We decided to head back to the national park today to take advantage of the free passes Svets had given us. We got situated on the moped, and I tried to start the ignition. The damn thing sputtered for five seconds but wouldn’t catch. I tried it again—nothing. I filled her up yesterday, so what’s the problem? On the third try, she turned on just long enough for me to rev the throttle and get going. This was a great feeling, similar to finally getting the lawn mower to start after minutes of out-of-control cord cranking.
As we headed up the hill and banked onto the main road, I noticed it was blistering hot. Most days the air became cooler when we’d sliced through it, but today the heat stood its ground. We made it halfway to the park and were in the middle of nowhere when we spotted an amazing view of the coast between two mountains where the canyon below met the sea. I pulled the moped over to snap a picture. As I was taking the shot, I heard the moped turn off behind me.
“You don’t have to turn it off, baby,” I said through squinted eyes, trying to capture the perfect shot.
“I didn’t touch anything,” Ash replied, confused.
I walked back to her and the bike and wiped my brow. From only standing there for one minute, my entire forehead was soaked in sweat. I tried to restart the moped, but she just sputtered once again. I tried numerous times, but the sputtering began to simmer down to a soft hum. By the fourth or fifth try, there was no noise at all. She was completely dead. And I was afraid we were too.
We hadn’t seen a car since we’d left Sobra twenty minutes ago, and there were very few vehicles on this island. So we began to panic a bit. Other than taking a snake to the face, this was probably the worst-case scenario: we were at least ten miles from the closest civilization, and it was high noon. There is no such thing as casual traffic on a seventy-five-square-mile island of 1,100 people. Okay, Kyle, don’t panic, don’t panic.
“We’re screwed!” came blurting out of my mouth, as I clearly hadn’t taken my own advice.
I propped the moped against a tree. At this point, I looked like I had just taken a shower with my clothes on. It was ninety-seven degrees and there was no shade in sight. Our only water bottle was half-empty. The situation became dire, and I tried to think back to any of the survival skills I’d stumbled across while camping growing up. All that came to mind was how to make a fire. Not only was this the last thing we needed, but I was never able to get a flame going anyway. As I turned to give Ash my concession speech, I heard a rumble in the distance. There was not a cloud in the sky, which meant one thing: a vehicle.
We both stared at the long stretch of road until a black dot appeared in the heat waves. There was no way we were going to risk missing the only car we had seen all day and what may be our only shot against heat stroke. Forget the thumbs-up hitchhiking sign; I stood and waved my hands like a football ref asking for the clock to stop.
As the beat-up car got closer, I started to panic again, but not because the car looked like it had been sitting in a front yard in Kentucky for thirty years; I was panicking because it wasn›t going to stop. It got within twenty-five yards and then, whoosh. At least the blast of air as the car flew by felt great.
All of a sudden, the car screeched to a stop fifty yards away. A man with long brown hair turned around and put his hand on the passenger seat as he reversed to us at the same speed with which he’d driven by. He was clearly coming to rob or kill us. As an American, I had a natural fear of hitchhiking. If I saw someone with their thumb out, I didn’t pick them up because they would probably kill me. If I were walking on the street and someone offered me a ride, I wouldn’t get in the car because they, too, would probably kill me. Everyone gets killed in American hitchhiking folklore.
He stopped directly next to us and sat in silence. I peered through the passenger window and said, “Hey, man, our moped broke down. Are you headed to the national park?” This was a rhetorical question, as everyone going this direction was going to the national park. There was nothing else on this side of the island.
“Yes, yes, come on in.” He motioned with his hands.
Well, here goes nothing….
We left the moped on the side of the road and got in the car. This man gave me a whole new perspective on speed. I remember how I felt as a four-year-old on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. This was extremely similar. I had never felt someone accelerate downhill until there was a turn and then slam on the brakes while curving around the corner. We were slowing down just enough to not fly off the mountainside. I couldn’t complain; he had just removed us from certain death, like picking up two roasting worms on a summer sidewalk and throwing them into the moist grass.
I made small talk in the front and found out that he had lived in Mljet his entire life and owned a restaurant in Polače. This made me feel a little better about traveling at the speed of fright. We flew into Polače, and he slowed down to avoid hitting pedestrians like frogs.
“Do you know where the moped rental shop is?” I asked, as he was probably wondering where to let us out.
“Oh, I am taking you there now,” he casually proclaimed as he kept driving.
He pointed out the window and said, “There is my restaurant.” By the look of his car, I’d expected a hole-in-the-wall, but it was easily one of the nicest places on the island. The brick oven was twelve feet high, and the place had its own pier area with seating. I looked back at Ash, whose mouth was open in awe. I was proud of her for not blurting out what she usually did in these situations.
He took us all the way to the rental shop and led the way inside. By the time we’d followed him in, he was finishing the conversation in Croatian about our situation. The rental people nodded at him like he was their father, and then handed us keys. He turned to us and said, “They will pick up your moped. The red one outside is now yours.” He clearly had some pull around here. We thanked him, but he just shrugged, smiled, and walked back out to the car.
I was in awe of what had just happened. The amount of kindness this stranger had shown us was inspiring. It made me want to search the island for stranded people and pick them up. Although this man was the first person to come by, I had a feeling we would have received the same level of kindness from anyone who had happened to pass us. The people in this country took care of one another. They were a true community. Their kindness was contagious, and Mljet was attacking our depleted traveling immune systems.