Bad moon rising on the walk home from the pub
The morning after I cried myself to sleep (I didn’t, actually, but it makes for good dramatic effect), I woke up determined to make things work. I knew I needed a clean kitchen if I wanted to make it any amount of time here, but I didn’t want to clean the kitchen on my own time, like I did the bunk room and bathrooms. I figured that Shawn was a reasonable enough person, and if I had an adult conversation with her, we’d get it all sorted out.
But before I even got out of bed, I checked flights out of Tirana, just to see how easy it would be to make an escape. I looked up Tirana to London, and it was fucking outrageously expensive. Like, $25,000 expensive. Ok, not an option. So I checked Corfu to London, and it was even more expensive. Is Albania trying to keep me here for goddamned ever?! I though in a panic. And then I realized that prices were in Lek, and I had a very good laugh about it.
I emerged from the bunk house in surprisingly good humor. True to her word, Shawn had made us a delicious banana and chocolate bread pudding for breakfast. After eating, having coffee and the boys all smoking a few cigarettes, we got to work. As I walked up toward the work site with Shawn, I asked her if I could use an hour or two of my shift to clean the kitchen. “We don’t really use Workaway time for cleaning your personal spaces,” she responded. “We can have a team meeting to make sure things get cleaned, but you all have your own kitchen and bunk rooms, that you clean on your own time.”
I was floored. Here I was offering to clean up months of other peoples’ muck in (one of) her kitchens, and she tells me I have to do it on my own time? Nah. I could tell Shawn was stressed about her first clients coming to stay in a week, and wanted her free labor to focus solely on getting things ready, so I didn’t argue with her, but I made a game plan. Her priority for me that day was to paint storage doors for the cabins, which took a few hours. When I was done, I went and cleaned the hell out of the kitchen. When I was finished, all the guys thanked me, and Shawn didn’t say anything, for better or worse.
After work, I asked my new mates if they wanted to go for a beer. “Ah yeah A, let’s go on the piss, A,” said the Kiwi guy. So four of us hiked through the bush on a short cut and then walked up the highway for a few km. As we walked, we were joined by stray dogs, all of whom nearly got hit by cars. We passed a shepherd with his flock of grazing sheep, and a guy riding a donkey sidesaddle with another donkey in tow. It was exactly how I imagine Albania to be.
The first restaurant we wanted to go was closed, so we walked a little further to the second place. There wasn’t much on the menu but I hadn’t had a proper meal in a few days by then, so I ordered the meatballs and grilled veggies. Meatballs are a gamble, but they, and the veggies were delicious. And the beers were cheap. I tried to get the guys to stay out and take ouzo shots with me, but they all were concerned about getting home before dark. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. For being such a motley crew of guys, I didn’t think I would be the bad influence, but alas I have been the one prodding them to go for beers every night.
The next morning I woke up with a swollen eye because a mosquito tried to eat my eyeball in the middle of the night. Albania is fucking rough, man. Jeezus. I didn’t complain too much, seeing as how the dude who almost got his thumb bit off by the donkey didn’t even bother to get a bandaid.
I spent the day cleaning the cabins, in which every surface was covered with dirt. I’ve cleaned a lot of construction sites in my time, and I really am not a fan. I couldn’t help but start to do the math: I’m working for 5 hours a day, for basically a dorm bed and not much else, while I could pay €10 for a dorm bed in a hostel in Sarandë and do no work. The carrot for me is getting to attend the writer’s workshop at the end of the month… but is it worth it? I have no idea why the guys are here — each has their reason, I suppose — but it doesn’t seem like a great deal to me. This would be a great place to hide from the law, but each assured me they’re not an outlaw, and neither am I.
In spite of all the dirt, Bote Farms is truly beautiful. And when the construction is finished (if ever), it is going to be super rad. Last night we walked up to the olive grove and watched the nearly full moon rise to a pastel riot of a sunset. I could see the cabins nestled into the hillside with their porch lights on, and I got it. I finally saw Shawn and Kyle’s dream, and it is so close to coming to fruition. But it is going to take a lot of hard work to get that last 10% done.
Do I want to spend my precious time in Europe doing that? Do I want to spend two weeks essentially trapped on a remote farm to spend a third week writing? Could I make the most of this time by reading, mediating, writing, playing guitar, and if I stayed, would I?
……
I wrote the above post in my bed before snuggling in for a good night’s sleep. But then my stomach started to rumble, I got the hot and sweatys, and proceeded to puke every 15 minutes for the next 7 hours. In the morning I apologized to poor Ashley, who had to listen to the whole thing all night. “Ah yeah, no worries, mate,” he said, “Sounds like you have the same bug I had a few days before you showed up. You’ll be fine in 48 hours.”
Ew, fucking gross. In addition to being visibly filthy, this place is covered in Norovirus. I made the decision right then to get out of there for a few days to decide my next move. I texted my hosts and told them I was sick, and asked for a ride into Sarandë, where I would get a hotel for a few days to recuperate. Kyle responded with a “yes, sorry you’re sick.”
With the thought of getting out of there, my adrenaline kicked. I booked a hotel, packed my bags, stripped the nasty sheets off the bed and threw them in the wash. I was sitting outside waiting for Kyle, when Shawn walked up. “Why are your bags packed?” She asked. “I texted you and Kyle. I’m super sick and am going to get a hotel in town for a few days to recuperate,” I told her. “Why are the sheets off your bed?” she asked. “Dude, because I was sick in them all night and they’re disgusting,” I replied. This lady seriously has no concept of hygiene. “You’re not coming back, are you?” She continued her interrogation. “I don’t know, Shawn. I just need to feel better before I figure out what I’m going to do.”
Shawn begrudgingly drove me into Sarandë in stony silence. Had she asked if there was anything they could do to make the work stay bearable, or had she told me how excited she was about the writer’s retreat and how great it was going to be, I might have gone back. In spite of the fact that even thinking about that nasty communal kitchen made me want to puke again, it wouldn’t have taken much to convince me to see my commitment to the work stay through. I hate bailing on things, and there were aspects of the farm I was really excited about, but when my health is compromised…
At the roundabout where she picked me up a few days prior, she pulled over. “This is as close as I can get you,” she said, “you’ll have to walk to your hotel from here.” I grabbed my bags and trudged the half mile to my hotel in a feverish sweat.
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