Pristina Newborn

The Republic of Kosova isn't universally recognized but it winked at me from across the Macedonian border and represented the final piece of my Yugoslavian jigsaw.

I boarded an old diesel bus which crunched up the hill from Skopje, joined at the border by KFOR-trained dogs, who sniffed and snapped at my rucksack but found nothing more dangerous than dirty underwear.

My highly visible Kosovan passport stamp virtually rules out any further visits to Serbia, it's non-acceptance of the succession territory pivotal to the Serbian Government. So be it, Belgrade. Once into Kosovan territory, the green border hills looked stunning and alive in the November sunshine.

The bus dropped to a dusty plateau, a countrywide construction site as Kosovo rebuilds. The capital, Pristina was a typical Balkan mixture of Ottoman market and Soviet slab-blocks. I walked through graffiti heavy streets as traffic noise competed with the call to prayer and followed Bill Clinton Boulevard, flanked by giant posters of Tony Blair; "Leader, Friend, Hero". You won't see these in England. In the centre of town sits the National Library, a boxy defensive building, dressed with chainmail. Perhaps the weight of history has forced Kosovans to protect their literature or maybe it's just another architectural adventure in post-modernism from central planning.

Although never too far from a bullet-scored wall or a weed-filled plot of blasted masonry, Pristina was full of life. Half of its population is under 25. The cafes and bars were full of smart teenagers, talking into phones on borrowed mobile networks and able to flip to fluent English in an instant. A concrete sculpture spells it out; NEWBORN. Pristina is finding a new voice and the young carry it.