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M I N U T E S T O WA R : Picnic in Hell<br />
The ration food is left abandoned and uneaten on the roadways.<br />
Here it is hell in heaven. Such a region of exquisite almost<br />
divine beauty is playing host to incredible suffering and<br />
anguish in this biblical exodus of a people sent into exile.<br />
Children beside our feet<br />
are pouring out cans of<br />
baby food which had<br />
been distributed by the<br />
Red Cross and using the<br />
baby food as writing<br />
paste or just pouring it<br />
blindly onto the grass.<br />
Here it is hell in heaven. Such a region of<br />
exquisite almost divine beauty is playing host to<br />
incredible suffering and anguish in this biblical<br />
exodus of a people sent into exile. As I said to<br />
Salliarne, the Albanian translator, tonight here in<br />
Kukes the most idyllic spot is hosting a crisis in its<br />
midst of unearthly beauty. At one of the refugee<br />
camps I spied a boy in a cotton T-shirt with ‘hello’<br />
stenciled on its front . When I used the VX1000<br />
video camera to zoom in, and there was a tear in<br />
the fabric, the O was hidden and all I could see was<br />
‘hell’.<br />
As we walk, I step over cans of discarded food.<br />
The ration food is left abandoned and uneaten on<br />
the roadways. In our tour of the camps and across<br />
the unpaved streets we stumble across cardboard<br />
containers of food. Once we bent down to inspect<br />
the refuse and saw that it was a gift from the United<br />
States but the use by date was long past. When<br />
I opened one box of food and tore off the plastic<br />
container it revealed a mulch of soya bean paste,<br />
beans and starch, emulsifiers and preservatives. I<br />
can understand that the people do not want to eat<br />
it. They prefer that is cooked or fresh. They do not<br />
know what to do with it since they cannot even read<br />
English, so it is soon discarded. Children beside our<br />
feet are pouring out cans of baby food which had<br />
been distributed by the Red Cross and using the<br />
baby food as writing paste or just pouring it blindly<br />
onto the grass. That this is food is completely lost to<br />
them.<br />
What are we going to do about water?<br />
Monday, 26th April <strong>1999</strong>, Kukes<br />
to Tirana, Albania<br />
After these few days here it was necessary to return<br />
briefly to Tirana to collect the billboard which we had<br />
left at Benny’s. Our return is marked by Ermal’s fear<br />
that by leaving later than 12.00 midday on the day of<br />
the 26th we are going to draw out danger on the road<br />
from the Albanian mafia who regularly carjack cars at<br />
gunpoint after 4pm. Ermal is visibly pale and his lower<br />
lip trembles as he explains about the danger. It is a<br />
seven hour trip on a winding road which weaves itself<br />
through the mountains. Every five hundred metres<br />
is marked by gravestones and markers of roadside<br />
accidents. But we decide to leave early and the issue is<br />
resolved. As the van trumbles back down this winding<br />
tortuous road Ernal turns to me to explain: ‘We are still<br />
in the dark zone.’<br />
‘The dark zone?’ I enquire.<br />
‘Yes, it is called the dark zone because you can<br />
be robbed or attacked by masked, or by people in<br />
masks.’<br />
In Tirana I am reclining in a small outdoor café<br />
and my mind has completely ceased, my sinuses<br />
blocked and as you can tell by my voice my throat<br />
is hoarse. I hope the music behind it is not going to<br />
interfere as I have the flu.<br />
Meanwhile back on the Road from Hell every<br />
five hundred metres is marked by a wreath of roses,<br />
usually plastic, and a masonry memorial with photo<br />
of a departed cousin, aunt or friend who had left the
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