Our time in Serbia and Montenegro was brief, with
surprisingly little contact with the people, the highlight being an
unforgettable conversation with a Serbian sailor who would remind me not to
paint all Serbians with the same brush. My fears would be unwarranted here, but
put to the test in neighbouring Albania.
From Italy to Serbia, we were warned about the dangers of
walking in Albania. With the fall of communism, violence and corruption were
rampant, and poverty was high. Walking through there, I felt as if I had been
transported to a third-world country, with refuse littering the fields and
children running barefoot in it, accompanied by scrawny-looking dogs. Young and
old alike begged us for money. Compared to them, we must have appeared the
wealthy tourists.
On more than one occasion, we were offered lifts, but they couldn’t understand why we insisted on walking since, to them, only the poorest of the poor walked. We saw opulent wealth standing in shocking contrast to the pervasive poverty. I felt more confused and off-balance than ever, while Alberto, appeared to be at his best, more confident in himself than I had ever seen him, all of which served to deflate, rather than lift, me. Every little thing bothered me; I felt assaulted on every level, and found myself responding in irritation, even anger, and retreating further inwards.
On more than one occasion, we were offered lifts, but they couldn’t understand why we insisted on walking since, to them, only the poorest of the poor walked. We saw opulent wealth standing in shocking contrast to the pervasive poverty. I felt more confused and off-balance than ever, while Alberto, appeared to be at his best, more confident in himself than I had ever seen him, all of which served to deflate, rather than lift, me. Every little thing bothered me; I felt assaulted on every level, and found myself responding in irritation, even anger, and retreating further inwards.
Despite some wonderful experiences, with people dedicated to
helping this impoverished country, Albania was my personal low-point, the place
where I allowed my fears to define my experience. I felt that I had failed my
walk for peace, and the message I was carrying.
Still, as I crossed the border into Macedonia, I couldn’t help but take one last glance and say “falemenderit”, thank you.
Still, as I crossed the border into Macedonia, I couldn’t help but take one last glance and say “falemenderit”, thank you.
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