They stamped my passport as I discreetly pushed the bills back into my wallet. I was on my way. Border crossings typically in Eastern Europe consisted of deteriorating buildings once staffed by armed, stern officials... sometimes German shepherds leashed at bay. In some locales, it's still like this, as I was to find out.
As I left the crossing behind entering Albania, newly inked entry stamp smudged onto paper, I immediately noticed the severe contrasts from my previous travels. Here, the poverty was apparent in the roads, homes and people. It was like I'd entered a time warp and came out several decades in the past. Hungary is not a rich country except in history, Slovakia a step "up" then Poland further yet. Germany, Austria, and as I was to find out later, France, Switzerland, Italy... were all far more affluent and wealthy.
Leaving town, I geared the Divvie up, short shifting as I gained speed. The bike had lots of low end power, no need to rev the guts out of her like a modern 600 sport bike. Like me, she was no track hound, and preferred the quiet of the back road, slightly more gentle corners and a steady hand lovingly caressing the controls.
Once in top gear, we could meander along at a sixty or hundred and sixty kilometer pace... and anything in between. Rarely was there a need for a downshift, even many towns could be negotiated in 6th. She would pull cleanly from as little as 2000 rpm right on up to the red line if needed.
The terrain was old low laying mountains, or what we in Alberta reffered to as foothills. I was off the main drag here and villages were such contrasts between ancient, having no streetlights to ultra modern cities. The first such city was Shkoder and here I noticed the first of several peculiarities about Albania.
The country seemed to have no middle!
People either walked or rode donkey's in the towns and villages or drove around in various vintages of Mercedes, seemingly the car of choice. No where except maybe southern California have I seen so many of this German brand of car as I saw here. Old ones, new ones, blacked out windows, whole families. At one point, after waiting my turn to cross a muddy river on a one lane wooden decked bridge, I was taking a little break when a new, black model stopped. Three men, impeccably dressed laughingly exited the car and lit up smokes. All the motorcycles around and they were plentiful, were tiny mopeds or old MZ's or Urals, the odd step through Honda or Yamaha. Spotting me, the three came over and began asking me in Albanian about my bike. Walking around, talking amongst themselves, pointing at my maple leaf decals, rapid firing questions towards me.
The locals all gazed over but no one came by to translate. In fact those nearest tome quietly backed away. To be honest, I was somewhat nervous. I mean, here these guys are where most of the populace gets around on decrepit mopeds or on hay carts pulled by burro's, and they had on 2000 dollar Armani suits, were traveling somewhere in a blacked out top of the line Mercedes sedan, and weren't even sweating in the heat of the day far from the ocean. After awhile the driver honked the horn and they left still chattering and laughing.
Unnerving.
As the car drove onto the bridge, not waiting to let any of the dozens of vehicles that were already lined up pass, they were gone. A moment later, a DR600 arrived from across the street. The rider, tall as a bean pole and about as thick, dismounted and wandered over. He introduced himself in English as Manfred, a German. It was obvious he had been riding/traveling hardcore.
His bike was dust and mud covered matching him. His gear was off-road. The first thing he tells me after the usual salutations is that those men were Albanian Mafia. Asked me what they wanted. I replied that I couldn't understand a word they said.
Not to worry my new found friend tells me, they have much bigger things on their plates than stealing motorcycles from Canadian tourists but at the same time adds that I need to keep an eye on my gear and my turtle neck tightly done around my throat. The country is not particularly safe. Many 'criminals' gather here smuggling dope and arms in various scales. Don't stop at lone check points...
He asks where I am heading, maybe we can ride together. I say Greece is my destination before I turn around and head north. I have limited time and will be departing soon for Canada. I ask in return and he points to a castle overlooking the town. He will go there and sleep for a few hours. 'do they have accommodations?' I ask. 'No, but he will take out his mat and sleep on the ground.' Of course I was immediately curious about his safety, but to be honest, friendly as he was, he seemed very comfortable traveling by himself and I could picture him laying on the ground under the bike... machete close by.
To this day, I get mail from him and his friends about their dual purpose travels in Russia, the mid east, and Africa.
We bid farewell and I picked up the highway.
As I left the crossing behind entering Albania, newly inked entry stamp smudged onto paper, I immediately noticed the severe contrasts from my previous travels. Here, the poverty was apparent in the roads, homes and people. It was like I'd entered a time warp and came out several decades in the past. Hungary is not a rich country except in history, Slovakia a step "up" then Poland further yet. Germany, Austria, and as I was to find out later, France, Switzerland, Italy... were all far more affluent and wealthy.
Leaving town, I geared the Divvie up, short shifting as I gained speed. The bike had lots of low end power, no need to rev the guts out of her like a modern 600 sport bike. Like me, she was no track hound, and preferred the quiet of the back road, slightly more gentle corners and a steady hand lovingly caressing the controls.
Once in top gear, we could meander along at a sixty or hundred and sixty kilometer pace... and anything in between. Rarely was there a need for a downshift, even many towns could be negotiated in 6th. She would pull cleanly from as little as 2000 rpm right on up to the red line if needed.
The terrain was old low laying mountains, or what we in Alberta reffered to as foothills. I was off the main drag here and villages were such contrasts between ancient, having no streetlights to ultra modern cities. The first such city was Shkoder and here I noticed the first of several peculiarities about Albania.
The country seemed to have no middle!
People either walked or rode donkey's in the towns and villages or drove around in various vintages of Mercedes, seemingly the car of choice. No where except maybe southern California have I seen so many of this German brand of car as I saw here. Old ones, new ones, blacked out windows, whole families. At one point, after waiting my turn to cross a muddy river on a one lane wooden decked bridge, I was taking a little break when a new, black model stopped. Three men, impeccably dressed laughingly exited the car and lit up smokes. All the motorcycles around and they were plentiful, were tiny mopeds or old MZ's or Urals, the odd step through Honda or Yamaha. Spotting me, the three came over and began asking me in Albanian about my bike. Walking around, talking amongst themselves, pointing at my maple leaf decals, rapid firing questions towards me.
The locals all gazed over but no one came by to translate. In fact those nearest tome quietly backed away. To be honest, I was somewhat nervous. I mean, here these guys are where most of the populace gets around on decrepit mopeds or on hay carts pulled by burro's, and they had on 2000 dollar Armani suits, were traveling somewhere in a blacked out top of the line Mercedes sedan, and weren't even sweating in the heat of the day far from the ocean. After awhile the driver honked the horn and they left still chattering and laughing.
Unnerving.
As the car drove onto the bridge, not waiting to let any of the dozens of vehicles that were already lined up pass, they were gone. A moment later, a DR600 arrived from across the street. The rider, tall as a bean pole and about as thick, dismounted and wandered over. He introduced himself in English as Manfred, a German. It was obvious he had been riding/traveling hardcore.
His bike was dust and mud covered matching him. His gear was off-road. The first thing he tells me after the usual salutations is that those men were Albanian Mafia. Asked me what they wanted. I replied that I couldn't understand a word they said.
Not to worry my new found friend tells me, they have much bigger things on their plates than stealing motorcycles from Canadian tourists but at the same time adds that I need to keep an eye on my gear and my turtle neck tightly done around my throat. The country is not particularly safe. Many 'criminals' gather here smuggling dope and arms in various scales. Don't stop at lone check points...
He asks where I am heading, maybe we can ride together. I say Greece is my destination before I turn around and head north. I have limited time and will be departing soon for Canada. I ask in return and he points to a castle overlooking the town. He will go there and sleep for a few hours. 'do they have accommodations?' I ask. 'No, but he will take out his mat and sleep on the ground.' Of course I was immediately curious about his safety, but to be honest, friendly as he was, he seemed very comfortable traveling by himself and I could picture him laying on the ground under the bike... machete close by.
To this day, I get mail from him and his friends about their dual purpose travels in Russia, the mid east, and Africa.
We bid farewell and I picked up the highway.
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