“Poverty appeared to be the order of the day and it seemed as if we’d been transported back a few 100 years, to a time of fiefdom.”
As we climbed the long, steep Silivri hill and dropped down the far side onto the coast of the Sea of Marmaris, we finally joined one of the long urbanised tentacles that lead eventually to the city itself. All along this coastal strip appeared to be a Turkish holiday resort as the sea front was lined with blocks of flats as far as the eye could see. We were getting close now. It was no more than 10 minutes away.
And there it was! A large scripted sign, Londra Camping. Probably the most iconic name on the Middle East run. Pulling into the dusty old TIR park, full of trucks from every corner of Europe and beyond, I was looking forward to a bit of relaxation round this pool Morrie had spoken about and, stuffing a towel, wash gear and some clean clothes into my duffle bag, I walked with the lads round to the motel reception to meet the manager, Mustafa. On the ‘camp’ side of campsite, he took our money, allocated us a room and pointed out the benefits of the place, with surprisingly, no mention of the pool. The shower wasn’t the best I’d ever had, but at least it was warm, as I luxuriated in it for a good half an hour. It’s amazing how much grime and unpleasantness one’s body can accumulate in four days of driving! Meeting the others, who were already wandering around the shop admiring the leather jackets, jerkins and hats, we headed for the restaurant, passing by a large sunken concrete receptacle that was full of a green algaecovered liquid.
“It looks like a breeding ground for mosquitoes!”
‘Strange place to have a cesspit,’ I commented. ‘Mind you, I suppose this is Turkey.’
‘Ah,’ smirked Morrie. ‘You know that pool you were so looking forward to relaxing by, well get your deckchair out Ivor!’
‘You’re joking!’ I said, trying to hold back a queasy feeling in my stomach. ‘It looks like a breeding ground for mosquitoes!’
I wanted to try real Turkish food, however it seemed as if this restaurant only catered for West Europeans and assumed we all ate bifstek, egg and chips. The ‘fried’ eggs looked as if they’d been wafted over the frying pan rather than dropped in it, and the ‘chips’ looked as if they’d been boiled! It all looked pretty gruesome.
‘Fancy an evening in the club, lads,’ asked Morrie, ‘and maybe a wander across to the West Berlin after?’
‘Why not,’ said Taff. ‘Woss the West Berlin then?’
‘Just a local night club,’ he smiled.
To call the Mocamp nightclub’s activities ‘entertainment’ would be to destroy the credibility of the word! Even amateurish would be stretching the imagination. A magnificently statuesque lady performed the dance of the seven veils to the best of her ability while encouraging us to slip money into her waistband, the norm for this dance in Turkey, apparently. She was immediately followed by a local city band, who had evidently never learned English, and who performed possibly the worst cover version of The Beatles’ ‘She Loves You’ that I’d ever heard!
‘C’mon, let’s go across the road to the club we were talking about earlier,’ said Morrie, getting up mid-song. ‘They’re murdering this.’
A scramble across the central reservation saw us knocking on the door of the West Berlin and we were ushered enthusiastically inside and upstairs to a table in the main room. By now there were five of us as two other first trippers, Phil and Bert, had joined our little throng to see what all the fuss was about. No sooner had we sat down than there were five Efes beers planted in front of us, rapidly followed by three young ladies who were obviously looking for business, gesturing to rooms at the back, while sipping our beer. Realising we were ‘shy’, one of the girls asked me why we weren’t interested.
‘But I have a beautiful wife and children at home,’ I responded.
It turned out we all had beautiful wives and children at home! Fast losing interest as they could see no financial activity taking place any time soon, they transferred their attention to a group of Swedish lads that had just turned up. Hah, blond haired and blue eyed, no contest really!
Sitting and watching the antics of the girls and their potential clients found us at well past midnight definitely inebriated, and not going to make that early start we promised ourselves.
I have no recollection of how we made it back across that the central reservation, or of getting into my cab, but somehow it seems I did.
I haven’t the foggiest how this happened, but without a thick head or the use of my alarm, at eight thirty I was awake and raring to go. This obviously didn’t apply to the others as a knock on their doors only received verbal abuse in response.
Phoning Billy to update him and find out what had happened to Damien proved a total waste of time. Having booked a call and being told I would be connected in 2 hours, when the time came it was impossible to hold a conversation due to interference on the line!
By ten thirty we’d finally got our ramshackle crew together and were driving over that wonderful feat of engineering, the Bosphorus Bridge. Here two worlds met, ancient and modern, as we crossed from Europe into Asia.
Approaching Gebze, a flashing headlight in my mirror caught my eye, and pulling over, Taff jumped out.
‘Think you’ve gorra puncher, boyo.’
Damn! Still, it wasn’t totally flat and in half an hour, sweating like a choir boy in a sex shop, we’d got the wheel off. Uncoupling the unit, we went looking for a tyre repair business, eventually ending up outside a dilapidated old shed with a huge Pirelli sign advertising his wares. His stock of tyres was a bit dubious, to say the least. I counted three that had got pieces of old tyre bolted onto the side walls! Had he got a spare tube?
“I haven’t the foggiest how this happened, but without a thick head or the use of my alarm, at eight thirty I was awake and raring to go.”
‘Hayir (no),’ said with a clicking noise from his tongue.
Blast, that meant I’d have to use the spare off my unit and try and get this repaired at a later date.
So it was back to the trailer and another hour before we were ready to continue our journey.
Crossing the Bosphorus was where we saw the start of real poverty. Derelict roadside properties sat alongside partially completed concrete structures. Kids were dressed in clothes that must have been passed down for generations, and packs of scrawny dogs snuffled around among the rubbish and dirt. This was a country where the people who inhabited this harsh rural landscape had a hard life, tending flocks of goats and growing what they could in the arid moonlike landscape. They looked grim-faced and careworn; you got the impression that, here, you fended for yourself or died.
Through Düzce, we started the long 6000 ft ascent over Bolu. The DAF was really earning her corn now as, with 20 tons on board, I was right down the box, second high or third low at best, and 10 to 15 mph if I was lucky. Even at not much more than walking pace we were still overtaking the local hauliers in their ‘Tonkas’. We thought we were slow. For them, it’s crawler and 3 to 4 mph maximum, taking the best part of a day to climb and descend this guardian to the Anatolian plateau.
Our colloquial name for the mainstay of the Turkish transport industry, Tonkas are normally four and six-wheel Ford, MAN and Desoto rigids that are usually fitted with ‘greedy boards’. Nearly always overloaded and overweight, they are the lifeblood of the Turkish economy!
“It must be me, I’m invariably the first to get up, I don’t know why.”
Dusk was settling over us as we made the slow descent down the far side and I was a little anxious about driving in the dark after