Shifting Gears:
Cycling from Portugal to Jordan
The End
December 29th, 2009
When I got back to
Then one day, as I showered in a clean, warm bathroom, I felt a pang of nostalgia for the more difficult life I had left behind.
People kept asking me how the trip was, and I usually answered with some unsatisfactory variety of “really interesting!” because I just couldn’t sum it all up.
When we got bored, Richard and I used to play a game in which we named our favorites of the trip so far. Best landscape? Most interesting person we’ve met? Tastiest dish? But by the end, the game was impossible because we’d simply seen and experienced so much. I’m sure much of it we will forget.
But I realized that day in the shower what would stay with us: the sense of accomplishment. Somehow, in that moment, I missed having to gingerly hang my clothes inside the campsite shower hoping they wouldn’t get wet before venturing back into the cold, only half-dry. I missed having to haul my 30+ kg bicycle up flights of stairs. I missed having to wash socks in the sink, dry clothes on the heater, cook dinner in gloves and a hat in a single little pot. In short, I missed the sense of accomplishment you earn when you have to work hard for every day.
As I packed away my panniers for
Thank you all for reading, and Richard, thank you for everything you put into this. It will stay with me always.
For those of contemplating doing something similar, don't hesitate. Just do it (and get Richard to plan it for you). It will force you to grow as a person. We never know how far we can go until we are tested.
Gracias y arrivederci!
The Homestretch: Kineta to Athens
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 60.1 km
Total trip distance: 3183 km
Max speed: 61.99 km/ hour
Average speed: 16.4 km / hour
Total time biking: 3:40
Total days biking: 56
Spending: 103.70 euros
We woke up on the beach to a beautiful sunrise. It made me wish we had rough camped more often.
Another nice, easy day of riding, though with a few more
hills than in the past two days. Upon Marcella’s advice, we decided to take a
short ferry to
Marcella had nicknamed Richard the stunt man yesterday, when, in slow motion, he fell off his bike while nearly standing still. And today, when she saw how quickly he pedaled up mountains and the urgency with which he did just about everything, the name stuck.
When we got to the ferry docking area, Richard was, as usual, one step ahead of the rest of us. We were still trying to figure out where to go, when he pointed to a booth and zoomed past us to buy the tickets.
“You’re always in a rush, aren’t you Stuntman?” Marcella joked.
The ride across the island was quiet and tranquil. About halfway, Richard and I found a small auto shop and asked for a bathroom.
“For you, yes,” the man said to Richard. “But for lady, it’s not good.”
“Oh, it’s ok,” I said.
“It’s not clean,” the man protested.
When I finally convinced him to let me use it, he led me to me a small squat toilet which was far better than many toilets I’ve used. In fact, Richard recently started calling me a punk for my ability to pull my pants down just about anywhere to pee. Maybe after five months on the road, my frame of reference is a bit out of whack?
At the other end of the island, we took another ferry to
Perama, back on the mainland. Then we cycled into Pireas, where Marcella and
Bernardo were going to catch a ferry for the
After an extended period of “whatever you want”, the four of us where finally able to make a decision on where to have lunch. Over gyros, we exchanged contact information and pictures.
“If you ever change your mind and decide to keep riding,” they told us, “you should meet us out east and we can continue together.”
I knew they weren’t just saying so. We’d only spent a day and a half together, but saying goodbye was sad – not only because we had so enjoyed our time with them, but because we were also saying goodbye to our trip, while they were just beginning their adventure.
M & B, best of luck with your trip. May your passion lead you to beautiful places and experiences. And who knows, maybe we’ll see you along the way!
The ride from Pireas to
Tomorrow, I get to work taking apart and packing my bike.
Richard is now leaning towards sticking around
And Isn’t it Ironic? Xilokastro to Kineta
Monday, December 21, 2009 - First
day of winter
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 60.06 km
Total trip distance: 3123 km
Max speed: 57.97 km/ hour
Average speed: 19.42 km / hour
Total time biking: 3:05.31
Total days biking: 55
Spending: 25 euros
I decided over the last few
weeks that
We figured this morning that
we were about a day and a half’s ride out of
“Where are you going?” they
asked.
“
“Us too!”
Marcella and Bernardo are
two 30-year-old Italians doing their third tour together, from
Cycling in a group of four
is a different experience altogether. You feel stronger, more invincible. As
Richard says, you become a more formidable opponent to the cars when you’re in
a big group. I felt like part of a team – “an excellent and crazy team”, as
March and Berna put it – riding in a straight line, one behind the other,
taking turns leading. I even began using the signals for glass, bumps or parked
cars on the road, and we passed them on from one to the other until they got to
the end of the line.
Our new cycling partners,
combined with good weather and the extra hour of daylight (we pushed our
watches forward an hour when we got to
While we had just started our day, Marcella and Bernardo had already cycled 30km when we met, so we had an easy day before stopping at a public park right on the water where we
pitched our tents for free and made dinner together. We shared stories of
cycling in
The northern coast of the ΠΕΛΟΠΟΝ ΝΗΣΟΣ (Peloponnese): Patra to Xilokastro
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 103 km
Total trip distance: 3063 km
Max speed: 52.17 km/ hour
Average speed: 20.53 km / hour
Total time biking: 5:01
Total days biking: 54
Spending: 114 euros
Now this Greek alphabet is something else. And we thought the Albanian language was tough! But at least we could read the letters for God’s sake. Imagine riding past a street sign with just a few seconds to check if you’re heading in the right direction, and having to try to decipher alpha, betas, and pis. Letters that mean one thing in our language (for example, P makes a ‘p’ sound) mean something totally different in the Greek alphabet (where P makes an ‘r’ sound). I have put Richard in charge of figuring it all out.
We woke up in Pension Nicos to warmer weather than we’ve been used to. We thought we might finally get a rain-free day, which of course, turned out to be wrong. But when the rain did come, we didn’t mind it so much because it came without the wind and the cold. We were, however, slightly worried about our lack of brake pads. We had looked for a bike store Saturday night when we got to Patra, but found everything closed. So we’d have to make it through Sunday with very little braking power until we could find a shop to buy new ones.
For breakfast, we had the famous spanakopita, a spinach pie, and tyropita, its cheese equivalent, in American-style coffee shop that served us styrofoam cups, along with workers coming in for a quick bite on the go.
Back on the road, we passed a dozen old men seeking shelter under an awning. We waved, and they all began speaking Greek excitedly in a chaotic chorus of voices.
The coastal road from Patra is great – mostly flat, little traffic (there’s a parallel highway most of the way), nice views. It made the rain a lot more bearable. But around mid-morning, it started pouring so hard, garbage started floating down the street. Cars driving through puddles made waves the height of trees. At one point the car in front of me splashed water so high it hit the oncoming car’s windshield and bounced off, like a waterworks show. When we drove through that street-wide puddle ourselves, our wheels shot dirty water at our feet like hoses.
Miraculously, we found an open bike shop on our way where we bought 4 of the 8 brake pads we needed. But after stopping to put the new pads on the bikes, we got cold and the next hour was less than pleasant. We stopped for soggy, dilapidated sandwiches under a tiny cubicle-like bus stop shelter and kept going.
Then, we finally got some good luck. A strong tail wind pushed us through small villages on a villa-lined road along the water that might as well have been a large promenade. It was a beautiful ride on a beautiful road and helped us forget that we were wet, yet again.
Saganaki (fried cheese) at dinner at the small restaurant next door to the hotel (and look at that long hair!):
At Wit’s End: Saranda to Patra, Greece
Fri-Sat, December 18-19, 2009
Today’s (Sat) stats:
Distance traveled today: 14.9 km
Total trip distance: 2960 km
Total days biking: 53
To avoid cross mountains to get into Greece from Albania, we had planned on taking a ferry from Saranda, Albania to Greece’s Corfu Island, and another from Corfu to Patra, the northwestern-most edge of the Peloponnese peninsula. From there we would cycle the coastal road to Athens. But in Saranda, the locals said the bus was faster and cheaper, so we spent the day strolling along Saranda's pretty beach-side promenade and planned on taking the 7am bus Saturday morning.
We’re both tired and instead of doing much site-seeing, Richard watched movies, while I caught up on my writing. We took all our wet, dirty, stinky clothes to the only drycleaner we could find. We tried to explain that we just wanted a regular wash and dry and that we needed the clothes ready the same day. She told us to come back to pick them up at 7pm, or so we understood.
When we got there that night, her husband had just put them in the wash. He spoke better English, but not by much. “No, she said to come tomorrow at 7pm to pick them up!”
You get to a point in any trip when you’re tired of trying to figure things out, trying to explain things in a different language, trying to deal with the inefficiencies of a culture unlike your own. Richard had reached this point.
“Fuck this country!” he screamed as he turned and walked out of the laundry mat.
We explained to the man that we absolutely needed the clothes back tonight. Did he have a machine to dry them? “Yes, but not exactly dry.” Not exactly? What did that mean?
“Our clothes are destroyed!” Richard screamed. Packing them up wet would get them all moldy. It was for exactly that reason that we had taken them to be washed and dried properly.
“You just give us back our clothes. And we no pay!” Richard added.
I suggested Richard stay outside for a breather, while the man called his daughter, who spoke better English, to try to mediate. He passed me the phone.
“My father says he can have the clothes ready at 6:30am tomorrow before your bus,” she said. “Yes, but will they be dry?” I asked. I had to pass the phone back to her father. He spoke to her and passed it back to me.
“My father says they will be dry, but not 100%.”
Turns out they had a spinner, which drained the water from the clothes but didn’t blow any hot air on them. So we packed up 2 big plastic bags of damp clothes and trucked them back to the hotel for the usual rotation over the heater. (Richard had calmed down by the time we left, and we paid the man for the washing, despite his incessant refusal to accept money out of embarrassment about the whole situation).
The next morning, Richard burst again. We had checked with the bus agency the night before about taking the bicycles on the bus. The man had said it was no problem. Just show up at 6:45am, buy your tickets, and leave on the 7am bus. We were there around 6:35. Richard went to buy the tickets while I went to find some breakfast. All of a sudden I found him storming down the street. “Heba, come on. We’re going to a different agency.”
“What? What happened?” I asked.
“He says maybe we can take the bikes. But maybe not.”
So many people had showed up with luggage that the man was worried the bikes wouldn’t find.
“We specifically asked you yesterday if the bikes were a problem,” Richard told the man angrily, even though he knew the man didn’t speak English and couldn’t understand a word Richard was saying. “This is shit!” he screamed as he walked away.
Poor Richard, I thought. He had reached the end of his rope.
Not to worry, the other agency accepted us, and at 7am, we rolled out of Saranda towards Greece. We spent more than one hour and 15 minutes crossing the customs control at the border, and at times the bus went so slow, we probably would have cycled faster. But it was raining yet again, and we were happy to be on a warm bus with Albanian folk music playing in the background. Other people on the bus called us simply “the tourists” or “the Americans”.
After ferrying across the Gulf of Patra (instead of taking the perfectly functioning bridge), the bus dropped us off on the side of an abandoned road in the middle of nowhere.
“Patra is that way,” the driver pointed to us.
We cycled 15km into town in search of a bike shop to replace our worn-out brake pads, but Saturday night at 5pm is quiet time in Greece and everything shuts down. Instead, we settled into Pension Nicos and touched base with Rob, the American cyclist who was also in town. He invited us over for dinner at the home of Myrto, a Couch Surfer who was hosting him for free. Finally we would meet!
24-year-old Rob made us pasta with putanesca sauce while we shared cycling stories and discussed possible routes together down the line. Rob’s been on the road for 4 months, cycling some 5,000km through 14 countries. He’s trying to decide now whether to go to the Middle East or Southeast Asia.
The night rolled by and we found ourselves on a park bench in Dimokratias square like three hobos, beer bottles rattling at our feet, watching teenagers scream and laugh, drunkards stumble by, life go on. The night was wrapping up, and I said goodbye to Rob, knowing I wouldn’t see him again as I would soon be returning to Canada. That’s when he began his monologue. 
“You should be proud of what you’ve done. Nobody is seeing what you’ve seen. Walking is too slow. Trains and cars are too fast. Bicycles are the perfect speed. Bicycles are …”
He placed his hand over his heart in such emotion, he was at a loss for words.
“I just want you to know that what you’ve done is important.”
His words came at the perfect time. I hadn’t stopped to think about the magnitude of it all. Every rotation of the wheel seems so small on its own. Just carrying on daily with the struggles of baggage, hills, rain, each other… you forget how monumental it is. But for God’s sake, we’ve cycled 3,000 km across 10 countries. We’ve climbed mountains, and gotten caught in rainstorms. We’ve learned foreign languages and tasted all sorts of foods. We've gotten intimate looks at complicated histories. We’ve met generous, hospitable people and others who are simply crazy. More than anything, I think we’ve learned so much about ourselves and our own relationship. Being together 24 hours a day was a real struggle for Richard and I, but I think we came away from it having learned to be more patient and to understand the gives and takes that make a relationship work.
I don’t mean to ramble on. But tonight was a special night in which we stopped to take the time to appreciate what we’ve done so far. And we have to thank Rob for that! Good luck wherever you end up Rob!
Tomorrow, we start the ride to Athens.
Slippery Shiqperië: Himare to Saranda
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 31 km
Total trip distance: 2945 km
Max speed: 48.05 km/ hour
Average speed: 12.66 km / hour
Total days biking: 52
Spending: 5500 leke ($55)
I was so discouraged from constantly getting wet, drying our clothes, and getting wet again, that I didn’t take part in Richard’s nightly drying extravaganza, where he spends the entire evening rotating clothes around the heater. So I put wet clothes on this morning, tired and depressed.
There was no water this morning either. We’ve learned to take showers as soon as hot water is available, because you never know how long it will last. If you’re going to travel in Albania, be prepared to go without hot water, electricity, heat or functioning toilets at times.
We knew we had to make it to Saranda today, to catch a ferry tomorrow for Corfu Island, in Greece. But getting back on the mountainous road in rain deflated our spirits. We’ve been cycling in rain for days on end, and we’ve just had enough. It was miserable weather and we wanted more than anything for a truck to pick us up.
The red clay of the soil was inhabited by aloe plants and Albanian pines. The endless mountains of forest were interrupted very infrequently by small strips of beach. Even the beaches had bunkers. 
Halfway to Saranda, we got to the town of Lukovë, and thought we’d hop onto a bus for the last 25km. It was 12:45pm and the friendly lady at the kiosk told me there was a bus to Saranda at 1:30pm.
“Come, come,” her husband said. “Wait here.” He ushered us into the shelter next to the kiosk, with a wooden roof and plastic sheeting around the sides. Plastic chairs and tables were set up inside. Before I could sit down, his wife pointed to the door into the tiny cubicle-like kiosk, where she had a small heater for her and her baby, Alexia. She insisted I sit down next to the heater to warm up, while she made us some coffee.
When 1:40pm rolled around, her husband Oresti explained that the bus might be late. We had some raki on the house and tried to communicate in the little Italian we all knew. When 2:20pm rolled around, we started wondering if the bus would ever come. “If the bus doesn’t come,” I joked to Oresti, “we sleep here, in this kiosk.”
“If no bus, you sleep in my home. No hotel. My home. No money.”
We chatted, we laughed, time passed. Oresti brought the heater out of the kiosk and rested it upon a stack of bags of chips to heat the inside of the tarp.
Some of Oresti’s friends passed by.
“The bus maybe have problem in Logara if snow,” one of them said.
“But it’s definitely coming?” Richard asked.
“Maybe it comes,” was the answer.
At 3pm, we started considering our options. It was too late to start cycling and make it before dark, and cycling these winding, mountainous roads given the consumption of raki by Albanian drivers was not an option. We tried flagging some cars driving by, but none were headed to Saranda. Oresti said if worse came to worst, he would somehow fit the bikes into the truck of his Mercedes-Benz and take us himself. We waited a little longer.
At 3:30pm, Oresti found us a ride! The owners of the big suburban parked across the street would be going into town at 5pm and we could hitch a ride. We had waited so long already, we could wait another hour and a half.
I pulled out our sandwich material, and Oresti offered up his toaster for some grilling. We had just finished eating when the owner of the Suburban came in to say hello. Wearing high-heeled red boots, an umbrella and a thin gold certette over her highlighted brown hair, Katarina was a dainty, sophisticated woman who spoke perfect English. “Do you want to eat something?” she asked. “You can come into my house for some lunch before we go.”
We thanked her but turned down the offer. “I’m here visiting my father,” she explained. “I live in Greece. It’s so nice to see tourists in our village these days,” she said, genuinely happy.
“In winter, you mean?” I asked.
“Winter and summer. It’s nice here, but it’s wild. We’ll talk more in the car,” she said excitedly, before turning to leave.
Then things started getting interesting. A few old men came into the shelter for some coffee. When Oresti told them about our bicycle trip, the oldest one, whom everyone called “Mafioso”, started shaking his head, and indicating with his hand that we were crazy.
“It was his idea,” I said pointing to Richard. This was translated more or less into Albanian.
“E Chimundo,” he said. “He’s crazy!”
“A screw is loose in his head,” he insisted. “Others are going to the disco and you’re cycling. E Chimundo!”
It was like a game of charades, with most communication through hand signals. But it was enough to keep the place full of laughter.
“Leave him!” the 78-year-old repeated over and over. “Leave him in Africa!” 
And so it was that we spent the entire afternoon in a plastic garage with cold feet, sharing jokes in a language we couldn’t understand, but laughing nonetheless. But as it turns out the old man was an opportunistic bastard who told us he’d have someone drive us in his truck for $15, ridiculously expensive for a half-hour drive—the bus would have been two dollars per person. But impatient to get to Saranda, and unsuccessful at negotiating a cheaper price, we accepted the offer.
We loaded the bikes into the back of the Nissan 4x4 and Oresti took the wheel. With no lights on the dashboard and condensation fogging the windshield, we took off into the dark, winding mountain roads, hitting the turns at a speed none of us were comfortable with. When Richard handed me my seatbelt, Oresti said emphatically, “no, no!” as if it would offend him to think that it was necessary. So the seatbelt stayed off.
We made it safely in half an hour. We’re both happy to be on ferries for the next couple days after all this cycling in the rain. The plan is to ferry from Saranda to Corfu, Greece, and from Corfu to Patras. Then we cycle to Athens!
To Hell and Back: Orikum to Himare via Logora Pass
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 56.21 km
Total trip distance: 2914 km
Max speed: 43.88 km/ hour
Average speed: 12.40 km / hour
Total time biking: 4:32
Total days biking: 51
Spending: 6360 leke ($64)
We understood this morning why there was left over poo in the toilet bowl yesterday. The electricity was out most of last night (bad news for drying our clothes with the heater) and when I took my own poo this morning, I couldn’t flush the toilet. Water pump hadn’t worked all night, I guess? Richard had to go too and by the time we were both finished, the bowl was full of ugly turds that wouldn’t go down. After a risk of overflow, wefinally unplugged the situation with the toilet bowl brush. It wasn’t pretty…
My shoes were still wet this morning, so I put plastic bags over my feet to protect them from the cold dampness, and from the future rain I was sure would fall on us later...
As Richard lubed the bike chains outside the hotel, a10-year-old boy stood watching, without saying a word. Just watching, touchingat times, wishing, perhaps, he was Richard’s little assistant. It was charming.
We took off on the only direct route to get to the southern coastal town of Saranda: the 1,000m high Logara pass. The first 8km from Orikum were flat, giving us plenty of time to take in the ominous shroud of thick cloud trapped between the two mountain ranges we were about to cycle through.The mountains were ribbed by years of water erosion. We couldn’t even see their peaks, so thick were the clouds. We both felt sluggish.
Then, the climb began. “I think this is going to be easy,”Richard said. “Nowhere near as bad as they say.” Then the rain began to fall. And the fog set in. It was going to be a long morning.
We climbed 10% grades for some 11km through heavy rain. I pushed my bike repeatedly. At the entrance to Llogara Park, we stopped for coffee at a road-side restaurant to warm up. We dripped from our helmets, jackets, gloves, and booties as we walked into the small, fire-warmed place,embarrassed at our appearance and the mess we were creating. We were so cold,we decided to stay for lunch – delicious grilled meat – and didn’t venture back into the cold for another hour.
We still had 5km to climb. Heading back into the cold and rain was utterly the last thing either of us wanted to do, but we had no choice. You know you’re struggling when you count down the remaining distance by the tenth of a kilometer. I was pedaling at 4.5 km an hour, and even at that, wheezing, steam emanating from my face as I sweat in the cold. We had a visibility of about 40m ahead of us, and to the side – in the place of the most spectacular views of the Albanian coast – we could see nothing but grey fog.
“I don’t want to do this anymore!” I cried to Richard. But when we got to the top, things only got worse. Much worse. I reached another cycling first – crying while cycling downhill.
As we descended out of the clouds, the sky cleared up a bit and we got our first look at the coast, spectacular as promised, with clear turquoise water and white sand. But as soon as it appeared, it disappeared again, the clouds playing hide-and-seek with us.
We could see the switchbacks dropping 1,000 metres in a span of a few kilometres, and thought it might be a good time to tighten Richard's brakes, which, due to days of bad weather and mountains, had worn down to the point that rubber powder residue lined his rim and we could hear metal grinding against metal every time he braked.
The descent was possibly the most painful thing I have ever experienced. It was certainly the coldest I can remember being my entire life. Our bodies and clothes were already soaking wet, and when we started moving at speed, the wind, rain and cold made the whole thing unbearable. My teeth chattered; my body shook; without even meaning to, my legs hugged the bike in an attempt to huddle my limbs as close to each other as possible. I couldn’t control the wails and sobs that were coming out of my mouth. With the slick streets and steep downhills, we had to squeeze our brakes until they were snug against the handlebar – a strain on our numbed hands. We stopped to give them a break, and I fell into Richard’s arms, crying. He forced me to bend my fingers to keep them from freezing, but my purple lips gave him a scare.
The lower we got, the warmer it was, and slowly, feeling came back to our hands, though our feet would take hours to finally thaw. I thought this was the end of the day from hell, but the rest of the way to Himare was up and down hills through four run-down villages, overlooking mostly uninhabited forest leading down to the sea. We were chased by at least four different dogs today, some of them biting at Richard’s panniers as they ran. Atone point, I armed myself with a rock to throw at them if they came too close.We got a hotel room that opens onto a sea-side balcony, washing crashing onto the shore beneath us. If the weather cooperates, maybe we’ll actually be able to enjoy the view tomorrow.
Albanian Puddles: Berat to Orikum
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 20.17 km (+81 km by bus)
Total trip distance: 2858 km
Max speed: 36.57 km/ hour
Average speed: 14.84 km / hour
Total time biking: 1:21
Total days biking: 50
Spending: 6280 leke ($63)
We awoke to thunder striking and rain thudding against the window. Tomas was waiting for us in the kitchen this morning like a soldier standing at attention. We sat down to the table for homemade peach jam, wonderfully fresh milk from the countryside, bread, cheese, boiled eggs and oranges from the backyard. He regaled us with a list of projects he was hoping to start including a coffee shop at the mountain-top castle, a bar/restaurant on Berat’s main street, an information booth for tourists and a shop selling artisanal jams – this after a failed attempt last year to sell rabbits grown on his brother’s farm. He’s the perfect example of Albania’s small middle class, trying to make a go of it in this new world of opportunity that it finally has access to.
Just to put things into perspective, “bourgeois” families like Tomas’ were required during the communist years to host other families in their extra rooms. For years, Tomas hosted two families in his house, each paying the equivalent of 10 cents a month for lodging and 5 cents for electricity.
His wife, Greta, got the gold medal in her secondary school class and wanted to enroll in a physics university program but wasn’t permitted because her father was rich. She was to learn how to be a worker instead.
Puddles swallowed the street as Tomas walked us to the bus “station” after breakfast, greeting townspeople who knew him along the way. The busses all park in a lot in the centre of town, and surprisingly, are clearly marked with their destination city. We threw our bikes in the bottom of the bus to Vlorë, and had a coffee with Tomas before departure time.
When the engine grumbled only six minutes after schedule, I was shocked. For $4 each, we knocked off 80 km of cycling in the rain, on terrain we had mostly already seen on our way into Berat. Apart from two passengers puking quietly into plastic bags and throwing them out the window, it was a pretty uneventful ride, with Nina Simone and “New York, New York” playing on the radio.
The bus dropped us off on the side of a road filled with cement, tires, cardboard boxes and garbage. We rode into the centre of Florë for pizza before heading to the coast.
Richard asked the owner for directions to Kaninë, a town on
our way to Orikum, at the foot of the Logara pass. “That’s my village!” he
answered excitedly in Italian. We never spoke Italian when we started this
trip. But now it’s our lingua franca. “You go, you tell them I sent you, and
they will give you the best meat in the village for free!” Then, on a piece of
paper, he scribbled a map and words that Richard should repeat when we arrive: Ho sentito ke si manga bene. Gracie.
Then he hopped in his car and led us to the street we should take to get there. Albanians are no good with maps – reading or drawing them – as they were “state secrets” during the communist era. But often enough, they show you how to get there in person.
Unfortunately, our dear friend had led us to a dirt road full of potholes. We’ve handled heavy rain before, but rain on small Albanian roads like this is another matter. The one-lane road became a muddy roller coaster, without enough room for both us and the trucks that splashed us every time they passed.
Luckily, the large coastal road was much better, but with a rain of 1,000 little knives piercing our faces, we couldn’t really enjoy our first look at the “most unspoiled stretch of the Mediterranean coast.” Once again, Albania stole a page from the Sub-Saharan African story book: the roads flooded to such an extent that the bottom of my front panniers ran right through the little lakes. Electricity poles sparked.
When we asked a man on the street for a hotel, he ran some 300 meters through the rain to take us to an unmarked building, where the hotel manager insisted on carrying my bike up two flights of stairs. Albania is still governed by rules of tradition, where women are to be treated like women. I rarely have to carry my own stuff around here.
Richard got to work setting up a clothesline under the heater as I discovered poo leftover from a previous client in the toilet. We wrung brown water out of our clothes. At 10:15pm, the power cut out.
Tomorrow, we tackle a 1000 m climb from sea level to the peak of Mount Lungare, then sail down the other where we hope side to Saranda, to catch a ferry to Greece.
From the source: Poshnje to Berat
Monday, December 14, 2009
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 15.83 km
Total trip distance: 2838 km
Max speed: 26.08 km/ hour
Average speed: 12.56 km / hour
Total time biking: 1:15
Total days biking: 49
Spending: 5100 leke (about $51)
We hadn’t been drinking the water in Albania, but the water at the hotel/resto comes from a well dug by Zani and his three brothers and serves as a public source for the village. We filled up before heading out for the short ride to Berat, which was occupied by the Turks for 500 years and maintains Ottoman style in its historic homes. Zani honked and smiled as he passed us in his 4x4 on his way into town.
At the edge of Berat, we bought breakfast for about $3: 2 byrek each, coffee, barley pudding and cookies. The owner of the little shop, Eve, asked me if I liked Albania. She was ashamed of her country and embarrassed at what she expected would be my impression. I told her the people were wonderful.
We crossed the arched stone and stone Ottoman bridge into Gorica, one of three historic neighborhoods in Berat, where Steve had arranged for us to stay with his wife’s aunt, Greta, and her husband, Tomas. (Where in the US there are six degrees of separation between any two people, in Albania there are two, he told us). Here's Richard in front of the "town of 1,000 windows":
We met Tom outside the suspended bridge on the other end of Gorica’s only real street. He led us down a small alley covered in vines to the wooden gate that marks his home, which was once his grandfather’s.
As we walked, the wind carried the call to prayer from the town’s minarets over the bubbling Osumi river, beyond the roofs of Ottoman houses, and into the mountains.
On the way to Tomas' house:
Greta made us freshly squeezed orange and pomegranate juice as we admired the paintings on the wall of the fire-warmed living room.
Then we set off to discover the 13th century Byzantine castle overlooking the city. On our way up the steep stone road, a teenage girl called out: “Hello! Where are you from?”
She had black wavy hair and the outfit of a girl trying to fit in. Acne covered her pretty face.
When I answered Canada, she and her two friends giggled with uncontained excitement.
“We studied Canada in geography today!” She could barely contain herself. The words tumbled out of her mouth as fast as she could muster.
“Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal. Lake Erie, Lake Superior, Lake Michigan and Lake Huron.” She recited them like a schoolgirl excited to have done her homework properly.
She took a deep breath before another big ramble of information.
“And…” it was the big finally of her long speech. “Do you do like football?”
“Yes, I play football.”
“What is the name of your team?”
I told her the last team I had played for in Ottawa, an insignificant local club, but more than enough for her.
“She plays for a football team in Canada!” she repeated to her friends.
What came next blew me away.
“Can we have your autograph?”
So I wrote messages made out to Sara and Katarina and signed my name in Albanian schoolbooks, before we continued walking up the hill. Then the final question, with a hint of shyness.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The whole thing was just too much fun.
We walked around the castle aimlessly, not quite sure what we were looking at or its historical significance. We had tried to find the tourist office earlier (yes, there is one!), without luck. As it turned out, we didn’t need it.
As we turned a wall of the inner fortress, a middle-aged man in jeans and pointy black shoes emerged out of nowhere. He had long grey-blond hair and smelled like a combination of raki and a man in need of a shower. His black leather jacket had cigarette burns in it. He moved quickly with the jitters of one too many cups of coffee.
“The cistern of water is inside, this way.”
We didn’t realize at the time that he was the unofficial guide of the Berat guide. We thought he was just giving friendly advice.
He spoke in a combination of the little English and Italian he knew.
“You, come.”
He led us into the ancient water reservoir, which we would have never found otherwise. “Give me,” he said, pointing to my camera. Before I had a chance to say no, he skipped off with it down the steps of the reservoir to get a good picture for us. His hands shook and I could just see him dropping the thing into the garbage filled water five metres below. He took the picture and climbed back up to meet us.
“Original castle…” when he couldn’t find the words, he drew them onto the walls with his finger. 4-0-0 years before Christ. We thanked him for the explanation and walked out of the reservoir towards the acropolis. “No! No!” he said with a sense of urgency unfitting of a tour guide. “Come, come,” he said, pointing to the other direction. “Here, panorama.” Any step we took independent of his wise guidance was met with “Heba! Come!” in a direction direction.
And so it was. For the next hour, Vasil Gjika showed us around the castle, scaling walls and electricity towers to get the perfect picture (an enthusiastic “YES!” followed every one); explaining the secret tunnel here, the renovations there, and of course, the “fantastico” panorama views from locations of his choosing. We knew he wanted money, but in truth, he was filling a gap left by a government that hasn’t yet caught on to the world of tourism.
When we gave him 200 leke at the end of it, (about $2 – more than the entrance fee to the museum), he turned and asked squeamishly: “Five?”
When we turned him down, he said “ok, ok, thank you”, and disappeared into the labyrinth of homes that inhabit the castle, likely looking for his next customer.
We had a delicious rabbit dinner with Greta, Tomas and their daughter Dora before calling it a night. Tomorrow, we head towards the Ionian coast for a look at what is supposed to be beautiful, natural coastline.
Albanian Hospitality: Tirana to Poshnje
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 105.5 km
Total trip distance: 2822 km
Max speed: 46.95 km/ hour
Average speed: 19.05 km / hour
Total time biking: 5:32
Total days biking: 48
Spending: 1290 leke ($13)
So these bunkers.
Hoxha ordered 750,000 built across the country (for a population of 3 million) for defense purposes. They are shaped just like igloos – concrete igloos, as Richard calls them – that you enter from an underground tunnel and peer through from a hole.
But why?
Was this really pure paranoia? Did Hoxha really believe that his “worker’s paradise” was so envied that it was under constant threat of attack? Or did he simply want to keep his people busy building concrete igloos so they wouldn’t have the time to remember the misery in which they lived.
After all, the worker’s paradise wasn’t really paradise. People queued for bread, and had rations for milk and meat. You had to smuggle in “trinkets” like pencils or umbrellas from Greece. Owning a Beatles tape could land you 20 years in jail. You could be shot on the spot if you tried to leave the country. Children were forced to inform on their parents. All this, and then you had to call the dictator “Uncle Enver.”
So the bunkers are everywhere: in the mountains, in people’s yards, on the main highway. People don’t know what to do with them anymore. Some are being removed, but the rest are toppled over, decorated or simply abandoned. They’re like infinite sets of eyes watching over people. To me they look like alien ships descended from outer space.
We took a smaller road from Tirana to Kavaje. By smaller, I mean bumpier of course. At the transit hub with the turn off for Durres, we stopped at a byrek stand for a snack. Then a few hundred metres further, we stopped at another – just to compare quality of course.
The highway from Durres south was great, once again, perfectly smooth, and with a shoulder much of the time for us to cycle in. It was lined with tons of brand new hotels and tons more under construction. Seems people just didn’t know what to do with the land they were re-given after the land reform of the post-communist regime. So they build hotels and gas stations because they don’t know what else to build. (The other theory is that many of these hotels are fronts for the purposes of laundering money.)
My rear right brake pad hugged by wheel most of the morning, which was a perfect excuse for my less than stellar performance speed-wise. It was a boring ride today on a straight, straight road, which we followed and followed and followed. Just after the town of Lezhe, we stopped for a quick bite on the side of the road before carrying on to Berat. We had hoped to make it in one day, but it turned out to be further than we expected and by nightfall, we were still some 18km out in a village called Poshnje. We weren’t sure we would find any hotels, as the road from Lezhe to Berat is much smaller and more rural than the highway. We stopped at a castle-shaped restaurant, called Keshtjella after its appearance, to ask if there was a hotel nearby. In typical Albanian fashion, it turned out to be one. One man led me to another man, who took me up to see rooms, on the second floor, in the backside of the restaurant, in a section still under construction. It was among the nicest we’ve slept in, with interior brick and stone walls, a heater, hot water and satellite TV. I figured it would be above our price range. But when the guy pulled out the equivalent of $10 to show me the price, I was shocked.
“You rest first. And then we discuss.”
After 106km, we fell into bed and had a hard time getting up again. When we finally emerged downstairs, the hotel manager was waiting for us. He had lived in England for 15 years and spoke very good English.
“Ah, I thought you must be tired since you did not come down!” he said as he shook our hands. “If you’re not hungry, I can show you around first.”
His name was Partizan Ismailaj. His father was pressured into calling him that when he registered his new baby. “What, you don’t like the name Partizan?” the people at the registration office asked. “No” for an answer could have landed him jail time, so Partizan it was. Now he goes by Zani.
Zani took us into the kitchen, where a big pan of tava sat on the counter. The specialty of the restaurant, it consists of rice cooked in delicious chicken juices, served with chunks of chicken. It smelled so good we decided then and there that we would order it for dinner.
From there we passed through the first floor bar (where a woman hasn’t been in years judging by the stares I got), the second floor restaurant and the third floor reception hall for weddings and parties.
When we sat down to eat, he sat with us. At first, I thought it was out of a sense of responsibility, due to the Albanian tradition of hospitality. But later I realized he truly enjoyed it. Perhaps he could relate to us in ways he couldn’t relate to some of his countrymen after having been abroad.
He ordered two raki for Richard and himself, and a glass of wine for me. Traditionally, Albanian women don’t drink raki, at least not in small villages like this. It was the first time I noticed some kind of different, more conservative, treatment towards women.
We settled on some salad and a plate of fried cheese before our tava. We spent the night talking about Albania culture and society and at the end of it all, we didn’t pay a thing.
“When you come next time, you can pay. This time, you are my guest.”
Zani offered to drive us to Berat the next morning in his truck and gave me the number of a journalist friend of his who might be of some help to me. (I had told him I was interested in writing an article about Albania).
We couldn’t believe the generosity, but for Zani, it was the most normal thing on earth.
