It is Saturday, 15 August.
The weekend.
The smell of smoke and scorched earth still hangs in the air. Every now and then, a white flake of ash drifts past.
The wind is picking up.
If there were no wildfires beyond the hill, it would be welcome. Instead, I keep looking towards the ridge, trying to work out which way it is blowing.
Could something that has already died down flare up again?
It is past noon.
I gather our things and slowly leave the beach with my child.
Near the steps leading up towards the main road, the beach widens. A large bay tree casts perfect shade. Beneath it lies a thick layer of dry grass and leaves.
A camping table has been set up there.
A woman is sitting with her feet in the sea.
A man is adjusting a synthetic beach umbrella, trying to shield a small gas stove from the wind.
He tries to light it.
The wind blows the flame out.
He tries again.
On the table sits a large red coffee pot.
I look at him.
I look at the dry leaves beneath the bay tree.
The air still smells of burning.
“Hey! Put that flame out!”
No reaction.
As though we are speaking different languages.
For a moment, he stops what he is doing. I can see he has no intention of giving up.
He is simply waiting for me and my child to leave.
I take my child by the hand and head back towards the house.
On the way, I run into my neighbour Savo, a local man who has spent the previous two nights helping fight the fires in Bijela and Zelenika.
I tell him what is happening.
He does not need much explanation.
He heads down to the beach.
I leave my child at the house and go back.
I meet Savo already on his way up.
“He’s from Nikšić,” he says.
Savo had asked him what on earth he was doing and whether he was seriously lighting a flame in conditions like these.
The answer came immediately:
“Who the hell are you?”
And he carried on.
He adjusted the umbrella, sheltered the stove and tried to light it again, as though the man standing in front of him simply did not exist.
Savo explained that he lived there, that he had spent the previous two nights fighting fires, that the wind was blowing and everything around them was dry.
The man finally looked at him.
“Oh, I’m just making some coffee.”
And that, really, is the whole story.
It does not matter that people have been fighting wildfires for days.
It does not matter that the air reeks of smoke, that ash is falling and the wind is blowing.
He just wants a coffee.
My wife calls the municipal service.
A polite man on the other end thanks her for reporting it. He says a patrol is heading towards Risan and Morinj and should be there in about an hour.
She points out that we are only a kilometre away.
“I know, I know where the beach is,” he replies.
Time passes.
The wind keeps blowing.
Ash keeps drifting through the air.
More than three hours go by.
No patrol.
I walk down to the beach again.
By now, the beachside coffee maker has disappeared as well.
So much for the heroism of firefighters, pilots and volunteers.
So much for water tankers, firefighting aircraft and official warnings if all it takes is one man deciding that he fancies a coffee on the beach.
Because he has to make it.
Right there.
Right then.
In the big red coffee pot.
Update — Sunday, 16 August
I am back on the same beach.
I have barely settled down when a middle-aged man emerges from the bushes. I have seen him on this beach in previous years.
He walks past me carrying two blue plastic cups of coffee.
He hands one to his daughter, who is sunbathing, and puts the other down on a small plastic table.
“Didn’t turn out too bad,” he says.
Still thinking about what happened the day before, I get up and walk towards the bushes he has just come from.
And there it is.
A gas stove.
I take out my phone to photograph it.
The man comes running towards me.
“Don’t! Don’t!”
He quickly grabs the stove and stuffs it into a shopping bag.
“What do you mean, don’t?”
“No, no — I’m from here.”
Which is precisely why you should know better than the people who are only passing through.
He goes quiet and walks away.
I find myself thinking that perhaps it is time to take out the most expensive fire insurance policy available.
Because apparently there are no limits to human stupidity or sheer arrogance.
And the coffee, of course, has to be freshly made.
Regardless of wildfires, wind, dry vegetation or bans on open flames.
Author: Nikola Skeledžija
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