The end of Ramadan in Maqellare and other villages in Albania is celebrated with a day of visiting the houses of one’s neighbors and in hosting visitors in turn. It is also a special day for visiting sacred places. Albania’s third highest mountain peak, which also acts as one of the border points between Macedonia and Albania, can be summited in about four hours. We set out from Fatjon’s grandparents’ house at around 8:AM.
Rifan’s mule was to carry our day-packs, which was a pleasant burden to have freedom of. I hadn’t realized that the mule was meant to carry one of us as well until we were well underway through the nearby villages on our way to the trail-head. At the insistence of my host, I climbed my 83 kilogram mass clumsily atop the beast to see what it was like. The saddle was an exposed wooden frame mounted on a thick, green blanket of some kind. The entire apparatus was held in place by a 1/4″ vinyl rope which also doubled as the stirrups. I could hear the inner voice of the mule as it cursed my girth as we plodded along. Both Fatjon and Rifan weigh somewhere near 120 pounds, which is what I weighed when I was 12 years old. Over the course of the day, each of us cycled through, giving our legs a break and our eyes a chance to scan the area without watching our foot placement.
We passed 2 small church buildings while still within the borders of the village. Like my hosts in Peshkopia, Fatjon’s grandfather made every effort to honor my Christian Faith. It was important to him that I see the churches in and around the place he calls home.
One of the churches had a proper grave yard with about 25 markers. We spent the morning hiking the switch-backs and long, winding, paths which led past streams and some great-rock land features. At every stream crossing we would stop to drink, the water near Maqellare was known by the Italians who invaded there in World War II as something like “easy water,” Fatjon’s grandfather said. Near the first stream was an old rectangular pile of stone markers “when the Serbs attacked here, they shot a man and he died there,” Fatjon’s father said. The water was cold, abundant, clean, and fresh. It was little wonder that men had died in conflict over it.
About half-way to the top we could start to make out the shapes of men and a great herd of sheep. Rifan had been a shepherd in this area for five years, earlier in life. It was good for him to sit and talk with the men who shepherd there now, men he had not seen since this time last year. Communication has an intimacy, a care all its own, when delivered with the eyes.
In the company of another shepherd and his dog is where Rifan chose to wait for Fatjon and I as we climbed the last bitter piece of the shale and wild-grass covered rock. At age 65, the old shepherd turned woodsman had taken us up the steep incline for about 3 hours, vomiting a creamy-white film from time to time as we walked, never breaking a sweat.
At the top, Fatjon and I met a group of hikers from Macedonia; four men and two women. They had come from the opposite direction, and were able to tell us how the ancient church we found there belonged half to Macedonia, and half to Albania. The shape of the structure was intact with walls about one meter high, but it lacked a roof, and it lacks more people to care for it and use it.
These reminders, of a time we never saw, of people we never knew who’s table we never sat, lend our faith a depth and a richness of character. Even now, wherever two or more gather in the name of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ, He is there with us. It isn’t a matter of stones stacked atop high places or knowing where to find the markers for the dead. God’s loving family unites around Him. We know that when we are together as Christians that we find the markers for living life.
albaniacalling 