Leaving Berlin - A Backpackers Story  

We had met the previous Antipodean Summer and hit it off immediately. She was a young, beautiful German backpacker being hounded by every red-blooded Aussie around. I was the nice guy assigned by friends to chaperone her during her stay in Melbourne.

The following Northern Hemisphere Summer it was her turn to act as chaperone. We had made a quick excursion to Berlin. After four days of shopping, my travelling companion announced forthrightly that it was time to return to base camp, a.k.a. Bielefeld, a small city near Hanover. She was less forthright as to the method of travel. It was a bit late in the day to book a bus or a train, and I knew the reason we're leaving is that she was skint, having spent all her money on shoes and jeans in the shopping maelstrom that is Hackescher Markt. I knew also that, despite being German, she liked to go Dutch on everything. She always refused to let me pay for her, so our method of travel had to something very cheap.

While I'm a big fan of mystery and intrigue, I instantly got a bad feeling. This is Germany, after all. Free spirits are definitely in the minority.

I quizzed her expertly.

'Is it the mitfahrgelegenheit?' (a type of car pooling popular in Germany)

'No.'

I asked her if we're hitchhiking, already feeling like there was a long night ahead of us.

'Colder,' she said with a grin. 'Just wait and see.'

After picking up our packs from Zoo Station, we took the S-Bahn to Prenzlauerberg. After a short tram ride we arrived at an apartment, above a shop selling Ostalgia, old nostalgic items from East Germany. She pressed a buzzer, and a male voice answered. A young guy greeted us at the door. He seemed half-asleep, a cigarette dragging from the corner of his mouth.

Turned out he was a photographer, like my companion. He was planning driving back to Bielefeld tonight. He had just found out he's going to be a Daddy, not something he seemed too keen about. In fact, he seemed to be drowning his sorrows. He offered us both a beer. I declined, thinking it might deter him from imbibing further. I was sadly mistaken.

After being assured he'd only had one and a half beers (large, strong German beers mind you), we hefted our packs again and made our way to our chariot. Turned out to be a green VW Kombi, circa 1982. He opened the front door and bedlam tumbled out. The van was full of beer and cigarettes, just like the driver. Empty beer bottles littered the cab floor. Cigarette butts coated the dashboard.

We climbed into the cabin. We three musketeers: a wanderlustig Australian, an elfin German photography student, and a depressed, drunk photographer with paternity issues. I cast my eyes about for a seatbelt. Futile. Turned out there wasn't one. My heart skipped a beat.

After several attempts the motor sputtered to life, sounding suspiciously like an egg-beater. Luckily, I think, this car would crawl to Bielefeld. We got underway just as dusk fell, driving past Berlin's famed Siegessaule, a statue of Nike (the goddess, not the brand) standing atop a 30 metre column, less reverently (but more affectionately) known to us as 'The Chick on the Stick'.

The driver cracked another beet while still within the city limits. I decided to join him, thinking it would lessen the anxiety. Hitting the Autobahn, I was surprised to find the van easily pushed 150kph. Nonetheless, cars passed us in the inside lanes like we were standing still. Welcome to fast living, German style.

Darkness followed shortly, falling like a ton of bricks. Shortly thereafter I started to think there was something wrong with my eyesight. I seemed to have blurred vision - oncoming headlights left me in a white haze - but the windscreen was merely filthy, coated on the outside with industrial filth and the fossilised entrails of bumblebees. I failed to see how anyone could see out of the thing. To add to the mix, the driver's chain-smoking was slowly putting up a smokescreen inside the van.

I started to think that this couldn't get any worse. Then the deluge began. Huge, fat drops of summer rain, beating out a thunderous rhythm on the tinny roof of the van, so loud it drowned out the radio. My companion turned to me and said: 'The heavens cry, because we are leaving Berlin.' Peering out into the dark wall of water, I felt like crying myself. I sucked on my beer like a pacifier, trying to prevent my lower-lip from wobbling in fear.

Suddenly a familiar smell assailed my nostrils, redolent of our previous weekend in Amsterdam. They' couldn't possibly? I glanced across at the driver, beer in one hand, a hand-rolled joint in the other, captaining this ship of fools with only one finger on the steering wheel and his head in the clouds.

My companion asked to see some of his recent photos. She dug his laptop computer from amidst the detritus on the floor. She cranked it up. Only she didn't know how to operate photo-shop, causing the driver to lean across to help. The van swerved wildly. The driver spilled his beer. I chanced a smile in his direction - more of a grimace - and he just shrugged in reply, spilling his beer again.

I tried to focus on the road ahead. Maybe if I could remain clear-headed, I could shout a warning, or at least know that I was going to die before it happened. But the second-hand dope fog in the cabin started to affect my senses. On top of the beer it blurred my vision further, and I watched in horror as the nebulous night air filled with phantoms from the darker recesses of my anxiety - of fences in our path, oncoming trucks, people holding their hands up imploring us to stop. The only thing I could do to stop myself from screaming was to close my eyes.

I woke a few hours later. My companion was snuggled up next to me, asleep. We passed a sign that said 'Bielefeld 9' and I knew that I was safe.

Next time I'm taking the train.

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