A Long Day's Journey Into Albania

by Christian Hummel

Before the Gulf of Tonkin, there was the Corfu Channel Incident. On the 22nd of October, 1946, two British ships struck Albanian mines in the sea between the Albanian coast and the Greek island of Corfu, killing dozens of British sailors. The British government, in retaliation, seized several million dollars of Albanian assets. Already precarious Anglo-Albanian relations turned sour, and the tragedy still lingers in the minds of many.

In 1987, over forty years after the incident, a monument, engraved with the names of the dead, was erected under the vigilance of shady cypress trees in the British Cemetery of Corfu. The historically minded traveler can follow the already-rusted signs to the cemetery and learn about the incident from the sole, gray-haired caretaker. For the British, the matter was put to rest in 1996, when the British Government released the frozen Albanian assets from the Bank of England. The Corfu Channel incident typifies Western understanding, or more properly, misunderstanding, of this small, yet violent, Balkan country.

The Rinas airport outside of Tirana is an indicator that the future of the country is uncertain. My Austrian Airlines flight from Vienna was not even half filled. A few Albanian families, interspersed with a handful of diplomatic officials, made up the plane's meager cargo.

From the air, the country looked more beautiful than I had imagined. We passed over snow-capped peaks dotted with small villages and the odd villa or farm.

As the plane descended, the jagged scars of recent hostilities became quite visible. I was aware of a more subtle current of turbulent tension, not the blatant destruction surrounding what's left of the Sarajevo airport

No other airplanes could be seen on the tarmac at Rinas. In fact, the Austrian Airlines jet was sitting on the ramp for only ninety minutes before loading began for the return flight to Vienna.

The diplomats, experienced in the ways of this war-torn nation, breezed through security with their official identification cards while the rest of us chatted up the armed guards who herded us onto a bus for the 100 meter ride to the terminal. Again, the diplomats were met by special personnel who expedited their passage through customs. Non-diplomatic visitors, though, had to fill out visa forms and pay to enter the country ($45 for American nationals). There were none of the duty-free shops that tend to cluster around airports (though they exist in the Sarajevo airport); nor was there any sense that one had landed in Europe. The conditions seemed more akin to Africa or Central Asia.

Skendeberg Square is the center of activity in Albania's capital city of Tirana. The square, named after a medieval knight who fought a series of battles against brutal Ottoman overlords, lies at the crossroads of the major Tiranin thoroughfares. On the south end rests a statue of Skendeberg, where the money-changers gather, offering generous exchange rates. Albania may be the last country in Europe where one doesn't use the bank system. As a result, scams are abundant; the uninformed traveler often finds himself on the receiving end of counterfeit notes. The American dollar reigns supreme in Albania. All significant transactions are conducted with “greenbacks.”

There are plenty of interesting sites in Tirana for the curious traveler, who can gain understanding of how a country crumbles. The major buildings around Skendeberg are covered in graffiti; the only exception being the Tirana International Hotel. The International Hotel, the tallest building in the country left standing, serves as a good reference point when travelling about the city. Adjacent to the hotel are the Natural History Museum and the Palace of Culture. Architecturally, these buildings stand as examples of the large, utilitarian building style that so enthralled the communists. A mural above the entrance of the National History Museum depicts Albanians in a variety of colorful native costumes taking up arms against an unseen invader. The figures, well beyond life-size, typify the proud, yet violent, Albanian mindset.

Heading south from Skendeberg I passed the University of Tirana. A large square, a major assembly point under the Hoxha regime, stands before the three arches of the main building. Students from the university were heavily involved in overthrowing Hoxha's communist regime.

East of the university are the neighborhoods housing the various foreign embassies, the American included. The embassy was closed in September of last year following terrorist bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam. Intelligence reports indicated that the embassy would have been Osama Bin Laden's next target. According to the International Herald Tribune, US Navy Seals were deployed for a short time to secure both the personnel and the edifice. It is still closed to normal operations even though the American and Albanian authorities had made arrests in connection to the proposed attack. The American flag, flying above the barbed wire and sandbags, looks besieged: America held hostage in the Balkans.

Civility dissolved in spring of 1997. Many Albanians lost their money pyramid schemes, which promptly collapsed, devastating the local economy. In the unrest that followed, riots tore through every major Albanian city starting in the south and moving quickly north to include Vlora, Durres and Tirana. Military armories were looted, putting weapons of death and destruction into the hands of the angry rioters.

The scars of this unrest still remain, visible beneath a thin veneer of new paint and glass. Following the uprising, most educated citizens left the country; the violence had pushed Albanian instability beyond all reasonable limits. Last September, a leading proponent of democracy was assassinated along with his bodyguard only two blocks from Skendeberg Square, igniting still more riots. The looted weapons slowly made their way north into the hands of the Kosovo Liberation Army.

This influx of weapons may have hastened the transformation from civil disobedience to armed resistance against the Serbs. Albanian criminals claimed the remainder of the weapons, touching off a wave of crime. In the south, banditry and car-jacking are now part of the status quo. This January, smugglers demanding the return of confiscated motorboats held the police chief of Vlora hostage. While passing through Fier, I could see masked men in the backseat of a police van; it was unclear to me to which side they belonged.

The best way to contrast Albania with other, more developed countries is to approach the country's Greek border. Coming from the north, the pot-holed road is almost impassable. To either side, I could see some of the thousands of concrete bunkers burrowed into the landscape to prepare the country for a massive invasion. The death of three aid workers in northern Albania highlights the dangers which exist on the Albanian roadways. This drive honestly constituted four of the most harrowing hours of my life.

The contrast becomes clear at the border control station, where the Albanian guards look like little more than glorified bus station employees and the Greeks are armed with M16s and body armor. The well-paved roads to Ioannina, past the border, feature concrete guardrails lest any tourist drive off the mountains.

Albania's future looks bleak. The Kosovo situation forces refugees to travel south, adding yet another strain to the already struggling economy. Italians and Greeks are only interested in keeping the masses of Albanian refuges out of their respective countries. Albania stands alone, at the mercy of the United Nations and the European Union, whose support has been intermittent at best.

Banners in Tirana proclaim that Albania is the 51st state and pay tribute to strong Albo-American relations. Sadly, both of these banners express wishes that will never come true. Whether Albania, without our support, will continue to exist as an independent nation is, to this observer, still unclear.