Escape Velocity

They say that you’ll know it when you see it and after six hours driving up to Glasgow, fighting through post-football game traffic, rounding a corner we saw it. And we knew it. Big in a small kind of way, newish but with a just broken in vibe.

After confirming the particulars and a tough bargaining session where we refused to pay one pence over full asking price, we shook hands. Watching a half dozen campervans disappear out from under you changes your perspective on who has the power in these things. We did at least get the owner to throw in a fresh M.O.T. inspection and service. A few hundred pounds of cash hand money and a promise of a larger deposit to take it off the market and the deal was on.

We were overjoyed, but we couldn’t just move in and drive away. Oh no. This is going to take some bureaucratic maneuvering. More on that later.

We had to stick around town while the sale was finalized but all the hotels were booked for the aforementioned football game so Marce found, as she described it, an old pub and a room with a view over the river Clyde. Who could resist? Staying within a few miles of wherever the campervan lives for the moment seemed to make sense. What could go wrong?

We quickly found the Ferry Inn. Marce went to reconnoiter and entered a heaving press of young locals crammed shoulder to shoulder blowing off steam after a hard work week. Pardon me-ing our way through the crowd with luggage in tow was an athletic event and we had to shout over the loud music to communicate with the barmaid checking us in. I noticed a guy setting up a small DJ booth painted in day glow with “Ooh, Baby Baby” sprayed across the front.

We schlepped our way to the second floor and the promised room with a view over the river Clyde. By that time the DJ had started work, replacing the pub playlist with a continuous chugga chugga of dance tracks.

We thought dinner at the Indian restaurant down the street might be a good idea, but when we returned to the pub an hour later the party was really getting started. Back upstairs some kind of primordial sympathetic resonance turned our room into the inside of a huge bass drum. As the night wore on the volume inevitably shot up and I had concerns for the old pub structure. The vibration was such that my eyes couldn’t focus like an old TV without proper signal. Objects in the room shimmered and blinked with the booming vibration as pictures rattled against the walls and tilted. Everything seemed askew. The bed felt like it might vibrate across the floor, a funhouse version of the 50s motel “magic fingers.” Were the walls warping in and out? Marce was giddy with relief at finding our campervan, and nearly hysterical laughing at our situation.

Not me. I had to find a way to get some sleep. I’d hoped the DJ’s amp was only on 11 but I think he found an even more violent level.

Ear buds, a pile of pillows, and exhaustion seemed to do the trick.

The next thing I heard was a loud boom and then another, with a cascade of explosions to follow. We hopped out of bed as brilliant colors lit up the room.

From our window we could see there was an event at the private club next door and fireworks were part of the party. It went on for a good ten minutes, lighting up the river Clyde and our room with the view. What a way to celebrate finding our campervan!

At this point we noticed that the cacophony of sound was silent. Ooh Baby Baby, profoundly deaf by this point, probably thinks his kit is still working but no one else can hear him anymore either.

In the morning we thought we’d sneak out and grab some breakfast but the outside gate was padlocked and we didn’t have the combination. We were locked in until the pub opened at 11.

Eventually someone showed up with a mouth full of apologies and we were free.

Free to coddiwomple.

We’d been talking about a campervan for a while. The idea really took hold as the months turned to years waiting out the travel restrictions of the pandemic. But, as we all learn again and again, having an idea is easy but bringing it to fruition takes a mountain of will, energy and endurance. It took us 21 years to get a boat and start sailing the seven seas; it’s the reason we named our catamaran Escape Velocity. I am definitely not interested in another 21 year struggle.

Life is short and for us baby boomers getting shorter every day. While I would have thoroughly enjoyed the process of building out our own bespoke campervan, we don’t have a place to live or a place to build. Plus I don’t want to spend the time and effort it would take. We need to buy a camper that’s ready to go.

As Jack wrote, we found it impossible to do from America. One by one we flipped the calendar pages of 2022. Time was getting away from us. We knew we had to just get up and go. Ten years to the day after signing the papers for Escape Velocity we flew to London.

Unlike 2012 we had nowhere to go and only a determination to find a campervan as soon as we could to start making every day an adventure again.

We took the train to Sheffield where we’d found a reasonably affordable rental car, then drove to a small farm near Durham to a motorhome dealer who offered to help us navigate the challenges of nonresidents buying a vehicle.

Like any savvy salesman he showed us campervans in our price range, then pushed the envelope with a larger more expensive unit. Jack fell in love. But not me.

I was determined to stick to van size, mostly because we’ll be driving on the left (the least of our worries since we’ve been doing that since arriving in New Zealand in 2015), navigating the ubiquitous roundabouts, and negotiating impossibly narrow streets lined with parked cars. In a wide motorhome I envisioned an endless fiesta of sideswiping, leaving a trail of amputated rearview mirrors in our path.

Jack had no such worries. And Jack likes to end uncertainty as soon as he can. He pushed for the large, deluxe model from the nice dealer who sweetened the price with a very generous buyback offer that would give us an easy exit when we’re ready to move on. I tried to talk myself into it.

In the end I couldn’t bring myself to ignore my own stress, however misguided. The prospect of months of mashing the phantom passenger-side brake pedal and the inevitable arguments every time I shrieked “move over!” just wasn’t what I had in mind. Yes, it’s wrong of me, but we both get a vote and in the end we have to agree on such a big step.

The same thing happened while we boat shopped ten years ago. Jack fell in love with one of the first boats we saw but I had misgivings and it didn’t get my vote. It was quite the discussion and it meant our quest took a few months longer but I know Jack would agree that we ended up with the best boat for us.

During the van shopping we met up with our dear friend Mark Owen of Macushla, who, you may recall, lost his beautiful wife Sue four years ago. We met Mark and Sue early in our journey on Escape Velocity and so many of our most memorable experiences were shared with them. It was a joy to see Mark again, and as with all the best friendships, it was as if we’d seen him yesterday.

Our initial two weeks came to an end with no campervan and no prospects. I found us a cheaper rental car and booked a further two weeks, and as the stress and disappointment was wearing on us we took a few days off and had some fun.

We visited a couple of castles, drove to some beautiful vistas and oh, I tested positive for Covid. I had no symptoms and Jack was negative but we booked into an Airbnb cottage in the country and isolated for a few days. It was exactly what we needed.

During our isolation we narrowed our vehicle choices, scoured Gumtree and Autotrader and eBay and I marked the potentials on Google maps. I contacted them all, researched their history, made lists. One by one they disappeared. We knew we’d need to jump on a new listing right away. One of the best possibilities was an earlier year model with a layout we weren’t crazy about and with no solar, but the price was right and it needed very little work. The salesman gave us time to talk ourselves into it then dropped the bomb. He was not willing to pay for the work, and he was “backed up” and couldn’t deliver for six weeks. We walked away.

Four new listings sparked long discussions. This layout or that, solar or no solar. Two were priced to sell, two were above our agreed budget. We spent a couple of intense days, feeling the ongoing drain of hotels, Airbnbs, restaurant meals and car rental. Spending most of each day driving then figuring out where to sleep and eat was wearing us out. The contenders were scattered in the four corners of the country.

In the end we chose to go for one that was relatively close by. It didn’t have solar but it was a year newer than the rest with a clean service history. Decision made I called the dealer to arrange to see it. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ve just sold it.” Damn.

Our second choice was actually our first choice because it already had add-ons we wanted, but it was a full day’s drive away, in Scotland. I contacted the owner. “We want to buy your camper,” I said.

“Great! I have someone coming Sunday to look at it. I’ll be here all day. You can come then.” It was Friday night.

Jack and I looked at each other. “We’ll be there tomorrow.”

We’re going to Scotland!

Ok, so where was I? Oh yes, after all thefrenetic activity of selling Escape Velocity, shipping our entire worldly goods to America, getting last minute PCR tests in time to catch a plane to Tanzania with a two week African safari and quick hop over to Zanzibar, we finally made it to New Jersey where, after more PCR tests we were ensconced into the safety of our family. Any one of which events, by rights, could have been an individual blog post.

We voluntarily chose to set up shop in the family’s comfortable basement where our noise and clutter would be less annoying to our patient and sympathetic hosts. And there we sat. After redistributing everything we own, the full weight of the loss of our home and adventurous lifestyle began to envelop our subterranean existence. Seemingly powerless we descended into a funk lower than where we slept every night.

We tried to ameliorate the loss with rental cars and short trips to see the kids, Gettysburg, and the sights around Old Tappan.

Too many options and no clear direction emerged from our brainstorming sessions. It wasn’t like us. Timing or cash pressures seemed to preclude just about every way we turned. Touring the USA in a camper van in times of Covid seemed to me to be the safest and easiest but Marce was quite resistant, having already done a lot of domestic travel. Prices for class B camper vans in the US had ballooned into the stratosphere, we’re told not due to greed but Covid. Be that as it may, we weren’t having it! Europe, where camper vans are very popular, had many choices and reasonable prices and the UK even better. Marce setup our google nest hub to scroll through photos of our adventures just to remind us of who we are and what we’ve done.

The hunt was on.

Weeks spilled over into months spent pouring over terrible, poorly organized websites with SOLD emblazoned over 80 percent of their outrageously priced offerings until we found ourselves mindlessly wordle-ing or descending the inevitable rabbit hole of cat videos.

It turns out it’s very difficult to buy a camper van in Europe! Eventually Marce came up with the name of a small dealership that had great reviews and who agreed to help us. “That’s it,” I said, ”we’re going to England.”

As a kid if you’d grown up in Pennsylvania you’ve been to Gettysburg, site of one of the pivotal battles of the American Civil War. One could be forgiven for saying, “Been there, done that.” But you really haven’t. Apparently over the decades since I was last there they’ve made a few improvements. Let me just say at this juncture that nobody does mass battlefield carnage better than the good old U. S. of A.

First, the totally restored, brilliantly colored cyclorama is now housed in a new building which finally presents the 377 feet long by 42 feet high canvas, it says here, as originally designed and painted by Paul Philippoteaux in the 1880s. It depicts the final day of the battle, and especially Picket’s Charge, the last Confederate assault that sealed their fate.

The theatre is entered from below on an escalator and as you rise up to viewing level you’re enveloped in a predawn misty blue sky.

Real wagons, shrubbery and field pieces are artistically arranged in the foreground like figurants in a play, but still blend seamlessly into the perspective of the cyclorama.

Soon a few clashes start up and lights begin to flash, cannons boom with smoke rising over the area where the fun is commencing. Let the carnage begin!

If you’ve never visited a cyclorama (there aren’t that many left in the world) it’s the original multimedia presentation, where the audience stands in the middle and lights draw your attention to various parts of the painting while a narrator tells the story with a backing track of music and sound effects.

The action of the battle ranged over a wide area and it becomes obvious that it’s many skirmishes over miles of varied terrain.

This has everything, a cast of over 150,000 men maneuvering for advantage, cavalry, and just to allay any fears that this exercise is nothing but savagery, brother killing brother, we have booming artillery and a crowd favorite, frontal charges up the hill into the teeth of semi rapid rifle fire. I think that covers it. Lovely stuff.

For those of us who still have not had enough there’s an excellent museum just below the cyclorama. I always like to gaze at the real stuff and wonder how you could dispatch so many fellow Americans one at a time, in so short a time. As an aid to understanding it all there are several excellent short films to watch, some of them produced by the History Channel.

I caution you to take some sort of tracking device or you will get lost, just as Yours Truly did. I promised to mention the guard who found me, in the blog, so . . . Apparently I’m just no good anymore without a GPS chart plotter.

The weather had turned cold, wet and nasty so finding ourselves ahead of schedule for a change, we decided to return tomorrow to tour the battlefield by car.

Editor’s note: Most Pennsylvania natives can claim veterans or casualties of the battle of Gettysburg in their family tree. In my family, my great grandfather, an immigrant from Germany, was recruited among many other new arrivals to bolster the Union effort. He played the cornet and spent most of the rest of his life in the US Army as a bugler. He died in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. This photo was taken long after the Civil War was over. —Marce

It took some doing to find a PCR test site we could walk to from our hotel, but we managed and tested negative and finally got to insinuate ourselves into my sister’s home for a few weeks. Jack and I were suffering severe culture shock and were barely communicative at first. The sale of the boat happened so quickly, we had no plan for what’s next, and the Covid situation in America was much worse than we’d experienced previously, especially compared to our safe little island in Malaysia. But my sister and brother-in-law gave us the space to process and kept us fed and watered while we adjusted to a culture that’s familiar and alien at the same time.

Eventually we rented a car and started off toward Pittsburgh, our old home town and still home to other family members.

We took a few days to drive what normally would take one day, zigzagging north and south, shopping for warm clothes and exploring back roads along the way.

Pennsylvania, we learned, boasts more covered bridges than anywhere else in the country and we made it our mission to find a few and appreciate their construction.

It was comforting to be on the move again, and even though we miss the endless blue of our life on the water, driving through the hilly piedmont and over the familiar Allegheny Mountains of Pennsylvania helped calm our uncertainty. Lovely as it is, even in the bleakest of seasons, we agree we don’t want to live here anymore. But we’re on our way to see some of our favorite people, and that’s the joy we’ve been missing.

We had mixed feelings about leaving Zanzibar. Of course we were eager to see our families again but we also knew we were flying from the frying pan into the fire as far as the global pandemic is concerned, and conversely from the tropics to the frozen North in air temperature.

We packed up our bulging suitcases, arranged a lift to the airport and showered the hotel staff with praise as we said goodbye to Stone Town. We enjoyed it almost as much as we’ve enjoyed our visits to Penang over the years.

At the airport our driver escorted us to the outer gate of the terminal building, and I dug the printout of our itinerary out of my tote bag. The stern gatekeeper lady shook her head no.

“What does she mean, ‘no’?” I asked. Our driver held a long conversation with her during which she became even more emphatic. Finally, he turned to us and said, “There is no such flight.”

Apparently, and this took some back-and-forth before it was clear, our flight was canceled and we were now booked on a flight six hours later. I checked our itinerary. We originally had only a 2-hour layover in Dubai. This change meant we’d miss our connecting flight.

Gatekeeper Lady wouldn’t let us enter the terminal because the check-in for our flight hadn’t opened yet. She directed us to an outdoor snack bar where we were welcome to wait the four or five hours until we could enter the terminal. That wouldn’t do, I argued, because I needed to rebook our Dubai to New York flight, which also affected our airport limo and our hotel in New Jersey. Nope. Not allowed in. And we had no internet to attempt the fix online.

For the next couple of hours I appealed to anyone who looked official until finally a security guard escorted me into the terminal and parked me outside the airline office (read ‘broom closet’) where I was supposed to wait until someone official — anyone, really — showed up. No flight, no staff. Occasionally someone would ask me what I needed and then tell me to just wait, the right person would be there “soon.”

It was the longest couple of hours in recent memory, but eventually the right person did show up, we were rebooked on a later flight, the rest of our itinerary was shifted and we were allowed to enter the terminal proper, check out with Immigration, Customs and Health and then the real waiting began.

Had we not been so out of practice on air travel we would have thought to check the status of our flight before leaving the hotel. Lesson (re)learned. It’s so different on a boat.

We spent the last of our Tanzanian shillings on snacks and eventually boarded the plane to Dubai. The rest of our journey to New York is a blur, except to say our seats in Economy Class on the Airbus A380 were the absolute worst we’ve ever had to spend 15 hours in. The flight was packed and we were in the middle two seats in the middle section. It was hell for us long-legged folks. Luckily I slept most of the way, but Jack was not so fortunate.

At JFK airport there was no health screening, no random testing, no Customs inspection, nothing, except for a routine passport check with Immigration. We had just arrived from Africa and Malaysia, countries the CDC lists under “Do Not Travel” and no one seemed to care.

As expected it was freezing in New York, and the wind cut through our thin fleece as we stood outside waiting for our ride. Luckily the driver Michael was friendly and funny and made the long, long trip from Long Island to Paramus, New Jersey, not only bearable but enjoyable. It was a shocker when the sun set over Manhattan at 4:30pm. We had traveled from 8°S latitude to 41°N. We are back in the Land of Long Nights.

We agreed with our family to isolate for a few days on arrival until we could get a PCR test and be assured that we’d all be safe from each other. My sister and brother-in-law booked us into a hotel not far from their house and when we arrived they were waiting for us, with warm socks, gloves, scarves, jackets and virtual hugs.

As anyone who’s sold their boat and traveled back to their own country after many years of cruising will agree, it doesn’t feel like home any more, but it’s sure good to see loved ones in person again.

What’s next, you ask? We still can’t answer that question. First up is finding a place to get a PCR test in a few days, and getting into some warmer clothes.

While many of our friends are fighting their way up the Red Sea or around the Cape of good Hope, we were fighting the ever-evolving, mercurial Covid rules while trying to travel via air. So far we have prevailed mainly due to the dogged perseverance of Marce. It seems that traveling by sailing yacht gives one lots of time to work things out, while you have to work well ahead when jet airliners are involved. And that brings us to todays topic, Zanzibar.

We found accommodations at a stately old hotel, well preserved, out of the way, but near the ocean in Stone Town. Just the kind of place I like.

You couldn’t have planned a more disorienting circuitous route through the catacomb like alleyways that make up a cab ride through Stone Town. We haven’t a clue how to navigate this place and GPS was really having trouble. There is not one 90 degree turn in the entire place. Just down the street I noticed a seaside cafe so I thought we’d start there. Couldn’t get lost with this one.

It might’ve been me that said let’s go up a block and then return to our hotel on a parallel alley. There are no parallel alleys. As darkness settles over the town we turned a corner, tail dragging the gravy, expecting another disappointment but there she was the old Beyt Al Salaam.

To this day I have no idea how we managed that.
Getting lost and found would be the official plan of our days.

I’ve always taken photos of doorways all over the world, and I find these an amazing similarity to the doors of Angkor Wat in Cambodia.

I guess you’d be remiss to pass on buying spices at Spice Island but Bandaneira in Indonesia was better where you’d find a yard full of cloves or cinnamon bark drying on a tarp in somebody’s front yard. That’s the perfume of Spice Island.

Mr. Mango’s claim to fame is that Anthony Bourdain ate here and pronounced the Zanzibar Pizza as ‘weird, wonderful.” Marce agreed.

We had a tip from a friend for this one, four flights of rickety stairs and the view of Stone Town was wonderful, and so was the food.

Wandering these ancient alleyways was endlessly fascinating. The key is to find yourself perpetually lost but with no particular place to go and just let it all wash over you.

We didn’t really think how we’d fill a few days in Zanzibar since most people come for the beaches and we lived on a boat for nearly ten years. Turns out, though, you can’t really just stay in a place for a few days anymore because you have to factor in the PCR test needed to get a Fit to Fly certificate, and balance out how soon before boarding your destination country requires the sample to be taken with how long the processing time is in your origin.

We were flying Emirates Airlines to New York via Dubai. At the time — it’s changed since — we needed a PCR test within 72 hours of boarding. The website of the Ministry of Health in Zanzibar said it takes 96 hours to get results. This does not compute.

As we usually do, we enlisted the aid of a local, this time the warm and friendly lady who served us breakfast each morning in our hotel. She called the testing site, told them when our flight was scheduled to leave, what the requirements were for boarding, and asked when we should get tested in order to get the results in time. Ha! They suggested a day and time that was only 48 hours before our flight. Our breakfast lady also arranged for a driver to take us there. Well all right!

We could have — should have — filled out the online form before we arrived but there are always people to assist when you need them.

We had a bit of a hiccup when it was time to pay. We’d understood we needed US cash for the fee but at the testing site they wanted local currency. I didn’t have enough with me and the nearby ATM was out of order. We also tried a credit card but their machine went down just as we got to the cashier. In the end we talked them into taking our dollars, and the swab test took about two minutes.

About 22 hours later we got an email that our results were in. This was so much easier than when we tested in Penang for our flight to Tanzania. Since then, the US changed the requirement for all travelers, including citizens. You must now have a PCR test one day before your flight. We know you can get results within 24 hours but whether the bureaucracy is set up to deliver those results remains to be seen. Clearly, Zanzibar is up to the task. Penang wasn’t.

We aren’t leaving Tanzania just yet. Sometimes you have to visit a place just because the name beckons. You can’t deny the allure of Timbuktu, Samarkand, Rapanui. That’s why we’re heading for Zanzibar.

It’s Jack’s birthday. Two years ago he celebrated by having knee replacement surgery. We’re pretty sure this is going to be better.

We took our last photo of Mount Kilimanjaro, boarded a small plane and flew the 250-ish miles to Stone Town. We were sad to be leaving the game parks, but eager for a new destination.

We made no plans beyond booking a hotel near the sea for a few days with the understanding that if we felt the need to go further afield, we’d move on later in the week..

Our style of travel has evolved over the years. We no longer do much planning. We like to just show up and figure it out when we get there. I did look up “Top 10 Things to Do in Zanzibar.” Maybe later.

Stone Town in Zanzibar is one of those cultural crossroads, a UNESCO World Heritage site that commemorates the ancient Swahili village that became a trading post for Chinese, Arab, Asian, Indian and European merchants. Zanzibar is called the Spice Island, although it’s also known for trade in ivory and even more so, enslaved people.

The people, architecture and cuisine reflect that history. Jack and I love this kind of place, where the mix of influences is right there in front of you, in the faces, the buildings, the restaurant menus. Just wandering the narrow streets on our own without a guidebook is enjoyable.

Stone Town has a more recent claim to fame as the birthplace of Freddie Mercury. We skipped the museum but I did take a photo, right before two guys reminded us that Stone Town still has one foot firmly in the past.

New or restored buildings share space with old colonial era ones that the town refuses to give up on.

We dined at local eateries where we got friendly advice on what to order.

In the late afternoons we walked to the beach. I think barring the plastic buckets and jugs in the foreground, not much has changed here in centuries.