Johannes, my driving instructor, started to get ever so slightly impatient. "No,
it's in, then down, for second gear. Try again." I ignored the horns
sounding angrily behind us and edged gingerly out on to Friedrichstrasse.
I hoped that the stares being directed our way were not solely due to my inept
driving but also because home-going Berliners were sneaking admiring glances
at Hans, the 17-year-old yellow Trabant I was desperately trying to master.
Surely, deep down, these sophisticated Germans in their automatic Mercs were
envious of my spluttering GDR curb crawler, and would love to get their
hands on those manual controls.
Or, for that matter, the controls of any of the five other cars in the
rainbow-coloured convoy behind me, all of which had names. Today we were out
with the sky-blue Erich, named after Erich Honecker, the former East German
president, and the most popular car to rent for Germans because of its
associations with the 1970s ditty Mein Himmelblauer Trabant ("My
Sky Blue Trabant"). Then there was Horst, a yellow convertible; Lotti,
a blushing crimson convertible; Bärbel (red), and Willy (grey). Willy was
the pretentious one: he had four doors, but the two at the back were painted
on.
In all, Trabi-Safari, the enterprising company which has given fresh life to
the much-ridiculed East German car from communist times, rents out 47 of
them for 90-minute, self-drive tours round Berlin.
Unfortunately, my induction back at the garage had not included the German
highway code. So when we approached our first right-hand junction with a car
trying to enter the major road I was already on, I had no idea I was meant
to give way. This time Johannes shouted: "Stop," in perfect
English. But it was too late. I was already sailing past the turning and
slipping effortlessly into third at a steady 25mph, presumably leaving the
other driver shaking his fist.
Johannes had other duties to perform. With the walkie talkie in his hand and
the aerial sticking out of the window, his job was to guide the convoy round
this "Wild East" tour of former communist Berlin. The radio linked
up with the co-drivers in the other Trabants, all of them models from the
1980s. We traversed some of West Berlin but most of the route had a
distinctly Marxist/Leninist flavour. The highlight was driving along the
East Side Gallery - the longest piece of the Wall remaining - then past
Checkpoint Charlie and down Karl-Marx-Allee.
Occasionally at a red light, Johannes would jump out and look back to check up
on the trailing line of brightly coloured, chugging Trabants and give a
thumbs-up of encouragement - or was it hope?
That trip we didn't lose anyone but he explained that on previous occasions
the lights had turned red, and tourist and car had been left behind. In
theory the co-driver can talk back to the guide on the radio but "we
don't encourage that," said Johannes. The company arranges night tours
by special request and that can't make negotiating the complex network of
East Berlin streets any easier.
But the name of the game is fun, a marketing formula well understood by
Trabi-Safari, which was set up by some Trabant enthusiasts in 1999, starting
out in Dresden. The Berlin branch now has most of the fleet, which are
parked in a down-at-heel forecourt in the east of the city. At the fall of
the Wall in 1989 and the resulting unification of the two countries, the
last thing anyone wanted to be seen out and about in was a Trabant, symbol
of disgraced East German totalitarianism.
Nevertheless, Frank Lagerhausen, manager of the Berlin office, quickly became
a fan of these retro marvels of engineering and bought two very cheaply. He
still owns them, although one - a 1965 model - has run its last kilometre
and is languishing in a garage in the suburbs. "We thought this would
be an excellent tourist attraction," he said, giving Erich an admiring
pat on the bonnet. "I paid anything between 400 and 600 euros for each
one. But the business has been more successful than we expected. One day
I'll grow up and get a proper job, but not yet."
Halfway round the tour, at the war memorial in the Tiergarten, Johannes
brought the fleet to a halt for a 10-minute technical break. Having, several
years ago, failed to attend more than two of my car mechanic evening
classes, it was with only mild interest that I watched him opening Willy's
bonnet. But I didn't know car mechanics could be so amusing.
First of all, there was virtually nothing there: a few pipes and cylinders but
basically masses of space where you'd expect there to be valves and dials
and wires. Apparently the world record shortest time for taking out and
replacing a Trabant engine is eight and a half minutes. Even that seemed
rather excessive, considering its minuscule size.
It was 26-horsepower and had a two-stroke engine, similar to a lawnmower, I
was told. Come to think of it, it even sounded like one but, sadly, lacked
the smell of new-mown grass. It needs a re-fit after 40,000 miles, and has
no petrol gauge on the dashboard so the driver checks the level by opening
the bonnet and shoving a measuring stick into the petrol.
In order to avoid freezing in those terrifying central European winters,
apparently the driver has to go faster to ensure there's enough warm air to
heat up the car. When it's cold the windows get so steamed up that one of
the essential items on a journey is a large collection of rags to wipe away
the condensation.
And, yes, it's flimsy and it rattles. If I understood rightly parts of the
body are made of recycled cotton from the Soviet Union, which is baked in an
oven at 800 degrees Fahrenheit and dipped in resin. Other parts are slightly
less sturdy - they're made of cardboard. Metal is used, too, but sparingly.
In the old GDR, if you wanted to buy one, you had to order it and wait
anything up to 15 years for it to be delivered. And it cost a bomb: the
equivalent of a year's salary. If it went wrong, most owners knew enough
about its workings to do the repairs themselves. Which was lucky because
there was a long waiting list at the garage, too.
Now, the Trabant has lost its stigma and its unfortunate joke associations -
along with Skodas and Ladas - and has acquired a cult status in Berlin. A
handful of owners in the east of the city are still driving them - without a
sense of irony - as their sole means of transport. But for spare parts
Trabi-Safari either buys from Hungary, from private owners, or on ebay.
There was only ever one model, although in 1959 the body was briefly changed
to create the Trabi De Luxe, whose main feature was a stainless steel
bumper. This proved altogether too bourgeois and they soon reverted to the
original version. The last one - a Trabant P 601 - was delivered to its
owner on July 25 1990, and the total number produced was 2,700,000.
The lesson over, Johannes waved us back into our cars. "Here's the bit
where you can really put your foot down," he said, indicating the long,
straight drag of Strasse des 17 June. "Go for it and see if you can
reach the maximum 65mph. It may shake a bit. If it does, I advise you to
slow down."
Apparently, the fleet also boasts a specially converted 1997 Stretchtrabi,
measuring a staggering 5.55 metres with a capacity for six revellers. It's
even used for weddings. I imagine a small couple was an essential
requirement. But I was told it was in winter storage. The tour costs 25
euros per person with four passengers, 30 euros with three, and 35 with two.
Vouchers are available.
For such a Mickey Mouse car the ride was remarkably comfortable but probably
less so for the thousands of East German families who used to trek to the
Black Sea in one for their annual summer holidays, taking four days.
Johannes was telling us all to pull into the pavement on the right, in
Gendarmenmarkt, and this most original of mobile history tours, sadly, was
over.
For more information: contact Trabi-Safari - the firm offers
two tours of Berlin, a Classic and a Wild East, with tours starting at £16
per passenger
