Bump! A good account of the run on this page. Robert
Wow! 7 years between posts!
Well it is a really good read so 
Danne
Thanks Dan, I’m always conscious of the fact that I only did 2 trips to the Middle East and am humbled by the veterans that went time and time again
I enjoyed reading it too John , i think its because its so down to earth with no frills , its been on here 7 years and i`ve only just read it .
Thanks Ramone
Hi all
I just thought that I would share some pictures with you all. I am currently in Doha and these photos were taken over the last few days.
Me and Hooperman catching up for a pint in Dirty Dicks last week.
The Doha Skyline Nov 2016. Looking across to West Bay from the Corniche by the Dhow Harbour. When I first came here in 1989 the Doha Sheraton Hotel (last building on the right} was the tallest building in West Bay
Lusail City (under construction)
Doha Wholesale Fruit and Veg Market.
Doha Onions and Melons Market.
Sealine Qatar.
“Back in the Desert” Selfie!!
Hitlers Revenge still earning a living !
Jordanian Fridge.
More Jordanians, all empty.
Jordanian Tilt.
Trombone…just whack another axle under it !!
Another Jordanian ex Bulgy Tilt.
Ex Seller. Check out the Astran sticker.
GS OVERLAND:
Hi all
I just thought that I would share some pictures with you all. I am currently in Doha and these photos were taken over the last few days.Me and Hooperman catching up for a pint in Dirty Dicks last week.
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Great pics - and nice to Chris looking well! Robert
GS OVERLAND:
Hi all
I just thought that I would share some pictures with you all. I am currently in Doha and these photos were taken over the last few days.Me and Hooperman catching up for a pint in Dirty Dicks last week.
Hooperman has a few more miles on his face than when we were on Expo Freight together, there again ain’t we all?
Yes, Hoops is doing well, we certainly covered a few miles that day after double Pie and Mash in Bethnal Green. 
We went right back to when I first met Chris when I was 18yrs old and we’ve been mates ever since. How time flies.!!
GS
I have written about my meager experiences of m/e and continental, if you would like to read it, it’s only a short read - 12000 words, email me - johnmcvey1@googlemail.com and I will send it to you FOC, it’s not bad
johnmcvey:
I have written about my meager experiences of m/e and continental, if you would like to read it, it’s only a short read - 12000 words, email me - johnmcvey1@googlemail.com and I will sendit to you, it’s not bad
Hi John, I have got a better idea 
why dont you put it on here so that we can all read it .
Regards Steve.
John has contacted me and asked me if I could help him put HIS story onto this site, unfortunately John you are only allowed to use 60000 characters per post and your story contains 63360, so I am afriad that you will have to post it in two parts. I hope that this works.
JOHN’S MEMORIES PART ONE.
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.
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 ■■■■■■■.
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 were 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 in to every ■■■■ and cranny on the lorry.
I have to say I was more than a little nervous as, though I was completely innocent of any wrong doing, 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.
John, cant you just post it up on here??
There are loads of us who have never had the chance to experience the run but still love to hear the tales and stories from that time. I remember seeing the trucks and drivers in ZB, Ostend, Aachen etc throughout the 80s, big old Transcons,Scanias and Volvos etc, left hookers, trailers with big belly tanks and side lockers, some sign written, usually Uk-Bahgdad,Iran,Saudi, UK-Middle East etc etc. Some were some real heavy duty looking set ups, no sign writing, just TIR plates. loads of belly lockers and a large (leaky!!) belly tank!!..probably only going as far as Frankfurt!!! 
Start your own thread, im sure the likes of mushroom man, bestbooties, GS overland, Gavin MaCardle, M&C Jamie et al (sorry for those i have missed out) will appreciate it as well. Every man has his own story to tell…tell us yours!! 
Go for it mate…better than having your personal mailbox bunged up!!!
Cheers, bullitt.
Steve…you beat me to it!!..by a few seconds!!!
Mind you…its ONLY 12000 Words!!! 12(ZB)ing THOUSAND words!!..Is that the best you can do John!!!
Best you get started on that book MM, seems John has got the Start on you!!!
How?
hi john
You left me out and my belly tank didn’t leak neither did most of other drivers dropping deisel on the German or Austrian roads could get u locked up and a massive fine ,I made tanks and trailer boxes for many ME drivers and never had one complaint of leakage but I suppose there were the odd ones .fuel was like gold to an OD why drop it on the road (unless u were Gavin MC ) he had loads of dosh
Not saying Gavin dropped deisel he just had lots of dosh
Roger Haywood
Iam waiting too
what are you waiting for meals on wheels
Roger Haywood
No Roger for john to put his stories on here. OH and a job not much luck at present 
How■■? 