Riddles and Raki

 

"There is no donkey. The idea of a donkey there is ridiculous."

The heat was the main and omnipresent factor in Shkodra, made the whole town seem like an empty swimming pool. Siestas and tea in the Sahara. The shops opened at five in the morning, because it was too deadly to do any marketing after nine. To prepare for the journey to Theth, I had awakened early and bought byrek an a pair of soft shorts from vendors positioned right next to one another. There was even time for coffee. It felt like the section in EB White's "This is New York" when he describes the businessmen dropping off their dry cleaning, buying a scoop of coal, and picking up pork chops all on the same block.  

My host was herself traveling but had promised "to keep me from loneliness" with the companionship of a Chilean musician, a neighbor and close friend of hers. We spoke briefly via WhatsApp, but he never quite materialized. Which was fine with me, but he was also going to give me his advice for the approach to Theth. 

My own attempts to figure it out found me in an orange van with several middle-aged Kiwis. One of whom ate sandwiches like Mr. Peepers shredding an apple and one of whom was full of advice for the driver. We passed a gas station called Kastrati, and Mr. Peepers exclaimed, "Oh, my giddy aunt." 

The driver seemed just fine to me, kind of a Balkan Lee Marvin, but the Kiwis didn't like him. It was unclear to me what he could do about the switchbacks or the gravel, but they had some sense he was jouncing them on purpose. Whenever Kiwi Karen would exclaim, he'd make eye contact with me in the rearview and smile. We stopped for coffee once, and he put a massive hand on my shoulder. It felt like a tombstone, the sort of hand you want on the wheel in the mountains. 

And such mountains. Known locally as The Accurseds, the Albanian Alps are jagged and strange. Sublime defined as "awful beauty." I couldn't capture it in photographs, so I just surrendered to the emotion of them. 

There was a bit of a hassle after the drop off. As I waved farewell to Balkan Lee Marvin and as the Kiwis dispersed, I realized I was nowhere near my lodging. Turns out it was way back up the mountain. I was supposed to jump out much earlier. After an aborted attempt to walk and a few insane quotes from the treacherous locals, I was able to thumb it up the road and embed myself in the little chalet. 

Such a place. I felt like a lesser Von Trapp. My hosts were Pjetri and Fatmire, a couple in their 60s who spent most of the time improving the house. My enduring memory will be of him in his undershirt holding a trowel dripping with mortar. Curly white hair, thick glasses.

Fatmire showed me to my room and asked me if I wanted to join them for dinner. I said yes and fell asleep. 

I was in and out. At some point, from the balcony, I saw Pjetri fishing in a pond adjacent to the house. He caught five or six trout, tossed them in a cooler and passed them to Fatmire. I assumed I would see those fish again that evening. 

In the late afternoon, I took a hike down a mountain pass. A few steps from the house, I felt alone in the world. I knew there was a village at the other end, and I knew my hosts were behind me, but I was in the between-space now where it was just the path and I. And whatever might live out there and be aroused at dusk. 

I could not help but picture being mauled by a wildcat in the way my character had been in one of Milo's games. There's no confrontation, no sizing one another up, no chance to make yourself appear larger by opening your coat. There's just you walking, and then a snarling, fanged mammal curled around your helpless body, controlling it, feeding off of it. 

But I kept walking. At one point, I was sure I saw something dear-like cross the path in the far distance, but otherwise no encounters. Just me and the mountain. I reasoned with a village so close and with livestock likely, the peasants would have cleared this area of predators with the ancient prejudice of peasants vs. predators. 

The village was just so. Small pens of sheep and sweet little wooden homes. Old women, probably younger than I am, gathering sticks. It was tempting to think of them making fires for to warm the underside of cauldrons, but I saw a few satellite dishes on the roofs. 

Long walk back during which I found a fake Burberry hat, which I decided to keep? For some reason? I cleaned it as I walked. Why did I want some old forest cap? I began to wonder if it had only been there to mark a spot. Like, I buried the amulet three paces from the fake Burberry. Don't worry, nobody will touch it. It's filthy. Who would collect a hat from the forest floor?

At home, refreshed but perspiring, I washed up for dinner. Some of the family was already seated at an outdoor table. The party was now five with Pjetri's brother, niece, and nephew. The niece, Saranda, spoke very good English. She is twenty and works in an Italian call center. 

She told me that when we spoke, she found herself thinking in Italian first and then translating. I found that endearing and also mostly outside of my experience. Much of the conversation revolved around my attempts to hire a donkey to carry my luggage over the mountains. 

There is a popular hike from Theth to Valbona. Eight miles with three cafes along the trail. Apparently one can hire a mule to take your bags, and you can collect them when you reconnect with the mule on the other side. 

Many people avoid this by leaving their bags all the way back in Shkoder, going to Valbona first, then doing the hike to Theth and catching a van back to Shkoder. That's the pro move. But I didn't want to go back to Shkoder, and I was already in Theth. My reasoning was Valbona is the gateway to Kosovo, and that was my next stop. 

Trying to explain this proved a little more difficult that I had imagined. Since nobody does it this way, and the locals don't even make the hike, they had no idea what I was talking about. Fatmire in particular was skeptical to the point of near-aggression. 

"There is no donkey. The very idea of a donkey there is absurd. And why are you doing this walk at your age? There is ice in the mountains, you will fall. You will fall and you will be alone. You are too old to do this. There is no donkey and there is nobody to hear you when you fall." 

She decided for me that Saranda's husband would drive me to their cousin's house in the morning an then I would be taken to a ferry that goes to Valbona through a scenic mountain pass. 

"For you donkey is ferry." 

We celebrated the death of my dream with many cups of raki, poured from an old ketchup bottle. It burned like fire and was quite addicting. Then the expected trout with potatoes and a salad made from vegetables from the garden. A very beautiful, very peaceful evening. 

 Dawn. Sun behind the Accursed Mountains. 

When I crept downstairs, Fatmire was awake and asked if I wanted coffee. When I said yes, she smiled and said "Turkish coffee?" and when I said yes, she sighed and turned away.

A few moments later she returned with three cups. One held Turkish coffee. The second, water. 

The third was raki. The same as last night. 

It is inescapable in this part of the world, but generally it's an evening thing. In my experience. 

In Georgia, their version is called Cha Cha. I had a bad time with it. It doesn't make you dance. It makes you croak out "cha.." before you collapse clutching at your throat. 

Short for "cha..change your life before it's too late," perhaps.

I sniffed the raki. 

"Is raki my uncle," she said. "He make. Safe. Very safe. Drink. Is Albanian way."

In Bulgaria years ago, my host insisted I try his dead father's last rakia. "All his life, he make rakia. He use the apricot. Is pure. This is his last bottle he make. When it is empty, he will truly be gone."

Each sip was like an ice pick to the temples. It was like sipping a living army with orders to march immediately ganglia-ward. 

But this would be different. I was in the mountains. 

I asked her, "Coffee first, or rakia first?"

Or water?

She sighed again. "Everyone is different," she said. 

"What do most people do?" I asked. 

She didn't answer. 

My hand hovered in indecision, cupped like a LEGO figure's. 

I went for the raki first. To get it out of the way, reasoning that the other two could team up to neutralize it. Hair of the dog, I suppose.

Her expression was unreadable. Had I passed? Failed?

"Breakfast," she said. "One hour."