Prizren – Monastery of the holy Archangels

it’s only around 3 pm and I’m already in love with Prizren — its sleepy narrow streets and shiny mosques at every corner, its 16th century ottoman bridge and the Gazi Mehmet Pasha hamam, the cobbled Shadervan square and its fountain where teenagers fool around and a couple of old men play backgammon in the sun. I’m fascinated by life here, by the amount of juvenile energy everywhere. half Kosovo’s population is under 25 years old and unless you lock yourself in your hotel room, there isn’t a minute when you won’t notice it, wherever you are.
around 4 and a half, as we’re wandering in the small alleys, the first muezzin begins his call to prayer, soon joined by every minaret and in a few seconds, the whole town is echoing their ritual melodies.

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standing on the ruins of the Kaljaja Fortress perched on Sara Mountain, a few inches away from the precipice, I turn back from the sight of the Saint Saviour church below me and pause to look at everyone’s small silhouette : St?phane at the opposite side, the Bistrica river beneath him, Leila on top of the entrance door, facing the city, Sander on her right, at the farther corner from me and David walking to the back of the fortress. we’re almost alone there now and, each of us gazing in a different direction to embrace the magnificent view, it feels like we’re the last sentinels of our castle.

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her smile is a warning or a punch in the stomach, as it punctuates her chopped sentences. it slices our questions, it closes every door her words just opened, and for more than an hour, we witness the struggle between stories that still need to get out and smiles she turns into stop signs to hide her tears. she will never cry in front of us, but she will be fierce and ironical, vulnerable and strong, bitter and overwhelmed by guilt, cold and looking for approval, disillusioned and torn apart, all at the same time. her smile is a slap on the face, it tries to lock every door her immense sadness opens wide. we leave Caglavica still engulfed by her emotions.

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South Mitrovica

Momcilo finds us in front of the Philosophy university, a small building a few streets away from north Mitrovica main street. a slouching man in his thirties, Momcilo wears a black leather jacket, ray ban sunglasses and, above the collar of his dark t-shirt, he lets a fading tatoo appear on his neck. distant, Momcilo looks blas? as a rockstar. « we were told that you know everyone here… », we start, « as you may have noticed, Mitrovica is a small town. », Momcilo states the obvious with a shrug and an ironic smile. we follow him in the small alleys to the guarded entrance of the block with the police station, the courthouse and his NGO. near his building door, a couple of soldiers are sunbathing. in the NGO’s office, Momcilo silently weighs us with penetrating glances and it takes a good fifteen minutes before he starts to lower a bit his defences. he truly animates himself when we start to talk about politics, about the future of the serbs of Kosovo and the mess they’re in, about the UN, the US and the EU and their responsabilities, and of course, about his NGO’s action with serbian youth. « they all say that the next generation is our future, but we really got to do something with them now, in the present » he argues, « so we’re encouraging them to take some responsabilities, to decide things for themselves. » they also work with some albanian NGOs, « before 99, albanians had to learn serb and serbs had to learn albanian », he explains, « but that program has been cancelled, so we’re focusing on that issue, too. people have to be able to do this simple thing : communicate, if not, how can we achieve sustainable peace? »
after more than an hour, we have to end our interview. « by the way, who gave you my contact? », Momcilo asks. as we say the name of the albanian former journalist and Pristina school of journalism co-founder, Momcilo’s face brightens « aah, yes, a very clever and very interesting man! » « he said the same about you », we smile.

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Belgrade – Kralja Milana

« so, you’re Robert ? » Snezana asks to Am?lie, pointing her finger to her, after she stormed into the common room and glanced at each of us. I watch Am?lie’s eyes wide opened with surprise and gently tap Snezana’s shoulder, « err, no, I am Robert’s daughter, Juliette ». Snezana bursts out laughing and hugs me and kisses my cheek. « here, we kiss a lot » she says, still laughing. she looks around us, the room, our computers and notepads spread on the table, the decoration, then she decides it’s a good place to stay and sits down. I propose to go outside for a drink but she shrugs, « nah, we’re fine here, aren’t we? »
I feel a bit ashamed to welcome my father’s fourty something collegue in our hostel common room, but i agree nevertheless. David points out that there’s beer in the fridge and as i serve it, wondering out loud if it’s still good, Snezana laughs again « oh as long as it’s alcohol… » then she lights one of her many cigarettes.
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our first mission is to find the Ben Akiba, apparently the classiest hidden bar in Belgrade, situated in a shady street near the hotel Moskva according to our information. On our first try, we face a couple of security guys in front of a black box with a door that indicates the entrance of a nightclub. « The Ben Akiba? it’s closed now, it’s been moved », they tell us, before asking us if we want to come inside. after hearing the echoes of technoid beats, we politely decline. the general impression is that we’ve been duped : wouldn’t it be logical for guys working for a nightclub to try to get tourists to come inside instead of another bar? Besides, we all have in mind the article published only a year before in a french renowed daily newspaper that talked about the Ben Akiba. and it’s also mentionned with the address in the recent french Belgrade guide we’d bought. it it had been moved, the journalists would have said so, right? on our second try the next day, David, Am?lie and I take the time to inspect the street, but with little luck. the only clue we have is the only cyrillic written doorbell of a building on which I read Klub. we suddenly hear a talk close to us and the words Ben Akiba. A couple of men near a car get our attention : « the Ben Akiba, you know it? » « yes but not here anymore. it’s gone…two years. » we’re puzzled, the journalist mentionned the place in his article as if he’d been there… we’re still suspicious : wouldn’t it be logical for the neighbours of a hidden bar to discourage the tourists?
we wait for the others then decide to ring at the Klub bell. the door opens without a question and we enter in a luminous beautiful building with large stairs. we closely inspect every door but no luck there either. Delphine finally rings at the door on the second floor where the bar should have been. A charming old man answers : « oh the Ben Akiba, yes, yes, it used to be in this appartment but it’s moved a couple of years ago… the owner was killed or something.. »
back near the Hotel Moskva, now doubtful about the other hidden bars we’ve read about, we sarcastically conclude : « never trust a journalist. »
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North Mitrovica

The Professor is « that kind of professor », an albanian sixty something little man formerly engineering professor who studied in the uk, before opening the cheapest place to stay in Pristina. Or so the legend goes. David had called him even before we left Paris and we had been glad to find a hostel ten minutes away from the center of the city, with 24 hours internet access, a kitchen and rooms we’d pay 8? each. but the Professor is « that kind of professor », a greedy clever old man who’s made his business out of never giving the same price twice. as for the internet access and the kitchen, well, with one computer for fourty guests and a couple of coffee cups duelling in a filthy cupboard, we feel a little cheated. however, the Professor makes a very long point in showing us the cable TV. « you rhave all the channels rhere », he says slowly, rolling the Rs in a low and hoarse voice while turning the tv on, as we long for privacy and rest, « more zan a rhundred channels, rhere, look ». and he begins to show them all, one by one. what the Professor doesn’t say is that in case of a power cut, not only will the tv not work, but so won’t the hot water or the electric plugs. the only thing that works is a small lamp which hardwire disappears through the wall, but only after an adhesive tape made connection that we won’t dare to even look at, from fear of being electrocuted.
all in all, the guest house is quite terrible, but even though the linen are overused and the view is a beautiful pile of red bricks, after a few nights, it kind of feels like home.
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the sound of Pristina is a hum. it isn’t traffic, cars, music or sirens. it’s the hum of the generators buzzing during every power cut. suddenly, the bar you’re having a beer in gets dark and the hum starts. a dimmer light replaces the bright neons you were used to and life goes on in the city. on the first days, we take pictures of the generators in front of every shop, every bar or restaurant, but after a while, it isn’t a surprising sight anymore.
in our guest house, on the table near the tv, there are an ashtray and an used candle.
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… la suite par l?