It looked like just another day at the office when the phone on my desk rang.
"Good news, Roger," said the voice of my house-agent, "I sold your house this morning."
"That's rather quick," I heard myself say, and a little unsure of myself I wondered if I should be glad. Putting down the phone I looked stealthily at my boss. He always commented on private phone calls of others, while he phoned his wife at least six times a day. But, judging from the look on his face, this time he hadn't bothered to listen to my conversation.
I couldn't help but smile while I tried to imagine his face when I would say to him,
"Hey boss, listen! I quit! No, I haven't got a new job. I'll stop working completely. I'm going to travel and write a book about it!"
Saying those words aloud sounded unreal. At least I was no more than just an ordinary Dutchman, who just turned forty, was married, and had a good job, my own home and an almost new car.
Oh no, skip the home. I just sold that.

That phone call from my house-agent was the first step on my way to realize a dream I had had for several years: no more working, only travelling. I guess most people have that kind of dream but find it difficult or downright impossible to realize: no money, kids in school, oppressive family relations and a dozen other reasons.
About a year ago I also couldn't have thought it possible a dream like that could come true. But around that time I heard about plans for a complete reorganisation of the company. There was a good chance of my department being closed. Emotions between departments became strained and I, like most people in the company, lost satisfaction in the work I was doing. Of course, I could try to find a new job, like many of my colleagues were desperately trying to do. On the other hand this could be the opportunity to start something completely different.

"How would you like it if we bought a motor caravan and went travelling for a few years," I suggested to Francis, my wife. I was a little surprised to notice that she went for the plan with gusto. From that moment, we started thinking about it seriously.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a tough guy, who dares everything. I shuddered at the thought to leave certainties, like my house, my job, my car. Again, on the other hand, one stroke of a pen and I would find myself without a job. For weeks Francis and I fantasized, thought of exotic places to go to and, of course, tried to make sense of our financial situation.

One of my fantasies was that I would like to write a novel. I never found the time to start, but surely there would be time enough when travelling.
Whilst dreaming like that, one thing became absolutely clear. It was going to cost money! Money to buy and furnish a motor caravan and money for enough financial reserve to keep on travelling for a couple of years. I wasn't rich and therefore the only way to raise that kind of sum was to sell our house. If I made a little profit then that should be enough to realise both goals. And maybe it wouldn't be too difficult to find odd jobs in other countries to make a little extra.
We started saving on whatever we could. Subscriptions and club-memberships were cancelled; I sold the car; we skimped on the household budget and found many other ways to save cash.

A few years ago Francis and I had made a trip of several weeks with a rented motor caravan. During that time I found out what it was to stay in a 'van, but actually living in one for a couple of years should be different.
During that trip I had learned what my ideal motor caravan should look like: a rear dinette seating, big windows, room for a writing table where I could write my novel, a toilet and shower compartment, a large wardrobe, enough cupboards and, of course, a kitchen, fridge and oven. Francis likes to bake and I like to eat!

My initial idea was to buy everything new: cab and chassis, coach built body and upholstery. I asked around for prices and added them up. When I came to the bottom line I quickly found out that I had to sell three houses before I could afford that!
So I forgot about "everything new" and started checking the classifieds in search for a second-hand motor caravan.

Two days after I sold our house I received a phone call from a friend who works for a Mercedes dealer. He told me that at this very moment there was a motor caravan in their workshop that had just failed to pass its M.O.T. The owner would therefore like to get rid of it. Would I be interested?
In no-time Francis and I were at the garage. The motor caravan, a Mercedes 508, stood outside. It looked terrible dirty. Beneath a thick layer of dirt you could just see that it was painted in some sort of brown that used to be very popular in the mid-seventies.
The owner of the vehicle was a small guy with long, greasy hair. He introduced himself as Peter. He looked just as dirty as his motor caravan.
The Mercedes was just less than twenty feet long and the aluminium coach built body looked, notwithstanding those several layers of dirt, undamaged. The interior looked extremely dark and dirty. When Peter told me he had lived in this motor caravan for a few months with his wife, a baby and a big black dog I saw in flash a future picture of myself. Would I look like him in a few months from now? No, I decided, that depended on your own attitude.

The interior hadn't seen a mop or a broom for ages but it made, just like the outside, a solid impression. Cupboards and seats were made of good quality wood and looked as if they could withstand some rough roads. The interior was exactly what I was looking for: rear dinette, plenty of cupboards, side kitchen and room for a toilet compartment.
Above the cab was a double bed. That made the motor caravan quite high at the front, almost eleven feet. Peter saw me looking at the space between the mattress and the roof and said seriously:
"It's big enough to do anything in it you like."
I took some time in trying to find an answer and therefore he repeated:
"Take it from me, up there you can do everything, mate!"
I mumbled some words and saw Francis looking vacantly at some point in the distance. That made Peter think I still hadn't got his point and he repeated his words for a third time.

Despite its looks the 508 appeared to be quite reasonable. It had failed its M.O.T. because the brake system needed a complete overhaul, which can be a costly affair. But Peter's asking price seemed to be all right and after some bargaining I handed over seven thousand pounds. Now I was able to call myself the proud owner of a heap of dirt without brakes.

A few days later I collected the Mercedes from the workshop. It was the first time I sat behind the wheel of such a big car and started sweating profusely. I had to get used to its width and the car waddled across the road.
A few weeks earlier we had decided to choose the image of a goose as a symbol of our voyage. In our opinion a goose stands for freedom and the possibility to travel long distances. Therefore it didn't take long to find a name for our motor caravan. It became affectionately known as "Gus Goose", mostly shortened to "Gus".

Arriving home we decided to give it a good clean-up. Francis started working on the interior and I hosed down the outside. The carpets had, what we thought, long, dirty, black stripes on them. Using the vacuum-cleaner Francis found out that it was almost half an inch of dog's hairs!
After I had removed the layers of dirt by soaking them for several hours in a solution of household cleaner and warm water, Gus looked like a well-made and sound motor caravan again. In the weeks following the clean-up I started rebuilding and painting the interior and so arose a motor caravan that suited our taste.
Four months before actually starting our trip we decided to live in Gus. That had the benefit not having to find a temporary home and gave us the opportunity to try out living in a motor caravan. If something was missing or something went wrong we could still easily fix it. And it helped to save money.
We also had to find out if Francis and I could live together in a motor caravan. We had been married for almost sixteen years but that's no guarantee we could also live together in a cramped room of fourteen feet long and seven feet wide. If our marriage could survive the next four months, then a few years shouldn't present a problem.

Gradually the general outline of our trip took shape. I thought it a good idea to drive to the south-coast of France and then follow the coast-line of Spain to the Algarve in Portugal. Maybe we would cross over to Morocco. In any case I wanted to stay in the Algarve till winter was over and then go back to Southern-France. From there we would go to Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece and Turkey. Then back to Holland through Russia, Poland and East-Germany, if the political situation would allow it. I made these plans in the summer of 1989, when the Perestroika was beginning to take shape, but future events changed them drastically.

Most people we told of our plans thought it too ordinary and said we should do something really fantastic, like going to "Timbuktu". Taking three months to get to Spain sounded too dull. At least my brother-in-law said:
"When I go on holiday I drive that distance in two days!"
Not everyone approved of our plans. Some people actually thought I was plain mad to sell my house and give up a perfectly good job. Others worried about what could happen to us in the form of hold-ups, car trouble, weird diseases and other evil prophecies. Happily some people liked our plans. Older people said they also would like to travel if only they were my age; younger people said they liked to do it but wanted to wait till they would be as old as I.

My doctor was a nice man but didn't understand one word of my plans.
"Whatever you do, don't go to a Spanish doctor!" he said, but couldn't tell me what I should do if I needed medical attention. Another of his advices was a "haemoglobin"-injection against an infection of the liver, but only after he had stuck the needle in my rear, he realized that such an injection only gives protection for six months. And we weren't about to leave for another two months!
The dentist was more knowledgeable about travelling. He had made long journeys through Africa and knew what kind of troubles we could run into. He lent me a book on travels through the Sahara. When I read all those stories about being bogged down in the desert sand and digging for hours to free the car I began to have second thoughts.

The four months on the campsite went very quickly without any accidents or incidents. On the last day of August I started the eighty-five horsepower diesel engine of Gus and took to the road. We were on our way!