Great stories well told Chris. keep them coming!
Thanks for the compliment, Jazzandy. I must admit i got the idea of posting some stories after reading all the good stuff you have written about when you started. Thanks for the inspiration.
FIRST TRIP TO TURKEY. [Part 2]
Izmit was on the eastern side of the Bosphorus, about two hours’ drive from the Londra Camp, but on Friday morning, we could not leave until 10.00 o’clock. This was because of the rush hour restrictions on the Bosphorus bridge, where the toll doubled before 10.00 in the morning. This was not much of a deterrent for a car, but for a four axle truck, it was an extra £90.00. It was good for me that Rob had arrived a day earlier, as it was normal to loose a day while you went to tell your agent to arrange for Customs’ clearance: as it was Friday, I would not have tipped until the Monday. We were both back at the Londra Camp before dark, after having unloaded the diesel engines at a truck building plant, right beside the main Istanbul-to-Ankara highway. As I sat waiting at the Customs at Izmit, I saw John Bruce go by, on his way to Muscat. I don’t think he knew how much easier had had made my job: I could not thank him enough. Hamish and Chris Wood were still at the Londra Camp when Rob and I returned. They had been to see their agents and would tip on Monday.
“You got a result there alright! A good job well done: let’s go on the p**s,” said Hamish as soon as we got back.
In the restaurant bar at the campsite, Hamish recommended the chicken — it was the only thing he recognised.
“That other stuff probably won’t do you any harm, but if you found out what it was — the you would be ill,” suggested Hamish.
Everybody drank Efes Pilsen, the local strong lager. Rob and I sat with Hamish and Chris at a table in the middle of the dining room, soon to be joined by other British drivers. A new Zealand couple also came to sit with us and listen to Hamish recount some of his road stories. The New Zealanders were studying music and the guy had with him a soprano saxophone. We cajoled him to play something and when his girlfriend brought out a small bongo drum, to beat a steady rhythm, the Kiwi blew an amazing set of ethnic Turkish tunes. A lot of the drivers there that night were Kurds from eastern Turkey, Iran and Iraq; they began chanting, dancing and clapping — they appreciated the New Zealander’s talent even more than we did. A whole stream of Efes bottles were sent over to our table and shared amongst us all.
We sat drinking away into the night and I was just thinking what a great job it was when Hamish came out with a chilling statement that stunned us all:
“We’ve got big trouble. Nobody leave the table. Stay exactly where you are,” he said soberly.
“What on earth do you mean?” we all chorused.
“Don’t look now, but we are surrounded: there’s one Turk at every table; earlier they were all drinking together — now they’re waiting for us,” continued Hamish.
Hamish was right. We were the only table of drinkers left in the room: there were two waiters standing behind the bar, waiting to close up, and the only other people present were the seven Turks, each one seated at a different table.
“What do they want with us?” asked Chris Wood, “nobody has upset them, have they?”
“I don’t think so. The way I see it, they see five men with one women, laughing, joking, having a good time. They reckon those five blokes are going to take turns with that woman and if they can take that woman away from those men — then they can take turns with her,” stated Hamish.
“Oh, thanks a lot, Hamish,” said the New Zealand girl, “that says a lot for me.”
“Well, it’s a different culture out here,” went on Hamish, “you just don’t see Turkish girls out for a drink with the lads. Most Turks only see western women on TV, in films or in magazines. It’s all glamour and ■■■. They think they’re easy.”
“Are you sure about this, Hamish? What are we going to do?” asked Rob Bulmer.
“Not 100% sure, no; but I bet at least half of them are carrying knives. I, for one, am not going to do anything, and I don’t want any of you to do anything either. We’re out numbered and ■■■■■■ and I don’t fancy a-beating. We’ll sit it out,” suggested Hamish.
“What if they make a move?” I asked, looking round for a suitable weapon.
“No. They won’t start anything in here. It’ll be outside, or in the bogs. If you want a leak, you’ll just have to ■■■■ yourselves,” concluded Hamish.
The stand-off lasted till dawn, when the Turks finally gave up and trooped out to their cars. The waiters looked as relieved as we all were. All in all, I thought Hamish had got it right. It was a valuable lesson about getting drunk and dropping your guard in a foreign country. Rob Bulmer and I decided to have a rest day on the Saturday, in order to catch up on our sleep, after sitting up all night.
While we were sleeping, a telex arrived with out re-load details. Two loads of marble floor tiles for the new Waitrose supermarket in Harpenden, to be collected from Mezdra in Bulgaria. It was a shame Rob and I would not be able to run back to the UK together, but at least we could help each other find the pick-up point. After making sure we were not the last customers left in the bar on Saturday night, we left the Londra Camp early on Sunday morning.
The road heading west through Edirne and on to the Turkish-Bulgarian border, which was practically deserted of traffic. There was a charge for crossing on a Sunday, which put most people off. Rob and I debated the pros and cons of paying the surcharge versus the probable Monday morning rush. We thought it would be easier to go through on a peaceful Sunday. The fact that we were empty also helped and we were soon on our way across Bulgaria.
Mezdra was in the north-west of the country. It looked like the best way to get there, would be to head for Sofia and then, just before the capital, leave the main east-west transit track, in order to head north. It all went to plan, until the turn-off to Mezdra: from there, the signposts were only written in Cyrillic script, and with no road numbers to follow, we were helpless. To make matters worse, it was pouring down with rain, which meant there was no one around to ask directions. Suddenly I remembered the old AA Road Book of Europe that my Father had given me when I first passed my HGV test. It was not new then, and I never used it, as the small scale on small pages made it difficult to use as a route planner. However, the book did have a section in the front with facts about each country. Luckily, under Bulgaria, there was a chart showing the Cyrillic alphabet, along side the Roman letters. Rob and I had a cup of tea, as we worked out the names of the towns in the area. Afterwards, I stuck up a sheet of paper on the dashboard, with the translation of Mezdra written on it in large letters, before we carried on in the unrelenting rain.
Mezdra was in mountainous country, as you would expect for a marble quarrying area. The road twisted alongside a swollen river, in a steep, wooded valley. Narrow tunnels and even narrower bridges made us think that, maybe, we were going the wrong way, but with no where to turn round, we had no option but to carry on. Eventually, we came to Mezdra, at around midnight. It was still raining, so with nobody about, we parked in a lay-by at the edge of town. In the morning, Rob and I were delighted to find that we were parked in the holding area for trucks waiting to load at the marble factory.
Rob loaded first, in a factory where women seemed to have equal status to men. The wooden crates of marble tiles were swung onto the trailer by a female crane driver, who handled her machinery as well as any man. After the load was complete, the forewoman asked us to join her for lunch in the works canteen. For starters, there was a pink soup that tasted awful, although the bread roll was okay; the main course was mashed potato, greens and a boiled pig’s trotter that had no meat on it. Rob and I did not want to appear ungrateful, but here was no way we could eat our meat. The locals devoured their trotters with relish. If asked, we agreed to plead ‘vegetarian’, but managed to slip away unnoticed before dessert. Back at the lorries, we opened some tins and had a proper meal, before Rob set off, back to England.
The carpenters at the factory were still making the crates for my marble tiles, so I had to wait until the next day to be loaded. I left, just before lunchtime on the Tuesday, so I did not have to decline an invitation to dine. When I got going, I found the marble was much heavier than the load of diesels I had brought down across Europe. The Mercedes V8 struggled all the way back to Zeebrugge. The engine started first time, every time, never missed a beat and was ultra reliable — it just did not have enough horsepower. The 12 speed gearbox had a cog for every occasion — the only problem was that my gears were a lot lower than all the other lorries. It was Sunday morning before I arrived in Dover, where I spent most of the day waiting at the Eastern Docks for Customs’ clearance. I ran up to Harpenden in the evening, ready to deliver the tiles at the supermarket on the Monday. Rob Borgman turned up with his load, just as I was leaving. He had come through Dover on the Saturday morning and had gone home for the weekend.
Love your stories. Gripping and well written. You’re so right about the culture clash. So many drivers did not appreciate the nuances which could mean the difference between a friendship and an insult!
Many of us did travel with hitchhikers and especially in Eastern Turkey and Iran you had to pretend they were wives which actually was not so bad come to think of it!
Found this sorry looking K100 in a June 1985 edition of T&D.
Was this rollover the one mentioned on another thread on here.
I have looked but cannot find it.
Here`s a few from my recent trips
Great tales of ‘derring do’ there Chris and some good pic’s as well 
The recent scribbling’s from yourself & jazzandy are what this forum is about and for me you have both brought a breath of fresh air to it 
Great stuff guys 
More of the same please
Thanks & Regards
Dave Penn;
davepenn54:
Great tales of ‘derring do’ there Chris and some good pic’s as well
Great stuff guysThanks & Regards
Dave Penn;
+1
FIRST TURKEY TRIP ON MY OWN. [Part 1 ]
It was mid-December when I went to see Fred Archer in his office over at Ipswich. He sat behind his desk in a high-backed swivel chair; he was leaning back, scratching his balls and still wearing the same old dirty Mercedes Trucks driving jacket.
“Hello boy, do you want a turkey for Christmas?” he asked before I said a word. 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.
Archie 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.
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 Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria and Turkey; 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, 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 Rumania. 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. We had a chat about Erica, but once again it seemed to be her night off.
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 ■■■■■■■■ had shown me, earlier that year. I crossed out of Hungary and into Rumania 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 Rumania, 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.
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 Rumanian, 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 knacked 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 Rumanian 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.
Thankfully she recognised how tired I was and when we made love, Martina insisted on going on top; probably worried I would fall asleep on top of her if the positions were reversed.
“You give me dollars?” asked Martina, as she got dressed.
It saved her from my marks out of ten line, but on that night’s performance I would have given her an eleven. For myself, I scored a poor two out of ten, although Martina saw it differently.
“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.
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 Rumania 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 passed. 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 pi**ed 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.
Excellent story once again well told Chris. I’m thoroughly enjoying it!
FIRST TRIP TO TURKEY ON MY OWN. [Part 2]
My luck changed in the morning when two British lorries came through from Bulgaria. John Mansfield in his Volvo 88 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 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, arriving just after sunset on the shortest day.
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 passed 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 Rumania, 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 Rumania. 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 Gavin. 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 carpark, 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.
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 Rumania. 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 Rumania 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 Rumanian 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 Rumania. 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 puling 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.
You should write a book Chris 
Post a link to your blog too, it’s a ■■■■ good read
Great stuff. Keep at it. It’s important to get these memories written down before the Alzheimer’s clicks in!
You nutted a Ruski? -give that man a medal!
& give Chris his own thread.
I have no idea why anyone wants photos of old American cabovers ? they havn’t changed, they still run them and even the modernish ones are just as outdated and crappy.
Pat Hasler:
I have no idea why anyone wants photos of old American cabovers ? they havn’t changed, they still run them and even the modernish ones are just as outdated and crappy.
Best not to read this thread then really Pat, get your sen back over to your own forum
I like all these cabovers, keep em coming please…
