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Intertwined Tent Ropes in Munich

My tent was strategically placed on high ground under an elderberry tree; the superior location at such a populated campsite was due to my length of residence. A small vase of flowers sat inside on a dairy crate of clothes. Above it a photo of my dog back home taped to the interior wall.

This was home for eight months on a Munich campsite while renewing resources to continue travel. The campground was a large area capable of holding 500 tents and trailers, running alongside a fast river with floating oompahpah-bands-and-beer-keg-tourist barges. The tours ended directly across the river from us and invariably we could receive leftover keg contents and potato salad at the end of our tours.

The settlement quickly became a microcosm of global nationalities as it filled to capacity by June and over capacity for Oktoberfest. Pockets of people camped together and developed distinct borders.

The most enduring group were the Irish. Young people who left home looking for work within the European Economic Community. Germany was a good bet with its' manufacturing plants and tourism. They would stay on the grounds till being kicked out for overdue bills, or behavioral differences with the South African camp management, or seasons end. I settled into this group, enjoying the merriment with it's sessions of storytelling, laughter, music and sharing ëjars'. Sometimes the groups got too lively and it was let known by the rest of the camp that things were getting out of hand (after all, most of these kids were first away from home and its' restrictions). At that point, one slightly more mature Irishman would soulfully begin a hypnotic tune on his tin whistle as the crowd simmered down to listen.

The Polish were here for 2 months of intense construction work; all classes from students and labourers to professionals. They would return to their respective families in August with a pocketful of western currency; enough to buy an apartment after one summer of work, to furnish it after a second summer of work and so on.

Spanish and French families came for a weeks' vacation. Children played ball games while their parents barbequed and socialized.

Young Aussies parked their party vans caravan style, in a circle. And they partied hard, sometimes dangerously so when they overdrank and one time dunked one member of the group into the river in a shopping cart (he died) or ëplayed' with broken bottles.

North Americans generally were in town for a night of beerhalls, then travelled on to another country the next day in the security of groups. They seemed to enjoy building up bragging rights of having ëseen' many countries.

Gypsies, their trailers decorated with colourful fringed rugs, were here for a few weeks, enroute to somewhere else.

A few Germans settled in for a summer of ëalternative living', having quit the rat-race to slow down a spell.

Some crazies, some poets, some intellectuals, but everyone got on together no matter what race, background or belief, and made a home away from home, pulling together in times of good or bad weather or finances. In this setting you could not help but feel like everyone was family.

Privacy did not exist in this maze of tents. After my evening shift working at a nearby beergarden, I'd worm my way through the network of tents and try to unzip my tent quietly so as not to disrupt others. Nevertheless, the zzzzzzzip reverberated and a domino effect rippled across the sea of tents, resulting in the sound of shifting bodies in sleeping bags, yawns and whispers. If I popped a can of beer, pshhhhht!, I'd be sure to hear a few nearby tents unzip and people tiptoe over to see if I needed company.

Yes, this was my temporary family as nationalities intertwined much like the confusing tangle of overlapping tent ropes.

Subscribe to TravelBlogsPosted by Anne Wichmann on March 3rd, 2006 in Articles.