Teenage Dirtbags of Albania
This article was published in Waif Magazine Issue 12 — “The Daddy Issue” and can be viewed here
Last Summer (undecided on where to backpack to next) my American friend Hanna and I threw a dart at a world map. When it landed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, we scrapped that idea and decided to visit Albania instead. The plan was born from the ingredient list on the back of Hanna’s moisturiser “…derived from the foreskin of an Albanian baby goat…” and the fact that we’re both self-proclaimed travel hoes who stroke our egos by vacationing to places off the beaten path. Forgive us. We just want to feel half as cultured as the lifestyle bloggers who spend three weeks taking “candids” in Europe, and come home suddenly giving cheek kisses and talking about how the drinking culture is “like, so different”.
A few hours of after-dinner-fuckery later, with our gigantic hiking packs: ON and thumbs sticking: OUT (because that’s what they do in the movies), we emerged from our hostel as born-again hitchhikers. Over the next few hours a handful of cars halted, and in our combined language abilities of English (Australian) and English (U.S.) we committed ourselves to a lengthy game of charades. At first the drivers avoided our eyes entirely. At the 5 minute and 24-second mark, the rain started falling, the glances become more sympathetic, and Hanna expressed that she was willing to flash her tits for a free ride to Albania. “If you think I’m above that, I’m not”.
The next morning we boarded the public bus to Tirana like complete failures. Along the way our driver tried teaching us some Albanian, or Shqip as it is formally referred, one of Europe’s most complex languages. To give you an idea of how difficult it is to survive numbers one through twenty, “seventeen” is spelled “shtatëmbëdhjetë” and pronounced exactly as it looks. With the realisation that circumcising a baby goat would come more naturally than speaking Albanian, we resorted to basking in complete silence. Am I talking about goat penis too much?
I’m willing to take the risk.
Crossing the border into Albania was like visiting North Korea in a post-liberated future. The country was rendered inaccessible throughout most of the 20th Century, all thanks to its tyrannical Communist dictator; Enver Hoxha. Forming Allies with the USSR and China, the paranoid regime fostered a fear of invasion from the Capitalist West. 750,000 concrete bunkers were constructed under his direction, meaning the human to bunker ratio in Albania drew disconcertingly close to the human to rat ratio in New York.
Inside these bunkers, citizens were safe from the invasions that never came and from the Nike stores that would emerge regardless after Hoxha’s death. In the near fifty years of Communist rule (1942–1991), Albanians were forbidden from leaving the country, while the exhibition of foreign influence was totally outlawed. Emigrating in a pair of fresh Air Force 1’s would have earned you a one-way ticket to the grave. Mad respect though.
Inherent to the Communist Albanian school curriculum was the condemnation of Capitalism and “The West” in general. The 1967 Constitution details a law restricting Albanian citizens from the demonstration of any Western cultural influence including but not limited to a) selling your soul to Starbucks, b) binge-watching reality TV and c) dying in a sweatsuit.
Boys coming-of-age under a Stalinist puppeteer, like our Albanian tour guide “Pinnochio”, informed their superiors when they felt individuals were challenging the regime. The hemline of a skirt veering into the inappropriately short (or indeed, exceptionally long) territory was regarded as a serious act of defiance. Enver Hoxha was an active proponent of “objective responsibility”, meaning the children and grandchildren of transgressors also suffered for her deviant ways. Women’s rights in Albania were stifled to extremes that haven’t appeared outside Brett Kavanaugh’s wet dreams in recent memory.
Albania’s borders finally opened with the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991; right on schedule for the Spice Girls’ hit-debut Wannabe. Jumping straight from global isolation to the global importation of denim jeans and German cars has created a fascinating dichotomy within the culture. Albania feels like a time capsule of both an archaic past and a near-distant memory.
Geezers of the East continue to subscribe to a restrictive set of gender expectations. Restaurants and cafes are undeniable BOYS CLUBS and are frequented exclusively by men. The waiter’s reluctance to take our order and the unwavering stares from the restaurant’s patrons should have been the first clue that women are not welcome in these spaces. In fact, women are noticeably absent from public sight altogether, as they are expected to tend to domestic duties such as raising children and folding a fitted bed sheet without triggering a nervous breakdown.
Albanians under Communist rule dressed in variations of the exact same outfit, known officially as the “standard dress code” or by Kate Sanders as “Lizzie McGuire! You are an outfit repeater!” The purpose of uniform clothing was to prevent individuals from attracting attention based upon their status, age or gender. Enver Hoxha sought to eradicate individualism to create a society of people with state-owned brains fashioned by the party. Not so far-fetched from this ideology was the pleated skirt/blazer combo I donned through thirteen years of Catholic school. Uniforms establish a visible common identity. They are equalisers. And they help to maintain both order and conformity.
The fall of the Soviet Union granted Albanians dress-code defying freedom over their appearance for the first time in almost half a century. And with this comparatively newfound independence, today’s Bad Boys of the Balkans™ stay cool and hang loose in outfits that look as if they were selected by eleven-year-old me from the inventory closet on Sims 2.
A pair of knee-length embellished jean shorts I spotted on a college student bear striking resemblance to those sported by a Sim I created in 2005 named Matt. This distinguishable scent of 2005 (Spoiler alert: it’s Britney Spears Fantasy) exudes from the layered polo shirts with the collar popped we spotted around every turn on University of Tirana campus. When a series of lost-in-translation graphic tees caught my eye, a personal fave sprung from the rest: KEEP CALM AND I LIKE A DEAL MARIA. I felt that.
Modern Albania is one of the only European countries where flexing your credit card at the mall can be passed off both as a culturally stimulating and academically enriching outing. (I’m an A-level English class bullshitter, can you tell?) En Vogue in women’s fashion right now is a hybrid of rhinestone encrusted, fur cuffed, kitten affiliated silhouettes that makes differentiating dog from cat people unbelievably difficult.
Leaving behind the regimented dress codes attached to Communism and Catholicism, both Albania and I continue in the evolution of our personal styles. Historians believe that Hoxha’s political model fell through because he misjudged the pursuit of individuality. And so Albania’s fashion scene is comparable to the Summer after high school graduation. It’s finding its feet. Literally. While the world is hung up on a permanent foray into athleisure, the millennials kicking around in Nike tennis shoes and high top sneakers here are no different. Footwear has become the country’s largest export, grounding Albania in a sense of conventional Western familiarity — from the ankle down at least.
Considering my own style (a sartorial tour of your dad’s suitcase from a 2002 vacation to the Bahamas — think Hawaiian shirts, hotel pool slides and a permanently dripping wetsuit) already veers into Aussie fuckboy territory, it didn’t take much stylistic manipulation to attract attention. In Hanna’s case, even less so. “Is she that pop star?” we overheard once in Italian (the country’s unofficial second language). Her bubblegum pink hair and American accent clearly subverting some kind of “Bitch! I’m Lady Gaga” attitude.
The Albanian men who gathered in droves beside the footpath possessed Kanye level eye contact abilities. They NEVER dropped their gaze when we caught them staring, an experience that transpired quickly from five-seconds-of-fame in Tirana, to self-consciousness and utter irritation. At some point my typically attention-loving internal monologue screamed: “WHY ARE THEY STARING??” (very off-brand for me), while I crossed the street in a flurry of mismatched clothing. I’m talking leopard print pants, a camo tee and heavy-ass Doc Martens boots I felt obliged to wear, to justify dragging them across the continent all Summer. Albania’s borders may have opened in 1991, but the greater cultural revolution celebrating individuality and Manic Panic hair dye is still catching up.
Breaking point finally came in an Albanian grocery store. Hanna and I were tailed down every aisle by a store clerk and surveilled to the point of rivaling 2002 airline travel through JFK. When I eventually pulled out my camera to take a shot of Han standing in front of the yogurt fridges in an insta-hoe meets travel-hoe crossover moment, the woman stepped swiftly in front of the lens and told us we weren’t allowed to take pictures. I got the shot of course because I’m a crafty millennial — it’s what we do.
The Communist regime institutionalised fear of being spied upon by Westerners, and within this supermarket the paranoia was burgeoning. I was relieved to discover that as unfamiliar as Albania seemed, however, they still had Corn Flakes. I could at least taste the comforting mundanity of my childhood for breakfast. Amidst tossing two boxes into the cart and scanning the shelves for tampons (they’re impossibly hard to find in Albania), I mindlessly left an empty water bottle I’d been carting around behind. Our usual “let’s blow this popsicle stand” getaway proved a struggle, considering the store clerks barricaded the exit and questioned us incessantly on where we’d hidden it. They assumed the water bottle was a recording device and threatened to call the police. Not gonna lie, I felt bad about it after. And by it, I mean my nonchalant contribution to single-use plastic waste.
What’s that joke again? An American and an Aussie walk into a bar. Cause they’re crammed inside a fucking Albanian prison cell? We didn’t wait long enough to find out, both setting new personal bests on Fitbit while sprinting away, groceries in hand. “Han!” I said breathlessly “Where should we go?” to which she exclaimed, “Maybe if you’d get your hands out of the Corn Flakes for a hot second we could actually make a plan”.
Our safe haven wound up being the Albanian Alps. This suited me just fine considering I love hiking. Trees are intrinsically soothing and re-tying a flannel knot around my waist is one of my favourite sports. Particularly alluring was the prospect of freely exploring Albania’s natural beauty outside of prison. And it really was beautiful. Vast mountain ranges, rainbows colliding with waterfalls and dried out river beds: an IRL folder of Windowsscreensavers.
Overnight, we slept in lodges with all the other hikers we’d crossed paths with throughout the day. These were family homes that had opened up to Summer explorers for a small fee and always included a home-cooked meal. For the travel-hoes who maintain a strict gluten-free, pollen-free, dairy-free, allergen-free diet, the Alps prove a struggle, considering the Albanian diet is comprised primarily of goat cheese and goat meat. Over three days of hiking I subsisted off of local produce; cucumbers and tomatoes, whatever was left of the stale Corn Flakes in my bag, and boiling water. The upside to this was that my health insurance wasn’t very comprehensive, and my unappetising vegan leftovers no brown bear would poke a stick at, acted as a deterrent to being mauled to death.
Side-note: I honestly can’t believe I made it this far without mentioning I’m vegan. Is this a world record?
Staying in the lodges also gave us the opportunity to meet local girls, one of the only times we would interact with Albanian women on our trip. These kind, endearing girls were oddly enthralled by the raised Nike logo on Hanna’s jumper, reaching out to touch it one-by-one. Apparently they don’t have raised sportswear logos in Albanian stores, only screen-printed ones. When I took a moment to process it all felt surreal. Here I was, miles from cell reception in the Alps, comparing Nike t-shirts (a brand so emblematic of Capitalism and “The West”) with the grandchildren of Communism, in English! Enver Hoxha had officially just lost. And so this seemingly trivial conversation under an expansive horizon sprinkled with stars became a metaphor for Albania — compelling me to reevaluate the complex relationship that entwines politics, history and fashion together.
Hanna and I had been warned before packing our rucksacks the last morning that currency converters gladly exchange US dollars into Albanian Lek, but conveniently display a “Back in 10 hours” sign when you wish to exchange it back. In a last-minute bid to not let my leftover Lek go to waste, I treated myself to a fresh box of Corn Flakes for the road, imparting the cashier with a generous 300 Lek tip (approximately $2 US dollars). In the hoarse Long Islander accent I seem to slip into while deliriously tired or drunk, I told him to “Keep the change! Buy yuhself somethin’ nice!”
Those Corn Flakes wound up being a Godsend while we hiked back to town, boarded a ferry, off-roaded in a minivan and came to a complete standstill in a taxi, in one of the longest traffic jams of my goddamn life. As we approached the immigration booths, our driver told us to pretend we were all friends so he wouldn’t have to fork out cab surcharges at the border. That kind of hurt my feelings because I thought we were friends. Outside the window, I watched as mountain goats (who had not yet been used as goat foreskin moisturiser I presume) weaved effortlessly between the cars and across the border into Montenegro.
Albania was perplexing, historic, beautiful and thrilling. But if I recommend it, you might actually go there. And that would make it way less undiscovered and travel-hoe cool for me.
Why not try Montenegro instead?
