Does it still run, I wonder? …that eccentric bus service?
THE BUS FROM ATHENS
Does it still run, I wonder? …
It was sometime in the 1970’s that I decided to travel by that eccentric bus service, the
brainchild of a couple of Greek entrepreneurs which provided transport from London to
Athens return for the extraordinary sum of £29. I doubt it still operates, probably replaced by
airline cut-price travel. Instead of 27 hours on the road, with no refreshments, no insurance or
guarantee of arrival times, one now flies crammed into an airborne sardine can, but in those
pre budget-airline days, it was an interesting alternative if one had the endurance.
Having accomplished the outward leg, and visited Crete, Turkey, Chios, and many of the
offshore islands, nearly a month later I was making my way back to Athens to rejoin the Magic
Bus on my return to London.
My job as a hotel receptionist in Scotland restricted travel to off-season periods, which always
fell during the most unfavourable seasons from January to a week or two before Easter, and
then for a shorter time in the autumn. Unfortunately this meant I visited Europe and the
Mediterranean countries before many of the public attractions opened, which could be
disappointing. It could also be lonely and occasionally exceedingly cold, as in some places
there was still snow on the ground, ominous black clouds overhead, and heavy rain.
But, for the dedicated traveller these small discomforts don’t count and without the stultifying
crowds and intense summer heat, the recollections of these few years of intermittent roaming
remain as some of the most interesting travel experiences ever.
Reverting to the return journey from Athens to London on that stormy late-spring day, here is
an incident which took place during those tedious hours when we were, so trustingly and
hopefully, proceeding north towards Calais and the Channel steamer.
Having left Greece and Yugoslavia on the first day, long hours had been wasted in attempting
to find Klagenfurt, the border crossing into Austria. This was rumoured to be less suspicious
of traffic from Greece than other more strictly controlled customs posts, with less risk of illegal
job-seekers being turned back as prohibited immigrants. Crisscrossing up and down steep
mountain roads we had searched for hours for the right road until finally, at about 1am, the
brightly lit buildings appeared and finally, we were through. This was achieved with lots of
talk, much emphatic translation and, perhaps, not a little hand-greasing, and the fifteen
occupants of the gallant little bus finally settled down for a well-earned sleep; the more
experienced driver rolled himself into his blankets and ‘retired’ to the bench seat at the back
of the bus, and his side-kick took over.
Hours later, waking from an uneasy doze, I noticed a stirring amongst the group. After a few
minutes, one of the backseat passengers, whom I had dismissed as a threadbare hippy
because of his greasy, shoulder-length hair, his unshaven cheeks, sandaled feet, thin shanks
and the distressingly large holes in the seat of his pants, made his way towards the front and
began remonstrating with the driver.
Unable to make himself understood, he appealed to the rest of the passengers, saying
urgently “We are going in the wrong direction. We should be proceeding up the auto-route
towards France. This way, we will enter Switzerland in an hour or two and have to cover a
huge part of the French countryside on minor roads to eventually reach Calais.” Much
discussion ensued, the other driver was woken from his slumbers, but the eventual
consensus was that it would waste too much time returning along the route already travelled,
and that it was better to continue, and keep going after clearing the border into Switzerland
and try to make the midnight ferry out of Calais.
Alas for all good intentions! Further heavy rains in France, crowded roads, and terrible
congestion as we reached the dockside approaches put paid to our efforts and we missed the
midnight ferry.
So, with no alternative, we settled ourselves as best we could to wait out the cold and empty
hours until the first ferry departed the next morning at eight. During this interminable wait, I
finally managed to engage the hippy in conversation. To my amazement, he turned out to be
a second-year Oxford student, returning with his girlfriend from a period in the Sudan teaching
English to the villagers.
“I began to feel extremely guilty, foisting my Western beliefs and attitudes on these simple
people. They have nothing, and live hand-to-mouth, and yet revere a teacher as one who can
give them education and the ability to enter main-stream life if they speak English, and can
read and write it as well.”
“When I first arrived, they welcomed me with singing and clapping, fetched their most
valuable possession, a rickety old wooden chair, dusted it off, seated me ceremoniously, gave
me water to drink and a tattered copy of a months old newspaper. Their respect and
reverence, which I surely did not deserve, was acutely embarrassing, and although I did my
best to give them with as much instruction as I could cram into the daylight hours, I never felt
that I was repaying them for what they gave me.”
“And then what happened?” I queried, interested.
“Well, my girlfriend and I ran out of money, and only had enough to get us from the Sudan to
Cairo, but not sufficient to get back to England. Arriving in Cairo, I phoned my mother, and
she used her credit card to pay for us to fly to Athens. From there we could just afford a one-
way ticket on the Magic Bus back to London, and here we are. Trouble is, we’ve been living in
hot climates for so long, and gave all our possessions to the wonderful people who had
welcomed us with such kindness, and we are really feeling the cold now we are back in
northern latitudes.”
Shortly after this the loudspeakers announced the arrival of the early ferry, and in the bustle of
embarkation I lost sight of the couple. Many other delays and setbacks awaited me before I
finally reached London, including being involved in the “siege” of Balcombe Street [a hostage-
taking by cornered and desperate elements of the IRA.]
… But that is a story for another day. So, perhaps the lesson of this story is – “Don’t judge
others on outward appearances. Things may not be what they seem and many an interesting
person is hidden under a shabby exterior!”
*****
Then, a few months ago, in November 2005 to be precise, I got this message by email from
Peter Stephenson in Melbourne, Australia:-
“Magic Bus was started by Greg Williams in the late 1960's or very early ’70's (I struggle to
recall). Greg was a London boy with a gift of the gab. My involvement began in 1974 when my
best friend Graham persuaded me to give up an extremely well paid job in photography to join
him on his bus (the Bozo Bus) for a trip from Amsterdam to Athens.
Graham has written three books on Magic Bus called “The Overlanders” by Graham Bourne [I
think.] Minerva Press published the first novel (check Amazon). When I got to Athens, I
opened a student hostel called “The Student Inn” on Kidatheneon Street in the Plaka. During
that time, Magic Bus moved in with me - or rather, the bus drivers did - they got free
accommodation if they bought me their passengers.
..... We used to drink at Peter’s Fireside Pub at the back of Platia Philomousa on
Kidatheneon, owned by Chris Petropolous. Later I became his partner in the pub; introduced
him to Greg Williams, and now Chris still owns and operates Magic Bus in Athens. Greg
unfortunately went bankrupt in the mid 1980's and lost his by then extensive bus empire. He
committed suicide a few years later.
A sad end to a wonderful story. And Peter Stephenson ends ….. “So, there you go, a potted
History of Magic Bus!!!”