Mali Bukaniku

This past weekend I went with the High Albania group to climb Mount Bukaniku (around 1800 meters). The peak looked to be a relatively straightforward ascent, especially since we were starting from 900 m. Well, it probably is straightforward in the summer, but as it turns out there's a lot of snow there in January. In the end, it took us six hours, with around two of those hours spent post holing up a steep slope through breakable crust on top of sugar snow, sinking in up to mid-thigh (or above) with every step.

Now this is interesting because (as my loving spouse will tell you), I normally eschew post holing. In fact, my standard reaction to the least little bit of post holing is immediately to start sniveling about being wet and cold, followed by didactic discourses along the lines of "since I'm so much shorter the snow is proportionally deeper for me making it much harder for me than everyone else" etc etc etc.

Enjoying the novelty of deep snow

But I didn't snivel this time. Instead, I broke trail. Partly I did it for the warmth generated by the extra exertion (since I didn't really bring much in the way of winter hiking gear); but mostly I felt honor-bound, as the one with the most winter training and experience, to lead. I noticed that only a few of the Albanians had technical clothing (one young man actually came the whole way in what appeared to be leather street shoes and dress socks). I don't think many of them had experienced these types of snow conditions before. And I know the steepness and the post holing wore them out long before we reached the summit.

Yet, wet, cold and tired, they laughed and joked all the way to the top. There was no complaining, and certainly no sniveling. They never thought of turning back. In short, they embraced the experience.

The group's enthusiasm certainly transformed my reaction. It's so important and yet I am prone to forget - attitude is everything. I shouldn't need to travel halfway around the world to remember that simple truth; yet sometimes stripping away the familiar and routine is exactly what we need to remind us about what's important in life.

The summit at last!

Tirana Hash

Hashy terrain

The Hash House Harriers is a worldwide organization with historical roots deep in the British colonial era. Today, HHH describes itself  as "a drinking club with a running problem." With a motto like that how could it not be popular?

One can find a hash in just about every good-sized city in the world. So of course one of the first things I did upon arriving here was to find the Tirana Hash. It took me two tries to locate the unmarked cafe that serves as the meeting place on Saturday mornings, but when I finally did I was warmly welcomed. That's the beauty of Hash - you go to a foreign city, walk up to a group of complete strangers and are immediately treated as a member of their club.

All hashes share a few characteristics: socializing, some amount of walking or running through the countryside, singing of irreverent (and often risque) songs, and drinking beer in a circle to conclude the outing.

Drinking beer in the circle

Also, silliness usually is encouraged and competition is discouraged at most hashes.

What else? Well, the idea is the group goes together to a (hopefully) previously planned starting place. Then, everyone walks or runs a route that is marked by the leader (the "hare") in some way for all to follow (we mark ours with white flour).

The group spreads out on a recent hash

The rest of the pack (the hounds) then tries  to catch the hare. To make it more fun, the hare is allowed (even encouraged) to leave false trails and other tricks that cause the hounds to follow dead ends and waste time so everyone ends up at the finish roughly at the same time. After everyone is in, the group gathers in a circle and the "officials" lead the group in the singing of songs, the punishing of "sinners" (each of whom must drink down a cup of beer or else pour it on his head), and whatever other sophomoric notions come to mind.

But all hashes are slightly different. Both hashes with which I'm familiar (here and in Ulanbaatar) are more on the "relaxed" side of things. We sing the songs, drink the beer, encourage the silliness, and do the socializing; however the planning of the weekly outings is kept to a bare minimum. So we don't really pursue the hare; actually no one really even runs at all. And there are no false trails or tricks (although on a recent outing three of us did have to go back and fetch an ambassador who was having trouble negotiating a slippery downhill).

Encouraging of silliness

Also, we don't really have enough people to scout out good routes or mark trails in advance. We've been relying lately on the Vicar and Tokyo Joe (assigning of nicknames is another hashy tradition), and they've been turning in strong performances. On the days when no one's had time to plan, we just make up a destination right on the spot.

Even without a lot of organization, it's a great way to meet interesting people and see the countryside.

Kruje hash

The songs I could do without, as only a 12-year-old boy could find them amusing. But on the other hand, listening to those songs is what makes chugging beer at noon seem like a good idea (the more buzzed I am, the less offensive they seem). So it all comes together in a kind of hashy gestalt, and a good time is had by all.

Mali Gamtit

Mali Dajti near Tirana

They were a little spooked when I came by

 I'm still trying as often as possible to get out on the weekends and enjoy the Albanian countryside. Escaping the sprawl of the city is not as easy as I had hoped it might be, even though Tirana sits a mere 10-15 kilometers away from any number of lovely peaks. But as I mentioned in an earlier post, hiking as we in Alaska think of it is virtually unknown here.

For example, on a recent outing our group passed a couple of farmers working in their field. As soon as he saw us, one of them jumped up, came over and started giving us directions to the nearest road. When we explained that we weren't looking for the road, he was genuinely puzzled. One of the Albanians in our group gamely tried to explain ("We just enjoy walking around in nature") but he clearly thought we were nuts.

 On another outing in which I was solo, I came upon a shepherdess tending her flock. My limited vocabulary made conversation difficult; but one thing she said was clear even to me: "Why on earth did you come here on foot - don't you have a car?".  I had no better answer than my friend had given that poor farmer.




That's why it is especially fun to meet Albanians who like to hike in the mountains. I went with just such a group this past weekend to climb Mali Gamtit.

Reservoir

About 20 of us gathered at 9 am to drive 30 minutes or so to the base of the peak, located near the reservoir that supplies drinking water for Tirana. 

Resting on the way up

It was an interesting group. Some clearly had done this kind of thing before, while others seemed to have little idea of what was involved - namely about 900 meters of elevation gain.

No matter. One thing I have learned about Albanians is that they are highly social and very good at managing groups. We eventually separated ourselves into a variety of sub-groups. Some went to the top, others stopped halfway, and still others barely made it past the first steep uphill. This seemed perfectly natural to everyone, and it seemed to work just fine.

Looking down on the reservoir

It was a lovely day, so the ones who stopped short of the top found sunny spots in which to wait for the others.

The views were fine - we could see the ocean and the port city of Durres in the distance.

Here are a few photos of the views on the way up and from the summit.

Full moon rising

Tired but happy at the end of the day

Gjeldeti

Albanian Turkey—A Model for American Thanksgiving

(A guest post by Thomas, visiting from Alaska)

Between Christmas and New Years, Susanne and I took an overnight trip to Berat, Albania’s oldest community. Berat is an inhabited citadel with terraced slopes, and narrow, cobblestone streets bordered by fifteen-foot-high walls. To walk these ancient streets, white-washed and maze-like, is transforming. Two thousand four-hundred years of history boggles this Alaskan’s mind, whose hometown has yet to celebrate its one-hundredth birthday. At the top of a 700 foot climb lies the main entrance to the fortified portion of Berat, which once protected a thriving urban center and 42 churches within its walls, but now lies in partial ruin from repeated attacks, including a German bombing during WWII. But this blog is not about Berat, or Balkan history. Susanne can blog on that later. This post is about turkey. Specifically, the turkey we ate in a tiny family run café within Berat’s massive stone walls.

Turkey, it turns out, is a New Year’s tradition in Albania. Although we may have missed our own traditional turkey feast at Christmas, we indulged ten-fold and a few days late in Berat.
Albanian turkey is oven roasted and served on a generous bed of dressing made from homemade bread, turkey drippings and giblets. Side dishes such as mixed salad, roasted vegetables, and traditional byrek, a cheese filled pastry, fight for space on the table. At times it’s hard to find a spot to wedge a glass of wine between all the platters. The volume of food is so generous, the flavors so robust, that the absence of central heating inside the ancient stone house goes nearly unnoticed. (The owner did remove the five gallon jug of home-pressed olive oil from atop a kerosene heater and moved the heater next to our table.)

Doomed....

Despite a wide variety of tasty foods, the turkey tantalized most. It was rich and moist and tasted like turkey, not like a frozen, leathery Butter Ball raised in a warehouse, slaughtered months earlier, and injected with saline to enhance weight and juiciness. How fresh is Albanian, free-range turkey? Well, as rich forkfuls of dark meat melted on our palates, the owner walked through the café to rinse his bloody knife.

We’d heard turkey gobbles in the background, as common as braying donkeys in Greece or angry car horns in Tirana. Upon seeing the knife, however, we recalled hearing one foreshortened gobble, which normally occur in threes.

This time of year, turkey transactions occur on nearly every street corner. Albanians carry their live purchases home, upside down by the legs, the same way American shoppers sling Fred Meyer bags of groceries to their cars.

Toting home dinner

Cash & Carry

In Berat, dark feathers cover white-washed streets, a negative of a fresh winter dusting. Dark pools of blood dry on stone stoops, and an occasional turkey head awaits a lucky dog or cat. While in America, the sight and sound of a turkey slaughter would draw the health inspector and a gaggle of animal rights activists, in Albania, signs of freshly killed turkey convinced me to reach for a third helping. This was real food, healthy food, grown locally and harvested minutes before being consumed. We were eating turkey, Albanian style, the same way it’s been raised and harvested and prepared for 2,400 years.

So why can’t Americans, who love turkey and make it the centerpiece of major holidays, figure out how to put real turkey on their tables? That’s for another blog.

Christmas in Albania

Although I missed family and friends at home, spending the Christmas season away from the US was interesting. I wondered how, or whether, a predominately Muslim country would acknowledge the day. The answer, in hindsight, was obvious.

Cathedral in Korca on Christmas Eve

Albanian Christians (mostly Greek Orthodox), mark the day as most Christian families do, with a special family meal. Those who are observant might also acknowledge the religious aspects of the holiday at church, many attending midnight mass.

St. Nick takes a break from his toils

The non-Christians pretty much ignore the religious part of the holiday and embrace the secular aspects. The shops and streets of Tirana are decked out in Santa Claus displays, scenes of winter wonderlands, and blinking colored lights. In the main square, next to the statute of Albania's national hero Skanderberg, sits a giant fake evergreen tree decorated with lights.

 In short, Christmas unfolded pretty much the way I would expect in a country known for its religious tolerance - everyone did as their beliefs dictated and no one begrudged the others. This live-and-let-live attitude concerning religious practice and belief is, I feel, one of the greatest things about the Albanian worldview.

After so many years of state-sponsored religious persecution, the Albanian people truly understand the importance of separating church and state. People are happy to practice their own religion privately and happy to let others do the same.















Over Christmas weekend, Thomas and I visited the town of Korca. Korca sits at some elevation, so is colder than Tirana. The week before we arrived, it had snowed. It was nice to see the white snow, although I did get cold. Only two months here and already I'm losing my cold tolerance!

14th century church

Typical Korca streetscape

Note bunkers in background

La Montagne restaurant

At one time, Korca was known as the Paris of Albania. We were charmed by its old stone buildings, including several churches. We also stopped by the brewery where they produce a couple of decent styles of of beer. We had a couple of exceptional meals, including lunch at La Montagne restaurant located outside of town at the top of a hairpin road in the direction of Mborja. In short, a lovely weekend and a white Christmas after all.

Gazuar!

Small chapel at La Montagne

Fish from nearby Lake Ohrid

Birra Korca delivery truck

Guest Post

Here is a guest post from Thomas, who has been visiting over his winter break. - Susanne

 

Body Language—When No Really Does Mean Yes

Not possessing the gift for languages Susanne does, I devise my own communication methods when traveling abroad. The easiest and most effective means is to use Susanne as my guide. As we interact with Albanian farmers and shopkeepers, I grin stupidly while Susanne threads phrases and sentences together like fine Balkan lace. But with Susanne working as a consultant to the Albanian court system, I’m on my own during the day. I must develop other techniques to straddle the language barrier.

Locals give Susanne directions

Most often, pointing works. Or holding up fingers. Sometimes, I rely on my bilingual talent and take my rusted-out high school French for a test drive on the off chance an Albanian will  recognize it. Sometimes a strange, guttural sound emerges from deep within that means nothing to anyone in the conversation, but it somehow produces the desired result. Strangely, while ordering a kafe macchiato, I was flattered to be identified as Italiano. It must have been my accent. To purchase roasted chestnuts or oranges from sidewalk vendors, I simply hold out a handful of change and have them pick out the proper amount. (Such trust is one of the many beautiful aspects of Albanian culture, where no one negotiates price, and where honesty prevails in retail transactions.) To catch the correct furgon or minibus, I memorize the town we’ve planned all week to visit, then panic when I reverse letters and the driver gives me an amused look. To find my way back to familiar territory, I call Susanne at work.

But in defense of my linguistic lameness, Albanian is a challenging Indo-European language unique to the Balkans and on par with Finnish, Mongolian and Hungarian in its difficulty to learn. So I’m told, anyway. I am told that Albanian has nine “moods” for a single verb, including “admirative” and “operative,” which don’t exist in English. But never mind verbs. Just tackling please and thank you involves wrapping the tongue around four- and five-syllable words, with dipthongs that tumble like gravel in the throat. Not only does Albanian have northern and southern dialects, it also contains smatterings of Greek, Latin, Turkish and Slavik borrowed from its neighbors and occupiers throughout history. No wonder I struggle more than usual with basic greetings and numbers.

One aspect of the language that adds to the confusion is that, in Albania, yes means no and no means yes. Sort of. For starters, Po, which sounds like no, means yes, and Yo, which resembles the affirmative, means no. Difficult at first, but after a couple of days and more than a couple of missteps, even I learned yes and no in Albanian. And there was always the universal head nod to fall back on to clarify any misunderstanding. Easy enough, Po? Or rather, Yo!

Just when I felt I’d made tangible progress, I discovered nonverbal cues are not to be relied upon. Head movements that accompany yes and no in most other languages mean the opposite in Albanian. Albanian people shake their head side-to-side to mean yes, and nod their head up and down to mean no.  That explains why, after I confirmed my capuccino order with an attentive barrista, I received an espresso instead. Why a second carafe of raki and shot glasses appeared when I was already pleasantly intoxicated and ready to pay the bill. It also explains why the produce vendor indicated he had no cabbage as I admired a half dozen, dense, shiny heads that I could only conclude were reserved for some future customer.

I never realized how inherent head gestures are to communication until I tried to reverse my own. Shaking my head back and forth as I say yes feels as awkward as signing my name, left-handed, with a crayon. At times, my  attempts at Albanian head motions are so subtle, they go undetected. Other times, I overcompensate, with my head movements vigorous and circular, like a wet dog shaking itself. Finally, I resolve to hold my head neutral and stationary. I find this equally clumsy, even impossible, and as unnatural as running with my arms plastered to my sides.

Until now, I’ve relied on gestures and facial expressions (and Susanne) to overcome my language deficiencies. Not so in Albania, where nonverbal language is a duplicitous friend who purchases twice the number of persimmons requested, who waves off the summoned taxi, and who transforms a pleasant buzz into whirling intoxication. Fortunately, Albanian people are patient, good-natured and forgiving. Still, before pursuing business or romance in Albania, it’s best to practice some neck exercises in front of the mirror. And remember, no means yes.

The (In)famous Albanian Bunkers

One of the first things any newcomer to Albania notices is the weird concrete domes sticking up like grey mushrooms all over the landscape. They are defensive bunkers built of concrete and steel, buried half underground to withstand tank assaults. And they are literally everywhere.

Bunker at Mt. Dajti

Where did they come from and why were they built? They were Enver Hozha's paranoid project, and he forced his people to build over 700,000 of them.

In daily life, the bunkers are so ubiquitous that their novelty wears off within a week or two. Now, every time I come across one I have to remind myself that they are indeed bizarre structures.

Here is a link to an excellent 5 minute movie trailer about the bunkers:  http://blog.concrete-mushrooms.com/?page_id=130.  Created as a master's project by two Albanian graduate students studying landscape design in Italy, it's worth a watch. The archival video from one of Enver Hoxha's nationalistic speeches is quite chilling.

A bit creepy....

For myself, I find it easy to laugh at the little domes sticking up out of the open fields or parks. On the other hand, suddenly coming across a pod of them secreted in the woods is a bit creepy.

What must it have been like to live in a society where your leader repeatedly warned you that foreign attack was likely and imminent? Did people believe it or were they skeptical? I'd like to imagine that I would have been skeptical (as I was when our leader repeatedly warned us about weapons of mass destruction). But to be honest I don't know that the two situations are comparable. In the US, we have a free press and opposing political parties, which the Albanian people did not have at that time. Also we can travel freely and therefore often can see for ourselves whether what we've been told comports to reality on the ground.

Right in the middle of Tirana

In any event, it's clear that these bunkers aren't going away. They stand as a reminder - welcome or not - of a strange historical era.