Butrint & Porto Palermo, Albania
At the end of the day, one searches for a word or two to sum it up, to categorize the memories so that they can be found again within the tangle of neurons in our minds. Today, two words hang in neon lights behind our closed eyes: mosaic and incongruous. They sway back and forth with the motion of the ship and slowly drift together. Incongruous and mosaic merge to form a phrase that might seem confusing to one who has never set foot on Albanian soil. To explain, we turn to the dictionary for definitions that are precise: "Mosaic: A combination of diverse elements forming a more or less coherent whole. Incongruous: not in harmony or keeping with the surroundings or other aspects of something." Every fragment of the land, its history and inhabitants, are the pieces that fit together to create the picture, but the pattern could be compared to a tapestry of clashing colors.
Morning light comes early at the edge of the Adriatic Sea. Scattered lights twinkled on the hillside where Sarande and its inhabitants still slept. When the level of illumination drew silhouettes upon the low hills it became evident that the city was much larger than the lights implied, for most of the buildings stood dark, windowless, and barren. The dry limestone hills were crisscrossed with newly plowed roadways going to nowhere. So much looked undone, incomplete. Was this a sign of plans gone wrong? Hopes stolen away? Or were they indicative of growth and prosperity? We were to learn later that it was a little of both. Not ten years ago, fraudulence caused the economy to collapse, but with the turn of this new century life held promise once again.
Before the sun rises, the winds come from the land, cool and dry, bearing the odor of dust and smoke and something else, an incense of aromatic plants. Eucalyptus, bay, and rosemary mingle to tease the sense of smell and trick it into thinking of sandalwood and myrrh. A haze hangs over the sea, flattening the colors of morning. But not long after the sun warms the soil, the breeze shifts, bearing humidity landward. It condenses on the rocks and adds to the stickiness of our skin. There is nothing better than a Zodiac flying across the water to energize and cool so this was how we made our approach to land and the World Heritage Site of Butrint.
The mosaics here were real but they were not just the ornate patterns made of colored pieces of minerals or stones. They were the stories told in archeological trenches or fully exposed sites. They were the mix of stones favored by changing civilizations. Here the limestone blocks were large, rectangular, and arranged horizontally. There, the same sized boulders were hexagonal and reminiscent of stepping stones of columnar basalt. Mid-sized rocks could be irregular or square and separated by flat red clay fired bricks. There were arches and alcoves, columns and carved entries. These pieces of the pattern tell of conquerors and colonists that arrived one after the other.
From Lekures Castle, we could survey the world in an unbroken view. Like stitching a series of photos on our computer, we slowly took in the scene rotating to face each point of the compass. To the south was the peninsula where Butrint hid in the lush greenery of the riparian zone. To the east, agricultural fields fitted together like quilt-work reaching to the distant mountains. Across the channel, close enough to touch, was the Greek Island of Corfu. And below us was the harbor and our awaiting ship. Beyond, the land was dry, almost desert like with taller vegetation widely dispersed and the remnants of spring flowers flaxen colored between.
It seemed quite strange to frolic in the waters of Porto Palermo under the eyes of beehive shaped machine gun bunkers and next to tunnels built to camouflage a fleet of submarines. But we did. We kayaked, cruised, and swam. And as the day drew to a close, ancient flute music drew us to the roof of Ali Pasha's ruined castle. The gentle strains mingled with the sound of the surf on the rocks below, and we could imagine the 18th century Ottoman who created this isolated structure.
Slowly we piece together the image of this country, a land so newly emerged from terror and suppression. Each moment in time adds a tiny piece to the mosaic.
At the end of the day, one searches for a word or two to sum it up, to categorize the memories so that they can be found again within the tangle of neurons in our minds. Today, two words hang in neon lights behind our closed eyes: mosaic and incongruous. They sway back and forth with the motion of the ship and slowly drift together. Incongruous and mosaic merge to form a phrase that might seem confusing to one who has never set foot on Albanian soil. To explain, we turn to the dictionary for definitions that are precise: "Mosaic: A combination of diverse elements forming a more or less coherent whole. Incongruous: not in harmony or keeping with the surroundings or other aspects of something." Every fragment of the land, its history and inhabitants, are the pieces that fit together to create the picture, but the pattern could be compared to a tapestry of clashing colors.
Morning light comes early at the edge of the Adriatic Sea. Scattered lights twinkled on the hillside where Sarande and its inhabitants still slept. When the level of illumination drew silhouettes upon the low hills it became evident that the city was much larger than the lights implied, for most of the buildings stood dark, windowless, and barren. The dry limestone hills were crisscrossed with newly plowed roadways going to nowhere. So much looked undone, incomplete. Was this a sign of plans gone wrong? Hopes stolen away? Or were they indicative of growth and prosperity? We were to learn later that it was a little of both. Not ten years ago, fraudulence caused the economy to collapse, but with the turn of this new century life held promise once again.
Before the sun rises, the winds come from the land, cool and dry, bearing the odor of dust and smoke and something else, an incense of aromatic plants. Eucalyptus, bay, and rosemary mingle to tease the sense of smell and trick it into thinking of sandalwood and myrrh. A haze hangs over the sea, flattening the colors of morning. But not long after the sun warms the soil, the breeze shifts, bearing humidity landward. It condenses on the rocks and adds to the stickiness of our skin. There is nothing better than a Zodiac flying across the water to energize and cool so this was how we made our approach to land and the World Heritage Site of Butrint.
The mosaics here were real but they were not just the ornate patterns made of colored pieces of minerals or stones. They were the stories told in archeological trenches or fully exposed sites. They were the mix of stones favored by changing civilizations. Here the limestone blocks were large, rectangular, and arranged horizontally. There, the same sized boulders were hexagonal and reminiscent of stepping stones of columnar basalt. Mid-sized rocks could be irregular or square and separated by flat red clay fired bricks. There were arches and alcoves, columns and carved entries. These pieces of the pattern tell of conquerors and colonists that arrived one after the other.
From Lekures Castle, we could survey the world in an unbroken view. Like stitching a series of photos on our computer, we slowly took in the scene rotating to face each point of the compass. To the south was the peninsula where Butrint hid in the lush greenery of the riparian zone. To the east, agricultural fields fitted together like quilt-work reaching to the distant mountains. Across the channel, close enough to touch, was the Greek Island of Corfu. And below us was the harbor and our awaiting ship. Beyond, the land was dry, almost desert like with taller vegetation widely dispersed and the remnants of spring flowers flaxen colored between.
It seemed quite strange to frolic in the waters of Porto Palermo under the eyes of beehive shaped machine gun bunkers and next to tunnels built to camouflage a fleet of submarines. But we did. We kayaked, cruised, and swam. And as the day drew to a close, ancient flute music drew us to the roof of Ali Pasha's ruined castle. The gentle strains mingled with the sound of the surf on the rocks below, and we could imagine the 18th century Ottoman who created this isolated structure.
Slowly we piece together the image of this country, a land so newly emerged from terror and suppression. Each moment in time adds a tiny piece to the mosaic.
