A Ride From a Stranger

When I was a kid, my parents always told me not to talk to strangers and, especially, never to get a ride from a stranger. So, naturally, this story is about a ride from a stranger.

In 2019, I travelled to Serbia with my group of friends from the scouts. (Yes, I was a scout, but it’s not today’s topic). We spent a month there, officially helping a local association, truthfully having the time of our lives. At the end of our trip, we stayed a week in the national park of Tara, probably one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

July 2019, Tara, Serbia:

It was summer, the weather was hot, but the tall pine trees cooled the air. The six of us were staying in a tiny hostel, the cheapest we could find. Our bedroom consisted of three bunk beds, and it was so small we couldn’t all stand inside at once unless we were lying in our beds. The room smelled of wood, sweat, and sunscreen. The floor was crammed with clothes, camping gear, books, and magazines.

In the hallway we found a map of the park. As every good scout does, we studied it. There was a lake that seemed pretty close, appearing just behind some small mountains. That was decided: we were going to that lake. Since it was too far to hike, we decided to hitchhike.

The six of us packed our backpacks, filling them with sunscreen, sandwiches, card games, and towels. We walked a few kilometers to reach a road where cars might pass, and we started putting our thumbs out. We were already debating how to split up, because who the hell can take six people in their car, when we noticed a large vehicle with a trailer coming rumbling up the hill. We glanced at each other and immediately started waving aggressively at the driver.

Was it out of fear, curiosity, or simple kindness, I’ll never know, but he stopped. “Can you take us to the lake down the mountain?”, we asked in our broken English. He looked at us, and answered in Serbian something that, I can only guess, was, “I don’t speak English, folks”. As none of us spoke Serbian, we resorted to the universal language of gestures. Some of us started mimicking swimming while others pointed at the blue skyline to refer to the blue colour of the lake. The driver smiled, nodded, and opened the trailer. It was this kind of open trailer where farmers stack hay. He grabbed the only man in our group and made him sit in the front car with him. The rest of us climbed in the back.

What had seemed like a brilliant idea earlier suddenly felt questionable. We were five girls packed into an open trailer in the middle of some Serbian mountains, and our destination was explained with hands and gestures. Riding in an open trailer is fun until you're speeding down crooked mountain roads, gripping the sides for dear life, and nearly getting ejected at every turn. After a chaotic ride that was also a near-death experience, the driver finally pulled over. Shaking and laughing, we climbed out of the trailer.

As I turned around, I saw the bright blue lake and the shiny sand, waiting for us. We were alive, and we were at the lake. We thanked our driver, beaming and bowing as we couldn’t thank him with words.