I know exactly where I was when I heard the news that Kosovo declared independence from Serbia on February 17, 2008. If you’re like me—and I suspect you are because who else has the time to read the musings of an entitled, liberal and self-proclaimed worldly western youth—then you’ll remember how, when the news was broke
to us, we all stood up and said “Yes!” to Kosovar independence, freedom and democracy for the Balkans and “No” to human rights violations (mainly because all of those words appeared in the first paragraph of the news release), which was followed by a discreet Googling of “what is Kosovo?” and a brief scanning of Facebook to see which support groups had the most members. I know that I myself had spent 1999—2008 blissfully unaware that Kosovo was in fact a place and not a typo of a Beach Boys song. If I had to create a mind-map of everything I knew about Kosovo (and I did, when my roommate asked me which side the cool kids were supporting), it would involve a Current Events segment in grade 7 and the catchy CNN headline “Crisis in Kosovo,” a Fat Serbian grandmother pointing out the window of the train going to Belgrade during a thundershower and cackling “Clinton…bombs!” in 2007 and…that is about it. I honestly did not remember Kosovo existed for all that time, and truthfully I’m a little skeptical about the dubious state of its existence today.
Entering Kosovo filled me with trepidation. My stay in Tirana had been nothing short of languid:
I dined al fresco with two Parisians who were kinder than most about my accented francais; I couchsurfed with a Harvard alumnus and member of the Tirana intelligentsia; and I went on dates with Albanian supermodels in the most posh district of town, in a bar right next to Enver Hoxha’s house. Yes, life was getting a little too good for me, and I made up for it by sleeping in a half-finished apartment building in Durres a few nights later because I didn’t feel like paying 30 euros for a hotel room (or, for that matter, haggling from 30 euros down to 20).
I knew that I needed to be in Sarajevo on March 5 for the much anticipated reunion with my high school sweetheart, and needed to plan my days accordingly. Kosovo seemed like the least-natural choice, but I had no idea when I would be in the region again. I made way to Shkoder, where there was mass flooding, and crossed through the Albanian Alps to through the little towns of Puke and Rrape, had a near-close encounter with real puke on the winding roads, and descended into Kukes, where I was spotted by local Peace Corps workers who offered me food and shelter and sent me on my way.
So there I was, poised at the circle of taxis and furgons that would whisk me from Albania to Kosovo. Finding a mode of transport consumed most of my emotional energy and time in the morning, and finally I was under the impression I had agreed to pay 200 leke ($2) to go in a shared taxi to Prizren, the nearest town across the border. Naturally, my psychotic and yet fully-rational fear and loathing of taxi drivers had me on guard the entire way, and I started to worry that he had interpreted our agreement as being 2000 leke. I started to panic and, hoping to avoid a seriously awkward situation when we arrived in Prizren, I sprung from the car at the border, thrust 200 leke at the driver, and hollered thank-you in Albanian, hoping that he wouldn’t cause a fuss with all the border guards and police around. However, the driver was totally perplexed and rather happy that he had banked an extra 100 leke for not even delivering me the full way.
I decided that since I was at the border, I snapped some pictures, drank a couple coffees, ate a steak-and-eggs lunch, wrote a few postcards expressing my emotions, and walked through the border. It was a beautiful day, and I was in Kosovo with a nice little blue stamp on my passport in a seemingly peaceful corner of the world. Until, that is, I saw the signs warning me about landmines. And not to go to unauthorised areas. And the helicopters flying over head. And the presence of tanks for the Turkish detachment of NATO*. Kosovo was a living warzoneon constant standby, and people just went about their business. I got to be one of those people, and for the most part there was nothing particularly exciting. Kosovo was more developed, more European and less Albanian than Albania, and there was a calm and almost boring pervasiveness to the entire place. There was also crumbling Yugoslav infrastructure and a bronze statue of Bill Clinton. My needs were met. I settled in with a pizza and watched the final hockey game and prepared for my departure in the morning from Prishtina to Montenegro. Kosovo could not have been easier for anyone at any time in history.
*I’m sorry, what? Turkey? TURKEY? What is Turkey doing in Kosovo? Has no one read the Wikipedia article on the origins of World War One?
to us, we all stood up and said “Yes!” to Kosovar independence, freedom and democracy for the Balkans and “No” to human rights violations (mainly because all of those words appeared in the first paragraph of the news release), which was followed by a discreet Googling of “what is Kosovo?” and a brief scanning of Facebook to see which support groups had the most members. I know that I myself had spent 1999—2008 blissfully unaware that Kosovo was in fact a place and not a typo of a Beach Boys song. If I had to create a mind-map of everything I knew about Kosovo (and I did, when my roommate asked me which side the cool kids were supporting), it would involve a Current Events segment in grade 7 and the catchy CNN headline “Crisis in Kosovo,” a Fat Serbian grandmother pointing out the window of the train going to Belgrade during a thundershower and cackling “Clinton…bombs!” in 2007 and…that is about it. I honestly did not remember Kosovo existed for all that time, and truthfully I’m a little skeptical about the dubious state of its existence today.Entering Kosovo filled me with trepidation. My stay in Tirana had been nothing short of languid:
I dined al fresco with two Parisians who were kinder than most about my accented francais; I couchsurfed with a Harvard alumnus and member of the Tirana intelligentsia; and I went on dates with Albanian supermodels in the most posh district of town, in a bar right next to Enver Hoxha’s house. Yes, life was getting a little too good for me, and I made up for it by sleeping in a half-finished apartment building in Durres a few nights later because I didn’t feel like paying 30 euros for a hotel room (or, for that matter, haggling from 30 euros down to 20).I knew that I needed to be in Sarajevo on March 5 for the much anticipated reunion with my high school sweetheart, and needed to plan my days accordingly. Kosovo seemed like the least-natural choice, but I had no idea when I would be in the region again. I made way to Shkoder, where there was mass flooding, and crossed through the Albanian Alps to through the little towns of Puke and Rrape, had a near-close encounter with real puke on the winding roads, and descended into Kukes, where I was spotted by local Peace Corps workers who offered me food and shelter and sent me on my way.
So there I was, poised at the circle of taxis and furgons that would whisk me from Albania to Kosovo. Finding a mode of transport consumed most of my emotional energy and time in the morning, and finally I was under the impression I had agreed to pay 200 leke ($2) to go in a shared taxi to Prizren, the nearest town across the border. Naturally, my psychotic and yet fully-rational fear and loathing of taxi drivers had me on guard the entire way, and I started to worry that he had interpreted our agreement as being 2000 leke. I started to panic and, hoping to avoid a seriously awkward situation when we arrived in Prizren, I sprung from the car at the border, thrust 200 leke at the driver, and hollered thank-you in Albanian, hoping that he wouldn’t cause a fuss with all the border guards and police around. However, the driver was totally perplexed and rather happy that he had banked an extra 100 leke for not even delivering me the full way.
I decided that since I was at the border, I snapped some pictures, drank a couple coffees, ate a steak-and-eggs lunch, wrote a few postcards expressing my emotions, and walked through the border. It was a beautiful day, and I was in Kosovo with a nice little blue stamp on my passport in a seemingly peaceful corner of the world. Until, that is, I saw the signs warning me about landmines. And not to go to unauthorised areas. And the helicopters flying over head. And the presence of tanks for the Turkish detachment of NATO*. Kosovo was a living warzoneon constant standby, and people just went about their business. I got to be one of those people, and for the most part there was nothing particularly exciting. Kosovo was more developed, more European and less Albanian than Albania, and there was a calm and almost boring pervasiveness to the entire place. There was also crumbling Yugoslav infrastructure and a bronze statue of Bill Clinton. My needs were met. I settled in with a pizza and watched the final hockey game and prepared for my departure in the morning from Prishtina to Montenegro. Kosovo could not have been easier for anyone at any time in history.*I’m sorry, what? Turkey? TURKEY? What is Turkey doing in Kosovo? Has no one read the Wikipedia article on the origins of World War One?
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