Telegraphing in Albania was far quicker than in any other land. Which is a fact. All news is shouted from hill to hill. “Shouting” gives no idea of it. The voice, pitched in a peculiar artificial note, is hurled across the valley with extraordinary force. Any one that catches the message acts as receiver and hurls it on to its address. And within an hour an answer may be received from a place twelve hours’ tramp distant. The physical effort of the shout is great. The brows are corrugated into an expression of agony, both hands often pressed tight against the ears – perhaps an instinctive counterpressure to the force with which the air is expelled from within – the body is thrust forward and swayed, face and neck turn crimson, the veins of the neck swell up into cords. There are few places where it is harder to keep an event secret than in the mountains of Albania. News spreads like wildfire. The fact that a man has been shot upcountry reaches Scutari next day at latest, often with many details.
“Theft is impossible in Kilmeni,” said the Padre, laughing; “the whole tribe hears the description of an article as soon as it is missed. Every one knows if some one has a few more sheep than yesterday.”
Daily Archives: 13 June 2017