"All societies on the verge of death are masculine."
The Koman (sometimes Komani) ferry is the primary way most folks get to the trailhead of the Valbona/Theth hike. As discussed, I had tried to do it backwards and the difference was apparent by the number of folks in the van. And they were packed much more lightly, since you leave your bag in Shokder, since you'll be back there in a few days and donkeys are hard to come by. As a result, mine was the only backpack in the van's small rear storage area.
Having finished one of the volumes of the Balkan Trilogy, I switched to "Difficult Women: A Memoir of Three" by a fascinating creep named David Plante. It's a memoir about experiences and conversations her shared with three notable authors, and he writes about them with a mixture of cruelty and sentimental worship. A sneer and a tear.
At one point, he leaves the seat up, and a drunk Jean Rhys falls into the toilet. At best, he's trying to describe how the stresses of the publishing world and the merciless ignorance of readers can diminish the most intelligent of us, but at worst, he's milking an alcoholic old woman for content and dumping her in a water closet.
I read it with a kind of hate for him until we reached the ferry dock. The ride was pleasant but held few surprises for me at this point, though now that I recognized the car wash stations for what they were, I smiled at the sheer volume of them. Every time I lifted my head from a description of Jean Rhys' watery eyes, I was sure to see a roadside Lavazh within moments.
The dock area wasn't the most chaotic transportation hub I've been to, but it was quite "active." The hike (and by extension the ride that takes you to the hike) is fairly heavily advertised at the hostels, and since the thing isn't state-run, it's a whole gang of independent companies competing for your custom. Large and small, the ones that have the most success are the ones that scoop you up far away and sell you the ferry ticket before you're even in the van.
I felt for all the little outfits hoping anyone getting out of our car might not have already purchased the whole package. I'm sure they get a few rides from folks who have made their own way there, but most folks on that dock end up there because whoever runs the hostel they stayed in has already forged a chain with links of van-to-ferry-to-van on the other side coupons.
You get out of the van and are immediately hit with the sounds and honking and shouts of any public dock, but mix in some of the chaos of a taxi stand. I just shuffled along with everyone else toward the ferry that had the same logo as my ticket. I was orienting myself as to the lay of the land, looking for a "head" and trying to decide if I wanted to sit inside or outside. There was a little coffee stand inside, and I could...oh, fuck, my bag was still on the fucking van on the dock and was the van still there oh fuck.
I was so absorbed in the book and so focused on tuning out the swirl of the dock scene that I didn't remember my bag was in the back of the van. No one else had one, so there wasn't the usual line of folks reclaiming their stuff. Everyone just headed for the ferry, so I did. And then I jumped off of it.
What hilarity (would it be irony?) to have had to go through this convoluted series of back and forths because I couldn't get a donkey to carry my bag, and then I leave the fucking bag in a fucking van. In a sense, the bag was the only reason I was here.
In a stroke of ill fortune, the ferry was loading cars at this point, and in my desperate dash, it didn't even register to me I was almost hit by an SUV navigating the ramp. In a stroke of decent fortune, the fact they were still loading cars meant the ferry wouldn't leave without me, and in a stroke of very good fortune, my van was still there, and my bag was reclaimed. It wasn't even a situation where they were just about to go. Driver looked like he had several cigarettes to roll and smoke and more than a few macchiatos to sip at the shoegaze dance pace they drink coffee in this part of the world.
If I had taken another ten minutes to remember the bag, I wouldn't have been able to get back on the ferry, but that's not what happened. And the Albanian sailor who had seen me dodge the SUV didn't give me any grief when I reboarded. The only consequence really is that all the exterior seats were now taken, and I would be enjoying "the most beautiful ferry ride in Albania" from inside the cabin. There were plenty of seats, including one for my bag.
Ferry was decently packed, and the primary packers were a huge group of traveling Italian cyclists. It brought a lot of humor to the situation, as they delivered a lot of, what's the Italian phrase, joie de vivre to the proceeding. They commented loudly on the barista's technique, which was funny, because the available coffee came from a machine where you hit a button and the coffee squirts into a tiny plastic cup. 4oz, maybe?
I couldn't understand them, of course, but their expressions of approval or dismay when the guy hit the button made me laugh every time. It imagined it was a range like "Put your wrist into it! That's the spirit! Yes, that's how a button is pressed, my friend. What are you doing? This is no way to make coffee? You must pretend the button is your lover!"
I was laughing to myself so much over that last one, that I laughed even more thinking I would be asked why I was laughing and how difficult it would be to explain.
"I am pretending you are telling the man he must apply himself to pushing the coffee button with the same passion he would bring to a love affair."
Unlike the locals, the British, the Americans, and the unidentifiable, these cyclists felt very comfortable walking up to women and starting a conversation. This was usually in English, since that's the lingua Franca.
"Excuse me but you are tall. You are seated, so I cannot tell how tall. But I can sense you are tall."
Yes, I am tall.
"Are you taller than me?"
Probably
"You are confident of this?"
*She stands. She is taller than any of the cyclists. They laugh and applaud. They call one of their friends from outside. He is their champion, the tallest among them. For maximum drama, she has retaken her seat. When the champion arrives, she stands again, and as she rises, it slowly becomes clear she is taller than the tallest. Everyone cheers.*
Their antics really defined the trip, since the view was... average? It was very pleasant, and I'm sure if I hadn't ever seen any mountains or traveled by boat before I would have been quite excited.
It may be overblown by blogs with a financial interest in overblowing it, but it's very nice, and if it's the prelude to a big hike, it's probably very exciting. Since I was using it as a conduit to Kosovo, I spent the majority of the trip appalled at Plante's treatment of his subjects.
Though I ended up with a grudging gratitude for his portrait of Germaine Greer, who comes off as someone you would absolutely want to learn from, and party with. He also touches on Sonia Orwell (widow of George, flush with all them Animal Farm royalty checks) who gets rougher treatment but a kind of sympathy is aroused.
When the ferry docked, it was at a gravel transition lot where it would be quite possible to be abandoned if you weren't on top of things. I made absolute certain I had my bag before trying to navigate passage to the next destination.
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