Sharing Showers with Frogs

by Nicky Carter

>1. Introduction

A sea of battered cars, trucks, bicycles and donkeys stretched out before us. Kicking up clouds of dust as they jostled for position on the dirt road leading to the border crossing.

A constant flow of humanity dressed in Jellabas and Kaftans laden down with overstuffed sacks streamed passed us. They were totally ignored by armed officials – distinct in their sky blue uniforms with elaborate gold epaulettes and oversized peak caps – who were frantically trying to direct cars and animals, this way and that. The human mules simply walked around the razor-wired passport control compound and into the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, on the northern most tip of Africa.

The noise of hundreds of horns blasting, donkeys braying and the cries of impatient drivers were deafening. The heat was intense and there was no breeze. The acrid smell of rubbish, rotting fish, animal dung and exhaust fumes was overwhelming.

My boyfriend Derek and I had been stuck in the traffic jam for hours and judging by the chaos in front of us we would be there for a few more.

It was at this point I smiled to myself. Our drunken decision to quit our jobs, sell our house in the North of England, foster out our two cats, and buy a motor home and go travelling had been the right thing to do after all.

For years my boyfriend Derek and I had dreamed of going travelling. We had idealistic visions of idly wandering cobbled streets of sleepy Spanish towns; energetically splashing about in crystal clear waters of undiscovered beaches of the Adriatic; mastering a language or three and stuffing ourselves silly with tasty traditional European dishes. But like most people the nearest we got to our travel daydream was a budget week to the Greek Islands once a year.

By day Derek, a thirty something, blue eyed Scot, worked at a large car dealership group as an after sales manager. By night he voraciously read travel books. The combined weight of the tales of intrepid treks to Tibet, single-handed sails across the Atlantic, cycling solo around Spain, travels to deepest darkest Borneo and adventures on Mount Everest tested the strength of our bookcase shelves.

While Derek read, I flicked through the channels on the television searching for holiday programmes or documentaries featuring reports on far flung destinations. I craved information and seducing images on romantic getaways and quiet corners of Europe.

Close friends could not understand my obsession with travel. They thought my job as a motor sport coordinator allowed me to jet all over the world interviewing drivers. It escaped their notice the championship I took care of was UK bound. The nearest I got to free trips to foreign fields was Dublin once a year.

Derek and I had travelled a little in our youth. He went to Australia, with a previous girlfriend, for a year. I, meanwhile, went to the Soviet Union, when it was still the Soviet Union. But our appetite for travel had not been sated.

We didn’t have a burning ambition to risk life and limb venturing up the Amazon, to retrace Captain Scot’s ill-fated trek to the Antarctic or go native in Africa. We simply wanted to broaden our horizons. Visit some of the better-known attractions and lesser-known locations in Europe.

We talked about this kind of travel when we were stretched out on a towel, lobster-red, on a brief sojourn in the sun. We mused over what it would be like to sit at pavement cafes sipping espressos in France and experience the nightlife in a German brewery without the worry of having to pack up suitcases ready for an early morning flight home. But that is all it was . . .talk.

That is until one chilly New Year’s Eve.

Then There Was Light

It was too cold outside to trot from pub to pub and party to party like the rest of the country. So we snuggled up in the living room of our half renovated, mid terrace in Darlington in the North East of England.

There was nothing on television apart from 10-year-old repeats and live updates from parties around the country. We subjected ourselves to lame jokes and canned laughter for half an hour, then pressed the mute button, uncorked a bottle of wine and we began chatting.

The conversation drifted from topic to topic for several hours, then when snow started fluttering down outside talk turned to escaping to the sun – permanently. Our gossip egged on by the plethora of holiday commercials featuring sun-kissed isles, which emanated from the silent television screen.

“If only we had enough money to pack it all in and go travelling,” Derek said.

“We do have enough money to go travelling,” I said absent-mindedly.

Our jobs brought in healthy incomes. We didn’t have a mortgage to pay, we had enough spare cash to eat out when we liked and go on three holidays a year. We just didn’t have the energy to go out for meal after a hard day’s work or the time to go on three holidays a year.

“Well why don’t we do it then?” Derek said.

“Yeah, let’s do it. What’s stopping us?”

Our house was in not in a fit habitable state never mind ready for sale, I had a year to run on my contract as a motor sport coordinator and we owned two elderly, difficult to re-home cats.

Standing amidst the bags of cement, mortar and Artex that littered our living room floor, we stood opposite each other and shook hands to seal the deal.

We continued chatting into the early hours, emptied another couple of bottles of wine and by the time we collapsed into bed we had formulated how we would fund our travel plan. We hypothesised that if we finished renovating our house before the market crashed, sold it for a healthy profit, sold our cars, auctioned off furniture and unwanted possessions and managed to foster out our cats, the scheme was within our reach.

The next morning when we were both sober, the subject wasn’t mentioned. In fact nothing was said for a week or so, however travel guides had miraculously replaced the stack of house magazines on the living room coffee table.

We hadn’t lifted a finger to improve the house and by the middle of February we weren’t any closer to reaching our dream, but we had talked a lot about it. Drastic action had to be taken and Derek was the one to take it.

“Let’s set a deadline,” he said after a particularly harrowing day dealing with whinging customers whose clutches refused to clutch.

“Okay,” I replied holding my hand over the telephone receiver – the Brazilian driver I was in conversation had a ropey grasp of English and I didn’t want to confuse him further. “When?”

“Before Bloody Christmas!” Derek responded before he stalked off towards the kitchen in search of sustenance.

At the time it didn’t seem such an unrealistic target. There was still a good few days left in February. All we had to do was reconstruct a couple of walls, plaster them, rewire all the electrics, plumb in a few extra radiators, move the bathroom upstairs, enlarge and replace the kitchen, replace the downstairs windows, fully redecorate, carpet the house, find homes for our cats, sell our cars, sell the house, quit our jobs and oh, figure out how just exactly how, and in what, we were going to do our travelling. No problem. Well not if you had a team of builders at your beck and call.

By the time March replaced February on the calendar in my office there had been some movement on our house renovation. The kitchen was now in the living room. It was extremely hard work and there was more than one voice raised in anger as we worked late into the night. Maintaining two full time jobs, trying to renovate a house and organise a new way of life travelling was too much though for just the two of us. We called in a few favours.

Decorators, in the form of our friends Dave and Simon, were drafted in and bribed with an offer of alcohol to help us paper and paint, sand and stain and by mid May the house was almost habitable.

An estate agent’s board was finally erected at the beginning of June when prices were soaring and we turned our attention to finding ourselves a suitable new, travelling abode.

We spent a great deal of time discussing exactly how we would travel. The cheapest form of travelling we knew about was inter-railing. Although inexpensive it just wasn’t a realistic option for long term travelling. The next step up the economy ladder we surmised was packing a reasonably large tent and equipment into my not so large Hyundai hatchback. After contemplating the amount of equipment we would need, let alone clothes for the trip, this idea was soon discarded as well.

Derek toured down under in a small Volkswagen pop-top camper and said it proved to be a worthy home for a year. A quick visit to a local motor home dealer to inspect their stock of rusting German people mobiles changed his mind. We inspected a similar model camper to the one he’d owned and agreed we needed something larger.

We searched the Internet, bought a forest’s worth of magazines and visited countless motor home dealers trying to find the right vehicle at the right price. We even visited a camping and caravan show, where all we managed to get was a little more confused on what we actually needed.

Countless discussions on the style, layout, chassis and number of berths we would need took place. One feature we felt essential was for the vehicle to be left hand drive for ease of manoeuvring on the continent. Though many manufacturers offer them for sale we were staggered by the prices.

After a couple of weeks when the ramifications of how much money we would have to part with for a reasonably sized van sank in, we resumed our search. Instead of looking at dealer listings in the four-foot stack of magazines we had accumulated, we now looked at the classified second hand section.

Derek spend thousands of hours trawling the web and finally found a selection of motor homes that were a) left hand drive b) within our price range and c) not too old and decrepit. A couple of weeks were spent e-mailing the respective owners and once we were in receipt of some interior and exterior photographs of each van we decided to visit them in person.

The three vans we short-listed unfortunately were all located at the other end of the country from us. We mapped out a route, informed the owners of our expected arrival dates and times and packed overnight bags.

By the time we had inspected the first two vans we felt totally downhearted. Neither resembled the photographs we had been sent, well they probably did, once years ago, before they had been on long-term loan to the British army for night time manoeuvres.

It was with sinking hearts we set out to view the last van in Chichester. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and mud, but appeared to be in good order. We inspected it, trying out all seven of the berths, opening every cupboard and had the engine running for a good half an hour. Once we were completely satisfied every nook and cranny had been explored and mentally recorded we thanked the owners and said we’d be in touch.

On the long drive north Derek and I discussed the van and it’s potential as our possible new home, despite it’s gargantuan size. We had been looking for something slightly smaller and easier to manoeuvre but it had all our requirements - bed above the cab, bathroom with shower area, a large garage for storing our bikes, a dinette, kitchen area, lots of storage space and a dark, stains don’t show upholstery. The only damage we spotted was a slightly melted taillight.

A few days later, after a lot of deliberation, we made a telephone call to make an offer on the van. Derek spent an hour or so bartering and by the time the receiver was laid into its cradle a deal had been made.

It was several weeks before we were able to make the long trek south to Chichester armed with a banker’s draft to collect our new home. By which time we were fortunate to have received an offer on our house, a very substantial offer, which we accepted readily.

For weeks our seven-metre long Fiat-based Adria van lay dormant outside our house. Derek, like any proud vehicle owner, spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning and polishing the exterior until the police erected a screen around it to stop passing motorists crashing from the reflective glare.

The first time we had the opportunity to test the van out fully and not just sit inside with our coffees after work, came a full month after we picked it up. Derek’s septuagenarian mother, Betty, needed a lift to Glasgow where she would be staying at her sister’s for a couple of weeks. As both of us had the weekend off it was the ideal opportunity to try out the motor home.

Derek and I packed light – milk, coffee, two cups, one spoon, a whistling kettle, toothbrushes, deodorant and a couple of towels. We were only going to be away for two nights after all.

Betty was dispatched by mid afternoon and we went off in search of a campsite for the night. We found one at Hamilton, on the outskirts of Glasgow, home of Scotland’s only theme park. We parked up in the shadow of a big rusty dipper as far away from the large cluster of tents, which appeared to house an unruly mob of teenage girls. As the sun set the temperature plummeted and an icy chill swept through the van. No problem we thought, simply switch on the gas central heating. The buttons all had weird, undecipherable symbols. We weren’t sure if we pressed the upside down umbrella button it would activate the blown air heating or blow the van up. The instruction manuals were no help – they were all in German.

“Der – that’s the, I think,” I said trying to remember anything relevant from the countless hours spent studying German at school. After a couple of hours I’d only succeeded translating the word ‘the’ 47 times and I gave up, donned another jumper and declared we should go to the pub to warm up.

On the long walk to the theme bar we finally tracked down I remembered how to order a beer, knew how to inform someone I lived in the North of England and that I had brown hair in German, but it was irrelevant. The locals didn’t speak German they spoke Scottish. For those not in the know, it’s a bit like English speeded up and given a very strong accent.

“Whitkeneegetya?” the red faced barman garbled.

I stood looking blank. I didn’t immediately think he’d asked a question. I actually thought he was clearing his throat. Derek stepped in to translate after the barman repeated himself a further three times.

Derek, born and bred in Glasgow, moved south of the border aged 16. In the intervening years his accent had mellowed a lot and had, fortunately, adapted to speaking relatively understandable English.

Derek brought our drinks over to the table I’d secured in front of a real flame fake coal fire. It may not have been the real deal fire but the result was the same. I soon had a rosy glow in my cheeks and Derek started shedding layers.

“You’ll have to get a German to English dictionary,” Derek announced after we’d been sat for a while.

“What do you mean I’ll have to get one? Why can’t you get one?” I asked accusingly.

“You’ve got time on your hands. You spend all day just sat at home watching TV,” goaded me.

“Whatever,” I said dismissively. On two occasions since I’d started working from home, Derek had popped in during the day and found me stretched out on the sofa watching an Australian soap opera. He didn’t believe my protestations I was actually having a lunch break.

We weren’t seriously worried about the German manual situation. Half an hour on a free translation web site would solve the problem. After all, the weekend was all about getting to know the motor home. We had a few more drinks to ward off the cold before we staggered back to the campsite.

Our breath formed vapour trails when we exhaled inside the van but we stripped off and climbed up the aluminium ladder to our spacious looking bed above the cab.

We’d wanted this sort of motor home, which resembles a white van with a large Elvis style quiff above the windscreen, as we calculated less time would be spent making up and taking down our bed. Once sheets, pillows and duvet were in the elevated cubbyhole they could stay there, with brief excursions for washing purposes, out of the way.

I was first up the ladder and scurried on hands and knees to the front of the cubbyhole, which narrowed off quite abruptly. Derek quickly followed and we snuggled up under the duvet to get warm. It wasn’t the most restful sleep I’d ever had. Every time I turned over or pulled the duvet tighter around my neck some part of my body rattled nosily against the roof of the motor home.

“It’ll take some time to get use to it,” Derek placated.

“It’s okay for you; you’ve got loads of height on your side. My nose is only a couple of inches off the ceiling,” I moaned.

“Ahh but I’m bigger than you and need more space,” he countered. Seeing the look on my face he quickly agreed, for the sake of fairness and an easy life, to let me test-drive his side of the bed that night.

And I did. There definitely was more headroom and it felt more spacious though something was digging into my back. Rolling over, I pulled the duvet back and found a long wooden bar with what looked like an ugly net curtain attached to it. I stowed it away under the mattress and settled down for a good night’s sleep.

I was still half asleep when I stepped out of bed, to answer a call of nature, during the night. Without thinking I threw my legs over the side of the bed. I had expected to feel the floor beneath my feet, but before my brain could register I wasn’t in a normal bed, the laws of gravity took over and I plummeted out of the cubbyhole.

“Arghhh, umpff, umppff, ouch,” I squealed as I skidded down the ladder, bounced off the table, ricocheted off the sofa and finally landed in a heap on the floor.

“What the h..” Derek shouted, sitting bolt upright in bed. Bang went his head off the roof of the van. “Ohhhh,” he simpered as he flicked on the lights.

I limped off to the toilet, whimpering as I went. For such a short fall I’d managed to do a fair bit of damage. My right thigh looked as though someone had taken a cheese grater to it. Blood oozed out of a hole in my foot and a big black bruise was swelling up on my forehead.

Derek was busy inspecting the ladder, carpet and upholstery for any blood splatters when I finally exited the bathroom. Satisfied I hadn’t sprayed his precious motor home with any bodily fluids he assisted in a bit of triage

I made a mental note to invest in a proper first aid kit as Derek secured his makeshift bandages - soggy toilet roll - in place with Sellotape.

“I think that’s sorted out the sleeping arrangements. I’d better sleep on the outside,” Derek said as he pushed me back up the ladder. “We don’t want you vaulting the safety rail again.”

“What safety rail?” I questioned, trying to manoeuvre my sore limbs down the bed.

“This one,” he replied mischievously dragging the mesh barrier from under mattress where I’d shoved it earlier.

“Oh that’s what that is,” I squeaked.

Instruction manuals were translated and a first aid kit invested in when we got home. Then Derek and I set about sorting the house ready for moving out. Our families had already been cajoled into moving their furniture about to accommodate ours, but there was still so much to sort. Rubbish had been bagged and transported to the local skip. We were flabbergasted at the amount of stuff we had managed to accumulate over the years. If we’d simply been moving house it probably wouldn’t have been a problem. As it was we were moving lock, stock and steaming kettle into a four-metre by seven-metre aluminium box with a 3.5 tonne weight limit.

Notification came through from the estate agent on a completion date for early September and as the deadline approached I became a little frantic trying to figure out what to do with items we hadn’t earmarked for storage in my mum’s loft or Derek’s mum’s spare bedroom. Things we’d moved from the previous house, never unpacked but refused to throw out and had been gathering dust in the under stairs cupboard. The two fake Christmas trees we’d shoved under the bed? Did anyone need another? Could Betty or my mum be persuaded to make more room for them? Derek rectified the situation by pointing out we hadn’t actually put up a Christmas tree for three years, so they were lobbed unceremoniously into a skip along with a plethora of other essential non-essentials we still held onto.

This still left the problem of my two cats. They couldn’t simply be thrown into the skip. Well they could, but they would have climbed back out. It wasn’t a realistic option to bring them travelling with us. Neither of us envisaged ourselves taking them for walks on leads, or sweeping cat litter off the van floor.

“Well they could stay with me,” my mother offered when I explained the situation on the telephone. “As long . .”

I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I was busy rounding up the two sleeping bundles into cat baskets so I could drop them off before she could change her mind.

Although Derek and I agreed we would aim to be on the road at the beginning of December, his feet were getting itchier and itchier with every passing day. He was placated slightly when, at the beginning of September we handed over the keys to our house and journeyed sixteen miles west to Barnard Castle.

Originally we had agreed to be away before Christmas. The earliest date I could commit to leaving was the beginning of December as I still had a contract to fulfil. Derek badgered and pestered and after a lot of phone calls I managed to bring the date forwards a couple of months. Even with the earlier leaving date we needed a place to stay for a month.

My mum, once again, came to the rescue. Derek and I packed the remainders of our worldly possessions into the motor home and my little car - which still needed a new owner - and set forth to squeeze into her three-bed semi along with her, her two moggies, my two cats and my younger brother.

We tucked the money from the house sale into a high interest account and arranged a direct debit to ensure £800, the sum we calculated we needed to survive, would be wired through to our joint account on a monthly basis.

Three days before we were due to catch the ferry at Poole, on the south coast of England, I closed my laptop to work and hurriedly set about sorting clothes, make up and shoes for our trip. We didn’t have a cast iron route in mind for our travelling, moreover a fluid see what we feel like changeable plan so it was difficult choosing what to take with me. I pondered for a couple of hours, and then when Derek’s back was turned loaded everything on the motor home. I stuffed and squished the contents of my two wardrobes aboard and was certain there would be some special occasions to wear the cocktail dresses, ski suits and my large collection of stunning stilettos.

Derek was also sure there would be some special occasions but insisted I’d gone over the top in packing and supervised the unloading of the majority of my stash.

“Three pairs of shoes max,” he said arms folded legs apart in a determined stance.

There was a flurry of tearful goodbyes from family and friends the morning we departed for Poole to catch the ferry. They lined up on the pavement, waving hands and hankies in the air.

Derek set the odometer to zero, cast me a conspiratorial grin and then turned the ignition key. As the throaty 2.8 diesel engine purred into life the accelerator was depressed and we started rolling.

“Next stop France,” he shouted out of the window to our small crowd of well wishers.

Twenty feet later we came to an abrupt screeching, crunching stop. It could have been due to the anticipation or a lack of concentration that caused Derek to swing the wheel a tad too quickly that halted our progress so soon.

Manoeuvring the motor home off the drive, a task Derek had undertaken many times; the back end collided with one of my mum’s gateposts with splintering results. Fragments of taillight littered the tarmac.

“It’ll be okay,” Derek, said shakily as he surveyed the damage to the van, picking up pieces of plastic as we went.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” my mum reassured looking at her misaligned gatepost.

Once over the shock of crashing his beloved motor home Derek affected a superb emergency repair with super glue and tank tape and we were on the road at last, destination unknown, adventure guaranteed.