The Road to the South

Among the groups of men passing the time of day we would often see a policeman, in smart cap and blue shirt, lounging on the ground, or at a café table. I commented on this friendly and laid-back image of the police in Albania, so different from their more formal and solitary British counterparts. Yes, agreed Vasil, my teacher companion, they are as much a member of their community as of the police force, and this did not make for very good policing, he added, grinning ironically. However, some of them were doing their job, as our white Mercedes was waved to the side to stop by one roadside patrol after another. Usually this was just a routine check of the driver's licence. One stop, however, just before Gjirokaster, proved to be lengthier and more difficult. The conversation between Albert and the young policeman went on for some time, gradually turning into an argument. The gist, I was told afterwards, was as follows:

Policeman: You are not registered as a taxi but as a private car (looking at the papers)
Berti:: Yes
Policeman: But you are carrying a foreigner, so you must be a taxi.
Berti: But why can't I take a foreigner as a friend?
Policeman: No, as a private car you can take members of your family, not a foreigner.

Albert managed to win the argument and we drove on.

Once again I was made to feel that as a foreigner in Albania I belonged to a different species, one only questionably human but with the chief function of producing dollars.