IMAGES: GETTY; SELIM KORYCKI
“W
hat does a landmine look
like anyway?” I suddenly
wondered, as I freewheeled
down the Cakor Pass into the canyons of
Kosovo. I’d read all the warnings. Stick to the
road. Avoid camping anywhere that hasn’t
obviously been grazed in the last 10 years.
Don’t approach suspicious devices. But I had
no idea what qualifi ed as a ‘device’, or what
might make it ‘suspicious’.
I hadn’t seen another human being the
whole a ernoon — since, in fact, I’d turned o
the main route in Montenegro and followed
this narrow lane up into the mountains. Not
a single car had passed me. I wondered if
they knew something I didn’t, fretting about
landmines and roadblocks and kidnappings
as I slowly climbed up above the treeline,
gazing back at mountaintops that had
towered over me the previous day, and
sweating steadily in the late autumn
sunshine, that morning’s frozen fi ngers and
steaming breath already a distant memory.
The Kosovan side of the pass was steeper,
and within 15 minutes I’d lost most of theheight I’d so painstakingly gained. If it
turned out the border was closed, and that
was why no one was driving through, I’d have
to climb all the way up again, descend back
into Montenegro, and fi nd another way.
The explanation soon presented itself. At
the bottom of the canyon, a patch of road had
crumbled away into the river, leaving it
impassable to any vehicle wider than a bike.
I uneasily stepped between the large chunks
of concrete that blocked o the landslide
(‘What does a landmine look like anyway?’),
before noticing they’d been extensively
gra tied and, therefore, couldn’t be explosive.
So, I’d entered Kosovo through the back
door. No border guards; no passport stamps;
no one even knew I was here. Shaking with
nervousness, excitement and exhaustion,
I followed the river, watching the sunlight
retreat to the tops of the surrounding cli s,
and wondering what I’d do when darkness
fell. Camping was a bad idea in landmine
country and Peje was several hours’ ride away.
Eventually, the gorge opened out, and
down on the fl oodplain I spotted what mustbe a resort: a large building surrounded by
log cabins, with an encouraging plume of
smoke emanating from the chimney.
The place was deserted save for the owner,
an elderly man in a fl at cap, and a teenage
waiter, who translated our exchange. Of
course I could camp here. Anywhere I wanted.
The old man swept his hand in a wide arc to
indicate that what was his was now mine.
Then another brief conference in Albanian.
“My boss, he is worried you will be too
cold,” said the teenage waiter. “He will give
you a room for free.” And so that there could
be no doubt about it: “Gratis. No money.”
Tears came into my eyes as I thanked the
owner in every language I could think of and
shook his hand. Within fi ve minutes my
bicycle was locked safely in a barn and I was
standing in the doorway of a large, clean, hotel
room. Within half an hour, I was watching as
fi ve days of sweat and grime swirled down
the plug hole. Soon a er, I crawled naked
into the big bed, stretched myself out to all
four corners, and fell asleep with the feeling
of cotton on my clean skin.Rugova valley, near PejaNovember 2016 85TRAVELLERS’ TALES