The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor Whitall

      chapter seven

      THINGS ARE GETTING BETTER

      ‘Clank, clank, clank!’ I awoke with a start. Where was I, as I was lumped against the back of the bunk by a sudden lurch? Gathering my senses, I rolled out of bed and collected my gear. It was half two in the morning. I presumed we were in Ludwigsburg as I looked out of the window onto brightly lit railway sidings. What had I had, maybe 3 hours’ sleep? I didn’t feel too bad as I climbed down from the carriage and retraced the route back to my truck. The early loaders were already driving off. Releasing my wheel chocks, I opened the cab door to the pungent smell of stale beer. Oh no! Forgot about that during my stay in our ‘five-star’ accommodation . . . I needed to clean this soggy mess up before I headed for Austria. Gingerly driving down the length of the train, it’s too easy to pick up a puncture with all this bare metal lying about, I pulled over to do my housework. Where’s Jenny when I need her!

      At half past three, other than a 5-minute wait at the unmanned level crossing for the flashing orange lights to stop and eventually realising they weren’t going to, I left a silent Ludwigsburg heading for München.

      Trying desperately to keep to the 80 kph speed limit, as I didn’t want one of those enormous German fines all the ‘experts’ had told me to expect, I finally gave up and let the old girl have her head. She was much happier for it and gave me a smooth untroubled drive through to the German–Austrian border at Schwarzbach.

      The closer I got the more the nervous tension built up in my stomach as I didn’t want another debacle like Heerlen. This time, on parking up, I searched for an agent’s office to get advice and to check through my paperwork. Before I’d left Little Aachen I used a bit of northern nouse and ‘borrowed’ a selection of forms that I’d need and copied across the relevant information. I mean, there’s no way I was going to remember how to fill in all the boxes. In years to come I wondered what all the fuss was about as I helped dozens of sweaty browed ‘continental virgins’ to complete the dreaded Laufzettel. I needn’t have worried in the slightest. For the princely sum of 90 schillings (£4.50), they showed me how to fill in the Austrian Statistic and a new tankschein form, this time showing I was exiting Germany with 200 litres. With paperwork all in order I headed to the customs hall. Hell, there was nothing to it.

      ‘Plumbs?’ Yes, I know what they are, ‘drei. Tankschein? Ja, zwei hundert litre.’

      And that was it, done. In 20 minutes I’d suddenly become much more confident.

      Wandering into one of the café-cum-gift shops I ordered more bochwurst, and being an ‘experienced’ continental driver, even bought a couple of Austrian and German stickers. To top it all off, Lady Luck was giving me a free ride today as I bumped into the two guys with whom I’d nearly shared a compartment on the train.

      “I felt alive and exhilarated at the new horizons opening up in front of me.”

      ‘You lost as well boss?’ asked one of them.

      ‘Lost? No mate,’ flashing my exit Laufzettel. ‘Now off down to Spielfeld and Yugoslavia,’ while pointing them in the right direction for an agent.

      I was now over 1000 miles from Blackpool, right out on an extended leash. To date I’d never been more than 300 miles away from home. But do you know what, I felt alive and exhilarated at the new horizons opening up in front of me. Climbing into my lorry, I pulled out of the parking area and headed down the autobahn to Villach and Graz. Seeing a Shell station in the distance, I thought I might as well top up and, pulling onto the pumps, was ‘accosted’ by an attractive twentysomething-year-old woman.

      ‘Hello, would you like fuel?’

      ‘Blimey, your English is good,’ I said.

      ‘It could be because I am English,’ she responded.

      ‘Oops, sorry,’ I laughed. ‘Do you take Euroshell?’

      ‘I’m afraid I’ll need to check your card first, in case it’s on stop. We get a number of English lads through here whose cards are on hold. Makes it rather embarrassing.’

      Managing to squeeze in 250 litres, Pauline, who had by now introduced herself, asked if I’d like a coffee. It turns out this is normal practice in Europe as a sort of thank you for your custom. Chatting away, she explained that she had married an Austrian and now managed the service station and truck stop.

      ‘We get a lot of Brits parking here at weekends,’ she said. ‘So whenever you’re in the area, you’re more than welcome to join the happy throng.’

      Drinking the coffee, which was nothing like any coffee I’d ever tasted before – I’ve still got the bits in my mouth – I made my goodbyes and headed south. I wanted to be in Spielfeld that night.

      Before long the autobahn petered out and it was onto the old main road that wound its way along the valley bottom. Affectionately known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail by those on the long haul, it was a slow, almost tortuous route, down the centre of Austria. Beautiful scenery, the like of which I’d only seen on the TV, surrounded me in every direction, and though progress was slow, my appreciation of the stunning landscape helped to make the time pass unnoticed. As darkness cast its soft cloak over the image, I joined the back of the queue waiting to cross from Austria into Yugoslavia.

      Now what? Once again it seemed as if some of my earlier confidence had dissipated. I watched a couple of drivers who’d pulled up behind me walk past with black folders in hand. They looked as if they knew what they were doing. So, collecting my briefcase, I tumbled out of the cab and hurried after them.

      The Austrian customs was dispatched relatively quickly, as the procedure was similar to Salzburg. I’d realised my increased nervousness was due to the fact I was entering a communist country for the first time, and we all knew that communists were ‘bad people’, intent on world domination, unlike the ‘peace-loving’ capitalist world. Well, that’s what I’d read in the papers!

      Edging forward alongside a second queue of vehicles, ours came to a halt for at least half an hour. Meanwhile, the other line kept inching towards ‘no-man’s-land’. Indicating to pull out, and assuming the best response, I found no one seemed to have noticed my flashing indicator and they continued to pass me by, studiously taking an interest in what is obviously a very attractive fire hydrant on the other side. Trying to remonstrate elicited a shrug of the shoulders or a spreading of the arms. It appears as if gentlemanly and considerate queuing is a distinctly British and West European trait. The, ‘no, after you old chap.’ ‘No, no, no, I insist, after you old bean,’ convention comes to an abrupt halt at the borders of Western Europe, especially where it concerns truck drivers!

      “I’d realised my increased nervousness was due to the fact I was entering a communist country for the first time”

      Then, for 5 minutes both lines came to a halt, so I stepped out of the cab to have a better look at what was going on. Huh, the bloody bloke driving the truck in front of me had disappeared, and the wagons that weren’t letting us out were filling the space in front of him. That’s why they’d been moving and we hadn’t. Suddenly the queue to my left lurched forward about 40 ft and a gap opened up next to me. Sprinting back to my cab, I heard lots of shouting and turned to see a dumpy middle-aged guy waving his arms and making throat cutting signs while doing his best to run back to his old Berliet. His mate, who was standing in front of the wagon, was willing him on and waving his hand at me in a ‘don’t do it’ motion.