The First American Tourist

I met Oliver an hour ago. He steers the jeep up a narrow winding road with one hand while flipping through his phone with the other. We are headed to Jasen Nature Reserve in Macedonia. Oliver pulls over to make a call. We’re on the side of a cliff with no guardrails. If I were to open my door I’d step into a big space of nothing.
“Sorry,” he says, “I had to make sure no one was coming down the road.”
“What?”
“The road isn’t wide enough for two cars."
“What!”
Oliver laughs. I think that this might be one of my not so good ideas.
In the mountains, we stop next to a stone house. A man emerges dressed in camouflage, binoculars around his neck, a rifle and backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks like the kind of man your mother would tell you not to go into the woods with, the kind that people warn you about when you tell them you’re traveling in Eastern Europe by yourself. His name is Jebda.
We start up the steep and rocky trail; Jebda in front, Oliver behind me. I step exactly where Jebda steps. He motions me forward to look at the view.
Through the binoculars, I watch a herd of mountain goats make their way down a cliff. They appear to be perpendicular to the ground, as if they have sprouted from it. They never slip or falter.
We reach a plateau with a primitive shack. “Hunters sometimes spend the night here,” Oliver says. The shack has two bunk beds, a wood stove, and a leaning cabinet that houses chipped china, a kettle, and soap. We follow Jebda behind it. A small ray of sun makes it through the mist, landing on Jebda. His eyes focus far across the ravine. There is love and calm and something I can’t name in them. The three of us stand in silence, watching the trees wave in the wind, the clouds swirl around the craggy peaks. My feet are rooted to the rocky ground beneath me as if I have sprung from the earth. I want to stand there forever.
“We should go,” Oliver says.
Coming down is easier than going up.
“You know” Oliver says, “you’re our first American tourist."
“Really?”
“Yes” he says, “If you had given me more warning, Jebda might have carved you a plaque.”
I look at the two men. I realize this is a big deal for them and Oliver is partially serious about the plaque thing.
“Come back soon” Jebda says in English. Oliver slaps him on the back.
“Jebda never uses English” he says to me, “He must like you." I grin. He is not at all like the men my mother warned me about. Jebda waves as we go. I look out the back window of the jeep until he disappears.