And then some.

Tomorrow I leave London.

The end of a journey always coughs up a strange mix of feelings. There I was all excited for moving on, moving forward and now I find myself tripping on the final step, reluctant to go. (Hoping James doesn't read this and freak out - note to James: you can have your floor space back tomorrow I promise).

I intended to stop blogging on here after Denmark. Blogging personal stuff from Sydney never really interested me much, nor do I think it holds any benefit to anyone else. The only exception might be to keep this open to track my final journalism project, which I am in the planning stages of now. It's going to be exciting.

Until then, though, thanks for stopping by.

Life, sedated.

Yeah yeah, I haven't updated in awhile. Being back in Arhus editing footage and writing transcripts is far less interesting (though necessary) than being on the road so I don't feel the need to share it blow-by-blow.

I know you miss me, but be patient. I'm busy.
In the meantime, here - have some cats.



Cats on a treadmill is set to LADYHAWKE's Back on the van (Van She Tech remix). Gold stars to all parties involved.

In Dubrovnik

We made it!

(Trying to) move on

We're still in Pristina.

We were supposed to head off last night, but we have been delayed with the excellent excuse being that we can't figure out how to leave.

It's now slipping into evening and we really, really have to make our way back to Croatia. None of us really want to go. It's only the thought of sunny coastal cities that is making us bother at all. So, after googling, calling, pleading with non-existent bus officials and asking everyone we know, our plan is this:

1. Leave apartment
2. Go to bus station.
3. Aim for Montenegro and pick a bus.
4. Hope to be in Croatia in 1-2 days.

Google has this to say about our trip: We could not calculate driving directions between pristina and dubrovnik. Maybe that's because it doesn't even show Pristina on the map below. For the record, it is just above Prizren.

Ah well. We'll get there eventually. Suffice to say, we have no other choice.


View Larger Map

Kosovo, Part II.

An interesting couple of days. There is almost too much to post about.

Yesterday we went to Mitrovica, the site of most the recent unrest in Kosovo. The city is small, and sliced in two by a river. North of the river is the city's Serbian community. To the South is the Kosovar Albanian one. There is a solitary bridge dividing the two, French KFOR soldiers keeping watch at either end. As we approached they ID'd us warily at first, breaking into shy smiles as we explained our presence there. I got the distinct feeling they were painfully bored. There is tension in the area, but it is peaceful. People on both sides are tired of fighting.

Prizren, in contrast, was not a city divided. The Serb area lay burned, broken and abandoned. As we rolled through the countryside on one of many long, hot bus rides I watched over the plains and couldn't help wondering; how many died over this bare land?

The struggle over this place has lasted for centuries, a veritable tug-of-war between neighbouring populations. Although I have spent time in Kosovo and not Serbia, I am trying desperately not to be biased towards any side. It is difficult for many reasons. Too many stories to hear, too many complex issues to understand, too many conflicting interests. For the civilians, there were no winners at the end of this war. Just a kind of painful relief.

The stories we do hear are hard to believe. They are of survival during the war, of being six years old, hiding in trees and alerting the village of incoming soldiers. Of shooting 8 opponents before being killed in the front yard. And of after the war, of being beaten bloody for changing religions. Of having to lie to your whole family about being gay, and sneaking to Albania to see your Serbian boyfriend, a toxic combination in the eyes of some.

We were taken to visit a Roma community in the outskirts of Mitrovica. There was a wedding being held that day. The bride, just fourteen years old and beautiful in her heavily adorned blue gown, greeted us with a grave bow, clasping our hands. Illegal in the eyes of the state, she won't be able to make her marriage official for several years. Maybe she won't bother to do that at all.

I love Kosovo. The friendly people, the amazing food. And the way the small deprivations can so easily erode the importance of superficial things. Our little group gets along well. We keep each other entertained during the long hours without electricity, without water. We shop for food from the vendors who pitch their scant selection of vegetables on the side of the road, next to rusty generators and stray, scary-looking dogs. We sit on the balcony in the evening as the heat wave breaks, sending shattering storms to wreak havoc above. We have a dinner party that turns into a party, inviting everyone we have met here so far. We stay up late into the night, laughing harder than we have in a long time.

Pristina, Kosovo - Day 1

Through heavily blinking eyes we see our first glimpse of Kosovo around 4am. Woken up by border control, and for once we are thankful.

The countryside is even more stunning than Bosnia. Mountains, clear blue rivers and endless green fields. We try in vain to stay up to watch the waking sun, but we can't. We are too tired, and our eyes won't obey.

Our apartment is in Ulpiana, a suburb to the south of Pristina. Not a beautiful city but a friendly one. A friend asks me to describe it and I'm not sure I can - it's like nowhere else I have been. There are signs of poverty, but also of wealth. No tourists. Smiling faces, never feeling uncomfortable. A small city with rolling hills in the background. No signs of tension, nor of trouble that apparently lies close to the surface, still for now.

Our new home sits high on a hill and has a nice view. Some interesting grafitti lines the doors on the level below. Probably no one lives there now. Outside, the children giggle at us as they draw in chalk on the sidewalk. "Americani!" They call out as they laugh behind their hands. Used to the UN trucks that prowl the streets.

We meet with a friend of a friend who calls this home. Like many young people in Kosovo he works abroad and returns just for the summer, to see his family and friends. I quiz him about the ubiquitous anti-UN grafitti.

It's done by a small pro-Kosovar group, he tells me. They're tired of having others try to solve their problems. "Good in theory," he says. "Just a bit too radical."

This morning we go to the University of Pristina. An adviser takes us to a classroom, finds a young man who is happy to be interviewed. He is a Christian, against the wishes of his Muslim family. Another fascinating story.

In the afternoon we visit the Kosovo museum. It's empty but for us. The military exhibit takes up half of the small building. They don't really use cabinets - many weapons for display are just lying on the floor.

Tonight we have an interview and an invite to a nightclub. That's for my story. Youth, identity and moving on.

Road to Sarajevo

I read somewhere that the trip we'd planned from Split to Sarajevo was via the "bus ride from hell". But before I launch into that, let me touch briefly on Split.

From its coastal beauty you can tell the Croatian coastal town is vaguely related to the prestigious 'Cities of the Med' family, although if Nice is a showy young daughter then Split is more like a distant great-uncle, a bit worn and whiskery at the edges.

The hostel we stayed at was welcoming, friendly and small. Apparently breaking and entering can be a problem so most places have guard dogs.

Lucky for us ours was really scary and no one would ever dare to cross its path.

We were barely there 4 hours when the time came for us to trek onwards, 5am wake-up call, last mournful look at the coast in the morning light, and off we went on the smallest, most ragged bus out of the station.

Despite what I'd heard the bus ride was seamless. There was a sense of calm on the road to Sarajevo, peaceful and pretty despite the failing air con in the 45 degree heat. The remnants of war are visible but fading - Bosnia is quietly healing away. All you can see are the scabby wounds of bullet holes in buildings and shells of bombed houses being reclaimed by the earth. Long sealed over but not forgotten.


The sky in Sarajevo is not the deep azure of home but a lightly tinted blue, and when we saw it, completely cloudless. It's Spring, and the countryside is beautiful.