At the close of the 1983 Tehran International Trade Fair my job was to repack the exhibits, load the trailer and drive back to the UK. Well, there were a few other jobs to be done like going through every invoice/packing list for every item temporarily imported into Iran for the Fair. Amending them, showing which goods had been sold, being returned or consumed. Giveaways and literature were consumable items and in many countries duty would have to be paid on them. Depending on how many companies you worked for at the Fair these amended invoices/packing lists could run into many hundreds. Once this job was completed all the paperwork had to go to the agent, in our case Bijan Nabavi, for him to tie it in with the paperwork he produced in Farsi for the Iranian customs when the goods first arrived at the Fair. He then produced a list/manifest of goods that were returning to the UK, or elsewhere if items were going on to another exhibition in say Dubai or India. Whilst Bijan and his office staff were working their way through the paperwork I continued repacking the exhibits. But I still couldn’t complete the job as none of the crates or cartons could be sealed as customs still had to inspect the contents.
Another little job I had to do was to visit the managers of the three hotels we used. We had customers in the Azadi and Esteglal up near the fairground and a small number in the Interconti down in the city centre. I had to collect the rooming lists from them, check no-one had stayed longer than they should have and if any extras bills had not been paid, sort them out hoping Promotor would be reimbursed when I got home (not always the case). By about the forth or fifth day after the close of the fair things had quietened down and I was just hanging around waiting for Bijan to do his bit. It was still just about warm enough to spend time by the pool at my hotel, the Estehlal and it was here I bumped into one of my old friends and a good customer. The last time I had seen him was in Baghdad a couple of years previously when he worked for ‘Leslie Hartridge’ but he had moved on and was now with ‘Martin Baker’ the fast jet ejector seat manufacturer. He was there because the Iranian Airforce flew the American Phantom fighter bombers. “I thought sanctions were in place” I said. He just looked at me, touched his nose and said nothing. Hmm, theres always a way. There was a very good reason I remembered this guy so well and thats because he got an Iraqi girl into his room in the Al Mansoor Hotel in Baghdad. In the mid 80’s the hotel was the top most secure hotel in Baghdad. Its a true story. I know because I was also in the room!
One evening I had dinner with my friend, the sister I spoke about in my last post. Her friend from her office had an apartment and it was there we met together with another chap from the office to make up the numbers. It would still have been a major problem for the three of them if the authorities had found us but it didn’t seem to worry them to much. We still had a good time but that was the last time I saw or heard from the sister. Another thing I remember doing was going to an Iranian sauna with Bijan. Yes, that was another experience!
Finally it was time for me to leave Tehran. Custom clearance had been completed and the trailer loaded. Three lorries had been dispatched to the fair but only one was needed for the returning goods. However, it was tight but we finally managed to shoehorn the load into the trailer filling up every conceivable inch of space. That was going to cause problems later on though. The Iranians like giving presents and just as I was about to depart Bijan gave me a fancy box ■■■■■■■ with ribbons. It was full of top quality pistachio nuts. They were delicious and lasted me until I was back in Germany.
My journey home was uneventful apart from one little problem at the German border. I had transited Austria and as usual didn’t use the main crossing point at Salzburg on the autobahn but the smaller one to the north of the town known as Freillassing after the nearest German town. The crossing point is situated on the Saalach river and rarely did I see more than half a dozen lorries at any one time on the many occasions I was there. This time was no exception and I breezed through the Austrian side but the German side is where I came to an abrupt halt. It was early Saturday morning and I wanted to be out of Germany late that evening to miss the Sunday driving ban so was in a hurry. However, the Germans weren’t. Maybe they were wondering why, on my way back from Tehran, I was using a small border crossing but as soon as they saw my carnet they became very inquisitive. In the end I was told to pull alongside a small unloading platform and to roll up the sheet on that side. Once this was done I was asked to identify a certain crate that they had chosen at random. As I said earlier the load had been crammed in and no way could I find the crate. It was possible to move a few flat boxes on top of the load but that was it. The Germans were miffed and I was ■■■■■■ off. After an hour or so I was told to resheet the trailer and that I was being taken to the main Salzburg border crossing as they had better facilities, equipment and labour there. I arrived there late morning with a German ■■■■■■ sitting in the passenger seat. The sheet was once again pulled back and this time, with the help of three men and a forklift five or six items were removed. None of them was the crate they had originally asked me to identify though. It was now early afternoon and it was slowly dawning on the Germans that unloading the whole trailer was the only way to find this crate. It was at this point they got practical. It was near the end of their working day. They wanted to go home to their wives or to the pub for a few beers. “Can you identify any of the items on the carnet/packing lists” I was asked. With that I pointed out two items which were then opened and the contents inspected. “Ya, fine, all is in order” I was gleefully told. They struggled to reload the items that had been removed from the trailer but finally I was able to resheet and get plumbed up again. Thank Christ for that I thought. It was now mid afternoon and it looked as if I was going to spend Sunday twiddling my fingers in Germany.
But I wasn’t beaten yet. I stuck a new tacho card in and headed towards Munchen where I put in yet another new card. In my head I was working out distances and times and decided I could just get to the border at Remich before the ban came in, but it was going to be tight as it was well over 600km. I did get there but it took a bit longer than I bargained for, however, nobody said anything at the border and I slept in late next morning in Luxembourg. I arrived back in our office Monday afternoon, 76 days after leaving for a very eventful and thought provoking trip.