A Journey Through Eastern Europe - 2005 – Part Three: Albania

by Joel Rookwood

Just a Ferry Ride Away

My twenty-four years on this planet have, in one capacity or another, so far involved visits to visit forty-six countries within the confines my own continent. The purpose of many of these excursions into both the proverbial and less familiar corners of Europe has unsurprisingly had football at the root. So with the prospect of number forty seven coming this summer, to be completely honest, I didn't really expect many surprises. Some culture not yet experienced sure, some unusual cuisine too no doubt, but surely it couldn't be that different to the rest of Eastern Europe? Ah, good old naivety strikes again. Albania was a true culture shock; it was simply like nowhere else I've ever seen.

Now at this point I could introduce the country, offer some inadequate synopsis of its recent history or present some short-sighted insights into the character of its people. I was there less than a month, so I'll spare you the shallow interpretation of a nation. Instead, if I may, I'll just describe in brief, the story of too-short a trip in an absorbingly distinct country.

We had travelled into Albania via ferry from southern Italy. Our destination may have been a European capital city, but we were left under no illusions as to the potential risk of our visit. Eight British lads, all half-decent players and coaches, entering a third-world, deception-ridden country.

We chatted for most of the journey, and it wasn't until we got on dry land after a turbulent sea crossing that I began to feel out of my depth. Our mission was a familiar one: to coach football to local kids and play against local teams. The invitation had come from a church on Merseyside, who work in the Paskuqan area, north of Tirana. It was there where we were to be based for the duration of our time in Albania.

The first night the team were a little quiet. It was a make-shift squad in all honesty, lacking in experience and familiarly with one another. I'm sure the almost tangible apprehension wasn't aided by the sound of gunfire in the next street, just hours after our arrival. The lights had barely been turned out after the sun had fallen on our first day, when the unmistakable sound made its way through the airwaves into the room in which we were all sharing. I say unmistakable, but I could only assume the rest of the lads knew what it was. I enjoyed a testing stint working in Brooklyn as an eighteen-year-old, where ‘gunplay in the neighbourhood' as my hosts at the time flippantly referred to it as, was an almost nightly event, and I've had the misfortune of one or two repeat experiences since.

I was just hoping though that the other lads had either fallen asleep or were too naïve to realise what it was. To be honest though I could tell we were all awake, and all painfully aware of the gunshots that couldn't have been more than fifty yards away, even though none of us dared say a word until the sun rose. The opening night's experience was a wake-up call that set the tone for the trip. It probably proved beneficial to an extent, as the lads remained fairly alert for the remainder of our stay.

The first day was to be a taster of what was to come, for we were taking a group of fifty gypsy kids to the beach. These youngsters weren't violent, rude or abusive, but they were however completely uncontrollable. The fifty-mile trip to the coast is something these kids never get the chance to do, and you could tell. Whatever you did or said, they seemed unable or unwilling to contain their excitement. It was pandemonium for ten unforgettable hours. With translators at a premium, we had to resort to gestures in order to communicate with the kids. It always amazes me just how much you can say without words when you really have to. When we arrived the kids ran wild on the beach and in the sea for the entire day. It was clearly at most an annual event for them, and it was a day of my own life I will never forget, that's for sure.

The following day we began a football camp for local boys. We ran a session in the morning for younger lads, and one in the baking afternoon sun for the older boys. Throw in a match at the end of it, and a few meals tucked in the middle and that in a nutshell was pretty much the schedule. The lads we coached were hard to control, and very physical, but real characters at the same time. The evening games were just as physical, fiercely competitive contests, but (mostly) played in the right way. …Only a handful of fights all told.

Inevitably however, my love for grassroots football was before long superseded by my love for the professional game. Now Tirana are probably the worst side in European competition – I don't think they've ever won a game on the continent. So when we realised they had a Champions League qualifier against Gorica, we couldn't resist showing our faces. Having lost the first leg 2-0 the Albanians somehow won 3-0 on the night to go through, to the second round. The hosts were clearly unprepared for this eventuality however, that they might actually win a game.

The fans turned up instead adamant that the correct supporter conduct was to throw everything you had sneaked into the ground onto the pitch, until nothing remained on your person, at which point you found more missiles; something, from somewhere, anywhere. As long as you could throw it twenty yards – that was all that mattered. In light of this fanaticism, a club official came round to the rowdier stand during the interval to plea for calm. His efforts were futile; in fact they may have incensed the locals more as a result.

As I stood amongst scores of Albanians on the final whistle, no one really sure what to do with the unexpected victory, I couldn't help but think of the last European game I had seen; Liverpool v Milan in the final. Thanks to the genius of UEFA Liverpool began their defence of the title they won that night in May in the same round. They could have even been playing simultaneously. Having not missed a European fixture in twenty-five, I was now totally unaware even as to the score line of their latest tie. Thanks to my ridiculous schedule, and the lack of communication available at our disposal out there in Albania, I suddenly felt very far from home.

We worked amongst families with extensive and harrowing experience with blood feuds and illegal asylum seeking exploits. Two brothers came to the coaching sessions every day sporting Newcastle United shirts, with distinct Geordie accents to go with them. For four years they had resided illegally in the Northeast of England with their parents, only leaving the UK due to homesickness.

Hearing real stories of the risks taken to get there, and speaking to young lads who have lived these tales really gives you a sense of understanding as to why people are so desperate to flee their own country for places such as Britain. You can't condone it, but when you consider their alternative you can't help but be sympathetic to those who risk their life trying to make a livelihood elsewhere. Albania is indeed a country like no other. It's a tough place, so tough in fact, that I soon found myself longing for the ‘familiarity' of Kiev or Minsk.

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Joel Rookwood

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