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I am smart and well informed.  At least, that’s what I’d have you believe.  I know what’s going on in the world and pay attention to the news.  That’s what I though until recently, anyway.

I split from the rest of FBR a week ago and dropped Netzy off in Skopje, Macedonia.  I then proceeded North, towards Belgrade.  My map showed no international borders after the Serbian/Macedonian border.  I knew I’d be going through Kosovo, and that they might actually have their own border procedures, but I didn’t think it would be an issue.

The passport control officer smiled warmly at me.  “Ah, you are American!” he said.  This was the response I had expected.  It was due mainly to American pressure that we started an air war that had stopped Serbia’s effort to evict ethnic Albanians from Kosovo in 1999.  He had buzz cut greying hair and explained half in English and half in Albanian that Serbia wouldn’t let me back in with a Kosovo stamp.  “He recommends you go along the Adriatic sea.  Why not, it’s beautiful!”  Said a translator who had come over to help.

What?  I was hoping for a simple, easy, northern route to Belgrade.   The Adriatic Sea would take me far out of the way.  I explained I was trying to meet friends.  “You can’t just go however you want to Belgrade, they might not let you through,” said the translator.  The border guard shuffled through some papers, grinning slightly with the smile of the cheerfully helpful.  Finally, the translator told me, “He recommends you go through gate 5.  He’s not sure if it will work, but you can try.”

Wonderful!  Gate 5?  What on earth is that?

I eventually figured it out.  The bit of news I had missed or overlooked earlier this year was that Kosovo declared independence from Serbia in February of 2008.  “It’s a new state,” in the words of the translator.  No wonder my old map lacked a border crossing.  Kosovo has been administered by the U.N. since NATO bombed Serbia to dissuade them from ethnic cleansing the area in 1999.  You may remember something about U.S. troops being positioned there as part of  peace keeping force. Serbia opposed Kosovo’s independence, hence their hesitancy to acknowledge it by allowing anyone with Kosovo stamps into their own country.  China, Russia and many other countries do not recognize Kosovo.

The border guard gave me a slip of paper with a Kosovo stamp, which I was to hand in upon exiting Kosovo, thus avoiding problems from the Serbs.   I stood around with the border guard and the translator in the shade of the customs building awning.  “We love Americans here,” said the translator.  “Americans understand something about freedom, and it was mostly the Americans- and a few other countries as well-who helped us gain independence.”

The border guard asked me about my trip.  I listed the countries, and his eyebrows arched in appreciation for the distance I’d come.  He smiled and his eyes twinkled, then he said in English: “I am a paratrooper.  I did ten jumps by parachute, and three by glider.”  I didn’t ask him under what circumstances, but I don’t imagine he would have been so excited about training jumps.

The whole way through Kosovo I was dogged by traffic and small roads.  I met a reporter who quizzed me at length on my journey.  A gas station attendant gave me a free water.

By 7:30pm, dusk approached quickly, but I had not yet made it to the border.  Now I had to try to find a site close to an international border-never really where one wants to camp.  I pulled off on a dirt track and sniffed around for a site.  A farmer rumbled up to me on a tractor.  He shut it off as he came abreast of me.  “What are you doing here?” he gestured.  I gave him the regular speel.  I’m American, I’m biking from China to Paris and it’s getting dark and I’m looking for a place to camp so is it all right if I camp here?  He pointed to the land.  “This is my land.  If they find you here, I’ll get in trouble.” He swatted himself on the back and winced with the pain of those punished by the authorities.  I thanked him for his time and moved on.

A man and a teenager flagged me down a little way down the road.  I stopped to talk with them.  They both spoke English, though they had to scratch their heads and consult a great deal before bringing out some phrases, though they did so with great enthusiasm.  I explained what they wanted to know, which was what the heck I was doing.  “This is Serbian Kosovo,” said one, and laughed.  “We are Serbs.”  I asked how it was to be a Serb in Kosovo.  He bobbed his head and rolled his hand about levelly to indicate a so-so situation.  “Now, no war, so a little better,” he said finally.  He made as if holding a rifle and imitated a machine gun burst.  “Not so much shooting now,” he said, and laughed a big belly laugh.  Before I could ask them about camping on their land, they had disappeared into the night with their wheel barrow.

I finally found a spot, not more than a kilometer from the Kosovo checkpoint.  It was near a crick.  A dog barked shrilly and I worried I would disturb those living nearby, but I slept fitfully, and crossed the border the next day.

On the way out, many signs warn: “You are leaving Kosovo KFOR personnel turn back.”  KFOR is the U.N. force that has occupied Kosovo since the Serbs pulled out in 1999.  I saw one U.S. military base and several groups of hummers.  I waved enthusiastically, but they seemed to be going too fast to note my attempt at troop support.

Before I reached the Serbian checkpoint, I passed a convoy of parked armored Serbian military vehicles.  Soldiers stood outside, heavily armed and clutching their machine guns at the ready.

At the checkpoint the passport control office greeted me with a slightly surly attitude.  He paged carefully through my stamp pages, and joked bitterly about my being a terrorist (the beard).  “You’re coming from Kosovo?” he scoffed at the word “Kosovo”.  Soon enough I was through, out of the border region and back to the normal country and normal people.  I had tried to research this trip well before starting, but sometimes you just can’t research everything.

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 2nd, 2008 at 4:32 am and is filed under Jim's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.