CATALONIA TO ALBANIA
Four friends (we’ve met them before) leave their Catalan homeland for Albania in search of their own unique version of motorcycle adventure. And they find it…
Four friends on an alcohol and drugfuelled ramble across Europe.
ISTARE ACROSS THE garage, cup of coffee in one hand, an exquisitely rolled joint of Moroccan hash in the other. As nature’s wonders take effect my eyes fixate on my scarred Africa Twin. A glorious montage of people, places and excessive speed rattle through my mind. I snap back. Two things are clear to me – Moroccan hash is my favourite form of cannabis, and we must ride again… The Moroccan link is strong, as our last adventure took us to that hallowed land and across the border into Romania (Bike, April 2016). But where next? I convene an emergency meeting – me, Marc, Ramon and Marsi – at our favourite tavern. I arrive to a scene of great beauty (and a good omen): Ramon being slapped by Florence the barmaid. I have to applaud his tenacity – Ramon has taken more slaps from Florence than he has from his wife. Trust me, this is a feat of distinction. After much drunken debate we agree on our next adventure: Albania. The people are friendly, it’s safe, clean and not expensive. As we approach our departure date the reality of our ageing bodies becomes a concern. We are older, fatter and balder since Morocco. To make it through the marathon bike ride ahead I suggest we channel our biking idols: Marc Coma, Nani Roma, Jordi Arcarons, Sito Pons, Alex Crivillé, Jordi Tarrés, Toni Bou, Carlos Checa, Laia Sanz and many other Catalan greats. Marsi takes a different line: ‘I’m going as Pablo Escobar’. When I ask why, Marsi responds: ‘The guy liked bikes and drugs’. When I point out he was also a psychopath and a terrorist, it’s batted away with: ‘Propaganda bro, he was just misunderstood’. Marc, not a man renowned for drinking non-alcoholic beverages, begins to wax lyrical about the healing properties of beer, comparing it to oil for bikes. I am beset with a sense of a beautiful calamity that only an unknown road and four crazy Catalans can deliver.
Day 1
Departure day arrives and we mount our beaten rides, determined to best our previous efforts. We must ride faster, consume more and remember less. I’m on the red/blue 1992 Africa Twin, Marc the 1995 Africa Twin, Ramon the KTM 950 Adventure S and Marsi the 1988 Honda Transalp. As always, we leave our home town of Berga in a thunderous charge. The four horsemen of the apocalypse back again, riding
through the streets, just as we did when we were children. We exit the town and drop the hammer knowing we will never have the mental acuity we have now at any other point on this adventure. The noise, the speed… utterly intoxicating. We push harder until a mere 40 miles into our journey we overtake a caravan, two each side, gravel kicking up from the hard shoulder to the piercing sound of a police siren. Ten minutes later we are all 100 euros lighter and two points heavier. Following this minor setback we make it to the port in Barcelona. The ferry is full of tanned, tattooed, Prada sunglass wearing Italians… and cabin fever. Four big guys loaded with motorbike gear, squashed in a tiny cabin. Ramon’s snoring, exacerbated by Valium, is rivalling the boat engine in decibels. The rest of us split the remaining Valium and don our earplugs.
Day 2
A dash across Italy to the port of Ancona. While there are many things to love about the Italian people, but their driving is not one of them. My index finger hasn’t seen so much action since the teenage house parties of my youth. I console myself by gorging on pasta and organic wine at one of the local pitstops. I leave satiated. Ramon leaves rejected, having spent the entire meal trying to persuade the beautiful waitress to leave the parochial backwaters of her current existence and join him on the back of his KTM.
Day 3
Crossing the Adriatic Sea – cabin fever part two. Our sweaty motorbike gear starts to make the room ferment. The thought of Ramon’s snoring and Marsi’s flatulence is too much to bear. The Valium is gone and the only sedative remaining in my little box of tricks is Tramadol. I hesitate, knowing a night of insane nightmares may lie ahead. Sod it, down the hatch! I fall asleep and, sure enough, the opioid insanity kicks in. A whirling vision of Albanian roads interspersed with frothing beer waterfalls and buxom Italian waitresses, all punctuated by the rambling of my comrades chatter. I wake to find the three other horsemen looking like they’ve been up all night playing cards. Apparently my desire for Catalan independence manifested itself in me shouting obscenities toward the Spanish government at random intervals during the night. They average an hour’s sleep each. Other than a mild Tramadol fog, I feel great.
Day 4
Finally we are in Albania and after looking for a tyre workshop we leave banal Tirana to the south and hit the SH3. We stop and eat half a sheep, wash it down with some beer and Raki, topped off with some excellent Californian medical grade kush (this will become a regular feature of the trip as does the need to stop every ten minutes so Marc can smoke roll-ups). We head to Bizhutë, off road. It’s
‘As we approach our departure date the reality of our ageing bodies becomes a concern. We are older, fatter and balder since Morocco’
one steep lane full of dwarf-head size rocks. My Africa Twin, on mixed tyres, is loaded with too much luggage, off road tyres and 1kg of tuna in oil which ends up so battered, because of various falls, we have to open it using an axe. We encounter many greenhouses growing cannabis, scenic views, wild animals and generous people keen to know more about these strange Catalans. We struggle on: Marc’s Africa Twin flips upside down and his radiator winds up looking like an accordion. Ramon´s KTM expansion tank bursts. My Africa Twin adds constantly to its collection of battlescars. It is 35 degrees, we sweat the Raki. We are thirsty and in desperate need of a pitstop. Marsi stops and begins to take his helmet off, Marc shouts: ‘Do not remove your helmets or jackets! The Dakar riders never do that!’ Marsi quickly snipes back: ‘Do they shit in their pants as well, because I’m not!’ He strips and relieves himself behind a majestic oak tree. After crossing a dry river bed, and utterly exhausted, we end up in the Pajun region. Beers and civilisation beckon. We rest our bones in Berat, a world heritage site. The town of a thousand windows. Breathtaking.
Day 5
I change my mixed tyres – five euros. My front brakes have also taken a Holyfield-esque beating and with no spares left I will have to brake with the rear only for the rest of the trip, except in an emergency and when going off road. Ramon buys epoxy to fix his water tank. Mark’s accordion radiator is fixed by sealing the many holes. My ‘eight years old’ Moroccan tyre patch, unsurprisingly, did not perform as advertised and I
have a puncture. Good job the country is full of ‘Gomisteris’ – fixed, five euros. Later, my fuel pump goes. Africa’s suffer from this, so watch out if you are planning a trip of equal madness. We have to make a bypass and now I can do only 100 miles as the pump is needed to finish emptying the tank.
Day 6
We wake up and devour an Italian tuna pot then set off to Mount Tomorr. There is an endless line of cars heading for a religious festival where 3000 sheep are killed. It is an important festival in Tomorr. On the floor is a biblical river of sheep’s blood, serpentining down the side of the road and into the drains. An Albanian television crew interview me. I must be an exotic curiosity, dressed in my biking gear. We head south through Malind, Piskove and finally Vlore. Tarmac roads are scarce in Albania. We find some French guys on a BMW and new Africa Twin using mixed tyres. They are having serious problems. In the middle of nowhere, in the mountains, we find a coffee shop selling raki and honey. We drink and eat then take the SH76, again no tarmac. But there’s no turning back now. The locals warned us to beware of wolves and bears (it’s a myth). Mercifully we get back to the tarmac SH4 road. We pitch up at a hotel in Vlore, by the sea. We eat fish and drink wine. Ramon’s chat up lines get worse. Vlore is too big – miss it if you can and wild camp by the sea a few kilometres to the south.
Day 7
From Vlore to Ksamli. Driving along the coastline, we begin to like tourists. Clean roads, slippery tarmac and cars… but our machines roar and we overtake like maniacs, no police to spoil our fun here. There are few local bikes. Some Harleys and a few tourists on BMW R1200GSS using road tyres. Marsi’s motorcycle drinks half a litre of oil and is still below the line. Marc jokes that the bike is as thirsty for oil as Ramon is for waitresses. It still needs one more litre to hit the level. These old bikes require a lot of oil, every 300 miles we fill them. We use diesel oil mixed with mineral oil and car or synthetic. They take it all, no problem. To Ksamil beach. It looks like Spain in the 1980s. We wash the dust off in the sea. Back at the guest house we drink more raki with an already drunk orthodox priest. Alcohol: the only religion I can sign up to. Marc cooks paella made with fake rice. Then to bed and more snoring.
Day 8
A morning bath in the sea then to Butrint, the most visited place in Albania. Russian girls pose in the best Russian style for their Facebook posts. They want to have their weddings in Barcelona, but when I propose Marc they say he is as old as their fathers. Ramon steps in and espouses the older man’s understanding of how to pleasure a woman. Too much detail. SLAP! All is well with the world. In Gjirokaster, a very nice town where the local Albanian dictator was born, Ramon’s KTM back brake reservoir explodes. Marsi’s ingenious fixing skills save the day, this time with a two cent coin and epoxy… euros had to be good for something. We decide to go to the river to try our bikes on big round stones, almost as big as Marsi’s fat head. We go to Greece for 15 minutes and drink a Greek beer. Then cross back over the border. That evening we watch Albanian television and I am on the news! They edited out my comments about me being an atheist. Censorship is alive and well in Albania.
Day 9
As usual we leave too late and an argument ensues. Marc is tired of going off-road. I recommended he buys a Harley and joins a club, feelnd he suggests that I buy an enduro bike and stop riding fat old mules, Ramon chips in and says that is his job. We laugh and set off to the Macedonian border. After eating fish cooked with mountain port we pass through Ohrid. Marsi loses his tank keys and we end up releasing the filler cap with an electric drill.
Day 10
Back to Albania again, which is wilder than Macedonia. In Kukes it starts raining and we begin skating on the road. We stop at a small
‘A whirling vision of Albanian roads interspersed with frothing beer waterfalls and buxom Italian waitresses’
guest house in Shenmeri. The old fat owner drinks raki from the bottle then offers it round. It feels natural to get involved. The evening inevitably ends in a blur caused by too much hash and booze. We wake up and, inexplicably, are full of energy. Perhaps the fat old guy is on to something. That said, don’t sleep here unless it is completely necessary.
Day 1 1
We ride down a road full of prefabricated semi-circular bunkers from the war, a hypnotising scene. Marc’s bike begins to smoke like a diesel tractor. We placate it by adding copious amounts of oil. We arrive at Lake Koman and queue up for the three-hour ferry crossing (a highly recommended trip costing 25 euros per bike). As we wait for the boat a local in an old Mercedes gets out of his car and shoots a dog in the middle of the village. Admonishing him seems unwise, so we just stand in perplexed silence. We roll off the ferry and head towards the Theth Mountains which are almost at the border with Montenegro. Going to Theth is a must-do trip if you ride through Albania.
Day 1 2
From Theth we blast off-road for 30 miles. Marc loses his wallet and telephone three times, luckily Marsi is behind and picks them up. This is a good ride but certainly better if you’re using off road tires, especially if the weather is, or has recently been, wet. I drop my bike three times. We sleep in a hostel which seems to be full of Ukrainian hippies. Before we set of on this latest adventure I had heard that Ukrainian women are renowned for their beauty, I can happily can confirm this to be absolutely true. A couple of the Ukrainian girls want to go for a ride. Marc and Marsi look keen. It probably won’t come as a surprise that Ramon gets custard pied… once again.
Day 13
Montenegro. We cross via the bendy, newly asphalted northern border. Magnificent. Montenegro has diverse landscapes and is a joy to ride through. We cross over to Bosnia with its better tracks and softer mountains. From Montenegro to Bosnia police want money because our green cards apparently aren’t green enough.
Day 14
Mostar bridge. Muslim and Christian cemeteries mix together, valleys and villages conjure images of the recent war. It’s insanity. We look at a map of the ethnic distribution across Bosniaherzegovina and we imagine a challenging future.
Day 15
Dubrovnik and Split, beautiful. We stay, we drink, we relax.
Day 16
Ferry across the Adriatic to Italy. I have no lights as my headlights consume more than the battery is able to charge. Marc’s bike also needs a push to start occasionally. Marc gets naked at the port in front of a group of fancy Italians, all on spotless, new Ducatis. They look at us as if we are bike-punks. Time to head home…
Back in Catalonia we reflect. We have consumed many varieties of Raki, the local home made versions are unanimously considered the best. Marc makes a cogent argument for Elbar being the best beer of the trip. Much as it pains us to agree we concur. The bikes are in need of some minor surgery and 2000 miles of mixed riding has finished our tyres. We regroup at the tavern in Berga for more debriefing: ten pints of beer and Ramon getting slapped by Florence. Again. Romania, Albania, Greece, Montenegro, Italy, Spain, Catalonia, one hell of a ride.