along an unfamiliar avenue I
looked to my left and there was a vaguely familiar face. It was the guy who
checked me into the backpacker’s hostel last week. He recognized me. Soon we
had my backpack on his bicycle and we were off to another night’s lodging.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Thursday, July 26, Berat
Just telling this story is humiliating because it, again, reveals my ineptitude at life in general.
First: I learned two years ago, when I got stranded in northeast Laos with no funds, that it pays to carry a couple hundred US dollars secreted away for emergencies. I did that this year. Except that, early in my trip, someone in Croatia--I forget who--insisted on dollars. So I ended up spending most of my secret stash before the trip really got started. (Why I didn't replenish my fund with euro's I can't explain).
When I got to Berat I had about 10,000 Leks, the Albanian currency; equivalent to about a hundred dollars US. I also had my ATM card and two credit cards. And, unlike Northeast Laos, there were several ATM's in Berat.
My first day here I tried to use an ATM. No luck. But I didn't worry since I'd taken out nearly $300 the day before. I figured I'd taken the daily maximum and things would straighten out the second day here.
On the second day the ATM's (I tried three) all rejected my card. Now I began to worry. But I still had my credit cards if something went really wrong. I wanted to call the bank but my phone (despite what a T-Mobile guy told me before I left) wouldn't function here.
Today, the third day, I went to a mobile phone company to get a SIM card. But even after the card was installed I couldn't use the phone. I needed badly to call the bank to get my ATM card reactivated. I knew that there had been three fraudulent transactions on my card and assumed the bank had temporarily suspended the card while investigating the false charges.
I went to a local bank for help. The banker said she couldn't do much for me but she did ferry me to a nearby convenience store that had an international phone in it--for a fee, or course.
I called the bank.
"Your account is cancelled and I can't reopen it," said the Wells Fargo lady. I asked if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance. She seemed to think I could, so I hung up and headed for another bank.
"Put your credit card in out ATM machine and enter your PIN," they told me.
I told them credit cards didn't have PIN's in the US. They were nonplussed at that. I tried this at three banks. All had the dame answer: no cash advances for your credit card.
Now I was very concerned.
I went back to the convenience store and called the bank back. The woman on the line was solicitous and said she'd try to help me. She put me on hold......for twenty minutes. With every minute my funds were evaporating at about two dollars/minute. Finally she came back and said...you must call back in two hours when our Executive Office opens at 6am, PST.
Dejectedly I hung up. I was down to my last $40 and worried that I couldn't afford another phone call like that one.
Ninety minutes later I returned to the shop. The lady shop owner, knowing that I had to scrounge my pockets for the last call, looked askance at me. Somewhat dubiously she allowed me to call again. This time I got the Executive Office quickly. I explained my dilemma. At first he didn't understand the depth of my problem, but finally I got through. He pondered, then suggested he could send me a Western Union wire transfer. How much would I need? I said five hundred dollars would probably get me back to New York in August. He agreed to send it to me. I rejoiced. He put me on hold.......for 25 minutes. As the minutes went by I kept glancing at the lady behind the counter, and at my wallet. I was fairly certain I wasn't going to be able to pay for the call, but I couldn't bring myself to hang up. I felt like, if only I could hang on for a little while longer this guy will save me.
Then he came back on....and told me he couldn't send the money. Western Union demanded to be able to call me before they'd authorize the funds. But they couldn't call me, this was just an outgoing phone. And how would I explain to this lady, who spoke only Albanian, that I wanted her phone number so my bank could call her. I went into major despair, and hung up. I poured through my pockets and found some loose American dollars, enough to fund the call, and leave me with 100 Leks (about one dollar). That was all the money I had left.
I owed about $70 at the hostel where I was staying. And there was the matter of eating. I was dead broke.
I trudged back in the direction of the hostel feeling defeated. Before I got all the way back I recollected a friendly banker I'd spoken to who offered to lend me cash. I skulked back to his bank and asked if he'd lend me his cellphone so I could make one more call to my bank. He agreed. I dialed the number and got back in touch with the guy I'd just spoken to.
"I'm glad you called," he told me. "I think I can get the $500 to you." My spirits brightened, but no completely. After all the previous near misses I didn't trust this ray of hope.
He put me on hold. For 15 minutes! I kept my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with my banker friend. I was afraid he'd make me hang up.
"I need my phone," I imagined him saying. And I couldn't blame him.
At one point my California banker came back on line.
"Mr. Heverly, are you still there?" he asked, then put me back on hold. I'd missed my opportunity.
"Hey, wait! I can't stay on hold here," I wanted to tell him. But he was gone.
Another five minutes passed.
Then he came back. He had the code number. With that number I could go to Western Union and collect my $500. I was saved.
Except I didn't believe it. I was certain something else would go wrong. And it did.
Western Union was closed. I trudged dejectedly back to the bank, where they explained to me that the Western Union office, like mos
t of Albania, closed in the heat of the afternoon. It would open in 40 minutes they told me.
So I plodded back to the office. And, sure enough, at 5pm the office opened. I was first in line. At first the lady behind the counter was encouraging. She showed me the yield I'd get in Euro's (404). I remained patient.
Then she began speaking, at length, to someone on the phone. He intonation told me all was not copacetic. This went on for ten minutes. Finally she gave me the phone. I heard another woman talking. I didn't understand all that she said, in her thick Albanian accent, but eventually I heard something intellligible: "(muffled)....problem. Can you come back tomorrow?"
And thus, here I am in the hostel, broke, but hopeful. Tomorrow will tell the tale.
First: I learned two years ago, when I got stranded in northeast Laos with no funds, that it pays to carry a couple hundred US dollars secreted away for emergencies. I did that this year. Except that, early in my trip, someone in Croatia--I forget who--insisted on dollars. So I ended up spending most of my secret stash before the trip really got started. (Why I didn't replenish my fund with euro's I can't explain).
When I got to Berat I had about 10,000 Leks, the Albanian currency; equivalent to about a hundred dollars US. I also had my ATM card and two credit cards. And, unlike Northeast Laos, there were several ATM's in Berat.
My first day here I tried to use an ATM. No luck. But I didn't worry since I'd taken out nearly $300 the day before. I figured I'd taken the daily maximum and things would straighten out the second day here.
On the second day the ATM's (I tried three) all rejected my card. Now I began to worry. But I still had my credit cards if something went really wrong. I wanted to call the bank but my phone (despite what a T-Mobile guy told me before I left) wouldn't function here.
Today, the third day, I went to a mobile phone company to get a SIM card. But even after the card was installed I couldn't use the phone. I needed badly to call the bank to get my ATM card reactivated. I knew that there had been three fraudulent transactions on my card and assumed the bank had temporarily suspended the card while investigating the false charges.
I went to a local bank for help. The banker said she couldn't do much for me but she did ferry me to a nearby convenience store that had an international phone in it--for a fee, or course.
I called the bank.
"Your account is cancelled and I can't reopen it," said the Wells Fargo lady. I asked if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance. She seemed to think I could, so I hung up and headed for another bank.
"Put your credit card in out ATM machine and enter your PIN," they told me.
I told them credit cards didn't have PIN's in the US. They were nonplussed at that. I tried this at three banks. All had the dame answer: no cash advances for your credit card.
Now I was very concerned.
I went back to the convenience store and called the bank back. The woman on the line was solicitous and said she'd try to help me. She put me on hold......for twenty minutes. With every minute my funds were evaporating at about two dollars/minute. Finally she came back and said...you must call back in two hours when our Executive Office opens at 6am, PST.
Dejectedly I hung up. I was down to my last $40 and worried that I couldn't afford another phone call like that one.
Ninety minutes later I returned to the shop. The lady shop owner, knowing that I had to scrounge my pockets for the last call, looked askance at me. Somewhat dubiously she allowed me to call again. This time I got the Executive Office quickly. I explained my dilemma. At first he didn't understand the depth of my problem, but finally I got through. He pondered, then suggested he could send me a Western Union wire transfer. How much would I need? I said five hundred dollars would probably get me back to New York in August. He agreed to send it to me. I rejoiced. He put me on hold.......for 25 minutes. As the minutes went by I kept glancing at the lady behind the counter, and at my wallet. I was fairly certain I wasn't going to be able to pay for the call, but I couldn't bring myself to hang up. I felt like, if only I could hang on for a little while longer this guy will save me.
Then he came back on....and told me he couldn't send the money. Western Union demanded to be able to call me before they'd authorize the funds. But they couldn't call me, this was just an outgoing phone. And how would I explain to this lady, who spoke only Albanian, that I wanted her phone number so my bank could call her. I went into major despair, and hung up. I poured through my pockets and found some loose American dollars, enough to fund the call, and leave me with 100 Leks (about one dollar). That was all the money I had left.
I owed about $70 at the hostel where I was staying. And there was the matter of eating. I was dead broke.
I trudged back in the direction of the hostel feeling defeated. Before I got all the way back I recollected a friendly banker I'd spoken to who offered to lend me cash. I skulked back to his bank and asked if he'd lend me his cellphone so I could make one more call to my bank. He agreed. I dialed the number and got back in touch with the guy I'd just spoken to.
"I'm glad you called," he told me. "I think I can get the $500 to you." My spirits brightened, but no completely. After all the previous near misses I didn't trust this ray of hope.
He put me on hold. For 15 minutes! I kept my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with my banker friend. I was afraid he'd make me hang up.
"I need my phone," I imagined him saying. And I couldn't blame him.
At one point my California banker came back on line.
"Mr. Heverly, are you still there?" he asked, then put me back on hold. I'd missed my opportunity.
"Hey, wait! I can't stay on hold here," I wanted to tell him. But he was gone.
Another five minutes passed.
Then he came back. He had the code number. With that number I could go to Western Union and collect my $500. I was saved.
Except I didn't believe it. I was certain something else would go wrong. And it did.
Western Union was closed. I trudged dejectedly back to the bank, where they explained to me that the Western Union office, like mos
t of Albania, closed in the heat of the afternoon. It would open in 40 minutes they told me.
So I plodded back to the office. And, sure enough, at 5pm the office opened. I was first in line. At first the lady behind the counter was encouraging. She showed me the yield I'd get in Euro's (404). I remained patient.
Then she began speaking, at length, to someone on the phone. He intonation told me all was not copacetic. This went on for ten minutes. Finally she gave me the phone. I heard another woman talking. I didn't understand all that she said, in her thick Albanian accent, but eventually I heard something intellligible: "(muffled)....problem. Can you come back tomorrow?"
And thus, here I am in the hostel, broke, but hopeful. Tomorrow will tell the tale.
Wednesday, July 25, Berat
View from my hostel, Berat.
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| Add caption |
My body was sore all over from days of hiking up mountains so I decided to loaf all day here.
The one thing worth mentioning at this point is that we don't often hear in the US about secular muslim states, yet Kosovo and Albania clearly are such. There are fewer scarves and birkas here than in San Francisco, and more short skirts on the streets of any Albania city than in Hollywood. There doesn't seem to be much capitalist buzz, however. Life is at a slow pace and hanging out in cafes is the main recreation for men of all ages. There is some construction going on but you don't get the impression that there is much 'industry' hereabouts. Making money is, of course, on people's minds but this seems to amount, mostly, to opening a shop selling cellphones or tourist trinkets.
Albania has been bounced around so often in the past century it's a wonder there is any Albania identity left. Turkish occupation till 1912, brief democracy, a king for twenty years or so, invasion by Mussolini, occupation by Hitler, then the Commies. Enver Hoxha's dictatorship of the proletariat was as rigorous as any on the planet. He found Mao insufficiently socialist and cast the chinese out in the 70's. Then, finally, this soporific democracy that they have now.
I get the impression that most Albanians would like to incorporate Kosovo within Albania. But in Kosovo I heard only pride about independence. So Kosovo's independence seems genuinely tentative with the Serbs on one side and the Albanians on the other, both coveting their territory.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, Berat, Albania
Another day, another mountain-top castle to reach.
I found a great hostel in Berat but not till I'd botched the trip here. I got the bus out of Gjirokastra no problem. But when the bus let me off I consulted my Lonely Planet guide. At the same time I was besieged by half a dozen taxi drivers wanting to take me to Berat from where the bus had dropped me off.
I decided to walk. A kilometer down the road I stopped for lunch and learned I'd gone in the wrong direction. I had to backtrack the 1 km., then go west to Berat. I caught a city bus (25 cents) then, serendipitously fell into a fourgon (van) headed for Berat. I considered walking but decided to take the van. What I didn't know was that Berat was still 70 km east!. But my luck held out. The fourgon took me all he way for $2.50. How often have I benefited from my own stupidity. If I'd known the true distance to Berat I might have hired a taxi, which probably would have cost me $10-$15.
Hollyhocks are weeds in Albania:
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| Add caption |
I decided to walk. A kilometer down the road I stopped for lunch and learned I'd gone in the wrong direction. I had to backtrack the 1 km., then go west to Berat. I caught a city bus (25 cents) then, serendipitously fell into a fourgon (van) headed for Berat. I considered walking but decided to take the van. What I didn't know was that Berat was still 70 km east!. But my luck held out. The fourgon took me all he way for $2.50. How often have I benefited from my own stupidity. If I'd known the true distance to Berat I might have hired a taxi, which probably would have cost me $10-$15.
Hollyhocks are weeds in Albania:
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Monday, July 23, 2012
Monday, July 23, Gjirokastra, Albania
Part of the road up to the castle at Gjirokastra.
I'm back inland, which means I'm back in the 35 degree heat. Gjirokastra's claim to fame is its castle, high atop a mountain on the west side of town. I trekked up there today, then hiked way up a mountain nearby. I was wondering if my conditioning was still good enough to pull off a really vigorous walk/climb. Fortunately I was able to do it. Straight up for about 90 minutes on cobblestone streets.The castle was no great shakes but it certainly provided a great view of the valley of the Drinos River. I have no wifi here so I can't post photos yet.
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Sunday, July 22, 2012
Sunday, July 22, Saranda
Forgot to put my memory stick in the camera this morning so no pictures of my fascinating trip to Greek/Roman ruins south of here. Diplint, an ancient city, was largely preserved thanks to its remote location. Theater, enclosing walls, Roman bathhouses, like going back 2,400 years.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Left over from Tirana
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| Something happened in Albania around 1980. It wasn't as if the country suddenly joined the larger art world, but there did seem to be some kind of loosening. Things shifted from Maoist to some sort of playing around with socialist realism. |
Saturday, July 22, Saranda, Albania
I've lost track of the day. Is it Saturday?
Things have not been going well. First I decided to spend two days in a seaside place that looked interesting on the map; Vlore. What a garbage pit that turned out to be. I'll try to post some photos later today if I can find a wifi place hereabouts. Vlore Bay is one of the fastest developing places I've seen. Hotels are going up as fast as they can build them. Albanians apparently flock to this place because it's accessible easily by bus or train from Tirana, Kosovo, or other inland spots. But this place made me seriously reconsider 40 years as a libertarian. These fools are spending countless millions building hotels; while treating the bay like it was a sewer. Every beach is covered in trash. The water is foul with pollutants, yet people swim in it. I saw one isolate little cove that had an oil slick lapping against the shore.Unfortunately I discovered all this after I'd committed to two nights at a nice hotel.
Then my Kindle crapped out. A third of the screen is covered with an image that seems burned into the machine. I consulted Kindle troubleshooting on the web but no one seems to have had a similar problem. So I'm without reading material.
When it came time to finally leave Vlore this morning it turned out to be a minor adventure. Lonely Planet said the bus to Saranda left Vlore at 7am. So I trekked over to the traffic circle at the heart of Vlore, where I'd seen the mini-vans picking up passengers the day before. I got there 8 minutes early. Just as I turned the corner to the circle I noticed a white van headed south. I tried to catch the destination from the piece of cardboard that the vans always have in the front window. But the angle wasn't right. So I proceeded on.
When I got to the circle I asked one of the van drivers: "Saranda?"
He motioned to a spot about 50 meters from where we were so I contently drifted over to that spot, peering around the corner for the van I expected to see headed my way.
But the guy I had spoken to followed me, gesturing to me in Albanian. I gave him a perplexed look. Then I got it. The van had already left. (the next bus wasn't till 1pm).
But the guy didn't give up on me. He turned out to be a taxi driver. He motioned vigorously for me to follow him, that we could still catch the bus. So I ran with him to his cab.
And off we went. Mario Andretti time. Fifty miles an hour on city streets, careering from lane to lane. I gripped the door handle, praying no one would have the temerity to occupy the oncoming lane. A couple time we had to slalom quickly back into our lane. This went on for about five minutes until, as we came around a bend, a smile came to my driver's face. That van I'd seen earlier was up ahead. We were going to catch up; and we did. He swerved the car to the right as we passed the van and raised his left arm out the driver's window to tell the van driver he had a passenger. In seconds he had my backpack to the rear of the van, and I headed up the steps into the bus--which was full.
But that turned out to be no problem. The van held small stools, about 18" tall, that could be set in the aisle for latecomers and the overflow. A helpful passenger reached into the overhead and dragged out a stool, then unfolded it for me. I sat down. A pleasant morning breeze wafted into my face. No first class compartment in an airliner could compare with the comfort I felt in that aisle. I was out of the Vlore sewer.
On the positive side I chanced into the prettiest city I've ever seen today: Saranda. It's a crowded little place crushed around a small bay, but the water is clean and blue and the sea breezes are pleasant. An old gentleman convinced me to rent a room from him in his 'guesthouse', actually just a couple rooms in his apartment. But it's comfortable. My first impression is that this is the kind of place I won't want to leave.There are some greek ruins 20 km. down the road that I'm going to check out tomorrow. I'm due back in Tirana on Friday for my tour of Northern Albania. In the meantime I might just hunker down here for a few days.
 |
| The Ionian Sea is about ten feet to the left in this picture. |
Then my Kindle crapped out. A third of the screen is covered with an image that seems burned into the machine. I consulted Kindle troubleshooting on the web but no one seems to have had a similar problem. So I'm without reading material.
When it came time to finally leave Vlore this morning it turned out to be a minor adventure. Lonely Planet said the bus to Saranda left Vlore at 7am. So I trekked over to the traffic circle at the heart of Vlore, where I'd seen the mini-vans picking up passengers the day before. I got there 8 minutes early. Just as I turned the corner to the circle I noticed a white van headed south. I tried to catch the destination from the piece of cardboard that the vans always have in the front window. But the angle wasn't right. So I proceeded on.
When I got to the circle I asked one of the van drivers: "Saranda?"
He motioned to a spot about 50 meters from where we were so I contently drifted over to that spot, peering around the corner for the van I expected to see headed my way.
But the guy I had spoken to followed me, gesturing to me in Albanian. I gave him a perplexed look. Then I got it. The van had already left. (the next bus wasn't till 1pm).
But the guy didn't give up on me. He turned out to be a taxi driver. He motioned vigorously for me to follow him, that we could still catch the bus. So I ran with him to his cab.
And off we went. Mario Andretti time. Fifty miles an hour on city streets, careering from lane to lane. I gripped the door handle, praying no one would have the temerity to occupy the oncoming lane. A couple time we had to slalom quickly back into our lane. This went on for about five minutes until, as we came around a bend, a smile came to my driver's face. That van I'd seen earlier was up ahead. We were going to catch up; and we did. He swerved the car to the right as we passed the van and raised his left arm out the driver's window to tell the van driver he had a passenger. In seconds he had my backpack to the rear of the van, and I headed up the steps into the bus--which was full.
But that turned out to be no problem. The van held small stools, about 18" tall, that could be set in the aisle for latecomers and the overflow. A helpful passenger reached into the overhead and dragged out a stool, then unfolded it for me. I sat down. A pleasant morning breeze wafted into my face. No first class compartment in an airliner could compare with the comfort I felt in that aisle. I was out of the Vlore sewer.
 |
| The beach at Saranda. It turned out to be not quite as clean as I thought. Like Vlore there is no municipal effort to keep things clean. Even the guys who rent umbrellas at the beach don't bother to clean up at the end of the day. But it's lots better than Vlore. |
On the positive side I chanced into the prettiest city I've ever seen today: Saranda. It's a crowded little place crushed around a small bay, but the water is clean and blue and the sea breezes are pleasant. An old gentleman convinced me to rent a room from him in his 'guesthouse', actually just a couple rooms in his apartment. But it's comfortable. My first impression is that this is the kind of place I won't want to leave.There are some greek ruins 20 km. down the road that I'm going to check out tomorrow. I'm due back in Tirana on Friday for my tour of Northern Albania. In the meantime I might just hunker down here for a few days.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Wednesday, July 19, Tirana
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| There's cache in American branding on the streets of Tirana. This is just a sampling. |
Today I went by a city park in Tirana. It was about 1/4 the size of our Oakland park, yet it had hundreds of people, mostly adults in it at 8pm on a Wednesday night.
Our park closes at dusk so the comparison is not completely on the mark, but even an hour before dusk our park would have, at best, one or two adults supervising their kids on the play equipment, plus a few guys playing basketball.
The Tirana park had whole families, sometimes three generations, enjoying the night together. There was no special kids equipment but they found ways to entertain themselves. Some smaller kids had improvised a soccer field using an old TV box with a circular hole in the side.
What are the factors that make their park so successful, and ours so much a failure? I'll speculate since I can't ask the people of Tirana:
- it's hot out and many folks don't have air conditioning, so being in the cool park is comfortable
- their park has benches, lots of benches. Adults sit and talk on the benches. We have nowhere to sit.
- Albanian TV is probably dull: soccer and guys in suits I'd guess. And people don't have home computers with internet.
- the park is surrounded by commerce. Shops line three sides of the park. Vendors sell magazines, roasted corn, and other goodies either within the park or on its border.
- the streets of Tirana are teeming with people. I'd guess half the city is out and about. Obviously no such thing happens in my neighborhood.
I'm headed south tomorrow. I'm going to make a grand circuit of Albania, south to the beaches, then inland to some archeological sites, then back to Tirana on the 27th. I've signed up for an interesting tour of Northern Albania beginning here on the 28th. The tour ends on August 1. I'll motor over to Macedonia right after that.
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| I like this 1980's Hopperesque painting. |
I hit the museums today. I spent a couple good hours in the National Art Gallery. To their credit they have retained the socialist murals of heroic steel workers while at the same time showing more contemporary stuff. I liked a few things I saw.
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| Enver Hoxha's idea of childhood, I guess. |
I've apparently reached the maximum number of photos I can put on one day's blog so I'll include a couple more paintings tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 18, Tirana, Albania
I took an immediate dislike to the female hostess at my hotel in Shkroda. She was officious, opaque, and generally unfriendly. It didn't help that I misunderstood her and thought I'd paid for two nights when I'd only secured one.
But when she rousted me out of bed on Tuesday morning ("we need to clean the room. We have reservation.") I ended up grateful to her.
Firstly she got me on the road to Tirana, which helped. I was able to connect with a tour group, outdooralbania.com, that set me up with an interesting trip next week. But once I got my things out of the room my hostess bent my ear for an hour about the frustrations of being a young Albanian.
This was a college educated, approx. 30 year old woman, dressed all in white, chain smoking her way through a job that could be fairly said to be under employment.
She just wants to move (with her husband and infant son) to Canada or the US.
{must do laundry, will finish later.}
The hotel was modest, about four stories, perhaps a hundred rooms. It wasn't four starts, as my hostess lamented, but it was serviceable. But when I asked her about prospects for advancement she waived me away. She'd been at the job for six years. "It's like a family here," she told me. But life was hard. "We work to eat," she complained. Her husband worked on air conditioning so he was busy in July, but idled in the winter. For some reason people didn't work on heating if they did air con.
School cost money, even kindergarten. She paid $25/month to put her kid in a premium school instead of the state school where, she said, the staff were indifferent. Later grades also required money if you wanted your child to have a chance for a university education. Except that she had such a degree and it yielded nothing.
I asked about the government. She opined that everyone in the present power structure was someone who had participated in the Hoxha, soviet-style, regime, and they apparently retained the socialist mindset. There was evidence all around that the country was rebuilding, tearing down the old block housing and replacing it with Euro-style apartments. The roads were being paved. A four-lane, limited access highway was being constructed to link Shkroda with Tirana.
But my hostess was very pessimistic. I tried to gently hint that money might influence one's prospects in the New World just like in the Old, but she was hearing nothing of it. A friend had told her of the visa lottery for a chance to emigrate to the US. They have them everywhere. She was keen to give it a try. Canada was off-putting to her because she might end up in a french speaking area. She, versed in English, German, and Albanian, could add one more tongue, but her husband? She didn't think he could do it.
Stuck in a deadend job, hoping to escape to some other country. That was her story.
But when she rousted me out of bed on Tuesday morning ("we need to clean the room. We have reservation.") I ended up grateful to her.
Firstly she got me on the road to Tirana, which helped. I was able to connect with a tour group, outdooralbania.com, that set me up with an interesting trip next week. But once I got my things out of the room my hostess bent my ear for an hour about the frustrations of being a young Albanian.
This was a college educated, approx. 30 year old woman, dressed all in white, chain smoking her way through a job that could be fairly said to be under employment.
She just wants to move (with her husband and infant son) to Canada or the US.
{must do laundry, will finish later.}
The hotel was modest, about four stories, perhaps a hundred rooms. It wasn't four starts, as my hostess lamented, but it was serviceable. But when I asked her about prospects for advancement she waived me away. She'd been at the job for six years. "It's like a family here," she told me. But life was hard. "We work to eat," she complained. Her husband worked on air conditioning so he was busy in July, but idled in the winter. For some reason people didn't work on heating if they did air con.
School cost money, even kindergarten. She paid $25/month to put her kid in a premium school instead of the state school where, she said, the staff were indifferent. Later grades also required money if you wanted your child to have a chance for a university education. Except that she had such a degree and it yielded nothing.
I asked about the government. She opined that everyone in the present power structure was someone who had participated in the Hoxha, soviet-style, regime, and they apparently retained the socialist mindset. There was evidence all around that the country was rebuilding, tearing down the old block housing and replacing it with Euro-style apartments. The roads were being paved. A four-lane, limited access highway was being constructed to link Shkroda with Tirana.
But my hostess was very pessimistic. I tried to gently hint that money might influence one's prospects in the New World just like in the Old, but she was hearing nothing of it. A friend had told her of the visa lottery for a chance to emigrate to the US. They have them everywhere. She was keen to give it a try. Canada was off-putting to her because she might end up in a french speaking area. She, versed in English, German, and Albanian, could add one more tongue, but her husband? She didn't think he could do it.
Stuck in a deadend job, hoping to escape to some other country. That was her story.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Sunday, July 16, Peja, Kosovo
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| Statue of Bill Clinton in Pristina. I'd love to know what the grafitti says. |
Monday, July 17, Shkodra, Albania
Left Kosovo on a bus at 4 am, thence to a plebian resort town on the
coast in Albania. Lonely Planet said the water was so toxic that you'd
get sick swimming in it, but the Albanians, I think, are busting ass to
upgrade their infrastructure and tourist industry. The beach was lined
with hotels, the kind that speak of working class vacation spots. The
beach was crowded with Albanians, swimming--with no evident bad results.
I was gunning for this city. I found a bank to get some Albanian money and ran into an Albanian emigre who lives in Phoenix (27 years, he said). He helped me translate questions about how to grab local minibuses to get to Shkroda. The bank guard even went out on the street to hail the van for me. So I made it and spoiled myself with an air conditioned room in a downtown hotel. $27/night, the most I've spent on this trip. They stuck me in a corner, first floor room, obviously embarrassed at the weird backpacker appearing at their door.
I found a tour provider ("OutdoorAlbania.com") that has some interesting jaunts. I hope to find out tomorrow if I can join one.
I was gunning for this city. I found a bank to get some Albanian money and ran into an Albanian emigre who lives in Phoenix (27 years, he said). He helped me translate questions about how to grab local minibuses to get to Shkroda. The bank guard even went out on the street to hail the van for me. So I made it and spoiled myself with an air conditioned room in a downtown hotel. $27/night, the most I've spent on this trip. They stuck me in a corner, first floor room, obviously embarrassed at the weird backpacker appearing at their door.
I found a tour provider ("OutdoorAlbania.com") that has some interesting jaunts. I hope to find out tomorrow if I can join one.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Saturday, July 15, Pristina
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| Walking in downtown Pristina I came upon a front yard with two statues of this fellow. He looks vaguely familiar though he is probably some sort of Kosovo patriot.
It was too hot to do much walking today so I decided to take a bench on the main promenade and watch the Kosovoan world go by. I was there for about three hours. My mathematical sample says I saw about 4, 000 people pass by. What I saw was:
The heat is sucking all the energy out of me. I sleep late and often take a siesta in the late afternoon. I feel like I'm not doing my usual tourist investigating. I'm tempted to make a run for the coast tomorrow hoping for cooling breezes, but I noticed a couple interesting places inland so my plan is to head for the city of Peja (Pec) on the Albanian border before plunging into Albanian proper on Monday.
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Friday, July 13, 2012
Friday, July14, Pristina, Kosovo
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| I'm not sure if this grafitti is protesting EU presence in Kosovo, or, since it is Xed out maybe someone else is praising the EU.
I expected to find Kosovo a primitive, mini-Albania with peasants in scarves tending pigs and geese. Instead I found Switzerland. Or what I imagine Switzerland looks like. Up in the mountains but prosperous, industrial, Western. When you enter the new nation of Kosovo, created, according to the locals by Bill Clinton and the USA, your passport is inspected by someone who looks like he just left his job in Brussels or Hamburg to come here to be a cop. The EU is here longterm as best I can divine. The 7% Serb minority is either 1)in danger of being killed off by the 88% Albanian majority if the EU wasn't in the way; or 2)ready to call their kin (and their tanks) from across the border to take back this key ancestral land that once was mostly Serbs.
We passed many military vehicles on the way into the country, those little mini tanks that peacekeepers use because they are fast and light and sufficiently armored to put down a rabble.
Yet this new country seems to be thriving. The host of my guest house, when he saw my American passport, thanked me effusively. "We were under foreign domination for 700 years," he said. "First the Turks then the Serbs." Now, since Bill Clinton, we have our independence." And they seem to be making use of it. The farms look well tended. The cities are neat and modern---though there are a surprising number of weedy vacant lots for some reason. Just in the past year or two, despite the world wide recession, Pristina seems to be spending lots of bucks on prettifying the city. They've just about finished a nice central promenade in the center of the city.
I've only been here a few hours and I have one full day here tomorrow so I'll see what I can discover. But I had to put this in for Melody: you should show Eugene this:  |
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