Inside the ghost village and strange Albanian (Photo)

From Eric Bamlar

65 miles [67 km] from Tirana, in Baskina of Gramshi, is a village called Mazrek. It's just 15 miles [4.5 km] south of the Banja Hydrocentral Dam and, surprisingly, it's not Google Maps.

I had no intention of jumping to that side, but it was a woman who intrigued me. <

The second time I'm in Banja, this time with my parents, and to cross the dam, I had learned that the gate only opens for the inhabitants of a village across. So I tell the guard, when they ask me: I'm taking my parents to the village.

The door opens with the remote and we walk on the dike asphalt. At its end, we greet another guard and climb through the woods, up hill

As you take some pictures, a single woman comes across.

It's about 65 and it's holding three empty plastic cans. I'm in the habit of not asking questions, and my wife stopped giving me a jacket. It is called Resmije and is from Mazreca, a 22 - house village at the end of that unpaved road.

An hour and a half on foot to get to the jacket and another 18km with the van just to get to Grams.

That's where she's going to shop, take her husband's medicine and get back as long as Resmije has to climb up with the bags in her arms. The village has no store. There are only livestock that some older people care about.

And for the latter, no one cares. Children have been abandoned on time. State should be. The only young man I met was Juliano Jelelily on a piece of junk engine. This one with the mind to escape as soon as possible.

My knees hurt, if I do, Resmija tells me. My husband is sick. We're both retired. Retirement granted. The concealr.

There's no worse than that, son. No. But what do we do? I'm so sorry.

I break up with Resmiye and drive gas to her village. I don't even know what I'm looking for. Looks like there's nobody there.

The few people around here gather, supposedly carelessly, near where I parked.

It's not hard to talk to them. I just read them in the eye. They secretly want to know who I am and why I was brought here.

No one gets through here. What are you doing? That's what their eyes say.

I'm not sure if they're gonna believe me if I tell you I went out like that, so I tell them I'm a journalist, although I'm glad to lie to myself.

Thank goodness! You're the first journalist to come to our village. No one's stepped up until today. Nobody asks about us anymore.

That's it. Others approach the car.

What a load! They start directly from complaints. They want someone to listen to them, to cry their problem.

What a shame. I couldn't tell you I was joking because I'd be disappointed forever. I was already a courier to them, a butterfly who would take their dert to a closed <x0...zarf” right into town.

Ernest Meta screams harder. Nedgepi less. Nejayp's wife claims head. While Zyber Xhelili, former head of the Council of Komuna, a Socialist 24 carat, is so disappointed by the mysterious conditions that he swears he will never vote again.

Nobody will vote this time. We've decided. - They all speak unanimously

Stop cheating! We've got our whole life without water. We live in wells, which they too drain. They promise us the way and lie to us without shame.

We are forced to maintain it ourselves. We borrowed it, and we put out $250,000 per house to put in some bagels.

We go out in pick-up, volunteering. We send down to the sick (aquem) in a blanket (the angels holding hands), and they explained it to me.

We take our products out for an hour and a half and change our feet, and the police come and pick us up out of rags. They've closed the market. Where do we eat? Where?

One time Damjan Gjiknuri arrived as soon as he looked at us and left promising us nothing. Another time Luan Duzha came, deputy. Even this one. Do these crazy people realize we're dying or not? Aman, journalist, write down all of this so they can hear us. Thank you so much for coming.

What did I say? Shake my head for approval. I wanted to change a little bit of conversation. I asked them about school. They showed me a mess where a donkey was grazing in the yard. I wrote some pictures. Horrible

I had not seen such a large Karatine school, teaching two teachers for three children, two in fifth grade, and one in the ninth grade. <

This village once had 120 houses and 2,000 heads of livestock. Today, only 22 and without youths. What was that?

I fled with grief at my heart for these people, who live worse than their own livestock.

My conscience was killing me on the way. They look forward to the article.