Crossing the border from Montenegro into Albania is actually quite quick. In theory. You just have to make sure you move forward within five seconds at most. Otherwise, someone will push in. As there are also loads of motorcyclists pushing in, it ends up taking nearly an hour and a half. Over the last 100 metres before the border, for every two people who’ve been processed, two more push their way to the front. Loud shouting escalates almost into a brawl. Then the second lane opens.
In northern Albania, the roads are absolutely rubbish. Deep potholes, traffic jams and the most idiotic speed limits take you past countless shrines to road deaths, each the size of a proper mausoleum. Two Italian Hells Angels clear the way for us through a few police checkpoints. Montenegro’s flag is red. Red is the rule. “60” means “at least 60 km/h”. The driving style here is a touch rougher than in Montenegro. We are in the Wild East.
From the centre of Albania onwards, the roads improve significantly – eventually leading onto clear, good motorways. We race through to the south in a total of six hours’ driving time. Our destination is Vlora. Albanian independence was proclaimed here in 1912. Today, Vlora is a small city with a beautiful beach. Prices are low. A kilo of good cherries costs just €2.40.
The wind picks up for the first time to a breathtaking 12 knots. That’s the highest reading of the last 2,200 km. But it’s still not enough. The beach is just a few hundred metres from our private accommodation in an unpaved residential area. All the properties are surrounded by high walls topped with broken glass and gates. Albania doesn’t seem to be quite that safe yet.
We see many large Mercedes cars with a matt finish and smart alloy wheels. Some people here are very rich, but most are still desperately poor. Day labourers wait for work on the arterial roads. The rich are certainly no longer all members of the legendary Albanian cocaine mafia. Today, the mafia bosses apparently sit in the Albanian government. For days now, up to a hundred thousand people have been protesting in the capital, Tirana, against the sale of a coastal strip directly bordering the Vlora nature reserve for tourist development by the Trump clan. The anti-corruption authority has frozen accounts – and Prime Minister Rama is feeling the heat from his empowered people.
We first hear about the protests from the media. Trump’s son-in-law and his daughter Ivanka, together with Israeli investors, want to pump a total of 6 billion dollars into Albania’s ‘development’. Naturally, ‘in harmony with nature conservation’ and ‘with respect for the Albanian people’. Flamingos and numerous migratory birds call this nature reserve home – or use it as a stopover.
But the Albanian people want to continue to be able to use their beaches freely. They do not want nature reserves to be destroyed. And they hate Trump. Just like us. Albania is protesting loudly. Comment from our Smurf: “If Trump lived here, I’d take all his money away from him.” Actually, we’d only planned to visit the old monastery at Zverec today. Then we ask ourselves: “Where are they all going? It must be a lovely beach.” The beach, which we reach after half an hour on a potholed track, is indeed very beautiful. Absolutely stunning.
150 Albanians are protesting loudly against eight kilometres of luxury resorts that are to be built right here under the direction of Trump’s son-in-law Jared Kushner and Israel. Even if the developer weren’t the devil incarnate, and even if I were to dismiss as many conservationists as notorious obstructionists as I like: we are here. We see nature in its purest form. Even if we didn’t reach the flamingos because the tracks were so dreadful. Schlumpf says, “It’s beautiful here.” Children and drunkards always tell the truth.
The return from the protest finally crowns me the King of the Dirt Roads of the Balkans. Forward. Backward. Dust. Potholes. Millimetres from oncoming traffic at narrow passes. You can spot the Albanian government’s undercover agents in their big Mercedes by their driving style. No one crawls more fearfully under the weight of their guilt.
Some nice Berliners give us a high-five with their daughter. The Smurf is endlessly happy. So are we, because Smurf plus Smurf in the sea equals a holiday for the parents. For two days we revel in the affordable luxury of the Saint Tropez Beach Club, before moving on early in the morning on the third day.
The journey is long – but beautiful. At first, we follow the River Shushica through the Ceraunian Mountains, which rise to 2,000 metres. Every half hour, we pass an abandoned village. Now and then, a small milk tanker. Sheep on the right, shepherds in the middle of the road. Wild forests and pure, untouched nature. Why do I find myself thinking so often on every road trip, “I really must come back here for longer”? Over the Llogara Pass, at a good 1,000 m, we head back down through seas of pink oleander to the Albanian Adriatic coast. From here, driving at 30 km/h for over 80 km feels like a race. Another pass and down into the lowlands before the Greek border. Then we’re there.
After a good 2,500 km on almost nothing but country roads, we reach our destination: Greece. The Smurf is jubilant. We sing “Irgendwann bleib i dann da”…
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.