Teheran and Back
The Heat of the Midday Sun
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The roughness of the road, the brilliance of the sunshine falling directly into my eyes and a general tiredness combined to make my progress down the hill slower than it might be. I was entering the sleepy village when, from behind a rock and a shrub, a policeman stepped into view and held up his hand.
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'Shpeeding' he said as he stepped towards the window.
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He was heavy and handsome in a threatening sort of way. I reckon he was 18 stone, well above 6ft and smartly dressed. His white cap could have looked at home in a military parade or on the head of a skipper at Cowes.
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'Papers chef' was his next utterance.
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Now I'd become accustomed to being called 'Drive', as most HGV drivers are called in the UK. Abroad they may be referred to as chauffeurs which sounds a bit grand, so this is usually shortened to 'Chef' or 'Chief.' Being alone in the cab I could hardly be a Chief with no Indians aboard.
Nevertheless I felt moved to acquiesce as he had a gun in the white leather holster strapped to his beer belly. I produced a driving licence and some vehicle documents which he scrutinised momentarily before starting to write out a speeding ticket. Then he stopped and decided to negotiate.
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I was in an impoverished area in the south east corner of Bulgaria, far from the capital. It seemed the pay and prospects of a police officer in that region and in those days was limited. There were no riots to quell and little chance of overtime. Their best bet was to stop foreigners and provide a total package (arrest, adjudication, fine and bailiff service) at the roadside and with the least inconvenience to all concerned. But I had no Bulgarian money and the hard currency I was carrying was needed for more important things like fuel. So far we'd exchanged only three words and I was pretty sure the way to his heart would be through a card trick.
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I brought out a rather grubby pack of 52 playing cards and did a mightily impressive riffle shuffle. When I slid out the Ace of Spades from the middle he took the entire pack, examined it to see the cards were randomly arranged, and pocketed the lot. It was then that I realised the cards themselves were more interesting than the trick.
A brief pause, then: 'Inshamatik.'
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The Kodak Instamatic camera was all the rage in the UK in the '70s and he lusted after one, which I didn't have. So out came the speeding ticket again, and when I noticed that he licked the tip of his pencil I knew then that he must have been Hendon trained. We negotiated in sign language and it was mutually agreed I should bring him one next time I came by. That was in 1976 and I am unlikely to go back now.
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I was driving a Volvo F89. That is a huge 48ft long left-hooker juggernaut carrying 32 tonnes of machinery. You may ask why?
Boy Scouting Expedition
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An enterprising Cardiff haulage company concentrated on the Middle East market and bought trucks suitable for long distance haulage. They had sleeper cabs and were left hand drive. The firm had plenty of work and a disparate set of drivers who never met. You can imagine the journey to a Middle Eastern country takes at least a fortnight each way. So with ten trucks, each loading and leaving on different days, it was most unlikely drivers would get together. He rang me.
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'I've got a possible job for you Naunton. Could you look in?'
I went down that afternoon
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'Hi Keith. What can I do for you?'
'Is it true you have a valid driving licence for a juggernaut?
'Yep'
'How'd you fancy driving to Tehran and back on your own?'
This of course was quite appealing. It is a bit of a boy-scouting enterprise to be told to find your way to Tehran in a 32 tonne truck.
'I will want you to do this incognito, or at least without my people knowing why you're there'
'Why the secrecy?'
'Well I suspect they are probably fiddling expenses and not running the journey as efficiently as they might, so I need a man with a head for figures who'll do a real trip and cost it exactly keeping precise records.'
'When?' I asked.
'How long will it take you to grow a beard and find a woolly-pulley so you look more like a proper lorry driver?'
Carnets and Permits
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It was necessary to let two people in the head office know where I was going, but not the special purpose. One was the office secretary Glenys. She typed the carnets and applied for the permits to pass through various countries. Prior to the EEC a Carnet de Passage is a document that allowed you to cross international borders with a loaded vehicle and avoid paying import/export charges. It is basically a promise that you will take the vehicle and its load out of the country when you leave, or risk hefty penalties.
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In the 1970s no one liked the juggernaut and some countries who had invested in high cost motorways banned the heavy haulage industry from routing trucks through their country. A scheme existed in Europe pre-Brexit that enabled haulage companies to obtain a limited ration of permits and these were, to a certain extent, traded between nations. The Belgians may give an allocation to the Dutch provided the Dutch allowed Belgian trucks through Holland. This seemed fair, but the snag was very few countries wanted to pass through the UK as the only other country at the other end was Eire. So we were starved of permits to go through the countries with the best roads. You can imagine, the Swiss had paid a lot of money to cut tunnels and build elevated sections of motorways to cross their nation and would not allocate many permits to the British transport industry. The Austrians felt likewise, as their investment in the motorway infrastructure was high compared with France where everything is relatively flat.
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Germany had their own solution and would not permit North-South journeys; they insisted trucks should be transported by rail. For this purpose there was a range of trailers with chamfered top corners. These were slightly lower than regular trailers but could carry the same weight and when driven onto the flat-bed railway trucks they'd fit through all the tunnels. Our Cardiff company had neither trailers like this nor permits so had to find an alternative route to the Middle East.
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In the circumstances the best route was go round Germany. I was surprised that the company didn't issue drivers with maps. The office secretary simply provided a list of border crossings that were known to be passable. This is where the Carnet comes into the story. There was neither the European Union nor the European Economic Community to bind all countries together.
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I offered to type the Carnet and it proved more educational than my entire O level Geography. The first snag in those days was that a Carnet had 30 pages and 29 sheets of carbon paper. The idea was that you declared the contents of the load you were carrying and page one would declare (as you left Dover and entered Calais) that those items were duly imported into France. Then as you crossed from France into Belgium, carbon copy two was deposited with the Belgian authorities and this showed you had taken the goods out of France intact. At Aachen as you left Belgium and entered Germany, page three was lodged with the Germans.
At each border you had to be plumbed. This involved a Customs Officer checking the load was intact and the seal (made of lead, hence the word plumb) from the previous country was in place. They would add their seal and as you exited Germany into Czechoslovakia, provided the lead seal was intact it was accepted that none of the load had been imported in the country you were leaving. If the seal was disturbed it was assumed you owed import duty on the load. Even in those days my load was worth £70,000 and the import duty could have been 25% or more. So it was important to protect the documentation and the integrity of that little blob of lead that formed the seal.
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It took all morning to type the Carnet. The borders were Dover, Calais, Aachen, Waidhaus, Komaro, Komarom, Kalotina, Edirne, Bazagan and finally Tehran. If you mistyped a name, you were in opposition to the Customs official who was anxious to prevent 32 tonnes of trucks wearing out his roads. So once you've retyped the 27 pages a few times, you find the spellings of these obscure border towns firmly etched in your memory. Needless to say, those on opposite sides of a border in a Communist country might not accept the spelling of their town name in the language of the opposing side, so Komaro and Komarom, describe a small town of 10,000 people bordering Czechoslovakia and Hungary.
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As soon as I'd passed the typing test I was introduced to Tom. He was a quiet spoken and highly experienced mechanic who made sure the trucks passed their 'plating.' This is a sort of MOT. Valid certification proves not only road-worthiness, but vehicle identification when in other countries. As documentation is the lifeblood of the civil service in every country he went through the truck's document pack with me to make sure I could indeed take both the front half and the trailer to Tehran.
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Finding the Trailer
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Tom told me I had Ginger's truck. It was brand new, having done only one journey. It had only 10,000 miles on the clock from a single trip to Saudi Arabia.
'I've filled her with enough fuel to get you to the Shell station just inside the German border' said Tom.
At this stage, all I had seen of my juggernaut, was the cab or tractive unit that does all the work.
I left Cardiff and went to Grays in Essex where a groupage firm, who gathered together part loads, had loaded the trailer and closed it. You hope they have the heavy items at the front over the 'fifth wheel.' This is the pivot that attaches the 20 tonne trailer to the front half. It is better to have the heaviest weight there as it's over the driving wheels and avoids a 'tail-happy' feeling as you sway round curves at speed. The journey to Dover was uneventful until I discovered there is an east and a west dock. My pre-booked ticket was for the west dock which is a bit smaller; there is less congestion when you meet all the other lorries.
On the ship I saw my first bevy of truck drivers. They were a hefty lot, so I sat separately and didn't mix, in case they should discover I wasn't a proper member of the clan. I left Calais and drove up the truckers corridor, 'Rue de la Frontier.' This is a coast road from France to Belgium reserved for through transport, reducing the need to obtain permits and avoiding one border crossing. Two hours later I was in Brussels. In my innocence I didn't know that drivers abhor a second pick up. My cunning lot had sent a part-load from Grays in Middlesex with more to be picked up in Brussels. That sounds easy enough, but there is a huge difference between driving round the ring road at a steady sixty, rather than finding your way to an obscure industrial estate on the outskirts of the city. And this was the first time I had to drive the thing backwards. I know I'd passed the test, but it is a rather different atmosphere when you are in a big haulage depot and you have to reverse into the loading bay amid other lorries and with clusters of drivers smoking and talking. .. and watching you. Thankfully I didn't understand Belgian, but I suspect that comments made may have been less than generous when I took three goes to back in. Unlike modern warehouses which have neat parallel bays marked with white paint, this was a scruffy yard on the outside of town with dozens of trucks at jaunty angles. But it is all part of the rich tapestry of life.
Once I left Brussels, the next stop was to be Tehran. The great Volvo F89 was extremely powerful and had sixteen forward and two reverse gears. Of course you don't use every gear every time and it would pull away in third and was happy for you to skip to 7, 10 and 13. Once you have 32 tonnes rolling it doesn't take much effort from the 330hp diesel to urge the great beast forward. By comparison with most trucks on the road, I was undoubtedly one of the most powerful. All that power is of little consequence however when you arrive at a border crossing.
German Bureaucracy
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My first encounter with German bureaucracy was at Aachen. There were 1,000 trucks waiting to clear and it was orderly but rigid. I didn't know what I was doing but joined the queue of other drivers and tried to work out what was going on. You fill out forms yourself, one each for your truck, fuel and load then queue at various windows for the inevitable rubber stamp before going on to the next queue. The most important piece of paper is the Tankschein. This is a declaration of the amount of fuel in your tank that you wish to import to Germany. Because there is a big difference in the cost of diesel, and trucks can carry a lot, drivers would be tempted to come into Germany having filled up elsewhere. The maximum regulations permit you to import free of tax is 50 litres. You are charged German duty on the rest. Tom knew all these rules and had filled my tank with enough to get just inside the German border so I declared less than 50 litres.
When I climbed back up to the cab, and it really is a climb as the floor is at eye level, I settled in and joined the queue to leave the Customs compound. The fully armed patrol officers check at random and I was selected for this special treatment. They found my papers, passport, vaccinations and visual acuity to be in order. The truck papers were correct and the Carnet and plumbed seals intact. Then they dipped the fuel tank and found I had a bit too much. Quite apart from the embarrassment of feeling I had tried to fleece them, the penalty worse than paying the duty was the hassle of joining the back of the queue for another hour. I got the elusive rubber stamp saying I had paid a few extra Deutschmarks and was able to use some British diesel on their roads.
An hour later I was climbing the hill Tom had described and there indeed was the Shell station where I was able to fill up with 300 litres of diesel and pay with a plastic Shell card. All was good. The sun was shining and the truck purred like a contented lion as I covered mile after mile of tarmac. I stopped and slept overnight in a lay-by and woke fairly early with the rising sun. I drove for another couple of hours and then stopped to make breakfast. The routine I established was to get out, walk round the lorry and kick the tyres. This is an age old custom that has no purpose other than to show you are a proper trucker. The tyres feel the same to the toes entombed in Doc Martin style toe-tectors, whether hard or soft, but it exercises the limbs to have a walk round. The other job is to open the water filler and check the engine has enough coolant. This is best done in the morning while the engine is cold otherwise steam pressure makes it impossible to undo the cap. The windscreen washers need checking too, and this was the moment to use a long handled squeegee to remove the Belgian flies who'd taken on the might of the Volvo at speed. There may have been some German flies too but it is not easy to tell the difference.
Being watched
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Once back in the cab I headed eastward across Germany towards Waidhaus and the border with Czechoslovakia. I knew that once I entered the Soviet countries, I would be unable to use the credit card and would have to dip into hard cash. It was becoming rural and I was off the autobahn network so I was keen to fill up before the border. Passing through a small village at a steady speed I thought I saw a glimpse of a fuel station down a side road. By the time I'd stopped it was unwise to try to turn round and take a 48 ft trailer down a side road so I jumped down and explored on foot. I had no sooner gone out of sight of the truck when I discovered two things. Firstly the sign wasn't fuel and secondly I heard the rumble of a large truck and hiss of air brakes. Someone had stopped by my truck. I ran back up the curved side-road and saw a British truck behind mine.
'I know what you want' shouted the driver, 'You're looking for a Shell station.'
'How do you know that?' quoth I.
'You want to fill up before the border. Follow me it's only six kays.'
This new word was lorry driver speak for 'kilometres' and indeed it was six. We stopped together at the Shell station where we each bought 300 litres of diesel. He introduced himself as Ken and grabbed a handful of sweets and some other goodies from the shop which all went on the bill as fuel.
'So how're you going to get through Brno with that truck?' Ken asked.
'I assume I followed my trusty AA map and it will get me there.'
'There'll be a 150 mile detour unless you follow me. Just stick to my tail and you'll be through Brno in no time.'
I then discovered there were bridge weight limits and low headroom tunnels that weren't shown on road maps. First we had to get through Customs. That was a long and protracted business because we were entering the Communist Bloc.
5Oi! That's Gingers
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While we were standing waiting, Ken suddenly said:
'We all know you're a maverick!'
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'Well you can't be a proper truck driver. You didn't rest at the transport cafés we use and you were asleep in some other lay-by when we all passed you.'
I explained 'This is my first trip and that's why I'd be glad of help to get through Brno.'
'Someone said you've got Ginger's truck' he said rather glumly.
At that moment the trucks had to be driven under a gantry so we stopped talking and got in our cabs. There was an archway at the border where armed Customs officials took a good look at the top of the trailer while others scrutinised every gap in the tarpaulin, held mirrors on broom handles to look under the chassis and finally checked the seals. Then documents were stamped and we allowed to get away towards Brno.
He was right of course. When we arrived in Brno it was like Cardiff in the 1950s. There were cobbled streets with tracks and wires for the trams. As we drove down the high street and turned right I could see twin tunnels ahead with power wires suspended from each roof. It was marked 2.8 metres and our trucks were 4.3 metre high. As we approached the tunnels Ken put on his four way flashers and with full headlights ablaze drove through an opposing tunnel which had enough height for our trailers. We left the city via a rural suburb and were soon driving along country roads with a ditch of water alongside. I noticed the still water was covered with algae.
Then suddenly he swung over a tiny bridge across the water and continued on the other side. The bridge was marked 9 tonnes and we'd both taken our huge and heavy lorries across. Shortly after this we swung round in the road to enter the far end of a leafy lay-by where we had lunch and stretched our legs for a while. Picnic finished we looped round to get back to the other side of the road. The road was deeply cambered and as I turned tightly to fit across this narrow country road I came to an abrupt halt, blocking the road. He was ahead of me and could see what had happened. He stopped, ran back to my cab and explained to me that I'd severed the air brake pipes.
You have probably noticed the red, yellow and green curly cables that connect the hydraulics and air lines between trailer and cab. Because my cab was close-coupled I'd sliced these and the fail safe system is that if there is no air pressure to hold the brakes off, they come on and stop the vehicle. So there I was stuck solid. Ken reached up into my cab and felt for a release valve under my dashboard. This temporarily allowed the brakes to come off and I could pull the lorry into a straight line. All this was done in a flash.
'Give me your Fairy Liquid' was his next demand.
'Why?' I ask as I passed him my washing up soap.
'Just try this. . .'
He showed me how to repair the three curly tubes called 'Suzies.' By removing the sliced bit, we could stretch them and with the help of the soap we could push them onto the brass nipples where they belonged.
'The bracket holding these unions has been built quite high, and with a trailer that is so close to the cab you'll need to get it lowered or it will happen every time you make a tight right angle turn.'
'Where can I get this done in Czechoslovakia?
'You can't get this done in a Communist country because there are no truck service and repair firms, so wait until you get to Turkey.
That was a useful experience. By this time he'd discovered I was going to Iran and he said that we should stay together as far as Nis in Yugoslavia, as it was then called, where he would turn right and I would go straight on
We were soon approaching the Czech border town of Komaro. We stopped and when I got out Ken said
'This is the border town where we cross into Komarom on the Hungarian side.'
'The Hungarians' he continued, 'charge more to process documents between six in the evening and six next morning, so let's join the queue quickly.
The usual interrogation of documents took place, mainly to make sure nothing had left the trailer (or been added). The Customs people checked every strap, eyelet, cable and device that holds the tarpaulin taught over the square steel frame of the trailer. This is called a tilt for reasons I never discovered. They tick and stamp and generally look for any defect in the documentation for the load, vehicle and driver. I suspect there was an incentive for finding fault as this enabled the authorities to impose extra duty.
We avoided any surcharge in Hungary because we got in just before 6pm and were soon on our way. It was an easy drive as the route wasn't mountainous and the weather was good.
'Hungary is six hours.'
He meant that is how long it would take to drive across the beautiful, verdant green meadows in the agricultural region beneath the Carpathian mountains, sometimes called the 'bread basket' of Europe.
Every country makes some sort of charge to allow foreign trucks to use its roads and there are different schemes at each border. Some calculate the tax on the weight of the load and some on the value. The fairest way is to base it on the axle load. A truck with many axles and lots of tyres imposes less wear on the tarmac than one with fewer wheels. Back in 1976 few trucks had three axles under the trailer and three under the cab, but this has now become much more common.
Turn left at Nis
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In those days the next country was called Yugoslavia and we journeyed on together to Nis (pronounced Neesh) where I left my guide and counsellor. This country is now called Serbia and it wasn't far to the border crossing Kalotina where I entered Bulgaria. I was soon in Sofia where I would land 20 years later by plane, but more of that later. (I remember nothing of Plovdiv though I also have more to say about this further on).
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The next border was Edirne where I left the Communist Bloc with its oppressive military atmosphere and entered Turkey. But that wasn't so easy. A huge concentration of lorries, both large and small were trying to clear customs. I was advised to use an agent Ata Turk. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk was first President of Turkey. He is credited with being the founder of the Republic of Turkey but I don't think he cleared my load. It was just a good name to have over the door. Hundreds of lorries were herded into a field. There were plenty of little trucks known as tonkas, named after the dinky little dumper trucks. In this case the name described any ancient and decrepit lorry that could still haul something for the locals. These vehicles had crudely repaired bodywork with angle iron and Meccano to patch up old steel. No doubt they were all owner drivers so made a living by perhaps taking unsafe loads across the border - probably without the paperwork demanded of the international fraternity. But I'm only guessing and I base this on experience because I was fast asleep in my cab awaiting the return of the agent when there was a commotion and much banging on the cab door at two in the morning.
Through bleary eyes I could see a hundred pairs of headlights and a scene like ants scurrying over the land. The field was alive with movement. My document pack was returned with a full complement of rubber stamp marks and I was free to leave the field. I had all the power of the 12 litre 330 bhp engine and all the height of the cab to see where I was going, but to crawl out of the gate of the field with these little tonkas scurrying like ants, made for a hazardous half hour. They had no care for their bodywork and would push across your bows. I had Ginger's truck and it was still shiny and new, so I held back a bit - but not much.
Eventually I was cruising along towards Istanbul but still wanting to catch up on my sleep and knew I must find a mechanic to fix the airlines. There is a lot of nothing on all these roads so it is easy enough to stop until dawn breaks. When I got into the bed behind the driving seat, the heat of the now silent and peaceful engine rose and had a soporific effect.
Soon I was in Turgutbey, a mere dot on a dry rough road, but it was alive with people and animals so I soon found a welder. With some swift sign language to describe beheading the airline bracket and lowering it, the welder understood and asked me to detach the trailer from the unit. I did that, avoiding his pet chickens that waddled around the apron of his workshop and then I sat in the cab and had a snooze while he worked. He did just what was needed and was very pleased to be paid in Deutchmarks, a hard currency which would feed his family for the week - and more.
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Eating on the hoof
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You may wonder why I didn't go for a coffee while he did the work. I became very possessive of my territory in that cab, and I decided to feed myself and never venture outside for food. Part of the reason was the fear of foreign bugs but more especially to preserve the cab as my private place. Mechanics and Customs officials had no right of entry. Apart from which, the thought of a small cup of Turkish coffee made from that fine powdered coffee that looks like silt from the river bed, wasn't appealing.
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It was much more pleasant in Turkey than in the drab Communist countries which were lack-lustre in the true sense. Grey paint everywhere, no advertising hoardings and poor roads. In Turkey the sun was shining and the roads gradually improved. Approaching and leaving Istanbul there were even some dual carriageways with tarmac - but still with the occasional horse and cart amid the traffic.
Half Way
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At Istanbul I found a Mocamp. This was the first secure place where trucks could be parked behind decent fences and drivers could have a shower. It had been a week since I had left the UK so the Mocamp was very welcome. This was the first proper meeting of drivers and one of the drivers from Wakefield planned the next leg of the route for those going to Ankara. As I knew nothing, I was glad to let him marshal us. He was 6' 6”, a natural leader and was called Big Ben.
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'As six of us are going in the same direction Monica-Monkey will lead in his crappy old Acky. Taff will be at the back.' I thought that was because I was the 'junior' but he explained.
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'We all can see Taff has the newest and most powerful unit so is the least likely to break down and the most able to catch up with us in an emergency.'
'You will each leave at ten minute intervals' he said as he slammed his cab door.
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Each driver set us off at 10 minute intervals so the juggernauts weren't in close formation with no room for cars to overtake - not that there were many cars.
I was happy to go along with the plan so I pushed my Simon and Garfunkel tape in the slot and sat back while the others set off.
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An Acky in trucker speak is an Atkinson. In those good old days you could buy an Atkinson lorry or another make and specify the Atkinson engine. It was well respected, very robust and easy to service. I heard of one driver who removed a faulty cylinder and ran on five until he returned to the UK. But by the late 1970s the big Volvo, Daf and Mercedes trucks were dominating the market.
Ten minutes after the fifth truck I left the gated compound and followed them out of town. Soon there was a long climb to reach the plateau that continues for 300 miles towards Ankara. I had a good view of almost a one mile and a half ahead of me as I began this climb and I could see the truck in front a mile away with its four-way flashers blinking steadily. I watched this truck as I climbed towards him for ten minutes, wondering what I would encounter. Then I realised he was moving over the crest and out of site. I trundled on. It was quite steep and slow going but the mighty Volvo was making steady progress.
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You drive these trucks, to a certain extent, on instruments. The reason for16 gears is that you have a narrow band of optimum engine speed, between 1600 rpm and 2200 rpm I was working down through the gearbox quite rapidly, the revs were up and the speedometer was declining. Then it came to the point when the engine was running at 2200 revs and the speed was virtually nothing. Of course this does not come upon you suddenly. You have plenty of time to sit and think out why this should be happening. Clearly the drive wheels were rotating, yet I wasn't making any progress. Indeed the truck was beginning to slide back down the hill, very minutely, but it was happening and was going to jack-knife - not a good experience.
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Time passed slowly. I realised the edge of the road was gritty with gravel. I reached for the diff-lock. This is a switch that locks the back wheels together so that the offside and nearside can't rotate at different speeds. With this engaged I allowed the tractive unit to jack-knife gently until the driving axle was on the gravel and the twin wheels on that side gripped the road. Then with the help of gravel I pulled the lorry out of the impending jack-knife and crawled forward. With the diff-lock remaining on I was able to continue up the hill and over the crest where I found the others about a kilometre ahead.
They'd all stopped to wait for me. Big Ben said,
'A diesel tanker has lost it load and we've all driven up on a thin film of oil. Come on - let's forge ahead towards Ankara.'
The convoy gives a sense of comradeship but really there was no conversation except when parked as everyone wanted to maintain steady progress. It was pouring with rain when Big Ben pulled in after about 2 hours. He gathered us round and said: 'Darkness is falling fast and it is raining heavily, and now we are starting the final 50 miles into Ankara with plenty of opportunities to go over the edge of the many hairpin bends. Let's sleep now and carry on with this descent in the morning.'
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I don't think we would have slept so soundly had we known a Welsh driver had been shot dead in that lay-by a week earlier. The Kurdish people occupy large parts of eastern Turkey and north-western Iran. At that time they were impoverished and rebellious people who saw western European trucks as a gold-hoard ready for looting.
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That night I had the letter P broken off my number plate. I was driving LWO 169 P. We were one of the first countries to begin making number plates of reflective material. The yellow rear number plate was 40' away from my bed and obviously someone had wiggled it and broke off the end. Many drivers removed the red lenses from their rear lights as these were much sought after by local teenagers who crept through the undergrowth when you stopped. They were of no use to them but they came off easily so youths being youths would collect them. It mattered to the driver as no country allows white lights at the back of a vehicle, so it was another revenue earner for Mr. Plod. Next morning we drove down into Ankara where the convoy split up going to various destinations. Now I was on my own again.
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Ankara to Tehran is about 1,300 miles and passed through the hostile Kurdish part of the country. It is very primitive and roads are unmettled for hundreds of miles. I was soon high in the hills again, the rain was heavy and the mud deep. It wasn't a good idea to be generous and pull over to allow an oncoming lorry to get past. Once you left the apex of the muddy road it is all too easy to slither into the edges which sloped away and had no substance to support the weight of a heavy truck. There was a steady flow of traffic on this road from people like me except half were returning from Tehran. They were, of course, of all nationalities. Whilst there were some British trucks, the Netherlands was probably the most numerous, though German and Bulgarian trucks came close in number. The Bulgarians always had the very best equipment, but more of that later.
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It took four days to traverse this stretch of northern Turkey. On one occasion I conceded too much of the road and after an oncoming truck had squeezed past and moved on, I found I had no traction to pull out of the side. All the use of the diff-lock and crawler gear did nothing to shift me and my 32 tonnes forward. The road was deep with mud. I remember jumping down into the mud that came up to my shins, well over my Doc-Martin style boots and much deeper that expected. I'm not sure what I hoped to achieve by getting out but I was making no progress in the driver's sprung loaded, comfortable chair.
Comfort Cabs and Muddy Boots
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Oh! ...and chair it was. These trucks had very elaborate sprung seating. They used compressed air - adjusted to the weight of the driver. They bounced gracefully up and down no matter how smooth the terrain.
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While standing in the mud and gazing at 48ft of stuck lorry a French truck went past and stopped as his trailer reached my front bumper. He jumped out, attached his snow chains to the hitch at the front of my lorry and without a word jogged back to his cab and pulled me a few feet away from the edge, towards the centre of the road. He then detached his chains, got in and drove away. We exchanged hardly a word but it illustrates the camaraderie between drivers. They would immediately spot the problem and assist a fellow trucker.
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I had decided to be meticulously clean during this month living in a lorry cab. I had a regular routine of washing and dressing, eating and sleeping, sweeping out the cab and cleaning the glass, lights and mirror. The muddy boots were a real nuisance when trying to keep the cab rubber flooring looking decent. Anyway, this time I got back in with muddy boots and drove away as you can't leave a juggernaut at a jaunty angle on the road while you wash your boots.
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Fortunately a Turkish bath was imminent. But first there was another border to cross. It was here at Bazagan that I met the longest queue of trucks leading up to a Customs barrier. It took 22 hours to work my way to the barrier, where again the lorry was checked thoroughly. This time no duty was imposed to travel on their roads. I was told to drive to Tehran and report to the Customs compound in the city where the Custom seal would be checked and removed from the trailer.
It really felt like the last leg of a fortnight's journey, so I was able to relax a little and take a short break. When I reached Tabriz I found a Turkish bath and was thoroughly refreshed in this male only establishment. Steam and water is so welcome in the dust of the Middle East. (See picture on home page).
Doughnut delight
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The journey in towards the Customs compound was a bit confusing and for the first time I found I was on the wrong road. It became apparent when I reached the PTT which is a state organisation responsible for post, telegraph and telephone services and is similarly named in many countries. I was surrounded by shops and knew I had to turn back before the police did that for me. I found a wide junction and swung round as tightly as I could. The effect on the warm tarmac was to inscribe a black circle as the trailer's twin axle tyres screeched in resistance. It took quite a pull to bring the trailer round straight but the lowest crawler gear of the sixteen did the job impressively. It wasn't long before I found the Custom compound and parked alongside scores of similar juggernauts.
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There was no specified agent but I had to engage one, because this time it wasn't just paperwork needing clearing, the trailer needed emptying requiring fork-lifts and the various recipients wanted their goods placed in their nominated secure warehouse. The word among drivers was that it would take 5 days to await clearance and unloading, so this is where some prudent bribery and corruption could speed up the process.
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I had been advised by the drivers on the cross channel ferry to carry negotiable gifts. I struck the necessary bargain with an agent by providing two half bottles of whisky, some cheap jeans and a small selection of lads-mags. I was offloaded the next day. First the load documentation was scrutinised then the seal was broken. The Customs man and agent climbed in and made random checks among the 20 tonnes of cases containing engineering parts. They declared that the fork lift drivers could begin. They systematically removed the crates from the side of the trailer. It involved rolling back the tarpaulin across the top and along the sides to gain easy access to everything. I was reading in the cab and didn't really know when they'd finished but could sense the lack of bumps and jerks when they stopped. I got out to have a look and saw the whole yard was getting quiet. Few people were about and the forklift trucks were fewer and slower. It was much less busy. I looked at my watch and realised it was 5 o'clock and this must be home-time for the workforce.
Delivered
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The trailer was merely a skeleton of its former self, with a great pile of tarpaulin curled and folded at the cab end, precisely 4.3 metre above ground. I've no head for heights and could not see how I was going to get the tarpaulin back on. My team of stevedores had gone - and the agent too! After all that journey no one had signed for the load, it had just been taken and the depot was emptying as it was closing time. There was no one to make a fuss to. I wondered if the journey had been in vain and I'd lost the entire load to villains.
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Another driver saw my plight and again a good Volvo driver came to help an amateur Volvo driver. The truck was Bulgarian, and much as though I disapproved of unfair competition from heavily subsidised nationalised hauliers, I admired their kit. They had two drivers, refrigeration, chrome wheel trim and best of all, a neat aluminium ladder. This was extended to reach the top of the trailer. Whilst the heavyweight driver-in-chief stood and dragged on his cigarette, the co-driver, a much slimmer chap, scaled the height of the lorry and unfolded the tarpaulin and dragged on that, dropping it roughly over the sides of the steel framework. His boss tugged and pulled left and right and up and down until it was just about in place. The 'price' of this assistance was several packets of Players and Senior Service cigarettes. (That must have helped them towards an early grave).
As you pass older trucks on the motorway, you may see some with the canvas covering on a frame. The fabric is held in place by eyelets and there is a running cable lacing all this together. The customs seal is at the end loops where the two ends of the long cable come together. I couldn't even make a start at threading the cable through the loops and time was running out so I returned to the Mocamp. Just like Istanbul at the half way mark there was a good secure compound for trucks and their drivers to shower and sleep. There was a constant movement of trucks so the crews when I got back were different from those I'd seen elsewhere in the fortnight, or in the Customs compound.
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I asked for help to pull the tarpaulin into place and thread the cable.
'There's no need' said one, as he turned his head away from the poker game that was claiming his attention.
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'Oh but I must tighten it down before I set off .' . . .
'No need, go and take a look.'
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I went out to the trailer and to my astonishment every eyelet was resting over the staple through which the cable should run.
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'Who did that for me so quickly?' I asked.
'You did. . . . . you've just driven 5km and the wind gets under the fabric and joggles it back into place as you go' they explained.
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'Just run the cable through and you can go back to Wales, Taff.'
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Again this valuable assistance came readily and solved a problem which to me as a rather short Welshman seemed insuperable. So there we are.
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'But I didn't get a signature for the delivery.'
'It doesn't matter guv.' Those Customs men are reliable and they'll have documented everything and told the consignor by telex what they received.'
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Mission accomplished! All I had to do was drive home for a fortnight - and I'd now been promoted to guv.'