Beckam's BMW lost in Albanian jungle

“Gazeta! Usqim! Gazeta!” cried the newspaper and food (Usqim) vendor as he boarded the bus that Adam Rychlik (my YMCA Europe boss from Poland) and I were sitting on as we waited to leave the city of Berat. Adam and I had journeyed to the ‘city of a thousand windows’ (so called due its rows of terraced houses with windows facing the river) and were the only 2 passengers on board as we waited for the 10 am departure to Tirana. The vendor looked at Adam and I, seated on opposite sides of the aisle, and repeated his sales pitch. “No, thank you” I replied in Albanian. “Ah, you from where country?” was the next question. “Jam Anglez” I replied, letting him know I was English. This was a mistake. “No, no. Speak English when in Albania” came the Vendor’s instruction. “Albania is jungle. Very dangerous. Is jungle”. I asked why and told him that I liked Albania (again in his mother tongue). “No speak Albanian. You speak English! Albanian bad. Is jungle” This cycle of conversation was repeated for a few minutes until, after a few polite refusals, he realised we would not buying anything and promptly departed. For the record I will say again that I have always felt very safe in Albania, been treated kindly by people wherever I have been and in many cases not been charged for basic services I would have expected, and have been prepared, to pay for.

Adam had flown into Tirana but was departing from Podgorica, Montenegro. Geographically, the capital city of the former Yugoslav territory is closer than Tirana and we had decided to test the logistics of having YMCA guests coming to/from Shkoder arrive/depart in Montenegro. En route to the border we stopped at Restaurant Dardha (The Pear) for lunch.

While eating it came to our attention that David Beckam’s BMW X5 car is being driven in Albania. It is now Becks ex-Beamer. Apparently the car was stolen (allegedly) from England and driven through Europe until it reached the border with Albania (this is why there are so many ‘foreign’ cars in Albania). The story goes that at the border the Vehicle Identification Number was checked. The car was found to be stolen and confiscated by the police. Whether they knew the original owner or not is a matter for debate, though I am inclined to think so.

However, rather than being returned, the vehicle was given to the Minister of Integration as his business car. The media certainly did know who had originally owned the car and when challenged and asked if he intended to return the car to Mr. Posh Spice the minister replied “If Beckam asks for it I will return it, but so far there has been no request”. And who says politicians do not try to do the right thing? A further twist in the tail is that elections were recently held in Albania. The new Minister of Integration is female. This is quite possibly noteworthy in its own right. Her answer when asked if she intended to keep the same car for business? “Beckam is my favourite player. I will keep it”. So Becks, if you are reading and have not already cashed in the insurance policy and upgraded to a Ferrari or similar, give us a shout and we’ll track that car down. (Disclaimer: This information was obtained per chance, through casual lunchtime conversation, and cannot be verified for accuracy. As such it is hearsay. That said, no alcohol was consumed by any party during the meal!)

The trip to Podgorica and back provided other ‘challenges’. There is no direct link from Shkoder to the capital of Montenegro. You can take a taxi, but that seems unreasonably high – about €60. We were driven to the border by Fatmir, leader of YMCA Shkoder. We had intended to walk across the border and find a taxi on the other side to take us to Tuzi where we would then catch a bus to Podgorica – this was already sounding like a lot of work for a 35km/25 mile trip. However, at the border Fatmir saw someone he knew (not a surprise as he seems to know almost everyone) and negotiated our ride to Tuzi. The fee was waived as we were friends of Fatmir.

I was going to say our safe passage was negotiated in the above sentence. However, once into Montenegro the narrow road climbs, twists and turns along the shoreline of Lake Shkoder, throwing oncoming traffic, blind curves, and a surface full of cracks, potholes and undulations at you. (This is the same road that I will cycle on my ride north and the potential hazards were well noted). At one point while driving far too fast for the conditions and on the wrong side of the road, the driver locked the wheels up in order to avoid a head on collision with an oncoming 18-wheeler/articulated lorry. We skidded to the side of the road and the truck blew by us. Obviously we made it, but if I’d had some rosary beads I would have been clutching them tightly.

Podgorica is a small, somewhat overpriced city. The main attractions are the central park with an old Orthodox church, and monument to fallen partisans during WWII, mount Gorica, and the downtown pedestrian area. One night was certainly sufficient to see what the city had to offer.

Adam departed and my journey back was more interesting than my arrival. My instructions before leaving Albania were simple: reverse what you did to get there – bus to Tuzi, taxi to border (€5), walk through the border and you will see a minibus (which I had seen as we approached the border the day before). The plan started unravelling quickly. Firstly, my Serbian does not extend much past ‘hello’, ‘thank you’, and ‘good day/night’. The lady at the bus station did not speak English but understood I needed to go to Tuzi. “No” she said and pointed around the corner - “information”. I am not sure where she was pointing but my search yielded now information office. The few people I spoke to, including at the hotel, had no idea of where the bus to Tuzi left from. Plan B was needed and a taxi was summoned. Price - €25. The taxi driver had an even heavier foot than the driver when we entered the country, and soon the G-forces were pulling me to and fro, back and forth (no seat belt) as we whipped around curves, accelerating and decelerating. He offered to take me all the way to Shkoder, but for €60 this was too expensive.

Crossing the border was simple and I paid the obligatory €10 tax as at that time I had not secured my resident permit. Though, on a brief side note, I am happy to report that I am now the proud owner of said permit and can come and go as I please with no fee.

Finding the minibus proved more of a challenge though. I walked the 500m past the border crossing to where the bus had been the day before. Nothing. I had checked at the border crossing and other than large trucks parked at the café there were no waiting vehicles. I walked some more. It was a hot day: crystal clear blue sky, sun beating down at 3 in the afternoon. I was dressed in a long sleeve shirt (sleeves rolled up) jeans and quite possibly the worst pair of shoes I own for walking a long distance in. No sign of a minibus. I kept walking. I had one small bottle of water and no food. It was hot. It was 15 miles to Shkoder. I was now getting a taste of what many Albanians have to endure on a daily basis. Hitchhiking in Albania was now my one realistic way out of this situation. The first few cars flew by and I made no effort to stop them as I could see all the seats were full. Then for several minutes nothing passed me and I began to ponder the wisdom of my lack of effort.

However, as I approached a petrol/gas station there was a Mercedes (what else?) pulled over with three generations of one family sitting inside. Windows were open as they talked to members of another family standing alongside. I walked past to assess the situation and then turned back and asked the driver through the window if he was going to Shkoder. “No, Bajze” was his reply. I had no idea where Bajze was but he told me it was between where I was standing and Shkoder. While I was stumbling through our conversation the Grandmother gave me the command “hajde” (apologies to Albanians for spelling) - which means ‘let’s go’ – and I jumped in, unsure of where I was actually going. The young child in the back stared at me most of the time, and did not respond to my inquiries of ‘how are you?’ and ‘what is your name?’ The grandmother told me, in English, she had lived in England for 3 years – in Essex (my home county) – but could say no more than that. Conversation was stunted due to lack of language, and the sound of air rushing through four open windows at 90+ km/hr.

Bajze is about 1/3 of the way to Shkoder and we were soon there. From there I caught a bus, along with the grandmother (who got off in Koplik) to Shkoder. During the ride there was much conversation from the other members of the bus about me – “Where is the Englishman going?”, “Shkoder? What does he do there?” is what I believed the discussion to be. I understood some of the talk and listened for a few moments wondering if someone would speak to me directly or just talk about me. There was nothing harmful in their conversation, but it was an interesting situation. When there was a pause in conversation I told them I was going to Shkoder and that I lived and worked there. Compliments, very generously, were given as to the proficiency of my Albanian. Though it was then quickly established that I do not possess the ability to have a conversation as I greeted their words with ‘I am sorry, I do not understand’.

With our adventures to/from Podgorica completed, we decided that although farther away, it is still much more convenient, friendly and cheaper to fly in/out of Tirana. This is combination of lack of reliable transport links between Shkoder and Podgorica, overbearing and impolite airport staff and the high exit fee to leave Montenegro.

The bike ride is approaching fast: in two weeks I will be calling Sarajevo, Bosnia home for two nights. My excitement level is beginning to rise despite the thousand-and-one things I still feel I need to do. However, now that mid-May is here a sense of immanency has arrived with it. Many hours have been put in the saddle over the last few weeks and I have successfully managed a 4 hour test ride with the trailer. Over the last few days I hosted Simon Herzog, a YMCA employee from Switzerland. He is cycling around Kosovo, Macedonia, and Albania visiting YMCAs and seeing first hand the work they are doing. His intent is to take these stories back to Switzerland to support the fundraising event for Balkan YMCAs that his YMCA will run in September. Having arrived by ferry from Italy on Tuesday, he left this morning en route to Pukë and Kukës and will cross into Kosovo tomorrow, finally arriving in Prizren. This is quite possibly the toughest route he could have started with. Steep climbs and descents, ‘iffy’ roads, a significant gain in altitude, and unstable climate caused by the mountains. Still, as the Swiss say: there is no such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate clothing!

Besides having the opportunity to talk to a fellow Y employee/bicycle fundraise, Simon’s visit has buoyed me: he brought me two things I needed but could not get in Albania – camping gas for my stove and a new rear cassette (set of cogs for the gears on the back wheel for the non-cyclists among you). The first of these items is ready to use. However, the slight issue with the cassette is that none of the ‘biçiklist’ repair stands here have the correct tool to replace it :-(. So, this will make up part of my luggage, along with new chain, until I get to Sarajevo or Budapest and can get this repair made.

This weekend will see me cross into Montenegro ‘fully loaded’ to test the setup one more time and spend the night in the tent somewhere. Then it will be back to Shkoder on Sunday before catching the bus to Tirana that afternoon ahead of my 5 am Monday morning flight to Kiev, Ukraine for the YMCA Europe General Assembly from May 14-20. Four days back here and then it is ‘Finland here I come’. The full ride schedule is available by clicking the link to the right.

Near my apartment is a music ‘store’. As a way of advertising his presence, the store owner has loudspeakers set up outside and blasts those within earshot with an eclectic musical repertoire – from Arabic, to Albanian, to classic 80’s like the Bangles and Bonnie Tyler, to the occasional jazz or classical piece. Currently the Albanian version of The Police’s ‘Every Breath You Take’ is playing. The local version is sung by a female and includes Albanian rap. The melody is the only thing I recognize. Albania is indeed a country of energy, enterprise and contrasts.

Come visit sometime.