Zog
Late in the afternoon Dhendri relents and we drive up into the hills around Durres, close to the pink summer palace of King Zog, Albania's first and only king. Little birds flit around the wild herbs and the Principessa runs around chasing the goats which wander onto the road here. Dhendri gives her a 10 Leke coin, minted in the year of her birth.
(This was also the year when Zog's widow, Geraldine, and her son were allowed to return to Tirana, the family having been in exile since Mussolini's invasion. She lived only a few months longer, dying in the military hospital at about the time of Dhendri's own return to the country.)
Tomorrow we're due to return to Bari on the 11am crossing and will stay there overnight before catching the daily flight to London the next morning.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
4 Days in Durres: The British Embassy
Dhendri returns just as the Durres-bound ferries sail into the Port. I'm ready in my suit - 'Nena ime!!', he shouts (tr. 'Mama mia!'), 'What have you got on?!' He thrashes around the apartment looking for something more suitable. Finally I depart in oversized trousers and denim jacket. The Principessa is allowed to keep her velvet coat and hat because she's 'so small you can hardly see her'. I wonder how I'll pass myself off as an English teacher in this get-up but he's decided that our best bet is to look as wretched as possible, so that the Embassy staff will feel sorry for us.
Leaving Durres we stop to let an old man, leading a cow on a rope, cross to a traffic island, where he sits down on the grass and lets the cow graze. The morning is overcast, the sun an indistinct orange blur behind grey clouds, but still warm. As my visitor yesterday warned, the road is a bit rough in places, but not enough to cause real problems. Coming closer to Tirana I notice some huts and shelters made of wood and corrugated metal, and a crowd of people around. Dhendri begins trying to distract me, pointing out the road signs overhead which show how near we are... because in fact those poor people are living there, by the motorway, and so I shouldn't stare. Soon the traffic slows almost to a stop, so many cars and lorries going into the city. Up ahead police are stopping cars, every twenty or so - fines for speeding. There are beggars here as well, some of them women with babies, knocking on the car windows, but Dhendri says don't open the window. Before long we leave them behind and make our way into the centre of Tirana.
We queue outside the Embassy for a while and then sit in the reception area waiting for Dhendri's name to be called. He's really going for it by now, sitting with his head in his hands, moaning softly. Glared at when I try to cheer him up, I look around the waiting area, while the Principessa falls asleep. Everyone looks slightly bored, going up to the desk in turn where a clerk deals with queries and passes documents to the office behind him. When Dhendri's name is called he hands in our documents, I'm pointed out but not required to speak to anyone, and that's that - they'll be in touch.
Dhendri has some other business in town and leaves us for a while, after pointing out the main streets, so I put on my sunglasses and remove the flapping jacket, and the Principessa and I go briefly tourist-tastic in the elegant capital, which at this quiet hour of the morning seems so light and airy after the often gloomy Victorian gothic of Leeds.
Afterwards we drive around Tirana for a while before returning to Durres, where the man with the cow is still sitting on the roundabout.
Leaving Durres we stop to let an old man, leading a cow on a rope, cross to a traffic island, where he sits down on the grass and lets the cow graze. The morning is overcast, the sun an indistinct orange blur behind grey clouds, but still warm. As my visitor yesterday warned, the road is a bit rough in places, but not enough to cause real problems. Coming closer to Tirana I notice some huts and shelters made of wood and corrugated metal, and a crowd of people around. Dhendri begins trying to distract me, pointing out the road signs overhead which show how near we are... because in fact those poor people are living there, by the motorway, and so I shouldn't stare. Soon the traffic slows almost to a stop, so many cars and lorries going into the city. Up ahead police are stopping cars, every twenty or so - fines for speeding. There are beggars here as well, some of them women with babies, knocking on the car windows, but Dhendri says don't open the window. Before long we leave them behind and make our way into the centre of Tirana.
We queue outside the Embassy for a while and then sit in the reception area waiting for Dhendri's name to be called. He's really going for it by now, sitting with his head in his hands, moaning softly. Glared at when I try to cheer him up, I look around the waiting area, while the Principessa falls asleep. Everyone looks slightly bored, going up to the desk in turn where a clerk deals with queries and passes documents to the office behind him. When Dhendri's name is called he hands in our documents, I'm pointed out but not required to speak to anyone, and that's that - they'll be in touch.
Dhendri has some other business in town and leaves us for a while, after pointing out the main streets, so I put on my sunglasses and remove the flapping jacket, and the Principessa and I go briefly tourist-tastic in the elegant capital, which at this quiet hour of the morning seems so light and airy after the often gloomy Victorian gothic of Leeds.
Afterwards we drive around Tirana for a while before returning to Durres, where the man with the cow is still sitting on the roundabout.
Monday, 28 February 2011
4 Days in Durres: Drummers/The Other English Bride
Drummers
Looking out from the balcony of our room - lamb roasting in the restaurant kitchen below, clear sky and no ships on the sea... I hear drumming and see two men go by, drums on straps around their necks, singing. I ask Zonja where they're going but she doesn't know.
(We left Durres the day before Bajram, or Eid, as it's known elsewhere, so perhaps these were the 'lodra' players, who drum for the beginning and end of fasting during Ramadan, passing the time between shifts. However, I don't know whether this pre-Communist tradition had been revived in the area.)
The Other English Bride
Another surprise - Zonja asks if we can move out of our room for a night and sleep in the main bedroom with the rest of the family. Another cousin is coming to stay overnight and is on his way over from Tirana, with his new English wife. They've been staying with relatives in a small village in the north of the country and have just been to collect the husband's visa from the British Embassy, as they're flying to England tomorrow.
There are three beds in our room and in this one there seem to be seven or eight, along with the baby's cot so, with a sofa-bed in the kitchen/living room there's no shortage of accommodation for visitors.
Dhendri and the first cousin also arrive for the evening and we push tables together ready for dinner as the wedding photos are passed around along with the new husband's passport with the visa stamp. He tells Dhendri he might have his visa by this time tomorrow but he's not so sure, having waited a year already.
The other English girl tells us about her visit to the countryside, how strange it is to put milk from a cow whose name you know in your coffee, and to eat the chicken you've fed earlier in the day... even here in Durres the family have a garden nearby and grow their own vegetables, broad beans and fruit. Besides these Zonja has made pilaff and couscous, and her husband brings chicken and dolmades up from the restaurant. The couple have brought wine and there is also raki.
The bride and I don't speak much, without knowing why... we haven't quite got our English heads on, and the coincidence seems not at all romantic - it makes us feel like a batch, somehow. And it's as if speaking about our lives in England would spoil the evening, like breaking a spell - who knows when so many members of the family would be together again.
Even the Principessa has a late night. As I'm putting her to bed I can see the lights of the ferries and just make out their dark shapes leaving the port for the night crossing. 11pm - I've started telling the time by them.
Looking out from the balcony of our room - lamb roasting in the restaurant kitchen below, clear sky and no ships on the sea... I hear drumming and see two men go by, drums on straps around their necks, singing. I ask Zonja where they're going but she doesn't know.
(We left Durres the day before Bajram, or Eid, as it's known elsewhere, so perhaps these were the 'lodra' players, who drum for the beginning and end of fasting during Ramadan, passing the time between shifts. However, I don't know whether this pre-Communist tradition had been revived in the area.)
The Other English Bride
Another surprise - Zonja asks if we can move out of our room for a night and sleep in the main bedroom with the rest of the family. Another cousin is coming to stay overnight and is on his way over from Tirana, with his new English wife. They've been staying with relatives in a small village in the north of the country and have just been to collect the husband's visa from the British Embassy, as they're flying to England tomorrow.
There are three beds in our room and in this one there seem to be seven or eight, along with the baby's cot so, with a sofa-bed in the kitchen/living room there's no shortage of accommodation for visitors.
Dhendri and the first cousin also arrive for the evening and we push tables together ready for dinner as the wedding photos are passed around along with the new husband's passport with the visa stamp. He tells Dhendri he might have his visa by this time tomorrow but he's not so sure, having waited a year already.
The other English girl tells us about her visit to the countryside, how strange it is to put milk from a cow whose name you know in your coffee, and to eat the chicken you've fed earlier in the day... even here in Durres the family have a garden nearby and grow their own vegetables, broad beans and fruit. Besides these Zonja has made pilaff and couscous, and her husband brings chicken and dolmades up from the restaurant. The couple have brought wine and there is also raki.
The bride and I don't speak much, without knowing why... we haven't quite got our English heads on, and the coincidence seems not at all romantic - it makes us feel like a batch, somehow. And it's as if speaking about our lives in England would spoil the evening, like breaking a spell - who knows when so many members of the family would be together again.
Even the Principessa has a late night. As I'm putting her to bed I can see the lights of the ferries and just make out their dark shapes leaving the port for the night crossing. 11pm - I've started telling the time by them.
4 Days in Durres - Coca Cola
This morning Zonja comes to tell me that her cousin-in-law is here to 'speak English with me'. We find him in the kitchen, amusing the children with a new laptop brought back from Germany, where he has been working. There's no internet connection but there are games and so, after it's been admired, it helps us occupy the children while Zonja goes down to the restaurant.
I ask him if he's planning to go back to Germany again - he's not sure but will have to go away somewhere before too long... it's still difficult to find employment in Albania, even though things have settled down somewhat after the financial collapse of 1997 (peacekeeping forces were deployed here in Durres and other Albanian cities until the constitution was restored in 1998). Foreign companies have built new factories - tomorrow we'll pass the Coca Cola factory on the road out to Tirana- but they employ expatriates almost exclusively, there being no law requiring them to employ Albanian workers. The government takes money from the companies which is never seen again... the country is ruled now by a few families, and, whichever lot one might vote for, contracts for roads, buildings etc are given to their friends and family members and public money disappears again, roads left full of holes and half-finished buildings falling into ruin...
I ask him if he's planning to go back to Germany again - he's not sure but will have to go away somewhere before too long... it's still difficult to find employment in Albania, even though things have settled down somewhat after the financial collapse of 1997 (peacekeeping forces were deployed here in Durres and other Albanian cities until the constitution was restored in 1998). Foreign companies have built new factories - tomorrow we'll pass the Coca Cola factory on the road out to Tirana- but they employ expatriates almost exclusively, there being no law requiring them to employ Albanian workers. The government takes money from the companies which is never seen again... the country is ruled now by a few families, and, whichever lot one might vote for, contracts for roads, buildings etc are given to their friends and family members and public money disappears again, roads left full of holes and half-finished buildings falling into ruin...
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Four Days in Durres (5)
Pillboxes
Along the way I notice some crumbling 'pillboxes' or bunkers and ask Dhendri whether they are from WWII, or later. The question seems to disagree with him, however, as he mutters 'there's nothing there' and drives ferociously six times round the same roundabout. Whether he's offended or superstitious I daren't ask, clinging onto my seat as best I can...
We go out to the balcony for a while, looking down at the orange trees and black chickens in the garden of the house next door, and beyond them the Port and the sea, over which the sun will soon be setting. (It is thought that the name 'Albania' may come from Italian 'alba' meaning 'dawn', as the sun appears to rise over this side of the Adriatic Sea.) The Principessa seems happy enough enjoying the view, the warm afternoon and the clothes pegs, scraps of sequinned fabric, flowerpots and other odds and ends she finds under the chairs, so I think we should manage not to disturb anyone. From down the hall I hear only faint sounds of tv, and children playing. However the two older children, one girl of eight and the other about four years old, can't hide their curiosity for long and are soon whispering outside our door. Their mother calls them back several times but of course it's pointless... impossible for two women with young children to sit in separate rooms, ignoring each other, and so by the time Dhendri returns we're all in the kitchen and Zonja and I have got the xhezven (coffee pot) on the stove and are nattering over our 'kafja turke'.
A power cut and a visit
Dhendri returns briefly the next morning with fruit, crisps, biscuits and peach juice, before leaving for work - driving casual workers to factories in nearby towns. He won't be back until the evening, so we'll be spending the day here. His friend is already in the restaurant, making breakfasts, and Zonja's sister-in-law is getting ready to walk down to the hospital, where she is a nurse. Durres beach is down that way, she says, and we'll all walk down one day while I'm here, as on a good day it's still warm enough to swim. The children watch tv in the kitchen and Zonja sends me out to the balcony here at the front of the apartment, from which we can see any customers arriving at the car park below - if it gets busy she can go down and help in the restaurant. For now it's quiet and I watch the staff from the 'byrektore' (pastry shop) across the road sit outside reading newspapers.
Mid-morning the tv goes off, suddenly. There's a daily two hour power cut, usually at about this time - electricity is being rationed. The children play with a small toy we've brought, Aladdin on a magic carpet with wheels, or 'Turki me rrote' (Turk on Wheels), as they call it. They eat the rest of the crisps and, as there are no sweeties, Zonja gives them sachets of sugar from the restaurant, printed with the names and colours of international football teams.
In the afternoon her mother and sister visit and, as the power is now back on, we watch subtitled Mexican soap operas, sitting in a row on the sofa with an electric heater in front of us and a blanket draped over our knees and the heater.
Along the way I notice some crumbling 'pillboxes' or bunkers and ask Dhendri whether they are from WWII, or later. The question seems to disagree with him, however, as he mutters 'there's nothing there' and drives ferociously six times round the same roundabout. Whether he's offended or superstitious I daren't ask, clinging onto my seat as best I can...
Orange trees and black chickens
The roads are wide and quiet, soon we arrive safely at Dhendri's friend's restaurant and go up to meet the family in the apartment above it: a couple with two young children and a baby, and the husband's unmarried sister, who lives with them. Dhendri leaves us in our room to unpack, saying he'll be back later to bring us our dinner, and not to bother the family too much. His friend goes back downstairs to the restaurant with him.
We go out to the balcony for a while, looking down at the orange trees and black chickens in the garden of the house next door, and beyond them the Port and the sea, over which the sun will soon be setting. (It is thought that the name 'Albania' may come from Italian 'alba' meaning 'dawn', as the sun appears to rise over this side of the Adriatic Sea.) The Principessa seems happy enough enjoying the view, the warm afternoon and the clothes pegs, scraps of sequinned fabric, flowerpots and other odds and ends she finds under the chairs, so I think we should manage not to disturb anyone. From down the hall I hear only faint sounds of tv, and children playing. However the two older children, one girl of eight and the other about four years old, can't hide their curiosity for long and are soon whispering outside our door. Their mother calls them back several times but of course it's pointless... impossible for two women with young children to sit in separate rooms, ignoring each other, and so by the time Dhendri returns we're all in the kitchen and Zonja and I have got the xhezven (coffee pot) on the stove and are nattering over our 'kafja turke'.
A power cut and a visit
Dhendri returns briefly the next morning with fruit, crisps, biscuits and peach juice, before leaving for work - driving casual workers to factories in nearby towns. He won't be back until the evening, so we'll be spending the day here. His friend is already in the restaurant, making breakfasts, and Zonja's sister-in-law is getting ready to walk down to the hospital, where she is a nurse. Durres beach is down that way, she says, and we'll all walk down one day while I'm here, as on a good day it's still warm enough to swim. The children watch tv in the kitchen and Zonja sends me out to the balcony here at the front of the apartment, from which we can see any customers arriving at the car park below - if it gets busy she can go down and help in the restaurant. For now it's quiet and I watch the staff from the 'byrektore' (pastry shop) across the road sit outside reading newspapers.
Mid-morning the tv goes off, suddenly. There's a daily two hour power cut, usually at about this time - electricity is being rationed. The children play with a small toy we've brought, Aladdin on a magic carpet with wheels, or 'Turki me rrote' (Turk on Wheels), as they call it. They eat the rest of the crisps and, as there are no sweeties, Zonja gives them sachets of sugar from the restaurant, printed with the names and colours of international football teams.
In the afternoon her mother and sister visit and, as the power is now back on, we watch subtitled Mexican soap operas, sitting in a row on the sofa with an electric heater in front of us and a blanket draped over our knees and the heater.
History
In the evening we drive around Durres with Dhendri, who has arranged a day off work for the day before we sail back to Italy. We'll go with him to Tirana, the capital city, about 20 miles from here, as he has to take some papers to the British Embassy in support of his visa application. He shows us the 'bright lights', all the newest places, the apartments under construction near the beach, flat-roofed pastel coloured buildings stretching away to the rocky green hills in the distance, and has no time for history... Durres is one of Europe's oldest cities, founded around 627BC by colonists from Corinth and Corcyra. It was part of the ancient kingdom of Illyria, where Shakespeare's Viola is shipwrecked in 'Twelfth Night'. Corinth and Corcyra soon began to fight over it, however, this and other 'conflicts of interest' leading to the Peloponnesian War... so we drive around oblivious to history for a while, and then go to eat barbecued chicken.
Friday, 25 February 2011
Four Days in Durres - Meeting the Bridegroom
At arrivals we pass by a huge portrait of Mother Theresa and wait briefly under a carving of the double-headed eagle, Albania's national emblem, to have our passports checked and stamped (Albania's name at home is 'Squiperia' - Land of Eagles). Right now it's looking to the east and west, while we go straight ahead.
Outside Dhendri is waiting at the turnstile. 'Where have you been?' 'Are we late?' Dhendri smirks and, picking up the Principessa, leads the way to the car park, which is ankle deep in mud. I have to carry my own bags but find we are the proud owners of a rusty white Mercedes... 'everyone here has a Mercedes', Dhendri tells me, 'they're fairly cheap and spare parts are easy to find'.
We drive a short distance to a restaurant overlooking the bay and now I notice that the sun is low over the sea... 'What time is it?'
Dhendri has not had to wait all day at the turnstile, luckily, as the Port staff told him when he arrived at 8am that the ferries had stopped during the night mid-Adriatic and had just set off again to complete the crossing.
All I want is coffee and water, of all things, and soon we leave for the appartment where the Principessa and I will be staying. 'Can't we see your house?', I ask, but he waves vaguely in the direction of the hills around the city and goes to find the waiter, who is busy getting his tables ready for the evening.
Outside Dhendri is waiting at the turnstile. 'Where have you been?' 'Are we late?' Dhendri smirks and, picking up the Principessa, leads the way to the car park, which is ankle deep in mud. I have to carry my own bags but find we are the proud owners of a rusty white Mercedes... 'everyone here has a Mercedes', Dhendri tells me, 'they're fairly cheap and spare parts are easy to find'.
We drive a short distance to a restaurant overlooking the bay and now I notice that the sun is low over the sea... 'What time is it?'
Dhendri has not had to wait all day at the turnstile, luckily, as the Port staff told him when he arrived at 8am that the ferries had stopped during the night mid-Adriatic and had just set off again to complete the crossing.
All I want is coffee and water, of all things, and soon we leave for the appartment where the Principessa and I will be staying. 'Can't we see your house?', I ask, but he waves vaguely in the direction of the hills around the city and goes to find the waiter, who is busy getting his tables ready for the evening.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Four Days in Durres (3)
Sleep peacefully through the Great Storm which delays the ferries by more than five hours and, further north, threatens to submerge Venice, where my stepfather is staying. When we wake it's 1.30, according to my phone, but I hear people moving luggage out of their cabins. Unbarricade the door to investigate and see the lorry driver leaving his cabin. He gives me directions to the 'self service'. Leather Man emerges from another door and staggers off down the corridor.
Up on deck I am surprised by daylight, sun shining on sparkling blue wavelets outside the window. The clock here tells me it's 2 and, confused, I ask the lorry driver if the time is different here - yes, time's different here, he smiles. And everyone's speaking Albanian now. 'We're all Albanian', he admits, but nothing is said about why they have pretended otherwise, or about the delay. The Little Principessa, as she has become known, races around making friends and babbling her own version of Italian.
At the first sight of land people gather at the windows, waiting for the Port of Durres to come into view. The lorry driver shows me where to queue to disembark and says our passports will be returned as we leave. (I've found a photo of the mural we stood next to as he left us, which identifies our ship as the Apollon, at: http://hhvferry.com/blog/?tag=bari )
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