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 13^th 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.