Cycling In Albania

Cycling into Albania marked the ninth country off our list.  This was the point we left familiarity behind us – at least for now.

I call this part of the trip phase 2.

In Albania things are a little different – health and safety definitely takes a backseat. Youths are riding scooters without helmets. Children ride as a passenger on their parents’ pushbike, but instead of a child seat, they sit side saddle on a pannier rack, with a pillow to soften the ride. Men stand on the back of pick up trucks as they speed along the road – and roundabouts – well – I’m not sure who’s right of way it is.

Crossing the border at Shkodër

We learned a lot of important lessons in Albania – and one of them was understanding border crossings. If you’re on a bike you can go through the border as a vehicle or on foot.

At the border there were hundreds of cars queued up. There were barely any women around and the men stared at us. Each car was full of people and overloaded with stuff – it was reminiscent of a queue to get into a car boot!

We joined the back of the vehicle queue and the sun baked down on us. With the heat and the exhaust from the cars it was too much to stand around waiting for the queue to go down.

I decided to try the walking border. I cycled out of the queue and past the cars – no one seemed to care. Within minutes I rolled up to the walking border and waved Stew over and we were back on the road.

Cycling in Shkodër

We arrived in a town called Shkodër and for the first time we felt foreign. People hold their stare for longer than it is comfortable. And we don’t know any of the language, which doesn’t help us at all.

Lesson two – learn language basics: hello, thank you, food, water. Hello and thank you being the most important. If you make an effort in someone else’s language you form a bond with the person you’re speaking with. It’s respectful.

We sat in a cafe and pulled out Google translate, but the language didn’t come easy to us. We ordered food, but people laughed at us. It was embarrassing!

We cycled around Shkodër and sorted the essentials – food, water, cash and fuel. We handed a garage our fuel bottle as we were now cooking with petrol on our MRS whipserlite. The fuel cost pennies. Albania was going to be cheap.

It took us hours to get everything we needed and we ended up cycling fifty miles instead of our planned sixty-five. We rationalised that we can camp and wake early the next day.

Cycling on scrap bikes in Albania

On our way out of Shkodër we met a cyclist riding a bike, that in England, would be fit for the scrap yard. The front wheel was loose, but he kept trying to ride it. He would manage a few metres before the week fell off again.

Stew and I tried to help him, but with no language between us it wasn’t easy. And I couldn’t tell if he was receptive to the help. He tried using our tools to fix the wheel, but in the end he gave up and cycled on.

An older gentleman had caught sight of us helping the young man and watched with interest. Communication with this man was difficult too – we couldn’t understand each other at all. He spoke Italian, which a lot of the older population in Albania do. Although we could not speak the old man offered us a cigarette. This was his way of showing some appreciation for the exchange. As non-smokers we declined, but in hindsight, I wish I’d taken it. It would have been nice to share a moment with him.

Finding a wildcamp spot

We had been cycling in Albania as the sun dropped behind the mountains.

It had been a nice ride and we crossed many people. We started to practise the language and testing the Albanian people who in Shkodër hadn’t seemed the most welcoming. We questioned our narrative and instead of cycling quietly past people we started shouting ‘Ciao!’ to passers by. It wasn’t Albanian, but it was understood and it enabled us to form a connection. The Albanian’s who once held our stare softened and greeted us back: ‘Ciao!’ or with a wave.

Our plan after leaving Shkodër was to get to the ferry port at Lake Komani, but the sun was going down fast. We had to pitch our tent. The plan was to pitch a tent, sleep until 05:40am then bike the remaining fifteen miles to the ferry in Lake Komani.

Easy, right?

Cycling world’s worst road in Albania

Let me set the scene. It’s early – six in the morning and we’re in the mountains. The roads climb up and down relentlessly. This was supposed to be an easy fifteen miles, but at four miles we’re losing hope.

Stew turns to me: “we’re not going to make it, maybe we thumb a lift? The alternative is to wait for the next ferry – the next day!”

Just as we’re totally demoralised we hit the brow of a hill and what follows is a steep descent which wipes out a few miles. The inclines were steep, but so were the descents. Adamant to make the ferry we pushed hard.

“This is doable” Stew reports, “Five miles to go.”

My shoulders ache from gripping the handlebars, as my bike bounces off the rocky, pot holed road. My throat is dry from breathing heavily and I can’t find a smooth patch of road to take a drink and I can’t afford to stop.

Some downhills are so pot-holed they’re not as time-efficient as we would’ve liked. My arms hurt from pulling the breaks in an attempt to soften the blows from the pot-holed road. Some of the bumps are throwing me off my saddle. I’m moaning as the bike smacks into the nasty contours of the road. The road was so bad in places that we were catching up cars who were nervous to carry any speed across the smashed up road surface.

After fourteen miles of what must be a strong contender for world’s worst road we arrive at a patch of pristine tarmac for the final mile. I can see the water, but where the hell is the ferry!? The road descends, I think we’ve made it to the end, but of course it climbs again!

Arriving at the ferry port

Finally, a tunnel in sight. We now knew we were close. The 400m dark, blissfully cold, damp tunnel was a welcome relief on our hot sweaty skin. A kind, English speaking gentleman takes our ferry money.

“We’ve made it” said Stew, but I refuse to acknowledge it until I’m sat on the boat. It’s 08:47, departure is 09:00.

We roll into the ferry port and some motorbikes who passed us are happy to see us.

There’s a cheer: “well done, well done!” They don’t speak much English, so I signal that it’s hot by waving at my face. I tell them that I was worried about time by pointing to my watch and shaking my head. They laugh.

We board the ferry and the impression that there’s one rule: if you bought a ticket, you board. No matter what.

It’s frantic. Our bikes are pulled up a large step by a man who underestimated the weight. The rear of the bike is snaking all over the place as he rips and pulls the bike into place. They get a job done here, I’ll I’ve them that. People and vehicles are thrown into place with no care then they realise there’s not enough space, so they unload the vehicles and put everything into a better place – like a game of Tetris.

Cycling in Albania is chaotic, but I think I love it.

You can read more about our travel in Albania, find out about the biggest fall of the trip so far, what we learned about immigration and how wonderful the people of Krume were; they took great care of us.

Post written by: Zoe Ashbridge