Annette
Jahnel
My Year of Beds
Book one
Germany
to China
Smashwords Edition
COVER
DESIGN: Alexandra Budd
COVER
PHOTOGRAPHS: Annette Jahnel
PUBLISHED BY: AJ Publishers
ISBN
978-0-9870001-0-1
Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to http://www.smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
While every effort has been made to ensure
that the information contained in this book is meticulously
researched, the book was written in context of 2006–2007 and what
was true then might not be true now. The book is an opinion piece and
is not intended as a reference. The opinions expressed in this
publication are those of the author and do not reflect or represent
the opinions of anyone else.
Copyright 2010 in text: Annette
Jahnel
Copyright 2010 in photographs: Annette Jahnel
What
readers are saying
As a travel guide, it's as candid as it
comes. You may decide for instance to cross Sofia off your list of
musts, looking as it does "worse than Sarajevo without a recent
war to blame". But the colourful characters, cameo images and
exoticness of everyday things in unpronounceable places are strong
temptations just to get out there .
Sunday Times
This is a
fascinating narration of a most unusual journey by a very determined
lady. Annette's sharp observation and refreshingly crisp description
of her drive from Europe to China is entertaining. What makes the
narrative more than just another travelogue and an interesting read,
is the disarming honesty and frankness with which she takes the
reader along on her exploration of her own self as she journeys
through different cultures. I look forward to the second half.
Steffen.Gentis Germany
Cannot wait for book 2. Annette's
insights and personal commentaries are gems. It as though you are a
fellow passenger in the Wish Mobile.
Harold Carlsson Sweden
…her amazing practical hands-on
approach to life her gutsiness and ‘just do it’ attitude that
wins me… adore her directness and sense of humor.
Sharon Bryant
. UK
…interest in seeing not only how
different people live, but also gauging their opinions on work,
politics, creativity, and other facets of the human condition has, in
my opinion, educated her in a way that few too many people have the
ambition to pursue. These qualities, coupled with a strong sense of
awareness and compassion…
Mark Mc Innerney USA
Interactive
book
‘My Year of Beds’ is an interactive book.
To allow you to explore the world from your
computer, the location of each bed was recorded with a GPS reading,
photographed, and put onto Google Earth. The bed numbers in the book
coincide with the numbers on My Year of Beds, Google Earth file
You
can access the file by entering my website
http://www.ajahnel.com
Click
to/
Writing /
My Year of Beds/
Google Earth interactive
file.
By clicking on the bed number in the list on the left of
your page, you will be transported to the approximate location of my
bed for the night.
Background,
sources and the business of names
The road trip that this book describes took place from April 2006 to April 2007. While the world has changed tremendously since then, any comments or observations that might seem prophetic were not added as knowledgeable afterthoughts, but were formed as a result of my observations at the time. During my travels, I kept detailed notes that form the basis of this narrative. I also took tens of thousands of photographs, which aided in my descriptions of places and people. As the book was written in isolated places, far from libraries, the historical details, facts and figures were sourced from the Internet. Wikipedia was a great help, and so were the official websites of the towns and countries mentioned in this book.
To change, or not to change, the names of the characters in the book? In the beginning, I attempted to send out e-mails to all the people in the book to get permissions from them, but discovered that if I were to wait for replies, this book would never see the light of day. Therefore, I made an executive decision to keep the names where I do not think I insulted or defamed anyone in my descriptions of them. Where I was less than flattering, the names have been changed or replaced by descriptions, as in ‘the short fat man’, and so on. In doing so, I hope to keep off everybody’s toes.
Prologue
Chapter
1 - Preparations - Bed 1
Chapter
2 - Germany - Bed 2–7
Chapter
3 - Poland - Bed 8–9
Chapter
4 - Czech Republic - Bed 10–11
Chapter
5 – Switzerland - Bed 15–16
Chapter
6 – Italy - Bed 17–27
Chapter
7 – Slovenia - Bed 28
Chapter
8 – Croatia - Bed 29–32
Chapter
9 - Bosnia Herzegovina - Bed 33–34
Chapter
10- Serbia - Bed 35
Chapter
11- Bulgaria - Bed 36
Chapter
12- Greece - Bed 37–45
Chapter
13- Turkey - Bed 46–47
Chapter
14- Bulgaria, Romania, Moldova - Bed 48–49
Chapter
15- Ukraine - Bed 50–51
Chapter
16- Russia - Bed 52–56
Chapter
17- Kazakhstan North - Bed 57–61
Chapter
18- Uzbekistan - Bed 62–68
Chapter
19- Kazakhstan South - Bed 69
The eagle dropped like a stone from the sky, hissed past the windscreen, and vanished into a pothole. The Wish Mobile, noticing that my interest has shifted, misses the narrow ridges of tar I had been aiming for, slips off the road and, as the shocks bottom out, bucks like a rodeo horse, thereby regaining my full attention. I hit the gas, yank the steering left, we spin up the side of the pothole and, shrouded in a great cloud of dust, come to a halt, straddling a pothole disguised as a plunge pool.
Muttering furiously to myself I stumble about on the potholed, cracked and heaving thing called a road in these parts, to try and find a spot of tar big enough to lie down on. Sticking my head under the Wish Mobile I survey the damage.‘Mm, no leaking, can’t see any new dents.’
Sounds like I have some idea of what I am doing when it comes to cars, doesn’t it? Haven’t the faintest; as long as nothing is dripping or swinging about, I’m happy. Letting my head loll back into the sandy side of the pothole that is doing double duty as a mechanic’s pit, my eyes slowly focus on each wheel in turn. Taking in the narrow ridges of crumbling tar and sand they are balancing on, a little warning bell tinkles in the back of my head. If any one of those little ridges of tar gives way, you are going to lose your head faster than you can say Marie Antoinette the car’s fine , I’m out of here.
Dusting off the talcum powder sand, I
survey the bleak empty scene. Above me, the huge vault of sky, void
of clouds, fades dull blue into the horizon that vanishes dry, dusty
and beige, relentlessly beige in every direction. My view is
momentarily obscured as the silence shifts aside for a rustle of
wings. The eagle settles on the other side of the road, observing me
with cruel eyes.
‘Oh, what are you staring at? I’m not
lunch.’
With a smirk, the eagle looks down his beak at me.
‘But you could be.’
In all fairness, this business, of my standing alone in some dusty hellhole conversing with an eagle, requires some background information. Eighteen countries and six time zones ago, my life was perfectly normal by Western standards. According to the rules laid out by society, I was doing well. I had the house, the cars, the successful career, the interesting friends, the happy divorce, and have seen perfection in my wonderful daughter. I was more or less sure I knew everything about life, love, and the world at large, and had my set opinions on these matters, which I trotted out with cheerful confidence to everyone who cared to listen.
But, hidden behind the locked doors of social convention, the cold wind of boredom, doubt and slow stagnation blew in the secret corridors of my mind. Was this it? What else was there to do? I could continue to acquire stuff, perhaps buy a new car each year or perhaps get a bigger house. Or, I could work on my shoe collection. In the 3 am hour of cold self-analysis I realized my life had slowly and without great fanfare turned into a traffic roundabout. If only I had hit the proverbial crossroads, then my choices would have been fairly simple: left, right, forward, and for the truly desperate moments, back. But life is never that simple. Round I went past endless off-ramps that beckoned to new adventure or greater challenge. But because it was convenient, comfortable and familiar, I chose to continue going round and round, until finally I was so good at going in circles I could do it at top speed, with my eyes closed and while talking on the phone.
Then out of the brilliant blue sky, a thunderbolt came to shock me out of my middle-aged stupor. It was a delicious Sunday afternoon, friends lazing on the terrace after a long lunch, the contents of empty wine bottles fuelling the conversation, when I stepped into the kitchen just as the radio whispered a name; a fatal river-rafting accident. My oldest friend died without warning that bright Sunday afternoon. She lived life at top speed, always saying she was afraid she might miss something. Perhaps she knew, life is only now; there is no tomorrow. As I watched the white lilies and roses slowly float out into the Atlantic, to join her ashes that were scattered there, I knew in my life the time had come to do a little attic cleaning. Time to step away from generic media-induced thought, and out of a cotton wool-wrapped zone of discontent. I needed to reinvent myself. I needed to look at things from a new perspective and to do that I needed distance.
A perfect excuse to flee to Germany.
Another Sunday, another lunch, another
collection of empty bottles – I sound like a complete alcoholic –
Annette and I sat looking deep into the echoing birch forest
surrounding her tiny wooden house in Bavaria. The conversation had
disintegrated into that middle-aged mantra: no fun no sex no love
just work and money, what kind of life is that? After a long silence,
she declared she would take up mountaineering. I informed the forest
in front of me that I would drive to China. Annette pulled back from
her mountain fantasy long enough to announce.
‘You can’t do
that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there are all those
countries in between.’
I considered for a moment.
‘Which
countries?’
‘How should I know?’
She handed me a bottle.
‘Have another beer.’
Hoping – I suppose – that with
the addition of enough alcohol I would soon forget this latest
harebrained scheme.
But, while staring at the stars through the airplane window during my flight back to Cape Town, while painting yet another oversized cream kitchen, while cooking yet another evening meal, and while fighting with the garden – I really don’t like gardening; it’s like setting up a private war zone with nature – thoughts of China stuck in my head with the tenacity of a blob of black paint on a white wool carpet.
Tentatively I started exploring the web. I
discovered Google Earth, and then I discovered Kazakhstan. Kazakhstan
looked big, very big, and empty. Was there even a road from north to
south? I flew in as close as Google would let me. The straight line
cutting through the endless white and eerie green landscape seemed
road enough. I scoured the bookstores for maps. However, when you
live in Cape Town – the self-proclaimed most beautiful spot on the
face of the earth – the need for maps of other places is not high
on bookstores’ lists of priorities.
‘Where is
Kazakhstan?’
Shopkeepers asked with perplexed
expressions.
‘Between the Caspian sea and China.’
Was my,
by now, rather lofty reply. For someone who two months ago didn’t
know that Kazakhstan existed, I was certainly lording it up with my
newly found knowledge.
My evenings were spent in a frenzy of
surfing. Driving through China had been done before. Not often, and
even more rarely by an individual driving her own car. The obstacles
were high, but the more I surfed, the more real this little fantasy
became. I dare say I am really going to do this.
I thought
one night in the middle of a surfing supertube. Just then, the
computer screen did that lovely little trick where it flashes out and
then sucks back into its own little black hole, ‘blip’ gone,
finished. No amount of thumping, screaming or tearing my hair out
would bring it back to life.
The computer guy shook his head in
sympathy, but he could not hide the dollar signs glinting in his
eyes.
‘The hard drive is gone.’
‘The hard drive is gone?
Where has it gone? It cannot be gone for goodness sake!’
‘You
have a back-up, don’t you?’
He said, trying to sound sincere.
I looked at him fiercely.
‘Of course not! I am not that kind of
person! Oh what the heck what do I care, I am driving to
China.’
He
took a moment to process this fairly random piece of information.
‘Oh
cool.’
Quick recovery, I was impressed.
Yeah, damn right it’s
cool, but not easy, or cheap.
Incredible though how once a
decision is made, the jigsaw pieces fall into place.
Indecision, the silent
death of dreams.
I would drive to China alone, in my own car. That way I would be free from schedules and completely independent. I wanted to see what the ‘real’ world looked like, how others lived outside the glossy travel brochures. Living in a major tourist destination I was well aware that the tourist perception of a place bears no relation to the lives of the inhabitants thereof. I would try to break through that barrier. I wanted to drive off the beaten track, away from the government-prescribed tourist sights. I wanted to explore the back streets, the road less traveled. I wanted simply to experience whatever I came across and find interest and beauty in that.
The cost was easily dealt with – property prices in Cape Town had soared in the last few years – so by selling the house I made myself a rand millionaire and then some. Quite enough money to pay off the debts, drive to China, and have a little safety net for my return
Time to tackle the Chinese bureaucracy.
The young woman behind the counter looked
at me blankly. I tried again, speaking slowly, clearly and a little
louder.
‘I am planning to drive from Munich to Shanghai and was
wondering if you could tell me what the entry requirements for China
are?’
The words still stuck to my tongue, even though I had said
them aloud to friends and family quite a few times by then; often
having to repeat them several times before my friends grasped the
full meaning of this short sentence. The reaction of the young
Chinese woman behind the consulate counter was therefore not totally
unexpected. Finally realizing that she was out of her depth, she
called for reinforcements. A highly groomed man with slick black hair
took the trouble to step out from behind the counter to lead me to
the very impressive 3D map of China, plastered against the wall. In
slow measured tones – so I was sure to understand his every word –
he started to explain how very large and very dangerous China was.
By now, I had become accustomed to people thinking that I had also just heard of my plan to drive to China and had given it the exact two seconds of thought that they had. So I took a deep breath, counted backwards from ten, and listened politely, as I was hoping to extract some information from him that up to now had proven elusive. The Internet had information about the entry and exit requirements of all the countries on my route, but getting a private car into and driving it through China? This bit of information had so far eluded me. The man – now joined by the young woman, who nodded vigorously every time he mentioned the word ‘dangerous’ – was hopefully going to fill in the gaps. No such luck. He concluded his impromptu geography lesson with a firm brook-no-argument.
‘It cannot be done.’
And so it
began.
‘It cannot be done.’
‘That is impossible.’
A compulsion to assail me with travel
horror stories overcame all who heard of my plan – stories of
friends of friends, who on their travels were raped, maimed,
pillaged, strung out to dry never to be seen again. My car would be
stolen, my possessions forcibly taken from me. E-mails started to
arrive, which stated in reasonable tones and well-thought-out logic,
endless reasons that positive failure in my endeavor was the only
result to expect. Insurance and indeed travel companies responded to
my requests with:
‘We have no protocol for that request.’
‘I
am sorry but that is outside our field of expertise.’
Or worst
of all.
‘You want to do what?
Before bursting into
incredulous laughter and simply putting down the phone.
Preparations
Bed
1
Replacing the dead receiver, I watch the
snow falling silently around the little wooden hut in the Bavarian
forest, which has become my operations HQ, before looking at the
dining-room table where the growing piles of forms and papers that
require filling in, copying, signing and sending off – with vast
amounts of accompanying money – cover every square centimeter.
‘The
actual driving is going to be a piece of pie compared to hacking
through the endless red
tape that getting to Shanghai entails.’
I mutter to the deer eating the birdseed on the terrace.
After phoning the Chinese embassy several
times and braving the endless queues at the Russian embassy I decide
– for the sake of my sanity – to hand over my Russian, Kazakh,
Uzbek and Chinese visa requirements to the professionals, along with
another hefty fee. The Russia specialist is all business,
‘Yes,
of course, madam, the Russian visa will take three weeks; the Uzbek
and Kazakh visas
can take up to three months.’
‘Three
months!’
I stare at the little woman in front of me.
’I
don’t have three months. I am leaving in three weeks.’
She
shrugs her shoulders. What to do? Let’s see what the Chinese
specialists have to say.
‘Guten Morgen, Ich moechte mit
eigenem Auto von Muenchen nach Shanghai fahren.’
‘Dass geht
nicht!’
Comes the instant reply.
What is it with people? How come the first
reaction to a new idea is always that it is impossible? Not, let me
think about that for a moment; always an instant knee-jerk
reaction.
It cannot be done. I haven’t thought about it. I have
no intention of thinking about it, but that is my final word on the
subject, good day.
Had I not done my homework, I might actually
have believed the silly girl, but I had, and I knew it could be done;
it just wasn’t going to be easy.
‘May I speak with your
manager, please?’
A well-fed German gentleman – smug in his
imagined self-sufficiency – comes down the stairs.
’Good
morning, I believe you would like to drive to Shanghai in your own
car. I am afraid it
cannot be done.’
I am inclined this
morning to disagree, and point out that it has been done, only once
or twice, but it has been done, and therefore it can be done.
He
starts rattling off that I will need a Chinese driver’s license,
special visas, my car will need Chinese number plates, and I will
need to employ a guide for the duration of my stay in China. I am six
steps ahead of him on this and confidently tell him that I know. This
brings about an amazing change of face.
‘Well, in that case I am
sure we can arrange something.’
At this point I should have been
little less smug at my own victory and a bit more attentive of the €
signs flashing in his eyes. He starts telling me that he has in fact
arranged such a trip before (huh?) and giving advice on the route I
should take and on and on. I have other ideas – I always do.
I want to travel via Volgograd
(Stalingrad). This will force me to then travel the entire length of
Kazakhstan, as I also want to make a quick detour into Uzbekistan. By
the time I hit China I think I will be heartily sick of deserts, so
want to enter China through Korgass, not via the Turugat Pass.
‘Yes,
but the market at Kashi is famous.’
For a minute I am tempted,
but then reason steps in; people shop everywhere on the planet, and I
think markets will be a fairly common occurrence on my travels. Then
a little memory from all my surfing pops into my head. Some blogger’s
opinion of the Kashi market was that this is a market for
package-deal tourists – that did it. I stick to my guns and insist
that they arrange the route via Korgass. The travel agent and I agree
that by the end of this week they will send me a list of all the
Chinese requirements. I am totally chuffed with the morning’s work.
Only one more thing to sort out: how to keep my passport and get it visa stamped at the same time? I discover with the application of money, anything is possible, and in special circumstances, a second passport can be obtained. My circumstances are deemed special enough, and now and with my second passport traveling from embassy to embassy to get all the required visas, I am left only with the far more interesting job of finding the vehicle that will transport me across the Eurasian continent.
With the help of a friend, I finally settle on buying a glorified silver delivery van, equipped with all the bells and whistles, but it is within the budget, and in the long run I will be grateful for the added comfort. When choosing the car, the color was very important, right up there with the suspension and diesel consumption, as, to add some small meaning to my journey, I have conceived of an artwork which I have dubbed, ‘One planet One people.’ This art project will depend on the participation of men, above the age of thirty-five, wherever in the world I might find them. They will be requested to write a wish for the world on my car, which I have officially named ‘The Wish Mobile.’ Why only men above the age of 35? Because cars on the whole are still a male thing. Don’t get me wrong, I love my car, not for the car itself, but for what it can do for me, like drive me to China. Men love their cars because they are cars, and an extension of their manliness, and other such silly stuff. But more importantly I have singled out this group of humans as, despite all the advances made by women, men are still in the driving seat of the planet and it seems to me the planet is spinning out of control, so I am curious to know what the brains behind the wheel will come up with.
Unfortunately, before I can drive the car, I must run the German bureaucratic gauntlet. The Germans have red tape down to a fine art. They can weave it, wrap it, knit it, crotchet it and tie it into a thousand different knots, but I have mentally prepared myself for this. Bureaucracy is what it is, and no amount of ranting will change that. Once the Wish Mobile and I are legally on the road, it is time to turn the delivery van into a makeshift camper.
To inform myself about any equipment I might need, I acquire a catalogue from the biggest overland expedition supplier in Germany. This doorstop of a book is now on the table in the place of the endless documents. The trip when looked at in its entirety is huge, but I will only be traveling on average 350 km per day. Will I really need an axe, a tire pump, sand ladders or a flashlight? Do I need a satellite phone, in case of emergencies? Whom would I phone? Good grief, this is enough to scare the wanderlust right out of me.
Is driving in strange territory really so perilous that I might need flares or a bowie knife? I don’t think so. I am consumed by guilt and contrition when swatting a cockroach; I will not be stabbing anything. Although a friend did insist that I take a can of pepper spray (totally illegal in many countries and if I am found out, it could cause me more trouble that it might save me from). As for the GPS, toys for boys as far as I can tell, and an enormous amount of work is involved in mapping routes, I decide to buy a compass and paper maps instead. I take a moment to reflect and then toss the catalogue into the recycle bin.
I have no intention of going off-road. My opinion of four-wheel-drive vehicles is fairly low, and I feel that if you cannot get there by normal road, get a horse or walk. I am not a great camping fan, and the mini-camper is for emergencies only. My camper is fitted with the bare essentials: a very small pot, a little gas burner, a car kettle, an air mattress with pump and a mosquito net. For eating on the road, I have a sharp knife, a twin set of silver flatware and a multiple opener. Two thermo mugs, two metal plates and two highly ornate silver shot glasses. I am equipped with several different sized plastic containers with snug-fitting lids. I have two jerry cans, one for water, one for fuel, a set of spanners, which I don’t know how to use, and Olga, a collapsible army spade.
To document my journey and for entertainment I have my camera, my laptop, iPod, various battery-charging devices and a nifty little portable printer. I have five prepared canvasses, my paint and brushes, and my yoga mat. For those iffy beds that I am sure to encounter, I have my own bedding and plastic slipslops for moldy showers and bathrooms. In addition to the standard jeans and t-shirt daywear, I have a shimmering red cocktail dress and a pair of sparkly heels. With that, I feel I am fully equipped for a trip to China.
Having come this far – and as we still have a very long road to travel together – I think a brief visual introduction will not be out of place here. One of those – she was a tall elegant blonde with a sway in her walk that made hot men shiver – descriptions à la Mills & Boon. Unfortunately that is not quite the right image. I am tall, but a brunette, I am middle aged, as in I have lived as many years as I can reasonably still expect to live. I have green eyes that do flash when my irritation levels get out of hand, and I am about to discover that I am a latent racist. Now that is more information than a Mills & Boon novel would ever give you about the heroine, which is exactly why you should never believe anything you read in a Mills & Boon novel.
I am organized! The next three weeks of
my life are planned down to the last detail. The hotels are booked,
family and friends alerted to my exact time of arrival. The Wish
Mobile is spotless; all cupboards are neatly packed, all t-shirts
precision folded and color coded. My route is mapped out, the 350 km
I intend to travel per day calculated to the nearest meter. My
driving skills on the right-hand side of the road have advanced to
the point where my right hand is fully versed with the changing of
gears, and my left hand no longer grabs at the door handle every time
I put my foot on the clutch. I remember to look more often into the
left-hand rearview mirror than the right and, most importantly, I now
automatically look right then left then right. Getting that little
detail wrong can kill you. I am – I think – ready to leave. But
as with most things too much anticipated, the great moment is, well,
just a little disappointing. The band didn’t arrive, the mayor
couldn’t make it, and the international media had better things to
do. Even the weather on this bleak day leaves much to be desired.
On that low note I set off into the land
of my birth and immediately get held up by roadworks. Sitting here
with nothing to occupy my mind, a little thought pops unbidden into
my head.
Hmm, look at that, the men digging the ditch are all
white.
Come again? I turn the thought over in my head while
staring at the group of men going about their business. But no matter
how I look at it, this picture seems to me just a little off. In
South Africa, skin color still distinguishes you; white men don’t
dig ditches, and so I discover – to my horror – that I am a
racist.
As the traffic starts moving slowly through the quaint Bavarian landscape I have plenty of time to consider this rather disturbing discovery. Then the road plunges into a tiny copse of winter-bare trees, rattles over a wooden bridge, and climbs up a hill, where my first glimpse of the gleaming white Alps, pasted against the now brilliant blue sky, jolts me out of my orgy of self-castigation. I have a strong urge to keep heading south, to drive over those massifs, but must contain myself. The first country to be explored is Germany, and for the next few weeks I will be turning my back on the Alps.
The whimsically named Romantic Road takes me through fairytale hamlets and tiny farmlands. Tall rectangular farmhouses, bottom half wood, top half whitewashed plaster, with red terracotta roof tiles and windows framed by faded green shutters, stand tight against the road. Behind them the barns, grey with age, shelter goats, while the carthorses stand in meadows that with this morning’s rain have become shallow lakes. The drystone walls spout temporary waterfalls, turning the roads into rivers. The Wish Mobile leaves a cockscomb spray, its undercarriage now as spotless as the rest of the car.
My arrival at the pilgrimage church of Wies, the ‘Wieskirche’, coincides precisely with the arrival of a convoy of tour busses, a United Nations of tourists stream, chattering incessantly, up the snowy lane. The restaurant is fortunately open, so while the tourist masses go to church I appease my stomach. ‘Leberkaes’ is on the menu, which literally translated means liver cheese. Not a very appetizing name, but as my stated aim is to experience different cultures I take the plunge. ‘Leberkaes’ turns out to be very similar to German sausage meat presented in the shape and size of an average loaf of government bread. A thick slice is cut and fried, then served with a fried egg, refried potatoes and good German mustard. The normal accompaniment to this greasy protein glut is beer, but, as I am driving, I opt for an Apfelscheule: apple juice with sparkling water.
Sated, and tourist busses departed, I stroll over to view what is considered the best example of Rococo architecture in the world. From the outside, the church looks enormous. Once inside, it seems much smaller; perhaps an illusion created by the overwhelming amount of decoration. It is a great pink and blue space filled with swirls and curls in marble and gold. Heavenly scenes in bright pastel shades, each framed by its own elaborate confection of stucco and gold, float up the walls to the triumphant ceiling, where ladies, cast in the buxom German ideal, lounge fully clothed on fluffy clouds. This, combined with soaring marble altars and intricately carved window frames, creates a setting in which naive country folk must once truly have believed they were at the portals of heaven.
Heading now for Oberammergau, where the castle Neu Schwanstein of King Ludwig II stands, I try to apply my road trip rule one: seek the road less traveled. I seek and I seek and I seek. An hour later, I realize that in Germany there is no road less traveled. The country roads are a navigational nightmare. Mapping a detailed course before you leave is essential, but not foolproof. You must expect your chosen road to be closed for whatever reason and then expect endless detours. In villages a speed limit of 30 km/h must be observed and, as the villages follow every 5 km or so, this makes for very slow going.
‘Find most convenient highway’ becomes my road trip rule for Germany.
Roaring along the uninterrupted stretch of tar, my thoughts return to my newly discovered character flaw, drawn there like a tongue to a broken tooth. My only defense for my subtle, latent form of racism is that I grew up as a stranger in a stranger land. Arriving as a small Aryan immigrant to South Africa in the sixties was to arrive in a land where apartheid had done its work. I lived, played and went to school in an all-white world. Until one cold winter morning, next to a lamppost in the frozen veldt, a small black boy lay with frost in his curly black hair and tiny icicles on his eyelashes; he was barefoot; his trousers too short; he had frozen to death. I was seven when their world, the world of the non-whites, suddenly entered into mine. A big white man covered the boy with a piece of dirty cardboard and told me not to look, to go to school. But you cannot unlook: that which is seen, remains seen. And then I suddenly saw them, they were the ones that walked and worked at the roadside, and it remains the same. Despite twelve years of one man, one vote, twelve years of promises, this morning was the first time in my life that I saw a white man digging a ditch on the roadside. Through apartheid I am a racist: not by choice or belief in my superiority, but purely by social conditioning. This seems like a very good place to start reinventing myself.
The rain on the windscreen pulls my attention back to the road. In the distance icy clouds press down on Neu Schwanstein, which is apparently beautifully situated on an enormous rock and usually presents the ultimate romantic vista. Not today. Today it is freezing, raining and foggy; the castle is barely to be seen. But, as this is the castle that inspired Disney’s ‘Cinderella’ fairytale castle, arriving by horse-drawn carriage is a must. As the horses heave my lazy bones up that hill, their exertions bring on a worrying case of flatulence, to which I am fully exposed. So I discover there is only one thing to recommend this mode of transportation, and that is that you don’t have to walk by yourself. As for romantic – forget it – I will walk down.
Viewing Neu Schwanstein is tourism in high gear: the entrance is packed with a multitude of nations, all clutching their electronically activated tickets, intently watching the large clock overhead. The electronic gates will only admit them at the time stated on the ticket; entering too early or too late is not possible; German efficiency at its uncompromising best. At the exact time stated on my ticket, I am admitted into Neu Schwanstein along with the others that make up my group. One little lady gets it wrong, the machine spits her ticket back at her, and the grey steel gate remains firmly shut. As her group vanishes into the fog, she squeals in panic, and only after close scrutiny of her ticket is she admitted, all the while groveling her thanks. This is meant to be fun? With the tour guide keeping a careful eye on the groups ahead and behind us, we get whipped through the fantastic interiors in half an hour. Tour done. I vaguely remember lavishly decorated rooms in jewel colors, but otherwise nothing. A huge amount of effort for very little reward.
In a sodden grey traffic jam I find my way to the Bodensee. I had hoped to make it as far as the Black Forest, but the day is nearly done. As I drive along the shoreline, the clouds break to admit angelic fingers of light that catch playfully at the swans floating on the steel grey water. In the tiny village of Sippelingen a happy sign flaps in the breeze ‘Zimmer frei’. This will be bed for the night. A well-rounded granny in starched white apron with lace all along the edges opens the door, a ferocious German shepherd dog at her side. The double room is a German Gemütlichkeit of floral, frill and flowery water colors in shades of pale green and pink and, at 20€ inclusive of breakfast, a bargain.
Setting out to explore the tiny village of
wood-frame houses and impeccable minute gardens, I get summoned from
a dark doorway.
‘Komm rein, komm rein.’
Beckons a
gnarled old man in blue overalls He flashes me a smile of alarmingly
yellow teeth. Not at all reassured, I hesitate at the doorway to his
pungent lair. Then, taking a last breath of clean mountain air, step
over the threshold into the dark underground world of the German
garagista.
The air is liberally laced with alcohol. The ceiling low in this labyrinth of cellars, where walls seem to have been knocked down at random to make more room as the success of his venture grew, the house above is supported now only by a few strategically placed pillars. In the gloom, huge plastic vats filled with a brown, unpleasant-looking liquid fill the dark corners. Clambering over boxes that spill labels and bottles, and around a tumble of distilling equipment, he shows me his pride and joy with a triumphant flourish. A copper distilling kettle, two heads taller than he, gleams smugly in the corner, knowing full well, that without it, this enterprise could not be. Absentmindedly stroking the smooth amber surface, he explains in serious tones how regulated the life of a German garagista is. He is only allowed to distil so many liters per year and his brew gets checked and evaluated at every stage to ensure that he does not sully the reputation of the German schnapps industry.
Shelves line every available wall, where
bottles in fancy shapes and multitude sizes are filled with brilliant
liquid that concentrates then shatters the light from the bare bulb.
Each bottle is neatly labeled; Birne, Pflaume, Kirsch … He slams
down a schnapps glass, whips out flavor one and pours a convex tot.
‘Moechten Sie kosten?’
I protest.
‘Nein
nein!’
He waves his hand in dismissal.
‘Trink,
trink.’
Birne (pear) is very good, the liquid brilliantly
clear, the flavor clean, yet full-summer ripe with a beguiling
lingering perfume that teases the nose. Scarcely have I appreciated
the quality of his art than the next glass is slammed down; Pflaume
(plum), oh well, in for a penny in for a round, lots of rounds. Once
again the liquor is a triumph of the fruit distiller’s art; clear
plumy flavors mix gallantly with the sharp bite of alcohol.
Detecting a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. I compliment him on his product and, selecting two small bottles, try to leave. But he knows his business; Kirsch is next, then Himbeergeist, ghost of the raspberry, always my favorite. By now I feel a distinct buzz and, with the lack of actual oxygen in that cozy cellar, I must make a concerted effort to pull myself toward myself. Thanking him profusely, I try to gather up my collection of bottles, which seems to grow each time I look at the table.
Suddenly inspiration hits to take
photographs. Too late, too late, not a sharp shot among them. Note to
self: photo shots first, alcohol shots second. I make to leave, but
he is just as good at selling his brew as he is at making it. He
slams down another glass and pours a dark amber tot.
‘A
medicinal herb for your digestion perhaps?’
Digestion? Food?
Good idea! I grab my bottles and flee into the crisp evening air.
Sunshine! I stand with my eyes closed facing the sun until the icy wind sends me indoors to get properly dressed. Heading north into the Black Forest, the narrow country road winds past spring green meadows, over brooks and through tiny hamlets where no paint peels, no leaf litters the cobbled streets, and the sun casts curly shadows from shop signs onto perfect pastel pink walls. On the spur of the moment, I guide the Wish Mobile off the tar onto a narrow track deep into the dark forest. My silent footsteps vanish in the soft moss that carpets the forest floor, each footstep releasing the scent of pine needles, a sharp note against the deep primal smell of the damp earth. A ray of sun skims through the dark trees, highlighting tiny spring leaves that throw a veil of green lace over bare brown branches. Along high mountain ridges and past deep forested ravines I make my way to Gimeldingen in the Palisades, where almond trees in pink blossom splendor line the narrow road and the distant view across the valley vanishes in a golden haze.
My hosts for the evening, Ina and Peter, have taken up the challenge to cook me something traditional. They are preparing an ancient dish made internationally famous by Helmut Kohl, who served it to all visiting dignitaries, including Maggie Thatcher. She apparently politely pushed it about her plate, but not into her mouth. The dish in question? Saumagen or sow’s belly. Fortunately, visions of haggis are quickly dispersed by assurances that the meat is lean pork fillet, and what appear to be large pieces of fat are in fact potatoes. Who thinks up these things? What inspired some medieval chef to decide that the only way forward in German culinary development would be to take the stomach lining of a pig, stuff it with a variety of vegetables and meat, boil it and serve it up for dinner? And why is it still being done? When cooked, the monster meatball is sliced, fried and served with sauerkraut, bratkartoffeln and fresh thyme. Accompanied by an excellent Rhein Riesling, the wine of the region, it is surprisingly good – old Maggie missed out.
Over dinner, a heated discussion ensues as to the best cultural sight to take me to. In the end, the Imperial Cathedral of Speyer, built circa 1030, wins the vote. The red sandstone building is considered the best example of the Romanesque architectural style in existence. There is a polar difference in style from the churches of Bavaria. Gone are the garish colors, the carved marble, the gold leaf and cherubs. Instead the church is a subtle mix of stone shades, intricate stone carving and an atmosphere of quiet restraint that is totally missing in the Rococo style.
Our wanderings take us to the village of Diedesheim, where I discover that my fellow countrymen have a window decoration ‘makke’. The curtains come in every style of frill and lace; things on strings and doodads on sticks totally clutter the small view the tiny windows presents. To obliterate the view completely, window boxes are vibrant with flowery cheer. The need for bright colors I am beginning to understand, but while my appreciation of the smallest amount of sun is growing in leaps and bounds, I have not quite reached the desperation for spring of the locals. The Mediterranean microclimate for which the area is famous, allowing not just grapes, but also almonds and figs to be cultivated here, is not at all apparent today. An icy breeze snipes at every exposed bit of skin, yet the locals eat icecream; great big dollops of the frozen stuff are being consumed all around. Hot chocolate, now that would make sense.
Before I head north, I invite Peter to add his wish to the ‘One planet One people’ project. He agrees hesitantly and finds a very unobtrusive spot to write
Tolerance.
It seems to take some measure of will for men to scrawl all over the shiny new surface of my car with a permanent marker.
‘Dass macht Mann doch nicht!’
Visions of plummeting resale values tear through their minds. In the modern world, only things have value, thoughts don’t, and yet, every thing springs from a thought. No thought, no thing.
Alexandra is arriving early this evening to join me on the first of the three legs of my journey she will share with me, so I must make haste to Frankfurt. Fortunately, my route is on the A5 where making haste is the only way to go. This is an autobahn where the Germans do Formula 1 time-trials. I am in the slow lane traveling between 120 and140 km/h, but this is reduced to granny speed by drivers in shiny sports cars who, two lanes to my left, attempt to break the sound barrier.
The curls and frills of southern Germany
are quickly replaced by glass and steel towers that reflect the cold
blue sky. Driving into Frankfurt am Main, Germany’s financial
heart, I make my way by precise written instructions to a narrow side
street in the centre of the city. In a street with neat pavements and
three-storey buildings, pale yellow in the bright sunshine, Klaus is
waiting. Carefully groomed and exuding the satisfaction of a life
well lived, he represents that generation of Germans on which
Germany’s reputation for hard work and attention to detail is
based. We shake hands; he urges me inside. The elegant apartment is a
subtle palette of yellows and creams, and smells faintly of the fresh
lilies on the table. In a house of strangers I am surrounded by a
careful politeness.
‘A cup of tea?’
‘Why, thank you,
that would be delightful’.
Over tea, made from a blend of
expensive leaves, timed to brew exactly for three minutes, Ula and
Klaus have a small discussion on which coats to wear. Is it warm
enough yet for summer weight or shall they play it safe with the
winter coats? Summer coats it is, and we step out into the fading
spring day.
After a U-bahn trip under the unseen city, we emerge in the old centre, at a catholic convent, which glows warm with the candle offerings of the rushing commuters. They pause for brief prayer, a gentle bow of the head, a longing look at the Madonna, then an automatic crossing of the chest, before they blend once again into the masses. To give me an overview of Frankfurt, Ula and Klaus take me to the top of the Commerz Bank, currently the tallest building in the European Union. From this high vantage point the city of Frankfurt spreads flat into the distance, and the sky is as crisscrossed with jet streams as a shunting yard with tracks. The airplanes circle above Europe’s busiest airport, then, in a stepped queue, line up to land. The margin for error in this overcrowded airspace is frighteningly small. Here Alexandra will land, but only at midnight, her flight delayed by five hours.
With our original dinner plans disrupted by
the tardy flight, we stroll over the River Main into a neighborhood
of small boutiques and cider taverns that specialize in Frankfurter
fare, in a quest to find dinner and to kill time. The interiors of
age-stained murals of old Germany contrast with the modern clientele,
who play musical chairs at the long communal tables, where seating
companions constantly swap and change. This is not the place for
intimate dinners, but Klaus has a fine time with the opening line.
‘Meet Annette; she is driving to China.’
‘Why?’
Is the
pragmatic German reply.
‘Because growing up in South Africa
cultivated a healthy mistrust in me of the media. I want to get an
overview, see the big picture, not just the luxuriously edited one
you get by hopping from airport to airport. I want to make up my own
mind about what’s going on out there, about what’s important, and
I want to do it with first-hand information.’
My little soliloquy results in a small debate around the table while I consider whether to eat the house specialty of Handkaese mit Muzic. It is a pungent, translucent, hand-formed orb of cheese that is served with raw onions and dark rye bread; the music you supply and it comes later. The meal is an olfactory assault that is best washed down with apple wine, which soon enhances the conversation and we break into unforced laughter. In companionable silence we ride the streetcar home, past shop windows where beautifully lit luxury goods glow enticingly in the dark. At the stroke of midnight, happy birthday to me, and the best birthday present arrives as my child, my person, my Alexandra strolls through the arrivals gate.
After a breakfast of bread and cold meats – Germans eat a stupendous amount of bread; they even call mealtimes Brotzeit (bread time) – we wish our new friends farewell and hit the highway. But not for long as we are making a brief pit stop to visit friends in Buedingen, which is a small town with a long and living history. A town where every building fits and a town of which Einstein said; ‘Here the Middle Ages shows off its most beautiful side.’ It is a small town with a big castle, in which the lord of the manor still lives, and can trace his family tree to the 12th century. This is small potatoes compared with the old church, which dates precisely from 1047; this can be determined by its still original wooden beams. That the church and town have weathered the centuries unscathed is a miracle that Heiner explains was made possible by poverty.
Buedingen was always a small insignificant town that quietly grew through the centuries. It never had anything worthwhile plundering, and even the bombers of the Second World War had more interesting targets to keep them busy. Today – in the unpredictable way of economics – the long lack of money has made Buedingen very wealthy. Our walk takes us past beautifully preserved houses, over arched bridges where ducks come to shore, past a small fresh-produce market, and ends at an icecream store where we pick up a few flavors for dessert. Back at the house, Irene is just preparing the bright green sauce that will accompany our lunch. Gruene Sausse, the specialty of Frankfurt, is a blend of seven spring herbs: borage, sorrel, cress, chervil, chives, parsley and salad burnet. These are chopped together with hardboiled eggs, and lashings of crème fraiche, and the resulting tart, fragrant deep green sauce is served with new potatoes and boiled beef.
After lunch we head north towards Essen. I
hand Alexandra the map and the address where we want to go. She knows
her way around a map, having been the navigator on many a road trip
since learning to read. With the nonchalance of experience, she opens
the map and promptly bursts into nervous giggles.
‘Have you seen
this?’ she asks.
‘Why do you think I gave it to you?’
Like
spaghetti on a plate, the map is a chaotic tangle of roads, a telling
testament to the high-density living in the Ruhrgebied. Alexandra
settles down to untangle the mess of roads in front of her, while I
concentrate on negotiating the Autobahn. The German driver is an
impatient, aggressive beast, but a very correct one. So while
everything moves at subsonic speed, everyone is fortunately behaving
impeccably. Cars immediately move out of the fast lane after
overtaking, no overtaking on the right, the trucks adhere strictly to
the lane advisors, and the lack of toll roads make for very speedy
and safe driving. With Alexandra’s impeccable navigating, we reach
Essen, the city of my birth, in no time.
I have no memories of Essen. When I was a wee toddler we immigrated to South Africa, where my parents started a new life. As a young child, with no memory of my German culture or history and no desire to be part of the apartheid culture of South Africa, I became part of an increasing global population that is culturally rootless. This part of my journey is partly to introduce Alexandra to her German heritage, and to see how I fit into the German culture. To help in this quest, old family friends Alfred and Margaret have arranged a visit to the apartment of my birth; this is somewhat closer to the truth than I had expected to get.
Now, standing in a grey drizzle in front of the rather sad buildings, memories of a distant childhood ambush me: older boys dug an enormous hole in the sand pit, which does not seem to have moved. I was terrified that I might fall in. In the winter I remember slip-skating in the ice tracks left by the cars driving in the snow. I see my three-year-old self sitting in a snug restaurant, peering through dark wood-framed windows, frosted outside by snow and steamed up inside by my own breath. Through the misty glass, I watch the snow-covered street outside that glows with the warm light of candles in paper lanterns that all the children carry on long sticks to celebrate St Martin’s day.
In those long-forgotten days Essen suffered under the black pollution cloud of the coalmines and heavy industry that had been the driving force of the Ruhr since the 1400s, culminating in the arms production of the Second World War and the rebuilding of Germany after that. We stroll along the elevated steel walkways of the industrial site ‘Der Zollverein’ that is today a UNESCO World Heritage Site. At the height of production, twelve mineshafts fed this Dante’s inferno, which with its massive scale dwarfed the men who worked here. This evokes images of dark winter mornings, with coal-dust-laden fog swirling around the miners’ lamps as they make their way to the shafts that will take them down to the coalface, from which they will emerge at the end of their shift, as black as the coal itself. Today the coalmines, miners and the black pollution cloud are long forgotten. ‘Der Zollverein’ is the centre of Essen’s cultural and art scene and the Ruhrgebied now boasts the highest living standard in Germany.
Our route north takes us through Bremen, Hamburg, Luebeck and Rostock, the great Hanseatic cities of the High Middle Ages. Here we discover the German Wurststube and that we have a farmhand’s appetite for wurst. ‘One City, One Wurst’ becomes our credo. Bratwurst, Weisswurst, Bokwurst, Wurst with Bratkartofflen, Wurst with Pommes rot weiss and the great German favorite, Currywurst. To work off the Wurst calories we visit old churches and climb the bell towers.
In these far northern cities, the wealthy merchants of old felt the urge to display their wealth in their buildings. They had only one niggling problem, no building material, as up in the lowlands of the north there was no stone with which to build. Not deterred, the ever-inventive Germans put the readily available red clay to task and perfected the making of red bricks. They developed this process to the point where delicate filigreed arches and fluted pillars became as detailed as any carved stone or marble. This gave rise to the Red Brick Gothic architectural style in the 12th century. The Marienkirche of Stralsund is a beautiful example of this building style, and also gives us a bird’s-eye view from the top of the 104 m bell tower.
Below us, Stralsund displays its dominant color, brick red, in full: red rooftops, red walls, red facades, and not so long ago even the streets were paved with red bricks that arched like a well-fried bratwurst. From here, we also have a good view of our goal for the day, the island of Ruegen, which is separated from the German mainland by a narrow strait of water, Strelasund. The bridge, which currently forms part of the only road on and off the Island of Ruegen, must be one of the island’s best fishing spots as, while the fisherman stand shoulder to shoulder peering into the water far below, bumper-to-bumper cars stream by behind them. Fishing from this bridge is a highly skilled endeavor as lines, lovingly loaded with sinker, hook and bait, are swung with military precision between the cars. Mainly the fishermen seem to miss the cars, but the occasional hit could result in a most unpleasant confrontation; the Germans are very particular about their cars.