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Mushrooms the size of cars pepper the hillsides and plains
of Albania. When Enver Hoxha, Europe’s last communist dictator went to
the great politburo in the sky after 40 years in power, the statues and slogans
were quickly destroyed. But he left a legacy: nearly a million crude domed
bunkers, built during the height of his paranoia, to protect the country from
land attack. Sometimes they’re in ones and twos. Others are lined up
across the fields. Driving south from the capital Tirana, communist and capitalist-era
concrete do battle. If it’s not another clump of bunkers invading the
landscape, it’s the skeleton of a half-built hotel. Everyone is building
and it’s all for sale.
But as we continued further south, the landscape changed. Concrete gave way
to tiled roofed cottages with fat vines hanging from the rafters. The knuckles
of a vast mountain range rose from the plains. The road wound upwards following
the tight contours of the hillside. A loopy series of hairpins the other side
offered sudden views of hazy sea, sheep browsed the bushes along the roadside,
a donkey brought us to a sudden halt. The road had become a narrow track. On
the map it looked like a short hop to our destination Saranda, but it took
us four grinding hours to get there. We rocked and wheezed through tiny villages
clinging to rock faces; ancient olive trees dotted the hillsides below and
huge stony peaks rose stark behind.
By the time we arrived it was pitch black and each lurch of our minibus made
me feel just a little more queasy. But Silvi made everything alright again.
Who’d have thought I’d be staring into the brown eyes of Miss Albania
over dinner? By chance our hotel was hosting the Miss Globe competition - a
kind of spin-off from Miss World. The restaurant was overrun with gorgeous
girls. Each wore a sash with the name of her country – a handy identifier
for the goggle-eyed guys. It provided hours of fun. “I reckon she’s
Miss Nigeria. And she’s definitely Miss Singapore,” I commented
as two Miss Globes stood with their backs to us. “Oh wow!” said
Nick, one of my companions. “Have you seen Miss Denmark?” In the
name of serious journalistic research I got our guide to invite Miss Albania
over for a chat. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but her ambitions
were to travel the world and do work with children.
We bumped into the girls again at breakfast. It added a veneer of excitement
to the dawn of a new day, waiting at the coffee machine alongside Miss Serbia
and passing a yoghurt to Miss Madagascar. But away from the glamour of international
modelling, I was meeting Ben Sipa for a trek into the countryside. And it’s
the unspoilt scenery that’s the real star of Albania’s show. Ben’s
one of a band of passionate locals opening up his homeland to eco-tourism.
Our trek started with a rocky pathway, overgrown in places with scrub. Within
moments I was sweating, glad for the walking stick Ben had provided. An hour
later we reached a tiny, virtually deserted village, all tumble down stone
walls and narrow pathways. A cat soaked up the afternoon sun sprawled on the
path, a tap in the wall dripped dampness across the white old cobbles. Some
300 families used to live in Qeparo I Vjeter, now there are less than 100 people,
all of them old. The younger generation have left for the cities – mainly
across the water to Greece.
Our resting place for the night was Pilur; another old village several hours
further on. We stayed the night with Ndreko and his wife Mali, both in their
70s. “We don’t care who’s in power. We’re totally self
sufficient,” Ndreko told me as we ate cheese made from their goats’ milk
and lip-smacking grapes from their vines. The mutton that followed, huge hunks
of meat on the bone, he’d raised and slaughtered himself. I asked how
many kids he had. “Six,” he replied. “But none of them live
here anymore. Five live in Greece and the other lives in the city.” The
trek continues for several more days but Ben had a tour group to attend to
and I was bound for Berat.
Whilst Albania’s untouched countryside is its main attraction, there
are ancient fortress towns that are also well worth discovering. Berat is the
most picturesque, a craggy castle on top of a steep hillside. As we wandered
the battlements, kids were kicking a football around the ancient keep, a haphazard
goalmouth painted on the eons-old wall in yellow paint. The views were tremendous,
but the most arresting site was the interior of a tiny church. During the Hoxha
years Albania was declared the world’s first atheist state. Churches
were turned into civic buildings and priceless religious artefacts were destroyed.
But Theofan Popa, the Director for Monuments and Culture, now hailed a hero
by historians, single-handledly saved some of the very best. He prised precious
icons from their frames in churches, storing them safely away for a day when
the madness was over. We sat in virtual darkness in a powercut, rain pattering
on the ancient roof of the Church of St Mary as our guide told us this story.
Suddenly the thud of a portable generator kicked in above the noise of the
rain. Bare bulbs flickered into life and there dancing out from the gloom came
some of the most ornate and delicate icons I’ve seen. A feast of gold
leaf and rich reds and blues; ancient pictures of the saints, the Virgin Mary
and the Christ child, totally exquisite. Here then, was Albania in a nutshell:
unexpected treasures unearthed by the flickering of haphazard generator-light.
CRUCIAL INFO
Getting there: British Airways (www.ba.com; 0870 850 9850) has direct flights
to Tirana from London Gatwick.
Doing stuff: Albania is perfect trekking territory. It’s recommended to
use a guide, as there are no marked trails. Contact Ben Sipa (+30 2661056415;
www.sipatours.com) for treks in Southern Albania and Outdoor Albania (+355 4272075;
www.outdooralbania.com) for trekking, rafting and mountain-biking around Tirana.
Bunker Mentality
Jeremy Head has an encounter with giant mushrooms in strange Albania