The Pyramid of Albania

 

The glass reflects a patch of golden-light on my desk. I stretch my neck and peer through the window. The sky has turned into a giant disco-ball of pink and orange—a reminder that I need to set out and explore the city.

“How about I start my work right away?” I ask.

My journalism instructor, a veteran in covering the Balkans, briefs me to prepare a series in the next two days. The third day of the course is specially reserved for an in-depth review-session.

“Absolutely! Head North.” He says while handing me a small map of the city Tirana.

Tirana is the capital city of Albania, one of the eight picturesque countries in Southeast Europe. The sobriquet ‘Balkans’ for this part was put up by the invading Ottoman Turks, who were mesmerized by the beautiful wooded mountains of the region.

I put on my jacket, take a spare battery, a journal, and head out on the road.

The evening sun has already wrapped the base of the Dajti mountain in a hue of bright orange, uncovering the little hiking trails hidden in its elevation. Dajti falls on the north-eastern side of Tirana and is a favorite spot for the locals during winter for its snow.

As the daylight cuts across the dwellings towards the top of the mountain, illuminated architecture reveals a troubled past. Albania became one of the most isolated states in Europe after its leader (and dictator), Enver Hoxha, fell out with his comrades from the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, and China. With the fall of communism in the early part of 1991 and the establishment of a new republic, Albania is trying hard, ever since, to revive tourism. While ‘Shqipe’ is the dominant language here, English speakers are on the rise. But I’m relying heavily on sign language and, for now, it’s working excellent.

Left: The Communist-era National History Museum. Right: Burani dish (eggs, spinach, yogurt, meat)

It’s a cool September evening and locals are absorbing most of it in the city’s numerous parks. Young crowd, standing on the boulevard, are handing down restaurant flyers to new faces. They hand me one; it has a picture of a baked dish filled with poached eggs, meat, spinach, and probably yogurt. They call it Burani. Slipping the flyer in my back pocket, I drift like smoke through the maddening traffic of the centuries-old metropolis.

“Do you know which way the Pyramid is?” I ask one passerby by drawing an imaginary triangle in the air.

He takes his time to light the cigarette and scans me from the corner of his eye.

He gathers his thick eye-brows and quizzes me, “The museum?”

"Yes." “Go straight and don’t get lost.”

The last sentence isn’t comforting enough when you are in a new city. But I listen to him and head out straight.

Left: Opera & Ballet Theatre. Right: Skanderbeg Square with Et’hem Bey Mosque in the background

I navigate my way around some of Tirana’s architectural wonders—the 18th-century Et’hem Bey Mosque with its intricate Ottoman time frescoes and porticos; the National Opera and Ballet Theatre - a stunning 1950s Stalinist architecture; skyscrapers and outdoor patios of newly built cafes—before I arrive at my destination, the Pyramid of Albania. This is a concrete structure with sloping sides and glass panes around its triangular edges, a more modern iteration of its granite-mortar namesakes in Egypt. Said to be the most expensive building in Albania when built, the pyramid was designed by Hoxha’s daughter, Pranvera, to commemorate her father’s legacy as a leader. But with the toppling of the dictator’s statue as well as his ideology in the winter of 1991, the extravagant plans to build a memorial museum fell into ruins.

“You from where?” someone asks.

I look up from my sketch work. A 15-year-old with only half of his feet inside his shoes, ripped jeans, and hands on the waist, patiently waiting for my answer.

“India.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs and points towards the top of the Pyramid. “Let’s go.”

“Wait! Are we allowed there? What’s your name?”

“Erjon.”

He throws off his shoes and climbs up the Pyramid like a monkey. And while he is scaling the steep concrete slope with ease, I can see why his jeans are all battered. Like Erjon, young Albanians love to ascent this structure and slide down its fringes. It’s their favorite twilight moment. Of them, many stay at the top and spend some quality time with their loved ones. It’s quite a contrast to how Pranvera planned to immortalize her father and how Albanians want to remember their leader Enver Hoxha.

Erjon waves at me. His friends, already at the top, wave at me, too. He whispers something to them and they all burst out laughing. Maybe they have sensed that I’ve got a fear of heights, or perhaps they know that I might land up in a foreign jail after doing this. However, I would like to take my chances today. I untie my shoes, put the camera over my shoulders, and scale what was once the epitome of the Albanian architectural revolution. Walls filled with graffitis of the copies of Banksy’s art, slogans, and heart-signs appear as I move up. But I have to stop in the middle because of acrophobia. Erjon and his friends came down to my level and we all, in one breath, scream in joy. We grasp our legs, hold our belts, slide down the edge, and disperse like marbles.

The sun is long gone and now the Pyramid’s glasses are reflecting the tiny street lights coming alive. As I fist-bump Erjon, I silently thank him in my language for giving me a chance to relive the carefree days of my childhood in a land where I’m nothing but a stranger.