After I leave the insurance guy chortling about naive Americans, I'm running down the road and a Mercedes sedan backs out, slowly, onto the highway. I think I can see two heads in the drivers seat, which I thought was unusual for Montenegro, reserving judgment for what would be usual in Albania.
Turns out there were indeed two heads in the driver's seat: a father and his pre-teen son, sitting on his papa's lap. I had happened on a Montenegro driving lesson.
The Montenegro Riviera was nice enough, but the rest seemed pretty rough. Mr. Garmin got a case of the grins and giggles and took me over a mountain as I rode to the capitol. The views were of the clear blue sea and coastline, with the mountainside cloaked in greenery. It was a beautiful ride without much traffic.
I rode almost into Podgoricka, but didn't make it all the way. I headed for the border with Albania, looking for a place to camp. As I neared the Albanian border, the towns and villages looked poorer and poorer. There was one large lot with rags and junk strewn about, and people picking it over. Minarets started to appear, and I saw a burial taking place in a cemetery bear a mosque. There was no place that looked safe to camp, no campgrounds, and no hotel that looked very good.
The five Germans insisted that Albania was a bad, bad place, and I should ride straight through. I wasn't going to be able to do that, as suddenly I was at the border leaving Montenegro. Adventure was at hand!
At the Albanian post, the border police guy looked my papers over, stamped my passport, then held up my auto insurance papers (the "green card"), and chortled with glee, "Insurance no good in Albania!" I already knew that, so I hope he forgave me for not looking as surprised as he was. "You wait there," he said, and made a call on his cell phone.
Now the Albanian border post is not the kind of place you want to hang around. There are sketchy looking people both in and out of uniform. It is not a clean place, and the smell of diesel exhaust is mixed with the stink of fear. One red sedan was being slowly examined, all of its contents on steel tables while men in blue uniforms were exploring the trunk, the spare tire, trunk contents and trunk carpet having already been removed. Not too far away, two men in uniform with an AK-47 variant watched, fingers alongside the trigger-guards.
Shortly, a man approached, and waved I was to follow him. We went around a corner of the building, and he unlocked a door. The door led to an office with a bed, a small desk, a chair, and a refrigerator. When I saw the bed, I made sure the door was kept open behind me.
He told me, in Albanian, the minimum policy was 15 days. Since that was 7 times the maximum number of days I intended to stay, I nodded okay. In fairly short order, and paying 23€ for the insurance, I was down the road. It was early evening, I was now out of euros, and none of my credit or debit cards would work in Albania. And no place to stay. Uh oh! Poor planning!
And I was just reminded of the time Judge Roberts insisted that Joe Bottini explain a defendant's rights to an Albanian defendant, who was deaf, mute, and only knew Albanian. As I understand the story, in spite of Joe's best efforts, there was a bilateral failure to communicate. . .
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