Foreword

I want to say a massive thankyou to my girlfriend Lucia. Without her I would have been alone and terrified, and this story would probably have gone quite differently. You’d think there’s not much she can do from San Francisco.

Part I: Lies and Intimidation

Monday 18th September

A productive start to a new week! It’s 4am, and I’m writing from jail in Tirana, Albania. Well, I’m smoking with the warden in his office. That privilege cost me nine euro. Potable water included.

Live music roars from the stage, thirty metres south. The crowd sings and hollers, beer stalls busy. I’m at an open-air concert in the heart of the city, lounging as comfortably as one can on a plastic couch; journaling, taking photos, enjoying the vibrant atmosphere. I’m enjoying this different perspective on the city. I find myself marvelling at the seamless organization, the fantastic music, the joy one night can bring. I contemplate the skyscrapers under construction; an optimism for this challenged city.

“Policia.”

I turn around back to face him. “Excuse me?”

A muscular plain-clothed man looks back at me. He holds his badge forth. “I am the Policia. How is your night?”

It’s hard to hear over the music, and we are raising our voices. “Fine. Isn’t it a lovely night. Is there a problem?”

He raises one leg onto the plastic bench and leans in towards me. Behind him, the darkness of the lowly-lit stairs leading to the Opera House. Glancing around, I notice another man approaching from behind, barriering a carefree world behind us.

“What’s in your bag?”

“Sorry, have I done something wrong?” I argue. “Do I have to consent? What are my rights? What the fuck is this?”

I think back to a recent acquaintance I made. I rode five hours with a Dutch man, a diplomat in Belgrade, for the Delegation of the European Union to Serbia. He is on diplomatic mission is to help the West Balkans one day join the EU, by improving the rule of law in the West Balkans. It’s no secret Albania faces challenges with corruption, a deep-rooted systemic issue affecting politics, the judiciary, public services, healthcare, education, business. In terms of law enforcement; bribery, extortion, abuse of power. In my mind, this hulking policeman is the embodiment. His intimidation works.

I begrudgingly remove items from my backpack, condescendengly explaining each item. I do not want them to touch my shit. What’s in my bag? Well, fuck. With me I have all my useful junk, everything of value. All day I’ve been writing emails, applying for jobs, chatting with friends and family. The city seems a right place for it. I have my phone, my cables, my passport. Brand new earbuds. My wallet, about 30,000 LEK (300€) in cash. My togs - you never know when you’re going to need them, even in the middle of the city. A tote bag, inspected. An empty water bottle, sniffed. Half a can of Pringles, poured to the floor. On reflection, the most valuable item in there was my journal.

A small snus container, the culprit. I’ve been using it to quit smoking. A snus pouch is a small, teabag-like sachet that contains tobacco product, a white powder. Swedish stuff. 100% legal. A snus container has two compartments: the bottom compartment holds the snus itself, and the top compartment is for discarding used pouches. This is what it looks like.


Editor’s note: Image coming one day. For now you can see an example product here: Wikipedia: Nicotine pouch


He picks it out of my backpack’s front pocket. Despite all those muscles, he simply couldn’t get it open. Pulling and twisting, not a budge. Begrudgingly I take it from his hands and pop the top flap open, revealing three used snus pouches. “This is snus,” I explain. “Nicotine. What else do you want?”

Muscleman inspects it closely. “This is cocaine?”

“NICOTINE. LEGAL.” I scowl.

“Where did you buy this from?”

I look at him blankly, confused by the line of questioning. “Is this man stupid?” I wonder. The second officer takes my passport off me. Soon three more officers join the scene, also working in the field. They pass around the snus container. “Cocaine” “cocaine” “cocaine”, I understand. What are we, parrots? They pick at a pouch, and the nicotine powder spills out.

With a deep sigh, I clarify. “This is a nicotine pouch. It is a no-smoke tobacco product. You can buy this here in Albania at any tobacco store. You place it under your lip, and it releases nicotine. It smells like mint because it has a mint flavouring. You can see it here on the packaging.”

I reach for my phone and show them pictures of the product. A quick Google translate later, I present a web page in Albanian, explaining the product its legal status.

“We have to take it to the lab to test it for cocaine.” says Muscleman.

As if he’d just remembered something, the offending officer closes the snus container and starts to pry open the bottom compartment again. Pop. There’s the marijuana, a few flakes, half a gram. Jackpot.

They’re pestering me a bunch of questions about the weed, about the cocaine. “What is this? Where did you buy it from? Who sold it to you?” Now I don’t talk any more, I’m shitting myself. My internal monologue is blowing up. “How the fuck did you get yourself in this situation? Were you doing something wrong? Why did you let them search you? You didn’t – he just took it from your bag! Is that legal? Is any of this legal? Fuck, I don’t even know if snus is legal here! Why did you bring the weed? You don’t even smoke!”


Editor’s note: I don’t even smoke. Long story, I’d carried it since Croatia and pretty much forgot about it. I intended to gift it to someone during my travels.


A police car is coming to take me to the station. This is going to be a problem.

“What, am I supposed to bribe these guys? How much do I bribe them? Twenty euro? Offensive. Fifty euro? Two-hundred? Fuck, that’s a lot of money. Shit, I might have told them I’m in Tirana to see the dentist. I’m dressed way too nicely. I’m probably the best-dressed person in Tirana right now. They think you have money. This is going to turn into an extortion case, isn’t it? At least it’s not the mafia, right? Why did you decide to wear your only shirt today? Why did you come here with all your valuables? You’ve been working on your laptop all day, right. And you were just on the phone with your girlfriend Lucia. Lucia? Lucia!”

Lucia and my sister Jade both receive a flurry of cryptic messages at 11.45pm. Lucie jumps on the phone. They let me talk for twenty-six seconds, before kicking me off. I fight for my right to “talk to my lawyer” and call her back. We get a few minutes where I can explain the situation, in all uncertain terms. I have no idea what’s going to happen when they take me to the station. “We will just fill the paperwork, twenty minutes and then you can go.” Really? I thought it’d take longer than that to harvest my organs. How can I feel comfortable putting my life in the hands of people who are actively lying, knowingly misaccusing me in a country where the Police are nicknamed the Mafia? They kick me off the phone, and Lucie calls right back. We steal another minute.

Two new officers arrive on the scene, cuff me and lead me to the police car. We drive a few minutes to the station in relative silence. They uncuff me and sit me at a desk the middle of a long, off-white concrete painted hallway without a single painting or decoration. Around me lie a handful of doors; in front of me, a door with a bar grill window. To my right, a new officer sits down in front of a stack of paperwork. I’ll call him Mr Illiterate, given how slowly he writes. The man who cuffed me, he can be Officer 13565, as displayed boldly on his uniform. 13565 wouldn’t tell me his name. He stands in front of me. His partner moseys around, and mingles with the new cops that have come out to greet us. Muscleman joins the party shortly later. Three or four other cops float around, I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Apparently they’re working.

I call Lucie for the last time at 12.02am. Lucia advises we had about two minutes of actual conversation, a frantic exchange where I briefly explained the situation. She describes the atmosphere as tense and chaotic. She talks to one of the officers, who maintains his aggressive demeanour. “This is Police station number 3!” “We are going to send it to the lab to test it for cocaine!” “He has marijuana, he is going to go to jail!” I have advised Lucie to get in contact with Jade and Dom, and together they will figure out what to do. She might need to get me a lawyer. For the remainder of the call they took away the phone, but the call kept running. Eventually they hung it up. That would be the last time I talked to anyone on the outside.

There is a camera in one corner of the hallway, the type with a swivel head. I ask why it never moves. Mr Illiterate assures me it’s on. Bullshit, where’s the red light? It’s not on, is it? I put my empty water bottle on the table and ask for some water. “It’s not possible to drink the water here,” they tell me.

Mr Illiterate has been slowly filling out the police report. He never even took a picture of my passport. He takes a break and offers me a cigarette. He asks me the odd question. I refuse to tell him my father’s name. By now, I’m thinking, we all know the snus is legal. You can literally see what its made of on the back of the fucking container. I realize they only care about the marijuana, and are using “cocaine” as a scare tactic. My phone is going nuts on the table, notifications on, ringing. A friend calls. Another friend calls. Lucie calls repeatedly. They won’t let me answer.

They ask to search my bag again. I start pulling items out on the desk, dictating for them. “This is my shorts. This is my headband. This is a box for headphones. Here’s the receipt, too. You want to see? I went shopping today! And here’s my shopping bag.” I pull out everything down to the bottlecap, the shell, the tissue paper. I pull out more and more tissue paper. “Because,” I explain, “you never know when there’s going to be toilet paper in Tirana. I bet you don’t have any here. Wonder how you lot wipe? Smells like shit in here.” I’d later find out they don’t have any toilet paper; they piss and shit in a plastic hole in the ground. Muscleman suspiciously picks at a large clump of tissue paper. I eagerly spread tissue all across the desk for his colleagues to see, there is no drugs hidden in my toilet paper.

After half an hour, someone hands me a 300mL bottle of water from the mart next door. It’s too hot in here. I down it in one go. “How much costs another one?” But the mini-mart is now closed.

13565 me tries more questions. “Where did you get it from?”

I play with it. “What do you mean? I told you already, this is legal nicotine. You can buy this in the tobacco store.” I turn to Muscleman. “You must be the only policeman in the world stupid enough to think this is cocaine. By the way, what do you mean you’re sending that off to the lab? You don’t have a lab here. You don’t even have running water in this building!”

“Yes, we are sending it to the lab to be tested!” Muscleman assures me.

13565 tries again. “Where did you buy the marijuana?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why won’t you tell, what is your father’s name?” he asks.

“I know it doesn’t matter, it’s just for your report. But I don’t feel like telling you until you give me back my phone.”

I start to pack my things away again. I have expressed that I am uncomfortable with them touching my stuff, because I think they are going to steal from me. Any excuse to kick a fuss. I leave the tissues strewn across the table. I leave my wallet wide open, this time with quite a bit more money in it. I leave my old headphones too, next to the brand-new box and receipt. I ask to use the toilet.

I come back an it’s untouched. By now I’m convinced they want more. They’re going to take my organs. At some point, they tell me I must go into the jail cell. I simply refuse. Eventually Mr Illiterate finishes his paperwork, and 13565 has no further questions. 13565 and his partner drive me to another building, the headquarters “…to see your lawyer and police officer. It will take one hour.” Bullshit.

We walk up the stairs towards a large uniformed man. Without thinking I call at him, “Hey, this is bullshit, these guys are arresting me for literally nothing, they won’t let me speak to my lawyer, they won’t let me speak to to my girlfriend!” Of course, the jail warden doesn’t speak English. They close the bars on us and hand over a copy of the police report. They converse in Albanian. I consistently interject, and remind them again – I need to use a phone, I need to call my lawyer, I need to call my embassy, I need to call my girlfriend; she is worried that you are the mafia. They keep my phone.

13565’s partner beckons, and I stick my hands through the bars. The others give him shit as he struggles, a half-minute to undo my shackles. Normally I can’t understand Albanian, but this time I understood word-for-word. “What the fuck are doing, bro?” “I can’t, it’s stuck!” “Just unlock it?”

The jail warden props me against the wall, four officers watching, and starts patting me down. What the fuck are you looking for? Here, you want my glasses?

The warden then searches my bag, the contents of which by now have been completely jumbled up. He rummages around, and produces a large item. For the second time in my life I understand Albanian. “What the fuck, there’s a laptop in here!? How did you miss the biggest god-damn thing in his backpack?” He yells at the embarrassed officers behind the bars, and I make sure to wink back. They double-check inside my laptop case to make sure I’m not hiding drugs in the keyboard, and hold on to my laptop.

Part II: Jail

The warden takes my backpack to his office, and shows me to my cell. Same as the last station – this time I’m guided through the door with the bar grill window. Inside sit a couple other fellas, young local men. They smile. “So what’d they get you for?” We exchange stories. “Yeah, these guys are the mafia. They just do what they want”. Viktor was picked up outside his apartment building, carrying a little bit of weed. The other, Florian – I forget his story – but he was the same, a little bit of weed. He’s a lawyer. “They’re not going to take your stuff, they are too scared. You won’t have any problems; they can’t do anything about a little bit of weed. They will let you go,” he advises.

By now I know everything is going to be fine, but there’s still one small problem. I can’t relax because my girlfriend thinks I’ve might’ve been kidnapped by fucking Mafia. Not out of guilt, but concern - I realize, I’m going to be in here for a while. While I’m safe in the cell, she’ll be outside worried dead. Until the moment I give word, she’s going to be working my case; reading and calling and trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

The warden pops his head in and speaks to me, Florian acting translator. He can’t read my name on the papers! I start to spell, but the warden gives up and calls us into his office. The desk has two large ledgers on it. A sink lies in one corner of the room. I sit facing Florian, in front of the ledger, the warden to the side. Florian picks up a pen. “K-A-R-U-I”, I spell. “B-O-C-K-M-A-N.” The warden offers us a cigarette. Date of birth, slightly wrong. Father’s name, slightly wronger. Under instruction from Mr Illiterate Senior, Florian fills the rest of the ledger. We ash into a plastic cup with a little bit of water.

Florian explains to the warden, I need to call my embassy, I need to call my lawyer, I need to call my girlfriend; she is worried that I am kidnapped by the mafia; I have not told her everything will be fine. No phone here. I point at a half-empty water bottle on the table, and the warden nods. I down it in one go, and move toward the sink. The warden speaks up – you can’t drink the water here either. I ask for my notebook, and he agrees.

We’re ushered back to the cell, a place with nothing but time and good company. I take notes. Prior to the collapse of the communist regime in the 1990’s the police were unwaveringly loyal to the regime. They were instrumental in enforcing the regime and maintaining control, with no transparency, accountability, or oversight. They were tasked with repressing political dissent and opposition,[problem, not tasked with this] harassing and imprisoning at will. They perpetuated a culture of fear and repression. Bribery, off-the-books payments, nepotism, and embezzlement were commonplace, tools for expediting bureaucratic processes, to gain access to services, to avoid legal consequences. Corruption was seen as an expected, even necessary way to navigate the bureaucratic systems.

Following the social and political collapse of the communist regime in the 1990’s, the country experienced a period of significant social and political upheaval, creating an environment conducive to the growth of organized crime. Notable activities included drug cultivation and trafficking, particularly cannabis, as well as human trafficking, smuggling, and theft. Corruption, collusion and infiltration between members of law enforcement and organized crime groups facilitated criminal activities, protecting criminal networks, and further eroding public trust in the police.

The warden peers his head in, and Viktor is taken away to be processed.

With international support, the Albanian government, recognizing the severity of the problem, initiated efforts to combat corruption within law enforcement agencies. This included measures to strengthen internal oversight, improve training and professionalism, and implement anti-corruption reforms. Today, Albania is undergoing major judicial reform aimed at overhauling the judicial system, addressing issues such as corruption, political interference, and inefficiency. In the police force, Albania is now vetting and screening police officers, providing anti-corruption training and implementing transparency and accountability mechanisms. They have made significant progress, and the mafia no longer run rampant on the streets. However, these challenges have been deeply rooted, and clearly these problems still exist. The same corruption still exists, but now you just can’t see it.

We become quiet, as commotion stirs outside. The warden peers his head in, and holds two fingers to pursed lips. We join him in his office for a cigarette. Florian tells me a large group of illegal immigrants have arrived; they now occupy the holding cell. We finish our discussion about corruption, with the warden explaining that he does not take bribes. The warden offers for us to stay, so as not to share a room together with the immigrants.

Around 3am, Florian is taken away by another officer. I ask this officer if I can make call; no luck. I’m advised I must wait for a “Licensed Translator” to arrive before I can be processed. I open my wallet, and the warden allows me to stay in his office and write, passing the time together over cigarettes and water. By the end, it cost me nine euro for the privilege.

Part III: A big ol’ waste of everybody’s time

The morning glow peeks through jail cell’s the crusty barred window. A couple hours’ sleep on the half-broken chairs did its job, I can’t sleep any longer. The metaphorical clock passes. I say hello to the new warden. He doesn’t speak English either.

Eventually I am taken to be processed. I collect my bag from the warden. They lead me to an office, not more than ten metres from the holding cell. “New Zealand”, I understand, and the man inside shakes his head and points to his side. They lead me to the next office. Three men sit at their desks, a small room. A young man beckons me to sit down beside him.

I’m all smiles. I have been preparing for this moment. “Hi, how are you?”

“I am good, and you?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Officer Kola. Narcotics department.” Kola? Is that a nickname?

“What time is it?”

“9:45.”

“Where is my lawyer?”

“He is coming. Here in a few minutes.” Sure, bro. “Passport.”

I notice my phone on his desk, right in front of me. “I need to make a phone call.”

“You cannot use your phone here. You will be out of here soon.”

“I need to charge my phone,” I scowl.

I produce a cable, and fumble around with my phone. Miraculously, it’s still on. I hurriedly message Lucie; “I’m ok. Not done yet. Going to meet Lawyer soon. They found 1g weed, that’s the main issue. I think I shouldn’t even get a fine. Talk to you soon. Story coming.”

I skim my messages from Lucie. “You’ll be fine, they’ll probably let you go in the morning. In contact with the New Zealand Embassy in Rome. The Embassy will contact you. Here’s a list of lawyers in Tirana.”

“Enough,” barks Kola. “You cannot use your phone here.”

I message Jade, “ASK LUCIE”. He moves to shoo me off and I leave it to charge. For the first time, I truly feel relaxed. I hand Kola my passport, and he starts tapping at the keyboard. For a few minutes there is silence between us. He offers me a cigarette.

I study my surroundings. Inside this room lies three messy desks, a few computers, a dusty bookshelf. A large printer sits on a small table in the middle of the room. A small painting hangs on one wall, slightly crooked. Alongside stacks of papers, I see my laptop, snus container, and two plastic evidence bags on his desk. An officer nudges me, the leg of my wooden chair pinching an evidence bag on the floor, and I’d notice the jumbled stack of evidence behind me. A piss in a cup. In one corner, a man sits at his computer, same age as I am.

“What is in this bag?”

“What do you think this is? Haven’t these idiots taken it to the lab yet? Why are you asking me?”

His face remains still. “Anyone can find out what this is with a quick Google search. There is no need to send it to the lab.” He puts down the snus and lifts the other bag. “And what is this?”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about. I need a, ✌Licensed Translator✌.”

“We do not need a translator, we can –”

“Oh,” I interject, raising my voice. I’ve never grinned harder. The sarcasm is dripping out of my mouth. “There’s no Licensed Translator? You mean to tell me I have been waiting in this jail cell for ten hours, waiting for a ✌Licensed Translator ✌to arrive, yet we do not need one? Problem is, I don’t understand you!”

There are other officers loitering around in the background, at the other desk, inside the room, outside the room. “I am not your enemy,” he says. “I have to follow the procedure. We are not going to charge you with anything. If you tell me it is for personal consumption, you can leave.”

“I have to follow the procedure too. Tell me, where is my lawyer?” I say angrily, cracking another wide smile.

“He will be here in two minutes.”

I keep quiet. Kola’ asks some more questions, innocent ones too. “How long have you been here?” “What are you doing here in Tirana?” “What is your father’s name?” I start to feel sorry for Kola. He is just doing his job, but his colleagues brought me here. Each time I throw him more shit.

Kola relaxes from his keyboard, and the printer starts to buzzing. Bzzz… “Yeah, I’d love a coffee thanks.” …Bzzz… I pass him his machine-made espresso and take a sip of my own. …Bzzz. The printer eventually stops, and I hand them to him. Eighteen pages. These are for me!?

Like many of the people I have seen here, Kola wears plain clothes – black t-shirt, black pants, black shoes. In stark contrast, I am wearing an off-white linen shirt, my favourite pink shorts. If not best-dressed in Tirana, certainly in this police station. That is, until my lawyer arrives.

Petrin walks in, and Kola hands him the eighteen pages. They obviously already know eachother. Petrin and I take some time alone. He explains to me that this is a very simple case, and they’re going to let me go. In terms of marijuana, Albania has some of the harshest penalties in Europe. New reforms around legalization of medicinal cannabis passed just months ago, and there are now proposals for total legalization. Police still firmly treat marijuana strictly, though there are no penalties for possession of less than three grams as long as it is for personal consumption. The system has a big problem: they must follow the same procedure, whether it’s one gram or one hundred kilos.

We start to go through the papers together. He translates sentence by sentence. The first two paragraphs consist of explanatory information gleamed from my passport, some references to laws.. Then it describes how I was arrested – in possession of suspected cannabis, in possession of suspected nicotine. Nicotine?

I take Petrin through one part of the story – the accusation of cocaine. He suggests I can ask to have it altered if I want, but that, though it would not really matter, from a legal perspective, altering the page to suggest I might have had cocaine could only be a bad thing.

I take Petrin through the rest; the approach, the accusation of cocaine, the first officer who rubs his thumb against his two fingers. I discuss the denial of water (to someone who is, in their view, probably on drugs), the denial of contact, holding me for far longer than necessary. He explains that there is no process here by which I can add this information. He suggests I can always send a formal complaint later, otherwise I would have to sue.

We go through the rest of the pages. On each page, the first two paragraphs are repeated. Then there is a little section about the formal procedure that has or will be followed, and my acceptance of it.

… The suspected nicotine has been bagged in an evidence bag, in accordance with some standard… Fine, I’ll sign.

… The suspected marijuana has been weighed. It weighs 0.7 grams, excluding our plastic evidence bag… Fine, I’ll sign.

… You have the right to remain silent… Excuse me, I have rights? Nobody has told you your rights?… Fuck this, I’ll sign.

Kola comes back and I talk freely. I briefly run him through the same story I’ve told Petrin, and advise him I will be submitting a formal complaint for unethical, probably illegal conduct leading up to my arrest and detention. For the first time, I see him crack a little smile. He offers me another cigarette as we chat about the absurdity of the situation, of the system. “Just change fucking procedure then. All you have to do is change a few words - three grams walks without question. Or change your internal police policy! Make it a 50 euro fine or something, at least justify all this wasted time! Or better yet, why don’t you just tell your field brutes not to waste their time with people who are carrying less than three grams?”

The police officers who arrested me knew I was going to walk away with no charges. Muscleman, 13565, Mr Illiterate, and all the other officers involved in my case. How many police resources have been wasted on me? How many policeman were involved, how many man hours? Eighteen pages of paperwork – someone at the prosecution office is supposed to read these. A lawyer, a civil servant – it’s not my responsibility to pay him! Twelve hours of my personal time. But not just my time - my girlfriend was up all night searching for how to defend me. My sister, too. I have in my inbox, emails from the New Zealand Embassy in Rome that I shall reply to. Lucie tried, Jade tried, the Embassy tried, but nobody could reach the police station. They send how many police officers to detain and arrest me, but not a single officer to answer the phone? That this happened to at least two other people last night; that this is normal; that this happens on a completely regular basis.

Later I would find out, my girlfriend tried to call the police headquarters multiple times. The New Zealand Embassy advised me they “attempted to contact the police station in Tirana to understand the situation and to receive an idea of what the process is but had no success so far.” How many police officers to arrest me, but not even one to answer a phone.

I sign all the paperwork except for one. I consent for my piss to be tested for narcotic content in the lab. But I refuse to consent to giving a urine sample. I had argued with Petrin. “It doesn’t matter. Positive for marijuana, personal consumption. Negative, you were going to smoke it. Positive for heroin? Where’s the heroin? There’s no evidence.”

“I don’t want to piss in a cup. Let me refuse, they will make me anyway, and I will piss all over it!”

They gave me a plastic cup anyway. Kola tells me, “Just a little is enough.” I haven’t pissed in six hours. Another police officer took me to the bathroom and waited outside. I fill it to the brim, tighten the lid, then wash it in the sink. The officer outside holds a plastic evidence bag open. I bend down, place it on the ground, then shake the water off my hands.

Laughing his ass off, Kola gives me his number. “You can contact me about anything, it does not have to be about this case.” Petrin and I head out for coffee.