Well, thinking of five famous Albanians is harder than thinking of five famous Belgians: Mother Theresa of course, King Zog (and Mrs Zog?), Herr Hoxha, the capo dei capi of communisti till he died in 1985, Ali Pasha, and, of course, Norman Wisdom (well, he’s not actually Albanian but he’s very popular with the locals apparently. Now I have set foot on Albanian soil, I can see why they need a laugh.
Anyway, having now covered Andorra to Zimbabwe, it was time to start over with the As, hence Albania. The frontier in the south of Albania/north of Greece was indeed a desolate spot. Pre-warned that the loos had not been cleaned since the country opened up to foreigners in the 1980s, we hung on for during the usual formalities: passport number, DOB, eye colour. Eye colour? Tough if you have different colour eyes or colour contact lenses you forgot to change over that morning. The usual chaos was made worse by the fact that the brand-new purpose-built building was not yet in use and fenced off so that cars were forced into a rocky side road with no passing room.
So far so good.
And off then to Butrint, one of the three UNESCO World Heritage Sites in the country, an impressive collection of antiquities from before Christ, Byzantine, Turkish and Roman times (it was a Roman settlement under Caesar Augustus, established after the battle of Actium in 31BC nearby where Mark Anthony and Cleo P were defeated) still standing and occasionally revealing age-old mosaics in incredible condition, largely protected from earthquakes in 400 BC and 1100 AD. Another one due?
Well, that was really the highlight as we headed north through treeless mountainous landscapes filled with huge lemon tree orchards in the valleys in order to reach Sarande, the Albanian answer to the French Riviera, or so the sales blurb has it. Maybe, but not in my lifetime and I plan a long life. Basically, a massive building site, new flats all the way up the hill, mostly half-finished and soulless.
One of the newer hotels has a sign offering among other facilities a ‘swimming poo’. Having looked at it, I could make a claim of misrepresentation, but I thought of taking the sign back to the border guards for their loos, but somehow, I don’t think they have the necessary sense of humour. After all, who laughs at Norman Wisdom these days?
Perhaps this is why twenty percent of the population has emigrated since 1980 to look for a better life, but who knows, maybe one day it will take over from the Spanish Costas as the holiday destination of choice, or from Greece if it explodes; no sign of that here where life seems to go on regardless.
Parting shot: as you enter the desolate no man’s land between the two countries, up pops a fully-stocked duty-free shop (remember them?) stocked with an amazing range of out of date perfumes, fags and top of the range whiskies stacked in a standalone nissen-hut with full aircon, the lot. Amazing.