T A B L E_T A L K It may be a frightening monolithic media giant, but Disney makes a great theme park. Delight in the wonder of Disneyland in Table Talk's Wanderlust area   Find a world of travel books -- new, rare and out-of-print -- at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Losing it in Cambodia By Morrie Erickson Getting a haircut in Cambodia is a good deal -- especially if you like getting more than you bargained for (02/16/99) This week in travel Wanderlust's select guide to the top travel-related news stories from around the globe (02/12/99) You are what you eat By Tim Cahill The foreword from the book "Man Eating Bugs: The Art and Science of Eating Insects" by Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio (02/11/99) Backstage on "The Beach" By Rolf Potts A backpacker's quest to storm Leonardo DiCaprio's movie set ends in an epiphany that won't play in Peoria (02/10/99) Storming "The Beach" By Rolf Potts A backpacker in search of adventure in Thailand puts the moves on Leonardo DiCaprio (02/09/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		CAPTIVE IN KOSOVO | PAGE 1, 2, - - - - - - - - - - None of the reporters covering the conflict ever talks about the danger, although it is extremely dangerous. A few have been shot at; these stories are traded at the Serbia Media Center in the dilapidated, laughably named Hotel Grand in Pristina. We use these tales to convince ourselves that close calls are possible, but that no journalist would actually get killed. No one talks about it. It's as if the threat is only real if it's expressed verbally. The drill is the same: Every day, reporters gather at the hotel, form groups and set out in cars (or armored vehicles) to some town or village where we can talk to locals. We adapted to war-talk the same way White House reporters acquire Washington-speak. I once threw around such insider phrases as "subcommittee markup" and "stuck in conference" when I was covering Washington. Now, my daily speech is peppered with such terms as "hard car," "soft car" and "VJ operation" (meaning it was a Yugoslav Army offensive). There we were that day, in our "soft" car about halfway back to Pristina, when we saw the blaze. One hill over, a village was clearly being burned to the ground -- a tactic the Serbs were using to intimidate the ethnic Albanians living there. We didn't really discuss it; we just turned down a dirt road toward the blaze. We'd stopped about halfway up the hill and were gossiping about something unrelated to the story we were covering when I heard them. I didn't even hear their angry shouts at first; what I heard was the terrifying click-click-clicks of guns being cocked. We were pulled out of the car and searched for weapons. The soldiers were screaming at us. A few spoke English, a small comfort. I had with me only my "Serbo-Croatian for Travelers" guide, a palm-sized book that showed me how to say such useless things as "Is there a disco nearby?" and "Does that include service?" I remembered a T-shirt I once saw a reporter wearing; it said "Press -- don't shoot" in a dozen languages. I'd laughed when I saw it, but now I was sorry I didn't have one. We were now being held against the car and surrounded by men with various kinds of weaponry. One was brandishing an Albanian flag -- a bad sign, as it likely meant they had just captured it as some kind of trophy. "Where are you from? What are you doing here?!" one demanded. Great. In the eyes of the Serbs, the only thing worse than being an Albanian was being American. I suddenly realized an extra complication: our translator, a 20-year-old woman who, while perfect in her spoken Serbian, was an ethnic Albanian. What might these soldiers do to her? My colleague, Edward, from National Public Radio, spoke first. "Chicago," he said. One of the soldiers got very excited. "Chicago! Chicago Bulls! Chicago Bulls!" He was smiling. "Yeah, Chicago Bulls, that's right," Edward responded. The soldier -- tall and athletic-looking enough to play basketball himself -- continued. "Who's the best player on the Chicago Bulls?" he asked. Edward tried to think fast, realizing that what sounded like idle sports talk might make the difference on how, and whether, we got out of there. It occurred to him that he shouldn't mention Toni Kukoc, the Croatian player. You never know how that would play with the Serbs. Would they be proud of their fellow former Yugoslav? Or were the wounds from Croatia's war of independence from Yugoslavia deeper? It was like some high-stakes game show. "Well, Michael Jordan," Edward said confidently. Good answer, I thought, and it apparently was the right one. The inquiring Serbian soldier got very friendly, bouncing up and down a bit and saying, "Michael Jordan! Michael Jordan! Michael Jordan!" Then he took Edward's tape recorder from him, walking around the car and joking. "Hallo," he said with the affected serious tone of a local newscaster. "I am reporter from New York Times." His fellow soldiers laughed. They got very friendly then, insisting on having their picture taken with me (with their camera; they wouldn't allow us to photograph them). This is actually quite normal behavior from the Serbs; it's not uncommon for a Yugoslav to be hostile to you one minute and offer to be your best friend the next. They'll drink, argue loudly, smash glasses on the floor as they deride your government, then put their arms around your shoulders and insist on paying for the "raki" you were sharing. The trick is to turn the emotion in your favor. All the rules of being a war correspondent -- making eye contact, not speaking too much or acting aggressively when face-to-face with an armed soldier -- are especially relevant in the Balkans. Try to schmooze with some U.S. Marine outside an embassy and he'll look right through you. But the Serbian police at checkpoints are less stoic. If I smiled at one while I handed over my passport and papers, he'd puff up his chest and swagger over to his buddies, saying what appeared to be something like, "Hey, she's checking me out!" On the dirt road in the Drenica Mountains, we were lucky to find a group who were sports fans before they were soldiers. I considered how television had directed our day. Had it not been for TV, we probably wouldn't have felt we had to actually witness the razing of a village up close and personal. And had it not been for TV, this Chicago Bulls fan wouldn't have had a clue who was the best player on the team -- he might not even have known much about basketball at all. The soldiers sent us on our way (after confiscating Edward's tape). One of them turned to our translator. "Tell them not to write anything bad about us," he told her, in a manner she described as more of a request than a threat. The commander looked at me as I eased, gratefully, into the back seat. "You must understand," he said, "this is war." I nodded. "Yeah. I get it now." SALON | Feb. 17, 1999 Susan Milligan is a freelance writer living in Budapest whose work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Wall Street Journal Europe, the Boston Globe and the New York Daily News. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Become a Salon member. Click here.   _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________