It was meant to be a working holiday. I was in Mainz, a region famed for wine and the Rhine, a river unlike most back home, where you’d sit by the edge, drink in hand and feet in the water. That was after 12 travel sick hours of megabus, from the UK to Germany via Brussels’s sterile (but pretty) centre. It helped to hear my colleague Lin was taking us along to a fancy mountain retreat where he was working.
Mountains
You may have heard about ‘Slow TV’; big in Europe, Norway the most. Stick a camera on a train, boat, anywhere with nice scenery, and broadcast away. Such shows were a hit at our Cannes Festival HQ, easing down cast and crew after a long day’s journey into night time alcholism. Play music and marvel how drunk men are hypnotized by the screen.
Next they should film the ride Lin and I took to Kirn, and score it with this:
I’m not one of those Yorkshiremen who thinks his home is god’s earth. Too rugged, too medieval (and too familiar). It’s more for those who love quaint old England (Yet I’ll probably shoot most of my films there). People are friendly despite the land, not because of it. And the tourists come in their thousands.
Now the German mountains on the other hand, were so scenic they were given their own film genre, one whose sole purpose was to rave about how great home is. Their forests look as if they have been lifted of one of Disney’s pastel frames.
Being typical of Yorkshire, I tried to buy tickets on the train, and was thrown off by the guard. Stuck for an hour, we looked for a supermarket and found a bank.
The Big Boss
That week, I’d learn things of Eberhard, the strange man running the show. Each year he’d hold an art contest, and choose a winner from 300 or so students. Some later helped at these mountain retreats, held for orphans, where staff would try to heal their wounds by teaching them how to paint and make art. This one was to be different; just a few former students showed up. Staff had voted him off the board; but being close to the retreat’s owner, a seldom seen old woman, he was still with us.
Previously…
I’d lived alone in squalor prior to Germany, which puts you off working. If you haven’t lived through it, don’t advise on it (just get them out once in a while for relief). In contrast, the mountain homes, owned by the old lady, belonged on postcards. Or a sugary 50s melodrama. To see those rooms is to relive movies where some slob is left half the country by a rich relative.
With no job there, I’d planned to call industry people in the UK; just a how’s it going, (but to stay social is to stay working). Trips away can put you in the best mood to yap, and with no distractions I could get alot done. That was the theory.
The retreat
After picking us up from Kirn, Eberhard learned I could use a camera, and raved about an exhibition he wanted to put on, where the political class would swing by, stare at some orphan photos, and leave knowing they did their part. I don’t refuse people if its a small thing. Sure I can take a couple of shots. Call me over when you need one. In the meantime I’ll be in my hotel room/office, usually with curtains down after a few late hours of Netflix.
Early on I was called out to take shots of a girl with a clay mask on her face. She was an outgoing, 11 year old Afghan who thought highly of WWE’s John Scena, and not so much of Eberhard. The rest were a random mix of Italians, Albanians, Somalis and local kids. They were mostly cheerful kids who wanted to go home and do something else.
Mealtimes
First night’s dinner was nice, homemade, and greasy. Whilst the food was great, the vibe was dead. No one dared speak save to answer Eberhard, sat like a Damiyo emperor. Next to him, an old hack who once worked for a big paper. Both wanted to hear the Syrian artist describe the bombing of Aleppo, his home town. I tried to cut in and change the subject, but their thirst for juicy and gory details was too much. Ferhad rued that he’d forgotten it all til that moment.
Aspergers
More of Eberhard I heard of from Lin, who described his love of mind games and public humiliations. The next morning I came for a late breakfast, wrecked discussing Machiavelli with Lin til the late hours.
Eberhard asks to speak alone. “What is your problem?”.
I explain to him (and should again for those at home), that having Aspergers (or being an aspie), means I prefer it when people get to the point. Eberhard asks what Aspergers is. Curious; half the art world has it and he’s never noticed. But if you work with kids, you’re meant to know.
“Okay” Eberhard says, “You should be out there all the time making photos for us”. I’m not sure what to say. Later I ask Lin — “This guy wasn’t told I work for him right?”, “No, I just said you were a photographer and he started dreaming up an exhibition for all his political friends”, “Next time I’ll ask how much he’s paying me”.
Degenerate kunst
In the meantime Eberhard asks all the children to sketch out what makes them happy, so later it can be made into paintings. Ahmad, another Afghan, draws Kalasknikovs, beautiful things (No, I’m anti gun). Eberhard decides it isn’t utopian enough for politicians, and at the expense of discouraging a talent, asks for something more respectable.
(Ahmad left)
That night it was home made schnitzel and cabbage; as good as it was unhealthy. The room sounds like a monk’s night in, until Eberhard speaks in German that I can’t understand. People nod. It’s hell on Earth.
My first defense against pomposity the Yorkshire accent. The prejudice against it can make intellectuals think a discussion is on its last legs. I start talking about horror films, and make my words drag on (“I don’t larrrkkk it”). The students cheer up and join in, and if the food wasn't so ‘good yet bad’ then I’d have stuck around longer.
Running away
Later Lin fumes. After I left, Eberhard had publicly asked if he had Aspergers. Whilst Aspergers is a good thing if you ask most CEOs and leading artists, it’s bad form to ask about a person’s medical history; more so in a room full of people over dinner. I suggest we leave; nice hotel rooms can’t fix bad broadband. Lin agrees, but asks that we walk, rather than ask for a lift. An hour’s walk doesn’t seem too bad.
Shame it was a bad guess.
We say bye to the staff. Kind words in bad German still make them swoon; we earn a little bag of pastries. Sneaking past Eberhard at the dinner table, we drag our cases past the gates, and down the road, in the wrong direction. I hear an unatural scraping noise and look to my luggage; one wheel gone and another worn to the shape of a triangle. Good start.
Lost in the woods
We walk at a broken suitcase’s pace, down a road that never stops. This view was better on wheels. With our GPS down, and no idea how far there is left, we follow a log truck route into the forest, hoping to cut our time in half. But as the tracks get lighter, the road thinner, and the grass longer, we look back to where we came from. Even without cases, its a steep climb; we double down and keep on through the woods, until we are most definitely up the creek. Just at that moment, the GPS springs back to life and informs that not only are we screwed, but also twenty miles from our rail station which closes in two hours. The first 30 we use getting back to the road.
On route, we pass a deer cabin. Years ago two winning students, both chosen at combined odds of around 90'000/1, met, fell in love, and spent their nights running off here. The one we knew, hesitated to say how he’d felt, and watched her go off and study in another part of the country.
Rescue
Wet phones make it hard to find taxi numbers, and we text friends for help. We’re in luck; in fifteen miles of forest land, and one taxi firm. We’re not in luck; it closed five years ago. Two friends offer to drive over an hour and save us. Hmm; maybe there’s another cab firm out there. Lin points out that in times like these, he could do with seeing a few friendly faces, and I can’t argue.
Still, we try at least hitchhike to Kirn, with no dice. How can anyone speed past two soaked guys dragging their luggage miles from town; maybe answers lay with the loud, scary, f*ck off beasts that greet each isolated house we pass. But a retired couple stop their car, and take us 12 miles out of their way to the station. On the way we see mist rise and expand Harry Potter style across the mountains. The couple explain it away as a natural event.
As the car pulled out into the open road, we saw how doomed our attempt had been from the start. Picture the helicopter shot that closes 50% of Hollywood films; the one where you first see a car, and then as it gets further out, a very long road and a very small car….
Finally we’re at the station, and for about ten seconds we consider the train. But you can’t always see your friends, especially when you don’t live in the same country. A local cafe is still open, the decor looks thirty years out of date. You wish there were more of them; historical charm is rare in Ikea’s modern world. Well some modernity would be nice; a decaf latte would suit us more than all that strong coffee, cigs and booze. But sometimes a cafe’s best for sitting down and taking stock of all the batsh*t things you've just witnessed.
Texts come in to say that most orphans have left. Eberhard had raged before their carer, “They are not here to have fun, they are here as an experiment to show how all children can paint without help”. He later sends Lin an email apologising, asking how he can fix things, and get his hands on my work. The emails get more threatening... And attempts to influence Lin's university are made...
But back to there here and now...
Our friends arrive; two Germans born outside of Germany. One in the US and one in Russia (movie in there somewhere).
We gratefully accept the offer of fresh towels and snack food, and as if to say it was the end of a film, our driver turns up this on the stereo….
And theres why I never stay in a hotel without good wifi.
Tommi Murshed-Parish
