A Kosovo Log

21 August 1999 (Saturday)

At the time I'm writing this, my travel journal wasn't as much an historical document as a connection with home. I'm trying to capture the essence of my here-and-now to share with family and friends, however many light years and time zones away they may be. I could have (maybe should have) started tapping the keys a long time ago. Nevertheless, I haven't lost much time. My head is finally clear from jet lag and fatigue, and I can strive with some probability of success to make sensible sentences.

I was already exhausted upon departure Wednesday morning, having slept only a few hours over several days, and not much more over the last couple of weeks. I quickly took advantage of the empty row I had on the flight down to Seattle, draped across the seats in fitfull sleep. Fortune was smiling, for the next leg to Amsterdam was sheer luxury. Over nine hours I managed to sleep about five of them, catching forty winks in between drinks and fine fare. I ate well at every opportunity, because I had no idea what I would find at the other end of my journey.

I began a noticeable mental transition during the three-hour layover in Amsterdam. The reality of being on a mission finally began to sink in. By the time I set foot on the Macedonian Airlines 737, I was working my way into "the zone", keying up critical functions of awareness and survival while shutting down distracting, difficult thoughts of home and what-ifs.

I watched the deep green fields and sleepy canals of Holland give way to the forests and quaint villages of rural Germany before the clouds obscured the postcard view. After lunch I dozed a bit more, and when I awoke we were clearly over a very different land. We were getting close, real close. The mountains below looked virtually impassable, although a few thin, reddish tan tracks seemed to inscribe on the landscape a kind of abstract art with their endless switchbacks and meandering ways. I wasn't sure, but I thought the countryside below belonged to Albania.

We approached Skopje from the west, the rugged terrain giving away to a large plain quilted with cornfields and the odd herd of cattle grazing in low brush. Brassy sun beat down on the landscape with a very harsh light. Along with the blue- gray haze, it painted an unwelcome story of great discomfort for an Alaskan transplant. The tale's theme was underscored as we taxied past a NATO encampment with soldiers dressed in nothing more than shorts, dog tags, and combat boots. At last, the airplane halted about 200 meters from the terminal, the door opened, and I was the first to step out into the blast furnace called Macedonia.

Since I didn't have any official UN travel documents, the henna-haired woman at the immigration desk held my passport and told me to wait in the corner for a visa. I joined a hapless half dozen others standing outside an office, where two officers seemed to do nothing except open and close books and make notes. Based on my past experience in the Balkans, I expected nothing but the rudest treatment and a long, long wait. I tried to breathe deeply and to relax, but I was only partially successful. The air was almost too hot and thick to inhale. About half an hour later, a fidgety, uniformed man from the office emerged with several passports. He said something unintelligible-- presumably my last name mangled with a Macedonian flare, possibly he thought it was Russian-- then waved my passport and set it down for reclamation. I thanked him with a nod and went off to claim my bags.

I was pleasantly surprised at the speed of that transaction, but unpleasantly surprised not to find my bags making the carousel circuit. Nor were they anywhere else in sight. I started to think they had missed the connection in Amsterdam, but then I realized several others from my flight were still waiting. Given the miniscule size of the Skopje terminal, I conjured a vision of a lone grandma and her donkey working to unload the aircraft.

About 20 minutes later my bags appeared through the rubber curtain, and I passed out of customs without molestation.

I crossed to the main exit in a few short steps with five or six others in a jagged formation. Dozens and dozens of dark-haired men, with faces pressed against every window and necks craning through every door, whistled and waved to us for attention. I took a deep breath, stepped through the double doors, and entered the melee. "TAKSI?!?" "Where to, mister?" "Where you go?" "You need taksi?" "Go to border? For you, very cheap!" No doubt their mantras were the same in a dozen other languages.

I pushed my way through the throng toward the street, smiling and trying to gain a little free space around me. A tall, not-so-helpful, 30-something man was very insistent to escort me, sort of herding me to his car. I was losing my balance as well as my patience, but suddenly I spotted a smiling fellow holding a familiar sign: "UNHCR". Rescued at last!

The driver, whose name I have forgotten, was an extremely pleasant young man. I liked him immediately. More important at the moment, however, he was quick with the air conditioner. During the 25-minute drive into the city, we chatted about his background. He was an ethnic Albanian born in Skopje, he spoke several languages, and he knew something about Alaska.

We arrived at the UNHCR office, where I introduced myself to several people, and then I was told I would take the morning shuttle on Friday to Pristina. The friendly staff pointed me toward a hotel a couple of blocks away. The driver showed me the way and carried one of my bags.

By 5 PM I was horizontal on a thin, short mattress atop a narrow wooden platform. The room seemed more like a solar-powered oven about the size of a Lincoln Town Car. I promised never, ever to leave a dog or small child in a car with the windows rolled up, even on a sunny winter day. Completely drenched, I peeled off my clothes with a modest effort. The effect was something like removing giant Post-Its. I had become a thoroughly baked Alaskan.

I had to squeeze into the microscopic bathroom, because it was far too narrow for the door to open more than a few inches. In fact, it was barely wide enough for the toilet, and there was not enough room to stand in front of the sink and bend over without banging my head on the wall. I surmised the cracked mirror was evidence that one of my predecessors had tried this feat rather unsuccessfully. Nevertheless, the bathroom had two redeeming features: a (handheld) shower, and cold water. A mountain waterfall could not have refreshed me more. I stood under the cool stream for about 15 minutes and emerged a new man.

The night reduced my discomfort to a low simmer. I slept well until about 3AM, when a long, sorrowful caterwaul from below my open window caused me to wake. At last, though, I sensed cool air drifting in. I felt relaxed, and I was quite awake by the time the noise stopped. I had some time to gather my thoughts in the dark, quiet room. I thought about my home so very far way, and I wondered what the next three months in Pristina would bring. I missed my wife and friends, yet I was anxious to meet new people in the strange land across the border. I asked myself what the heck I was doing in this part of the world again, but the question was merely rhetorical. I knew the answer. After an hour or so, I slumbered again.

Friday morning I rose early. The sun was bright. I wasn't hungry, so I skipped breakfast and proceeded directly to the UNHCR office. I piled my three bags safely out of the way near a huge cache of Albanian newspapers with the UN logo. There was nearly half an hour wait ahead, so I watched shopkeepers washing and sweeping their sidewalks, getting ready for the day's business.

A well-dressed woman pursed her lips and made funny noises in the air, attempting to coax her uncooperative terrier along the arcing, tree-lined avenue. Workers marched with purpose towards downtown, many with backpacks or small bags in hand. Two men on a bench locked arms, then hugged and tugged at each other playfully while chatting in French. The city was awakening on many fronts, just as I was. After weeks of life-sapping tedium and fretting over preparations to leave, I felt reinvigorated. The adrenaline pumped, and my mind was focused on the adventure ahead. At last I was on a new mission.

About 8:10 a strange-looking mini-bus arrived, pulled up on the sidewalk, and stopped. The driver sat inside for a few minutes, hardly moving, but I assumed he and his vehicle were my means to Pristina. Finally he opened the door and walked over to the UNHCR office and disappeared for several more minutes. The wait was interminable. I was ready to go, dammit! The driver returned with a handheld radio and attached the magnetic antenna to the hood. He and three security men from the office started loading the half-ton of newspapers. One of the French-speaking men and I helped, so we could get underway as soon as possible. Right on time , we pulled away and headed north towards the border.

The only passengers were those of us who had helped to load the papers. I introduced myself to Mustafa, the Frenchman, who said he worked in the information office. He had been a journalist and wanted a little change. The security men and the driver conversed amongst themselves in a local language. I was too fresh to differentiate Macedonian from Albanian and all the others.

As we left the plains around Skopje and gained altitude, Mustafa told me of his hair-raising travels through Albania on narrow, broken mountain roads at night. He said we could tell we were within one or two miles of the border when we saw a queue of trucks headed north. Cargo trucks sometimes take days to clear through customs.

The road continued into the mountains and became narrow and winding, but generally satisfactory. Traffic became heavy and slower, and then the bellwether trucks appeared. The almost non-existent roadside became littered with metal skeletons of failed four-wheel travelers. It was getting hot already. The stench of diesel and fermenting rubbish was a necessary evil to endure, since the mini-bus didn't have air conditioning. To our right, small groups of smoking men huddled in precious patches of shade. The terrain dropped dramatically to our left into a deep canyon. The rugged real estate left little room for breakdowns or errors.

Finally we halted about 200 meters from the border. Adults and children alike mingled with the traffic at the checkpoint, many peddling cigarettes and sodas. Others chatted with the drivers, some perhaps trying to negotiate a lift north or south. The mini-bus captain had positioned us poorly behind several large trucks that were not moving at all. We all disembarked to join the frontier festivities, except for Mustafa. He was anxious to move on to make a 10 AM meeting. He ran up to a vehicle with Medicins sans Frontieres logo just passing through the customs gate to ask for a speedier ride to Pristina. He then came back to retrieve his baggage, and off he went.

Less than half an hour later we made our own passage into the netherworld of Kosovo.

We continued northward into the mountains, the road twisting and turning sharply every couple of hundred meters. The vehicles took on a decidedly eclectic theme, almost Dali-esque. Yellowish-green Yugoslav Zastavas, camouflage military trucks, red farm tractors, dirty cargo-laden semis, white humanitarian Toyota and Nissan 4x4s, and everything else under the morning sun. Most seemed to be held together with proverbial bailing wire and chewing gum. The most unusual motorized beasts looked like a cross between a chopped Harley, a rototiller, and a wagon.

Mother Nature gives us an innate ability to sense danger, and the emergency claxon in my head went off immediately. This was no ordinary drive in the country. The people and their fantastic machines around us were abso-frigging-lutely insane. They obviously had a particularly strong penchant for passing on blind curves and hills. I believe the roads of Kosovo are training grounds for the World Chicken Championships. Operating a car here is very definitely a form of population control. The smashed and burned cars along the highway provide substantial evidence to support my theory.

Just a few minutes after passing the border we watched a southbound Audi full of people take a curve far too fast. It hit the embankment, rolled, and hurtled towards us, missing the mini -bus by less than a meter. The crash looked very bad, indeed. I started reviewing my Red Cross training in my head. Several cars stopped, but we just slowed for a bit, looked back at the horrible scene, then moved on. I have traveled widely and have experienced many dangers in foreign lands, but nothing quite like being on the road in Kosovo.

I found some solace by concentrating on the scenery instead of the road ahead. The high country eventually gave way to vast farmlands dotted with villages. Fields of corn, sunflowers, clover, and hay carpet the ground up to the edges of the surrounding mountains, as far as the eye can see. Some crops looked neglected, but many were not. Kosovo is rich country for farming; that much became immediately apparent. Smoke boiled into the sky from scattered places all around. Farmers were renewing the fields and pastures in preparation for fall. The pastoral picture I have painted, however, must give way to a little bit of harsh reality. The burning of the low, dry brush also serves a second purpose: to expose land mines and unexploded munitions.

The architecture looked familiar. Unsurprisingly, the red-tiled roofs of brick and stucco-like structures are similar to those in Croatia and Bosnia. Like there, too, half-finished houses of two and three stories stand like bizarre monuments to dreams suddenly interrupted. In the same vein, charred and blasted buildings are physical proof that nightmares come to life all too often.

Even as signs of destruction became more numerous with our northward trek, so did signs of hope. I felt like I was watching a newsreel. With the crudest hand implements and improvised techniques, people were digging dirt, laying lines, mixing cement, cutting lumber, setting glass, and spreading paint. Auto repair shops, of which there must be several hundred between Pristina and Skopje, were doing a brisk business. One fellow had set up in a nice place offering shiny, new wheelbarrows for sale. The petrol stations along the way had been largely ransacked and destroyed, yet the intrepid have set up makeshift delivery systems using jerry cans, two-liter plastic bottles, and various other containers.

In short, my first impressions of Kosovo can be described in terms synonymous with amazement. It's prettier than I had imagined, especially looking beyond the roadside litter and wartime destruction. Moreover, the vigor with which these people seem to be pursuing normalcy seems almost superhuman. This is especially impressive considering it has been only a few weeks since th e war ended.

In approaching the city from the south, the topography creates the illusion of an endless plain edged with mountains to east and west. There are few clues that a population center with several hundred thousand residents is couched there. A careful observer would eventually see the optical trick for what it is. Tall power pylons several kilometers away drop and vanish, as if into a hole. The car approaches a slight ridge, and the urban architecture becomes suddenly visible in a very dramatic away.

Pristina lies in a bowl with the lowest point being more-or-less the city center. The high-rise buildings in various states of repair are mainly apartments. Red brick, drying laundry, and Albanian graffiti decorate most. Red-tiled homes hang on the surrounding hillsides. Their gardens with roses, grapes, and fruit trees -- plum, pear, and apple -- give a very tiny hint of Babylon. The most pervasive signs of modern technology are the countless small satellite TV dishes serving up programs from all over Europe and the Middle East.

The exit to the city center gives way immediately to a traffic circle, where about two dozen petrol vendors display their wares in plastic bottles and metal cans. Diesel and a couple of grades of gasoline are available. Several would-be human torches sit atop or next to the fuel containers enjoying the warm summer weather and smoking cigarettes. I doubt Dante could describe the conflagration if and when it ever takes place.

Sidewalks are transformed into sales stalls with tables stacked high with cigarettes, cassettes, and miscellaneous junk. Not far from the traffic circle, concrete steps lead to a huge open-air market for even more adventurous shoppers. There, fruit, hardware, toys, tools, and household items can be found, although quality and quantity are highly variable.

The UNHCR office is in a small compound smack in the middle of town, adjacent to a former sports center and the stadium. A dozen or so white, 4WD trucks with UN logo and strange antennas pack the parking lot. Four shipping-containers-turned-offices form two opposite sides of the compound, and a relatively new steel fence takes care of the remaining access points. The seven-story (by European count) building teams with activity, much of which seems to be repair. Some offices lack windows, marble stairs are cracked or missing, and everything needs a good cleaning and paint job. Several satellite TV dishes sit atop the covered walkway in front, and tiny satphone antennas perch on the southern window ledges. The roof is an aluminum garden with wires, masts, dishes, and cables springing like shrubbery from every available toehold.

Sensory assaults abound. Pungent smoke from burning rubbish permeates the heavy, steamy air. Cars and military trucks belch blue clouds of half-burnt benzin. Sometimes I can even taste it. The constant din of people yelling, doors slamming, hammers banging, and radios blaring makes my head throb. My skin burns from the relentless heat. (Friday afternoon was even hotter than the day before in Skopje.)

Traffic is thick and dangerous, like a venomous snake ready to strike. Pedestrians risk everything to cross its path. The sidewalks are hardly safer than the streets. Drivers frequently take advantage of the less crowded paths and softer, more easily intimidated "targets".

When I arrived on Friday morning, the marginally organized chaos at the office reminded me eerily of my arrival in Zagreb, five and a half years before. This time, however, I wasn't quite so intimidated. I knew the routine. I walked immediately into a room marked "ADMIN" and presented myself to the most senior person I could find. Rose, a pleasant African woman, explained to me a few details then pointed me towards the finance corner. I arranged for a cash advance, then proceeded to security for quick overview of the situations in town and around the countryside.

Eventually I found my way to the radio room. It is on the top floor, of course. The long climb is enough to leave most anyone breathing heavily. (I believe I can estimate with great certainty the level of discomfort an overweight, out-of-shape, middle-aged man would feel when attempting this feat on a hot summer day.) After catching my breath, I introduced myself to the two operators on duty, one British and the other a Norwegian. After a pleasant welcome, I received a callsign, PAPA HOTEL 8-2-2. That was the official anointing. The operators old me the boss was in the field for the day, so I would have to wait to see him in the evening.

I returned downstairs and went across to a white container at the parking lot entrance, which would be my workshop for the next three months. Inside I found Otto Sykora, a friendly, chatty fellow from Czechoslovakia via Switzerland. He was dressed in his standard "uniform": a t-shirt, blue overalls, and a blue baseball cap decorated with UNHCR logo in white. We exchanged the usual background information, and I found he had been working missions on and off in Africa, Turkey, and Afghanistan. In "real life " he works for a small electronics company in Basel.

By noon or one o'clock I was beginning to feel severely fatigued from the heat, no food for more than 24 hours, and clearly not enough water. I could tell staying hydrated would be a major challenge in this weather. I had been warned off drinking tap water, because the system does not yet work very well, and I had not yet had a chance to buy some. The little water I had brought with me from Skopje had long since evaporated from my pores.

Otto and I walked several blocks to a small, packed restaurant called the Centrum. I had trouble keeping oriented. The route was not difficult, but watching him, keeping an eye on threatening cars, and dodging passersby kept my attention fully occupied. Street vendors had their wares displayed on tables on the sidewalk: cartons of cigarettes stacked creatively in pyramids, cassettes lined up in neat rows like dominoes, and souvenir Kosovar flags and banners dancing in the hot, light breeze.

Inside, two men worked diligently and with lightning speed over the sizzling grill. Two waiters in white shirts made up the remaining staff. I recognized one thing on the short menu: doner kebab. Done! I ordered an orange Fanta soda and a yogurt drink recommended by Otto. About ten minutes later our food arrived. The plateful of thinly sliced meat seemed almost insignificant compared to the mountain of bread the waiter delivered. I ate and drank everything without hesitation. I even ordered a second Fanta.

After lunch I met two our two local technicians, Fahredin (Dini), and Driton (Toni). Dini is affable and handsome in a Harvey Keitel sort of way. He has friends everywhere. Otto says that wherever he goes with Dini, people stop on the street to shake his hand. He is apparently famous on the handball circuit as a player and a referee. I think he's around 35-40. His English is not very good, but we don't have much trouble communicating. Toni is around 25, boy-ish and quiet. He studied economics in the university, so this telecoms business is entirely new to him. His English is excellent.

In mid-afternoon I walked across the street to snag a room at the "Sloboda" (aka UNMIK) hotel, which is actually within the "UN Mission in Kosovo" compound. (UNMIK basically provides some civil government functions here.) For $30 a night, I got a bare room with shower. Even the mirrors have been stripped from the walls. A nice touch, though, are two pots of African violets on the tiny desk. Folks tell me the rooms are just as basic at the so-called Grand Hotel, but there the rate is double. My plans are to hunker down here for a week or two until I get the lay of the land and find a flat or room to rent.

Until a few days ago, the regional telecoms officer (RTO) was Richard Sambrook, my old boss in Zagreb back in 1994. I was looking forward to seeing Richard, but I found he had returned to Islamabad. Alain Crausaz, the new RTO, arrived about 1800. There was a perfunctory introduction, and I also met Mark Oppenheim, another technician who had been with Alain in the field Friday. Alain had been RTO in the Great Lakes. Apparently he has some business to finish there and will be gone for a couple of weeks.

I had some hint from Otto that there was trouble between him and Mark, and I saw immediately why. I have never met anyone who has gone so far out of his way to be a bigger asshole. I wanted to punch Mark in the nose within five minutes of our first meeting. Nevertheless, I have to work with the guy for the next couple of months, and my personal challenge is to find the right mechanism to deal with him. Whatever anyone thinks about him, they can't say he's not (painfully) honest about how he feels. That's someone with whom I can work, because he's straightforward and predictable.

At day's end I staggered back to the hotel completely exhausted. My room was oven-hot. I opened the large window and looked westward across the city silhouetted against a burning orange sky. A thick column of smoke twisted skyward beyond the ridge. The fetid air nearly overwhelmed me with the odors of burning tires, car exhaust, and-- oddly-- something sulfurous. Suddenly thousands of blackbirds swept across the scene, punctuating its hellish nature. I expected Beelzebub to appear at any moment.

I sat on the edge of my tiny bed, bent forward, slowly unlacing my boots. Perspiration ran into my eyes. Salty rivulets snaked down my arms, and drops of sweat from my hands turned the shoe leather dark brown. Soon I found some temporary relief under the cool shower. Drying was almost superfluous, though, because within minutes I was soaked again. I picked up a chocolate bar and found its contents hopelessly melted, impossible to disentangle from the aluminum wrapper. I drank nearly two liters of water, then drifted into sleep. I didn't stir until about 6 AM.

My orientation began in earnest on Tuesday. On Sunday and Monday, Mark and I had installed a spread spectrum telephone link between the "field office" in Pristina and the main office in city center. Tuesday, however, Mark, Otto, and I hit the road to Pec (Peja), Djakovica (Gjakove), and Prizren. In part, having all the technicians in the field was a way to protest an on-going problem with open paint storage on the seventh floor, which was beginning to cause the occupants (mainly radio operators) some serious discomfort. The heat and the fumes are a threatening combination.

The westward trek to Peja takes about an hour and a half. The road is generally good and traverses mainly flat terrain with only a few hills. The only significant obstacle is a two-kilometer detour around a bombed-out bridge. The signature of one NATO bomb-- a 10-meter crater-- is quite evident near a secondary bridge, which was only partially damaged. Off the main road, the path becomes very rough, muddy, and too narrow for more than one vehicle in places. Traffic can quickly come to a stand still. Local residents make the most of the conditions, and they have set up little kiosks at the choke points where travelers can buy drinks, fruit, and cigarettes. A young woman sells her goods from the steps of a burned building under a homemade canopy.

Along the way, villages show the usual signs of war damage, with many homes torched and holes in their walls from heavy rounds. About 30 minutes outside of Pristina, the highway passes Goles ("GO-lesh") mountain, where we have a repeater. There's also a former chicken farm, the only recognizable remains of which are twisted metal skeletons of the coops. Sheet metal, fiberglass, bits of wood, pipes, and everything else have been tossed asunder. NATO bombed the farm, because Serbian troops and materiel were supposedly hiding inside. The chicken farm abuts a major Yugoslavian army base.

Besides destruction and fresh graves, the most noticeable signs of trouble here come through the children. In some parts of the countryside, children work very hard at making a living for their families. Some sell things at the roadside, and boys frequently take on the responsibilities of working the farm and tending the herds. All the young and middle-aged men have been killed, either through fighting or genocide, and their absence underscores the something-isn't-right-here feeling that sneaks up on you slowly. Dirty, young faces that should be otherwise bright somehow seem terribly burdened when hanging over the wheel of an IMT Model 539 Deluxe tractor pulling the remaining family in a wagon behind.

We arrived in Peja around lunchtime. The setting is fantastic. The mountains leading to Montenegro drop sharply to the valley floor. From a distance, the granite cliffs look like waterfalls.

The Italians run this sector, and the KLA are quite evident in "assisting". We turned off into the main part of town and noticed a KLA soldier hopping out of the car in front greeting someone. His nickel-plated pistol was quite obvious, even though supposedly their guns were to have been turned in by now, or at least KLA troops aren't supposed to walk around armed.

After meeting Jesper, the Danish radio operator, we did a quick inspection of the station and vehicles parked out front. He then took us to lunch at a small kebab house (qebaptore) about a five-minute walk from the office. It's just a few doors down from "Labia International", one of the many strange and humorous business names in Kosovo. We watched the cook fan the flames of his wood grill with a hair dryer, which apparently spreads less ash than a good set of bellows. Then we ate heartily on a typical meal of small, grilled burger-like patties and bread. Peja is famous for its beer, which is currently in production, but I understand the quality is not yet quite up to standard. I decided to wait to try it and drank a Fanta instead.

Gjavoke, about 45 minutes beyond Peja, is unremarkable, except the UNHCR staff are extremely friendly. They always have coffee ready for telecoms technicians!

Prizren is spectacular by almost any measure, however. The city suffered minimal damage during the war, subsequently preserving its many historical buildings. Prizren rests at the foot of the mountains with phenomenal postcard vistas. A Turkish fort stands guard from a cliff above the old part of town, where it keeps watch on the beautiful mosque near the river below. (There are also several mass burial sites nearby, one of which is barely visible from the road to Gjakove.)

Today we visited Urosevac (Ferizaj) and Gnjilane to the south and southeast, respectively. American KFOR troops in this region are the dominant force, and they seem immensely popular with most of the local population. Graffiti and homemade signs heap praises like "Thank you, Bill Clinton!" and "God Bless America!" By the way, if anyone has any question about the American's commitment to remain here "as long as we are needed," they need only to view "Camp Bondsteel", a huge facility under construction on a hilltop about half way to Gnjilane. The going joke is that the American commander was asked how long they would stay in Kosovo, and he answered, "Three years longer than the Turks ." (I have also heard the joke applied to the Germans.)

Vendors choke Gnjilane's sidewalks, just as the traffic does its main streets. Near the main square I watched a US soldier tie the hands of four long-faced young men, search them, and assist them into the back of a truck. Two other soldiers stood guard. We crawled through the city for about half an hour, until finally arriving at the UNHCR office in the eastern outskirts. My old friend Tom Hannon, whom I knew in Zagreb, is the radio operator. Unfortunately, he was away on leave when I arrived, and reminiscing would have to wait for another visit.

It's 11:35 PM. As I write this, there is some sort of noisy demonstration going on outside the hotel, which now seems to be evolving into a full rave, complete with disco lights and techno music. Trucks and cars full of young people have been driving around the area for hours, and now they have settled across the street at the old sports center. The hotel is actually in a UN compound, which affords some minor protection from trouble. The guards would be quickly and easily overrun, but the razor wire should deter a few from venturing too close.

As I indicated before, life is pretty normal here. Kind of, sort of. I mean, we can buy most things in shops now, and power and water are on almost all the time. There's still the odd reprisal here in the city, as I witnessed last night. Someone tossed a hand grenade into an apartment building not far from where I was sitting at work. (There was no danger to me.) These things are somewhat more common in the outlying areas. So far, UN staff have not been targets of hostilities, although our office has received a couple of bomb threats. Good thing I am in the field most of the time.

Tomorrow (Sunday) I am moving into a flat in a nice part of town, basically sharing a house with an Albanian family on ground and second floors, and me and a Norwegian radio op named Inge on the first floor. Someone told me the woman who has the house is from a good family. (Father was ambassador to Spain or some such.) Her ex-husband turned me on to the place. It's up on on e of the hills, which surround the city. The streets are narrow and neighborhood is quiet. THAT'S what I crave. The din of city nois e and radios all day just wears me down. I am afraid I am getting to be a bit of a fanatic about noise reduction, which explains why I hate the TV so much. I believe security to be good, since the "prime minister" of Kosovo (Thaci) has a home across the street. It would be bloody hard to get a truck bomb up the hill and into the tiny street! There's a Serbian Orthodox church down the road a few hundred yards with 24-hour KFOR guard (Brits), too. Walking will probably take me 20 minutes or so to get to work, but going home may be a bit of a challenge. In any event, I will be in very good condition when you see me next.

The NATO/KFOR troops abound around here, of course, trying to keep the lid on things. The French and I talians are in the north and west, Brits in central Kosovo (and Pristina here), Germans in the SW, US in the SE. We also see troops from Hungary, UAE, and a few other places. Except for the US troops, far and away the most popular weapon carried is based on the FN -FAL. All kinds of versions can be seen. The US troops carry M16s, and I have seen them patrolling the streets of Gnjilane with heavy Browning Automatic Rifles (BARs). (Two young GIs came into a restaurant while we were having lunch one day, and I called out to th kid carrying the heavy gun and asked him where he was from. He was really surprised to hear an American voice. He was from NJ, and he's going home in 2 months to get married.)

Hum-vees, armored personnel carriers, and similar vehicles abound with light and heavy machine guns, and then we move up to the quarter-scale German tanks used for urban fighting. The Germans have some heavy tanks, too, but THEN we get to the US M1 Abrams tanks, which take the cake. In the air we see mostly helicopters, with those old Bell gunships still making the rounds. I saw a couple of Russian MI-??? heavy helos yesterday, and even an MI-8 with UN logo.

I walk past a British emplacement almost daily, and the smell of gun oil and burlap (from sandbags) is almost intoxicating. It's funny, but I get a little bit of a rush from it.

I have seen the country several times over. It's a very pretty place with friendly folks (so far). Lot s of work to do to get this place back in order, but they are pursuing reconstruction with tremendous enthusiasm. The scenery up against the mountains is fantastic. In Pec (aka Peja) in the west, the mountains drop down about 4000 feet very suddenly. They look almost impassable into Montenegro. Prizren in the SW is also in a very beautiful setting with wonderful mountain vistas. Yesterday we f easted on blackberries from on top of a mountain near Mitrovica. It is just a fantastic place with people living 2000 feet above the valley floor. You have to drive a single-track, muddy road to get up there. Four-wheel drive big time!

There are many disturbing images, too, just as one would expect. Driving up to Mitrovica yesterday I spotted 20 n ew graves on a hillside several hundred yards off the highway. Along the road to Prizren is a place where they just found another mass grave site where 50+ people are buried. Outside of Peja there's a little village in a wonderful pastoral setting but with mines all around. There were six new graves by the road, including two little ones. Last week, coming out of Mitrovica on the Muslim side o f town, I spotted a car under KFOR guard coming out of a Serbian cemetary. There was one middle-aged woman weeping with such indescribable pain on her face. This picture particularly moved me, and I find it hard to get out of my head. I suppose it caught me off guard. My defenses are not yet full strength, I guess.

Today the weather was very fine and sunny, so Dini, one of the local techs, declared we should have a picnic. Five of us (Otto, me, Dini, Toni, and John Fung-Loy) piled into the truck and took off about 3PM. We stopped at Dini's house and got th e grill, then we went to a local park to feast on chicken and meat patties and beer. It was great. Dini took us on a detour, ostensibly to show us a neat swimming pool and water park, but a side aspect was to view the local "parking spot". We saw two couples having sex, which of course, I enjoyed immensely.

Today all of us except Mark went to Gnjilane. About 20 km from town, we suddenly ran into a major the traffic jam. Every vehicle had halted completely. Curiosity got the better of us after several minutes, and John led the march to investigate the holdup. Several hundred meters ahead, we noticed a couple of KFOR vehicles parked near what seemed to be yet another car accident. This one left us stunned, however.

An Opel had apparently attempted to pass on a blind curve – ironically between two cemetaries -- and smacked head -on into a dump truck. The truck sustained little damage, but the car had been completely – and I mean absolutely, positively – flattened, just as if it had been in a junkyard crusher. Next to the road lay four bodies, two adults and two children. The crushed corpses had little resemblance to anything except bloodied heaps of clothing. The driver had been decapitated. We cursed him for murdering the two children.

Tonight there is gunfire all around Pristina. Explosions, too. Hand grenades, I think. The sounds are familiar. Most, if not all, are celebratory in a defiant sort of way. I have just returned from dinner and drinks downtown. There was shooting just outside Punto's, where I sat enjoying some bizarre Albanian senses of humor and Johnnie Walker Red Label.

Today has been a tense day around the city. The overall mood is very ambivalent. The international staff have bee n warned to keep a low profile as of noon today. Midnight Sunday is the deadline for the KLA to turn over their weapons and uniforms as the final acts to disband. This afternoon they held a huge rally and marched to the stadium just a few steps from the UNHCR office. We were told to stay off the streets pretty much until Monday. The concern has been not so much to avoid attacks on us, but rather to avoid getting caught in any crossfire or catching a stray bullet. It is possible that Belgrade has sent provocateurs or saboteurs, who could make trouble in Paradise.

I left work before one o'clock mainly to avoid the traffic jams as people converged on the city center. I bought a few basics like water, yogurt, and juice at a shop near the office. I hadn't eaten today, but I intended to pick up some items for my daily meal at the shop only 35 meters from my house. Unfortunately, the shop had closed by the time I decided to venture out. I was really hungry, but I had to make do with what I had until the evening. I had originally planned to stay home, but then my roommate Inge convinced me we should go out for a meal.

Everyone, it seemed, had taken the afternoon off to witness history in the making and to honor those who had fought for freedom here. Kosovar Albanian flags ¾ with a black, two-headed eagle on a field of red ¾ decorated shops and street corners. Cars jammed with celebrants blasted horns and drove wildly around town, even in the quiet streets of my neighborhood. The patriots, men in camo-green and red-and-yellow insignia, assembled by the hundreds near the PTT building. Children emulated their heroes in dress and manner. It's great to see the people enjoying freedom for the first t ime in ten years.

I trekked to Gjakove (Djakovica) today to finish some grounding for the HF systems and to re-program a VHF mo bile radio. Our circuit took us through Peja (Pec), slammed against the beautiful mountains forming the border with Montenegro. There we dropped a new radio operator, a Finn named Errki (I think). Jesper returned to the Danish submarine service last week.

A few kilometers west of Peja, Nasser and I came across a one-car accident. At first we noticed an Italian KFOR M P parked just inside our lane. A few meters beyond I saw the blue Mistubishi Pajero, its hood and roof slammed together. Beside the MP I saw a classic blue tarp neatly folded in a large rectangle. A man’s trousered left leg poked out from beneath, as did an elbow dressed in a white shirt with vertical dark stripes. The black, buckled high-top was turned ankle-side down. Thick, currant-colored liquid pooled underneath.

I really enjoy being in the field, but I have come to realize the riskiest thing I do here is get into a car. For get mines and snipers. Fieldwork means driving, and driving could spell serious trouble. Like anything with a major element of risk, I can’t think about it all the time. If I did, I couldn’t do my job. I accepted certain facts of a mortal life when I agreed to com e here. I love my work, so I am compelled to do it. And I must confess that, in an adrenaline-junky way, I love surviving the danger s. A safe return from a successful field trip leaves me truly satisfied.

At Gjakove I discovered the dead man’s name way Benny, a local staff member for an NGO. He was apparently a passenger. The driver had extremely serious injuries. A KFOR helicopter medevaced him from Peja to Pristina.

On the way home we saw the remains of another accident. An ambulance had front-ended another car. There were no deaths in that one. A lucky day for everyone involved. I felt really glad to get home.

I don’t hear gunfire every night, but when I do, I hardly give it a second thought. I’m aware of it, and some how I think I will always know when it is hostile towards me. Nevertheless, I have a brief moment of careful, almost excruciating assessment, and then go about my business. It’s worse when the power is out, though. The city becomes pitch black, save for a few lonely, generator-driven lights, rubbish fires, and those few cars actually driving with headlights. Tonight the only sounds are the crickets and the dull rumble of a warm Saturday night when people are ready to celebrate the week’s end. Faint music begins to drift in to my candle-lit living room. A single car slowly passes nearby. An infant cries next door.

BLAM BLAM BLAM!!! Heavy caliber, maybe 300 meters distant. PHRRRRRRRRRRT! Full auto. BLAM BLAM!!! I wonder if the First Royal Irish guarding the church down the hill have run into trouble. Is the shooting getting closer? Do I hear anything else unusual? Jeezus, I must be crazy to leave behind my comfortable home in Alaska.

Yet this is my home for now, and I have all the comforts to prove it: satellite television (when there’s electric ity), cushy furniture (sleep on couch), a wood-fired oven (dangerous?), an electric stovetop (never cook), a nice garden (never see it – always working), and even hot-and-cold running water (sometimes). So the "aura" and mystique of a deeply injured city settling scores could be considered a nice perk. After all, people pay good money for "adventure holidays", and here I am getting paid to actually live one for three months. Pretty amazing!

R&R at last! My plans to visit Dubrovnik on the Croatian coast had been disrupted by transport complications. Naser, our telecoms driver, asked me where I was going instead, and I told him, "Due south, until I can’t go any more!" I stopped at water’s edge in Thessaloniki, Greece’s second largest city. I had hoped to continue to the island of Skiathos, but upon arrival, I found the sailing schedule prevented me from leaving until Wednesday night. I decided to stay here and investigate what this beautiful city had to offer.

I left Fairbanks exactly six weeks ago. I am half way through my contract. There have been some changes in me, some expected, others not. I have lost three inches from my waistline, my arms and face are deeply tanned, I have two blood blisters on my right palm, my hands are like sandpaper, and my tongue is even coarser. Gallons of sweat, aching muscles, scratches, cuts, filth, hunger, and thirst comprise the daily price I pay to do this work. I get paid very little, yet I look back and find far more signs of success (and hence satisfaction) in the last month and a half than in the previous four years. There is nothing remarkable in what I do, but the results themselves are sometimes remarkable. I mean, when I attach a connector to a cable and plug it in, magic happens for some, and they frequently appreciate it... and put it to good use.

Long ago I concluded that my role in the universe is to help people solve problems, not to stroke someone's ego, nor to provide the rationalization for some hare-brained scheme. Anyone who thinks it is the latter two can kiss my ass. The last five or six years have helped bring focus on real issues. I have faced snipers, crossed mined bridges, driven the roads of Kosovo, and even squared off with cancer. Now, the dangers I have faced have not been so great, but facing one's fears-- particularly those with potentially fatal consequences-- builds a healthy perspective. I have come to appreciate the many ways and the speed with which my life can end, the value in what I have achieved, and what I can contribute to those around me. As a consequence, I consider my time here on earth far too valuable to piss away on pointless exercises of mental masturbation. The greatest challenge I face is how to avoid this waste when I return home.

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10 - A Kosovo Log, 1999