Divided: Inside Kosovo to Pristina.

June 9, 2015

Every been attacked by Artic Terns. I have. In Iceland riding "Road One" across black barren sands along the south coast where these seabirds congregate, wheel and hover. Birds that are viciously territorial. They hovered low overhead stoking me while making an alarming squawked protest, then suddenly dive down and attempt pecking me about the head, flying clear and wheeling up overhead and dive-bombing again. But I'm more alert to them the second time and my arm in reflex swings up, chasing them off.

I am not dreaming. I've woken up and am lying still in the tent listening to the dawn chorus when out of high pitched chirp and cheep come that same disturbing loud squawk, followed by a barely audible swish and thump impact on the tent. The tentacle indent then lifts off the tent. The squawk protest is repeated and swish and yet another thump on the taut tent fly-sheet. It goes on for what seems a minute or more, repeated squawk, swish and thump. The attack feels so violent that the tent fly may not withstand the impacts much longer, but just then, the attack peters out and they, it sounds like two, fly off.

They were obviously angry. To think some misfit come and put a tent on their territory. They were warning me. Leave.

I'm on the road at seven with not much more than eighty kilometres to ride until Pristina, meaning I should get there by lunchtime and avoid the worse of the day's heat.

My cycle-computer is not registering this morning. The digits remain at zero instead of displaying how many kilometres an hour I'm going. I've looked at it and made sure the wheel magnet and radio pick-up is lined up, they are, but no joy. Suppose I'll have to go on guest-work from now on. Cycle-computers aren't all that necessary anyway, though it's useful to know how far I've come so I can calculate how far it is to a day's destination.

Otherwise the road is one of those roads you dream of while cycle-touring and stay in your memories. Winding up a barely noticeable incline through a narrow valley with shard-rock escarpment and wildflower grassland on gentle slopes interspersed with blocks of conifers and a cooling mountain breeze. The traffic a trickle and I notice all the number-plates are still Serbian. And I manage to get the computer working again.

Then all change approaching the first big town in Kosovo, Mitrovice. Having climbed round a bend, I look up and am suddenly struck by a humongous tall red and white striped smokestack sticking out of the valley centre. And at this point there's a turnoff right, across the valley with a sign: Mitrovice and something else, which I ignore and pass. The road levels out and beyond the tree-line on the right, the tapered base of the smokestack come more into view together with rusty hulk of metal industrial buildings and ahead, a mountain of black-what looks like heaped up coal extends and fills the valley; beyond which, communist era grey high-rise blocks peek up.

I sweep downhill pass the extended coal mountain on the right and Mitrovice spread out ahead of it. I pass two army skip-like Humbee-jeeps with KFOR on the side parked on a bend overlooking town. There are three solders stood at the side of the vehicles and their dog come barking after me, but is instantly called back.

Where the road levels out there's a sign: Pristina with arrow straight on and Mitrovice Centar and arrow right. Here I turn off, wishing to have a late breakfast that'll see me through well into afternoon and hopefully, get rid of some Dinar.

The town is like Turkey. There's a large new mosque by a roundabout in the centre and cafés have signs for "Caj". Tea. But I'm not having luck finding somewhere to sit down and eat that second breakfast.

I cycle from the roundabout along a traffic-choked street and find lots of cafes, but all are just places to have a drink. Then returning back through the roundabout, back toward those high-rises I saw beyond the coal-heap back up on the hill, I come to a restaurant. The only cliental are two young solders in neat pale-green and brown camouflages complete with soft peaked hats, one a man and the other a woman who talk with American ascents. He is telling her about the place he grew up and she lets out "Oh my god!" when he reveals some shocking history about the place.

I ask the waiter do they except Dinars. He replies no. Euros. But he says they use the Dinar across the bridge, pointing to an arched steel-girder structure further along.

The bridge is closed to vehicles by a pile of soil in the middle, but the walkways to either side are open to pedestrians. The river beneath is the division of two cultures. There are KFOR jeeps and also local police vehicles parked, also army and police personal as I cycle off the bridge the other side into what is the Serbian side of town. Here all cars have Serbian number-plates. I understand now what that first turnoff before the mine was, the alternative way into this side of town.

Here only Serbian currency the dinar is excepted and the main street up from the bridge is lined with cafes. By one I find a place selling "cevapi", sausage shaped ground meat served with flat-bread. I have one and a turkish coffee next door. Then at a shop across the street buy a large carton of orange-juice for the road.

I make one last stop leaving town, following signs saying "Kosovo Customs" which lead to a police station. I didn't get a Kosovo stamp in my passport, so was wondering do I have to go here and have it done. The security man on the gate to the complex didn't know, then called over a policeman who spoke better English. I ask do I need a Kosovo stamp, he answers no. Later I learn this is just as well should I chose to return to Serbia, as they may in the worse case scenario refuse entry.

The road on to Pristina is a bit rough and the traffic constant across a mountaintop plain. It reminds me how I remember Albania. What would've been once an impressive high plain despoiled by roadside sprawl.

I was expecting a small town as it is shown as little more than a crossing point of major roads on the map. No extended brown representing built-up area. But approaching the city there are lots of newly built dual-carriageways and nice big signage "Skjope, Tirana" capitals of neighbours to the south and west. It is still mountain plain to the side as I climb a lengthy rise and cresting what is a fold, the city spreads out before me across to hills on the far side. It all looks to have gone up in the last fifteen years or so. The city centre is full of gleaming office buildings.

In the central pedestrian street I look for a tourist information office, but find a vandalised perplex booth which once was the tourist office. So sit down at one of the many cafes and order a burger lunch and afterwards use the wifi to google Pristina hostels.

I come up with "The White Tree" hostel, which is only a few streets away. And later when I've checked in I check this site (CGOAB) and under "Latest journal updates", click on "The Crowe Rides Home" by David Crowe. I haven't had time to follow his journal, but I'm curious to see where he is and spot that he was in Pristina on the 9th of April when he checked into this very hostel and writes..

"White Tree Hostel. Its a place that sort of looks like its been thrown together with junk. There's even a sink up in a tree in the yard. Its an all right sort of place with an awful kitchen....."

Which is how it is.

The floor in hostel "The White Tree": pebbles, small river-stones and sand.

Spelled with a "K" Bill would not be best pleased.

If you view this picture without a grey border and on a white background, you may think the top left, and middle left third have been cut out. Good, because that is the way I intended the picture to turn out.

Today's ride: 83 km (52 miles)
Total: 5,180 km (3,217 miles)

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