Along the Silk Road - I. Leaving Iraq

Along the Silk Road
I.

Leaving Iraq

I ordered a draft and a small cigar. I sat at a table by the walk near the street overlooking the Seine and the back of Notre Dame. I reflected on the ordeal getting out of Iraq; a fitting end to a frustrating and difficult mission.

It had been a sunny 140 degrees on the twenty-sixth of July, the afternoon we boarded the PSD for one final trip to BIAP – Baghdad International Airport. Without incident we arrived at Camp Klecker where we got hooches for the night and I got a ride to Camp Sully to turn in my issued gear, including my armored vest and helmet, the most patent evidence of the bizarre experience I had finally concluded. The next day, my sixtieth birthday, I would board the C-17 for my final trip out of Iraq. A few days in Paris with Sharon, then off to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan and a new adventure. This project would follow more disciplined USAID developmental principles, even though it is a Millennium Challenge Corporation project.

Baghdad had drained me emotionally. Not the rockets falling randomly around me, or the sandstorms, or living an institutional lifestyle, or even visiting counterparts dressed to kill – in the most literal sense. Combine those circumstances with a massive rule of law development effort with no guidance, no strategy, no one with development experience, mixed with a military rule of law mission of some unknown ilk and delivering only a series of ad hoc products of limited if any value and no sustainability. Most were tolerated by the Iraqis; virtually none wanted by them. And so it was. A bad experience. I did manage in that torturous period to inaugurate two projects that will likely be sustainable, which have Iraqi court buy-in, and which should advance rule of law in Iraq in a meaningful way. Things that no one in the five years before me had thought to undertake, but which are so fundamental to rule of law development that every project I have worked on, including my new project in Kyrgyzstan, have them included. I read it as a testament to the dysfunctional effort costing tens of millions of US tax dollars annually rather than any genius on my part. It was a struggle getting them off the ground. Now they were beginning and a new cadre of consultants was arriving to implement them. But I now had a better offer at an opportune time. It was a good time to leave.

Iraq, being what it has come to mean to me, would not release me so easily. From beginning to end the struggle and frustration continued until I finally reached my beloved Paris. We awoke early so Tommy could drive us to the airport about a mile down the road. We would check in and then go for breakfast at the DiFac there. It was apparent from the time we walked out of our hooches. That hazy sky and shrouded sun that sand storms bring. As we loaded our suitcases into the car, Tommy assured us that the C-17s were not as susceptible to sand storms as the C-130s were. He assured us we would fly. But as the morning progressed the storm did as well. Visibility was reduced to near nothing. I had thought that we had seen the last of these storms a few weeks earlier, but the Iraqi desert had one more for me on my birthday.

The C-17 arrived from Kuwait and circled for an hour or so before determining that it could not land. It returned to Kuwait. We would have to wait a day, perhaps longer. Our luggage had been “palletized” for the trip. It was unstrapped and a hundred disappointed people dragged suitcases across the gravel yard again. Tommy took us back to Klecker. Later that afternoon he advised us that there would be no make-up flight on Monday but that we would be given first preference for space on the Thursday flight. I unpacked my computer and sent an e-mail advising Sharon that she likely would be in Paris alone.

As the afternoon waned, so did the storm. Bill and I decided we would go get some detergent and do laundry. On the way we would also eat and perhaps stop at the airport to sign up for a possible flight to Kuwait on Tuesday. From Kuwait we could re-arrange our itineraries. As we drove the borrowed car toward the PX at another camp, Bill asked if we should stop first at the airport. I said yes, only because we were approaching it then. We had brought our travel orders in case they would be needed. As we walked toward the building, one of the MilAir desk men saw us and asked if we had been on the cancelled morning flight to Amman. We responded affirmatively. He said, “get your luggage, we have a plane. It will be leaving in fifteen minutes.” After brief further discussion, Bill took the car, my hooch keys and went back to pack us while I took his and my paperwork in to secure us seats on the flight. I waited helplessly while Bill packed and got a ride back. They would not officially put us on the flight unless we were there. They would not hold the flight for us. When it was ready, it would go.

With minutes to spare, Bill returned and we managed a seat. It was a C-130, but we did not care. We could easily tolerate the more cramped conditions for the hour or so flight to Amman. It seems that the Air Force was transporting a low security US prisoner to Amman, a place to which they normally never fly, and they had an otherwise empty plane. Bill had long ago missed his connection, but by going directly from Markum to Queen Alia, the other Amman airport, I could easily make my flight to Paris.

Having been transported to Queen Alia airport, I checked in and was eating a sandwich while trying to get on the Internet to tell Sharon that I would in fact be coming to Paris as scheduled. I opened my e-mail and discovered an e-mail from my son Patrick. He said that Sharon’s fight was cancelled due to storms on the East Coast of the US. I immediately recalled Bill’s words to me as we sat on the C-130. “This is the weirdest day I have had in a while;” an understatement of even more strange circumstances.

So I sat alone at the Tobac Bar looking at the great cathedral. I had lit candles inside. I know my sainted mother would be happy with that religious gesture; an indication that her hard work at spiritual indoctrination was not totally for naught. I snuffed out the cigar and drained the last of the beer. I have now closed the book on Iraq. As this last page turns it shows only three letters surrounded by a sea of white. END

But the protagonist lives; and when the protagonist survives the trials the story presents, to carry him safely to the end, he invites a sequel. And so I write this from Bishkek in Kyrgyzstan, on the old Silk Road. As with all these stories, I will turn the pages not knowing what lies in the chapters that follow. I wonder sometimes what drives this insane wandering. I have no answer. I will likely stop in a year or two and return home. My only fear is that when that time comes, I will no longer know where home is.

Until Next Connection
Dan

New Mission

Lush emerald mountains surrounded the natural harbor. As morning broke, it was time to leave. We weighed anchor. All hatches and ports were closed and dogged. All hands moved inside. The ship slowly moved toward the river mouth. The boson was alone on deck at the bow, standing by the anchor. The third mate was below decks in the stern at the emergency steering station. The Captain, Chief mate and I were on the bridge with one of the able bodied seamen at the helm, a pile of flack gear heaped to his left. The green mountains of the harbor gave way to the delta. Flat stretches of paddy in flooded fields. Men and women in coolie hats worked in the ankle deep water that harbored their precious crop. Pushing rice stalks into the mud, tilling with buffalo, totally disinterested in our transiting. We passed the first check point; one of the navy’s river patrol boats with two or three sailors visible onboard the small craft and a couple of machine guns. They crackled acknowledgment over the radio, the Captain responded into the mic. We waved from inside the confines of the closed bridge and passed on to the next point; a second boat. The instructions were strict and simple; run her aground if you get hit. Get out of the channel. After we had passed out of sight of the second check point, there was an explosion on the bank to starboard, fifty yards from our ship’s steel hull. Then there was another. Smoke and dirt flew into the air. We watched and passed safely by. Within minutes, a mile across the flat delta to our port, two jet fighters dived as missiles shot out from their bellies. There was more smoke and thunder as the missiles hit their target. The fighters circled once and were gone. The next check point came into view, another river patrol boat. There were no further incidents during our journey up the river to Saigon. It was Viet Nam. It was 1968. I was twenty.

As the C-130 spiraled downward avoiding the long gradually descending landing approaches we are so used to on commercial flights, my thoughts had reflected back to my last experience in a war zone. It was a long time ago. I was much younger; the war strikingly similar. Within minutes the big, old, but dependable plane floated down to near ground level. Its tires kissed the concrete with a small squeal, then rolled down the runway at BIAP, Baghdad International Airport. But we were not headed to the modern looking terminal building. Instead, the steel gray plane lumbered to a piece of tarmac a short walk from a dust covered white fabric tent. Chain link and razor wire encircled everything in sight. And everything was covered in a layer of fine brown sand. It is like that in Iraq. Soldiers were everywhere, “M” class weapons in hand or slung by a strap over their shoulder, and pistols strapped to their legs like misplaced cowboys on an unworldly plain. It is like that in Iraq. We moved single file into the stark tent for check-in. Soldiers were barking instructions. It was an unceremonious arrival. We took seats on long benches as our paperwork was checked. The soldiers were young; young men and young women. I wondered if, while visiting my last war, I could have been as young as those fair faced boys in sand-brown camo, armed, trained, and dangerous, and in danger. Wars should be fought by old men like myself; men who cherish life and cling to it with desperation; not the fearless youth who cannot yet see over the hill where death lurks. There would be far less shooting; far less killing; far less destruction.

Our luggage was piled on pallets under a canopy covered with dust. We retrieved it and looked for our transportation. Within a few minutes Rhonda greeted us and showed us our rooms for the night. As with all housing for coalition personnel in Iraq, the rooms were prefabricated housing containers – CHUs, containerized housing units. These had their own bathrooms. Wet hooches, they are called. The personal security detail (PSD) would move us the next day at a time undetermined or undisclosed. After a dinner at a dining facility (DFAC) some distance away, we settled in for the night. I lay there wondering if the two weeks in Washington had prepared me for all of this.

Sharon and I had made the trip to Washington and back to Mississippi, Johnny Dred and the boat. It had taken us three full days, two traveling and one in Washington interviewing and seeing some of the sites. The Mall is a short walk from Main State, the main office building for the State Department where I had my interview. We visited the Viet Nam War Memorial. I found the names of former friends memorialized on the sleek black wall. I have lived a full life since they died. Nothing more need be said. What has been done is now done. We cannot change it; only learn the lessons. Every President should be required to walk the length of that wall before committing any troops anywhere.

For a week, Johnny and I had motored our little craft across two states; from north to south across Kentucky and then Tennessee and over the border into northern Mississippi. The trip was more serene than we had experienced earlier. The barge traffic was lighter; the scenery beautiful. Our first stop was at a place called Cuba Landing. The cottonmouth swimming away from the boat as we entered the marina’s basin was a harbinger of things to come. A shaggy haired, bleach blonde teen in sagging jeans named Cody met us at the dock and helped us fuel and tie off. His grandmother ran the marina store, his father was the mechanic. The restaurant was closed for remodeling, but we were able to borrow a pot from it suitable to make spaghetti for our dinner. Johnny strummed his guitar on the dock as I prepared dinner. Within moments Mark and his girlfriend came by to enjoy the music. Mark was a retired auto worker from Flint, Michigan, his girlfriend a local. He had a boat on the dock next to where we were tied. Mark lamented that he had left his guitar at home for the first time in a long time. He and Johnny sang and strummed until dinner was ready. This was the high point of our visit. The restrooms and showers were nothing less than filthy. At dawn we gladly departed.

It was an early start from Camp Klecker near BIAP. We were taken to breakfast at the DFAC and then to where our equipment was issued; pants, shirts, tee shirts, turtle necks, jacket, coat, boots, flashlight, multi-tool, sleeping bag, and of most importance, helmet and body armor. We were rushed, the PSD was waiting. We donned our helmets and body armor and loaded our luggage. As is routine, we received a quick briefing. Our guardians were young skilled private contractors, armed and ready. Michael, Khalid and I took seats in our vehicle. Moving people through the red zone areas of Iraq is a complex multi-vehicle undertaking. Lights and sirens are often used. Highways and streets are cleared of vehicles by waiving, armed guards. The vehicles move quickly. They maneuver as needed; they will shoot if their requests are not met; it is all about the safety of the principals; it is all about us. I sat conflicted by the offensiveness of the process to the locals and the need to get me to my destination safely. We whizzed down the highway, Route Irish. Cars pulled off to the side of the road. Pedestrians watched as our caravan sped past. The landscape was stark and sandy. It then turned into city. Our situational awareness training had us watching windows, people on the street, overpasses and parked cars. Our guardians were doing the same. As we passed the first checkpoint of the Green Zone, the International Zone or IZ as it is referred; there was a noticeable easing of the tension that had been so stifling in the vehicle during the twenty minute ride. The young man riding “shotgun” lowered his weapon and released the chin strap of his helmet. He relaxed and turned to tell us we were in the Green Zone. We were met at the bus stop just outside the Embassy compound by Wilson and Pat. My new Mission had officially begun.

Until Next Connection,
Dan

Traveling the Rivers III.

III

Bad start, The big river, The Missouri joins, The canal, St. Louis from the river, Hoppies, Kimmswick, Missouri, More nice people, The wing dams or weir dams, New friends, The Kaskaskia River lock, Kidd’s Fuel Dock in Cape Girardeau, Anchorage, The Ohio – farewell to the Mississippi, Another anchorage with friends, The Cumberland, Nighttime at the Barkley Lock, Rescued, Reunion with friends, meeting more friends, Johnny Dred arrives and Sharon leaves.

We left Grafton Harbor early on Monday. The buoys at the juncture of the Illinois and Mississippi are a bit confusing to a novice river traveler. I ran aground. As I returned to the dock to get local knowledge, I watched a tow coming off the Mississippi and noted how he got there. I had been out of the channel clearly. The boy at the fuel dock confirmed the proper path and we were finally off and onto the Mississippi.

The river was big and was noticeably running faster than the Illinois, but it was not that intimidating. We passed Alton and some of our old haunts – the Alton Belle. It wasn’t long before we were directed off the main river and into a canal. We had passed over the canal many times on our trips to St. Louis. The canal has two locks; the last two locks on the Mississippi. Just above the entrance to the canal, the Missouri enters the Mississippi. The books advised of turbulence and we were not disappointed. The river suddenly began to churn and twist into whirlpools and pull my little craft this way and that. It was fortunately short lived as we veered off a curve in the big river into the canal.

The canal was mostly uneventful and with little scenery of note. It rejoins the river just north of St. Louis. It churned and rippled and swirled as we entered. The barge traffic in St. Louis contributed to the turmoil in the water. Within minutes we were passing the city and its renowned shining arch. As I fought the water in our little boat – pushing the tiller away then pulling it back – to keep us going straight down the channel of the river, Sharon snapped pictures of her old home and its landmarks. The view of the city from the water was magnificent even though the water challenged our vessel.

As we left the city’s waterfront, the water calmed slightly and I became more used to navigating in it. Our next stop was the legendary Hoppies. Carried by the swift current, we arrived an hour or so earlier than we had expected. There were several boats tied to a rough looking long dock on the right riverbank. People were on the dock and saw that we were coming to tie off. It was impossible to approach the dock from the north, I had to go past and turn into the swift current to be able to bring the boat alongside within range of waiting hands. Lines were tossed and, in spite of the rushing gurgling current, we docked. The several houseboats on the bank-side of the dock appeared to be permanent residents. The blue hulled Mainship Trawler named Lucky Dogz seemed to be a transient boater like ourselves.

Hoppie’s wife was one of our dock hands and greeted us warmly. A large woman with a handful of teeth scattered across her smile, she and her daughter invited us to sit on the old couches under the roof covering the part of the dock were the gas pumps and soda machine were. I asked her about the whirlpools and she said she would tell me all about them and that we hadn’t seen the worst of them yet. She said she would give us the information on the river we were told we would get from Hoppies. We bought sodas and I retrieved my river charts from the boat.
She started with the wing dams or weir dams as she called them. They are underwater dams built by the Army Corps of Engineers out of rock to prevent sediment from accumulating on the curves in the river. They are built 45 degrees to the channel flow. The result is that they swirl the water into whirlpools and literally drill holes – seventy to one hundred feet deep. The whirlpools have reputedly taken pleasure boats and turned them three or four times before the skippers could get them through the whirlpool. We also heard stories about tows being torn apart by the whirlpools and barges sent in all directions. Hoppie’s wife showed me two places where they are particularly strong. I marked them. She said to call ahead to make sure there were no tows in the curves before I entered. “You will have enough trouble; you don’t want to be in there with a tow.” I was made duly apprehensive. “Follow the red Buoy line,” she admonished, “the effect is less on the shore side.”

There was more. She then told us that there would be no services until we reached Kentucky Lake, over two hundred miles and three rivers away. There could be fuel in Cape Girardeau, one hundred miles down the river, if we were able to stop at a dock operated by the city at a public landing and walk to a gas station. The only other fuel in that city was from Kidd’s Fuel Dock, but he has a fifty gallon minimum. We could not carry that much fuel. But in any event, we should try to top off fuel in Cape Girardeau if possible.

Finally she showed me several good anchorages along the way. The Kaskaskia River Lock wall, the Little River Diversion Channel south of Cape Girardeau, the I-57 bridge seven miles north of the Ohio River juncture and some possibilities in Paducah, Kentucky and at the entrance to the Cumberland River off the Ohio. She gave us a synopsis of what to expect south from the Ohio all the way to Mobile Bay, where her information stopped. We first heard of Bobby’s Fish Camp in Alabama, the last place to get fuel before Mobile.

We filled our six gallon gas tank and the two six gallon Gerry cans I already had onboard. We purchased two five gallon Gerry cans from Hoppie and filled those. We could make it all the way to Kentucky Lake with this much fuel if necessary. I would try to refuel in Cape Girardeau. Meanwhile, Hoppies had a bathroom but no shower. We would make do. Evening was rapidly falling; we made dinner and slept.

We needed supplies. In the morning we trekked up the steep boat ramp and across Hoppies yard overlooking the river and headed down the drive toward town. We passed a horse ranch for troubled youth from St. Louis and crossed the railroad track. The driver of a pick-up truck gave us the direction to town and after walking a half mile we were in the quaint little town of Kimmswick. We were looking for the grocery and the breakfast place that Hoppies wife told us about. We came to the post office, a well preserved artifact of post offices past with brass post office boxes and barred transaction windows. Inside there were several women talking to the postal clerk. They recognized us as strangers and offered help. We told them we were off the river and looking for a grocery and the restaurant. After several hand gestured directions, one of the women offered to take us to the restaurant which was near her shop. Kimmswick is a tourist town thirty minutes from St. Louis. The woman told us that the grocery was in the next town another mile down the road. We offered that we were on foot. She told us her daughter worked the information booth and it didn’t open for another half hour or so and she could take us to the store. Indeed she did. She, like everyone we have ever met, had her own story; college graduate working overseas, married, lived in the United Kingdom (England) now returned home half way between separation and divorce. We bought the things we needed, including an extra ice chest which I would use to store extra ice, and returned to the woman’s shop. She let us use her refrigerator for our cold thinks while we went across the street to the breakfast place.

After eating a nice breakfast and purchasing a little something from the kind woman, we returned to the boat to prepare for a late departure. As I packed the ice chest with new ice and the groceries, I asked Sharon where the chicken was. She said she had brought it. It wasn’t there. Sharon trudged back up the hill and into town while I finalized preparations to leave.
The trawler Lucky Dogz was preparing to leave. I assisted. Little did I know that I would see this trawler again and again along our trip. Sharon finally returned. She had a story to tell. Returning to the woman’s store she learned that the chicken was not left in the refrigerator. The woman called the store. They acknowledged that they had the chicken and had called Hoppies. With no other means of getting to the store and the woman’s daughter now at work, the woman gave Sharon her car keys and told her to drive back the store to get the chicken. Again I was amazed at the kindness of the people we met.

It was a bit of a trick reentering the swift Mississippi current, but once off we again proceeded south. In Grafton I had received an e-mail from a prospective employer. They wanted a telephone interview. I told them I was on a river trip, sure that they would not fully understand all that such a trip entailed, and we set a date for the interview. I was fairly certain that the sporadic celphone service I had experienced would not exist in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. I projected our travel out a few days to conduct the call on our arrival in Cape Girardeau.

Within a few hours we began entering a series of curves in the river. One was the first of the dreaded locations that Hoppie’s wife had warned about. I radioed ahead. Receiving no response, I kept moving into the curve. I could see the water begin to churn. I moved to port to follow the red buoys as Hoppie’s wife had advised. It did not take long before the big whirlpools began to pull my little ship. I held the tiller firmly and pulled hard. She maintained course. On the far side of the giant eddy the boat pulled in the opposite direction, I now pushed hard to keep her from turning. The water churned and rolled and at times looked like we were in rapids. We repeated the procedure several more times through several more of these phenomenal vortexes before we were finally in less turbulent waters. Through it all we managed not to get spun around.

We were making better time on the Mississippi than on the Illinois and fifty miles ticked off quickly. At a reasonable time in the early evening, in spite of our late departure, we were at the mouth of the Kaskaskia River mouth. Just up the river less than a quarter mile was the lock and dam. I radioed the lock master from the Mississippi to confirm that he would allow us to tie off for the night. As we approached the lock to maneuver to the wall, we saw the blued hulled trawler Lucky Dogz already tied there. Ben returned my favor from the morning and helped us tie off. We met both Ben and his wife Jean from Fort Myers, Florida at this stop. They had made the great circle Loop and were on the final leg back to Florida. They had spent five months working their way up the East Coast and across New York and Ontario, Canada through the intra-coastal waterway, canals and finally through the Great Lakes and down the Illinois as I had come.

Just as Hoppie’s wife had said, the Kaskaskia was a fine place to stop, well off the Mississippi on a much smaller less traveled river. It was quiet and we enjoyed a nice dinner and sound sleep. Next morning we were off. Cape Girardeau would be our next stop. By early afternoon we approached the historic river town. I compared the charts that had not been updated for several years to what existed on the shore. The dock Hoppie told us about was not there. As we passed thinking we missed it we spotted the small fifty foot Kidd’s Fuel Dock. Ben, Jean and the blue trawler Lucky Dogz were tied there fueling. They could easily hold the minimum fifty gallons. With the swift current, I felt it was too risky to try to dock at the short dock already occupied by the thirty-seven foot Luck Dogz. I knew that we were past the landing where the dock was supposed to be. We headed back upstream to the landing. It was clear that the dock had been removed. After trying to hail some young men on jet skis to get more information and otherwise circling in front of the landing we decided to go to Kidd’s. When we got back Lucky Dogz had already left. No one was there. We tied off. There was a number on the sign. I called on my mobile phone and got the man who had just fueled Lucky Dogz. He said that he could not return for ten or so gallons of fuel. I told him we were taking on water and needed to stay there to address that problem. I exaggerated our small water issue. He agreed to let us stay there.

We surveyed the situation. The dock was connected to a walkway that ran across the base of a fifteen foot flood wall. The ramp from the dock to the walkway was another twenty feet steeply uphill. To prevent unwanted visitors there was an iron barred gate with side wings part way up the metal grid ramp. My only choice to refuel here was to climb over the gate with my Gerry jugs. One of the six gallon jugs was empty the other nearly so. The others were full. I climbed over the gate and had Sharon attach a rope to the jugs. So I could pull them over. Then I walked to the walkway and down to an opening in the floodwall that entered into the town. I walked another five or so blocks to the gas station. At the gas station I debated purchasing at least one bag of ice to replenish our rapidly diminishing supply. It was clearly out of the question. It would be too much to carry. After filling the jugs, now weighing nearly fifty pounds each, I headed back to the boat. When I was over half way back, a young man stopped in his beat up old car and asked if I needed a ride. I accepted. I put the jugs in the back seat and climbed in the front. The glove box door lay open providing a makeshift table for the man’s ashtray. Dust was everywhere and it reeked of cigarette smoke. I appreciated the ride nonetheless. He said, “If I was carrying those jugs I would want somebody to give me a ride.” I couldn’t help but reflect on all the much newer vehicles that had simply passed me by. I supposed that he was more likely than they to have been in my position before. To be sure kindness is classless.

My trip was not over after leaving the car. I lugged the jugs back down the walk way and ramp to the gate. Again using the rope, and standing half way up the gate I passed the jugs over and lowered them until Sharon could catch them. Most importantly, we had topped off our fuel. This was not a place to stay the night. We left for the anchorage just south of the city that Hoppie’s wife had told us about. It was in the Diversion River off the main channel of the Mississippi. As we carefully entered we saw Lucky Dogz anchored at the base of the railroad bridge a quarter mile up the small river. We stopped a hundred yards off the Mississippi still in fifteen feet of water. Moving to the north bank we dropped our hooks. Checking, I had celphone coverage. As night fell we could hear the traffic on I-55 some distance away. It was otherwise a serene location.

In the morning we sponge bathed and ate breakfast. I waited for my call. The interview took about an hour. It seemed a bit strange to be in a quiet anchorage off the Mississippi River surrounded by nature and talking to a group of people in Washington DC no doubt stressed as they sat around a table. Lucky Dogz passed mid-interview. I waved as they headed back onto the big river. We followed an hour later. The interview had gone well, the woman in charge had indicated that she may want to talk to me further in Washington D.C. I explained my situation to her, that I was traveling the rivers and was often in remote areas, and that I might not be in phone or e-mail contact for a few days. We agreed that I would contact her for details when I got to Green Turtle Bay in Barkley Lake in Kentucky.

By two in the afternoon we were at the I-57 bridge. It did not look like a very appealing anchorage. We would be in the Mississippi in a spot near the bridge where some jetties partially blocked the swift current. The spot was only seven miles from where the Ohio emptied into the Mississippi. I was looking forward to leaving Old Man River behind. The fast running water, gurgling and rippling as it rolled over itself in a rush to reach the Big Easy and the Gulf. The tension as we sliced through the swirling pools that threatened to capture us in their centrifugal grasp. All of it I was anxious to leave behind; food for future stories; a tick on my list of life. We decided that we would continue to the Ohio.

As we entered into the broad mouth of the Ohio, I breathed a sigh of relief. The barge traffic in and around Cairo, Illinois was heavy and Sharon didn’t like it. We were going up stream, against the current, but it only slowed us by two knots. I was just glad to be off the Mississippi. It was mid afternoon and there was no place to stop until possibly Paducah, Kentucky, if Hoppy’s wife was accurate. It would be well after dark in the best case when we would reach there. We would need to find something in between.

It wasn’t long before we left the bustling river traffic of Cairo and were in more remote areas again. There were still many barges plying the waters. Soon the large Olmsted Lock construction site came into view. This new lock and dam would replace locks 52 and 53 which we would soon transit. Radio traffic indicated that Lock 53 was down for repairs and barges were backed up. Fortunately when we finally arrived, the smaller of the two chambers at the lock was open. Barges were beached against the bank for several miles downstream of the lock. We radioed and were told we could lock through the smaller chamber. There was a relatively short wait. We talked with some captains about possible anchorages. Dusk would find us quickly after we exited the lock. One possible anchorage we were told about was an hour or so upstream above the lock. We could make it by dark. As we proceeded upstream from the lock, about two miles, we noticed the blue hulled trawler Lucky Dogz anchored between the narrow channel and the river bank. We decided that two anchored vessels were more visible than one and pulled a hundred yards behind our friends. Dropping both bow and stern anchors we settled in for the evening.

We were three days from Hoppy’s where we last purchased ice. We were out. The main ice chest was still cold with a few stray cubes in the still cold water, but all drinks were now warm. We made dinner. While dinner cooked the neighbors were taking their dog for a walk on the beach. They stopped by in their dinghy and we chatted a bit. I offered a warm beer; Ben said he had plenty of his own warm beer, thanks. They were out of ice as well. Ben and Jean had the luxury of refrigeration for their food, however. We learned that Lucky Dogz had experienced engine problems and was running on only one of her twin diesels.

For me it was a restless night. Every time a barge went by I was up checking the anchors. When the wind shifted the boat, I checked the anchors. I had only intermittent sleep. The anchors held like glue and we awoke in the same place we had been the evening before.

After a breakfast of cereal, and coffee we weighed anchor and began the long day’s journey that would end in Barkley Lake. We were at lock 52 within a short time. Lucky Dogz, who had left before us, and one other boat were waiting to lock through. We had arrived in near perfect time. Within ten minutes we were locking through and were off upstream to the Cumberland River. The Tennessee River enters the Ohio at Paducah. We were advised that the Cumberland route, several miles up the Ohio from Paducah would be a better fit for pleasure craft. The Tennessee becomes Kentucky Lake at the damn some thirty miles upstream. Barkley Lake and Kentucky Lake are a mere mile apart at the dams. We passed Paducah and Metropolis Illinois. The Ohio finally became a bit more serene. We watched as Lucky Dogz, making about a knot more speed than us, gradually faded into the distance.

Soon we were at the juncture of the Cumberland River. We were still making good time and could make Green Turtle Bay Marina by evening. The Cumberland was a much smaller river. We were still moving up stream but the river ran slowly and we could make six knots. The Cumberland was quiet with forest on the banks, few tows and few towns. Within a few hours we were at the base of the Barkley Lock and Dam. We radioed the lock master. We were advised that a tow was locking down and one was waiting to lock down. We faced a possible wait of several hours. We had an hour or so before dusk. Since the marina was a very short distance from the lock, I was not overly concerned about traveling in darkness.

The lock master came back and advised us that if we slipped quickly into the lock as soon as the tow cleared it, we could lock up before the next tug entered to lock down. It seemed forever before the tow cleared the lock. It was dark and overcast. There was no moon, only lights from the lock. As we entered the lock it began to sprinkle. This was one of the larger locks we had transited; we would raise up fifty-seven feet to Barkley Lake behind the dam. The sprinkle turned into a full rain by the time the large doors opened. At the outside of the chamber, waiting to enter was the tow we were told about. The captain, for reasons unknown to me, shown his spot light directly into my face. With rain and the blinding light I could not see anything at all. From my charts, I knew that directly to my right there was a bay. I maneuvered to starboard as I left the lock to escape the blinding light and get to a point where I could better determine where I was in relation to the marina. The shoreline was as black as the rest of the night. The rain became a downpour. I slowed but still hit something beneath me. I moved further into the bay. There were some boats anchored. I tried without success to identify landforms that I could find on my wet chart.

After several agonizing minutes, maybe ten or fifteen, the rain finally stopped. The night was still dark black. Lights were visible, but the shoreline features were still obscured in the darkness. I worked my way out of the bay following the shoreline as best I could, traveling at a very slow rate in an attempt to find the marina. We were tired, now wet, we hadn’t showered since we left Grafton Illinois six days earlier we were out of ice and all we wanted was to tie to a secure dock in the five anchor marina. I was using my spot light to follow the shoreline. Soon we came on a boat coming in our direction. I shined my spot on it. It shined back. I kept this up until they realized that I was trying to get their attention. They slowed. As we neared within hailing distance, I called for help. They pulled alongside. I told them I was looking for the Green Turtle Bay Marina. They were staying at the marina and agreed to lead us to it. We followed back into the bay I had come out of minutes earlier. We went deep in to the back of the bay and turned to port and entered a cove where there were many floating docks. They were very shabby looking; not what we expected from a marina rated as a five anchor facility; the equivalent of a five star hotel, but it was a dock and we tied to it. We walked to the facilities looking for an open restroom. It was ten at night now.

The young people who had led us to the marina were at the top of the bank near some dry storage racks. They asked if we were ok. Soon a security guard came by in a truck. He showed us where we could shower. After we showed he returned to take us back to our boat. On the trip back he showed us the rest of the marina. We had actually docked in an area that was used by people who trailered boats to the facility and stayed in condominiums. The part of the marina where we should have docked was in fact a very nice facility. We returned to the boat for a good sleep.

Next morning I moved the boat to the proper marina. Ben from Salty Dogz was walking his dog. We greeted each other. They were waiting for a factory representative for their engine problems as well as some other less serious problems. They would be there several days. It was a beautiful setting and a great facility. We were tired from several long days traveling on the boat with no showers and, at the end, no ice. We would rest here for several days and wait for Johnny Dred to come. During the telephone interview back in Cape Girardeau, the woman had said that she wanted me to come to Washington for a live interview. This was the first time since we left Grafton, Illinois that we had internet. I had a lot of e-mail to catch up on and I needed to make arrangements for a trip to Washington. After a bit of checking and calling back and forth we decided that Sharon would leave for Key West as soon as Johnny arrived. Johnny and I would continue on to a place called Aqua Yacht Harbor in Iuka, Mississippi where Sharon would meet us and we would drive to Washington D.C. for the interview. Johnny would watch the boat. The whole trip would take us three days. Then Johnny and I would proceed on to Mobile Bay and finally, Florida. I e-mailed back to Chicago to have my backordered charts delivered to Aqua Yacht Harbor. I also purchased charts for Florida.

I used the time at Green Turtle Bay to make a few small repairs on the boat, charge my battery and to discuss my water problem with the mechanic there. A sailboater himself, he convinced me that, weighing the severity of the leak against the cost of hauling the boat and the likelihood of actually locating the source, it was best to let it be.

We visited the little town dominated by tourist shops and restaurants. We made friends among the other boaters who, like us, were traveling through at varying paces. This was a floating vagabond community of retirees, adventurers and drifters. Some, here most, very wealthy; but all with that wandering spirit that moves people from where they are to somewhere they have never been and from there on to yet another place. We certainly qualified, having spent the last four or five years wandering the earth looking for nothing in particular, other than another place we had not yet seen, to meet people we had never before known. Wanderlust is a drug so addictive that it condemns those who have partaken too much to a life of searching and seeking and constantly looking, at the next mountain wondering what is on the other side; at the next ocean yearning to cross it, at the next river waiting, as we were, to travel its course. Whenever the car door closes, or the plane begins its taxi down the runway, or when the lines are cast off and the boat moves away from the dock, there is a rush of adrenaline and feeling of exhilaration that cannot be equaled. God I love it.

Until Next Connection,
Dan

Off alone, Ottawa, Henry, Pekin Boat Club, A leak, Stop in Havana, The first anchorage, Mel’s Yellow Dock and Illinois River Restaurant, Grafton, Parr

II.

Off alone, Ottawa, Henry, Pekin Boat Club, A leak, Stop in Havana, The first anchorage, Mel’s Yellow Dock and Illinois River Restaurant, Grafton, Parrothead party, Johnny and Sharon arrive.

Dear Friends and Family;

I awoke early for having gone to bed at five A.M but I was at the fuel dock and I wanted to get a proper slip for the night. It was Sunday and I would rest and leave on Monday morning. Beau had been good company and a good mate to have aboard. We had fun and he was indispensible in some pretty tight situations. I am thankful that I have been able to spend time with each of my three sons from time to time. They are good sons and fine young men.

I spent the day doing little. I worked on the motor a bit cleaning the spark plugs; this would become my ritual; fearing being caught on the river with half power or worse yet, no motor at all. I chatted with a fellow who had a sailboat he was working on. He planned to take it to Lake Michigan. Interestingly, he purchased the boat in Wisconsin and had it trucked to Wilmington, Illinois to the marina where it now sat.

Monday morning I started out at a leisurely time after having made sure I had cold water, a sandwich, all the other items I would need easily accessible in the cockpit. I would not be able to go below to retrieve things I may have forgotten. I had the charts, maps, binoculars, rain gear, cooler with drinks and food. Things like paper towels and handy wipes I kept inside within easy reach. I had the radio on to channel 16 and the mic hung outside in the cockpit. With my tarp, all would withstand sun and mild showers.

The Illinois gets prettier the further south you go. Always, however, there are a few heavy industrial sites; chemical plants, petroleum distribution sites, cement, aggregate, sand and gravel, and the like. That is the economic force that keeps the rivers open and the locks functioning. When I came to the first lock of the day I had to wait for one tow to be locked up before I could be locked down. I was directed to a place on the dam wall next to a spillway. It was secure enough, but it was a bit disconcerting to look over the wall and see the spillway pouring water to the river twenty feet below. This would be the first lock I would negotiate alone; I was happily surprised to find that I was the only boat there. The lock workers were helpful and friendly. This would only be a twenty some foot drop, less that the near forty foot drops Beau and I had experienced earlier. By standing amidships, I could hold both the bow and stern lines that were dropped to me. I slipped one under the bow cleat and one under a stern cleat. I had to add an extension to one but overall, the process worked quite well. Locking through was otherwise uneventful. When the doors opened, I was off.

I locked through the twenty-four foot drop at the Marseilles Lock in a short time. This was the first lock where there was no wait. In a way, it seemed a lot of engineering for one man and his little sailboat, but the system works for all vessels. Priority is given to commercial traffic, of course, but pleasure craft are afforded the same rights, and on the Illinois, the same courtesy as all others. It was late afternoon as I motored out of the lock and I was an hour from my night stop.

I had decided to stay at the Ottawa courtesy dock. It seems the city of Ottawa, Illinois had created a beautiful river walk that included a courtesy dock on the Fox river immediately off the Illinois. There was no electricity and no showers but also no fee. And a very nice dock an easy walk to town. I secured the ship and walked to the local library to use the Internet before it closed. This was the first time that I put my hatch boards in and locked everything before leaving. The Group in the gazebo seemed harmless enough with their bottles and slurred greeting, but I felt precaution was best.

As I crossed through the park, I learned that Ottawa, Illinois was the site of the first Lincoln-Douglas debate. The statues of both men on pedestals in the little park were ample evidence of the pride this community felt.

The library was open, the staff friendly and the Internet adequate for my needs – e-mail. The librarian directed me to a restaurant where I ate. I asked the bartender about the depth of the water at the mouth of the Fox River. I told her that I had dragged my rudder through mud on the way in. She told me that she and her husband were boaters and she would call him to ask him about the situation. Within a half hour, when she had a few extra minutes, she had her husband on her cell phone. He advised me that I had just cut the corner too hard and if I stayed close to the dock on the way out, I would have no problems. I was just beginning to learn that there are a lot of very nice people along the rivers of America. Every town and every landing has them. And in reality, I know they are everywhere. My faith in humanity was already being renewed.

Next morning, I made coffee on my grill in the park. A young man fished nearby with little success. Before I awoke he had tangled a hook in the netting on my life line. I retrieved it for him. On my way to town I asked a mail man where an auto parts store was. He got out of his trick to gesture and point the way to two stores. I went looking for new spark plugs, still concerned with my problem. At the auto parts store I talked with two of the fellows who worked there and they had several ideas, but one decided to call a man they knew who worked on outboard motors. He handed me his cell phone. I talked with someone whose name I do not know and whom I have never met. He gave me some advice that I believe may have fixed my problem. He said that either there was too much oil in the crankcase which would cause it to blow through and foul the plugs, or the engine was burning too rich, causing it to put gasoline into the oil. He also told me to use a heavier weight oil. I purchased a siphon, a can of oil and two plugs from the store. Back at the boat, I checked the oil and discovered that it was in fact overfilled. I siphoned it down to a point where I could add about a half liter of oil and changed the plugs again. I hauled gasoline from the station a few blocks from the waterfront and by 1:45 P.M. local time, I was on the river again.

The lock at Starved Rock was again no wait and by dusk I was entering the marina in Henry, Illinois. I entered through an old lock made of cut granite blocks and I tied off at a rickety dock that seemed to be for transients. At the restaurant my suspicions were confirmed and I was able to eat a nice meal before retiring. In Henry, I did laundry and bought a few things at the grocery. It was a rainy morning and I was not too in too big a hurry to get back on the river, but by the time I finished my chores, the rain had stopped and I was soon making my way downstream.

I passed the riverfront in Peoria, Illinois. As with many of the towns and cities along the rivers, Peoria has revitalized its riverfront with bricked walks and retaining walls, restaurants in old warehouses and the like. There are docks for three hour usage mainly for riverfront events and to allow boaters to stop for a meal. I passed on, working my way down the river. I locked through the Peoria Lock quickly.

As the day wore on I came to my evening destination, the Pekin Boat Club in Pekin, Illinois. I tied at the fuel dock which was on the river and climbed the stairway to the top of the bluff where the boat club’s clubhouse stood on concrete pillars. I climbed the stairs to the deck. A fellow named Steve greeted me and asked if I needed fuel. I told him I needed fuel and a place to stay for the night. He immediately went about helping me. It was later I learned that he was not in charge of anything, just a member helping out. We filled my tank and Gerry jug that I had partially emptied and walked to the other side of the grounds that contained an RV park for members to a bay off the river where the members docked their boats. The dockage was very shallow and I used a stick to measure the depth of each spot he showed me. Very near the mouth of the little bay I found enough water to allow me to dock. Steve climbed the steel wall twenty feet to check if there was electricity for me above where the RVs were parked. There was. I moved the boat around with Steve’s help and plugged in my electric cord. Finally I went to the clubhouse for a beer and something to eat.

On the way, Stan stopped me. Stan is the caretaker of the club site. He told me that Steve told him that he should take me to town if I needed anything. I had asked Steve where town was and was told it was a mile or so walk. I took Stan up on his offer to look for the exact brand of spark plug I needed for my engine. I was still nervous about my power source. We repeated the trip in the morning with more success.

Finally, after Stan and I got back, I made it to the clubhouse for a beer. The bartender heated pizza in an oven for a meal. All the members were warm and friendly. I asked someone who was in charge how much I owed for the slip. “We don’t do that.” I was told almost sternly. “You are a river traveler.” I thanked him and his wife asked me to have a drink for her at Irish Kevin’s when I reached Key West; it is her favorite place in Key West. I promised her I would.

The members told me that there was very little after Pekin as far as places to fuel and marinas to stay. I should stop at Havana and refuel and ask Bob about anchorages. Havana was the last fuel stop before Grafton; over a hundred miles down the river. Bob knew the river as it went south. ” Tell Bob you were referred by the Pekin Boat Club. He knows us.”

Next morning I awoke to water puddled on the deck in the main cabin. It had rained in the night, but this was coming from below. I had a leak somewhere. With sponge and pan I got the water out. The water did not seem to be coming in at any alarming rate, so I finished my business; a trip to town with Stan, a shower at the club’s shower room and breakfast. The situation was frustrating but without urgency, and with nowhere to go to fix it I packed and got back on the river.

As civilization thins, the Illinois becomes more beautiful. It rolls along through farmland and woods and spreads into large lakes, sometimes the river is enclosed in levies; sometimes it just spreads itself over hundreds of acres of wide shallow lake, necessitating careful marking of the channel and similar navigation. The wildlife on the Illinois is abundant, bald eagles, turkey vultures, wild turkeys, hundreds of herons both blue and white, deer, and of course, fish popping across the surface. It rolled slowly along and was a pleasant trip.

Midway through the afternoon I came to Havana where I fueled and talked to Bob. Bob, either out of politeness or truth, admitted knowing the people at Pekin Boat Club. In either event, he was able to show me a good anchorage an hour or two further down the river. This would be my first anchorage of the trip. Wes and Mike at Wolf’s Marine in Benton Harbor had equipped me with a suitable plow type anchor with chain and rode. I would use my old Danforth as a second anchor to prevent swinging in the river setting.

I crept carefully up into the slough that Bob had shown me on the chart. Indeed there appeared to be plenty of water and I could get well out of the channel, off the river and away from the path of any tugs and tows that would be passing in the night. I chugged slowly forward; then, putting the motor into neutral, I scrambled forward to drop my bow anchor. Once it was over, I gauged the water depth and let out an appropriate amount of rode. Moving back to the cockpit, I reversed the engine and backed off before I set the stern anchor, my old Danforth. All in all it was a very successful exercise. I was pleased; and the anchorage was as pleasant a place as one could ask for. Nature surrounded me and the sounds at night were a delight. After a good dinner, I retired early and slept very well.

Next morning I had early coffee and cereal and weighed anchor to reach the Yellow Dock, home of Mel’s Illinois River and Restaurant. Seventy miles from my location and ten hours of traveling at my cruising speed. At Mel’s I could spend the night tied to the Yellow Dock and, being at mile twenty-one, make a short day Saturday to arrive early in Grafton, Illinois where the Illinois meets the Mississippi and I would meet Sharon and Johnny Dred.

I had a two hour wait at the first lock I came to, but still managed to get to the Yellow Dock by dusk; around eight central time. The Yellow Dock is exactly that, a long yellow dock that Mel mainains below his restaurant. He charges to spend the night and is more than willing to serve travelers at his restaurant. He has no showers and no fuel. My two gerry jugs plus my tank were sufficient to get me to Grafton Yacht Harbor.

The restaurant was busy; it was Friday night. Most diners in that part of the world eat early and my after eight o’clock arrival found most people finishing their meals and leaving, and an overworked buffet. When I told the hostess that I was on the river and needed to spend the night, she immediately got Mel. I told Mel that Mike at Pier 1000 Marina had recommended his restaurant to me. Mel then left and returned shortly with a small plate with samples of his pork chop and brisket. Both were good, but I opted for ribs and chicken from the buffet.

Mel sat with me for a few minutes and told me a story about his restaurant during the great 1989 flood. Mel’s restaurant is two hundred yards back from the river and a good forty feet above its bank. As he sandbagged his building on news of the flood he took time to rest. As he slept, Mel says, his late wife came to him in a dream and told him to get out of the restaurant. He did and soon his restaurant had eight feet of water in it. For river travelers, Mel’s is a must stop. I signed the book that is kept of all river travelers as I paid.

It was 12:30 when I arrived at Grafton Harbor. Pulling to the fuel dock I filled and asked about a slip for a few days. The young man fueling boats asked if I had reservations. I did not. It seems that I had chosen the weekend of the fiftieth anniversary party for the yacht club that used the marina as its home. Boats were everywhere and more coming. Many were decorated for the boat parade later in the afternoon. Fortunately I was there just early enough to get a slip and get settled in before the entire marina was packed with boats and people.

By late afternoon the festivities were full force. Not really interested, but surrounded, I joined in a limited way. I had a beer and cigar and listened to a band playing Jimmy Buffett and inviting everyone to Key West in November when they will be playing there. The marina itself was very nice and I met a few people who had either made “The Loop” or who had been down the Mississippi. The Loop is transiting from north to south (or south to north) and back by using the Intracoastal Waterway on the East Coast through the Hudson River and across through the Great Lakes and down the rivers to Mobile as I was doing. They had good information. Mostly people said to stop at Hoppies. I would get a full indoctrination from Hoppy before leaving. Hoppies was in fact my planned first stop, just south of St. Louis.

I was apprehensive about the Mississippi River. For that reason, Sharon had agreed to join me for that part of the trip. Johnny Dred, our friend from Key West, wanted to visit friends in Georgia and Tennessee as well as accompany me for the remainder of the trip. They arrived Sunday. We loaded Sharon’s things onto the boat and Johnny took our car and was off back to Georgia. He would meet us somewhere on Kentucky Lake in Kentucky or Tennessee. Sharon and I spent a nice afternoon in Grafton and readied for an early departure on Monday. We could see the big river from the Marina. It did not look too awesome or intimidating from that vantage. But we would soon learn that it lives up to all that has ever been said about it. But that will have to wait -

Until the Next Connection,
Dan

An Interlude: Traveling The Rivers

An Interlude:
Traveling The Rivers

I.

The decision, The preparation, We get Started, We get towed, We get started again, The trash heap, The engine fails, Repair at the barge, Held up at the locks, Joliet, A hard nights travel

Dear Friends and Family,

I know I promised an epilogue covering our time in South America… and it’s coming. But I thought that my current adventure – or misadventure – may be of interest. As you know we sold our home in Michigan and are now fulltime residents of Key West, Florida. We still have two storage units and a sailboat there, however. Bruce and Judy have been kind enough to not only clean the old house with Sharon, including the garage, but to drag the sailboat to there currently unused barnyard. That was nine months ago and it is time to relieve them of the burden. We looked at many options and got several estimates to haul it down by truck. On the way to Michigan we both arrived at the conclusion that I would take the boat down the river system to Key West. The money otherwise spent on hauling could be used to get her in shape (a necessary expense regardless) and defer costs of the trip.

Deciding was the easy part. The boat hasn’t been in the water for five years or so and it had some problems then. Between mice, mildew and broken parts it would be a daunting task to get her ready for the trip. For starters I took the broken tiller base to Ed who built me a new one from better aluminum stock than the original. Tradesmen are good friends to have. With my son Beau’s help it took two weeks of hard work to get her cleaned waxed and her bottom stripped of freshwater paint and a saltwater suitable paint applied. Meanwhile I had been discussing the trip with Mike at Pier 1000 Marina who had made the trip several times and did not discourage my effort. After building a cradle for the mast that would allow me head room and a convenient cross member for a sun and rain shelter, she was ready for the marina. With the help of another friend with a big diesel pickup truck the job was accomplished. I made arrangement to launch. Beau, our middle son, decided to take a week off of work and come with me the first week. I planned a Friday launch giving me Saturday to work out bugs and we would leave on Sunday.
Disregarding Tom’s advice on mechanics to work on the twenty year old 9.9 horsepower four stroke Yamaha outboard that would power our little vessel; I used the first guy I could find who could get it done in my time. He didn’t. I was put off and lied to for several days until he admitted he had a problem with getting it running properly. After having been stored unused for five years, the carburetor was thoroughly gummed. I canceled the Friday launch. The marina could not launch me on Saturday but agreed to do it Sunday. Finally late Saturday afternoon the motor was ready. I hung it on the back of the boat and checked the electronic ignition etc. Everything seemed fine. Sunday we lowered the boat into the water.
Among the repairs I made was to replace a through-hull fitting that was below the water line, in plastic and without a seacock (shut off). I installed one in bronze with a bronze seacock. As the boat hung I checked my work. There was a small but all too steady drip from the new fitting. We hoisted her back out. I completely re-did the fitting installation and, due to the lateness of the day and poor lake conditions, scheduled a launch for Monday morning.

The boat was lowered into the water again on Monday, the fitting remained bone dry. We quickly loaded the remaining provisions and worked our way out of the harbor for our first planned stop at Michigan City, Indiana. I pulled the rope that lowers my retractable rudder and we were off. Things seemed to be going well. We bumped over some bars in the shallow river upstream of the Main Street Bridge and I then noticed the rope holding the rudder had frayed to about half of its thickness. If it were to break I would lose steering. I would have to fix this problem in Michigan City.

We motored through the piers in Saint Joseph, pounding through the six foot swells that funnel through the solid structures since the Corp of Engineers work many years ago. Once on the Lake, the swells rolled in from the northwest at about two to four feet; manageable for our little ship. We were between Warren Dunes State Park and New Buffalo, Michigan when the engine cut back. Thinking it was out of gas we stopped to refill the tank from one of the gerry jugs I carry. After filling the tank, the engine would not restart. Clearly there were more problems than fuel. Having already purchased Boat US tow insurance I called the number. Soon I was in touch with a tow boat operator. He began looking for us, leaving from New Buffalo Harbor. I could not get my GPS to function properly so I guessed at my location. Just south of Warren Dunes and a mile out. We watched and could see very few boats. The Lake turned to glass and the sun pounded down. Rollers swayed us from side to side. I rigged the tarp over the mast and cooled us down by ten degrees. We waited, watched and talked on the phone. When the tow operator was near the Cook Nuclear Plant and a mile out he asked for a fix from us on the Cook Plant. I took a bearing on the facility on the distant shore and gave it to him. It was not long before we saw him steaming toward us. When the boat finally located us we learned we were in fact four miles out. We were towed into New Buffalo Harbor to the Municipal dock there. It was evening so we secured for the night.

New Buffalo is not a large port and has only one marina with a hoist. They had no means of getting our boat to their marina for haul out, however, even though we needed to go only a few blocks. They put us in touch with a competent mechanic who diagnosed part of our engine problem. It seems that my mechanic took the lower unit off to replace a water pump and did not reinstall locking nuts on the shaft that controlled the shifter. The vibrations loosened the shaft and it parted, making shifting impossible. The boat would need to be hauled to get to that problem. We had no luck Tuesday getting someone to tow us. Wednesday the marina finally agreed to launch a boat to tow us to their lift. They charged me ninety dollars for that short tow so that I could pay them ten dollars per foot to haul out on their travel lift – three dollars more per foot than in Benton Harbor.

The motor mechanic fixed the shifter while Beau and I replaced he rudder rope. It took most of the day. By mid-afternoon we were launched again and headed back to the Municipal Marina. I now noticed that I had about half power. Once docked again, I called the local mechanic. He ran me through a few checks but could not get to me to assist more. Thursday the local mechanic was out of town. I called my original mechanic who asked a couple of questions and then suggested it might be the spark plugs. He promised he would come to New Buffalo on Friday and would call first. He, of course, did neither. I, in the mean time went to the local auto parts store and purchased two new spark plugs. I removed the old ones which were totally clogged with soot and carbon. That was my problem. After a quick test, I was confident I resolved the it.
On Friday I had a phone interview for a prospective job at ten in the morning. Before that I double checked my radio – a necessity on the rivers – only to discover that I have a bad connection at my antenna. Beau went to the local marine store for a new antenna cable while I interviewed. I jury rigged a new connection between my antenna and radio and by noon we were off for Chicago.

From New Buffalo, the route to Chicago is nearly due west. The two to four foot swells that day were coming straight down from the north. We rolled side to side for over five hours until we reached the Calumet River. We moved up the river, under the railroad bridges and several streets, under the Skyway Bridge and on to a marina we identified at Burnham, Illinois.

We arrived at around eight o’clock in the evening local time. The boat slips were along the canal and were all filled with pleasure boats. Several others were on cradles behind some metal marina type buildings. It was clearly a marina for pleasure craft but had a very industrial look to it. Everything was closed except for the bar; a low, long, brown, drinking looking establishment. We tied off to a vacant dock and went into the bar to find someone to assist us. With the help of one of the marina workers who was in the bar docked properly. We asked about dinner. The bar grill was closed but they had frozen pizza the bartender could make. We sat and had one dollar draft beers and pizza as we talked to the patrons. I notice out the window as I sat in the bar looking over the Cal-Sag canal, a huge solid waste land fill – a trash heap. It came right to the edge of the canal. I said; “My God there’s a trash heap right there!” A slight built fellow named Gene with a scraggly salt and pepper goatee, hair in similar condition dangling down his neck from under his cap and nearly all of his teeth responded by saying that the EPA had been there a year or two before with flyers warning of the dangers of the solid waste site and that he, Gene, had left a day or two earlier because he was physically bothered by some of the waste being disposed of that day. They said that they protested the site, but this was a little backwater spot with few people and none with clout. Seven miles inland from Lake Michigan and minutes from downtown Chicago.

Gene was a personable fellow and was initially intrigued by our little sailing ship. He had a sailboat himself; a twenty-five footer. He told us of how he had invented a mechanism for his boat to easily step the mast by himself. He said that he thought he might market it but after a quick check on the Internet he discovered that there were a hundred different such rigs for that purpose.

He asked where we were headed. I told him Key West. I said we were going down the Illinois to the Mississippi, to the Ohio to the Cumberland and into Kentucky Lake. He stopped me. Kentucky Lake is a place that he has wanted to go for some years. We talked about what we each knew of the area, neither actually having been there. He said several times that he and his brother were going to go and had talked about going in the Fall. He wanted to buy property and get a boat there. After we finished our pizza, we bid our new friends adieu. Gene wished us luck. My departing words to him were, “Gene, make that trip.” “I will for sure,” he responded. I like to think that he will, especially after having talked with us.

In the morning we showered, had breakfast and left. The Cal-Sag canal was created for barge travel and sewage disposal, similar to the Chicago Sanitary and Ship canal, the other route. The signs posted along the canal were a reminder of all that we have done over the years to move ourselves forward while moving Nature back. The signs every quarter of a mile or so warned that swimming, skiing, jet skiing, wading or anything that would put one’s skin in contact with the water was prohibited. And the disposal sites, factories, refineries and all manner of heavy industrial use along the canal was clear evidence why the warning signs were posted. These are places that few people see and even fewer desire to see.

A few miles before the Cal-Sag canal joins the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal and moves into the Illinois River, my engine dropped to half speed again. We had no place to tie off so we proceeded at half speed for over an hour until around four thirty in the afternoon when we came to a loaded barge parked along the canal. Because it was loaded it was low enough in the water for us to use as a platform to reach my outboard hanging off my stern. The barge’s cargo appeared to be some sort of aggregate and not particularly dangerous. It was Saturday and no one was working at the site. Carefully I pulled over and tied off to the barge. With Beau’s help I quickly removed the spark plugs, cleaned them with sand paper I had on board and replaced them. Within an hour we were off again. That seemed to have worked.

Just past the junction of the Cal-Sag Canal and the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal is the first real lock we were to go through. We had locked through the Thomas O’Brien Lock the day before but it’s two foot lift was negligible. The Lockport lock would drop us forty-two feet. It was 6:30 P.M. Eastern time when we arrived. A tow was ahead of us and we didn’t lock through until 8:30 P.M. Eastern time. Beau was scheduled to go home on Sunday morning and Kim was picking him up at our marina stop at the Harborside Marina in Wilmington, Illinois, south of Joliet. The Lockport lock is at river mile 290, the Brandon Lock in Joliet is at river mile 286. The Marina is at river mile 273.7. We were about three hours from the marina if all went well. That would leave us enough light to make it.

We arrived at the Brandon Lock just on the south side of the I-80 bridge at 10:15 Eastern Time.. A barge was ahead of us again. We motored around for several hours as the barge locked through. At 1:30 A. M. Eastern time, we finally locked through. It was no longer daylight and Kim was nearly at the marina already. As we left the lighted lock, my eyes tried to focus on the night. I could make out the buoys but little else. As we proceeded we passed an electrical generating plant with a string of lights on its cooling towers that lined the river. I could not determine if we were in the channel or not. It appeared to me that we were heading into a bay of some sort. Beau’s night vision is better than mine and he assured me we were in the channel. We motored along slowly until I could again distinguish the channel. We powered ahead full throttle which moves us at about seven miles an hour.

It wasn’t long before I was getting confused again in the darkness. We passed a buoy on the wrong side at Cedar Creek and I ran hard aground. At about that time, Beau had wisely decided that we should be using my spot light. I was able to back off the bar with little trouble and we began to use the light. The buoys all have reflectors and could easily be seen with the light. We motored slowly picking our way along the channel. Beau shined the buoys and I checked my chart with a flashlight. We passed two tows on the way down and finally at approximately 5:00 A.M. Eastern time we arrived at the fuel dock of the marina. I tied off for the night. Beau packed his things, called Kim who was waiting outside the gate. No one was around so Beau scaled the fence and left for home. My next week would be alone. It was Sunday and I would use the day to rest. I vowed that there would be no more nighttime travel on this trip. Exhausted, I climbed into the vee-berth. Secured to the dock I slept well.

Until nest connection,
Dan

XIX September 11; Another Ramadan; Leaving the Mission

XIX September 11; Another Ramadan; Leaving the Mission

Dear Friends and Family,

I

A long time has passed without a chapter. I will go back to the fall. September in Pristina brings a change in seasons, much like the northern US, the days start becoming noticeably shorter and the air has that feeling of impending chill to come. And in Pristina Kosovo, September brings the billboards all around the city memorializing the 9-11 terrorist attack on the US. The billboards have a nighttime view of the New York skyline with two burning candles in the spot where the World Trade Center once stood. In this Muslim country the population shares all the joy and all the sadness that their liberators experience. They are grateful for all that we did for them in 1999.

We were in the Supreme Court building on September 11. One of the translators there, a middle aged Albanian Kosovar of short slight build and an obvious and deliberate American bend to his speech, followed us down the hallway and began to talk to us about the grim anniversary. “You have friends here,” he said. “I mean it man. We’ll never forget what you did for us. Not just in 1999, but in 1919. You were the only ones who ever helped us. We won’t forget man.” In an increasingly anti-American world his words were comforting.

II

September 2006 brought an early Ramadan, the Muslim period of fasting, prayer and reflection. In Kosovo it is, like many religious holidays in the US, observed in earnest mostly by the older citizens. Fasting from dawn to dusk and observing the daily prayers five times per day are more than the modern young Kosovar is willing to undertake. Universally, it seems, people tend to seek out spiritual guidance as the end comes more clearly into view.

My friends in Bangladesh, however, are far more dutiful in their adherence to religious canons. Whether it is a product of poverty or simply the result of strict teaching, the Bengalis observe Ramadan with passion and sincerity. Since my time there I have at least annually communicated with my Bengali friends. We exchange Ramadan greetings every year and it offers an opportunity to catch up. This year was no exception. Urmi, the Major, Emdad, Professor Mynuddin and Justice Mustafa Kamal, former Chief Justice of Bangladesh. They are experiencing significant political turmoil in that country and all my friends are understandably concerned. In a way it is grounding. We have our own political issues we grapple with, but they pale in comparison to theirs.

III

In this business change is expected and often comes on short notice. It is a hazard of the profession. We arrive in a country, make contacts and friends, build relationships, hopefully make improvements, and then we leave. The leaving is inevitable and the only thing we can count on for certain. In mid-September I learned that I would leave Kosovo by the end of that month. Movers were contacted, arrangements made for cats and dogs that would not be coming with me since I would not be arriving in the US for several months. Sharon was still in the US selling our Michigan home. I took stock of my stay.

It had been just over three years since we arrived. I had come to consider Pristina as home. We had friends and neighbors, albeit communication sometimes being difficult. We had established an independent judiciary in accordance with the desires of the Kosovars. We created and staffed the Kosovo Judicial Council that would govern the courts of Kosovo. We helped select and recruit the members. We set up the Ministry of Justice. We helped courts work more efficiently; we identified and empowered the judges and administrators who would lead the new judiciary into the future. The result looked so logical but the road there was strewn with bumps and potholes, like all roads in Kosovo. Among my Kosovar friends were people like Judge Rexhep Haxhimusa, President of the Supreme Court and Halit Muharremi, former council to the late President of Kosovo, Ibriham Rugova, and Judge Jellena Krivokopic, the Serbian judge from Mitrovice. Judge Jellena is the Vice President of the Kosovo Judicial Council. We worked to maneuver her to get that important position. We had some difficult times in the Assembly because of her Serbian background. In the end she was confirmed as Vice President of the Kosovo Judicial Council. At one time she said to me; “I sat and looked across the table at you and thought: I am here because of that man.” An overstatement to be sure, but for whatever part I played I was glad that she appreciated the honor and importance of being in that position.

One of the final events to occur prior to my departure was the installation of Halit as Director of the Kosovo Judicial Council, something that I had very subtly been advocating for some time. Halit and his son Dritan had become friends. They are both very competent; Dritan now a judge and his father Halit both have the best interests of Kosovo foremost in their minds as they go forward. I suppose the most concise summation of our impact came in a conversation I had with Dritan as we walked to his office after a lunch I had with he and his father. Dritan said; “You know that judges say that it is not the Judicial Council that decides things here. They say that if you want anything you go to Dan Deja. I know that isn’t the case though.” Dritan of course was correct, that was not the case, but the positive part of the perception is a testament to our impact and involvement in molding the new judiciary in Kosovo. There are many hard working, honest and intelligent judges and administrators in Kosovo. If we did anything it was to identify some of them, support them, and when we could, move them to positions of influence. I have no regrets. I have done enough. I am satisfied. The rest is for others.

The judges and administrators are all personalities. Most are like cream and would have risen to the top eventually without our nudging. There are others from my stay that I will miss more than those who are left with the power. There are the waiters at the restaurants who we came to know well. Gazi from the Monaco invited us to his home where we met his mother, wife and his children. With his pregnant wife and young child he fled Kosovo to Macedonia when the Serbs came in 1999. He told of his mother’s ordeal escaping from the Serbs into the mountains where she took ill and today gets weekly dialysis for her resulting kidney problems. He told us how he rebuilt his home after the Serbs destroyed it, burning one floor. He showed us his garden tractor that was saved because his late father removed a wheel from it before they fled. Gazi told us all this with his ever-present smile, not a note of hatred in his voice or demeanor. I will miss Gazi. He left his job as a waiter to take a job with considerably less pay. He is now a school teacher. His students could not find a more dedicated or caring teacher anywhere in the world.

My other waiter friend from the Baci found our house for us and has always greeted me with a hug and firm handshake. So did all the other waiters at the hotel. Then there was Mohamed, the assistant manager of the Victory Hotel – the one with the statue of Liberty on its roof – always warmly greeted me and offered a coffee. I will miss them all.

Then there is our staff. We had the fortune of surrounding ourselves with some very fine and dedicated people. Brikena, who I took on as a volunteer and later hired as a secretary translator moved onto the US Office, a permanent job, and now has recently had a baby in the Netherlands where her boyfriend is from. She sent pictures and a long narration of the events. Ardita, one of our attorneys, Jeta, our secretary translator and Rame, our driver took me to lunch to say goodbye. It was a difficult lunch. I think we all were trying to act as normal but knew this would be our last lunch together. At the end, Jeta gave me a hug and said, “I will miss you, you were a gift to us.” I was speechless, tears welled my in my eyes. Although I have been in e-mail contact with her that is the last time I saw Jeta.

But I saw Rame again before I left. Rame was originally a guard at our office. He worked for Black Panther Security Company who provided our office security at the time. I was so struck by his honesty and diligence that I offered him a job. That gesture was something that Rame never forgot. It was something he never imagined could have ever happened to him. For the last five nights before I left Rame took me for a coffee or a beer. He helped me pack one Saturday. When he found he had to drive others to Prizren on the day I left and could not drive me to the airport, he was extremely disappointed. We went to dinner the night before. Rame drove his car. As the night wore on and it was after midnight, I finally insisted that Rame take me home. He seemed to not want the evening to end as though it might end some important stage in his life.

On Friday the 29th of September, I delivered the car to the shippers and packed my suitcases for the flight out. Gazmend, our office manager, came to take me to the airport. We had come to know Gaz and his family quite well. His wife Lily and Sharon had become friends. We had been on vacation with them several times, including at Lily’s mother’s cottage in Montenegro at the beach. We knew their children Roni and Ardi, two very nice young men who will have a great future in Kosovo or their adopted country England.

Gaz took me to the airport and helped me check in. I would be flying to Vienna and staying overnight before going on to Paris. The Austrian flight through Vienna is the usually way out of Kosovo for Americans. A bit of a problem with over weight luggage and I finally checked in. Gaz and I shook hands and embraced in the tradition of the region. He left me at the line for passport control. After checking through passport control I had a few minutes to wait to board. Henk from The Netherlands was there on his way out of Kosovo as well. Henk and I had worked together over the years trying to improve the collection of the KEK (Kosovo Electric Company) bills. We drank a beer and discussed our time in Kosovo, the situation as we left it and the prospects for the future. We played our part for better, worse or no effect at all.

The time came for us to walk one last time across the tarmac and up the stairs to the plane. I boarded found my seat and looked out the window at Pristina’s airport terminal one last time. We taxied down the runway gaining speed until the wheels lifted off and the plane rose into the sky separating me from my adopted home. As I looked down on the red-tiled roofs I thought of how they looked that first day I arrived. They had become personal over the years. I recognized buildings and towns and roads. As we continued to rise the mountains blended with all of the other mountains in the Balkan region and soon we were above a cover of clouds and Kosovo was gone. I laid back and thought of how I might come back and how Gaz and Lily and Sharon and I would go to the beach in Montenegro or Greece. I though of the trip that Rame and Gaz and I were to have taken to Greece and never quite got around to doing it. I though of when I might return to fulfill that promise knowing all the while that I never would. I will likely never return to Kosovo. That is the nature of things; of life; of this business. I laid back and closed my eyes. My thoughts soon turned to Paris and friends there and of South America and the months ahead before I would return home to the US. But that is for an epilogue.

Until the Next Connection,
Dan

XVIII - A trip to the North; Easter in Ohrid; Montenegrins vote; Another trip to Mitrovice; A European Vacation; The Serbian Assemblyman; Status Talks

XVIII - A trip to the North; Easter in Ohrid; Montenegrins vote; Another trip to Mitrovice; A European Vacation; The Serbian Assemblyman; Status Talks; Climbing Mount Olympus

Dear Friends and Family,

1

The things that I have begun to take for granted sometimes haunt me when my rational mind takes over. Coping mechanisms I suppose. A jail captain I worked with once said that jail sentences should really be no longer than two weeks to be effective. After two weeks, people learn to cope with their circumstances and what might initially be shockingly unpleasant or uncomfortable becomes part of the routine. So it is with this work. I have explained that in the northern part of Kosovo, the Serbs are in the majority and dominate all activities. It must be kept in mind that Serbia never acknowledged the UN take-over of Kosovo and so treats it still as a province of Serbia. They maintain all of their institutions; courts, police etc., in a parallel form. In most of Kosovo outside of the enclaves, those structures are not seen. In fact some operate across the border in Serbia. In the North, the parallel structures dominate, including vehicle registration. There are no “KS” – UNMIK approved Kosovo issued - license plates in North Mitrovice. They are all Serbian plates with the old Serbian designation for Mitrovice, or vehicles have no plates at all indicating that the vehicle owner is probably a Serb who lives or works south of the river. Those people use the “KS” plates south of the river and simply remove them north of the river.

We went to see the Serbian judge who we helped get appointed to the Judicial Council. We proceeded the way we normally do, parking on the south side of the bridge at the Municipal building and calling the court to have a UN registered court vehicle pick us up. Judge Jelena was conducting a seminar for municipal court judges from the Mitrovice region. Most of the municipal court judges in the region are Albanian Kosovar, but, several are Serb. After the seminar concluded, the group was going for lunch. Jelena decided that she would go and we could talk over lunch. Lunch could not be held on the north side of the river because of the Albanian Kosovar judges. A UN bus was ready outside the courthouse to take the group south of the river to an Albanian Kosovar restaurant for lunch. Jelena and her secretary and Enver and I boarded with the group. Jelena seated her secretary next to the window while she sat on the aisle. She reached over and drew he curtains closed. She said that if she were seen on the bus, she would be in big trouble. She meant of course with the local Serbian politicians in North Mitrovice who take their direction from Belgrade and despise any Serb working for the UNMIK government. We rolled through the crowded city streets toward the south. We chatted with Judge Jelena as though all was normal. As the bus moved across the bridge, Jelena reached over again and opened the curtain.

2

Muslims do not celebrate Easter, but the majority of UN staffers and USAID personnel are Christian and do celebrate Easter. Easter Monday was a holiday. We decided to go to Lake Ohrid in Macedonia for a long weekend. The majority of Macedonians are Orthodox and celebrate Easter one week after the Easter we celebrate. It seems complicated, but it is really simple. The Albanian Kosovars are Muslim and do not celebrate Easter, except those who have retained the original religion of the Albanians, Catholicism. The Macedonians are Orthodox and celebrate on the Orthodox calendar making Easter a week after the Easter we celebrate. Of course, the forty percent minority Albanian Macedonians are mostly Muslim…. Well you get the idea. Regardless, we had a long weekend.

We left in the afternoon on Friday and arrived after dark. Without reservations, we were still able to get a very well appointed small room for a good price. Unlike our seminar locations in the larger hotels on the lake, we stayed in a very small three room hotel in the city of Ohrid. We spent Saturday visiting the sites in town, such as several of the Orthodox churches set in the most picturesque of locations on rock cliffs and hill tops. There is a very well preserved Roman amphitheatre in the town. Then, of course, there are the outdoor restaurants overlooking the harbor. We ended the afternoon there and ran into several friends from Kosovo also taking advantage of the weekend in Ohrid.

Sunday we decided to go the monastery at St, Naum. As we wended our way around the lake, snaking though the mountains, we came to a point in the road where there were several young girls standing in the road. One stood unflinching as we approached, hands firmly on her hips, determined look on her face. As we closed to her, she raised her one hand in a gesture for us to stop. Several other girls stood behind her, resolute but less confident than the leader. Once we stopped, one girl stepped in front of the car with a scare crow looking affair with a horses head. They looked now to be more playful and we first noticed some adults at the roadside overseeing the incident. The girls then came to the driver’s window and asked for money. It became clear that this was some sort of ritual or event connected with the Orthodox religion as Easter approached. In any event, we handed the girls a few euros and they gleefully opened the road for our passage. A car approached behind us. The incident was repeated as we sped on to St, Naum.

The monastery at St. Naum is very near the border with Albania. We had never been to Albania and decided to go across the border and circle the lake, returning to Ohrid from the Albanian - Macedonian crossing at the far end of the lake from where we were. Lake Ohrid has a length of thirty kilometers and a width of fifteen kilometers. Roughly eighteen miles long by nine miles wide. The road around the lake is a winding two lane affair.

During the communist times, Albania was isolated more than most communist countries. The dictator of that time was a man named Enver Hoxia, In addition to depriving his citizens of wealth or a means to obtain it, confining Albanians within the borders of the country, and making enemies of virtually all countries until their last reluctant friend was China, Enver Hoxia was paranoid that someone would invade Albania. As a defense, he built bunkers along every border. Thousands of bunkers line the borders of Albania. Domed concrete silos buried half in the ground with gun ports on the sides facing, in this case, Macedonia. It has been said that the entire population of Albania could hide safely in bunkers there are so many. We crossed. The bunkers started immediately and were located nearly every ten meters. It was a surreal scene. We followed the water’s edge where families picnicked, fished and otherwise enjoyed the lake. The road was particularly bad and it appeared that, at least in this part of Albania, the economy was less vibrant than we have become used to in Macedonia and in Kosovo for that matter.

Catching the Lake Ohrid trout, a very tasty fish, is banned by agreement of both Macedonia and Albania. Lake Ohrid is a UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) site and is watched over by that agency. Internationally imposed agreements to preserve endangered species have little meaning when people need money to live. All along the Albanian side of the lake people stood holding stringers of trout and sometimes four foot eels.

After reentering Macedonia and returning to the city of Ohrid, we took the time to tour several of the monasteries in the city and the Roman Amphitheatre, a ruin being preserved and which is in excellent condition. Cut into the hillside in such a way that not only does each seat have an extraordinary view of he stage below, but also the lake as it stretches into the distance. I continue to marvel at the Roman’s appreciation for the finer things life offers. This was a good place to spend Easter.

3

By agreement, the Montenegrins were allowed to vote to determine if they would stay with Serbia (and continue to be Serbia and Montenegro) or if they would become an independent nation. We had known this since last summer, but the day came on May 22, 2006. There are just over six hundred thousand Montenegrins. Montenegro has a large Albanian population on its south coast near the Albanian border. There is also a large Serbian population. The sympathy for Serbia was strongest in the eastern mountains, the area closer to Serbia. On the Western coast of the Adriatic Sea, the people favored independence. This is where the Albanian and Montenegrin populations are largest. A vote of fifty-five percent of the population in favor of independence would carry the election. In the end, the issue passed by a margin of 55.5% of the vote. Montenegro is proudly Eastern Europe’s newest country.

We traveled through Montenegro several times this spring and summer. Billboards still stand and graffiti can still be seen painted on rocks and bridges. Da, is the only message, Po in Albanian. Literally translated – yes. And the yes votes indeed prevailed. Even the border guard proudly showed me his new badge and the Montenegrin flag over his head in the office. Although he is no longer around to witness it, Milosevic’s vision of a greater Serbia has taken one more step back from the dream. The Montenegrins are a small group for a country, just over half million, but they occupy a substantial and beautiful country. The views, both in the mountains and when the mountains abruptly end at the sea, are nothing less than breath taking. The Kosovars anxiously await their turn as status talks continue.

4

Judge Jelena was insistent that Gaz and I return to north Mitrovice to … well in the long run help improve relations between the south of Mitrovice and the Serbian North. She requested that we bring our car all the way into North Mitrovice. For safety reasons this cannot be done with the “KS” Kosovo license plates. We are mindful that the US government security regulations for the personnel of the US Office and USAID require that they travel in an armored vehicle with close security (a body guard). We had two choices; we could remove the plates as many Serbs who have UNMIK Kosovo registered cars do, or we could bring out the technically expired Danish plates we had for our new Jeep that still show a date of ‘06. We assessed the situation. If we removed our plates at the river, and proceeded into North Mitrovice with a new Jeep Cherokee, a vehicle common among international projects, but not normally found among average Kosovars, we would clearly be identified as non-Serbs. In the alternative, we could change the plate and appear to be what we are, a project vehicle. The latter seemed the safer course.

Although Gaz is fluent in Serbian, we took an interpreter along to allow Gaz to better participate in the conversations. There is more than one bridge to get to the north. The main bridge is the one we normally cross. This is the bridge that is always used in news clips and photos of Kosovo. This time we crossed at a less conspicuous bridge where we, along with one or two other cars, stopped to remove or change plates. Once finished, we proceeded to the court. After a meeting with Judge Jelena and some folks form USAID, we went with Jelena to tour the city. She took us first to a coffee shop owned by her brother where we had something to drink. Then we went to a restaurant for lunch and talk. On the way, we saw many of the areas of the city that I had never seen and which Gaz had not seen in years. This included a very popular municipal pool where Gaz said he used to come and swim as a boy. We passes the ominous looking Trepce mine smelting plant where the lead was extracted from the ore mined in the nearby mine. It lies idle today awaiting the resolution of a lot of political issues.

We had a great meal, a great tour, wonderful conversation with Judge Jelena and Kaplan, the President Judge, an Albanian Kosovar married to a Serbian woman. We took Jelena home to her downtown apartment and returned to the secondary bridge where we changed plates again. It never ceases to amaze that once the river is crossed it is as though a border was crossed. Any license plates that are exposes are either UN plates, European plates or the Serbian plates issued by the Belgrade government for Mitrovice. These trips are grounding for me. They remind me that all is not as we see it in Pristina. The divide is still great. As status talks proceed, the focus is increasingly on how to deal with Mitrovice and the North of Kosovo.

5

When Sharon returned from the US in late May our son Patrick came along. He was to attend a summer program in Nimes, France through Michigan State University where he is a student. We had to take him from Pristina to Nimes. The fastest way is to go through Serbia. This, of course, would have required that we first go south to Macedonia then enter Serbia at the Serbian - Macedonian border and re-enter Kosovo near Gjilan. This trip of about three to four hours should be done a day or so before leaving Pristina and crossing into Serbia at the Kosovo - Serbia border near Podievo, or spend the extra three to four hours traveling south through Macedonia to cross the border and go north again. The road through Serbia is four lanes, making the trip generally much faster. If anyone attempts to cross into Serbia with a passport showing that they entered Kosovo through an UNMIK border station, such as the Kosovo - Macedonian border crossing or the airport at Pristina, they will be turned back as having illegally entered Serbia in this case, Kosovo. Since Serbia considers that Kosovo is still a part of Serbia, they do not recognize any authority of the UN administration, including the authority to control border crossings.

We decided that we would take Patrick down the Dalmatian coast of Montenegro and Croatia, making the trip longer but avoiding the hassle at the Serbian border. This route is far more beautiful as well. We would travel through Peja in Kosovo, cross into Montenegro (though part of Serbia until May, they have always had more realistic relations with Kosovo) and proceed across Montenegro to Croatia, then up the Croatian coast to Slovenia and into Italy, crossing the north of Italy to France. It would be a mini European vacation. Like many of the vacations we have taken in the past twenty-seven or so years, planning for this one was thin. I had a project assessment team here and I was unsure if I could leave at all, attributing in part to the lack of planning.

Patrick needed to arrive in Nimes on Sunday for check-in. We decided to leave on Thursday to allow for all contingencies. We had previously arranged to stay at the home of some former USAID employees who had left for the US but have a house near Nimes, France. We agreed to take several boxes of “stuff” that they were unable to get to Beaucare before they left for the US. We managed, as usual, to get on the road by ten or eleven in the morning on Thursday. Traveling the winding two lane mountain road from Peja, across the border through Montenegro and finally to Croatia at Dubrovnik took the balance of the day. We arrived at around nine in the evening. We found a nice apartment thanks to the young woman at the hotel who inadvertently told us that he parents had apartments for fifty euros per night rather than the eighty euros per night her hotel charged for rooms. We had dinner and the next day was spent exploring Dubrovnik with Patrick. We left Dubrovnik at noon and commenced up the Croatian coast.

By late evening we arrived at the Slovenian border. As one of the newest entrants to the European Union, we entered the EU there. We have traditionally purchased “border insurance” (liability insurance for the car) and did not have such insurance for the EU. We went to the only insurance office open and were told they did not sell “green card” insurance and the only office that did would arrive back at six in the morning. We backtracked to a motel we found with the assistance of a gas station attendant. The following morning we returned to the border. We were a bit short of euros, counting on the use of credit cards easily in Europe. To our dismay, the insurance office did not take cards; nor did they take US dollars which after some time I remembered I had tucked in my wallet for emergencies. Fortunately Patrick noticed a money exchange on the Slovenian side of the border. We were allowed to cross to exchange three hundred dollars for roughly two hundred sixty euros.

The piece of Slovenia on the Adriatic coast is small and we soon crossed, without stopping, into Italy. The advantage of travel in the EU is that borders between EU countries are now passed the same way we pass state lines in the US. I have not traveled the Autobahn in Germany where there are no speed limits, but the next closest thing to that is travel in Italy. Speed limits are posted at one-hundred-twenty kilometers per hour (roughly seventy-five mph) but even when I inadvertently edged up to ninety mph, I was passed as though standing still by the Italian drivers. West to Genoa then south and west again along the coast we traveled what has to be the most expensive highway in the world. Each of the hundred or so tunnels opens immediately onto a bridge which ends at another tunnel. Finally we entered France Saturday evening and were soon in Beaucare resting at our friend’s home. Sunday we traveled the twenty kilometers to Nimes, found where we were to go and dropped Patrick off. We then took the opportunity to visit Avignon, a forty minute drive from Nimes and even closer to Beaucare.

Avignon is the city where for about a century the Catholic Church had its headquarters. Several of the Popes ruled from there during the fourteenth century. The palace and cathedral are now museums. Avignon, like many of the ancient European cities, is walled. The popes returned to Rome about ninety years before Columbus discovered America. Columbus is the marker by which I keep perspective on the places we visit in this hemisphere.

Monday morning we left Beaucare for the French Riviera. We stayed in Nice and played a bit there and the following morning in Monte Carlo. As we raced back to Italy and down the coast for Pisa, Sharon, with the assistance of a guide book, decided that Pisa was worth a two hour visit and the place to stay would be Lucca. Indeed the small quaint walled city of Lucca was worth a visit. The leaning tower and its surrounds were all that Pisa had to offer and we left for Rome after that stop.

Though warned by all people and books otherwise, we drove fearlessly into the old capital of the Empire. Whether oblivious or fortunate we had very little difficulty with Rome’s traffic, scooters included. One day for the Vatican and all of its magnificent art and splendor. A second day to pick up a few of the other “must sees”, like Circus Maximus, The Forum and the Coliseum.

Our final Italian visit was Pompeii. Of all the sites in Italy we visited, this was the crown jewel in my opinion. Having read about this place since grade school, I thought that it would be a bit anticlimactic. To the contrary, to visit a city that was destroyed in 79 AD and which was built centuries before that was extraordinary. Except for the missing roofs, we walked the streets as the ancient Romans did, viewed their restaurants, homes and businesses. We saw their tiled floors, mosaics, and paintings in the same condition as they were left when the ash of Vesuvius engulfed the city. We walked the sidewalks beside the stone streets rutted with chariot tracks. We crossed intersections on the stepping stones. Washed streets, indoor plumbing, municipal water sources; it has taken civilization nearly two thousand years to return to the level of sophistication that was enjoyed by the Romans in places like Pompeii.

Time was running so we cut across Italy to Bari on the Adriatic coast and took a ferry to Kotor in Montenegro and then back to Pristina. A ferry designed to hold several hundred passengers made the early season trip with four vehicles and eight people including an infant and a small child. The ferry crossing, taking eight hours or so, was uneventful. As we reentered Kosovo, we were again struck by the contrasts that exist between the developed and the developing worlds. For all the advances we have seen here in Kosovo, new super markets, ATMs, constant building, there is still a long way to go.

6

The Serbian Kosovars boycotted the last election per Belgrade instructions. At the last minute they decided to participate. As a result their representation in the assembly was significantly reduced. One of the members that is active is a fellow from Leposovic who is on Haydajet’s committee. He attends regularly and I appreciated his defense of Judge Jelena when we were working to get her on the Judicial Council. In spite of, or perhaps even as a result of, Haydajet’s time in Serbian prison as a dissident (he says political detainee), Haydajet maintains a warm relationship with his Serbian colleague. I was talking with Haydajet in his office after a committee meeting when the Serbian Assemblyman came in. He laid his brief case on the small table Haydajet has between his chairs and opened it. From the inside he pulled a two liter bottle filled with what I immediately recognized as homemade raki. In all the Balkan states, the making of homemade raki is as much a ritual as an art. The Serbs make it from plums or pears, sometimes apples. The Albanians make it from grapes. It is essentially a very strong brandy made from distilling the wine that the fruit produces. This version was made by the Assemblyman from plums. In addition to the plastic two liter bottle filled with nectar, he also took out a very nice decanter wrapped in a wicker covering; and a shot glass. Twisting off the two liter’s cap, he poured the shot glass full and proceeded to drink it down in one swallow. He then poured a shot for Haydajet followed by one for me. After visiting for a few short minutes he departed leaving the gift with his colleague Haydajet.

I had observed, but not digested a peculiarity of the incident that Haydajet pointed out after the man left. Haydajet said, “he shouldn’t do that.” I said what? He said, “you saw that he poured and drank the first shot. That is a gesture to tell me that it is okay; it is not poison. We are friends; he shouldn’t have to do that.” And so it goes….

7

The status talks continue. A few months ago, the international community was very optimistic that the talks would conclude by the end of the year as planned and a Kosovo with some degree of independence would emerge. Now it seems that the optimism has waned and internationals feel that the talks will not conclude by January 2007 and that any result will be a long way off. By contrast, the locals were very pessimistic a few months ago and that pessimism has been replaced by great optimism. Constitutional drafting talks are occurring among the Kosovars. Plans are being laid for the exit of UNMIK and the entry of the European Union delegation who will manage things after UNMIK leaves. The locals view this transition as the final movement to an independent Kosovo. Time will tell us who is right.

8

Patrick returned from Nimes by plane to spend two weeks with us in Pristina. We used this opportunity to do some more traveling. A trip to Greece was in order. It being summer, trips to Greece mean trips to the sea and the beach. We chose Leptokaria, a beach town dependant entirely for its existence on summer tourism. It also sits in the shadow of Mount Olympus, home to the Greek gods. I had always wanted to climb the mountain. Patrick, as a student of the Classics, was also eager to scale the slopes to Zeus’ throne. I had done enough prior research and talked to enough people who had made the trip to know that the summit would be out of our reach on this occasion, but a healthy climb to the refuge building that is the stepping off point for the last leg to the summit was possible.

We drove the next town where the entrance to the National Park is located. Once there, it was a half hour drive up the foothills to a rustic building and the start of the hiking trail. Confident, we set off. We had the good sense to bring a bottle of water and a sweatshirt, though the temperature at the base camp was in the high eighties. We began the trek. First was a sparkling waterfall. We climbed on. Up and up. There was a canopy of trees. The trail was well defined and often had steps cut into it. We walked. An hour passed and we saw a sign reading “Refuge A” and an arrow. We were on track for our destination. I began to tire, my hips ached and my feet were sore, but I was determined. I became acutely aware of my age. The trail turned to rock. The trees thinned and snow patches were on either side of us. We climbed, switching back and forth on the winding trail. The clouds covered the summit and we were nearing them as we climbed. Finally, when I was sure I could go no more, we could see the outline of the refuge on a high ridge in the distance. Placing one foot in front of the other without thought or regard for my aching joints, we closed the remaining distance to the Refuge. Something over two hours from our departure from the base camp, one thousand meters (a little over3000 feet) of elevation to a height of 2200 meters (close to 7,000 feet above sea level), we were in the clouds that concealed the summit. Still sweating from the hike, we bought a cold sandwich from the dark and heated refuge building. As we rested outside and enjoyed the hazy view of earth below, we became quite chilly and put on our sweatshirts. It would take two hours to return to our car, a descent as arduous as the climb.

I knew that I was as close to the great god as I would ever be. Dark majestic clouds surrounded Zeus’ throne. I could not see him as I gazed up into the gray ominous clouds, interwoven with angel hair of pure silver and draped in a golden translucent sheen. Behind his misty cover, I knew that he knew all that was to be. I inquired about the final status of Kosovo. The mist swirled, the trees swayed ever so gently, the thin air pricked my skin with its chill, far below the sun shown on the red tiled roofs of the town, but he did not answer.

Until Next Connection,
Dan



XVII – A dog story; Rama’s for lunch; Almost a trip to Skopje; The Government resigns; No electricity; International Women’s Day; The Boxer; Milosevic diesDear Friends and Family,1We have Olga, the street dog that Sharon took as a pup from some boys who were looking for homes for Olga and her three siblings. Olga has always preferred running free to being in our backyard looking out. While we were in the US this past Christmas we got news that Olga had escaped and was gone. Enver did not know where she was. A few days later we got another report that Rama had found her downtown at the National Theatre. She of course recognized Rama and went to him. She would not have done that with me because she would know that our next stop would then be home. Rama, on the other hand, presented an opportunity to play. Rama wrestled her into the back of the Jeep much to the chagrin of Fatmir and Albert who were not sure what this beast might do. I heard no more until I returned.I later found out that she escaped regularly and that Enver captured her several times; even Al caught her once. Indeed, when I returned she began escaping. I found her the first time on the hill across the street from our house and below the apartments. Two other dogs were playing with her. A beagle looking mongrel and a dog I had previously named Sarge. Olga and I first met Sarge when he was a pup. He found himself at a very young age in front of the TMK building. The TMK or KPC in English – Kosovo Protective Corp. – is the unit that is supposed to operate much like our National Guard. They originated as the remnants of the KLA (Kosovo Liberation Army) and were very controversial for even being formed. It happens that they are the best organization in Kosovo at recruiting minorities. For whatever it is they offer, they are more successful than, for example the courts, at attracting Serbs, Bosniacs and Roma. This is attributed to the work of General Ceku, the head of the TMK and, former KLA and Croatian Army General. The TMK buildings near our house are a training center and we often hear units marching to cadence called much as we would hear at an American boot camp. The only difference being the language. Around these buildings is a road where I walk the dog.I always thought that Sarge would make an excellent mascot for the TMK. He tried desperately to make their building his home. For months, as he gradually grew larger, he would guard and occasionally bark as we passed. He foraged for food in the nearby dumpsters while the TMK soldiers were oblivious to his presence, let alone his loyalty. As he grew, he extended his range and soon was gone. I now would see him on the hillside occasionally.While Olga, in escape status, played with Sarge and the other dog I had to devise a plan to get her to come to me. As I said, she knows that I represent return to captivity, so as much as she would have liked, she did not get close enough for me to grab her and we foolishly romped around the side of the hill in the dark. As a means of getting her to come to me, I began to play with Sarge, who was quite content to have me pet him. Olga was disturbed enough to come to check out the violation of my loyalty to her, but never so close that I could grab her. Finally I succeeded and we trudged down the hill and home again. Sarge, now feeling a part of the family, followed. As a reward, I went inside to get him a treat. He was grateful for that.The following night Olga was out again. In the meantime, I had patched the fence at every spot where I though she might be escaping. Finally, I saw a footprint on a part of the fence that indicated that she must have jumped as high as she could and then using her back paws on the wire of the fence, boosted herself over the top and out. It was in a taller part of the fence. I quickly corrected the problem and was off to get Olga. Again, she was on the hillside playing with Sarge and the lanky beagle looking dog. Again I used Sarge as the bait. As I worked my deception, the neighbor boy came out with his new puppy and Olga saw it. She immediately went down to play. The neighbor knows Olga and quickly put his tiny animal inside his fence as the bounding beast Olga came running. He grabbed her and I was able to get her home with little difficulty. I decided that what Olga needed was a friend. So, when Sarge came down again to see what was going on, I let him in the back yard. I now had two dogs; but that’s not the end of the dog story.Sarge was quick to acclimate. He was a bit taken aback by the unlimited food and had to learn a few manners. Not that Olga has manners as we might expect form a well trained animal, but she doesn’t grab for food, doesn’t jump (on me anyway) and sometimes sits on command, but not often. About the third day I had Sarge or maybe the second, I had a meeting with Jan the English lawyer who lives in Canada with her husband. There they have several horses, three dogs and a cat. She had recently found a stray dog that attached himself to her. He was a pup about four months old – not more. She called him Bear, but her local colleagues called him Ramush after the former Prime Minister who was indicted in The Hague. In any event, she had an apartment where she could not keep the dog and she wanted a home for him. She had incurred some vet bills for work on the dog but couldn’t keep it. Knowing I had a dog she asked if I would take Bear. I declined saying that I had just taken Sarge in and could not very well put him out now. And I didn’t want three dogs.The following day as I walked my two dogs around the TMK buildings I noticed a woman with a black dog walking across the snow covered lawn toward us. My dogs of course saw the other dog and were ready to make a new acquaintance. I began to move faster to get ahead of the woman and avoid an encounter. She was moving faster than I had anticipated and finally I simply decided it better to get it over with so the dogs would calm down. The woman approached and in an excited voice said, “Rambler, is that you.” She was referring to Sarge. I thought that perhaps Sarge had been taken in by her. She said that she and her dog would see Sarge on their walks and she would give him cooked hamburger. The weather was so cold that she had worried when she had not seen him for several days. I told her that I had just taken the dog in. I later learned that she had been trying to convince her husband to let her take Sarge in. She called him Rambler because he rambled around.Two days later I got a call form Jan. She asked that I come to her office to see Bear. I did. She had sneaked him into the UN headquarters building where she worked. She thought that if I saw the dog and if she made promises to defer vet and food bills and to help with walks I would agree to take the dog. She was correct. In a moment of weakness I agreed. I now had three dogs; but that’s not the end of the dog story.The next day, Saturday, Jan brought Bear to our house and when the three dogs were acquainted she left teary eyed. I decided that Ramush was a better name and called him “Ramush the Bear”. Sunday Jan came back to walk Bear and we met the black dog and the husband of the woman who knew Sarge. Everything was becoming intertwined. I wished I could go back a week or so in time and make decisions based on the information I now had. Like a lot of things in life, dog stories do not have the advantage of such foresight.The week wore on and I began to catch Bear looking and finding ways out of the backyard fence. The fence is sufficient to contain the larger dogs, but Ramush the Bear could squeeze through openings too small for the others. I followed along and jury rigged patches. Thursday Sharon called that Bear was gone. It was mid-afternoon and snow covered the ground. I came home and looked everywhere in the neighborhood to no avail. Finally, late at night while I was out in a last effort to find the dog, he turned up at the gate chest deep in the snow, tired, hungry and no collar. I made additional repairs to the fence. Friday afternoon I got the same call.By Saturday morning when Jan arrived for her visit, there was still no Bear. I had been looking desperately until late into the night and had not seen him. Jan was devastated and began her own search. Bear was the kind of dog for whom freedom is undeniable. Perhaps Ramush was the more appropriate name after all. The former KLA commander fought in the mountains to free himself and his people; his namesake was equally determined. Both have been successful. Ramush the Bear has not been seen since his final escape. Ramush the KLA commander and former Prime Minister awaits his trial in The Hague free on bond here in Pristina. Jan is still a bit sad, but no longer distraught. We have otherwise met the woman and man with the black dog who befriended their Rambler, my Sarge, and know them as Mike and Shelly from Canada. They are now a part of the group of internationals with whom we have dinner often. Olga and Sarge are getting on fine. For my part, I can only think of all this as a very long dog story.2Rama lives in a small village on the outskirts of Pristina. To get there one must go out of Pristina toward the north, toward Podievo. On that route, the traffic is often heavy and on Sundays it is impossible. Just before the turn-off to Rama’s village, on top of the hill, there is a car market every Sunday. It is known as a car market because that is where people take their cars if they want to sell them. Rows and rows of cars. There also is a flea market at the same place and time. Every Sunday morning until about two in the afternoon, people stream out to the car market to browse, kick tires and for many, to negotiate and buy.Rama invited us to lunch one Sunday. Ever since his wedding he wanted to treat Sharon and me to a meal with his new wife. I knew that the road to his house would be trouble, so I asked if there was an alternate route. I knew that there is a turn-off on the road to Mitrovice that angles to the Podievo road and meets it at a point past the market. It would be a matter of backtracking toward Pristina until Rama’s village road. Rama had a shorter way. There is a road off the Mitrovice road and before the cut-off to the Podievo road. Rama described it for me.In the early afternoon on that sunny Sunday we made our way out of Pristina on the Mitrivice road. As instructed, we drove past the monument Milosevic built in commemoration of the 1389 defeat of the Serbs by the Ottoman Turks at the epoch battle of Kosovo Polje, and then continued to the far side of the next bill board. The unmarked road turns off at that point. The main streets and roads were clear but the fields and side roads were still snow covered. We made the turn. It was a snow-covered two track. Slowly we moved east toward where we hoped Rama’s village would finally be. At the crest of the first hill, children were sledding on the road. We crept past as they waited. A snow ball hit the back window as we rolled carefully down the grade. Some things are universal. We continued; we wound around a bit as we crossed the open fields finally reaching a rise that overlooked Rama’s village below. The road made a sharp turn to the left and a rather steep decline to the village below. Here, again, children were sledding. These were Serb children. Rama lives in a Serbian enclave. They happily and patiently waited for us to roll ever so slowly down the sled-slicked icy road.At the bottom, I turned in a direction that I remembered Rama telling me. We drove through the village and finally came to a car stopped in the middle of the road. Several men stood smoking cigarettes and talking. They motioned something to the effect that we could not pass. The car blocking the road was ample notice of that fact. I believe the men were trying to tell us of some problem with the road beyond where the car sat. We stopped and got out of the car. Unable to speak Serbian ourselves, and they being non-English speakers, we were not communicating well. I tried to use Rama’s father’s Serbian-ized name – Javavic, but they did not seem to know him or where he lived, if they understood what I was saying at all. I called Rama. I passed the phone to one of the men. After much discussion, one of the men decided that we should follow him to Rama’s house. After negotiating a turn, we followed the man’s VW Golf. We had in fact taken the wrong turn at the bottom of the hill and were some distance from Rama’s house. We followed the gentleman and met Rama at his gate. The simplest things here often turn into adventures.We greeted the family, Rama’s father first, then his mother and once inside the house, Rama’s wife. As is the custom in Kosovo, we brought gifts for our hosts; some sweets and a bottle of wine. We sat in the kitchen and ate. The wood stove kept the room quite warm. Lunch was what we have seen at other Albanian Kosovar homes; far too much delicious food. Appetizers, soup, salad, main course, served with wine, and all topped off with two desserts; the work in preparation is incredible. I do not know if this is something reserved for foreign guests or if this is how all guests are treated. The meal was enjoyable as was the company. Neither Rama’s mother, father nor wife speaks English, but we had a delightful conversation through Rama’s translation. After lunch we sampled several glasses of Rama’s father’s raki. His was made in their former home in Serbia and was of the Serbian variety; made from plums and pears. Albanian Kosovars make raki from grapes. They each have a distinct flavor and are all very strong. It is interesting that the Balkan tradition of making and drinking raki far outweighs the Muslim prohibition against alcohol.We left before the darkness and chill of early evening created dangerous icy conditions on the roads. As we left we were uncustomarily presented a wrapped box of chocolates and a bottle Mr. Jahavic’s homemade raki. The bottle we received had a double ox yoke in miniature meticulously assembled in the bottle by Rama’s father. This was clearly a very special gift. The warmth of the people we meet here is moving. These days will be forever etched in our memories.3A rock slide at Kacanik closed the road to Skopje. This occurred the very day we returned from leave in January. Six weeks later the road remained closed. In need of cat food and other items that cannot be found in Kosovo, we decided to take the trip to Skopje over the mountain route and through Tetevo in Macedonia. Tetevo has a Vero’s, the store we shop at in Skopje, and Tetevo is only a half hour by good divided highway from Skopje if we needed to go there.It was a sunny Saturday and we decided to go. We left at around ten in the morning. The road south is the same road we take to Ferazji and Skopje. As we crested the hill on our way out of Pristina, we marveled, as we usually do, at the extensive building in that near suburb of Pristina. From the crest of the hill to Caglivice, the homes and commercial structures being built are nothing less than phenomenal. I do not know where the money comes from. I have never seen a building boom such as this. It seems that every trip brings a new building, a new business. It is deceiving at best. We continued south.Forty minutes from home and a few kilometers past Ferazji we turned off the road to Skopje onto the road to the ski resort at Breservice and the road to the alternate border crossing; the one that would take us to Tetevo in Macedonia. We turned to head up the mountain. The sun was shining, the road clear, the snow in the fields picturesque. The road winds and switches back and climbs to the top of the mountain. Then, in the same fashion, it rolls back down. About half way down, at a point where an expanse of the Kosovo and Macedonian countryside can be seen spreading out before us, the line for the border crossing ended. We pulled behind the last car and stopped. It was about 1130.There is a village there. People stood out along the road in the sunshine and drank drinks as they watched the spectacle of the cars lined and waiting to cross into Macedonia, a stones through ahead. We moved forward a car length at a time. After an hour or so, we were in front of a café. The owners had tables on the deck in front and the doors open. It was one of those days. People in the Balkans do not wait for summer to dine or drink coffee outside. A sunny day is often enough. The line was moving so slowly that we were able to get out and have a macchiato at one of the tables. By one thirty, we were twenty cars from the border. Knowing that we would have to return the same way and likely under similar conditions, we pulled the car out of line and headed back to Pristina. Fortunately we did not have a pressing need to go to Macedonia. The things we needed could wait for a few days. It was a pleasant sunny day; a nice day for a drive in the mountains. It helps if we can find enjoyment among the adversity that seems to constantly emerge at every turn in the road – so to speak.4Together with one of our staff attorneys and one of our consultants, John from my days in Michigan, I had been working to establish the Kosovo Judicial Council. The KJC will be the governing body for the courts of Kosovo. This required us to select three judges and one prosecutor from a list containing the names of several judges and two prosecutors that, through some process, came from the UN. These would fill the balance of the Council membership. We were required to insure gender, ethnic, geographic and jurisdictional diversity. There were two minorities on the list, a Serbian Kosovar prosecutor and a Serbian Kosovar judge from the District Court in Mitrovice. It was the feeling that the prosecutors would not be content to have a minority as their sole representative on the Council. The Albanian Kosovar, male prosecutor was selected. The Serbian Kosovar judge was a woman from District Court in Mitrovice. She would fill four categories; minority, woman, Mitrivice region and District Court. She was a logical choice and is a very capable judge. A Supreme Court judge of the Supreme Court President’s choosing – from the approved list - and a Municipal Court judge from Pristina rounded out the field. These names had to be approved by the Assembly.Our contact point in the Assembly is Hydajet’s committee. He had already been a part of the initial selection discussions so as not to take his committee completely unawares. Predictably, however, at the first meeting to discuss these appointments, the LDK member of Parliament from Mitrovice complained bitterly about several of the candidates, particularly the Serbian judge from Mitrovice. In the nineteen-nineties miners from the Trepca mine in Mitrovice went on strike and were all dismissed; about eighteen thousand of them. Many sued to have their jobs reinstated, including the MP from Mitrovice. His claim at first appeared to be that the judge was personally responsible for all of the miners losing their jobs. Her role in any discharges was a bit less clear at subsequent meetings of the committee, and finally the allegations became anecdotal and only tangentially related cases in which she was involved.In the meantime we tried to do what we could to insure that the process was fair. We are careful to not involve ourselves in local political matters. In this case, however, we did gather background information to discretely disseminate to key committee members, principally Hydajet. We made the trip to Mitrovice to talk with the judge in person. The court is on the north side of the river. In Mitrovice, the river divides the Albanian Kosovars on the south side from the Serbian Kosovars on the north. The part of Kosovo north of the river is where most of the Serbian Kosovar population live. The bridge in the center of Mitrocvice is the symbolic vanguard between the two groups. The bridge is where many pictures illustrating the tension and ethnic conflict in Kosovo are taken. Travel over the bridge is restricted. There is a check point at the bridge, a Kosovo Police Service guard house followed by a French KFOR guard post. The bridge is four lanes, mostly empty. The sidewalks free of people. UN cars can move easily across, we park our project car in the adjoining parking lot at the municipal building and wait for a car to come from the court to pick us up. Once on the north side of the bridge all vehicles either have no license plates, indicating that they probably go to the other side and need the “KS” UNMIK Kosovo plate to drive, or they have Serbian issued plates, most using the old “KM” Kosovo Mitrovice designation. It is as though we have entered another country. Our investigation showed that the judge was eminently fair and respected by Serbian Kosovars and Albanian Kosovars alike. The Serbian Kosovar MP on the committee offered the defense.Our interest in advancing this process was that we could not form the Judicial Council until the Assembly approved the names and the dispute over the Serbian judge caused adjournments for several weeks. The committee fight was enough to deal with, but also during this time the Government resigned. The ruling coalition is made up of the LDK, the largest party, a small party, the AAK and the six minority representatives in the Assembly. The Prime Minister, an AAK member, resigned purportedly at the insistence of the United States - but then, the US is given credit or blame for all major shake-ups here. At the same time, the Speaker of the Assembly was voted out by his party, the controlling LDK party. All of this occurred shortly after the new president was named to replace President Rugova, who died. The Speaker’s position belongs to the LDK, As part of the negotiations which formed the Government, the Prime Minister is given to AAK as is the Minister of Justice. The Minister of Justice was about to be appointed when the shake-up occurred. We have been waiting for the appointment of the Minister of Justice so we could finish setting up that Ministry. Our work has been to help transition the justice sector from UN control to Kosovar control, so the UN can finally leave Kosovo. As a result, I am constantly being asked for assistance from these new local institutions. Talks have begun in Vienna to determine the final status of Kosovo. Discussions between the Kosovar delegation and the Serbian delegation from Belgrade have direct repercussions on the government in Kosovo adding sudden and unanticipated changes. These are confusing and complicated times for us.The committee approval process was delayed while the new government was organized. Fortunately, the only change was the Prime Minister. The job was given to General Ceku of the TMK. He had been in the Croatian army and returned to Kosovo to fight with the KLA and later became the head of the TMK (Kosovo Protective Corps). He is generally considered to be competent and hard working. The new Speaker of the Assembly is Hydajet’s vice-chair. This gives us someone whom we know at the head of the Assembly, a situation we will use in the future. The Minister of Justice has also finally been named. He is a chemist, not a lawyer, but appears to be hard working and has a desire to do the right thing. He says his only motivation for doing the job is because former Prime Minister and war crimes defendant Ramush Hardinaj asked him to take the job. Ramush has permission from The Hague to participate in politics, but not as an office holder. The new Minister has already requested further assistance from our project.Through all of this confusion and reorganization, debate occurred in the committee on the candidates for the Judicial Council. Finally at the fourth and final session on the topic, the four were approved unconditionally. The Serbian Kosovar committee member thanked the committee and Hydajet as chair for conducting a very democratic process. I had to agree. I have seen our state legislature work in committee and I must say that the Kosovars did an equally good job and produced a result that was correct. There is a lot in politics here that is bad, but this process was a fine example of democracy in action. I felt very encouraged and optimistic for the moment.5KEK (Kosovo Electric Kompany) has been providing nearly twenty-four hour service to us based on the “A zone”, “B zone”, “C zone” concept. Our zone is rated A. That means that the customers pay their bills, so KEK will give them (us) better service. The B zone gets less service and the C zone the worst service. That is until the dam broke and flooded one unit and a land slide affected another and the coal ran out because the town under which the reserves lie has not been moved as planned. A new schedule for rolling blackouts was implemented; three hours off and five on. My generator had a workout. We are now back on the prior schedule. I am told that nearly all the electricity currently being used is being purchased from outside Kosovo. The Kosovo budget is ill prepared to pay. In the meantime, I keep the generator fully fueled and serviced.6The 8th of March is International Women’s Day. This is a day celebrated here to the extent that many men buy their wives or girlfriends flowers; take them to lunch or dinner, etc. Sharon is president of the International Women’s Club and they had a luncheon at which Gylnase spoke. Gylnase is a Member of Parliament and a doctor. She is on Hydajet’s committee and is a member and chairperson of the AAK party. During the war she was a doctor for the Kosovo Liberation Army, and to keep this in its proper perspective, it must be remembered that the KLA operated as a guerrilla army in the mountains. I always enjoy her crisp direct approach especially to the UN. I have watched a lot of UN staffers nervously moving a leg to and fro as they try to answer one of Gylnase’s very direct and often difficult questions.We were with Professor John from Michigan State University at the Palace Hotel in Mitrovice the evening of Women’s Day, preparing for a seminar the following day. The management invited us to a big dinner and dance in celebration of Women’s Day in their lower level party room. We couldn’t stay for the whole event, but Gaz, Enver and I had a few beers on the house and watched the dinner unfold. This is the best room I have seen in Kosovo. The hotel is relatively new and the management is doing a superb job. The room holds several hundred for a sit down dinner. There is a large cascading stairway leading from the main level to the party room. The room was filled with tables all covered with white cloths surrounded by white cloth covered chairs. White linen napkins folded into cones stood inverted at each place setting. A band stand was at one end and a bar on the far wall.When the guests began to arrive it was like a scene from a 1930’s movie. The couples were dressed to the nines though not in tuxedos. Two by two they descended the stairs and found their seats. The band had begun playing traditional music. The waiters began bringing the first of several courses, moving swiftly down the far stairway leading from the kitchen, carrying as many as eight plates each with the ease that I carry one. The room filled quickly. The President Judge from the Mitrovice Municipal Court sat at the table next to us and took the time to greet us warmly. Adem Volkci, the President of the Chamber of Advocates (bar association) sat with his wife and another couple or two, and at the far end of the large room, with a group of women from the Assembly, was Gylnase. I decided that I have been here too long when I can be at a function twenty-five miles from Pristina and see people I know and with whom I work.I had a forty-five minute drive on a busy two lane road so I moved across the room to the stairway. As I left, Adem, in his always gracious and smiling manner, stopped me to give me his regards. In these situations language is not an obstacle.As I exited the parking lot, I would turn left. A turn to the right and a short couple of kilometers brings you to the infamous bridge that separates the Albanian Kosovar side of Mitrovice from the Serbian Kosovar side. I reflected on the dichotomy; behind me in the Hotel Palace, several hundred people were dining and dancing in a perfectly normal fashion, yet around the bend and down the hill to the right, to where the street meets the river, razor wire and Jersey barriers restrict the flow of traffic from moving freely across the vacant bridge past the check points and into the other half of the city; to the other side of Kosovo. Stabilization, I thought, is an easy thing to accomplish, normalcy very difficult and the elimination of centuries of hatred, near impossible. I turned left and passed the French KFOR base as I continued on to Pristina.7.My wife was talking to him and his partner in a restaurant where we were sitting. I had stepped out for a minute. Azis Salihu was a boxer of some repute. He was in the Olympics as a super heavy weight boxer for Yugoslavia in1980, 1984 and 1988. In 1984 in Los Angeles, he won a bronze medal. Now he and his partner have a boxing club in Pristina. They are both Albanian Kosovars. He boxed for twenty years, an eternity in that sport. He fought professionally in the US and elsewhere. He talked of gambling his money away in Las Vegas and Reno. Like many in his profession, he was left with nothing when his ability to fight dwindled. I thought of the Paul Simon song, “In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame ‘I am leaving, I am leaving.’ But the fighter still remains.” Still fighting, Azis was remembering the gloves of excess and greed that laid him down until he left for his home and the hope of a new land in a new era. It was Saturday. Azis was the first to tell us of Milosevic’s death. He was matter of fact about it, not moved one way or the other, like many in Kosovo we would subsequently learn.8.It started on a hill outside of Pristina on the road to Mitrovice. A monument to the event six hundred years earlier was dedicated. June 28, 1989 Slobodon Milosevic gathered nearly one million people, mostly Serbs, in Kosovo Polje, Fushe Kosova in Albanian, Kosovo Field in English. It was the six hundredth anniversary of the great battle that resulted in the defeat of the Serbian army by the Ottoman Turks. Bosnia and Albania fell soon thereafter and the Ottoman Empire’s rule over the Balkans was secured. The speech that Milosevic gave is generally regarded as the beginning of his quest for a Greater Serbia and the ethnic cleansing, genocide and ultimate disintegration of Yugoslavia that followed.“By the force of social circumstances this great 600th anniversary of the Battle of Kosovo is taking place in a year in which Serbia, after many years, after many decades, has regained its state, national, and spiritual integrity. Therefore, it is not difficult for us to answer today the old question: how are we going to face Milos [Milos Obilic, legendary hero of the Battle of Kosovo]. Through the play of history and life, it seems as if Serbia has, precisely in this year, in 1989, regained its state and its dignity and thus has celebrated an event of the distant past which has a great historical and symbolic significance for its future. ….” [Opening paragraph of the Milosevic speech, 1989]It is not his speech as such, but the backdrop to it that is important. My friend Hydajet Hyseni was already in prison for espousing an independent Kosovo. The independence movement of the Albanian majority was ended by a Yugoslavian Parliament resolution passed in Belgrade. The resolution removed the autonomous designation that Kosovo province had enjoyed until March of 1989, a few short months before Milosevic’s speech. He spoke about a new Serbia that would rise from the ashes of the defeat of the Serbian army six hundred years earlier. An ethnically diverse Serbia, but in the end, when he said “long live Serbia,” It was clear that he was talking not about Yugoslavia, not about a country where a majority population could rule themselves, but a Greater Serbia ruled by Serbs. History records the rest; Croatia, Bosnia and finally Kosovo. By 1990 all the Albanian Kosovars had lost their jobs and were replaced by Serbs. Horrors occurred across the former Yugoslavia that we cannot even imagine. Despots unite and prosper by promoting nationalism and/or fear. We should always be wary of those who either tell us that we are a great and mighty people deserving of respect and power, or that we are in grave danger of attack and destruction if we do not assert our strength preemptively.Milosevic died largely in shame. The world recognizes him for what he was. The Kosovars feel, if anything, cheated. In the words of several, it is not that they wanted the court to render a verdict in his trial and have him sentenced to what he deserved, but rather they feel cheated because Milosevic died before he could witness an independent Kosovo. The monument still stands on the hill overlooking Kosovo Polje and is lit at night for all to see. It is guarded by KFOR troops twenty-four hours a day.Until next connection,Dan



XVI – Eid al Fitr, Bjram; Rama’s wedding; Thanksgiving in Paris; KLA commander found innocent; Another court visit; Lunch at Hydajet’s house; Meanwhile back in Key West; The long way home; The slippery slopes; President Rugova dies

Dear Friends and Family,

1.

Ramadan ended on November 5. After a month of fasting all day long – no water no food from sunrise to sunset everyday – the celebration is Eid al Fitr or Bajram in Kosovo and the Balkans. I sent Eid Mubarak greetings to all my friends in Bangladesh as I have each year since I left. I got messages back form the people I usually communicate with as well as others who I hear from once a year. This year Professor Muhammad Syhed Mynuddin from the World Bank in Bangladesh indicated that our old project was moving slowly forward and they had created a position for an international expert to continue implementation of the project. He said that they were looking for someone with my experience and background. As you might imagine, this set off an exchange of e-mails and preliminary negotiations between the Government of Bangladesh and me. Fortunately or unfortunately (I have yet to decide) the financial package they had to offer was inadequate. I did learn that I hold very mixed emotions concerning my prior post. I speak often of the hardships of living there and the frustrations with several of the people with whom we worked, yet I miss many of the good people we met and worked with and I miss the exotic character of the place. The Brits of pre-India independence often spoke and wrote of the inexplicable magnetism of India. I have experienced it and can likewise not explain the attraction in spite of the horror, distain and frustration that the place engenders.

Sharon and I went to Enver’s house for some Bajram refreshments. The local staff had the day off, we worked, but we found time in the afternoon to visit. We know them all now, Enver’s parents, his brothers, his sister-in-law and her babies. They all live under one roof. Our visits are no longer unique experiences in a strange land. They are simple visits with friends; friends who live in our town.

2.

Arranged marriages in Bangladesh are still the norm. Here, they are not, although they are still not unheard of. Rama is thirty-one and single. Well, he was single. He seemed to be happily single; no attachments; no regular girlfriend. One Monday morning he came to the office and announced that he had gotten engaged over the weekend. We were surprised since we had not heard of any girlfriends from him. The wedding was in two weeks.

It seems that Rama had been flirting with a young store clerk near his home. His parents found out about it and decided that it was time for Rama to get married. They contacted the parents of the girl and the rest became history. Of course we were invited to the wedding. The wedding was at Rama’s house; his parents house, but it is all the same in these extended family arrangements.

Rama and his family are Albanian but lived all their lives in Serbia. In fact, Rama’s father still bears the “vic” on his last name that the Serbs required to be added at some point in the 1950’s. Thus he is Jahavic. Rama, as a young man, decided to have the “vic” removed and return his name to the Albanian, Jaha. He recounted for me the process. The Serbs used all manner of inconvenience and discomfort to thwart or at least discourage the effort. Rama persisted. It was a matter of principle with him.

Just as things in Kosovo turned bad after the war for the Serbian Kosovars, the Albanian Serbs experienced a similar situation in Serbia. Many Serbian Kosovars have moved to Serbia and many Albanian Serbs have now moved to Kosovo. Rama’s family is among the latter. When the Jaha’s or Jahavic’s decided to move to Kosovo they migrated to a small Serbian enclave just north of Pristina. They traded their apartment in Serbia for the house they now occupy. The Serb who lived in the house moved to Serbia; and so it goes. Suffice to say, the wedding was at this home.

The traditional ethnic Albanian wedding goes something like this – and there are a few variations. The day prior to the wedding, the bride has a party for the women of her family and her women friends. There is usually much food and dancing and the bride changing into several dresses. The groom has a luncheon for his family and friends the day of the wedding. On the wedding day, the groom, or sometimes, as in Rama’s case, his family only, goes to the bride’s home and picks her up. There is a ceremony among the women at that time. The groom’s female relatives present the bride with gold jewelry, necklaces, bracelets and earrings. The men from the groom’s family are greeted by the men of the bride’s family and led to a place where they all sit around and drink beverages and smoke (always smoking in the Balkans) cigarettes which are liberally offered as a gesture of friendship and a show of hospitality.

The procession from the groom’s house to the bride’s home and back is led by a lead car with an Albanian flag flying out the window. The lead car often has a sunroof through which the video cameraman rises to tape the procession. All of the cars in the procession have a towel wrapped around the windshield wiper to identify them as members of a wedding procession. Like funeral processions in the United States, wedding processions in the Balkans are not to be broken by other cars. The last car in the procession, in which the bride will ride, is decorated with ribbons and flowers, sometimes garishly. When the bride arrives at the groom’s home, another ceremony of sorts is held. This involves her being given honey to insure a sweet life, bread so they never go hungry and a coin so they will always have money.

We arrived at Rama’s house for lunch. The road to his house runs off the main road. Narrow but paved it crosses a bridge into the enclave where, in the Balkan tradition, walls surround all the houses. We parked alongside the road. Rama’s house is two full stories with a large yard, maybe an acre or more total. An out building had a chicken cage on its side wall and a couple of nice looking turkeys gobbled around inside a small enclosed area. After a very good lunch, Sharon, Gaz, Lily, Enver and I got into Gaz’s and our cars, towels appropriately affixed, for the trip to Rama’s new wife’s home. Rama changed into his suit while we went to pick up his bride. We drove north on the road to Podeivo for several kilometers. Soon we turned onto a gravel road that led, after several turns, through a small village two kilometers beyond which was the farm of Rama;s wife’s family. Kosovo is a very small place, sometimes compared to Connecticut, but there are places that appear to be as remote as anywhere in the world. This was such a place. The remoteness has less to do with distance than the difficulty in getting there. This winding gravel road could never be traversed at a speed faster than twenty-five miles per hour. We passed craggy hills and rolling pastures enclosed with brush fences. Sometime the fences were of growing thick shrubs, sometimes they were made of other brush and small saplings woven among scrawny posts. The herdsman waved. The boy watching a few cows and sheep stopped to stare and wave. We noticed the miniature fort he had build over the course of the day. Even from the car we could see a great amount of detail in his idle work. He would leave it when he took the animals back to the barn. I hoped that the inevitable boyish play of the day did not result in any stray animals.

We drove up the mud road to the farm. There were many outbuildings. Some housed tractors, some were for live stock. A few chickens and turkeys wandered the yard. There was a large house on top of the hill and several smaller houses, presumably for family members, scattered down the hillside. The women gathered at the main house to greet the bride and do whatever it is that the women do when picking up a bride. The men were escorted to a small two room house lower on the hill. We sat on couches that lined all the walls of the room. Drinks were served and cigarettes offered all around. The older man with a beret and a missing front tooth seemed to be spokesperson for the bride’s family. He was a gregarious likeable fellow and bit of a character. A stocky relative of Rama’s led the conversation for his family. Mostly the other men listened to the two spokespersons discuss Kosovo politics, occasionally interjecting a point of view. My Albanian being what it is, I understood nothing. Gaz went outside to get out of the cigarette smoke that had quickly engulfed the room and Enver was across the room; I sat and watched. I noticed two pictures on the wall. One was of a young man in a uniform – an individual photo. The other was the same young soldier with two others in a photo I recognized as a photographic tribute to KLA fighters who died in the war. I later learned that the young man was a relative of Rama’s wife.

The ceremony was complete and we joined the women for the trip back to Rama’s house. The bride was appropriately escorted in the decorated vehicle at the end of the procession. Horns honking again, we took the road back to Rama’s house. Once there, Rama came out of the house in his finest attire and greeted his new bride. They walked arm in arm down the walk to the door to the house. The neighbors all watched from the road and the wedding guests crowded around the couple. At the door, the bride was presented with honey, bread and a coin.

After the ceremony at Rama’;s house the wedding was complete. They were married in the traditional sense. They would go later to register the marriage with the municipal authorities. The party then followed. We stayed briefly, but had another event to go to – the party for Enver’s sister after the birth of her new baby.

3.

We had neither the time nor the money to make a trip home for Thanksgiving. We plan that trip over Christmas and the New Year. Our friends Danielle and Claire from Montréal, Quebec, who were here for three years and got transferred to Paris where Danielle works for NATO, as he did here. A nice thing about living in Kosovo is that Europe, once one gets out of Pristina, is very near. We were able to get very reasonable tickets to Paris and Danielle and Clare offered their home for us to stay and visit with them. They live in a near suburb of Paris, Rueil Malmaison. Danielle and Clare picked us up at Charles de Gaulle airport and took us to their house. The small three bedroom townhouse with courtyard in front and yard in back, was quire comfortable and our hosts were outstanding.

What can be said about Paris that hasn’t already been said? People either love it or hate it and some just dislike the French. I find both Paris and the French to be warm and friendly. We visited the Opera House, several other monuments that we had not seen on our previous trip there (Paris if full of them) and the Eiffel Tower at night. We drove past the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Elysees. Danielle and I went to an antique motor cycle show – he owns twenty bikes. Clare bought a turkey at greatly inflated prices and we had a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner. In the church in the town square of Rueil Malmaison Napoleon’s Josephine is buried, or more precisely, her tomb resides. It snowed, rained, was cold and, as to be expected, was expensive. We had a great time and it was good seeing old friends.

4.

Gaz had a birthday. We have been using birthdays as an excuse for periodic late afternoon parties. Turns out that was also the day and time that verdicts of three KLA (Kosovo Liberation Army) commanders was broadcast live from the Hague. One in particular was of special interest to the Kosovar’s. He was a member of parliament before being arrested and tried for war crimes at the Hague. The International community was nervous about the reaction, either way, from the verdict. Our conference room, amidst cake and treats for Gaz’s birthday, was silent as the judge announced the court’s verdicts. Fatmir, the commander of interest, was found not guilty on all counts. An added celebratory mood came over the office. The next day saw processions in Pristina and a throng of well wishers at the airport to greet Fatmir on his return from the Hague. No violence was reported except for an unrelated incident in Gracanecia, the Serbian enclave near Pristina, which resulted in the town being closed off for several hours.

5.

Our project is very busy and we are at a very important juncture as the UN prepares to turn over the remaining competencies that they control, such as the courts, to the Kosovars and leave. Amidst this flurry of activity, we were again called by USAID to host a luncheon for Ken the Mission Director and the Supreme Court President. This time the location was in Dragash, a mountain town south of Prizren. It seems that the Minor Offenses Court President judge invited Ken at a meeting they both attended. As it happens, we are in the midst of starting a new project with the Municipal Courts of Dragash and Prizren. We made the usual contacts and the meeting was set. A meeting at the court with tour, followed by a luncheon at a local restaurant; the same drill as we did in Rahovec.

Dragash is one of the few places in Kosovo that is really unreachable for many days of the year. The two lane winding road is often impassable in winter. This creates special circumstances for the court there. The court has very little to do, but because of its unique location and the fact that there is a significant minority population there, it will likely remain open. Our project involves using the Dragash judges to help out in Prizren on a part time basis.

The road to Dragash winds continually upward affording panoramic views of Prizren spreading out in the valley below. Once the mountain is crested, the road continues partly down the other side through villages tucked in and about the mountains. The timberline can be seen just where the late autumn snow-cap begins. It is a beautiful place, remote and detached.

In Dragash there is a large population of a minority called Gorani. About half of the population in the municipality of thirty six villages is Gorani. The other half are Albanian. The town sits on a finger of the province bordering both Albania and Macedonia. I have yet to understand fully who the Gorani are. They are Muslim by religion, they speak either perfect Serbian - or Bulgarian by one account - and are mountain people. The remoteness of the area results in very traditional dress. It seems almost unaffected by the rest of the world. The town of Dragash sits nestled among snow capped mountains and is the center of activity for the area. Dragash has a population of four thousand and the municipality about forty thousand. The economy is fueled by the products of the herdsmen in the area; goats, sheep and cows. A very popular cheese is made there. About half the population is unemployed. Near the restaurant where we ate lunch there is a large project to develop a ski area. It will take several more years to complete.

Lunch was the same as Rahjovec, with less indulging in spirits of the vine. A huge meal beginning with soup, then an appetizer, then a salad, followed by a main course of meat, followed by the lamb. The lamb was again served in the traditional manner – the honored guest being presented with the head. As in Rahovec, Ken did the honors masterfully. He passed it to the Supreme Court President who then passed it to me, and on around. I don’t believe there is an acquired taste for lamb’s brains. Perhaps this is why the tradition has not survived into Western culture. The lunch took two and a half hours. The trip home another two. The event took the entire Friday.

6.

The day after the Dragash event, we were invited to Hydajet’s house for lunch. Hydajet is a member of the Assembly or Parliament and chairs what we would call the judiciary committee with which our project works closely. He was a political prisoner in the Tito era. He and his colleagues call themselves former”political detainees.” There is an organization consisting of around three thousand members.

Besides Sharon and I, Ken, the Mission Director, with his wife Viviana and Miles the DG officer were invited. Hydajet also invited a woman member of parliament and good friend of his. She is a well respected gynecologist in her private life. In her youth she was a political prisoner as well, having served a year or so. She was a contemporary of Hydajet’s.

I did not think that the luncheon of the prior day could be topped, but Hydajet and his wife managed. We ate until we could eat no more, then we ate even more, ending, finally, with dessert. Along the way, we sampled several glasses of Hydajet’s stock of Raki. At one point, Hydajet brought out several envelopes containing drawings and writings from his time in prison. Writing to relatives was not allowed, so the prisoners wrote in secret on whatever they could find to write on. In Hdayjet’s case, he showed us several poems and letters on small pieces of napkin-like tissue. The writing was so small it was barely legible with the naked eye but was as neat and straight as if typed. Both sides of the paper were used. The prisoners apparently separated covers of books, slipped the writings in the covers and resealed them. Then they could pass the books out to relatives. Hydajet’s wife saved all the letters.

Hydajet is an interesting fellow. He has four children, three sons and a daughter. All are grown except the youngest son who is thirteen. Hydajet was in prison for ten years and was apparently moving around avoiding capture for about three years. I offered Hajdayet a cup of coffee one morning at a function we were hosting. He declined and said that he had coffee already with his wife. He told me that the one thing he does everyday since he was released from prison is to have coffee with his wife each morning. He has great admiration for her for all she went through while he was in prison. They had their youngest son because Hydajet had missed the raising of his other three children while he was in prison.

It is difficult at times for us to understand what the people went through under these oppressive regimes, but the stories also are a reminder of why we must be constantly vigilant of our rights. What begin as small encroachments that appear to be necessary for some greater national good can quickly and easily lead to the suppression of all that makes us free and strong. The conversation of that afternoon was revealing. Hajdayet was a young journalist. He and his contemporaries were telling truths as they saw them; truths that those in power did not want told. Hydajet doctor friend spoke of her days in prison and how she denied knowing Hydajet and his other friends because that in itself would have resulted in her prison stay being lengthened. Today Hydajet is the best guardian of his adversaries’ rights to openly criticize his work. While we are here sharing the lessons we have learned with this emerging democracy, they are sharing lessons that will help us sustain ours.

7.

Meanwhile, back in Key West, the fourth of as many hurricanes that brushed but did not hit Key West full-on had caused extensive damage to that island city and to our home there. Wilma flooded at least sixty percent of the homes in Key West. We did not escape her wrath, not that of Rita before her and Katrina before her and Dennis before her. Sharon had been home to help repair the relatively minor damage of Dennis, Katrina and Rita, but left as Wilma struck. Jeff and her parents were there to assist in putting things back together, but our arrival in December still found things a bit unsettling. The tarp on the roof is said to be good for a year and it may take us that long to make arrangements for the repairs. The two scooters are gone I am afraid. Jeff has the pool nearly back to where it should be and the new plantings and re-growth of those that survived will soon screen out the neighbors again. All in all, Key West looked pretty good and the weather was it’s usual fantastic self.

We had Christmas there and a wonderful dinner in the backyard with all the neighbors. New Year’s Eve we spent in Dent’s yard visiting neighbors and letting the kids entertain us until the fireworks boomed and crackled in the New Year. We are blessed to live in a neighborhood of really nice people who look after each other and generally make paradise what is should be.

I have said that the reason that I bought a house in Key West is because it is the only place I have yet been that I never want to leave. This was no exception, damage and all. But, leave we did for our other home here in Kosovo.

8.


We drove back to Michigan where I had a bit of doctoring left to do and a few more family visits. Never time enough to see everyone we would like. The flight from Chicago to Frankfurt was delayed leaving but arrived on time. Re-ticketing for the flight to Skopje was a nightmare. We spent no less than an hour in line waiting for our boarding passes. Frankfurt airport is large and very busy. We struggled with the lines and being seated in a restaurant at a table that no one served, and on. The rigors of travel are many. We arrived at the time when the people were returning from the Hajj in Mecca, no doubt adding to the congestion of the place.

Finally we arrived in Skopje, Macedonia. Rama had agreed to meet us that Sunday late afternoon and drive us back to Pristina, an hour and a half trip by car. It was pitch dark as it generally is at that early time here, when we arrived. As we exsited the airport, Rama must have taken a wrong turn and after fifteen minutes we decided to ask someone how to get to Skopje. We were not directed back the opposite way on the highway, but rather were sent across country on a two lane road that quickly carried us into the countryside. Several stops to ask further directions confirmed that we were in fact not misled and Skopje finally appeared. The restaurant we stopped at was closed so we proceeded to the border. After passing the Macedonian side we were advised at the Kosovo station that the road was closed at Kacanik because of a rock slide and would remain closed until ten the next morning. We stopped and ate at a restaurant where the police were turning cars back then we also turned back.

There is another border crossing, a smaller one, in the mountains above Tetevo, Macedonia. We drove back through the border crossing and the twenty minutes to Skopje then on to the highway for the half hour to Tetevo. There we drove through town and up the mountain to the border. As we rounded the curve we were presented with a line of cars that must have been a kilometer long. In any event, it took us one hour to clear the border there. Then we climbed further up the mountain over the dark, snow-covered winding road and down the other side and finally back to the highway to Pristina. We arrived home at one in the morning, having left the Skopje airport at five-thirty.

The rockslide was not cleared at ten the next morning nor has it been cleared nearly two weeks later. Part of the adventure of living in the developing world is never knowing for sure what to expect next. Things happen here that do not happen else where and those events bring us closer to our root selves. They test us – are we fit enough to survive.

9.

And so winter came; frigid cold; snow. Our heat mostly is okay this year, but there are days when we dress with layers in the house. I heard the first complaints form several people yesterday of having no water due to frozen pipes. The electricity has been good until the cold snap. Now we have about four hours a day – one hour at a time over the course of the day – when we have no electricity, but our generator is working fine. KEK (Kosovo Electrik Kompany) came up with a new program to encourage people to pay their bills. They divided Kosovo into various zones; A, B and C. The A zone designation is given to areas where people pay their bills regularly, the “B” designation to those who are not so good and the “C” designation for the worst. Our neighborhood is in the ”A” zone, so we had 24 hour electricity until the cold set in and the electric heaters were turned up. Ironically, the USAID offices are in a “B” zone and Ken, the Mission Director was not pleased since AID pays a very large bill. Apparently their neighbors do not. The walk to work and back, normally ten minutes up the hill and ten back in the evening, becomes longer and treacherous. Nothing is taken for granted here. The steps are not cleaned and so they become icy. The paths across the hills are foot-warn and icy as well. This is not the “proverbial” slippery slope that I was alluding to in number 6. above, this is simply and literally a very slippery slope and I had my first fall of the season; no injuries thank you.

10.

Dr. Ibriham Rugova was President of Kosovo and leader of the LDK party. He had led the LDK party for years going back to the nineteen-nineties. He attempted to negotiate a peaceful settlement with the Serbs in the late nineties. He met with Milosevic and was accused of being a traitor. He led the first and second - the current - governments after the war. All politics in Kosovo was led and centered on Rugova’s desires. He had a “presidential flag” that represented his idea of what an independent state of Kosovo should have as its national flag. Most mocked it and have continued to use the Albanian flag as their symbol, missing his point that if Kosovo is to be an independent state it must begin to think of itself as such. His motorcade would pass our office several times a week when he was returning to his home a few blocks from our office. A moderate, he had a good sense of where Kosovo should be and how to get there. Even in ill health, he was always the beacon leading Kosovo, guiding the Kosovars in spirit if not in fact.

On January 22, 2006 President Rugova died after a long battle with lung cancer, the result of smoking heavily for years. He was 62. Fifteen days of mourning were declared and he was laid in state in the Assembly Building. Mother Theresa Avenue was closed for the week until his funeral and burial on Thursday. The crowds to view him were long and continuous for the entire time. We arranged a time on Wednesday for our office to view the body. En-masse we went to the Assembly building and after weaving through very heavy crowds all around the building and negotiating our way past several police crowd control blockades we managed to get into the building. There a young woman escorted us to the area where Rugova lay amongst the honor guard. The line of public viewers was temporarily stopped as we filed quickly through. We were not able to lay the wreath as we had planned.

Thursday was the funeral and a holiday for all including the UN and USAID. Most stores and shops were closed and our street was closed. The funeral was in a university building very near our office and the burial was in the Memorial Park on the top of Sunny Hill, actually directly behind an apartment building where three of our consultants live. There are graves in that park of KLA fighters killed in the war that ended with the NATO bombing in 1999. A memorial will be built at Rugova’s grave site.

We walked to the office and worked. We did take time to walk the street closed to vehicular traffic and marvel at the thousands of people who, beginning very early in the sunny frigid morning, were finding spots on the route from the funeral to the grave site so they could view the funeral procession go by. After the burial, thousands of people filed past our office from the grave site taking the nearly an hour to pass.

No one is certain what will happen now. Status talks have begun and “Rugova was involved with the talks. He led the coalition government. Some say that his LDK party – which garnered roughly 46 percent of the vote in the last election – will splinter in to several parties. If that happens, no one is certain of what will happen to the coalition government, currently made up of the LDK and AAK, a small party with enough seats in parliament to give the coalition a majority. Even if the LDK survives, the leadership is uncertain. It may not be as uncertain as the internationals think because his death was imminent and politicians were talking.

We are privileged to be a part of the development of this new government and new democracy. We are also privileged to witness the joys and pains that the people here experience as they move toward self determination. Their George Washington died. It was like a knife was stuck into the chest of every citizen, those with whom he agreed and those with whom he did not. We watch and assist as a new nation emerges form the ashes of a long, bloody and painful history. Our presence is fraught with peril but to be here and a part of the new history that is being made is worth the risk.

Until Next Connection,
Dan