Читать книгу The Silk Road and Beyond - Ivor Whitall - Страница 10

This is it, one of the most exciting days in my short life. I’m off to Kuwait. My mind was in turmoil as I drove down to Jenkinson’s yard to collect my load and the associated documentation.

The trailer, a tilt, was already packed with 20 tons of ‘special’ cement for the oil industry. Over the past week me and Jenny had purchased over £30 of assorted provisions, including tinned food, dried milk and sugar, along with a new Calor Gas cooker and a large water container. The bedding was ‘pinched’ from home, and I’d packed enough clothes for at least a month away. As a special present to myself, I even spent £180 on an eight-track cassette player, not realising what crap they were! Finding sufficient room to stow it all away was the real tester.

Standing in Edgar’s office as he proceeded to hand over a pile of documents from a tick list, to say I was confused would be the ultimate understatement. The sheer volume was more than enough to distort the shape of my brand new imitation leather briefcase! There were transit permits for a variety of countries, a Euroshell card for fuel, a carnet for the load, a carnet for the unit and one for the trailer. There were completed CMRs (Convention Relative au Contract de Transport de Marchandises par la Route), a type of international transport delivery note, and blank CMRs, also a manifest and manifest translations. There were numerous ancillary documents that I hadn’t a clue what they were for and, of course, my pristine new passport with the newly franked Bulgarian visa.

‘Edgar?’ I asked, as he proceeded to hand me £755 in traveller’s cheques. ‘Just one question. What’s this about a train across Germany?’

I knew there was little point in browbeating him about the rest of the trip, as he appeared to know as little as me.

‘Ah, right,’ he said, digging in a drawer. ‘According to my information you make for Eifel Tor Goods Terminal. I understand it’s near Cologne. Tell them you are on account for Jenkinson’s, we have a block booking on that service. Then you drive on the train and it travels overnight to a place called Ludwigsburg in southern Germany. There you disembark, and Bob’s your uncle.’

Damien hadn’t turned up, which didn’t surprise me, so it was a shake of the hands and good luck wishes all round as I set off on my great adventure.

‘Tell Damien I’ll meet him at Felixstowe,’ I shouted out of the window as I drove past Billy standing on the office steps.

I had an uneventful trip down and, other than a feeling of apprehension, I also felt a frisson of excitement at the thought of facing the unknown. A coffee break in Corley Services didn’t do me any favours as a couple of ‘know it all’ likely lads spotted the TIR plates and decided to regale me with a particularly negative tale about a mate of theirs who had been involved in an accident in Turkey. ‘Not his fault mind you. Was imprisoned in an Istanbul jail for two months, didn’t get back for seventeen weeks and the final nail in the coffin, his wife had divorced him. Almost suicidal now, poor guy.’

Feeling the same and thanking them for their joyous tale, I made my excuses and a hasty exit.

“Within a few months I’d realised that it’s usually the guys who’ve not done the job that tell the most lurid tales.”

Within a few months I’d realised that it’s usually the guys who’ve not done the job that tell the most lurid tales. Arriving at Felixstowe Dock at eight thirty that evening, I followed the signs for Transport Ferry Services, the precursor to Townsend Thoresen, and parked up for the night. Sleep didn’t arrive easily, as my mind was awash with the ‘dangers’ of the unknown, circling, like Red Indians around a wagon train waiting to attack.

I must have drifted off eventually because, as I pulled my curtains in the morning, parked alongside was Damien. It was seven o’clock as I tapped on his door and waited, and waited. Finally, a pair of bleary bloodshot eyes peered out from behind the curtain.

‘C’mon, we’ve gotta book in,’ I said.

‘Be with you in a minute,’ he responded lethargically. ‘I didn’t get here till four.’

The curtains closed and he disappeared from view. After a quick swill down, and still no Damien, I fetched my briefcase and headed into the TFS office, explaining I was shipping on the account of J. Woods of Salford, while at the same time opening my briefcase and dumping the contents on the counter.

‘According to the ship’s manifest there are two of you,’ stated the clerk. ‘If I could deal with you both together it’ll be easier for us.’

A quick return and thump on Damien’s door elicited a load of verbal abuse from behind the curtains as he once again pulled them back and wound the window down. Before he could continue to vent his spleen I said, ‘Either you give me your paperwork so I can book you on, or I’ll leave you to it Damien.’

‘Sorry Ivor, you know how it is mate, spent an extra few hours with the missus,’ as he sheepishly handed over his sheaf of papers.

‘No briefcase then?’

But he’d already wound the window back up. I certainly did know how it was with the old so-and-so . . .

The booking clerk rifled through our paperwork, withdrawing the two load carnets, CMRs and passports.

‘This’ll do for now,’ he said. ‘If you could drive your vehicles into the shed round the back, Customs will want to check how many seals you’ll require.’

‘How many seals?’ I looked at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Customs will explain.’

Damien was nearly dressed, though I’d seen him look better.

‘Follow me,’ I said as I drove into the shed.

By half eight, no one had arrived.

‘What’s going on chief?’ I asked as we walked back into the office again.

‘Ah, I was just coming out to see you,’ he said. ‘Problems I’m afraid; your carnets have no CAN numbers.’

‘What! What does that mean?’ I asked him exasperatedly.

“Bloody hell! I haven’t left the country yet and there are problems I don’t understand.”

‘It’s a Customs Assigned Number that has to be on every carnet,’ he explained patiently.

Bloody hell! I haven’t left the country yet and there are problems I don’t understand.

The upshot after numerous phone calls to Brian, Billy and Edgar, which I imagine elicited much head shaking and ‘it’s never happened before’ comments from Edgar, was to finally hand the phone to the clerk so he could speak directly to the man. It transpired that J. Woods had assigned their CAN but no one had entered it! To top it off we’d missed our booking slot and had to rebook on the 1pm sailing. This was going like a dream . . . talk about a vertical learning curve! Finally, the papers were handed to Customs and it was just a case of awaiting their appearance with the relevant seals.

Maybe things were starting to look up as within 5 minutes they were at the front of the trailers, ‘pliers’ in one hand, along with numerous round grey bits of metal and six-inch lengths of fine wire in the other.

‘Right driver,’ he said. ‘It’s most probably best to not seal the unit TIR plate.’

Perplexed, I looked at him as if he was talking gibberish.

‘Should you get problems in some faraway place,’ he responded patiently. ‘Legally you’ll not be able to detach yourself from the trailer.’

‘Ah, that’s worth knowing.’

‘So, it’s one on the front of your tilt,’ and with that he slipped the wire through a hole in the thread holding the TIR plate on, then through two holes in the bit of grey metal, which I now realised was the seal, squeezed it with his special pliers and that was it done. As I looked at the now squashed piece of metal I saw what looked like an imprint in the metal, aaah . . . so that’s a seal!

Walking towards the back he was checking to see that the securing TIR cord was intact.

‘Excuse me driver,’ he called out. ‘You don’t appear to have a rear plate.’

I scampered to the back.

‘You what!’ I exclaimed.

Sure enough, there it wasn’t.

‘Oh no.’

Panic, that’s what I’ll do, panic. The bloody ferry goes in less than an hour. We can’t miss another one. I rushed back in to see our friendly clerk.

‘Where can I get a TIR plate?’ I panted.

‘Blimey, that’s a bit short notice mate.’

I was rapidly becoming a headless chicken.

‘There’s a trailer park round the corner,’ he winked.

Of course, of course, unaccompanied trailers, very naughty, but when your need is greater than a faceless trailer . . . Within 10 minutes, once again sweating like a pig, I was screwing a ‘borrowed’ plate onto the rear of my trailer. This is ridiculous, surely it must get easier, I certainly wasn’t expecting this level of amateurism. Scooting around to catch the Customs guy before he disappeared, I came across a very distraught Damien. Seems things were going swimmingly until our Customs friend spotted a hole in the roof of his tilt.

“Not having a great deal of luck with this continental lark, are you?”

‘You’re joking,’ I exclaimed.

‘No I’m bloody not and I can’t leave till it’s repaired.’

Once again we explained the situation to our very willing clerk . . .

‘Not having a great deal of luck with this continental lark, are you?’ he smiled. ‘Wait a sec while I phone the tilt repair bloke.’

Of course, he wasn’t answering his phone, well there’s a surprise. Meanwhile, totally frustrated, I’d been watching truck after truck passing unhindered through the shed making their way to the loading lanes.

‘Listen guys, what’re you going to do?’ he asked. ‘One of you can board and if you want I can rebook the other on tonight’s boat.’

Me and Damien looked at each other.

‘You go Ivor, I’ll catch you in Zeebrugge tomorrow,’ he said despondently.

With carnet, passport, tickets for cabin and food shut safely in my briefcase I headed across the dock to the Linkspan that accessed the ferry.

‘Back it on driver,’ said the loadmaster, collecting my boarding pass.

In 10 minutes we were inching away from the berth as I looked over the rail, took a deep breath, and collected my thoughts.