Montenegro: State of Emergency

‘Montenegro is a bit sad in winter, but a beautiful sad.’

This was one of the last things Ingrid said to us before we got on the bus that brought us away from Tirana. The bus traveled slowly, passing dilapidated rural communities and old abandoned military turrets, and took us right up to the North of Albania, where we were hoping to hitchhike to the Montenegrin border and beyond. We managed to get dropped off on the side of the road that we suspected would be the best hitching spot, though it wasn’t easy, as we shared no common language with the driver. Thankfully we were helped by a sweet girl who was quietly studying maths next to us and who spoke English. She advised Ben to not take another year off school and move to Australia. Yet another sign - but I suppose that by this point he was keeping his eyes and ears open for them.

Albanian bus headed North.

It was very cold when we got off the bus. After bundling up into every bit of clothing we had, Ben and I trekked across a long bridge that brought us to the last Albanian stretch of highway. The road was tiny, full of potholes, and if asked I would never have expected it to lead to another country. We were picked up almost immediately by 3 men in an old car. Ben threw our bags and guitar into the trunk while I stood next to the car door with it open to prevent them from driving away with our belongings. We drove for about 5 minutes before we stopped for another guy, who was just walking and didn’t seem to be hitchhiking at all. He sat down heavily next to us with a bag of groceries, a mouth full of gold teeth, and an odd bit of string dangling from his gray beard.  He rode with us for approximately 15 seconds before reaching his destination and getting out again. It would have taken less time for him to walk.

The two other passengers took it in turn to get out of the car, bidding us friendly goodbyes and not offering the driver any money. The driver dropped us at the end of the road in front of the border and gave us a lovely smile before driving back in the opposite direction. It was yet another classic example of finding the greatest and most inspiring, unconditional generosity in the people who have the least to give.

The border crossing was one of easiest that we’d encountered. In fact, we only had to show our papers to the Albanians. The Montenegrin border control consisted of an abandoned shack with broken windows. We walked in anyways, in the case that we were breaking some sort of law by not getting a stamp. I was met by a room empty of all but broken glass and used diapers (I have yet to solve the diaper mystery - maybe the contents were frozen and hurled with great resolve at the frigid windows).

Our second lift in Montenegro. He spent his last dollar on a bag of milk.

We stood in the cold for ages. Like most borders in the Balkans (at least the ones we’ve crossed), there was very little traffic. A strange gothic guy in a small car stopped, couldn’t speak any English, and didn’t end up taking us. I was a bit relieved, because he was a seriously freaky dude. A taxi then pulled up, as they tend to do. The man driving was very kind, and invited us into his car even after we explained that we didn’t have any money to give him. We smoked his cigarettes and talked about a number of things during our 30-minute ride, but most of the conversation consisted of him telling us stories about his life. He spoke a great deal about his son, Emil, whose great uncle was supposedly a world famous boxer, and at one point #1 in Slovenia. He also told us about how he had been a police officer for 6 years until he was fired for beating a woman. He very adamantly expressed that the claims were untrue, and both Ben and I believed him. It also became apparent that his wife left him at around the same time that he lost his job as a police officer. I didn’t get the impression that the events were unrelated. One of his best cop stories involved single-handedly taking down a group of armed men who had recently robbed a gas station. We gave him a sticker of Ganesh for Emil when he dropped us off. It was the best taxi ride of my life.

Happy birthday Benjamin!!!

We journeyed across town on foot, stopping at an ATM along the way, until we found ourselves standing on the side of yet another highway with our thumbs out. A most peculiar big old man who wanted the equivalent of 5 Euros in exchange for a lift picked us up. He kept speaking to us in Montenegrin, despite our not being able to understand a thing he said. In between talking he would whistle loudly and merrily, occasionally gulping milk from a 2-litre plastic bag that was spilling all down the front of his plaid button-up shirt. He did manage to communicate one thing to us: he had no money and no gas (he did this by pointing to the gas meter and then showing us that his pockets were empty). He would repeatedly up the coastal mountains at full speed and then turn off his car to coast down the other side. At one point there was a huge lineup of cars stopped by construction workers. He casually drove into the lane of oncoming traffic, passed everyone, and somehow arrived at the front just in time to scoot in front of the first car in line as the light turned green. I thought for sure that we would run out of gas, but somehow we eventually visited a gas station before being left at the side of the road.

We were picked up almost immediately by a Latvian in a soccer mom minivan who could talk about nothing other than his addiction to extreme sports and various sexual conquests of foreign (predominantly Taiwanese) girls. He explained to us quite clearly that Montenegrins are lazy and Bosnians are stupid. He left us at a bus station where we were able to catch a cheap, 20-minute bus to our final destination for the day, a city called Tivat. I sat behind a woman wearing a red fur coat and a leather baseball cap. I was really enjoying Montenegro.

The next morning we woke up in Jelena’s house to find that Montenegro was under a national state of emergency. The weather system had hit Europe that brought with it snow for all sorts of places that don’t normally get it, including Madrid and the Sahara desert. An inland train transporting some 50 people had been trapped under an avalanche. It ended up taking them a number of days to dig in out, and a passenger ended up dying in the process. All the roads in Montenegro were closed, and no buses were running. Villages were cut off from their food supply, and there were reports of mothers in rural areas who were running out of food and getting to the point of not being able to feed their children. The Prime Minister was on the television, shoveling snow, and clearly solving all of the country’s problems.

Myself, Jelena, and Ben - pre-castle disco masquerade.

Somehow, Tivat remained the only city in all of Montenegro with electricity and without snow. We were stuck there though, as the next day there seemed to be even less happening in the country. Conditions everywhere were getting worse. We were going to have to change our plans, seeing as it would be near impossible to get to Sarajevo, or any part of Bosnia for that matter. Coming to terms with this was a bit of a shock, as Bosnia was the country I had been most excited about visiting in Europe. On the news the Prime Minister was up to his old tricks again, yet this time the entire Montenegrin army seemed to be helping with the effort.

What turned out to be our last full day in Tivat was the eleventh of February: brother Ben’s birthday. I bought him a bottle of Absynthe and cooked him a great feast. I tried to make Indian food but spices other than paprika are a bit hard to come by in Montenegro. Jelena made a chocolate cake for Ben, but didn’t think it would be necessary to include baking powder, so it was more like a huge, crunchy cookie covered in what must have been a pound of butter mixed with melted chocolate. It was much more edible after a few shots of absinthe (in her defense, she redeemed herself the next day with a really delicious cake).

Our hostess was the lovely Jelena, and for all intensive purposes her best friend Nina. Jelena was an avid Bosnian mountaineer, obsessed with all things mountainous. She was a very intense, no-bullshit kind of person with a big heart. She also had a horrible addiction to sodium chloride, and each meal that I shared with her was immersed in enough salt to last most mortals a lifetime. Her life goal was to climb K2, or die trying. I clearly remember having a discussion with her about a group of mountaineers who had to turn around after a member of their team died of frostbite during the ascent. She seems to think that they should have left him behind and continued the climb, regardless of whether or not they were risking their own lives. Being in the presence of Jelena was a great pleasure, especially when we got to talking (maybe debating is a better word) about any one of her many opinions.

Ben's birthday party.

That night Jelena and Nina brought us to a huge party for Ben’s birthday. We all got dressed up, downed the absinthe, and ventured off into the snow (the “disco” was in the next town over). Despite the snow, despite the avalanche, despite the national state of emergency, and despite the fact that the size of the town was no more than 10 000 people, the party was madness. The theme was dress-up party meets masquerade. Every single person was in costume; I’d never seen anything like it before. There were penguins, scuba divers, people with large diamonds instead of heads, and an army of little red riding hoods. There were others as well - three thousand of them in total. There were lasers and smoke. And the best part? The whole thing took place in a magnificent castle. It was easily the best party I’ve ever been to.

The next morning we were sad to say goodbye to Nina, who had been living us for the time that we’d been there. She was a character as well. Addicted to hair, from what I recall, though this was mostly a joke between us and I cannot remember the basis for it. If there was one word to describe Nina it would be honest. She says it like it is. It was really refreshing to meet someone like her. You don’t often realize how funny everyday life can be until you meet someone who has that unique ability of being able to put their thumb right down on top of it. Nina spews truth, and yes - I suppose if it came down to it I would be her disciple.

Jelena walked us part the way towards the ferry we needed to catch to make our way towards Croatia. I vividly remember walking down the street in the morning mist with her and Ben, looking up at a 1000-year old church on top of a nearby mountain. I was contemplated the distinction between ocean and sea. There is a very important difference in Europe. I had always considered them synonyms, but I suppose I have an excuse, coming from the Great Plains and all.

A dead snake on the side of the highway as we entered Croatia. An omen?