The Betavan

All that goes wump in the morning

Everyone in the village knew when it was coming long before it arrived.

Sometimes I was just heading out the door with the dogs, when off in the distance WUMP, WUMP, WUMP would cut like a knife through the crisp morning air.

Other times, I was out in the vineyards, letting the dogs roam, discover whatever discarded bread there may be to liberate when down one of the tractor roads I’d hear the WUMP, WUMP, WUMP casually passing by.

The source of the ‘WUMP’ was always the same, a lone occupant with a tremendous sound system, in a ‘betavan’.

The betavan is just that, a less-than-full van.

They’re very popular in Southern Europe, especially in the rural areas. I suppose the term ‘panel van’ is the more apt manner to describe them, but it leaves out the fact that they’re really just a car with a large, open back, and ugly as sin. What they lack in style, they make up for in potential utility, albeit never truly arriving at being a serious vehicle.

When I grew up, we tooled about in a 1978 Dodge Tradesman 250 that my father had picked up in 1986. My parents were exceedingly-hippie artists, but that, that was a serious vehicle; an alphavan if you will.

It had that nearly-windowless chic of a potential sex offender’s vehicle of choice, yet was a shimmering forest green, thus thankfully eschewing the tell-tale white van vibe that’s mentioned in police bulletins more often than it isn’t.

With a 5.9l/360 cubic inch V8 engine, it had the power of a minor deity, cast into a block of steel. As my father put it, “It could drive straight up a telephone pole if given the traction.”

One time a shoddy tire shop in my hometown didn’t remount a wheel correctly. It proceeded to unmount while at highway speeds and flew off with the vehicle grinding to a halt on the brake drum. We put on a new drum, new tire (ill-matched rim of course) and the alphavan was back in action. You know what stops an alphavan? Nothing, that’s what.

And the space, oh the space in the back. It was rated for 700kgs/¾ ton and you could easily haul a freshly-slaughtered steer back there, pick up an entire load of manure, and then take a lady of discerning tastes out on a date, all in the same day.

As I only came of the 16 year-old driving age in California near the end of the alphavan’s lifespan, my only “date” involved hauling my drunken high school rock band, back from a gig we’d “played” it. All I can remember is their getting shitfaced (we were paid in beer) but I remained sober lest I were to actually drive alphavan up a telephone pole.

All that alphavan was, betavans are not and even larger European vans that strive for alphadom, seem to fall short of the original Dodge Tradesman alpha mystique.

The betavans are generally made by European car companies. Citroën’s C15, Renault’s Express, and SEAT’s unfortunately-named Trans/Terra are all prime examples that are somehow still allowed on the road despite being ancient, gross polluters. Have you found yourself gasping for air when driving up a hilly road? Well, you’ve most definitely found yourself stuck behind a betavan of a certain age.

While all betavans are quite sad, some aren’t complete jalopies and those in The Europe who eat a bit higher on the hog own a Citroën Berlingo, a Ford Transit living a Euro Life, or possibly a Renault Kangoo.

The make and model doesn’t matter to my smaller, ‘Rat Dog’ of course as he hates all of them with a seething passion and will bark himself hoarse whenever one passes.

---

It was the Kangoo as the betavan of choice for the morning audio marauder in my village, although with what was most definitely not a stock audio system as shown by his being able to generate this ‘discomòbil’ sonic bomb that’s normally reserved for the village festivals.

WUMP, WUMP, WUMP

I like to attempt a small, mindful, digital detox by leaving the phone at home on walks, but it’s almost always shattered by the arrival of the betavan.

WUMP, WUMP, WUMP

And it was always before a morning coffee, leaving me in a something of a blurred state of existence as to whether it was coming or going as a betavan is always on the move.

Then one morning, I heard the betavan and it was definitely coming, not going. It rolled up from behind me as I was returning with the dogs. The windows were down, although windows are almost always down on betavans in Spain because they’re purchased without AC, and it gave me a full view of the shirtless, hairless occupant with his thin, noodle physique that seemed to heave in time with the WUMP, WUMP, WUMP.

“Hey man, how you doing?”

Shocked to be able to hear his voice over the WUMPs, it took a minute to respond.

“Okay... You?”

“Cosmic man, cosmic.”

“Well, great… um, see you around?”

“Yeah, totally.”

And the WUMPs drove off as I entered the house to feed the dogs and get a coffee.

---

That morning was not to be a one off.

I would start encountering Mr. Betavan more often, but always with the same conversations that said nothing.

I began to wonder if he was somehow lurking in the vineyards, waiting for me each morning, like a van shark, hunting its prey, but I realized that would involve silencing the WUMPs and the WUMPs are never to be silenced.

Then one day, Mr. Betavan pulled up and outright asked what he’d been meaning to ask all this time apparently.

“Hey, wanna drop acid?”

“Uh… not today?”

“Suit yourself!”

And he drove off, but wasn’t to be deterred as he encountered me the next morning, shortly after taking the dogs in and waited at the front door, engine idling while I gave the dogs their breakfast. The WUMP, WUMP, WUMP didn’t pause of course, as like the air conditioning, there is no pause button on a betavan.

He had to have been there for 10 minutes, but wasn’t leaving so I went back out and looked in through the passenger’s window.

“Um, hi?”

“How about today man? Acid?”

I took a pass on the whole hallucinogens period in my life so I wasn’t sure what to say in this situation, but I live in a village of less than 600 people, so when activities come your way, no matter how far fetched, you’d best grab them and go for a ride.

“Okay, why not?”

“Cosmic. Get in man, you’re gonna love the bat cave.”

And with that we shot off through the houses flanking the narrow roads of the village. The WUMPs embraced me like a soft, sonic sofa.

---

I was expecting the “bat cave” to simply be code for a shitty “guy house” with an empty beer keg that had become a table, a weight bench that was used as a clothes rack, and a moldy shower in a windowless bathroom.

As we drove through the village, we didn’t stop at any of the normal houses though.

We went out the lower side and down towards the seasonal river. I was wondering if I had just sealed my fate and he was taking me to one of the creepy abandoned farmhouses out there to finish me off in some exceedingly strange and obviously painful ritualistic killing. I don’t know why this thought entered my mind as the WUMPs and the fact that everyone in the village had seen me get into his betavan (as everyone sees everything in a village) would have made it hard to get away with ending me.

We weren’t stopping at any of the creepy houses either, but in fact driving up a dirt road that went in the direction of the large hill that looms behind the village.

I’d been on top of this hill countless times to walk the dogs and take in the view of the county. At the peak are these avencs or narrow caves that people would spelunk into, but I’ve never even thought to attempt this as they’re very narrow and I’m very big.

But this definitely wasn’t the top of the hill and was in fact something very different. I’d never been to this part of the hill and didn’t think there was anything there, despite having seen this dirt road in the past.

He slowed down as we neared a large, dark crack in the hill that grew ever larger as we approached. My god, was it an actual bat cave?

I was stunned as to how large it was as we actually drove in and near darkness swallowed us. Mr. Betavan turned off the vehicle and the WUMPs did in fact stop, shockingly.

“Come. Come into the bat cave.”

I followed him, amazed at the size of it and the fact that the deeper we went, the more it seems he had customized it to his needs over the years. It looked quite comfortable with cushy arm chairs and matching dark wood furniture in modern Scandi design as well as recessed, indirect soft lighting. I stopped thinking of it as a cave and started to get a bit jealous about the level of comfort.

We arrived to what I assumed to be the “living room” and sat down in the elegant and very non-IKEA armchairs. He reached into an old toolbox and pulled out a couple of sheets, each with various emojis on them.

“So, low, medium, high?”

“Um, I guess low?”

“Good man.”

He grabbed one of the sheets with smiley faces running across it, tore off a tab and tossed it to me. He grabbed from a different sheet with what looked like chili peppers.

I sat there a bit stupidly for a second due to my not knowing how this worked, but ended up simply copying him, putting the tab on my tongue. I looked over at him and of course at that moment realized I’d just dropped acid with some rando in his bat cave on the backside of the village. This suddenly seemed like a terribly mistake.

“Wait for it. Just… yeah.”

And that was when things went a bit wobbly. The cave seemed to come to life and I was somehow tasting the rocks of the walls without leaving my chair. They were moist, mineral, a touch meaty even with a hint of apple?

I looked over to see if Mr. Betavan was also savoring the walls, but he just looked straight at me, saying nothing for a minute until blurting out.

“We need to go to Barcelona!”

“Um, why?”

“You know!”

All I could think at that moment was that this seemed like a tremendously amazing idea, despite the capital being 150km away.

We hopped back into the betavan, cranked up those amazing, beautiful WUMPs and were off to the north.

---

As we drove over the mountain pass, the wind turbines seemed to stutter in time with the WUMPs, the betavan’s rattling metal exoskeleton started to flex like that scene in the first Matrix, but not like the sequels when the CGI got extremely annoying.

Coming down from the pass, the sea was just one massive wave that kept washing over itself in a shimmering grin. I wanted to swim. I wanted to bathe in the grin, but it laughed as we drove by.

Sea and mountain started bleeding into one another with the highway an artery carrying us forward to a beating heart of Barcelona. A heart that goes WUMP and nothing but WUMP.

As we entered the city, swells of humanity washed upon the betavan, seeming to carry us along and down to les Rambles. How did we get here so fast? Obviously, the WUMPs had carried us into the vast city and its people, so enamored… with a betavan?

“Who are all these people?”

“These, are my disciples.”

“Your… what?”

It didn’t come out correctly because my speech was blurring so it sounded like, “you’re fat”.

“No, I am Saint George.”

“You mean, your name is Jordi?”

“No, Saint George and you have joined me on my ascent to heaven.”

This was perturbing news to say the least and if I’d know I’d be with Saint George, I would have at least showered before we set out, worn better pants, and have just generally been more presentable given that it’s not every day you ascend to heaven, high on acid, with Saint George, in Barcelona. Although, perhaps this wasn’t a shared journey?

“Wait, do I ascend with you? Or do I get left with the betavan?”

But he didn’t hear or perhaps didn’t care as he was with his people now. The crowds swelled, we arrived to the statue of Columbus which was writhing like a wild tendril in time to the music, and it’s there that the betavan came to a halt, but the WUMP, WUMP, WUMP did not. If anything, it got stronger, throbbing in the air and filling me with sound. I felt my ears in my heart and my heart… somewhere else. Everything started to blur. I didn’t feel ill, but I did feel uneasy.

People, so many people.

And Saint George.

And me, a bit smelly and exceedingly high on what I had thought to be the weaker choice in a morning hit of acid.

This blur of humanity turned into pinwheels that started spinning around me and I felt this tickling on my hand.

I was scared to look down because if I lost sight of Saint George, surely I would get swept away in the crowd, never to be heard from again. But the damned tickling grew and was getting wet and somehow, I started hearing a very annoying whimper piercing through the WUMPs.

I couldn’t take it anymore as the whimpering was turning into barks so I finally looked down to see it was Rat Dog, who had been licking my hand and was now barking at me in a very bossy tone.

Barcelona immediately washed away.

It was still morning and I was sitting on the terrace, my first coffee on the table, still untouched, and the dogs, were impatient for their walk.

Apparently, I was still ‘a bit’ drowsy having drifted off and yet, in the background it was still there, the WUMP, WUMP, WUMP, pulsing through the morning as the betavan drove off into the hills.