Chapter
1
ALBANIA
July 8, 1996 Tirana, Albania. The
bus trip from Patras to Tirana was an experience, but if I do it again I
will know I am a certifiable masochist. Sixteen hours crammed into the back
of an over booked bus as my first taste of traveling into the third world.
Only the desperate or insane would want to ride this bus.
Dirty funnel of a place: Patras,
Greece.
The tourist's ferry from Brindisi, Italy is one of those large, clean,
modern boats that go forever in an endless circle. Passage across the Aegean
sea was a free bonus with my Eurail pass, so I chose to pay a little extra
for a berth. I had forgotten how peaceful it is to be lulled to sleep by the
slow rocking of a boat
The ferry left me off here in
Patras about 5:30 this afternoon. The port of Patras is a dirty industrial
mixture of the usual rundown hotels, sleazy restaurants and stores and cargo
and passenger shipping. A dirty green-colored harbor complete with floating
plastic, a few dead birds and hoards of people from the richest to those in
dirty rags thrown together. This place is a great funnel, focusing masses of
travelers only to quickly disperse them. Everywhere there is a hustle of
people congested into this narrow point, creating rapid movement and
excitement.
Not far from the docks is an
unimposing masonry building that is the bus and train station. It blends
into all of the other nondescript structures with the typical ornamental
steel columns and peeling paint. The cracked concrete acts like a mouth
spiting out dirt. Everything has a feel of dirt. Late this evening, as I am
waiting for the bus to Tirana. I feel the isolation and emptiness of this
place. The desolation of being forgotten is very strong. I have chosen to
travel as cheaply as possible. Those who are here in the dark corners with
me have no choices.
A few, not speaking English are
staring blankly from the darkness. Their drab and dirty clothing seems to
fade and disappear into this world. But the white of eyes catches even the
smallest light and seems to glow like a candle. Over there is a woman
shabbily dressed holding her son who is about six or seven. He tries to
smile then she pull him close to her. I sense he wants to play but he looks
so very tired.
"Please cell phone me where
the next party is": American tourists.
Just few hours ago Patras was full of American tourists all going to the
same places. Many of the Americans are the same ones I met in Northern Italy
weeks ago. They all seem to be sharing the same stories about the same
places. For a while in Italy, I traveled with some Canadian Students. They
made sure I understood that they too, were "Americans." They had
sewn large green maple leaves to their backpacks just to make sure we all
knew that they were not from the U.S. of A. They seemed more interested in
comparing why North America was better than Europe and worrying about their
boy friends in the states, than understanding anything about the culture or
history of where they are. As long as daddy's money did not run out,
everything was fine.
For several hours I have been
lulling around at the station with those waiting for the train to Athens.
The train was expected at 5:00 p.m., but is about three hours late. My bus,
coming from Athens, is expected about 11:30 p.m. The siding is crowed,
mostly with Americans who were on the ferry from Italy. One American, who
apparently sells real estate, is standing over next to the building in his
expensive designer cloths. He has a cellular phone attached to his ear. His
wife looks like she is disturbed that they must be jammed together with so
many people. He is screaming in English something about a business deal. He
wants everyone to know he is talking business and how important he is. Well,
I did notice him. So did everyone else.
The train just arrived and there is
a mass movement to get the first seat. There appears to be more people than
seats. The tourists look annoyed and tired as they run and push. The locals
seem to never show much emotion as they accept this as normal.
This Greek train looked like
rolling stock from an old World War II movie. The train is a drab gray
green, with frozen layers of dirt baked on. The many layers of paint are
scratched and peeling. The letters are now dull gold and everywhere wood
trim is broken. The top is rounded and beaten. The train looks like it was
hit with hammers and clubs. I am watching the passengers in this heat trying
to open the dirty windows that do not want to open. Many of the Americans
are looking at the dirt on their clean cloths. They seem very unhappy. It is
very hot tonight for a long dirty train ride to Athens in a compartment with
six people where the windows do not work.
After several months of travel I am
overwhelmed and exhausted by my experiences.
As the train pulls from the
station, I realize how alone I am. How isolated. But I feel emotionally
alive, like a great sponge filling with strange and exotic experiences. Oh,
how I constantly want to reach out, talk, make contact, be with others
around me! I do not know them. I do not understand them. I cannot speak
their language. We are separated by language. We are separated by our
worlds. One part of me that is changing, I am finally learning to enjoy
being with myself.
Am I stupid, crazy or a
traveler?
Six weeks ago I landed in Paris. Paris! Paris is a city to be romantic, to
be an artist, but like all large and imposing Western cities where
telephones and ATMs work, Paris can quickly become artificial and difficult
Did I begin from Paris, or was it London, or New York or Boston? They are
all the same. Four dollars for a warm coke at the street café. I was a
tourist, not a traveler. But Paris was a starting point before proceeding
deep into the jungle. So far this journey has been to condition me for what
lay ahead.
I have tried to present myself to
be like a professor, searching for architecture.
Now, I am moving deeper and deeper
into an exotic world far removed from anything I have known. I know that I
am anticipating finding a lost world of Europe frozen between the wars. A
timeless place that the modern world forgot. Something out of a romantic
movie.
Backward: been there; forward:
unknown.
They are waiting for me in Tirana. I do not know what to expect or even how
long it will take the bus to arrive. People here speak very little English.
Asking detailed questions is not practical. Then, how difficult can a bus
trip be? Someone will speak English. Someone everywhere seems to speak a
little English.
There is excitement in anticipating
my adventure, but why then I feel so alone!? I am 46. I can do anything.
What the hell am I doing sitting here on the sidewalk next to the train
station in Patras, writing this? Shouldn't I be working, making a living?
Don't I have responsibilities? What if I become sick? What if someone robs
me? I do not know where to turn. I cannot speak the language. Can I even
depend on myself? Well, for now, it makes no sense to go back. There is
nothing to go back for. There is something thrilling about sitting back and
letting the events take me. It is late and I am feeling tired, but I do not
even know when I will be able to sleep again.
I chose to travel for experience
over comfort. That demands that I not complain. I must keep reminding myself
not to think about the negative. I have made the conscious choice of how to
travel. But then......the few dollars extra for an air-conditioned private
sleeper on the boat were a good way to spoil myself.
Waiting..... Waiting..... The bus
will be here in a few hours. I must just wait.
A bus trip designed by hell's
agent.
I had been wondering why there were only five or six people waiting with me
in Patras for the bus. When it arrived the bus was already full. It left
Athens about eight hours before. We were the extra passengers on an over
booked bus. I watched nervously as the driver put my large bags in the
compartments beneath the bus. I took with me my oversized carry bag stuffed
with books, papers and vital items. There was hardly room for it on my lap.
There was no room for me. They pushed me to the back of the bus where I was
seated half on top of the other passengers. Everyone seemed to smile and try
very hard to accommodate me. Hands were moving and touching everywhere.
Times like this I am glad that I cannot smell very well. My nose is always
stuffed up will allergies. If I could smell, I think I might have been sick.
As time went on, we seemed to shake and move like shifting sand until we
were all packaged together. I was thankful that everyone was inside and no
one was hanging on the outside.
This bus had been built for local
travel and it did not have a toilet. Our toilet breaks took place several
hours apart or when we were at one of those stops arranged by the bus
drivers with a café owner. Perhaps a little arrangement for the business.
By the first stop, I was desperate to pee. As I was entering the men's
toilet, several hands went out to stop me. They were all smiling, but they
did not want me to go in. In a few minutes, several women came out and as
they looked at the waiting men their expressions turned contrite. Everyone
took all of this in stride. They were all smiling and laughing. The toilets
were filthy. The fixtures are these little ceramic pans with holes set into
the floor. They are called Turkish toilets. You are expected to stand with
your feet on the pads and squat, aiming at this little hole in the middle of
the pan. Several pans were blocked and the water was flowing from the holes
onto the floor. It was impossible not to step in the dirty water. There were
no towels at the sink. Then the "clean" water barely flowed.
Once outside, I looked up at the
stars and wondered if I felt the same awe that some Greek must have felt
3,000 years before. Taped Greek music, like the cigarette smoke, filled the
air. Olive trees, growing on the side of the hill, hung over the concrete
patio. On the right was a white painted block structure with large glass
doors. Inside there was a grocery and a restaurant. Outside people were
sitting at crudely made picnic tables, drinking and talking at the same
time. Several people tired to talk to me. Sadly, their English was not good
and I did not speak Greek or Albanian. We did the best we could and I smiled
a lot. After about 20 minutes we got back onto the bus. It was about two in
the morning.
As the bus made sharp jerky turns
we were thrashed back and forth against each other. Potholes threw us up and
came down on top of each other. This was a constant irregular pattern. I had
tried to read sitting with a tiny flashlight between my teeth. I could sense
I looked a little strange. Several people were watching me. During the next
hours, I alternated between trying to sleep and read. Each time I would dose
off, the bus would lurch and I was jolted awake. Each time I got into my
book, the bus would jump and I would lost my place. I finally finished about
thirty pages and gave up. Others just stared into the darkness sometimes
with their eyes open, sometimes with their eyes shut. No one slept for more
than a few minutes at a time. No one complained.
It was dark when I left Patras so I
did not see much of the Greek country side. As dawn came I could see that
dry Mediterranean scrub: cream gray, and desolate. The road was lined with
buildings, like an endless village built with concrete and a painted stucco.
Everywhere buildings stood as unfinished shells. Very little seemed old.
Everything looked dirty. This may be an ancient country side, but each
generation seems to have rebuilt over the ruins of the last. Little of the
old remains to be seen. Hanging over everything is a greasy, gray film.
Nothing seems clean and fresh. Nothing new remains that way for long.
I felt stiff, bored and very tired.
I was looking forward to a shower when I arrived in Tirana.
A point on the road of insanity:
the Albanian border.
As we wound our way through the low hills there were fewer and fewer
buildings. The countryside became increasingly more desolate. About mid
morning we arrived at the Albanian border. The mood was mania with the chaos
of people running everywhere, doing little. Countless large trucks were
tucked into the side of the road. Several women carrying small children were
walking by the windows of our bus begging. There were scattered broken white
bags spilling garbage onto the road. Everywhere someone had thrown trash.
Children were playing games. An old man, unshaven for several days, sat on a
stone next to a concrete wall. He stared blankly into emptiness. It was hot.
The air inside the bus did not move.
Was this place a final stop on the
road to hell? I was seriously wondering what I was doing here. We were still
on the Greek side of the border. I needed to try to call my friends in
Tirana. There were some telephones booths beside the road, but they did not
work. I was directed to large monolithic concrete customs building. There
were several telephones on the wall and in front of the building. On the
third try the telephone took my phone card. The woman who answered sounded
very old and cheerful. Her English was not very good. Telephones are very
difficult things to use with people who do not speak the same language very
well. I tried to explain that I was at the border and did not know how long
it would take. She kept saying yes, but I was not sure if she really
understood.
The driver motioned for all of us
to be back on the bus. Again we were to just sit and wait. There was an
English woman traveling with her Albanian husband. He had worked as a short
order cook in England. She was a waitress. They were going to visit his
family. The Greeks did not care about our passports. The Albanian officials
took our passports. This made me nervous. A few minutes later, an official
came back and motioned for her and I to follow them. Everyone else waited in
the hot bus. Even I noticed the smell inside of the bus. The official
escorted us to the side of the building where behind windows there were
several guards trying to look very official. They were trying to determine
how much they could charge us for a Visa. Once in a while they would glance
at us. Mostly they were pretending to look official like they knew what they
were doing. After twenty minutes they found the right forms. Once they
established I did not need to pay for a visa they became very polite. The
English woman was not so lucky. They wanted about $10 from her. She argued
for several minutes in broken Albanian. In the end she was forced to pay.
Two officials escorted us back to
the bus. We waited. We waited. We waited ... The mid day sun was intense.
Outside there was no movement of air. Inside the bus was an oven. Slowly we
were being cooked. About an hour and a half later the bus was allowed to go
forward. There was no room for us to go forward. Cars and trucks seemed to
block our way. I watched as the bus driver moved an inch at a time. Forward
between trucks who were parked overhanging the road. In the end there was
about an inch and a half on each side of the bus. Somehow the driver made it
without scraping another vehicle. He seemed practiced at what he did.
Later I was told that we were
delayed at the border because the bus driver refused to pay a bribe to let
us go earlier. Everywhere I knew that corruption was taking place. At least
that is what I have been told. My best defense has always been to read on
the requirements and try not to get caught. There are times I can praise my
government's efforts as the State Department does produce good information.
We were lucky as I was told the large trucks parked everywhere could wait
five days just to cross the border. There were no toilets, groceries, or
restaurants. There was nothing to do but a wait. The officials did not care.
Why should they when people are not important.
Please help: "just drop an
atomic bomb."
The young man sitting next to me was nineteen years old but he spoke no
English. In the seat in front to him was a young man in his early 20's who
was studying computers in Athens. His English was very good. I realized,
because I am an American, people would seek me out to talk. If nothing else,
they could practice their English and I could learn about them.
We talked for several hours about
how he made this trip every few weeks to visit his parents. His father
taught math and his mother taught physics in a small Albania village. He
hated this 19 hours to go home; he hated the 19 hours to return in a couple
of days. As he talked he tried to hold back his anger.
"I hate this country. I hate
the poverty. I hate the life here. Because the economy is so bad, life is
very difficult. My parents have nothing."
"But if you would change
anything, what would you change?" I asked.
"The way people think. I would
change their attitude, but they cannot change."
"But if you could do anything,
what would you do?"
"Drop an atomic bomb and start
over." He said without emotion, without any deep thought. He was
serious.
At first I thought, he was just
expressing depression. But he was serious. He had no hope for the future of
his country. He did not care about the others. They did not care about him.
He wanted to escape.
I tried to brush off the lack of
reality of what he expressed. I was the American who saw the reality that
anything can be changed. I did not want to hear what cannot be done; just
tell me what to do. Throw a challenge and money at anything and it can be
changed. I have been naive.
The bus threw us up in our seats
again. I was thirsty. If I drank too much I would sit for hours feeling that
need to pee. We hit another hole. The road was too small to swerve. Everyone
looked exhausted and bored. No one could sleep. It was hot and stuffy. This
was the main road from Greece to Tirana. We were traveling about seven miles
per hour.
An hour later we were approaching
his village. It sat on a bluff at the base of the rugged stone hills that
were barren of vegetation. There were a few small structures clustered in
the center and many under construction. To the edge of the center there were
a series of seven or eight nine-story concrete buildings. From a distance,
like architects models on a table, they appeared modern and clean, but still
somehow out of place in this rural village. The closer our bus came, the
more shabby and crumbling they appeared. As the young man got off of the bus
he bid me good by. In three days he would take this bus back to Athens.
Are Albanians really this
friendly and am I safe?
I had read that Albanians were very curious about the West. For fifty years
the country was closed off from contact with the west. At one point they
even threw out the Russians and the government aligned with the Chinese. I
am typically very outgoing, but I was not prepared for how forward and
outgoing these people were. I was at first cautious. Slowly I came to
understand that they were sincere. I was a curiosity. An American traveling
on this bus? That was strange. They were curious and they wanted to learn.
Perhaps they wanted more, but they were always polite. As I look back over
my journey, I have observed that the poorer someone is, the more likely they
will reach out to help a stranger. They have little to lose. Then sometimes
I must have looked like the rich foreign traveler and might possibly be
someone who can help them escape.
Constantly I was being watched.
Several people came up to me to try to talk. I am outgoing, but the
Albanians have no inhibitions about trying to talk. Once in a while I can
ask the English woman to help translate, but she is absorbed with her
husband. He is listening to the music tape in the small recorder I brought
along. He spent hours listening. In the end when the batteries are gone he
hand me back the player and said thanks.
I am not sure who I can trust. I
feel out of place. All of this makes me nervous. I feel scared. I am waiting
for something bad to happen. My luggage is below in the bus. Each time we
stop, I try to watch closely that it does not leave. In the end, the fears
are mine not reality. They are just curious. They want anything to escape
the torture of this bus ride. Being cautious is good, but safety was never
an issue.
Pork Barrel by Hoxha.
Enver Hoxha created the modern workers state of Albania. Many people I
talked with, believe that Albania was one of the purest communist states in
the world. Here was the workers paradise. At least that was the official
party line that everyone was fed for fifty years. All the communists now
seem to have evaporated. People talked about how they were betrayed. People
are angry that Albania ever was a "communist country." Now people
look hard to blame someone for the poverty and problems.
I tried reading about Hoxha. I even
tried reading a translation of his writings. I gave up. I was told as a
young student in France he partied very hard. Then he became a communist and
the first secretary. At the end of the war the communists move to fill the
vacuum of power and Hoxha became the president. He came to power because of
his cunning and ability to manipulate people. Sadly, once in power, there
seemed to be no peaceful way to remove him. He died in 1985 still acting as
dictator. So who do we blame for a bad dictator who ruled corruptly and
poorly for fifty years? Who should the Albanians blame for what happened to
their lives and their country? But everyone needs someone else to blame. Who
should we blame?
As I sit on the bus I try to write
notes of my first impressions of this country. Everything is new and strange
to me. The ancient country side, the smell of this bus, the intense heat,
how dry and barren everything looks, new constructions that is unfinished,
old brick and concrete factories with the windows broken and the metal
frames rusting. Everything looks beaten and wasted. The tattered rags of
poverty hang over this place.
Up the side of the hill, over
there, I count seven of the round toped concrete "things." They
are everywhere! Someone told me that there were 700,000 of them.
Three more are beside the road. One
is in front of the church almost blocking the fork in the road. Some have
domed metal tops that are rusting. Some have concrete tops. The one over
there is broken open. I can see the reinforcing bars. I can see one at the
edge of a field that has been pulled out of the ground and left somewhere
out of the way. They seem to be about ten feet in diameter and ten feet
tall. They protrude above the ground about five feet. They are planted
everywhere. In France they plant rows of trees that became beautiful with
age. Here they planted these concrete bunkers. They do not age well. I think
there are more of them than trees.
On a warm evening, I met Adis at
one of Tirana's countless new café's. Three years ago there was a large
park in the center. Today there are endless small cafes and shops that fill
the park, one crammed on top of another all selling basically the same
merchandise. The houses that surround this café park were once elegant and
beautiful, sitting on grand tree lined streets. Now, they are all unkempt and
rundown.
No one wants to care about the
public spaces. Few have the money or knowledge to care for what was. What
was once beautiful is not important to consider when the additions are now
added. Then communism did not consider beauty as important either.
Adis is about 5' 6" and in his
early thirties. He is beginning to put on weight. His hair is cut very short
to hide his balding, but the shortness accents the crudeness of his rounding
face and a weight lifters body beginning to age. He presents himself as
tough and rugged, but his eyes show the pain. There was a softness that was
not allowed to escape, held in by the torture and suffering of this place.
He was constantly, nervously scanning his surrounds.
Our meeting had been arranged with
a letter of introduction from a close Albanian friend who was living in the
States. For now Adis is trying to make some business work, but that is very
difficult when you must pay 50% interest on the borrowed money. During our
discussion he shared with me that he had spent several years in the jail
because he disagreed with the old regime. I felt an openness from him
because I was an outsider sent by one of his friends. The time he spent in
jail has worn on him heavily.
I asked him about the bunkers.
"I was involved in building
them. We all knew that they were worthless, but we knew better than to
complain. They were to defend our country. See, what you were suppose to do
was to get into one of these with a friend and put your machine gun in the
little hole in the front"
I irrupted, "But there is one
over there behind the wall in the garden to that large house. The hole opens
into to the wall . . . "
He irrupted, smiling, "Oh, you
are supposed to know the enemy is coming down the street. You tear down the
wall in front of the bunker, then get in and wait for your enemy to arrive
so you can kill him."
My assumption had been stupid and
insane. He confirmed that my assumptions was right. I was shaking my head. I
kept looking back. We were both laughing.
"If everyone knew they were
worthless why didn't someone say something?"
"No one was to question. We
knew that they would not work, but they paid us to do the work. People made
money. They had something to do."
I was shaking my head. These things
cost five billion dollars. They knew they were worthless. Now they are very
expensive worthless items to get rid of. Everywhere they are in the way.
They are eyesores. They do not recycle well. I spent weeks trying to figure
a creative use for them and in the end gave up. They are the reminders of a
government gone mad, wasting billions of dollars when they needed schools,
hospitals, and roads.
"But who was going to
attack?"
"Oh, the Italians or the
Russians. Oh, the Americans. The Americans were our enemy and they might
attack."
"But, if someone conquered
Albania they would have needed to supply money to keep order. The rest of
the world would have demanded that they take care of the country. If someone
had conquered this country, Albanians would have been better off. Am I right
or crazy?"
He smiled, I think I got the point.
Communism: A study in unfinished
central planning.
The bus winding around another tortuous curve, just threw me against the man
next to me. We both smile. No one becomes upset. This is an ancient
mountainous country that has the charm, beauty, and feeling of the great
crossroads of civilization. Isolation has left much still unspoiled,
untouched by the twentieth century.
But something went terribly wrong
here about fifty years ago. Central planning, control, bad government and
oppression. The system promised so much but became like a plague that year
by year ate away the minds of people. Now like a vacuum this world has
imploded into itself.
"Fifty years ago our world
changed. Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. Today it is more efficient
for the roads to be straight and for us to put all the rivers in concrete
trenches. We need to get our world organized and we can control nature. We
can improve on nature. Can't you understand that nature is not efficient and
the goal of man is to make it more efficient? We need to give more to
people." Jacob was an engineering student I had met the summer of 1967
when I was studying at Ohio University. He believed that we could radically
alter the past, control nature and forget about history.
Communist designers, central
planners, monument builders. In the end, here as elsewhere the communists
were defeated by this place and every place where they tried to destroy the
natural pattern of things. What remains are the broken monuments dedicated
to the war they fought against history and the tradition. The communists
tried so hard to create a new order by destroying and ignoring the past. As
I look out of the bus I see everywhere, reminders of that stupidity:
unfinished construction sites, abandoned factories, poverty, and trash.
Everything seems to have begun without planning and ended unfinished without
money. Everywhere these are places like open sores, festering and oozing.
People are like maggots eating and building upon the open wounds. Layers of
dust and dirt cover everything. As long as I am a visitor and do not need to
live here, this place can be exciting.
The basic construction of all the
local buildings is concrete block, poured concrete and soft brick with red
tile roofs. Two thousand years of stone and stucco. The old buildings last a
few hundred years and wear out slowly with dignity. The new concrete
buildings look dirty and broken, even when they are new. Nothing is
maintained. Everything I see is falling apart and dirty. The work is begun
but somehow no one is left to finish the work.
The Communists loved the massive
concrete block structures. They remind me of a bad prisons, nightmare places
to force people to live. Oppressive. All of the new houses are small single
family buildings. I would not want to live in a block. Central planning
demands central control.
Built by urban planners with a
grand scheme of how a society should be. Dreamers who wanted to bring a
vision of the modern age to the peasants by putting them in modern blocks
with electricity and water. But there was a hidden addenda. If you move the
peasant from the land with promises of a better life, the politicians could
isolate and control. The support of family and community was broken. If you
divide the people and isolate them you can control them far more effectively
than any conquering army. In the end they all failed, but they left
cancerous sores everywhere on the landscape.
The woman is hanging her cloths out
to dry. The children are playing. The spirit struggles to survive here in
what seems like hell to me. Or is this a survival because this worker's
paradise has left everyone ignorant of what could really be?
Nature creates ancient forests,
layer by layer, year by year. Decay and rebuilding, decay and rebuilding...
interrupted by fire and storm to be rebuild on the ashes. For thousands of
years, this landscape, with its villages, was sculptured, layer upon layer,
interrupted only by one conquering army or another.
The communists were just one more
army that failed. So many conquers from outside learned to adapt, while
adding a layer of their history. The communists were
different. They were people from here; invaders from within. They became the
ignorant barbarians, who sacked the landscape and laid so much to waste. In
the end, they devastated the land, but more they devastated the minds. I
feel so confused by what I see. I see outside of this bus a place that
collapsed into chaos and somehow now seems stuck there.
The small farms are powered by
hand, horse and donkey. I see a few tractors that appear rusted and like
everything falling apart. The roads wander, meandering through lush green
valleys that follow a natural path of the landscape. Farmers struggle today
the same way they did thousands of years ago. There is a donkey, laden with
many times his weight with twigs stacked so high that he appears to be ready
to topple. In this unchanging pattern, there seems to be a hard balance
between a nature and existence. Somehow, if I come back in a thousand years,
I expect to see the same farmer struggling the same way.
At heart, I am a romantic dreamer,
searching and longing for the security of a simpler life. Yet, I know that I
could not live here. I know I would not want to live here. I am drawn by
seeing what is different, strange and forgotten by my world. To see a world
still living in the past. But for me to live here would be isolating,
boring, and without contrast. As a traveler first viewing this strange world
I see a wondrous place frozen in time that is full of contrast and excite to
me.
Garbage.
The man in front of me on the bus just threw a large plastic soda bottle out
of the window. Everywhere there is trash. The road is lined with paper and
plastic. A broken garbage bag is over there. Two dogs are fighting over
something we just passed. Garbage along the sides of the road. There are no
clean toilets at any of the places we stopped. The water often flushes over
the concrete floors. Urinals are mounted on the outside of buildings in open
view. No one cares.
We stopped at a café with a dry
ravine about thirty feet to the side. In the spring the runoff from the
hills is flushed into the river below through this ravine. This is a scenic
place along a mountain road with a river meandering through a fertile
valley. The restaurant was clean and modern. Sitting on the patio eating and
drinking you could not really notice the ravine. As I stood and walked
toward the ravine, I could see that it was filled with trash and garbage
several feet deep. Convenient how they kept the trash just out of view from
the patio where patrons sat and ate. So what if the spring water flushes the
garbage into the river? That is someone else's problem. I was told that for
years everyone was forced to spend their weekends cleaning public spaces.
Now no one cleans any public spaces. Public spaces are places to throw
garbage. Places to quietly protest and spit on the government. Now they live
in their own garbage. Even dogs know better than to shit in their own beds.
Sweet oil and green rivers.
We are passing through the oil fields. To the right of the bus is a small
lake that looks to have more oil than water. This is a dead place. I want to
throw up from the stench. The heat is suffocating. We cannot shut out the
smell. There are rust-covered pumps everywhere struggling to pull more oil
from the ground. Everything looks old and beaten. Even the new equipment
looks old.
On our left is a river that flows
with a bright acid green chemical color. The children that are swimming do
not seem to notice the color. They are being children. Naked, dancing and
laughing in the sunlight. They are laughing and running in and out of the
water. Beside the river the rusted remains of cars that were striped long
ago and remind me of animals whose bones are bleaching in the sun.
"Oh, this is a construction
zone, not a war zone": arriving in Tirana.
We are approaching Tirana. Everywhere there are new houses and buildings.
There seems no plan, just building scattered everywhere. The green fields
are becoming cluttered with new construction. Cars. Cars. A few more cars.
Most are Mercedes.
Tirana is alive with people.
Activity everywhere. A new Mercedes just passed the horse cart. There are
old buildings, but there are satellite dishes on. Laundry hanging, but dirt
gray stucco and paint peeling. Trees growing wild. Overgrown landscape.
Nothing is precise and neat. I am very tired as I did not sleep last night.
I am excited coming to a strange foreign city for the first time. Everything
is new.
The bus arrived at 4:30 p.m. at the
bus station. Someone said this was the new bus station, but the construction
is unfinished. It looks like the remains after a battle. I am not sure if I
could call this a bus station for it is more like a series of concrete ribs
not very well cast in place.
There is a rush to get off the bus.
I am nervous if my luggage is still below. We all stand in a group rushing
but no one grabs. There are countless taxi's waiting for fairs. I think
every taxi driver has come up to me. Then they know how to spot a foreigner.
I stand out in this place, I am not Albanian.
"Taxi?! "
"No, no, my host will be here
. . . " I take my luggage and stand by a concrete rib. Some of the
buses parked here look like they are lived in. Several have been burned out.
A couple have been striped. Perhaps one or two can still be used.
"Taxi!?"
"No, no, I will wait!"
the place is emptying out quickly. There are just two taxies left.
"Taxi?"
"No, no not now" This
place is really empty now. A dog lifts his leg on the back of the concrete
rib and stares at me. I think he is saying, "You fool, why did you not
takes a taxi!" The smell of dust and garbage and urine is very strong.
All I can do is a wait. There are houses just beyond. I can see children. I
really feel alone. I have no Albanian money. I do not speak the language.
Asking for help is very difficult. I have no idea of where I am going. What
an adventure!
Five minutes goes by. And I am
anxious. It seems to be getting dark. But it is too early to get dark. I
really am anxious, but it does no good.
Ten minutes goes by. This place is
deserted and it is becoming scary.
Fifteen minutes. Do I panic? Does
it do any good? I see a car driving up. One side lifts and then another. The
driver dodges the holes in the dirt road. It is an old Ford and Freddie got
out smiling.
"I'm sorry but I went to the
old bus station and waited. Finally, realized that you were at the new
station."
Freddie and his wife are the parents
of an Albanian student. I met them when they were visiting their son in the
states and they offered me the opportunity to stay in an apartment they had
in Tirana.
Were the American and Russians
having a tank battle in our street last week?
We made the quick tour of the town with Freddie showing me the great amount
of construction going on. We chat about architecture. He shows me some of
his projects from when he worked with the government. Finally, we turned a
corner and as he drives up onto the sidewalk. He says, "my house is
just over there, but last night they stole the metal cover for the electric
in the street."
In the center of the street was a
four-foot square hole almost big enough to eat an entire car. "People
often steal the metal covers to sell as scrap in Italy."
Once this street had been elegantly
paved with small stones. Now, nothing was level and many of the stones were
missing. All down this street there were crumbling walls in front of what
were once elegant homes. We proceeded about a third of the way down the
street. Fred stopped the car, got out, unlocked and opened the metal gate.
He drove the car in and locked the gate. We were in a fortress surrounded by
walls and gates. There were the signs that he was an architect. A little
construction material here, a little there. Architects everywhere cannot
live in a place without changing it. Then there were large overgrown trees
and grape bushes that shaded the sun. This was a modern style house from the
late 1930's. His home is next the Romanian Embassy and across the street
from the Russian Embassy. There was a guard in front of the Russian Embassy
who looked very bored. The American Embassy is at the end of the street. But
street looked like the Russians and the Americans had just finished a tank
battle the week before. Only here they were rebuilding this street, not
tearing it down.
Safety from people is not the
issue, but falling into a pot hole could be a serious problem. The water had
stopped running that morning, apparently this is common in the summer in
Tirana. Water was carried by bucket to the second floor.
My room is nice, but how do I
take a shower without water?
The room I am settling into is large and bright. The ceiling is about 9 feet
high and everything is painted white. In one corner is a compact kitchen and
in the other corner is a small modern bath. There is even a small balcony.
The decor is not exactly modern, but the furniture is perfectly
adequate and comfortable. I have a table that I can use for writing and
drawing on and there are several soft chairs that give me a sitting area.
There is just no running water! I
really am safe, the place has everything I need, except there is no running
water.
The place is more than adequately
comfortable. There is just no hot water for a shower. Then there is no
water! Freddie told me to always keep the bucket beside the toilet full of
water. He told me, "when you have water, fill up the bucket."
"I'm sorry, we never seem to
have enough pressure. In summer there are always problems with water.
Sometimes there is water between seven and eight in the morning. Sometimes
we do not have any water. I need to put in a pump, but that is expensive. We
could heat you some water but we must carry it from the yard." There
was a tank in the yard that stored water.
"No, some how I think, I can
wait. Today, I must do some food shopping and exchange some money. I will
just wait until tomorrow and hope"
I am really thinking that having
traveled in close quarters with a bus full of Albanians through the hot and
dusty countryside, I really needed a shower.
Everything takes extra time. Then I
could go to the big hotel and pay for a room. I am sure that they have hot
water? No, I think that I must just lean to be tolerant and accepting. I
must adapt to the conditions here. I must learn that I too can tolerate what
they put up with here just to live. Even simple things like taking a shower
take patience. I am glad that here I have no pressure to accomplish other
things. I am glad there is no one I must look good for.
The next afternoon, Freddie took me
and his wife to one of the modern beautiful hotels that overlook Tirana for
drinks. He had been the architect. As we sat there in the clean modern
surrounding all, I could do was stare at the swimming pool full of clean
water. I wanted a shower and there was still no water in the house.
Well, a few more days and I run out
of clean clothes.
The Wild, Wild Balkans
I must watch that I do not burn in the sun today. It is very hot.
During the last several days I have
begun to settle into a routine. If one wants a shower, it must be taken
between 7 A.M. and 8 A.M.. During those hours there is only enough water to
carefully wet down the body, apply a few dabs of soap and carefully try to
remove the residue. Not really taking a shower. I smell a little ripe. I
learn to become more tolerant about others.
Today, the electricity went off. I
really hate cold showers.
Constantly everything is breaking
or is broken. Nothing seems to work well or for long. People just shrug
their shoulders and accept things as they are. Yet somehow behind all of
this I sense that things are slowly getting better. For those who understand
what is happening, great fortunes may be made. Some seem to already to have
been made, but I do not know how honest most of those are.
Albania is not like India or Egypt.
Albania began this century as a poor backward place and then suffered
corrupt government and worse management. They were told that this was the
worker's paradise, the perfect communist society. The reality was that the
country was run by a bad despot, who robed and gave very little back to the
people.
When I first arrived several weeks
ago there were piles of dirt and waste that lined our street. Now the piles
seem smaller. Finally the other night I was out walking until well after
three in the morning. Coming home I saw the gnomes that are out to sweep the
streets. Sad creatures, mostly women, bent over and dirty, picking up other
people's dirt. They use hand made brooms that look to be worn out. Bit by
bit they pick up the piles along the street each night until the piles are
gone. Perhaps I should not ask myself, but I always wonder if I had no
opportunities and was not very bright, if I might have ended up sweeping the
street bent over with them.
For the average Albanian who makes
less than eighty dollars a month, everything is expensive. For me that is
cheap. I can live here with far more excitement than anywhere in the states.
Just existing day to day for me here is exciting, because it is different.
Then I would not want to be forced to live under their economic conditions.
It is very difficult to be an Albanian in Albania these days.
Some soldiers with loaded
weapons can be a danger to themselves.
Yesterday when I sat down on a stoop at one of the old Italian fascist's
pieces of architecture in the center of Tirana to tie my shoe. A military
guard with an automatic rifle came up almost immediately to me to chase me
away. Now, I do not argue with a man with a gun.
The door behind the stoop I was
sitting on had been filled with concrete blocks and had an air-conditioner
projecting through the wall. It is hard to believe that a tourist stopping
to tie a shoe could be a threat to Albanian national security. I was told
later that it was the Ministry of the Interior and the guns are not loaded.
Given what appeared to be the
intelligence of that man I would be concerned if he had the power to act on
his own independent judgment without higher authority directing. Then long
ago I learned never to argue with a man with a gun. I just smiled at him as
I finished tying my shoe and moved on quickly.
Does anyone understand how to
help or should we make it work?
This morning I went to the Ministry of Information where my host works. She
has been working for several years on keying in an accounting program for
the Albanian government on. They seem to be working in a vacuum regarding
information and computer systems and she is a mathematician, not an
accountant by trade. Today was an eventful day as they brought the first
computer into their home. It seems that their expert tried to upgrade from
an 8-RAM system to 16 Ram and got the chip switched and screwed up so it
does not work. No one got upset because this seems to be the normal
operating procedure: nothing works the first time. No one seemed to expect
it to work either. In the states I came expect things to work and it is easy
to become angry when it was not right the first time. Here I am happy if
something works.
Americans seem to be very welcome
here. What I have seen indicates that the American government and the people
working here have finally shed much of the Ugly American face that dogged us
as a country for so many years. The people I met who worked for different
agencies and businesses all seemed to be sincerely interested. There is
still the arrogance and human stupidity, but much of that seems to have
given way to the basic practical considerations learned by years of
stupidity. Power somehow always needs to express power, but by renovating
the old Italian embassy in Tirana as the U.S. Embassy the message is one of
showing how beautiful the city can again become. The American government has
a substantial presence. It is really hard to go anywhere in Tirana and not
meet someone involved in either an American program or aid organization.
Most of the programs I saw were dedicated to helping the Albanians to help
themselves.
Everywhere I meet people, who have
a hunger to learn about business. The only library in Tirana where good
business information and self help books can be found in number is the
American Library which was always crowded with people. I have a serious
criticism in that its hours are too short.
Fifty years of really bad
government has robed people of basic education. Perhaps the Army Corps of
Engineers could fix the water system in Tirana. I would happy because I
would be able to get a shower on demand, then that is provided they also fix
the electrical system at the same time. Then fixing the telephone systems
would be nice to. I venture to guess that they could fix those systems twice
as good and for half the money that it will costs the Albanians to do the
same job.
The World Bank or American foreign
aid could fund having private European companies do the same work. The
systems would work and people would be helped. What a wonderfully terrible
idea. The British did just that and it bankrupted the Empire. Something
about the old principle of not giving a man fish, but teaching him how to
fish. It might take twice as long and cost twice as much, but in places like
Tirana, it is the one solution that will lead to long term self control and
sufficiency. Personally, I think more teachers are needed to bring new ideas
and ways to help people help themselves. I dislike many of the missionaries
because they want to bring their morality to people who are crying for help
to be able to feed their families. Places like the Soros Foundation have
done a tremendous amount by helping to monitor success with small grants to
people. We often forget that the price of success is to have failed many
times.
The American government has moved
to change the foreign investment laws, the infrastructure and other areas
underlying the structure necessary to build upon. It does not always help
with things like the pyramid schemes and the basic corruption that goes on
everywhere, but by working to create a country where investment can take
place and laws have meaning, the Americans are working to create a stable
democracy. To the Albanians, this is taking forever. To me I see how fast it
has moved. I can see a city that today is dirty and at the edge of collapse,
becoming a beautiful within a few years. There is an air of excitement that
crosses this land that I hope it does not die. Very hard to undo fifty years
of bad government in ten years.
Every night is a carnival.
Last night, as almost every night, I left the house to walk for several
hours. Skenderberg Plaza was ablaze with the carnival rides that are always
there. The pavement is cracked and dirty as the people and cars seem to
collide everywhere. I am surprised that no one is killed as the drivers seem
dedicated to running down people. People are like the freaks of a side show.
The government officials in their clean expensive new Mercedes. The
professor with his thinning gray hair on a bicycle seems lost. The fat lady
with her six bambinos. A group of Muslim women with their white veils
contrasting their black dresses. Over there is an angry young man looking
for something to do.
The boy without legs, sits on
filthy rags begging at the corner. A family looking for a good time with
their child smiling each time the ride takes her round and round on the
carnival. The money changers looking anxious with their calculators standing
ready to rush up and make change. Four of them just mobbed that tourist, but
he walked on uninterested. I think that may have been me a few minutes ago.
The gipsy woman holding her smiling child rushes up to one person, then
another, sometimes touching, sometimes grabbing at people for money.
I stopped at a stand to buy a
hamburger. I tried to stop her before she put on the three-day-old white
sauce on my hamburger. The white sauce is something like mayonnaise that
looks like it has been in the hot sun for several days. She swats a few
flies away and hands me my sandwich. I take a few bites. I am hungry, but
constantly I am reminded that my hamburger has this three day old egg sauce
that might kill me. After a few bites, enough! I might live if I stop. I put
the sandwich on the ground beside a trash can. As soon as I turn away a poor
dog, not much bigger than a rat has appeared to take it. As I walk on I
begin to feel sick. In the end I am more nervous about being sick that
actually being sick.
Over there the children are playing
in the mud. They are trying to bounce a ball, but in the mud, balls just do
not bounce well. The Lana River runs through the center of Tirana, just a
few blocks South of Skenderberg plaza. A beautiful little girl about five
with the mud streaking down her face is running and laughing with the other
children. They are laughing as they jump and splash in the water that is 6
to 12 inches deep. The smell of urine is offensive. Paper and garbage are
flowing down this "river". Sometime I watch people use the river
for a toilet. It is hard to miss them as there are so many. Young Muslim
women gathered beside the water do not seem to notice. The children that are
playing do not seem to notice the smell.
A loud screaming of a domestic
fight catches my attention. Several people stop and stare. Then the man next
to me just shrugs his shoulders and walks on.
A cheap Turkish costume, colorful
and falling apart. An expensive Italian suit, he is trying to look like the
macho man. A tight mini skirt on a prostitute looks cheap as it does in any
city. Normal life, normal dress. Orthodox and Muslim. We are all packed into
the square: a jubilee of life. I do not know if I am the jester or just
another American standing out like a clown in this circus.
This is the sideshow: that sleazy
part of the circus that draws me into what cannot be real. Everywhere
movement. Freewheeling, dealing, making money, hawking at someone else's
expense. Morality is only this moment. Freewheeling, nothing matters but the
excitement. In the end everyone will just slowly walk away into the reality
of an existence that never seems to change.
I want to strip off my cloths and
just walk into this crowd. I do not think anyone would notice or care. Why
should they? Then am I still in Boston? No I think I am in Tirana. Are they
really so different in the end? I really do not know. I am not part of
either place any more. Do I really understand anything here about this
place. Does it matter?
Italian directions are
guaranteed to get me lost.
Last night I was feeling restless and decided to take a walk about ten p.m.
What was to be a short walk became a long walk as I become seriously lost. I
could probably have walked for another three or four hours along the
"river" in the center of Tirana and from there I could have worked
my way back to the house. The problem was I did not know if I was going
toward the center or away from the center.
Finally about 1:00 a.m., I spied
five men standing under a street lamp at a bridge. I walked up to them with
my map in hand and asked, "Does anyone speak English?" They all
looked at me and shook their heads no. They all looked at each other and
then at me. I had learned that the average inhabitant of Tirana is more
likely to know where the American Embassy is, than Skenderberg Plaza in the
center. So with my trusty map and a smile I tried to look lost and asked,
"American Embassy?"
As soon as they understood I was
looking for the American Embassy, they gave me what I have learned to call
"Italian directions." As they stood facing different directions,
they pointed five different ways for me to go at the same time. The more
ancient the town the more likely all streets lead to the same place. But to
me this was totally confusing. I tried to have someone show me on the map
where I was and how to get to the American Embassy, only no one could read
the map.
This went on for ten minutes when
finally, one of the men looked to the buildings where, from a hole the wall
two men were coming out of a bar. He said, "Friend, get in car!"
We all began to move in that direction. Well, this American was nervous. Try
this in a bad section of New York. I could see all of us packing into the
car with me in the middle unable to move. In my mind I ran tomorrow's
headline as: "Body of American found on outskirts of Tirana." Do I
run or play this out? I must admit I was scared, but felt trapped that I
could not easily back down. What had I gotten myself into?
They were laughing and talking,
They began to describe my plight to what appeared to be the car's owner, a
man about 55 and heavy set. He looked like an average manager. Then what
should an average manager look like? The car was an old model Ford: gray
color, just average. We stood around the car for a couple of minutes and
they pointed me to the front seat. Everyone was smiling and trying very hard
to be overly friendly. It was a good sign that I was not getting into the
center of the back seat. I got in and sad down and waited a couple of
minutes. Then the driver said good by, got in and closed the door. No one
else got in.
As we drove off, he tried to talk
to me in very broken English. He asked if I spoke Italian. He explained his
daughter spoke English. He was apologizing to me for not speaking English.
Apologizing? I showed him the address I had written down and five minutes
later he dropped me off at the gate outside of where I was staying. Somehow
I think he knew Freddie. I thanked him and tried to give him some cash. He
smiled and would not take any.
As I got out, I felt a sigh of
relief. I realized that I had crossed over the line from being crazy to
being stupid. I had left the house carrying about $2,500, credit cards and a
passport. The average Albanian earns less than $1,000 a year. Then I came to
learn that had someone known that I was that stupid, I might have been in
danger, however generally I found that the Albanians I met would never hurt
me and once I got to know them there seem to be a rule: you do not steal or
cheat a friend. This principle does not always apply, but generally I felt
safer in Tirana than on the average street in Columbus, Ohio.
July 16, 1997: I gota get outa
here before I go crazy.
"Albanians are nothing but pieces of human trash. Worthless scum who
are worse than the gypsies. They steal everything they can get their hands
on. And their women are only good as prostitutes." The well dressed
Italian was telling me on the train.
This morning started about 5 A.M.
with packing my luggage to say goodbye to my hosts for a few weeks traveling
in Europe. There is some time left on my Eurorail pass and I do not want to
lose it. Then the reality is that I am simply burned out. Albania is a very
difficult place to be. Just surviving here is a daily battle and it takes so
much energy that I need to get some space. Never thought I would feel that
way. Finally I am challenging my own limits. Then I will be back in two
weeks to finish my three months I planed here.
Never again will I question why
Albanians or others are so desperate to escape and go to the states or to
Germany where the opportunities are better. No, it is life is better and has
a future. There is much that is wrong with the states, but at least people
have the opportunity to control their own destiny. Often it does not work
out that way, but there is the possibility for a better life. Here, the
opportunities just do not now exist. That is the change, that is most
needed. That is the help that is most needed.
I am writing this from the deck of
an Adratia Freighter that left Durass a few minutes ago. There are a few
Italians, a Dutch truck driver and a motley group of Albanians looking back
to the shore. We will be in Bari tomorrow morning.
Before getting on the boat, I
talked for a while with an Albanian professor of textiles with his 3 year
old daughter returning to teach in France. He looks like he has taken his
last dime to make this trip with his family. They are reminiscent of the
immigrants who arrived at Ellis Island a hundred years ago.
This morning coming to the harbor,
I was lost and has walked the wrong way. I asked a young man where to go. At
first he pointed the way, then he took my arm and directed me three or four
blocks not speaking English to a gate that was unmarked. He would take no
money. A moment later another gentleman came up. He took me to the textile
professor who spoke English who helped direct me through the gates and
customs. This made getting there and knowing what I should do much easier.
Everywhere here, people just want to help. Often I have tried to offer some
money for help, a small token, but seldom will anyone take any money for
helping a stranger. They sincerely want to help. The poorer people are the
more they are openly willing to help a stranger.
On the bus coming here this morning
there were five or six children from ages 10-15 gathered around me. Most
spoke good English. They all want to learn English. We talked about Albania
and their thoughts of American. Now, most Albanians seem to have some family
or friends in American. Their American families sending money back is one of
Albanians largest sources of foreign aid.
As I settle into this boat trip, I
am reflecting on these last months and how different I am personally from
the person who left. Being alone, forcing myself to reach out and to see, I
have begun to change. I can no longer return, I no longer want to return to
a world that I once lived. I have begun an adventure here that I must play
out for whatever end it brings.
