I read To The Lake: A Journey of War and Peace by Kapka Kassabova, about her roots trip circling ancient lakes that border Albania, North Macedonia, and Greece. Kassabova rejects the nationalisms that poison the region while celebrating the magnetism of Lake Ohrid, which draws her to her ancestors.
Lake Ohrid is the oldest lake in Europe. It has species of fish and plants found nowhere else. I wanted to go there. I picked a town that seemed like the easiest bus route from Tirana, Albania. Scruga, just over the border in North Macedonia, is the lakes’ northernmost point .
We walked to the international bus station, six miles out of the Tirana city center. Our path took us across Skanderbau Square, down Embassy Row, and up a mountain, high enough to look down on the pollution line. The first five miles were typical Tirana, with changing sidewalks and every kind of thing blocking the pedestrian way. The last mile, all semblance of sidewalk and shoulder disappeared. The station is adjacent to a shiny US-style mall with US stores and English signs. We walked through, dazed, culture-shocked, looking for the bus terminal. A kind parking lot attendant left his post to show us how to get to the Bus Station, a tenth of a mile away, and back in Albania.
The bus was a van that seats twenty. the ride up tiny mountain roads took us through rural Albania, turning green in mid-February, with vertiginous terraced fields—an imprint of step agriculture from the Enver Hoxha era, We passed abandoned collective buildings, occasional hulls of factories, new construction, the remnants of train tracks and trestles leading to mountain tunnels that are no longer used, working farms in flatlands and on mountainsides, fruit orchards, and grape vineyards.
The train trestle, no longer in use. Albania.
Ten miles from our destination, we came to the international border. The bus driver collected our passports and then handed them to the border guard. For months, we had been holding them closely, then suddenly our US IDs were passed from hand to hand by our fellow bus passengers. The bus driver dropped a passport, and a passenger got out to pick it up on the road.
The bus paused at a park in Struga, but no one got off, so we thought this was not the bus stop. A few minutes later, I realized we had left town. Everyone else on the bus was going to Ohrid, seven miles down the road. The bus driver was very kind. After he dropped the other passengers, he turned around and took us back to Skruja, refusing a tip for his trouble.
Our first impression of North Macedonia was that it was cleaner and richer than Albania. The next morning, that impression had worn off as we walked on undulating sidewalks. But there were other differences. The call to prayer was five times a day here. Our lodging was a room over a garage in a small building with a garden, on Marx Engels Street. Red stars had not been removed from antifascist statues.
World War II statue, Scruga.
Our hosts, a young couple, picked us up at the bus stop. Hearing about our mishap on the bus, the woman said, “Americans tend to be afraid because this is the Balkans. Remember how chaotic your own country is.” We assured her we were not afraid, just confused. And as for the chaos in the United States? We remembered.
Struga had its busy streets, but it also had long, car-free pedestrian ways, mostly along the water. Our goal was to spend 36 hours as close to nature and as far from cars as possible. We found supper at a place along the river path that did not have smoking indoors. I thought I ordered the famous Lake Ohrid trout, a species found nowhere else. The waiter brought us bread, soup, and Dave’s dinner. Finally, when Dave was done, he appeared with a creamy torte the size of a large trout. Later, I read that the trout is now endangered from overfishing, and I was glad I had failed to order it.
The next morning, we found a restaurant open with chairs on the water, in the sun, protected from the wind. We ate a late breakfast at this seat on the lake and returned to the same table for a late lunch. David read To The Lake. I read Mark Mazower’s The Balkans. It was cool enough that other customers were inside, supplementing their coffee or dinner with an endless stream of cigarettes. We shared the veranda and our bread basket with chickadees, cormorants, seagulls, and swans. It was the most relaxed I have been in…. forever.
During one call to prayer, we were walking along the river. We stopped to listen. A group of German Shepherds who belonged to the community and to each other joined the song. A flock of birds on the river of various species ceased diving, swimming, or letting the current take them. They lined up facing south toward the Lake in formation until the call to prayer was over.
God or no god, creatures great and small thrive on music and ritual.
Lake Ohrid is an unusually peaceful place, surrounded by mountains. We watched three teenagers skipping rocks, elders gathering to watch the sunset, and people of all kinds on the riverwalk, and by the lake, and pausing to exhale on the bridge between the two.
The lake feeds the river, rushing in under the bridge. It is a strange sight, defying our understanding of rivers. After all, no one says, from the sea to the river. We assume the river feeds the sea—or the lake. And here, with snow-covered mountains, one would think the snow would melt into the river and flow to the lake. But this lake has springs that keep the water clear, cold, and flowing outward with a force.
The lake feeds the river.
The next morning, our path to the correct bus stop was aided by bakers, gas station attendants, and the bus driver from the day before, who greeted us like old friends.
As we topped the mountain, we got our last view of the lake from the bus/van—this time from the Albanian side. I prayed, From the Lake to the River—from every lake to every river, to every sea—may all beings be free.
