"It's nice to see another lady. Welcome to hell."
That was the greeting I received from a Turkish woman journalist who has been living in a hotel in the heart of Kosovo for well over a month. Hell is at this moment an apt description for this shredded and scarred land that Serbs are willing to die for. It is a place of bombed buildings, cratered streets and charred Albanian homes.
There are two routes into Kosovo that several journalists have taken over the last 58 days of the war here. One, via Albania or Macedonia, has been taken by a handful of reporters travelling with the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) through the legendary "accursed mountains" into the heavily forested hills just over the border.
The other method has been tightly organised bus and van trips lasting several hours, closely supervised by the Yugoslav military. Extremely sensitive about photography and video, the authorities have allowed limited access even to the approved destinations.
The BBC, for example, was permitted just under half-an-hour last week to film the village of Korisa, where a NATO bomb struck a farmland site, killing 87 Albanians and wounding 100 more. (NATO said the village was a Serb military encampment).
A sprinkling of journalists, including those from the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times and the Washington Post, as well as some Greek and Turkish reporters, have been permitted to leave Belgrade without a military escort. This week The Irish Times was also allowed to travel through the region without restrictions.
That said, it must be noted that we are travelling in Kosovo in the company of Serbs. The tensions here between Serbs and Albanians, both historic and recent, are so intense now as to cast a pall of doubt and suspicion on most conversations.
Voices are either low or urgently raised. Eyes either glare or are averted. One is either on one side or the other. In conversation with most Serbs there is little room for discussion of Albanian grievances. One hears from Serbs lengthy stories of how the separatist Kosovan Albanians have for years refused to pay taxes, refused to pay for electricity and water, have been unappreciative of the liberal rights given to them.
Albanians still within Yugoslavia are understandably less eager to voice their disagreements with the government of Slobodan Milosevic that is very much in power and, during this time of war, very visible on the streets, on the major roads, and in villages in the form of soldiers in green uniforms and military police in blue.
Thus impressions and perceptions here are not formulated under anything approaching normal circumstances. Kosovo is a place in the midst of both a civil war and an unprecedented aerial bombing campaign. There is no mystery, nothing opaque about it. You can see it and smell it everywhere.
The seven-hour drive to Kosovo from Belgrade is an unholy mess.
Just an hour south of the capital, the signs of the portable and formidable Serbian air defence system are everywhere. Parked trucks covered with tarpaulin litter the roadway, or are visible in fields. From these vehicles the Yugoslavs deploy shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles.
A retired Serb ballistic expert described how soldiers stand or kneel for up to 10 hours, eyes trained on the sky for planes, and launch these weapons. It may seem primitive in a high-tech world, but it is one factor that has kept NATO confused, off-guard and unable to deal a final blow to the country's defence.
NATO is certainly searching for targets to bomb. The night skies are filled with satellites hovering in the atmosphere, tiny points of light that do not flicker and move just that much too quickly to be stars or planets. This must be the most photographed region in the world at the moment.
Near the town of Bogutovac, just on the Kosovo border, there are the remains of a bridge over the river Iber. Each side of the bridge is intact; through the middle is a round hole, a bird's nest of twisted steel created by a bomb. Not to worry. Villagers have posted hand-made signs directing motorists through a barley field. For several miles on the other side of the steel, the road is no more than five feet wide.
If the Yugoslav army ever did decide to completely withdraw from Kosovo, as NATO demands, it physically could not do it now. The road is barely wide enough to permit a one-car convoy.
On the way into Pristina, the devastated capital of Kosovo, we passed through the area of Vucitrn, a village that has been troublesome to Serbs for centuries. (A Catholic church document dated 1644 shows that the town's 2,000 families only spoke Albanian or Turkish.) Now the village is off limits, explained our Serb driver, because it is mostly Albanian and filled with Ushtkas, the Serb name for KLA members.
"It is too dangerous," he says, picking up speed. Still, we see rows and rows extending for miles of burnt-out Albanian homes. They are red-brick with red tiled roofs. They have obviously not been hit by aerial bombs, as many of their roofs and walls are intact. Instead, the windows are gone or the exterior walls are blackened from fire that has roared from the interior.
Against a hill of yellow gorse we see a house still smouldering. Our driver explains that the houses burned were all the homes of KLA members. The infrequent house that has not been burned (one out of 20) was a good Albanian family, not associated with the KLA, he says. Or, he adds, some of these houses were torched by the Albanians themselves. There is no explanation about why they would burn their own homes.
If there was such attention to KLA membership on the part of the Serb forces who burned these houses, it was not apparent to some neighbours. The gypsies, or Romi, who live here, have spray-painted "Romi" on at least a dozen homes to identify themselves as non-Albanians.
In the city of Mitrovica, a group of Serb journalists are trying to continue their daily radio broadcasts. It is not easy. They must continue to move around to avoid bombing.
"We evacuate because we are possible targets for NATO," said a man named Rasdan. At the moment they are huddled in a dilapidated house near the centre of town. "All we are trying to do is get people information, about what has been bombed, about what roads are gone."
He complains that the population of this city of 150,000 has been halved and that both Serbs and Albanians have left. Zdravko Trajkovic, the president of the six-city region that includes Mitrovica, says that the local mine once employed 12,000 people, supporting families totalling 40,000. Now, because of the war, the mine is idle and all those people are unemployed.
"The bombing must stop," he says, echoing the sentiments of every Serb we spoke to. "We will defend our country. We have not attacked anyone. They are attacking us."
Mr Trajkovic says that about 5,000 Albanian refugees have already returned to Mitrovica. The problem, he says, is that KLA members are hidden among them. He blames them for the sniper attacks that have increased in the last two weeks. Just last Sunday a policeman in the town was shot by a sniper.
We finally arrive in Pristina, a city that unfolds in a valley from the hills above. There is electricity and water here, but little else is normal.
There are a handful of working telephone lines. Military and police are everywhere, literally every few yards throughout the city. Building after building has been levelled, nearly too numerous to mention. Office buildings, schools, banks, the post office, government buildings, apartment houses and single-family homes. It is clear from the size of craters here that NATO missiles have done the damage.
In an adjacent area of town, rows of shops owned by Albanians have also been destroyed. There is no evidence of bombs or missiles, just broken windows and fire. Beauty shops, cafes, accountants' offices are all in shambles and looted. Desks and office chairs are overturned, drawers with papers are strewn about. This area was destroyed by human hands.
Dragona Milic (25) a Serb whose home has been bombed, spends her nights with her family and friends in a makeshift cellar beneath a building. It is illuminated only by candles. There is no ventilation, the low ceiling is made of waterlogged wood planks, and the place is damp. Live electrical wires dangle from one brick wall. Foam-beds and blankets line the concrete floor.
About 15 children and 10 adults spend their nights here now because their homes are either gone or devoid of electricity. Their ages range from five years to 68.
"Bombs cannot make peace between Serbs and Albanians," says Ms Milic. "Everybody is dying here. We have given everything to the Albanians. They have books in their own language, they have nice homes. They have more rights than anybody. This war didn't start with Serbs. I am tired of hearing about Albanian refugees. What about us? Can you sleep at night when there is bombing every night? We are sleeping now without dreams."
At a bus station in the centre of town, about 100 Albanians, mostly old women, are waiting to board for Skopje in Macedonia. This is the third bus that has left today.
A whispering Albanian woman tells us that it costs DM20 and the trip takes about four hours. A crowd is gathered, and people are hugging those about to board. Tears are plentiful. We ask one of the women why she is leaving, but again we are in the presence of Serbs, who are urging us to leave because it is "too dangerous".
The Albanian woman shrugs. A Serb says to her: "You are leaving because of NATO bombs, right?"
The Albanian woman glares.
"No! The police!" she hisses and hurries away.