A TRIP TO ANKARA. [ Part 1 ]
I nonchalantly walked into Fred Archer’s porta-cabin office one mid-week morning in October. Fred was on the ‘phone, so I sat and waited while a conversation about the late delivery of a load to Romania took place. After every excuse you could imagine and a few highly improbable scenarios had been given to the irate customer, Fred put the telephone down and turned to me.
“That f**king Roland’s screwing some Rumo bird; he’s been gone nearly a month and still hasn’t got to Bucharest. When you go through Romania keep an eye out for him and if you see him, tell him to stop ■■■■■■■ about and get his arse into gear ‘cos the customers not very happy” said Fred, before I could even say hello.
“Yeah, and take that X reg Merc that’s standing in the yard. Go up to London and load for Istanbul and Ankara. The old left-■■■■■■ will be back tonight and you can take that,” said Fred, who liked to keep his planning fluid and open to improvement.
The prospect of going to Ankara was a bonus for I had never been that far before. That afternoon, I loaded the trailer at the groupage warehouse in east London’s old docklands, making sure the Istanbul was on the back and the Ankara goods at the front. When I returned to Ipswich, the left-hand drive Mercedes six wheel unit that I had driven during the previous winter was waiting to hitch up to the loaded trailer. The paperwork, carnets, permits and running money was ready in the office. After a quick trip up to Sainsburys in the van to get supplies, I left to catch the midnight ferry to Zeebrugge with some choice words of advice from Archie ringing in my ears.
“And I don’t want to find out you’ve got some commie block flousie tucked away somewhere!” shouted the haulier as I pulled out onto the road.
“Me? And a commie block flousie, never,” I replied as I wound up the window, “she’s from Karlsruhe,” I continued after it was closed.
Sometimes I wondered why Fred bothered with all the hassle of international transport operations. Sure, he had made good money in the early days of the Middle-East overland route, but by now the rates had been cut right back and there was little chance of money up front; also there was a good chance that your customer would go bankrupt before you were paid. Even with a good driver, who knew what he was doing, there were occasions when he would take a few days off, en route, in order to visit girlfriends, or simply just sit on the beach at Kavala. With a bad driver, or one who was unlucky, it was a good result if the trip did not show a loss. All too often, breakdowns, accidents, drivers getting robbed or drivers robbing the company made the whole enterprise financially pointless.
Fred Archer had been in business for about 15 years, so had a lot of contacts; there was a never-ending stream of loads to and from eastern Europe coming through on the telex machine. Easily enough work for 16 lorries, if suitable drivers could be found. On average, Fred had a turnover of about 80 drivers per year. Some men came just to do one Middle East trip, before leaving after they had seen what it was like. A few drivers stayed while ,some like myself, came, went and then came back again. Most discontentment was about the money — the pay was poor; almost any reputable company was paying its drivers more for doing UK work than Archers paid for international trips. Fred had also found out early in his management days that whatever running money he gave a driver, it would always be spent. Therefore, the cash to buy diesel, pay tolls, buy visas and anything else was cut to a minimum. The amount was based on what Fred spent when he did the job as a driver many years before. You had to feel sorry for the boss - most of the drivers were fiddling their expenses, also there had been incidences of drivers abandoning their trucks when the going got tough. One of the worst occasions, when Fred got ripped off, was when a new driver, with plenty of Middle-East experience, was all set to leave the yard on his first trip for the firm. The ferry was booked, the lorry was fuelled up and ready to go. The driver told Fred that he was just going to pop down to the supermarket to get some food, but was never seen again. Neither was the 1500 Deutschmarks running money that the driver had signed for, five minutes earlier.
There were two reasons why I could justify calling in to see Eva on my way through Germany. The weekend curfew on trucks was one excuse; while the other explanation was that I could go through Luxembourg and fill the trailer’s belly tank with cheap diesel. Importing a load of fuel into Germany was strictly against the law — the authorities at the border town of Remich were very alert to the advantages that this route gave to drivers. In an effort to fool the Customs, I had left the tanks on the unit half full; on the trailer tank, I had forced a wine bottle cork up the outlet pipe so that when the tap was turned on, nothing came out. If I got caught, I would have to pay the duty on the diesel plus a fine for trying it on. Luckily, I was raining hard when I reached the border. The normally efficient and conscientious officials did not even come out to check the tanks. I kept my cool and showing I had nothing to hide, I casually telephoned Eva from the Customs office pay phone. My German girlfriend was pleased to hear form me. We arranged to meet at the fairground parking area at Karlsruhe. Late on the Friday afternoon, when I reached Karlsruhe, I found I was not the only one staying at Eva’s house for the first time. Eva and her mother picked me up on the way over to the local dogs’ home, where they had arranged to take on a rescued pet. At the kennels, Anna asked me to stay in the car while the mother and daughter went in to collect the animal. I soon found out why. The dog that Eva’s family were giving a home to was the biggest St Bernard I had ever seen. A fully-grown, two year old, without an ounce of fat, but with severe behavioural problems. His name was Titan and he would attack any other dog he came across, also the dog would go for any man who was not sitting down. Titan did not attack women or children, but did not take a blind bit of notice of anybody’s commands. Due to his strength and size, the St Bernard did exactly what he wanted.
All this became apparent during the car journey to Eva’s home, as she struggled to keep the dog from invading the front seats as her mother drove. At the house, I briefly met Erland, Eva’s younger brother, before he disappeared into his bedroom, never to be seen again. The lad was dead scared of the massive brute and I could not blame him. But I had been brought up with dogs, which made me think that I had the ability to get on with them. Titan just needed to be shown who was the master, then given affection — thereby earning his trust, while making him obedient. It was easier said than done.
I told Eva and Anna that I could not stay glued to my chair all weekend. I thought that if I confronted the dog, then we might become friends. The mother and daughter were not in favour of my idea, as they did not want blood on the carpet, but they did not have a chance to stop the fight because when I stood up the dog just came for me. Titan missed my forearm with his mouth, which enabled me to catch the dog in a headlock as he leapt passed me. I wrestled the mountain of dog flesh down onto the hearthrug, while aiming same well aimed punches to his muzzle - blows that I hoped went unseen by Eva and Anna. During the fight, I uttered such phrases as “Ah, he’s only playing” and “I think he likes a bit of rough and tumble” but in truth, I was fighting for my life as the brute thudded his huge feet with their sharp claws into my body and attempted to get his jaws around any part of me that he could. The dog was only subdued when I lay across his legs with the headlock still in place. Slowly, I began to tickle Titan behind the ears and on the chest, while speaking to him softly, but when I released my hold and stood up, the dog came for me again. It took three more pinfalls, before my supremacy was acknowledged, after which, the dog never gave me any more trouble.
Eva’s mother was so full of admiration for what I had done that she encouraged her son to make friends with the dog, but Erland was not willing to chance it. Eva thought that I had just been showing off, which led me to believe that her mother had not told her just what a problem they had on their hands. Whether it was a token of her appreciation for what I had done with the dog, or just modern German hospitality, Anna insisted that Eva and I have the double bed in her room, while she slept in Eva’s single. As a bit of fun, Eva pretended to be Titan, as we re-enacted the earlier dogfight between the sheets.
Prior to meeting Titan, I thought all St Bernards were mild-mannered giants, typified by HG, the dog in the sit-com with the old man and his two good-looking daughters. Like everyone else, I knew the stories of barrels of brandy and heroic rescues on blizzard torn mountains. Bernadinas, as they were known in German, had a good reputation, but when you did come across a rogue dog, it was more dangerous than any Rottweiler. Anna, Eva and I took Titan out in the car on Saturday afternoon, so that Erland could come out of his bedroom for a couple of hours. The three of us drove to some woods where we walked the dog with no problem at all, mainly because we did not meet anyone. On Sunday, Anna had arranged for a tutor to visit the house in order to give her daughter a private maths lesson; Eva had missed a lot of schooling when her parents split up and was well behind in her studies. To stop the dog mauling the teacher, I offered to take Titan out for a walk by myself.
A super-model in a miniskirt would not have turned more heads than the St Bernard did when I walked him through the town. Luckily for the local population, everybody was travelling in their motorcars. When I glimpsed our reflection in a shop window, I thought how Titan made me look small, he was the only dog I ever walked where the lead went upwards from my hands to his head, it was more like leading a pony. Understanding German was not one of my strong points, but on that afternoon I learned to lip read the German for “Gosh, look at the size of that dog.”
Everything went well until we reached the woods, where Titan took off in pursuit of a squirrel. His charge caught me by surprise and nearly dislocated my shoulder, but I just managed to stay on my feet until we reached the tree that was giving refuge to the small furry mammal. After that, I made sure that I was the first to see any living creature that we came upon. This enabled me to either prepare myself for the tug of war, or in the case of somebody with another dog, drag Titan off the pathway and into the trees. Since our Friday night battle, Titan had not made one attempt to harm me, but nothing I tried would stop the beast from attacking anything that was not a female human being. As I sat on a park bench in the woods, Titan put his massive head on my lap, while I tickled him behind the ears. It pained me to think of what might happen to the magnificent animal and how sooner or later his spirit would be broken by a boot or a stick.
At my request, Anna gave me a lift back to the lorry that evening. I wanted to get going at 5.00 o’clock on the Monday morning, so I thought it would be easier for the family if I slept in my cab. Eva came along to say goodbye.
“Will you come and see us on your way home?” asked Eva, as we kissed beside the lorry.
“It depends on what time I have,” I replied, “but I will phone you when I get back to Germany, one way or the other.”
“OK. Titan and I will miss you, auf weidersein,” said Eva tenderly.
“I’ll miss you two, auf weidersein pets,” I said with a smile.
When I left Karlsruhe in the morning, I had two options open to me: one was to go flat out and try to tip in Istanbul on the Friday; the other was to take it easy, arriving at the Londra Camp during the weekend. I chose the second alternative and, typically, when you are not in a hurry, things went well, with no serious delays. With only ten tonnes in the trailer, the Mercedes trundled into Istanbul on the Friday afternoon, which gave me my second consecutive work-free weekend. However, I had forgotten that it would take all of the Monday for my agent to process the Customs’ paperwork, so I was not unloaded until Tuesday afternoon. The goods were taken off at a warehouse, down by the waterside. For the first time ever, it had not been necessary to go across to eastern Istanbul for unloading, but it saved me nothing, as I still had to pay the £90 toll for the Bosporus bridge in order to get to Ankara
East of Izmit was all new territory for me. The main part of Turkey was not even on any of my maps as they all finished at Istanbul. To help myself, I had spent a lot of the weekend, casually picking the brains of other British drivers at the Londra Camp. They reckoned that I did not need a map as Ankara was on all the signposts; I was told of the whereabouts of all the police checkpoints; where I would have to stop, in order to have my TIR transit card stamped. Most of my helpful colleagues’ advice also came with cautionary tales of a hill they called “Bolu” which proceeded the ominously sounding descent named “Death Valley”. I was encouraged to learn that with only a part-load left on the trailer, weighing four tonnes, I should not have any problems going up or coming down.
It was a full day’s drive across to Ankara, after I left Istanbul. The speed limit was 70 kilometres per hour, with plenty of slow and over-loaded local trucks to pass. These Turkish made six wheel rigids were nicknamed “Tonkas” by the Brits; they were built to carry 15 tonnes, but frequently carried more than 20, with their eight metre long loads piled as high as possible, with every cargo imaginable. The brightly painted cabs were decorated with an abundance of second-rate sign writing which contrasted greatly with the plumes of black smoke coming from the unsilenced exhausts. The Tonkas’ incessant droning was only interrupted when an over-loaded tyre would explode with an almighty bang.
Just after the police checkpoint at the lorry park, owned by SOMAT, the Bulgarian state transport company, I came to the hill they called “Bolu”. The road snaked back and forth across the rising ground with a succession of blind summits that made me think I would never reach the top. Several Tonkas expired in their attempt at the long climb; some had overheated, while two others seems to have broken the half-shafts in their back axles as weight and gravity won the battle against the internal combustion engine. Not that coming down was any easier. A runaway Tonka had flipped over on the last bend of it’s descent, broadcasting sacks of corn into an adjacent field; while two others that I passed when I was close to the top seemed to be going downhill much too fast for the conditions. The worried look on the drivers’ faces appeared to confirm it.
On the brief flat area at the summit, most of the Tonkas pulled over to let their engines idle, so that some of the excess heat could be dissipated, before they dropped down into “Death Valley”. The road that descended into the valley was totally different from that of the climb as it was cut into the side of a steep gorge, with a rock face on one side and the drop into a dried up riverbed on the other. The hill they called “Bolu” was on relatively smooth terrain, with spectacular views across open countryside. The gorge road never let you see more than 200 metres ahead before it disappeared around another blind bend. Also, it was difficult to concentrate on the driving when your eyes were continually drawn to the shattered wrecks of cars and trucks that littered the arid canyon floor, in various stages of rusted deterioration. “Whatever gear you go up a hill, is the gear to come down that hill” is an old transport industry saying that certainly rang true concerning the descent of “Death Valley”. The vee-eight Mercedes hardly needed more than a dab on the foot brake to slow it into the bends. The braking effect of the 15 litre engine, plus the closed exhaust manifold valve, held the rig adequately in check as I anticipated the gradient to flatten out long before it did.
and are you sure that the girl from Arad was not called Carmen who told me that she was a Romania gymnast 
, having checked out her credentials I was pleased to give her 6-6, 6-6, 6-6.
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