Tour Guide - When and how?

Randomly

The year was 2012, and by this time, I had spent 10 years of my life since my parents moved back in 2001 to Shkoder, Albania, where all of my roots come from. For those paying close attention and realizing that should be 11 years—well, I was fortunate enough to spend the academic year of 2010–2011 in the U.S. as an exchange student on scholarship. That experience marked my first introduction to the American world, which would later shape much of my early adult life.

“Hey Boris, I know you speak German and English well. Would you like to show tourists around Shkoder as a guide?”. So I was randomly approached by a local tour company.

At the time, Shkoder’s proximity to Montenegro made it a rare destination for daily tourists crossing the border, but tourism in Albania was virtually non-existent. Back in 2012—or any previous decade—the misconceptions about Albania such as being unsafe for example were way more pronounced than today. Best case scenario, some simply had absolutely no image of what Albania looks like. Meanwhile Montenegro had been touristic for decades already since its days within former Yugoslavia.

I had nothing to lose by accepting the offer—just the occasional school day. I was confident in my English and German skills, had plenty of experience as class senator and event presenter, enjoyed public speaking, and loved history and geography. No mention of payment was made, but I figured he wasn’t asking for a volunteer.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. They immediately instructed me to be at the Montenegro border at 9 a.m. the next day to greet a group arriving for a day tour in Shkoder. That was it— no other instructions, no further details.

The next day I called in sick at school. At the time I was visiting an Austrian professional school.

While it might seem surprising that the Austrians chose to establish this school outside Albania’s capital, Shkoder is historically one of the most significant towns in the Balkans. Its strategic geography has shaped its rich history, and it remains Albania’s cultural center and the heart of Albanian Catholicism. During the Ottoman era, Shkoder held significant administrative and political influence, fostering trade and cultural ties with the West—particularly Austria, given their shared geopolitical interests in the early 1900s. Moreover, being so close to Montenegro, the Austrians likely envisioned the school as an educational hub that could attract students from across the border.

It’s 9 a.m., and I’m standing at the border. A few minutes later, a bus pulls up, packed with people who unmistakably have a Western, Germanic look (racial profiling comes with the territory for tour guides). As I cautiously approach, a gentleman steps out and immediately asks, “Are you Boris?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“You’re our tour guide. Come on in,” he says.

I stepped onto the bus, took the microphone, and quickly asked one of the guests in the front seats where they were from. Austrians—perfect! Along with the story of my name, I could talk about the Austrian school I had called in sick from that day.

Despite my confidence and obvious enthusiasm for my new role as a tour guide, I couldn’t help but notice that while the guests seemed eager to listen, their eyes kept drifting to the surroundings. They were mesmerized, itching to finally experience Albania—this once-forbidden and mysterious corner of Europe that none of them had ever visited before. Or so I thought…

The weather was perfect as we explored Shkoder’s fortress, perched on an imposing hill with breathtaking views of the lake, three rivers, the city below, and the majestic mountains in the background. The tales of Shkoder’s ancient and vibrant past came alive. We wandered through the city center with its charming Italian-style pedestrian streets, lively cafés, and the harmonious coexistence of churches and mosques. Oh and ridiculously cheap…

The Austrians were amazed—not because Shkoder was the most beautiful city they had ever seen, but because it far exceeded their expectations. Most surprising of all was something many Albanians take for granted: the safety. Petty crime, like pickpocketing, is virtually non-existent in Albania, and the deeply ingrained code of hospitality ensures visitors are treated with care and respect, often even more so than locals.

As the day tour comes to and end and the Austrians had to return to their resort in Montenegro where they were stationed for the week, a tall gentleman whose name and contact I never wrote down unfortunately, approaches me in person and says to me “Boris, I visited Albania in the early 80s”.

I stared at him in disbelief. “How?” I asked. Despite my passion for history, the communist era always felt like a hazy enigma. I hadn’t lived through it, history books offered little clarity, and my parents—like most people—preferred to forget. “Ah, you kids don’t know how good you have it today,” I’d hear in passing. “Back then, we had to share a few hundred grams of rationed food between everyone,” or, “You could go to jail just for complaining that the bread wasn’t fresh.” And yes, I had even heard of both of my grandparents being jailed for private work (they would tailor clothes as a side hustle), but no one ever explained the system in detail, and I knew no one had traveled abroad during those times—thanks to the country’s strict isolation and paranoia about the outside world.

So, how on earth had this gentleman from Austria visited Albania back then?

His answer is why I’ll never forget my very first day as a tour guide.

As a student at the University of Vienna, he and his friends, like many young people of the 1960s and 70s, flirted with leftist, anti-imperialist, and anti-capitalist ideologies. One friend in particular had convinced himself—and the group—that communist Albania was the Marxist dream come true. It wasn’t just another socialist state; it was the Marxist paradise. And, naturally, paradise wasn’t open to just anyone.

Undeterred, the group decided to send a formal request for permission to visit this utopia, just to catch a glimpse of paradise. " To their amazement, permission was granted. They packed into a small bus and drove to Albania. But at the border, they were greeted by an Albanian border guard with soap and a razor. Any man with a beard or facial hair had to shave before entering. As the world’s only constitutionally atheist country, Albania didn’t allow facial hair, viewing it as a symbol of religion.

I was speechless, utterly fascinated. I’d never heard this story before, but as he spoke, I was flooded with flashbacks to the photos and images I’d seen from the communist era—he was right. Every man was always clean-shaven. I thought of my father’s stories of rebelling against the system by tailoring his pants just a few centimeters wider for a cowboy-inspired look or the strict, unwritten rule that sideburns couldn’t extend past the bone near your ear—anything longer was labeled “Elvis.”

The gentleman shared even more with me, and I listened intently. In just a few minutes, I learned more about the oppressive world my parents had lived through than they’d ever told me themselves. Sometimes, I’d even hear people nostalgically praise those “good old days” simply because they had a job back then.

The most haunting detail, however, was how ordinary citizens were too afraid to even glance at or make eye contact with the foreign visitors. During their entire trip, the group was kept under constant surveillance, accompanied by an official tour guide and two “assistants” to ensure that the itinerary was strictly followed and no unauthorized photographs were taken.

But for some, I guess, the mere act of having a job is enough to disregard the fact that you’re living in an experimental zoo with no visitors. Imagine living half a century in a COVID-style quarantine. Imagine living in one of the poorest countries in the world, tucked away in the richest continent on Earth. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my first day as a tour guide.

As the day wrapped up, I noticed the group collecting money—turns out, it was for me. I had no idea tipping the guide was a thing. Bwoah, this job will make me rich, I thought.

Well, a lot has happened since then. I didn’t stay in Albania to chase riches as a tour guide, and I’m still not rich today—but I’d like to think I’m wiser, more knowledgeable, and definitely cooler to hang out with. 😉