Week 1 - People

13 July - 19 July: Germany

Three hours into our trip, we met a dear little family from Holland on their annual 6 week holiday, driving to Turkey. “Yeah, after we get to Istanbul in a few days, there’ll be another 16 hours´ drive or so. But we have loads of time,” said the father, smiling, taking a long drag of his cigarette. I watched his children daintily pick at hot chips with tomato sauce as they politely listened to their parents chat with us. Both innocents were under 5 years old and had no idea what lay ahead of them.

“Hoi, Gert-Jan,”said the man, enthusiastically. He wore no shirt with his Crocs and navy blue jogging shorts. We introduced ourselves to our campsite neighbours in return, the Dutch way, (“Hoi, Jane,”, “Hoi, Edwin,”)and he was very keen to hear our story – where we were from, where we were heading. It turned out that Gert-Jan, his wife of twenty years and their two teen kids had spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe and they were full of tips - more than willing to share them. We heard wonderful stories. For example, one year when in Czech Republic, the family was invited for a cup of tea with a family friend (from the woman’s childhood camping trips). But after a couple of hours there, another cup of tea was up for grabs at another neighbour’s, and yet another cuppa at another neighbour’s. It seemed the whole village was set to meet this Dutch family. And with not a shared word of Dutch, English, or Czech, these Dutchies felt incredible warmth and hospitality from the Czech people. On another occasion, our storyteller discovered to his horror that not only had the car that was towing their caravan lost all its oil along the road but the oil cap that keeps it all in the tank. Some Hungarians stopped by and marvelled at his 10 year old Opel, and rushed to assist. One of them, an older gent, put his hand in the oil cap opening, and felt the circumference of the hole with his fingers. He drove away and in an hour or so he had returned with a custom-made wooden stopper that fitted precisely in the oil tank. Gert-Jan didn’t have a problem with oil leakage all the way home from rural Hungary to Alkmaar. “The Hungarians are a very warm people. Mind you, there was this one time that we awoke in the night to the sound of someone rustling about in the awning of our caravan. Turned out they were going through our cool box for beers, (laughter) but other than that, we’ve only had positive experiences in Eastern Europe.”

We woke up one morning to the sound of heavy rain and listened to PJ Harvey to while away the morning until the clouds passed. The other evening, it was Thelonious Monk whose jarring chords soothed us to sleep. And then it’s Zita Swoon, crooning his jabbing, syncopated lyrics in either French or English as we (try to) tear up the European country side in the van.

The proprietor of the camping spot we chose near Creglingen was a bit of a joker. I speak barely a word of German, although I understand some, and we avoid using English where possible. Edwin and he had a gay repartee in German, but what I liked about this joker was his willingness to involve everyone, regardless of language. He would use his face to smile large, and theatrical gestures to indicate his meaning, such as when he´d say “Zehn euro, bitte,” he would then take the ten euro bill, grinning madly, and make to pocket the amount, before – after being delightfully caught by his guest, that is – obediently and repentfully put it in the till where it belonged.

In the streets of the fiction-like Dinkelbühl, X-large Americans walk cautiously through narrow streets and have to think hard before climbing a flight of ancient-seeming concrete stairs for a birds-eye view of the town; chattering Japanese parade stoically behind their tour leader; old-timers from the Czech Republic re-live the stories from their childhoods as they wander these picturesque alleys; hoards of children drink in the culture and kitsch and cram into icecream shops while adults founder helplessly in the heat.

A dark haired and dark eyed 13 year old boy rides an oversize tricycle around the Augsburg campsite, with his 10 year old sister of similar colouring, in a wagon attached to the back. They take turns, but mostly she sits in the back while looking balefully out – it seems whenever I see her – at me. They go back and forth, back and forth. One time, I see their mother in the back behind the girl; demure, but looking regal beneath her headscarf, taking a long, slow ride through broad alleys lined with caravans and campers.
There was this dude at this Augsburg campsite; he was your garden variety lone wolf. He apparently lives in his camper, a boxy camion set more than a metre above the ground. The wheels are those of a truck, and it’s a vehicle that might be driven on safari or on an arctic expedition where the threat of polar bear is real. He has a striped awning beneath which you can glimpse a sort of bar – I believe he has beer on tap. The other small windows on the opposite side of his home have fabric “curtains” with illustrated paintings of indian warriors and wild dogs. He watches the happenings of the campsite from a small table for one, and has a cosy covered fire at his side to keep him, his glass of hard drink and half melted candle company . He hangs his bedclothes out to air from a line he has slung beneath the bar. All around the camper, tools and even wooden stakes are strapped to the vehicle’s surface. (The title ´vampire hunter´ crosses my mind for half a second). Stickers from his travels cover the van, from France to Africa. The man himself is a warrior, likely a Vietnam vet, sporting a faded bandana, a shirt that just eases over his generous belly and eyes (that Edwin first thought are Japanese) hardened to a permanent squint from countless days in the sun. He’s German, as is his ride - a Mercs. He smiles in my direction when we watch the children at their ridiculous games, but he exchanges a word with no one.

Who would have thought that a parking attendant would be such a keen info/tour guide? At Augsburg, we were given a map of the city with highlighted points of interest when we asked for directions at the parking garage. As a result we saw the impressive municipal offices and gardens – including a glamorous wedding photoshoot; we bought our evening’s vittals from the garden market and we checked out St Anna – a church where Martin Luther dropped in sometime several centuries ago. Maximillian Museum displayed some beautiful Roman statues from the fountains that once ran in the city in days of yore. It’s old, this city, 15BC; Mozart’s dad was born there, a few hundred years ago too.

As we head to the south of Germany, I feel that people are more closed, or dare I say it, less friendly. Fewer Dutchies, perhaps that is it. Maybe they´re just slow to smile, or not sure where we´re from with our half English-Dutch chatter. Perhaps they’re just passing through or too busy getting on with the business of having a holiday (?) However, after one such busy day of sightseeing in Füssen, we gave up our resolve to cook dinner every night, and had pizza at the campsite restaurant. We were just about finished when a character walked in - a little man in a full rainsuit wearing a green German Alpen hat (with feather!) and a ¾ full beer in his hand. There was nowhere to sit, but we had a spare chair at our table. He asked if he could join us, and we said of course he could! Thirty minutes later we learnt his name (which I have now forgotten, but he did say it several times), he was 69 years old and had lived in his “wohnwagon”(caravan) for 40 years, in this area. He was able to give us some good tips for walks in the area (which we unfortunately didn’t make time to do in the end). He was born in the Czech Republic in 1940 and he fled with his family to Germany in 1948 after the war. He told us of neck-high snow that he has been shovelling out of the way each morning to get to the bathroom (remember, he lives in a caravan) and snow has fallen like that ever since he can remember. “It’s good morning exercise – warms you up a treat,” (I thought) he said in German. Mind you, he didn’t check to see whether I could understand German, while Edwin did his best to keep up (actually, Edwin asked questions now and then, politely) the old codger just kept going! I noticed that he didn’t ask us questions, or for any information about us beyond where we were from. After he heard where Edwin was from, I guess that meant for him I was from Holland too. I also noticed the old love had a hearing aid, which can be a clue to a good yarn crafter but a not so gifted listener. Oh, he did tell us he had a wife at home (in the caravan) who after 40 odd years in a caravan had probably had it with his stories! I’m guessing his 3 grown children have copped a fair bit of it over time too. I’m guessing he comes to the pizzeria every night for a lager and a chinwag with some poor unsuspecting traveller. At the end of the day we got to talk to a local, hear his stories; it took us 5 days to be on the road to connect with a local and I hope it doesn’t take as long for us to meet another one.
On every trip you’re destined to bump into someone you know, to remind you what a small place the World is. This time, Edwin bumped into an ex-colleague whose wife I made contact with when I first moved to Europe. They are both from India, and his mother was visiting them in München along with his brother and sister-in-law. They had all taken a day trip to Schwangau to see Neuschwanstein and Hoheschwanstein castles. We ended up chatting for about a half hour and Edwin and Rohan exchanged cards, promising fervently to keep in contact, even though Sid and Rohan will move to Dubai soon. Well, who knows how far this camper can take us?!