“My Life as a VW Bus” (As told by the Bus itself!)
By: Michael Brein
Tags: Europe, Campervan, Humor, Travel, Travel Writing

“My Life as a VW Bus” (As told by the Bus itself!)

OUTRAGEOUSLY FUNNY

VW BUSES

Says the VW bus, “I’ve been abandoned, accosted, assaulted, broken into, and robbed…”

By Michael Brein, Ph.D.,

The Travel Psychologist

Europe

The Mid 1970s to Late 1980s

Me, all Decked out for Africa! • Photo Michael Brein

Yep, I’ve been abandoned, accosted, assaulted, cursed at, had stones thrown at me, and have even been broken into, and robbed.

I’ve also been in danger, had some close calls and great escapes, been detained and under suspicion by police and soldiers, ripped apart and searched, and have even been surrounded by people with guns pointed at me.

And, I’ve been loved in… but that one is a story in iteself!

And I’ve been a smuggler. Twice, even, I was surrounded by police with machine guns. I had an accident once. And I’ve been sick in the hospital, had surgery, and even had an engine transplant. And I have done some dumb and stupid things.

However, truth be told, I was only following the orders of my master. But I’ve also been admired, liked, envied, loved, loved in, and been the scene of much camaraderie and many happy times.

My life as a VW bus has truly been an adventurous one and a great one!”

I’ve led a full life. I was born in a factory in Germany in 1972. My parent, or I should say, my ‘custodian,’ or ‘guardian,’ or ‘master’ initially was a German woman named Monica, along with her Austrian boyfriend, Justus.

They had big plans for me. And since Justus was very handy with mechanical things, he essentially, all by himself, outfitted me — let’s say — ‘dressed me up,’ so-to-speak — with just about everything you would ever need to trek across Africa.

But, sadly, my illustrious adventurous, life was not to be. Monica and Justus began to fight with each other and were not getting along very well. It was sad, because every time they got inside me, you could feel the tension in the air.

The breakup came in Rota, in Southern Spain, in 1974, where they finally decided to sell me and go their separate ways. I was already feeling abandoned when the “for sale” sign went up and they sat me by the side of the road awaiting any potentially interested takers.

I think they assumed that an American would be the most likely buyer, so they parked me right outside the gates of the American Naval Base in Rota and waited patiently.

It didn’t take very long until this youngish, googly-eyed, long blonde-haired, hippie-looking American college professor could not resist stopping by and taking a look.

I don’t know why he would even consider me at all, especially when he was already driving a more handsome, more modern, orange VW pop-top camper, which was even two years younger than me!

But his eyes lit up. Especially, more than likely, when the ‘Adventurer’ in him glommed right in on me, what with my being all decked out for Africa, and whatnot. If I had the look of adventure written all over me, he had to be nothing less than a sucker-in-waiting!

Truth be told, I was all dressed up looking the equivalent, I suppose, of an Indiana Jones-outfitted adventure-wagon, with sadly, really nowhere to go. My future was very much in doubt.

I was quite surprised, then, when this American, Michael, arranged to buy me.

Michael’s Brand-Spanking New 1974 VW Camper • Photo Michael Brein

Okay, okay, don’t get me wrong; I was an eye-catcher, and I did have a great personality, considerably more so than his orange bus, which was modern but sterile.

Monica and Justus separated, and I arranged to drive Monica and Michael back to Germany in order to check out my health, complete the sales transaction, register me, and then belong to my new master, Michael.

Michael, the ‘True Adventurer’

My adventures during Michael’s stewardship were many. I became well-traveled, having gone as far east as Turkey, down to Syria and Lebanon, and almost everywhere you can imagine all throughout Europe.

I even went to Morocco, the Canary Islands, and Ibiza in the Balearic Islands (Spain). And I almost did get to adventure all across North Africa from Tunisia to Morocco via Algeria.

But alas and alack, I was traveling with an ‘Idiot,’ no less, who should have known much better to have the correct car papers with him, including a so-called ‘carnet de passage.’

After breaking up with his Scottish-English girlfriend, Winkie, Michael abandoned me to his good friend, Alan H., in Southern England. Michael had tears in his eyes when he finally handed over the keys to Alan, promising to return, and all that.

But to me, I saw it as the end to my relationship with Michael. I now had the distinct fear of rusting to death in the cold, damp countryside of England.

But, sadly, as it turned out, I was never to see Michael ever again. Michael’s great, imaginary overland adventures to Africa or India, sadly, were not ever to be.

Oh yeah, he wrote the occasional letter to Alan, who, in turn, would read it to me. He would say such things as, “Please take good care of the bus, Alan. I cannot wait to get back and drive it again.”

Truth be told, Michael’s pseudo-adventuring was more in his imagination than rooted in any real sense of reality. Michael always talked a great game: while he had grand dreams of overlanding, say, to India, his mechanical skills, which would be sorely required for such adventurous pursuits, were sorely lacking.

Yes, I’m sure this thinking was all pure bluster on Michael’s part since he didn’t really want me to be a burden on Alan, so his letters always sounded apologetic. I know Michael felt pangs of guilt about abandoning me to Alan and his wife, Les.

But surprisingly, my life continued on. I sat mostly on Alan’s nearby friend, Bob M.’s, nice rural acreage not very far from Alan’s house.

And maybe about twice a year, Alan and Les and the kids would take me on the occasional excursion over the next few years.

But betwixt and between these more or less fairly limited outings, I sat mostly quiet and alone, exposed to the elements, which would slowly be taking their toll.

The Isle of Wight

On one such occasion, I got a truly nasty bump. Oh, no — not on the outside of the van; it happened on the INSIDE. I got badly bruised. It was a scary experience. And I was not fully and completely apologized to by Alan. But it’s best that I tell you the whole story.

Seems as if Alan and Les decided to visit the Isle of Wight off of southern England. For the life of me, I do not quite know why, because there’s really not all that much there. I suppose they just wanted a nearby outing, as it wasn’t all that far from their home base near Handcross, England.

So we’re on this island, and we happen to note that one of the reasons the Island of Wight is so famous (I think the proper word here is ‘infamous’) is because it housed the Parkhurst Prison for hardcore prisoners. Oh, terrific!

Not only that, but at the time we just happened to be there, there was a famous prison escape taking place right then and there! It’s surely bad enough and one thing that they had escaped; it was another thing altogether — and much worse, even — that a guy was still at large.

Alan could get quite obsessive at times.

It seems that just about every time we passed a newsagent (newspaper kiosk, or ‘shop,’ to you), Alan had to not only stop to read the headlines, but he had to dwell on it incessantly with Les.

The headlines in the papers at the two or three kiosks we stopped at were all the same: “Dangerous Criminal Escapes!”

It wouldn’t be so bad if we overnighted at a hotel and parked me in a secure covered and locked garage. Oh no; Alan, like Michael, had to scope out the best possible romantic spot to park me at night and camp.

By now, Les was overwrought with paranoia, and Alan was feeling sorry for having turned it into the exaggerated much bigger deal that it now was. But this is Alan’s sense of humor — he cannot help himself.

So, with great anxiety, Alan finally found what ordinarily would have been the perfect, relatively hidden overnight spot to park me. And this we do.

Reluctantly, both Alan and Les ultimately give way to nature’s quiet night time lull and din, and gradually, finally releasing the day’s anxiety, the two slowly succumbed and dozed off to sleep.

Suddenly, and inexplicitly in the middle of the night, Les let out a horrendous loud scream!

Alan immediately stirs into action, raising his head and shoulders to prepare for fight or flight — but mostly, I believe, Alan was just as terrified, if not more so than Les.

As Alan raises his head, he goes smack dab into my lower ceiling at the rear of me (the van).

He swears he did no damage to me at all, other than to my ego, but I’m convinced to this day he’s made a serious dent.

Okay, okay, he hurt his head and had a bump for days. But at least both he and Les were still alive. And Alan certainly paid the price for this imposition on my well-being by his pain and suffering over this indiscretion.

Alan and Les were sure that it was the escaped convict that invaded me, and Alan was certain that the convict had even struck him on the head.

(Of course, it is always easier to blame someone else than to take responsibility for such an utter nonsensical act yourself.)

Now, Michael has, assuredly, been the ‘Fool,’ if not the ‘Idiot,’ at times for his sometimes ludicrous behavior in me.

But the grand prize for the all-time most ridiculous shenanigan by a crazy, stupit owner or guest goes resolutely to Alan and Les!

Les, it turns out, had merely had a nightmare, and Alan, of course, believed that they were under attack by the escaped convict.

And, after all is said and done, a good time was had by us all, and I got a huge laugh out of it if not a slight bump and an indent as a war-wound.

In the ensuing years, the early 1980s, Alan and Les took me on a few more trips here and there, and even Suzy, Alan’s ex-wife, took me out once or twice, for a stint or two.

But as all good things must eventually come to an end, my time in England was sadly and inevitably drawing to a close.

I had long given up any hope for Michael’s return. It just made little sense to me he wouldn’t be coming to visit and drive with me more often if at least just one more time.

I guess Michael had a life for himself back in Hawaii, and my reputation as Michael’s “F**k Truck” was sadly at an end.

Enter Charlotte, the German Artist

As the young American couple told me when they came to get me in England in the late 1980s, the following events took place in Honolulu, Hawaii with Michael.

Michael loved, apparently, to while away, if not waste his time, uselessly sitting around coffee shops, ostensibly working on his various writing projects, but in essence, seemingly, in reality, accomplishing very little, for all the time he sat at the cafe tables.

One day, it was said that Michael spotted from his cafe perch an apparently distraught older woman wandering about anxiously, appearing to be lost.

So Michael does the right thing, which he so rarely does, and asks her what the problem is. She can hardly speak English, and Michael quickly determines that she is German.

And what do you know: German is one of Michael’s ten languages that he has studied or bandied about over the years.

But Michael takes her under his wing: On that fateful day, he orients her, helps her out, and they become instant friends.

It seems that Charlotte is in Hawaii to visit one of her friends, but somehow they miscommunicated where and when to meet, and so on. But it all got straightened out eventually.

Poor Charlotte, the brave and adventurous traveler that she was, lucked out on that day by just about literally bumping into Michael, a fairly inveterate, if not itinerant, world-traveler and adventurer himself, and possibly one of the very few, rare persons who she could have possibly run into on that day who just happened to speak enough German.

Michael and Charlotte visited together on several more occasions over the next few years at that very same coffee shop, when Charlotte periodically came to visit her Honolulu friend.

One day, Michael, high on caffeine, spilled the beans and told Charlotte in his coffee stupor the history of me, and how he missed going on adventures with me in Europe.

Finally, he told her his very sad story that his friend Alan needed to do something about me, as no one really wanted me much anymore. I guess I was starting to rust a little bit, as we all do, as we grow older.

Charlotte returned Michael’s initial kindness to her in those earlier days and said, “Your VW Bus is welcome to come to stay with me on my property in Southern Germany. I have room.”

That was music to Michael’s ears.

Later, Charlotte would come to regret her words. But the plan was that Suzy (Alan’s ex-wife) had a couple of American friends, who would retrieve me and drive me to Germany to leave me at Charlotte’s house. And this is what precisely took place.

I enjoyed my later years resting at Charlotte’s house in Southern Germany, awaiting Michael’s eventual return, as Charlotte continually promised me he would.

But as time wore on, gradually I gave up and began to rust all the more. I was heartbroken, for no one took me anywhere anymore. I just sat and waited, and waited, and rusted, and rusted for Michael, who never came.

Letter from Charlotte

The letter from Charlotte mostly read something to the effect, as if it were a telegram (and loosely translated):

“Dear Michael,

Your bus is in very poor shape, and we need to do something about it. I suggest that we donate it to the nearby local auto mechanics vocational high school. Would that be okay?”

I, Michael, having received this letter and having shed more than a few tears, felt very guilty to burden poor Charlotte with my VW bus any longer, which I was never really likely ever to retrieve from her at all.

It simply was not fair of me to subject poor Charlotte any longer to have to deal with what was to be my ultimate “African Dream” safari vehicle, which had literally lit up my eyes the first day I looked upon it in Southern Spain, not ten or so years before.

My beloved VW bus donated its organs to the local auto mechanics school in Germany. If only the students had known the full story of “My Life of as a VW Bus.” If only they knew the many wonderful memories that we all will have for the rest of our lives.