Travels with Gus

"Show me your hands!"

In the second week of September Francis and I drove through the champagne-district just a little east of the city of Reims in the northern part of France. We followed a scenic route that winded through quiet little villages, dense forests and many vineyards. Although the sun hid mostly behind clouds it was rather warm.

It had been no more than two weeks after we left Holland for a two-year trip with "Gus", our motor caravan but already Francis started to worry about our financial situation. She decided it was time to find a job. To be honest I didn't like that idea at all. I enjoyed our trip, but even I was brought up with the notion that holidays can not last forever. We had to earn some money.
Because we had seen so many vineyards the idea was obvious. Why not pick grapes? I thought that the bunches of grapes looked quite ripe and it would not be long before the harvest started.

That evening I parked Gus for the night on a small parking lot in a little village called Trépail. Across the road stood a shabbily dressed man leaning against a lamppost. I asked him if he knew if we could find work somewhere.
In broken French the man answered that in a few days time the grape-harvest would start. Every year he came especially over from Portugal for this.
The idea to make money that way appealed to me, but the Portuguese looked disapprovingly. I saw him looking at my clothes and I almost heard him think. When I asked him to tell me more he suddenly said to me:
"Show me your hands!"
I held my hands close to his. What more could I say? It was painful to see my pale office-hands in comparison to his that were weathered, callous and full of coal-black chaps.
It was obvious that the Portuguese didn't think the world of my future career as an agricultural labourer. He emphasized that picking grapes was really hard physical work.
"But if you really want to," he said, "you only have to go to one of the wine-growers in this village and ask for work."

The next day we undertook with little hope of success our first application attempt. Trépail was maybe the smallest village in the champagne-district but it certainly didn't look poor. Attached next to almost every street-door was a copper plate, that said the occupant was making champagne, buying champagne or selling champagne.
In the main street we walked past a shed with large folding doors. In the entrance stood a strange-looking tractor with very high and extremely small wheels. It looked like some kind of spider.
It was dark in the shed but in the rear I could see a young man of around sixteen, hosing down the floor with a high-pressure cleaner. I asked in the best French I could muster if he knew where we could pick grapes. To my surprise the boy reacted seriously. He wiped his hands on his boiler-suit and said:
"Just wait here, please, I'll go and ask my dad."

A few minutes later he returned with his father, a heavily-built man of around fifty. He had quite an appearance and after my conversation with the Portuguese labourer I didn't feel so competent anymore. I instantly forgot all my prepared French sentences and stammering and stuttering I repeated the question in a mixture of all the languages I had ever learned. Despite that Francis and I didn't seem to make a bad impression. The man didn't start to laugh, but said: "Come to my house, we can talk about it."

In the oak-panelled kitchen he introduced us to his wife, a robust little lady with a friendly, open face and humorous eyes. After we were seated round a big table he offered us a glass of champagne! That looked promising. I had never before received a glass of champagne during a job-interview.
After some time we started to understand each other better and I was able to ask some questions. The "patron" told me that he had already taken on a team of approximately twenty pickers, but could always use an extra pair of hands. All of them, including us, would have their meals together with his family. Everyone also slept in his house. He had room enough for us too; it was quite alright that Francis and I preferred to spend the nights in our motor caravan.
I couldn't think of any more questions and, after a second glass of champagne we left and walked back to Gus. It was then that I realized I had completely forgotten to ask how much money we were going to earn. Francis confessed that she had thought of it but didn't want to ask, afraid to be rude. Why shouldn't you talk about money, even if they are nice people? Oh well, the important thing was that we had a job!

The harvest started a few days later. At half past seven the patron put the whole team in a trailer behind his spidery tractor and drove to the vineyards. I had thought Trépail a quiet and doting little village, but this morning the village suddenly sprang into life. Everywhere around us I saw yellow flashlights of other tractors on their way to the vineyards. In the light of the early morning it looked like a torch-light procession.
When we arrived at the vineyard the patron gave us a small, razor-sharp pair of scissors and showed us that you don't pick grapes as I had thought, but cut the stem with the scissors just above the bunch.
It really proved to be exhausting work. The bunches of grapes hid between the dense foliage of the four feet high vines. To cut them I had to walk stooped through the vineyard. After a quarter of an hour my back started to ache, after half an hour my knees began to tremble and within an hour everything hurt.
Francis and I were the only novices. Almost desperately we tried to keep pace with the others, who in no-time were miles ahead of us. After awhile they too seemed to be troubled by aching muscles. The patron tried to encourage us to keep going by shouting constantly,
"C'est dure! C'est dure!"(it's hard).

At twelve o'clock the tractor brought us back to the village for lunch. The patron had turned the shed into some sort of scullery, where his wife had cooked lunch. There was a large table in the form of a "T". The patron and his family had their seats at the head of the table.
We found ourselves in a mixed company in which at first we didn't feel at ease. Everyone spoke only French. I could make myself reasonably understood in that language, but when twenty or more people started chattering it became impossible to comprehend even one word.
Lunch was a more comprehensive affair than I had expected. For starters the patron poured us all, like a true host, a glass of champagne and after that his wife served soup, potatoes, three kinds of vegetables and two kinds of meat. In the centre of the table stood several bottles of red wine, beer and lemonade of which we were allowed to take as much as we liked.
The servings at both lunch and dinner -that followed the same routine- were very generous. That's why the patron said:
"Good food means good work!" And quite right he was.

At half past one we were taken back to the vineyards and, as soon as we got there, our generous host turned into a first-class slave-driver. We had to work vigorously and there was no way we could sneak out for a little break.
In his breast-pocket the patron carried a little blue book in which he was constantly scribbling notes. On everything I did wrong he produced the book and said laughing:
"I'll make a note of that!"
I assumed he was only joking and used the little blue book to note the daily proceeds of the vineyards. In any case it did not contain the working-hours or the time for a coffee-break, because they changed every day.

Not all vineyards lay close together. The wine-growers from Trépail had formed some kind of co-operation in which every grower had, in addition to his own, also some parts of the very best slopes. In every vineyard we only had to cut ten or fifteen rows of vines, and then we were taken to another one.
"That is," explained our patron, "to mix different grapes. Real champagne is made from a mix of white and blue grapes of different slopes. Each has its own specific soil conditions, windward side and total hours of sun-exposure and produces grapes of different aromas and flavours."
Therefore we were constantly shuttled from one vineyard to another, but who was I to complain? I whole-heartedly enjoyed the ten minutes rest on the trailer on our way to the other side of the village.

At the end of the afternoon the pace of work lowered at a quick rate. Many pickers started to talk or make jokes, until the patron got fed up and shouted,
"Coupe!" (Keep on cutting!).
For some time everyone then worked on in silence but after five o'clock the shouting didn't help much. Many backs were straightened and every minute you could hear someone ask:
"What time is it now?"
The patron never told us what time we were going to stop until the very last minute. Nobody dared to say: "I've done enough for today. I quit!"
To keep everybody going the patron shouted:
"Tageulle, coupe!" an expression that can be roughly translated as: "Shut your trap, or else...!"
I had understood the meaning of those words on the first day but the literal translation became clear to me only on the last day. I was surprised to find I could so easily change my norms. Here I accepted the authority of the patron without question, while no more than a month ago I would in a similar situation, have called upon the help of the union.
As soon as he crossed the threshold of his house the slave-driver from the vineyards transformed into a loving husband. I think he wouldn't dare to act the "potentate" in front of "ma poulette" (little chicken) as he affectionately called his matronly wife.
op-reis-11
At the end of the working-day Francis and I stretched painfully on the seats of Gus. We were dog-tired and every muscle in our body hurt. We wondered where on earth we could find the energy to be ready for dinner at half past seven. To ventilate our frustrations we decided to allow ourselves one "hour of lament", during which we could lick our wounds and have a good cry. Nothing gave more satisfaction than discussing in detail every little pain we felt, the back-braking job and the intolerable authority of the patron. During the day we had no time to complain! It helped, after an hour we were, moaning and groaning, ready to face life again.
The first few mornings it was difficult to get out of our bed above the cab, but after several days we got used to the work.
We knew what to expect and were gradually accepted by the rest of the team. Even our muscles started to get accustomed to the hard work.

A few days after the start of the harvest a new member joined our team. I nicknamed him "granddad". He was the father-in-law of our patron and did nothing but supervise. "Granddad" was a gaunt man of medium height, around seventy, perhaps seventy-five and had no teeth. Every day he wore the same blue overall. With a surly expression and constantly chewing little cigars he walked up and down the rows of vines to check if nobody had overlooked a bunch of grapes. Every time he had found something, he approached me and, without saying a word, threw the bunch in my bucket with a tender gesture.
"Granddad" had wings. Sometimes he walked at the other end of the vineyard, as I could see when I straightened to empty my bucket into one of the crates. Only a "second" later he stood right behind me to make me aware that again I had overlooked an almost invisible little bunch of grapes.

On the eight day it started to rain and we had to wear heavy rain-coats and boots. The work became even harder than before. The water made the bunches heavy and the soil changed into a pool of mud. The mud clung in thick layers to my bucket and boots.
Despite the rain our patron was a happy man. When Francis asked him why he was smiling he told her he had already sold the proceeds of this vineyard to the co-operation and because of the rain today's grapes would yield a handsome profit, since wet grapes are obviously heavier then dry ones.
At that Francis suggested he should wet the grapes every day. The patron was deeply shocked and explained that such a method was out of the question, the quality of champagne is closely guarded.
"Look here," he said, "if it rains you can't help it, but wet them? No way!"

After ten days the harvest was finally over and during dinner that night the patron produced his little blue book. Up till then I still thought that he had been joking, but suddenly it dawned on me that all his remarks about sneaking a smoke or shirking were meant seriously.
He started to calculate everyone's wages by taking an average of our productivity, the daily prices of the grapes and the total amount of grapes harvested. After that he took his money-bag - a small plastic Tupperware box - out of the cupboard and one by one paid us our wages. The amount Francis and I had earned turned out better than expected. Our patron counted out more than four thousand French francs for us, almost six hundred pounds. With that kind of cash we could buy a lot of diesel for our motor caravan.
The patron was pleased we looked satisfied and poured more champagne. He asked if we would come again for next year's harvest. I said I would be glad to return but at the same time I heard all my muscles scream: "No!!!"

"Kissing the balconies"

In a small town, somewhere on the French Riviera, I found a good spot to park for the night by the fishing-port. Slowly it occurred to me that more people, just like us travelling for a longer period of time, often stayed close to marinas or fishing harbours. Already two other motor-caravans stood near the waterfront and I parked Gus, our 'van, not far from one of them, an old converted Bedford bus.
The next morning my wife Francis and I got to talk to the occupants of the Bedford, Mike en Nancy. Mike was a sturdy guy of around thirty-five. Nancy looked a lot younger, only that could have been just an impression because of her long blond, dyed hair.
Mike and Nancy seemed much more at ease by this harbour than we. At night, for example, Mike had left his shoes outside. He told us that they never stayed at campsites and were not afraid to camp in the open.
"What, in heavens name, could happen?" he wondered.
Well, I could think of something. Always when I had parked Gus for the night somewhere in a small town or village, I sat in the back looking out for hooligans, peering at Gus. Whenever I saw a police-car cruising by I expected them to send me away "tout suite".
In the evenings and at night the feeling got worse. Every time I heard people walking by, but was unable to see them through the closed curtains, I became oppressed.

Still, Mike and Nancy were not as sure of themselves as it seemed. They felt at ease in France, but Mike told me he was not looking forward to go into Spain. He had been warned by several people to watch out for thieving mobs. Especially Barcelona should be quite bad.
"A few days ago," he said, "I met a Swiss couple. They had parked their Hymer along one of the busiest streets, but still, when they returned, it had been robbed empty."
I too had heard that kind of stories before. People always tell you about hold-ups on motor-caravans and the Spanish police that never seems interested enough to do anything about it. I started to wonder if we should leave France. Good intended advices never to abandon your 'van are very sensible, of course, but also quite unpractical.

A bit unsure I drove to the French/Spanish frontier, expecting to have to unpack the whole 'van in front of grinning border-guards. The opposite happened. They never even looked at us and literally waved us across the border.
That was quite a relief and in spite of dark clouds rising above us, we drove in a sunny mood to our first stopping-place in Spain, the fishing village of L'Escala on the Costa Brava.
From a corner of my eye I saw an office of the local Tourist-information. Francis suggested we get some leaflets there and I drove Gus into the first side-street to make a U-turn.
I shouldn't have done that! At first glimpse the street seemed too narrow, and just when I wanted to reverse I saw a young woman park her Mini right behind me. Before I could do anything, she jumped out of the car and disappeared.

There I sat. Impossible to back up. In front of me a few workmen were repairing the side-walk. I doubted if I could pass them, but there was nothing else I could try. The repairmen moved their wheel-barrows out of the way and I went on. At the end of the street I had to reverse three times before I could turn the corner.
I hesitated when I saw all those low balconies with boxes full of geraniums. Slowly I drove on. Washing hang out to dry on lines suspended between houses on both sides of the street and somehow I suspected the laundry wouldn't get any cleaner from the contact with my roof. From one of the balconies I even heard naughty boys knocking their fists on my roof.
After several hundred feet it went wrong. Some Spaniard had parked his vehicle a bit out of the ordinary, so I couldn't get by. I tried to drive along the side-walk but banged my roof against one of the balconies. Full stop!
Behind me a queue of Spanish cars came to a standstill. Judging from the sound of their blaring horns they seemed not to understand I really couldn't go any further. After a few moments of debate the whole queue started to back up, vehicle by vehicle, till I, hands sweating, could enter another side-street.
That street ended in a square, but all other streets ending there, had signs indicating it was forbidden to enter them with cars higher than eight feet.
And Gus is eleven feet high!
Thank heavens I could make a full turn on the square and drive back the same way I had come, entering the one-way street from the wrong side. I switched on my hazard lights and in spite of many angry automobilists, I reached the town-border. In the meantime the dark clouds had disappeared, the sun had come out, only I had lost my sunny mood.
op-reis-13
After a few days the Costa Brava became repugnant. I found my surroundings oppressive because of the many, enormous hotel- and apartment buildings. Our original plan was to follow the whole coastal route to Portugal, but I wondered...?
We decided to abandon this plan and see some more of the interior of Spain. A few moments later I had outlined a completely different itinerary: around Barcelona to Zaragoza, from there to Teruel and then on to Madrid. It was a decision we never regretted afterwards. Mid-Spain proved to be a beautiful, unspoilt land.

Up till now Francis and I had been driving every day without a set purpose and often changed opinion and direction. Of course I was not obligated to follow this new route -because nothing gives more fun than to deviate from fixed plans- only now we had some idea of what we were going to do.
In wintertime in mid-Spain almost no campsites are open. During the rest of our trip we would therefore have to find our own places to stay. Francis left planning our new route to me. Her only worries were I wouldn't drive too much a distance in one day and sometimes we should stop long enough for me to write my book. Her first worry I could understand, but felt indifferent about the second. After I found out how difficult it was to get a story on paper I felt little or no inspiration. I had started travelling to write a book; for the time being I found travelling much more fun than writing.

South of Blanes the road became flatter, wider and before I knew it I found myself on the N-II to Barcelona. Since I met Mike, I had maintained I didn't want to go there. Now it seemed we had to go right through the town. Every other moment I had to stop for a traffic-light and, thinking of all those stories about thievery, I constantly craned my neck to check if somebody tried to rob us.
Everywhere I saw "weird-looking" passers-by and regularly young men on motor scooters drove past our 'van, trying to look inside with greedy eyes.
After an hour we had left the city behind us and I started to breathe normally again. Of course nothing had happened. I only felt an aching pain in my neck and shoulders; pain caused by worry. I realized all those stories about robbery had clouded my vision. I had seen nothing of Barcelona. Could it be, when you expect to be robbed, you start suspecting every innocent passer-by? Suddenly I remembered one of the daily motto's from my Success-agenda: "A man suffers most from what he fears."

I followed the N-II in the direction of Lérida and by nightfall we passed the 'Montserrat'. The famous mountain looked alight in the dying flames of the setting sun.
By the time we reached Igualada, it was pitch-dark. Although Igualada was a busy industrial town, Francis suggested we stay here for the night. I had not forgotten my experience in L'Escala and was afraid to drive to the centre of the town.
After I had driven around for a while I found no other possibility than to park somewhere at the side of the road. It was close to a busy intersection, where many heavy trucks crossed. Every time such a giant tore by, Gus stood jolting for several minutes. This wasn't going to be a quiet night.
I suggested driving on, but that meant I had a marital war on my hands. Francis would be tired too.

After a while Francis also got convinced there must be a better place to stay. As far as I knew Igualada had no campsite. On foot we went to look for another spot. In search of the town-centre I stopped a young couple. At school, more than twenty years ago, I have had a few years of Spanish lessons. Therefore Francis left the talking to me and I tried to ask the couple if they knew where I could find a parking-lot. The boy and girl misunderstood my words. Somehow they thought I was looking for the police and spontaneously stopped a patrol-car of the "Guardia Civil", that just happened to pass by.
I explained my "problem" to both police-men and in return got an answer in rapid Spanish. Most of it I failed to understand, but I gathered from their flow of words they invited us to sit in the back of their patrol-car.
As soon as we were under way the police-men started to talk again. They asked where we came from and when I said we were Dutch, their speech became exited. I picked up words like "Johan Cruyff" or "Ronald Koeman" and although I don't know much about soccer, it created a bond between us.
The police-men brought us back to where we had parked Gus and shook their heads.
"Muchas problemas", said one of them, "This place is no good. Better get in your car and follow us. We'll take you to a better spot."
With great speed they drove in front of us, right through narrow streets, looking pretty much like the alley in which I got myself jammed only a few days ago. Fortunately the police-men knew exactly what they were doing. They took us to a completely walled-in parking-lot behind the police-station and showed us a good place where we could stay. Circumstantially they started to explain the gate would be locked at ten o'clock tonight and not opened again before eight in the morning. No problem for us. By ten we hoped to be in bed.

It was already past nine o'clock. Francis didn't feel like cooking anymore so we went out to buy some bread. We came to a busy shopping-area where all shops were still open and many young people were knocking about the streets or sitting outside the many pubs. Only then I realized why those police-men tried to warn me they closed the gate at ten. Seen with Spanish eyes, ten o'clock was of course terribly early; at that time their evening had just started!

After two days of "hospitality" at the police-station we continued our trip. At first I found the landscape arid, barren. Only after we had crossed the Rio Ebro the surroundings became much greener. At noon we drove into Zaragoza. Because of the heavy traffic it took us more than an hour before we got to the centre of town. Remembering our good experience with the Guardia Civil in Igualada I thought it best to ask the police for advice. On the big square behind the cathedral of Maria-del-Pilar I asked a motorized cop if I could stay on the square.
"Definitely not," he said, "It's much to busy here. Better follow me, I'll show you a better place."
He got on his motor bike and in two minutes flat took us to a small park on the bank of the Rio Ebro. From there we had a magnificent view of the cathedral, one of the biggest church-buildings I had ever seen. The mosaic roofs and the towers looking like minarets clearly reminded of Moorish influence on architecture.
"Here you can stay as long as you like," the Guardia said.
We started talking and he asked me what I thought of Spain.
I told him I had been afraid of robbery and of the many warnings we had had, but that my only problem had been the narrow streets. I also told him the crime-rate didn't seem as bad as people wanted us to believe and that we had met only nice and helpful people.
"That's right," said the Guardia, whilst starting his bike, "But still, watch out!"

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