Breakdown
(First published in Issue 5, June 2022) The engine dies. Nothing works anymore. The steps in the track are too big, too much debris, too steep. Once again, I overestimated what our 35-year-old rear-wheel-drive firetruck could handle. Once again, I didn’t think twice before driving down here the other day. Once again, I didn’t listen to Franzi, my girlfriend, who asked at least five times if we could really get back up there. So now we’re stuck, in a rather stupid situation: the car is inclined, on a slope in the middle of nowhere on Crete’s south coast.
Okay then, first we get out and check the situation. Sweaty hands. The next seconds pass in slow motion. I didn’t see the fist-sized stone on which my left foot landed when I stepped out of the car. It moves under my weight, rolls away, my foot slips, and my ankle twists. I fall. First, there’s pain in the joint itself, then something tears further up. And then I’m lying there in the dust. What was already a stupid situation has turned into a real shit situation in a second.
The next day, the x-ray shows that the ankle joint is broken. In a first operation, two screws are put in. Six weeks later, they have to be removed. We stay in Crete and still want to continue. But from now on, some things will be different in our life on the road.
The first week after the operation, we spend at my parents' house, who live in Crete. Then, we are drawn back to our traveling home—we finally want to explore the island. And so we go. I am dependent on crutches and can’t put any weight on my leg. Driving isn’t possible, so Franzi has to do it. We arrive at the first spot, and the dogs need to go out. I can’t walk a dog, so Franzi has to take care of it.
The next few weeks will be a test for us. I can only do half of my usual tasks. I try as hard as I can. I cook, wash the dishes, chop wood while kneeling, and tend to the stove. I navigate and research camp spots, shopping facilities, and water sources. But Franzi is the one who has to get up at night because our puppy still isn’t sleeping through the night. Franzi maneuvers a vehicle over six meters long through narrow Greek villages and bumpy tracks, even though she had only driven it a few times before the accident. Franzi walks the dogs several times a day, practices with the little one, fills our water cans, goes shopping, drives, practices, drives, walks… I’m the one in pain, but Franzi is the one suffering.
Even if everything goes smoothly and you’re in top shape, the idealized full-time-vacation-world, aka “vanlife,” advertised on Instagram and Co is a castle in the air.
Life in a car is exhausting. Beautiful and diverse, but also very exhausting.
It doesn’t feel like a vacation. It feels like life. It comes with difficulties and tasks you don’t encounter in normal everyday life. You’re exposed to the weather much more directly. You don’t have a bathroom or a washing machine. You often have to rely on the help of other people—people who aren’t always friendly or cool. You have to try a lot of things, improvise, and leave many things undone. And living in a car with a broken leg doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t make a 24/7 relationship and living with two dogs in six square meters any easier either. It’s just a challenge we both could have done without.
Others might have canceled. We only discussed it for about two days. And of course, I didn’t want to end this unique experience because of a situation that was recklessly my fault. The weeks after the accident were nerve-wracking, but also beautiful. They showed us that you can do a lot together if you’re a good team.
Today, exactly four months after the accident (we are now in eastern Turkey), we can say it was the right decision to continue. I can walk again and am mostly pain-free. I can do all my tasks again. I can even get us into stupid situations again—although not quite as mindlessly as before—only now we handle them better, more calmly, and more easily. All because we both decided to keep going.
