Ugh. I hate this room. If I don’t wake up to the sun on my face it takes me an age to get going. And it’s so cold out here in the casita, the little laundry shed that will soon be knocked down to make way for our new hostel bar. The sooner the better, I think. I moan and groan in the hopes of stirring Gabriel, who could sleep blissfully for days on end if left to his own devices, stumble out of bed, put the kettle on.

That damn assignment is still hanging over my head. I shouldn’t have left it so late, but life’s so full right now.

I ease into my day with a quick check of Facebook, Twitter and the headlines. Pakistan Taliban to blame for the NY bomb plot. The Israeli and Palestinian governments are talking across the dinner table via Mum and Dad again. First cup of coffee down. Time to begin.

My notes: a thick pile of papers on the rights of minority groups. Their right to secede, to recognition, to special advantages to make up for systematic disadvantages. Liberal democracy has a hard time dealing with this – individuals rule, groups can be dangerously destabilising (especially in the rhetoric-laden hands of political opportunists) and a wave of secessionist movements rock the international boat.

Gab finally rouses himself. Downs a coffee and a bit of last night’s soup and is out the door. I’m officially unavailable for hostel related business until this essay’s turned in, the boys are running the legwork today. I’m jealous of them, out in the world, sun on their faces. I sigh and turn back to the computer.

Another quick Facebook check. Rob’s travelling again. Wow, haven’t thought about him in a while. Must be four years since we sat on the grass by the Belgrade Fortress, looking over the Danube, giggling nervously and feigning bravado as we compared guidebook notes on Kosovo. There were six of us, and three of our guidebooks feigned ignorance to the region’s very existence. Mine offered a few paragraphs, recommended it be given a miss. Someone’s, I don’t remember whose, provided a handy list for the foolhardy – do exactly what K-FOR tell you, don’t wander off the official pathways for fear of landmines, and for goodness sake don’t mention Serbia.

Two days later we were one-to-a-seat at the very back of the Belgrade-Prishtina bus, our own little enclave of aren’t-we-brave, joke-cracking, backpacking youth amongst the daily lives of our fellow passengers. We arrived at the border at dusk, to be marched off the bus one-by-one by grim-faced border guards who just turned out to have a hell of a sense of humour. There truly is nothing more hilarious than scaring the bejeesus out of a gang of tourists. The landscape changed shortly after we were past the neat double line of razor wire; became bleaker, flatter, hung over by thick, dark clouds. Prishtina’s electricity was cut just as we tumbled off the bus, and we stood about looking at each other in concern. Sophie wasn’t there to meet us.

And then she was. An infectious whirlwind of French-accented energy, all smiles and jokes as she bundled us into a couple of cabs and took us back to the house she shared with Macha for a candle-lit dinner, bottles and bottles of wine and what must be the most varied house party I’ve ever had the pleasure of attending. UN officials mixed with pot-smoking Albanian arts students. Canadian media types rubbed shoulders with young Russian language prodigies who did good service to cultural stereotypes by slugging straight vodka while dining on sausages.

The next day our Finnish guide told us about a particular brand of drinking water the UN had just discovered was contaminated with human DNA. It was bottled within one of the Serbian enclaves, Orthodox islands within the Albanian Muslim province of Kosovo. Minorities within minorities. The Albanians were convinced the Serbs were trying to poison them. Orthodox churches were wrapped in barbed wire and stripped of their gold trappings, the skeletal remains of once-glorious houses of worship.

Prishtina was grim, grey and pollution-choked, but the people friendly. UN cars were everywhere. Brendan took an ill-advised, drunken cross-country stagger, failing to blow himself up on any stray land-mines and thus gaining a travel story I don’t ever hope to match. We all slept on mattresses in the lounge – kids from all over the world, bonding over saucisson and Balkan beats and catching the tiniest glimpse of a conflict-stricken world divorced from our planets of privilege.

The phone rings – Gab wants me to know its 4 pm, and am I done, can I come and meet everyone at Bullfrogs? Shit. “No, baby, it’s a long way from done.”

This story was featured in The Expeditioner‘s first print anthology, The Expeditioner’s Guide to the World.  It features loads of very cool travel stories from established and emerging travel writers.

Order your copy through Amazon.