District of Carberry

I hopped out of bed at 7 am and “enjoyed” a shower using the hand-held unit—I was getting better at not spraying down the entire bathroom. I decided to take my chances on Hotel Union breakfast. I sat down, and about 5 minutes later someone decided to actually come over and take my order. I had the choice of sausages, omelet, and a couple of other standard breakfast items. I figured that sausages in “Europe” would be a good choice. Minutes later the waiter presented me a plate festooned with three boiled hot dogs and a pile of mustard. I laughed to myself and ate one of the most pathetic hot dogs I’ve ever had. I turned to the bread basked and made fast work of the rolls, and got out of there so I didn’t have to stare at the pathetic wieners any longer. I grabbed my bags from my room, checked out, and made a reservation for Tuesday and Wednesday nights. I left my large bag with the hotel (an enormous lead of faith, but I figured it would give them a chance to see I wasn’t a spy), and then hopped a cab to the bus station. I purchased a ticket for the 9:30 am bus to Mitrovica Kosovo. Like my hotel room, the bus was better and worse than I expected. It was no older than the late ‘80s, and seemed relatively solid. Although, under braking, there was a horrendous rattle and shuddering from the rear end that had me wondering how long it would be before the rear axle simply fell off in the middle of the road. I had another concern about the ride—the fact that it would take between 5-6 hours and there was no bathroom on the bus. Fortunately, this became a non-issue an hour into the trip when we stopped at another bus depot where there was a bathroom. The ride proceeded in this fashion for several more hours. We’d drive along a 2-lane road, often stuck behind a large truck or a piece of farm equipment for miles at a time until we came to a long passing zone. The bus would make periodic stops at seemingly random places along the road to let people on and off. Once in a while we’d stop at an actual bus station, and the quality of the stations deteriorated in proportion to how far south we drove. No one spoke English, and several people emitted aromas I could not identify for the life of me. Somewhere around the 5-hour mark we reached the Kosovo boarder. While hardly as stark as the DMZ, it certainly had a cold feeling to it. I didn’t know whether someone would come on board to check passports/ids, but after a few minutes of sitting at the checkpoint, the bus rolled on into Kosovo. The fact that it was uneventful was not a problem. The ride continued as I watched the clock in the front of the bus tick away. Finally, at about the 6.5-hour mark, we rolled into Mitrovica. The bus stopped several times along the way, and I wasn’t sure where to get off. Most people got off at one particular stop, but I stayed on expecting to see a bus station. The bus rolled down a street that looked like it was heading away from civilization, so I got off at the next stop and walked back to what I determined was the main drag in town. I wandered up the street looking for a café or bar where I could talk with people. I wandered into the Café London, or maybe it was Café Paris, and talked with the bartender/waiter. He said he would have talked with me, but he was working alone and too busy. Said my best bet was to head down the street to the UN police office and ask them for suggestions. I did that. I wandered into the police station carrying my two suspicious looking bags, and told them I was a journalist looking for people in town who would speak with me. I’m not sure the guy bought my story, but he directed me to the Dolce Vita café next to the “bridge”. I walked back through town and into the café. I walked up to the bar and asked a few people if they wanted to talk. One kid volunteered and we sat down and talked about Russia, Serbia, and the politics of Kosovo. He was passionate, and also very concerned about the prospects for the future in Mitrovica. He told me he was afraid to cross the bridge to the Albanian side because he was convinced he’d be assaulted. After we chatted, I stood in the café recording the ambient sound, and a waiter told me the boss wanted me to stop recording and leave—or order something. I put away my gear and had a beer. From there I wandered over to the bridge and spoke with some UN people and got the story about the bridge and the security situation. I asked if anyone could do an interview on the bridge with me, and they said I had to talk with KFOR who controlled the bridge. I walked across the bridge—and it was a little creepy as there were soldiers at each end, and large coils of barbed wire in a number of spots. I spoke (sort of) with two French soldiers at the southern outpost, and asked them who could give me permission to conduct an interview on the bridge. They directed me to their headquarters behind a could of buildings. At this point, it was beginning to rain, and I walked down a dirt road to the KFOR base. I stopped at the first armed guard and told him I was an American journalist looking to talk to the public affairs department. He looked at my passport, phoned inside, and then waved me through to the main gate. There I stopped at the guard post and spoke with the guard on duty. He inspected my passport and called inside. After a short conversation he told me that o one could help me. I asked him if there was someone else I should speak to, and he made another call and told me to wait (outside in the rain). A few minutes later he answered a call, and wrote down a number for me. He told me that was the public affairs office and to call them. I thanked him and walked back to the main street and met up with more UN people. I tried the number the guy gave me, and of course it didn’t work. I asked the UN folks to help me find a safe taxi to Pristina, and they invited me to sit in one of their Land Cruisers and hang out until someone could help me. I climbed in, and was greeted by the music of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and an officer from North Carolina who was playing video games on his cell phone. When their replacements arrived, they drove me to the southern headquarters about 5 minutes from the bridge, only to find out that they weren’t supposed to take me there. They drove me back to the bridge and told me to wait for someone who would get me a taxi. I stood around waiting for about 15 minutes. It was getting dark, and several people had warned me that Kosovo after dark could be pretty hairy. I wasn’t particularly worried standing at a UN post with a variety of armed officers around, but I wasn’t thrilled about standing there waiting either. Finally, one of the UN officers on patrol approached me and asked what I was doing. I told him I was waiting for them to get me a taxi. He phoned in and got the story. He and his partner were from India, and they proceeded to give me their insight into the political situation there. They weren’t optimistic, but they weren’t fearing violence at least… for now. About ten minutes later, a Land Cruiser approached with three men inside. One got out and spoke with the two officers with me. There was a brief conversation, and the two officers inside the vehicle were clearly infuriated about something. They drove off, and the third man explained that the three of them were celebrating Iftar and left in the middle of the meal. They shouldn’t have been called to begin with, and there was some giant miscommunication all prompted by my request for help getting a taxi. Anyhow, the man made a couple of phone calls, and soon after a taxi arrived that they said would be safe to take me to Pristina. I got in, and of course immediately had to go to the bathroom, and the driver didn’t speak any English. Fortunately, the ride only took about 45 minutes, and I arrived at the Grand Pristina Hotel and checked in. The hotel was impressive in size and scale, if not appearance. Actually, the lobby wasn’t bad looking, and the elevators were quite modern. My room however… hadn’t been updated since the ‘70s, but it had a certain modernist, yet at the same time retro, panache. It definitely had the vibe of “Spook Central” and oozed Cold War charm. Talk about a place where “if the walls could talk.” Of course, the place was still probably crawling with spooks and agent of all kind, and even if they weren’t everyone assumed they were. I was starting to enjoy the feeling of everyone assuming I was a spy. Anyhow, I hopped online, caught up on business, emailed a few people about interviews the following morning, and then went out looking for the bars I was told would be full of UN people. I asked the very attractive woman at the front desk (who of course looked like an ex-girlfriend of mine) where I could find the Phoenix Bar and the Bamboo lounge. She said she had never heard of them, but the UNMIK headquarters was just behind the hotel. I walked out and passed the UNMIK building, and right across from it was the Phoenix Bar. It was a classic English-style pub, and I promptly ordered a Guinness and scoped out the room. It was pretty quiet, but I heard one group or people speaking English, so I wandered over and barged in. Of course, they immediately accused me of being a spy. I explained that I was a journalist, and they were clearly suspicious. They wanted to know why I looked like I was from Scandinavia, and they accused me of speaking with different accents. I stuck with my journalist story and proceeded to ask them questions about what was going on in Kosovo. They were all security workers from Trinidad, and they felt things were pretty calm. They weren’t sensing any build up of tension, and didn’t think there would be anything like 1999, but they acknowledged that things could get hairy. In the middle of the conversation, the power cut out, and they said “Welcome to Kosovo.” Apparently it’s a regular thing. After a couple of minutes, the bar’s generator kicked in and the lights came back on. We talked a little longer, and they suggested a couple of places where I might find more people, and also some food. I went wandering out and ended up on Bill Clinton Blvd. After walking around for a bit, I stopped in a little “fast-food” restaurant and ordered a shawarma sandwich. I walked around a little more, and went back by the Phoenix Bar, but it was emptier than when I left and hour before. I decided to head back into the hotel and do some work and turn in early.