The sun was setting, and a crescent moon hung over the ambient light of the city. The walk home from the university I work at starts on the outskirts north of town. The only thing farther north than the university is a series of three identical mansions owned by three brothers and a city park, parts of which are still mined. This particular walk home was one of the first peaceful ones I’ve had in my four weeks in Kosovo.
It isn’t quite cold in town yet. So, smoke only billows from a few select chimneys. The black and yellow cloud above those homes is a reminder that come winter the air will be visible. In that moment, though, a little wood smoke gives Pristina a quaint, provincial feel. That feeling is misleading.
I vacillate between the sidewalk and the street. With no parking spaces in the city, the sidewalks and half of most streets supplement for the lack of infrastructure. Over disintegrating pavement, cars scrape past traffic, pedestrians, and parked vehicles. Horns honk impatiently.
Not far into my walk sits a forested park with a walking path. Trees are evenly spaced along a two-foot wide brick path. The park is inhabited by children coming home from school, the jobless, and cows. At the edge of the park sits a series of cement cylinders. Some on their side, some standing. Most are chipped or cracked. Clearly meant for some unfinished infrastructure project, they now sit idle doubling as park benches.
The halfway point between the university and home is a disenchanted amusement park. Old rides and new trampolines are dotted with neon lights, half of which are burnt out. An inflated rooster is the focal point of the park. Behind it sits a ride with a neon sign that blares, “It’s Bad.” Seems like poor branding.
Crossing the street from the amusement park, there is a two-story Yugoslavian era school. The loud speaker system for the campus is a baker’s dozen of bullhorns mounted to a single pole. At best, I assume, only one works. On this particular day, a class was on the cement and netless soccer pitch doing what appeared to be Thai Chi. On closer inspection, the gym teacher was showing them the proper way to throw a partially deflated dodge ball. His motion wasn’t Zen, it was on repeat.
No matter where I walk in Pristina, the path is always dotted with trash. From the smallest wrapper to derelict vehicles to RC Cola bottles, Kosovo is, unfortunately, unkempt. It’s always stunning to me that such a patriotic and proud people would treat its hard fought for land with such disdain.
After the school, the street is again lined by buildings. A few, evenly spaced out, at first. One-hundred feet later, buildings pack the street—wall to wall. First floors are often unvisited cafes and businesses boasting Western logos, but no product. The buildings that line the street create a schizophrenic skyline from newly renovated, to unfinished, to those sagging with a century’s worth of history and neglect.
It’s safe to say that every one-in-five buildings is missing one-in-three floors. The noticeable number of unfinished buildings can be accounted for by remittances drying up, but also, as a Swedish diplomat pointed out, a poorly written law that says if you build a two story home on an unclaimed piece of land, the property becomes yours. The law did not specify that the second floor be inhabitable, but that it merely exist.
No matter what the level of dilapidation, most residential properties in the city don’t open up directly to the street. Most have a minor fortification between the public sphere and the private courtyard. The walls are not high, nor that fortified. It makes me think that whatever they were protecting themselves from—chaos, Serbs, KFOR—that they don’t have the same fear they once did. However, each street seems to have one property that is extra mistrusting of its neighbors. Around the corner from my apartment is a newer wall lined with barbed wire. A child’s soccer ball sits deflated in the barbs.
About two-thirds home, I pause at the same vantage point every time. A minaret climbs in the distance between two sagging, outer walls that, if not for each other’s weight, should have collapsed decades ago. Both walls are white washed and topped with worn ceramic shingles. The burnt red of the shingles contrasts subtly with the dirty white of the walls. A metal door with chipped and faded blue paint and rusty accents stands crooked to the earth, the frame planted in the mud between the wall and street. After enjoying this inconsequential moment, I continue on.
The distinct smell of roasted peppers destined to be ajvar fill the otherwise musty, city air. In the distance, different muezzins battle for supremacy as another call to prayer comes to pass. At the height of the Iraq war, I prided myself on knowing the difference between Sunni, Shiite, and Sufi Muslims. Now, I can’t even remember what prayer we are on in a day. Five can't be right.
The closer to the city I am is proportional to the intensity of my greatest frustration with Kosovo. The driving here is atrocious and dangerous. On narrow back streets built for donkey drawn carts, old Volkswagens and Peugeots will jostle for position in a race no one is running. They treat the streets as if they were a slalom course meant to be mastered. For a nation with nearly 50% unemployment, I constantly wonder where those drivers have to go in such a hurry.
The intersection just north of my apartment is perhaps the worst. While two streets do intersect each other, they do so in a jagged way and are not accompanied by stop signs, nor are most intersections in the city. The unnatural traffic pattern is proof that the road I’m referring to was a river until forty years ago. I do mean that seriously. Forty years ago, the road that leads to where I currently live was a river.
Near my apartment, on most business days, is a Serbian plated Yugo from the 70s, and its trunk doubles as a farmer’s cheese boutique. The car next to it sells chickens. Still feathered and life like, they must have been killed that morning.
Finally, I get home. The sun has since set, and I open our corrugated metal door to the building’s courtyard. The land lord's wife just watered the tiles that line the entryway. “Cleaning” your home’s stoop or entry is, at a minimum, a daily task I see done by most Kosovars. Presumably this process is to take care of the dirt and dust that accumulates in the city. The dust is never dealt with during this daily ritual, but the tiles temporarily glisten. In some ways, this sums up Kosovo perfectly.
I enter our building, take off my shoes, and walk the wood paneled flight of stairs past our landlords apartment. I arrive at our landing and close the door behind me. It shuts out the sights and sounds of Pristina; even though the horns of those terrible drivers can still creep in.
It isn’t quite cold in town yet. So, smoke only billows from a few select chimneys. The black and yellow cloud above those homes is a reminder that come winter the air will be visible. In that moment, though, a little wood smoke gives Pristina a quaint, provincial feel. That feeling is misleading.
I vacillate between the sidewalk and the street. With no parking spaces in the city, the sidewalks and half of most streets supplement for the lack of infrastructure. Over disintegrating pavement, cars scrape past traffic, pedestrians, and parked vehicles. Horns honk impatiently.
Not far into my walk sits a forested park with a walking path. Trees are evenly spaced along a two-foot wide brick path. The park is inhabited by children coming home from school, the jobless, and cows. At the edge of the park sits a series of cement cylinders. Some on their side, some standing. Most are chipped or cracked. Clearly meant for some unfinished infrastructure project, they now sit idle doubling as park benches.
The halfway point between the university and home is a disenchanted amusement park. Old rides and new trampolines are dotted with neon lights, half of which are burnt out. An inflated rooster is the focal point of the park. Behind it sits a ride with a neon sign that blares, “It’s Bad.” Seems like poor branding.
Crossing the street from the amusement park, there is a two-story Yugoslavian era school. The loud speaker system for the campus is a baker’s dozen of bullhorns mounted to a single pole. At best, I assume, only one works. On this particular day, a class was on the cement and netless soccer pitch doing what appeared to be Thai Chi. On closer inspection, the gym teacher was showing them the proper way to throw a partially deflated dodge ball. His motion wasn’t Zen, it was on repeat.
No matter where I walk in Pristina, the path is always dotted with trash. From the smallest wrapper to derelict vehicles to RC Cola bottles, Kosovo is, unfortunately, unkempt. It’s always stunning to me that such a patriotic and proud people would treat its hard fought for land with such disdain.
After the school, the street is again lined by buildings. A few, evenly spaced out, at first. One-hundred feet later, buildings pack the street—wall to wall. First floors are often unvisited cafes and businesses boasting Western logos, but no product. The buildings that line the street create a schizophrenic skyline from newly renovated, to unfinished, to those sagging with a century’s worth of history and neglect.
It’s safe to say that every one-in-five buildings is missing one-in-three floors. The noticeable number of unfinished buildings can be accounted for by remittances drying up, but also, as a Swedish diplomat pointed out, a poorly written law that says if you build a two story home on an unclaimed piece of land, the property becomes yours. The law did not specify that the second floor be inhabitable, but that it merely exist.
No matter what the level of dilapidation, most residential properties in the city don’t open up directly to the street. Most have a minor fortification between the public sphere and the private courtyard. The walls are not high, nor that fortified. It makes me think that whatever they were protecting themselves from—chaos, Serbs, KFOR—that they don’t have the same fear they once did. However, each street seems to have one property that is extra mistrusting of its neighbors. Around the corner from my apartment is a newer wall lined with barbed wire. A child’s soccer ball sits deflated in the barbs.
About two-thirds home, I pause at the same vantage point every time. A minaret climbs in the distance between two sagging, outer walls that, if not for each other’s weight, should have collapsed decades ago. Both walls are white washed and topped with worn ceramic shingles. The burnt red of the shingles contrasts subtly with the dirty white of the walls. A metal door with chipped and faded blue paint and rusty accents stands crooked to the earth, the frame planted in the mud between the wall and street. After enjoying this inconsequential moment, I continue on.
The distinct smell of roasted peppers destined to be ajvar fill the otherwise musty, city air. In the distance, different muezzins battle for supremacy as another call to prayer comes to pass. At the height of the Iraq war, I prided myself on knowing the difference between Sunni, Shiite, and Sufi Muslims. Now, I can’t even remember what prayer we are on in a day. Five can't be right.
The closer to the city I am is proportional to the intensity of my greatest frustration with Kosovo. The driving here is atrocious and dangerous. On narrow back streets built for donkey drawn carts, old Volkswagens and Peugeots will jostle for position in a race no one is running. They treat the streets as if they were a slalom course meant to be mastered. For a nation with nearly 50% unemployment, I constantly wonder where those drivers have to go in such a hurry.
The intersection just north of my apartment is perhaps the worst. While two streets do intersect each other, they do so in a jagged way and are not accompanied by stop signs, nor are most intersections in the city. The unnatural traffic pattern is proof that the road I’m referring to was a river until forty years ago. I do mean that seriously. Forty years ago, the road that leads to where I currently live was a river.
Near my apartment, on most business days, is a Serbian plated Yugo from the 70s, and its trunk doubles as a farmer’s cheese boutique. The car next to it sells chickens. Still feathered and life like, they must have been killed that morning.
Finally, I get home. The sun has since set, and I open our corrugated metal door to the building’s courtyard. The land lord's wife just watered the tiles that line the entryway. “Cleaning” your home’s stoop or entry is, at a minimum, a daily task I see done by most Kosovars. Presumably this process is to take care of the dirt and dust that accumulates in the city. The dust is never dealt with during this daily ritual, but the tiles temporarily glisten. In some ways, this sums up Kosovo perfectly.
I enter our building, take off my shoes, and walk the wood paneled flight of stairs past our landlords apartment. I arrive at our landing and close the door behind me. It shuts out the sights and sounds of Pristina; even though the horns of those terrible drivers can still creep in.
