Entry into the Balkans


With Italy now just a memory, we move by ferry to the East and the Balkan States of Europe (Greece, up through Albania, Montenegro, Bosnia Hetzagovina, and Croatia) I think. And, previously known as Yugoslavia, I think.


Viewing the burnt out hulk of a recent near disaster on the same Italy/Greek route, moored next to us whist we wait to board, shows us that travel can indeed be a risky business. This overnight voyage, reminiscent of the Tassie ferry, goes well and we arrive alive if not tired. On the ferry we were the centre of attention for the semi trailer drivers. For some reason it is assumed we are American’s, an assumption we quickly correct. I had a chat to one driver who in the course of the conversation informed me that the Balkans are a dangerous place. It transpired that he hauled stone from Hungary to Italy, and Granny Smith apples from Italy to Hungary several times a week. He said I must wait, and a few minutes later he returned with an arm full of apples.


As soon as we landed in Greece, at about 6.30am, we transferred to another ferry destined for the island of Corfu. About two hours later we have arrived, and set off to find some cash and then explore the island. Well nothing has changed. The traffic here is as crazy as Italy, with the exception being that motorcyclists chose to or are not required to wear helmets, so it came as no surprise to us to read that Greece has the highest road death toll in Europe.


We had planned to stay on Corfu for a couple of nights, but after spending a good part of the day touring we have came to the conclusion that there is b***** all here. Of all the towns and sights we visited around the northern half of the island, only one beach resembled what we expected a Greek Island beach to look like. The towns were tired and unexceptional, but the camping ground did have hot water! Their generosity did not however, extend to the supply of toilet paper.


After a short return ferry ride, we have driven the short distance north to the Albanian/Greek border.
No issues at the border, about ten minutes in total, the most hassle free we have done in many years. A short drive and cable ferry river crossing to the Roman ruins of Butrint.
Being Albania hardly another tourist to be seen.


Spoke to soon on that account as the next camping ground, enterprisingly set up in a suburban backyard, is chock full of Italian camper cars. About twelve camper cars in all with their own guide and fixer. We had the pleasure of their company the next night further up the coast, but thankfully, the campground was bigger allowing us to get away a little. Europeans have a herding instinct and the illusion of security that numbers bring.


Albanians up to this point appear to be a friendly and helpful lot. They have had a checkered history, with the communists and dictators etc, so its nice to see that they can still raise a smile. It appears you either own a donkey or a BMW in Albania. Albanians also sink any extra cash they have into the family home. The banks apparently are not to be trusted with your hard earned Leke.


It is the case with every campground we have stayed at, that the beach/lake front of the property receives attention. Step a few metres either side of the park boundary and you are confronted with rubbish. Rubbish in the water, rubbish in the trees rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. Any storm water drain or creek is full of rubbish, mainly plastics. When it rains, as it does often and a lot, it all ends up in the lakes and the sea. This is a massive problem for all of Europe, and by extension, all of us.


Caught a lift into Shkodra today to pick up a few essentials and no sooner step out of the car and Gael picks up on a familiar accent. Two New Zealanders, Rosemary and Steve, late of Queensland, and soon to return to Hamilton in the land of the Long White Cloud. We had a great long chat, without the need for an interpreter, and exchanged addresses for future reference.


The truck dropped some of it’s life’s juices the other morning. Stopped for a cuppa, and looking over the truck as I am prone to do at these moments, I noticed a pool of truck blood (oil) on the ground. Whilst discussing that we needed to firmly establish where this was coming from we noticed a Landrover Dealer sign on the adjacent railway overpass. God, dare I say it , was indeed smiling on us. After being directed to the workshop, two of their mechanics efforts, for two hours, had us on the road with a temporary repair in under two hours. How much I here you ask. 30 Euros! That’s right. Two mechanics, two hours, A$43.


The repair has gotten us a few hundred kilometre to our current campsite. But a quick Skype call to our mate, and World’s best Landrover mechanic, Justin Cooper in Tassie, confirmed that the repair on the vacuum pump did all that could be expected of it, in that it got us out of trouble, but its failure could be catastrophic if it allows a loss of all the engine oil.


Now for the first time in our travels, we have decided to sit and chase up a replacement part.