Between Exhaustion and Cure — Part II
Speculative Fabulations: Thessaloniki — Tirana
by wit[h]nessing
Thessaloniki: Cyborg Traveller
When midnight falls, vision blurs. Lights outside the bus dim, casting long shadows and soft halos. The map on the phone mirrors the movement I’m experiencing. I transfer virtual images, names, and locations from the app to the blurred scenario seen from the bus window. My eye twitches.
The bus hums softly as it crosses the night. My cyborg eyes, with their infrared low-light enhancements, adjust automatically to the dimming surroundings, capturing every fleeting shadow and light. My augmented limbs, seamlessly integrated into my organic form, buzz faintly—a reminder of my dual existence. My body, naturally and habitually, as it has learned, attaches itself to a specific location in the universe. On planet Earth, in a territory called Greece, near a city which name I don’t know. It contemplates this peculiar alignment: the self that tries to be anchored to actual spots, and the self that roams across maps and coordinates, tethered yet unbound. There’s no stable offer behind any self. The bus, a mobile vessel, propels it through the night, connecting points in different geographies that flicker briefly into consciousness before fading into the dark. Closing my eyes. All turn black with flashes and sparkles of red, blue, and yellow. The palms are sweating and cold.
A sudden jolt awakens me. My optical sensors adjust to the influx of sunlight piercing through the bus window, the warmth detectable even through my synthetic skin. I detest mediators between the sun and myself. Turns out we are in Thessaloniki, as expressed by the driver, his voice steady despite the long hours. An intimate connection forms between us on the empty bus. I muster the courage. Take my backpack and initiate conversation.
– “Beautiful morning in Thessaloniki, I wish I could stay longer.”
– “What brings you here?”
– “Work, nothing special. Are you from here?”
– “Yes, and you?”
– “Me, I’m from Georgia, a small town near the capital.”
– “Ah, my mother was from Sokhumi…”
And I think, what are the chances of hearing the name of such a disputed region, a partially recognised state of Georgia? He continues, describing how Greeks from Georgia returned to Greece post-independence, and how he knows some Georgians living here. I’m not ready for this discussion.
– “How’s life in Greece now?” I ask instead.
– “To be honest, my friend, Greece is dying. They found natural resources underground and it became a colony for the US, Great Britain, and Germany. They’re taking all the money, we cannot benefit from it in any way. You might look around and think, ah, all these sunny beaches but it’s all a farce. Our government doesn’t care about Greek people, or about our beautiful nature.”
I want to invite him for a morning coffee but then something stops me, as it usually happens when you are not sure where the maximum limit is between yourself and the other. I mumble a few words about the type of chaos in my country also residing—being all by itself, vulnerable, and alone.
We wish each other luck, and I step out into the city, seamlessly blending with the organic and urban world.
Tirana: The Unexpected
Crossing the border from Greece into Albania, a subtle shift in the landscape signals an entry into a world less tamed. The rolling hills and sparse trees speak of a place still holding onto its wildness. Near the border, a café named “Relax” sits absurdly, a fragment of capitalist comfort amidst the ruggedness. It offers a brief respite to weary travellers, an invitation to pause and savour a moment of calm. A biker, alongside his partner, stands next to his motorcycle in front of a café. A dog laps water from a puddle on the asphalt road. The simplicity of these acts contrasts with the complexity of life’s unadorned needs. This is how, sometimes, the journey beyond the confines begins— encountering distinct names, signs, coordinates, images, and sounds. Paying attention to hidden conditions may bring more than just known routes, borders, and solutions—more than just predictable outcomes. May it bring words we don’t know yet and spaces we have not yet inhabited.
Continuing another hundred kilometres, we arrive in Tirana, where an unexpected bustle greets us. Each member of our group, exuding an air of calculated awareness, seamlessly blends into the crowd. We exchange subtle nods and gestures choreographed with practised precision. Despite the outward appearance, the sense of purpose sets us apart from the casual tourists. As we navigate through the vibrant chaos of the city, our senses remain keenly attuned to the subtlest of details, alert to any signs of potential danger and opportunity.
The city’s pulse beats vigorously, its streets thrumming with the rhythm of daily life. Traces of history are etched into the urban fabric, deep and sharp reminders of a past that has been anything but gentle. The architecture narrates a story of resilience and reinvention, with layers from various eras distinctly visible. Buildings stand in stark contrast against each other, where modern structures mingle with remnants of a bygone age, as if architects have all convened here to leave their mark.
Digital surveillance cameras are ubiquitous. Yet, ironically, digital payments are scarce. A bus conductor operates with practised ease, distributing vintage-looking tickets, handling cash transactions and printing tickets on the spot. This quaintness is unexpectedly attractive—a ritual that binds the present to the past, refusing to let you forget the human element within mechanised transactions.
Navigating through the neighbourhood lined with various foreign governmental buildings, including the Palestinian Embassy nestled between the German and British ones, we find the path to our accommodation obstructed. The pathways that Google Maps indicated are inaccurate, presenting boundaries we cannot cross. The empty house provides a curious detail: a camera monitor in each bedroom. The window to the outside world is oddly reassuring, a silent guardian watching over the quiet street.
As we settle in, the room’s sparse furnishings suggest an utilitarian approach to comfort. The beds, though simple, are meticulously made, with crisp sheets that hint at the careful attention to detail by our unseen hosts. A small wooden desk in the corner holds a stack of outdated local newspapers and a lone lamp, its dim light casting long, curvy shadows that dance across the walls.
Our mission, though unspoken, is ever-present. As night falls, we prepare for the tasks ahead, knowing that each moment of rest is a prelude to what tomorrow will bring.
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