Albanian Boy Dreams

Words by: Sydney Robertson
Images by: Christopher Clark

Our “bus ride” had lasted an hour in a hot pink bus decaled with neon-coloured stars across it and where the driver would make stops at gas stations to pick up and drop off miscellaneous items. Bargains then exchanges were made with trinkets we had never seen. No explanation or mention of detours, only confusion. However, everyone else on the bus, including a large Italian woman we were sitting by seemed unfazed so we accepted it as normal. At least myself and two new travel companions were going in the right direction.

Making another random stop at a gas station for our conclusion of trinket bargaining, the driver suddenly shut off the engine. We were only halfway to the town of Skoder where we were going. The bus driver opened the door and pointed to a black car parked next to the bus and said the first words other than ‘Skoder’ to us: “You go.”

Confused, we hesitantly piled our bags into the small black car and took a seat. Connor took the front seat, Riley and I took the back seat, and the Italian lady took the seat that popped out of the trunk. She rambled to us in Italian while laughing, and we tried to explain that we didn’t speak Italian and that the driver didn’t know it either but she wasn’t listening.

Albania is a different kind of country; not necessarily dangerous but full of unorthodox awkwardness. I remember that the first words I heard from an Albania after getting off a boat from Italy were “Fuck you” in English from the mouth of a 5 year old boy. The boy was a planted kid at the doors of the ferry exit asking for money, to which I had politely shook my head saying no.

As the ‘bus’ driver began driving his car, Riley and I looked to each other and whispered. “At least we’re going in the right direction.” Feeling relieved that we’re finally almost there.

But suddenly the driver turned on a small road and said “We go to my house.” Moments later we’re pulling up a gravel road and after we’d stopped in the middle of the path, a 14-year-old boy squeezed into the car next to Riley and me. We were in a small town somewhere between Durrës and Skoder. The boy fiddled with the buckles of a small dog harness in his hands as he exclaimed that he can speak English.

We asked him why he’s coming on the drive. “I have to get something for my dog.” The conversation flowed from there on as the boy didn’t stop.

He told us about his life.

“I don’t cook, I’ve cooked once in my life and I got this scar” He pulled at his lip where a large scar from a knife cut stretched across his lip onto his chin.

“How did that happen?” Riley asked.

“I don’t know, I just take the knife and then it goes and cuts me. So I don’t cook. Ever.”

“Connor cooks, he also gardens too.” Riley motioned to her partner in the front seat. Connor nodded his head in agreement. The boy paused for a moment… unsure what to do with this fact.

“...Yeah, but do you like cars?” He asked.

“What do you mean, driving them, or just different types of cars?”

“Both!”

“Yeah sure, I like cars.”

“I like to drive cars.” The boy exclaimed.

“How old do you have to be to drive a car here?” Riley asked.

“Sixteen, but in my town, I drive the car. I’ve crashed three times.”

“One time it was really bad the car was” - he motioned with his hands all caput.

“The other time I just scratch, and the other time I drive a motorcycle into the river with my friend.”

We looked to our right at the bright blue river that’s stretched along our drive.

“Wow, were you wearing helmets?”

“No, but we’re okay.”

He then transitioned to sharing his life plan. Apparently, at eighteen his plan is to move to London for two years, at twenty he will move to Spain for five years, and at twenty-five he will move to Colombia for thirty years. We asked him why such a detailed plan?

“Simple, it is the Albanian Boy dream.” He exclaimed.

“You don’t come back until you retire.” He continued.

Riley circled back in the conversation poking at his disdain towards cooking. “How will you eat when you move to London? You know, London boys cook?”

“I am not London boy, I am Albania boy!” He said passionately while hitting his fist in his palm.

“...And I will live with my aunt in London, she cooks for me.”

Still trying to fi nd fl aws in his cooking future, Riley asked what he will do once he moves out fr om his aunts.

“Then my wife will cook for me.” He quickly replied.

We couldn’t help but laugh, he had fi gured out his meal plan for life.

Then the boy took a pause, we began to approach the town of Skoder. The streets were busy in the mid aft ernoon. Men sat at the cafe restaurants in a circle smoking cigarettes, fr uit stands sat on every corner, and dogs were laying in each store fr ont shade. Clothing stores were everywhere but each had the same exact stock brands, white shirts hanging with Gucci, Adidas, and Louis Vuitton painted across them. We approached the town center, a large roundabout with the red Albanian fl ag fl ying in the center.

We parted ways with the 14-year-old with two last pieces of advice fr om him: to watch out for the boys that are eighteen to twenty three because “they do the illegal stuff ” according to him, and to try eating Flia, it’s his favorite food.

We waved goodbye to our ‘bus’ driver and began our three weeks in the incredible country.