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The time had come for Ivan and Beth Hodge to return home. In 1961, after two years spent in Great Britain, the young couple made plans to travel back to New Zealand. However, instead of opting for a flight or a sea journey, they chose to transform the trip into an adventure by purchasing a new Volkswagen Beetle, packing all their belongings on top, and setting their sights on home. Thirty-five years later, they embarked on a similar journey—this time retracing their path in a beloved Bug, calling it ‘a second honeymoon.’ Their recent publication, For Love and a Beetle, details both captivating journeys across the globe, highlighting the transformations that occurred over the years, both in the world and within the Hodges themselves. Here’s a snippet from the book.
20 October 1961, Persia
Initially, the vast emptiness of the desert was frightening. The brown earth stretched out endlessly in all directions. Desolate and unattractive, we thought, in stark contrast to recent memories of the striking sea cliffs along the Adriatic coast and the vibrant fields of Austria.
Yet gradually, we started noticing the subtle details. A tussock or clusters of yellowing grass disrupted the flat expanse. Small mounds of dirt, possibly made by animals, people, or remnants of a sandstorm, appeared here and there. Unusual rocks and sudden volcanic formations emerged, creating a barren landscape that provided small shadows. As the day went on, the browns shifted into yellows, oranges, and reds, reflecting the sun’s journey across the vast sky. The flicker of our cooking fire and the distant twinkle of stars pale against the desert’s night blackness. It was reminiscent of how sailors described the ever-changing sea: a constant dance of texture and hue.
Hazy shadows shifted on the horizon—nomads and their camels, we guessed. About once an hour, a vehicle would pass, prompting us to roll up the windows as sand and dust splattered across the windshield. As we squinted through the swirling grime, we stubbornly kept our eyes on the road markers, the small white stones that were our only assurance we weren’t aimlessly wandering through the desert.
During a break for an early lunch, we aimed to capture some film footage. With no vehicles in sight for forty minutes, Beth took the wheel, driving back and forth while I filmed. The bright blue Beetle stood out against the brown landscape, and I imagined our families’ delight at the thought of us exploring this land. I especially hoped to get some good shots for Mum; she would be thrilled to see her ‘new’ car traveling through unfamiliar terrains.
Thirty feet away, Beth maneuvered to turn the Beetle around. I wanted one last shot with the sun directly overhead. Wiping dust off the camera as the warm air parched my throat, I abruptly noticed the silence. There was no familiar ‘dak-dak-dak’ sound from the Beetle. Beth had jumped out. All I could see was an arm waving frantically from the far side of the car, her head hidden behind the luggage perched on the roof racks.
‘The engine just cut out,’ she shouted as I rushed over to her.
I turned the ignition key, but the engine sputtered half-heartedly.
‘Bloody hell!’ I groaned.
The Beetle was supposed to be reliable. It was advertised as a car that wouldn’t freeze or overheat, boasting that ‘you could drive a VW all day at full speed through a desert.’ Perhaps the advertisers had never actually done it.
With my lack of mechanical skills, I was at a standstill. Let’s check the obvious first, I thought, pulling out the fuel tank dipstick.
‘It can’t be the fuel,’ Beth speculated. ‘We should have enough for sixty miles. That’s what we calculated using the map.’
The dipstick came out clean. The tank was empty. The reserve held only five liters, enough to take us around thirty miles—not even close to Kerman, the nearest town. With my long legs sticking out the car door, I bent inward to flip the reserve switch located near the clutch.
Beth spread the map across her bare legs. The AA Strip Map indicated all the petrol stations along our route. Nothing had changed since our last check. The nearest fuel was still sixty miles ahead. We couldn’t comprehend how we ran out of petrol; aside from driving back and forth for filming, we hadn’t taken detours. Why hadn’t we encountered this issue in Athens, where garages were plentiful?
‘There could be a leak, or maybe that low-quality fuel from the last stop,’ I ventured.
‘The heat probably burns it off quicker too,’ Beth added. ‘Don’t worry, someone will pass by eventually. Besides, we have enough food and water for a week.’ She was trying to reassure herself as much as me.
A part of me held on to hope that we would be ‘rescued,’ but a nagging sense of ‘what if?’ lingered. We couldn’t shake off the fear of breaking down in the desert, a scenario we had dreaded. Back in London, we had loaded the car with sixteen bottles of fruit juice and a five-gallon can of water, concerned about potential thirst. The unknown loomed heavily; we were accustomed to New Zealand’s greenery.
At this juncture, there was little we could do but wait and hope. During our drive, we scanned the horizon for other vehicles, wishing the Landrover was still with us.
Beth fanned the map to generate some airflow; it did little to alleviate the torrid heat inside the Beetle. Outside felt slightly cooler. Just yesterday, we had hit a bump, triggering the heater to turn on, which now refused to shut off! Sweat trickled beneath my collar and down my back, creating a slick seal with the plastic seat.
Thirty minutes passed. Twenty-five miles later, at a quarter to one, the Beetle sputtered to a halt; the reserve tank was empty. We hadn’t seen a single soul for almost two hours.
Sipping lukewarm fruit juice from our melamine mugs, we surveyed the desolate landscape. We could set up camp for a night or even several. Recently, we’d been sleeping inside the car, folding the seats into single beds, stuffing clothes into the nooks for comfort. It was a far safer choice than using a tent, influenced by the unsettling images instilled by soldiers—the thought of nomads attacking us in the moonlight lingered.
Food supplies weren’t an issue. Plenty of tins filled with meat, soup, and fruit sat beneath the seat, twelve bottles of fruit juice left, and the water can was nearly full. Our jerry can, however, was completely empty—when we charted our mileage, it seemed pointless to fill it.
‘I think I hear something!’ Beth’s excited shout prompted me into action. I jumped onto the Beetle’s running board to get a clearer view of the road. Sure enough, a white vehicle was approaching us.
The Volkswagen Kombi van parked behind our Beetle, and we quickly explained our predicament to the two scruffy German men. They exchanged looks, noting Beth’s tight white shorts, and listened intently before bursting into laughter.
‘You ran out? Out of petrol? Unglaubich! No spare can? How could you do that? This is a desert, you know!’
Muttering words like ‘stupid, stupid’, they guided us to the back of their Kombi, which was equipped with sufficient supplies to manage any situation. I attempted to bond with them, but was met with a humiliating lecture on the importance of ‘Being Prepared’.
Although thankful for their generosity in providing fuel, I remained silent, absorbing their tirade, fully aware of our folly. The Germans offered ten liters of fuel; it wouldn’t be enough to reach Kerman.
At the very least, if we ran out of fuel again, we’d be closer to help.
.
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