Day 77 - July 28th: Borders

Dabezići to Blinisht – 50 km / 2,186 miles

We had another close call with lodging last night. As we neared Dobra Voda, our last Adriatic seaside village, Christina WhatsApped me at 2 PM—no rooms. I adjusted course, staying high on the mountain road rather than descending into the town, which ended up saving a few kilometers. She finally found a place by 4 PM, getting me to exactly 50 km for the day.

Montenegro had been a challenge, and signs of transition were clear. Fewer places accepted credit cards, and our apartment owner insisted on cash up front. We didn’t have €120 on hand, so I told them we’d get it at dinner. They didn’t budge—burned before, they said. Dinner was excellent and only €25, but also cash only. So we sprinted back to the room for money—a first for us on this trip.

Christina dropped me at 7:10 AM under crisp skies and cooler temps. I was back in the mountains, quiet and wide open. Early on I passed a landmark: a once-beautiful split tree, now surrounded by trash and an abandoned car. It felt like a symbol of where we were headed—past the sheen of Western Europe into something less polished.

This border region blends Montenegro and Albanian identity, with Islam being the dominant religion in Albania. Mosques are frequent—every few kilometers and often the most prominent building in a village.

At 15 km, I reached the primary Montenegro–Albania border checkpoint. I stopped at a small café just before it. The owner was a woman behind the coffee bar who was chain-smoking as evidenced by her ashtray that was full. Other locals were seated inside and out also smoking. It seems that mostly everyone smokes in this area.  I asked about dogs crossing the border and she told me they need the EU pet passport. I said we don’t have one on hand as we are waiting for it to be returned. She held up her hands and said in heavily accented English, “maybe they check and maybe they don’t.”

Vendors lined the final stretch to the checkpoint, selling garlic, watermelons, and produce from rundown stalls. At the crossing, the Montenegro officer handed my passport to his Albanian counterpart, who smiled when I explained the run and wished me luck.

Just across the line, I saw begging women and children and a wave of roadside poverty. No “Welcome to Albania” sign. The landscape changed quickly. Finished and unfinished homes dotted the narrow valley, with fields of corn as far as the eye could see. Many homes seemed intentionally left unfinished—perhaps to avoid property taxes, a tactic seen in other lower-income countries.

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Albania’s history is deep and layered: Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, communist under Enver Hoxha, and now democratic. It’s a Muslim-majority country known for religious tolerance, where mosques and churches often sit side by side. One of its proudest chapters came during World War II, when Albania uniquely increased its Jewish population by offering refuge while most of Europe did the opposite. Entire families risked their lives to protect Jewish neighbors and refugees, guided by the national code of honor known as besa. After decades of isolation under one of the harshest Stalinist regimes in Europe, Albania transitioned to democracy in the early 1990s—turbulent and messy, but a testament to its resilience. The people speak Albanian—unrelated to any neighboring Slavic language—and GDP is driven in part by tourism.

At Obot, two women were cleaning fish at a sink. I asked to wash my hands and they motioned yes, smiling but waving off a photo. As I ran away, I wondered about eating the fish in Albania…

Not long after, in Oblikë, I saw a crowd around a bloodied man on the ground—his ancient motorbike down on the ground near him and an old Mercedes car stopped on the other side of the street. An English-speaking man said help was coming. A sobering reminder to stay vigilant.

A little further on I saw a man walking his goat.

At 11 AM, Monica FaceTimed me—huge news. Our Portuguese vet agreed to issue Jax a new EU pet passport, complete with the rabies titration result. Once she receives it, she’ll overnight it to us. One of the biggest stress points solved. Thank you!!

That left just this Albania crossing.

I tracked Christina’s location—she was in the border queue.

I held my breath. Then I saw her move on the map. A few minutes later, she called: “They didn’t even ask for a passport—nothing about Jax.” Relief.

Crossing the Buna River, I ran through heavy traffic and saw more begging children. Up on a hill overlooking the river sat Rozafa Castle, a massive fortress dating back to at least the Illyrian era, later expanded by the Venetians and Ottomans. According to legend, three brothers building the castle saw their work crumble daily until they sacrificed the wife of the youngest brother by entombing her within the walls. Her name was Rozafa.

I stopped at a gas station for snacks and paid only €3 for what usually cost four times that. As I ran out I crossed another bridge where a policeman looked at me and tested out his “hello,” I guess I look American! I stopped and commented on the beauty of the mountains in Albania and asked about all the beggars. Before answering, he asked me for one of my bbq chips I was carrying. He tried to reach into the bag and I stopped him, turning the bag over so the chips would fall into his hand. Three chips landed and he said, “just one” but when he tried to put it back I told him, “please, have the 3.” He then told me in a forceful voice, “f-ing gypsies, they live on the river and come here to beg.”

Back on E762, the highway was two lanes and packed with aggressive drivers. I ran against traffic, constantly on edge. Christina found a hotel by 4 PM and came back to pick me up. I was done. We’re now hunkered down, prepping for the next six nights in Albania.

And, we are looking forward to our first Albanian beer and meal.

Thanks for following along and the support.

Cheers,

David.