Serendipity in Kraponj

October 5th is my second day in Sibenik. I head off to find Kraponj, the small island that once long ago produced my paternal Grandfather, Anton Garma. The lady at the bus depot's Info Center confuses me. The local bus to Brodviska, the small town on the mainland that is the departure point for Kraponj, doesn't leave from the bus station, but from somewhere else unfamiliar to me. I sat on a wall (stone of course) and considered a taxi. I knew my destination was close, about 5 km, but the Lonely Planet warned of the expensive taxis. "Well, I'm this close, can't let money stop me", I reasoned as I climb into a Mercedes taxi and tell the completely non-English-speaking Croat what I wanted to do. And we're off. 5 km. $22 dollars.

The taxi driver points to where the boat will take me to the island, which I clearly see is but 300 meters away. I walk down a small hill, look about as nonchalantly as I can and wait. Three guys are trying to place a fork load of cement bags in a boat the size of my bathtub. A couple of women lean against a wall; uncharacteristically, they don’t speak to one another. Mostly it was silent, and I saw no evidence of a passenger boat.

I enter a cafe up the hill and was summarily dismissed by an irritated man saying "Arrete, Arrete." So I entered another cafe across the street and approached a woman behind a bar. Yes, she spoke English and told me when the boat would arrive, but was particularly disinterested in my expressed my familial reasons for visiting Kraponj.

But the Mike Dikta look-alike character I observed sipping his pivo (beer) at a corner table is not. "Say your Grandpa's name again", he bellowed out in a strange Croatian-Aussie accent. I told him. He waves me over. I sit down just as my kava (coffee) is served. Lovre is his name and he proceeds to tell me all about the Garma's he knows. "Come with me" he tells me, and we walk down the hill just as a small canopy covered boat arrives to putter us to Kraponj.

Along the way, Lovre introduces me to everyone in earshot, and retells my story. Some nod appreciatively; others say the Croatian equivalent of "No, don't know Anton, but what about so and so Garma"?

The boat slides into its docking station. No one asks for fare, so I follow Lovre who beelines for an elderly, hunched man. They start talking. The man looks at me. They continue talking. The man again looks at me and slowly, like a sun rise, he smiles and thrusts out his right hand to shake mine. His name is Rocco Garma, and he claims he is my father's cousin.

Lovre fades left, and Roco takes me for a walk around the island known for it's flatness, average elevation (three meters) and fame (sponges and the world record holder for underwater breath holding). The walk lasts one hour, but seems longer as I fence with his Croatian and he shakes his head disapprovingly that I don't know my mother/father tongue.

He shows me Anton's house, which is next to his own. It’s rubble. Nice looking stone though – a naturally formed heap. Roco's doesn’t look much better, so I’m shocked to find a modern looking, clean home inside the, well, visibly organized rubble that constitutes the outside of the house. Inside is a diminutive woman in traditional grab, almost Muslim like, with a scarf covering her head. His wife, he says. We shake hands. No sun rise here, just some head nodding. I decline the offer of drink and Roco and I continued our walkabout until I say goodbye at the wharf. We hesitate for a moment, we two of different generations, from such different worlds, and yet connected by blood. He sighs and turns away.