All language subtitles for Break.Free.Two.People..Two.Years..One.Dream.2019.1080p.BluRay.x264-[YTS.LT]

The moment
when I comprehend what it means to live,

in the here and now.

The moment
in which I feel within my heart

that I am able to be
a tiny part of this amazing world.

What a gift!

BREAK FREE

TWO PEOPLE, TWO YEARS, ONE DREAM

I have this dream
to leave everything behind,

to squeeze into a car and to take off,

to just hit the road.

Burnout at 30?

Is this really my life?

Where did the fun,
my smile, my light-heartedness go?

We set out on a journey
from Hamburg to South Africa,

but we never get there.

Yet our journey
brings us closer to ourselves.

"Once we get going
it'll all be all right," I thought.

To be utterly free, to live,

to use the distance
to rediscover ourselves,

individually and mutually.

It's been three weeks and I'm realizing

it's going to be very cramped
and totally different than I thought.

Morocco, my first time in Africa.

I have mixed feelings.
The Foreign Office has issued an alert.

Just drifting is hard for me.

I want a structured travel plan,
quite the opposite of Lena.

We pick up Jamal,

a Berber who partied all night
and wants to get back to his village.

He had already been walking
towards home for an hour.

Do you have a dromedary?

- 25.
- 25?

Yes.

How much does one dromedary cost?

- Depends, between 900 and 1,300 euros.
- Wow!

Of course, he invites us in.

- Bisaha!
- Cheers!

- Hand.
- Uh-huh.

Hand.

Tuareg eyes.

Blue eyes,
the Tuareg have blue eyes too.

Jamal's uncle is a merchant.

The men of the nomadic family
still lead dromedaries

through the desert for weeks,
trekking as far as Senegal to trade.

- You go live wherever you want?
- We change locations, everywhere.

Independent.
This is our symbol for that.

The symbol for independent.

Not this.

When there are problems,
like in Mali, we stop.

- What problems?
- Problems in Mali with Al-Qaeda.

Al-Qaeda, Timbuktu.

What a different world.
Jamal invites us to get to know it.

We keep hearing about storm warnings
throughout all of Morocco.

No rain in the desert.

"lnshallah" is what Jamal says to that.

Once there, I am overcome
with a sense of freedom and gratitude.

It rained like crazy
throughout the entire night.

The natural spectacle
just barely missed our tent.

Jamal is calm.
Wait and see with a cup of tea.

And anyhow, lnshallah.

I see why more people drown
than die of thirst in the desert.

In case headlines
in Germany right now say,

“Worst torrential rains
in Morocco in 100 years,“ we're fine!

Everyone is trying to get out of here.

Bridges have collapsed,
roads are flooded,

villages and towns
are completely cut off.

More rain is coming.

- It's all black over there.
- Black!

A little bit of rain.

Lots of rain, not a little bit.

We don't get far.

Our attempt to flee back
to civilization is hopeless.

Awesome! An adventure!

- You can forget it!
- Not happening?

Jamal refuses to accept that.

- Try! lnshallah!
- lnshallah!

We've been on the move
for nine hours straight

and we have made it
maybe something like 15 km.

Wherever we go the road is blocked.

Water.

Water, water, water.

After 11 hours
of driving in a circle we give up.

We're in luck, no additional rain.

The water level sank overnight.

- We did it!
- We did it!

We did it.

Sadly, it also means saying goodbye
to a friend we've grown very fond of.

My grandma says,
"Rain washes everything clean."

Here, it washes into the sea

carelessly discarded waste
from mountain villages.

I'm aghast and overwhelmed.

I've never seen
so much garbage in my entire life.

We resolved
to learn to surf on this trip

and to do other things
we've had no time for in years.

My burnout early this year
was a wakeup call

that lead us to take this trip.

But is simply going away enough?

Ulli annoys me more and more each day.

But I know how to drive the car
and where his key is.

- But you don't know where your key is.
- Yes I do!

But it doesn't work in every door.

Three months in Morocco.

I slowly begin to realize
that we're living my dream.

Me and my boyfriend are really driving
our car across West Africa.

I so want to show him everything,

to share with him what I experienced
backpacking on my own.

That's it for real toilets.

Oh, man!

Into the wild blue yonder!
Are you nervous?

- A little.
- Yeah, sure.

I've read about Western Sahara,

about annexation
and struggles for freedom.

Now I'm driving through this territory
towards Mauritania.

My biggest adventure up to now
was a six-week trip across the USA.

Apparently there are mines all over
on the left and right.

A strange feeling.

Customs checks,

military checks,

police checks.

How are you?

- Good, thank god.
- You speak Hassaniya?

A very, very little bit.

How many of you are there? Three?

- Two.
- Two people.

- No one else?
- No.

- No second woman?
- No.

Is he your husband?

- No, my love. My boyfriend.
- Your love.

- Oh! Your boyfriend.
- Yes.

No second one?

Yesterday that guy asked me
if I had a Hitler hat or something.

I mean, it's obvious
that I don't have a Hitler hat.

Maybe Third Reich stuff stuck with them,

Hitler being the greatest and all.

Maybe that's what registers here

and they see us that way
and not how we really are.

The same as it is with us,
we don't know what's up here.

“It's all the evil lslamists."

And we live
in a totally different situation.

From our first day in Mauritania
we meet the most magnificent people.

Ziza is a musician and challenges
the government with his lyrics.

He is now in hiding at a friend's.

His bandmate was arrested yesterday.

If Mauritania continues down this path,
this is my opinion.

If Mauritania continues down this path

in ten or 16 years it will be destroyed.

That's my opinion.

Ziza international!

Mr. President

Pardon me for disturbing you

I don't believe
you're the president of the poor

In reality, you're making us poor

Meeting Ziza, someone who risks
being arrested to express his opinion,

something that is so self-evident to us,
really makes me think.

We want to go into the desert,
but can't find the way in.

When we finally get into it
our tank is half empty.

I'm really scared we'll run out of gas
and get stranded in the Sahara.

Here we are,
stuck in the middle of the desert.

When you're digging and suddenly notice
it's not dates you're digging up.

Stop!

So, what are we going to do now?

We can't go back a bit
and get lots of momentum, can we?

Stop!

- It wasn't that bad.
- I still don't want it to happen again.

I think it's your karma, Ulli.
You've got bad sand karma.

You said you didn't like
the desert much,

so now it keeps
getting hold of our car.

The desert isn't my friend.

I don't think the desert
wants to be anyone's friend.

It's making that pretty clear.

It's Christmas.

I couldn't imagine
anything better than this,

spending it in the middle of nowhere,
in the calm of the desert.

Ulli says he'd rather be skiing

and that he doesn't know why
he's stressing himself out like this.

That hurts.

Getting your car buried in the sand
isn't really my thing.

Lena gets a big kick out of it,
but I don't know... being stuck sucks.

For some reason men and women
have trouble communicating.

It's always difficult,

and then, when it comes down to it...

Well, if you're already annoyed as it is

and tired and stressed out...

then maybe you start
to squabble a bit more.

But we'll make up.

But maybe not till tomorrow.

We heard it
an hour before we could see it.

200 cars rumbling
through the silent desert,

an iron ore train
carrying the main export

of one of the world's poorest nations.

I get goose bumps.

Five days in the desert,
stuck five times.

- We've got this.
- Yes, we do!

No doubt.

I'm Kalbacher.

Pleased to meet you.

Like Ronaldo.

Ronaldo.

I'm Shakira.

Shakira!

We're searching
for West Africa's best bread, lahtab.

- This is the bakery.
- Is there another bakery here?

One that's open.

Come on.

The problem?
Bakeries aren't always easy to spot.

How many?

Mauritania is nothing but sand.

All there is to eat
is bread, dates and meat.

Amazing how families can live
in the desert.

Here, in the desert,

we meet a woman as impressive
as any we meet on our trip.

Mame Sy.

“Khilat and Mam...

arrive at school early."

I know the really poor families.

Families in which the men divorced

and left their wives
alone with the children.

And there are many orphans.

Here, in Mauritania,
it's become normal to divorce a woman,

marry again
and to forget your old family.

I want to help women
whose husbands have left them

and who don't know
how to support their children.

Yes, a lack of food is a big problem.

Mame Sy's school allows kids like Toutou

to pass entrance exams
and get into secondary schools.

Toutou says she'd rather die
than not go to school.

Marne Sy, she works...

SO...

so we all can write and...

and read.

That's Marne Sy. My Mame Sy.

At the end of the day each child gets
a meal, often their only one.

They then share it
with their siblings outside.

I'm speechless
and delighted to meet such great kids.

When I say goodbye they hug me tighter
than I've ever been hugged in my life.

Drivers in Mauritania follow
their instincts, not rules,

and a car is anything that still rolls.

Ours has stopped doing that.
Our clutch conks out.

Sidatty says, "No problem."
He just has to remove the engine.

This will take a while.

So cute.

What mechanic in Germany would say,

“Your car isn't done, want to sleep
in my bed? That solves your problems."

We explore the area
and immediately get another invitation,

this time to drink camel milk and tea.

Tasty.

But no one told us
it takes three hours to drink tea here.

Leaving early is impolite.

Luckily, Hussein has
a German-Arabic dictionary at home

that seems like it's 100 years old.

My name is Hussein Mulleisn.

"I arrived today

and I live at 7 Goethestrasse

with the Koch family."

"I arrived today

and live with Goethe..."

In Germany it would never cross my mind

to invite
a complete stranger in for tea.

Now I wonder, why wouldn't I do that?

The guys work on our car into the night

while we watch
a video of a cousin's wedding.

I dream about Mame Sy.

I'm sure she didn't go to her wedding
dressed as a bedsheet.

Four weeks in Mauritania.
Tomorrow our visa expires.

We will leave this wonderful country
with heavy hearts.

How bad can what the internet calls
West Africa's most corrupt border be?

Very!

We have to get a ferry
to get to Senegal.

We have to shell out money for that
and loads of other contrived nonsense.

The head of policeman
just ripped us off.

We had to keep going back to this idiot

who said he was the top dog,
"Mr. President.“

So I went in
and sat down in his chair and said,

"I'm not leaving without my documents."

He flipped out and asked me
why I was making such a fuss.

Of course I made a fuss,
he had just pocketed 170 euros from us.

The receipt for Mauritania,
the police kept it.

- Oh, okay.
- It's for the police, not for you.

Once you pay
the police take your receipt.

- Voilà! You understand?
- Yes.

It was so obvious!
Now they want money here too.

And they say
the insurance we have isn't valid.

They want us to get new insurance,
which we obviously won't do.

It's so annoying.

And, of course,
after this terribly exhausting day

a minister and his entourage arrives
where we had set up camp for the night.

A private sphere or even getting
a little peace is impossible here.

Everyone's annoying the hell out of me.

I think he'd like to have
more stability, more routine.

No one gets when you need your peace.

You have to communicate that clearly,
but you can learn to do that.

And because everyone is so communicative
you meet wonderful people

if you yourself
are in a communicative mood.

I think we Europeans
are different than Africans in that.

But we're here in Africa
to be a part of that.

So we have to work on ourselves
while we're here.

I'm eager to see
how long Ulli will endure it,

if he'll stick this trip out
to the end or not.

Yoo-hoo!

Africa, Africa! Finally!

I'm so happy I could die.

Since I was small
Africans have captivated me.

It's like coming home.

Why can't I get this sense of freedom

that overcomes me on African soil
when in Germany?

As hard as life is here,
people really live it.

At home I'm stuck working myself sick,

comfort buying
and insuring myself silly.

Compared to life here it seems
like a bad joke, a very sad joke too.

- " Mangedem ."
- Mangedem.

- "Wow?"
- Yes.

" NO?"

Deideit .

"Deydeyt ," with a Y,
I don't know how it's pronounced.

We keep practicing.

- One.
- What are you getting?

- 500.
- Yes. One.

One, yes.

- Okay?
- Thanks.

Everything is sold in plastic,
where it ends up is hard to miss.

A friend from East Germany
who lives in Africa says

he grew up with it too
and that you don't see it then.

But who am I to condemn someone
who may not know any better?

Especially when I see the careless way

we destroy the environment at home
and here, where we have no business,

robbing people
of what they need to live.

While looking for waves
we meet Dominique and friends

and learn first-hand
what it's like to be a fisherman.

I have one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven...

eight, nine, ten blisters.

For two hours we pull
the endless, slimy net out of the water.

It's over 30 Celsius,
they've pulled up three nets,

haven't had anything to drink
and have two more nets left.

I get to choose a ray to set free.

I'm so naive
I can hardly imagine anyone eating it.

What do I know?

There are no fridges,
if there are they're usually warm.

They dry the majority of the catch.

Dominique tells us
what each of them gets

after selling the catch
and paying their expenses.

They earn no more than 1.50 euros a day.

I don't know how they can do it.

They should all die at 40
because they are physically wrecked

from doing such hard physical work
every day of the week but Sunday.

They pull these nets out of the water
six days a week, all day long,

and sometimes
not even catching very much.

I love German.

It's...

- German was my favorite subject.
- Yeah?

- Yes, when I went to school.
- Isn't it difficult?

It's difficult, but that's how it is.

I really loved it.

They gave us loads of fish
and we want to cook it at Dominique's.

Dominique is
in his early 30s and single.

He says women want luxury,
not a fisherman.

He is the sole earner for his father,
stepmother and their four children.

His grandmother, who mines salt
to earn extra money, is in the hospital.

My grandmother worked
harvesting salt.

Yes.

The salt and the sun...

Caused her to go blind. Oh, shit.

Ebola in Guinea,
Liberia and Sierra Leone.

Since arriving in Africa
we've met almost no other tourists.

People who make a living from them
have a real problem.

That doesn't keep Jabba, Assi, Roquel
and other souvenir vendors from dancing.

These ladies say Senegal stands
for Teranga, "hospitality."

And then they give us
countless souvenirs.

It was cute when Jabba and Roquel
up and took off after passing tourists.

They chased after them.

Each one of them grabbed
a pack of necklaces and ran after them.

They were desperate to sell something.

I can understand both sides,
the tourist who thinks,

"Oh, damn!
Out of here fast, they're coming!"

And the women who just think,
“At least have a look."

“It's really not expensive
and if you buy one necklace

just to buy something,
then you've already financed

a week's worth of food for us."

The next day they bring pots,
vegetables and fish to cook for us.

Awesome!
Now we're getting cooking lessons too.

It smells so good.

An inexplicable phenomenon,
those with the least share everything.

They refuse to let us
give them even a cent.

I have more food on my lap
than anyone else.

I think I'm keeping up with you.

I'm so thankful.
I've grown especially fond of Jabba.

Good luck, my Senegalese friend.

- And hopefully...
- See you soon.

- See you soon.
- Thank you, Lena.

Conclusion: I don't dance enough.

It's Carnival in Guinea-Bissau.

Everyone is drunk,

but the mood is upbeat
and no one causes trouble.

You know that you're in Africa

when the police,
or whoever that was just now,

do a two-hour drug search
without finding anything

and then hula-hoop with you.

Then you're in Africa.

Welcome!

Unfortunately, we've hit a dead end.

The Ebola outbreak is still acute
in Guinea, Sierra Leone and Liberia.

We could enter those countries
but not leave them.

And they have more pressing issues
than tourists like us.

Not seeing Sierra Leone
makes me immensely sad.

I was looking forward to that most.

Instead we decide to discover Gambia
and to bypass Ebola via Mali.

- Do you have a present?
- For you?

- Or do you have one for us?
- For me.

I have a big present.
You can be my friend.

- Is that a good present?
- Yes.

Okay.

Now let someone tell me the police suck.

I just got an "I love Gambia" bracelet.

An “I love Gambia" bracelet
to remind me of Gambia.

What? I'm so jealous!

Oops!

Five months on the road
and something breaks every day.

I have to fix something every day.

That oh-so-familiar feeling
of exhaustion creeps back up on me.

I'm torn between concern for Ulli
and being annoyed with him.

I decided today will be Ulli-free,
for the first time since we set out.

The misery
of the street dogs affects me.

Feeding them and keeping some flea-free
for a few weeks isn't enough for me.

Fatou is a vet's assistant who catches,
neuters and vaccinates strays.

I think what she does is great and want
to do my part by doing what I can do,

which is make a film
to help the clinic get donations.

Sometimes you come early and find some
and sometimes you don't see any.

What do you do if you don't see any?

I look in different places.
I always find dogs.

But most of them
aren't in a good condition.

You know me?

- Over there.
- There he is.

He really hates you.

I've tried to catch him.

Since he was half a year old, I think.

I still haven't caught him.

See the other cars? He's fine with them.
And with people.

But I'm sure
if I walk he will attack me.

People with dogs
often can't afford a vet.

Some don't want their dogs neutered.

Having offspring is seen
as the natural course of life here.

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here.
I hardly have any time to myself.

I feel like I'm responsible
for everything while Lena has her fun.

Micha has been neutering
five dogs a day for over 10 years.

Finding good homes for them afterwards
has become an illusion.

In Gambia, whites in particular
neglect their responsibility.

Normally a dog or a cat lets you know
if there is something wrong with them.

But if you don't pay attention
you miss it and then it's too late.

I often get an, "It died."

And then I ask, "Why? What happened?“

"Yeah, sorry.
We found it dead one morning."

Micha says as long as they find food
they're better off in their packs.

They can live with their parasites too

if their immune systems
are strong enough.

- Then they come out? Wow!
- From the bottom and out.

When will you be done with this job?

- When will you have it behind you?
- When I...

I'll be done with it
after my next nervous breakdown.

I admire Micha and Fatou
for what they're doing here

and I understand
that it isn't about saving the world

but about doing what you can do
to improve the world outside your door.

Three puppies
are living outside our door.

After four weeks
it's clear A yo belongs to us.

Yeah, the first time always sucks.
You're a bit louder than your sister.

A yo adds structure to our lives

and I feel like Ulli is really thriving.

Ayo, come on! Great!

Our responsibility for A yo
brings Lena and me closer together.

I don't feel so alone anymore.

The three of us
are becoming a real team.

We ask for directions
and you puke on people.

That's not so nice, you know?

If you act like this
we'll never get invited anywhere again.

Ayo makes us laugh.
I'm much calmer with Ulli.

And I get the feeling
he has opened up too.

We let Ranger El Hadj join us
with his two chairs and his rifle.

- That's our German-French dictionary.
- Great.

It's a real necessity.

I'd like to learn German.

After three months of work
El Hadj has four weeks off.

His return is a celebration,
we're the special guests.

We communicate any way we can
and are quickly accepted.

Everyone lives
around an inner courtyard.

I particularly love Mohammed.

After the first hello
it's straight to the barber.

- We have the good music here.
- Yeah.

We are fed spaghetti and given
a mattress still covered in plastic.

Grandma won't let me go when we say bye.

She cries, I cry and El Hadj translates,

“She never dreamt
we would spend time together."

We've been traveling at such a slow pace
we hit the worst seasons everywhere.

On the Mali border, 49 degrees Celsius.

We've got a problem.

Trucks as far as the eye can see,
definitely 100, 200 meters.

There are trucks behind us,
we're stuck in the middle

because we didn't realize
cars drive around on the right.

My boyfriend is really annoyed.

He doesn't like hitting limits,
or African borders.

Division of labor,

Ulli does the paperwork,
I maneuver the car out.

Works like a charm.

Mali!

Mali, Mali, Mali!

- Yeah.
- Ulli's had enough of Mali.

Yeah, at the moment Mali can stuff it.

Ulli says Mali can stuff it.

Not having air conditioning means
driving with open windows in this heat.

This bit of housekeeping

is quite a big problem.

And my husband agrees.

The people and landscape of Mali
are incredible.

It's far too hot for me.

This climate isn't for me.

But the climate isn't going to change.

- What?
- Here.

It's going to stay hot.

Yeah,
then we have to get out of here fast.

You can't swim in most rivers
because of worms.

A water bottle
with holes in the cap works too.

The UN warned
against entering Dogon country.

Islamic terrorist groups
are moving ever further south in Mali.

Someone's hanging from our car.

I have to think of Jamal and his uncle,
of terrorists taking people's freedom.

When we get to Dogon country
we feel anything but uneasy.

Wherever we go
people are glad to see us.

Smiles break down walls.

I'm realizing it's not about
seeing loads of beautiful places

but about the people we meet
and our time together.

Goodbye! Goodbye!

After four weeks in the baking hot
beauty of Mali we continue on.

Move the leaves out of the way.

Careful, there's more behind you.

Elephants!

They're following us.

It took us a long time to figure out
how to deal with begging kids.

Swapping is our solution.
That keeps us on equal terms.

What's your name?

- Drissa.
- Drissa. Please to meet you.

- Hello, madam.
- Hello, sir. How are you?

I traded a boy
a piece of candy for nuts.

But these look
a little bit like balls of poo.

Dried balls of poo.

Curious people everywhere,

no peace, no respite.

Nobody notices when it's too much.
My head is about to burst.

I want to see some nature
and not just blab the entire time.

Always saying, "No, no, no, no."

Oh! Maybe that wasn't so smart.

Again, you were almost out.

Again! Almost.

Great! Now with some momentum.

Yay!

It just never ends.

I keep looking for somewhere
we can sleep in peace

and after five minutes someone
shows up from somewhere.

- She's five.
- Five! Wow!

He's...

two and a half.

- Two and a half years old?
- Yes.

' And Wu?
" Me?

- 25.
- 25!

I'm so glad
someone just stops by to bring us eggs,

because we must be hungry.

That's cool.

Ulli's manner makes me sad.

Why is he even doing this
if it annoys him so much?

I think, "What beautiful palm trees!"

That is, until I realize
the whole country is full of them.

Oil palm tree after oil palm tree,

mixed with a few rubber tree
and cocoa plantations.

It is hard to believe,

but almost no elephants
remain in the Ivory Coast.

Nearly the entire rainforest
has been cleared for monocropping.

In contrast to that,
the world's largest basilica.

Supposedly a gift
from the president to his people.

Christians and Catholics keep asking
about German and European preachers,

who are clearly doing
big business with faith.

It makes me so sick, everything I see
and experience of religion

makes me see it is a curse,

for the world,
and especially for Africa.

There is no money for roads.

Driving 200 km
along the main coastal road

takes us eight and a half hours.

A few rubber gaskets are torn.

It's leaking water like crazy,
from the motor, from the pump.

I'm adding like
a liter of coolant daily.

I want to get that fixed
before we drive on.

It's like if you were bleeding
from 30 different wounds.

We wake up in the morning
and the forest is full of weavers.

Her name is Ayo, she's Senegalese.

- Senegalese?
- Yes.

She is cute.

Weaving is men's work here
and is passed on from father to son.

The clothes we donate
and cheap Chinese garments

are making it difficult
for them to make a livelihood.

What song are you going to play?

- I don't know.
- Is it a traditional song?

I'm a little shocked.

Bash wanted a present from me.
We don't do that.

I said if you bring me something
I'll give you something too.

And then he gave me...

this scarf.

They weave these here.
He said I can wear it on my head.

Or around my shoulders.

He was ecstatic about the sunglasses
and asked if he could come with us.

His father told him he should ask that.

And that's just so unreal.

It's not the first time
someone has asked to come with us.

They have these great ideas
that we can just take them to Europe.

But it's heavy stuff when a father tells
his son to ask if he can go with us.

When I was little I always felt guilty
if I didn't eat all my food.

My mom always said,
"Children are starving in Africa."

Today I wonder,
how parents are to feed their children

when we destroy markets
and steal their natural resources?

I sometimes wish
we would just leave Africa alone.

Once again we arrive
in the crappiest season.

We're overjoyed it's finally raining

until we realize
that it's just not stopping.

You go a bit crazy
after a day in a tent.

The rain in Morocco
wasn't anything compared to this.

Can't it be a nice day?
Can't the sun shine in the daytime?

Then it can rain all night
as far as I care.

But sunshine during the day, please!

Please, please, please!

But that's just the beginning.

For weeks we search for somewhere dry,

a place we can stand up straight
without getting wet.

I won't complain
about Hamburg's rain again.

No idea how people
deal with this every year.

Some people say they can't sleep nights

because they have water
under their beds.

In the center of Abidjan

you can jet-ski on the streets
when the rain is really bad.

Today makes four weeks of constant rain.
I'm so fed up!

Traveling is lots of things,
but it's not vacation.

Everything is wet.

We have to get a hotel room

so we can try to dry our things
using the air conditioning unit.

The room costs 100 dollars a night,

a fortune compared to what we spent
in the weeks we slept outdoors.

But they gave us a discount out of pity.

But no break from the rain.

What do we learn from this? Keep calm.

Keep calm.
It helps you grow as a person.

You grow more patient.

Your desperation grows too.

Six months ago today we looked for
crocodiles in the desert of Mauritania.

They've survived there for millennia.

What would we have done for rain then?

What would we do now if we knew
our hardest tests still lay ahead?

But then, after all the rain, we find
the most beautiful spot on our trip.

The kids are great.

Grace bought hibiscus juice
with her allowance so we could try it.

Every morning
they sing and bring flowers.

Emma is building
a new oven to smoke fish in

and I sort of try to help her.

I can't do it no-handed.

I'm realizing that to me happiness is
being barefoot out in nature,

surfing, laughing and dancing
as a community.

Africa may be poor money-wise,
but it is all the richer at heart.

Stop! Stop. Grace!

Do you eat fish?

Me? I love fish.

A lot.

- And Ulu?
- What is Ulu?

Him over there, your husband.

- Your husband.
- Ulli eats lots of fish. He loves fish.

It couldn't be lovelier.
It really couldn't be lovelier.

We'll just have to stay here forever.
The journey ends here, I'd say.

All of the tension
of the last weeks vanishes.

It is lovely to be here.

And then...

I get sick.

Oh, no idea...

Yesterday I saw the doctor
because it wasn't better.

He said I have stomach parasites.

They call them amibes here.

He gave me something to help
with diarrhea and my ailments.

He gave me loads
of yummy anti-parasite meds.

I woke up this morning
and puked right after I ate.

I went back to him and he said my system
is so screwed up after the 12, 13 days.

This place is one big sickbed right now.

Princesso went to see the doc with me.
She has malaria.

Really high fever.

Paradise is beautiful
but it has its dark sides.

It's funny how bad
these illnesses sounded in Germany.

Here they're part of everyday life.

School's out and we get to know
the whole village in no time.

No matter what we do,
the kids want to learn everything,

and not just them.

Very, very pretty!

- Are you happy?
- Yes.

Yes.

Four weeks in paradise,

and then we head out.

There were tears as we said goodbye.

Everyone cried.

- We're crying too.
- It really sucks.

Yes, it really does suck.

Crazy how fast
people can become dear to you.

In exactly two years I'll be back here,

in the place
I can't forget for even a day.

My name is Robert and I'm a drummer.

I have a poor family.

They appreciate when I drum.

And sometimes when I drum in the village
they feel proud of me.

If I wasn't able to drum
I would be nothing, you know?

Because I have nothing to do.
I only have drumming.

We've been traveling for nine months

and have only reached Ghana.

- Can you eat this? Is it like caviar'?
- Yes.

- It's a medicine.
- But how do you catch it?

- With a net?
- No, hands.

- With your hands?
- We dive.

Today the police stopped us.

After seeing my license
and residence permit they wanted to know

if I have a license to drive
with the steering wheel on the right.

Of course I do.

My driver's license has a big “B"
stamped on it for "both sides."

It was fine.

- What do we do now?
- Nothing. What can we do?

We'll sleep inside.
Should we throw it away? Buy new stuff?

Don't throw it away due to mold.
You have parasites.

What harm can mold do to you?

It's super unhealthy.
It can get into your lungs.

- So what do you want to do now?
- I'm not sleeping in this tent.

The rainy season continues to affect us.

Our things are moldy.
Everything is broken.

What would I give for a day
that isn't exhausting?

Ulli is constantly annoyed.

I wonder if it would've been better
to come with someone else.

The mood's been crappy
the last few days.

We've talked to each other a lot.

And we're actually still trying
to figure out

what it is we really want
from the rest of this trip.

Things aren't working between us.

We're each doing our own thing.
We're annoyed with each other.

I don't need to go any further south,
to be perfectly honest.

The tropics are too rainy for me.

I thought I could share
my passion for these countries,

for this part of the world, with him.

I can't do that.

He enjoys traveling,

but it's not as important to him
as it is to me.

I don't know if that's enough.

We decide to take a break
and work in a lodge,

to learn new things,
to be part of something

and to do things separately again.

It does us good.
Our plan is to stay for four weeks.

We end up staying on for six months.

Nobody gave lmma food.

Now Imma has to eat the electricity.

At first Jimmy has a hard time
working with a white woman.

I'm shocked
that some people kowtow to me at first,

as if my skin color made me better
and they were inferior to me.

I use my hands.
If I get to Europe, they have machines.

I could do better than I can here.

That's why I want
to go and see that place.

I often wish
everyone had every opportunity,

that everybody
were as fortunate as I am now

to go where they want
and experience things for themselves.

For Robert that would mean
going where drumming is valued.

The first one is a G.

The second one is a C.
The third one is an A.

For days Lena has been telling me
to record a video diary entry.

If I'd done it yesterday or two days ago
I could've said

how great we're doing here
and what an awesome time were having.

But now Ayo is dead.

She was...

out with the other dogs.

Until it got dark.

And I guess she...

I'm sure she wanted to drink
from the river again.

It flows towards the sea.

It's a freshwater river.

But crocodiles go there in the evening.

They got Ayo.

Up to the end I hoped that I was wrong,
that it wasn't our dog.

I just hoped it wasn't our dog.

Now she's dead.

People in Ghana say
they don't want to cry.

Death is ubiquitous and is celebrated,
as an act of self-preservation.

No one understands our grief,
especially not over a dog.

Ayo's death brings us closer together.

The first two days I just cried.

Now I'm just sad and...

bummed.

Things just aren't the same.
We don't know what to do with ourselves.

Many locals eat turtles and their eggs,
so the lodge has a conservation project.

If we find a nest the eggs are put
in a sheltered enclosure.

Fucking assholes!

These fucking, fucking assholes.

If they want to kill her,
why don't they?

- They half killed her.
- I don't know.

There's still a chance she'll live.

Don't let her fall.

I mean, that turtle is probably older
than the guy who wanted to kill her.

She came to the beach to lay eggs

and someone just takes a machete
and bashes her head in.

It's really world's colliding.

I don't think
you can create more understanding

for protecting an endangered species

because here
it's about having food on your plate.

Every morning we find more looted nests.
It's disheartening.

We look after the turtle, but it's clear
she wants to go back into the sea.

We can't do anything else for her.

She laid one egg
in the basin we were nursing her in.

We buried it.

With goose bumps and tears in our eyes
we wish her the best of luck.

- Good morning!
- Good morning.

- How was it with Fufu?
- I'm proud of the little guy.

His first night in the car.

With no preparation at all.
He did really well.

Six weeks after Ayo's death our friend
Carlos gives us one of his puppies.

It's a strange feeling,
but he brings back the good cheer.

We call him Fufu Carlos,
to everyone's delight.

Fufu is a national dish
and Carlos is as proud as a peacock.

Fufu! Come here!

- Great!
- Go on!

Come on! Great! Yes, yes, yes!

- Great!
- Great! Yes!

A few weeks after the turtle attack
a baby turtle emerges from her egg.

It's amazing that this little being
will always remember where it was born.

If it survives, it will come back here
in 25 years to lay its eggs.

It's gone! It made it!

First turtle, baby!
I just wonder where the others are.

Now every morning hundreds of turtles
hatch and head to the sea.

Only about 10 percent survive.

The conservation project
is well intended but poorly executed.

Nothing is labeled here.

I really have to force myself
to stay calm.

In some ways it's really crappy.

I don't want to get worked up,
but this whole project

is half-baked, like everything here.

One morning we catch dogs
eating hundreds of newly hatched babies.

It's a horrendous sight.

I'm so incredibly angry.

I woke up at six
to check on the baby turtles again,

to put them in the water
if there were any around.

There were, but they had all been eaten.

Our night watchman was 200 meters away
sweeping up leaves.

Man!

I'm so furious and I...

I'm really affected by all of this.

At first I thought, "if you go away,
you'll be freed of your worries."

But that's not true.

I have to get out of here.
Christmas is coming.

This time I'd like to spend it at home.

14 months,
24 hours a day with each other.

Ulli's trip home
is so important to us both.

I hope he finds clarity.

- Welcome to my house.
- Yes.

It's small but everyone fits.

Look, you can hold on here.
There's a handle.

- Oh, okay.
- And also hold on to lsee, okay?

- I'll drive carefully.
- Okay. Let's go.

- Ciao!
- God bless you. Thank you very much.

No problem!

Time to myself. I want to gain clarity
about my feelings.

Where do I go from here?

It's incredibly liberating
to be "me" and not "us,"

to realize that I still function
just fine on my own.

Sooner or later it comes,
you reach a point when it's time to go.

Goodbye is always
both an end and a new beginning.

After six weeks at home I realize

nothing has changed here,
but I've changed immensely.

Understanding that was important.

I want to go back and live
the adventure to the fullest this time.

Ullijust landed. I got the car
to the airport in one piece.

All alone.

That's right.
And, well, it's going to be exciting.

Seeing Ulli after six weeks is weird,

but Fufu and I
are looking forward to it.

He's coming!

Hello, Fufu! Hey!

Hello!

Hey, you!
Do you have to pee or something?

Maybe. Actually, no.
We haven't been on the road long.

The fact that Togo was a German colony

is obvious from how orderly it is.

The fetish market
is particularly well ordered.

He's asking your name.

- Ulli.
- Ulli.

- Lena.
- Lena.

He wishes you luck, longevity
and life with no hardships.

- Are you a couple?
- Yes.

He wants your left hand.

- And the lady's, too.
- The left one?

Yes, good.

That's very nice.

That's the love fetish.

The man says something,
the woman says yes.

If the woman says something,
the man says okay.

That's good for the couple.

We may not be able to travel on.

No one has gotten a visa for Nigeria
while traveling in months.

When we're there I'll button these up.
Better, right?

Yes.

A gold watch would be better
than this chintzy watch.

We've gotten all dressed up.
Look how snazzy we are.

Last night we had the impromptu idea
to try to get to Nigeria after all.

- It's now or never.
- Yes.

If we fail
we'll have to go around Nigeria,

drive thousands of kilometers
back to Mali to try to get a visa

or give up and turn around.

It won't be easy for us to get a visa
because we're not Togolese citizens.

Apparently we can buy citizenship
from the police.

But we can't do that so quickly.
We need to research it.

We'll try to get our visas for Benin
and then see what happens.

That's no problem,
and we make a great friend too.

Noel is a social worker and invites us
to visit one of his many projects.

A Togolese-run children's home
funded with German money.

The kids learn
to be proud of themselves,

proud of their origins and traditions.

Certain things that you do every day,
I do them too.

That's natural.

But as far as culture

and tradition are concerned

we don't share the same realities.

Lots of people abandon their culture
for reasons that you know.

Because they want to live like others.

But our traditions are not the same.

Because of that
we risk losing everything.

- Odette sleeps here.
- And there?

Delali.

- And you sleep there?
- Yes.

That's very cool.

All of the six children here
have lost both parents.

Their remaining family
doesn't have money to raise them.

I love the children
as if they were my own children.

I hope that they grow up with love

and that they grow up
to be somebody great someday.

- Good morning, Papa. How are you?
- Good. And you? Efua milia.

That means I woke up well.

Togo is nice. I love Togo.

- Okay, be seeing you.
- Oh yes, Papa.

Lena and I were running late
and we rushed.

The guy riding with us came at eight

and said,
“I just had a talk with the pastor

it's going to be
at least another hour later."

To put it mildly,
that kind of makes me sick.

It's always the same story.

Ulli has decided. The hassle's too big.
He wants to turn around.

I'm sad and torn.

We may never make it this far
in a car again.

Just thinking about Europe
causes me to panic.

I fear the cycle of productivity
and security will swallow me up

and I'll lose the feeling of living life
with all my senses.

I get the feeling Lena
just can't get used to the idea of it

or somehow just can't live
with a definite decision.

There are always doubts
and that gnaws at her.

And she exudes that
and that just spreads a negative mood.

I definitely can't just turn around.

I've always wanted to do this.

I have to see it through to the end.

We do what we learned from Jamal.

We decide to wait and see
while we explore Benin.

Where are your wives?
What are they doing?

They're at church.

Sunday is the day
the men do the laundry!

- That's right.
- Well, that's very practical.

This village is so remote

that some of the kids have never seen
a photo of themselves.

They live on the edge
of the national park, like Sonday.

He isn't an official guide,
but is very nice.

He knows his way around
and urgently needs the money.

And have the kids
from the village seen the park?

- No, the kids from the village haven't.
- Why not?

They don't have the means to see it.

- What means do you mean?
- A car.

Sonday asks if we have children.
I point to Fufu and laugh.

He says all three of his died.

They all began foaming at the mouth

when they got to the hospital
an hour later it was too late.

His village is right outside the gates
of the gigantic national park

that lives off trophy hunting.

They themselves have
neither power nor a health clinic.

Outside the park nature looks different.

They burn everything
to make hunting easier.

We're heading south.

It is burning hot,
but I'm suddenly ice cold.

My temperature is 40 Celsius.

I am certain
I've made a new acquaintance, malaria.

That needle looks pretty big.
I can't wait. I don't like needles.

Oh well, I have to be tough now.

Okay?

He's just not doing well at all.
His fever is rising.

But I can imagine he caught something
due to overexertion.

Something always crops up
and we can't get any down time.

I'm sure he's got the flu.

The test says it isn't malaria,
but I'm not well.

No one knows what I have,
so they give me a mixture of meds.

I want to continue on.

A new surprise every half an hour.

The shock absorber.

What is it good for?

- Absorbing...
- shocks. That's right.

What do we have a lot of right now?

Shocks.

What a day!

We want to get our car fixed,
but we have no luck with that in Benin.

We find a mechanic but he has no parts.

The big gas stations that used
to provide them have all shut down

because of black market fuel
from Nigeria.

So we head back to Togo.

Everything is spinning.

I'm trying to take off
the shock absorber.

To loosen it from below,
but I can't get the nut loose.

That's because the whole thing
turns with the nut.

Oh, Fufu, yeah.

Yeah. Oh!

Hold still please.

I've pulled out at least 20 of them.

Oh, Fufu! I know.

I pull over 80 mango fly larvae
out of Fufu.

After 10 it's not too gross.

I'm worried about Ulli.
He can't even keep water down.

Our car is jacked up
without wheels on the beach.

Strangers again become friends
by driving us to the hospital.

The doctor jokes,

"Shake a white man's hand
and he gets sick."

This malaria test is negative too.
It turns out he has parasites again.

I'm slowly realizing it makes no sense
to continue on to South Africa.

Everything is breaking down.
Our car, ourselves.

Everything works out again.

This time thanks to Micha.
He knows about cars. He even built one.

The wiring harness
coming from the control unit

going to the injection nozzle...

We'll open that up and try to hold it up

and remove the screw
without breaking the absorber.

While we're at it
we replace our tires as well.

These are going to the port.

And the next time
someone is looking for new tires,

like us, just like us,

they'll take the good tires off some car
that's been delivered for sale

and put our crappy tires on it,
then they'll sell the car.

After nearly 18 months we turn back.

We agree to drive
through Sierra Leone and Liberia.

I really want to go!
And the Ebola scare has just ended.

We cross 25 borders on this trip,
this one for the second time.

Crossing the Ghana-Ivory Coast border

always takes a long time.

The lady who has the stamp
for our Carnet de Passages

is once again, just like last time,
having lunch.

I think all she does is eat.

Later,
we're grateful for the two-hour wait.

Without it we would've got caught
in an attack.

We are now driving through a country

where an Islamic terrorist attack
actually happened for the first time.

Everyone's panicking,
but I'm sure they took off.

That's what I'd do
if I carried out an attack.

No idea if it's over.

In France it wasn't over.
They did a lot more damage afterwards.

We're on our way to the Liberian border.
No idea if they'll let us cross it.

No idea if our car will run tomorrow,
but some good waves would be nice.

And a nice new country.

Our first try to get into Liberia
failed 40 km shy of the border.

The Liberian side is open,
but the Ivory Coast won't let us out.

I'm going nuts.

Taking a huge detour via Mali and Guinea
to get to Liberia will be tough.

There was a new suspected case of Ebola.

Yep.

It sucks. Everything sucks right now.

We still want to try.

We quickly get visas
for Mali and Guinea.

Now we have
2,600 km of road ahead of us

to get to Liberia
and catch the best wave in West Africa.

But we get waved down to stop.

We see armed police and anxious people.
No idea what's going on here.

A few trucks have driven by.

They waved to signal
that we couldn't drive on.

That was the gendarmerie.

No idea what they're doing.

Everyone just says, “Wait."
Wait, wait, wait.

Out of this world!

30 km further on, at the Mali border.

The cop asked if we were scared
to go to Mali, because of the jihadists.

But there's a terrorist attack
on our way into the Ivory Coast

and a gunfight
on our way out of the Ivory Coast.

After three days we're going a bit crazy
and are in a fantastic mood.

Hungry!

But there's no street food
due to measures taken because of Ebola.

How will people receive us
after such an epidemic?

- How are you?
- Fine. Bon appétit!

- How's the road?
- Yes, it's good.

Where are we going?

We just went through
our first military checkpoint in Guinea.

In the middle of the jungle.

- And they gave us bananas.
- They didn't check anything.

No, they didn't check anything.
He came and said, "How are you doing..."

Some small talk,
where are you from, etc.

“Our country needs you," he said.

The trip went
so differently than planned.

18 months ago I was crying
and burnt out in Hamburg.

Now I'm here, and all thanks to Lena
and her adventurous spirit.

Five days
driving 12 to 14 hours a day, every day.

It was worth it.

Liberia!

A crazy mix of America and Africa.

“We Liberians forget quickly,“
a friend says.

People eat bushmeat on every corner.

Driver's license? Hers, she's driving.

My dad's a ranger and rants about
what gets dumped in German forests.

A ship!

Word gets out fast
and everything I think has no value

but that can be dragged off,
beaten or welded is cleared out.

Out of this world!

- Lena.
- Yes?

" Eat!
- Huh?

I just ate, thank you. I just ate lunch.

Did you buy the wood here?

So the boat is from Ghana,
but you can repair it here?

I didn't know
that it's so difficult to get a boat.

The wood in Liberia isn't so strong.

This fish is bigger than you.
It's long! What is it?

A shovelnose.

- What?
- Shovelnose.

- Does it taste good?
- Yeah.

Wow! I've never seen one.

The Liberians
seem very introverted to us.

A friend tells us
what they've been through,

how restrictions
were the worst thing about Ebola,

schools shut, no more playing soccer,

something done all over Africa
every evening.

They had curfews,
had to avoid public transport,

and keep away from others

on a continent where people
constantly touch each other.

Arms together like I showed you.

Nice! Good, but slowly.

Liberia is amazing!

It's crazy, without Ulli
I may never have made it here.

The rainy season is coming again.

We now know what that means,
so we hurry on northwards.

People always ask
where my love for Africa comes from.

Maybe from a previous life
or the cuddly chimps I got from my mom.

I didn't know
that chimpanzees are endangered

because people eat them and kill
whole families to get to the young.

Luckily there are now people
who are working to protect them.

Sierra Leoneans, united we stand

Sierra Leoneans, divided we fall

Let us come together
For the sake of peace and love

Come together for the sake of unity

Sierra Leoneans, united we stand

Sierra Leoneans, divided we fall

No more fighting, no more shooting

No more killing, no more corruption

No more cartelism, no more nepotism

United we stand, divided we fall

Come together for the sake of unity

Sierra Leone is our own
We come together and make Sierra Leone

Sierra Leone is our own
We come together and make Sierra Leone

Sierra Leone!

We will make it fine

Bureh Beach, the boys and girls
of the surf club are awesome.

We interact as equals from the outset.

We share, trade
and find real friends here.

_ Are you guys cool?
- Yes.

- Are you super cool?
- Yes!

Perfect!

Is it good?

What's better, mango or pineapple?

Spider-Man.

- Spider-Man?
- Spider-Man?

Spider-Man is the best?

Spider clothes.

Spider clothes, uh-huh!

I thought you were a poet.

You're a poet and a cook?

- Many talents.
- Yeah, I cook a lot.

When we ask people their greatest wish

they reply, a job, health,
family and something to eat.

“The West is so rich
people crap in drinking water,"

is a phrase a friend told me
that I can't forget.

I vow to stop getting upset
about so many unimportant things.

Amazing what I've learned

by leaving my comfort zone
and just doing things.

- After having the door open for days...
- Weeks!

After weeks of having it open
our money is gone now.

If we don't get it back by four today
then a man is going to come by

to do some black magic.

He'll try to get the money back somehow.
I can't wait to see how that works.

But they're really taking it to heart.

They say it's never happened before.
Well, that was pretty stupid of me.

I counted the money
and took some of it into town to shop.

I left the rest on the driver's seat.

It was Sunday
and the beach was full of people.

They aren't questioned.

The witch-hunt begins.

It's just crazy to see this.

Somehow it feels
like we're in the Middle Ages.

Because, yeah,
the culprit was found using magic.

And now she's guilty.

The headman, in yellow,
tried to arbitrate, in his office.

He tried to settle
where to get the money

or it'll reflect poorly
on the camp and community.

We won't get out of this
all too quickly.

We stupidly left our car open.

Now all hell has broken loose here.

But I think the bad blood here
has been brewing for a while,

the dispute
between the community and the surf camp.

I feel really sorry for the market lady.
She doesn't have the money.

She's supposed to pay 500,000
to that guy over there

for being found guilty,
and then she has to pay us back.

I doubt she even took it.
She didn't look like it.

She looked like a poor devil.
They needed to blame someone.

Maybe they blamed her
because she's not pan of the community.

I don't believe in this bunkum,
but we can't say, “Just forget it."

if we did that we wouldn't be respecting
all their efforts and their culture.

No idea, we'll see.

It's quite a predicament.

A stupid, nasty predicament.

The spirits show their rage
in no uncertain terms.

The whole car is shaking.

Tired?

Everything is laid to waste.

The guys finished the house
just two days ago.

No one gets excited,
they just start cleaning up.

It is what it is,
getting upset won't get anyone anywhere.

I'd like to do something crazy,
like buy land in Sierra Leone

or do something
to anchor myself in Africa.

Ulli can't wait to get home.
I'm scared to death.

After 43,000 km,
more than once around the world,

we arrive in Guinea,
our final new country.

Man, what a crappy trail!

I'm never going off-road
again on this trip.

Ulli is irritated.

I'd say

we write it off to not having to repair
what we repair here in Germany.

I don't feel
like repairing anything else.

All I want to do is go home.

We'll mount it and then lower it down.

After two whole years of traveling
I still get in my own way.

But, hey, that's me, and that's okay.

The villagers help us once again.
No one is left on their own here.

They said it's still rough,
but not as bad as before.

I hope the car survives this.

What a load of crap!

Our shock absorber is gone.

Wherever you go,

whatever you do,
you take your fears with you.

Accept that and just do it
and you'll grow as a person.

They repaired our car for free.

Why?

No idea, that's Africa.

If this trip taught me one thing

it's that everything turns out fine.

Trust yourself and the world,
it is good.

Lean back, take a deep breath
and enjoy the ride.

Live!

TO LIFE AND THE FREEDOM TO TRAVEL

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