Albania, a developing nation that continues to emerge from a brutal 45-year dictatorship that only ended in 1991; its infrastructure isn’t quite on the level of Western Europe. - Lonely Planet
***
Mad taxi-driver
In his travel wisdom, N. had prearranged a taxi pickup from the airport to our hotel in Albania’s capital city, Tirana.
Familiar with the Three Stooges of long-ago fame? One -- the dark mophead with the bowl haircut -- was our Albanian taxi-driver. While driving, he constantly cleared his throat, finger-combed his straight black hair while weaving his/our taxi through tight spaces, narrowly missing potholes. And constantly mumbled to himself.
As we sped into Tirana, he stopped briefly behind a long line of stopped cars. Then, snorting, he abruptly turned around. Unable to communicate, we translated his waving arms and piggy noises to mean he couldn’t get through the traffic to get to the city, so he was detouring on another route.
***
Mad taxi-driver
In his travel wisdom, N. had prearranged a taxi pickup from the airport to our hotel in Albania’s capital city, Tirana.
Familiar with the Three Stooges of long-ago fame? One -- the dark mophead with the bowl haircut -- was our Albanian taxi-driver. While driving, he constantly cleared his throat, finger-combed his straight black hair while weaving his/our taxi through tight spaces, narrowly missing potholes. And constantly mumbled to himself.
As we sped into Tirana, he stopped briefly behind a long line of stopped cars. Then, snorting, he abruptly turned around. Unable to communicate, we translated his waving arms and piggy noises to mean he couldn’t get through the traffic to get to the city, so he was detouring on another route.
AI generated For all we knew, he could have been driving us to Hell.
Finally, we began to see houses, people, then more: streets, businesses, and eventually what must have been the edges of Tirana. It seemed forever to get around this city of 536,000…especially while scanning the names of hotels we passed to see if we could identify our three-star destination. And help out our mop-haired, throat-clearing driver.
I was beginning to doubt his prowess.
Then…Yes! There it was. On our right. Our crazy driver pointed excitedly, then turned with a jerk onto a one-way street, drove a block before he realized it was too complicated to come round in front of the hotel again, so stopped. On this narrow street of heaving bricks crowded with parked vehicles, he indicated we better get out now.
Finally, we began to see houses, people, then more: streets, businesses, and eventually what must have been the edges of Tirana. It seemed forever to get around this city of 536,000…especially while scanning the names of hotels we passed to see if we could identify our three-star destination. And help out our mop-haired, throat-clearing driver.
I was beginning to doubt his prowess.
Then…Yes! There it was. On our right. Our crazy driver pointed excitedly, then turned with a jerk onto a one-way street, drove a block before he realized it was too complicated to come round in front of the hotel again, so stopped. On this narrow street of heaving bricks crowded with parked vehicles, he indicated we better get out now.
Thus, goodbye to our mop-haired, throat clearing, crazy taxi driver. Hello to self-service. We picked up our luggage and dragged it down the lop-sided thoroughfare to the hotel entrance
***
Washrooms
The bus driver honked his horn: his signal for passengers to reboard the bus after a rest stop along the Albanian highway.
“Wait!” N yelled in English from behind him. “My wife’s not back yet!”
Indeed. In a strange country with strange customs and a strange language, I was hovering in a near-dark toilet (tualet) trying to figure out how to use the damn thing. Silly me, I had politely ushered other female bus companions ahead of me because the room was dark, the stalls darker still, and I wasn’t sure what was what and where it was. All I knew was I had to relieve myself or risk an uncomfortable wet seat on the bus. Plus, I was terrified to lock the door since darkness prevented me from seeing how to release the lock.
When I finally emerged and groped my way to the entrance to reboard the bus, the driver looked at me with exasperation.
***
Washrooms
The bus driver honked his horn: his signal for passengers to reboard the bus after a rest stop along the Albanian highway.
“Wait!” N yelled in English from behind him. “My wife’s not back yet!”
Indeed. In a strange country with strange customs and a strange language, I was hovering in a near-dark toilet (tualet) trying to figure out how to use the damn thing. Silly me, I had politely ushered other female bus companions ahead of me because the room was dark, the stalls darker still, and I wasn’t sure what was what and where it was. All I knew was I had to relieve myself or risk an uncomfortable wet seat on the bus. Plus, I was terrified to lock the door since darkness prevented me from seeing how to release the lock.
When I finally emerged and groped my way to the entrance to reboard the bus, the driver looked at me with exasperation.
***
Drug Drop?
We are on this highway bus enroute to the southern Albanian port city of Saranda, five hours away. The terrain through the mountains is breathtaking.
Sitting just ahead of us, but directly behind the driver, is a lone, black-jacketed traveler: balding, dark-glasses, big-time cellphone user. A non-descript package sits beside him. It’s not too big. Not too small. Our traveler never lets it out of his sight.
As the bus driver heads into the mountains, the stranger constantly receives and sends cellphone messages.
Halfway through the steep hills, our driver makes an unscheduled, unannounced, but obviously planned, stop. There, tucked on a plateau area, sits a small restaurant.
Our driver opens the front door.
Our lone passenger quickly grabs his package, scrambles off the bus.
In the space of a minute, he jumps back on after we watch him pass off his mysterious package to a lone receiver waiting at the restaurant in these mountains. At this very moment. No words exchanged.
The bus driver merges back into the mountainous terrain once our mysterious passenger is re-seated. And using his cellphone again.
Did we just witness some illicit activity?
Or…is it all the result of a vivid imagination and a travel weary mind?!
We are on this highway bus enroute to the southern Albanian port city of Saranda, five hours away. The terrain through the mountains is breathtaking.
Sitting just ahead of us, but directly behind the driver, is a lone, black-jacketed traveler: balding, dark-glasses, big-time cellphone user. A non-descript package sits beside him. It’s not too big. Not too small. Our traveler never lets it out of his sight.
As the bus driver heads into the mountains, the stranger constantly receives and sends cellphone messages.
Halfway through the steep hills, our driver makes an unscheduled, unannounced, but obviously planned, stop. There, tucked on a plateau area, sits a small restaurant.
Our driver opens the front door.
Our lone passenger quickly grabs his package, scrambles off the bus.
In the space of a minute, he jumps back on after we watch him pass off his mysterious package to a lone receiver waiting at the restaurant in these mountains. At this very moment. No words exchanged.
The bus driver merges back into the mountainous terrain once our mysterious passenger is re-seated. And using his cellphone again.
Did we just witness some illicit activity?
Or…is it all the result of a vivid imagination and a travel weary mind?!
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