Notes from a Trip Part II

The fact that cell phones with Serbian networks don't work in Kosovo is symptomatic of the folly of the whole situation. Serbia wants to maintain the claim that Kosovo is still theirs, yet they won't allow their networks to function there, essentially forcing the local Serbian population to take the Kosovo carriers (which are using Monaco numbers, don't ask me why), as they are subject to Kosovo energy supplies (except in Mitrovica north, where Serbia provides well for the Serbian communities).

But we were lucky to break down at a gas station attended by an man who loved Germany and Germans. He had lived there for two years as a Gastarbeiter during the war, and earned enough to buy a small farm for his family. Wuppertal ist super! He now worked at the gas station and cared for a cow and tilled a bit of land. His life was clearly tough, but he managed.

After taking a look into the engine and cleaning off the spark-plugs, he couldn't seem to find the issue. Instead of abandoning us though, he ran across the street and called over a mechanic to take a closer look. This young man spent a good hour checking everything and concluded that the catalysator was blocked. As he was making his assessment, he handed out cigarettes, as is the custom in Albanian communities. Then, cigarette in mouth, he continued to work on the engine. I wondered to myself, how safe that really was.

While the mechanic managed to get the engine to start, he said we should not drive to Pristina / Prishtine because it could really f' the engine up. What to do? The kindly gas station attendant offer us his cell phone and we called D's friend, who's car was also at the mechanic! But she said she would go get it and come rescue us. We would just have to sit tight for an hour or so. With the falling temperature and darkness, this was a less than fun prospect.

Once again the man at the gas station showed his kindness and took us to the back room of the station, and lit the wood fire for us. For the next hour we sat there with him, talking about his time in Germany, the agriculture of Kosovo, and of course, relations with the Serb community. Wir sind alle Menchen. Wir mussen zusamen leben. He said he never discriminated against Serbs when they came to his business, but he did think they were the troublemakers in Kosovo. But he just wanted to leave that all behind and face the reality that they lived side-by-side. It was hard to tell how much of what he said was what he thought we, as Germans or Internationals, wanted to hear, and how much was his opinion. But I chose to take him at face value because I have no reason not to.

As the attendant was showing us pictures of his kids, his boss showed up. The man was gruff, old and broken. He sat next to me in the back room, rolling a cigarette, and he seemed so sad, so tired of life. He reiterated the sentiments of our friend, that people needed to get along, but Serbs were the issue at the moment. But he did it with such tragedy in his voice, that I could not help but wonder what all his eyes had seen growing up as an Albanian in Kosovo. I never found out because D's friend showed up to rescue us.

These two men had shared their space with two total strangers, and given me a valuable insight into how people were living here, at least on the Albanian side. It was clear that there were so many issues in Kosovo, and not all of them were the result of tensions between Serbs and Albanians. It seems there is a growing disappointment with the central government and the lack of progress in ten years of International administration. People were living hard lives and had only seen the top dogs get richer, but nothing much had trickled down. Then there is the issue of bad water management, lack of agricultural development despite good soil conditions and plenty of arable land, and finally Leute in Kosovo haben zu viele Kinder. Das ist ein Problem, aber ich glaube das ich Kinder haben muss. Aber nur zwei. Andere Leute haben mehr.

By now it was really cold and dark out. The mini was covered in snow, but D decided she had to try and drive it to Pristina / Prishtine anyway. So I got in the car with her friend and we drove slowly behind her all the way to the city. We made it all the way without further problems, I quickly made good friends with A, D's friend, and soon enough we were on the 9th floor of the OSCE Building, drinking with the international community, looking out over the city.

Not for a moment did the snow stop falling. Welcome to Prishtine.

Notes from a Trip Part 1

At 22.00 I got a text message from D. "Do you have a sleeping bag?" No, I don't, but I'll bring a blanket, I replied. My thoughts turned to the trip. Where was I going? I had visions of sleeping in the car surrounded by thousands of wild eyed locals and internationals. Better get some sleep now, I thought.

We set out at 0630 from Belgrade in a 1996 Mini; the morning was cold and the sky light grey. I was surprised at how many people were on their way to work at that time. More, it seemed, than at 0800, a much more civilized time to be stirring. Neither of us had checked the weather, and ultimately there would have been no good reason for it, our plans were set. We were going to Kosovo come hell or high water.

The E75 heading south is a flat, boring road passing through equally dull and flat country-side. We passed the time talking about work, D's job application, and going through her CD collection. The mini held its own well, and though I had to jam my wallet into a small gap in the dashboard to keep the stereo from disconnecting, we drove in relative comfort. Our musical influences for the drive ranged from Cake's Fashion Nugget and a Beastie Boys mix, to Bertold Brecht's Die Dreigroshenopa, and I ate a lot of kikiriki. Just past Nis the sky grew dark and snow began to fall; it wouldn't stop until we were in Mitrovica two days later.

While the road became more interesting as we passed into the Presevo valley, the journey was largely uneventful. We turned off the highway at Bujenovac and made for the border. The road leading to Kosovo was in bad shape and to hope for a snow plow was folly. Fortunately the ground was warm enough that most of the snow melted into slush, and anyway, there wasn't much chance of building up speed on these roads. We climbed steadily in the short distance between Bujenovac and the border. But it was enough so that had the feeling that we were passing into Moriea from Rivendale. I looked around for hobbits, but only saw stone faced Serbian Police officers. Crossing the 'administrative line' was rather painless, thanks in part to the Dip plates on the trusty mini. From there it is a short jaunt through the demilitarized zone to the Kosovo border. Again we passed with no hold up. The Kosovo guard, upon seeing D's Italian passport, remarked buona sera. Neither of us informed him that it was only 11.00.

Once inside Kosovo I felt like I was going somewhere I wasn't supposed to. As if my parents had forbidden me to go, but I snuck out and went anyway. The difference is also instantly tangible, not just because of how the villages are organized, but because of the massive international presence. In the 45 minuets it took us to get to Gnjilane from the border, we passed Italian Carabinari trucks, UN SUVs, and EULEX jeeps. In addition to this, D pointed out what the ethnic composition of each village was we passed. But in most cases, you could tell by the flags. The Serbian 'enclaves', generally set slightly back from the main road, had large Serbian flags hanging down over the entrance, while the Kosovo-Albanian villages were littered with Albanian and American flags. At times these two flags were attached, like conjoined twins. I wanted D to pull over so I could give a short speech about flag code (the conjoined American and Albanian flag being a major violation...), but after seeing some of the burned out Serbian homes, I thought better of it. But the reality was that there was total segregation, and nowhere did the two groups meet.

Our first top was the OSCE field office in Gnjilane, where D. used to work. I was amazed to find that the "field office" was almost the same size as the entire mission in Serbia, at least from the staff presence. Over coffee, pizza we had conversations with the transport director and a program assistant from Democratization. These two men sat at the same table, and conversed with one-another as if it was normal. One was Albanian, the other a Serb. They were right, it is totally normal for two people to have a conversation. It is only when you introduce nationality / identity as a factor meant to influence their interactions that you have problem.

We left the field office around 1430, passing UNMIK, Ukrainian KFOR, and US Military installations on the way out of town. Each warned that I would be instantly kidnapped if I took any photos, so I looked straight ahead and smiled. We made it half way to Pristina / Prishtine before needing to fill up on gas. Once the car was fueled, D got back in and turned the key and ... nothing. We were in the middle of nowhere, without functioning cell phones (because Serbian networks don't work in Kosovo) and now without a functioning car.

All around us the snow kept falling.

The long walk home...

... as the fat lady sang.

Today I completed my work at the Mission and said farewell, or vidimo se, to all my colleagues. On Monday I go back in for a few hours to send a couple emails and go through the check out process, and then I will be officially done.

But today was really the "last day" at work. I think some people expected me to be sad, looking for emotion in my voice and face. Certainly I am going to miss the people at the office, many of them anyway. I will also miss the work, because even though I have some reservations about what is actually going on with "development" work (at least of the philosophical level), I did well, and I learned a great deal.

But sad is not the right word. I have grown a lot, learned a lot and experienced a lot; I have grown close to many of the people I have met through work and outside of work. In Belgrade I have been at my best and my worst, and I have been fortunate for all these experiences. In a sense, I am actually happy because I am aware of how much I have gained by being here.

There is undoubtably anxiety as I still don't have another job lined up yet, but I am not sad. I am thankful for all this.

Further reflections on a changing society

Serbia, the Serbian man: such complex constructs of history, time, religion, porno, and handbags. Yes, male handbags, or as the Serbian man likes to call them, Pederuca. You will recognize in the first part of that word 'pede', which is French is slang for homosexual. Thus these handbags a basically fag bags. But these are not items worn by the gay community, rather, they are high fashion among the hetero community. Yet they retain the title of Pederuca within the mainstream; a sort of recognition of the homo-erotic nature of this highly chauvinist male culture.

Thus the Serbian man can recognize his fag-ness without having to confront his own repressed desire to try 'it', even if only once. But it also serves as a way for the men to try and dominate each other (as if that isn't homo erotic), by making fun of each others Pederuca. I can hear them now: "nice pederuca, what, are you a fa***t?" Its similar to how American baseball players like to slap each others asses, or how high school jocks do the "sack whack." Alternatively of course, one might conclude that this is in fact a sign of how secure the Serbian man is, in his sexuality. Maybe, but if he is, then why is he so afraid of Homosexuals?

Serbia is on many levels a very intolerant society, including towards differing ethnicity, skin color, gender, and sexual preference (unless you are two hot lesbians making out in public, then they love it).  I am no expert in these issues, but I remember reading somewhere that we (earthlings) have a tendency to strike out at things we don't know, or understand. In the modern era that has evolved into what we call discrimination (racism, sexism, nationalism, patriotism, etc). It's all still based on fear in any case. So if the Serbian man is so safe with the knowledge that he really only wants to be with women, then why the hate?

The 'Out' Serbian Gay community is very small as a result, and it is fairly intimidated by everyone else. As a result of my flatmate, A., being gay, I have met a lot of the gay community here in Belgrade, thus I have this insight. The hate that this community feels is the product of the mainstream ideology not being entirely sure of its own identity, seeing in the "alternative" lifestyle a challenger. For what ever reason (I blame religious indoctrination, and recommend Caliban and the Witch to anyone who disagrees) this paradigm exists, it is symbolic of an ideological struggle and, more significantly in my opinion, a shifting society. With Serbia becoming a more open place welcoming in a growing number of tourists, western rapprochement, and with a growing gay community, the ideology is necessarily changing also. Even though ideology has never been a stable thing, the majority always try and make it so, in an attempt to stay on top, and react with violence when it is challenged, clinging to symbols of their ideology (i.e. the Orthodox Church).

Don't believe me? Go down to the Church next to the small Roma pre-school for the Gazela kids, and ask the Clergy why they are building a wall on top of the wall. Surly they won't tell you it's because they can't stand the thought of Roma being given a chance. Or you could ask a Serbian man if his Pederuca doesn't make him feel...a bit gay. 

And off I went to Srbija

This was written at some point right before I left Maine...

Before leaving Maine, I had to stop off at Sebego Lake for one last swim. With whom? James of course... He just drove up from NYC to see me before I go, and reconnect with the soil here. We drove out to St. Joe's and went to a spot that the two of us, among many others, used to frequent back a few years. Generally, we would head out from the Old Port around two am on the really hot summer nights. It was a quiet spot at that time, and the water was always refreshing.

While there this time, I found a rock to sit on and reflect on the day's gone by and all the things that have happened to me since the last time I was out there, and also since I had come to Maine. I felt good about my time here, and even though it took a while for me to find a path that I liked, the discoveries along the way have had a formative impact on my life. I don't mean to say I feel old, because I don't (how could I?) or that I am behind in some way. Really, sitting on that rock, with the sun receding and the water lapping at my feet, I felt content.

After a while, I realized I was just listening to the water moving past, the birds, and the rushing wind. It was so calm, I was so calm. It made me think of Old Joe from the Bronx. He once told me that people need to take note of these moments of true contentment, so that later, when they no longer feel good, they at least have the memory of that moment. Good idea Joe. It also made me wonder if going to BG was really a wise choice. It seemed so antithetical to the moment of contentment on that rock. Working for the OSCE and getting into the world of politics, power and nationalism is so far from this small lake in southern Maine.

But I knew I was going, even if there was some doubt. There was no way to turn down this chance. If things don't work out, I can always return. I have no problem with that.