The beginning of my downfall
A very long read and forgive the loss of memory in places
After several years of dodging about, sailing close to the wind with the law and customs of various East European countries. I decided to have a clean break and go legal, as we had some decent contracts with blue chip companies.
I had run my old Saviem, and a 141 to destruction, I did one trip in a F10 which used more oil then fuel and My Transcontinental had been repossessed by the finance company. 
I managed to blag my way into the bank managers good books and put a deposit down on a DAF 2800 FTG.
Part of the early learning curve of transitting the commie bloc was learning all the fiddles and twists that made things easier & cheaper.
Apart from the diesel checks in France and Germany, life was fairly straightforward until you got to the Czech border, here you were met by frightened looking boy soldiers as border guards, savage looking women in customs uniform and vicious dogs it was forbidden to feed. There was a rather pointless TIR diversion around Bratislava which took you over one of the hardest twisty climbs in Bohemia, It took 45 minutes to drive through the city, but it could take you 2 or 3 hours to “go over the mountain”. 
In Hungary they had a 10 tonne axle weight limit, whether that was the front axle, trailer axle or drive axle. (remember this) Romania had a strict 4.0 metre height limit as you left the country. Bulgaria made you drive through some disinfectant as you left, then Turkey would try and charge you for washing the wheels.
Anyway, I digress.
This trip was one I had done many times, Load in Perkins in Peterborough for BMC trucks in Izmit. This was at the start of Just in Time deliveries and Perkins would want to know when you would arrive, so they could plan the next load. I loaded my trailer and shipped out to Belgium where I had to fill my tanks with Red Diesel, it was even cheaper than the UK. That saw me over to Geiselwynd for the last full meal before attempting the Czech border the next morning. This was Thursday night, I was planning to be tipping Izmit on the following Wednesday allowing for any delays at the borders.
Friday saw me through the border at Waidhaus, a steady ride through Czech into Hungary and parked at Gyor for the evening. Now another history lesson, when I first started going through Hungary, I got caught out very badly with the availability of Fuel. foreigners were not allowed to buy fuel without government vouchers which were charged at the same price per litre as German Fuel, no vouchers no fuel, or you could risk getting yourself and the garage owner locked up for buying black market diesel.
I had found a couple of places willing to take the risk, and even when the voucher scheme was lifted, I continued to use them.
So on Saturday morning I woke up after a good Goulash meal and loads too much beer in the evening. I went to see my favourite garage owner and filled the tank, In Hungary there were 2 grades of fuel, one was red diesel for agriculture and machinery, the other was poor quality road fuel. I opted for the cheap fuel, even though I had been warned it knackered engines. I had used it for 6 months and even that morning there was a brand new 480 Turbostar filling up with it.
From there it took me about 3 to 4 hours to the Romanian border, the way things were going, I may even tip Tuesday at this rate. After a couple of hours, the sun was shining, I was listening to the many repeats of how to speak English, on Voice of America.
DISASTER
As I drove towards the border, I heard a noise I hadnt heard before, a slight knock or ticking, not loud but continuos, I drove a bit further getting slightly worried. the noise didnt seem to get any worse, but I couldnt make it dissapear either. About 3 or 4 kilometers from the border I pulled into a layby to investigate, it was actually a bus stop. I could get this noise whenever I let the engine die after revving it, it did it on start up and it did it when I pushed the exhauster to stop the engine.
Well as I had been using these routes long enough to know that a breakdown in Romania was not really an option, I was still in relative civilised countryside. I decided to investigate further. oil ok, water ok, nothing lose or hanging off, still running on 6 cylinders and actually pulling quite well, but an annoying knock.
So as you do in these circumstances, I got my toolbox out and drained the oil, nothing untoward in the oil, so I removed the sump. well it was a sunny saturday afternoon, still nothing obvious.
I continued a little deeper and firstly removed one big end cap, furthest from the oil pump, no wear, there, I checked another couple of big ends, no serious wear, so i rebuilt the engine refitted the sump and changed the oil filter. About 2 kilometres further back I had passed a small garage, so I walked back and bought 25 litres of new engine oil, I had a couple of gallon spare with me so I had enough. Just an oil change in a bus stop, nothing unusual there then.
I walked back with the can on my shoulder and refilled the engine, I started it up and the noise was still there, no surprise really, but I was happy there was no damage found within the engine, the oil pressure was good, especially for a DAF.
As the engine was ticking over the noise was there, as I took off my oily clothes and put on some other oily clothes…
Suddenly there was such a loud crack, the cab tilted over and the engine stopped with a dull thud. I walked around, to find my last 2 hours labour, the walk to garage and my fresh oil running into the gutter.
As I looked underneath there was a horrible sight, there was a hole the size of my head in the engine block, the starter motor was laid on the front axle and the bellhousing was broken…
Cameraderie starts here, first a couple of cockanese drivers turn up and put the kettle on, various suggestions are dismissed, but swan vestas were the main ingredient of the best one, I cannot remember who these drivers were but Im sure they were working for Roy Bradford, the trucks seemed a little new though, a couple of newish SK Mercs.
Shortly afterwards another truck pulled up, and after leaving me with a supply of fresh water and teabags, we decided there is nothing they can do. Someone suggested I get the truck recovered to a local workshop,so I got a lift towards the border and was taken into a RABA / DAF dealer.
We managed to explain that the truck was not going anywhere and pointed at the RABA wrecker in the yard. I waved goodbye to my new found friends as they wanted to get through the border before it was too dark.
I then went back to my truck with a Hungarian mechanic who spoke no English, when he saw the engine, his German became quite good, he kept saying “das ist kaput”
Maybe because of the drugs,(joke) I didnt seem to be worrying much, it was my truck paid for on a bank loan, with a blown up engine, in Hungary with no one in the world to help me. All I could do was laugh with the mechanic as he coupled his wrecker to my truck and then towed me to his garage.
When we got back, all the mechanics came out and joined in the chorus, “das ist Kaput” The foreman came out and wondered who was going to pay for the recovery and the new engine!!!
I gave him the adress of my agent in Budapest and got through to him that he could speak to her on Monday, this made him happier and he showed me the showers and washrooms.
That evening after a decent shower and some muddy coffee, the foreman said HOTEL? I was happy in the truck, but he said no because he wanted to put the truck and trailer in the compound. I had to agree, but was worried about the cost of a hotel, even in Hungary. I had left home with my running money of £600 and filled my trailer tank and running tanks already.
I need not have worried though as the foreman took me in his own car into the town, and drove into a beautiful tree lined avenue and pulled up outside this huge stone building. This hotel was a girls school run by nuns or something, the girls were on holiday because it was some religious festival, and I was to stay there till Monday, they told me that there would be breakfast in the morning , but tonight I would have to find something to eat in the town.
I had managed to retrieve a couple of bits of clean clothing and got changed when i was at the garage, so i went out to explore the sights. not really, just looking for a PTT (telephone office) I managed to get hold of my mate who told me to fire the truck in the garage and fly home before Monday. I didnt, although i didnt know what to do by then. I eventually managed to contact the office of my boss in England, he was on holiday but a driver picked the phone up. He told me that Joe was coming in to get him sone running money and that I had to ring back in an hour.
Within an hour and a half, the cavalry were on their way, Jogger John Roberts had just returned to the yard, he was almost living in the truck in those days, and he volunteered to come and rescue, if not me, at least the load of Perkins engines and the trailer. He would leave Birmingham before 9 pm and would get to Dover in the early hours.
John who is a well respected ex middle eastern driver drove almost non stop, or I believe he did because by Tuesday evening he was coupled up to my trailer and as an afterthough, asked if I wanted to come along for the ride. I hardly had a choice, did I?
Monday had been spent with the foreman on the phone to Budapest, and payment for recovery and the nuns hotel was settled by them, on account of course. The wordhad got round from variuos drivers that there was a brit stuck in the RABA garage and I got several food parcels and Cigs during the monday and tuesday. I was even famous for 15 minutes with the Hungarian drivers coming to look at my engine. The border crossing I was planning to use was Nadilac which is to the south, most of the trucks in those days were using Varsand but this was my favourite route.
We were on our way and with 2 drivers in a 111 cab with our worldly goods there isnt a lot of room. a couple of hours later saw us through the Romanian border to run down the Eastern side, every driver had his favourite routes, and mine would have been through Ruse into Bulgaria. John preferred using the Calafat ferry so after some discussion we decided that I was along for the ride, he was now in charge. the next thing that happened after stopping for some meat and bread was the clutch was playing up with the Scania. as always you have to fend for yourself and we discovered a leaking pipe to the slave cylinder. soon after we managed to repair the leaking pipe with a couple of copper washers, but we had no brake fluid. John disappeared on foot and within half an hour he was back in a Dacia car driven by one of the locals. In Romania they have absolutely nothing, except John had managed to find someone with a car and a gallon of brake fluid. It could have been olive oil, but it worked and we were soon on our way again.
Remember the height and weight limits? In Hungary there is a 10tonne axle limit and in Romania there is a strict 4.0 height limit which is only variable by paying vast amounts of money to someone. I had loaded my trailer with my 3 axle tractor, John had appeared in a 2 axle unit on leaf springs. He was too heavy for Hungary and overheight for Romania, but here we were heading south. There are two well used crossings of the Danube here, the Calafat ferry into Bulgaria or the Dam across into Serbia. we had heard that due to a lack of water in the river the ferry was not running or that the ramp was too steep to board the ferry!
We opted for the Dam but the problem with our then overheight trailer was discovered, after a lot of arguments and shouting from the romanians, we had 3 choices, Go to Ruse, where there was a low canopy, no good, use the ferry or go back to Hungary, either of these solutions would have cost more money than we both had with us, Hungary would weigh the axle as we entered the border and charge us more money, it was in the wrong direction anyway, We had to opt for the cheapest easiest option, which saw John being whisked off into a private room and being relieved of some money in exchange for our passports.
We then had to drive over the Dam into Yugoslavia and then cross back into Bulgaria if we had any chance of delivering these engines to BMC. Eventually we were on our way again and decided that the last 2 days had taken their toll on JR and we needed a decent meal and a good sleep before the next days drive across Bulgaria and to the border with Turkey at Kapikule.
We found a brilliant little restaurant bar in a nice village, this was before any of the fighting between Serbs and Muslims etc. the people were very friendly and we managed to have a laugh over a few beers and beef steak.
So the next morning bright eyed and bushy tailed we set off and made it into Bulgaria where we met the main route for drivers who had come the long way round in Yugo and we stopped for a coffee and some breakfast with 3 or 4 other British drivers. swapping tales takes ages and we had lunch there too, in the afternoon we then all left and within about an hour another disaster. as we turned around a corner on the TIR route,there was a lady pushing a pram, suddenly in slow motion a wheel with a tyre passed us, followed by another, we had stopped as a scania with 2 wheels missing soon comes to a halt. Incredibly these wheels bounced and went away from the lady and child, the strain of the heavy trailer had been too much for this fairly tired old 111.
The lady was comforted and sent on her way after a few kind words and a few spare Deutschemarks and we set about jacking the truck up and trying to fix the wheel studs. one of the british drivers was running a 112 with a tag axle so we nicked a couple of wheel studs from each side, and managed to nick a couple from our other hub to fit the wheels back on. Tony who was driving the Scania suggested swapping trailers, at least until the border as he was only running light.
Before the turkish border we swapped the trailers back as the TIR Carnets were made out and any invoices with one number change was bad enough, trying to get through Turkish customs with the wrong paperwork was just silly. Kapikule or Kapik could take anything from 5 hours to 5 days to cross depending on the attitude of the driver, the chef, the staff and the amount of Marlboro baksheesh you gave as presents. I hated giving bribes unless it was absolutely neccessary, john was in the same mind, and without much problem we were through the border in about 4 hours along with our new found friends.
That evening was spent at the border hotel which is also called Londra Kamping and we met a few drivers going home, some who were still there after cancelling a day. some needed spare parts, some needed a mechanic, most just needed money.
In the morning we made our way down into Istanbul, parking at Oktay which had a bar /restaurant, showers, truckshop and mechanics working there, Even Oktay makes our truckstops and service areas look as inadequate as they are. John arranged to have a towing hitch made for the trailer and a tow bar made up for the return leg when we would collect my truck from Hungary. He had the wheel studs replaced and he also helped Tony repair his truck where he had broken some small studs in the lift axle pulling my loaded trailer with the tag up. Normally I would have taken a taxi to the agent and started the customs clearance, instead as BMC had their own customs we could just drive their after having our carnet checked by the agent who came to the truckstop to meet us.
After tipping the trailer the next day we returned to Oktay and had a couple of days on the beer before heading back to Hungary with our tow bar. We had a guaranteed load which was very light, actually light bulbs for Ring Lamp in Gildersome. This time we returned through Bulgaria, Yugoslavia and into Hungary after stopping in the Hotel National in Belgrade, a famous stopping place for middle east trucks.
The reload was about 250 km from where my truck had expired so we decided to drop the trailer at the factory and go and recover the Daf unit and park it at our agents in Budapest before reloading. on the high speed ride towards budapest with me in my own truck for the first time in over a week, I was not in control and could only follow JR. on the way into Budapest the bar John had got made decided that it had had enough and broke in two, the final 2 or 3 miles being towed on a chain with no brakes.
John went to reload and I stayed with my truck as we were begining to hate the sight and smell of one another. I stayed in the agents office and she managed to sort me out with a proper tow bar, the kind you see fitted to all Belgian trucks. John came back and as we had been apart for a day, everything was fine again.
The next 4 days were horrendous, I was on a bar within 6 feet of the rear of my own trailer, no heater when it was cold, no cooling when it was hot. I had to stop when John stopped or if I could attract his attention as we went round a corner, he checked to see if i was still there.
We drove back through Hungary, the Czech Republik and Eastern Germany before hitting civilisation in the West, we never had any problems at all except stiff aching arms with no power steering and one awkward Polizei man who decided we were illegal with our push me pull you type of truck. This was within 3 km of the Dutch border at Heerlen (Aachen) and he asked how far we had travelled like that. John said from Hungary and he replied that maybe we had enough problems without giving us a fine. 
I last saw JR as he dropped my unit and me off at North Sea Ferries in Zeebrugge for its last journey home to Hull, He went P & O Dover and delivered the load for me, and I had to pay his wages and fuel bill to his boss, everyone was almost happy.
My DAF was back on the road within 6 weeks as I managed to borrow an engine from a mate who owed me 1000 quid, the block was porous though, and I could not keep water in the engine. I scrapped the truck and sold it for bits and pieces although most of it went to rebuild a pals truck who had had an accident. 
After sending bits of my old engine away for analysis, it was decided that DAF were not at fault and the poor quality fuel I had been using caused the problems. The fuel had probably got too much paraffin in it which has less lubrication, It detonates with a bigger bang and actually split the conrod from the little end right down the oilway. It then split like a banana skin. unfortunate, yes, unavoidable, not really, who knows what quality cheap diesel has, and a risk anyone buying fuel from strangers at the road side had to put up with :[/url]
It was that nice Mr Wilson 
mm
it would be “Am I gettin’ art ?” endlessly untill some other idiot replied “Yeah, Yours gettin art”