Photography by Coen Wubbels
It’s pitch dark when we wake up. For minutes, complete silence surrounds us—until the coffee maker starts gurgling. I pour two mugs of steaming hot liquid to warm us up and fill the thermos for the road. Our 26-year-old Toyota Starlet is ready to go, loaded with a hundred of our Forever Off Track books, a spare tire, and all we may need for a roadside repair. We pack one bag with clothes and another with food. It’s 5:00 a.m.
Dressed in winter jackets and gloves, we scrape the frost from the windows and set off. Five minutes on quiet countryside roads brings us to the highway. I sip my coffee and glance sideways.
“Get some more sleep,” I suggest, pulling the extra blanket from the backseat. “From here on, it’s straightforward driving. I’ll wake you if I need help navigating.” Soon, Coen is breathing deeply. My headlights slice through the darkness on an almost empty road. Ahead lies over 2,000 miles: from the Netherlands through Germany and Eastern Europe to Turkey and Cyprus, where our faithful Land Cruiser has been waiting for us in an olive grove since July. The steady hum of the engine brings a welcome calm. Time to breathe, to reflect.
Decision Time
Less than a year ago, we were overlanding in Cyprus, parked in the mountains on a rainy day as water leaked inside. I stuffed a towel in the glove compartment and removed all the sleeping gear from the left storage compartment, as we had insolvable leaks there too. Water dripped to the ground below the dashboard. We sat in the back, drinking tea. One of us asked, “Where is the road going to take us? And, more importantly, what are we going to do with the BJ?” The Land Cruiser was falling to pieces, and we were fed up with it. Sure, the breakdowns had brought many adventures and encounters during our 21 years of continuous overland travel through Asia and South America. But the balance had tipped. It was time to say goodbye to our trusty home on wheels.
But then what? A new overland rig? More comfort? That didn’t feel right. We needed character. Soul.
“You know,” I said, “if you parked another BJ right here in better condition, I’d just move everything over and keep going.” We looked around. We were happy with our little space.
“Okay, so let’s do that,” Coen responded. We clinked our tea glasses in a toast. It felt good to finally say it out loud. Time for a new chapter: Landcruising Adventure 2.0.
A Horrible and Unexpected Turn
That was in April 2024. In May, we flew to the Netherlands for a visit. In June, we found a new BJ in France and bought it. At the end of the month, we returned to Cyprus for one last summer in our beloved Land Cruiser. All was going according to plan until Coen began drifting to the left while driving, and at one point, almost got into a crash. I took over the wheel, and that afternoon, Coen lost consciousness. We rushed to the hospital, and on July 1, a surgeon removed an aggressive 2-inch brain tumor.
Instead of a farewell road trip through Cyprus and the Caucasus, we flew to the Netherlands and plunged into the dark world of hospitals, radiation treatment, and chemotherapy. The treatment worked, though, and a subsequent MRI showed no tumor activity. We celebrated with champagne and stuck to our plan: to drive to Cyprus in the Starlet and prepare the Land Cruiser for its final journey.
Where Will the BJ Go?
About 10 years prior, we received a serious offer. Not just to buy the Land Cruiser, but to preserve it in the Heritage Land Cruiser Museum in Salt Lake City, Utah. A fitting place for our truck, so full of stories and scars. We were flattered, but the road was still calling.
“Let me know when you’re ready, no matter when,” Greg Miller, the museum’s owner, had said.
“Sure,” we replied. In 2019, after the BJ’s fourth restoration, we were ready. We got in touch. Then the pandemic happened. Then Ukraine. Life went on, and so did our travels. Until the spring of 2024, when we made the call. The original plan had been to ship the BJ to Mexico or Canada and travel across North America, promoting Forever Off Track, our first book in English. But with Coen’s diagnosis, that was no longer an option. The best alternative? Ship the Land Cruiser from Cyprus to North America.
Last fall, we finalized the agreement with the museum. Greg was enthusiastic and eager to get the process going. The aim was to organize the shipping between two chemo rounds in late January. The schedule was tight but doable. Unfortunately, the bureaucratic tape took longer than anticipated, but we had no time to sit and wait for things to happen. We left the Netherlands even though no shipment date or port of departure had been confirmed, believing, as always, that things would work out one way or another. On our day of departure, Coen started his fourth round of chemo. He’d be tired, we knew, but otherwise okay.
To Cyprus
The miles were flying by, and the black night fading into a gray, overcast sky. Coen, no longer allowed to drive after losing half his visual field due to the tumor, has taken on his new role as barista and sandwich maker. We stop for gas, and I take a 20-minute nap. The long days of driving are broken up by heartwarming visits to friends along the way. A week later, we leave the Starlet on the southern Turkish coast and take the ferry to Cyprus. There, in the olive grove of a guesthouse, the Land Cruiser is waiting. I open the passenger door and sit down.
Doubts creep up. Is this really the right decision? Why all this stress and bureaucracy? Why not just turn the key and drive? My thoughts spiral, longing for the road.
“Battery is dead,” Coen calls from under the hood. Right. That’s why. In downtown Girne, we find a battery shop. The owner drives us back and installs the new battery himself. Done. Meanwhile, we had learned it would be impossible to ship the Land Cruiser from Cyprus due to geopolitical complications, and so we ferried it back to Turkey.
Waiting in Turkey
We settle into an Airbnb on a hill near Alanya, overlooking the bright-blue Mediterranean. We begin the monumental task of sorting through 21 years of Landcruising Adventure to fit what matters into the Starlet. The initially agreed shipping date, the last week of January, won’t be met, and the logistics are out of our hands. We know from experience how difficult it is to get a shipment scheduled when you’re not on-site. We improvise. On February 6, Coen will take a return flight to the Netherlands for his fifth chemo treatment so that we can extend our stay in Turkey by a month.
Days pass by in harmonious companionship, unpacking box after box, reflecting on item by item, tool by tool. Should we keep the spare clamps we bought in South Korea after the big brake-line failure? What about the gun-cleaning kit from Bangkok to clean the Coleman stove? With a heavy heart, I part with the food box, an old pink plastic container held together with duct tape, which has carried our groceries through dozens of countries.
We never bought souvenirs, but we pinned mementos on a strip of cork just below the ceiling: tiny country flags, banknotes, postcards, often given to us by locals. Over the years, I removed old ones to create new space and stored them in a bag, only to toss them out years later. We sit on the bench, letting memories wash over us. We agree: these pieces belong in the Land Cruiser, not in a bag. They are part of the story.
Time to Go
We push again for a shipping date and finally get one for February 5. We will need two days to drive to İzmir and leave on February 3 at 9:00 a.m. With the sun glinting on the sea, we pass endless resorts and apartment blocks that characterize the touristy south coast. Speed monitoring cameras are everywhere, and speed limits flash by faster than I can read: 50, 70, 50, 90, 80.
“Stop, turn back,” Coen shouts. “The box. We forgot the green box,” he cries.
In prepping the shipment, we’d removed it from the roof rack. It stood behind the BJ, the last bulky item to be shoved into the rear, but we had driven off without it. We double back, cursing the speed cameras and worrying that the resort staff may have tossed it.
Phew, it’s still there. At 2:30 p.m., we leave Alanya again, eyes on İzmir. We follow the road toward Denizli with its brown mountain slopes and sparse vegetation. I shift into low gear and climb; the Land Cruiser does what it needs to do and putters on at a snail’s pace. My original plan to include an overnight visit at Pamukkale’s famous baths is abandoned, and we spent our final night in the Land Cruiser in a boring parking lot along the main road. With this morning’s setback and Turkey’s mountainous terrain, we’ll need all the time we can get.
Coen rolls over to spoon me, worn out from delays and uncertainties. “I need this to be over,” he sighs. So do I.
We still don’t have an address. Then an email arrives from Melike at the shipping agency asking for a copy of our temporary import document. We don’t have it, because borders are now digital. “It’s all in the system, sir,” the customs officer had responded when Coen asked for a paper copy when entering Turkey from Cyprus.
But Melike insists, and we realize we are going to need to get it one way or another, which sets us on a wild goose chase to police headquarters and customs offices—no such luck.
“When will we meet?” we ask Melike.
“Oh, just drop by tomorrow afternoon,” she replies. That sounds surprisingly relaxed for a shipment due the next day, but I have no time to dwell on it. Again, we head into the mountains, which requires all my attention. The climb is steady, and I worry if the BJ will make it. All is fine until we hit thick fog. I can barely see the car in front of me; everything else is grayish-white. A sign indicates that snow chains are no longer required as we descend into the flatlands, the road cutting through endless vineyards.
The Paperwork Trail
In Manisa, near İzmir, we find another customs office. Coen heads in and returns 10 minutes later, elated. “It worked. I got the paper.” Off we go, to the agency. In a plush office in a high-rise tower with a sweeping view, we meet Melike.
“So,” she says after introductions and serving tea,” when would you like to ship your car?”
“What do you mean? It’s planned for tomorrow. It had better be, because Coen is flying out the following day for his next chemo treatment.”
“Oh, I wasn’t told anything about that date. It’s impossible to get it done that soon,” she responds matter-of-factly. The world crashes around us. Coen sits in stunned silence, while I begin to feel myself unravel. Melike sees it and feels it. A day later, as she takes us to the bus station, she will explain how deeply our story touched her. That she’d never gone out of her way as she did for us, but felt she had to. How do we keep meeting these angels?
“I will help you,” she says and starts making calls. Dozens of them. She is trying to get a container, but without a confirmed shipment booking, nothing moves. Everything has been reserved for weeks. But this is Turkey. There are ways. And they take time. By 11:00 p.m., long back in the Land Cruiser, we are still exchanging emails. More info is requested (father’s name, mother’s name); more documents are required. We need a Turkish tax number. “Get one early in the morning in downtown İzmir,” she instructs.
Seriously? How much crazier can this get? But somehow, Melike pulls it off. We don’t know how, and we don’t want to know.
The Container
At noon on February 5, we meet at the warehouse. I park the Land Cruiser and hop out. The final drive, into the container, is Coen’s, who, over the past 21 years, has driven by far most of the 200,000 miles we’ve traveled. Melike is waiting for us, accompanied by two men in charge of loading. She already knows about Coen’s health, his limited eyesight, and his stress levels. And these guys are incredible—calm, respectful, patient. We all work together, slowly inching the Land Cruiser into place, deflating the tires to gain a few crucial centimeters.
Then it doesn’t fit. The container truck is parked on a slant. There’s no clearance between the roof rack and the top of the door frame. The men start adjusting the truck’s position to level it out. Again, Coen edges backward. This time, the roof rack slightly scrapes the upper frame (as it always does), so nothing to worry about. The Land Cruiser fits. Not as neatly as we’d like, but it fits. We exhale, and the tension in our bodies is slowly released.
We take some photos of the Land Cruiser now trapped inside its metal coffin. Then one of the guys swings the heavy doors shut. Twenty-one years of our lives are in that container. Coen turns, still on high alert. “Did we forget anything?”
“No, we’re good. There’s nothing more we can do,” I respond. Coen walks over and hugs me. Then we cry, tears dripping into each other’s necks. Not just because the job is done. We cry for everything that’s been. For everything we’ve lived. For everything we’ve lost. “You gave me the world,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Aftermath
Back at the bus station, we buy tickets for our return to the Airbnb in Alanya. Twelve hours ahead of nothing to do but stare out the window, watch the Turkish landscape roll by, and let the memories settle. From Alanya, Coen will take a return flight to the Netherlands, and after that, we will hike. First in Turkey and then, after Coen has finished all his treatments, we plan to go on a long, long walk. Our journey will continue. Just at a different pace.
And somewhere out there, on a cargo ship bound for the US, our Land Cruiser sails toward its final destination for a well-deserved rest and a place in history.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Overland Journal’s Winter 2025 Issue.
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