Up a Mountain in Kosovo (Part 1)

On a clear and cold April morning, we leave the town of Ferizaj where we are staying and head south towards the mountains.  We come off the highway and onto a dusty road, then pull in at a mini-supermarket.  We are here to pick up Hysen, the mountain man who is going to take us up Lybeten, one of the tallest and most beautiful peaks in Kosovo.  Outside the tired-looking building, with its faded cigarette and soft drinks posters, three children sit playing on the ground.  This is the only store for miles which provides essentials for local villagers.  Hysen’s family has owned it for two decades.  The room beside the shop is a café and in the hot summer the plastic white furniture comes out, whilst in the harsh winter the chessboards come out.

Hysen comes out of the shop and we climb out of the dusty car to greet him.  He is a sturdy man in his late 50s, with a mountain-weathered face and a smile of rugged serenity.  When I shake his hand, it feels rough from many years of manual work.  He is going to take us up to his house near the top of the mountain, where in the warmer months he takes his herd of sheep and goats and spends time in solitude.  He apologises for not speaking English and occasionally shifts from his native Albanian into German.  Limited job prospects here mean that many families have a breadwinner living in Western Europe.  German is, therefore, the second language for many Kosovans with links to the diaspora communities in Switzerland, Germany and Austria. 

After the customary greetings, we set off in our car, with Hysen leading the way in his car.  We begin up the winding hairpin road at the foot of the mountain, forest on both sides, until we reach the point where we change vehicle and go off-road.  Hysen is already waiting for us, his hand gently resting on our mountain vehicle.  It is a dull green Lada Niva from the 1970s, Russia’s answer to the Landrover, and a reminder of Kosovo’s communist past as part of Yugoslavia.  From the outside it looks more like an army relic than a usable vehicle, but under the bonnet it is well maintained.  Vehicles are a big investment for many poor families, so they are extremely well looked after and older models are often reconditioned to last a long time.   As he holds out his hand to help us into its high cabin, Hysen jokes that it is the only vehicle that can manage the higher mountain tracks. 

Shortly after we set off, we see a man descending the track on a horse and cart.  He passes us with his eyes lowered.  The cart is full of logs and Hysen explains he is an illegal logger.  Most Kosovan houses are heated by woodburners and so the logs are an essential resource.  Hysen affectionately calls him Robin Hood.  For the first part of the journey, there is still forest on either side of the rocky road and, with our centre of gravity much higher, at times it feels as if we are almost vertical.  It is a deciduous forest and the trees that we pass are familiar: oak, birch and beech.  It takes 30 minutes drive to reach the higher part of the mountain which opens onto lush green pasture, and then a further 10 minutes to reach Hysen’s mountain house.  Next to the house, the track continues upwards until the grass recedes to a white carpet of snow which stretches as far as the mountain peak.  Out of the earthy shade of the forest, the quality of light here is very different.  The green fields are bright and lush and the sun on the snow is almost blinding.  Even at our destination, the mountain house, it is still a three-hour trek from the peak.  We climb out of the Niva and walk towards Hysen’s house as he explains that the last of the snow will not melt until late summer.