Mafia

October 22, 2024

At the border, it quickly becomes clear that Albanians follow their own traffic rules. One driver cuts through a barricade to skip the line. Speed limits and red lights here seem more like suggestions than actual rules. Just after the border, a woman in a car hands me packs of nuts and biscuits with Korean labels through the window.

In Shkodra, Albania’s first larger town, I sit down next to a street vendor on a chair.

When I realize the chair is his wife’s, I prepare to stand up, but the vendor gestures for me to stay seated.

I share some South Korean snacks with him. Suddenly, someone hands him money, though I can’t tell what’s going on. He seems very interested in my bicycle, inspecting it closely and calling over another vendor. They can hardly believe I’ve cycled all the way from Switzerland.

In this country, horse-drawn carts are parked next to Mercedes. People of all ages are trading and chatting. When I first heard the muezzin in Mostar, Bosnia, I truly felt I had entered another culture. Here in Albania, that feeling is even stronger.

I need to keep moving, as I’m heading toward a wild camping spot I found online last night. It’s near the ferry terminal for the Koman to Fierzë route, and I need to be there by 9 a.m. tomorrow, as the ferry runs only once a day. I’ve also heard the road is in bad condition, so time is running out today. Then I miss a turn, adding an extra 130 meters of elevation.

The sun sets, and I still haven’t reached my destination. With no other camping options nearby, I ride the last stretch in the dark, weaving around potholes.

Suddenly, a car approaches, stops, and lowers the window. Five men sit inside - at least that’s what I assume based on the tinted windows. I immediately feel uneasy.

I remember reading that in this region, the Albanian mafia is active. Could these be mafia members? They ask if I plan to take the ferry tomorrow. When I confirm, they suggest I take the Rozafa ferry and offer me a place to stay at their office. I politely decline. I don’t commit to anything about the ferry. I didn’t even know there were multiple ferries, so I decide to do some research tonight. They say I’ll see them at the harbor tomorrow, which sounds more threatening than friendly, and they drive off.

Eventually, I reach my destination: a field just below the road.

As I dismount, I spot a figure in the dark, a few meters away. I freeze.

I try to remain silent and observe. Could the mafia know about this spot and be waiting for potential victims? The figure moves slowly toward me, still facing me. As the distance closes, I realize it’s a cow. But there’s something else behind it. Maybe the farmer? No, it’s another cow.

While setting up my tent, I turn off my headlamp whenever a car passes, which happens about four times. I don’t want to attract attention. I have no other option for sleeping tonight. Once in the tent, I manage to calm down.

My research about the ferries reveals three options, but one is definitely not recommended - it’s the oldest ferry, with some concerning stories about it. Of course, that’s the Rozafa ferry.

To avoid any possible encounters with the mafia tomorrow, I buy a ticket online for a different ferry.

The next morning, I arrive at the ferry terminal on time. Thankfully, I don’t see the men from yesterday. The Rozafa ferry is off to the side, empty, while the other ferries are being loaded. I don’t even see the Rozafa depart.

I board my ferry with my bike as soon as I can.

I choose the Dragoba, the smallest ferry, which doesn’t carry cars but only a few locals with their luggage.

As the only tourist on board, I can fully enjoy the experience. The ride through the steep, imposing rock walls is breathtaking. The reservoir stretches for 34 kilometers, offering views of rock formations. The ferry moves through a fjord-like landscape for just over two and a half hours. The narrowest part of the gorge is only 50 meters wide, and the lake is up to 96 meters deep.

From time to time, passengers board or disembark in the middle of nowhere.

“They live in the mountains,” the captain tells me. “Some still have to walk for hours after getting off here.” Incredible. Living so isolated must be a very unique way of life.

The Dragoba safely brings me and my bike to the destination.

Decision

(Un)lucky