◉ 037 | Riding the Caterpillar

Long summer holidays.

No screens.

No PlayStation.

Nothing to do.

Nowhere to go.

Just heat.

Bored as fuck.

Dad took me

to his work.

Dalmacija Cement

quarry

in Kaštel Sućurac.

I jumped out

of Dad’s bulldozer.

“Go with Špiro

for a few rounds,”

he said.

Špiro—

a dump truck driver.

Dad’s mate.

Came by our house

now and then.

Quiet.

From Šolta.

Thin island dialect—

almost a song.

The big Caterpillar

was waiting.

A wall of yellow steel.

Tyres,

three metres tall.

I barely reached

halfway up.

We climbed.

Hot metal rails.

Dust on everything.

On the top platform,

he handed me

a massive air filter

and a folded piece of cardboard.

“That’s your seat,”

he said.

Everything about the truck

was oversized.

Except the cabin.

It was smaller

than the inside of a car.

I set the filter down.

Balanced on top.

We rolled out

onto a narrow, dusty road.

Mountain on one side.

Drop on the other.

Gripped the rail.

Held on tight.

No AC.

Windows down.

Dust blowing in—

hot,

dry,

everywhere.

We drove

dead centre.

Then—

another dumper

coming head-on.

Nowhere to go.

Špiro steered

towards the edge.

No rail.

He didn’t flinch.

Silent still.

We pulled up

next to an excavator.

Another yellow

Caterpillar.

Huge.

Steel arm.

Tracks sunk into the dirt.

It turned—

slow, heavy,

deliberate.

Then—

the first bucket drop.

Rocks and dirt

slammed into the tray.

The whole truck shook.

Another.

Then another.

A few more buckets,

and we were full.

The excavator beeped.

Špiro gave a small nod.

We moved on.

Down to the drobilica.

Notorious.

Loud.

Metal smashing stone.

Hammers pounding

nonstop.

Its mouth big enough

to take two dumpers

side by side.

Špiro reversed.

I was scared shitless.

The edge

had a tiny stopper—

barely a curb

against three-metre tyres.

One slip,

we’d be gone.

He dropped the load.

Cool as a cucumber.

On the way back

the truck was empty.

Lighter.

Wilder.

Still hot

as hell.

The cabin bounced.

Every pothole

threw us up.

Špiro’s head

kept hitting the ceiling.

Then—

the big one.

We launched.

Slammed back down.

He screamed.

Grabbed the wheel.

Face red.

I thought he’d

cracked his skull.

“What happened?”

“I sat on my balls.”

He cursed

in his island tongue.

Didn’t catch the words.

But I knew.

I stayed still

on the filter.

Didn’t know

if I should laugh

or look away.

He glanced at me.

Eyes watery.

Then—

a grin.

We kept going.

—

Zlatko Špiro Bezić.

Rest in peace.