My memories blur at the edges, yet the journey itself has never left me. Time has carried away many details, but the feelings remain: the heat of the desert, the unease in my parents’ voices, the endless days spent in the car, hours in the back seat, and, woven through it all, the laughter and fun that made even the hardest stretches feel like an adventure. I had a strange certainty that we were doing something grand—and perhaps a little crazy.

As the only child, I quickly learned to entertain myself—wandering, inventing games, finding small amusements wherever I could, and making friends with strangers. I recall so many faces that helped us along the way, though their names are long gone. Once, I disliked a man we travelled with in a truck—perhaps part of the convoy, or when our Beetle was loaded aboard—yet after only a few hours together, we ended up best of friends. I remember sitting on mats in the desert, squished together with seven others, passing around the roasted chicken. It felt strange and exciting to eat like that, right on the ground, with everyone laughing and talking around me. I also knew I needed to be helpful, to do my part on the trip, even if I wasn’t always sure how.

As a child, I often sensed more than I was told. My mother, Joanna, had a way of carrying on as though everything was under control. But I can see now how much my parents tried to shield me from the seriousness of some situations. Even at eight, I could read their faces—the tension in my father’s silence, or my mother’s tears when she thought I wasn’t looking.

One moment has stayed with me. In North Africa, our Beetle sank hopelessly into what we thought was a dry riverbed. Of course, it wasn’t as dry at the bottom as it appeared. The car had sunk deep into the mudflats and was resting on its belly in silt and sediment. My parents struggled for hours to free it—my father silent in despair, my mother weeping quietly. It was very hot. Restless, I wandered up the bank, idly playing with stones, unsure how I could help. Far in the distance, I spotted a truck—salvation shimmering on the horizon. I raced back, and my father managed to signal the local men, who were keen to help us. With their effort we were pulled free and led across to safety. To this day, I am convinced that had I stayed sitting with my parents, we might not have survived.

Not all dangers were shared. Another evening, near desert rock formations, while my parents quarrelled, I slipped away. In my small adventure I suddenly felt the ground give way—quicksand clutching at my legs, pulling me down. For a terrifying moment I thought the desert would swallow me whole. Somehow, I scrambled free, brushed myself off and returned without a word.

But not all my memories are frightening ones. My attention, of course, was mostly on the things that interest an eight-year-old. Some impressions remain clear even now: the first time I tasted watermelon and pigeon in Sudan; watching the trucks in the convoy lift their bonnets after every stop to let the heat escape; the boat crossings, the famous train journey, lying awake on a terrace, terrified by something pressing up under my bed while my father was away hunting in the night. I also remember receiving my dagger for my birthday—a small, treasured gift that I kept for nearly seven decades, until it was stolen just a couple of years ago in a burglary. I remember often sleeping curled up in the Beetle itself—behind the back seats, in the little storage space where I still just managed to fit. I remember the small coffee maker fixed to the dashboard, the rattle of ratchets, the scrape of steel plates under the wheels. I remember how to access the 6-volt battery beneath the back seat, where my father often had to check it. Once, when there was no water, I drank undiluted soft drink—both a treat and a punishment. And I still remember standing in Pisa, gazing up at that impossibly leaning tower, amazed that it didn’t fall over. I don’t often remember exactly when things happened, but I can often recall more or less which region they took place in.

Looking back, I realise how much of the journey I experienced through a child’s eyes—not fully grasping the dangers, but aware enough to feel the weight of them. I was a boy who wandered off at just the right moments, and now, as an old man, I see more clearly: how fragile, how daring, how extraordinary it all was.

I am grateful—for the courage of my parents, and for the unknowing bravery of the child I once was. And I am glad—if only for that single moment on the riverbank—that I was with them on the trip.

— Marc Meganck