The Kebab Van at the End of the World
written by: Penny Rogers
It was the last place that you’d expect to find a kebab van. I associate them with urban environments; town centres late at night, football grounds, nightclubs and destinations for lots of people looking for an easy meal. So when I turned into a lay-by on a deserted coast road I was surprised to see a scruffy van parked across the corner. On the peeling blue paint I could discern spidery red writing. In the low afternoon sun I couldn’t make out what it said. So I turned the engine off and got out of my car.
In retrospect it was one of those times when you make a big change, though you don’t realise that when it’s going on. Later on you look back and begin to understand what happened. Mind you, I’m still trying to make sense of some things.
It was June; long warm days, gentle velvet nights and I needed to go away; leave the places, the people and the unhappiness behind me and decide what to do next. So I packed a small suitcase, sorted out a few essentials like a torch and a phone charger. I took stuff like cereal bars, packets of biscuits, a bag of apples, bottles of water; basically anything that wouldn’t go off. I chucked it all into the car and drove away, heading in an easterly direction and as far as possible using roads I didn’t know. By the time the sky was losing its blackness and allowing fingers of grey into the canopy in front of me I was a long way from home, and seeing place names on the road signs that were completely new to me. In a small town I stopped in an empty car park, hoping that the toilet I could see in the early morning sunshine would be open. As if in answer to my prayer, a van swerved into the car park and a chap in overalls got out and proceeded to unlock the doors. He went inside with a mop and bucket. After a few minutes he came out, jumped into his van and raced off in the growing light.
Over the next few weeks I developed a sixth sense for finding essential facilities. I stayed in B&Bs, never for more than one night. Usually I could find a laundrette, but they weren’t as widespread or as inexpensive as they’d been in my student days when I relied on them. Self-service garages were a godsend, useful for keeping stocked up on non-perishable food that didn’t need cooking. I didn’t want to talk to people, and I could use my card to pay. I did text my sister, told her not to worry and I’d be in touch when I’d sorted myself out. I specifically said ‘don’t come looking for me.’ I just wanted to be anonymous and invisible. And spend as little money as possible.
So, back to the kebab van in a lay-by at the edge of nowhere. I’d been driving northwards up the coast, along a winding narrow road with the North Sea’s shingle beaches on my right. On my left I could see farmland interspersed with isolated smallholdings and silent hamlets. All day I’d only seen two mail vans, three tractors and a kid on a bike, certainly nowhere to stay. It did look as if I’d have to spend the night in my car, and I felt a bit vulnerable and afraid, so it seemed sensible to keep driving until I reached a sizeable settlement. The lay-by was somewhere I could stretch my legs, and maybe the kebab van would serve me a cup of tea. The car park was a mess. So much rubbish blowing about! It was as if a coach party had just left, leaving their picnic litter behind: crisp packets, pie wrappers, orange peel, even egg shells whipped around my ankles. The sun had almost dropped below the horizon and a sharp onshore wind had sprung up. It was a desolate place, it matched my mood completely. I turned to get back into the car and get out of this forlorn spot.
‘Want some chips? Or a burger?’
The heavily accented voice made me jump; I’d concluded that this wretched place was deserted. The despairing thoughts I had had were replaced by fear. I turned round in alarm. The speaker was a small man, rotund and moustached; he must have come from the untidy van. In the fading light I could just make out a name painted inexpertly on the side. ‘Uzmir.’
The milky dawn tinged with the merest hint of pink was spreading in the sky, the white tips of the waves increasingly discernible when I returned to my car. I must’ve reclined the seats as far as they would go and fallen into the deepest sleep I’ve had for many years. I awoke sweltering; it was 9.55 and the midsummer sun already high in the sky. I threw the car door open, relieved by the fresh air, willing Uzmir to appear with a cup of tea. No such luck. The lay-by was deserted; the litter, no longer blown about, had congealed into heaps by stones and tussocks of grass.
Vaguely wondering where Uzmir lived and how he got to and from his unlikely pitch, I wandered over towards his snack van, still hoping for a cup of tea. Memories of the stupendous feast I’d enjoyed the night before came back: dolma, artichokes with lamb, smoky aubergines, and the most luscious rice pudding imaginable. All washed down with an inexhaustible supply of red Turkish wine.
The bright morning light made the snack bar look even more decrepit. Blue paint peeled away, like a reptile sloughing its skin. Here and there an effort had been made to deal with the ravages of wind, rain and sun; a piece of wood screwed jauntily to the side of the serving hatch, a length of corrugated plastic covering a bit of saggy roof. I wondered why the severe storms of last winter hadn’t blown the whole structure to smithereens.
‘You gonna tell me what you’re running away from?’ The man must be a spirit, appearing from nowhere.
‘I’ve got nothing to tell.’
‘Suit yourself. Want tea?’
Later that day we went for a walk along the beach. It was the first of many walks; during my time living in that lay-by I learnt so much about the flora and fauna of the coast and the constantly changing winds and tides. In all the time we spent together, walking along the beach, poking around in rock pools at low tide, picking up bits of driftwood along the strand at high tide, I never found out anything about him, where he lived and how he produced all that miraculous food in a ramshackle van. As time went by I lost interest in asking, I felt content living on the edge of the land and the sea.
‘You tell me what you’re running from.’ Uzmir could be quite peremptory.
‘I’m not running from anything.’ Even I didn’t think that sounded convincing.
‘Everybody who comes here, every single person, is running from something.’
‘Do you see lots of people?’ Perhaps they’d left all that litter in the car park.
As usual he didn’t respond to my question, so to fill the silence I found myself telling him about the job that had almost destroyed me.
‘So I handed in my notice, walked away from it. And here I am now, living on my savings while I decide what to do next.’
Another day he asked about my family, ‘Is there anyone who’s worried about you? Someone you could talk to?’
I thought about my sister. ‘Hmm, I’ll think about it.’
Summer edged into September, the days shortened and the nights became cooler. I saw no one; not a single person walking along the strand, no curious dog sniffing around the kebab van, and no vehicles pulling into my haven at the end of the world. The battery on my phone was flat; I had no means of charging it so I asked Uzmir. He took it, said he’d sort it out. I don’t remember him giving it back to me. If I was a prisoner I was a willing prisoner; the car had become my home and the keys were still in my pocket. But I made no effort to leave even when the autumn storms battered the beach and whipped up the sea into a frenzy.
I watched the VW estate pull into the lay-by with a mixture of relief and panic. I turned to look for Uzmir, but he was nowhere to be seen. Rooted to the spot I watched the car stop and someone get out. I was amazed to recognise my sister Joanne.
‘Thank goodness I’ve found you. We’ve been so worried. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine thank you. How did you find me?’ Even as I asked the question I knew the answer.
‘I got a text. It was just the ‘What 3 Words’ for this lay-by. We were afraid something awful had happened to you. What are you doing here? ’
I looked at the battered van on the other side of the litter-strewn lay-by; still no sign of Uzmir or any indication that he had ever been there. He’d vanished into thin air, just as he’d materialised when I arrived. So I did what he would have done, shrugged my shoulders, ignored the question and replied with my own request.
‘I don’t think my car will start. Can you take me to a garage so I can get someone to come and sort it out?’
Joanne looked disdainfully at my car. ‘I doubt there’s anything that can be done with that, but we’ll find someone to have a look at it. It might be necessary to get someone to have a look at you as well.’ What a strange thing for your sister to say. I wondered what she was on about. ‘Anyway,’ she carried on ‘there’s a town not far away, I’ve got a room in the only pub. You can have a shower and a good meal and then tell me what’s happened.’
I started to say that the last thing I needed was a good meal, that I’d been fed like royalty and that I’d be quite happy to stay here. But I caught my reflection in the mirror of the VW. A gaunt and dishevelled face peered back at me, no wonder she was concerned. Looking down I kicked away piles of empty packets and cans from around my feet; I had meant to pick them up but never did.
‘Where did all that mess come from?’ Jo peered at the detritus that surrounded my car. ‘Is that what you’ve been living on? No wonder you look so thin. We ought to pick it up before we leave. On second thoughts, we can do that when we come back for your car. It can wait another night.’
The wind was getting stronger by the minute; I could smell salt in the gusts that whipped my hair and stung my cheeks. Over the sea the sky was darkening and I could hear the waves crashing ominously on the stony beach. It was time to leave and begin to re-calibrate my life. Without a backward glance I got into Jo’s car.
COASTAL RADIO NEWS
‘Storm Alveric, the first named storm of the season, has cleared the east coast leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. Reports are coming in of an exceptional tidal surge affecting the low lying coastal area. Most of the road has been washed away, making access difficult for recovery vehicles. The promontory known locally as Turk’s Head has been completely submerged.’
- The Kebab Van at the End of the World - August 11, 2024
