At 5:57 in the morning, I managed to crawl into the train leaving the Thessaloniki station. I don't know how I did it, but somehow I managed to avoid a repeat of Barcelona New Year's 2009 fiasco, when I fell asleep at the airport gate, just missing my flight to Milan. At the Macedonian border, I got out to breathe some of that cold, crisp air. I sat down and enjoyed the scenery and pondered in my drunken bliss. We had partied all through the night. I felt like a silly 20-yr old again. Then those happy memories of me and Taz singing "Billy Jean", wearing transparent food-handling gloves, drunk on Greek chipero, shots of tequila and amaretto (so classy!), in some Thessaloniki karaoke bar suddenly turned into a moving train, marching on, leaving me behind...
It was the train. I ran and somehow managed to open the door and jump in as the platform pulled away behind me. My fellow passengers seemed relieved that I had made it, but my avalanching hangover only permitted a meek smile in response. We were now in Macedonia, Skopje-bound, racing along those railway lines that once stitched together Tito's vision of an ethnically diverse yet harmonious Yugoslavia. A dream that seemed to just fall to pieces...
The Balkans. I never imagined coming out here. Least of all ordering something called "Pig Hunger" from a small Skopjan restuarant. Don't worry, it turned out to be be just a piece of deep fried pork with french fries, and I tell you, it's the breakfast of champions. My goal was to get to Sarajevo, and I was told by the curious ticket saleswoman that I could 'simply' take a bus to Pristina and from there, anything is possible. Yes. My last memory before I passed out again in the bus station was: "Who is this woman across from me reading 'The Audacity of Hope'?"
1:18. I wake up and realize that the bus is leaving in 2 minutes and I don't know where I am. I'm only thinking "No more Barcelona!". I managed to find my bags at the locker and run to the bus and hop in. I've forgotten my manners. No "Buenas" greeting to everyone in the bus. But that's ok, they don't speak Spanish.
We pass another border, this one somewhat more contested that the Greek-Macedonian one. We are entering the "Free-World's" newest country... ladies and gentlemen, introducing Kosovo. One thing I will realize on the rest of my trip is that border stamps seem to be arbitrary. It's as though old Yugoslavia still exists, and I am just passing from one area to the other. What used to be areas of a federation are now countries! Imagine if Florida became it's own country (then we could bomb Little Havana...). But when I leave Macedonia, I get no stamp, nor do I get one entering Kosovo, or leaving it. I don't get one leaving Montenegro or leaving Bosnia. What the hell is this?
Back to the story. Still with me? Kosovo is a mass of mountains and mines. I meet a frustrated Italian furniture salesman ("Cazzo! These people don't know real style!") who tells me that parts of Kosovo used to yield three crops a year. Other than that, at least in the winter, it is snow and mud and yuck. Or maybe that was my hangover still clouding my judgement.
But about 2 hours south of Pristina, I wake up as the bus stops. One man speaking English with an Eastern European accent gets off the bus, followed by an African American dude with a red bandana and a growing belly. His accent and demeanor catch my attention. A fellow traveler? I watch him as he exits the bus, looks around, and smiles at some men in a car who were waiting for him. The Eastern European has already left. The bus pulls off.
I connect some dots later. The town we pass after the 'drop-off' is Ferizaj. The biggest employer in Ferizaj, and undoubtedly all of Kosovo, is right there: US Camp Bondsteel. I've heard rumors that you can see it from space. One of the US' big wins from the ethnic cleansing of Kosovo and the ensuing NATO bombing of Serbia was Camp Bondsteel, built by Kellogg, Brown and Root (KBR; similar to Halliburton) and destined to replace US 'tenancy' of German and other European bases (as focus shifts more on the Middle East and its oil). In fact, that little train from Thessaloniki to Skopje most likely passed over a network of pipelines, all of which is neatly under Camp Bondsteel's 7,000-man watch. I remember reading an article a few years back about how US military bases in the Balkans, namely Kosovo, were acting as mini-Guantamo's in the US 'War on Terror'. It made me think what those Americans in civilian clothing were doing out there. It's understandable why the Americans were so eager for Kosovan independence, and why some Serbs still still hate America (we also bombed them in 99 and put them under sanctions, Iraq-style), though we still claim that our Kosovo intervention was purely humanitarian, even "charity" or a "mission to civilize the Serbs". A sign outside the bus station in Pristina waves an American flag and in big, bold letters: "Bill Clinton".
The only interaction I had with an angry Serb was in a small village 2km away from the site of the July 1995 Srebrenica massacre, where over 8,000 Muslims were exterminated. (While Bill Clinton kept up an arms embargo on the Bosnian Muslims at the beginning of the 90s, he was at least able to send over $1 million for a memorial. Thanks, Bill!) Afterwards, returning to the town of Bratunac, I had talked with an Austrian master sergeant of the LOT EUROFOR observer mission who told me that while this area used to be Muslim, under the Dayton Accords which pacified the tensions, Serbs were allowed to take over, and now account for over 90% of the population. However, the two groups "don't fight anymore. Sometimes they argue, but that's normal."
Mind you, I was in Republika Srpska, the autonomous region of the Federation of Bosnia and Hercegovina, dominated by Serbs. (Republika Srpska practically covers half, or more than half, of Bosnia, if you eyeball the map.) Eyes had been watching me then, as they had while I ate Serbian goulash and read a biography of Tito. As I waited in the bus station, a middle-aged police officer in a leather jacket with the insignia of Republika Srpska approached me and asked for my passport. The other passengers watched on curiously. "American? Huff!" he exclaimed. He took my passport for further inspection, though he really didn't know what to do with it. Just to show that Americans are not too appreciated. (Many Serbs acknowledge that while they did wrong, their grievances weren't understood...). I just smiled and thought about how stupid cops were.
But that was the only incident. Here in Belgrade people have been warm and friendly, and understand that it was "the government, not the people". We carried out collective punishment, collateral damage, for the crimes of Milosevic. They wisely point out Iraq and Afghanistan. My friends here lived under sanctions, and remember how a 500,000,000,000 dinar note was once printed, a doctor's monthly salary could buy a liter of gas and the only shows on TV were Mexican soaps like "Cassandra". I can imagine why now, young people just want to party and have fun. Last night we hitch-hiked through Belgrade, getting rides with two young potato salesmen and some young punks hotboxing their car, and ended up in some weird Goth, Rammstein-blaring rave/bondage underground bar. As we took the bus back home, the rising sun cast its rays on an old bombed out building, 5 minutes from the American Embassy, unexploded NATO bombs still inside the wreckage. Apparently, the Serbs don't have the expertise to defuse them, and the Americans haven't sent over a team yet.
It was the same in Sarajevo, the city where Gavrilo Princip and the "Black Hand" triggered WWI with the magnicide of Archduke Ferdinand and his wife. I walked past the market where a bomb killed 68 civilians (its disputed if Bosnian rebels purposefully killed their own people, or it was the Serbs who were laying seige to the city for 4 years), past the bullet-ridden stores and homes, the rebuilt mosques and churches. Maybe 10,000 people died or went missing in the city alone. People are tired of war, they want to move on. Ironically, there is a debate in Serbia whether or not to join NATO (!). I was told by the Italian that the only calm place is in Montenegro; my memory is a 2am bus station bar in Podgorica, sleeping at a table, while old, toothless men boozed up on Montenegran Rakija (close to vodka, or Greek ouzo, or Colombian aguardiente... I am becoming an expert). Seemed calm enough.
I recommend seeing "Lepa Sela, Lepo Gore" (Pretty Village, Pretty Flame). It's by a Serbian director, and while I think it still is biased (the Muslim protagonist in the end seems darker and more evil, while the Serb protagonist remains white, albeit with a mixed conscience), it does a fairly good job of relating the reality. (Much better than "Hurt Locker", which made me almost throw up.)
That's enough long writing. Wherever I go, I meet amazing people, generous with time and smiles. They've lived war and conflicts, poverty and revolution, and they manage to keep going. Despite all the politicking, the backstabbing, the collateral damage and the deceit, they continue. Trying to be happy and being normal amidst the madness can be a pretty revolutionary thing.
Hasta pronto...
It was the train. I ran and somehow managed to open the door and jump in as the platform pulled away behind me. My fellow passengers seemed relieved that I had made it, but my avalanching hangover only permitted a meek smile in response. We were now in Macedonia, Skopje-bound, racing along those railway lines that once stitched together Tito's vision of an ethnically diverse yet harmonious Yugoslavia. A dream that seemed to just fall to pieces...
The Balkans. I never imagined coming out here. Least of all ordering something called "Pig Hunger" from a small Skopjan restuarant. Don't worry, it turned out to be be just a piece of deep fried pork with french fries, and I tell you, it's the breakfast of champions. My goal was to get to Sarajevo, and I was told by the curious ticket saleswoman that I could 'simply' take a bus to Pristina and from there, anything is possible. Yes. My last memory before I passed out again in the bus station was: "Who is this woman across from me reading 'The Audacity of Hope'?"
1:18. I wake up and realize that the bus is leaving in 2 minutes and I don't know where I am. I'm only thinking "No more Barcelona!". I managed to find my bags at the locker and run to the bus and hop in. I've forgotten my manners. No "Buenas" greeting to everyone in the bus. But that's ok, they don't speak Spanish.
We pass another border, this one somewhat more contested that the Greek-Macedonian one. We are entering the "Free-World's" newest country... ladies and gentlemen, introducing Kosovo. One thing I will realize on the rest of my trip is that border stamps seem to be arbitrary. It's as though old Yugoslavia still exists, and I am just passing from one area to the other. What used to be areas of a federation are now countries! Imagine if Florida became it's own country (then we could bomb Little Havana...). But when I leave Macedonia, I get no stamp, nor do I get one entering Kosovo, or leaving it. I don't get one leaving Montenegro or leaving Bosnia. What the hell is this?
Back to the story. Still with me? Kosovo is a mass of mountains and mines. I meet a frustrated Italian furniture salesman ("Cazzo! These people don't know real style!") who tells me that parts of Kosovo used to yield three crops a year. Other than that, at least in the winter, it is snow and mud and yuck. Or maybe that was my hangover still clouding my judgement.
But about 2 hours south of Pristina, I wake up as the bus stops. One man speaking English with an Eastern European accent gets off the bus, followed by an African American dude with a red bandana and a growing belly. His accent and demeanor catch my attention. A fellow traveler? I watch him as he exits the bus, looks around, and smiles at some men in a car who were waiting for him. The Eastern European has already left. The bus pulls off.
I connect some dots later. The town we pass after the 'drop-off' is Ferizaj. The biggest employer in Ferizaj, and undoubtedly all of Kosovo, is right there: US Camp Bondsteel. I've heard rumors that you can see it from space. One of the US' big wins from the ethnic cleansing of Kosovo and the ensuing NATO bombing of Serbia was Camp Bondsteel, built by Kellogg, Brown and Root (KBR; similar to Halliburton) and destined to replace US 'tenancy' of German and other European bases (as focus shifts more on the Middle East and its oil). In fact, that little train from Thessaloniki to Skopje most likely passed over a network of pipelines, all of which is neatly under Camp Bondsteel's 7,000-man watch. I remember reading an article a few years back about how US military bases in the Balkans, namely Kosovo, were acting as mini-Guantamo's in the US 'War on Terror'. It made me think what those Americans in civilian clothing were doing out there. It's understandable why the Americans were so eager for Kosovan independence, and why some Serbs still still hate America (we also bombed them in 99 and put them under sanctions, Iraq-style), though we still claim that our Kosovo intervention was purely humanitarian, even "charity" or a "mission to civilize the Serbs". A sign outside the bus station in Pristina waves an American flag and in big, bold letters: "Bill Clinton".
The only interaction I had with an angry Serb was in a small village 2km away from the site of the July 1995 Srebrenica massacre, where over 8,000 Muslims were exterminated. (While Bill Clinton kept up an arms embargo on the Bosnian Muslims at the beginning of the 90s, he was at least able to send over $1 million for a memorial. Thanks, Bill!) Afterwards, returning to the town of Bratunac, I had talked with an Austrian master sergeant of the LOT EUROFOR observer mission who told me that while this area used to be Muslim, under the Dayton Accords which pacified the tensions, Serbs were allowed to take over, and now account for over 90% of the population. However, the two groups "don't fight anymore. Sometimes they argue, but that's normal."
Mind you, I was in Republika Srpska, the autonomous region of the Federation of Bosnia and Hercegovina, dominated by Serbs. (Republika Srpska practically covers half, or more than half, of Bosnia, if you eyeball the map.) Eyes had been watching me then, as they had while I ate Serbian goulash and read a biography of Tito. As I waited in the bus station, a middle-aged police officer in a leather jacket with the insignia of Republika Srpska approached me and asked for my passport. The other passengers watched on curiously. "American? Huff!" he exclaimed. He took my passport for further inspection, though he really didn't know what to do with it. Just to show that Americans are not too appreciated. (Many Serbs acknowledge that while they did wrong, their grievances weren't understood...). I just smiled and thought about how stupid cops were.
But that was the only incident. Here in Belgrade people have been warm and friendly, and understand that it was "the government, not the people". We carried out collective punishment, collateral damage, for the crimes of Milosevic. They wisely point out Iraq and Afghanistan. My friends here lived under sanctions, and remember how a 500,000,000,000 dinar note was once printed, a doctor's monthly salary could buy a liter of gas and the only shows on TV were Mexican soaps like "Cassandra". I can imagine why now, young people just want to party and have fun. Last night we hitch-hiked through Belgrade, getting rides with two young potato salesmen and some young punks hotboxing their car, and ended up in some weird Goth, Rammstein-blaring rave/bondage underground bar. As we took the bus back home, the rising sun cast its rays on an old bombed out building, 5 minutes from the American Embassy, unexploded NATO bombs still inside the wreckage. Apparently, the Serbs don't have the expertise to defuse them, and the Americans haven't sent over a team yet.
It was the same in Sarajevo, the city where Gavrilo Princip and the "Black Hand" triggered WWI with the magnicide of Archduke Ferdinand and his wife. I walked past the market where a bomb killed 68 civilians (its disputed if Bosnian rebels purposefully killed their own people, or it was the Serbs who were laying seige to the city for 4 years), past the bullet-ridden stores and homes, the rebuilt mosques and churches. Maybe 10,000 people died or went missing in the city alone. People are tired of war, they want to move on. Ironically, there is a debate in Serbia whether or not to join NATO (!). I was told by the Italian that the only calm place is in Montenegro; my memory is a 2am bus station bar in Podgorica, sleeping at a table, while old, toothless men boozed up on Montenegran Rakija (close to vodka, or Greek ouzo, or Colombian aguardiente... I am becoming an expert). Seemed calm enough.
I recommend seeing "Lepa Sela, Lepo Gore" (Pretty Village, Pretty Flame). It's by a Serbian director, and while I think it still is biased (the Muslim protagonist in the end seems darker and more evil, while the Serb protagonist remains white, albeit with a mixed conscience), it does a fairly good job of relating the reality. (Much better than "Hurt Locker", which made me almost throw up.)
That's enough long writing. Wherever I go, I meet amazing people, generous with time and smiles. They've lived war and conflicts, poverty and revolution, and they manage to keep going. Despite all the politicking, the backstabbing, the collateral damage and the deceit, they continue. Trying to be happy and being normal amidst the madness can be a pretty revolutionary thing.
Hasta pronto...
No comments:
Post a Comment