It all started with the piercing grey-green eyes of one man.
Through a guarded demeanour, he stared at Pete as we wandered along the bus station.
Through a guarded demeanour, he stared at Pete as we wandered along the bus station.
As the low, early morning sun creeped across the cracked pavement of the bus platform in south-eastern Serbia, the handful of individuals warmed themselves in the golden light. A weariness was etched in their faces. The strain of a hard life. Small, worn bags. Simple, muted clothes. People who travel to visit family in small towns. Or travel long distances for work in parts of the world we know hardly anything about.
The extent of our knowledge of Kosovo was woefully poor. We barely even know if it is a ‘real’ country. Google Maps, our holy grail of worldly advice paints a ‘dotted line’ border with Serbia to the north, Macedonia to the south and Albania to the west. What does that even mean?
Inquisitive Serbians avert their eyes and quietly finalise ‘We don’t go there’, when we mention our travel route. The recent history of Kosovo conjures images of 1990’s news reports. Huge displacement of people and loss of life. We don’t really know what to expect.
The extent of our knowledge of Kosovo was woefully poor. We barely even know if it is a ‘real’ country. Google Maps, our holy grail of worldly advice paints a ‘dotted line’ border with Serbia to the north, Macedonia to the south and Albania to the west. What does that even mean?
Inquisitive Serbians avert their eyes and quietly finalise ‘We don’t go there’, when we mention our travel route. The recent history of Kosovo conjures images of 1990’s news reports. Huge displacement of people and loss of life. We don’t really know what to expect.
This destination guide was inspired by our article, 15 things you should probably know before travelling to Kosovo. Have a read of it here.
Our plan is to transit through the country, pausing only to gawk at the striking National Library of Priština. But the region had other plans for us - we had a lot to discover - and if travel lends itself to anything, it’s to embrace the unexpected and learn all about your surroundings. We were soon to experience that Kosovo-Albanians were some of the warmest people we would come to meet on our travels. Not only rich in culture and sights, but Kosovo would lure us to Albania - one of the most interesting countries in the Balkans and perhaps even one of our favourites.
So we wandered up to our fading bus, with tickets in hand to a place called Graçanicë (a Serbian-majority town about 20km’s south-east of the capital of Kosovo, Priština). It isn’t possible to buy tickets directly to Priština (as it has an Albanian majority) and so our instructions are to jump off on the side of the road as we pass the Priština bus station.
So we wandered up to our fading bus, with tickets in hand to a place called Graçanicë (a Serbian-majority town about 20km’s south-east of the capital of Kosovo, Priština). It isn’t possible to buy tickets directly to Priština (as it has an Albanian majority) and so our instructions are to jump off on the side of the road as we pass the Priština bus station.
A reoccurring theme throughout our time in Kosovo was that of the warm-hearted people. From our hostel owner, to bus trips with strangers, to bored guards and restaurant owners, the people of Kosovo were reserved at first, but with the slightest bit of encouragement, eagerly opened up and were surprisingly engaging.
Suad, an Albanian-Kosovo miner by trade befriended us quickly - before we had even boarded the bus. A kind man with friends and family spanning Serbia and Kosovo (in its various forms), he talked enthusiastically but critically of the past and future of the region as we meandered through the rolling fields of the southern Balkans. His life encompasses a peculiar duality - not only linguistically, but with the relationships he’s built up over the years.
As we crossed the border from Serbia into Kosovo (a mere document-checking formality), he revealed interesting little nuances of everyday life; his two sim cards, his requirement to always have ID with him, and making sure to use the correct greeting on his phone depending which side of the border he is on. He points out revealingly when other people have also switched greetings during the hour-and-a-half long bus ride. History has taught him to be wary of the people around him.
We arrive in Priština and jump off onto the multi-laned highway and Suad insists on buying us coffee at his favourite place. We’re surprised - the macchiato is top notch, and is only the first in a very happy caffeine experience for these two Australians. Kosovo coffee is where it’s at. Italy, eat your heart out.
We chat more and more, but when we ask more about the displacement of people during the war, his demeanour changes immediately. Eyes become glassy and his voice becomes gravelly. It has been barely 16 years since the worst of the war, and the fresh scars of Kosovo are much nearer the surface than we imagined. We quickly change topics, but the lesson is there. Politics is very current in this fledgling nation, and we’re totally out of our depth.
Priština itself isn’t the prettiest of cities. But it is full of some unusually beautiful people. We wander the streets and are, well, kind of surprised at a few things:
Everyone is really young
70% of the population of Kosovo is under the age of 35, and it’s one of the first things we noticed wandering around - everyone is out, looking good and has amazingly styled hair.
Unemployment is really high
With a demographic lean this big, employment prospects aren’t great. We chatted to a web designer student, Arnauld, who was well aware of his predicament. He’s learned the skills to design, but lacks the support of middle and senior designers to filter down on-the-ground knowledge. There’s an entire experiential level of industry mastery which is missing - if there are any jobs on offer at all.
Everyone hangs out at cafe’s
So it’s understandable that the multitude of cafe’s in Priština (and there really are dozens of them lining every street) are filled with people, nursing a single cold coffee or watery soft-drink for hours on end. A drink buys you a seat at a table for as long as you wish.
We had a great time in Pristina, even if there isn’t really all that much to do. The main sights are in the centre of town; the contentious Christ the Saviour Cathedral, the hate-it-or-hate-it National Library and in-progress Mother Teresa Cathedral (with its great look-out over the city) are clustered together behind the main street. The main pedestrian zones are actually quite well presented, but wandering through a few of the city parks brought us toward the edges of the city. It only takes a 10 minute walk for the streets to come apart at the seams - half collapsed buildings, destroyed pavements and unsealed roads are the norm. It’s a bleak realisation that this is where most people live. Pristina is very much in a state of rebuilding itself.
We even make it to a beer/music festival, held behind the iconic ‘Newborn’ sign. With so many well-dressed people in their early 20’s, we feel more than a little out of place, but entertain ourselves to the Albanian rock music playing. But most evenings are spent catching up on our travels - the White Tree Hostel we’re staying at has a chilled out vibe going on. They even hold a Game of Thrones night where travellers and locals alike fill the outdoor space and catch up on the series. It’s a regular Monday-night thing, and yet another way for people to connect and socialise in the city.
We decide on a whim to extend our time in Kosovo and visit Rugova Gorge, a national park in the mountainous west which extends into neighbouring Albania and geographically into Montenegro. Before the bus even pulls away, the burly man in front of us opens conversation with a curious American twang.
“You guys speak English? Aww man, that’s good to hear!”
We don’t have to read between the lines too carefully to realise that Jay (as we’ll call him) has a sketchy past. He’s a self-made man. Albanian by heritage, he moved to Detroit as a teenager and made a lot of money very quickly. He spent his 20’s in a lavish, cash-orientated lifestyle in various countries before realising that having permanent residency in a stable country is a ticket to happiness.
Jay is putting together the plans to import a a few legitimate - if quirky - items into the economy. They are the kind of things you don’t realise are missing from a normal city, but in one that’s patching up the holes and rebuilding at lightning speed, there are - simply put - a lot of opportunities.
But like Suad, he’s quick to point out the heavy state of corruption. Jay stands to make a lot of money if he plays his cards right. And a lot of that money will go into signatures and approvals.
“You like to eat? Man, the food here is great. But the people, they don’t eat. I love me some great food.”
Jay’s appetite matches his muscly physique and it’s on the topic of food that he reveals another tidbit of Kosovo-Albanian code of conduct. We wonder why that, despite how well we’re treated, people seem to have a permanent suspicious look on their faces. If people are so friendly and chatty, why is the air so.. cold?
"Guests. God. Family. In that order”, Jay reveals.
In a quirk of societal conduct, we’ve stumbled across a hierarchy of respect.
“You don’t wanna hear how the they talk to each other. It’s horrible. No respect at all.”
Jay is critical of the Albanian to Albanian conversation. It’s something that’s confirmed with arm-waving gusto by our hostel owner in Priština.
“Yeah, they just talk down at each other. They don’t use the polite versions of words. It’s just how it is. It’s horrible, man.”
We arrive in Peja, a small town near Rugova Gorge. It’s the typical collection of Soviet apartment blocks made pretty by the striking green mountains nearby. We quickly star our unmarked bus stop on our phones to ensure we can find our way back later in the day. Patchy clouds move quickly overhead as we pass some amusingly dated fashion stores and we find a cafe for our 11am van Lint tradition - cake and coffee time. Our overeager waiter attends to our every whim as the newly renovated - and unnervingly brightly coloured space fills up with heavily wrinkled smoking men. It’s a strange contrast, but fuelled on enough cream, sponge-cake and sugar to survive a weeks trek in the mountains, we walk through town toward the Patriarch of Pec, a UNESCO-listed Serbian island.
The monastery is the holiest of holies to the Serbian Orthodox church - akin to the Vatican - and politically isolated, tucked far away against the Kosovo border of Albania. And so the compound is surrounded by barbed wire, and has a permanent KFOR peacekeeper guards. With passports checked, we walk inside the remarkably serene oasis. The gardens are meticulously tended - the highlight being a 800 year old Mulberry tree, but the real highlight is the striking Church of the Holy Apostles. Built back in 1266, it’s full of vivid frescos and the kind of place you’ll develop a kink in your neck from craning upward at awkward angles.
Back with the guards, we gesticulated widely that we wanted a taxi to drive us around Rugova Gorge. It was one of those situations where anything could have happened, yet 10 minutes later, a large-bellied man in an old hat and an even older Volkswagen pulled up. In we jumped and the next hour was a chaotic mixture of us shouting “Photo! Stop!” and him responding “No problem! No problem!”, with both of us saying place names with completely different pronunciations.
Want to read more about our adventure around Rugova Gorge & Peja? Emma wrote a blog post all about it. Have a read of it here.
With lush green hills and water as clear as the air is fresh, Rugova Gorge used to be the place to visit back in the day. Tourism here was big business with hikers, families and day-trippers. And you’d be forgiven for thinking it was an undiscovered wilderness today if the only research you did was the Internet. There is an unusually small amount of information online (which is partly why we decided to just hire a taxi and see what happened)
There is an occasional restaurant along a snaking road that meanders through small tunnels, mainly sticking to the river, but we see barely a handful of people the entire time. We spy a few cottages located in impossible positions high up in the mountains. The perfect retreat to write that novel, or just escape the world.
Slaloming through a herd of cows who have found themselves on the road, it’s amazing to be in forested nature after our time in the stifling concrete of Soviet-themed cities of the last weeks and so we wander down a few paths to the water and soak up the atmosphere.
We ask the taxi-driver to drop us off back in Peja at his favourite restaurant. It’s a humble, if dated, place with hearty servings of meat and potatoes. On the way back to the bus stop, we pause to admire the retro-futurist facade of an abandoned hotel, much to the amusement of the local kids on bicycles far too big for them. They dare each other to talk English with us, but it’s the one (with the biggest scar) who does the longest skids that gets the approval from his friends.
There is an occasional restaurant along a snaking road that meanders through small tunnels, mainly sticking to the river, but we see barely a handful of people the entire time. We spy a few cottages located in impossible positions high up in the mountains. The perfect retreat to write that novel, or just escape the world.
Slaloming through a herd of cows who have found themselves on the road, it’s amazing to be in forested nature after our time in the stifling concrete of Soviet-themed cities of the last weeks and so we wander down a few paths to the water and soak up the atmosphere.
We ask the taxi-driver to drop us off back in Peja at his favourite restaurant. It’s a humble, if dated, place with hearty servings of meat and potatoes. On the way back to the bus stop, we pause to admire the retro-futurist facade of an abandoned hotel, much to the amusement of the local kids on bicycles far too big for them. They dare each other to talk English with us, but it’s the one (with the biggest scar) who does the longest skids that gets the approval from his friends.
Mitrovice is a staunch mining town in the north of Kosovo, notorious for having a vibrant Serbian population on the north bank of a river, and an equally large Albanian one on the south. The New Bridge is the centrepiece and has seen far more than its fair share of violence. Although flareups have significantly dissipated over the years it’s often an ignition point for political unrest and so there’s a peacekeeping presence here.
We had an afternoon bus to our next destination - Skopje, Macedonia, and decided on a whim to wake up early and get a local bus to Mitrovice. We’d only have a few hours to explore the town, wander from one side of the bridge to the other, and check out a monument overlooking the city, but felt it was crucial to get a sense of how life could be for people who identify themselves differently, living side by side.
Plus we had a bunch of creased Serbian dinars left - we could find a cafe on the north side and load up on krofne.
We had an afternoon bus to our next destination - Skopje, Macedonia, and decided on a whim to wake up early and get a local bus to Mitrovice. We’d only have a few hours to explore the town, wander from one side of the bridge to the other, and check out a monument overlooking the city, but felt it was crucial to get a sense of how life could be for people who identify themselves differently, living side by side.
Plus we had a bunch of creased Serbian dinars left - we could find a cafe on the north side and load up on krofne.
The graffiti-covered New Bridge traverses the sad, smelly Ibar river. It’s a strange place to stand. The road is blocked off on both sides. Concrete barriers prevent anyone from driving to the north - not that you could anyway, as the small grassy enclave of a ‘peace park’ has been set up. Near the bridge, the south is surprisingly well maintained. There is construction. The roads are new. The street are, unusually for Kosovo, clean.
The interesting comparison, however, is the Serbian north. It’s a step-back in time to the 90’s. Decrepit apartment blocks loom overhead. The road in front of the bridge has literally been jackhammered and left there. Torn posters and graffiti decorate rusted facades. We pass a serious contender for The World’s Saddest Fountain.
And yet, it’s fascinating to see life go on here in with daily regularity. Old women do their shopping while young men carry tools around. People pay their bills - cars need to be fixed. We wander up the hill, past the Church of Saint Demetrius to the Mitrovice Miners monument, a memorial to those who died during World War II. It has beautiful views over the city below, and probably the largest dandelions we’ve ever seen. Standing here, surveying the city below in the baking midday sun is eerie.
Although the KFOR (Kosovo Force) Peacekeepers have been downgraded considerably over the years from expensive US-soldiers with high-tech gadgetry to more affordable Polish and French soldiers, the military presence is still there. But Kosovo is as safe to your average tourist as any other country in the region and now is a fantastic time to visit.
Kosovo is very much in a state of repair and this is often the most exciting time to visit. The country is very much looking forward (if only through the optimism of the locals). To watch Kosovo change over the next few years will be tremendous.
Here are our photos: