Lay down all your guns, Give them up and then move on.

30th May 2006 - Prishtina (KOS)
I've just woken up after a rather late night which lasted a good way into the early hours of this morning. After sightseeing in Prishtina during the daytime we got back to our hostel and allowed ourselves to relax since we'd done a fair bit of walking. I sat outside in the as the dusk and chatted with some of the locals before I met an American guy called Jesse who is another inmate here at the Professor's prison. He decided to join Ray, Pascal and myself for an evening at the casino, so we all strolled down to it through the city's warm streets. With drinks and a buffet meal all free of charge it's definitely worth a visit, and I was pleased that some of the staff recognised me from my last visit in the winter. Given the financial constraints of my travel I wasn't in the mood for risking lots of money so played with just €10 the whole night, and by the time we left I'd made another €8, and probably eaten and drunken several times this amount too. It was good fun, and whilst we weren't spending much money, for some of the men working on reconstructing Kosova, this was where they spent a lot of their wages, constantly asking for another twenty or fifty Euros credit. It should also be noted that apart from the staff, unsurprisingly there wasn't a single local present.

Today we'll be going to Mitrovica, the infamous city that is divided by a river. One side is Albanian and the opposing side is Serbian. I've read so much about this place in books, newspapers and on the Internet, I'm so curious about what it will be like.

30th May 2006 - Mitrovica (KOS)
Currently I am sat at Mitrovica's bus station, the long afternoon shadows that seem to be such a serene feature of my time in Kosova falling everywhere. Close to me an old man sits wearing a traditional Kosovan hat, one leg crossed over the other and a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, the smoke drifting directly upwards. There are thin clouds dotted throughout the air and with Pascal and Ray I sit amongst a small group of Kosovans who are waiting for the coach to Prishtina. Today I have experienced one of the most bizarre and surreal events I think imaginable. Inside I still feel quite shocked, but while I compose my thoughts I shall run through the set of events that brought me to be sat in the same restaurant as Adolf Hitler.

We left Prishtina by bus at 12.00, having been slightly delayed by brunching on spinach burek and cold yogurt in the centre of town. The journey to Mitrovica was relatively quick, lasting little more than an hour and offering me time to cast my mind back to the stories I'd come across concerning Mitrovica. It's portrayed as the archetypal divided town, a river running through the centre, dividing two sets of people who apparently hold nothing but hatred for each other. Whenever trouble kicks off in Kosova between Albanians and Serbs there's a fairly high chance that the story originated out of Mitrovica. But many cities have poor reputations, described as Hells on Earth, and they actually turn out to be thoroughly charming when visited in person. Would this be the case with Mitrovica or would the reports prove to be true?

Upon arrival we walked through the market and made our way straight to the city's most famous landmark, it's bridge. This bridge crosses between the city's two separate entities, the Albanians on one side and the Serbs on the other. As a result, the bridge has become the focal point for protest, drama and tragedy. It's heavily guarded and before you even reach it the scene is set by the ominous sign which reads "Malicious or provocative behavior shall be repressed immediately". Presumably because the situation had been relatively quiet recently the security wasn't too strict. I myself managed to walk backwards and forwards several times during the day without even one of the Romanian, Danish, French or Moroccan troops raising an eyebrow. I'm sure they must have an intelligence program, but how did they know that I wasn't smuggling guns into the Serbian part of the city? Seeing some of the Danish troops lounging out at a cafe in the sun really made me think that for KFOR ambivalence to the people they are dealing with is a way of life, and everything is just fine until something goes wrong.

Crossing over into the Serbian part of the city is like swimming out of an Albanian sea onto a Serbian island. Outside of this little capsule everybody speaks Albanian, flies the Albanian flag, pays with Euros and drives cars with Kosovan number-plates. He though, Serbian is the only language, the Serbian flag is prominent, Serbian Dinars are the currency and all the cars have Serbian number-plates. It really is like being in a suburb of Belgrade or Nis, even the architecture seems different. Cyrillic script is everywhere and signs of Albanian culture are invisible. It's absolutely strange, as though I left Kosova and was magically transported into Serbia. It also shows why Kosovan Serbs fear for their future so much. Their culture is so different to the Albanian one, and they are trapped inside an enclave, surrounded on all sides by a foe who they fear wishes to now destroy them. I do not wish to pick sides on this matter, since I pity the Serbs in such a situation, but can also understand why the Kosovans feel nothing but contempt for all of these overtly Serbian symbols, the same symbols that were present when the Serbian army came less than ten years ago and tried to destroy them.

We went and sat in a little cafe, which again was so Serbian. It's hard to explain how, but just those little touches, like the way the coffees are served, the interior of the building, the drinks on offer and obviously talking in Serbian and paying in Dinars. On a table opposite us was an American woman and a French woman, talking about some development program they were running. I would not wish to say I have some greater right to be in the Balkans, but at least I am here because I want to be here, because I love the culture and because I am fascinated by the people who are all so diverse yet at the same time also so homogeneous. Maybe I am judging these other Westerners too much, but I feel that their presence is ridiculous and shallow. They do this work as a profession, not because they want to improve the lives of the individuals. This is a sweeping statement, because I am sure that some of the people do genuinely want to help mankind, but from the conversation I was listening in on, I was shocked by the ignorance. Neither had any knowledge of either Serbian or Albanian and have come here earning excessive money while locals often live in poverty. Their program and plans are a job that seems so removed from the average Serbian or Albanian man. Yes, obviously their presence is beneficial in some respects, but is it only me who also sees it as somewhat patronising, as they come to the region with the belief that they are all messianic saviours with an understanding of the social dynamics limited to what they could find on Wikipedia.

After drinking up we strolled up to the church on top of the hill, an modern construction that is charming with its elegant brickwork and bronze domes. I got talking to two girls who were just sat enjoying the good weather and beautiful views. Both were Serbian university students, and since neither could speak a word of English I think Ray and Pascal were a bit jealous since I was the only person who could talk to these beautiful girls. The reason I felt so positive about them though was that given the situation of where they live, neither one mentioned a single word about politics. I remember a mirror situation earlier on in my trip when I spoke to two girls in Belgrade in the Kalemegdan fortress. On that occasion I kept having to tell them that my country, Britain, doesn't hate their country, Serbia, whereas on this occasion they were more interested in where I'd been, where I was going, what Zagreb is like as a city and what music I liked. They live in the Balkans' most politically charged city yet didn't mention a word about the problems, presumably because they are sick of living through it.

After talking with the girls for a while we waved goodbye and wished them all the best as we walked up to the monument that sits on top of the hill. It is an ugly construction, made of two concrete cylinders that support one more half-cylinder on top. What is it exactly? Socialist modern art? A rain catching water tower? An intentional eye soar for the Albanians who have to see it all the time from their part of the city? Whatever it's purpose, or lack of purpose, it must be a candidate for the World's Ugliest Monument, with graffiti daubed around its base and chunks of cement decaying off of it. On the way back down into the town, Pascal and Ray had a bit of a tiff. It centered around Pascal again bleating about the plight of the Quebec people, and making some comparison between Quebec and Mitrovica. Pascal is generally a good lad, but I wish he could see that if he keeps acting like a radical when talking about Quebec he won't attract any sympathy because it just alienates people who otherwise would have been sympathetic. Pascal's behavior and our encounter with the two Serbian girls really gave me a new impression of the Serbian minority in Kosova. Usually we only hear the words of fanatics who go out protesting and warmongers like Seselj. The girls we had met were the human face of Kosova Serbs, and just by being themselves they had shown that if Kosova gains independence then the thought of all of these people feeling so unsafe that they would all have to leave their homes to go and live in a refugee camp in southern Serbia is simply terrible. This can not be allowed to happen, but what alternatives are there? Maybe Kosova could be granted independence but Serbian Mitrovica could remain under the control of Serbia as part of Serbia?

We crossed over into the Albanian part of town and decided to try to fulfill a plan we'd been talking about for the last couple of days. When I was in Belgrade earlier in my trip, my kind host Sasa had recounted a story about a man who owns a restaurant, used to be in the Kosova Liberation Army and believes he is Adolf Hitler incarnate. At first I had thought that Sasa was just playing with me, having a joke at my expense, but he even showed me photos that seemed to verify his story. Was this all just an elaborate joke or was there some truth in it? Either way, I was in Mitrovica so I had to at least try my hardest to find out what was going on.

Sasa had told me the name of the restaurant, but unfortunately I couldn't remember it. Luckily I did remember that he also told me that it was close to the bridge. Ray and Pascal were in the mood for some fun also, so we agreed to split up for 20 minutes and each of us would go off in a different direction and see what we could find. We popped our heads into every restaurant, bar and cafe we could find but there was seemingly no luck. I was beginning to think that Sasa was just messing around, or that one of his friends had tricked him too. Maybe this whole Hitler story was an urban myth that existed in Serbia to try and makes Mitrovica's Albanians appear like insane neo-Nazis. It then came to me that if I was to go over to the Serbian side of Mitrovica I could use a Serbian phonecard which I had left over from when I was there and ring Sasa to ask him for some more information. Answering the phone, he seemed surprised to hear from me, especially given my location, but told me the name of the establishment and wished me good luck. We were searching for Jehona 2001, and apparently we'd been really close to it. While I'd been on the phone a scruffy, lanky guy with a shaved face and poor complexion had latched onto us and was talking to Pascal. After I finished on the phone I told Pascal to come with me and we walked back down to the bridge. The guy started to talk to me and I could see pretty quickly that he was tapping us up for money. He told me, in Serbian, that he needed money for his ill brother, but I just couldn't trust him. After he left us at the bridge I asked Pascal what he had said to him and Pascal told me that the guy had said he needed money for an operation on his stomach. No mention of a brother then? No. So it seemed to be a scam, and probably it was a scam, but what can you do other than pity this man. Where are the jobs for him? Where are the opportunities for him? Where is there a future for him?

We met back up with Ray and told him that we had the name, and jointly we decided that the easiest course of action would be to take a taxi since we were all tired and hungry so didn't want to trek around in the sun much longer. We found one close to the bridge and told the driver the name. He knew the place. It seemed as though things were going to work out. We drove through the streets for several minutes and arrived, realising that we'd been taken on the 'scenic' route since we were only one street away from where we'd got into the taxi. This didn't bother me though since something else had captured my attention. As we payed up we looked through our window and our glances were met be the stern glare of Adolf Hitler looking through the restaurant's window as he pulled back the net curtains. This could not be real surely? Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Apparently not, and as I looked at Ray and Pascal it seemed we were all thinking the same: This was a surreal experience beyond any others we had previously lived. We were walking into a restaurant in which stood history's greatest villain. The man whose name is synonymous with the greatest sins known to man. The man who had apparently been dead for over sixty years but it now seemed had been hiding away, keeping himself to himself in Mitrovica. At this point my grasp on reality was lost and it slid away into a dreamlike puddle where nothing made complete sense and was instead a confusing blur.

It was a seedy little restaurant with dark wood panels on the wall, upon which were hung photos of the proprietor from when he served in the UCK. They showed him with another fellow who looked like a member of the Taliban in a red jeep which had been converted to carry a gun on the back. Hitler stood there, posing for the camera in his special uniforms which further reinforced the similarities with his historical idol. The shock though was that these hadn't been taken in Germany during the 1940s, instead they were from fifty years later in the depths of the Balkans. The man shown in the photos sits at a table across the room from us, glancing untrustingly at us as we ordered our drinks from the waitress. There is another waiter and a cook who pokes his head out into the restaurant every now and again. They all seem very nervous by our presence, but this is not surprising seeing as the place is hidden in a little backstreet and is meant only for locals. We had just turned up in the back of a taxi, speaking in English and given what we were faced with we too were also acting weirdly. Ray and myself are trying to keep straight faces as our lower jaws quiver, while Pascal seems to look scared by the place he finds himself. How can I not laugh though, this man does not just have a resemblance to Hitler, he is a replica of him, or a clone, or maybe he actually is Hitler. My mind goes off for a walk, I start to wonder whether Hitler fled Berlin in 1945 and traveled down to Kosova to hide away for some time and has been using a special potion made by the Nazis to remain forever young and this makes me think of the Indiana Jones film where the Nazis are trying to find the Holy Grail which has the power to grant eternal life... Back in the moment. The lights have gone off and the German music has slowed down and drifted out. It's a power cut. The waitress has come over to sit with us, and has started talking to us. She keeps grinning at us in a somewhat inane way. What does she want. After a while she gets up and Ray tells us that she'd been stroking his leg under the table. Then he has to cut off suddenly as she returns. She asks if anyone will by her a drink, looking at Ray in particular. He's in a position where he can't say no, so off she trots to get herself a juice and then she comes back. She's being really blatant now with her seduction techniques towards Ray, and he just looks confused. One moment she's telling him how he's so handsome, but then the next she is saying how she hates all Serbs and hopes they all die. I'm now feeling slightly out of my depth too at this point. What can I say? The lights come back on, the tape player jumps back into action and the music begins again.

The waitress brings our food over and then sits down again. She's like a crazy teenager as she flirts with Ray, while he remains the gentleman, offering polite replies which mask the unease he now feels too. As all of this is transpiring every so often Adolf Hitler looks across at us. He spotted our cameras when we took some photos and send the waiter over to tell us not to. He knows our game and is making sure we don't get an opportunity to get a picture of his face. Some other customers enter and it's clear that they're locals to the place as their give the Nazi salutes to Hitler. Yes, it's time to go, we've seen enough so we ask for the bill. It's not a normal receipt though, that would have been too normal. Instead it's got a little Swastika just for effect. Deciding that it would be our only chance, we asked the waitress if she would ask Hitler if we could have a photo with him, and she came back with the reply that it would cost each of us €5. Forget it Adolf, there's no way we're giving you any extra money.

Saying our farewells to the waitress, leaving her to rue what might have been with Ray, and left 1941 Germany to reenter modern day Mitrovica. Many questions lingered with me but one in particular was where Hitler managed to get his hair cut? It sounds silly, but think about it, does he go into the barber's with a photo of Hitler and say "Just like this please"? Going past a lovely looking mosque, we got down to the market, doing some browsing and speaking to the friendly vendors. They really warmed to Ray, several of them repeating the phrase "I love America". Well, it looks like this is the one place on earth where people will willingly admit this, and even more strikingly, in the shadow of a mosque. Yes, this honestly has been a surreal day. With one more coffee in us, enjoyed at a very normal cafe, we ambled along to the bus station. I can't imagine that anywhere else I visit on this trip will be any stranger than Mitrovica, a city which has shown so many different face. It is certainly not the Hell on Earth that some would wish us to view it as, but it is without doubt a confused city that doesn't function properly and for the moment shows no sign of change. What will the future hold for people here? I really can not answer, but would wish all the best to the charming Serbian girls and matey Albanian market guys who we were lucky to have met. As for Hitler and his bigoted waitress? I'm just confused, but who wouldn't be?