Brilliant story so far
Offloading at Genoto Istanbul.
Jazzandy…a great read.brought back the memories, and i cant wait for the next episode, so F hurry up 
you know theres no rest for drivers at xmas…
One thing with which I had always had no trouble was reversing. People were always impressed watching a big rig backed accurately through a narrow bend but what most of them didn’t realise was that the most difficult thing to reverse was a car and small single axle trailer. The longer the trailer and the further back the axles the easier it was to handle. With the axles right at the back my Dorsey was a doddle. In fact it was more difficult negotiating tight intersections forwards than backwards! However I was feeling pretty smug as I drove off underneath the pillars holding the bridge approach road and down to the side of the Bosphorus. I could already see the little white ferry boats with their yellow funnels and it was less than five minutes until I had arrived at the Kuzguncuk terminal for the Ortakoy passenger ferry. Luckily there was a Petrol Ofisi filling station a few hundred metres further on and a couple of packets of Rothmans sealed a parking deal. The ferry itself was ridiculously cheap and an embarrassing amount of change rattled out at me from the cashier’s window in the white wooden single storey block that served as the IETT’s (Istanbul Municipal Transport Authority) local offices. Once on board I welcomed a glass of cay brought round on a circular tray suspended from a finger grip by a triangular arrangement of struts which meant it was almost impossible to spill the drinks however sharp the lurching of the vessel might be. Once on land at Ortakoy I was looking for a taxi when what should come along but a Leyland Royal Tiger with a signboard indicating it was en route to Taksim square. I guessed that this meant it would pass the OHS/Contex office in ■■■■■■■■■■■ Caddessi. “Oteli Hilton - Koc para?” (Hilton Hotel - How much?) I asked the conductor on board, “Bes Lira” he replied. Our office was almost directly opposite the Hilton hotel where I was able to alight half an hour of Istanbul traffic later. Crossing from the central reservation where the buses and trolleybuses ran, I entered the Istanbul Mahle Piston building and climbed the stairs. After explaining my predicament I was furnished with sufficient funds for the toll and then ferried back in a company Tofas 124 down to Ortakoy. It was now two o’ clock and Madame Ira had established that so long as I was at the Soktas plant, situated just off the bypass to the bridge from Londra Asfalti, by four o’ clock they would load me.
Back in the cab the sun was shining brightly highlighting the constant dripping of water from the surrounding trees as the midday warmth melted the overnight freeze. I headed back up to the bridge terrified that the Kontol Polisi would be on the lookout for me but as I rode up the slip road ramp and circled back towards the bridge tolls I was able to join the melee with only a couple of hundred yards to go before the booths and absolutely nothing delayed me even though I took a sneaky look at the Kontrol building as I passed by. Hopefully there had been a shift change and my tormentors had been too lazy to log my transgressions! Through the tollgates the traffic eased considerably and I was around the ring around the city centre within half an hour. The last exit before Londra Asafalti was the one I needed to take and by three fifteen I was there. Heading off to the right I was now on a busy old main road threading its way through new developments of illegal housing blocks, many of them stopped from completion standing with just their metal frames and a few infill bricks but still housing families by the look of the washing lines outside. I was on the lookout for a new mosque with a brick dome and a single minaret right by an intersection in a market area in the district of Gaziosmanpasa. By three- thirty I was there carefully snaking the rig around parked delivery trucks and tradesmen’s horses and carts, I had difficulty hanging the right turn taking it very very carefully and slowly as carts had to be moved and the mass of pedestrian traffic scurried out of the way. The last thing I needed was an accident of any kind to cause further delay. A huge sign with the slogan Ak Bankasi was the next marker. Here I turned left onto a dirt or rather mud road which wound it’s way behind the shops and then more housing and then some low concrete factories before it deteriorated as Steve had warned into little more than a boggy trail as it turned into the Soktas compound. The dodgy culvert was an obvious hump on the trail which I crossed delicately before a gentle left turn and then I was in the factory loading area. Necmettin with his dark blue Contex Mack and white Dorsey fridge was just coming off the loading ramp and a workman dressed in pale blue overalls signalled that I was immediately to take his place which I did more than willingly as you can imagine! Before I had leapt from the cab to undo the tilt cord the team on the bay had already commenced loading and my spirits were up as I waved goodbye to Necmettin. Load today, sleep at the BP, papers by lunchtime tomorrow and I’d be up to the border by the evening if I was lucky.
‘Ludwigsburg here I come’ I was humming to myself as I progressed round to watch the arbies manually loading the trailer with their bales of mohair. I sauntered over to the office and discovered that Madame Ira, as good as her word, had already progressed the
paperwork to enable me to be customs sealed at the factory. Life was looking sweet as I executed a truck check, kicked all the tyres, checked the bulbs, tested the susies and cleaned off all the running light lenses and headlights. Just as I had finished this chore who should come loping back into the yard but Necmettin. Horror overtook me and the hairs on my neck bristled. Something was amiss. He was caked in mud from his waist down. “Kamion problem,” was his explanation as he headed off towards the office. By the time I was loaded Necmettin had re-appeared spruced up a little bit but by no means his previous dapper self.
The Turkish customs officer was in the process of sealing up my truck when Necmettin managed to gesticulate to me that he would like a tow please. Luckily he had a length of chain and we attached it to the tow hook on the front of the GMC and the rear axle of his Fridge box. I eased back until the chain was taut, then blew my air horns as a signal for Necmettin to start reversing and gunned my motor. I had already selected the maximum diff lock option so the Hendrickson rear bogie was technically locked solid, all wheels relentlessly revolving. We made an infinitesimal progress but the basic problem was that I was as much in the mud as Necmettin and my wheels though locked were merely spinning. In addition my wheels although larger than the Turkish Mack’s were shod with highway tyres. If Necmettin’s were Town and Countries and his were equally useless we were on a hiding to nothing and after about fifteen minutes we disconnected. Luckily the truck was bogged down well before the culvert and even luckier I was able to reverse out of the mire and back onto the concreted loading bay area.
I rang the office from the Soktas despatch office and explained the situation. There was no way I could get enough purchase to pull Necmettin out so they would have to send a wrecker. Of course the other problem was that I was also stuck as there was no way I could driver around the Contex rig. “Nothing we can do until tomorrow Mr. MacLean,” Madame Ira explained, “You will have to sleep there but hopefully they will pull the truck out in the morning and we will send up your papers and running money so you will not have to come to the office.” I thanked her and returned to my cab. It was now dark. The factory was still humming away spinning yarn on a twenty four hour shift basis. So I spent the evening reading and fell asleep listening to BBC world service. Next morning there was a tapping on my cab door and I looked down on one of the loaders who beckoned to me to come in for breakfast in the workers canteen. Wherever you were in Turkey you were always treated with great hospitality, a requisite of the Muslim religion, for the traveller had to be treated with respect. To refuse the offer would have been seen as a great insult and so the poor old British stomach had to put up with endless glasses of overstrong cay or small cups of coffee which contained more gunge in the bottom than liquid, but that was a small price to pay for the feeling of camaraderie thus engendered. Today’s breakfast was a fresh Turkish loaf, second only to French for taste, feta cheese and jam. Then it was back to the cab to await the return of Necmettin with the wrecker. It was eleven thirty before he showed his face but instead of a wrecker they had merely brought another Mack unit. This was duly chained to the front of Necmettin’s truck and with utter predictability it was unable to gain any purchase, it’s wheels spun uselessly and there was no progress.
I rang Madame Ira. By this time I was becoming agitated about the typically Turkish way of sorting out problems. This consisted of doing absolutely everything you knew would not work and then finally biting the bullet and agreeing to the obvious plan which would cost a little money. In this way the maximum amount of time would always be wasted and everyone involved would become as frustrated as humanly possible. “Madame Ira, we have got to have a wrecker.” I insisted. “But we are trying everything,” came the reply. “Abbas is there now.” “Yes I know,” I struggled to explain, “But the mud is making it impossible for him to tow. You need a wrecker with big wheels and tyres to grip the mud.” There was a pause. “You mean Abbas cannot tow him?” came the reply. “Yes” I emphasised. It was almost impossible to be angry with Madame Ira. She was such a refined and courteous lady but my patience was being sorely tried. She appeared to be consulting with someone and then she came back to me. “We cannot get a wrecker until tomorrow morning,” she explained, “In the meantime all your papers are ready and our messenger will bring them to you. Please be kind enough to sign for them and of course the running money. Oh!” she exclaimed and then another pause, “We are sending another truck so maybe he can help.” I thanked Madame Ira and wished her a Happy Christmas. Mine was now looking remote.
Needless to say the second tractor was no more help than the first even in tandem and the recovery was again abandoned and I had to sit out the day in the cab although I was asked in to the canteen for meals. Next morning the wrecker arrived. It looked a rather small affair, basically an old long nose Bussing rigid with a crane on the back. I was now going into deep depression. The driver sprang down from the cab and looked carefully at the situation before summoning Necmettin over for a deep and meaningful chat. It seemed that he felt that he could not tow the rig forwards as there was no available traction between the Mack and the culvert. So miraculously he jumped into his truck and disappeared only to re-appear five minutes later next to me in the loading yard from around the side of the building. He could just get round but there was no way a larger truck could have made it. What he had which saved the day was a long length of wire which meant that he could hook up to Necmettin’s trailer while he was still on the concrete pad. It made all the difference in the world and within ten minutes the Mack was back on hard ground. It was then necessary to walk the route because both of us had to use it to exit the factory and it became obvious that my Turkish colleague had swung too far over to the left in order to line himself up for the culvert. We established what looked like a safer route and the wrecker and Necmettin set off and once they were safely over the slough of despond the wrecker came back for me. One small thing they had overlooked was the extra tracking on my Dorsey with the rear tandem set up and I nearly came a cropper as I watched the rear of my trailer almost but not quite not make it onto the culvert. However all was well in the end. My paperwork arrived, I signed for it and was on my way by lunchtime. However one more day had been lost. It was now the 17th. of December. I had five days to make it back to Ludwigsburg to catch the last train.
Ha Ha no wonder you were getting getting frustrated 
That picture speaks a thousand word’s 
What would driver’s today do if the new factory/RDC/DC/Pallet Hub was built with that kind of access road 
Once again JA a brilliant read, thanks for doing this over the holiday period it has really brightened up what is a bad time for me 
Thanks & Regards
Dave Penn;
O Brilliant, so did you get home !!!
hopey1945:
O Brilliant, so did you get home !!!
I agree,a very good read-------but for the answer to your question—you’ll just have to wait for another well timed drip feed .Just like the rest of us
As always brilliant! I hope for more!
Reg Danne
Well I’m not going to post anything until you’ve finished the story.
Jeff…
Oops double post…
Jeff…
I settled back in the airsprung seat of the GMC and enjoyed the panoramic view through the deep split windscreen which had a slight wrap round at each side. To my right was quite a high black engine hump which had a good area of flat surface where a small camping gas cooker could easily be operated for those tins of London grill and baked beans with sausages or even a good fry up of bacon and egg. Several switches were positioned on a console on this hump including the various air brakes and the hand throttle which could be adjusted to keep the engine revving at a certain speed although with a two stroke that was never a reliable piece of equipment. The trailer brake was positioned on the right side of the steering column. The GMC looked a beautiful truck but in reality could be a cow to drive with the back pressure from the accelerator occasioned by a requirement of the Allison automatic gearbox forcing you to almost stand on the ■■■■ thing to keep it on the floor. I’ve still got the varicose veins in my right leg to prove the point! We hugged the coast for the first few miles out of Istanbul. Bridges between small islands and the mouths of deep inlets made a very picturesque drive with the deep blue of the busily trafficked Aegean sea on the left. At Silivri the road left the coast and we were racing across the open plains of ancient Thrace, farmland on both sides as far as the eye could see and smooth gently undulating territory crossed by this almost straight highway very similar to our two way ‘A’ class roads. By six o’ clock I was approaching the border at Kapikule just as the border closed for the night so parked up next to a BP Station along with a myriad of other TIR’s.
Next morning customs was completed by 1030 and I was out of the Bulgarian side at Kapitan Andreevo by lunchtime. The journey through the wintry mountains and forests went reasonably well until I hit the plains around Sofia which was shrouded in thick fog reducing traffic to a serpentine crawl around the ring road system. It was the nineteenth of December and I was making good progress through Pirot and Bela Palanka and then by the beautiful gorge, full of tunnels and rushing river torrents, which took you through to Nis. North of Nis The trafiic on the Belgrade road came to an abrupt halt. Near Aleksinac the road ran on a bank raised a good ten feet above the fields and today this road was swept by howling winds chasing flurries of snow across it and through the cars, buses and trucks which were now seemingly icebound in their tracks forever. Someone had bought it I idly surmised as I boiled a kettle for a tomato cup-a-soup. Hour after hour nothing moved, nothing passed us and nothing came from the opposite direction. Luckily my tanks were quite full so I was able to continually run the motor and the cab was as warm as toast. On the odd occasion I had to venture into the great outside to answer a call of nature I returned to the cab in a semi-frozen state. The temperature was substantially sub-zero and the gale force winds were considerably exacerbating the biting cold. The GMC’s aluminium cab was a sound one and there was no ingress of chill so, excepting the fact that time was becoming an issue, I was in a cosy safe place. During the evening several crash tenders and police vehicles passed by. Eventually I decided to turn in guessing that when the traffic started to move some kind soul would ensure I was aware and wake me, after all otherwise nothing behind me would be able to pass on this two way road with no hard shoulder. I awoke to the sound of heavy machinery trundling past and peering through the curtains was just able to see the tail end of a heavy Liebherr crane disappearing, amber lights flashing, up the ‘wrong’ side of the road. It was seven o’ clock and at last the Yugos seemed to be getting a grip on what was obviously a very serious situation up ahead.
Around lunchtime things started moving then stopping then moving again and eventually traffic was sporadically passing us from the other direction so presumably the blockage was being alleviated at long last. After about thirty kilometres we were level with the scene of the accident. On one side were a couple of what looked like Bulgarian trucks, their cabs horribly wrecked, now towed down the banks and into the fieldswhere they would probably lay for ever more, and on the other side various cars and an inter-city coach had met the same fate. Goodness knows what the death and injury toll must have been. I was one of the lucky ones not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘Better late than never’, I reflected as speed picked up and we were once again fully mobile. Around four o’clock I was passing the Hotel National on the south side of Belgrade. Normally I might have stopped here and had a brew and a chat at this well know watering hole with it’s large parking area but today I had time to make up. Late evening saw me on the corrugated autoput near Slavonski Brod where I parked up for an evening meal in a layby. It was now the evening of the twentieth. I should be able to make Maribor before turning in which meant through the Sentilj border in the morning, and, providing there was no queue, into Germany before the border at Schwarzbach autobahn closed. Then it would be an easy run down through Munich, Augsburg and Stuttgart to Ludwigsburg. The weather was still inclement but the winds had died away and the autoput was well ploughed with banks of snow on either side.
I made Maribor soon after midnight and threw myself onto the bunk and slept soundly while the engine chortled away and warm air continued to circulate. All went well at the border on both sides, our agent, Franz Welz, was a particularly good one and I was through Graz by eleven o’ clock. The Ho Chi Minh curving through the Alpine valleys, over high passes and through long tunnels was also in forgiving mode and the Christmas spirit was with me as I pulled up at the customs gate at Schwarzbach just on four o’ clock. There were five trucks in front and I took the chance of leaving my truck and dashing over to the Frans Welz office to thrust my paperwork at them. “Any chance of getting through before they close?” I breathlessly asked. “We’ll try,” came the reply, “But not to be definite!” Well in short they did get me through mainly because German customs had a highly suspect Jordanian truck on their out turn bank and they couldn’t be bothered to take on another grosse control. Once my papers were handed back, I parked up outside the exit gate and walked back to the border café for my traditional gulaschsuppe before continuing out onto the Munich autobahn. After a couple of hours at the wheel my eyes were starting to droop and I parked up just after Chiemsee. I would reach Ludwigsburg by mid afternoon well in time for the train I thought to myself as I fell fast asleep, the engine’s continued hum a kind of security blanket.
During the long Bavarian night snow had not only fallen but it had blizzarded down and a winter wonderland greeted me as I blearily peeked out through the bunk curtains. After a cup of tea, I jumped out to check over the truck and to have a look at the autobahn. It had been gritted but there was a fresh fall of snow on top. However trucks were punching their way through and I could see that the surface was already breaking up. Out on the road the traffic was slow and the trip through to Munich took all morning. I stopped at the Fuchsberg service area just the other side of the city on the Augsburg road, paid my respect to the sanitary arrangements and picked up a bratwurst with kartoffelsalat for lunch. It was now snowing but Ludwigsburg was a mere couple of hundred kilometres so I ought to have made it by five at the latest. However that was not to be. The snow was once again whipped up into a blizzard by the wind and progress was severely limited by the fact that the autobahn was down to one serviceable lane only. As we approached the dreaded Talesberg pass I was seriously considering chaining up. We were now travelling on pack ice and there were several times during the ascent where I could feel the Hendrickson tandem slipping and sliding underneath me. However I was in a line of trucks none of which was showing any inclination to stop so I doggedly kept going and at the top did stop briefly to select low ratio for the run down into the Gruibingen valley. By four-fifteen I was passing Kircheim services and then the road markedly improved and I slipped into Ludwigsburg Guterbahnof round about six and parked next to the restaurant feeling very pleased with myself. I was in good time to catch the night train for which I was convinced I had a reservation. I set the hand throttle to fast idle, and with my document case in hand set off on the trek against the howling sleet laden wind to the Deutsche Bundesbahn office at the far end of the yard. There was a queue and while I was shuffling along it there was a sudden commotion as a couple of politzei entered the building. “GMC fahrer,” they yelled. “It’s me,” I owned up rather sheepishly. They looked quite angry. What had I done? “Kommt,” they commanded and I was almost frogmarched back down the length of the yard. Approaching the truck, lit now in the murky gloom by the penetrating floodlighting of the yard, I rapidly became aware of the problem as the air was filled with the sound of a screaming two stroke Detroit V8.
The scene that greeted me would have been comical if at that point my sense of humour had not deserted me. Several drivers were peering underneath the cab and one or two were actually on the roof attempting to shut down the engine by holding down the flaps on top of the exhaust stacks. Taking in the situation I immediately raced forward knowing that there was only one way to stop a racing two stroke Detroit. I unlocked the cab, retrieved the pump handle from the sidebox and feverishly pumped the cab up and over. Reaching in to the middle of the left cylinder block I turned the emergency stop and the engine thankfully clattered to a halt. I knew that I had saved the engine from certain death with minutes to spare. Once it had ceased to rotate, I reset the stop lever, dropped the cab and locked everything into place. Turning round, my grin of self-satisfaction was immediately wiped from my face. The polizei were still there and if anything looking even more angry than ever. “Ist Verboten,” a finger was wagged in my face, “Es ist verboten, Ihren Motor laufen hier, wenn Sie nicht in der LKW sind!“ I must have looked blank even though I knew the gist of what he was saying. ‘You are English?“ he demanded, thrusting his red pudgy face too close to mine for comfort.
I nodded. ‚‘‘So,“ he pausedthoughtfully searching for sufficiently offensive words to press home the sreiousness of my infraction on the peace of the German citizenry, ‘‘ You are forbidden, do you understand, forbidden, to let your motor operate when not here, do you understand?“ I nodded trying to look as inoffensive as possible. ‘‘You a fine must pay,“ he sneered, ‘‘Twenty Deutschemarkes,‘‘. Crikey, I thought, that‘s reasonable. Especially as I imagined myself about to be marched off for a night in the cells. There was much suppressed laughter from the assembed drivers as I handed over the money. ‘‘It is Christmas,“ the policeman said as we parted,‘‘You are lucky guy, do you understand?“ I nodded again, locked the cab door and raced off to the kombivehrkehr office. Now I was pressed for time. The clerk was apologetic.‘‘Sorry,‘‘ he explained. ‘‘You haf reservation but you are not here. Train is now full.‘‘ But,“ I spluttered, ‘‘This is the last train before Christmas?“ ‘‘Ja, I am sorry, but I now stempel on your ticket and you can drive‘‘ The office window and my hopes of being home for Christmas crashed at the same time.
Good God!!! I can see the journey in my mind, so good and descriptive. You were lucky not to have to go to the office in Munich!!! I kept getting turned round there. Well Done… AND■■?
must have killed a robin I reckon…
Hi Andy,
Still a Good Tale mate, when is the Book out ?
p.s. Agean Sea.
Thank you Andy.
I feel like in there willing you on. Write a book. Seriously. Write a book
Thanks Archie, I’ve already changed it!
Jelliot:
Well I’m not going to post anything until you’ve finished the story.Jeff…
A Very great TALE well told pal i was realy engrossed in it after reading the first one could,nt wait for the second part i take my hat off to you lads who do those runs and surmount the dangers the farthest i went was Rome . chuffed you got HOME safe is ya Wife TALKING TO YOU YET HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU AND YOURS and all on the drivers on this site