A short drive out of Korce, on the long and winding road to Voskopoje, is the small village of Gjonmadh. The smooth road twists and turns through the countryside, rising through the bushes and trees, stripy fields full of corn, flowers, and fruits, and large cliffs that rise and fall on either side. As you reach the hill’s summit, your eyes are immediately drawn to a large, red canyon on the right. Jagged orange and red rocks protrude from the foliage and descend deep into the valley below. A small waterfall sits about halfway down the gorge, spilling frothy white liquid over the stones and between the trees that cling to the cliff face for dear life. You could be forgiven for not knowing of the existence of Gjonmadh, for its red, orange and brown stone houses blend almost entirely into the earth on which it sits. Just a few whitewashed walls and windows that twinkle in the sun give its location away.
It is reachable by a short road that takes you up and around the adjacent hills, before the tarmac ends and the stone roads of Gjonmadh begin. This village comprises narrow, winding, untarmacked tracks that weave along the hillside with stone walls and farmhouses on either side. Some are in a state of disrepair with hodge-podge bricks, crumbling roofs, and a feeling they may collapse at any time; others are restored and repaired but retain the original features. Chickens clucked, crickets chirped, a cow occasionally mooed, and a dog barking echoed around the streets. A smell of agriculture, animals, and woodsmoke filled the air, with a slight hint of blossom when the breeze shifted direction. In the centre of the village, the white turret of a mosque rises into the summer sky, surrounded by large trees and a metal fence on a stone wall.
There are no shops in Gjonmadh, just little gardens full of olive and fruit trees, and rows of vegetables and seasonal greens that fight their way through the stony earth. There are also no coffee shops, lavazhs, or telebingo girls vying for trade on the sidewalks. There are no nail salons, no mobile phone shops full of bright lights and shiny cases, and no estate agencies with chainsmoking 20-somethings hanging outside the doors. Gjonmadh is a million miles away from the streets of Tirana with its M-Wagons and Wolt delivery drivers, its groups of posing teenagers in belly tops and baggy jeans, gangs of disoriented tourists, and young men with Balenciaga purses chuffing on vapes. Here, the only sound is animals and the clinking of gardening tools on stones and earth.
I poked my head over a wall to see a man working his land, accompanied by a fat donkey and a large, fluffy dog chained to a tree. Upon seeing my face over the top of the wall, the dog started barking frantically, pulling at its chain while the donkey blinked slowly, unimpressed and unperturbed by my presence.
In broken Albanian, I apologised for interrupting his day and asked if he could help me with answers to a few questions. The man put down his tools, headed over to me, and said he would be happy to take me to the kryeplaku of the village, who would be glad to give me all the information I needed. In Albania, most villages and towns would, or still have a kryeplaku, the elder or chief. The role is usually handed down in the family’s male line, and the individual is in charge of various things within the community. These include resolving disputes, making decisions that impact the town, speaking on behalf of residents at a municipal level, and being consulted on various matters related to the functioning of the society. The kyreplaku commands great respect among inhabitants and is seen as their leader and superior.
We approached a large metal gate situated towards the top of the village. My guide shouted several times over the fence, summoning the kryeplaku to the entrance. A man of average height appeared between 45 and 55 years old. He shook my hand and, with a slight smile, invited me and my daughter into his house. Now, in the UK, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter, there is no way I would enter the home of someone I did not know. But this is Albania, and I understood that I was completely safe and it was a great honour to be invited in.
A path led to the front door of a carefully maintained, stone, two-floor home. It was vast in size and similar to some other large houses I had seen in usually abandoned Albanian villages. This one was very much inhabited, and removing my shoes, as is customary, at the door, I was ushered inside.
Once inside, I was led into the house’s living room and introduced to his wife, who shook my hand and told me to sit down. I sat on a large sofa, next to a snoozing grandfather who lay, covered with a blanket, unmoving, on the couch beside me. From there, I was bestowed with coffee, fruit juice, biscuits, and a sweet cake the lady in the house made. We sat for some time, discussing life, the village, and my coming to Albania. From what I understood, I was the first British person to visit Gjonmadh, which caused a lot of excitement. I was informed of the Kryeplaku’s extended family, including children and grandchildren in Canada, the US, the UK and beyond. I even had the chance to speak to some of their family in the UK, via video call, which is commonly thrust upon me when people realise I am from there originally.
From our discussions, I learned that most of the village has emigrated- Greece, UK, Italy and further afield, leaving just some 70 houses with occupants. He explained that the school still has some students, but once they reach their early teens, a minibus picks them up and takes them to nearby Voskopoke to continue their studies. I was told the main products of Gjonmadh are plums, other forest fruits, and potatoes. In fact, there is a type of potato called the Gjonmach, which is known throughout the country for its quality, and takes its name from this small but fascinating village. The lack of roads was lamented, and there were whispers of hope about tourism in the future. I was assured of the drinking water’s good quality, the air’s freshness, and the earth’s qualities that bring them much of their substance. They continued that it was a predominantly muslim village in a largely Christian area. Gjonmadh is full of friendly, kind, and good people, they insisted, and told me I was welcome to visit at any time. Upon announcing that, sadly, I had to leave, I was given plastic bags full of homemade cakes, biscuits, and some fruits from the garden.
Gjonmadh, the village’s name, comes from a shepherd named Gjon, who, while grazing his cattle nearby, drank from a local spring. Upon noticing the water was very cold, he decided to bring his family to settle there, who were then followed by others. The residents of the new settlement called him Gjon the Great in honour of his discovery, which later lent its name to the village—Gjonmadh.
Not only am I the first British person to visit this little village (so I have been told), but I believe this is the first text in English, written on this little unassuming village, perched on a hillside in the folds of Korce County. I hope it won’t be the last!
Follow The Balkanista!
