Pilgrims’ Progress

Berlin, Germany
by Rob - because only he was there

It was time for one final skirmish with the German Bureaucracy machine. Having successfully abmeldung-ed (de-registered) one van the previous day without any real problems, I was anticipating my trip to Leipzig would be similarly smooth. But the “B” monster was to raise its head once more!

Driving the Womo to Leipzig with all our gear removed and with only one person in it was like driving a different vehicle. It felt peppy! Well, almost… it still took close to two and a half hours to cover the 190kms in the rain. The couple who have bought the van are as crazy as we are – they have spent the last three years touring around Southeast Asia and India with their two children in their yacht. He is a German master mariner, who left Germany twenty years ago; she is a Kiwi jewellery designer. They plan a three month road trip around Europe and the UK in The Bear Cave. We could have spent all day exchanging stories, but we headed into the KFZ Zulassungsstelle (big bland administration building) to do The Paperwork. Apparently there is a German saying that roughly translates - “papers when you are born, papers when you die, and papers everywhere in between”. German bureaucracy has a staunch reputation to maintain; a distinct contrast to our laid-back Kiwi processes.  Thankfully we also had a German friend of the husband with us, who knew the process inside out, and steered us through to the right buildings and rooms.

Briefly, the process is that you report to a front “reception” desk where all your documents are checked by a stern-faced-but-friendly administrator, and you are then issued with a card which has a number on it – your place in the queue. The car number plates and the documents are taken from you at this stage. You then take a seat and watch the stadium-scoreboard-like screen until your number appears alongside the booth number that you have to report to. Our number was 115. The board read 63. We were in for a bit of a wait! The German friend suggested we head to a nearby Kantina he knew, where we could get a decent cheap lunch. We had a leisurely munch and strolled back to the waiting room. When we got there, 115 was just scrolling up to the top of the screen. Here was the first place we almost came unstuck. By the time we ran up to the booth where we were supposed to report, another customer had been admitted and our number had been “removed”. Why were we late? Did we know it was verboten to leave the waiting room? No, we had missed our place in the queue. It was only through some quick talking, and the pity of the administrator in the next booth, who was not serving anyone, that we were able to sit down and actually be served without having to go and get another number in the queue! Soon to follow was another humorous event, which highlighted the differences between the two countries. Uli (the master mariner) sat down at the desk to start the process of transferring ownership. As only two desks were occupied, I reached across to move a chair next to him and watch the process. No sooner had I moved the chair the two metres from its position in front of the empty desk next to us, than the administrator sternly told me in German that it was verboten to move the chairs and I must leave it where it had been!
Uli, with a dead pan expression, faced the furniture official and said in German: ”Sorry, he is from New Zealand. They move chairs there”. I think the humour behind his explanation was missed by everyone except us!
The chair now being safely back in its original position, the process continued for several minutes until the next bureaucratic hurdle appeared in our path. In order for the road tax to be paid, Uli needed to have a German bank account. Which he didn’t have. A long discussion with his friend and the official explored other options – pay by cash? No, the finance department was closed. Pay by credit card? No, not possible. Use Uli’s friend’s account information? Possible, but they needed bank details, which we didn’t have on us. Surely there must be a way?……
However, after several minutes it became apparent that we would need to go to the local bank and try and open an account for Uli. No small task actually – normally the bank requires you to make an appointment in advance to open an account. Thankfully they allowed Uli (after much discussion) to open an account On The Spot – although it was still an hour an a half, and half a ream of paper before that was completed – now it was 3:30 pm. By which time the registration offices was… you guessed it… closed! After all, this was a Friday!

So the saga concluded for the day (except for re-collecting the plates and papers and returning them to the van so it could still be driven). It would have to be Monday before the vehicle could be re-registered, and mercifully, I would not be needed for any further part in the process. It had been an eventful and humorous day despite the frustrations, but I was relieved to finally sink down into my seat on the high speed ICE train back to Berlin. 202km/hr for much of the journey and silky smooth. The Germans sure know how to make a train network….I wonder what the paperwork had been like to complete that!

At the end of it all – two vans sold, two vans de-registered, two vans delivered to their new owners, cash in hand.
And a ton of memories to treasure from our time on the road.

and the BiserToBerlin RoadRace…

Biser, Bulgaria

We’ve been here a week and haven’t even walked through the village. Unheard of for us! But in some ways it didn’t matter where we were right now – just had to be off Schengen territory and preferably somewhere kids could hang out while we got the vans in tip-top shape. Biser (pronounced bisser) provided both, and more.
So this morning I head out of the gate and off for a walk with some of the kids….

…..and we are drawn into village life.
We stop to watch an old man lead his donkey and cart towards the road. When he reaches us he stops to connect and let the kids pat the donkey.

A little further up the road, a lady is sweeping the footpath and I snap a quick pic of her. When we reach her and say our “dobry den” (good day), she clasps my arm and quite literally pulls me in to view her gorgeous flower-filled garden. When I ask to take a photo, she removes her apron, smooths her hair and poses in front of the laden pear tree, calling for her daughter and grandson to come out and meet us (multi-generational living is not uncommon in Bulgaria).

Across the street, and right next door to the flowering oasis yards are disguised under high-growing weeds, houses falling to pieces. Actually, the greater part of the village is like that, but then there are pockets of beauty that spill right out past the courtyard walls to the street.

In a village that is mostly tumbledown, there is also an intriguing very-out-of-place tudor house.

A man called Dr Jenkins and his Bulgarian wife moved to England, where they had a son. Tragically the son was killed, and in their grief they returned to Biser to build a memorial for him. The house is uninhabited (the parents went back to England) and it is now a mixed memorial to the boy and to Biser history.
Actually, there’s a bit of death round here. We are intrigued at the number of houses with death announcements attached to the gate. In such a small village, you would not expect so much death.

Across the road from the tudor house, this Saturday morning two old ladies are deep in conversation, but when I glance with a smile in their direction they draw us in. It still amazes me how much you can converse with someone when you speak none of their language. And quickly you find yourself echoing words they understand. This would be a fantastic place to learn the language. People stand around in the streets chatting, and readily invite you into their conversations. Almost every house has a bench of some description (usually *decrepit* would be the right word, but I took a picture of the one nice arrangement of seats that we stumbled across) parked on the footpath, for the express dual purpose of watching the world go by and talking with neighbours.

They sit, chat and then move up the street to another bench, another friend. Two old men invite us to sit with them. As I understand it, I have done the spiel about having eight children and coming from New Zealand and no I don’t speak Bulgarian, but I have agreed that yes I speak English and so one man ambles off to find someone who can also speak English. We wait. And wait. I don’t understand a word of what the remaining man says – his lack of teeth and almost-permanently-closed mouth do not exactly make for clear speech. I start doubting. Maybe he didn’t say to wait. Maybe he’s gone home for lunch. Maybe I kicked him off his bench. And then Elena arrives. She does, indeed, speak English and before long we are all invited for coffee tomorrow at five.

(this is not Elena and she does not speak a word of English either - she
stops to talk while we are waiting and waiting and waiting)

We continue our walk, passing normal Saturday morning activities – old ladies are out shopping, men stack firewood, children play in the sandy footpaths, one family sits outside plucking and gutting half a dozen chickens, a handful of cars pass us, and just as many horses-or-donkeys-and carts too. We walk through the town square, a large open deserted area. Off to the side is the school, empty today, but in use during the week. It’s a big grey forboding falling-apart communist era building. The Bulgarian orthodox church, survived communism, but only just.

Now we have much more of a feel for the place we have planted ourselves in for a couple of weeks. We are amazed at how welcome we feel.

Biser, Bulgaria