‘Have you looked out your window?’
‘Yep, how good is that!’ he said.
Right in front of us was the biggest, tallest rollercoaster I had ever seen—and it had a double loop.
‘We’ve got to give it a go,’ said Allan. ‘What a ride! Shame we don’t have any of that Egyptian hash with us.’
‘Allan, there’s something I want to tell you ...’
Forget the flush. We were out of there in a flash to buy cigarette papers. A quick smoke and we were on the ride of our lives. What a buzz. Though it would still have been amazing without our smuggled friend. At the end of the first ride, we were straight back in the queue to do it again. We did it every night until all the hash was gone.
•
The rollercoaster was just the beginning. West Berlin was fascinating, extremely fashion conscious, full of bars and restaurants, and it had the highest standard of living in Europe. That’s rubbing it in. One hundred metres away on the other side, the East Germans were struggling to make ends meet while continually being told of the evils and decadence of capitalism. Berlin had always had a reputation for decadence. A few years ago I had read Christopher Isherwood’s The Berlin Stories about living in Berlin in the 1930s. Cabaret, my favourite movie, is loosely based on his Goodbye to Berlin. Now that was decadence. They were the good old days, though the Nazis were a major irritation. I suspected a little less irritating were the communists on the other side of the wall. But for me what was really irritating was the fact that we were there to work.
Isherwood wrote in Goodbye to Berlin, ‘I’m a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.’ But, unlike Isherwood, I wasn’t a camera. I was lugging one, recording and thinking, thinking of the fun we’d have that night. Then, dizzy after our hash-hazed night flights on the Big Deutsche Dipper, we’d go in search of a cabaret, a Sally Bowles or two, writers and millionaires, trying very hard to relive Isherwood’s fun-filled Berlin nights.
Though the nights weren’t totally successful, the days were. For the story, that is. Berlin was amazing. If seeing the wall all day was not enough, there were other reminders of the absurdity and barbarity of it all. The Checkpoint Charlie Museum had examples of every successful escape. The best way of escaping was a tunnel, but that was time consuming. It’s amazing how ingenious people can be. Some people squeezed into fake petrol tanks, some inside two suitcases in the boot of a car. The guard that day must have been in on it or very stupid.
Trying to cross the wall was suicide and 176 people were killed giving it a go. The difficulty was that it was not just a wall. In some sections there were five walls of 4-metre high concrete, then more barricades, barbed wire, trip wires, attack dogs, machine guns, and the area between East and West was a minefield.
Thirty-year-old Heinz Englehart was just sixteen in 1966 when he escaped from East Germany. He told us they were always being told that everything was bad on the other side, so he decided to see for himself. He walked to the border, it was quiet, no guards. It seemed so easy, so he went for it.
‘There were no signs, nothing. I stepped on a mine, which tore off both my legs.’ He bent down, lifted up his trousers and tapped on his two plastic legs.
The day after our interview with Heinz we climbed one of the West Berlin viewing platforms to get shots of the East. It was a cold, bleak day, perfect for the images we were after. East Berlin guards watched our every move through binoculars. With us on the viewing platform was a beautiful young blonde woman, waving, blowing kisses and mouthing words to a well-dressed young man on the other side. She told us the man on the other side was her husband. She had been given permission to attend her father’s funeral in the West and had never returned, even though it meant leaving her husband behind. They had both decided it was the best thing to do, but through her tears she told us that her life was now utterly miserable.
Every day at this time, at this spot, they waved to each other. We could just see the top of her husband’s head over the two or three walls and barbed wire. They kept waving then, finally, he blew her a kiss, turned and walked away. It was heartbreaking. She was sobbing and I’ll bet he was, too. We knew we must get over there to get some shots.
To get to East Berlin we had to cross ‘Checkpoint Charlie’, the main checkpoint used by foreign diplomats and tourists. Pay a few hundred bucks and it buys a trip into East Berlin, the quickest and easiest way the East Germans could get their hands on some hard currency.
We decided we’d roll the camera as we crossed. Highly illegal, of course. And only a few days ago I was worried about spending my life in a West German prison. Imagine turning 60 in something run by the Stasi (though I must admit the idea of turning 60 anywhere was a horrific thought in those days).
We drove slowly towards Checkpoint Charlie, rehearsing answers to questions we thought might come our way. Ian Leslie and I were in the back seat, and aimed over Ian’s shoulder towards the window I had the already-rolling camera resting nonchalantly on my knee.
At the checkpoint Ian, wearing a radio microphone, asked the sour-looking guard a question, bringing him to the back of the car. The guard leant right into the window and demanded our passports. I was worried he might see Ian’s mic and even more worried he’d hear the camera rolling. I wished I’d had it serviced before we left home. It now sounded unbelievably loud. The guard obviously missed the chaff-cutter noise. He checked our passports then, speaking in German, pointed to the camera. We just stared at him. He shouted to the next guard 50 metres down and waved us on.
This next guard was much more friendly and, with a big smile, asked in English how he could help. Ian explained who we were and asked if it was possible to get some shots of East Berlin. The happy guard said it was possible but first we must get permission. ‘You must obtain a special paper from our ministry then you can film in the streets, but first you must leave your camera and recorder here. And when you have these papers there will be no problems for you.’
All of this we got on film and sound. And if we did what he wanted that was all we would ever get of East Berlin. If the paperwork did exist, it would take at least six months.
We left the locked car with the guards and went for a walk into East Berlin. Another variation of Christopher Isherwood: I was without a camera, quite passive, not recording, just thinking. The difference between East and West was astonishing. The streets were drab, cars were only grey or black, and the people looked really miserable. Not one smile to be seen.
We wandered into a huge supermarket with 80 per cent of the shelves completely empty. Some shelves had three or four cans of something unrecognisable, and that was it. I felt for all the unlucky people left behind here. They all knew what life was like on the other side.
After the communist takeover in the late 1940s three million people fled East Germany. The communists were not happy. Early in 1961 there were rumours of a tightening up of the borders. Between January and August that year a final lucky 160,000 people escaped. On 12 August 1961 the communists put up the first barriers. Then the walls.
It was way too depressing. We rushed back to wander the streets of West Berlin, soaking it all in, discussing the difference. And we saw one of those differences on a sign right in front of us.
Blue Movie 1
90 minuten Spielfilm
Non-Stop Standigeinlass
9.00–2400
Programmwechsel 4.4
We knew the first two words, if not the rest, so thought we’d take a peek. At the ticket counter the woman asked if we would like our beers in one large crate or separately. We said, ‘No beer, thanks,’ but were told it was part of the price of the ticket, so it was beers all round. Three large bottles of beer each and all with our own handy little container, not unlike the milkman used to carry. Into the dark cinema we went, deftly carrying our three-packs while fumbling around for seats.
It was probably the images on the screen that startled Allan. Down he went in the aisle, beer and all. The
noise of those three shattering bottles drowned out the groans on the screen and an overwhelming stench of beer overtook the room. Giggling, apologising, we plodded further into the darkness through broken glass and rivers of beer in search of a seat. Shushes came from all around the room. True cinema-goers know exactly how important sound is, especially when the plot is so complex. ‘Good job they’re all wearing raincoats,’ Ian said, and our giggling started all over again. More intricate dialogue missed. We decided perhaps it was time to leave, well short of our 90 minuten.
We never did find a Sally Bowles or a millionaire, and with our Egyptian purchase depleted our last night in Berlin was totally boring. We found our way into a couple of nightclubs surprisingly decked out with tacky red velvet curtains and superfriendly women. If that wasn’t a dead giveaway, the insipid, salivating clients with their looks of anticipation sure were. We also found a few jazz bars, all playing excruciatingly dull improvisational jazz.
I think Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin was probably a bit more exciting, despite the Nazis. He probably even had mind-bending substances, but without the double-loop dipper, his mind was never properly bent.
7
Almost a Murder on the Orient Express
The trips in the first few years were nearly always four to six weeks long, but every now and then an eight-weeker would appear, and it was tough. The producers would leapfrog, so on a trip longer than six weeks there could be three or four different producers. After two weeks and two stories, the first producer would fly home and a fresh, enthusiastic producer (and sometimes even a fresh, enthusiastic reporter) would arrive. The soundman and I would have been on the road for six weeks, with two weeks still to go. Sometimes it was hard for us to stay enthused.
There were three camera crews and three reporters in the early days, but lots of producers, all only too keen to get away from office politics and hit the road and quality restaurants every night. Don’t get me wrong, I loved those unbelievable restaurants, but after six weeks I always felt that if I saw another menu and had to make another decision on the pheasant or the salmon, I’d scream. Often on a long trip, I’d skip the restaurant and go to the movies. Sitting alone in the dark, totally absorbed in a film, was amazingly cathartic.
It was my third trip of the year, and an eight-weeker. But with only two producers and two reporters—I could handle that. California, Belize, Amsterdam, Istanbul, then a trip on the Orient Express from Turkey to Lucerne, Switzerland. The first three stories were with George Negus and producer Warren McStoker, a tall, quiet man with a droll sense of humour and an uncanny ability to stun George into silence. A feat very few could pull off.
The morning I was leaving Sydney for the Negus leg of the trip, I raced in to see Ray Martin and producer Bruce Stannard to find out how they planned on doing their Orient Express yarn. They told me they wanted fun, intrigue, a feeling of being with the rich, blah blah blah ... and we would be intercutting our footage with sequences from a stack of whodunit films shot on the Orient Express, including Agatha Christie and James Bond. Ray, speaking at a million miles an hour, couldn’t hold back his excitement. I also thought it was a great idea, but I was finding it hard to concentrate, trying to remember if I’d packed everything.
‘And then I’ll say to Sean Connery blah blah, and Sydney Greenstreet will say to me blah blah,’ Ray was not drawing breath.
With so much going on in my head, I really only picked up on the whodunit bits, so as I headed out the door I told them, ‘Make sure you get the angles right, take notes of all the footage you’re planning to cut to and be sure you know exactly which direction everybody is looking. See you in Istanbul in six weeks.’
As I fled out the door, Bruce yelled, ‘Oh, by the way, on the Orient Express after six every night we have to wear a dinner suit. What size are you?’
‘Ring my wife,’ I yelled back. Then I got straight into a cab to the airport for the flight to California.
•
After landing in San Francisco, Terry ‘Skeet’ Kelly the soundman and I headed 250 kilometres north, to the small town of Ukiah. We checked into a beautiful 100-year-old timber hotel with two grand suites, called the Presidential and the Lincoln. We took them both. As always, first in first served. Warren and George weren’t arriving for another few days.
We were in Ukiah to do a story on the biggest cash crop in California, sensimilla, the amazing dope that was famous around the world for its size and quality. Sensimilla (Spanish for ‘without seeds’) is a highly potent form of marijuana, and Skeet and I came early to get a feel for the place, get some postcard shots of the area, and to make some contacts.
The only way to get a good story is with good research, so Skeet and I went looking for the local dealer, found him in seconds flat, and made a small purchase. All in the name of research. It really was amazing stuff and in no time we were off our faces. The things you have to do for a story.
For the next two days as we lay and laughed by a beautiful lake, we marvelled at the fact that we were being paid to do this.
The others arrived and squeezed into their tiny rooms. We continued to laugh, this time from our huge balconies. Warren and George weren’t happy, but we sure were.
The rest of the week was a bit of a blur, though I do remember going on a raid with the local police and finding a massive crop deftly hidden amongst tall trees. The plants were huge, way above my head, and each stem was so thick the cops had to use chainsaws to cut them down. The smell was enough to make everyone high. The cops dragged out some unfortunate bloke they found hiding in a shed. Then, making a big deal of it for our camera, brought him over to us before throwing him into their paddy wagon and hauling him off to the clink. I stared in wonder—Could it be? Surely not!
With the camera conveniently covering my face, I whispered to Skeet, ‘We bought our dope from that guy, didn’t we?’
‘Yep,’ he whispered back.
Luckily the dealer didn’t recognise us, so we got on with the job of helping the cops rid the world of nasty drug dealers and their evil weed.
Next day, after shooting a quick interview with our dealer’s defence lawyer, we headed off to talk to the sheriff. This guy was the top banana lawman and he was not going to have his town become a mecca for dope heads, though I suspected it was too late.
Somehow Skeet ended up driving to the sheriff ’s office with the lawyer. Warren, George and I arrived before Skeet, and as I was setting up the lights, in he walked, eyes spinning in his head, with a stupid smile on his face. He slowly began to set up his gear then stopped and stared at his hands. Each hand held a microphone while the look on his face said, ‘What the fuck are these?’
Luckily, the sheriff didn’t seem to know what a professional soundman should look like. Then five minutes into the interview I glanced across at Skeet and he was out cold, fingers on the faders like a true pro, and like a true pro, he woke up on the final question and no one but me had noticed.
After the interview the sheriff left the room so we could do our reverse questions: this is the showbiz side of what we do, where the reporter asks all the questions again, to nobody, so that it looks like we had two cameras. With Skeet now back in the land of the living, I asked him if he was aware that he had slept through most of the interview.
‘I think so,’ he said. He then revealed that on the drive over to the sheriff ’s office, the defence lawyer rolled the biggest joint he’d ever seen. ‘Like a fuckin’ telegraph pole. And we smoked it in the car.’
When we got back to the hotel, Skeet nervously played back the sound to make sure it was all there. Of course it was, and of course it was perfect. Like I said, a true pro.
•
The next day was my 32nd birthday, so we planned a big night of fine dining in the classiest restaurant in town. We started off with two bottles of champagne then switched to a fine still wine. No classy restaurant can make claim to true fine dining without an obnoxious sommelier, and what a little beauty we had here. P
oncing around with his sommelier’s cup, or tasse à vin, hanging from a ribbon around his neck. Made from silver or nickel silver, each tasse à vin has its own individual pattern and this one made our guy very important indeed. He didn’t like us one bit. When George ordered the wine, Mr Sommelier made some dig at the quality of what we ordered, then proceeded to question why we’d even bother after having drunk bubbles. And on it went. But we were having a good time, so we ignored him and continued to dine finely.
Being the birthday boy I had probably drunk a little more than the others, and probably a little more than I should, but I swear, it wasn’t malicious. Frankly I thought it was funny. Anyway, as I was eating my dessert, Mr Sommelier leant across me (poor form I thought) to dispense some wine, and dangling right there in front of me was his tasse à vin, staring me in the eye. Daring me. So I did.
It was only a small dollop of ice cream that ended up in the silver cup, but by his reaction you’d think I’d hit him with hot soup.
Suddenly there was a lot of gesticulating and shouting to and fro, though none of it from me—I’d been pushed into the background by our quick-thinking producer. A large wad of money was produced and Mr Sommelier started to calm down. But judging from the size of the veins in his neck, he would probably never be normal again.
Next day I didn’t feel too normal myself. Maybe it was the grog, maybe the ice cream, maybe I was old now. But it sure wasn’t remorse.
•
We flew to Central America for the Belize leg of the trip. Weird. I’ll tell you about it later.
Then on to Amsterdam. We were there for days, or months, or both. Who knows? I know we had a great time. There’s almost as much dope in Amsterdam as in Ukiah. A story went to air so things must have worked out. Skeet and I farewelled McStoker and George, then floated off to Istanbul, for our eagerly awaited Orient Express adventure.
All This in 60 Minutes Page 7