Two-and-a-half hours I've been waiting. The journey itself, from Saranda to Gjirokastra, takes only one-and-a-half. "The buses leave hourly," my host in Saranda told me. "Buses ply the route frequently," the guidebook reads, "until early afternoon, and later in summer." My host who is expecting me in Gjirokastra said there are buses all the time. So what gives?
The Albanian transport network is, like Albanians themselves, informal. There are just a few trains, excruciatingly slow, to only a handful of destinations in this mountainous country. In the communist years, rail was the only travel option for Albanians, but recently the train station in the capital, Tirana, was bulldozed and the rails asphalted over.
These days there is a robust system of buses and minibuses in every direction. The buses do in fact run to schedule; it's just that the schedule starts at 4.30am. (I am not a morning person; I'm a night owl. There are morning people and then there are Albanians. Albania is a nation of extreme larks.) Minibuses don't have a schedule; they simply leave the terminal when full ("terminal" typically being some empty ground at an intersection).
Even "minibus" is a loose term. In Tirana, after walking from one side of the city centre (where I was disgorged by a bus from the south) to the other side of the city centre (to the "bus station" for the north, a narrow parking lot beside a roundabout), I was approached by a stocky middle-aged man in jeans looking no different from any other man in the street who called out something I didn't understand. This was my driver, apparently. I told him my destination, Shkodra, and he nodded and waved for me to follow him. A few paces later we were at an unmarked station wagon. It was his car. I didn't want a taxi; the guidebook says a taxi would cost €50 for the two-hour trip.
"No, autobus për Shkodra," I said.
"Minibus! Minibus!" he insisted, nodding and pointing at his station wagon. I asked him how much (500 lek, about A$5) and I thought, well, if this is how it's done, let's do it.
Three other passengers crowded in and, despite being the tallest, I somehow got shafted with the middle seat. The driver started up and inched out into the horrendous Tirana traffic. It was 36 degrees. There was no air conditioning and only the front passenger had his window open. The driver blasted the radio—that all pervasive Euro club house music. After we got out of the traffic and up to speed, an air pressure vortex caused by just one window being open went wub-dub-dub-dub in everyone's ears. The driver was fidgety. He put on his seatbelt. He swerved. He turned down the music and opened his window. Then closed it again. Wub-dub-dub-dub. Opened it again. Swerved. Checked his phone. Turned down the radio. Closed the window. Wub-dub-dub. Blasted the radio. Opened the window. Swerved. Took off his seatbelt. Turned off the radio. And after one hundred and four minutes of overtaking on single lane roads I piled back out, gave him his lek, bid "ciao" and didn't care when I realised I'd left my nice aluminium water bottle in the car.
Finally, this bus that has been chocked next to the park in Saranda for two-and-a-half hours starts its engine. The tourist office said the last bus leaves at 2pm, and since "last" also seems to have meant "next", the least that can be said is that it's on time. Indeed, it is the only one; I called out to the sole minibus (an actual minibus) that passed me an hour ago with Gjirokastra displayed in its window and he could only shrug his shoulders, indicating with a finger that I would be the only passenger.
If only he knew I would have paid him €50.
The Albanian transport network is, like Albanians themselves, informal. There are just a few trains, excruciatingly slow, to only a handful of destinations in this mountainous country. In the communist years, rail was the only travel option for Albanians, but recently the train station in the capital, Tirana, was bulldozed and the rails asphalted over.
These days there is a robust system of buses and minibuses in every direction. The buses do in fact run to schedule; it's just that the schedule starts at 4.30am. (I am not a morning person; I'm a night owl. There are morning people and then there are Albanians. Albania is a nation of extreme larks.) Minibuses don't have a schedule; they simply leave the terminal when full ("terminal" typically being some empty ground at an intersection).
Even "minibus" is a loose term. In Tirana, after walking from one side of the city centre (where I was disgorged by a bus from the south) to the other side of the city centre (to the "bus station" for the north, a narrow parking lot beside a roundabout), I was approached by a stocky middle-aged man in jeans looking no different from any other man in the street who called out something I didn't understand. This was my driver, apparently. I told him my destination, Shkodra, and he nodded and waved for me to follow him. A few paces later we were at an unmarked station wagon. It was his car. I didn't want a taxi; the guidebook says a taxi would cost €50 for the two-hour trip.
"No, autobus për Shkodra," I said.
"Minibus! Minibus!" he insisted, nodding and pointing at his station wagon. I asked him how much (500 lek, about A$5) and I thought, well, if this is how it's done, let's do it.
Three other passengers crowded in and, despite being the tallest, I somehow got shafted with the middle seat. The driver started up and inched out into the horrendous Tirana traffic. It was 36 degrees. There was no air conditioning and only the front passenger had his window open. The driver blasted the radio—that all pervasive Euro club house music. After we got out of the traffic and up to speed, an air pressure vortex caused by just one window being open went wub-dub-dub-dub in everyone's ears. The driver was fidgety. He put on his seatbelt. He swerved. He turned down the music and opened his window. Then closed it again. Wub-dub-dub-dub. Opened it again. Swerved. Checked his phone. Turned down the radio. Closed the window. Wub-dub-dub. Blasted the radio. Opened the window. Swerved. Took off his seatbelt. Turned off the radio. And after one hundred and four minutes of overtaking on single lane roads I piled back out, gave him his lek, bid "ciao" and didn't care when I realised I'd left my nice aluminium water bottle in the car.
Finally, this bus that has been chocked next to the park in Saranda for two-and-a-half hours starts its engine. The tourist office said the last bus leaves at 2pm, and since "last" also seems to have meant "next", the least that can be said is that it's on time. Indeed, it is the only one; I called out to the sole minibus (an actual minibus) that passed me an hour ago with Gjirokastra displayed in its window and he could only shrug his shoulders, indicating with a finger that I would be the only passenger.
If only he knew I would have paid him €50.
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