One of more than 500,000 refugees and displaced people making their temporary homes in tents.

The border crossing at Blace was a gridlock of NATO's Kosovo Security Force (KFOR) military vehicles, relief trucks, light vehicles and pedestrians. The line stretched miles back from the station. Macedonian police and Polish soldiers attempted to bring a semblance of order to the process. It was only because priority was given to humanitarian agency or relief traffic that we were able to limit our delay to a couple of hours.

The drive started first up a narrow canyon, probably scenic with its lushly forested mountainsides and rushing river below, but my attention was drawn almost exclusively to the roadside border of mine tape, announcing in various symbols and languages the "EXTREME DANGER" of leaving the road. The Yugoslav army had mined the region extensively, and NATO had bombed it as well, together leaving a potent mix of land mines and unexploded ordnance (UXOs). In the rush to re-enter Kosovo, the road had been secured, but there was no guarantee -- even a few feet to the side of the road -- that it was safe. Mine incidents -- the unintended explosion of these artifacts of war -- were a daily occurrence and resulted in death and injury to people returning to Kosovo. It was a concern ingrained in the daily work of all of CARE's staff in the field.

Vehicles of humanitarian agencies and NATO share the road.

Moving up onto the central plateau of the province, we entered the agricultural and inhabited heart of Kosovo. I could see towns like Ferizaj (Urosevac) just off the main road. Smaller settlements were scattered along the horizon. Destruction was evident everywhere: bombed or burned houses and gutted businesses. But the mosaic was disturbing, relatively high destruction in one community, less in neighboring areas. Although the ethnic mix of Serbs and Albanians was the determining feature, both were suffering their share of violence and grief from the war.

Continuing the short drive, we passed a non-functioning gas station with the Kosovar red flag and the U.S. stars and stripes flying together in the breeze: a welcome to NATO and a statement of allegiance to the Kosovo cause. Topping a hill, we came in sight of the provincial capital of Pristina, a city of 200,000 people. I could see immediate differences from my first visit in July right after the war. A few shops and cafés were open, fuel was being sold in small containers on the street, there were more cars and people, and the plum trees were in full fruit. But there was an undeniable atmosphere of tension and sorrow. KFOR armored vehicles and battle-dressed personnel were everywhere. The destroyed buildings in the city center served as witness to the violence that befell the city. Rows of gutted shops lined some of the streets. Nightfall brought helicopters to the skies and an air of apprehension. I was viewing this with different eyes now -- for the moment as one of Pristina's citizens. In my daily commute over the next two months, I would note the small things -- the repaired water main, the repainted shop, the relocated KFOR post and the appearance of new periodicals -- as visible signs of a city in recovery.