Cycling in Albania, part 2: Vjosa, the Pindus mountains and Korce

Permet and Vjosa River

Every bit of my legs felt like a heavy rock fell on them. Even getting out of the tent was a challenge. I cursed when I realised I didn’t have anything for breakfast and the nearest shop was three kilometres away.

The owner of my campsite, Dona, saved me by offering me white cheese, boiled eggs and fresh goat butter. The day was young, but the sun was already scorching, so I had to eat fast before the butter melted. Its taste was strong, unlike any butter I had eaten before.

Read also the first part of my stories from Albania, from Durres to Permet and my bike touring guide to Albania.

It was supposed to be the last day with summer weather before rain and snow loomed over Nemërçka mountains. Originally, I planned to cycle for one more day and then take a proper break, using the cold and wet weather to catch up with work and admin. 

But not only were my tired muscles not keen on cycling again. My heart, or my brain or however you call it, also wanted to stay. 

There are not many people with whom I can swiftly move on from a boring small talk to an inspiring, gratifying conversation. When I come across those unique beings, wired in the same way as I am, even though their life experience is a far cry from mine, I try to keep them in my life for a tiny bit longer. 

Dona was one of them. Although she has never travelled, she was more open-minded and curious about the world than many full-time travellers I’ve met. 

-I could never leave Albania, but running this campsite is like travelling. My guests tell me stories from different places, and conversations with them are like a trip around the world – Dona said. 

On the opposite side of the road, freely flew the river of Vjosa. I heard about it long before I even planned to visit Albania. 

I think it all started when I saw the turquoise Neretva river in Bosnia. I googled the story of all the artificial lakes on its course and fell into the Balkan rivers rabbit hole. In a documentary Undamaged about kayakers trying to save them from destructive dams, I first saw the wild waters of Vjosa. 

I was struck by the sense of solidarity and dedication from the local residents and activists. Something was special about it.

-Vjosa is life – answered Dona when I asked her what that special something was. – When there was no food, you went to Vjosa with a fishing rod, and it gave you food. As kids, we would just bring the tractor tires to the river and use them for rafting. Of course, we didn’t call it rafting at that time.

Europe’s last large wild river was free and uncontrolled, and every spring would change its course. Robert, Dona’s husband and a rafting guide, had to go with friends at the beginning of every season and check what has changed before he could take tourists rafting. 

I chatted with Dona about the river and the Albanian kindness. 

-I think we share because we all know how it is to not have anything – she said. – We know that we have to take care of the weakest. We wouldn’t survive communism otherwise.

Dona has shared with me her dreams of developing the small campsite. It was basic, with solar panels to heat the water and a cute little bar with a guitar on the wall.

-We would like a dining room where people can just have a drink in the evening, maybe play some music and just enjoy. We applied for subsidies to build a kitchen, some proper toilets and showers. But the money always goes to the big hotels, fancy restaurants, those already making big profits.

The ones with big houses build even bigger houses while common people cannot afford a small house. That’s why families live together, with parents, grandparents, cousins, sisters, and brothers. We argue, we don’t have enough space, but we need to live together because we have no choice.

I could spend a whole day chatting with Dona, but she had work to do, and I wanted to see the surroundings. Following her advice, I went to the nearby Benja thermal springs to soothe my sore muscles. While the water in most of the river Lengarica is cold, like most mountain rivers, in some places, the underground sources warm the water up to 30 degrees. 

After a short ride, I arrived at the river. In the small basin, a group of people enjoyed the warm water, hoping the sulfides make their skin smoother and healthier. Down the river, a fuzzy shepherd dog was trying to cool down from the heat while watching his flock of goats crossing the old Ottoman bridge. 

In a fit of social anxiety, I decided to join the dog in the cold water rather than the people in the warm water. It was better for my muscles, anyway. At least Wim Hof would say so. 

Leskovik – Erseke – Korce

The next day, I headed towards Leskovik. For some reason, I was completely unaware that I would have to climb over 1300 metres on the 55 kilometres stretch. 

The twisty road hugged the hillside, taking some steps back and forth toward the Vjosa river. The river did the same, coming closer and backing off in a flirtatious dance until I reached the intersection in Carshove. 

A dark-haired lady shouted welcome from the balcony of a building which was at the same time a cafe, a market and a car wash. Besides this building, the village consisted of a handful of crumbling cottages. 

People say there was once one bunker for every four people in Albania. In the 1970s, after withdrawing from the Warsaw pact and breaking the relationships with USSR and China, Albania was the world’s most isolated country. The communist dictator Enver Hoxha started a project bunkerization of Albania in case of an attack from the USSR or Yugoslavia. 

As a part of the defence strategy, every Albanian had also two years of compulsory military service. 

Was Hoxha genuinely paranoid that an attack was waiting behind every corner, or did he just want to sow fear among the people? This one is not clear. Whatever the actual reason for this ludicrous project was, the bunkers remain a distinctive part of the Albanian landscape. The concrete mushrooms grow everywhere, in backyards, in the middle of pastures, behind hills, and on riversides. 

And as there was one bunker per four citizens in the communist times, capitalist Albania aimed to create at least one car wash per four citizens. They were everywhere. The first word I learned in Albanian after faleminderit – thank you, the second one was lavazh – a car wash. 

Having a clean car seemed a matter of life or death and the necessity to keep one’s social status and esteem. Till 1991, Albanians were not allowed to own a car, so once private vehicles became a thing, they did everything to keep them shiny and clean. 

Which was not an easy task, considering the condition of the roads in rural areas. In these circumstances, lavazh was a perfect business idea, especially since you just needed a hose, a vacuum cleaner and some sort of canopy to open one.

The further I went, the more crumbling the road was. The announced rainfall was still cumulating in the clouds, only occasionally dropping a little shower over my sunburned skin.

I spent two nights in a wooden bungalow in Farma Sotira – a farm in the middle of a pine forest, up in the mountains. Each morning, I was served a big jug of fresh milk, fluffy bread, greasy fried egg, and homemade cheese and marmalade.

Despite the warm and always smiling owners, animals walking around, and absolute peace, I felt isolated and somewhat melancholy. Maybe it was the gloomy weather, maybe exhaustion.

The weather didn’t seem to improve, but I didn’t want to spend another apathetic day. I put on my rain jacket, rain pants and warmer gloves and left towards Korce. 

The aroma of humid moss and pine resin evoked memories of Norway. Suddenly I felt like on the plateaus of Dovrefjell, even though I was more than 3000 kilometres south, right next to the Greek border.

It’s funny how our brains cannot resist this urge to compare places, to look for resemblances. There is always this default place in our mind that we use as a reference when visiting locations that smell the same or have similar topography. For some reason, we have this impulse to say: this reminds me of…

The hamlets along the way seemed forgotten and forsaken. If I hadn’t met some people grazing animals on the pastures, I would have thought all the houses had been empty for ages.

I had to stop regularly and jump around for a few minutes to warm up my feet. It was tempting to call it a day and stop for a night in Erseke, a small town located more than 1000 metres above sea level.

A void building of an abandoned driving school covered with sloppy graffiti didn’t bode well for an entertaining stay. Neither did the brutalist apartment blocks in the centre. Maybe the weather was to blame, but Erseke seemed the most depressing town on earth. And, while I usually love jerkwater towns, I felt, this time, I needed a place more… alive? 

So I kept cycling through the Gramos mountains, which looked like they were just made for camping. In the right weather, of course. 

Korce

With my fingers hurting from the cold, I tried to take out my money and my ID card to check in at the empty hostel in Korce.

-Don’t worry, just take a five-minute break to unfreeze – said the receptionist, putting all the heaters on, so I could tawn.

In the morning, I went to explore Korce. I couldn’t quite explain why but after a few hours of walking around, I felt that the city was many different things at the same time. Simultaneously artsy, modern, old, vibrant, decadent, indigent.

I directed my steps to the Old Bazaar, hoping to find the Ottoman streets, lively shops and a boisterous atmosphere like in bazaars in Skopje or Sarajevo. An old lady tried to sell me a small rug with a typical Albanian pattern, resembling the double-headed eagle from the national flag. 

I mimicked riding a bike and wiping sweat off my forehead to show her I would not be able to carry it with me.

She nodded and smiled, exhibiting the five teeth lonely inhabiting her mouth. 

The bazaar was full of contradictions. Some streets had the old-fashioned charm, and some corners were full of western pubs and cafes that didn’t seem to fit in.

The banners above Bulevard Shen Gjergi wished everyone a good Ramadan and a happy Easter. Located on the crossroads between the Greek Epirus, Macedonia and the rest of the Balkans, Korce has always been multiethnic and multicultural.

During the communist times, religion was suppressed. Many churches were destroyed, and many residences of reach 19th-century traders declined. The Orthodox Cathedral of Saint George was demolished and replaced by a library. The priest who tried to save their treasured icons was arrested and tortured by Sigurimi – the secret police.

I went to see the new cathedral that was built in 1995. The wooden iconostasis was impressive. A woman was walking from one icon to another, stopping next to them, touching them with a hand holding her car keys and kissing reverently. 

The more I walked around, the more I liked Korca’s decadent vibe. Many houses were in decay, with holes in the roofs, or completely collapsed. Some streets looked like after a war. I asked a waitress in a cafe if that was because of an earthquake or something. No, she said. Why? I wanted to know. It’s just like this, she said. 

It reminded me of something I read in “Life is war: Surviving Dictatorship in Communist Albania”. One of the Albanians interviewed by the author, Shannon Woodcock said:

When I was in Sarajevo in 2001 I couldn’t stop crying, even after the war it was better than here.

Mborje

Following my friend’s advice, I went up one of many cobblestone streets towards the villages in the mountains. A big abandoned building with ornate bannisters and two towers surrounded by pines caught my attention. The distinctive style reminded me of the old villas in Sopot, on the Polish coast. A guy in a blue Adidas tracksuit confirmed my suspicion that it was an old sanatorium.

After 15 minutes walk, it felt like the middle of nowhere. Snow still covered the mountains on the other side of the city. By the river, a stray dog was trying to find something to eat in the piles of litter.

-Hello, how are you? – shouted one of three striplings in the tiny village of Mborje. They walked with their shoulders wide, trying to look bigger.

-I am good.

-Give me money!

-I have no money – I said without stopping.

-Are you a pussy? – Shouted the biggest boy of the trio, proudly looking at his companions who accompanied him with a chortle.

On the side of the road, I noticed a little old church. Three older men sat on a bench, enjoying the rays of sun that finally went through the thick clouds.

With no expectations, I went through the gate, nodded politely to the gentlemen and noticed that the door was open. The men encouraged me to go in.

Magnificent frescos covered the stone walls from the bottom to the top. The air inside was cold and humid. I admired the details of the old paintings when one of the men told me I was in the oldest orthodox church in the Balkans. 

This little gem from the 13th century somehow survived the years of communist persecution. What’s even more surprising, no guidebooks even mentioned it. Stumbling upon this place, I felt like a traveller from the old days before the internet and mass tourism.