A local described the color of the bus as “sour milk.” What the hell does that even mean? I asked myself.
I waited with a couple of fellow Americans I’d met earlier that day during breakfast in Durres, Albania, a beautiful city bordering the Adriatic Sea. I’d spent three days there and was now venturing to the south of this mysterious country to a town called Vuno.
Albania is filled with beautiful scenery and kind-hearted people. They are shocked to see people traveling in their country due to its lack of development, yet it does not in any way diminish their pride; the flag waves everywhere you turn. They rejoice in their language, an Indo-European anomaly in the Balkan region, yet they are quick to practice their English on you and help if you are lost or need recommendations.
While the friendliness of Albanians is memorable in a positive light, the timetable of the public transport is not; I can’t recall how late the bus ended up arriving, perhaps two hours or so. We watched as a faded white double-decker bus hurled around the corner toward us and stopped suddenly under the leaky bridge where we were waiting. “Well, I guess the color does kind of resemble ‘sour milk,’” one of my friends said.
We climbed into the bus, paid the conductor, said goodbye to the locals that waited with us, and departed for the South. My destination was Vuno and my new friends were heading to Himarë. The two towns are about fifteen kilometers from each other, so we made plans to meet up at some point in the few days we’d be in the same region. After several hours passing through the narrow, cracked mountain roads, as well as a lightning storm that forced us to pull over on the side of a cliff for an hour or so, we arrived in Vuno. The trip had become almost a full-day experience. Again, the bus service was memorable… I bade goodbye to them and climbed off the bus.
I gazed at the small town tucked high up in the cliffs of the Adriatic, a place of unbelievable scenic beauty. The town had one market on the main street consisting of packaged pasta, eggplants, potatoes, fresh tomatoes, cold beverages, Rakia (the local spirit), and beer. Pipes leaked onto the roads. Abandoned churches concealed themselves behind dense walls of overgrown weeds and thickets off of the main street. There were no banks, no restaurants, no post office… I loved it.
I followed a dirt path down to the local campsite, pitched my tent, and checked in. At this point the sun had set. I made some pasta I’d bought at the local shop and cooked a red sauce in the small little kitchen with fresh basil and garlic I’d found on the campsite. I fell asleep shortly after eating, exhausted, of course, from a long day of just sitting around waiting for a bus. Oh, the woes of a backpacker!
I woke early the next day and decided to hitchhike to Himarë as to find an ATM. After a short wait, a black BMW with tinted windows approached me from behind. I heard that Damian Marely jam rock bass line thumping along as the ride inched closer to me. I stopped walking and lowered my thumb once it finally reached me. The window rolled down, revealing two men who looked like bodybuilders. Their heads were shaved and they wore aviators. I couldn’t blame them; the late July sun has the capacity to kick your ass around here, even at 9 in the morning.
They beckoned me into the back seat. I got in as they turned up the music without a moment of hesitation. They handed me a joint rolled with perfection; I know a fine work of art when I see one. I took a few hits while they welcomed me to Albania with their limited English, though they were very happy at the opportunity to practice it. The car pulled into the center of Himarë a few minutes later. I thanked them for the lift. They gave me another joint, a bottle of water, and requested a selfie with me. “Enjoy Albania,” one of them said before driving away.
I got out of the car and sauntered my way into the local market, my stomach grumbling. I bought some pastries and juice and stepped back outside to the early morning heat. I sat down on a bench and gaped at the bright blue sea, watching locals and tourists pass me by as I scoffed down my breakfast. After a few minutes, or maybe an hour, I remembered I had to go to the cash machine.
I withdrew a little money and decided to wear off the effects of the weed by walking along the boardwalk. I realized I was a little too stoned for nine in the morning. I sat down in a café and ordered more food, my stomach still grumbling. I texted the friends I had made on the bus the day before. They joined me and we talked for a short time about traveling, sipping a cup of coffee in the early morning summer heat.
After paying the bill, we set off for a local beach. We arriver after about 30 minutes. I can’t stress with any hyperbole how beautiful the beaches are in southern Albania. The water is azure, crystalline, and clean. Though tourists certainly crowd them, many of them are still relatively unspoiled, although I’m certain that will change within the next couple of years. The country is beginning to open up and become a tourist destination as people have slowly started to discover what Albania has to offer. Not to mention it’s a cheap destination. I’m probably not helping the situation by writing this.
We made an Argentine friend on our trip to the first beach. He had joined us at a bar and told us he was looking for Gjipe beach. I was also curious about Gjipe, so the four of us agreed to hitchhike there.
A pick-up truck stopped for two of us along the highway heading back in the direction of Vuno, the town I was staying for the next two nights. The driver was on his phone, eating, and smoking a cigarette all the while weaving through the winding two-lane traffic road at breakneck speed. I could honestly say this was the one scary moment I had in all of Albania. After a few minutes, he got us back to Vuno. On the way out, he handed us a small wooden box filled with fresh nectarines with a smile. I gave them out at the campsite when we arrived there. What were we going to do with that many nectarines for ourselves?
We hitched one last ride that took us to Gjipe beach. Tucked away between two mountains and at the end of a large, dangerous gorge, it is simply too beautiful to describe. I can only say how happy I am to have seen it. The water is the clearest I’ve ever seen. There are caves off the coast you can explore as well as a gorge between the two cliffs that surround you. It’s ideal for camping; I wish I had brought my tent there instead. I spent the rest of the afternoon swimming, cliff jumping, chatting, and drinking beer. You can hike into the gorge if you want, but there are a lot of snakes. I decided the sand and sun was more to my liking.
As the sun started to set and people began to go back home, I stumbled back up the cliff with my group to the parking lot to hitch one last ride back to camp. A hippy lady picked us up in her large white Volkswagen. She was also staying on the same campground as me and offered to drive my friends back to Himarë after dropping me off on the main street in Vuno. They thanked her profusely for her generosity. “Chill out, dudes,” she said. “I’m always happy to help some people out.”
She dropped me off and headed towards Himarë. I found myself back on the main street of Vuno again. I stopped into the local market and picked up some drinks before returning to the campsite. Sitting at the table was a group of girls from Switzerland with a couple of guitars. They asked me if I played at all.
For the remaining hours of that humid summer night, we drank Rakia (grape-infused brandy, typical of the Balkans. It tastes different from region to region; in Montenegro it was fruity and smooth. Here it tasted like what I imagine gasoline to taste like) and improvised a jam session. I felt my inner hippy spirit dancing among the music and alcohol. At some point, in my drunken stupor, I asked the local campsite owner what he thought for the future of Albania. “Give it another year or two,” he said. “The roads are coming. People are coming. I’m sad to lose Gjipe beach to tourists, but I’m happy to see more people here.”
Bird On the Wire 