The Snowboarder's Journal - frequency 17.4
THE PERFECT PLACE: Finding Common Ground in Kosovo
Words: Elias Elhardt, Photos: Carlos Blanchard 2020-01-23 19:46:33
To reach the Sharr Mountains from the south, one must first drive the winding roads of rural Albania, in the shadow of the country’s eponymous Alps. It’s a land shrouded by recent conflict, a meandering route leading to the disputed state of Kosovo.
Last March, I found myself rolling north with Markus Keller and filmer Karsten Boysen, heading for a resort named Brezovica in the transborder Sharr Mountains. We approached an old building on the side of the mountain, the road blocked by a simple boom gate surrounded by military trucks and heavily armed men. This marked entry into Kosovo and with it, another world.
Turning down the music, we handed over our paperwork. The immigration officer looked through our passports, checked out the pile of snowboards in the back, issued our stamps, looked at us and asked, “Would you like a coffee?”
Kosovo had welcomed us with open arms.
Like many Balkan nations, the Republic of Kosovo is still recovering from recent conflict. Shoehorned between Albania and North Macedonia to the south, Serbia to the east and north, and Montenegro to the west, Kosovo is officially in limbo, with 100 out of 193 UN nations diplomatically recognizing its sovereignty as of press time. Following a vicious war in 1998 and 1999, the country finally gained independence from Serbia in the early 2010s.
In a near-century-long string of complex geopolitical maneuvring, Kosovo once belonged to Yugoslavia, a socialist conglomeration of six ethnically diverse states that existed under multiple names and constitutions from 1918 until the early 1990s, when a series of conflicts resulted in the dissolution of the overarching government in 2001. This fragmentation led to a protectionist cultural mindset among the former Yugoslavian countries. And although the war ended via NATO intervention, a great division within the region remained. While much of Kosovo is populated by those identifying as Albanian, it is also home to Serb nationals. With the war still fresh in many residents’ minds, it can be difficult for disagreeing parties to find common ground.
Continuing our drive toward Brezovica, we passed towns draped in flags to indicate their identity. Serbian flags marked Serbian majority towns, which might not accept the Euro as official currency or recognise Kosovo as an independent state. The next town, coloured in red and adorned with the black double-headed eagle, might indicate an Albanian majority. On the final stretch to Brezovica, at the foot of the mountain, sit both a Serb town and an Albanian town. That was where the flags ended. We ascended the mountain, dodging ever-present potholes, and pulled into a makeshift parking lot. With 10-plus feet of snow on the ground, many cars were buried and wouldn’t be coming out for the rest of the season. Others were completely blocked in, with phone numbers left on their windshields in case they needed to be let out.
Although we spotted a license plate from Innsbruck, Austria, there were few signs of international visitors outside of our group. The couple hundred visitors at the resort gave us a fashion show spanning bright, ’80s-era retro ski wear to upmarket garb commonly found on mountains in Europe and in the States. However, many riders took to the snow in jeans and casual winter clothes. The young men who offered a snowmobile taxi service from the parking lot to the lifts wore military-styled camo and flat-brimmed baseball hats.
Above us, the resort spread out over 10 miles of marked trails, with access to the remote, windlip-strewn backcountry of Sharr Mountain National Park behind it. Once a flourishing mountain retreat, the resort’s ownership has been under contention since the war, and there have been no major investments in infrastructure, leaving the place to become what feels like a time capsule. Abandoned chairlifts lay crumpled and rusting alongside the slopes. The two operating double chairlifts were fitted with wooden benches and simple pull-down bars. Some were missing slats in the seat. Powered by a temperamental generator, they slowly made the 15-minute journey to the summit. At the base sat a couple of recently renovated huts offering accommodation and food. We stepped inside and found hand-carved seats resembling horses. Outside, informal vendors sold beer and soft drinks from a snowbank. Surrounded by friendly chatter, it felt like its own little world beyond the turmoil of Kosovan politics.
Along with the huts, there are two main hotels still operating to some degree. Six-story Hotel Molika stands alone atop the mountain, dominating the landscape. At the foot of the mountain, the larger Hotel Narcis evokes another era with its grand, sweeping concrete architecture that hearkens back to Soviet modernist design. Both hotels are semi-abandoned and haven’t been renovated since the war—they still have ashtrays mounted next to the toilets.
Soon, Markus and Karsten departed Kosovo and a new crew arrived: my girlfriend Isabelle, photographer Carlos Blanchard, and Alex Tank, filmer and co-director. They were here to work on a movie with me, documenting the rebuilding of this resort in the middle of disputed territory. We settled into Hotel Molika and its two operating floors, preparing for three weeks embedded in Brezovica. What we found was a culture of curiosity and camaraderie. Our numbers grew as locals joined in on the never-ending kicker building, crowd management and Ski-Doo taxi services. The empty rooms, dust-laden furniture and soft light trickling through the curtains of the hotel gave some indication of the previous life of this place.
In order to unlock the secrets of Brezovica we met with local mountain guide and fellow snowboarder Hamdi Hisari. Known around the mountain as “Super Hamdi,” he is a key member of the Brezovica community and became our host. A fit, confident man, his tough and rugged appearance was countered by his softly spoken, humble demeanor. Hamdi has been coming to Brezovica since he was a child. Accompanied by his dad and family, he learned to ski there and would spend holidays exploring the hotel and resort.
Hamdi described Brezovica during the ’90s as the “perfect place,” as somewhere that people from all over Yugoslavia and Europe would come to visit. Then the war tore it apart. Describing Brezovica’s downfall, we could see how heavily the conflict weighed on Hamdi’s heart. His softer side showed as we wandered empty buildings discussing the past—not only his past, but also the past of the resort, and the pasts of many others. “The war puts you back, it puts you down, and then, you need to start from zero,” Hamdi said.
Brezovica once had five operating chair lifts, but now only one of the two lifts would work on any given day. A day lift pass costs 10 euros, a single run 3. These are loaded onto cards, which are scanned like any resort. If our card malfunctioned, the manager of the resort would come sort it out. And, if we didn’t use all the runs we’d bought, they would happily offer a refund.
We became regulars at restaurants Che Fox and Tina’s Pizzeria. Breakfast at Che Fox was like having breakfast with family. If you bought one double espresso, the next one was free, making for a pack of coffee-addicted snowboarders with a “one run, one espresso” policy. Yet it wasn’t only the sweet nectar of caffeine that kept us spending time at the huts. They were the melting pot of Brezovica. Rather than hanging in small groups, everyone inside would share conversation. You might notice someone’s snowboard bindings fitted backwards. Not being concerned with how many runs they’d get that day or racing for first tracks, others would happily help change the bindings and have another coffee while they were at it. This communal approach helped us slow down, socialize, learn and share. And in time we realized that our “one run, one espresso” rule was actually the Balkan approach, a way to be together on the mountain instead of looking to escape the crowds.
It was a communal affair. We’d meet someone over a coffee, and the next minute they’d be showing us their favorite powder stash. Some days, we’d hike into the backcountry to find a feature, then make our way back to the chairlift through a maze of windlips and side hits in deep snow. With most of the slopes remaining ungroomed, we didn’t need to venture far to find a fresh line. However, as this was the Balkans and spring was fast approaching, most days we were riding slush, which lent itself to building kickers and playing with urban features in town. The build would almost always be a group effort with dozens of eager volunteers.
Nearing lunchtime, we would move with our ever-growing crew a couple of yards to the next hut over from Che Fox, Tina’s Pizzeria. One day, Tina, a proud mother and incredible cook, invited us to her restaurant for a traditional home-cooked meal that isn’t on the menu, as a thank you for us coming to the mountains she calls home. She must have cooked for hours, and we sat together enjoying our feast of “Sarma” cabbage rolls, grilled local meat, vegetables and beautifully braided “cesnica” sweet bread. Cesnica is usually served at Christmas, and it felt festive given how warm, welcoming and beautiful it was to be there—a level of hospitality difficult to find in other parts of Europe. Yet it wasn’t that long ago that war changed this country and many lives within it.
Many people we talked to remembered the former Yugoslavia as a construct much like the European Union. It made me wonder if the current rise of nationalism in Europe and the division between the countries could also dramatically change our futures as it has in the Balkans. The first cost of this shift is closed-mindedness to diversity. No longer can people of varying ethnicities and religions gather in openness and acceptance.
Yet at Brezovica we met travellers from across the region. Whether identifying as Albanian or Serbian, or visiting from another of the former Yugoslavian states, they let down their guard and simply enjoyed time in the snow together.
We met a man named Benjamin who works for the German government in rural development in the Balkans. He is also a keen backcountry rider and regular at Brezovica. One morning, we set out on splitboards, following bear tracks we thought were snowshoe tracks. During the walk, Benjamin explained the Balkan way. “They weren’t a Western capitalistic country, not an Eastern communistic country—they defined their very own development path,” he said. “Together with a couple of mostly African countries, they developed a movement of a third way… a social market economy. Yugoslavia was very open, very international, people used to follow the fashions. Skiing was one of them. And that’s why nowadays we see some quite old infrastructure from those days. In a way, I find it very symbolic for the country.”
Although the divisions that arose from nationalistic ideology tore this path apart, there remains a meeting point where cultural differences can be set aside in the name of enjoying the mountains. There are rumors of investors who will bring modern trappings to the resort, but for now, it is a simple, welcoming place for people from all walks of life. There is a world encapsulated at Brezovica that is determined to leave the past behind. There, snow culture supersedes religion and ethnicity. There, the people of Kosovo find common ground.
Photo Caption: The lonely top of one of two chairlifts that still run at Brezovica, Kosovo.
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