Until the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire in Europe in the early 20th Century, Montenegro was on the front line between East and West. He who commands the limestone massif of Mount Orjen controls the strategically important Gulf of Kotor and its harbours, which Orjen overlooks. Abandoned forts bear silent witness to the vicious wars fought back and forth across this virtually uninhabitable (1) territory.
An extraordinary road punches through the karst from Risan on the coast to Crkvice, officially the wettest place in Europe, and west to Vrbanje before retuning to the sea at Herceg Novi. Only in the service of war could such a pointless endeavour have been contemplated, let alone undertaken and completed. The road has been rendered obsolete by a new highway that connects Risan with Niksic, in central Montenegro. It is now possible to drive between these two towns in an hour, a thought that would have boggled the minds of the men who laboured and died constructing the original road, a feat of engineering and audacity that leaves me breathless with admiration. Where the road traverses a deep depression in the karst, it is supported on foundations constructed of hand-cut blocks of stone, each of which must weigh a quarter of a tonne. The blocks fit together perfectly in a three-dimensional jigsaw reminiscent of the infinitely more famous Inca city of Machu Pichu.
I was first drawn to this road by a passage in Oleg Polunin's scholarly and magisterial 'Flowers of Greece and the Balkans'.
"Magnificent views spread out before one of bleached white limestone crags of the surrounding Dinaric ranges, up which scattered clumps of pine seem to cling precariously to any sheltered fold or gulley in the stark cliffs. Far below an occasional patch of bright green catches the eye where half a hectare or so of doline bottom is cultivated, contrasting vividly with the otherwise wild inhospitable landscape. A huge fallen limestone block prevented our progress over the pass but no doubt it has been cleared and one can continue along this wild road to Risan at the head of the Gulf of Kotor."
How could anyone with a soul read this passage and not immediately depart for Montenegro?
I am uncertain whether it is more appropriate to laugh or cry at the fact that Mount Orjen is these days a short Easyjet flight from Gatwick Airport followed by an hour's drive in a hire car. Putting that question aside, I booked my fight, reserved a small vehicle with Sixt, which happened to be offering the best deal at the time, and departed for Gatwick. When I arrived at Dubrovnik Airport, in Croatia, the Sixt franchise had run out of cars, so they offered to pass me on to a local rental agency for the same price. I signed the contract and headed north to Bosnia-Hercegovina. The rest of the day was a delight, not least because it ended with dinner outdoors in the warm, oleander-scented evening of my favourite town in the Mediterranean, Trebinje. The ancient central square is shaded by massive plane trees, red wine from the local monastery is the equal or superior of many Tuscan pretenders; the women are among the most beautiful on earth (and boy do they know it); the food is dreadful but who cares?
The following morning I crossed the border into Montenegro and made for Mount Orjen. I should say at this juncture that I have always regarded rules, customs and laws as purely advisory. Contracts with car rental companies are not to be taken seriously. In my time I have flouted not only the letter but also the spirit of every clause in a standard rental agreement and have usually gotten away with it. The fact that I was driving a brand new but underpowered bright red Chevrolet did not, therefore, put me off attempting to drive Polunin's 'wild' road. My excuse was that up there in the subalpine pastures of Orjen grows an iris, Iris orjenenii, a recently described endemic species that I badly want to possess.
I was too preoccupied with staying on the road (and alive) and on the extraordinary vegetation to take photographs, let alone video, but here (you need to go to the second video in the sequence to see what I mean) you can see a clip taken by the last nutter to go where I went. Other than the occasional sound of metal grinding against rock all went well until I was almost at the pass. Here half the road had collapsed into the adjacent doline, leaving an uneven causeway about six inches wider than a Chevrolet. Now at this point any sensible human being would have admitted defeat and turned back. I decided that the only way to tackle the problem was at speed. My hands didn't stop shaking for about a mile after the causeway and neither did the car.
Soon I arrived at the pass and it was here that I realised that I hadn't taken into account when starting my traverse of Mount Orjen that a car consumes a lot more fuel at 4,500 RPM in first gear than it does cruising on a motorway. The tank was almost empty. The list of qualities that I do not possess is long but prominent among them is grace under pressure. I surprised myself, therefore, by not panicking. I was floating on a high induced by the sight of Scilla litardierei in full flower two months later than I am accustomed to seeing it at lower altitudes. The prospect of freewheeling all the way to Herceg Novi didn't seem so bad. Until the engine cut out, numerous red lights appeared on the dashboard and a strong smell of petrol infiltrated the air conditioning system.
I stopped the car and investigated further. Now I am no mechanic (my first wife once lost the plot when I couldn't work out how to open the bonnet of our Mini Metro - "why can't you be a proper boy?", she stormed) but I do know that petrol running in a slow stream from what appears to be the tank is a bad sign. Mount Orjen is very steep and a Chevrolet has a lot of momentum in neutral, so I proceeded to freewheel through a long series of hairpin bends and relaxed enough to stop and collect cuttings of Rosa glauca about half way down. Eventually, just after I rejoined the metalled road at Vrbanje, I reached a flat section and the car inexorably ground to a halt.
I was considering my options (few, frankly) when a car approached from the opposite direction. I do not, of course, believe in luck. If I did, however, I would be obliged to say that this was one of the luckiest moments of my life. For in the driving seat of the car sat Oliveira. Over the next three or four hours she took command of the situation, waiting with me for the truck that the rental agency sent, sweet talking the driver of said truck, translating in the police station (more of which later) and giving me advice that I wish I had the wisdom to take. I shall long be in her debt.
The contract I had signed stipulated that in the event of an accident I should inform the police and call the rental agency. As previously noted, I couldn't give a monkeys what a rental contract stipulates until, that is, I need to make an insurance claim. I called the agency first, explained the situation (omitting any mention of off-road driving and Dukes-of-Hazard style traversing of chasms) and, after a stunned silence, the bloke on the other end of the line said "Oh my God. I'll call you back." After a while he called back to say that a truck was on its way and that my insurance didn't cover me. An argument ensued during the course of which he asked me why I hadn't called the police immediately.
"Because I'm up a fucking mountain in Montenegro, you moron." I replied.
It may be true that this guy has less frontal lobe activity than a two-week old cadaver but it is nevertheless a tactical error in the game of life to insult a Croatian who is bigger and stronger than you, has recent experience of actual warfare and in probably best mates with the Dubrovnik police chief. Unfortunately back-peddaling is another quality I lack, so I dug myself deeper, declaring that I would under no circumstances pay a single cent towards the cost of the repairs. "If you ever come back to Croatia, I will make big problems for you." He said, in a voice that Christopher Lee would envy.
I have long wanted to utter in earnest the line "Are you threatening me?", preferably followed by "Master Jedi", and here was my opportunity. Unfortunately, my usual deep and impressive baritone voice was replaced by a squeak and I fear I may have sounded ridiculous. "Yes." He said.
Oliveira and her friends waited with me in a local hostelry. They drank water and coffee. I drank beer. I tried to pay the bill but wasn't allowed to. They had come from Belgrade, where they all lived. Oliveira's friends had a property nearby, which they had come to stay in for a short holiday. We chatted about what I was doing in Montenegro and about Oliveira's work as an agronomist and businesswoman. After a while I remembered that I was supposed to report any accident to the local police and I asked her whether she would call them on my behalf. There followed a conversation in Serbian with her friends and it turned out that the son-in-law of one of them knew a local policeman. We were told to come to the station in Herceg Novi, where my statement would be taken. Eventually (an hour and a half after I had flagged down Oliveira and her friends) the rescue truck arrived. It turned out that the driver was an old friend of one of Oliveira's party. She drove me into Herceg Novi and to the police station (it was now about 9pm), following the truck. En route we dropped her friends off at their house. I apologised for interrupting their evening but they would have none of it.
Half an hour later, two copies of my statement in hand, we were back outside, where the truck driver was patiently waiting. Oliveira gently suggested that it might be an idea to call the rental agency and suggest that I have the car fixed locally and call it quits. I quailed at the thought of calling Mr "Yes I am planning to kill you" again. Whike we were discussing this, the truck driver was looking underneath the chassis by torchlight. "I can't see any damage" he said (Oliveira translating). I put my hand under the car and pointed to the place where I had seen the leak and, as I did so, I felt a fuel line that had obviously become disconnected from the petrol tank. I plugged it in again. Barely suppressed mirth rippled behind me.
We drove in convoy to a nearby petrol station and filled up. The truck driver led us to a local hotel, let my car down and started her up. It was now 10pm and Oliveira had spent four hours helping me, a total stranger, obviously deranged enough to have taken a hire car over Mount Orjen. I would like to be able to say that I would have done the same for her, had the situations been reversed but I just don't think I'm that nice. I bade her farewell, we exchanged email addresses and I said that I hoped I'd have the opportunity to return her extraordinary kindness one day. She shrugged this off, kindly.
Oliveira, I cannot thank you enough.
I never did find Iris orjenii. I shall have to go back, in a Unimog.
(1) Although Mount Orjen has the highest rainfall in Europe, at around 8 metres per annum, the exceptionally well-drained karst limestone ensures that virtually no accessible water exists at ground level. Storage tanks that collect snow melt or deep wells are necessary to sustain the few villages that remain on the mountain.
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