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One of the real pitfalls to living in Kosovo is that
you're completely surrounded by war zones. Serbia to
the north and east, northwest is Montenegro, and Macedonia
is south. Only Albania to the west is safe, but there's
no crossroad to another destination - once you pass through,
all you have is the Adriatic Sea. This can be a real challenge
for a travel addict like me.
I lived in Kosovo most of last year, teaching English to
Muslim Albanian students. My village was tiny, and because
I'm from a large city in the States, I wasn't prepared for
the deeply embedded gossip to which I was subject. Everyone
knew me and my ways - what time I went shopping down the one
street, who came to my door for tea, and why I took the bus
into the city. It was just their form of hospitality. Watching
out for your neighbors, and especially your guests, is what
village life is all about.
But I needed a breather. I needed a day away from rural living.
My friend Kyle lived in another village about an hour away,
rebuilding houses for widows. As comrades and ex-pats, we
quickly became friends. So after two months of living in Kosovo,
he invited me to travel with him to Skopje, Macedonia
to buy some airline tickets, and I jumped at the chance.
We left at 6 a.m. from Prishtina on a rickety bus, armed
with expired soda and bananas for our breakfast. There weren't
many people on the bus yet, but along the way, we picked up
more and more folks, headed out of the country for myriads
of reasons. Just being on that bus headed southbound was a
privledge for them - almost no Albanians in Kosovo carried
a passport because the Serbs burned them a few years back.
To have one meant you were either the elite rich, or you knew
somebody important.
Four hours later, clammy and woozy from the bus, we made
it to the border. Neither Kyle nor I were nervous about border
crossings; we've each done plenty of independent travel. So
when the American police acting as border patrol asked us
to get off the bus, we were a bit surprised.
He led us off and into NATO's makeshift office, where he
gave us back our passports. "I guess you haven't read
the news today," he said somewhat smugly.
"No, I guess not," Kyle replied sheepishly.
"Well, unless you want to get pummeled by a riot in
downtown Skopje, you can't come into the country. Macedonian
citizens have just ransacked the American Embassy, and they
aren't too happy with us. They probably won't be too happy
to see you, either."
Kyle and I looked at each other, a bit dumbfounded, but more
ashamed at being found guilty as uninformed world travelers,
our usual job title. We watched the bus full of Albanians,
former refugees, pass into Macedonia; Kyle and I, the fortunate
Westerners, were left behind in Kosovo.
We turned around and walked past through no-man's-land, alone,
and hitchhiked a ride to the nearest city. The day was spent
strolling through a town of strangers, grateful to have a
day off from village life, even if it was the same country.
It was my first denial of entrance into another nation. From
then on, I checked the news before I traveled, which is why
it was ironic that Kyle and I flew to Turkey on September
11 2001. But that's another story. |
Travel Writers: Kosovo - caught between the wars by
Tsh Henegar