Impressions of Illyria: Our Journey from Skopje to Tirana
Impressions of Illyria: Our Journey from Skopje to Tirana
“‘Politics is supposed to make life better,’ he said. ‘In the Balkans, it makes life worse. It’s a tradition. Otherwise, we’re rich,’ he said. ‘Look at this water!’” – from To the Lake: A Balkan Journey of War and Peace by Kapka Kassabova
If you intend to vagabond around Europe, there’s possibly no better way to do it than by making friends with a professional driver who knows the terrain and also happens to be a border control agent. Our friend Julian is just such a person. He’s an incredibly laid-back middle-aged Albanian father who has driven us between multiple countries. Julian is also an extremely intelligent man with an in-depth knowledge of the history of his own people as well as world history and politics. Having a disdain for flying, he has traveled extensively all over Europe by car. This makes him the perfect tour guide, and on our long journeys with him we have enjoyed many discussions ranging from the politics of the world to the origins of languages (he’s a complete polyglot) to the intricacies of the Balkan quagmire.
Hence, we are very pleased to see Julian again when he arrives at our Skopje apartment to drive us back to Tirana. He is running late because he’s been held up due to some internal office politics at his job with Albanian Border Control. When he’s not driving people around from country to country, he works as a liaison with the EU on border issues to help facilitate Albania’s efforts to join the European Union. But it didn’t matter that we were getting a late start, as Julian had graciously met with the owner of our apartment in Tirana the day before and obtained the keys to our new place. After we stuff our multiple cumbersome suitcases into the trunk and our overstuffed bags of groceries onto his front seat, we settle into the back seat of his spacious, air-conditioned Mercedes (it’s 92°F) and off we go!
The sky is overcast-gray, perhaps a light shower later . . . until we reach the highway and the thudding begins . . . who could have predicted the cacophonous torrent of hailstones assaulting us from above? Julian is forced to pull over and wait . . . as the staccato pounding on rooftop and windshield is so loud it drowns out our speech completely . . . a miracle the glass didn’t shatter!
Moving onward, along the two-lane winding road through the mountains of North Macedonia, in no time at all we’re surrounded by foliage, engulfed and enveloped by a dense, sap green forest with a mystical, misty fog looming beneath the peaks of Mount Korab . . . sun shining, blue sky, a sylvan vision in complete contrast to the hailstorm from only a few minutes prior, a few miles back. We discuss history, politics, cultural differences . . . as we ascend the twisting mountain road, a lush valley below, a few homes scattered along a hillside otherwise covered with nothing but a sea of tangled trees.
At the summit is a rest stop - restaurants, hotels, a gas station . . . flaky cheese pastries topped with sesame seeds are consumed before we descend to the ancient lake. Lake Ohrid. The oldest lake in Europe, millions of years old. Twin to Lake Prespa, the two lakes are connected via underground channels, two lakes linked to both the Aegean and the Adriatic . . . two lakes divided by borders, three countries each staking a claim to this natural wonder. Two lakes with a rich history of intermingled peoples and cultures and empires . . . Illyrian and Macedonian and Greek, Roman and Byzantine and Ottoman, Serbian and Bulgarian and Albanian and Yugoslav . . . and the people surrounding these lakes, with their differences of language and nationality and creed, all sharing a love for the intrinsic beauty of this place.
We cross both borders without any delays (thank you, Julian!) and enter Albania on our way to Tirana. As Julian enlightens us about the tribal origins of Albanian city-states and the burial tombs of Illyrian kings in the hillsides along our path, we are suddenly seduced by the roadside visions of this picturesque countryside and we fall into a kind of reverie. It feels as if we’ve been instantly transported into a kind of pastoral, pre-industrial scene from the 19th century, mixed with the fallout of years of oppression, poverty and war.
Snapshots of images. Glimpses of another century:
Laundry-lined yards of dilapidated houses . . . scrawny baby goats being led along craggy hillsides by wizened-faced shepherds in rags . . . a cottage with a flock of chickens pecking in the front yard . . . an old woman in an apron and kerchief, silently leading a donkey . . . a horse perched precariously on the side of the road, just above a steep ravine, munching on grass without a care in the world . . . packs of stray dogs crossing the road in mortal peril . . . white-haired, black-shawled peasant women squatting in front of baskets of sumptuous hand-picked garden produce for sale . . . a grizzled man in overalls, carrying a long rod on his shoulders, from which two buckets are suspended . . . rows and rows of brick buildings in ruin . . . an elderly man sitting on the roof of his house in a tank top with his fluffy little dog beside him . . . fields and fields of family-farmed corn, apple trees, olive trees and grape vines . . . groups of old men escaping the brutal heat, drinking beer and playing dominoes under the umbrella of a tiny village café . . . did we cross the border or have we actually traveled backwards in time? Only the occasional hotel/casino/resort, festooned with gaudy billboards, shocks us back into the present.
As we near Tirana, the roadside market-stands multiply . . . vendors of all ages offering fresh cherries, apples, cabbages, tomatoes, walnuts . . . jars of honey, pickles and preserves . . . loaves of golden bread, rustic pastries wrapped in brown paper sheathes, even little bottles of artisanal raki . . . home-grown and homemade treasures from garden and pantry and orchard . . . we want to stop at every stand, but it’s growing late and traffic is becoming more congested . . . we need to move on.
And then we enter the city . . . familiarity beckons . . . the packed streets, the numerous shops selling cell phones or street food . . . there’s the big mosque, Skanderbeg Square, our favorite bookstore, that gourmet sushi place we wrote about, a new Thai restaurant we’ll have to check out . . . and here we are. A gorgeous modern apartment with all the amenities we’ve been missing . . . time for a hot shower, an inventory of kitchen supplies, and an exploratory foray in search of bottled water and something portable for dinner. A bottle of wine and two episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race await . . .