____My newly found prowess in snow chain fitting was a big factor in my decision to take the Transylvanian mountain route across Romania. By the end of the first day, I knew it was the bad option. Progress was slow and as darkness fell I was stuck at the bottom of a particularly steep incline, with only the knowledge that all the brown bears were in hibernation to console me.
____At the crack of dawn, I was out with one of the world’s most travelled shovels; trying to guess if the raised humps on the snow covered verge contained heaps of grit. Invariably they did not, so I had to make do with chunks of turf to provide my grip. It took over two hours to give the 300 metres up to the brow of the hill a liberal sprinkling of dirt, stones and grass. Once I began moving, I did not want to stop again, on this or any other hill; so I brewed up a cup of tea and had something to eat before I started. While I was drinking my well earned cuppa, a snow plough came over the top of the hill, pushed all my hard work into the side of the road, swerved round me and disappeared out of my rear view mirrors. I was stunned, not only because I had wasted the whole morning, but I had never before seen a snowplough in Romania.
____In frustration, I attacked the hill as it was, gunning the Merc at full throttle in third gear. All this did was to spin the wheels and the offside snow chain flew into a hundred pieces. Fortunately, the snow plough returned an hour later, when he put me on the end of his tow chain. For the next 40 miles I was towed up hill and down dale until the driver came to his home town. At times, I thought the snow plough driver had forgotten that I was still attached; but he was only trying to maximise his Kent cigarette income on a mileage basis. The driver was well pleased with his 200 king size. I felt for a thousand, he would have pulled me all the way to the Hungarian border.
____Out of Romania, it was no warmer, but driving conditions improved as I drove further west. For the last leg of the journey, my sole surviving snow chain was able to stay hanging on its hook at the back of the unit; shining brightly. Appearing for a few days as if it was made of stainless steel; before slowly returning to rust.
Roadtrip Chris Arbon : A KTM Adventure
Showing posts with label From Inside The Book : Roadtrip Ramatuelle.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label From Inside The Book : Roadtrip Ramatuelle.. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Romanian Winter Roads 1985.
____ I was laying awake, wondering how long I could last before having to get up and go for a leak when there was a crash of metal on metal as the cab rocked violently. I jumped up, pulled the curtains and found that a Russian truck had driven into the offside of my cab. The driver was trying to back away, but was only spinning his wheels on the ice, as the two vehicles rubbed together. Because of the cold, I had been sleeping with my clothes on, so after pulling on my boots and grabbing my jacket, I climbed out of the passenger door to inspect the damage. As I went round the front, the Russian driver finally found some grip and the two truck cabs parted company. My Scania had a broken indicator, a cracked mirror lens and the mirror arm, which seemed to have taken the blunt of the impact, was badly bent. The Russian Kaz had similar damage; the driver was tall, young and not in the least bit apologetic.
____I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to indicate to the Russian that I wanted some money for the damage he had done. The Kaz driver scoffed at my demands and started gesticulating that it was all my fault because if I had not parked so close to his truck he would not have hit my cab. It was then that I elected to hit him; deciding to use my head and nut the Russian. He had shown no remorse or respect, which made me angry. As I had pulled my head back, ready to thrust it forwards into his face, I realised I was standing on a sheet of ice. The small movement had transferred too much weight to the rear of my body, causing my feet to shoot out from underneath me. As I fell to the ground, I inadvertently drop kicked the Russian in the shins; he came down on top of me, with his nose colliding painfully with my knee.
____All this was witnessed by the two other Russian drivers, who had been drinking coffee in their cabs. The first time I noticed them was when they got out of their trucks and slammed the doors. A quick glance at the registration plates made me think I was in big trouble but, luckily, they failed to recognise my rearward head movement as an act of aggression. The Russians just came over to help us back onto our feet, even seeing the funny side of the situation. After making a cup of coffee for me and the guy with the nosebleed, the Russians advised him to give me some money. The Kaz driver came out with 200 Romanian Lei and we shook hands on it.
____My traveling companions, John and George, got up about an hour later, by which time all three Russians had gone off in the direction of Bulgaria.
“What have you done to your mirror arm?” inquired George.
“Is that blood on the snow down there?” asked John, as we sat in my cab, drinking coffee.
“Where were you two when I needed you?” I said, continuing the interrogation line of conversation.
____The thick, freezing fog of that morning was like no fog I had ever seen before; instead of being a calm, still day, the wind was blowing at gale force. As the trucks headed north into the blast, they became encrusted, all over, in ice more than an inch thick. With my heater fans on full speed and all the air directed at the windscreen, it just about remained free from ice. Up ahead, John’s Volvo was struggling with an oil leak in the air compressor, which meant that the engine had to be run at high revs to stop the brakes from coming on. However, George in the Foden was in real trouble: his heater and fan lost the battle against the ice. The only two areas of clear windscreen on the Foden were two half circles, the size of a dinner plate, at the bottom of the glass, close to the air vents. To cope with this problem we all had to stop and chip away at the ice every few miles.
"Break that windscreen and you'll find yourself driving a Foden; a fucking freezing Foden!" warned George when I became a bit too aggressive with my ice clearing.
____By mid-afternoon, we had only covered a 150 kilometres which had brought us onto the wide open plain north of Bucharest. As the relentless onslaught of the freezing fog showed no sign of easing, John was anxious that we should find some shelter before nightfall and the inevitable fall in temperature. In the limited visibility, all we could see were the big flat fields of the communal farms. The only cover that we came across was a group of haystacks in one of the fields. John took a chance by driving onto the frozen dirt, but after he managed to get some shelter from the wind, George and I followed.
____For the distance travelled and the trouble we had; it was hardly worth it, especially as next day turned out clear and bright. Just after the town of Roman, we stopped at a lay-by in order to fill our water containers from a nearby well that John had discovered on a previous trip. As the turn off for Iasi [ Yash ] was only a couple of miles up the road, I said goodbye to John and George and carried on alone, hoping to reach Radauti that night.
____Running on the hard packed snow and ice was not a problem for the Scania. In the flat countryside, the only problem I had was when I encountered a low bridge, just before reaching my destination. Normally, low bridges were only a couple of inches lower than the front of the trailer, but this one only came up to the bottom of my windscreen. It was a wide, flat road, with several car tracks in the snow. I could not understand why the bridge had been built so low or what it carried over the road. When I got out to have a look, I soon figured out what was going on: it was a road bridge over a river and I was driving on top of the frozen water. When I reversed back along the river in the dark, it was not easy, but I did not dare try a U-turn as I would have surely lost all traction. All the water must have been frozen solid as I did not hear any cracking in the still night air. In the limited light of my hazard warning flashers, I retraced my tyre tracks to the slight slope where I had left the road, before charging off the ice covered river-bed and back onto ice covered ashphalt.
____I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to indicate to the Russian that I wanted some money for the damage he had done. The Kaz driver scoffed at my demands and started gesticulating that it was all my fault because if I had not parked so close to his truck he would not have hit my cab. It was then that I elected to hit him; deciding to use my head and nut the Russian. He had shown no remorse or respect, which made me angry. As I had pulled my head back, ready to thrust it forwards into his face, I realised I was standing on a sheet of ice. The small movement had transferred too much weight to the rear of my body, causing my feet to shoot out from underneath me. As I fell to the ground, I inadvertently drop kicked the Russian in the shins; he came down on top of me, with his nose colliding painfully with my knee.
____All this was witnessed by the two other Russian drivers, who had been drinking coffee in their cabs. The first time I noticed them was when they got out of their trucks and slammed the doors. A quick glance at the registration plates made me think I was in big trouble but, luckily, they failed to recognise my rearward head movement as an act of aggression. The Russians just came over to help us back onto our feet, even seeing the funny side of the situation. After making a cup of coffee for me and the guy with the nosebleed, the Russians advised him to give me some money. The Kaz driver came out with 200 Romanian Lei and we shook hands on it.
____My traveling companions, John and George, got up about an hour later, by which time all three Russians had gone off in the direction of Bulgaria.
“What have you done to your mirror arm?” inquired George.
“Is that blood on the snow down there?” asked John, as we sat in my cab, drinking coffee.
“Where were you two when I needed you?” I said, continuing the interrogation line of conversation.
____The thick, freezing fog of that morning was like no fog I had ever seen before; instead of being a calm, still day, the wind was blowing at gale force. As the trucks headed north into the blast, they became encrusted, all over, in ice more than an inch thick. With my heater fans on full speed and all the air directed at the windscreen, it just about remained free from ice. Up ahead, John’s Volvo was struggling with an oil leak in the air compressor, which meant that the engine had to be run at high revs to stop the brakes from coming on. However, George in the Foden was in real trouble: his heater and fan lost the battle against the ice. The only two areas of clear windscreen on the Foden were two half circles, the size of a dinner plate, at the bottom of the glass, close to the air vents. To cope with this problem we all had to stop and chip away at the ice every few miles.
"Break that windscreen and you'll find yourself driving a Foden; a fucking freezing Foden!" warned George when I became a bit too aggressive with my ice clearing.
____By mid-afternoon, we had only covered a 150 kilometres which had brought us onto the wide open plain north of Bucharest. As the relentless onslaught of the freezing fog showed no sign of easing, John was anxious that we should find some shelter before nightfall and the inevitable fall in temperature. In the limited visibility, all we could see were the big flat fields of the communal farms. The only cover that we came across was a group of haystacks in one of the fields. John took a chance by driving onto the frozen dirt, but after he managed to get some shelter from the wind, George and I followed.
____For the distance travelled and the trouble we had; it was hardly worth it, especially as next day turned out clear and bright. Just after the town of Roman, we stopped at a lay-by in order to fill our water containers from a nearby well that John had discovered on a previous trip. As the turn off for Iasi [ Yash ] was only a couple of miles up the road, I said goodbye to John and George and carried on alone, hoping to reach Radauti that night.
____Running on the hard packed snow and ice was not a problem for the Scania. In the flat countryside, the only problem I had was when I encountered a low bridge, just before reaching my destination. Normally, low bridges were only a couple of inches lower than the front of the trailer, but this one only came up to the bottom of my windscreen. It was a wide, flat road, with several car tracks in the snow. I could not understand why the bridge had been built so low or what it carried over the road. When I got out to have a look, I soon figured out what was going on: it was a road bridge over a river and I was driving on top of the frozen water. When I reversed back along the river in the dark, it was not easy, but I did not dare try a U-turn as I would have surely lost all traction. All the water must have been frozen solid as I did not hear any cracking in the still night air. In the limited light of my hazard warning flashers, I retraced my tyre tracks to the slight slope where I had left the road, before charging off the ice covered river-bed and back onto ice covered ashphalt.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Romania : Winter 1986.
____In the morning, I turned the engine over, but it would not fire. Careful not to run down the batteries, I left it and hoped the sun would warm things up. The sun never came through the clouds all day, so I had to resort to filling empty food tins with near solid diesel and lighting little fires under the lorry. At the end of the day, the motor still would not start, plus my camping gas bottle in the cab would not light because it, too, was frozen. Back on the bottom bunk, I shivered through another night, after chewing on a couple of rock hard Mars bars.
____Day two was much the same as day one, with only the arrival of a couple of Bulgarian trucks, on their way back to Sofia from Kiev, to relieve the monotony. The drivers obviously thought there might be some handy bits and pieces to be had from an abandoned British truck, but they left empty-handed after boiling me some water for a coffee. The Bulgarians also gave me a swig from a spirit bottle that reminded me of nali varnish remover, as it burnt its way down my throat and into my stomach. My only other visitors were an old couple in a horse drawn sled. I swapped 20 cigarettes for a loaf of bread, but declined the offer to go back to their place. The little fire in the baked bean cans burnt for about three hours at a time, but had no noticeable effect on the frozen engine. On the morning of the third day, I figured that the wind blowing underneath the lorry was taking most of the heat away from where it was supposed to go. To stop this, I got out the world’s most travelled shovel and built a wall of snow against the front and sides of the tractor unit. With the addition of a couple of extra cans, whose contents I had consumed cold, the little fires started to give off some perceptible warmth. When it was getting dark, the battery spun the starter for the umpteenth time, but with success, as the vee-eight came to life for the first time in 72 hours.
____The fourth night was just as cold as the previous three, so I kept the engine running, the fires burning and the snow walls in place. From now on, I would only run in day light when temperatures were, hopefully, higher. It took over a week to go from Istanbul to Radauti. It was the best part of another week before the barbecues were ready to load. By the time I got back to the UK, I had been away for the best part of a month. What had started out with my quickest ever run down to Istanbul, finished up as my slowest ever round trip. As Fred Archer only paid you for the trip and not the time it took, I would have been better off staying at home.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A Friday Night At The Londra Camp, Istanbul.1984
Izmit was on the eastern side of the Bosphorus, about two hours’ drive from the Londra Camp, but on Friday morning, we could not leave until 10.00 o’clock. This was because of the rush hour restrictions on the Bosphorus bridge, where the toll doubled before 10.00 in the morning. This was not much of a deterrent for a car, but for a four axle truck, it was an extra £90.00. It was good for me that Rob Borgman had arrived a day earlier, as it was normal to loose a day while you went to tell your agent to arrange for Customs’ clearance: as it was Friday, I would not have tipped until the Monday. We were both back at the Londra Camp before dark, after having unloaded the diesel engines at a truck building plant, right beside the main Istanbul-to-Ankara highway. Hamish Jenkins and Chris Wood were still at the Londra Camp when Rob and I returned. They had been to see their agents and would tip on Monday.
“A good job well done: let’s go on the piss,” said Hamish as soon as we got back. This was Hamish’s second most popular saying after the much more often quoted, “The job’s fucked: let’s go on the piss.”
In the restaurant bar at the campsite, Hamish recommended the chicken – it was the only thing he recognised.
“That other stuff probably won’t do you any harm, but if you found out what it was – then you would be ill,” suggested Hamish.
Everybody drank Efes Pilsen, the local strong lager. Rob and I sat with Hamish and Chris at a table in the middle of the dining room, soon to be joined by other British drivers. A new Zealand couple also came to sit with us and listen to Hamish recount some of his road stories. The New Zealanders were studying music and the guy had with him a soprano saxophone. We cajoled him to play something and when his girlfriend brought out a small bongo drum, to beat a steady rhythm, the Kiwi blew an amazing set of ethnic Turkish tunes. A lot of the drivers there that night were Kurds from eastern Turkey, Iran and Iraq; they began chanting, dancing and clapping – they appreciated the New Zealander’s talent even more than we did. A whole stream of Efes bottles were sent over to our table and shared amongst us all.
We sat drinking away into the night and I was just thinking what a great job it was when Hamish came out with a chilling statement that stunned us all:
“We’ve got big trouble. Nobody leave the table. Stay exactly where you are,” he said soberly.
“What on earth do you mean?” we all chorused.
“Don’t look now, but we are surrounded: there’s one Turk at every table; earlier they were all drinking together – now they’re waiting for us,” continued Hamish.
Hamish was right. We were the only table of drinkers left in the room: there were two waiters standing behind the bar, waiting to close up, and the only other people present were the seven Turks, each one seated at a different table.
“What do they want with us?” asked Chris Wood, “nobody has upset them, have they?”
“I don’t think so. The way I see it, they see five men with one women, laughing, joking, having a good time. They reckon those five blokes are going to take turns with that woman and if they can take that woman away from those men – then they can take turns with her,” stated Hamish.
“Oh, thanks a lot, Hamish,” said the New Zealand girl, “that says a lot for me.”
“Well, it’s a different culture out here,” went on Hamish, “you just don’t see Turkish girls out for a drink with the lads. Most Turks only see western women on TV, in films or in magazines. It’s all glamour and sex. They think they’re easy.”
“Are you sure about this, Hamish? What are we going to do?” asked Rob Borgman.
“Not 100% sure, no; but I bet at least half of them are carrying knives. I, for one, am not going to do anything, and I don’t want any of you to do anything either. We’re out numbered and pissed and I don’t fancy a-beating. We’ll sit it out,” suggested Hamish.
“What if they make a move?” I asked, looking round for a suitable weapon.
“No. They won’t start anything in here. It’ll be outside, or in the bogs. If you want a leak, you’ll just have to piss yourselves,” concluded Hamish.
The stand-off lasted till dawn, when the Turks finally gave up and trooped out to their cars. The waiters looked as relieved as we all were. All in all, I thought Hamish had got it right. It was a valuable lesson about getting drunk and dropping your guard in a foreign country. Rob B and I decided to have a rest day on the Saturday, in order to catch up on our sleep, after sitting up all night.
“A good job well done: let’s go on the piss,” said Hamish as soon as we got back. This was Hamish’s second most popular saying after the much more often quoted, “The job’s fucked: let’s go on the piss.”
In the restaurant bar at the campsite, Hamish recommended the chicken – it was the only thing he recognised.
“That other stuff probably won’t do you any harm, but if you found out what it was – then you would be ill,” suggested Hamish.
Everybody drank Efes Pilsen, the local strong lager. Rob and I sat with Hamish and Chris at a table in the middle of the dining room, soon to be joined by other British drivers. A new Zealand couple also came to sit with us and listen to Hamish recount some of his road stories. The New Zealanders were studying music and the guy had with him a soprano saxophone. We cajoled him to play something and when his girlfriend brought out a small bongo drum, to beat a steady rhythm, the Kiwi blew an amazing set of ethnic Turkish tunes. A lot of the drivers there that night were Kurds from eastern Turkey, Iran and Iraq; they began chanting, dancing and clapping – they appreciated the New Zealander’s talent even more than we did. A whole stream of Efes bottles were sent over to our table and shared amongst us all.
We sat drinking away into the night and I was just thinking what a great job it was when Hamish came out with a chilling statement that stunned us all:
“We’ve got big trouble. Nobody leave the table. Stay exactly where you are,” he said soberly.
“What on earth do you mean?” we all chorused.
“Don’t look now, but we are surrounded: there’s one Turk at every table; earlier they were all drinking together – now they’re waiting for us,” continued Hamish.
Hamish was right. We were the only table of drinkers left in the room: there were two waiters standing behind the bar, waiting to close up, and the only other people present were the seven Turks, each one seated at a different table.
“What do they want with us?” asked Chris Wood, “nobody has upset them, have they?”
“I don’t think so. The way I see it, they see five men with one women, laughing, joking, having a good time. They reckon those five blokes are going to take turns with that woman and if they can take that woman away from those men – then they can take turns with her,” stated Hamish.
“Oh, thanks a lot, Hamish,” said the New Zealand girl, “that says a lot for me.”
“Well, it’s a different culture out here,” went on Hamish, “you just don’t see Turkish girls out for a drink with the lads. Most Turks only see western women on TV, in films or in magazines. It’s all glamour and sex. They think they’re easy.”
“Are you sure about this, Hamish? What are we going to do?” asked Rob Borgman.
“Not 100% sure, no; but I bet at least half of them are carrying knives. I, for one, am not going to do anything, and I don’t want any of you to do anything either. We’re out numbered and pissed and I don’t fancy a-beating. We’ll sit it out,” suggested Hamish.
“What if they make a move?” I asked, looking round for a suitable weapon.
“No. They won’t start anything in here. It’ll be outside, or in the bogs. If you want a leak, you’ll just have to piss yourselves,” concluded Hamish.
The stand-off lasted till dawn, when the Turks finally gave up and trooped out to their cars. The waiters looked as relieved as we all were. All in all, I thought Hamish had got it right. It was a valuable lesson about getting drunk and dropping your guard in a foreign country. Rob B and I decided to have a rest day on the Saturday, in order to catch up on our sleep, after sitting up all night.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Kapitan Andreevo : The Poem.
....Seven kays from the border,
And I ain’t yet moved today.
....But I’m wide awake and ready,
Just wanna get on my way.
....How I hate this endless waiting,
And the need to stay awake.
....The need to keep the air up,
For the quick release of the brake.
....I ain’t saying that they’ll come past,
But it’s a chance you cannot take.
....Last-time ever through Kapicule,
You gotta learn from your mistake.
....
....Should have pushed on down through Yugo,
Gone on into Greece.
....Cheaper fuel and better food,
And no hassle from police.
....Could have had a day at Kavala,
Parked up on the beach.
....Lying on the sand in the hot sun,
With a cold beer in easy reach.
....Why’d I have to come through Bulgie,
It’s always the same way.
....Ipsala might be further round,
But in the long run it’ll pay.
....
Kapitan Andreevo,
....Who the hell were you?
Kapitan Andreevo,
....Four days in this queue.
Kapitan Andreevo,
....When will I get through?
Kapitan Andreevo,
....What did I do?
To deserve this!
....
This poem was written in 1984 while sitting in a long line of trucks waiting to cross the Kapitan Andreevo / Kapicule border from Bulgaria into Turkey....
And I ain’t yet moved today.
....But I’m wide awake and ready,
Just wanna get on my way.
....How I hate this endless waiting,
And the need to stay awake.
....The need to keep the air up,
For the quick release of the brake.
....I ain’t saying that they’ll come past,
But it’s a chance you cannot take.
....Last-time ever through Kapicule,
You gotta learn from your mistake.
....
....Should have pushed on down through Yugo,
Gone on into Greece.
....Cheaper fuel and better food,
And no hassle from police.
....Could have had a day at Kavala,
Parked up on the beach.
....Lying on the sand in the hot sun,
With a cold beer in easy reach.
....Why’d I have to come through Bulgie,
It’s always the same way.
....Ipsala might be further round,
But in the long run it’ll pay.
....
Kapitan Andreevo,
....Who the hell were you?
Kapitan Andreevo,
....Four days in this queue.
Kapitan Andreevo,
....When will I get through?
Kapitan Andreevo,
....What did I do?
To deserve this!
....
This poem was written in 1984 while sitting in a long line of trucks waiting to cross the Kapitan Andreevo / Kapicule border from Bulgaria into Turkey....
Thursday, July 8, 2010
First Trip to Romania-1984
Romania was my next destination, with 54 drums of insecticide used for spraying fruit trees. Fred Archer had another load of the same drums going to another town nearby, so he instructed the driver to show me the way. I met up with Jock Gardner on the quay at Felixstowe, as we waited to drive onto the Sunday afternoon ferry to Zeebrugge. Jock was in his late 40s, with about ten years; experience of Middle-Eastern and Commie-bloc work. He knew just about all there was to know about the job and had worked for nearly every East Anglian company doing continental haulage. However, Jock made it clear that it was my responsibility to keep up with him. If I was at the borders with him, then he would show me what to do – otherwise I was on my own.
I got little encouragement from Jock’s attitude, as he was driving a brand new Scania 112 and I was still with an old Mercedes. It turned out that keeping up with Jock was not a problem as he was not in a hurry and his main priority was to make sure he found somewhere to have a drink in the evening. Jock knew every truck stop on the route; he even stopped to buy supplies at a village shop in Bavaria. Jock encouraged me to buy something, saying that I never knew when I might want to shop there again.
The next morning, when we crossed into Czechoslovakia, I found out about Jock’s other great passion, besides drink: women. It seemed that Jock’s ideal trip was to get drunk every night and have a woman in each country, on the way through. Jock knew every watering hole in every country, but I do not think Fred wanted him to stop at them all, when he asked the Scotsman to show me the way. We went from the Motorest at Pilzen, to the Motel Rokycany, and then to the services at Brno. At each place Jock showed me how to change Deutsche Marks on the black market, how to buy diesel fuel for Marks and where to find the best looking women.
After Prague, the motorway to Bratislava made our journey easier and we were soon in Hungary. Once again, we stopped at the places traditionally frequented by British drivers. These included the Hotel Wein in Budapest and the Windmill, a restaurant in the countryside, south of the capital. The old Mill had been converted into a smart eatery: it was not only popular for its good food, but also for the shower block built in the truck park. Jock thought there was a better class of girl at the Windmill, too. He recommended Erica, who he reckoned was every British driver’s favourite Commie-block whore. Sadly, she was having a night off when we were there.
First thing next morning we crossed into Romania, where Jock certainly knew all about the paperwork. It took half a day, but Jock managed to clear Customs, get the TIR carnets stamped and buy our visas with 200 Marlboro, a jar of Nescafe and some Wrigley’s chewing gum - it was the normal procedure when delivering in Romania, which allowed us to go straight to our destinations without dealing with further bureaucracy.
It was also Jock’s birthday, and to celebrate it, he wanted a woman. When we left the border, it soon became clear how he was going to get one: Jock stopped at every bus stop, in every town and village, to ask any waiting females if they wanted a ride. As he did not seem to be having much luck, I soon got fed up pulling up behind him every few minutes. Eventually, I pulled round him and made steady progress on my own. But on leaving the next town, there was a girl hitchhiker. This was the very thing Jock was looking for, so I stopped to pick her up. She was tall and slim with long black hair to go with her olive-brown complexion. If it were not for her brown teeth, you would have said she was a ‘ten’. The teenage Romanian was bubbly and full of life. As we went along, she tried on my sunglasses and went through my cassette collection, pleading with me to let her keep one of my Dire Straits’ tapes.
I drove on for a few miles, before stopping in a rest area for coffee and to wait for Jock. Minutes later, he swung into the car park and pulled up with his driver’s door next to mine.
“Where the fuck did you get her from?” raged Jock, as he peered across at my passenger.
“Two towns back. Had any luck?” I asked, although I could see he was alone.
“No, I haven’t. You jammy git,” replied Jock.
“She’s yours then – my birthday present to you. Take her,” I offered.
“No. No, you found her. You can have her,” shouted Jock, as he slammed the Scania into gear and roared out onto the road, showering everywhere with gravel.
We made love on the bottom bunk of the Mercedes, as the afternoon sunshine shone warmly through the gaps in the hurriedly drawn curtains. I soon saw what a perfect body my passenger had, once she had taken off the shapeless nylon tracksuit that all Romanians seemed to wear. My good looking lover was also good between the sheets, where she took control in an unexpected performance that belied her youthful appearance. Afterwards, she told me her name was Paula and she gave me her address in Arad, telling me in sign language to call on my way back.. I dropped Paula off in the next town, but not before she climbed across the cab for one last kiss.
“Marks, you give me marks?” asked Paula, as she ran her hands across my pockets, feeling for my wallet.
“Ten out of ten, very good,” I could not resist saying, but Paula did not understand why I was laughing – although she was well pleased with the ten Mark note that I gave her.
By this time, the daylight was fading; also, I had no idea where Jock planned to stop for the night. It was not that I needed his expertise anymore, I just wanted to be sociable. Jock had warned me of the dangers of night driving in Romania, with the common hazard of unlit horse and carts, so I took it slowly, driving defensively. I avoided the horses with their dozing drivers, while keeping half an eye out for Jock’s Scania. I found him – parked in a big rest area on the outskirts of Carensebes. Jock had not found a woman to share his birthday celebrations, so he had drowned his sorrows by drinking his bottle of duty free Johnnie Walker. When I arrived, he was asleep at the wheel, with the whisky bottle lying smashed beside the cab.
I was woken at 5 o'clock in the morning by shouting and banging on the cab; amazingly it was Jock.
"Come on, get up, we're going."
I got little encouragement from Jock’s attitude, as he was driving a brand new Scania 112 and I was still with an old Mercedes. It turned out that keeping up with Jock was not a problem as he was not in a hurry and his main priority was to make sure he found somewhere to have a drink in the evening. Jock knew every truck stop on the route; he even stopped to buy supplies at a village shop in Bavaria. Jock encouraged me to buy something, saying that I never knew when I might want to shop there again.
The next morning, when we crossed into Czechoslovakia, I found out about Jock’s other great passion, besides drink: women. It seemed that Jock’s ideal trip was to get drunk every night and have a woman in each country, on the way through. Jock knew every watering hole in every country, but I do not think Fred wanted him to stop at them all, when he asked the Scotsman to show me the way. We went from the Motorest at Pilzen, to the Motel Rokycany, and then to the services at Brno. At each place Jock showed me how to change Deutsche Marks on the black market, how to buy diesel fuel for Marks and where to find the best looking women.
After Prague, the motorway to Bratislava made our journey easier and we were soon in Hungary. Once again, we stopped at the places traditionally frequented by British drivers. These included the Hotel Wein in Budapest and the Windmill, a restaurant in the countryside, south of the capital. The old Mill had been converted into a smart eatery: it was not only popular for its good food, but also for the shower block built in the truck park. Jock thought there was a better class of girl at the Windmill, too. He recommended Erica, who he reckoned was every British driver’s favourite Commie-block whore. Sadly, she was having a night off when we were there.
First thing next morning we crossed into Romania, where Jock certainly knew all about the paperwork. It took half a day, but Jock managed to clear Customs, get the TIR carnets stamped and buy our visas with 200 Marlboro, a jar of Nescafe and some Wrigley’s chewing gum - it was the normal procedure when delivering in Romania, which allowed us to go straight to our destinations without dealing with further bureaucracy.
It was also Jock’s birthday, and to celebrate it, he wanted a woman. When we left the border, it soon became clear how he was going to get one: Jock stopped at every bus stop, in every town and village, to ask any waiting females if they wanted a ride. As he did not seem to be having much luck, I soon got fed up pulling up behind him every few minutes. Eventually, I pulled round him and made steady progress on my own. But on leaving the next town, there was a girl hitchhiker. This was the very thing Jock was looking for, so I stopped to pick her up. She was tall and slim with long black hair to go with her olive-brown complexion. If it were not for her brown teeth, you would have said she was a ‘ten’. The teenage Romanian was bubbly and full of life. As we went along, she tried on my sunglasses and went through my cassette collection, pleading with me to let her keep one of my Dire Straits’ tapes.
I drove on for a few miles, before stopping in a rest area for coffee and to wait for Jock. Minutes later, he swung into the car park and pulled up with his driver’s door next to mine.
“Where the fuck did you get her from?” raged Jock, as he peered across at my passenger.
“Two towns back. Had any luck?” I asked, although I could see he was alone.
“No, I haven’t. You jammy git,” replied Jock.
“She’s yours then – my birthday present to you. Take her,” I offered.
“No. No, you found her. You can have her,” shouted Jock, as he slammed the Scania into gear and roared out onto the road, showering everywhere with gravel.
We made love on the bottom bunk of the Mercedes, as the afternoon sunshine shone warmly through the gaps in the hurriedly drawn curtains. I soon saw what a perfect body my passenger had, once she had taken off the shapeless nylon tracksuit that all Romanians seemed to wear. My good looking lover was also good between the sheets, where she took control in an unexpected performance that belied her youthful appearance. Afterwards, she told me her name was Paula and she gave me her address in Arad, telling me in sign language to call on my way back.. I dropped Paula off in the next town, but not before she climbed across the cab for one last kiss.
“Marks, you give me marks?” asked Paula, as she ran her hands across my pockets, feeling for my wallet.
“Ten out of ten, very good,” I could not resist saying, but Paula did not understand why I was laughing – although she was well pleased with the ten Mark note that I gave her.
By this time, the daylight was fading; also, I had no idea where Jock planned to stop for the night. It was not that I needed his expertise anymore, I just wanted to be sociable. Jock had warned me of the dangers of night driving in Romania, with the common hazard of unlit horse and carts, so I took it slowly, driving defensively. I avoided the horses with their dozing drivers, while keeping half an eye out for Jock’s Scania. I found him – parked in a big rest area on the outskirts of Carensebes. Jock had not found a woman to share his birthday celebrations, so he had drowned his sorrows by drinking his bottle of duty free Johnnie Walker. When I arrived, he was asleep at the wheel, with the whisky bottle lying smashed beside the cab.
I was woken at 5 o'clock in the morning by shouting and banging on the cab; amazingly it was Jock.
"Come on, get up, we're going."
Monday, June 21, 2010
Part of 1986 Trip to Spain.
Mickey Salmon, another Frederick Archer driver, on his first trip to Spain, had the misfortune to come up against the nightmare of Spanish red tape. His load of sports goods was imported with the paperwork marked “Made in Britain” but on inspection, it turned out that most of the golf clubs were made in Taiwan. The load, the truck and the trailer were promptly impounded, with Mickey only escaping incarceration by the skin of his teeth. Archie’s driver was spending his seventh day at the Zona Franca in Barcelona, waiting for the duty, taxes and fines to be paid, when I arrived. Mickey was flat broke, not due so much to his Customs delay, but mainly because he visited the Ramblas every night where he had something going on with an Argentinean bar girl. All the spare cash I had on me was in Italian lira, but Mickey had no hesitation in relieving me of 250,000 and ordering a taxi to take us downtown.
In the Ramblas bar, I had no trouble picking out Mickey’s girl. As we came through the door, she turned towards us, as if holding an imaginary machine gun:
“Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh!” went the Argentinean in a hoarse staccato laugh.
Mickey did the same, then they shouted out in turn,
“Malvinas””
“Falklands!”
“Malvinas!”
“Falklands!”
Slowly, they closed in on each other, still shouting, circling in the space in front of the bar, before embracing passionately - much to the amusement of all the other patrons.
Mickey introduced me to Suzannah, as a good friend who had just given him a quarter of a million lira. I do not know if the hostess made a mistake in her exchange rate calculations, but she got straight on the telephone to her sister and told her to come over for a drink. Suzannah was certainly the most stunning Argentinean girl I had ever met – even if she was the first Argentinean girl I had met. With her long black hair and long brown legs, if Mickey had told me she was a former Miss Beuno Aires, I would not have disputed it. Suzannah was about three inches taller than Mickey. When Maria, the sister, turned up, she was three inches shorter than Mickey. As I was three inches taller than Suzannah, I thought things should have been the other way around, but as the machine gunners got on so well, I did not mention it.
In fact, Mickey got on well with everybody, with his ready smile and cheery “hello”, he soon made friends, even without the slightest command of any language except English. The stocky north Londoner, with his happy-go-lucky attitude seemed to handle himself well in all foreign situations, without having to think about it. A welcome change from many hard drinking Brit lorry drivers who could be a real embarrassment when they had sunk a few beers.
Size did not matter when the four of us sat on our bar stools. While Mickey and I drank San Miguel, the girls were served with the Hostess Special, which was expensive, but probably not very potent. Maria sat close with her hand on my knee, as we talked about the price of land in various parts of Argentina. The younger sister wore a black mini skirt and pink lambswool vee-nick sweater with no blouse underneath. With a bit more meat on her than the pencil slim Suzannah, it was difficult not to keep looking down Maria’s top and at the little crucifix that hung in her cleavage. I was just thinking what a sure thing I was onto and wondering how much it was going to cost, when this guy in a cream suit came in. He shook my hand before whispering something Spanish in Maria’s ear. Then, with a quick squeeze of my leg and a kiss on the cheek, Maria left the bar with the cream suited guy. Mickey and Suzannah were so wrapped up in each other that they did not see Maria leave. Without interrupting them, I finished my beer and got a taxi back to the lorry, leaving Mickey to pick up the tab. I had done from just south of Limoges to Barcelona in one day, so I was looking forward to my bed with or without a sexy little Argentinean for company.
Having spent a week hanging around the Zona Franca, Mickey was a great help the next morning when it came to getting my paperwork through Customs. Almost everyone called him by his first name as they shook hands, but they all shrugged their shoulders when Mickey asked how long it would be before he finally got going again. For a change of scene, the stranded driver came for the short ride across town so that he could help me tip my part load for Barcelona.
“Maria was a bit upset that you left before she got back last night,” said Mickey, as we stripped out the side of the tilt.
“She didn’t say she was coming back, how was I to know? Anyway, I’d had a long day, I was knackered,” I replied.
“They’ll both be down there again tonight. I told ‘em we’d be back,” continued Mickey.
“Yeah, but I’ll be tipped here by 1.00 o’clock. I should be getting down to Valencia so I can get this other stuff off,” I protested.
“Don’t you fancy yours or summat?” queried Mickey.
“It’s not that. I just can’t afford it. How much did you spend last night?” I asked.
“Oh, about half of them lira. The way I see it, our boys went down the Falklands in ’82 and fucked them Argies. Now we’ve got a chance to fuck two for ourselves. With that Suzannah, I give it to her as hard and as fast as I can. She loves it,” bragged Mickey.
“What sort of war is that? When she loves it” Do you expect somebody to give you a medal when you get back to the UK? I’ll tell you, when Fred finds out what you’ve been spending his running money on, you’ll be facing a firing squad,” I warned.
For the rest of the time we were unloading, Mickey carried on trying to persuade me to go down the Ramblas that night. I was tempted by the thought of seeing Maria’s tight-fitting woolly top come off over her head, but in the end I drove Mickey back to his lorry and went straight down to Valencia.
In the Ramblas bar, I had no trouble picking out Mickey’s girl. As we came through the door, she turned towards us, as if holding an imaginary machine gun:
“Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh!” went the Argentinean in a hoarse staccato laugh.
Mickey did the same, then they shouted out in turn,
“Malvinas””
“Falklands!”
“Malvinas!”
“Falklands!”
Slowly, they closed in on each other, still shouting, circling in the space in front of the bar, before embracing passionately - much to the amusement of all the other patrons.
Mickey introduced me to Suzannah, as a good friend who had just given him a quarter of a million lira. I do not know if the hostess made a mistake in her exchange rate calculations, but she got straight on the telephone to her sister and told her to come over for a drink. Suzannah was certainly the most stunning Argentinean girl I had ever met – even if she was the first Argentinean girl I had met. With her long black hair and long brown legs, if Mickey had told me she was a former Miss Beuno Aires, I would not have disputed it. Suzannah was about three inches taller than Mickey. When Maria, the sister, turned up, she was three inches shorter than Mickey. As I was three inches taller than Suzannah, I thought things should have been the other way around, but as the machine gunners got on so well, I did not mention it.
In fact, Mickey got on well with everybody, with his ready smile and cheery “hello”, he soon made friends, even without the slightest command of any language except English. The stocky north Londoner, with his happy-go-lucky attitude seemed to handle himself well in all foreign situations, without having to think about it. A welcome change from many hard drinking Brit lorry drivers who could be a real embarrassment when they had sunk a few beers.
Size did not matter when the four of us sat on our bar stools. While Mickey and I drank San Miguel, the girls were served with the Hostess Special, which was expensive, but probably not very potent. Maria sat close with her hand on my knee, as we talked about the price of land in various parts of Argentina. The younger sister wore a black mini skirt and pink lambswool vee-nick sweater with no blouse underneath. With a bit more meat on her than the pencil slim Suzannah, it was difficult not to keep looking down Maria’s top and at the little crucifix that hung in her cleavage. I was just thinking what a sure thing I was onto and wondering how much it was going to cost, when this guy in a cream suit came in. He shook my hand before whispering something Spanish in Maria’s ear. Then, with a quick squeeze of my leg and a kiss on the cheek, Maria left the bar with the cream suited guy. Mickey and Suzannah were so wrapped up in each other that they did not see Maria leave. Without interrupting them, I finished my beer and got a taxi back to the lorry, leaving Mickey to pick up the tab. I had done from just south of Limoges to Barcelona in one day, so I was looking forward to my bed with or without a sexy little Argentinean for company.
Having spent a week hanging around the Zona Franca, Mickey was a great help the next morning when it came to getting my paperwork through Customs. Almost everyone called him by his first name as they shook hands, but they all shrugged their shoulders when Mickey asked how long it would be before he finally got going again. For a change of scene, the stranded driver came for the short ride across town so that he could help me tip my part load for Barcelona.
“Maria was a bit upset that you left before she got back last night,” said Mickey, as we stripped out the side of the tilt.
“She didn’t say she was coming back, how was I to know? Anyway, I’d had a long day, I was knackered,” I replied.
“They’ll both be down there again tonight. I told ‘em we’d be back,” continued Mickey.
“Yeah, but I’ll be tipped here by 1.00 o’clock. I should be getting down to Valencia so I can get this other stuff off,” I protested.
“Don’t you fancy yours or summat?” queried Mickey.
“It’s not that. I just can’t afford it. How much did you spend last night?” I asked.
“Oh, about half of them lira. The way I see it, our boys went down the Falklands in ’82 and fucked them Argies. Now we’ve got a chance to fuck two for ourselves. With that Suzannah, I give it to her as hard and as fast as I can. She loves it,” bragged Mickey.
“What sort of war is that? When she loves it” Do you expect somebody to give you a medal when you get back to the UK? I’ll tell you, when Fred finds out what you’ve been spending his running money on, you’ll be facing a firing squad,” I warned.
For the rest of the time we were unloading, Mickey carried on trying to persuade me to go down the Ramblas that night. I was tempted by the thought of seeing Maria’s tight-fitting woolly top come off over her head, but in the end I drove Mickey back to his lorry and went straight down to Valencia.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Buried Alive and Left for Dead : from the book Roadtrip Ramatuelle.
When I was on my first trip to Rumania, I had gone to a town called Piatra Neamt, up in Transylvanian mountains, to load knitwear for London. The stuff wasn’t ready, so I drove to this lake outside of town, where I parked the truck beside the water. When I woke up in the morning, this old Volkswagen camper was parked beside me. It had German registration plates that began with the letter ‘B’ so I knew it came from Berlin. During the morning, I got talking with the owner, who said his name was Ziggy. The guy was in his fifties and a real old hippie: long hair, goatee beard, the lot. We drank coffee and talked all day. He had excellent English and told stories of his travels.
In the evening, Ziggy said he would let me in on a secret, because he thought he could trust me. He told me a story about his parents. He said his father had been an officer in the German army during the second world war. Ziggy’s old man had died some years ago, but his mother had only recently passed away. Before she died, she gave her son a map that her husband had given to her, years before. It was a treasure map. It contained details of treasure looted by the German army during their occupation of Rumania in the war. The map showed part of the Transylvanian Alps and Ziggy pointed out the lake where we were parked.
He said that if I helped him find the treasure and get it out of the country in the lorry, he would go halves. We shook hands on it. In the morning, we went off in his VW to find the spot marked with an ‘X’. The map showed four churches and when a line was drawn to the opposite church, the crossing point was the site we were looking for. It was rugged terrain which was impassable to vehicles, so we had to explore on foot. But on the second day of our search, we found a cave, close to the summit of a mountain, from which we could see all four church towers. The cave was not particularly well hidden and showed signs of recent occupation, probably by local children, out camping. With our torches, Ziggy and I explored every inch, but found nothing, in a place that would have been visited many times in the last 40 odd years.
Ziggy was sure his father would not have chosen such an obvious hiding place, so we combed the surrounding area for more clues. But we had to return to the cave when a thunder storm caught us in the open. While we sat on the dusty floor, waiting for the rain to stop, Ziggy kicked at the ground with his heel and unearthed a large metal ring, the size of a dinner plate. The ring was linked to another, which was set in the rock floor. As we scraped away at the loose dust, it became apparent that a block was set into the cave floor and it could be pulled out, using the ring. The combined strength of Ziggy and me could not budge the block, so we went back to the nearest village to borrow a six foot long scaffold pole from a building site. Using a convenient rock as a fulcrum and the pole as a lever, Ziggy and I then managed to lift out the block.
It revealed the entrance to an underground chamber, ten foot square and ten foot high. Leading down to the bottom, through the two foot square hole, was a wooden ladder. From the top, we shone in our torches and could see stacks of old ammunition boxed, overflowing with jewel encrusted alter plates and gold chalices. We both climbed down the rickety ladder to inspect our new found wealth. It was beyond our wildest dreams, with jewels, gold and silver, plus a huge pile of old rolled-up paintings laying in one corner. Ziggy went back up the ladder and I built up a pile of boxes so that I could have something to stand on, as I passed up the treasure. It was heavy work, but I didn’t mind sweating when the rewards were so great. Soon, all that was left was the pile of stuff that I was standing on and the paintings, which we decided to leave. By balancing each box on my head and climbing the decaying ladder, I managed to get all the boxes up to Ziggy.
I had just gone back down to pick up my torch and was climbing the ladder for the last time, when Ziggy somehow managed to drop the block back into its tight fitting hole. It missed my head by less than an inch, but it made me drop my torch and my right foot broke the step that it was on. The torch bulb broke as it hit the stone floor. In the pitch darkness, I tried to regain my footing, only to find that one side of the bottom half of the ladder had fallen away. All my weight was on my left foot, as I clung on desperately, while I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
They never did, as there was no light source to help them. Shouting for help didn’t help either, as the only person who might have heard was Ziggy and he knew of my predicament anyway. I tried thought transfer, by thinking things such as “Come on Ziggy, there’s enough here for both of us” and “OK, but let me out of here and you can have it all.” It seemed like hours, as I clung on, anxious not to fall down, in case the hole opened up again so that I could climb to freedom. I said nothing in the darkness, as my thoughts ricocheted from past, to present, to future. It was then I noticed that the trouser of my hanging right limb had gone taut. In the inky blackness, something had attached itself to the material and there was definitely a weight of some sort clinging to me. When I had my torch, and now in the darkness, I had not seen nor heard anything, but I was in no doubt that there was something pulling my leg like I’m pulling yours.
In the evening, Ziggy said he would let me in on a secret, because he thought he could trust me. He told me a story about his parents. He said his father had been an officer in the German army during the second world war. Ziggy’s old man had died some years ago, but his mother had only recently passed away. Before she died, she gave her son a map that her husband had given to her, years before. It was a treasure map. It contained details of treasure looted by the German army during their occupation of Rumania in the war. The map showed part of the Transylvanian Alps and Ziggy pointed out the lake where we were parked.
He said that if I helped him find the treasure and get it out of the country in the lorry, he would go halves. We shook hands on it. In the morning, we went off in his VW to find the spot marked with an ‘X’. The map showed four churches and when a line was drawn to the opposite church, the crossing point was the site we were looking for. It was rugged terrain which was impassable to vehicles, so we had to explore on foot. But on the second day of our search, we found a cave, close to the summit of a mountain, from which we could see all four church towers. The cave was not particularly well hidden and showed signs of recent occupation, probably by local children, out camping. With our torches, Ziggy and I explored every inch, but found nothing, in a place that would have been visited many times in the last 40 odd years.
Ziggy was sure his father would not have chosen such an obvious hiding place, so we combed the surrounding area for more clues. But we had to return to the cave when a thunder storm caught us in the open. While we sat on the dusty floor, waiting for the rain to stop, Ziggy kicked at the ground with his heel and unearthed a large metal ring, the size of a dinner plate. The ring was linked to another, which was set in the rock floor. As we scraped away at the loose dust, it became apparent that a block was set into the cave floor and it could be pulled out, using the ring. The combined strength of Ziggy and me could not budge the block, so we went back to the nearest village to borrow a six foot long scaffold pole from a building site. Using a convenient rock as a fulcrum and the pole as a lever, Ziggy and I then managed to lift out the block.
It revealed the entrance to an underground chamber, ten foot square and ten foot high. Leading down to the bottom, through the two foot square hole, was a wooden ladder. From the top, we shone in our torches and could see stacks of old ammunition boxed, overflowing with jewel encrusted alter plates and gold chalices. We both climbed down the rickety ladder to inspect our new found wealth. It was beyond our wildest dreams, with jewels, gold and silver, plus a huge pile of old rolled-up paintings laying in one corner. Ziggy went back up the ladder and I built up a pile of boxes so that I could have something to stand on, as I passed up the treasure. It was heavy work, but I didn’t mind sweating when the rewards were so great. Soon, all that was left was the pile of stuff that I was standing on and the paintings, which we decided to leave. By balancing each box on my head and climbing the decaying ladder, I managed to get all the boxes up to Ziggy.
I had just gone back down to pick up my torch and was climbing the ladder for the last time, when Ziggy somehow managed to drop the block back into its tight fitting hole. It missed my head by less than an inch, but it made me drop my torch and my right foot broke the step that it was on. The torch bulb broke as it hit the stone floor. In the pitch darkness, I tried to regain my footing, only to find that one side of the bottom half of the ladder had fallen away. All my weight was on my left foot, as I clung on desperately, while I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
They never did, as there was no light source to help them. Shouting for help didn’t help either, as the only person who might have heard was Ziggy and he knew of my predicament anyway. I tried thought transfer, by thinking things such as “Come on Ziggy, there’s enough here for both of us” and “OK, but let me out of here and you can have it all.” It seemed like hours, as I clung on, anxious not to fall down, in case the hole opened up again so that I could climb to freedom. I said nothing in the darkness, as my thoughts ricocheted from past, to present, to future. It was then I noticed that the trouser of my hanging right limb had gone taut. In the inky blackness, something had attached itself to the material and there was definitely a weight of some sort clinging to me. When I had my torch, and now in the darkness, I had not seen nor heard anything, but I was in no doubt that there was something pulling my leg like I’m pulling yours.
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