22 Oct 2010 / 06:35
Sharing his journey with countless strangers between the capitals of Britain and Kosovo provided George Symonds with a study of humanity.
George Symonds
Studying international relations for four years can damage ones faith in humanity. Having completed such a Master’s degree in London, I still have trouble understanding self-centred state actors unable to see beyond the narrow interests of their imaginatively defined borders; and pogroms of people divided between places of birth, creator lore, first language or hue of various body parts.
What better way to seek greater wisdom than to actually go and see and talk to people from places I’ve studied? What better method than hitchhiking, the most carbon efficient and interactive mode of transport? And the first stop? From the topic of statehood in international law: Kosovo.
Day one saw a young electrician, a car dealer who offered me money for the bus and a retired fishmonger get me from the outskirts of London to Dover.
As the white cliffs faded away I was soon greeted by ‘Bienvenue à Calais’. Having scared off a number or people with my attempted French, a middle-aged lady switched to English and gave me a lift. In fact, worried that I may spend the night in a ditch, she offered me shelter and let me join her colleague’s birthday party.
In response to my questions about the solidarité avec les sanspapiers (solidarity for those without official papers) graffiti, and as teacher of children from immigrant groups, she later mused that, apart from Latin America, whenever she saw bad news on television she’d wonder how long it would take for those affected to reach her front door.
The following day in Belgium, a university student gave me a lift and let me stay at her flat in Leuven, even though she was going away camping that night.
Lifts through Germany involved an Islamophobic Icelandic man; a professor comparing the rights of women in the West and former East Germany (where she was under surveillance by the Statsi); sexual harassment by a middle-aged man in a boiler suit; and PhD researcher on self-healing concrete.
The kindness of strangers continued throughout the Czech Republic and Austria, where locals fed and housed me, exchanged cash free of interest and offered spontaneous tours. What struck me in the former was that despite the hospitality of Czechs, those I met seemed wary and disparaging of their fellow countrymen, and so discouraged hitchhiking. Austria was in the midst of deporting Arigona Zogaj.
Croatia started with a rainy night spent at a service station outside of Zagreb. For company I had a Bosnian man attempting to hitch back from Germany where he’d been forced to leave his family for overstaying his visa. It was his second night there. The sunshine of Rijeka was a welcome change, even if the pot smoking and wine drinking chaps who gave me a lift nearly ran over a zaftig lady on the road.
Further down the coast, a doctor in her thirties stopped and let me join her mother for lunch. She briefly mentioned being in Rijeka during the war, but did not want to talk about it.
One girl nearly made me cry. Having spent a hot day failing to get a ride out of Split, a girl in her twenties approached to ask what I was doing.
As I attempted to explain, she produced a package full of fresh food saying her mother had prepared it after seeing me loitering. I could have fallen in love. Going to say thank you, her family fed me further and even gave me a lift. Heading south, more people would ask if my friend in Kosovo was ‘Serb or Albanian’. Luxembourgish seemed a better answer.
References to Tito also became more frequent, usually in a positive light. One topless marble carver who looked like Foucault lamented: “He was a dictator but fair. When he died his family got nothing.”
A former Croatian Navy Captain described the British as ‘Bastards … Number one trouble makers in the world’. But he reserved the more offensive expletives for the Serbs.
Cutting in east towards Bosnia, an off-duty police man waved us through the Metkovi border. He blasted out techno, turned on his wipers and shouted ‘disco, disco!’ while overtaking every car possible.
Stranded that night in Capljina, the owner of the local bar ROBOT warned: “There are lots of crazy people.” While I pondered the vicinity of the nearest landmine, locals outside a café called me over for a drink. Seeing my predicament, they let me spend the night in the storeroom.
Sarajevo is sprinkled with bullet holes. Wandering into the Holiday Inn, I followed signs marked ‘interview’. Walking into the restaurant, the woman within a nest of wires asked: “Are you here for the Afghanistan interview?”
“What? Yes, of course,” I said. “Which position?” “Administrative.” “CV please,” she concluded. I have not heard back since, but it appears post-conflict territories are fertile recruiting ground for military contractors hiring at 17,000 dollars a year.
The hostel owner, being one of those potential recruits, told me: “During the war I saw many bad things. Those people who left, they were smart, you know.
“Next time, I don’t care. I will leave everything and go. The people here, they are not good people, you know, I would say some are really, evil, you know.”
He also discouraged hitchhiking. In Serbia questions about my friend’s ethnicity continued. Somehow I had missed the popularity of ethnology in the region; and 1389 sprayed onto motorway signs was not an alternative speed limit.
Crossing into Kosovo, the driver exclaimed ‘welcome to the jungle, Somalia!’
In Mitrovica the plethora of symbols – from Serbian flags to UN, EU and NGO logos – instantly assaulted the senses. But what is the broader whole these various factions represent?
On the bumpy ride down to Pristina, I felt hitchhiking had been therapeutic for my faith in humanity, but questions of how this humanity is divided and controlled remain as stark as ever.
Perhaps Nietzsche was right when stating that ‘madness is something rare in individuals – but in groups, parties, peoples, ages it is the rule’. But who is a hitchhiker to say?
What better way to seek greater wisdom than to actually go and see and talk to people from places I’ve studied? What better method than hitchhiking, the most carbon efficient and interactive mode of transport? And the first stop? From the topic of statehood in international law: Kosovo.
Day one saw a young electrician, a car dealer who offered me money for the bus and a retired fishmonger get me from the outskirts of London to Dover.
As the white cliffs faded away I was soon greeted by ‘Bienvenue à Calais’. Having scared off a number or people with my attempted French, a middle-aged lady switched to English and gave me a lift. In fact, worried that I may spend the night in a ditch, she offered me shelter and let me join her colleague’s birthday party.
In response to my questions about the solidarité avec les sanspapiers (solidarity for those without official papers) graffiti, and as teacher of children from immigrant groups, she later mused that, apart from Latin America, whenever she saw bad news on television she’d wonder how long it would take for those affected to reach her front door.
The following day in Belgium, a university student gave me a lift and let me stay at her flat in Leuven, even though she was going away camping that night.
Lifts through Germany involved an Islamophobic Icelandic man; a professor comparing the rights of women in the West and former East Germany (where she was under surveillance by the Statsi); sexual harassment by a middle-aged man in a boiler suit; and PhD researcher on self-healing concrete.
The kindness of strangers continued throughout the Czech Republic and Austria, where locals fed and housed me, exchanged cash free of interest and offered spontaneous tours. What struck me in the former was that despite the hospitality of Czechs, those I met seemed wary and disparaging of their fellow countrymen, and so discouraged hitchhiking. Austria was in the midst of deporting Arigona Zogaj.
Croatia started with a rainy night spent at a service station outside of Zagreb. For company I had a Bosnian man attempting to hitch back from Germany where he’d been forced to leave his family for overstaying his visa. It was his second night there. The sunshine of Rijeka was a welcome change, even if the pot smoking and wine drinking chaps who gave me a lift nearly ran over a zaftig lady on the road.
Further down the coast, a doctor in her thirties stopped and let me join her mother for lunch. She briefly mentioned being in Rijeka during the war, but did not want to talk about it.
One girl nearly made me cry. Having spent a hot day failing to get a ride out of Split, a girl in her twenties approached to ask what I was doing.
As I attempted to explain, she produced a package full of fresh food saying her mother had prepared it after seeing me loitering. I could have fallen in love. Going to say thank you, her family fed me further and even gave me a lift. Heading south, more people would ask if my friend in Kosovo was ‘Serb or Albanian’. Luxembourgish seemed a better answer.
References to Tito also became more frequent, usually in a positive light. One topless marble carver who looked like Foucault lamented: “He was a dictator but fair. When he died his family got nothing.”
A former Croatian Navy Captain described the British as ‘Bastards … Number one trouble makers in the world’. But he reserved the more offensive expletives for the Serbs.
Cutting in east towards Bosnia, an off-duty police man waved us through the Metkovi border. He blasted out techno, turned on his wipers and shouted ‘disco, disco!’ while overtaking every car possible.
Stranded that night in Capljina, the owner of the local bar ROBOT warned: “There are lots of crazy people.” While I pondered the vicinity of the nearest landmine, locals outside a café called me over for a drink. Seeing my predicament, they let me spend the night in the storeroom.
Sarajevo is sprinkled with bullet holes. Wandering into the Holiday Inn, I followed signs marked ‘interview’. Walking into the restaurant, the woman within a nest of wires asked: “Are you here for the Afghanistan interview?”
“What? Yes, of course,” I said. “Which position?” “Administrative.” “CV please,” she concluded. I have not heard back since, but it appears post-conflict territories are fertile recruiting ground for military contractors hiring at 17,000 dollars a year.
The hostel owner, being one of those potential recruits, told me: “During the war I saw many bad things. Those people who left, they were smart, you know.
“Next time, I don’t care. I will leave everything and go. The people here, they are not good people, you know, I would say some are really, evil, you know.”
He also discouraged hitchhiking. In Serbia questions about my friend’s ethnicity continued. Somehow I had missed the popularity of ethnology in the region; and 1389 sprayed onto motorway signs was not an alternative speed limit.
Crossing into Kosovo, the driver exclaimed ‘welcome to the jungle, Somalia!’
In Mitrovica the plethora of symbols – from Serbian flags to UN, EU and NGO logos – instantly assaulted the senses. But what is the broader whole these various factions represent?
On the bumpy ride down to Pristina, I felt hitchhiking had been therapeutic for my faith in humanity, but questions of how this humanity is divided and controlled remain as stark as ever.
Perhaps Nietzsche was right when stating that ‘madness is something rare in individuals – but in groups, parties, peoples, ages it is the rule’. But who is a hitchhiker to say?
balkan insight
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