There’s always room in the furgon!

Here’s a description of a typical furgon ride, which started in Erseka and ended in Elbasan: I get in and sit behind the driver as we’re waiting to leave. I’m the only one sitting in the furgon. Most Albanians have claimed their seats and are sitting at cafes, waiting for the driver to get in the furgon, turn the engine on, and honk the horn, signaling to everyone that it’s time to go. Two minutes later, the driver comes over and tells me that the seat I’m in is taken. I move to the second row, door side. Once people start coming into the furgon, the driver asks me if I wouldn’t mind moving back a row. I do, to the final row in the back, door side. We circle around Erseka picking up the rest of the people, and I’m asked to move yet again. I end up sitting in the very back, center seat. I slide over to let an old woman take the seat I had been sitting in for about two minutes, and the man sitting next to me opens his hand to randomly offer me four, uncracked walnuts.

An hour later, we arrive in Korca. No one gets out, but three more people get in. This is the main idea behind furgons, something I both love and hate about Albania: there is always room in the furgon. When it’s pouring down rain and you’re stranded on the side of the road, there’s always a seat in the furgon. When it’s a thousand degrees and someone sits next to a window and closes it, there’s still room in the furgon for at least one more passenger. In Korca, our 11 person furgon becomes filled with 14 people. Children sitting on their parents’ laps and people squeezing into the furgon, sitting on plastic step stools. We stop to get gas. The driver lights up a cigarette right next to the gas tank while the engine is running. Maybe we have too many rules, regulations and precautions in the US?

And then the “pilaf stop.” It’s a 15-20 minute coffee/rice break in the middle of the journey, and often takes place close to the town of Librazhd at restaurants of varying scales. As a result, you never quite know what to expect when you make a trip to the bathroom. It could be a normal toilet, or it could be a turk, or better yet, a turk with a hose of constantly flowing water connected to it. That’s part of the adventure.

Somewhere after the pilaf stop, the older lady sitting next to me becomes distressed about her cell phone. Speaking a mile a minute, she tells me to find Hussein’s number and call it. I read off a list of names store in her phone’s memory, and Hussein is unfortunately not on the list. I explain this several times to no avail. “I just got this phone today, my son’s wife gave it to me…” Somewhere much, much later into this conversation she realizes that I’m not Albanian, at which point the conversation switches.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“I’m an American.”

“Ua! (expression of surprise),” she responds. Then, like many people do, she turns to the man next to her, tells him she’s going to ask me what part of Albania I like best, and when she turns around to ask me, I’m already chuckling. Yes, I did hear and understand what you just said, even though people frequently don’t think we’re capable of either thing. I answer diplomatically, in a way that would make my host mom laugh: “I like Erseka in the winter and Golem in the summer.” The woman accepts this answer, smiles, and pinches my leg.