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When it was your turn to pull forward and check in with the border officials, a female officer would step out into the street from 100 meters away and wave you in.

Finally it was my turn and I cycled up, parked my bike near the curb and handed a man sitting in a small booth my passport.

He had obviously taken a fall on his left side as his thighs and shoulders were red with blood and black with tar from the roads. I think they were just embarrassed at having crashed and at having caused such a scene.

He looked like he’d survive, but his male riding partner looked a whole lot worse. “We’ve been here for 15 days.” “And you are going to Shkoder? So I said goodbye, wished them luck, and quickly made my way to the border.

The other male rider, who was much taller and skinnier than his bruised and bloody companion had taken a serious hit to the head. By the time I reached the Montenegro/Albania border, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out again.

I paid with a twenty cent Euro piece and took off to find a bank and get myself some real Albanian money.

After passing a sheep hearder and his 100 goats, I suddenly came across a long wooden bridge and was surrounded by teenage boys with dark skin and ratty clothes. When the officer would turn his back, a flow of traffic would suddenly creep out into the street and cars would dart across the intersection, just missing the river of people and vehicles coming the opposite way.

There were so many of them I was forced to stop and they swarmed around me and my bike, poking at my handlebars, squeezing my tires, and grabbing onto my clothes. Escaping the roads for just a moment in an attempt to figure out where I was exactly, I rolled into a small city park, shaded by a giant iron statue of some unknown Albanian war hero.

But even with so few people crossing the border, the wait took a good half hour.

Cars leaving Montenegro were forced to sit idle at a small bridge, about 100 meters away from the actual border station.

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