FIRST TRIP TO TURKEY ON MY OWN. [ part 3 ].
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 Rumanian 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 in one of the fields. 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.
It was the first time I had ever worked on Christmas day, for the distance travelled and the trouble we had it was hardly worth it, especially as 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 spray 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 Rumanian 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 Rumanian 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 7.00.
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 Rumanian 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 Rumanian 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 Rumanian 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.
