Memories are questionable witnesses when it comes to reliability, truth, accuracy.
They are versions of the mind, patched together from pictures, sounds, imaginings, dreams, smells. They cannot be trusted, and yet in their own way they represent a truth, perhaps different from the one we actually experienced, and yet a testimony of something that may have been.
Ultimately it doesn't matter. A good story, even if it's not entirely true, is still a better story than a bad one that's entirely true.
Everything following now is a one version. My version.
Some of it really experienced, some imagined, how it might have been, in addition bits and pieces, parts of the truth, fantasies, lies.
But somehow true nonetheless.
The Farewell
I no longer know whether we realize what we have embarked on during the first few kilometers. Perhaps we lull ourselves into the illusion that if everything goes wrong, we'll simply return home with our hopes dashed, of course, and our self-confidence shaken, but at least in one piece and in good health.
This thought is probably far away. Maybe we ourselves are not yet completely convinced of our high-flying plans? After all, there are an estimated 10'000 kilometers of difficult terrain, bad roads, unpredictable obstacles ahead of us, perhaps breakdowns and God knows what all.
But the world belongs to the brave, as the saying goes. Let's see how far courage will take us...
We say goodbye to our parents and siblings, trying to paint an optimistic picture of our adventure. It is questionable whether there is any understanding.
Bad omens
But then we're definitely on our way. The feeling is intoxicating and irritating at the same time. We are indeed on the way, but a certain restlessness cannot be concealed.
The fact that a few essential things have been left at home doesn't make things any better, on the contrary. The stars are not as well disposed towards us as we would like. They seem to be trying to make it as difficult as possible for us to say goodbye.
We have thousands of kilometers ahead of us, along unknown, probably poorly signed roads, the need for good and reliable road maps is undisputed, but our maps are somewhere, just not where they are supposed to be. We simply forgot them at home. If any more proof of our limitations is required, here it is.
Just before Chur another bad omen. After not even 200 km a car is coming towards us, skidding violently, shooting past us, hitting the car behind us. A few seconds later, and our journey might have come to a quick end.
The driver of the car should thank heaven that he missed us, otherwise I would have strangled him by my own hands.
After a rather tedious crossing of the San Bernadino pass, we reach Chiasso, the last town on Swiss territory. We treat ourselves to a coffee and fill all the canisters with cheap Swiss gasoline. And then - eureka - we cross the border to Italy. We are abroad.
And we are happy.
The troubles begin
A hundred and fifty kilometers further south, on the autostrada towards Venice, we are less happy. Maybe the omens were right after all?
The charge indicator lamp starts flickering and seems to indicate some kind of a malfunction. As the chauffeur responsible for everything concerning our vehicle, I haven't the faintest idea what might be wrong. My knowledge of the engine and everything else is limited to simply opening and reading the relevant repair manual.
We postpone the problem till tomorrow (it is better to sleep on problems) and decide to spend the night on the next Pavesi restaurant.
Of course, given the tight space, not everything is going smoothly yet. Brushing our teeth, getting into our pijamas, getting the bed ready (although the term bed is a bit of an exaggeration; it's a plank that has to be pulled out, with a rather thin mattress on top of it), all this takes some time to get used to, but we have weeks and months to do so. We stand around on our feet, desperately looking for utensils hidden somewhere.
Sleep, however, is divine. In view of the problems ahead, a certain amount of naivety is the only way to keep your cool ...
Pretty much broken
Waking up in strange surroundings - the normal scenario for the next few months - is disorienting, especially when you wake up in a VW bus for the first time. The ceiling is dangerously close, startling in the night would inevitably lead to bumps and headaches. Knees and feet collide, there's a smell of gasoline and motor and all sorts of other things that can't be identified right away.
All in all unusual, but not unpleasant. Surprisingly, we feel extremely good, despite an little devil haunting us and whispering of engine problems.
Even after leafing through the repair manual, I have no idea what the reason for the problem with the lamp might be, so I'm already changing the V-belt as a precaution. Can certainly not hurt.
So we drive on more or less happily and hoping for a miracle, which of course does not happen.
At the next Pavesi we need to leave the highway again, because now the small evil light no longer flickers, it now burns without a break. Slowly a certain nervousness is spreading now, even looking again in the repair manual doesn't bring any solution. So what to do?
Well, at least the car runs flawlessly, maybe it's just the lamp that's broken. If anything is needed to prove our unlimited optimism (or stupidity?), it's the decision to just keep driving.
At Mestre, not far from Venice, the battery is empty (so the lamp was perfectly fine). With the foot constantly on the gas pedal, because otherwise the engine stops and can no longer be started, we desperately search for a garage. In the first one the car electrician is on vacation, in the second one the guys only deal with racing cars. Of course, we can't blame them for not exactly regarding our unappealing vehicle as a Lotus Elan.
Mercy on the poor hippies
But then we're lucky, because one of the mechanics, normally occupied with Maseratis and Lamborghinis, takes pity on us and dares to take a look inside our Ferrari. He stoically deflects the pitying looks of his colleagues. You probably have to have that if you're going to dedicate yourself to the task he's taken on.
In retrospect, when it becomes apparent what is broken after barely half an hour, I can no longer blame myself for not knowing.
Without exaggeration, one might claim that the major part of the electrical system is defective, i.e. the alternator, the controller and some other stuff that I don't understand anyway. For the first time we realize what the TCS specialist meant when he claimed not wanting to even drive to Liechtenstein with this car.
It is slowly getting dark, but work is still going on. Finally, however, relieved by Fr. 200.-, we can continue driving, it is in the meantime half past eight. I am not a fan of extrapolations, things always turn out differently than one thinks, but on this dark evening I dare not think about the future ...
Apparently, however, the racing cars have left their mark on my subconscious, because my dreams are filled with the roar of a yellow Lamborghini, just like I imagine my car to be. Not this clumsy thing that has brought us nothing but trouble so far. But then again - when I think of the roads in India or Nepal, I might imagine that these Italian supercars might quickly reach their limits.
Matching song from this period: The Sparks - This town ain't big enough for the both of us
And here the trail continues... to Yugoslavia
