Chasing Ideals

Many of my loyals may think I'm beginning to sound like a broken record but today marked another adventure with the Citroen. The day after I had it fixed yet another leak presented itself. It seems that the manufacturer of sed car did little to protect the hydraulic fluid lines. Yesterday I took the car to the dealer in Sibenik and was graciously told that the part necessary would require a profound chunk to arrive from France. Apparently 10 days is the required time for Overland Vespa delivery. Their advice was to drive carefully and hope to Betsie that it got me back to the west. I left considering this advice and began to feel not just a little downhearted and sullen. I have many miles and many months to go on this journey and have no desire to drive granny style for the remainder. They had assured me that if I drove slowly and avoided bad roads I might be alright. Interesting advice considering that I have yet to encounter any good roads this side of the continent. Last evening a million thoughts battled for the top seat within the ol' ticker. They ranged from chucking it all and ending the journey here to thumbing it and hoping I don't get ravaged in Montenegro. Thankfully by mid-evening some sense of composure was regained and I began to think slightly more level headedly. I knew that I was not ready to quit traveling; it has been the adventure of a lifetime; but I also knew that I could not have this problem with the car and not be constantly worrying about it. When it started to leak again I must say that the term "consuming my thoughts" may be an understatement.

In the morning I returned to me old buddies in Sibenik and asked if they could contact other dealers. I was given directions to the dealer in Split but was told that they could not call them. The upshot is that the other dealer would wonder why this dealer didn't do the bleedin' job. Sending an old banger of a Citroen to another dealer to do the work is apparantly the equivalent of pulling the pants down of one's comrade in the midst of a ballet recital. Slightly perturbed but hopeful I ventured on to Split to see what the next gang had in store. I was quickly signed in and had just gotten settled to reading Dr. Zhivago (had me toothbrush as well in case I was there for the long haul) when my car was pulled in to have its underside scoped out. No sooner had it been razed up and gazed upon in a leering way than it was lowered back down and pulled out. I was quickly informed that the necessary parts would require Overland Vespa but there was an alternative. A chap nearby could do the work. "If he doesn't have the part he will make one for you" was the claim. One of the mechanics from the dealer would show me the way. I followed behind this mechanic on his moped at a distance of about half a metre so as not to lose the trail. As a result of Split's complex web of roads we went round in circles a few times before returning to a spot within spitting distance of the dealer. I had begun to think some cruel joke was being played out and we would soon return to a gang of seething mechanics who's sides had split from the ensuing laughter. Happily not the case but instead a side of the road block building with demolished Citroens strategically surrounding it.

From the depths of the building a man emerged with long hair and a beach hat atop his head. He gave a friendly smile then took a look underneath my chassis. When he regained a standing position he nodded to another man dressed in the all orange of Sheriff Joe's inmates. The nod apparently signified that the problem had been sussed out. Beach hat man came to me and said that it would not be easy and he did not know how much time he would need but that he would fix it no problem (spoke marvelous English). As all mechanics seem to do the two then set about discussing how to tackle the problem while each smoking a cigarette. Inmate seemed unconvinced that it could be done while beach hat looked hopeful and said so. I noticed in the midst of this that he was wearing a pair of Pierre Cardin britches. Strange of me to notice I realize but this is normally not the preferred brand of mechanics and the brand label does take up a good portion of the back end. Can't fault a mechanic who wishes to remain fashionable while on the job I guess. Well anyhow inmate set to work yanking parts from one of the many ravaged Citroens laying about while beach hat went to buy other parts. A short while after inmate had yanked all that could be yanked beach hat returned and the lot of us sat and supped on Turkish coffee. I should mention here that that had to be the best coffee I have had. Past experience has taught me to expect something that might have come from the back end of a wombat but not in this case. During these moments beach hat told me how he had begun working on this type of car. His father had been a coniseur of the French automobile and had passed on his love for the type to his son (not sure if the beach hat had emerged in those days). Beach hat also told me about his family and asked about my travels.

When the last of the coffee had been slurped the work commenced at a feverish pace. Inmate was sweating like a hog in the Serengiti while beach hat slid around under the car with no regard for personal safety. Twas a sight to see as inmate was repeatedly struck by globules of filth from above but continued on unfazed. Within minutes the two were shifting themselves out from underneath the beast. For beach hat the required shifting was minimal while for inmate the heavy breathing and deep inner groans took some time to subside. Upon completion the lot of us returned to the back for more of the black brew and sandwiches for those whom had toiled. They set about discussing my travel plan and warning me of danger afoot within the bowels of Montenegro and Kosovo. Inner Montenegro, beach hat informed me, is like the Wild West while in Kosovo I'm as likely to be ravaged as Saucy Sue on New Year's Eve (their comments slightly embellished). Their best advice was that I should take a ferry from the coast of Montenegro to Greece. I must certainly consider this now especially with thoughts of Saucy Sue echoing between my ears. The final charge for work accomplished was about $100, some of this owing to the considerable loss of bodily fluids on the part of inmate. In the absence of these two I'd have been SOL (barring the work of overland Vespa) so I considered it a small price to pay. I hadn't the cash so inmate directed me to the nearest bankomat and a hotel they recommended. It felt strange to wander the city following a man who was dressed as a convict but what can one do under the circumstances. We exchanged our goodbyes and off he went in his brilliant orange surrounded by a small white Citroen. The hotel they had recommended doubled as a home for the elderly and charged outrageous amounts so needless to say I gave it a miss. At the reception throngs of old ones were soiling themselves and others were on the brink. It hardly seemed a pleasant environment to soak up the city's atmos and one would assume the prices were meant to offset the sums doled out for Depends. I instead made my way outside of the city and found a house with rooms right on the waterfront. I will spend the weekend exploring the old town of Split and basking in the suprisingly warm weather. Toodle pip.