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The young Edith Durham in the 1880s (Photo: courtesy of Jane Wales).
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Edith Durham at the age of 45-50 (Photo: Marubi Studio, Shkodra, s.d.).
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Albania. Shelcan. The village of Shelcan in the central Albanian Shpat region, near Elbasan (Photo: Edith Durham, 22 April 1904)
“We crossed Kurd Pasha’s bridge, followed the river up-stream a little, and then struck into the Shpata district. It was a quite perfect spring day; the hillsides, well covered with copse-wood, were full of wild plum and cherry all blossoming, and the ground was gay with big butterfly and bee orchises. As for the lizards, they were the fattest and greenest I have ever met. The valley was but feebly cultivated. Men in cartridge-belts and fustanellas were guiding their primitive ploughs — crooked bits of wood, ironshod, each drawn by a couple of buffaloes — through what appeared to be very rich soil. We halted a few minutes at a very lovely spot, to which the town comes for ‘kief’ in the summer. ‘Kief’ means pleasure, and pleasure means doing nothing in the shade, by running water. A kavajee brings a tray of hot charcoal, on which he makes coffee, and everyone is content. A group of vast plane-trees shaded a grassy meadow, through which ran a clear and ice-cold stream which bubbled out of a cliff of gray rock that rose on one side. An ideal spot.” (Edith Durham,The Burden of the Balkans, 1905)
Albania. Kruja. The provisional government of the “Republic of Central Albania” set up by Essad Pasha Toptani (Photo: Edith Durham, October 1913)
Albania. Shelcan. The village of Shelcan in the central Albanian Shpat region, near Elbasan (Photo: Edith Durham, 22 April 1904)
“Essad now insisted on being a member of the provisional government. All feared him. None wanted him. He started a government of his own at Durazzo. In February the British and German Commissioners went there. Sir Harry Lamb worked hard on Albania’s behalf, and did all he could to establish her safely. “The Albanians,” he once said to me, “are the only Balkan race which ever tells the truth.” He and the German tried to persuade Essad to resign, but he refused, and as he had an armed force at his command, the Commission thought it risky to press him.” (Edith Durham, Twenty Years of Balkan Tangle, 1920)
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Albania. The now destroyed Ottoman bridge of Droja near Mamurras in Kurbin territory(Photo: Edith Durham, s.d.)
“… the usual parapetless, steep, narrow Turkish bridge, whose bold elegance of design makes one pardon the fact that it can be used only by foot passengers, and is very inconvenient even for them. The majestic height of the middle arch raises it high above the wild floods of winter.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, (1909)
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Albania. Ferry over the Vjosa River near Tepelena (Photo: Edith Durham, 2 April 1904).
“‘The Viosa is a wicked river,’ said the kirijee. ‘From source to mouth it turns no mill, it does no work, but much destruction every year. It has but one redeeming point: it drowns many Turks. Perhaps that is what it was made for. Who knows?’… The river, we were told, was a raging torrent; we could not reach Tepelen that night; no boat could take us over. The han was crowded because the folk who had tried to reach the bazar to-day had all returned from the ferry, unable to cross. We must pass the night here. It was a dree hole — dark, chill, foodless, fireless. I wondered why I had come, and only a belief that it was not my Kismet to die in Albania cheered me up. We asked for a fire, and drank rakija.” (Edith Durham, The Burden of the Balkans, 1905)
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Albania. Përmet. Dervishes at the Bektashi teqe (dervish lodge) of Përmet(Photo: Evan MacRury, 30 March 1904)
We proceeded to explore things Moslem. In a little garden, hedged round by towering cypresses, lay the tomb of a holy Bektashite Dervish; here the good man had lived and died, and the spot is holy and works miracles. He was beheaded and died a martyr, but he picked up his head and carried it back to his garden. Of the respect in which he was held there was no doubt, for the grave was strewn with small coins, and a little wooden money-box was hung on the wall, and the spot was quite unprotected, save by the good man’s spirit. Seeing that I was interested, the young officer, no doubt a Bektashite himself, at once offered, to my great surprise, to take me to a ‘tekieh’ (Bektashite monastery) that lay high on the hillside, above the town — a rich tekieh, so he said, owning wide lands and sunny vineyards. It was a small, solid, stone building with a courtyard in front. At the entrance we waited while the officer went in to interview the ‘Baba’ (Father). My Christian guide doubted that we should be let in. We were, however, requested to go round to the back-door, and soon told the Baba was ready. In we went, to a bright little room with a low divan round it, and texts in Arabic on the walls, and big glass windows that commanded a grand view of all the valley. The Baba entered almost at once, a very grave and reverend signor in a long white robe; under which he wore a shirt with narrow stripes of black, white, and yellow; on his head a high white felt cap, divided into segments like a melon, and bound round by a green turban; and round his waist a leathern thong fastened by a wondrous button of rock crystal, the size and shape of a large hen’s egg, segmented like the cap and set at the big end with turquoises and a red stone. He was very dark, with piercing eyes, shaggy brows, gray hair, and a long beard.” (Edith Durham, The Burden of the Balkans, 1905).
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Albania. Berat. View of the town and fortress of Berat(Photo: Evan MacRury, ca. 14 April 1904).
“Berat is in an extraordinarily lovely situation, and scrambles down the hillside all bowery and flowery to the brink of the Beratit; quaint wood-and-plaster houses overhang the river; the ruined fortress crowns the height above; the huge mountain range of Tomor (alt. 2,416 metres) towers square-headed, barren and snow-clad on one side, and the slopes of the neighbour hills are gray with olives. The river, all unbanked, has wrought terrible devastation. Great tracts of land lie denuded, stagnant water festers in the hollows, and all the summer fever rages. Only the Christian quarter on the hill-top is fairly free… The Muttasarif, a cheery, stout old Turk, received me affably, and said I was the first Englishwoman in Berat within the memory of man.” (Edith Durham,The Burden of the Balkans, 1905)
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Albania. Edith Durham with her parasol talking to some northern tribesmen (Photo: 1913).
“When I rose to go, the old man asked if we had a roof for the night. “We are poor. Bread, salt, and our hearts is all we can offer, but you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.” It gave me joy to know that even in the bitterest corners of the earth there is so much of human kindness.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. Shpend Deli (Deli Shpend) and his men as refugees from Vuthaj/Vusanje, now in Montenegro (Photo: Edith Durham, 1913)
“Not satisfied with their attack on the Moslems in March, the Montenegrins, while I was still in the mountains in August, fell on the Moslem village of Vuthaj. I was waked early on the 21st by a man just in, with the news that the soldiers had attacked the village before dawn, broken in the doors, seized the sleeping inmates, and driven out many with bayonets, and either shot or bayoneted them on the road. He himself had seen eight bodies, full of bayonet wounds, and had fled to save his life. Most of the survivors fled to the Albanian mountains. Their property was some of the most fertile land in the district, and for this reason they were raided.” (Edith Durham, The Struggle for Scutari, 1914)
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Albania. Shkodra. Slavic women from the village of Vraka north of Shkodra, with cowries in their hair (Photo: Edith Durham, 1913)
“Vraka, the only Orthodox Serb village in the district, lies an hour and a half north of Scutari on the plain. The people were highly delighted that I could speak with them, and at once started cooking me a meal. It would be a disgrace, they said, for me to eat my own food in their village… The people complained greatly of Moslem persecution. The houses were full of rifles. ‘Vraka,’ said my host, ‘is made up of various families that had fled, because they owed blood, from Bosnia and Montenegro about two hundred years ago.’ They number now some one thousand souls… Were it not for the Moslems they could live very well, but not one of the Vraka men could now go into Scutari. They would be shot on the way. The women had to do all bazaar business. He added philosophically, ‘the Moslems have killed a great many of us, but, thanks to God, we have shot plenty of them.’” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Albania. Selca. A young Sworn Virgin surrounded by men of the Kelmendi tribe, at Selca in Kelmendi territory (Photo: Edith Durham, 17 May 1908).
“In Maltsia e madhe a girl who has sworn virginity – “an Albanian virgin” – can, if her father leave no son, inherit land and work it. At her death it goes to her father’s nearest male heir. These women as a rule wear male dress and may carry arms.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Albania. Rapsha. A 47-year-old Sworn Virgin from Rapsha in Hoti territory(Photo: Edith Durham, 16 May 1908).
“Here we found one of the Albanian virgins who wear male attire. While we halted to water the horses she came up – a lean, wiry, active woman of forty-seven, clad in very ragged garments, breeches and coat. She was highly amused at being photographed, and the men chaffed her about her “beauty.” Had dressed as a boy, she said, ever since she was quite a child because she had wanted to, and her father had let her. Of matrimony she was very derisive – all her sisters were married, but she had known better… She treated me with the contempt she appeared to think all petticoats deserved – turned her back on me, and exchanged cigarettes with the men, with whom she was hail-fellow-well-met.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Albania. Bzheta. Tribesmen visiting the feast of Saint Nicholas at Bzheta in Shkreli territory (Photo: Edith Durham, 10 May 1908)
The feast really fell on the Saturday. It was kept on Sunday because Saturday is a fast-day, and you cannot feast without roast mutton. Early Sunday morning the guests poured down the zig-zag in a living cataract on the one side, and flocked from the valleys on the other – from Hoti, from Kastrati and Boga, all in their best – men first, their women following. As each batch came in sight of the church they yelled for the priest; bang, bang went fifty rifles at once; swish-ish-ish flew the bullets; pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop replied the priest’s old six-shooter. Before midday the meeting-ground round the church was packed with magnificent specimens of humanity.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. Bzheta. Men of the Shkreli tribe at the feast of Saint Nicholas at Bzheta in Shkreli territory (Photo: Edith Durham, 10 May 1908)
“Etiquette demanded that the Skreli people, being the hosts, should not wear their best clothes, it is for the guests to do all the peacocking. And peacock they did. Many carried splendid silver-mounted weapons, and even though wearing revolvers, thrust great silver ramrods in their belts, for “swagger.” Snow-white headwraps dazzled in the sun – crimson and gold djemadans and jeleks, the short black ghurdi, and the splendidly decorative black braiding of the tight-fitting chakshir (trousers), and the heavy silver watch and pistol chains – set lavishly with the false rubies and turquoise loved of the mountain man – set off the lean supple figures to the greatest advantage.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. Old Said of the Nikaj tribe, inspecting his flint lock gun, a karajfile(Photo: Edith Durham, 1908)
“A week’s besa had been sworn for the festival, so that all blood foes could meet as friends. After church there was a rush for the rifles, stacked outside; a shooting competition began, accompanied by a general fusillade. And all were so gay and friendly it was hard to believe that they nearly all owed, or were owed, blood.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Albania. Crossing the Drin River between Berisha and Dushmani on an inflated sheepskin raft called a rrëshek (Photo: Edith Durham, 25 June 1908)
“Drin ran swift and yellow, and on the farther bank were the Padre of Berisha and a number of his men, who had long awaited us. For the accident had lost us an hour and a half. On our side the river were many Dushmani men, ready to ferry us over, stark nude, and bizarre in the extreme, for each had an inflated sheep-skin fastened on in front by loops round his arms and legs. A Berisha man, similarly adorned, crossed the river to us swiftly, lifted high out of the water by his float, and using his arms as oars. A great noise began, but as I was busy bathing Marko’s foot in the cold river, I paid no heed. Our men, meanwhile, were inflating six sheepskins, and lashing them to a hurdle with green withies. They inflate the skins by simply taking a long breath, and blowing hard into one corner. The big skin is taut in a few moments. I believe they could blow out a motor tyre. The horses were stripped and driven in by a Dushmani man, who plunged in with them. The current whirled them away down stream, to the terror of the kirijee, who cried that if a drop of water got into their ears they would at once sink and drown. They landed a long way down the other side. A terrible shouting was going on. The kirijee crossed first. He laid flat on his belly on the hurdle, with his legs tucked up, as it was short. The saddles were piled on his back to keep them dry. The Berisha man plunged in with him, grasping the hurdle and propelling it with powerful leg-strokes. It was the kirijee’s first trip of the sort, and he screamed aloud with fright, but was landed cleverly not much lower down. The Berisha man came back for me. I said farewell to the Franciscan, who laid me on the hurdle and shoved me off. I had strapped my camera on my back to keep it out of the water. Away we went – it was better than any watershoot – and landed just at the foot of the rock on which the Padre of Berisha stood. He hauled me up.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. Two men of the Plan tribe in the Pulat/Pult region who guided Edith Durhamfrom Plan to Xhan and then on to Theth in the northern Albanian mountains(Photo: Edith Durham, 27 May 1908).
Time was flying. I wanted to see all High Albania. It was time to move on. The kirijee then said he had a bad foot and was tired of the journey, so the Padre kindly lent me his own man to take me to Thethi. We had a second as escort. The way, said the Padre, was good, but after sitting my reeling, struggling beast for some ten minutes over large rocks, to shrieks of “Jesus, Maria, Joseph!” which were supposed to encourage it, I dismounted, and was in for another roasting tramp. The ever-rising track swung round the head of the valley, above the source of the Kiri, and over the Chafa Bashit (some 4000 feet), into Shala. Once up and over, all Shala lay before us and below us, a long, lorn wall of huge, jagged mountains, still snow-capped, with the Lumi Shalit flowing in the valley at their feet. I daresay you have never heard of Shala. I have looked towards Shala and the beyond for years – the wild heart of a wild land.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. Women of the Kastrati tribe (Photo: Edith Durham, May 1908).
Having finished our scrambled eggs and fried slices of sheep cheese, we set out again for Bratoshi in Kastrati Sypermi (Upper Kastrati) and soon entered Kastrati land. The track wound up a mountain-side of bare grey rocks. The horses, sorry beasts at best, were wearied out and the rest of the way had to be tramped. Down below lay, like a garden, the fertile plain of Lower Kastrati, and Scutari Lake blazed silver in the afternoon light. It was aksham, past – we had been thirteen hours on the way – when we finally came to the church of Bratoshi. The young Franciscan in charge made us very welcome, and his charming old mother bustled round to make ready supper.”(Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Albania. Vukël. Cross bearing an image of the deceased in the Catholic graveyard of Vukël in Kelmendi territory (Photo: Edith Durham, 18 May 1908).
Vukli was my destination. But the snow lay thick on the pass ’twixt it and Seltze, half-molten, unpassable for horses. We had to return down the valley to Ura Tamara, and ascend the valley of Tsem Vuklit–the track fair and the vale wide and grassy, a great loneliness upon it, for neither man nor beast had come up from the plains. Some primitive dwellings, made by walling up the front of caves in the cliff high above, caught my eye. At the head, the valley is wide and undulating. We rode straight to the little church and its house, which formed one building. Out came the most jovial of all Franciscans, Padre Giovanni, stout and white moustachioed, but bearing his seventy-five years lightly. An Italian by birth, one of the few foreigners left in the Albanian Church, he has spent forty years at Vukli – said he was now Albanian, was priest, doctor, and judge, and that in Vukli he meant to end his days.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Kosovo. Ren Vula, a Muslim boy from Gjakova (holding horse), and Edith Durham’s faithful guide, the moustached Mark Shantoja (Marko Shantoya), a Catholic from Shkodra; photo taken in Kosovo (Photo: Edith Durham, ca. 12 August 1908)
“Poor Marko would never admit to me that there were any Serbs in Prizren. “What is that man?”I would ask. “A native.” “What do you mean by a native?” “He was born here.” “Yes, but is he a Serb or Albanian?” “Lady, there are no Serbs here. This is an Albanian town.” Further pressed, he would admit: “Perhaps he belongs to that schismatic Church. I know nothing about his religion.” And this, though Serb costume and speech were unmistakable.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. A dugout lashed together to transport horses across the Drin river(Photo: Edith Durham, 1908)
“The trapa, two very rough dug-outs lashed together with withies, and propelled with the rudest wooden ladles, was under the lee of a rocky promontory; the stream was swift and strong. Stark naked men with inflated sheepskins bound before them, pranced about the shore, and played like kittens. One started with our two horses, creeping out to the tip of the promontory, and then whirling away down stream, striking out violently, yelling to the horses, steering and guiding them. They got over safely a long way down, and it was our turn next. I said good-bye to the Padre, nor could I thank him enough, for, as Marko truly said: “If we were the King of England he could not have done more for us.” The crazy contraption was half full of water. We piled ourselves and the saddles on the centre plank. Three men – one stark naked – guided the affair to the end of the promontory; there the current caught us, whirled us round like a straw, and spun us along, the water slopping over the gunwales. The men paddled madly; we sloped across the stream, and cannoned against a lot of boulders – two of the crew leapt out, hung on to a rope that was a long, dried trail of vine, swam in with it, hauled–the trapa swung round, grounded in a shallow, and we scrambled ashore.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Kosovo. Prizren. View of Prizren with the old covered bridge and fortress(Photo: Edith Durham, September 1908)
“We drove along the plain, on Drin’s right bank, passing on our left a Moslem village, Djurtha, and on our right another, Ragova, both with mosques. Fording Drin, we halted at midday at Han Krusha, a newly-built inn of mud bricks, whose Moslem owners were most civil. Then on over land that was fairly cultivated and looked fertile – maize, corn, and tobacco – and through Pirona, a large Moslem village, up over rising ground, and there lay Prizren in the valley below, with the ruins of an old castle and the white walls of modern barracks on the height beyond. Fortune was favouring me beyond my deserts. Prizren was another of my dream cities, and I beheld it with my waking eyes.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
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Albania. Hiking through Mirdita territory with female porters(Photo: Edith Durham, late September 1908?).
“Shortly after this we reached Mirdita territory. The fir woods around Vlas were a sad sight, hundreds of big trees had been felled and left to rot, with the mistaken idea that pasture would grow in their place. But denudation and desolation follows speedily, and the people do not learn by experience. I spoke vainly. They said it was the custom, and must be. Grass, it was true, had not grown in this spot. That was no reason why it should not in another. Then they would have flocks and be rich. We rode through more forests, when entering Mirdita, of huge fir trees, quite magnificent, and came out on a large plain with rude wooden huts – the summer quarters of the herd folk – dotted about. Out came the people, running to welcome us, bringing a wooden vessel full of buttermilk and a large sheep-cheese, which they insisted on our taking as a gift. ‘Thank God!’ cried Marko; ‘now we are in a Christian land!’” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
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Montenegro. Njeguši. Edith Durham’s guide Krsto Pejović playing a gusle (Alb. lahuta) at Njeguši in Montenegro (Photo: Edith Durham, March 1905)
“Njegushi cannot fail to make a most vivid impression on the mind, for it is the entrance to a world that is new and strange. The little stone-paved room of the inn, hung with portraits of the Prince and the Tsar and Tsaritsa of Russia; the row of loaded revolvers in the bar; the blind minstrel who squats by the door and sings his long monotonous chant while he scrapes upon his one-stringed gusle; and the tall, dignified men in their picturesque garb, all belong to an unknown existence, and the world we have always known is left far below at the foot of the mountain. In Njegushi one feels that one has come a long way from England. It is, in fact, easy to travel much farther without being so far off. Yet the Montenegrin love of liberty and fair play and the Montenegrin sense of honour have made me feel more at home in this far corner of Europe than in any other foreign land.” (Edith Durham, Through the Lands of the Serb, 1904)
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Montenegro. Durmitor. Montenegrin falcon dance; the photo was probably taken in Durmitor in the mountains of northern Montenegro (Photo: Edith Durham, March 1905)
“The Montenegrins have a dance which seems to be unknown in Serbia. A pair or two pair of dancers stand opposite each other and dance at each other, retiring, advancing and performing various steps and finally leaping as high as possible into the air, flapping their arms and uttering wild yells. The leaping, flapping, yelling dancer is said to represent a falcon or eagle. When danced at night by a big bonfire it is extraordinarily picturesque. I once saw this danced by a North Albanian tribesman, and was told it was Albanian. But the Albanian tribesmen very rarely dance, whereas the Montenegrins seldom lost a chance of doing so.” (Edith Durham, A Bird Tradition in the West of the Balkan Peninsula, 1923)
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Montenegro. Andrijevica. The market in the town of Andrijevica in eastern Montenegro (Photo: Edith Durham, 30 June 1903)
Sunday was Kosovo Day and Monday was market day. A crowd of strange beings flocked in from Gusinje, wild mountain Albanians, with heads swathed in white cloths and restless, watchful eyes. But the bringing of the weapons to market has been lately forbidden, and they had nothing more lethal upon them than well-filled cartridge belts, with which even the little boys were equipped. Our interest in one another was mutual, and I spent most of the morning in the market and downby the river, where they were selling and slaughtering sheep and goats, and the purple puddles were so suitable to the scene that they ceased to be revolting.” (Edith Durham, Through the Lands of the Serb, 1904)
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Montenegro. Durmitor. The old Montenegrin warrior Mitar Ćorović, aged 80, who had been a battalion commander in the Herzegovina war of 1875-1878; this photo was taken in Durmitor in the mountains of northern Montenegro (Photo: Edith Durham, March 1905).
“At Zhabljak, Durmitor, I spent two amusing days seeing the distribution of arms. Men flocked in from all parts, were delighted with their new toys, and Russia leapt up in every one’s estimation. No ammunition was served out for, as an officer remarked, ‘It would all be wasted.’ They conversed on blood and battle and clicked their new revolvers. ‘How we should like to go over and try them on the Turks,’ they said. ‘But we dare not cross the border because of the Powers.’”(Edith Durham, Twenty Years of Balkan Tangle, 1920)
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Montenegro. Ulqin/Ulcinj. The Sailors’ Mosque in the harbour of Ulqin/Ulcinj, now in Montenegro. It was built in the 14th century and demolished by Serbian forces in 1931.The mosque was rebuilt in 2012 on the very same site, now amidst the tourists and traffic(Photo: Edith Durham, January 1907)
“The bay, with the old town on the promontory and its Venetian walls, is very beautiful. The town stretches down the valley and round the bay, and several mosque minarets tell of the Turk. The Mohammedan women here wear an odd and hideous great hooded cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff bound with red. In this they slink about like bogies, and the Moslems, both men and women, have a furtive and rather ashamed appearance, very different from their swagger in Skodra. In the old town, pieces of carving built into walls and well-hewn stones are all that is left of the Venetian occupation.” (Edith Durham, Through the Lands of the Serb, 1904)
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Montenegro. Cetinje. An Albanian walking in the streets of Cetinje(Photo: Edith Durham, s.d.)
“Twenty years ago Cetinje was a collection of thatched hovels. Today, modest as they are, the houses are all solidly built and roofed with tiles. Few more than one storey high, many consisting only of a ground floor, all of them devoid of any attempt at architecture; not a moulding, a cornice, or a porch breaks the general baldness: they are more like a row of toy houses all out of the same box than anything else… Cetinje is poor, but dignified and self-respecting. A French or Italian village of the same size clatters, shouts, and screams. Cetinje is never in a hurry, and seldom excited. It contains few important buildings. The only ones of any historic interest are the monastery, the little tower on the hill above it; where were formerly stuck the heads of slain Turks, and the old Palace called the Biljardo from the fact that it contained Montenegro’s first billiard-table.” (Edith Durham, Through the Lands of the Serb, 1904).
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“The birth of a daughter is still considered a misfortune. Yet I was assured everywhere that there were more men than women in the land, and young marriageable widows when for sale are snapped up at once, often fetching more than maidens.” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909).
“Shortly after this we reached Mirdita territory. The fir woods around Vlas were a sad sight, hundreds of big trees had been felled and left to rot, with the mistaken idea that pasture would grow in their place. But denudation and desolation follows speedily, and the people do not learn by experience. I spoke vainly. They said it was the custom, and must be. Grass, it was true, had not grown in this spot. That was no reason why it should not in another. Then they would have flocks and be rich. We rode through more forests, when entering Mirdita, of huge fir trees, quite magnificent, and came out on a large plain with rude wooden huts – the summer quarters of the herd folk – dotted about. Out came the people, running to welcome us, bringing a wooden vessel full of buttermilk and a large sheep-cheese, which they insisted on our taking as a gift. ‘Thank God!’ cried Marko; ‘now we are in a Christian land!’” (Edith Durham, High Albania, 1909)
