‘The police wave us off like old friends’: cross-border kayaking from Montenegro to Albania

10.08.2023 - 20:27 / theguardian.com

“Hello, over there in Albania!”, my kayaking guide Gigo shouts across the water as he paddles along effortlessly. He doesn’t really need to shout, because although we’re in Montenegro, we’re only a few metres away from the Albanians. We’re on the Buna (Bunë) River, a 40km stretch of water which divides the countries and is so tranquil that every sound is amplified, from the dip of our paddles to the rousing tones of the Muslim call to prayer.

I’m on a six-day kayaking adventure, following a 70km route that crisscrosses the border. Starting in Lake Skadar (Liqeni i Shkodrës), which spans both countries and is the largest lake on the Balkan peninsula, at about 400sq km, our aquatic odyssey traces the Montenegrin side of the lake, crosses to its Albanian shores and then follows the Buna all the way to the Adriatic. With a mix of wild camping, homestays and waterfront cabins, it’s the kick out of my urban cocoon that I have long craved.

Our expedition starts in Murići (Muriq), a small lakeside fishing village where Montenegrin Gigo briefs us on technique and safety. Albania’s snow-covered Accursed mountains, perfectly reflected in the water, vie for our attention. Some paddling experience is essential for this trip – I’m not a total novice but am definitely rusty; after a quick lesson, though, I feel my confidence grow, despite being the oldest in the group (my fellow kayakers are a Montenegrin woman in her 20s and two British people in their 40s).

We start gently, soon stopping off at Beška island, where the only residents are 16 Serbian Orthodox nuns in a 15th-century monastery. It’s quite surreal to have reached an island that feels like a different world so quickly. After a tour and some homemade pomegranate juice, we paddle off along the karst limestone shoreline, passing another island monastery, this one home to monks. Over the next two days we stay in Montenegrin waters, kayaking between four and five hours a day, with regular breaks.

Plans to camp at Bobovište (Boboshti) on the shores of the lake that night are scrapped as the wind picks up. Known locally as bura, this dry, cold wind is something you don’t mess with on Lake Skadar, by all accounts. We head instead to our homestay in Ckla (Skje) a day early and watch the water go from mirror to maelstrom from the safety of our wooden house.

The next day we retrace our steps in the support minivan and kayak the section we’d missed. While the wind whips up a few white horses, it’s not enough for us to be unsafe. It sparks my own emotional maelstrom, however, as I wonder if my age is holding me and the rest of the group back. Gigo offers gentle encouragement. “This is not a race,” he says. “We are all on our own journey and taking it slowly is the