Fresh milk in Belgrade

Recently I spent a few days in Belgrade. How different it is from Prishtina. The streets are (more or less) clean. The air is not clogged with smoke. There's water in the tap all of the time.

And, what bliss, there is fresh milk in all the shops, for my tea and for cereal. I take back a litre with me to Prishtina, which lasts me for almost a week. What a difference it makes to my life. Such a simple thing, so easily taken for granted, and so missed when I don't have it. Oh there is fresh milk in Prishtina. It mainly comes in plastic bags that have to be snipped open with scissors. That's how milk came all over Yugoslavia at one time. What a stupid container for a liquid! It's not all that nice, and usually only lasts a day from the time of purchase, if you're lucky - sometimes it is bad when you buy it. Recently cartons of locally produced fresh milk have appeared in a few places, but to me it tastes the same as the long-life milk most people use here. I loathe long-life milk. Tea is still refreshing with it, but the taste is unpleasant. I just gulp it down quickly, no pleasure at all. Most people don't seem to have a concept of fresh milk. They seem to think it means unpasturised milk (you can buy unpasturised milk in the villages). Once a bemused shopkeeper who didn't understand what I meant by fresh milk suddenly understood: "Oh, you mean milk in a bag".

Belgrade was refreshing. So many nice places to go, nice cafes, restaurants, pleasant streets and parks to stroll in. And then it's back to Prishtina. But I mustn't be too down on the place. At least one thing is generally better here - coffee. And that is also important.

Churches and flags

Today I visited Gračanica, a Serb enclave close to Prishtina. Not much goes on on a Sunday. The market traders that line the main Prishtina-Gjilan road on other days are nowhere to be seen. That’s a shame, as the home-grown produce sold by the local Serb peasants is worth visiting for.

I strolled in a graveyard. Most of the tombstones are in a similar big, showy black marble style, with photographs of the dearly departed. It would appear that many older graves have recently been given newer stones. Most are Christian, but one stands out for me, with a five-pointed star in place of a cross. The occupant was a man who had come of age just as the communists came to power, and had presumably risen on the revolutionary tide. In placing the star on his new-looking stone, his relatives had stayed true to his communist faith. One thing that strikes me is that on many of the stones there are two names, and two pictures, but only one giving the year of death, the other left open. I think I would find it depressing to see my name and picture on my tombstone while I am still alive.

Gračanica monastery

At the centre of Gračanica is the 14th Century Orthodox monastery. It has survived fires and the removal of its lead roofing in the Ottoman period, yet still stands, its icons worn and damaged, the eyes poked out in many cases, a typical Muslim desecration. Nowadays its entrance is guarded by a couple of Swedish soldiers, razor wire topping its walls. Standing among the saints and medieval Serbian kings, the biblical scenes, one has a sense of timelessness. Some of the participants in the 1389 Battle of Kosovo, which took place not far from here, are said to have prayed in this church before the fray. It is small and intimate, enclosed, until one looks up to the small dome high above, the face of Christ looking down, as if ones attention is deliberately being drawn upwards to the heavenly.

I’ve never managed to understand the Orthodox Church. With its intense conservatism, it is an alien world. On the one hand is its rich artistic heritage, its icons and churches, its mesmerising chants that seem to connect it to a spirituality largely lost in the modern world, and consciously given up in western Christianity. On the other is the poisonous nationalism that pollutes and discredits it in the eyes of so many outsiders. In a corner of the church at Gračanica is a huge Serbian flag, wound around its wooden pole. How does the pretension to be a universal church, embodying timeless values taught by a God who is said to have created all mankind in his image sit with this narrow, chauvinistic nationalism?

I am tempted to see it as a kind of paganism, worshiping at the altar of the nation. But as I am not a part of it, I really have no idea how its adherents see their Church, their worship, their God. I have no idea what this mystical entwining of a universal faith with the body of a nation means to them. This is one of the features of religious faith. Outsiders see alien faiths largely in political terms, never properly understanding the spiritual element which is generally central for the adherents themselves. It is the same with Islam. Outsiders are scared by the massed ranks of the bowing faithful, seeing them as dangerous, threatening fanatics. Brought up as a Catholic, I am often aware that outside critics generally just don’t get what it is that Catholics are about. Without having ever experienced the simple spirituality, the heart-swelling faith in God, the hope for a better hereafter, seeing only the strange ceremonies and priestly robes, the overtly political, and sometimes discreditable role that the Church has played in history, they cannot understand that, as with other faiths, at its centre is the strange but simple belief in God. Whether or not one continues to share those beliefs, it is only those who have been on the inside who really understand them.

Serbs and bilberry juice

Today I was back in Mitrovica. It is a sad place. At each end of the famous bridge that divides the city between its Albanian south and mainly Serb north there is coiled-up barbed wire, ready to be pulled across at a moment’s notice, should there be trouble. Two NATO armoured personnel carriers sit at the northern end, with their big machine guns on top. Walking along the main road in the north, I pass a patrol of ten or so French soldiers, rifles in hand, who drop into a café on their route.

The bridge, Mitrovica

I’ve come to meet Oliver Ivanovic. He became famous in 1999 when he organised the Serb bridge watchers responsible for dividing the town. After that his image was transformed. Urbane, charming, fluent in English and Albanian, he came to be seen as a leading Kosovo Serb moderate, the favourite interlocutor for the internationals. Now a state secretary in Belgrade’s Ministry for Kosovo, he spends much of his time in the Serbian capital. He’s a busy man nowadays – I had been trying to get a meeting for weeks. Now his main battle is with the hard-line criminal elements that ran the north for years before the present government took over in mid-2008. He promises to root out corruption among the Kosovo Serbs.

Oliver is friendly, gregarious, an open smile ready on his lips. He knows who I am, and who I represent. He knows I argued for Kosovo independence years before it was declared. But he doesn’t seem to hold it against me. This is something I find strange about the Kosovo Serbs. I would expect them to hate us westerners, especially Brits and Americans. Did we not bomb them and support their Albanian enemies? Do they not see us as responsible for their misfortunes, for the loss of the territory at the centre of Serbian history and mythology? I would expect them to. Probably they do. And yet they are almost invariably friendly and hospitable towards us, welcoming us as their guests. How would I feel in their place?

I ate Prebranac (a spicy bean stew) in the restaurant I usually go to in Mitrovica. Quite tasty. I also enjoyed the homemade bilberry juice.

In a way the Kosovo Serbs’ situation is a bit like that of the whites in South Africa. Outnumbered, losing ground, a sense of siege, defensive, aware that they are widely vilified, and probably fighting a losing battle. Yet I’ve almost never found them aggressive. No doubt it would be different if I were an Albanian trying to return to north Mitrovica to reclaim my house.

Hills and rubbish

I had a Sunday afternoon walk in the hills outside Prishtina today, at Germia. It was a fine, sunny day, almost spring-like. Ahhh, for fresh air, away from the smoke of the Obilic power stations that so often chokes Prishtina, away from the dust and cheap petrol fumes of the city, away from the crow shit-spattered streets.

But one thing you cannot escape from, even in the hills, is the rubbish, the refuse with which the people of Prishtina clog up their town and even their supposed weekend beauty spots. It's everywhere in the city. Plastic bottles strewn about, trees hanging with wispy plastic bags, like some strange kind of fruit. Every scrap of green, every tree, the verges of every pavement. Dust, rubbish, crow shit, bad air, these are the things that stick in the memory about Prishtina. Crumbling stairways, general decay. Even new buildings look dilapidated almost at once.

Walking in the hills, breathing in the air, enjoying the nature, I try to avoid seeing the rubbish. The places where people sit to admire the views are invariably spoiled by cascades of plastic and paper spilling down the slopes. There is a point with a particularly fine view over planes and hills beyond. On a bright day one could see for miles and miles. It's obviously a popular spot for walkers, as one can tell by the quantities of litter thrown about.

What do these people think about when fouling their city, and even their beauty spots? It's depressing. The only mild comfort I can find is in the thought that it's not that beautiful anyway, and if they want to destroy their little patch of earth, at least they largely leave the best bits to the rest of us.

Wines and labels

Kosovo wine is returning to the UK market. According to the website of the producer, StoneCastle, its wines measure up to the best of France or Italy. Well, no they don’t. I tried the StoneCastle Merlot recently, and it was actually OK – you can drink it (with the caveat that during extended periods in this neighbourhood my palate is highly unreliable). It tasted like Merlot anyway, which is a good sign.

I tried another Merlot the same evening, from a winery owned by one of Kosovo's most prominent luminaries. According to the label, it was a 1993. My host told me he didn’t believe it. He had never seen any vintage other than 1993. Well, it certainly didn’t taste like a fifteen-year old wine. Isn’t that a great idea? What if Burgundian producers were to label all their wines for the next fifteen years as Grand Cru from 2005?

But the proliferation of private producers in the Balkans is a good thing. Slovenia is well ahead of the pack. I prefer the wines of the Goriška brda region (Collio in Italian, in this border-straddling territory). I am a long-standing fan of the Sivi pinot (Pinot Griggio) from Ščurek, and the wines of Movia are worth drinking. The wines of Croatia are as diverse as that country’s geography and climate. So far, I’ve not been convinced by the heavy reds of Dalmatia which are so admired in some quarters. They just seem very big, usually flabby, often oxidised, and uninteresting. The wines of Istria are often more restrained and refined, like those of Matošević.

But I think Montenegro is especially interesting. I’m biased – I like Montenegro. The hills between Bar and Virpazar seem particularly promising. That Montenegro has an indigenous grape variety, the Vranac, adds to the interest (it’s grown elsewhere in the Balkans, in Macedonia, Bosnia and Kosovo, but Montenegro is its real home). Several small private producers have been springing up, and some of them are really pretty good. The prices some of them go for in Podgorica shops – up to 50 Euros for a bottle last time I was there – are also an indication of how highly they are prized. It’s really quite exciting.

Mud, dust and shit

It's been raining in Prishtina, and as always, the streets are slopping with mud. When it's dry, the dust and grit blows around, getting into your hair, your eyes, your throat, making you cough. When it rains, walking the streets is a constant test, trying and failing to avoid being splattered by passing cars, mud covering your footwear, splashed up to your knees. There's always some challenge.

Worst is the gauntlet that has to be walked every evening under the trees full of cacophonous crows, avoiding the torrents of shit they send down on to hapless humans below. I've worked out a route from my office down the road to my favourite café, dodging from one bit of open, treeless space to another. There's only one point where passing beneath a tree is unavoidable. Oh how I hate them, how they torment me. Before I go to bed I have to deal with the multitude of crows that spend the night in the branches next to my fourth-floor bedroom window. If I leave them be, I get a dawn call of cawing. Flashing them with a torch works quite well, but there are usually a few hold-outs, blasé in the face of human efforts to trick them. I keep a supply of plastic bottles to throw at them. But fifteen minutes later I have to repeat the exercise with the hard cases who have returned in the meantime.

Well, this is Kosovo after all, the "Field of Blackbirds". A Serb told me recently that the crows are the souls of dead Serbs, come back to haunt the Albanians and foreigners who have taken over their sacred land. Well, apparently they are not very discriminating, as he has been their victim too. Of course, the reason for their proliferation is the filthy state of the city. But where are all the cats? Don't they have any pride, allowing their town to be taken over by birds? I can't help thinking that a few men with shot guns one morning could wreak havoc among them. I'd volunteer.

Serb enclaves

Yesterday I went to Mitrovica. It was grim. After the recent troubles (a Serb youth stabbed, a café bombed, firemen attacked, a journalist beaten, and Albanian shops torched), armoured personnel carriers squat at key points, by the bridge and next to the court building. French and Belgian troops patrol the ethnically mixed Bosniac Mahala district where the trouble was concentrated. Some of the Belgians grin at passers by, trying to impart cheerfulness and good will. The burned out shops down one street are blackened, with broken windows and charred, damp little heaps of destroyed goods outside that once enticed shoppers to stop and buy. The grubby streets, with the filthy slush of the melting snow, spattering legs as cars drive by, are quite enough to depress spirits even without the latest damage the inhabitants have inflicted on their town.

Mitrovica bridge, under guard

Lunch starts with a spicy, greasy fish soup, with hunks of fat that did not come from any fish I am familiar with. It is followed by two trout, grilled according to the menu, but in fact fried and greasy. In the corner of the restaurant, Marko Jakšić, one of Serb north Mitrovica's duo of strongmen, holds court in his track suit. Who would believe that this silver-haired man could inspire such fear? Appearing relaxed, smiling gently, there is no sign that he is nervous at rumours that the Belgrade government is out to get him, or that he is concerned by media stories of corruption. Rather, the speculation has it, it is he and his cronies who have stirred up the recent troubles as a lesson to Belgrade and the internationals that they are still in control, and no one should mess with them.

The day before it was Štrpce, a Serb-majority area in the south, at the foot of mountains, with a ski resort that locals hope will one day bring prosperity. The 1970s hotels, even were they not shabby and broken now, seem a memorial to the shoddiness of that decade. To think that places like this actually made Yugoslavs feel optimistic then. Lunch is roast veal in a mushroom sauce - quite tasty.

I got in trouble with the police, for parking on a little bridge. Well, I couldn't find anywhere else, and there was no sign saying not to. And I was in a hurry to see the top man in the parallel Serb municipal administration. I returned to find a note saying to report to the police station, and that the front registration plate had been taken. They were very strict at first, and I was very contrite. I was in a hurry to meet Mr. Staletović, I stressed several times. They seemed to appreciate the fact that I, a foreigner, could speak Serbian. They let me off.

Štrpce is very different from Mitrovica. Isolated from Serbia, the Serbs here are interested in jobs, and ready to reach an accommodation with the Albanians who live all around them. Bizarrely, the official municipal administration and the Serb parallel one exist side by side in the same building. They rub along uneasily. Surrounded by spectacular mountain scenery, this is perhaps the one place in Kosovo where one can see Serbs having a real perspective. Here it will be possible to live well, so long as politics does not interfere. The locals probably know it.

Prishtina in sunshine

It is a cold, clear day in Prishtina, the bright sunshine sparkling on the snow. Young men are out on Mother Theresa Boulevard with shovels, breaking up the hard-packed ice and piling it in heaps on the side of the road. Broken steps hidden by snow have become slopes for children to slide down, or for adults to fall down. The book sellers are at their usual place near the Hotel Grand, in the sunshine, which, though bright, does little to cut through the chill. The little tables with cigarettes and mobile phone scratch cards for sale line some streets, but many of the sellers are not to be seen, presumably escaping the chill and watching from nearby cafés.

Prishtina continues to change at a startling pace. Pedestrians only now on Mother Theresa, the city centre begins to show some potential to be almost attractive. Lots of new cafes are packed with Prishtina's smart young things, dressed to the nines, staying for hours, drinking just one coffee, and smoking lots of cigarettes. The dwindling numbers of internationals congregate in their favoured pubs and restaurants. Gleaming new buildings tower over the city, either mocking the shabbiness of the streets below, or holding out a bright perspective for the future, depending on one's level of optimism.

For all its enduring grubbiness, Prishtina has an optimistic feel. It is a city and a country on the move. Though still poor, the proliferation of new buildings, the breakneck expansion of the city's boundaries, the upgraded highways, all speak of a brighter future. No doubt there is plenty of dissatisfaction. The young men hanging around with nothing to do, the youngsters reduced to hawking cigarettes in the cafes, point to the poverty and lack of opportunity that afflict many. There are still frequent power cuts, and the water goes off every night. Frustration at the challenges of realising Kosovo's independence still threatens to boil over into anger and violence. Yet this is the capital city of a new country. A long-held dream for Kosovo's Albanians has been realised. For now, it still seems that the hardship is worth it.

Snow

I prefer Prishtina in the snow. For once, neither dusty nor muddy, even the stink of the nearby power stations seems somehow to have been smothered. Snow makes all cities look a little alike, from the most beautiful to the most ugly. Or perhaps I'm trying much too hard to be positive about Prishtina.

I just finished reading Orhan Pamuk's "Snow". Another apparently ugly city that took on a new aspect when all white. It was a huge struggle, dreadfully dull. I forced myself to read to the end, mainly so I could say with conviction that it was awful. So slow-moving, such uninteresting characters. It was all completely unconvincing. Maybe Pamuk is as introverted as almost all his characters, analysing every thought, every action in endless detail. But most people are not so utterly tiresome. How did Ka manage to talk to so many people, sit in so many tea shops, walk so many streets, have so many clandestine meetings, get arrested and tortured, make passionate love so many times in such a short period, and still manage to fill several notebooks with every detail of everything he did? And why would he want to record every little boring detail?

My expectations of Pamuk were high, and I was dreadfully disappointed. Are any of his other books any better?