Woody’s Adventures in Communist Albania
It took several hours of travelling by road from Titograd in Serbia and through Kosova to the Albanian border. I wasn’t sure what to expect.
In 1984 Albania was almost completely cut off from the outside world, it even viewed fellow communist countries as revisionist because they failed to uphold what in their view were the true principles of Communism followed by former Soviet leader and Albanian hero Joseph Stalin.
The bus stopped in front of the Albanian border post some 100 metres from an area of no man’s land. As I walked through this area a lone soldier dressed in an olive green uniform and peeked cap with a red star in the middle stared directly at me, grim faced with his gun held firmly across his chest. As I got within several yards of him, almost laughing because of the feeling of being in a Cold War movie, the soldier directed me to an adjacent wooden hut with his eyes and a swing of the head.
The chair in the hut where I sat was quite comfortable and I was relieved when an Albanian army officer entered and addressed me in fluent English. He was a normal person, something I had not expected after seeing the border guard minutes earlier. He quickly checked my documents which included my visa that I had obtained at the Albanian Consulate in Paris. I had permission to travel in the country with an Albanian official to take photos. The Sunday Times Magazine had shown interest in some visual information and a story about life in Albania and I had promised the picture editor Bryn Gunn that I would produce something on my return to London.
After the polite army officer had checked my documents and wished me luck on my first visit to his country, I was directed to an awaiting mini bus in which my Albanian government official guide awaited me.
Natalya was a polite woman and very interested to learn about life in England. At the same time she was completely blind to anything but the official communist line that everything about the West was decadent and bad. Therefore, it was difficult for her to accept that England was actually a comfortable place for most people to live. Her perception of my country was one that had never moved out of the Dickensian era, with smoke polluted cities full of thieves and masses of unemployed and starving people. I had some raging arguments with her about this and about the principles of Marxism, Leninism and Stalinism. It was all interesting stuff and I still believe that she secretly enjoyed it all.
My immediate impression of Albania as I travelled through it was one of great natural beauty with high mountains, woods and emerald green agricultural land. However, very few vehicles could be seen on the roads and people dressed in colourful and traditional peasant clothes worked in large groups in the fields. Old men passed on donkeys with bags of agricultural produce. Occasionally, a man in working clothes would pass on a donkey with a bandolier of bullets across his chest and a rifle across his donkey’s neck. Sometimes I passed a lone house in the countryside with anti aircraft guns positioned in the garden. Concrete pillar box like bunkers were positioned periodically along the side the main roads. This was all part of the Albanian national paranoia that they were about to be attacked by their capitalist or communist enemies. It seemed to be a nation blind to reality.
My first stop was the town of Shkoder in the north of the country, a small insignificant town with a few mosques left over from the past and people quietly getting on with their lives. Few cars passed by but men in covered horse drawn buggies or on horses and carts passed large communist posters on nearby walls idealizing their leader Enver Hoxa or the proletariat. Statues of Joseph Stalin could be found in the town squares of most Albanian towns and cities.
The people of Shkoder were not easily approachable and children would bend over to point their rear ends in my direction whenever I tried to take a photo of them. This was a greeting Communist style to a visiting Capitalist reactionary like me.
While my guide Natalya relaxed and drank tea in a nearby café I ventured into an adjacent park where a large group of female Communist Young Pioneers were resting. After taking photos of several girls dressed in uniforms consisting of a white blouse, red neckerchief and navy blue dress, I discovered that some of them could understand Russian which I could speak. Within minutes I was addressing a large group of interested teenage girls about life in England and Russia.
“How do people live in London?” asked one of them with interest.
“Very well”, I replied. “Most people live in their own house, have a job, a car and enough money to live well.
“What do you think about the way people live in Moscow”, asked another with great interest when she was told that I had visited Russia.
While in the process of telling the girls more positive things about Russia a stern looking middle aged woman who turned out to be the Young Pioneers leader, came marching swiftly towards me and ordered the girls away.
“Why are you telling my girls lies?” asked the woman angrily in English. “You know very well that the people of England are starving and the people of Moscow are dying on the streets.”
“Rubbish!” I replied. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”
“On the television”, the woman replied.
“Have you been to England or Russia?” I replied.
“No”, she answered. “But I have learnt a lot about these countries from television.”
“Well, I come from England and I have never seen a person starving on the streets and I have visited Moscow four times and I have never seen or heard of anyone dying of starvation on the streets there.”
It was hopeless. The woman didn’t want to know about anything I said and after instructing me to keep away from her girls, stormed off unable to accept that people in England and Russia were not dying in droves on the streets. I suppose this helped her to believe that the Albanian form of Communism was an oasis in the world, a gift from those two great Communist thinkers Joseph Stalin and Enver Hoxa.
Journeying to the coastal town of Durres, I checked into an old 1920s style hotel with my guide, frustrated that she had succeeded in preventing me from taking all the photos I needed. I had to find a way of getting some pictures of peasants working in the fields and on the farms. After spending the evening listening to a bunch of Albanian students talking to me about the benefits of Stalinism, I had an early night in bed. My intention was to rise early the next morning to get some good photos without the watchful eye of my guide Natalya.
My alarm sounded at 4 a.m. and I walked out of the hotel thirty minutes later with my bag of cameras and equipment. Nobody saw me leave in the early morning darkness.
After about 50 minutes walking into the countryside, I reached what resembled a collective farm with a yard full of agricultural equipment and a few chickens running around. I rested behind some trees fairly close to the entrance and waited for something to happen. After about twenty minutes agricultural workers began to arrive on foot, mainly women dressed in colourful traditional clothes and carrying farm implements. I waited until they had entered a nearby field then walked towards them with my cameras at the ready. Before they realized what was happening I had taken at least twenty photos then they began shouting and gesticulating at me, visibly angry at what I was doing. Two Albanian men working some distance away started moving towards me. Realizing that I was now the centre of attention, I made my way out of the field and into the lane going in the direction of Durres.
As I looked back all the workers were staring in my direction but did not seem interested in pursuing me. I continued my walk for about fifteen minutes then a vehicle screeched to a halt beside me. It was a police jeep. Two policemen jumped out, said something in Albanian and then ordered me to get into the jeep. Ten minutes later I was sitting in front of a police inspector and an interpreter in Durres police station. I had to hand over the photographic film in my camera then wait until Natalya had been summoned from the hotel.
Natalya was far from happy as I later learned that she had got into trouble over my jaunt into the Albanian countryside and she had to persuade the police not to take action against me. I was informed by the police inspector that I could be asked to leave the country for what I had done. I suppose it was understandable that Albanians were not happy with a Capitalist walking around the countryside. They probably thought I would react in the same way if I saw an Albanian Communist wandering around the English countryside.
After a lot of negotiating, arguments and promises on my part that it would never happen again I left the police station feeling like a naughty schoolboy who had been caught stealing sweets from the class sweet drawer. Natalya wouldn’t speak to me for a day and my film had been confiscated. I put it down as all part of the Albanian experience.
Arriving in the capital Tirana late on a hot May morning I checked into my hotel at one end of the main city square. My hotel room had a balcony with a panoramic view across the square. Later that day I watched Albanian First Secretary Enver Hoxa and his motorcade drive across the square to the opera house to attend the ballet. I watched the proceedings on television. Just before the production began Enver Hoxa stood waving from his box to the audience. Suddenly and simultaneously everyone broke into a loud cheer then repeatedly chanted Hoxa’s name aloud.
“ENVER HOXA! ENVER HOXA! ENVER HOXA!” they shouted aloud repeatedly until Hoxa sat down to watch the production. After all, Natalya had informed me that he was the father and hero of the Albanian people, greatest living Albanian poet and artist and upholder of true Communism. As I looked at the white haired old man in his grey suit I found it all hard to believe.
At the end of a delightful ballet Hoxa was given a further ten minutes of loud adoration then everyone left the opera house. The main square outside was crowded with people awaiting the appearance of their great leader. An area was cordoned off with rope to allow Hoxa’s motorcade to pass through easily. I found it strange that when the motorcade appeared the mass of onlookers stood watching in an eerie silence without any kind of reaction. This was in great contrast to the rapturous welcome that Hoxa had received in the opera house. I watched everything from my balcony.
Later that afternoon a military parade took place in the main square so I grabbed my cameras and rushed down for some photos. I got some great pictures of female Albanian soldiers goose stepping across the square then went off to a big industrial plant with Natalya where I was allowed to take photos to show the great progress made in the industrial world under Albanian Communism.
I left Albania without all the photos I needed. Natalya had successfully prevented me from photographing much material that didn’t show the progress made by Communism in her country although I did have some images of agricultural life and plenty of material that showed the spirit of Albania.
It was all a very strange experience being in what resembled a Third World country in the middle of Europe where Stalinism was upheld as the answer to everything in life. As for Natalya, well, she said a polite farewell as I left, relieved that a decadent Western Capitalist had departed after giving her a hard time about Stalinism. I admired her great pride which had made her into an ardent follower of Albanian Communism but I ultimately felt glad that I had been born an Englishman.
