Trucks, tracks, tall tales and true from all over the world.

[5thwheel]

On arrival I find that all the warehousing is in underground tunnels.

Something like that in Derbyshire I was in some years ago, Christian Salveson was using it for wine storage amongst other things I think.

Likewise in Northwich David,in the salt mines,paperwork,files etc could keep dry as the salt provided dehumidification,there wasn’t any protection around the salt pillars that gave roof support,wondered what would happen if someone drove into one!



David

[mushroomman]

A question for Chris.

Is it compulsory, for an H.G.V. driver in Canada or the U.S. to drive along the hard shoulder or whenever they are ascending a long, steep hill, to switch their hazard warning lights on. Or is it just a courtesy to warn other driver that they are travelling at a low speed.

And for a bonus point, can you put a name to these places where I think that you have mentioned before on your travels.

[mushroomman]

Another two from the Trucknet Archives.

A short story.

Postby dm46 » Sat Jan 24, 2009 3:46 am

In the early 90s I worked for a Dutch firm bringing veg and fruit back and forth to the UK markets fairly mundane at the time, However on one occasion I had to load apples in Zwindrecht Holland for the Western fruit market.

The only thing that was unusual was they were from Iran, They had been transported to Holland by an Iranian Company and transhipped into my fridge.
The exporter I was told will meet me at the collection point and accompany me to London in the truck.

He was a nice chap Iranian by birth and I think tried to convert me religiously by the time we made Zeebrugge for an early evening crossing.

Had a few hours sleep on the boat and in dover for 10pm ish, on waking this guy was sweating profusely and I asked him if he was ok, He said he felt a bit rough from the crossing, so I didn't think any more of it till we came off the ferry and parked waiting for customs.

By this time he was shaking and sweating I thought he was having a heart attack, and at this point he undid his briefcase and took a cocktail of tablets.
He locked up his case and said he needed fresh air and said he would walk it off round the terminal.

He had been gone 10 mins when the pager went off to report to customs, on doing this they told me they wanted me on the bay and were was my passenger? I told them he felt rough and was walking round the compound they said they would find him I had to go on the bay now and before I knew what was happening the rummage squad was in the trailer.

I thought christ this is looking serious ( drugs or what ) they put the dog in and it went bloody loopy, I am then thinking goodbye freedom, Hello jail.

The senior customs man asked me to open the cab so they could check his contents as he hadn't been found still and broke into his briefcase which had a wad of cash in and tablets galore, Hmmm said customs man not looking good is it son.

I had to go round to the back of the fridge and watch this dog wag its tail off climbing all over the boxes of apples, they then sent for the port police to track my passenger who was hanging over a wall and arrested him, They give him the full monty on the strip search and went were no man wants to go if you know what I mean.

After what seemed like hours they established the dog was going mad due to what I understand was DDT or similar, the chemical they spray on the fruit which its use is banned in europe, and they all calmed down and said no further action was to be taking it was all now fine.

We cleared customs and arrived in Western late, after what seemed like days with this guy going on about ringing the Embassy the Queen and Maggie Thatcher about his disgust with the way he was violated in our country.
The Importer was waiting to unload his chemical laden apples, and then the importer and exporter went at each other because we were late, I was peed off by now and wanted some sleep.

So I thought I would speed things up by saying it was just one of those things at customs it happens all the time its not unusual for them to release dogs on the cargo, He climbed on the top of the pallets and saw oily foot prints from the dog's and prompty rejected the whole load.

Funny isn't it the things you learn about peoples religions after you put your foot in it.

They dont mind chemicals on the apple but wont tolerate a dog on the box !!
dm46
SENIOR MEMBER

Posts: 58
Joined: Wed Dec 03, 2008 1:59 am
Top



And one from Wheelnut but you must remember that this story happened decades before lorries had microwaves.

Postby Wheel Nut » Thu Jun 26, 2008 8:25 am

Im sure I have told this tale before. A couple of blokes I know who worked for the swiss tanker company Bertschi.
Simmo is from Balderton, Ginger is from Skelmersdale.
Everybody who Keith Simmo meets and talks to is known as Blue.

So Ginger and Keith are going into Swiss, they do the clearance and head off to their depot. On the way Ginger pulls up at a supermarket and tells Keith he is just going to grab a chicken for supper.

So Ginger nips off and Keith decides to get something too, Keith runs in, gets a case of beer and his food and follows Ginger to the depot

15 minutes later they are parked up and talking through the window, Keith passes his mate a beer as Ginger is chewing on a cooked chicken leg. Keith than grabs his shopping bag, pulls out a fresh chicken and said

"How did you cook that then Blue?"



Where are you now Blue?

[ChrisArbon]

____It's been two weeks since I fired up the laptop such has been the turmoil caused by new floors and bathroom refurbishment in the apartment. Apologies to MRM for the late replies. I think the four-way flashers on the shoulder on the hill is just a voluntary thing. The murals are from Vancouver Island, the animals on the tunnel are over the motorway under the St. Lawrence Seaway and the hole in the rock is the Wilson Arch in Utah. I hiked up there once, hoping to get a photo of the truck framed by the arch but the ground on the other side fell away too sharply. Might be possible with a drone. This next trip is from April 2017 when driving for Ruby Trucklines.

____There is something about an old truck driver that becomes a fork-lift driver. Things are effortless whenever I have had the good fortune to have one of these guys load my trailer. In and out of the Vassar peat-moss packing plant before my allotted appointment time. Down to the Coop fuel station and cafe at South Junction to wait for customs formalities to be completed before trundling into Minnesota at Roseau and down to Bemidji where I cross the Mississippi River for the first time. I will be running along-side America's major waterway right to the delivery address at Modeste in Louisiana. From St. Paul, Minnesota, south to St. Louis in Missouri; along the route known as the Avenue of the Saints and then Interstate 55 to where the Saints Go Marching In: New Orleans.

____ Baton Rouge on a Friday morning, just a few miles from the plant nursery beside the Big River. Within a mile of my overnight parking at a convenient truckstop; I get caught on a 25 ton limit bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. I show the local delivery address on my invoices and tell the police officer that I didn't see the signs until it was too late. Luckily for me, the signs only went up overnight as the bridge had been inspected and restricted just that week; first day was a warning day and no tickets were being issued. Half an hour later, I was stuck in the mud while trying to turn round at the nursery. Four inches of rain had fell in the previous 48 hours. as a last resort, I throw on the snow-chains for the first time in 2017 and first time in Louisiana. On bad days, these things happen in threes; bang. I slip on the muddy step of the truck and gash my knee. The gripping tread on the truck steps has worn smooth after eighteen years of climbing in and out.

____ Out of Louisiana, westbound on Interstate 10, through rice fields and swamps with Popeyes Chicken on sale at every other exit. To Waller, Texas, for a trailer change at the air-conditioner factory and a load of mini-splits. Back to Canada with deliveries at Wetaskiwin in Alberta and Vancouver city-centre. North from the new green spring to the brown grasslands, still thawing from the Winter. Early-morning snow at Casper but other-wise easy-going with just 12,000 lbs of cargo. To the first drop by Tuesday afternoon. Then the bad news.

____ Vancouver cannot take delivery until Monday morning. No chance of dropping off the goods anywhere else; so a slow trip over the Rockies after the first eight days of the trip yielded 6400 kilometres. A weekend at Delta, which has a Tim Hortons, the Petro-Pass Fuel card-lock and the Tidewaters pub. Sunday is a day of public transport: bus, tram and Skytrain. I go into town to check-out the delivery address; a church on Google Maps, a few blocks from Stanley Park in a high-class residential area with a Starbucks on every corner. My first "Church" delivery in over forty years of transport industry involvement.

____ But the old Presbyterian church has gone and in it's place a modern complex is being erected. Underground parking, church and community hall on the ground floor, affordable apartments above and rising high into the city skyline. Original thinking for an over-crowded, high-priced metropolis but not much thought given to the delivery of building products. Best plan is to get into the city at daybreak, jack-knife into the back-alley beside the church and hope no truck wants to deliver to the nearby strip-mall. Ten pallets later and every new apartment has their a/c unit before I battle city traffic back to Delta for the reload. Rolls of conveyor belt rubber in huge rolls quickly loaded and secured. Out of town by noon, loaded for Winnipeg and time to make up for the lost time with fourteen hour driving shifts available.

[mushroomman]

Thanks for another interesting Extra Long Distance Diary Chris.

B.T.W. The tunnel with the animals was actually The Great Bear Snowshed on the B.C. 5, heading towards Hope on 'The Highway Thru Hell'. I had a feeling that you may have shown a photo of that same snow shed on one of your posts some time ago.

I bet that Jamie Davis would have spotted it.

https://www.google.com.au/search?q=grea ... O1dXfHbqtc

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv2-cRy7Q5E


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzAlgIJTZNk

One for Lurpak.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3Oca-P_zW4&t=6s

[ChrisArbon]

____ It started snowing at nightfall and is still coming down at 4 o'clock this afternoon; I'll not start shoveling until it stops. Plenty of time to find a diary trip with snow on it. April 2012, crossing paths with a couple of Brits driving for Searcy Trucking, a flat bed haulier in Winnipeg.

____Day 1: Waking up to snow covered roads leads to a slow drive into work and a late start. Peat-moss to Texas, again. Across the 49th Parallel at Pembina and a late lunch with Messrs. Cooper and Ramsden at the Grand Forks' Flying'J before they split eastwards at Fargo; destined for an evening meal with Flying Eagle #32 at Hudson, Wisconsin. Another ex-pat with chronic check-engine light problems on a Peterbilt 368. I'm in constant contact with Paul; trying to explain that even a totally de-rated vehicle should be able to have 90 seconds of life and the ability to clear the roadworks and get on the shoulder. The motor refuses to start and is eventually towed. Monday morning he finds out that he had run out of diesel. Meanwhile, I push on down the Interstate 29 to Percival, Iowa.

____Day 2: Bobby Troup wrote the song, "I get my kicks on Route 66," but I don't think they named the town after him. A regular drop at a plant nursery, south of town; this trip I avoid Troup by coming down Highway 71 in Arkansas and swinging across eastern Texas on Highway 259; taking me to the buzzing little Chevron Truckstop at Henderson for the night. It also by-passes Tyler; a town that conspires to stop me at every red-light, every single time I come through.

____Day 3: Four Manitoban trucks are unloading peat-moss at 7 o'clock on a Monday morning; with some quick fork-lift action, we're all away by eight. But I doubt if any of the others was up and running with a reload before me. Seventy miles North-east to Marshall and 30 pallets of scented candles are safely stowed and sealed in the trailer before 11 o'clock. Then it's back to Texarkana for fuel before retracing Highway 71 to the town of Nevada in Missouri.

____Day 4: Two thousand, three hundred miles; from Texas to Alberta with a load of scented candles. Some would say it's a waste of precious fossil fuel that is denying a future for our children. But it gives employment to workers in Texas and Canada; making and selling them plus wages for the drivers who distribute them. Ideal for presents at Christmas. Sure-fire sellers at Summer car-boot sales and a thrilling 50 cent purchase for some aging hippie. I'm usually at the tap-end of the bath when one or two of these things finally gets lit.

____Day 5: I meet up again with Mr. Cooper who is also overnighting at Fargo; heading to Logan Lake in British Columbia with mining equipment, loaded in Michigan. A trapped nerve in his back was giving constant pain in his right leg; but Cooperman is "Old-School, North of England." Limping back to Winnipeg and going sick would never cross his mind. I follow him through the border at North Portal as we both push on to Swift Current for the night.

____Day 6: A snow-warning is in effect for south-west Saskatchewan; 25 centimetres expected and it starts falling before dawn. Five hours of near white-out and I'm done for the day; Calgary Flying'J and about half an hour from the Costco RDC at Airdrie. Coops pushes on westbound on the Trans-Canada Highway and phones to say that the Rockies are getting tricky. Meanwhile, Lucky Ramsden has been sitting for two days waiting for re-load instructions at the Florida/Georgia state line; he phones to say that it's 18 degrees C and sunny.

____Day 7: Still snowing when I crawl up to Airdrie and into the RDC for a quick tip, considering the conditions. Then it's down to Taber with a sweet smelling trailer for a reload of sugar that will get me back to Niverville. A three hour drive with very little sign to black-top. Driving hours are getting short now and reach 70 in seven days at Speedy Creek; aka Swift Current. Still snowing

____Day 8: Three 18-wheelers in the ditch before Moose Jaw sets the tone for day: slow and steady. Twenty tons of sugar in the trailer is a great help. Getting dusted by the loose snow thrown up by fearless B-train grain haulers in the fast lane is the biggest problem; going bright and clear to white-out conditions in the blink of an eye at 60 mph needs a steady hand on the wheel. I can't complain; as I dust-up others when overtaking. As they say on the CB radio: "If you can't run with the big dogs, then stay on the porch." I'm back in the yard before dark.

____Overall Distance: 7343 km.

Sharp turn for a long load.

Flying'J parking lot at Calgary.

Someone misjudged the sugar factory entrance.

Blowing snow on the Trans Canada Highway.

[mushroomman]

Courtesy of John McVey.


A Middle East Trucking Story.

By John McVey.

Preface

Like most people at my age I have plenty of tales to tell, the following story is just a taste of what it was like to travel overland in a lorry to the Middle East Countries and back. I only did two trips, one to Baghdad and one to Kuwait, and then I concentrated on Europe for a couple of years, mainly Italy.

There were men who did Middle East for years and went to far away places like Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.

I am not going to get into the detail of Middle East Transportation because that is not what this is about. I am simply going to talk about a few of my life experiences.

I am going to write this story in the same manner as I travelled, bear in mind I was not a tourist, I was not on holiday or safari, or making a documentary for TV, there were no camera crews in Land Rovers or fleet of back up crew, I wasn’t going the long way round, down, up or sideways, I was simply trying to get there and back as quickly and as safely as possible.

This was a job, and I was paid so much per trip, so the faster I completed the journey the more money I made, if you are not already bored, please read on you might find it interesting.
John


For the little ones

T.I.R (This Is Ridiculous)

T.I.R is actually the official abbreviation for Transport International Route, which was a treaty between European and some Asian countries, allowing goods to be transported by road under customs seal without inspection (sometimes).

To say it was occasionally a little bit farcical is being kind, hence This Is Ridiculous.

Having left school at 15 with no qualifications I spent a couple of years working in retail (men’s clothes) and then joined the RAF where I spent the next 4 years.

I left the RAF complete with a Heavy Goods Vehicle driving licence so started driving lorries for a living.

While still in the RAF I married Katherine and settled down to have a family.

I had done a little long distance in the UK but at the age of 25 I was driving tipper lorries carrying stone to building sites. This work soon became tedious and one day I was waiting to load at Ellel quarry, near Lancaster, when I got talking to a guy who was between trips to the Middle East.

In the mid 70s the oil rich states of the Middle East (M/E) were buying anything and everything they could lay their hands on but the problem was getting it delivered.

The ports that serviced the M/E were not developed enough to be able to accommodate the big ships that were arriving daily, with all sorts of goods so ships were waiting months to be discharged.

Overland transport by lorry was the answer and it soon became very big business.

Well, this sounded just like the adventure I had always fancied and in a matter of a few weeks I was off to Kufa south of Baghdad with my road train heavy loaded with engineering equipment.

Katherine and I had only a few months earlier taken delivery of our first beautiful son Andrew James and I hated leaving them but as ever, Katherine was so supportive and encouraging, she made it easier for me.

Well I was so green; I had no idea what I was in for.

Katherine will fill in the exact dates I’m sure but I think it was late October 1976 when I left Preston lorry park late one evening to drive to Harwich to catch a ferry to Hamburg.

That first night travelling down the M6 I have to say I thought I had made a mistake taking on this journey into the unknown, already I was missing Katherine and Andrew enormously, but I had committed to this trip and was determined to see it through.

I arrived at the port of Harwich early hours of the next morning and got my head down.

The following morning I set about the complicated customs job. I had been given very little training, and had no idea how complicated the paperwork involved in taking a loaded lorry overland to the Middle East was.

I was one of four William Jackson drivers booked on the same sailing, the other three were light loaded with insulation all going to Mosul, northern Iraq, they were all experienced M/E men and made it plain they would not be waiting for me, not that I blame them, Christmas was round the corner and they intended being home for it.

Anyone that knows me knows that I prefer to go it alone.

I could at this stage explain in detail the different customs procedures, rules regulations and protocol but it would bore the reader to tears so I will cover them as and when, I will just mention though that as my lorry was a road train it was classed as two vehicles so had two sets of paperwork.

I somehow managed to get the customs job sorted and that afternoon I was steaming out of Harwich aboard the Prince Oberon bound for Hamburg.
On arrival at Hamburg I found a Bank and changed all my traveller’s cheques to Dollars, I decided I was not going to be looking for banks in every country between here and Baghdad and guessed Dollars would be welcomed everywhere. I was right.

In those days to carry goods for reward you had to have permits for each country, Billy Jackson had no allocation of these so instead of the direct route through France and Italy in to Yugoslavia, I took the German ferry to Hamburg which entitled me to a fifty Kilometre permit to travel and that got me in to East Germany where permits were not required, just Dollars.

My first customs problem was at the West German border crossing to East Germany. When re-building the tilt covering on the trailer after loading at MIFT (Manchester International Freight Terminal) I had missed a couple of eyelets when feeding the TIR cord through, so the West German customs decided to have a look inside. Lesson one learned.

East Germany was covered in one hit, mostly concrete motorways but I do remember going through Leipzig and Dresden and other smaller towns. The weather was cold and wet with some snow which made the cobbled roads that all eastern European towns seemed to favour treacherous.

In no time at all I was in Czechoslovakia and had caught up to the other three, not bad for a first tripper I thought, but as they were so much lighter loaded than me I soon lost touch again, I was to happen upon them again much later in Mosul, Northern Iraq.

I won’t dwell too much on the journey through Czechoslovakia, Hungary and in to Yugoslavia as it was quite uneventful and I have better stories to tell of those places on “the flip side” (the return journey)

Down through Yugoslavia and across Bulgaria (on the next trip I was to fall very sick with food poisoning in Bulgaria) next stop Kapicule, the border crossing between Bulgaria and Turkey.

Kapicule was to be the next real test.

The Turks had a very complicated system of road tax which was on a sliding scale relating to load value and my load was extremely high value at almost £500,000.

I had plenty of money with me but this made a big hole in my wallet. Obviously Billy Jackson had not allowed for this.

I had to pay an agent to do my paperwork at Kapicule, you were not allowed to deal direct with the officials and you had to use a “runner” in my case a young lad of about twelve years of age to take your paperwork and passport to the agent’s office, there was no other way believe me, anyway within a few hours my paperwork was completed and returned to me by my runner who demanded his “baksheesh”. (Gratuity)

At the time when paying for any official tax of any kind in Turkey you had to pay in Turkish Lira but you first have to buy the local currency using Dollars or Deutschmarks, they would not take Sterling by the way.

Next stop The Harem Hotel, Istanbul.

This was a popular stopover for western drivers, who were welcome to use the facilities even though not booking a room.

Not one to hang around next day I’m off over the mountains to Ankara then over Tarsus to Adana.

I have met plenty of interesting people on my travels and I will try to remember their names and tell you bits about them as we happen upon them through my memoirs.

I met up with a gang of Brits somewhere around Ankara and travelled with them for a few days. Again these were all experienced M/E men and helped and advised me quite a lot.

One of the guys was called Terry, he was from somewhere around London and we got on really well, he was also going to Baghdad and we travelled some of the way there together.

At the time the roads in Turkey got worse the further south east you travelled, over Tarsus Mountains sometimes there was no road and frequently you would see dead lorries laying upside down in the valleys below, no exaggeration, honest.

Terry and I were travelling late one night down a military road in eastern Turkey where the Kurds live when I suddenly hit a massive pothole and struggled to keep control of the vehicle. Terry was ahead of me and he told me later that he just managed to avoid the same pothole; he carried on unaware of my difficulties.
The encounter with the pothole had moved one of the big lathe type machines in the trailer and it was bulging the side out. This was a potential problem as if it broke the TIR cord I would have customs issues at the next border but, as it happened this did not become a difficulty until much later in this story, indeed on “the flip side”.

Anyway I had lost touch with Terry and was not to meet up with him again until The British Club, Baghdad.

So far there had been few light hearted moments, in fact the difficulties and dangers meant you had to take everything seriously and always keep your wits about you.

During my travels I have had my passport taken off me at military check points and been “detained” in eastern bloc countries, southern Turkey and Damascus, I have been confronted by soldiers carrying machine guns, I was in Baghdad during a military coup and have been threatened at knifepoint, all routine events in the life of a M/E man.

Next stop the border between Turkey and Iraq.

This was a comical crossing, it was exactly what you would expect, busy, manic, mad, disorganised. At one point I entered the wrong timber built barrack type building only to find a long table with Iraqi soldiers enjoying their lunch, they insisted I join them and whatever it was that they gave me to eat was very welcome.

Baghdad

I have to find an agent, clear customs and get the load guarantee released.

In those days Baghdad was a very busy city, bustling with activity and very difficult to find your way around, 99% of signs were in Arabic and very few people spoke English, anyway I managed.

The load guarantee is to ensure all import taxes are paid before the load is delivered to its final destination and you are not permitted to leave the country without evidence of this. A local agent has to be used and the one I found was a lovely man called Mr. Meanus, not sure how to spell his name so I have spelt it as it sounds.

I spent my first night in Baghdad parked up on some spare ground close to the “British Club” where I had a couple of drinks and guess who turned up, Terry. If I remember correctly Terry and I had quite a lot to drink that night, and the local retired British Colonel tried to have us ejected but we were having none of it.

Next day Terry was on his way as he had done his paperwork, I was to move to a “compound” outside the city which was in fact the desert where I was to wait for Mr. Meanus to bring me mine.

I would at this point like to mention that I always felt welcome in the M/E countries and found the Iraqi people to be especially pleasant. There were a few exceptions and I will be covering these as and when.

Next day still waiting, and I notice that where the previous day there were many western lorries, now only a few remain and those appeared to be unattended, I am told by a couple of drivers that some sort of military coup is occurring and they were off to the airport and suggested I do the same, but while I was considering what to do Mr. Meanus turned up with my completed paperwork, he mentioned the local military uprising and suggested I take my guarantee certificate and leave.

Well, I’m not sure but I think he meant for me to go home, anyway I decided to carry on to my destination which was about 110 miles south of Baghdad.

I arrived at Kufa late afternoon the following day.

I had a telephone number which I was to ring and somebody would come and guide me to my delivery point.

Finding and using a public telephone in a town in Southern Iraq proved to be far less difficult than I expected and soon I had parked the lorry and was being taken to the home of the British manager of the company I was delivering to.

I spent a nice evening with this family and slept in a real bed, it felt very civilised.

The following day we set about unloading the lorry, and straight away concern was expressed about the bulge in the side of the trailer, but thankfully the machine within was undamaged, it took most of the day using an overhead crane to unload, but by tea time I was on my way home.

I was to return to Istanbul where I had the name and address of an agent whom I was to contact to arrange a back load.

I was soon north of Baghdad and motoring towards South East Turkey.

Northern Iraq is quite mountainous and even with an empty lorry some of the bends with their sheer drops required careful negotiation. It was on this dusty, mountain hugging road that I encountered a man who whilst cradling what appeared to be a dead dog was waving for me to stop. I did not like the feel of this situation one little bit at all, and I have to confess that I slowed but did not stop, to be fair the man although appearing to be distressed looked healthy enough and though traffic was very light one of his countrymen would be along before much longer.

I have pondered that situation many times over the years and I always come to the same conclusion that I made the correct decision, in those days Northern Iraq was well known to be a dangerous place so it would have been foolhardy of me to take the risk.

I mentioned earlier that the border crossing between South East Turkey and Iraq was comical, well on my return the experience was quite different, it was cold wet and grim and it took me two full days to get through. I was so depressed and missing home so much that I could hardly bear it.

During my International Road Transport career I would continually swing between highs and lows and sometimes become very lonely, I always liked to travel solo so I would sometimes go days without actually speaking to anybody, this is just the way it is and as they say in the RAF, “if you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined up”


Winter was certainly starting to get under way, I remember I had a bad cold and the cab heater was not working, it had never worked but only now into December did it start to become a problem.

I got back to Ankara and it was so cold the diesel started to freeze; it actually turns to a jelly like substance.

I remember I was at this café that was used by western lorry drivers as it had plenty of parking, it was rough ground but they let you park free if you used the café.

This particular night it was so cold nobody could sleep, so all the drivers huddled around a fire that we had built using anything we could find that would burn.

I was standing chatting to a few other drivers when out of the darkness came a pathetic looking figure, this man approached the fire and just stood there saying nothing, he had frost all over his face and the top half of his clothed body.

I said to him “are you alright mate” he said nothing, so we tried to warm him up and gave him a brew.

After about 15 minutes he started to speak, he said “I must have fallen asleep in the driver’s seat and when I woke up my hair was frozen to window, I thought somebody had hold of me at first, and then I couldn’t get free and I just got colder and colder.”

Anyway he survived and the next morning people started to get on their way.

I managed to get my engine started but could not get enough power to move, so I found a local garage and the mechanic came to my assistance, we discovered that the thermostat that controlled the temperature of the engine and coolant was missing, as in not there, no wonder the heater didn’t work. Thanks Billy.

On my way again and before you know it I’m parked in the car park of The Harem Hotel, Istanbul.

The next morning I’m in the agent’s office and it’s not good news, we are well in to December, I think it was 15th or 16th and back loads were thin on the ground, I would probably have to wait at least a week or go home empty.

I pondered this situation over a glass of cay (tea), sure I wanted to be home for Christmas but I wasn’t about to go home empty, then the agent, who was a very pleasant and helpful man suggested I fly home and come back in the New Year when return loads would be plentiful and better paying.

I liked this idea but there were a couple of problems, firstly, I didn’t have enough money for the flight and secondly, my passport was stamped with the details of my lorry, this is done when you enter Turkey and is only cancelled when you leave Turkey complete with your lorry, this is to stop people illegally selling their lorries!

I put this to the agent and he immediately offered to pay for the flight and suggested I take a chance with my passport at the airport.

I decided to go for it but I would phone HQ to tell them what I was doing, not that anything they said would deter me, I had decided what I was going to do and that was that.

In 1976 International calls were difficult and had to be booked in advance, sometimes you could wait 24 hours and the very nice agent had booked me on a flight that same afternoon, so the agent sent a telex informing William Jackson & Son of the arrangements.
There was no time to waste, I had to get back to the lorry which was on the other side of Istanbul at The Harem Hotel, gather my things together and find a Young Entrepreneurial Turk to mind the lorry. I think it cost 50 Turkish Lira in advance and 50 on my return, if the lorry was intact, quite reassuring for me and not bad money for a 10 year old street urchin, considering he would probably be doing the same deal for many drivers over the Christmas period.

The agent suggested I present my passport to passport control, open at the photograph page, but I decided that if the vehicle stamp was discovered I was going to act dumb (not too difficult) and explain exactly what my intentions were, I was only going home for Christmas after all! So there would be no cloak and dagger stuff, I would simply hand over my passport and take my chances.

Istanbul Airport, passport control, I’m booked on a KLM flight to London Heathrow via Amsterdam, I’ve got my bag in one hand and my passport and ticket in the other, to say I was a little nervous was putting it mildly, but tallyho!! I handed my passport to the officer and looked him square in the eye, he thumbed through my passport a couple of times and suddenly stopped at the page that contained the vehicle stamp, he looked me in the eye, glanced down at the page, looked at me again and handed me back my passport and gestured me to move on.

Home for Christmas

I reported to the office soon after my arrival and assured them that I would in fact be going back to recover and back load the lorry for England.


I arrived back at Istanbul Airport early in the New Year, I was pretty miserable, but hey ho, find a taxi and get back to the lorry.

I got in the back of a taxi and the driver gestured he was going to wait for another fare, so I decided to get out and find a different taxi, but I could not open the door from the inside so I started to climb over to the front of the car to get out that way, the driver was doing his nut but I made my escape, fending him off as I climbed over the front seat and out the front passenger door. I wasn’t about to be whisked off in to the night trapped in the back of a car in Istanbul.

I found a different taxi, the driver opened the back door for me to get in, before I did I checked the inside door handles worked, it was clear the driver knew why and on the way to The Harem Hotel he explained to me in quite good English that some unlicensed taxis would overcharge and not let the occupants out of the car until they had paid.

I arrive at The Harem Hotel car park to find the lorry just as I had left it.

I was exhausted and wanted to get my head down but the cab was cold and damp, so I started the engine to warm her up a little, as soon as I did the Young Entrepreneurial Turk popped up to collect the remainder of his fee.

I was to re-load for England at a place called Sinj, a small town just outside Split on the Adriatic.

Belgrade, Banja Luka, Sarajevo, these are familiar names now because of the troubles there, but my recollection of these places is very different to those images shown on the TV during the wars.

I have fond memories of the National Hotel, Belgrade, a popular stopping off point with western lorry drivers; I remember the challenging winding roads through the forests and over the mountains, Banja Luka and Sarajevo, the peaceful Adriatic resort of Split, it made me sad to watch on TV the carnage and devastation to those beautiful places and the unbelievable cruelty to the people all over the former Yugoslavia.

I remember I arrived at the Adriatic resort of Split on Saturday afternoon, so it would be sightseeing for Johnny until Monday morning.
I remember little detail of the town, but I do remember that I thought it was a very nice place. Shops and restaurants fronted the picturesque harbour where two American war ships were tied up.

I would at this point like to warn any visitors to this area that the beer is ludicrously strong, on Saturday evening I had few with a couple of American sailors and could hardly move all the next day.
Monday morning I’m off to the village of Sinj to load boxes of raw cotton, then back to Split to do the customs thing.

Homeward bound

If I only had permits for Italy and France I would be home in four days, but instead I have to go in the wrong direction down the coast towards Dubrovnik, then swing left to Mostar, over the mountains, Sarajevo and up to Szeged, then in to Hungary, this is a long and tedious route, heavy snow and winding mountain roads meant progress was very slow.

Budapest, Bratislava up through Brno into Czechoslovakia, problem!
Remember I told you earlier about when I hit a pothole in South East Turkey and the load shifted causing it to bulge the side out, well it had weakened the weld on one of the eyelets that the TIR cord passed through and this was discovered when crossing into Czechoslovakia, in fact I’m going to go in to more detail because it’s quite a good story.

It was about 6pm I had passed through the Hungarian side of the border and had done my customs paperwork and passport, and the seals had been checked at the Czechoslovakian side.
I was about to set off when an immaculately dressed army officer decided to take an interest in my lorry, I’m not kidding, this guy was the real deal, full tunic with amazingly shiny buttons and row upon row of medal ribbons, jodhpur trousers and knee high boots, bulled to perfection.

Well there he was casually jack booting his way round my lorry when he stopped, lifted his riding crop and pointed to the place where there was an eyelet missing. My heart sank as he removed his brown kid leather glove and slid his hand up under the tilt cover whilst bellowing at his underlings, what I imagine was a few hints on inspecting TIR sealed vehicles.

I had to unload the trailer so that it could be inspected for whatever I might be smuggling, a bit of a nuisance, but it only took a couple of hours or so and once re-loaded and the necessary protocol entered on the documents, I was away again, but not before the aforementioned army officer stood to attention, clicked his heels and gave me the smartest salute ever, I nodded and went on my way.
I was up through Czechoslovakia in no time at all, but I must have gone wrong somewhere as I found myself late at night at a remote border crossing with just one guard with whom I shared a brew.

I remember vividly the mountainous area, virgin snow covered the ground and weighed down the branches of the tall fir trees, a real picture postcard setting, and there standing all on it’s own a hut with a guard and a simple lift up barrier. Where was the customs? Where was the automatic weapon brandishing nervous looking border guards?

It was surreal, but that’s how I remember it.

East Germany was once again despatched in one hit, and soon I’m at the West German border.
German guards were swarming all over the lorry, probably looking for drugs. They emptied the cab of my meagre possessions and searched them thoroughly, and one of the guards was encouraging a sniffer dog into every nook and cranny on the lorry.
I have to say I was more than a little nervous as, though I was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, there were stories of drugs being secreted on to lorries by the bad guys, to be recovered by accomplices on reaching there destination.

I must say that I did enjoy travelling through the eastern block countries; there was an air of mystery and exciting adventure about it, but everywhere seemed to be gray and dull, yes beautiful architecture in Cities like Prague and Budapest, but everywhere looked so tired and neglected. When I crossed over to the west it was as if someone had switched the lights on, like going from black and white to Technicolor.

Well, there’s not much more worth writing about that trip, I was home safe and 100% definitely not going again.

But he did another trip and I am glad to say that he shared it with us.
To be continued.

[mushroomman]

A Middle East Trucking Story.

By John McVey.

Trip Two


I spent the next five months working in the UK, but I had this itch and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t scratch it.

It was early June, Kathy was two months pregnant and I’m off to Kuwait with a dodgy open TIR load, dodgy own account permits and working for an even dodgier geezer I had met in Istanbul on the previous trip. The long suffering Kathy was as ever, loyal, selfless and supportive, she is to write her own account of the following eight weeks that I am to be away from home, mine follows.

I am driving a Maguirus Deutz (Maggie) tractor unit with a stripped down tilt trailer, loaded with eighteen portable toilets that I loaded at Portakabin, York.

The portable toilets were about the size of an old red telephone box and eighteen just fit nicely, two abreast in the stripped down tilt trailer, the hinged sides of the trailer could be lifted into place and secured, but the superstructure of the trailer could not be re-built as the portable toilets were to tall, so I would have to travel “open TIR”

I will now try to explain to the reader two terms that will crop up during the pages to come, firstly, “open TIR.” This means the load will not fit in the confines of a vehicle approved by the TIR regulations, these vehicles can be sealed so as not to allow anything to be added or taken from the loading compartment without breaking the customs seal.
Open TIR means that you are likely to be scrutinised much more closely at any border crossing, so it will probably take twice as much time entering and leaving each country you transit en route to your final destination.

The second term I will endeavour to explain is “own account permits to travel.”

I explained the permit thing earlier, but this is different, own account permits were for use by companies carrying their own goods. For instance; you are a furniture manufacturer and you are delivering product using your own transport to a depot owned by you.

I know that transporting eighteen portable toilets, manufactured by Portakabin in York to Kuwait Oil Company, Kuwait was going to be tricky, but I’ll manage.

Dover to Ostend this time, in to West Germany, first problem!

I had a “belly tank” slung under the trailer containing 300 gallons of red diesel which I would start using when I got past Austria, but I would have to “T form” it through West Germany and Austria.

This is a simple operation, just fill in a form pay a fee and the belly tank is sealed on entering the country and the seal checked when leaving, but when the nice man with the wire and lead seal arrived he could not attach it to the filler cap as it had no hole for the wire to pass through.

I’m off to get a hole drilled in the filler cap, but first I have to learn how to ask for it in German.

“Haben sie eine bohrmaschine bitte?”

Necessity is certainly the mother of invention; I had a few breakdowns over the course of both trips, but nothing major. I lost a hinge pin from the A frame of the trailer (this couples the trailer to the lorry) on the first trip, this lost me almost a day. In those days once you got past Western Europe it was easier to get things repaired, people had to be more self sufficient on the road as professional help was very thin on the ground. I remember it was quite common to see a Turkish lorry at the side of the road, the driver changing the clutch, gear box or back axel, while the rest of the family had got camped down, and Mum was busy making dinner.

I climbed up an embankment, armed with my large metal filler cap, and set off to find someone that had eine bohrmaschine.
I soon came upon an industrial estate and found a man in a factory who was happy to use his bohramaschine to modify my cap; he drilled his hole, rubbed it down a little, presented it to me and said “good”? I inspected the engineers work, and with a big smile on my face replied, “Good!”

I’m off like a whippet, motoring across Germany and into Austria, all is going well and I’m thinking, this is going to be a doddle, I’m light loaded, I’ve got good roads at least as far as Turkey and it’s flaming June.

I spoke too soon, studying the map in Austria; I saw I had two low bridges in close succession, under normal circumstances the TIR tilt trailer would fit under these bridges, but my load was a good twelve inches taller, which was the reason why I could not re-build the superstructure of the trailer.
I had no alternative but to try and get under these bridges, so, on the approach to the first I stopped and let as much air out of the tyres as I could and still be able to drive the lorry without damaging the tyres, as my load was relatively light this should not be a problem.

I gingerly approached the first bridge and she went under no problem, the second bridge was higher so would be no problem at all. Wrong! I think a bit of road surfacing had taken place since my road atlas had been printed, and because the tractor carried the front of the trailer higher than the rear, the first couple of pairs of portable bogs were too high for the bridge, so I had to remove the pyramid shaped roofs from them, then I could get on.

I had to travel quite slowly until I could find a garage and re-inflate my tyres. I soon came upon a fuel station, purchased almost a full road tank of diesel, paid for the use of the air gun and when I asked to use the washroom. I was refused!

I made good time across Austria and down through Hungary, in to Yugoslavia and a stopover at The National Hotel, Belgrade.

I had probably been on the go for about five days now so I was ready for a short break.

I had worked out that, without delays, I could cover five hundred miles a day and I would have to if I was going to make it pay, but beyond Austria there would be no motorways and the main trunk roads, once you get in to Turkey, wind their way through small villages, over mountains, where sometimes the road was barely a track and in parts of south east Turkey and Jordan, no road at all.

Fresh from an overnight stop at The National, I was making very good progress through Yugoslavia and then Bulgaria, and before you can say “baksheesh colleague” I’m back at Kapicule.

So far the open TIR thing had not been much of a problem, but the Turkish customs people were not too keen on it, but eventually I managed to convince them that there was nothing hidden round the bend in my portable bogs.

I enter Turkey and head for the Mocamp at Istanbul.

I remember on the first trip, between Kapicule and Istanbul, there was the wreck of a BRS (British Road Services) M/E spec Leyland Marathon; it was upside down in a ditch at the side of the road, - it was still there!

It don’t arf make yer fink!

I stopped off briefly at the Mocamp in Istanbul, (another popular stopping off point for western lorry drivers) just to get cleaned up and eat something that hadn’t come out of a tin, but I’m not hanging around, so far, apart from a few minor delays I’d made extremely good time and was not about to spoil it by getting camped down, drinking Turkish beer with a few western drivers. I didn’t really drink much in those days anyway.

Turkey is a beautiful country; it has everything really, from Ancient Cities to rural villages, rugged mountains with barely passable roads to flat landscapes where you can see forever. Istanbul and Ankara are real cosmopolitan Cities, I don’t know what it’s like now but in those days South East Turkey seemed almost third world compared to other parts, but nevertheless the whole region gave you a feeling of historical mystique.

I have some wonderful memories of my travels, not just the M/E but also Europe, in particular the old eastern block and of course, wonderful Italy, my favourite place in the whole world apart from England.

I’m giving it big licks now, motoring down the southern Mediterranean, heading for Syria.

Up to now I’ve been on fairly familiar territory but now I’m at the border between Turkey and Syria, a place called Bab Al Hawa. I was delayed half a day here, but was kept entertained by the kids selling anything and everything, they would wave their goods at anyone that looked remotely English and shout “aurence look” “aurence look” I did buy a traditional Arab headdress and in fact still have it.

In those days, travelling through Eastern Block countries, Turkey and M/E countries in general, it was not unusual to be confronted by armed Police, Soldiers or other officials.

I’m not suggesting they were brandishing their weapons or anything like that, but I have had more than a few stressful encounters, in particular I remember one time I was somewhere in Turkey when I was stopped at a random checkpoint and this soldier carrying an automatic weapon got in the cab and started poking around to see if I had anything he fancied for himself. I had very little with me that was worth fighting for, apart from money and my passport, both of which were always about my person, and to be fair all these people wanted was a little baksheesh, they wouldn’t dream of stealing anything, it’s just the culture to invite a gift maybe, cigarettes would usually suffice, I didn’t smoke but it was wise always to carry a few multi packs. This guy though took a shine to my Kodak Instamatic, and I was not for parting with it as it would be the only record of my adventure. I remember I had to be very firm, this soldier had my camera grasped firmly in his spare hand, the other was cradling a very tasty looking self loading rifle. I reached out to take back my possession and at the same time glanced down at the weapon, his eyes followed mine and he realized what was in my mind, he could not have been more apologetic, he didn’t speak English, he just kept saying no, no, no, and patting me on the shoulder having handed back my camera. The poor man was so embarrassed, it obviously had not occurred to him that he was carrying a gun and I might feel threatened.

I must make it clear at this point that whilst on my travels, the vast majority of people I encountered, be they military or other, were friendly and helpful.
There were a couple of occasions when I became a little nervous, once just outside Damascus, I was detained and my passport taken off me, I was kept in a large tent for four hours or so and given no explanation, in fact hardly a word was spoken, this was very disconcerting. Another time I was at an oasis on the tap line in Saudi and was being pestered for cigarettes by a gang of local youths, I had no cigarettes left but they would not take no for an answer and when I became, shall we say, a little firmer in my manner, the big boy among them (he looked about fourteen or fifteen) pulled out a knife and started toward me, well I didn’t know what to do, so I backed up towards the lorry as he shouted some Arabic abuse at me, and then they all ran off in to the night.

Damascus - what a fantastic place! I don’t know how I managed to negotiate that city, at the time there was not one direction sign in English or for that matter Arabic as far as I could see, and the traffic which, typical of any town or city this side of and including Istanbul, ranged from horse and cart to tank transporters, oh yes there’s going to be plenty of military presence from now on.

The journey down through Syria was fairly uneventful, though this would not be the case on the flip side.

I just have a short hop through Jordan, where I get a few second hand tyres fitted by two very nice locals whose photograph is framed and currently on the wall in the downstairs bathroom of my house, then a thousand miles of tap line.

I’m going to digress here, I am compelled to talk about a film made a couple of years later, it was a BBC documentary called “Destination Doha” and it was about M/E overland transport.

I am in no way going to criticize the programme, it was very entertaining and in fact I have it on DVD (if you are reading this in the year 2020 DVD is a very old media format) the programme follows three ASTRAN (Asia Transport Services) vehicles on their journey, it was quite accurate apart from a couple of things that are hilarious.

There are these four drivers, (one was also a mechanic and was to recover a 140 Scania road train that had been abandoned) all good down to earth lads, three were very experienced M/E men and one was on his first trip.

Let me remind you that the object of the exercise is to get there and back as quickly as possible.

These guys actually went skiing in Austria, OK they were week - ended (In some European countries, Lorries are not allowed to travel after noon on Saturday until 10pm Sunday) but still very unrealistic.

Then there was the bit where they were astounded because they could not cash Barclays travellers cheques in Jordan, now I don’t mean to be picky, but come on, Astran had been pioneers in M/E transport, how could they not know that Barclays Bank, with it’s connections to those of the Star of David persuasion was not popular in the Arab States.

But by far the funniest of all was when they were about to take the barrel road, which was a short cut across Jordan, about one hundred miles of hard desert, called the barrel road as 45 gallon drums had been placed at irregular intervals to keep you on course.

Just picture it, there they are, standing by the side of the road peering in to the desert, when the one described as the “thinking mans lorry driver” provides the best “Crocodile Dundee” moment of all time! He looks up at the Sun, then down at his watch, and with his arm outstretched, he points and says “it’s that tangent” well I nearly broke a rib laughing - just follow the barrels!

Actually to be fair many of the barrels had become buried, but it was hard desert and you could easily follow the tyre tracks, plus there were plenty of other Lorries about, in fact you were really supposed to travel in convoy, but I couldn’t be bothered with all that.

The tap line is a thousand miles of pipe carrying oil through Saudi Arabia, and the road runs along side it.

I had met up with a couple of likely lads from London soon after entering Saudi and they both had air conditioning (A/C) in there lorry cabs, so were going to rest during the day and travel at night when it was cooler and there would be less chance of tyre blow outs.

I had no A/C so being stationary during the heat of the day was not an option for me, so I would have to take my chances.

In those days the road was good tarmac one minute, the next you would be negotiating a layered tarmac ramp down on to the desert for a few miles and then back on the tarmac, all good fun.

I would have to travel no faster than 30 mph to minimise the risk of tyre blow outs and just when I thought I was doing well, BANG!

I pulled off the road in to the desert and attempted to change the wheel, but I don’t think I lasted ten minutes before I had to get out of the Sun.

There were only two oases, strategically positioned along the one thousand mile road, and I reckoned I was about half way between the first and the second; I had loaded up with water so I should be alright for that, but I would have to wait until the Sun went down before once again attempting to change the wheel.

OK let’s try again. I have jacked up the axle having already loosened the wheel nuts, and am levering off the wheel, it is still very hot and I’m struggling when a Mack with GB plates pulls up and the driver alights from his air conditioned cab, walks towards me and says in a heavy cockney accent, “it’s ot init”. We change the wheel, share a brew and while I’m packing the tools away he gets on his way and I never see him again.

I motor on down to a place called “The Mirrors” where I hang a left and head for the Saudi/Kuwait border Saudi Arabia is one of a few countries that require you to obtain a visa from the Saudi embassy in London before you can visit or transit the country. I had done so, or so I thought, but unfortunately I had stamped in my passport an entry visa, where I should have a transit visa.

The Saudi side of the border consisted of a couple of wooden huts, inhabited by a few guards and an official immaculately dressed in white Arab robes.

The official was not amused at all about me not having the correct visa, and just kept shaking his head from side to side while I tried to explain that it was not my fault, and that I had asked for a transit visa but as I could not read Arabic, how would I know I had been given an entry visa.

I was delayed a few hours but finally I was allowed to cross.

I’m on the Kuwait side now and have done the paperwork thing and am told I must wait to be convoyed over the dessert to Kuwait City.

I wait all afternoon, it is very hot and I am making regular visits to a stall where an industrious young man of about fifteen years of age is selling water and coke from a large fridge which is hooked up to a generator. He spoke quite good English and we chatted for a while.
I share a brew with a couple of Arab drivers and retire for the night.

The next morning there are still not enough vehicles to form a convoy and I am fed up of waiting. I go to buy some water and get a coke from my young Arab friend and he insists on selling me a bottle of Vimto cordial, declaring it to be a “very good drink”
I’m not for waiting any longer and ask the young man which way to Kuwait City, he shades his eyes with one hand and with the other, points to the desert and proudly say, “This way”

Kuwait City

I’m parked up in a customs clearing compound and I am warned that there is a long delay.

I am not allowed to wait with the lorry, I must report to my agent in Kuwait City every morning to check if my load had been cleared for onward delivery. I have to check in to a hotel, The Bristol is where most western drivers stay; this is going to seriously eat in to my meagre financial resources.

I phone Kathy to let her know the situation and she tells me she is short of money as she had not been sent money as was agreed.

I explained earlier the long drawn out process of booking, making and receiving international phone calls in those days, well I did eventually get money to Kathy but it took a few days.

I was young and desperate for adventure, but I should have made better provision for my family, all was well in the end, but I will not elaborate on this memory as I am not exactly proud of myself, sorry Kathy!

I stay in The Bristol for a few days then I tell the agent I will go and wait with the lorry and he will have to come to me. The agent tells me that the customs officials won’t let me stay in the compound, but I decide to take my chances and make my way there.

I made incredibly good time getting to Kuwait but then had to wait almost two weeks to clear customs, this meant my entry/exit visa for Kuwait had expired; also I have to get a transit visa for Saudi, I would have to go to the British Consulate to obtain two letters of introduction, one to the Saudi Embassy in Kuwait, and one to the Kuwait office responsible for issuing visa’s, I can’t remember properly but it must have been a civil service building of some sort.

I am very lucky to have been accompanied by a very efficient and long suffering guardian angel during my globetrotting; he/she has guided me through what sometimes appeared to be impossible situations, it was as if all I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and all would be well.

I arrive at Kuwait Oil Company, Kuwait City, Kuwait and am escorted to a huge compound out in the desert, where just about as far as you could see in any direction was all manner of equipment; Land Rovers, cranes, diggers, bulldozers, and just about anything you could think of.
I was marshalled to an open area within the compound where the portable toilets were offloaded - well shoved off the side of the trailer actually! I had gone to all that trouble to provide these people with privies, and they would not be using them as they were equipped with western sit on seats, and the locals would only use the footprint type.


Homeward bound, but first I fill up the road tank (100 gallons) and belly tank (300 gallons) with diesel at three pence per gallon, this will get me two thirds the way home and I planned to re-load in Austria which would give me enough money to get home.

I make good time through Saudi, Jordan and in to Syria, you have to keep going in this heat, if you stop even for a short time it becomes unbearable.

I’m travelling north about half way between Damascus and Homs when there is suddenly a drop in power from the engine, and a cloud of white smoke coming from the back of the cab. My heart sinks as I instantly recognise the symptoms of a broken injector pipe.
I am no stranger to broken injector pipes; sometimes the vibration of the engine causes the pipe to snap, which then sprays diesel all over the engine compartment including the exhaust, resulting in the aforementioned white smoke.

I press on to Homs on seven cylinders and find a garage where a very nice man gas welded the offending item, no mean feat as the hole that carries the fuel through the core of the pipe is barely visible to the naked eye, but remember I told you earlier how resourceful people had to be at that time, in that part of the world. I re-fit the pipe and get on my way having only lost a couple of hours.

I’m at the border between Syria and Turkey, still on the Syrian side when I am approached by a man who looked to be in his early twenties, with long but tidy hair and a full beard. He asks me if I will take him and his two friends as far as the Tarsus Mountains, where they are to do a spot of climbing; I decline and watch him as he retires to the table outside a cafe where his friends are waiting.

I am conscious that mine is the only western lorry in the queue waiting to cross the border, and feel a little mean by refusing to give these young people (two boys and a girl) a lift, but I want to get home and don’t need to be encumbered by passengers, besides the job is dangerous enough without inviting strangers along.

I watch the three mountaineers as they discuss their next tactic, and am not at all surprised to see the same young man walking towards my lorry once again.

I listen patiently, after all there was not much else to do and I haven’t had much conversation of late. He explains that they are student teachers from Poland and have been travelling the region as part of their course, he shows me their passports and some documents he claimed legitimised his words, but I remained unimpressed and he once again returned to his disappointed friends.


At last, it is my turn to get the stamp of approval from passport control and as I walk back to my lorry I glance over to where the three lost souls were sitting and gestured to them to join me.

I must say I hit it off straight away with Jersy, who had been the negotiator of the three, he spoke good English, the other two were a couple, they had very little English but were nevertheless friendly.

I was I have to say very glad of the company and that afternoon we were travelling up the Mediterranean coast and it was so nice that we decided to stop and go for a swim. I’ve never been the strongest swimmer, but the Med in that area is so buoyant that it flatters even the most ordinary.

We were having a high old time, we found an old ball and were busy throwing it to each other whilst bobbing around in the warm water, when I noticed a man dressed in some kind of uniform unfamiliar to me (I’d seen a few by now) and he was waving his arms around, one of which had a rifle attached to the end, we swam ashore and approached the man who repeated just one word “SHARK”

We reached Tarsus that evening and I said goodbye to my new friends.

I had exchanged postal details with Jersy and we wrote for a couple of years, but then lost touch, he was a student teacher at the time and is probably retired now.

The roads between Adana, Ankara and Istanbul were, in those days not the best, but traffic was relatively heavy, mostly Turkish “Tonka’s” (these were three axle rigid lorries which would usually be grossly overloaded and travelled painfully slow) at the opposite end of the spectrum were the inter-city coaches which would always be travelling far too fast, and would risk all to overtake. Make no mistake, if one of these buses is overtaking you, or heading straight for you whilst overtaking, give way because he certainly won’t.

I heard that the drivers of these buses, who dressed like airline pilots, were on strict schedules and if they were late did not get paid.

I was crossing the Tarsus Mountain area when one of these buses closed up behind me, he was continually flashing his lights and blowing his horn, but the road was narrow and bendy and there was nowhere for me to pull over and let him overtake, so I went as fast as I could until I found a place to let him go by.
I slowed, pulled over and let him pass, but as soon as he had he jammed on the anchors and fifteen or twenty people got down from the bus and started towards me waving their fists. I had done nothing at all to antagonise these people, in fact quite the reverse, having seen the dangerous overtaking manoeuvres these drivers would attempt, I wanted to be rid of this pursuer as swiftly as possible.

I certainly didn’t like the look of the approaching crowd, but what do I do? if I set off, pass the bus and make my escape he’ll be chasing me all the way to Ankara, on the other hand, I wasn’t about to wait and see what this mob had planned for me, so I put Maggie in gear and slowly moved forward, immediately the pack turned and ran for the bus. I stopped as the re-loaded bus sped off. Luckily for me the thought of being stuck behind my lorry again, must have outweighed the angry mobs lust for revenge. I decided to stay where I was for a while and make a brew.

I make good time to Ankara and on to Istanbul where I again stop at the Mocamp to freshen up, having eaten a meal whilst sat at a table for the first time in a long time, I was walking back to where my lorry was parked when I saw a scruffy looking individual leaning against the cab. Istanbul was on the “Hippy Trail” and this guy was on his way back to the UK from India to get his teeth fixed.
I quite enjoyed the company of my Polish student wanderers, but they were only with me for a day, this guy was a proper minger, I mean he stunk, and if I said yes to his request for a lift to England, he would be my constant companion for a week or so - not likely!

I pass through the border at Kapicule with very little delay, and on the Bulgarian side met a very nice Danish guy called Gunnar, we travelled together for a while and stopped at a roadside café for something to eat, this was a big mistake as within a couple of hours I started to feel unwell. I was ahead of Gunnar when my condition became so bad that I had to stop.
Gunnar offered to stay with me but I preferred to be alone and try and get some sleep. That night I felt so ill, it was awful, but then the cause of my distress made its escape via both ends and I immediately started to recover.

Gunnar had told me that he intended to spend a couple of days at The National in Belgrade so I decided to drop in on him and was only a couple of hours away when the repaired injector pipe snapped again. I limped the rest of the way to Belgrade, removed the offending part and set off to find another nice man.

Maggie now fully recovered and I’m on my way having spent the evening enjoying a drink and blather with Gunnar.

I’m struggling to remember anything about the rest of the trip home that might interest the reader, everything went according to plan, apart from a dodgy starter motor which let me down a couple of times and I had to get a tow start.

It was lovely to get home, Kathy was considerably larger than when I last saw her and I decided that I was going to be around when David arrived, so I did some UK work for Harry Norton where I had a very bad accident, the legacy of which I still carry with me.

[ChrisArbon]

This is a story I wrote several years ago with high hopes it would become an iconic film with trucks as the stars. It is in the little known " Soft-Porn-Sci-Fi with lorries " genre. I have left out a lot of the gratuitous sex scenes as I know Trucknet doesn't like smut. Please feel free to comment and give suggestions on how the storyline could be enhanced.

Truckers versus Aliens. Chapter One.

Neil sat, nursing his third cup of coffee, in the Tim Horton's coffee shop at the north end of the shopping mall in The Pas, Manitoba. He was looking at a dark blue Volvo D13 tractor unit; his tractor unit. Two weeks on the road as an owner/operator and they had all been dry roads; his pride and joy still shone like new.

Then his spirits sank as a red Ford Focus parked between him and his truck; blocking the view. They immediately rose as two good-looking Chinese women got out of the car. Neil watched them as they made their way into the coffee shop, used the washroom, drank coffee and ate a sandwich before returning to the car and heading north. He admired their trim figures in tight fitting jeans and fur trimmed bomber jackets. Little did he know that, within a fortnight, Neil would be spooning one of those bodies and eating black hair.

It was another two hours before Neil was joined by fellow British Owner/Operators in Canada: John and Tony. All three were contracted to Gerry's Hauling of Winnipeg, a flat-deck trailer specialist that sent loads all over the USA and Canada. Their latest job was for three trucks to take redundant mining equipment from a closing mine, north of The Pas, to a newly opened mine in Quebec.

Neil was not a natural leader of men but as he had loaded machinery from the old Can-Ore mine before; he led the convoy of three Volvos to their destination, two hours north on snow-covered dirt roads. The loading appointment was for eight o'clock in the morning; they decided to camp out on the doorstep as the first snows of Winter blew in from the Artic.

Geoff, the old security guard, recognized Neil as soon as they arrived. The shy Geordie had been given an underground tour by Geoff and returned with souvenir lumps of ore.

"I'm expecting an important phone call from my brother in Holland, but if your buddies want to go down and take a look around; you can give them the tour, eh? Neil." offered Geoff.

So with hard hats fitted with lamps and a few garbled safety instructions they entered the small lift and the three truckers descended two thousand feet into the worn out nickel mine.

Meanwhile, the red Ford Focus had arrived at the old Hegarty Mine; fifty miles east of the Can-Ore mine, as the crow flies. Laura Lee was a doctor of medicine from Hong Kong; her younger sister, Anna Lee was a massage therapist, raised in Hong Kong, but now living in Vancouver. They were in search of their middle sister, Sue Lee, who had come to Canada after hooking up on the China-Love dating site. Sue Lee's Internet arranged pairing had been to a Mr. Denis Hegarty, owner of the Hegarty Mine.

Laura and Anna had not seen or heard nothing from their sister since Anna had put Sue on a Winnipeg bound plane at Vancouver Airport. That was eighteen months ago and they were now at the end of a trans-continental journey to find out what happened to Sue.

The Hegarty family had owned the silver mine for generations but it had been sixty years since it had been worked economically. Denis Hegarty's father had never done anything with it and when he died his son moved a travel trailer onto the claim and started to mine as a one-man operation. Lack of a work-ethic and heavy drinking stopped any mining progress until the arrival of Sue Lee at Winnipeg Airport.

After a couple of nights in an airport hotel, Sue Lee was transported to northern Manitoba and set to work as a hard-rock mining slave. Sue was entombed for days at a time in the mine, fed only on production of wagons loaded with ore. Her only time above ground was when she was taken to the travel trailer, showered and used as a sex object on the whim of her master. Hegarty had often wondered if anybody would come looking for Sue, so he was prepared. Two Chinese-looking women turning up on his doorstep was a dead give-away.

"Sue has gone into the mine shaft looking for the cat, she loves that cat," said Denis as he guided the women towards a steel-doored opening in the rock face.

"Sue, surprise, someone to see you," he shouted sweetly. He held the steel door open, ushered the women inside and then slammed it shut behind them.

It was mixed emotions for the three sisters, re-united at last but now locked up with no-one to rescue them. Fearing that Hegarty would soon turn off the generator, cutting the lights, Sue led her two sisters to a lower part of the mine where it was warmer and where she had her sleeping quarters. They chatted into the night, amazed that Hegarty didn't turn off the power. But the brute was probably trying to work out how he could utilize his extra man-power: err-woman-power.

When the drivers at the bottom of the Can-Ore mine could not make contact with Geoff, the security guard, they were slightly worried. When the lift would not work and the lights went off; they were really worried. Neil led them to the Emergency Safety Chamber by the light of their hard-hat lamps. There, they found food rations, water, a first-aid kit and a hot-line to the surface; which did not work. This would be their home for the next three days as they waited in vain for the mine to be repowered.

Laura, Sue and Anna were in a very similar predicament; deep underground, with no means of escape. Hegarty paid no attention to their banging on the steel door. The women presumed he had gone into town for supplies. They took this chance to chisel away at the rock surrounding the door; surviving on the food that Sue had stashed away and water that dripped from the roof of the mine. It was three days before the constant chipping with hand tools loosened the steel door-frame; giving enough room for Anna to squeeze through and open it from the outside. Three dirty, bedraggled women appeared into the daylight to find the lifeless frozen body of Denis Hegarty lying outside his travel trailer. They showered in the trailer, ate their first good meal in days and left the mine in the red Ford Focus. Laura and Anna had done what they set out to do; they had rescued Sue and were taking her home.

The lift shaft was the obvious means of escape for the three drivers but it wasn't until the third day that John Hooper forced open the hatch in the ceiling of the lift and found the steel ladder that stretched two thousand feet to the surface. Not an easy climb to safety, but the three drivers were all pretty fit from working on flat decks with all its tarping and strapping. In the control room, they found Geoff, the old security guard, lying dead from an apparent heart attack; his body frozen solid by the minus 20 degree C Arctic blast that had descended while they were underground. The Canadian Winter had kicked in but thankfully all the trucks started, but with nobody on site and unable to make contact with the outside world; still empty, the trio headed back to The Pas in order to report Geoff's death and contact Despatch for instructions. The roads were now snow covered with no visible wheel tracks; they saw no other vehicle for fifty miles until a red Ford Focus shot out from a side road and slid into the ditch just in front of the lead Volvo.

“You were sitting at the next table in Tim Horton’s; the other day," exclaimed Neil as the three Chinese women scrambled out of the wrecked car.

“Sorry, you guys all look alike to me," replied Anna Lee as she brushed the snow off her jeans.

“Suppose you gals will be needing a lift into The Pas?" enquired John in his broad Yorkshire accent.

“Yes, please wait while we get our luggage from the car." answered Laura Lee, before all three women began rattling on in their native tongue.

Without any hesitation the six paired into the three couples that would stay together: Neil, the shortest man, with Anna, the shortest woman: John with Laura the doctor, and Tony, the tallest guy, with Sue, the tall, muscular miner. At this time, none of them knew that this chance encounter on a snow-swept Canadian road would be so significant for the future of the human race.

To be continued...

[peggydeckboy]

Sorry CHRIS not for me at all,cannot believe you write such rubbish. who reads that stuff,sorry put me off reading any more of your work...dbp

[peggydeckboy]

That come out wrong well reads wrong what i meant ,not read any of your fiction ,the trips yes DBP

[Spardo]

Bloody hell PDB, that was rude. Glad you qualified your comments the next day though.

I too write fiction but it wasn't right for me either, but I did skim through it to the end. Much prefer your real adventures Chris though.

To MRM, and John Mcvey if he is still reading here, I did enjoy those accounts and, although have not passed through most of the places with cargo, other than people cargo, I did recognise much of what you encountered. One thing that did puzzle me though, your mention of road trains. At first I thought you were talking about the Leyland tractors that were made in the 80s (was it?) but then realised that you meant wagon and drags, drawbars. I have never heard British lorry drivers refer to them other than that before, to me road trains are the multiple trailer set ups found mainly in Australia then and now.

One of these days I will get my own act together re London to Lahore, then on to New Delhi, but that will have to wait for the right moment for me to get my thoughts and memory in order, I have a lot on my plate these days.

[peggydeckboy]

Yes Spardo my comment was not meant to rude however over now.I bet Shakespeare had his moments.
.
ALSO the calling of road trains is in fact what you call them when you drive them in the UK while i was at BOWKERS we were all road train drivers except the Artic drivers A 6 wheel front end and double axel trailer on a straight bar, that was telescopic just like a piston, some were demountable boxes twist lock type with pull out legs that fitted underneath the boxes so you pulled away and left the box standing on its legs also some boxes were like taught liners boxes fixed on the chassis.

Some trailers had a system where there were small rollers on the front of the front trailer axel, when you braked the trailer would push back or forward from being closed coupled also had rollers on the front end of the trailer for when close coupled you had no control it was automatic i think i got that right.to be honest i never seen it work as always up front driving .all left hand driver BELGIEN REG

A bar like the EUROPEAN were not at Bowkers i have seen some in the uk i think the Littlewoods were A BAR like the EUROPEAN ARE or were Ihave no doubt the road trains years ago on MIDDLE EAST were A BAR.dbp.

[Star down under.]

Better give this a bump, before it falls off the first page.
The night I visited a brothel.
I'm a proud Queenslander. It is often said Western Australia is ten years and two hours behind Sydney and Melbourne, well Queensland is only two hours ahead of the West. We're conservative and often out of step with the southern states.
I was taking a B double from Brisbane to Melbourne, my first of two drops was in the industrial west of Melbourne. I knew there was a truck friendly pub close to my first delivery, so that was where I intended to park for the night. I arrived about tenish, checking the pub as I drove past. I was in luck, it was still open. It took me about ten minutes to find a place to park and walk back to the pub.
When I say this was a truck friendly pub, I meant that when the pub closed, they shuttered the bar but left the lounge open and lit fo truckies use. I entered the lounge and noticed two fellows, sitting sperately, but the bar was closed. I said "I thought the place was open, as I drove past." One of the blokes replied "It was when you went past, it's only just shut."
I'm not a big drinker, particularly of beer, but this night I really fancied one or three.
One of the blokes got up to leave, offering me his last stubby (a 375 ml bottle of beer). I graciously accepted it and joined the other fellow, who had a stubby and a half in front of him.
We both finish our beers and I commented that one was never enough. He suggested we go across the road for more, I was a little confused and replied that I didn't know there was another pub there.
He told me it wasn't a pub, it was a brothel. I told him "I want a beer, not a bonk!", to which he replied "Have you ever been to a knocking shop that didn't have grog?"
Not wanting to show my naivety, I just shruged my shoulders and agreed to go with him. Still not wishing to show my country boy lack of sophistication, I cunningly accompanied him, half a step behind. These type of establishments were illegal in my home state and I had no idea of the etequette when visiting such an establishment. To enter the converted house, one had to walk around the back and up a flight of stairs. I followed my partner in crime up the stairs, happy for him to educate me in the ways of the big smoke population. The barsteward opened the back door, holding it for me to enter first. I stepped into what would have been the laundry of someone's home. It was a small room, separated from the rest of the former dwelling by security screens, reminding me of a betting shop.
"Minding the shop" was a massive blob of jelly, an absolute caricature of a madam, at least twenty-five stone, with makeup applied with a paint scraper. A voice, sweeter than honey, asked "Hiii guuuys, what can we do for yooou, tonight?"
By this stage I was glowing brighter than a red trafic light, at a major intersection, in the middle of the night. In my embarrassment I blurted out "I just want some beer!" The reply, in less than a honey like voice came "This is a brothel, not a pub," then moving her look to the fellow blocking the exit, "What's wrong with your mate?"
He replied "Don't worry about him, he's a Queenslander."
Feeling the glow emanating from my face, I turned on my heel and barged past the body blocking my retreat and relishing my mortification.
I almost ran back to the relative safety and privacy of my cab. I phoned home, hoping for a little empathy for my humiliation, but the only response from 'er indoors was laughter.
I spent about twenty minutes on the phone, receiving absolutely no comfort. A few minutes after hanging up, old mate banged on my truck door, simultaneously opening it and climbing onto the step. He again laughed at my situation and described what happened to him, blow by blow. This is not the place to repeat his story, but I was pretty disgusted as he had earlier told me he had a wife and couple of kids in Wagga.
It took quite some time for me to see the humour of the situation.

[mushroomman]

That is a great tale S.D.U. thanks for taking the time to write it all down and for sharing it with us.

Your post suddenly brought back to my mind something from over forty years ago, while I was watching a television series back in the U.K. I used to really enjoy a programme called ‘Wickers World’ with Alan Wicker, does anybody remember him.
On one of his journeys to Australia, he visited a brothel in Perth, Western Australia, of course it was only for journalistic purposes. The name of the brothel which for some reason I shall never forget, was called “The Tool Box”. One of the reasons being that you could use your credit card and it would come up on your bank statement as, tools.

I wonder if you were able to claim the tax back at the end of the financial year. Maybe we should ask Dig if he knows anything about it.

Spardo, in reply to your question, yes I had heard the expression ‘Road Train’ in the U.K. long before the Leyland Roadtrain went into production. I have a feeling that there may have been other descriptions of a wagon and trailer over the years, wagon and drags or as a friend of mine from Wiltshire used to refer to them as, a wagon and dangler.
As I know that you are interested in canines, I thought that I would mention that in the sixties and seventies, the British military stationed in West Germany used to refer to them as Dog and Pups. I seem to remember that there were more dog and pups going along the Autobahns than there were articulated vehicles back then.

And I might add, when I first arrived in South West Africa in 1975, I turned up at a transport company looking for a driver’s job and was asked if I could drive a Horse and Semi, a question that completely threw me. There were no jobs going there at the time but one of the drivers told me to try South African Railways. Their drivers used to travel 100’s of kilometres collecting cattle from the farms and delivering them to the nearest railhead.
I phoned up the railways employment office straight away and they asked me to come for an interview the following day. When I sat down with the personnel officer, he told me that there had been a mistake and they were only recruiting train drivers. So that was the nearest I ever got to transporting livestock.

Anyway David, I thought that you might find this interesting.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3L7s0JP9y7k

And I think that you might have seen this one before but it's worth watching again.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVnF_zlZtxk

[Spardo]

Love both of those vids and yes, have seen the 2nd one before but several years ago. Never saw that many women when I was in the bush though.
Favourites? Yes, you know it, the dogs. Never been frightened by a dog but beasts that can squash me always put me on the alert.

I think I was in NSW in '65 and don't remember anything about a big drought. A couple of years later I was in Queensland, Sarina, Mackay and Townsville and our problems then were too much water in some places. Later, back in NS on the taxis I took a trip out west to Broken Hill and then swung south through Vic, plenty of mud and rain then and our windscreen wiper linkage fell apart, had to operate it by demolishing part of the dash and working it through the hole by hand.

Wagon and drags and their various names, here in France the term is camio-remorque, I learnt that early on as Gauthier then had quite a few, including those with the extending telescopic drawbar. These were popular 20 years ago to get round the overall length laws. I think Paul (Gauthier) told me last year that they are outlawed now and he, for the first time in several years has 3 'traditionnels', 3 axle A-frame trailers, after preferring the centre axle 'caravans' for some years after I left.

No sign that the EU is changing to the far more sensible, and favourable for the drivers, trailer length limits rather than overall measurements. No incentive to supply decent sized accommodation for the driver, although I heard on the radio yesterday that that limit is to be increased in UK, not sure by how much though or whether it will be copied here. Even longer trailers then, not bigger cabs.

[Star down under.]

MRM, the "loader" in the second video could easily be mistaken for a grader.

Your reply reminded me of another dad from the primary school, my kids attended. He used to investigate fraudulent credit card transactions, for one of the banks. He reckoned the first place a badly went, with a hot card, was a knock shop. They all had creative names, one I recall him mentioning was Yandina Quick Lube.

[mushroomman]

As it's got a blade on it Ian, I am sure that it's a grader.

I remember having to wait 19 hours for a grader to snatch me out of a river many years ago. It was one of the most uncomfortable nights of my life.

With the help of Google Earth, it looks like the road is all tarmacked now and they have built a bridge across The Fish River.

https://earth.google.com/web/search/Ber ... DSf0n1XbS_

It's about time that we had another driver anecdote from the U.K. so I think that it's time to reshow this uncomfortable night from Dave Penn.

I spent a couple of nights over the years on 'The Ramp' and I remember walking around to Dirty Dicks Pub with a bunch of drivers. It looks like they have cleaned the place up a bit, now they have the dead cats in glass display cases.

https://www.dirtydicks.co.uk/

Re: Buried at sea
Postby davepenn54 » Sat May 02, 2009 5:56 am

Didn't get 'Buried at Sea' but something similar happened back in the day when I drove a Foden S80 for a small haulage co; in North Manchester.
The company ran two artics (Foden S80's) and 10 rigids at the time so naturally me and my mate Colin used to run together a lot and we always used to park up at Bishopsgate (The Ramp) when coming through London, which was most of the time, this one night we had both run up from Dover and had been able to park alongside the old station platform which made getting out/in of the cab much easier, especially getting in after a night on the lash up Bethnal Green Rd; This particular night out Colin had left the party early and I had gone on with some other lads for more refreshment and to sample the delights of the local kebab house. About 1.30am when we all made our way back to our day cabs to get our heads down I was feeling very smug because I was parked alongside the platform and just had to open the cab door and crawl onto my already made up bed.
So I opened the door, whilst saying my goodnights to my new alcohol related friends , I climbed onto my foam bed and OMG there was a body already in my sleeping bag I went flying backwards, luckily just onto the platform, with a scream of something like WTF Had I got in the wrong motor? If not had some parafin lamp decided to squat in my cumfy curtained day cab for the night? NO my mate Colin, who had left the party early, had thought it would be a laugh to get in the motor and jump out when I came back Trouble was I was out for another 3hrs and he had made himself comfy and crashed out completely It actually took about 20mins to convince him he was in my motor and his motor was parked right behind
Oh well it was funny at the time
Regards
Dave Penn;
RIP Michelle Marie Kerry 26/02/1978 - 03/02/2012

[Spardo]

As it's got a blade on it Ian, I am sure that it's a grader.

I thought that too MRM, because it reminded me of a day in northern Norway when, as a schoolboy with 5 others and our scout/physics/rugby master, Jake, in his Austin Cambridge pick-up, we came up yet again on another grader that constantly roamed those unmade gravel roads.

The road was banked up with deep ditches each side and the grader pulled over as much as he could to let us pass. Unfortunately Jake got one foot too far over and we all slipped down into the ditch. This obviously was par for the course for the grader driver as he wordlessly stretched out the chain already hanging on his machine, connected it to the Cambridge and pulled us straight back out. At the angle it was it was terrifying for us as we weren't told to get out and it felt that we would roll at any moment.

[DIG]

As it's got a blade on it Ian, I am sure that it's a grader.

I thought that too MRM, because it reminded me of a day in northern Norway when, as a schoolboy with 5 others and our scout/physics/rugby master, Jake, in his Austin Cambridge pick-up, we came up yet again on another grader that constantly roamed those unmade gravel roads.

My grader story is about one of the grader operators employed by the West Australian Main roads department who had a large workshop and numerous machinery operating out of the Derby West Kimberly depot.
We often came across the graders as most of the main roads in those days were gravel or pin down sands and each year after the wet the roads were graded in this case I was travelling north on the Gibb River road almost at the start of the Leopold range when I realised I was catching a grader doing the middle cut on the road so rule of the thumb dolly along behind until he realises he has company behind and they would lift the blade and scoot off the road on the up wind side so he was out of the dust we tended to make a mobile cyclone of the stuff anyhow I was just toodling along and the grader operator I recognised as an old hand because when he was grading he tended to lean his head towards the high side quite a lean he generated and he had been doing it for many years so the lean had developed into a natural habit for him even when having a beer in one of the local pubs he was instantly recognised from the rear by the lean, anyhow I/m tanking along when I suddenly realised I to was developing a lean myself it became a habit I was had pushed to get rid off and the next time I bumped into Charlie he fronted me in the front bar of the pub and asked me why if I was taking the p... I apologised profusely and bought him a beer while I tried to pacify him ,he told me he had had to adapt the lean as his sight in one eye wasnt the best and by leaning he got a better level with his cuts.
A couple od days later a really drunken ringer [stockman] abused one of the barmaids because she refused to serve him due to his drunked state the fella got really abusive and then Charlie stepped in and said you can talk to me like that but you don't talk to the female staff in that manner so apologise and if you dont behave I shall get upset.
I.m afraid the drunk decided he would teach Charlie a lesson but unfortunately he couldn't match Charlies haymaker that propelled backwards through the plaster board wall of the Spinifex Arms front bar.
I was really pleased I wasn't cheeky to Charlie when he challenged my reason for my lean.
Just as a footnote the graders on those days mainly Cat 12s just a sceletil cab bit of shade but definitely not air conditioned.

Dig

[Star down under.]

Whilst working for a heavy haulage outfit I was tasked with transporting a Cat 120G grader from Townsville wharf to just north of Brisbane. The company was based in Brisbane and as we had a fair bit of specialised gear our prices weren't cheap. The job was quoted assuming running to Townsville empty. If the truck could be loaded to Townsville, that would be pure profit. Usually there is no shortage of freight going north, getting a load south was more problematic. A three metre wide donga (portable building) was found, looking for a truck to take it to Townsville. As an overdimentional load it was also paying a premium. A 120 G will fit on a drop deck trailer and is far easier to load a donga on, than a float. All I needed to do was level the deck with four stacks of pallets, two at the back and two in the middle. Lay old tyres on the deck and pallets, chain it down, front and back, job done. The drive north must have been uneventful as I recall nothing of it. The donga came off at a roadworks site and the crane was not called until I was on site. After eventually being unloaded, I spent better than an hour reorganising the trailer, shifting twenty pallets, all the dunnage, tarps, tyres and all the other paraphernalia carried on a trailer, by hand, to the upper deck.

I arrived at the wharf during the lunch break, told the office what I was to plck up a 120G grader. After an hour or two of waiting, out trundled a Cat 140 H. I told the wharfie he'd got the wrong machine, his reply "Can't be, it's the only one here."
Now a 140 is considerably bigger than a 12 and at 26 odd tonne a bit heavy for my little dropdeck tri. After phoning the office in Brisbane to confirm it was the right machine, I proceeded to load. I had less than half a tyre on each side of the deck. With it jammed hard against the vertical drop, I still had the rippers hanging a few feet out the back of the trailer. I chained the grader down, made sure the rippers were in the highest position and raised the ramps. They only came up a little over 45⁰. I chained them to the rippers and would have to keep an eye on the back in case the hydraulics leaked, allowing the rippers to drop.
I put up my signage and flags and headed to the Alligator Creek roadhouse for a shower, feed and sleep.
As an oversize vehicle, I was restricted to daylight travel, so I couldn't avail myself of the relative safety of darkness. Fortunately the Cat was coming off in Nambour, just north of the 24 hour weighbridge and checking station at Burpengary. I managed to unload without any trouble all the way down. Another win for me.