My Dream to Be Free

by Juergen Stollin

  The onward journey through the Khyber Pass to Peshawar and via Lahore to the Pakistani- Indian border went on without noteworthy incidents.

  On the Indian side, I already saw my little Sardarji from far, wearing his turban, the Sikh, with whom I had had the visa problem. After a brief greeting, I went with him to his office immediately. While the passport formalities and bus-customs formalities were being done, I had to drink a lot of tea. Martin and Mala were also invited for this. My friend, the incorruptible border official had told Mala the story in his language and pointed to me now and then. At the end, he also asked turning to me, if he had taken money from me, and I said quite loud and clear so that everyone heard, that he was the most uncorrupt official I had ever got to know during all my travels. That hit home! The guy grew a few centimeters in stature and Mala had probably told that she had a relative in the government. Our passport work and also the bus paper work were done in record time and we could go.

  The buses were driven to the customs yard in New Delhi and our mission was over. Martin told me in the next few days, wherever we met that the bus-business was a difficult operation. Approvals, import permit and documents had to be obtained from the Ministry of Finance, the Ministry of Tourism, Transport Ministry, the Ministry of Labor and Trade.

  Also a bank account with a certain amount of financial guarantee, deposits and much more had to be initiated. It was clear that everyone wanted to earn some money from Martin’s new business.

  Hopefully, the buses were more valuable than all the bribe money that had to be paid.

  I wanted to leave India as soon as possible because I had an idea. My little leprechaun told me I was right and affirmed me in my plan with good advice. He agreed with me that I should quickly fly to Germany and buy a used bus for driving hippies to India!

  Hippie Tourism

  There was travel agency in Imperial Hotel in New Delhi, which sold cheap tickets for students.

  In the Student Travel Office, Mr. Goya who was the owner explained to me that he could issue a cheap ticket only if I could submit a valid student ID to him.

  He saw that I did not have one and recommended that I go to Mohan Singh Market, where there was a small shop there, which could help me.

  The shop was simply called Print Shop.

  For twenty dollars and a passport-sized photo, I was already a student from the Goethe University the next day. I received my flight ticket for Frankfurt for 160 US Dollars when I presented my ID card, however by Aeroflot via Moscow and an overnight stay there. This would not cost anything and also an evening meal and breakfast were included in the price. I couldn’t have found a better deal!

  The Transit-Hotel in Moscow was a better youth hostel or an outdated jail. But so what? I ended up healthy and well restored in two days in Frankfurt. I drove to Dillenburg to my parents and stayed for some days there. Also Chitra came again as the "Grand Dame" from Frankfurt and brought a lot of toys for the daughter. But except for the daughter, no one was enthusiastic about her visit. We had nothing against it, as long as she did not want to have the girl and left her alone.

  Chitra told me that she wanted to fly to Ceylon, in order to bring the other daughter to my parents. She said that it would be better in Germany than in Ceylon. There was no future for the child there when she had to go to school. She had to go home also due to this reason. Of course I didn’t believe one word she said. Both of our moods were the same as if a cat’s cage and a dog’s cage would be placed directly near one another. No one comes close to one another. Although both do not like one another, they have to get along next to one another. Chitra drove back to Frankfurt in the taxi that waited and we were glad that she had not created any major ruckus. This time she did not come drunk but she drank the Piccolos that she had brought along with her here and drove back drunk to Frankfurt.

  I told my parents that I was now in the travel business and had to go to Neu-Ulm to buy a bus, which I would use to transport hippies from Istanbul to India. I might just as well have explained to them that I was going to become a candidate in the American presidential election. I was told to invest my money, if I had any, into something better and think of the future. Even if I didn’t have a steady job, I could insure myself with a small amount and also pay into the pension fund, my father said. Mother asked me what would happen to me and the girls later. The children grew up without parents. The parents loved them and brought them up like their own children. They were certainly brought them up better than it would have been possible for me or my wife. But grandparents are not a substitute for biological parents.

  My mother urged me to think about it, such as - think how things should continue in the future. But I could not arrive at any end result.

  Perhaps now there would be a big breakthrough with my hippy-transport. So far I had had some bad luck but it had to come to an end at some point.

  Somewhere I had heard once that there were seven years of good and bad years alternatively.

  My operating system had still not detected when the seven years were gone. That did not matter with which years it had started with me, the third cycle must be already in progress.

  I assured my parents once again that what I planned to do now was a serious matter.

  It would be very tiring to drive such a bus in these countries, but the salary was very good, I told them.

  Let’s hope so, for goodness’ sake, but it all sounded really crazy to them, my mother said. I was told that I should always think that I always had a home and before I talked any nonsense again, I should always come back at any time, even without money. Then she sent me, saying that I should buy the bus.

  Thus I had the freedom to do what I wanted to do once more and not what I had to. Of course, I knew from Martin, where I could buy used buses. But I did not drive directly to Neu-Ulm but made a visit to my wife in her "establishment" and explained to her that I could use a little capital.

  She gave me 500 Deutschmark with the comment that this was only a loan and that she wanted it back again. I promised her to give it back to her but knew that I would never do it.

  In my eyes, it was something like compensation money, so to say, a consolation to my soul.

  On the one hand she told me that German men were so stupid and would pay up to 500 DM per hour, since they were so attracted to Asian girls. She had lent me the money and wanted to have it back. It was not my problem anyway!

  She had told my parents that she wanted to go to Ceylon to bring the child but I suspected that she wanted to go to Ceylon to get some fresh flesh for her branch of profession. In the meantime, I didn’t care how she earned her money. So I was also not embarrassed to ask her for a “loan”. She could thank me that she was still in Germany. She could be thankful that they had noticed anything unremarkable about her because of the fact that she was still married to a German, namely me. But at the same time, I had to clean this up and should not forget to file for divorce. With Chitra’s allowance, I now had a flush with cash, as the business people say, to buy a passable, used bus for myself.

  Mr. Brennenstuhl at the company remembered Martin and his beautiful Indian wife. When I told him about the successful journey to Delhi and that the busses had endured without any technical problems, he was very satisfied. He had an extra specimen for me for very little money in stock i.e. in the backyard.

  A model that was to be scrapped, which he could not sell any more as bus. But as a garden house or as construction site accommodation, he could offer me the vehicle fit for driving at scrap price, a kilo for 10 Pfennigs. So I could have the bus for 800 Deutschmark.

  Having a cup of coffee in the factory canteen, I told him what I was planning to do with the bus and he advised me against undertaking such a tour in the old S12.

  But I had made up my mind: The bus will go to India! He asked me if I was a car mechanic. But after I had touted my skills as a chef and a confectioner, he only shook his head. Nevertheless, he told me I should come the next day and pick up the bus.
Some changes had to be still made on the vehicle and the registration number had to be applied for.

  When I came to Käsbohrer the next afternoon, I could hardly believe my eyes. The bus had turned into a real piece of jewelry.

  It flashed and shone as if it had been given a new coat of paint. I could not believe it.

  All the six tires were new, a huge longer tire filling hose and a refurbished air compressor.

  There were also two new tires in the luggage compartment and a refurbished water pump, two hydraulic jack, four warning triangles, and a wheel-spider with extension. And I do not know what else was inside in a tool box.

  Inside it was exclusively clean and all the windows had curtains that could be drawn.

  The seller had discussed with Mr. Käsbohrer personally about me and my plans and he had given his OK for these extras. He expressed a wish, namely that I send him a photo now and then. I promised I would do so and then drove away on the motorway in the direction of Munich, Salzburg, Belgrade, Sofia and Istanbul.

  I put up a poster in the Pudding Shop and made a word of mouth advertising everywhere, that I would be driving my bus to India and Nepal in four days and that bookings and tickets were available in the Pudding Shop. Also covering partial distances would be possible, for example up to Tehran 30$, Kabul 60$, New Delhi 90$ and Kathmandu 120$. Since I had seen that Martin’s passengers paid 70 Dollars to Delhi without grumbling, I made it 20 $ more expensive. But I offered Idris, the owner of the Pudding Shop 10% commission for the ticket sales for this. That worked out great! The bus was full and booked in four days.

  Since I had a verifiable place of residence in South Africa, I even got back the value added tax at the German and Austrian border.

  Due to this reason, however the bus could not be taken back to Germany again. Even the bus papers were issued on my non-existent address in South Africa. My passengers were all on a trip to Asia and in a good mood. The youngest passenger was just seventeen and I, the oldest, was 31 years old.

  Since I already knew this route very well, I was also able to give precise answers, which made a good impression.

  On the wall of the Pudding Shop, I made the announcement that we would depart on 15.09. at 6 pm.

  Stops were made for three days in every capital city for getting visas.

  Wherever possible, we would stay overnight in a camping place or in cheap hotels.

  The passengers were to carry food and drinks for at least a whole day in case we couldn’t continue any further on the open track.

  Otherwise there were teahouses.

  A page torn out from a notebook with the destination, the amount to be paid, the departure date, the time and my signature - these were my tickets.

  The bus had 12 seat rows, so probably the name S 12 by Käsbohrer. So 12 times 4 in a row, this equaled 48. In addition, the driver seat and the seat that could be folded up, so that the guests could come to the door more easily and that it was reserved at the same time for the tour guide. At least most of my "passengers" wanted to go to New Delhi. Many wanted to go to Goa, only a few of them wanted to the Himalayan State.

  My bill went up, 48 times 90 dollars, made a full 4,320 dollars. Now only the bus had to cooperate with us and bring us all to Delhi, then I would be on the right track.

  The day before the departure was my day of rest; I sat in the Pudding Shop and ate my rice pudding, when a young girl of about 19 to 20 years sat opposite to me and we started a conversation.

  We spoke in English with one another and she told me she wanted to hitchhike via land to Greece and later to Italy, France, Spain and the Netherlands, where she had relatives she wanted to visit.

  She asked me if I was "Dutch". I said no and told her that I was German and not Dutch.

  As if stung by a tarantula, she jumped up and her friendliness was gone.

  Then it was back again, she insulted me as "Nazi pig", "killer", "criminal", "Jew-murderer" and that I had gassed her grandparents!

  I had to hear all this in an Islamic country. But this time, I had a longer arm. The little girl should have known that no one would listen to her in an Islamic country.

  It didn’t help when I tried to assure her that I had been just four years old when all those terrible things had happened.

  She insisted that I was a Nazi pig.

  Of course, this enactment attracted spectators to our table. Idris, the owner wanted to know what was happening and I told him that he should get this hysterical cow off my table. This time not the "Nazi pig", but the little Israeli girl had to leave the café.

  I remember my time at school, when no teachers had spoken about this period.

  What we were told was the following:

  Poland wanted to change the boundaries. The Russians had raped the German women, since all men were at the war.

  The British had bombed the Germany cities and the Americans had occupied Germany. The Jews had been chased from the country because they had only stolen from the Germans, like the gypsies.

  I do not know what the Israeli girls were taught in their school about us Germans.

  Most likely that all Germans were murderers and the devils, and even at the age of 4 years!

  I had been accustomed to this and I was not bothered about this anymore but at some point I would go berserk, constantly to be called as a Nazi pig. The war and the whole of the Nazi regime had been a devilish thing, but one had to differentiate who had done what and when. But I was surprised always that after the war, no one admitted of having been with the SS. Also no one had heated the oven or dug the pits, in which the Jews who had been shot were shoved in simply with the bulldozer by the thousands.

  Maybe it was just the foreigners, since a German would not do something like that. I can very well understand the hatred for the Germans, which the Israeli girl or the Dutchman or also the British man had in those days.

  But you should not hate all Germans, and particularly not someone, who did not have anything to do with the matter. Why did they not to the people who had been present then? Didn’t they dare to? I could not change it.

  But the Spaniards in South America, the British in India and elsewhere, the Americans with the Indians or even the Turks, were they all innocent? What was going on in Africa? Everyone knew everything, but no one was in the position to stop such madness and the maniacs before half of their people had been exterminated! Why didn’t anyone stop Hitler?

  Much later, when too many incidents have happened, the “would-be-good guys" come and say that someone should have stopped it.

  I have always avoided discussing politics and religion and that is why I keep quiet and let others speak. It only causes dispute. This is like when the politicians in India sit in a five-star hotel, eat a five-course menu and debate about poverty. Not even one of them has ever had a day, when they did not anything to eat, while doing so.

  You cannot discuss poverty.

  You should have experienced poverty and have lived with it only then you know what you are talking about!

  My passengers were not poor. They only appeared to be so, in their worn out traveling clothes. The young people had all the travelers’ checks of Thomas Cook or American Express. The parole was to live on five dollars per day. The one who managed to do that was proud of himself.

  Back at home they owned houses or demonstrated for something, which some of them were not even aware of. Here, the "traveler" also had plans to occupy: Goa, Poona, Nepal, Philippines, Thailand and some places in East Asia.

  And each time the hippies with their backpacks discovered a paradise, the tourists with their suitcases came after them and the five-star hotels then dislodged the bamboo huts of the Hippies. So it was, in life.

  The young people I now had in my bus were the people who discovered the other tourist spots later. It was a colorful multi-cultural group of people in my bus. I knew that I had to have a passenger list at every border, and that too in six copies. The customs, the police, the passport authorities, that is t
he immigration or emigration and the health authorities, required one or sometimes even two copies – that is once during entry into the country and one during departure from the country. The lists had to contain many details of each passenger: the name, occupation, place of residence, place of birth, date of birth, gender, place of issue, and date of visa, which number, how much money the passenger had, whether radio, camera or other valuable objects were in possession. Also the age in figures, then they did not have to calculate again. It was an endless list of questions that cost me many hours of my sleep. 12 times six pages, which makes a whopping 72 pages. Also it was not easy to take blueprints, since all the border crossings had a different name and this had to be specified as the addressee. But because this writing work was done for Martin by Mala, it was clear to me that I had to look for a transcriptionist, a female of course!

  After the first night had passed, I knew who belonged to whom and who was single. So I made my offer the next morning at the teahouse.

  I invited the nice German girl, who was traveling with her girlfriend to have breakfast with me and explained to her my problem with the passenger list. She was satisfied with the deal, which I had proposed to her.

  I offered her free food, breakfast, lunch and dinner for the whole trip, during which she was to make the lists for me. Of course I also had an ulterior motive while doing so.

  I was not only interested in the lists, I wanted to flirt with her.

  From then on, she was allowed to sit in the tour guide seat, which had been otherwise empty, directly near me and to setup the storage space in front of the windscreen as office. She was also allowed to keep me awake during the nights with music from the radio or from the recorder. There were a lot of tapes. She was permitted to entertain me till I became dog-tired and crawled into my sleeping back on the seat behind the last seat row and slept for a few hours. Four to five hours of sleep was enough for me, so I sometimes managed up to eight hundred kilometers a day. There were also days when I swallowed those small white pills. But that was dangerous because I lost the sense of time and sometimes drove the whole night through. My new secretary’s name was Christine. I called her Chris. Her girlfriend’s name was Maria, but I was told to call her Mary.