War Diaries Part I | Kosovo
Chapter 3: Dueling dons in bandit Albania

KUKES, Albania -- WHILE MOST networks seem to be rotating their crews out of Kukes every two weeks, we've been here almost a month. Correspondent Fred Francis is suffering from an ecoli infection, and cameraman Steve O'Neill's coughing has become constant. Their journalism has been stellar, but for them, for now, it's time to go. I make some calls to the NBC foreign desk and help arrange their exits. For me, I have a few more day to wait. Also I know that, unlike them, when I leave I won't be coming back.

INVASION ALBANIA?

It is 5 a.m. I'm in our landlord Ramo's white Mercedes heading north towards a tiny Albanian hamlet called Kamenecia. Yesterday, it was reportedly burning, attacked by Serbs. It's a 10-hour round-trip on roads that feel like cheese graters and the area has a reputation for being lawless. Bandits reportedly rule the roads and KLA guerillas rule the hillsides.

Ramo has made it his mission to get us there safely, but I've seen some of the local firepower and I have doubts about that Russian paperweight he carries.

I am, however, confident in our new translator; a Kosovar refugee named Hamdi. Hamdi is in his mid-twenties and speaks English better than I do. Before we moved him into our office, he was living in a field in an open wagon with 30 other family members waiting for word from his father, who disappeared in the exodus. Every day Hamdi seems to walk the threshold of fragile hope and mourning. Being able to help him and his family is the only time I've felt good about myself since I arrived for this war.

Also riding with us is Anthony DePalma, normally The New York Times Toronto bureau chief. He is, I learn, both fearless and relentless, urging us to go a little bit farther, despite the sound of mortars, gunfire, until we truly have the story. Behind us, in a black four-wheel-drive vehicle, are NBC war veterans, correspondent Tom Aspell, shooter Maurice Roper and engineer Danny Miller. While my adrenaline is pumping, they nearly seem bored.

A few miles from Kamenicia we talk to a local farmer, strapped with ammunition and carrying a Kalashnikov rifle. He tells of seeing as many as 100 Serbs, dressed in black, swarming over the border with guns and anti-tank weapons. He leads us to a nearby house to show us a gaping hole in the roof, the result he claims, of a Serb shell.
At another location, we examine a crater with a four-foot rocket imbedded in the dirt. One end has fins while the other is splayed out like an exploding cartoon cigar. The quarter-inch metal is ripped like saw-teeth. I shudder thinking what it could do to soft human flesh.

The intervals between automatic rifle fire and larger explosions seem more regular. We watch from a safe distance. Peering through binoculars at a Serb guard post on the opposite hillside, we're careful not to point or appear to provocative. Suddenly we're jolted by a hard, sharp, "ACK, ACK, ACK, ACK, ACK." Five rounds fired into the sky toward the Yugoslavian border. When we turn toward the sound, we see Ramo laughing, holding the farmer's smoking Kalashnikov.

RAMO TO THE RESCUE

For most of the drive back, none of us say a word to Ramo. I actually nod off for a while, in between bone-jarring bumps. But I open my eyes when the car stops completely. There is a van in middle of the road with four stringy-haired men standing in front of it. Ramo gets out of the car. One of them moves toward him. I'm filled with dread as I see Ramo reaching for the dirty, Russian pistol in his waist belt. From the backseat, I yell, "No Ramo! No!" But it's too late, he draws the gun. Then, from beneath his vest the other man draws two guns.

As I watch them face off, I fear we're dead meat: Ramo and his paperweight against four bandits. But then, they stop. The weapons go up, they laugh, walking toward each other to embrace, guns still in their hands. All of us laugh too -- in nervous relief.

The bandits offer us cigarettes and want to take us home for coffee. I ask Hamdi to politely decline. We still have a story to file. Reluctantly, they let us pass. Later, I'm told, on that same road, to those same bandits, the BBC lost most of their equipment and all of their cash. Thanks to Ramo, we were back at the Adriani that night, unscathed, drinking double espressos until our headaches go away.

AU REVOIR

When it is my turn to leave, two days later, I catch a ride on one of the French military's Puma helicopters. They ferry relief supplies up from Tirana, and, if there's room, haul journalists back down. I'm grateful not to have to make that perilous drive again (a week after my departure, four people, including two American relief workers, will plunge to their deaths on that road).

"Merci, merci," I babble idiotically at the crew when one finds a space for me. I feel the relief of the last man off the embassy roof, but I know in my heart the war's just warming up.

When the Puma lifts off I want to cheer, but don't. It would be a selfish gesture. I decide to keep my silence out of respect for the misery I've witnessed, but not endured.

I think of the old woman in the red boots and the home she'll probably never see again, while mine, though very far away, is still in reach. I think of Hamdi, lying awake on our office couch at night, wondering where his father is, while every minute, I'm getting closer to my wife.

I'm hypnotized by the black shadow of the chopper against the mountains as we cut through the passes so fast and low. It is on journeys like this that take you so far and deep into other people's sorrow that you're given a moment to consider both sides of your own character. I know how privileged I am to be here, to see a little of this disturbing history. And how lucky I am to be able to leave it.

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