Going to Macedonia

We had a slight problem with our arrangement to meet our new German friend, Loreen, in Pogrodec, at the south-western tip of Lake Ohrid.

Mark had tested positive for COVID-19.

Both he and I were triple vaccinated. Plus, we’d survived the pandemic infection-free in northern Italy: Europe’s coronavirus epicentre.

How ironic to catch it now, two years on, in the middle of nowhere, in Albania.

As we found when border closures prevented our return from Italy to the UK in 2020, at least an RV is a perfect place to isolate.

None of the friends we’d made on the lake tested positive after spending time with us, and I remained clear. Thankfully, Mark’s symptoms were mild and lasted only a few days. 

When we finally arrived, Pogrodec failed to impress. Especially after the scenic beauty of our previous lakeside camp.

They say the camera never lies, but our proposed stopover certainly didn’t correspond with onlline photos. A pack of five large and aggressive-looking dogs patrolled a gloomy tree-lined beach, which was strewn with crowds, sun loungers, and litter. Silty sand made the water look dirty and uninviting.

It was late, so we intended to stay overnight before we crossed into North Macedonia. As we continued up the road, the proprietor of Camping Fabio beckoned us in, with a big grin, a thumbs up, and a, “Great car!”

Fabio cooked us a fabulous meal –  petale with sour cream, our favourite Albanian starter, followed by lake trout, washed down with a couple of beers. I spotted Krap (Carp) on the menu. I’d heard that carp was a coarse fish, all bones and flvoured with mud. Yet my childish side determined that, however unappetising I’d been told it was, I couldn’t leave Albania without trying something called Krap.

It was a pleasant surprise when Jean, the French pilgrim from Istanbul we’d met in Shkodër, turned up. He had spotted the truck and pitched his tiny one-man tent next door. Observing them side by side, he announced,

“I have room to upgrade my accommodation!”

Pogrodec was a favourite summer retreat for communist dictator, Enver Hoxha, and his cronies. So near the border with North Macedonia, he had studded the shoreline with rows of his trademark concrete bunkers. (To read more about Albania’s bunkers, see my post ‘The Best Coastal Drive in the World’: Ksamil Beach & The Llogar Pass, Albania)

Since those dark days, anonymous painters had transformed them into friendly cartoon creatures. We saw smiley faces, ladybirds and frogs, but the bunker outside Fabio’s campsite had a military makeover in camouflage colours. I uploaded a photo of The Fab Four posed on it to Facebook. Piotr, another friend from Shkodër, commented,

“When I was a kid, the most famous Polish TV series was Four Tank-Men and a Dog. Here we have Four Dogs and a Tank Bunker!”

We had planned to drive up to Drilon national park, but it was 35°C again, and we suspected it might be as unpleasantly commercial as Pogrodec. Instead, we did laundry and donated a lightweight, quick drying bath towel to Jean, who had managed to lose his.

I tried Krap when we dined with Jean on the second evening. It was meaty and delicious, like an extra-flavoursome swordfish steak. I would go out of my way to try it again.  

Jean told us he was expecting issues at the border.

“I entered Albania over the mountains and didn’t get my passport stamped,” he said.

“That’s not a problem,” I announced. “We can take you across in the back of the truck.”

They both stared at me, and Mark pointed out,

“I’m not ready to get into people smuggling yet, Jackie. Sometimes, you’re just too helpful.”

Ah yes. My plan had a fatal flaw.

Like the time I ended up with a flat full of illegal cannabis plants shortly after moving to central London. I was alone in the apartment when a stranger knocked on the door.

Through the spyhole, I saw a small gremlin of a youth with long black razor-cut hair, clad entirely in black. He must have heard me shuffling in the hallway, because he called,

“Is that Liz? It’s Brian from next door. I’ve been burgled!”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“The police are coming,” he replied. “I wondered if you’d look after my plants.”

“Of course,” I said, without hesitation. I was an innocent northern lass from the sticks. It was my first week in the big city and here was a neighbur in distress. Plus, he clearly knew my flatmate.

“You know what kind of plants I mean?” he said, as I opened the door to my first crime. I hadn’t really thought it through.

“Well, I presume they’re naughty plants…”

Later, it dawned on me that a complete stranger had effectively called the police then set me up with a cannabis farm. Plus, my actions incriminated my new flatmates. I’d only known them a week!

Liz and Simon laughed at my earnest apologies, and admitted my strategy to avoid a drug bust had made them doubt my sanity.

“We did wonder why you kept your house plants in the airing cupboard.”

Well, it’s obvious. If the police raided us, they’d never find them there.

I met Brian properly later. He was a sweet and gentle Goth. When I helped return his cannabis plantation from the windowless gloom of our airing cupboard, he showed me around his flat. I noted his collection of shrunken heads, and commented on his décor. Everything was black. He had even smeared black paint across the window panes, because,  

“They were just too white, man.”

I sensed his plants might have felt at home in our airing cupboard, but as Mark rightly said. Too helpful.

Despite the boys’ intervention on my people trafficking enterprise, it wasn’t Jean, who had trouble at the border.

Our vehicle insurance doesn’t cover the Balkans. To overcome this, we purchase border insurance at each crossing.

Tushemisht is a small crossing, around 7 km from Pogrodec. A few offices on the side of the potholed road house the frontier guards. Jean walked straight through, but the insurance kiosk was closed or non-existent, we were not sure. Uninsured, we couldn’t cross.

Wherever she goes, The Beast always causes a kerfuffle. A legion of border guards spilled out of their booths to take photos, and one policewoman brought her big fluffy dog to meet ours. Amid the chaos, I exclaimed, “Oooh! Look at that grasshopper!” and tried to photograph an oversized bright green insect that had alighted on our windowsill.

The principal guard strode over to put an end to the circus.  

“Could you move?” he asked, rather nicely, considering the circumstances.

“You’re blocking the border.”

Ooops!

Tushemisht was around 40 km from Ohrid town, and Jean was on foot, carrying a heavy rucksack. We had a quick discussion and he opted to backtrack with us to a different border. We drove the entire length of Lake Ohrid’s Albanian coastline to enter North Macedonia at the other end. We passed the pretty village of Lin, to which we walked the other day. Once more, just before Kjafasan, Jean hopped out and set off on foot. Three monstrous dogs loped after him. We revved our engine, and they turned on The Beast. They snapped at our wheels the whole way to the border.

Once again, Jean sailed through, but this time, we were thoroughly searched.

A humourless guard directed our truck over an inspection pit. He scoured our chassis for contraband, then ransacked all our cupboards. He harrumphed when I explained that the stringy ball in a tiny glass bottle was highly legal environmentally friendly silk dental floss. When asked, Mark demonstrated how to operate his powerful, folding inspection torch. The man’s face lit up in wonder, like a little boy who has spotted his first digger.

In our entire trip, including re-entering the EU, the only time anyone checked the dogs’ passports was on our departure from Albania. Departure. Not entry. Go figure!

He found nothing, of course. With inadvertent ‘previous’ as a London-based drug baron on my criminal CV from forty years before, you might suspect my integrity. Yet, I’m the sort of person who feels wracked with guilt when I go through the green channel, even when I know I’ve nothing to declare.

We suppressed our misgivings that the guard was trying to catch us out in order to demand a bribe. It was nearly an hour before he released us to collect our passenger. Macedonian customs waved us through.

Jean was sanguine about the whole affair. With a wicked grin, he said,

“Well, at least zey didn’t find a Frenchman who hadn’t had his passport stamped!”

Fuel in Macedonia was about 20% cheaper than Albania, so we stopped to fill up. We had no Macedonian denars, but the garage accepted credit cards. This was a welcome change from Albania, where most businesses, including fuel stations, accept only cash. Thoughtfully, they also provided wedges to tip the cars. This helped Albanians cross back with the absolute maximum amount of cheap fuel in their tanks.

The first town en route was Struga Crypta. We stopped in its pretty centre to refuel ourselves with both currency and lunch.

The one and only ATM was empty, so that was a fail. Lunch was almost a fail, when we discovered Struga’s riverside restaurants were also cash only. We pooled our last lekë, and scored enough denars from a currency exchange to buy lunch at a restaurant by the Black Drin. As we awaited our pizza, Mark embarrassed me by wetting his pants.

Please don’t think we’re ‘getting to that age’. It was hot, so he plunged into the river to cool down. Even the pups shot him a look that said, “You can’t take him anywhere…”

Back at the car park, as you do, Mark and Jean helped to bump start a tractor. Then, three public-spirited citizens set off towards Ohrid, hoping for a working ATM.

As we arrived in the town, a cyclist kindly led us to some free on-street parking large enough to accommodate our truck. The residents all came out for a chat. Lines of them trooped up our steps to peer inside The Beast.

Finally, we got cash in town and happened upon an Irish bar. It would have been rude not to. A chap on the next table came over to pet our pups. He showed us a photo of his dog, a HUGE and hairy Macedonian Shepherd. It weighed more than him. Mark and I shared a glance that said, ‘We’ll definitely be avoiding those!’

But the Macedonian beer hit the spot. As did our park up on the shores of Lake Ohrid, overlooked by the castle. We had reservations as we drove there through a rough part of town, but once we arrived, it was lovely. Right on the lake shore, next to Hotel Mizo.

After a long hot drive, The Pawsome Foursome dived straight in for a paddle, while Jean pitched his tent.

Later, Mark searched for his inspection torch to take the pups out for a nocturnal pee poo. It was nowhere to be found. The last sighting was in the wondering hands of the Albanian border guard. Of course, we have no proof, and it’s possible we may have misplaced it, but we’ve never seen it since. To me, it exemplifies what is wrong with the world.

On the ferry to France, a truck driver (who’d never been to Albania!) warned us, “Albania is full of robbing bastards.”

In six weeks, we’d encountered nothing but kindness in Albania. The only Albanian who raised even the slightest suspicion of being a robbing bastard was a government official.

The potential theft wasn’t the only thing that kept us awake that night. Cars came and went from the car park at all hours, revving their engines and playing loud music. Dogs barked, and nature threw in a crescendo of frogs.

But sleep or no, we had a dream. We’d promised ourselves a tour of Ohrid the following day, a place known originally as Lychnidos/Lychnidus in Greek and Latin.

It means the City of Light.

To read our about our COVID isolation in Italy, check out my bestselling book, It Never Rains But It Paws – A Road Trip Through Politics and a Pandemic.

Ruby enjoys a sunset paddle on the shores of Lake Ohrid, North Macedonia