A is for Albania.
And in particular the north, the northern city of Shkodra. I was there in the early 1990′s, passing through a few times, and sometimes stopping to photograph. Shkodra, and the north, in those days always felt a bit more lawless than the rest of Albania. There was something about the mullet haircuts and the flares, they seemed more threatening in the north.
At that time I toured Albania shooting with two colleagues- a fixer called Alban, and a driver, Eddy, with his long silver estate car. I’d call the shots, plan the days adventures, look at maps and decide where to go. Shkodra was gateway to the north, to the mountains, and had the only hotel in the area. So even if we went shooting in the mountains somewhere chances are we’d come back to Shkodra in the evenings.
One time, traveling with a journalist and different driver/car, we left our car overnight in the police station compound, figuring it’d be safest there. Next morning we arrived and it had been stripped, gone were wing mirrors, wiper blades etc. The policemen shrugged.
The hotel in Shkodra was an adventure, it’s name escapes me though. Probably Hotel Shkodra, but maybe not. One evening we checked in, and retired to the armchairs in the corner to plan our next move. CRASH. The ceiling above the reception desk fell to the ground. Concrete galore. Albanians scurrying and running, dust and debris everywhere. We escaped with our young lives, with seconds to spare.
Another evening in the same hotel, travelling with the same journalist, a UK guy called A.B. We checked in, the concierge being friendly. Perhaps it was late, perhaps we were dusty from a day in the sticks, who knows, time has blurred some details. We check in, we buy a bottle of cheap wine, perhaps fizzy wine, from the concierge, produced from under the reception desk, and paid for in hard Dollars. In those days it wasn’t a case of what would you like to buy, it was a case of what can you sell us. We retire to our room, a shared room. We drink our fizzy alcopop and retire to beds, another day of adventure behind us, another day of living life to the full, chasing stories and images, dreams and adventures. Fast forward a couple of hours, we’re asleep. There is a knock at out room door.
I remove the armchair we’ve rammed up against the door, and open the door, wearing only my boxer shorts, and there’s a police man. He has his gun. A silver pistol of some sort I remember. And behind him, is the concierge. It was late, too late for this scenario whatever they wanted. They wanted to come in, we wanted to sleep. But the concierge had finished his shift, it was the middle of the night and he’d sensed money making schemes and adventures. He’d run home, across the city, to fetch another bottle of fizzy wine/champagne/alcopop to sell to the thirsty Dollar Weilding Westerners. And now, from behind the gun toting policeman (who was also thirsty) he produced it, grinning.
Who were we to resist ? No, no thanks, not tonight, we’re tired. No. And there’s a silver pistol in their hand. No, hey, guys, friends, what kept you, come in!
And in they came, the policeman in his blue shirt and wide brimmed hat, and the concierge. Of course we had to buy the fizzy juice, of that there wasn’t much discussion. And of course we had to open it, of that there wasn’t much discussion. And of course we had to drink it with their help. But it was amicable. Us in our boxer shorts, them in their uniforms. We drank, the pistol was passed round, heavy and silver in our hands. Cheers !
Same hotel different time, I arrive with Alban and Eddy and a woman journalist N.N. We ask what was on the menu and they tell us they have red wine. A rarity in 1992 Albania. We bought a case, and drank the rich, red fruity wine in the back of the car on a journey back to Tirana.
Same city different time. I go to photograph in the childrens orphanage, or perhaps it was a hospital. Either way, it was incredibly sad. Not the type of place to leave a child, or to go to. The children wore rags, cold against the stone floors and walls. The walls were painted in two tones, one tone up to the level of two or three feet, the different tone for the rest. The floor had tiles and was cold. The window had bars and no curtains. The women staff were all very big, and buxom and matronly and stern, wearing white, and non plussed about their surroundings and the children. Some Canadian teenagers played guitars and sang to the kids “Give us a J, give us an E, give us an S, give us a U, give us an S, JESUS”. The kids sang and clapped, and in the corner one of them masturbated with the excitement of it all.
Just north of Shkodra was a particularly scary town. Perhaps it was a good place, perhaps I do it a disservice, but it always worried me. It was closer to the Montenegran border. It always seemed like cowboy town. They had a bakery which I shot in if I remember correctly. Albania in those days had so little that a working, operating bakery was news. The town though had a feeling, a bad feeling. Every time we arrived there, or passed through, I’d reach over from the back seat of Eddy’s silver estate and press the button between the two front seats locking the 4 doors of the car. Call me nervous, call me scared, call me cautious.
And all of the above had a sound track, especially the days in Eddy’s car. A cassette played non stop, at top volume, as we drove amongst fields of cows in the sun, of white geese on dusty tracks, as we passed through lawless towns, men in flares and mullet hairdo’s by the roadside, Hoxha’s pillboxes at every turn. The music was good then, and the music is still good now. Primal Scream’s ‘Screamadelica’ album. The soundtrack of Shkodra. The soundtrack of Albania in 1992.
(View photographs of Albania here and photographs of Albania in colour here)