Kosovo without a map September 6, 2003

Though we had hoped to rent a large car, the morning we left for Kosovo, the
only car available was a "smart car" with a backseat, a Daewoo Matiz. And though
1 of the 3 of us had spent the previous evening at her UNDP office - Macedonia
printing off maps and travel tips, they were forgotten at her desk. So as we
headed north to the Macedonian/Kosovo border, we laughed at our ridiculous
situation: touring Kosovo in a tin can without a map.

For as we soon discovered, driving in Kosovo is not an entirely safe endeavour.
There are just as many tractors, roto-tiller vehicles, horses + wagons and
home-made vehicles lurching along at 5km/hr, as there are large commercial
trucks and Euro cars racing along at 100km/hr. You can see the problem. We saw
countless near-fatal accidents involving various vehicles passing non-challantly
into oncoming traffic. Highways are only 1 lane each way, and often we had to
brake for the 2 lanes of oncoming traffic to merge back into 1.

There are also almost no road signs in Kosovo. Even the highways are virtually
unmarked. This certainly made our mapless navigation more challenging! I should
mention that there were plenty of speed limit markers, with two pictures: one
for a car, one for a tank. Tank speed limits posted throughout the country -
yikes.

Directions, therefore, were obtained by pulling our tin can up to groups of
relaxing men by the road (drinking coffee, playing backgammon, sitting on
tractors...), saying our next destination town using every tonal variation until
they nodded and pointed (usually vaguely down the road). What appeared most
amusing to them, aside from our mini-car and lack of map or language, was the
sight of two women in the front with the Man in Charge, Andre, in the backseat.

The first town we came across appeared to be a Serb enclave. A quick background:
there are essentially 2 groups in Kosovo - Albanians and Serbs. Milosovic tried,
and almost succeeded, in evicting all the Albanians from his Kosovo province.
Following the NATO bombing of Serbia in '99, however, his Serb troops retreated.
When the Albanians streamed back into Kosovo, they began a violent backlash of
retribution against the remaining Serbs (those who hadn't fled with the Serbian
army). The result: Kosovo is 90% Albanian, and the remaining 10% Serb population
has to be protected by international peacekeepers. Driving our tin can past UN
tank after tank, past KFOR vehicle after military compound, we nervously pulled
over, asked for directions in Andre's broken German (Serbs don't tend to like
Americans), and sped out of town...

...Only to run into an accident. The "highway" was blocked and traffic was
building up on both sides. Soon, car after car began off-roading along a dirt
track through a farmer's field. Nervous of landmines (or ambushes - our nervous
Cdn minds were reeling), we waited until none of the cars had returned,
indicating that they must be going somewhere. Joining the building convoy, we
lurched off the highway and took the smart car+ off-roading!

Our driver, Jenny (who drove the whole trip, as she was most prepared for
Balkan-style offensive driving) noticed something ominous in the car ahead. She
spent the past year reporting on Balkan trafficking in women and children for
the UNDP in Sarajevo, and she remarked that the car ahead was very likely
carrying trafficked girls. 2 seedy men were driving and the 3 girls in the
backseat were a little too made-up for 11am. Ah, the disturbing sights of
Kosovo...

After crossing countless farmers' fields, bouncing along a dirt village trail
for some time, we arrived back on the highway, headed for Prizren. Prizren can
almost pass for a pretty European riverside city. Bustling cafes line the
cobblestone streets, and nestled in a mountainous valley, one can almost forget
the ethnic violence that swept through the city only 5 years before.

That is, until one comes across the local Serbian Orthodox church. Were this 9th
century church not surrounded by prison-style coils of barbed wire, UN tanks and
bullet-proof vehicles, as well as 5 armed UN peacekeepers, it would be sacked.
We inquired of a young German peacekeeper whether we could see inside, and a
young Serbian woman emerged from the military tent on the church lawn to give us
a tour. An actress before the war, she now gives tours of this church, protected
by military escort. The young German and his M16 assault rifle accompanied us
through the house of the Lord, posing for the camera, and flirting shyly with
the actress. She told us that 15 Serbs come to church weekly, holding service in
a clearly hostile land. Why any Serbs would want to return to a place where
without UN military presense they would surely be murdered puzzled us. She
responded that most of the returnees were older, unwilling to begin a new life
anywhere, preferring the home they've always known regardless of the
consequences.

Our next port of call was Peja, a little town where 3 wks earlier a man and 2
children were gunned down standing in front of a store (apparently a mafia
response to capitalist competition). 2 wks earlier some Albanians had shot 2
Serb kids in the face while they were playing in a river one morning. We knew
none of this coming into town - not that it would have made a difference b/c
there are really only 4 towns to see in Kosovo and we aimed to see it all.

Peja was a hole anyway. Though in a beautiful setting of mountains, it centred
around a dwindling river-come-dump, and an open sewer winding through town. We
went into a little shop for water (recall Europe's heat wave - it was about 35 I
think) and when the enthusiastic woman behind the counter discovered our
nationality, she exclaimed "CANADA?! I LOVE THAT CITY!!!!" beautiful.

Getting out of Peja proved a challenge, and as the sun began to set, we started
giggling nervously "HOW far is it to Prishtina?!" The hour long trip was
interesting indeed, marked with dessimated Serb villages, and punctuated in a
gauche Maggie moment. Upon seeing a destroyed Orthodox church, it's white dome
balanced atop the rubble, I shrieked "awesome!" , shamelessly enthused at the
photo opp.

We were relieved to see the semi-bright lights of Pristina, driving into town
past an enormous mural of the Kosovo saviour Bill Clinton, past Bill Clinton
avenue and the "Hilary" cafe. We found an old communist-style hotel, and with a
little bargaining, we brought the price down to $160 Cdn for the 3 of us -
yikes.

My vegetarianism once again proved to be a hassle, as we marched on past kebab
shop after kebab shop in blind search of "Uncle Sam's Indian Food" (I kid you
not). We never found the wonderfully named restaurant, but ended up at some
chi-chi ex-pat place with a meal and ambiance better than most places in
Vancouver. In a state entirely run by the UN, a two-tiered economy flourishes,
one tier for locals, the other for the enormous UN presence in the capital.

The next morning began with a failed attempt to check internet - all servers
were down. Checking various internet cafes, we discovered the popularity of
interactive war games. Every internet cafe is packed with men listening to
hard-core techno, fighting a virtual war. Creepy.

On to our last stop - Mitrovica: the jewell in our wannabe hardcore crown. Many
of Jenny's co-workers and local friends had advised her not to visit this
divided city. A UN guarded bridge (passed by no locals) divides 8,000 Serbs on
the North with 30,000 Albanians on the South. Everyone we spoke to was certain
that if the peacekeepers left today, the 2 sides would kill each other.

The knowledge that a week earlier a UN police officer had been murdered was
unsettling, but like good tourists, we crossed the bridge to the Serb side. The
streets were virtually deserted, and we nervously picked our way up a larger
street toward a cafe. As we walked by, all heads (all men) turned to watch us. I
had clear visions of getting gunned down, seeing the headlines in my mind "Three
Cdns Slaughtered, Tensions Escalate". When Jenny and I couldn't keep a lid on
our rising panic any longer, suggesting a retreat, Andre non-chalantly replied
that he'd meet us back at the bridge in an hour or so. Then we came across a
post-card stand. Maybe it was the one claiming that "The imperial US has
conquered all of Europe except the mighty Serbs", but I think it was the cartoon
of the Serb soldier anally raping Mickey Mouse with the caption "Fuck the USA"
that changed Andre's mind. We abruptly turned around, with Andre leading the
charge back to the bridge.

Once on the "safe" side, however, we ran into some of Jenny's friends, a French
aid worker for Caritas, and a lawyer for the UN. The lawyer was surprised at our
nervousness, reassuring us that the Serb side is fine. She, and much of the
int'l community, live there because it's quieter and they have better night
clubs. ?!? We then felt a little sheepish at our paranoia, but I was still glad
to leave the yankee hating Serb side behind. (Interestingly, our waitress named
Aphrodita in the Albanian cafe we visited wore a tight "I LOVE THE USA" T-shirt.
Amazing.)

Before leaving Kosovo, we drove back through Prishtina for a vegetarian lunch at
a Thai restaurant beside the UN compound. Our tasty meal of pad thai and red
curry came back to haunt us the following day, however, as we exploded from both
ends in agony. Funny that the most dangerous thing in Kosovo was the Thai food.

Maggie Knowlan