A Hairy Affair to Remember and Looking for Bill in Pristina

A Hairy Affair to Remember and Looking for Bill in Pristina

I left Velania guest-house, bought two bananas and an apple at a neighborhood store and walked down to the city center through small area pathways. At the main intersection, not knowing which direction to proceed and not bother to look at the map, I grabbed a man and asked for Bill Clinton and Mother Teresa. “Bill Clinton is there, and Mother Teresa is this way.” He pointed to two different directions. “Is it far?” “Bill Clinton is further down that direction. Mother Teresa is right here. Where do you want to go?” “I want Mother Teresa.” “Come with me.” He said and directed me to cross the street.

” Here, everybody knows where Bill Clinton and Mother Teresa. You just ask them.” “Do you like Bill Clinton?” “Yes, he is a very good man. He does many things for our country.” “How about George W. Bush? Do you like him too?” “He was bad everywhere, but he was good to us. We like Bush, but Bill Clinton is very good.” Our arrival to Mother Teresa ended his stream of thoughts and my inquiry about the former American presidents. “This street has only people walking. No car. Enjoy your stay.” The man turned and walked back to the direction where we came from, and I began my exploration of the capital of the country I had longed to visit for the past five years.

It will make more sense if this is sunny Italy, the South of France or the Greek islands, not a war-torn country few people know, let alone visit, let alone make it part of their dreams. Kosovo had been in the back of my mind since the day I arrived in Tirana, Albania in 2006 and saw a kombi, shared taxi, with the sign destined to Pristina. Not having enough money and travel information at the time, added to the growing paranoia about this volatile region, I regrettably skipped Kosovo after inventing many reasons why I shouldn’t go there for fear I would be snatched by either radical Serbs or Albanians.  I was not sure what drew me to this region (at the time wasn’t an independent country). Was it my fascination about the former Yugoslavia, my curiosity about a war-torn country or merely a vague concept about a possible adventure backpackers usually associated with lesser-known and troubled places?

I didn’t expect to see anything beautiful in Pristina as I already imagined it to be similar to Tirana: ugly, dusty, messy and chaotic. Unlike Tirana, Pristina was grayer, lacking the ‘urban art’, colorful painted buildings seen everywhere in Albania’s capital. But unlike Tirana and all other European cities, Pristina showed no reservation in its gratitude to foreigners including the one every European hates to love, America.

There was a few snack stands painted in the colors of the American flag offering  American popcorn, American doughnuts, and American hot dogs. When not hanging and flashing the American flags, the Kosovars are seen flying EU, Albanian flags and occasionally flags of the KFOR countries, for examples German or Italian. It was still early, the right time to begin a search for Bill Clinton. I headed West from Mother Teresa and walked straight ahead. To make sure I was on the right track, more precisely too lazy to get lost and find my way around as I often did in my wandering, I stopped and confirmed my where-about with the locals every few minutes. “Bill Clinton that way?” If they said yes, I continued, if they said no, I turned to wherever their fingers directed me. Searching for Bill was an easy mission when everyone in this city knew and gladly showed others where he was.  I descended upon a traffic Boulevard and almost missed him if there wasn’t an American flag flying next to his statue. I got a bit disappointed as I thought he was bigger.  I imagined myself hugging Bill and had someone take a picture of me smooching and caressing him, then later flaunting these photos for my friends at home and the rest of Americans.  We should be proud, you know. Here is the only chance we will find a sense of American pride rarely seen and felt in Europe. I would do the same thing if there were a statue or a human-sized poster of George W. Bush, Dick Cheney or Sarah Palin. Yeah, I will hug and then kiss them just the same. Bill Clinton was gray like the background behind him and the dusty boulevard named after him. He had his back against a communist-style apartment complex and waved downs to the citizens of Pristina. I crossed the street and shot Bill Clinton from all angles before returning to Mother Teresa. NATO, which boiled down to the USA, during Clinton’s years, had a crucial role in ending the war in Kosovo, effectively ending Serbia’s dictation, harassment, and killing of Kosovo’s Albanians. This involvement had granted forever gratitude from the Kosovar Albanians.

I returned to Mother Teresa to celebrated a lazy Sunday with the locals who were sitting on benches socializing with other benches, watching over their children or simply doing nothing. Making use of the weekend, Kosovars filled coffee-houses and the streets. Those who weren’t sipping on a cappuccino and sitting on benches tended their little on-the-street shops selling made-in-China toys, used cellphones and cigarettes. I didn’t see many foreigners because for one thing tourists didn’t come here and second, they probably blended in with the crowds. This left me immediately stood out with my facial features and of course my big camera. Mother Teresa was a narrow street, you can run, but you can’t hide.

I bought a cheese burek and sat down on a bench to finish my meal.  I must have made an odd scene given by the numbers of stares I received from the locals people, especially from the teenagers who kept shouting Chinese sound to me. The Kosovo Museum was closed, so I walked further down to see the mosque nearby. Old men wearing kufi sitting in the courtyard discussing every day’s business, oblivious to the arrival of a stranger from out of town with a big camera shooting around. I left the mosque and walked a couple of blocks across the street to an open market. Most of the stalls were shut, and the remaining ones were preparing to close. I bought two tomatoes, two cucumbers, four hot paprika, one baby onion for a total of only 90 euro cents. Secured my dinner ingredients in the backpack, I left the market and headed back toward the city center gain. By now, I felt completely bored, not sure what I wanted to do next in this town.

Since the day Petr told me he had friends based in Kosovo, I added ‘meeting Czech soldiers’ to my to-do list in Pristina. I thought every UN and NATO personnel would gather here in the capital, and I would accidentally run into all of them. I had on my phone a list of names: Alena Reichter, Zdenek Pekny, Pavel Pavlicek, Lenka Mertlikova, Zdenek Novotny and imagined our encounter. I would grab any soldier in a uniform with a Czech flag and casually mentioning these names. This soldier would say “Yes. Alena, Zdenek, Lenka, and Pavel are here. Yes, we know Petr.” and happily take me to them. I secretly hoped they would give me a ride on a UN car and take me to their bases. I had many plans. That’s why it came to a crashing disappointment when I learned from the guest house’s attendant that Pristina was not exactly the only exhibition of UN personnel. “The Germans are here in Pristina and Prizren.” She circled the capital dot on the map. “The French is in Mitrovica.” “Do you know where the Czechs are?” “Don’t know. Czech very small. Not in Pristina.” “How about the Americans? Do you know where are the Americans?” “Don’t know.”  Kosovo is divided into different military zones, each controlled by a different country. For example, Pristina and Prizren are under the management of the Germans. The French are responsible for the divided city of Mitrovica. The Czechs station further up North judging from the flag, closer to Serbia border, but I could not read the name of the city.

Pristina is an interpretative city, interesting only in the things which are invisible and if you don’t have any connection and imagination to this invisibility, your boredom creeps in very fast because then you don’t know what to do and see. Only after 4 hours touring the city, failing to meet any UN force whom I thought would just walk the streets like the locals, I became bored out of my mind and decided to leave Pristina tomorrow.

But not without taking care of a personal business first.

A Hairy Affair

My hairs had been grown long, and it was time for a make-over. There was a hair salon conveniently located at the street corner near the guest-house. I passed by this salon a couple of times when I first tried to find the guesthouse and later walked to the city center. The young, pretty Albanian hairstylist didn’t speak Serbian or any other language including hand signs. “This is going to be fun,” I thought, “hand-orchestrating my haircut.” I picked out two hairstyles from a magazine, pointed to them and said: “This back, that is the front. OK?” She nodded and prepped me up for her operation.

Because of my hairs’ thick volume, my hairstylist back home usually thinned them hairs with a razor before doing any cut. However, the girl started immediately cutting on my hairs with the scissors, which I could feel she had a little trouble. I pointed to the razor which she understood. I was happy for a brief second before tears started coming out of my eyes. The girl, probably not used to cutting thick, Asian hairs, yanked hairs away from my scalp, oblivious to pain clearly shown on my face. Done with the razor, she continued with the cutting. I saw her hands and the scissors moving toward the top of my head, and hairs falling out from my head more than leaves shed on your front yard. The stylist chopped off my hairs as if she was harvesting crops on my head. By the time, she proceeded to the styling session; I noticed two little bumps growing on my head like the humps on a camel, due to the hairs were cut to short added by blowing air. Screaming and crying over how disgusting I thought my hairs looked was no use because then I would make her even more nervous and mess them up even more. I smiled cordially and pressed the bumps down to prevent her from blowing there any further. She blew my hairs a while longer and sprayed some sweet perfume on my head before releasing me. I nodded my head showing my appreciation, paid and walked out of the salon hearing two guys calling after me and raising a thump-up. “Are you kidding? You think this looks nice?”

At least I won’t see anyone I know for at least another week. My hairs will grow out.

Further reading: Francis Tapon’s Camping in Kosovo and Frida Ghitis’ Where Muslim Love America.

Photos

[slickr-flickr type=”galeria” tag=”pristina” description=”on” caption=”on”]