by Jonuz Kola
Summary
In 1935, Austrian journalist Louis A. Matzhold describes the Morinë border as a striking contrast between the fortified Yugoslav side and the open, welcoming Albanian side. Albanian border guards appear poor but friendly, embodying hospitality and simplicity. The remote region is depicted as harsh and isolated, with rugged mountains, scarce infrastructure, and limited contact with outsiders. Travel is difficult, and life revolves around basic survival. Despite warnings of danger, the author finds kindness instead of hostility. Nature dominates the landscape, while shepherd songs and rare human encounters emphasize the area’s solitude and enduring traditional way of life.
Transcribed:
“II. ALBANIA, 14. In Morinë
Near Morinë, where the dark mountain ridges and the narrow valley of the White Drin River meet, stands the Yugoslav border post, surrounded by high fences and small fortifications, where tall, broad-shouldered border officers decorated with medals block the road at the Yugoslav frontier.
A hundred steps further on, one encounters small, patched and still torn uniforms, long and old rifles, and a kind, friendly smile shining from their perfect white teeth: the Albanian border guards.
No barbed wire, no war barriers mark this border, but rather living border posts of genuine hospitality.
An Albanian proverb says that more people die from overeating and drinking than from hunger and thirst. According to them, this is the motto of a simple way of life.
The Albanian mountain landscape stretches from Prizren like a gloomy melancholy deep into the highlands. And yet, here one feels as if in a completely different, entirely new world. Modest, polite, without any suspicion, the border guards help travelers, carry their suitcases, and enjoy being photographed.
They immediately prepare good Albanian (Turkish) coffee by the campfire and offer the best cigarettes in the country. An ancient custom of the land, a tradition of every Albanian tribe and family—and at the same time good propaganda. Suddenly, no one believes the authors of books anymore who claim that these “mountain eagles” might put a bullet in your stomach or even slit you open.
Grey-black mountains rise to the left and right. Dwarf oaks push through the reddish cracks of the earth. The valley of the White Drin becomes so narrow that the road runs for eighteen kilometers without a single house, all the way to Kukës.
In winter, there is so much snow that horses get stuck. In the summer months, an Albanian bus passes twice a week—from the border to Kukës. Apart from crates, dry army bread, and mailbags, mostly locals and border guards ride it. In the past three years, only two foreigners—German travelers—have been in this area, one says.
Twenty-five years earlier, a Turkish postman regularly came here with mailbags on his mule, accompanied by four strong guards. At that time, this road was still an idyll for Albanian bandits. Nowadays, in winter, one only needs to beware of wolves, who wash their blood-dripping mouths in the clear waters of the Drin after a good feast of sheep meat.
Jackals, foxes, and pheasants are shy companions, watching from the smallest cracks in the rocks, checking for anything suspicious. Meanwhile, wild ducks play freely in the river, and wild geese practice their formations in the sky.
No one is seen far and wide. Yet, songs descend from the snow-covered alpine pastures. Shepherd melodies break the silence. The “mountain eagles” have noticed me. The “Albanian radio” spreads the news of the foreign traveler wandering carelessly through the valley, from hut to hut, from mountain to mountain. Finally, a small bull appears; two tiny oxen carry a sack of corn to the mill. This is probably all the bread flour and half the food supply for the family until the next year.”
