Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Today’s stats:
Distance traveled today: 68.01 km
Total trip distance: 2555 km
Max speed:  60.20 km/ hour
Average speed:  16.18 km / hour
Total time biking: 4:12
Total days biking: 44
Spending: 45 euros

I guess I wasn’t looking. It’s not unusual that my eyes wander while cycling – I look to my quads, to urge them to move faster; or to the people on the street, for some form of contact. But after their usual meanderings, once back on the road, my eyes narrowed to an unusual – no, panic-inducing – site in front of me: Richard sprawled out on the road, his bicycle on top of him.

The morning had started off well. We awoke to sunny skies and Budimir cutting oranges off his front-yard tree for us to take.



Sporting a San Francisco sweat shirt, a cigarette stuck to his right hand, Budimir proclaimed valiantly: “I love America!”But that’s not the case for most of his neighbors. Before leaving Tivat, we had a long chat with a Croatian-Montenegrin (born in Montenegro, but ethnically Croatian), who let us in on some war secrets.

During Serbia’s bombing of Croatia, American submarines crept into the Montenegrin coast, just 200 metres from Tivat town where we stood, launching five Tomahawks at Serbian radars just out of sight in the mountains, keeping a watchful eye over the entire Mediterranean. The Tomahawks lit up the sky towards their target, but one blew into flames, shot down by the Montenegrins. Only one. But that’s not what Milosevic would have his people believe. To conquer his propaganda, the Americans  left their repeater atop the mountains, so that locals would hear their version of events in the daily American military briefings.

As thousands of NATO fighter planes flew overhead from the Aviano air base in Italy, the Chinese were quietly showing the enemy how to detect American stealth bombers. The 1999 “accidental” bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade, was no mistake at all.

During all this, the Croatian hid in his home, his wife telling others that he had gone to work at sea – so as not to be conscripted to fight against his own people. “For me to go kill Croatians, and them to come kill us here, how can it be?”

Budimir offered to drive in front of us to show us the way to the port. The eve’s rainfall had stained the street a slick black and Richard hadn’t noticed the downwards slant along the side of the roaed, leading into the sidewalk. He was going more than 25 km/ hour, a car just behind him, when, embroiled in a patch of mud, he hit the slant and the bike jumped out from under him.

“Pick your head up. Pick your head up,” he told himself, knowing the car might not have enough time to stop. “It’s going to run over your head.”

Luckily, the car was alert, and passed him safely, and it was only then that I looked up to see Richard lying there, his right foot still clipped into his pedal. Budi hadn’t seen the wipe-out but had come back to make sure we hadn’t lost him. So Richard picked himself up and cycled to the port before stopping to examine the big gash across his left knee that left two big tears in his pants (which he sewed himself a few minutes later in a coffee shop).



After shaking the shock of the fall over coffee, and finding a flat-head screw to replace the one on his cleat that had disappeared during the whole affair, we were off again.

More flat road for the first 15km or so, until the Black Mountain showed its true colors. “Is that our road?” I said to Richard. In the distance, we could see a road sloping aggressively up a hill. “I hope not,” he answered. It was indeed, like many after it.

We made it to Bar after another I’m-not-moving-another-inch Heba moment, just as the sun’s rays disappeared from over the glittering blue sea. Found a sobe for 23 euros, with cockroaches and a missing shower door. Finally things are getting cheaper. At the restaurant below, we gobbled a massive plate of mixed grill, including the Montenegrin specialty cevapcici, at just nine euros for the two of us, before teaching the waiter the Arabic alphabet.



“You go to face?” he asked as we were leaving. Apparently in Montenegro, that’s what the young kids call facebook.

Tomorrow, it’s off to Albania… already! God, it’s come upon us so quickly. On that note, we received a comment  from an American living in Albania who had stumbled upon our blog and encouraged us to go. He warned of the thieving gypsy kids, but said it would definitely be worth our while!