Let the adventure begin! Gary and I wake at 6:00 and gathered our belongings for the bus ordered at Florian's behest. The bus to the ferry picks us up from Florian's at 6:30. We are asked to sit in the back. We zoom through the streets of Shkoder, launching out of our seats with each speed bump we hit. Shortly we are in the countryside, picking up passengers all along the windy dirt roads. The sun begins to peak out over the hills.
We stop briefly for a coffee. Everyone seems to know exactly how long we have for our break. They drink and chat casually, then all at once everyone stands and moves rapidly back to the bus. As we blast past farmhouses, cars, cows, and crops, we are serenaded by ethnic Albanian music blaring over the speakers of the bus, almost as if this ride was a scene from a film and the music was providing a specially tailored score. I can't help but notice, as I'm tossed around by this mechanical bull of a bus, how nice the woman next to me smells.
Kids get on the bus- on their way to school high up in the hills. They laugh with us and speak a little English. An impromptu lesson breaks out. Eventually they depart and trudge up the hill where a school stands solitary against the imposing mountains.
We arrive at the "ferry terminal" via a tunnel over the old communist era hydro dam. There is one shop, a restaurant, and a cafe. There is only one ferry heading north a day. After that, these places will expect no more business. The ferry has not arrived so the Englishman and I decide to get a bite.
As our food arrives (2 fried eggs, bit of sheep's feta, some stale slightly moldy bread, and coffee for about 2 euro), we see the ferry off in the distance. We eat quickly and scuttle down to the dock. After the people are aboard, the ferry is packed with supplies. The ferry itself is no more than a garbage barge with an old communist era bus welded to the deck.
But the bus-barge betrays the ride. It is beautiful in the way that only untapped wilderness can be. Cascading mountains plunge sharply into the lake. The water is often calm- a glass-like smoothness, reflecting the mountains perfectly on its mirror surface. The lake is more of a river than a lake- usually around three to four hundred feet wide it slowly snakes its way through the hills. Almost like something you would expect to read about in tales of the Great American West. Rocky cliffs quickly exchange themselves for trees and then back, the landscape constantly shifting, unsure of its own identity.
As we go up the lake, passengers hop off at barren outcroppings, sometimes greeted by friends and donkeys to help transport their goods. Occasionally they leap casually, a party of one, onto a cliff face and scurry up the mountain to some unseen abode.
Gradually the boat's load lightens. The human element becomes more pervasive, more tourist concentrated. When the man with the shoulder long ponytail, black suit, and snakeskin boots departs, I feel he takes with him the bulk of the local Albanian aurora.
We push on past rocks and trees and rocks. Destined for Fierze? And then Bajram Curri and finally to the contested lands of Kosovo. The great Albanian north- once a land of marauding bandits, now a must visit destination for leisurely tourists. Yet despite this, it retains its edge. Perhaps the jagged cliffs provide the penetratingly menacing tinge, or maybe it's the grim darkly browned faces- constantly watching, feigning nonchalance, but perpetually surveying in an effort to identify even the slightest exploitable weakness.
The further upstream we go the calmer the water becomes. The mountains begin to be reflected perfectly, creating a Rorschach panorama. Is there a parallel world under that layer of crystal? One much like ours only inverted? All things the opposite of how they seem to us? Is that world a happy and prosperous one? Will we find our failures in this world resounding successes there? I stare at the water contemplating visiting such a place.
At the ferry "terminal" in Fierze, 16 of us pack into an 8 seater minivan and we're off on the dusty roads to Bajram Curri. We lose four in the town of Fierze itself making the situation much more comfortable, or as comfortable as can be with 12 people in an 8 seater van. Remarkably, two are sitting on stools- not seats.
There are two Americans in front of me but I neglect to talk to them. I don't really like Americans anymore. That's not entirely true; I love Americans. I don't like touristy Americans when I find them on the road. They somehow cheapen my adventure, make it seem insubstantial, a trifle to be attempted by even the most novice fool with a few coins rattling around in his pocket. And the two in front of me were just such fools.
I like being the only American when I travel. I think I'd like to be the last American. Sometimes I feel like the last American, the last real American in the classic go-west-manifest-destiny sort of way. One of the last of us out exploring a seemingly infinite frontier- with no care other than to see and experience the new. To embrace any and all of what we find, and to carve out a space for ourselves there- however temporary or permanent. What happened to this spirit? That is the American I grew up believing in, the one I've always aspired to be.
We arrive in Bajram Curri in short order. From there the driver points out another minibus when I tell him I need to go to Gjakova. I pay the man and cross the dusty parking lot. I speak briefly with the driver, toss in my bag, acquire a snack from the stall next door, and then we are off. It's me and 9 Albanian men. None of them speak any English but we're communicating via hand gestures and laughs.
I offer them some of my cookies and they teach me "thank you" in Albanian. The driver is adept and supplements our ride with traditional Albanian music to which we snap our fingers and clap. We start to dance in our seats. There is no A/C but when moving the open vent on the roof allows for a steady breeze. We race along toward Kosovo. At the border there are only two of us left plus the driver. I hand over my passport and a few minutes later I'm stamped and we are through. It's the least time/hassle of any border I've crossed in the Balkans.
It's September 11, I realize, and I am in Kosovo. I remember exactly where I was last year this time: in Ian's apartment hiding from the 10th anniversary nonsense going on down by my place. The President was in town- giving a speech right next door. Secret service were combing my building and you had to have special ID to get past them into the lobby. It was a disaster. One of my last memories of my apartment in NY and one of my least favorite.
A few miles into Kosovo the driver spots an elderly couple walking along the side of the road and pulls over to offer them a free ride. I love these people already. Around here everyone is either Muslim, Catholic, or Orthodox. Life is too hard not to believe in something. I'm not sure it matters that much what. Just something. In Gjakova we stop in the main town; all but me get off. I'm told to wait for 2 km more. The driver eventually deposits me at a gas station where I'm told I can catch a lift to the bus stop for Prizren.
A man with a cone on his head joins me. He's carrying something in a plastic burlap-style bag. A bus comes; it's a local one. The man with the cone hat is gone.
A security officer comes by and he is taking the same bus as me. We chat briefly and he flags down a truck. We hop in and drive for a kilometer or two where we hop out along the side of the road. He says the bus will be along in 5 minutes. Right on time it arrives, kicking up a spray of dust. I throw my bag in below and hop on. The decor is carrot orange; the curtains, illuminated by the sun, cast the bus in a pumpkin hue. No A/C but there is a lovely breeze. It's 2.50 euro for the whole ride to Prizren. I listen to The Christmas Song performed by Shigeru Umebayashi as I stare out the window and watch the fields, the towns, and the mountains roll by.
But for the mountains in the distance, the farmlands of Kosovo reminds me of North Carolina. The rolling hills, wide plots of crops, people harvesting by hand. Little towns, houses, and stores popping up. Specifically Caswell County. Suddenly I'm struck with nostalgia. Although there are two strikingly noticeable differences, the first:
Exceedingly rare to spot these in North Carolina. Second, the way the houses are built. Somewhat similar to the Indian construction style, the Balkans people seem to build what they can with the money they have and then worry about filling it out as they get more money. As such you have lots of houses that are occupied or partially occupied but are still missing windows, doors, and the painted stucco facade to cover the red brick exterior. Here is a nice example of some houses of the same floorplan but in varying stages of construction. The one in the foreground is most complete.
The bus dropped me off at the main bus station in Prizren only a short walk from the hostel. This trip to Kosovo was one of the highlights of Stint 2 thus far. It was chaotic, surreal, foreign, and yet familiar all at the same time. And most importantly, I had to put my trust in others and believe that I would make it through with no problems. Honestly, I can't imagine going through the Balkans and not doing this little trek- at least Shkoder to Gjakova or the reverse. From either of those you can easily get to the capitals Tirana or Pristina, respectively, or in Kosovo pretty much every city. Or head toward Montengero or Macedonia.
Everyone I met traveling in the opposite direction I've recommended this to. If you find yourself in Albania or Kosovo, I recommend it to you as well. You won't be disappointed, and take heart- a bus to a ferry to a minibus to a minibus to a hitch to a bus only sounds daunting. Zjivile! Gambate!
We stop briefly for a coffee. Everyone seems to know exactly how long we have for our break. They drink and chat casually, then all at once everyone stands and moves rapidly back to the bus. As we blast past farmhouses, cars, cows, and crops, we are serenaded by ethnic Albanian music blaring over the speakers of the bus, almost as if this ride was a scene from a film and the music was providing a specially tailored score. I can't help but notice, as I'm tossed around by this mechanical bull of a bus, how nice the woman next to me smells.
Kids get on the bus- on their way to school high up in the hills. They laugh with us and speak a little English. An impromptu lesson breaks out. Eventually they depart and trudge up the hill where a school stands solitary against the imposing mountains.
We arrive at the "ferry terminal" via a tunnel over the old communist era hydro dam. There is one shop, a restaurant, and a cafe. There is only one ferry heading north a day. After that, these places will expect no more business. The ferry has not arrived so the Englishman and I decide to get a bite.
As our food arrives (2 fried eggs, bit of sheep's feta, some stale slightly moldy bread, and coffee for about 2 euro), we see the ferry off in the distance. We eat quickly and scuttle down to the dock. After the people are aboard, the ferry is packed with supplies. The ferry itself is no more than a garbage barge with an old communist era bus welded to the deck.
But the bus-barge betrays the ride. It is beautiful in the way that only untapped wilderness can be. Cascading mountains plunge sharply into the lake. The water is often calm- a glass-like smoothness, reflecting the mountains perfectly on its mirror surface. The lake is more of a river than a lake- usually around three to four hundred feet wide it slowly snakes its way through the hills. Almost like something you would expect to read about in tales of the Great American West. Rocky cliffs quickly exchange themselves for trees and then back, the landscape constantly shifting, unsure of its own identity.
As we go up the lake, passengers hop off at barren outcroppings, sometimes greeted by friends and donkeys to help transport their goods. Occasionally they leap casually, a party of one, onto a cliff face and scurry up the mountain to some unseen abode.
Gradually the boat's load lightens. The human element becomes more pervasive, more tourist concentrated. When the man with the shoulder long ponytail, black suit, and snakeskin boots departs, I feel he takes with him the bulk of the local Albanian aurora.
We push on past rocks and trees and rocks. Destined for Fierze? And then Bajram Curri and finally to the contested lands of Kosovo. The great Albanian north- once a land of marauding bandits, now a must visit destination for leisurely tourists. Yet despite this, it retains its edge. Perhaps the jagged cliffs provide the penetratingly menacing tinge, or maybe it's the grim darkly browned faces- constantly watching, feigning nonchalance, but perpetually surveying in an effort to identify even the slightest exploitable weakness.
The further upstream we go the calmer the water becomes. The mountains begin to be reflected perfectly, creating a Rorschach panorama. Is there a parallel world under that layer of crystal? One much like ours only inverted? All things the opposite of how they seem to us? Is that world a happy and prosperous one? Will we find our failures in this world resounding successes there? I stare at the water contemplating visiting such a place.
At the ferry "terminal" in Fierze, 16 of us pack into an 8 seater minivan and we're off on the dusty roads to Bajram Curri. We lose four in the town of Fierze itself making the situation much more comfortable, or as comfortable as can be with 12 people in an 8 seater van. Remarkably, two are sitting on stools- not seats.
There are two Americans in front of me but I neglect to talk to them. I don't really like Americans anymore. That's not entirely true; I love Americans. I don't like touristy Americans when I find them on the road. They somehow cheapen my adventure, make it seem insubstantial, a trifle to be attempted by even the most novice fool with a few coins rattling around in his pocket. And the two in front of me were just such fools.
I like being the only American when I travel. I think I'd like to be the last American. Sometimes I feel like the last American, the last real American in the classic go-west-manifest-destiny sort of way. One of the last of us out exploring a seemingly infinite frontier- with no care other than to see and experience the new. To embrace any and all of what we find, and to carve out a space for ourselves there- however temporary or permanent. What happened to this spirit? That is the American I grew up believing in, the one I've always aspired to be.
We arrive in Bajram Curri in short order. From there the driver points out another minibus when I tell him I need to go to Gjakova. I pay the man and cross the dusty parking lot. I speak briefly with the driver, toss in my bag, acquire a snack from the stall next door, and then we are off. It's me and 9 Albanian men. None of them speak any English but we're communicating via hand gestures and laughs.
I offer them some of my cookies and they teach me "thank you" in Albanian. The driver is adept and supplements our ride with traditional Albanian music to which we snap our fingers and clap. We start to dance in our seats. There is no A/C but when moving the open vent on the roof allows for a steady breeze. We race along toward Kosovo. At the border there are only two of us left plus the driver. I hand over my passport and a few minutes later I'm stamped and we are through. It's the least time/hassle of any border I've crossed in the Balkans.
It's September 11, I realize, and I am in Kosovo. I remember exactly where I was last year this time: in Ian's apartment hiding from the 10th anniversary nonsense going on down by my place. The President was in town- giving a speech right next door. Secret service were combing my building and you had to have special ID to get past them into the lobby. It was a disaster. One of my last memories of my apartment in NY and one of my least favorite.
A few miles into Kosovo the driver spots an elderly couple walking along the side of the road and pulls over to offer them a free ride. I love these people already. Around here everyone is either Muslim, Catholic, or Orthodox. Life is too hard not to believe in something. I'm not sure it matters that much what. Just something. In Gjakova we stop in the main town; all but me get off. I'm told to wait for 2 km more. The driver eventually deposits me at a gas station where I'm told I can catch a lift to the bus stop for Prizren.
A man with a cone on his head joins me. He's carrying something in a plastic burlap-style bag. A bus comes; it's a local one. The man with the cone hat is gone.
A security officer comes by and he is taking the same bus as me. We chat briefly and he flags down a truck. We hop in and drive for a kilometer or two where we hop out along the side of the road. He says the bus will be along in 5 minutes. Right on time it arrives, kicking up a spray of dust. I throw my bag in below and hop on. The decor is carrot orange; the curtains, illuminated by the sun, cast the bus in a pumpkin hue. No A/C but there is a lovely breeze. It's 2.50 euro for the whole ride to Prizren. I listen to The Christmas Song performed by Shigeru Umebayashi as I stare out the window and watch the fields, the towns, and the mountains roll by.
But for the mountains in the distance, the farmlands of Kosovo reminds me of North Carolina. The rolling hills, wide plots of crops, people harvesting by hand. Little towns, houses, and stores popping up. Specifically Caswell County. Suddenly I'm struck with nostalgia. Although there are two strikingly noticeable differences, the first:
Exceedingly rare to spot these in North Carolina. Second, the way the houses are built. Somewhat similar to the Indian construction style, the Balkans people seem to build what they can with the money they have and then worry about filling it out as they get more money. As such you have lots of houses that are occupied or partially occupied but are still missing windows, doors, and the painted stucco facade to cover the red brick exterior. Here is a nice example of some houses of the same floorplan but in varying stages of construction. The one in the foreground is most complete.
The bus dropped me off at the main bus station in Prizren only a short walk from the hostel. This trip to Kosovo was one of the highlights of Stint 2 thus far. It was chaotic, surreal, foreign, and yet familiar all at the same time. And most importantly, I had to put my trust in others and believe that I would make it through with no problems. Honestly, I can't imagine going through the Balkans and not doing this little trek- at least Shkoder to Gjakova or the reverse. From either of those you can easily get to the capitals Tirana or Pristina, respectively, or in Kosovo pretty much every city. Or head toward Montengero or Macedonia.
Everyone I met traveling in the opposite direction I've recommended this to. If you find yourself in Albania or Kosovo, I recommend it to you as well. You won't be disappointed, and take heart- a bus to a ferry to a minibus to a minibus to a hitch to a bus only sounds daunting. Zjivile! Gambate!
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