Original article on www.gonomad.com
When I informed friends I'd be cycling through Albania, I encountered everything from curious stares to mild concern and genuine shock. My most adventurous pal looked at me quizzically before responding, “You go, girl!” Then, “Where exactly IS Albania?” From more cautious buddies I heard, “Why?” followed by something like, “Isn’t that in a war zone?” Or, “Aren’t you afraid of getting mugged? Or drugged?”
Enroute to a mysterious Balkan land listed on few bucket lists, I pondered friends’ worries—and my own. Would I be a stranger in a strange land scarred by a half-century of Fascist rule and a civil war sparked by failed Ponzi schemes?
Would my hosts be long-suffering peasants, dazed by modernity, in a country with outdated roads and poor sanitation?
Would we antagonize locals, parading bare-limbed in neon spandex? Some brought up blood feuds—the ancient custom of killing any male in a family that’s wronged yours. While rarely practiced since the 15th century, revenge killings still occasionally occur in northern Albanian villages. Lacking expiration without a brokered peace, some vendettas last for centuries, driving entire families into long-term isolation.
Touchdown in Tirana
The veil shrouding the mysterious land I'd been warned about began to lift at Tirana International Airport Nënë Tereza. Named for Mother Theresa, Albania’s most famous daughter, the airport is the only one in the country offering flights beyond Albania. While traffic has doubled since borders opened in 1991, it’s served today by a mere eight airlines flying to 26 international destinations.
One of those is London, from whence Ollie was expected. Like mine, his flight was late, but that didn’t bother Junid, a patient man, who'd joined his older brother Armand in guiding cyclists around Albania several years ago. Both had graduated from Austrian universities, then spurned desk jobs in favor of careers with adventure.
“We’re numbers three and four,” Junid joked, referring to his status as the youngest of four sons born to an Olympic medalist father and athletic mother. Pleased at hosting both an American and a European, Junid seemed one of us—well spoken, with no vestiges of peasantry—as Western as we come. But outward appearances hid a rugged individualism below the surface.
As we drove through Tirana, a capital with wide boulevards, inviting squares, socialist murals and Islamic mosques, I saw a city in transition in a country still facing third-world problems. Tirana is no cosmopolitan Rome or romantic Paris. Unfinished construction and chaotic traffic contribute to urban blight unknown in more refined destinations. Yet ragged edges reveal secrets of a 4,000-year history encompassing Greek, Roman, Ottoman and communist rule.
Enroute to Pogradec, where we'd overnight, Junid regaled us with trivia. “See the concrete domes? They’re bunkers built by Enver Hoxha,” he explained. “During World War II, Albanian soldiers used them for guerrilla warfare.” Over 700,000 bunkers, built over 40 years, remain—Hoxha’s legacy of totalitarianism that almost bankrupted Albania.
