Journey Through Albania, 1939 (3)
Journey to Albania[1]
Part Three
Photo-report by our correspondent Lamberti Sorrentino
Tirana December
Every twenty meters along the streets of Tirana, there are at least ten shops: narrow, overflowing with goods, and packed with customers. During the free time, three-quarters of the customers are military personnel; cheerful and sometimes noisy people. They move in groups, laughing easily, speaking in chorus. These soldiers are well-dressed, with clean shoes and smooth faces; some even wear gloves. Shopping is a joy and a form of entertainment: they have now mastered the art of the Eastern market—our soldiers know it well: they bargain prices down to normal levels, often with a fifty percent discount. However, a budding Western habit, that of fixed prices, clashes with the sweet art of haggling. The shopkeepers who have opted for fixed prices can be cruel: they say no, no, without moving from their refusal; in the shop next door, however, prices drop after a fierce negotiation; and what happens then? The soldiers leave, doubtful: they linger at the door, consulting one another. Then they return and buy, agitated under the impassive gaze of the fixed-price vendor, a man who does not give in. And so, little by little, with experience, they adapt to the country, get to know people and things, learn to distinguish, moving away from generalizations. After a month of staying, our soldier knows everything, doesn't make mistakes, has adjusted; instinctively, in a mysterious way, he is in perfect harmony with the environment and the atmosphere; not a gesture, not a clumsy or inappropriate phrase is repeated twice in him; he feels completely at ease, and the Albanians feel just as comfortable with him.
The Italian soldier was in Spain, and in Albania, he is the best possible catalyst between the idea he represents and the people who welcome him. Wherever he arrives, he manifests himself as he is, strong and kind, making sure that he and his regiment are respected, but in turn incapable of disrespect: wherever he arrives, whether soldier or legionnaire, trust in him spontaneously arises. And if one can trust men, why not the ideas they stand for and their land? The Italian soldier is treated well, but he does not live in abundance; I mean that his subsistence gives him what is fair, not the superfluous; yet, those who followed him in Africa, in Spain, in Albania, know that he is always ready to share his bread or water bottle with those who have less than he does. It is no effort for them not to steal, not to use violence, not to get drunk. Let’s be clear: they are not gentlemen, nor are they top of the class. They are tough: ready for anything, they do not give up on anything. If they had to confess their sins to the chaplain on Sunday, he would hear quite the stories. But they know their limits, that’s it. They are civilized, they instinctively know where they can go, and where they need to stop. They have the social sense of strong races: rightful justice, which is nothing more than the opposite face of rightful duty.
How’s it going with the women? And the three foot soldiers who were drinking grappa at the counter of a café, before answering, wanted to know who I was.
Bad, sir journalist: in terms of women, things are going really bad. The unspoken protest came entirely from within, like an outburst against a strange injustice: What a country, damn it! None of us here has found a sweetheart. Someone says they had an adventure: but those are just stories. Who can do anything here with women? Even the Albanians, if they’re not settling down, they just want to whistle at them. It’s not good. Worse than Sicily.
Nonsense about Sicily! I’m from Ribera said another clearly from the province of Girgenti: Ribera, compared to Tirana, is a little Paris, in terms of women, of course. Here, you see them either with the veil or, if you get close, you’ll feel them tremble under your nose or with their heads uncovered; some are beautiful, others make your head spin, but it’s nothing, really nothing to be done. And anyone who says otherwise is lying.
We arrived here noted the third, and it seemed like a country of only men; they didn’t know us, and they made the women disappear; you couldn’t spot a single one. Now they’ve understood what kind of people we are, they’re no longer afraid of us. And maybe on a Sunday, if no one’s watching, one of them might give you a smile; maybe you murmur a compliment to one if no one else can hear you. You know what I’m telling you? If the women were more accommodating, I’d sign right now to stay in Albania.
And that was bad news. I thought they were exaggerating. But no, it was gospel truth; by the end of the journey, I began to doubt that there’s a harder country in the world than Albania, from this point of view.
I asked to eat Albanian-style at the restaurant, and the waiters and customers looked at me in surprise. The menu was Italian: not a single local dish. The truth is, there are two types of cuisine: Italian and French; the rest is barbarism, or at most, just a way of eating. Among these ways of eating, there is also the Albanian style; an experience of mine that I will recount shortly. Here in Tirana, in Shkodër, in Korçë, in Vlorë, in Durrës, the hotels and attached restaurants have been run by Italians since they opened, and they cook according to our customs. There is Chianti on the table, even if the brands are unfamiliar and the labels often unknown, perhaps improvised. Wherever the Italian regiment arrives, the day after, the Chianti jug follows; the regiment moves, but the jug remains. Attached to the walls are flags and portraits of the King, the Duce, and Ciano: the writings underneath are in Albanian. At a long corner table sits a general with his command: a temporary mess hall due to a lack of facilities. Other officers, of every branch and rank, are in the room. Almost in the center, a group of officials from the Royal Lieutenancy; the waiter confides to me that they are from the Lieutenancy; when they call him to that table, he rushes over eagerly, and at every order, he wags his tail, happy. A bearded Orthodox priest, ruddy and important, honors all the courses, repeats them, and gestures while giving explanations to his young civilian companion, thin, who nods respectfully and doesn’t lift his eyes from the plate: he devours his food. Two women are present, still in their travel clothes, a bit pale, a bit tired, disoriented by the new surroundings, by the hotel life that is just beginning, by the rain that comes down silently and forces them to stay in their room, turning it almost into a prison. Two men in boots also eat with them in silence. Those four almost seem as if they've been arguing. Transplants are bitter to endure, anywhere. The younger woman takes a packet of cigarettes from her purse: she lights one, inhales deeply, absorbed in thought, then slowly exhales the smoke over the embers.
A Militia consul has just entered, he greets: from a table, other officers of the Militia rise to their feet, giving him a seat. That group constitutes the General Staff of the Albanian Militia, in formation: mixed units, troops made up of local volunteers. Two fine flasks of Chianti are on the table, and another one is on the table next to it, where four civilians with pale faces smoke intensely; two of them are Muslims, but they are drinking too. Attention! Attention!; the chatter dies down, and amid some static and interference, the reading of the radio news begins. Many have stopped eating; they listen thoughtfully: at any moment, the new news could arrive. The radio news has ended. No news. The clinking of forks on plates resumes.
Albanian roads are alive, both in cities and in areas with heavy traffic; you can't go five hundred meters without meeting someone. Judging by the road activity, Albania seems like an overpopulated region. Women, men, and animals at every step; carts, motorized truck convoys — at least one of these every day; so you can understand how you can only move forward in a car by constantly honking, with a maximum average speed of 40 kilometers per hour, if the road is good. At least half of this traffic consists of workers engaged in road construction. The companies, managers, and specialists are Italian, while the labor force is Albanian. Tens of thousands of white fez hats line the roads: men, old people, boys with hammers, sitting on the ground, breaking stones into gravel. Teams of quarrymen are on the hillsides, gathering raw stone, almost always on the spot. Where it's missing, trucks transport it: entire lines of trucks are stopped, unloading stones in abandoned spots, where the road surface no longer exists. In these places, work will start as soon as the workers from a nearby site become available. By now, everyone here has become a laborer: even the mountain people have left their kulle, attracted by good pay. In a few months, the laborer's wage has gone from three lek a day — three lira and seventy-five — to eight. At first, they are weak, due to malnutrition and habit; but eating twice a day restores them, the example encourages them; after a week, they give a normal output. The result is surprising: the Albanian is a shepherd and a warrior, not a worker or a farmer; but he adapts: you just need to convince him, and it goes from there.
As I was leaving Tirana, I asked my friend for a revolver; I was preparing for a long car journey, ten days through unknown regions, through areas almost untouched by our presence, with the possibility of unexpected arrests, in the countryside, at night.
"A revolver keeps you company," I said, and I insisted. My host laughed.
— First of all, you need a permit, and you don’t have it; and then I say it’s not necessary.— He added: — We all go around unarmed. — He is my friend, a captain in the Carabinieri, a man prudent out of necessity, and he understands security as a profession, but he seemed cocky to me; I didn’t like him. I remembered certain African experiences, moments when you would have given a finger for a bullet.— You can always find a madman, — I muttered in a final attempt. He laughed again: and even my Albanian driver repeated to me during the trip that “the captain was right; bandits are no longer around.”— But there used to be some.— Yes, but in other times. Now, Albania is as safe as Italy.From my experience, I must add that it’s equally hospitable, if not more. Only once, in two weeks of traveling without a specific destination, did it happen that I knocked on a door in the countryside due to a car breakdown. The hosts were Muslims: they welcomed me like an ambassador, and showed me respect and attentiveness that, given the modesty of the house, surprised me. No women were seen; but the men offered me fresh water in a crystal glass, with gestures that made it seem like a precious liquid; then coffee and sweets. The conversation, with the help of the interpreter, unfolded in a ceremonious and lofty tone. I admired a silver filigree ashtray; when I said goodbye, the host offered it to me in a way that made it impossible to refuse.— He will be offended if you don’t accept it; give him a gift in return, anything, — the driver quickly suggested. So I reciprocated with my fountain pen; and he assured me that he and his son would write with that pen, and even his grandson.We would arrive in Korçë in the evening; but at nine, against the backdrop of a forest clinging to the mountain, a lit palace appeared.— It’s a spa hotel, the mother of King Zog used to come here; there are also mosaics from Roman baths — the driver informed me.I wanted to stay there for one night, in the royal apartment. They served Albanian food in that hotel: all good stuff, perhaps, but the fats were what they were: our palate rejected them; there was no canned butter, nor olive oil. Eating a raw tomato, sliced, with salt; and fruit. I was so mortified that I left immediately, giving up on visiting the Roman mosaics and waking up the next morning in the apartment once reserved for the queen mother.
Korçë is twenty kilometers from the Greek border, and I arrived there on market day, in a seeming disarray of small squares and streets, an apparent disorder of products from the land and local craftsmanship displayed everywhere. If the sun had been shining, I would have come away with a picturesque impression; but it was raining lightly, and the colors were dissolving into a vague mist. Today, that crowd and those things come back to me like an etching by Frank Brangwyn: a crowded scene, rich and in perpetual motion; faces and shapes of fresh cheese, hands and shoes, bellies and sacks of legumes, chests and pieces of fabric, women and donkeys, old men and cows, children and utensils: everything fused together by a tenacious and unyielding bargaining. In the evening, returning from the Greek border, I saw it again, that crowd, in a long and distant procession of loaded donkeys among which the car was slowly making its way.
At the border, the presence of a journalist had prompted a small ceremony. The Greek non-commissioned officer, the station commander, came to us with a bottle of Macedonian cognac. The Italian marshal hosted the group, and since the sergeant was a writer, they exchanged toasts on topics ranging from Homer to Mussolini. For that poet-officer, the most notable consequence of the union between Italy and Albania is the shared Italian-Greek border.
— These two uniforms of ours — he said, approaching the Italian marshal — demonstrate what I say: we are neighbors, united by the past and the future, by memories and by cognac.
All this about transit; in the middle, written in large letters: AIPA Azienda Generale Petroli Albanesi. Here I have all the permits; the barrier rises, and a guide gets into the car. There is a tree-lined avenue, wide: a few kilometers, then the trees give way to a forest of metal towers. — The wells, — murmurs the guide. The sun sets, two clouds turn red, and shadows thicken in the tangled iron structures. The towers have taken over the entire landscape; the nearby ones are tall and imposing, while the distant ones look like tiny protrusions on the horizon line. The car runs silently: alien and shrunken; everything is hostile to it; one of these towering metal structures will fall onto the road to pulverize it, this intruding car. We’ve fallen into a world of Cyclops. Among the flashing ribs of the towers, black men move in the dying light: shadows in the shadow. In the dark countryside, the sky reflects with pearl-like glimmers. Two or three stars have lit up: on each tower, a lamp lights up, a chorus of small lights, sudden, immense: a sudden flash; the iron structures trembled as if hit by a gust of wind. Some areas have received additional lighting: the lamps burst like fireworks, drawing fantastic diamonds. Then there are the houses that begin to watch from the plain with lit windows. From the factories, the glow of immense glass windows spreads like a fire. At the top of the hill, we stopped in front of a powerful and agile white building: the offices. Glass doors, shiny corridors, natural wood, natural wood, chrome-plated iron. A man in a gray suit and modest demeanor approaches me: he is the General Director. Foresteria: surprise. Evening has come, now, completely: the entrance is lit, a tall frosted crystal, a waiter in a white jacket, wide corridors; they assign me a small apartment built and furnished like the cabin of a transatlantic liner: the sofa that turns into a bed, the sink tucked away and hidden by a sliding curtain. All the comforts, with no frills. — The bath is ready, — announces the friendly voice of the waiter. A bath with adjustable water, hot or cold, with a shower, sponge mats on the floor, and enormous white towels. It’s in these moments that you’re glad to have a well-stocked suitcase: shaving and getting cleaned up brightens your mood, lightens you. Even my guest has changed clothes. At the table are a travel companion of mine and the engineer who will accompany us tomorrow to visit the oil field, with its wells and refineries. The dining room is suspended in the sky, like a belvedere; jutting out from the edge of the hill, it is surrounded by glass. The conversation is useful and cordial, while the waiter serves a good everyday meal, not for special occasions. Through the windows, you can glimpse the lights of the field; you can feel the pulse of the towers' population. In the early morning, we set off to explore the oil field. There is a careful guide, yet this sense of discovery becomes ever more alive. An hour later, when attempting to define this mechanism, we would say that it is a collective effort: a sum of many wells. The drama is to be found in the backstory, in the work of the engineers who, through experiences, experiments, and calculations, reached the invention and perfection of this complex machine that is the oil well, which can be assembled and disassembled in four days. The well has a diameter no larger than half a meter at the surface; deep in the earth, down to hundreds and hundreds of meters, it becomes narrower, just enough for the drill to operate. Oil extraction is a blind process: man does not witness it, he does not go underground, he stays in the sunlight. Man reaches the bottom of the earth through machines that cut and compress; and from the surface, the worker seems to visibly follow what happens seven hundred meters below: the depth of the oil reservoirs. A well has its birth, its life, and its death. When the part of the reservoir sensitive to extraction no longer overflows, the well is dead: it is dismantled and transported elsewhere. The towers are immobile; observed closely, you can see in the middle a small piston operated by an iron cord that moves up and down, slowly, continuously. It’s the pump, methodical. The activity of the men is reduced to carefully watching. Walking around the field, you occasionally discover a platform of disturbed soil, with deep traces of violence suffered; for some time, there, a tall metal structure tirelessly extracted black gold: six months, a year, three years; then vegetation returned to cover the wounds, and of the well, only its indication remains on the engineers' maps. The life of men and machines is calm, regulated: on the hidden ocean of oil, a city forms, from the telegraph to the hospital; as soon as the last drop of the heavy, precious liquid has flowed through the pipeline that leads to the sea, this city will disappear: born from labor, it will cease in abandonment. But years, years, years, and years will still pass.
This sense of transience characterizes life on the oil field. A simple and mysterious life, which makes the visitor, at the end of the day, feel like they have been “in the oil,” as they say in jargon; in the heart of a world that lives on its own, almost detached from humanity, but to which humanity owes its new era and its new destiny.
In Durres, two encounters: a seaman with clear ideas, and a pioneer. The seaman lives in a villa on the gulf. At the gate, before entering, he introduced me to a group of Italian ladies who could have been in a Roman salon; they talk about tea, bridge; and they smell of good perfume. On the terrace, an aperitif: a sailor in a white jacket, a stone table; the impression of organized life given to me by the encounter is reinforced. Here in Durres, we are at an advanced point of union: life has been defined, or almost: the shock of the first installation, the primitive, the uncomfortable, still felt strongly in Tirana and elsewhere, has been overcome. The bay is as beautiful as Naples, illuminated by a crescent moon; warships stand out in the harbor: beauty and power.
The word kingdom, in the concept of casual listeners — says the host — expands the real proportions of Albania; it is the equivalent of one of our regions, slightly larger than Sicily, and a bit smaller than Piedmont. It has nine rivers: five perennial, with significant gradients: natural basins for their hydroelectric exploitation. The land is good: it is fertile without manure, whether animal or chemical, unknown to the Albanians. The climate is similar to that of Apulia. Regarding minerals, there is more chromium than we need, and it is exported, petroleum covers a tenth, iron, for now, a fifth, coal, copper, in quantities yet to be specified. These riches surface in the explored mining areas: one quarter of Albania. It is likely that in the other three-quarters, there are abundant deposits of these or other minerals. Livestock farming is widespread: natural possibilities superior to those of one of the richest Italian regions. Population: one million; the census will establish it better. Directing water, reclaiming swamps, starting intensive and extensive cultivation, systematically exploiting the mines: four million people could live here their entire lives. There are no political problems; the Albanians are happy, and union with Italy guarantees them the civil personality and well-being they need.
This synthetic picture of Albania was given to me in August, during Ciano’s visit. With the journey now over, I have nothing to add.
I found the pioneer in the swamps, near the city where the reclamation works are ongoing: alone, bundled up, with rubber boots, he had stopped at the edge of the dry land.
— I came to Durres in 1913, and this reclamation work was supposed to be done by me — he said. He looks forty, but claims to be older, much older. He remembers: — Italy conquered Libya, and, as a result, the Turks down here took flight. Austria dreamed of the Strait of Otranto and a German king in Albania. Prince Wied assumed the crown of Scanderbeg and made Durres its capital. Leaning against the Venetian walls, earthen houses took on the appearance of palaces; the customs office was called "konak" — royal palace; — overnight, hotels sprang up in ramshackle huts and shacks; behold: Grand Hôtel Europa and similar titles. For a gold napoleon, full board: terrible food. A Hungarian attached oil lamps to the top of poles: public lighting was guaranteed. The Albanian gendarmerie had black, Viennese boots, and was commanded by Dutch officers. England upheld the prestige of its Legation by sending its minister a dismantlable house. For our constructions, there were no boards or sturdy plans to build on, but fixed on beams: the capital evoked neither tears nor laughter.
A sudden downpour of rain; the pioneer leaned against the car but refused to take shelter inside. He smoked and watched the violent rain over the swamp. We listened, surprised and interested.
— Meanwhile, Austrian technicians, protected and supported — the pioneer continued — invaded Albania; it was Austria's lion’s share. The staff of the royal house, Bavarians from Germany — guaranteed free passage. Italian-Albanian trade, traditionally established for centuries between the two countries, had lost its true meaning, the political one. Everything had become an adventure.
At this point, the driver warned us that we had to turn back: the water level rose minute by minute; there was nothing left but to accept our hospitality. We returned inland, through the swamps.
— I believe I am the only true tourist in Albania today, — he said, smiling; — who would have thought that I’d come back here as a tourist. Life is an adventure. Remember it well. — Someone tried the adventure, back in 1913: the engineer Quaglia from Turin and I secured some contracts, twenty-five-year concessions. Italian journalists helped us navigate the offices successfully. Industrial plants, road construction; a race for cements, clays for bricks, and limestones; always behind us, the Austrians, in hostile, systematic competition. The Serbs offered double; this project was now part of Italian activities, even before automotive: the first car to cross the Shkumbin was a Fiat, with a high car number for the king of Durres-Tirana, for 25 kilometers, and twenty-six hours, without roads, on the Sciak bridge built with makeshift trestles. The holes near the bridge, we’ll stop just now, had served, according to what we were told, for the Serbs to bury Albanian spies, with only their heads above ground: that’s what they said. Tirana was nothing but a Durres without Venetian walls; a beautiful minaret, an open-air café. The atmosphere echoed only the dualism between Italy and Austria. An Italian torpedo boat at Durres would see one or two Austrian torpedo boats arrive within hours.
Then, beneath the windows of the Austrian Consulate, at night, they sang Trieste del mio cuore; the gendarmes would come, they would leave without much note; three years later, in grey-green, retaken by us and lost again to the Austrians.
It stopped raining; we went outside; the pioneer vaguely pointed toward the swamp, and said:
It was my concession; but the revolution fell upon Prince Wied after just a few months. Durres started shooting, the streetlights went out; the foreigners locked themselves in their homes to enjoy the show. The Venetian walls crumbled a little, no longer accustomed to cannon fire. And that was it. The monarchy fled in time, without regrets; from this kingdom, only the stamps remained in philatelists' collections; in history, nothing; within me, a memory that was overshadowed by other events, and I thought it was buried; but since the day of union, it has given me no peace. So much so that I felt the need to return here. Everything in i found a stir; yesterday, for example, I managed to sneak into the group following Benini, the Undersecretary for Albanian Affairs; they were visiting the reclamation works; I managed to get right next to him, listening to him speak; I had a lot of fun. He's a straightforward man, and those who accompanied him have confirmed it; there was one, stocky and obliging, who took things at length, giving theories, explaining technical terms. Every time, Benini interrupted him at just the right moment, with a quip, a phrase, like a man who knows the game; he spoke as an industrialist and as a farmer, and showed that in his work, he possessed the qualities that, in my opinion, are the best complement to technique: humanity and good sense. I saw him make three or four decisions in front of me; he speaks with a Tuscan accent and knows what he wants. At a certain point, he looked me in the face, with a half-distracted, half-questioning expression: I had the clear impression that he was wondering who I was, suspecting me of being an intruder. I slipped away, embarrassed but satisfied. I know that the swamp, already partially reclaimed, will soon be completely so. And every day, new factories and industries are springing up. Magnificent: I’m not saying no. But it’s easy — the pioneer grumbled through his teeth — now, with Italy guaranteeing, and without politicians, without having to give bakshish, it’s easy to take and implement initiatives. Today I think we were crazy, back then, to propose planting a brick factory in this plain: if the war hadn’t driven us out, I wouldn’t be here enjoying it now: under the swamp would be my money, and my bones as well.
To be continued...
[1] Tempo – Roma 21 dicembre 1939
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