#travel stories
Flowing thoughts : you knew I missed you Bombay, didn’t you? (part II)
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But It has been a month now, since life seems to be on pause. Days and week go on, and we have lost the sense of time. From laziness to anger, frustration and solitude, it has been a month now, since we all are stuck, encaged like birds. Encaged at home, in a room, in some thoughts and in our minds. We all are sitting calm like bombs, patiently waiting to taste life again. A month now, we are asked to stay away from each other, for the sake of the humanity. I feel split between my feelings. Sometimes I want to be left alone, sometimes I crave for human interaction. I feel caught by some nostalgia and reverie.
We all, here, care and worry for our loved ones. We pour out our hearts, sometimes. We make plans for the moment our wings won’t be clipped anymore. When we would enjoy the tiniest things we never thought we would miss. We do realise that we took so many things for granted. Probably, we will apprieciate things differently, value people’s company more, probably.
We tend to learn again to enjoy the simpliest things we are allowed to and that surround us. Far from the hustle and bustle. Old books smells, that breeze in your hair while walking to the grocery, the music - the companion to your solitude, that has been a remedy to your eventual loneliness. Don’t you enjoy, through that window, seeing the sun going down letting the moon and stars looking upon us at night. Don’t you find some peace to your restlessness?
Ph : Shuvangi S.C
When we arrived in Albania on an unseasonably warm January day our hearts were fraught with a mixture of emotions: comfort, familiarity, but also a degree of hesitation. We had fond memories of our time in this country, but were they simply painted bright by nostalgia, and would our second visit live up to expectation?
Our answers to these questions came on just our second day here.
We’d spent the day basking in sunshine, washing our van and dipping our bodies into the icy waters of Lake Prespa, and were just beginning to enjoy one of those spectacular Albanian sunsets which painted the mountains the particular shade of purple that was so ingrained into our memories. We went to fire up the engine but our van refused to start; the batteries were too flat, the air too cold. The engine got slower and slower until it had no juice left to give. We were now faced with the prospect of a night here with no power, no heating and no light; we’d seen approximately three cars all day and the light outside was rapidly fading.
Yet somehow, whether by miracle or fate or pure coincidence, a car approached just two minutes later. We waved them down, explained as best we could what had happened, and the man along with all six members of his family came over to help us. We had no jump leads but this didn’t deter him, and in the most Balkan display of ingenuity and problem solving he had our van running in no time by swapping our battery with the one from his car, starting the engine then swapping them back around while it was still running. He even fixed the loose positive terminal with a screw.
Feeling like we’d been a burden we offered him a shot of rakia as a thank you and his face lit up; they then immediately invited us to join them for their son’s birthday party at a nearby restaurant. Instead of spending a cold, dark night in our van we spent the evening drinking, sampling local cuisine, having conversations via Google Translate, eating homemade baklava and birthday cake and toasting each member of the table with a hearty, “ë!”
What a welcome back into Albania.
Isolated.
Few places offer such opportunity to seek the wild and the remote such as North Albania.
A swathe of black pine trees, a horizon dominated by the hostile white peaks of the Accursed Mountains, and a winding dirt track meandering toward a wide open plateau just big enough for one van to camp. This is where we spent our nights while our days were spent in nearby Pukë.
Of course, parking in such remote places is usually fraught with a danger we must weigh up and assess before deciding to stay. And with our van playing up in cold weather since driving the perilous SH75 road we knew this was a risk we would take.
Dusk arrived, staining the valleysides purple and tinting the dry grass a beautiful shade of umber. The starlit night was peaceful and undisturbed by another human presence, but by dawn the winds had began to pick up, descending from a mountain whose name we were later told translated to the .
Our sleep interrupted, we cracked our eyes open and lay in bed while the van rocked to and fro until one of us gave in and got up to move it to a sheltered spot. Unfortunately, with the wind blasting straight into the engine, the stubborn old beast refused to start and we were left stranded, watching the hammocks and the lights sway as though in an earthquake.
Thankfully we were rescued, for the first in a number of times that week, by @discover_puka in a Land Rover. With our van running at last we were able to drive into the town to wander round its beautiful square and little tiny shops, and sample some of the local Puka beer made from the surrounding area’s mountain spring water.
Then we returned to our secluded spot amongst the pines to rest for the following day’s adventure, safe in the knowledge that even the most troublesome days in the wild were bound to make a good story one day.
You know, the guidebooks all tell you that Pisa is only a day trip. It’s somewhere you quickly pop over to while you’re in Florence just so you can take photos trying to high-five the Leaning Tower. It only has the one thing. You don’t need to be there for more than a few hours.
But you know what? THEY’RE ALL WRONG.
HEAR THAT LONELY PLANET?
I DON’T AGREE WITH YOU.
I HAVE AN OPINION.
DO I STAND…
