Sunca's Rescue

by Josephine Hall (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Croatia

“I’m going to the supermarket. Is that the direction you’re going?” Tom leant over the hostel bannisters towards reception, where I was pacing. I nodded. “`We could walk together?” He smiled. So, after procrastinating all morning, I was actually leaving. The rain hadn’t stopped falling and a hitchhiking companion hadn’t appeared, but I was leaving. We arrived at the main road, swapped social media handles and said our goodbyes in that heartfelt but guarded way that backpackers do. It was my first day hitchhiking alone. I’d arrived in Rijeka, the Croatian port city, three days previously after my travelling partner had ducked out of our adventure in Budapest and I’d jumped on a bus to the nearest coast. With my blonde friend gone, and after reading online about how difficult hitchhiking could be without a “European face”, I’d decided I needed a break by the seaside before I stuck my thumb out again. Besides photocopying my British passport and wearing it as a mask over my ambiguous brownness, there wasn’t a lot I could do but accept that the journey was likely to be longer and riskier if I continued alone. After three nights of falling asleep to the sounds of the waves, I knew I had to give it a go. It was windy, but the rain was easing up. I zipped up everything I could, put on my best ‘I’m-safe-but-also-not-to-be-messed-with’ smile and stuck out my thumb. After half an hour, Robi pulled over. In the car, he asked the expected questions - where was I from, where I was going, why was I travelling alone and wasn’t I scared? He asked if I had a boyfriend and if he was jealous. Self-protective lies spilled out of my mouth instinctually as I muttered about my partner waiting in Zadar. The next wait was two hours. Jan had time to spare, often gave lifts, and knew about important things that I hadn’t thought of - like, weather warnings. Apparently, due to high winds, the coastal road was closed to vans and lorries and cars were advised only to travel if absolutely necessary. Jan left me by a bus stop near Smrika, where the chill wind was waiting. It was a long half an hour until Sunca’s rescue. Sunca’s means ‘sun’, and her warmth filled the car with renewed hope. Her and her husband were visiting family in her nearby hometown, Crikvenica, before driving onwards to Zadar the next day. They were relieved to hear about my tracking app, and the photos of number plates I sent home. Sunca left me in a scenic spot, looking down to sea, but there wasn’t much time to take it in before a lorry stopped. After getting The Questions out of the way and talking a little about my fictional husband in Zadar, I relaxed into a film-montage-esque journey along the stunning Adriatic Highway. The clouds cleared, the sky lit up and the sea sparkled as we dipped around bends and in and out of tiny towns. The rollercoaster of a day continued with the lorry driver’s phone call. Oh. He had to turn around. We said goodbye near Senj. I got a coffee, along with the phone number of a campsite down the road, and a quick call confirmed they had space for a small tent that night. The pressure was off. I really had ended up in a beautiful spot. The sun began to dip, twinkling more than ever on the water below. “Hey!” It was somebody from the house over the road, where it sounded like a party. “You want drink?” I entered the living room full of twenty-somethings drinking, smoking and playing cards. They were curious and confused about my journey, and surprisingly our lack of shared language did not hinder our conversation or laughter. We compared tattoos and theories on life, with the help of Google Translate and hand gestures and by the time I left, my cheeks were aching. The campsite was just a fifteen minute walk away. I bounced along the side of the road on a wave of sea crashing freedom, as sunca set and the view of Krk island dimmed into shadow.