Tour of Albania #7: Switchback Five & Epilogue

Llogara Pass: Switchback 5 - the top and the future Switchback 5: I was nearing the top of the pass as marked by the appearance of a graveyard of stunted Cyprus skeletons, their bony limbs pointing toward the sea. It had become steeper, but no cooler, and even now, 3000 feet up a cliff from the endless sea, not even a wisp of air moved and my body shined darkly with sweat and oil and pain.

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The unrelenting pressure of each long pedal stroke, the rise and fall of each quadricep, tendon, shin, calf and ankle required an exhausting concentration of physical focus so as to not immediately stop and fall. I had slowed to 3.8 mph – I could have walked faster. Worked by the magic red hydraulics of blood, the slow pistons of my legs moved, up and down, over and over...

The nausea had returned - the pale green poison spreading out from my stomach to share its enervating lethargy. It spread slowly through my body and removed all care– I was no longer a man with hopes and dreams, instead I became an empty wrapper of waxy skin coating a viscous green ooze of gray despair. I desired nothing other than to stop and wallow in my fear and misery. Death began to feel like a cool relaxing alternative to this bruising monotony and pain.

By chance or plan, Peter Gabriel’s Passion was playing on repeat on my iPod, putting a voice and sound to the anguish. I felt, rather than heard the music and the startling agonizing crescendos crackled through my overheated brain, altering it somehow. I was on the landward side of the road in a strobe of shadows and sun and in the flickering light, life became dream sequence: I lost all sense of sea and sky - just flashes of broken rock and gray pavement and obliterating white light. Inside me, I sensed a thin red filament soaked in blood being pulled from me and dipped in a green gray wax. My mind and body were fraying, unraveling, and something new was emerging. My new brain, intertwined with the growing evil sickness in my stomach began to invent alternate realities. A grand and insane idea occurred to me and began to repeat itself with each flashing pedal stroke: I was Albania.

Shimmering in the heat and hard stone, bound to an arbitrary and ever reversing cruel gray road, I had been toiling for an a minute, an hour, a day, a year, an age exposed to the sun in the unmoving air trapped by mountains: I was Albania.

Scaring myself with these odd thoughts I tried to regain some perspective and abandoned the shadowy lane on the right, riding blindly out into the constant brilliant sunlight where I could peer over the rails to see the zig-zag slashes in the broken land beneath me.

I was in trouble. Six hours of hard riding over very rough terrain had elapsed, the last seventy-five minutes of which were right at my maximal effort. I had run out of water a while back and my vision had started to narrow and darken – yet brighten at the same time – everything had become more and more overexposed – the blue had drained from white hot sea and my ears were buzzing.

I crested the top of the pass and suddenly the view changed from the scorched shrubs and brilliant stone of the coast to the deep green grasses and trees of the interior and the first tendrils of the cooling, perfumed air of the lush river valley in front of me. With the release of the unrelenting pressure of the climb came a feeling of expansion and a separation from the fear lurking in my brain. I shuddered thinking about where my mind had strayed. I was so relieved I felt like I could cry.

There was an overlook with some tour buses to the left so I coasted to a stop and dismounted, shaking with weakness. Nearby a group of gray older men – bus drivers - huddled together smoking and talking – white and black outlines of grey men surreal against the brilliance of the distant mountain. The sound of their voices seemed to grow in volume while receding in the distance. Straightening out after the long effort, a wave of nausea washed through my limbs and I tasted the sheeps brain soup - the "Paçe" yet again and then all thought, sight and sound were muffled in a velvet cloak.

Bent over, the sky throbbed and the world exploded. Like a sailor in a gale I held onto my bike, holding the top tube, rocking forward and back, knuckles white, riding the roiling sick. I dreaded sight, dreaded sound and clamped down my eyelids and inner ears. Then the storm passed and I tilted on my cleats, the voices of the bus drivers resuming their discussion. I wiped the dangling white tendrils of spit and vomit from my lips and decided I had better get down the mountain quickly and remounted my bike.

For the first time in well over an hour, I could coast, no pedaling – what a joy after the unrelenting pressure of the mountain. I drifted around a bend, and then another, relishing in the cooling air rushing over my burning skin. I sat up and finally began to smile: I was a shell of myself filled with green gray blood - but what remained was dizzyingly happy. It was accomplished – I had conquered the mountain and the poison. Back up out of the saddle the razor sharp ridges of my forearms glistened as I resumed the futile efforts against the accursed mountain. I finally understood: this is the real Albania, there is no end to the suffering, there are only riddles and turns, cruel mysteries and arbitrary hardships. I put everything I had into the pedals but it was beyond the green gray power of my heart and there was nothing left.

I had transformed. Transfixed by the road and the illness within me I had become nothing. Head down, arms draped over the bars, I dry heaved a vomit of the emptiness and fear inside me, my abdomen clenching with incredible power but finding nothing to release. When the first wave subsided, beyond all care or embarrassment, I began to sob, and couldn't stop.

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Near the top, voices...


When Hoxha’s form of communism finally fell in late 1991, throngs initially filled the streets in celebration. All across the country graven images of Hoxha were decapitated and destroyed and a new freedom was born. Gone was the unrelenting pressure to conform – to toil for the machine of the state – gone was the glaring scrutiny of the sigurami and the compression of freedoms. When the winds of freedom finally blew, they brought a release of joy demonstrated in mass of celebrations across the whole country. A new hope was in the air – of choice, of color, of prosperity.

No one knew it could actually get worse – that the five hour lines for bread would be replaced with no lines and no bread. The ugly rusting machine of communism had managed to provide a modicum of the basics – food, water, shelter, and safety from traditional crime. As the shackles fell, the prisoners began to run the asylum – mobs began to rule once safe streets, robbery and rape become daily occurrences, gunfire echoed off the bleak communist apartment blocks at all hours, and then the food ran out. During the chaos, privatization of the banks occurred and along with it, a pyramid investment scheme was created that subsequently collapsed taking along with it the life savings of 70% of Albanians. The guardrails were off, and anarchy ruled.

Which is worse? To have no hope for the future and to toil in ignominy, or to find the promise of a hope and then have it summarily crushed?

Communist Mural on Llogara pass

The wheels began to turn again in Albania only when the Italian government, the Red Cross and other humanitarian groups stepped aggressively into the gap, sending a large peace keeping force, food, and loans. This time of chaos and anarchy only last a couple of years, but for the citizens of Albania used to the exact opposite, these were devastating times. Slowly but surely, in the late 1990’s the country began to regain control and move forward.

For me, my savior was my friend Kirk, who had waited at the real top of the pass and answered his phone when I called in desperation. He drove back down the mountain bringing hope in the form of water. I shakily filled my bottles and said little. Oddly, Kirk didn’t say much either and did not chide me in his usual fashion – I think he could hear the urgency in my voice when I called and when he arrived, merely asked, “how’s it going, pal?” and handed me the water. After some huge gulping swallows, tears came streaming out of my eyes as sweat suddenly came out of all my pores and I shined from head to toe. “I’m not crying,” I assured him. Those were old tears anyway.

I resumed the climb and a relatively short while later made the top of the real pass where a restaurant and bar, scenic overlook, and garbage dump awaited my senses. I stopped in this nether region between worlds: the hot dry cruel mountain was now all below me to the left, and to the right the towering cypresses, gurgling streams, wet foliage, and dappled meadows of the river valley.

the "real" top - complete with a buried bunker and a garbage dump

I bought and drank a Coke, and looked into the gap in the mountains that would take me down towards Vlora, its beaches and hotels and, at the end, a great friend and as much fresh seafood and pizza as I could possibly eat. Several of our protective Albanian friends had suggested that this ride was impossible and I had scoffed at their disbelief – it was only 130 kilometers (and, I still had 50 kilometers yet to go) but times and distances are different in Albania – this time they were almost right. I had climbed 8300 feet today, burning 6300 calories.

I turned my back and prepared to depart the source of my suffering – the hot stone cliff cut with the switchbacks of my pain. The sweet brown fizz of the Coke having tackled, for the moment, the residual taste of Paçe, I again mounted my bike and began to coast downhill, then quickly gained speed as the descent began in earnest.

In the 2000’s Albania has moved into fast forward – copying western fashion in dress (if not in behavior), music, and a desire for coolness demonstrated that even in one of the poorest countries in Europe, Mercedes are the choice of vehicle by 80% of the population. Some suggest these are stolen vehicles brought over in the black market - but regardless, more than every other car is a Mercedes.

Everywhere there is construction and the associated destruction. Roads that were once donkey trails now find themselves hosting these Mercedes racing each other four abreast while the drivers smile at the sheer joy of driving. Everything is new territory, and expertise in basic infrastructure, sustainable development, safety practices and zoning laws are completely missing. The country is speeding to catch up and at the same time putting its environment and culture at risk. Still, it is a heady energy this new freedom, and behind it all the ever brightening color of hope.

The high speed route down to Vlora

The route forward for me was lost in the shadows of the trees and the roads were damp and slick and there were no guardrails – I had to ride the brakes to maintain some semblance of control. I had no fear though – instead a real, sustained and tangible flush of joy thrilled through me and I noticed everything – the smell of the jasmine when passing a garden trellis, the aqua water and taupe limestone of a crystal clear mountain stream, the braying of a donkey stamping his feet as he prepared for another trip. In the distance a shirtless man cleared a field of fragrant hay against a backdrop of the gigantic mountain I had just climbed using only a scythe. I slowed to watch his strokes and found in his rhythm an echo of my climb up the mountain.

Clearing a field - the hard way

Clearing a field the hard way - 2

The wondrous scale and golden colors of the evening found me yet again feeling different. With the final release of the compression came a new expansion – I felt open, observant, ready for what, I didn’t know.

Eventually I broke free of the forest entirely and the road leveled off and I began re-entering civilization, coming upon the first of several unmarked intersections – the first choice of road I had had since leaving Saranda 7 hours previously. I had flown down the mountain on eagles wings, red blood re-circulating, taking more risks than I should have, passing several cars that, upon glancing back, were still well out of sight. It wasn’t courage and it wasn’t flight though it had elements of both. To my right was the most beautiful sea I had ever seen - it was though you could see right through it all the way to far side...

Mostly it was a rush to an imagined future: a destination of promise, of beauty, of hope like an amber jewel hanging over an emerald sea.

Arrival in Vlore - the emerald sea

As I entered yet another unmarked intersection full of the rubble of construction, I didn’t really know the way but I was too exhausted to slow down – I just picked a road that that seemed to be in the right direction and followed it at high speed, smiling.


After a maniacal drive back to Tirana on the fourth day I found myself sitting across a large wooden table from Stavri Bello, the secretary general of the Albanian Olympic Committee, who, at 58 exuded the happy boyish energy of a 20 year old. “Forty years I spend under the old regime – can you believe it – at age 14 I see my very first TV – black and white only – now my son has a color TV in his room.”

Stavri Bello - General Secretary of the Albanian Olympic Committee

“At age 40,” he continued, “I learn to drive for first time!” His smile was infectious, “even if 24 hours a day I cannot develop this skill at driving, so for me it is very nervous.

Albania's first winter Olympic Athlete - a delegation of one (1) in Torino

During our visit, Stavri had showed me the 2008 budget for the Albanian Olympic committee. Funded mostly by the International Olympic Committee, the budget included 21 projects, 6 full time staff, the rent and overhead for the office, also coaches, equipment, and travel. “2008 was an Olympic year – 20% more than normal” Stavri grinned happily.

Albanian Olympic Committee headquarters

The total budget for 2008?

38 million Leke – approximately $380,000 US dollars.

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Our hour was up and we began to make our goodbyes – “Falamendert – Mira Popfsh – Mira Popsch.”

His mood suddenly darkened, “Why is it not more time – to prepare – to talk – where do you go? Where do you stay? Where do you eat? We should be having dinner and talking much more – learn about each other…” His protective hospitality was coming out but he suddenly relaxed when we indicated we would return next year. He shook his head with the negative – no wait – in the positive. “Next year I show you Tirana and make you my guest."

I shook my head left to right.

"Po, po.”

Yes, yes…

The Bay of Vlora

Tour of Albania #6: Switchback Four - Yo and Po

"At villages in the north, the following exchange was customary:"
Peasant: "Welcome to our home and share with us what God has willed us"
C: "God help you, and as they say, may your chimney be higher"
P: "Have you been able?"
C: "Little by slowly"
Switchback 4: Yo and Po

A green wave of nausea washed through my system and my stomach started to rumble like a clothes dryer containing a single wet towel. All desire and energy was draining away -  I just wanted to stop and lie down – but the mountain loomed relentlessly - filling my view with its brooding presence.

I had finished the third death march into the sky and made the next arbitrary 180 degree-degree cut into the mountain. I was out of water, so I moved over into the mottled shade of the left lane which was both cooling, yet somehow depressing. I missed the view. 

preparing for switchback 4

into the shade...


Usually, when one travels to a foreign country, there are found in those first moments and hours a kind of dissonance that creates a subtle sort of fear – odd smells, different light,  harsh or melancholy sounds, guttural or sibilant languages and impenetrable menus. Inevitably though, there is a natural dampening of the emotional pendulum as the culture shock and associated foreboding is calmed, slowly and simply, by simple human touches that need no translation – the smile from a waiter, a wave from a child, or, sitting on a terrace for coffee in the morning, watching a strangely dressed man unfold an untranslatable foreign newspaper, using a set of common gestures and movements exactly identical from Morocco to Memphis.

Eventually the contrasts and dissonance resolve themselves into a slightly extended palette of the human condition – a smile is a smile after all – and we smugly consider ourselves wiser and even more ‘well traveled.’Not so in Albania – in fact the original ‘travelers dissonance’ I experienced driving into Tirana that first day only continued to increase. The inhuman elements continued to play havoc with my emotions – the burning garbage, communist memorials, dead animals, and sheep’s brain playing their notes, but the human dramas playing out were also a bit too loud, too garish to soften the contrasts. Like a child on a swing, I was being pushed and pulled, light and dark, life and death, left and right, switchback after switchback. Significant amongst these cultural contributors were the confusing non-verbal cues inherent to Albanians and their language.


On the third day, while still in Korça, Kirk and I made our breakthrough appearance on Albanian TV for an interview with a local broadcasting personality. What might have been an easy Q&A exercise quickly became logistically complicated because our host did not speak English and we did not have a translator.

 ready for the big show            Kirk looking dapper in his 4th day in those clothes


Ready for the world's most confusing interview...

  That didn’t stop the interview - the tricky part was to coordinate a series of pre-set questions that the host would ask in Albanian (that we would not understand) that we would answer in English (that she would not understand) with the idea that it all would eventually be translated into subtitles for the broadcast (so that everyone could understand.) The risk was that we might answer the wrong question, or as it actually transpired, that our host wouldn’t necessarily know when we were done answering her questions. During the 20 minute “interview” Kirk and I both found repeatedly that our host prematurely transitioned to the next question  – even as we were in the middle of the previous answer. It was done with complete confidence… as if something about our body language had signaled that we had completed our thoughts..

As it turns out – that is most likely exactly what had happened – unknowingly Kirk and I were probably signaling that we were concluding even as we were really intending to make another point. Even Albanian body language requires a translator: to illustrate let me provide an example:

If, after nearly retching on that Friday morning after my first bite of sheep’s brain, an Albanian had asked me if I liked the horrible Paçe I had just swallowed, the correct answer would have been for me to gently nod my head up and down and say “Yo.”

And, of course, in the usual riddle of all things Albanian, that gentle nodding “Yo” actually translates exactly to an emphatic “No.” (To say yes, you shake your head side to side and say, “Po”…) Try this – it is nearly impossible to do on purpose…

The confusion of language aside, it is actually a rarity to hear these words: Albanians, as a rule, prefer not to give yes or no answers and in fact they prefer not to answer certain questions at all. Gregarious to a fault with regards to hospitality and being welcoming to strangers and asking kind questions, any turn of the conversation toward the personal becomes an elegant orchestration and demonstration of the latin “non sequitur”.

Question: “Hello – A flisni Anglasht?” (Do you speak English?) Said to a man on the street in Erseka.

Answer: (He shakes his head like he’s saying no) “Po.” (he translates) “Yes!”

Question: “Yes? Great, say, I’m trying to find a certain restaurant…its called…”

Answer: “Where are you from? What brings you to Albania? What do you like here? What don’t you like about Albania? Why don’t you just follow me? – I’ll show you a great restaurant – everything you want. Please, you must take care of the roads – Albania roads very bad. Make sure you watch out for the bridge – is very narrow. What do you like to eat? I make sure you have a great meal.”

An hour later, after finishing our repast, our new “host” is still there, talking with the restaurant owner with all heads occasionally turning our way. They are talking about us. He returns and we ask another question:

Question: “So, thanks for taking us to this restaurant and making sure we and ordered the right things and liked the food.” (And watching us eat). “Where do you live? Here in Erseka?”

Answer: “Albania city not like USA no? I have cousin who live there – in New York – you know it?”

Non sequiturs tend to follow any personal inquiry – no matter the format - email, phone, or in person and it can be infuriating. (Nensi was the rare exception to this rule.) There are two variations: the first is to answer a different question than asked, the second and frankly the more infuriating is the tendency to skip the question entirely (this takes place in email as the default – in order to do research to complete these posts, I had to start numbering my questions in email and to specifically request that my correspondents actually answer the numbered questions.)

It is easy to assume this is another outcome of the communist era, the secret police and sigurami (informers) creating the need to dance around all things personal. However the voice of an analytical co-worker (Torg) suddenly speaks in my head, reminding me not to confuse correlation with causality – it is quite possible that some or many of these cultural phenomenon pre-existed before communism, providing fertile ground for that choking transplant to take root.

After the TV interview, on the 3rd day of my five day cycling trip to Albania, I finally mounted my bike for a real ride – 60K uphill to Erseka – through the mountain valley and up into the highlands. Kirk followed me out of town in the car and then sped on ahead.


For the next 3 hours I was in cycling fantasy land – untrammeled roads, snow capped mountain backdrops, twisty climbs and speedy downhills, peasants, donkeys and fields plowed by horses or mules and harvested by hand with scythes. I worked hard on the climbs and raced down the downhills, taking pictures as I went. Near the top of the climb out of the valley I watched a man traveling a trail with snow covered mountains in the distance, his horse laden with his belongings – no different than 500, 1000, 2000 years ago. I felt incredibly lucky to be able to see into the past like this and wondered how quickly this would all change.

traveling - the old way...


Joy on a bike

Eventually I made it into Erseka and met Kirk for the “hosted” lunch referenced above. We then piled into the car for a 4 ½ hour drive to Saranda via Permeti and Tepalane – forested mountain slopes, dramatic snow covered mountain passes, and light blue rivers. It was stunning scenery and worth much more time – but we did not want to be on the roads after dark (so we were told), so we sped ahead. There was no traffic, and really, no other roads to get lost on except one turn in Leskoviku, so it seems we could have driven this in the dark. Still, we were glad to pull into the brightly lit crescent of the Albanian vacation resort of Saranda just after sunset, the sky still glowing over the azure waters of the bay.


bunker and poppies


And always, bunkers...

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Our newest "hosts".

He ran us almost 1km back to our turn - a young "host"

Man in Permeti

taxi and dry cleaners...

fellow traveler

clear streams

the hardest workers...

Mountain gas station


light blue mountain streams

rope bridge

stylish in all settings...

before the semi truck...



Switchback four continued its steep incline and the shade was not helping much so I moved back out into my lane by the crest of the road, the entire world now below me. Dangling 2500 vertical feet straight up over the sea, I could see the variegated edges of the coastline increasing in intricacy and reducing in amplitude the farther I looked, the glowing white beaches and emerald waters of the Ionian sea stretching all the way back to Saranda. The colors were so brilliant it looked fake - like those contours drawn and colored on a map. I was hurting, I was suffering, I was in love with the light and the air and the heights.

the coastline and switchbacks 1 and 2

The light was entering that magical prismatic angle into the sea where it was bending and then returning up into my own blue-green irises with a deeper richer color, stirring those first feelings of joy as I neared the top. I knew now I that I would make it. The light was so pretty and bright it hurt, but I still took off my glasses on intervals to take it all in.

the zoom from above...

I began to feel like I had earned it – this view, this feeling, and the coming dinner conjured from the sea when I could finally coast into Vlore. Still, the nausea was still there, and something small and still spoke its concern to me as I focused on finishing this 4th switchback.

Switchbacks 1, 2 & 3 - higher and higher...