It’s just a picture of a car, right? Well, yes, it is – but there is a story to go with it.
The car is parked in North Macedonia (hereafter denoted as Macedonia), in the town of Ohrid (“och-rid” if you will). It is a rental car, our rental car, collected in Albania and now at rest on the cobbled streets of Ohrid’s old town, lazing nonchalantly in the afternoon sun.
But let’s go back a little. The previous day we – that would be Priya and I – had picked up the Merc in Tirana, the Merc pitched as an improvement from the small car that I had reserved. (Never mind that I preferred a small car!) Wary of what I might discover about Albanian driving I did something that I never do: took up the full insurance on the rental. A scratch would cost us not a jot.
From there it was – gasp! – out into the Albanian city traffic and mercifully soon into the quieter countryside roads that took us to lunch at Fustanella Farm (truly excellent farm-to-table food). We drove on towards the border with Macedonia, rather taken by the scenery, all rolling hills and verdant valleys, neither of which had been included in my imagination of Albania. There was the occasional distraction provided by outrageously dangerous overtaking moves. “Good move, sunshine” might have been the incredulous words passing my lips as another death-defying pass was attempted approaching a blind corner. There was no stopping the local drivers.
Crossing the border necessitated the acquisition of a “green pass”, essentially an insurance for foreign cars in Macedonia. Our car rental agent was a little coy on quite how this pass could be obtained – coy or ignorant. So I was mighty glad that on the final turn towards the border we spied a pair of booths that offered to assist us. One of them was even open. The fun started then as the officer inside the booth refused to grant us our mandatory green pass, on account of an absence of the correct paperwork. The reasons, being professed in Albanian, were not clear to us English speakers.
What followed was a string of expensive calls back to the car rental company (YouRent – this is bad publicity) who then communicated with the green card officer, a kind of translation service. It was obvious that YouRent had stuffed up. After an hour of messing around, including a fruitless journey to the border, and multiple divergent instructions to a mysteriously absent “Sigal” office, we were granted a green pass by the man in the booth. Added to my to do list: a scathing online review of the service offered by the rental company, the greatest retribution possible these days.
There was one final insult at the border, as Priya’s Indian passport yielded a “denied entry” response from one immigration agent, accompanied by a palm out “talk to the hand” manoeuvre that brooked no argument. Perhaps she hadn’t seen a brown person before? Fortunately, research had been carried out in advance, and one of her less ignorant colleagues conceded that actually an Indian passport holder, with the appropriate visa, could enter Macedonia.
We both needed a drink after the unnecessary complications, but at least we were in Macedonia.
Our destination, Ohrid, was not far down the road. A little time to compose myself. It had been quite a day of driving already.
With Priya on hand as navigator, we headed for an airbnb offering wonderful views of the town’s “Como-like” lake. Head down in the flat earth world of google maps, we unexpectedly found ourselves passing through an old stone gate and into Ohrid’s old town. Signs seemed absent and the roads, now paved with cobblestones, narrowed and rollercoasted up and down. In google maps we trust. I slowed to little more than a walk as we plunged downhill, our destination within reach. We squeezed between walls and cars that had somehow established themselves in spaces that should not have allowed a vehicle to park – but did.
At times like these, distractions could be done without. So it was unfortunate that I now approached an elderly lady, navigating the road towards our car with the aid of a walker. It seems reasonable to blame her for what happened next.
In my desire to avoid “granny” I took my eyes off the rest of the road. Inching forward I heard a harsh scraping sound and realised that on the passenger side my mirror had clashed with a parked car. Granny began gesticulating. Realising the error of my ways, I swung into reverse and successfully completed a second attempt at squeezing through the tiny space between this parked car and the stone wall to my left. By this point a second woman – some ragged looking “aunty”, dressed in grey like the grim reaper – had appeared on the scene, from somewhere, and was showing unnecessary signs of animation.
No real damage done, as best I could tell, so we moved on, creeping forward. Not without a touch of guilt as granny and aunty flailed their arms around behind us.
Shortly, we found our accommodation and gratefully accepted the help of our airbnb host, Biljana, to deliver our luggage up the stairs to our room. It did indeed have a “wonderful view” down towards the lake.
Time for a drink? Just about. First up, I was glad to just relax, the hard yards of the day now done. We sat down, relieved, and laughed a hell of a lot as we recalled the gesticulating granny and our departure from the scene. I was feeling a little guiltier now, but we had moved on and escaped unscathed. In truth I knew I had done more than touch the other car’s mirror, yet the deliciousness of the deceit made me laugh deeply. Thank goodness we’d gotten away with it.
Only now – a knock on the door. What was this? Wiping away the tears of laughter, I got up to answer it. It was our host, with a grave face: “Bring your passports. There has been a traffic incident.”
Laughter suspended, as if a film director had shouted “cut” to break off a scene, we searched for our passports and whispered a few words to each other – our stories had to match. The police had tracked us down and were visiting us.
We followed Biljana to where our Merc was parked. Right away it was obvious why we’d been called out: the “aunty” who had been animated at the time of the incident was by our vehicle. There was also a rather upset gentleman and, yes, a policeman. From above us, balconies were filled with people, keenly following the action below. Quite an audience.
It transpired that the gentleman was the owner of the car. The good looking policeman – Alexander – was calm. Grim reaper, “Aunty”, now even more animated, seemed to be pressing for harsh consequences as her arms flailed with all the vigour of an Olympic swimmer. Biljana tried to appease her, this villain of the peace, for she didn’t wish us, her airbnb guests, to have a bad experience. Aunty was such an interfering nobody! She had no interest in this other than to make a name for herself.
Priya and I pushed the line of innocence, but when the pale blue of the other car’s paint was pointed out on the Merc, it was obvious that it was much more than the mirror which my driving had struck. The evidence incontrovertible, as driver I admitted my guilt.
Quite what my admission would lead to was not obvious. So now Alexander explained.
“This is how it works in Macedonia. The first option is that we take your drivers licence and passport for 48 hours, or maybe 72, and you appear in court to face the charge.” This was not, in my book, an option at all – though Priya had a gleam in her eye as she considered her own possibilities, abandoning me to the courtroom as she toured Macedonia.
“Your second option is to compensate the owner of the car.” Some kind of payoff. Really? Is this legitimate? My suspicion radar was sending out serious warnings as I braced myself for the amount of “compensation”. A sum of Euros in at least four figures registered in my mind and my heart raced uneasily. If this wasn’t legitimate, then perhaps the figure could be much higher.
Alexander continued. “In this case, we estimate the damage will cost 200 to 250 Euros to repair.”
Stupendously relieved, I maintained some sort of composure and heard the words “I will accept 200 Euros” escape from my mouth, grasping for the lowest amount possible, and grateful for its acceptance. Hands were shaken, as I offered my apologies to the car’s owner, before fetching the 200 Euros that I had in my bag. This, I’m sure, was a fraction of the cost for such a repair in Western Europe.
In truth I was suffering from an absence of remorse. As a group, we walked up the road to the police car, to sign some paperwork that would close the matter. I couldn’t keep a straight face, my mouth curling into a snigger at the deliciousness of the situation. Priya must have jabbed me in the ribs, for as we gathered around the police car I composed myself sufficiently well to offer a face that suggested remorse, before signing a few papers on the front bonnet of the cop car.
At this point, another woman appeared to explain that she, the wife of the upset gentleman, was actually the owner of the car. She explained that she had been unable to come out as she was feeding her young baby. Yikes! This was enough to make me genuinely regretful, with another round of apologies and hand shaking.
The transaction complete, Alexander and the car owners made their way off. Aunty, while looking a little smugger given that money had been extracted, never-the-less continued to thrash around.
In any case Priya and I could now escape this unwanted scene. Back in our room, there was only one thing to do. We fell onto the sofa and started laughing solidly.