Читать книгу The Silk Road and Beyond - Ivor Whitall - Страница 11

Filling my rucksack with the essentials for an 8-hour ferry crossing, plus a few maps to study, I climbed the six flights of stairs to the main deck and sought out the reception kiosk, exchanging my ticket for a cabin key. Best go and tidy up first as I wandered along the corridor looking for the number. Twin bunks and a shower cubicle. Blimey, don’t even have that at home. Twenty minutes later, feeling rejuvenated, I headed for the drivers’ restaurant and bar.

Looking round for somewhere to park my bum, there was a call from a guy at a window table.

‘Here you are mate, there’s a seat here.’

Turns out the guy’s name was Bill, around fifty, and obviously an old hand at this continental game.

‘First trip son?’

‘Aye, does it tell?’

‘Well, you looked a bit lost,’ he said, shaking my hand.

The conversation ebbed and flowed for the next hour or so as we ate our dinner, while Bill gave me the benefit of his extensive knowledge of European haulage. Now why couldn’t Clyde have been this helpful?

Disappearing back to my cabin for a few hours’ shut-eye, we arranged to meet for a cuppa an hour before docking in Zeebrugge.

Bang, bang, bang! Bloody hell, I thought, they don’t take any prisoners do they, as the call, ‘Wake up, wake up, docking in 45 minutes’ echoed down the corridor. Bill had said he’d show me the customs paperwork trail once we’d parked and, sure enough, following a tanker off the boat, there he was standing by his truck.

‘C’mon young’un,’ he laughed. ‘Let’s go and face the music.’

Showing me the formalities and putting me in the right queue for getting my TIR carnet stamped, he disappeared to organise his own clearance as he was tipping in Belgium.

‘Which border are you entering Germany?’ asked the customs officer in impeccable English. ‘Aachen or Heerlen?’

‘It’s my first trip, which would you advise please?’

‘I would say Heerlen, it’s normally much less busy,’ as he stamped the counterfoil and tore out the voucher.

I watched with studied concentration as I needed to learn these procedures rapidly if I was going to become a successful Middle East driver.

‘How many seals?’ he asked.

‘Three,’ I replied.

‘Yes, that is good,’ as he returned my carnet and a gate pass for exiting the dock.

I wandered off to find Bill, who had processed his paperwork and was sat in the port restaurant.

‘What now then Ivor?’

‘Well, I told Damien I’d wait for him till tomorrow morning, so I suppose I’ll have a bite to eat and a couple of beers, how about you?’

‘I’ll join you then, haven’t got to tip till tomorrow morning.’

He was an easy guy to socialise with and we eventually retired to our respective bunks about midnight.

“I was the solitary lorry in the whole parking area. Where the hell was he?”

Waking up to a chill damp morning, I pulled back the curtain expecting to see Damien’s DAF parked next to mine. No such luck, I was the solitary lorry in the whole parking area. Where the hell was he? A visit to the booking office and a check of the overnight ship’s manifest confirmed Damien hadn’t shipped over. Not only that but he wasn’t booked on the next ferry either! Now what to do?

A cup of coffee might help me to gather my thoughts.

I hadn’t got to be at Eifel Tor till half five this evening. Let’s see, it’s 8am here – I could hear my brain chuntering away making the calculation – so it’s seven o’clock in the UK. They won’t be in for a couple of hours yet so I might as well head off towards Heerlen (Little Aachen) and get this trip under way.

The journey across Belgium, through the Kennedy tunnel and around Antwerp into Holland, was pretty much featureless and interesting only because it was my first time. Any concern I’d had about driving on the right proved groundless as I’d taken to it like a duck to water. Around eleven I followed the large ‘Trucks in Transit’ sign into the customs parking area at Heerlen.

Picking up my briefcase, quite the professional continental trucker, I headed towards a large office block that appeared to be split into two sections, Dutch one side, German the other. Edging slowly to the front of the queue, I opened it up.

‘Carnet or T2,’ asked a pleasant voice from the other side of the screen.

‘Carnet,’ I responded, pushing it through the gap.

‘You will need to also complete a Laufzettel,’ he said, pointing to a tray across the aisle.

Of course, they were in Dutch or German and, only just having got a grasp of English, I wasn’t quite ready to tackle a foreign language yet . . . maybe I should.

Seeing I was in difficulty, the kindly Dutch customs officer called me back over, pointing out where to put the vehicle registration and that it had an anhanger (trailer). In a couple of minutes I was going to wish I’d picked up a second one and copied the information across. Stamping the counterfoil and Laufzettel, he tore out voucher number three, handed the carnet back and wished me a pleasant trip. Well that was easy enough, as I walked down the corridor to join a short German queue. Once again passing my carnet through the gap under the screen, it was immediately passed back.

“It didn’t sound too complimentary and I could feel my own embarrassment rising.”

‘Zahlkarte, Laufzettel, Genehmigung, unt carnet,’ he demanded.

‘I don’t understand,’ I replied.

Zahlkarte, Laufzettl, Genehmigung, unt carnet.’

‘Sorry, I can’t speak German, do you speak English?’

It probably wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to say, as I visibly watched his blood pressure rise to the few follicles of hair he still had left.

‘Englander, du bist ein s . . . h . . . !’ It didn’t sound too complimentary and I could feel my own embarrassment rising. ‘Varoom kanst du nix Deutch spracht?’

‘Can I help, Englishman?’ boomed a loud voice as I turned away from the counter, wondering what to do next.

Looking up, literally, I was introduced to Johann, a larger than life Dutchman, who must have been all of 6 ft 6 in tall.

‘Ah, would you mind? That would be brilliant, thanks very much.’

We shook hands and he took me over to an unoccupied section of counter and explained the process to me in words of single syllables, or so it seemed.

‘First you must fill in the Zahlkarte. It’s quite simple, but I suppose if you don’t speak German then it must seem like Double Dutch,’ he said, smiling at his little joke. ‘Look, here you write your vehicle registration, and here, where it says Anhanger, your trailer number. Then a tick here if you are transiting. Finally here you must declare how much diesel you are carrying.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I responded.

‘Do you have tankschein?’ he asked, and before I could respond, ‘Ha, I suppose not if it’s your first journey!’

I was thinking, didn’t Clyde mention something about tankschein?

‘Well,’ continued Johann, ‘the first time you come into Germany you can have no more than 50 litres in your tank. Do you know how much diesel you have, Ivor?’

‘I’m not sure, maybe 150 litres.’

‘Well, don’t declare 150, maybe write 100 litres so you pay tax on only 50.’

‘Ok Johann,’ I said, filling in the form. ‘So how do I get tankschein?’

‘Right, the best way is to fill up before you leave Germany, so you can show a full tank on your exit form, the Zahlkarte. That way the next time you enter ‘The Fatherland’,’ raising his eyes to the heavens, ‘you can come in with a full tank and pay no tax. They will stamp your papers to confirm the amount.’

‘Thanks for that Johann.’

‘Ah, but don’t forget that if you are caught telling an untruth, you will be made to pay the duty and a large fine!

Now all we need is your Genehmigung, your permit, I hope it’s not a ‘Mickey Mouse’ one?’

‘Eh? I don’t know, what’s that?’ showing him it.

‘Ah, Road/Rail, that’s perfect,’ he said, going on to explain how the British have a reputation for running on ‘false’ permits.

This, I was to find out later, was because there were not enough genuine ones available to meet the requirements of our burgeoning haulage industry. Historically, permits were only issued on a reciprocal basis, one British trip to Germany for one German trip to the UK.

‘Well, I can’t thank you enough Johann,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘Hopefully we’ll meet up again sometime in the future.’

It was to be sooner than we realised! Producing all my completed documentation at the counter, our ‘friendly’ customs official appeared to have calmed down, nodding his head and muttering ‘gut, gut,’ as he checked off each completed section. Changing a few traveller’s cheques into Deutsche Marks, I paid the excess duty charge and returned to collect my carnet and the ancillary documents from ‘Eva Braun’s husband.’ Somehow, in the last 20 minutes or so he appeared to have acquired a semblance of English!

“Ah, but don’t forget that if you are caught telling an untruth, you will be made to pay the duty [block]and a large fine!”

‘How many plumbs do you have?’

‘I have no plums sir, I have 20 tons of cement.’

‘VOT! You must haf plumbs, how many?’

‘No, honestly, look at my carnet,’ I said, showing it to him, ‘no plums.’ I was starting to get red around the collar myself.

This is a copy of the Laufzettel form for claiming tankschein.

This is the dreaded Zahlkarte form, to be completed to allow you to transit West Germany. Woe betide you if you completed it incorrrectly! ‘Du bist ein dummkopf! ’.

Leaning forward so his nose was virtually touching the Perspex and turning a mild shade of purple, he shouted, ‘Du bist un blödman dummkopf, Englander . . . vo . . . is . . . der . . . plumbs?’

There was a deathly silence in the corridor.

Then, out of nowhere, the sound of a familiar voice, my giant Dutch friend.

‘Hallo Ivor, I did not expect to see you again so soon,’ he said, with a hearty laugh. ‘What is the problem now?’

Nothing seemed to bother my huge friend.

‘The officer thinks I’m carrying plums even though the carnet says cement,’ I explained.

With that he burst into laughter, telling all and sundry the tale of the Englishman who thought plumbs were plums! Even the purple-faced official managed a smile. Oh to be multilingual, even one other language would do! There and then I made it a promise to myself that I’d be at least conversant in German.

‘Why is everyone laughing Johann?’

‘My friend, these plumbs are not fruit, they are spelt PLUMBS, and you English are the only ones that call them seals!’

My face turned bright red as I thought what a fool I’d been.

‘I have three plumbs,’ I stuttered.

‘Good, then let’s get this finished and out of here,’ said Johann, still smiling after a quick word with the customs officer.

‘You must bring your lorry outside the office, so he can check your plumbs,’ he laughed. ‘Then we will have a coffee.’

Checking my seals and finally handing over my carnet, I had one more heart-stopping moment as he said, ‘Moment Englander, diesel,’ making an unscrewing motion with his hand.

A quick glance inside with his torch sufficed.

‘Go.’

Treating Johann to a quick cup of coffee before heading off to catch my train was the least I could do, considering the help he had given me.

‘Germany is a good place to drive if everything is in order,’ he explained. ‘Just make sure all lights and boards are clean, that your paperwork is in order, then the BAG man (equivalent to our Ministry of Transport inspectors, now the DVSA) will leave you alone. However, if you cross their path with problems it could be an expensive fine.’

Thanking him for his valuable assistance, we said our goodbyes, little realising our paths would cross again in Istanbul a few years later.

Driving out of the tree-lined slip road, I headed for my next little adventure at Eifel Tor and hopefully my train to Ludwigsburg. I’d already realised I was hopelessly prepared for a trip of this magnitude, but luckily, being blessed with a stubborn streak and a never say die attitude, I’d see the job through. Taking the autobahn exit, I could see a goods yard down below. Brilliant, I thought, Lady Luck is with me at last, as I lost view of the sidings and ignored the ‘Container Bahnof’ sign, not realising what it meant. Before I knew it I was in the Köln suburbs and lost! Stopping and asking for ‘the station’ elicited numerous reactions, from shoulder shrugging, to hand waving and finger pointing. I visited three stations, two of which were U-Bahns (underground), before I showed my ticket to a taxi driver, who immediately understood and motioned me to follow him. There followed 10 minutes of Wacky Races as I fought to keep up with his Mercedes in my fully freighted DAF. There’s that sign again, ‘Container Bahnof’ as he indicated left and drove into the terminal. It seems I’m going to learn German by default. Of course, Lady Luck has deserted me again; she’s a pretty fickle mistress, as I find that I’m not booked on tonight’s train after all. There is no such thing as a block booking. When you book, you get a train time; seems logical.

“If I’m going to be hanging around here for 24 hours I might as well try the local grub.”

‘What’s the next train I can book for please? I asked.

‘I can put you on tomorrow night, if you wish.’

That’ll do, I thought. It’ll give Damien a chance to catch up.

‘Can you book for two vehicles?’ I asked, giving him both registration numbers.

On the way in, I’d noticed a wooden shack-type cafe. If I’m going to be hanging around here for 24 hours I might as well try the local grub. Wandering back down the sidings, I overheard a couple of English lads sitting outside in the afternoon sun, eating some sort of sausage and drinking beer. Exchanging the usual pleasantries, they asked if I was on tonight’s train?

‘I thought I was,’ and recounted my tale of woe.

‘That’s a bit of a pain then,’ piped up a West Country voice. ‘You’m gunner be weekended in Orstria matey.’

He explained what he meant on seeing my questioning look.

‘You’m can’t drive in Orstria after three o’clock Sa’arday afternoon.’

‘Bloody great,’ was all I could say.

Permits, tankschein, driving bans, whatever next!

‘Here, have a beer,’ the other guy offered.

We chatted away for over an hour, during which time I’d managed to fall in love with those bochwurst sausages. Otherwise known as Frankfurters, they’re steamed, covered in mustard and wrapped in an unbuttered baguette. They were that good I bought another three, plus a couple of beers for later.

‘It’s time we got back,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘It’s a quarter past five and they’ll be starting to load pretty soon.’

I’d already resigned myself to another day here and, settling back in the cab, I climbed onto the bunk, cracked open a beer and rolled a ciggie. I might as well relax, as I searched out 208 on the radio for Luxembourg, the ‘saviour’ of many a poor driver’s sanity. It was half past six, my train will be leaving soon without me. I wondered where Damien is?

I must have drifted off to sleep, as I awoke with a start to someone banging on the cab door. Its Lady Luck come to save me. I scrambled off the bed, knocking over my beer in the process and fell into the driver’s seat.

‘Schnell Englander, giff me your ticket pliss.’ My window had never been wound down faster. ‘Sumvun hass not arrifed, unt zer is a wacancy on ze train. You must be fast as it vill leaf in fife minutes.’

I’ve never been so fast, beer was slopping around in the central console and my ciggie was now wetter than a soggy Woodbine, but I wasn’t going to let Lady Luck go, at least not until I’d taken my ‘rightful’ place at the back end of the train. I can clean this mess up later. Collecting my pillow, sleeping bag, bochwurst and remaining beer, I trundled, as rapidly as my little legs would carry me the quarter of a mile or so to the slavenwagon (railway carriage) at the other end of the rail yard. Puffing like a steam train, I clambered aboard. There were numerous empty compartments, but I decided to join two fellow drivers and deposited my gear in a heap on one of the empty bunks.

“Ooh, wouldn’t want to be going there mate. Could tell you some real horror stories.”

‘Hello driver, where you off to then?’

‘Kuwait,’ I replied.

‘Ooh, wouldn’t want to be going there mate. Could tell you some real horror stories.’

‘How many times have you been there then?’ I enquired. ‘None mate,’ as I picked up my gear and headed down the carriage to find an empty compartment. After today, I didn’t need all that. I lay on the bunk and rolled myself another tab of Old Holborn. Time to relax as the carriage jerked and we headed south to Ludwigsburg.