Turkey for Christmas

[chrisarbon]

Part 1

It was mid-December 1983 when I went to see Fred Archer over at Ipswich. He sat behind his desk in a high-backed swivel chair; he was leaning back, scratching his balls and still wearing a filthy dirty Mercedes Trucks driving jacket.

“Hello boy, do you want a turkey for Christmas?” he asked before I had said a word and before I could conjure up an imaginative reply about roasting poultry, he continued;

“There’s a trailer load of second-hand tractors for Istanbul standing in the yard.”

“Yeah, why not,” I replied casually.

Fred reached up behind him and pulled a bunch of keys off a hook; he threw them on the desk.

“Scania one-eleven, JPV 357V, diesel up and then get under trailer 303. I’ll sort out the paperwork and get you booked on tonight’s boat,” Fred added as we both gave a self-satisfied grin.

Getting a job had never been easier. Either Fred held my talent as a driver in very high esteem, or there was a severe driver shortage. Probably the latter, who in their right mind would go away knowing that they would be spending Christmas sleeping in a lorry, somewhere in the Balkans? I raided Sainsburys for tins of this, that and the other; transferred all my gear from my van into the Scania and ’phoned home to say that I would not be in for Christmas. Two days after, I caught the ferry to Dover, after an extended Summer holiday in France, I was crossing back to mainland Europe, en route for Zeebrugge.

The Scania III was everybody’s favourite motor for doing Middle-East. It was strong and reliable, did not mind the cold, had plenty of room inside and carried 200 gallons of fuel in huge twin diesel tanks. I would be half way across Hungary before I needed to re-fuel. At 280 horse power, the one-eleven was not as powerful as its vee-eight engined brother, the one-four-one, but with its roof rack, ladders and Asia-Europe written across the front, the Scania sure looked the part.

A break down is one of the worse things that can happen on a long Continental journey; reliability is everything and you have to take care of the vehicle. It is no good thrashing your way through country after country, sooner or later, something breaks. As I had no hope of getting back to England much before the New Year, I took it easy. The permits that Fred gave me were for the Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey route; I knew the way as far as Bucharest, but expected Bulgaria to be a problem. I did have a transit visa in my passport, but the amount of freight traffic would govern my progress at the borders.

The weather was cold, but I did not see any snow. After Germany, the tachograph laws did not apply, so I was able to make good headway on the better quality roads of Czechoslovakia and Hungary. At the Windmill Restaurant, near Kescemet, another Fred Archer lorry was parked up for the night. The driver was on his way back to England, after having tipped in Istanbul and re-loaded with car tyres in Romania. As we dined together, he warned of the queue at the Turkish-Bulgarian border; but as I had no permit for Yugoslavia, there was no way I could avoid it.

The next morning, I was up early and down to the Romania border before sunrise, in an attempt to beat the rush. Traffic was light at Nadlac as I soon remembered what Jock Gardner had shown me, earlier that year. I crossed out of Hungary and into Romania in less than an hour, at a border where the two countries share the same Customs building. Armed, with 400 Kent cigarettes from the duty-free shop. I set out on the long haul across to Bucharest.

I had bought enough diesel on the black market in Hungary to get me through to Istanbul, so my only problem was the question of where to stop for the night. It was only breakfast time, but already my thoughts were concentrated on how I could get a trouble-free night. On the main transit route across Romania, all sorts of things were liable to go missing when you stopped to sleep. Wheels, lights, mirrors, batteries and diesel fuel were all vulnerable, not to mention the six tractors in the trailer. There were three main options to combat the problem: one was to hide up in the middle of nowhere and hope that anybody who is out thieving does not find you; another was to park in the middle of a town and give the local police patrol some cigarettes so that they will hang around to protect you; the last alternative was to drive across the country in one day and park with the other trucks waiting to cross into Bulgaria, hoping that there was safety in numbers. None of the choices was foolproof and during the long day of driving, I changed my mind many times as to what I was going to do.

That day I had also been trying out the “salute” method of speeding fine avoidance. This technique involved saluting the police officer as he stood in the road, trying to wave you down. With his ingrained military training, the policeman’s response to seeing someone salute him was to stand to attention and return the gesture, hopefully standing aside as he did so. By the time the lorry had passed, it was too late for the officer to pull his revolver and do any damage. Romanian police rarely gave chase as they usually only had enough petrol in the car to get them back to the station; having siphoned off and sold most of that day’s tank.

During the day, this routine had worked 100%, but on the third occasion, I came unstuck. It was late, I was tired, he was quick and I was slow. My speed had dropped as darkness had fallen, I was still speeding, but when I saluted, the engine was in the wrong gear. I tried a quick down change, but missed it. The policeman did not see my hurried touch of my head as a salute; when he did not see me slowing down, he went for his gun. I anchored up just as he pulled the automatic from its holster. All this happened about 20 kilometres before Bucharest, at the start of the only piece of dual carriageway in Romania. There was a parking area, with a kiosk set back in a pine wood; it was crowded with trucks, but I just managed to squeeze into a space at the far end. Before I had taken the cellophane off the carton of Kent, the policeman was knocking on the door.

Knowing that most officials do not like it if you lean out of the window to talk to them, I opened the door. I was not going to get out and give up my superior elevated position, but I did not mind showing that I had nothing to hide. The officer did not seem angry, but went on to give me a long lecture in Romanian, which I did not understand at all. Presumably it was about speeding. However, as he spoke no English, I was wasting my time arguing with him. In the end I gave the traffic cop twenty Kent king-size; at least this made him put his gun back in its holster as he needed two hands to put the cigarettes in his jacket’s breast pocket.

The ■■■■ did not stop the policeman rambling on in his native tongue; he only quietened down when the girl with the longest hair I had every seen came along and started speaking to him. The good looking female then pulled herself up the steps of the Scania, climbed across my lap and plonked herself down in the passenger seat. He black hair was plated into a ponytail, but was still long enough to sit on. The copper was still hanging around, so I gave him another packet of cigarettes and as he walked away, I shouted a parting shot:

“And make sure my spare wheel is still there in the morning.”

Coffee was the only thing that was going to help me; so I made a flask full using a paper filter and proper coffee. Martina was not in a hurry and we chatted, as we drank two cups each. The girl told me she was 20, lived in Bucharest, supported Steaua Bucharest, hoped to get into the Romanian Olympic rowing team and never slept with Turkish lorry drivers. I was well tired so it was sod’s law that such a willing young lady should come my way at such a time. As we drew the curtains and got undressed, I could see she was something special. Even a badly chipped front tooth only made her look cute when she smiled. The perfectly built Romanian knew she had a good shape too. When naked, she knelt on the passenger seat and rubbed her hands all over her body.

“You like? You want? You like?” smiled Martina.

“You bet.”

“You give me dollars?” asked Martina, as she got dressed afterwards.

“Very good, very ■■■■, very good,” she said with her cheeky smile when I handed over a ten Deutsche mark note.

“Very kind,” I replied.

“My address, you visit?” said Martina as she wrote it out in the back of my diary.

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” I said finding it hard to stay awake.

“We go disco in Buch. Meet Nadia Comaneci. She is my friend,” said Martina when she climbed out of the cab and blew me a kiss.

After her gymnastics on the bunk, I did not doubt Nadia was Martina’s friend, but I just pulled the door shut and collapsed back into my sleeping bag. Sleep came immediately which saved me from worrying about where I was parked and if everything would be alright in the morning.

[chrisarbon]

Part 2

The 40 king-size must have done the trick; everything was intact and in place when I awoke. After skirting round the south-west of Bucharest on the ring road, I reached Georgui in a couple of hours and found the border crossing devoid of any traffic. The Romanian Police and Customs house was at the northern end of a combined road-rail bridge that crossed the river Danube. This bridge was the single rigid crossing point across the river between Romania and Bulgaria. It was an old iron girder bridge, with the roadway running above the rail track; similar in style to the bridge over the Mersey and Manchester ship canal at Runcorn, but on a larger scale and not so well looked after.

Soon I was up on the bridge, crossing into Bulgaria. The soldiers of both countries patrolled the bridge from their side to the middle; everyone of the guards put his hand to his mouth to mime cigarette smoking as I trundled past. An hour later, I pulled out of the checkpoint at Russe and headed up the pass known as Cobblestone Mountain. Luckily the road was dry and not a problem but why this section did not have tarmac like all the rest, I do not know. Coming down from the highlands, I continued south until I came to the main east-west transit route between Turkey and Yugoslavia. Turning eastwards at the T-junction, I carried on until I came to the back of the queue waiting to get into Turkey.

On the first day of queuing, I spent some time cleaning the cab windows and sweeping out the inside. The line of trucks moved twice, about one kilometre each time. Nobody pushed passed and I made fiends with my neighbours by standing around their campfire while looking suitably cheesed off. There were four Turks immediately ahead of me, two in Dutch registered vehicles and three Yugoslavs right behind, warming up at our brazier. Most of the other lorries were the same, with a few Romanians, plus a couple of big American rigs with Irani number plates. I could not see another British truck ahead or behind me in a queue that went from one horizon across to the other. One good thing was that when things moved, you did move a long way in one go; at least you did not have to sit with the engine running and your foot on the clutch.

Day two had three moves; on the last one I came to rest beside a sign that read: Kapitan Andreevo 7 Km. I figured it was another eight kilometres to the border. My little section of queue inherited some more campfires and kept them going by pouring on diesel fuel, which was siphoned off from our tanks By now, we were all on first name terms with everyone except me having pulled a family photograph from their wallet; I had never had to refuse so many offers of cigarettes in my life.

Another three moves on the third day made me think the end must be coming soon and this was confirmed when two British trucks coming out of Turkey stopped to say it was about two kilometres to the border. I thought it was nice of them to pull over and make a cup of coffee, but the real reason that they stopped was to sell me all their surplus Turkish lira. Two more Brits stopped on my fourth day, although only one wanted to change money. The drivers had not seen any British lorries ahead of me in the queue; it seemed everyone was leaving it until after the New Year. By mid-afternoon, I was at the front of the queue and with the help of my Turkish and Yugo mates, made an easy crossing into Turkey.

It was then that I was shocked to find I had no Turkish permit; the piece of paper issued by the British Department of Transport that gave permission for a lorry to enter Turkey - without it I was going nowhere. I searched the cab high and low, with no success. I wondered if anyone could have stolen it, but it was the only thing missing. Did it blow away in the wind? Did I hand it in at some other Customs bureau and they kept it? Did I bring one with me in the first place? I could not remember. Youngturk, the agent, could not help; a bottle of whisky would work miracles for small problems, but not for a major disaster like not having a permit. I went to bed thinking of what I could do to save myself the hassle of asking Fred Archer to send down the piece of paper by DHL.

My luck changed in the morning when two British lorries came through from Bulgaria. John Mansfield in his Volvo F88 and George Youngman in a V reg Foden parked right next to me. The owner drivers from Humberside had also queued for four days and were pleased to see they were not alone. Amazingly, George had a spare Turkish permit with him. John insisted that he gave it to me. The Foden driver was reluctant to part with the priceless piece of paper because it had his name on it and any mis-use could be directly traced to him, but I said a bottle of Johnnie Walker would take care of minor details like that. The Yorkshireman let me have it in the end, but then refused to take anything for it. I told him I owed one.

John had a load of Perkins diesel engines that were going to the same place, Izmit, where I had delivered to earlier that year. George had six second-hand tractors which, when we compared the paperwork, we found were going to the same place as mine. The three of us did the border formalities together; then ran in convoy to the Londra Camp at the edge of Istanbul, arriving just after sunset on the shortest day.

[chrisarbon]

Part 3

It was unwise to take the lorry into town to visit your agent; also it was better to take a taxi, rather than a bus. Jimmy was the man who controlled the cars used by all the lorry drivers when they wanted to go down town in Istanbul. Having lived in London for a few years, he spoke good English and knew the location of all the agents’ offices. First thing after breakfast, we found Jimmy in the campsite reception where he soon organised two cars and drivers: one for John and the other for George and me, who had the same Customs clearance agent.

The rush hour trip into Istanbul was like the Wacky Races, with no one showing any lane discipline whatsoever. I am glad I was not driving. The white knuckle ride was hairy, but we arrived at the agent’s office block in one piece. The driver told us he would wait outside, in order to take George and me back to the Londra Camp when we had finished. He had a long wait; for the agent wanted to practice his English. After a cup of chi, Naci, the agent, opened the fridge in his office and we all started on his stock of Tuborg lager. Naci talked about anything and everything. In George, he found someone more than willing to join him in endless conversation. By the time we left, all the beer had been drunk but our driver was still patiently waiting.

“Did you have a problem with your agent” asked John, who had returned to the Londra Camp hours before us.

“Yes,” said George, “his fridge was too small.”

While we were in town, another British lorry had arrived at the camp. It was a low loader carrying a 360 degree tracked digger; the driver had the same agent as George and myself. Our paths had crossed in the taxis. The next morning, while John went off to Izmit with his engines, Naci came to the Londra Camp, from where he led his three charges to a vehicle compound somewhere in the suburbs of Istanbul. The site was littered with imported tractors, other farm machinery and plant. At a wide concrete ramp, George and I started to unload our Massey Fergusons. Most would not start, so we had to help each other by pulling them off with a chain, attached to one of the few tractors that would run. To get six tractors on one trailer, it was necessary to take off one of the front wheels and half of the front axle. That way, when the tractors faced each other lengthways in the trailer, it was possible to slide the two engines past one another and save a lot of space. It was a tight fit, but at least it meant that nothing could move around en route. It was tricky coming down the ramp on only three wheels, but George and I could not be bothered to re-fit the other bits, which we left in a pile beside the tractors. Mervyn unloaded his digger in less than half the time it took to do our tractors. The only serious snag of the morning came when Naci locked his keys in his car. The agent was so impressed with my skill with a wire coat hanger that he insisted the three of us went back to his office for drinks after we had taken the lorries back to the Londra Camp. As we were now four, the re-stocked fridge full of beer did not last as long, which meant the taxi driver did not have such a lengthy wait. George and now Mervyn were quite happy to talk all afternoon about the difference between Green label and Red label Tuborg. In the end, I think Naci was genuinely sorry to see us go even though we had drunk all his beer.

A reply to my earlier telex came while I was down town, it had instructions of a re-load at Radauti, a town in Romania, right up in the north of the country, near the Russian border. John came back from tipping his diesel engines at Izmit to find he and George where re-loading at Iasi (pronounced Yash), also in northern Romania. We decided to run together; leaving early the next morning. George was not keen on going back through the Bulgarian border at the town called Kapitan Andreevo so he persuaded John to take us through a small crossing point north of Edirne, called Maliko Tarnovo. We all filled up with as much fuel as we could carry; John led the way, George was in the middle and I brought up the rear.

After leaving the main road from Istanbul, we headed north into the hills, where we were soon tackling sharp hairpin bends on steep narrow roads. With dry conditions and empty trailers the gradient was not a problem, but the tarmac surface carried many scars from when drivers had attempted this desolate route in wintry conditions. At the highest point over the range of hills, we came to the Bulgarian-Turkish border, which was deserted, except for the bare minimum of guards and officials. John had been through this way several times before, so he soon showed us the ropes.

In fact, John seemed to specialise in going through out of the way border posts and visiting remote areas of foreign countries. The intelligent owner driver with a university education seemed to give priority to exploring, rather than to economics. Apart from that, John was very business-like but given the chance, he would always put a little adventure in his life. George, on the other hand, was a more traditional lorry driver, as well as being a typical Yorkshireman. He had become an owner driver after being laid off by his long time employer. With his redundancy money, George had bought the Foden and, after several years’ work in Great Britain, was now trying to make his fortune in Europe. The taciturn northerner let John do all the talking and make the decisions, but could come out with some notable quotes that rivalled those of Hamish Jenkins. For instance: when asked why he drove an old Foden and not a more popular European Marque, George came out with a classic observation:

“A good lorry is like a good woman, it’s not how old she is or what she looks like, it’s the amount of money she earns that matters.”

Yet again, I had struck lucky when it came to finding good people to run with; as I followed the other two down to the Black Sea coast, once more I did not even have to navigate the route. When we came to the sea, it was dark, while the temperature was much colder as we battled into a strong headwind that slowed our progress along the coast road to Burgas. On the southern edge of the city, John selected a big parking area on which to stop for the night. There was no shelter from the biting wind at the edge of the beach, so to get some protection, George and I parked close to the lee-ward side of John’s trailer.

“Don’t worry about your leader, I’ll survive. I’m tough. You take all the shelter you can get,” said John sarcastically, as we piled into his cab for our evening meal.

“What do you want us to do, put the wagons in a circle? Why do we have to stop here anyway?” replied George, who disliked being ridiculed when not at fault.

In the absence of any café, bar or restaurant, British lorry drivers, when running together, always ate the same thing: camion stew. Each member of the convoy was required to provide at least three tins of food for the meal. One of which should always have been a tin of meat, such as steak and kidney pie filling or meat balls in gravy. The other two being vegetables or something like spaghetti hoops. Tinned new potatoes and baked beans were always well received, while mushy peas were usually rejected. The chef was the man with the biggest saucepan, into which all the tins were emptied. The pot was then heated until it bubbled furiously for at least ten minutes. The more experienced drivers came equipped with a large soup bowl, rather than a plate, as the end result of all the culinary preparation with the can opener was usually a broth. John even had a ladle and the camion stew that he cooked that night was one of the best, although I had never had one that did not taste great.

As we sat, peering out into the darkness, listening to the wind howl and the sound of the waves pounding on the beach, John told us of a previous visit to his favourite Bulgarian car park. He had been loaded with 18 tonnes of putty, bound for Baghdad when he stopped to pick up two hitchhikers, a few miles south of Prague. They were two East German girls, who had set off with their backpacks, hoping to spend August on the shores of the Black Sea. John turned out to be the last lift they needed. All three became such good friends on the journey that our chef stayed with the girls for the first five days after their arrival. Parked in the same car park, the sun was shining, the nights were warm and they went swimming in the sea. A hell of a contrast to the conditions we had on the day before Christmas eve.

[chrisarbon]

Part 4

The wind seemed to have grown stronger in the morning, as we turned inland towards the bridge across the Danube at Russe; a fine snow blew against the side of our vehicles. Bulgarian Customs’ formalities were quickly completed before the three trucks gingerly climbed up the curving ramp above the railway line that led onto the bridge over to Romania. The sea going vessels on the Danube needed plenty of headroom so the bridge was high and exposed. At altitude, the wind was even stronger; ice was forming on the windward side of the metal beams.

Halfway across, George stopped, forcing me to pull up behind him at the place in the middle of the bridge where a white line ran across the road, marking the boundary between the two countries. The lorry cab was in Romania and my trailer was in Bulgaria. When I got out to see what was the matter, unbelievably there was a line of trucks stretching from the Customs’ post at the Romanian end of the bridge, right up to the centre and I was last in the queue. It was midday, mighty cold and howling a gale. John told George and me to keep as close together as possible; also to keep the motors running. Our leader rightly thought the wind chill would freeze up the fuel lines if we switched off the engines. It was so cold that even the soldiers preferred to stay in their sentry boxes rather than come out and cadge cigarettes. For the rest of the day, progress was painfully slow. As daylight faded, it got markedly colder. It was gone midnight when I received a stamp in my passport for the 25th December, and finally entered Romania. The last 500 metres had taken 12 hours; I pulled up in the shelter of some Russian trucks and went straight to bed.

On Christmas morning, I was laying awake, wondering how long I could last before having to get up and go for a leak when there was a crash of metal on metal as the cab rocked violently. I jumped up, pulled the curtains and found that a Russian truck had driven into the offside of my cab. The driver was trying to back away, but was only spinning his wheels on the ice, as the two vehicles rubbed together. Because of the cold, I had been sleeping with my clothes on, so after pulling on my boots and grabbing my jacket, I climbed out of the passenger door to inspect the damage. As I went round the front, the Russian driver finally found some grip and the two lorry cabs parted company. The Scania had a broken indicator, a cracked mirror lens and the mirror arm, which seemed to have taken the blunt of the impact and was badly bent. The Russian Kaz had similar damage; the driver was tall, young and not in the least bit apologetic.

I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to indicate to the Russian that I wanted some money for the damage he had done. The Kaz driver scoffed at my demands and started gesticulating that it was all my fault because if I had not parked so close to his truck he would not have hit my cab. It was then that I elected to hit him; deciding to use my head and nut the Russian. He had shown no remorse or respect, which made me angry. I had pulled my head back, ready to thrust it forwards into his face, when I realised I was standing on a sheet of ice. The small movement had transferred too much weight to the rear of my body, causing my feet to shoot out from underneath me. As I fell to the ground, I inadvertently drop kicked the Russian in the shins; he came down on top of me, with his nose colliding painfully with my knee.

All this was witnessed by the two other Russian drivers, who had been drinking coffee in their cabs. The first time I noticed them was when they got out of their lorries and slammed the doors. A quick glance at the registration plates made me think I was in big trouble but, luckily, they failed to recognise my rearward head movement as an act of aggression. The Russians just came over to help us back onto our feet, even seeing the funny side of the situation. After making a cup of coffee for me and the guy with the nosebleed, the Russians advised him to give me some money. The Kaz driver came out with 200 Romanian Lei and we shook hands on it.

John and George got up about an hour later, by which time all three Russians had gone off in the direction of Bulgaria.

“What have you done to your mirror arm?” inquired George.

“Is that blood on the snow down there?” asked John, as we sat in my cab, drinking coffee.

“Where were you two when I needed you?” I said, continuing the interrogation line of conversation.

“Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace and goodwill to all men,” quoted George.

“Boxing Day is tomorrow,” quipped John, before I told them of my early morning encounter.

The thick, freezing fog of that morning was like no fog I had ever seen before; instead of being a calm, still day, the wind was blowing at gale force. As the lorries headed north into the blast, they became encrusted, all over, in ice more than an inch thick. With my heater fans on full and all the air directed at the windscreen, it just about remained free from ice. Up ahead, John’s Volvo was struggling with an oil leak in the air compressor, which meant that the engine had to be run at high revs to stop the brakes from coming on. However, George in the Foden was in real trouble: his heater and fan lost the battle against the ice. The only two areas of clear windscreen on the Foden were two half circles, the size of a dinner plate, at the bottom of the glass, close to the air vents. To cope with this problem we all had to stop and chip away at the ice every few miles.

By mid-afternoon, we had only covered a 150 kilometres which had brought us onto the wide open plain north of Bucharest. As the relentless onslaught of the freezing fog showed no sign of easing, John was anxious that we should find some shelter before nightfall and the inevitable fall in temperature. In the limited visibility, all we could see were the big flat fields of the communal farms. The only cover that we came across was a group of haystacks near some farm buildings. John took a chance by driving onto the frozen dirt, but after he managed to get some shelter from the wind, George and I followed.

[chrisarbon]

Part 5

An old farm worker came out of the big farm house to see what was going on; twenty king-size cigarettes later and he reciprocated our “thumbs-up” sign and returned to the house. Then a stern-looking, well-built, middle-aged woman in a crombie overcoat and fox fur hat then came to see us and the parking rate went up to 200 cigarettes. We all sat in John’s Volvo F88 for our Christmas dinner camion stew.

During the meal, an old Dacia car arrived at the farm; driven by a young man accompanied by a heavily pregnant young woman. We watched intently as a drama unfolded before us. The couple were denied entry to the big house by the matriarch that had upped the parking rate. There was a lot of commotion with various other people coming out to have their say but in the end the couple went to the barn directly in front of our lorries.

John was so intrigued be all this that he suggested we wander over to the barn and see what was going-on. George was less enthusiastic, but out-voted at 2 to 1; we all crossed the farm yard and poked our heads inside the barn door. This startled the four Romanian shepherds standing around a brazier just inside the door. They looked fearsome in their full-length hooded sheepskin cloaks as they raised their crooks in surprise. But it gave way to gap-toothed smiles as John quickly proffered a pack of Kent cigarettes.

The barn stretched away for fifty yards and was full of sheep, standing quietly in the darkness. It was surprisingly warm too as the body heat from hundreds of beasts hung in the air. The young couple had moved some horses from a stall and set down some clean straw so that the mother-to-be could lie down and relax. Two young women from the house were in attendance and the young guy came over to join us by the fire.

He spoke good English. He said his name was Joe and that there were wolves in the area; the shepherds needed to be on guard, day and night. He also filled us in on the other drama. Maria was his cousin and had run away from the commune to work as a hostess in a bar at the coastal resort town of Constanta. The pregnancy had came from a one-night-stand with a stranger. This is why her mother would not have her in the house and they were in the barn.

“But why come back?” asked John.

“ There is a census on New Year’s Day and everyone has to be at their registered home address. I went to collect Maria from Constanta. It is the law that she is here.” continued Joe.

We continued chatting with Joe for most of the evening. There was an alarming moment when Joe told the shepherds we were from Anglia [England]. The eldest shepherd immediately reached for his rifle; but luckily, only to show us the “Made in England” stamped on the barrel of his Royal Enfield 303. An ancient weapon but very well maintained; just the thing to see off those pesky wolves.

After a short period of labour, where all the men concentrated on looking into the fire; there was the sound of a new-born baby crying. One of the shepherds produced a bottle of home-made vodka and passed it around. John felt obliged to fetch a bottle of Johnnie Walker from his cab. It was swig after swig until the bottles were empty.

News of the birth of the baby boy filtered back into the big house. One by one, the members of the commune came to see and leave gifts for the newborn. Even the shepherds rummaged around in amongst their belongings and came out with exquisitely carved wooden farm animals. Now all three of us felt obliged to return to our cabs for a present. John gave some duty-free perfume, George gave 200 Benson and Hedges and I took over a bottle of Metaxa Greek brandy. After which we all shook hands with Joe and the shepherds and then went to bed.

In the morning, John swapped cigarettes for eggs and bread, George dug out his last tin of “Old Oak” ham, I made a flask of proper coffee as we breakfasted in style before saying our goodbyes. Mother and baby were doing well, Joe had stayed with them during the night and was still asleep on the straw in the stall. The shepherds were also all asleep on the floor around the brazier; stinking of Chanel Number 5, laying with an empty golden cigarette carton and an empty brandy bottle.

[chrisarbon]

Part 6

Boxing Day turned out clear and bright. Just after the town of Roman, we stopped at a lay-by in order to fill our water containers from a nearby well that John had discovered on a previous trip. As the turn off for Iasi was only a couple of miles up the road, I said goodbye to John and George and carried on alone, hoping to reach Radauti that night.

Running on the hard packed snow and ice was not a problem for the Scania. In the flat countryside, the only problem I had was when I encountered a low bridge, just before reaching my destination. Normally, low bridges were only a couple of inches lower than the front of the trailer, but this one only came up to the bottom of my windscreen. It was a wide, flat road, with several car tracks in the snow. I could not understand why the bridge had been built so low or what it carried over the road. When I got out to have a look, I soon figured out what was going on: it was a road bridge over a river and I was driving on top of the frozen water. When I reversed back along the river in the dark, it was not easy, but I did not dare try a U-turn as I would have surely lost too much traction. All the water must have been frozen solid as I did not hear any cracking in the still night air. In the limited light of my hazard warning flashers, I retraced my tyre tracks to the slight slope where I had left the road, before charging off the ice covered water and back onto ice covered tarmac. The local traffic must have used the river as a short cut to somewhere as the tyre tracks showed an equal amount using road and ice.

In Radauti, by chance, I came across my collection address without having to ask for directions and the night-watchman helped see me back into the factory yard. It was no surprise when the factory manager came along the next morning and told me the load would not be ready for a couple of days. Optimistically, I thought the delay might give the weather a chance to warm up — but it did not. The goods I was taking to Britain were barbecues — the cheap, circular tin type that only last for one summer if you leave them out in the rain. The old metal work factory made other things as well, there was even a blacksmith department for shoeing horses, but all production seemed to be directed towards my barbecues and was held up by the paint shop where the cold weather refused to let the spray paint dry.

Half way through my first morning, one of the factory girls came up and asked for a cigarette. I offered her a packet of 20 if she would go off and get me some bread. It was a job to make her understand English, so I tried “brot” and “pain” before she got the message — the Romanian for bread sounded like “ping”. As the boiler-suited worker went down the road with a pack of Kent king sized, I wondered if I would see her again; but I need not have worried, for she soon re-appeared with six large loaves. Her name was Marina, she looked about 17 and was shorter and chunkier than the average Romanian girl. I told her to keep half of the bread, because I would never have eaten all of it before it went mouldy. We chatted away, using sign language with some German words. I asked Marina to dine with me that evening at the Scania Cab Motel. The message must have got across pretty well because she turned up at just after seven o’clock.

Marina had a great sense of occasion which showed by the amount of effort she had put into her appearance. Under her long black Crombie-style overcoat and silver fox fur hat she wore what seemed to be the Romanian national costume. Elegant, lace-up black leather ankle boots, embroidery trimmed, calf length black skirt over a slight longer lace trimmed petticoat; frilly long sleeved white blouse, done up at the neck with a blue, red and yellow choker; a black satin waistcoat, trimmed with the same national flag colours and a matching headband pulling back her long black, wavy hair. Whether her mother had told Marina to get dressed up, or whether her get-up was standard eveningwear for Romanian girls dining out with foreigners, I do not know. Maybe it was worn as an excuse to get out of doing the washing up. Whatever it was, Marina looked great. After seeing her in army boots and dark blue overalls, I thought she looked alright. Now seeing her in all the old fashioned gear, I fancied Marina like made.

With such fine company, I should have done better than camion stew. The meatballs, new potatoes and baked beans were well received, also the pineapple rings for dessert were a new taste for Marina, but all through dinner, I was thinking I should have been serving roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. To finish the meal, I made some proper coffee. As we sat back to relax, Marina sorted through my tape collection. She selected Dire Straits, “Brothers in Arms” which came on just at the start of the title track. Somehow, it complimented the moment perfectly. At the end of the evening, I caught Marina’s eye and glanced at the bunk, tapping my hand on the sleeping bag as her eyes followed mine. But, as they say in the Sunday papers, she made her excuses and left. Later, as I lay alone in my bed, I reflected that it was good to know that not every Romanian girl was available for a few marks, a packet of ■■■■ or a jar of coffee.

The barbecues came in kit form, that were boxed in cardboard that was about the same quality as a wasp’s next; but once the loading did start, the trailer was quickly filled from floor to roof with over 1300 of the things. It was a fairly light load, so when I started for home, late the following afternoon, I made good progress, with the cold north wind now behind me. The direct route across Transylvania and the Carpathian mountains was a daunting prospect in winter, so I opted for the longer option of returning south to Bucharest, before turning east towards Hungary. Also, I had a chance of meeting up again with John and George, which would have made things more enjoyable.

As it was, our paths never crossed; so I spent New Year’s eve alone, on the motorway services, south of Prague. The Scania gamely plodded on through the constant sub-zero temperatures; always starting first time, although I rarely switched the engine off. In order to keep warm, I ran the motor all night, every night, which seemed to be the policy of most East-European lorry drivers as well.

Back at Ipswich, I dropped the trailer in the yard and took the unit round to the workshops for a steam clean and a service. A load of diesel engines for Izmit stood ready to go to Turkey so, after a couple of days at home, I left, once more, for Istanbul. Never did get the baby’s name; would be thirty this Christmas.

The end.

[chrisarbon]

[jelliot]

Am I the only person not doing a Christmas story this year? I feel a bit left out.

Very good Chris, just like the rest of the book. Not much ■■■ going on in this section though.

I got the the forth paragraph before I realized I’d read it before. But I read it again anyway.

Chapter 17 from Chris’s book Roadtrip Ramatuelle I got my print on demand copy through Amazon took about 2 week to arrive,well worth the wait.

Jeff

[dirty_dan]

Really good read,I must buy your book chris!

Marry chistmas!

Reg Danne

[mushroomman]

Hi Chris, I bought your book Road Trip To Ramatuelle a couple of years ago and I must say that I couldn’t put it down until I had read it all the way through. It brought back so many memories for me and it should do the same for anybody else who was driving behind The Iron Curtain in the 70/80’s. I would think that a lot of the T.I.R. drivers of that era have been in similar situations some time or other on their travels.
On Christmas Eve 1983 at about 9 p.m. Rocky 7 and myself finally got cleared going into Turkey on our way to Baghdad. We spent the following day in the new Mocamp that had just opened up at the border with another British driver who had also decided To Cancel.
On Boxing Day morning Rocky 7 and I got up to find that the other British driver was not in his cab and we decided that we would walk up to Young Turks office to see if we could phone home. Coming towards us was the other British driver who I could only describe as doing a Hunchback Of Notre Dame expression as he seemed to be dragging his right hand along the floor has he walked towards us. He told us that he was having a pee in the middle of the night and that he had fallen out of his cab. His arm had come out of his shoulder socket and he was looking for a doctor to shove it back in. It seems that he had been in a motor bike accident years before and on a couple of occasions since, it had popped out.
We managed to find a doctor and I will never forget the screams that came out of that Turkish doctors surgery but after five minutes it seemed to pop back in and less than ten minutes later the guy behaved as though nothing had happened and it had cost less than a fiver and a packet of ■■■■. I can’t remember the drivers name but I have a feeling that he was from The London/East Anglia area.
A week later on 1st January 1984 we were sat with one of Fred Archers drivers Noddy Bob in the desert at Falluja and a week after that while we were waiting in the queue to get out of Iraq at Zacho where we had the misfortune to meet up with another of Fred Archers drivers Mickey Chinnock.

Here is that bridge that you mentioned across The Danube between Rumo and Bogey.

Have a great Christmas Chris and can I wish Archie Paice a very happy birthday for tomorrow.
B.T.W. You wasn’t born in a barn in Rumania thirty years ago were you Archie.
And come on Jelliot you must of had least one Christmas away from home so lets hear about it.

Regards Steve.

[jelliot]

I’m enjoying this and Jazzandy’s at the moment Steve. I have truck based fictional one I’m working on at the moment, and now I’ve found an editor I can work with ( at a price I can afford and understanding what I’m writing about ) I’ll be churning endless amounts of junk. I’ve had the first half of my first book back to have a look at and I looks good, not so much changing things, just polishing them up a bit. It’s been decided to split the story into 5 books.

I did many Christmases away, some intentional some not. But I’ll put a short story out on here later in the year.

Merry Christmas to all…

Jeff…

[truckyboy]

Hi Mushroomman, i enjoyed that story above by jelliot, and i knew some fred archers drivers…especially mick chinnock, got me into a lot of trouble, and a 6 yr stretch, and i``ve heard hes dead,hope so, if not i have to start the search all over again, then have him jkilled myself. dont know if he died or not, but was a very nasty piece of work.
I also heard a story about Noddy bob when he worked for ( oh my memory is going now, but it was behind the cafe on the A13 ) ( danny dalton rings a bell ) but thats not the name of the company…anyway apparently bob took a load of scotch to Rumo, and on his return, was team leader for 3 loads of the stuff, so all the loads get tipped in a deserted warehouse, and the drivers went their separate ways to back load, and when the ■■■■ hit the fan, and police were called in, they retraced the route to the warehouse ( via the other drivers, only to find it was a scam, organised by bob, and he sent the firm a postcard from Hawaii ( or somewhere ) saying having a wonderful time, wish you were here. That story was doing the rounds for a long time, and dont know if there was any truth to it.

[robert1952]

A nice bit of lorry lit! I enjoyed that. Robert

[mushroomman]

Hello Truckyboy, when I first joined Trucknet I wrote about a trip that I did to Iraq with a load of whiskey for a Yugoslav construction company. We were parked up in the desert at Fulluja waiting for The Fillapino to come along with his discount fuel tanker from the refinery when Noddy Bob turned up in a Fred Archer Scania 111.
I thought that you were Noddy Bob as I mentioned that it was Truckyboy so I apologise for making that mistake. Ian Powling and Dave Mackie assured me that you are not the same person which is good to know. I remember that Bob worked for a few different companies over the years and I am trying to think if one of them was Tanker Bill along with an old mate of yours Big T, Tony Gibbons who also worked for Roy Bradford.

Regards Steve.