1975. Transiting Austria on the single-track road from Golling to Graz. Fondly known as ‘the Ho Chi Minh Trail’ after the winding jungle route of Vietnamese War fame, I’m about to enter the beautiful Alpine valleys that lead down to Yugoslavia.
1975. North of Graz, Austria, at the southern end of the ‘Ho Chi Minh’, on the way to Tehran. Those Mack trucks look just the business.
I’ve since found it’s quite a common occurrence to ‘dump’ your lorry, go off for a bite to eat and not tell anyone, leaving chaos behind. In future queues I’ll keep a sharp look out. Once in the other lane, within 10 minutes I’d reached the barrier barring entry into Yugoslavia. Pretty soon me and my two protagonists were in the dingy half-light of the Yugoslav customs hall but, instead of being arch enemies, it was as if I was their new best friend. Gabbling away in Serb–Croat or Russian, they took me to each customs window and sorted out my documentation!
The whole scenario was so bizarre, but in 15 minutes I was done and then it was the perennial ‘how many plumbs do you have’ question. So far during my transit, through Western European countries I’d only had three sealing my tilt cord, but this time the customs officer added another one and from now on each time I crossed into another country another ‘plumb’ would be added to my tally!
chapter eight
INTO THE UNKNOWN!
It felt surreal, as if I was entering a Len Deighton thriller novel. The barrier raised and I eased out into a pitch black night. Behind, in the mirrors, I could see the bright lights of the Austrian border, ahead, an inky blackness where the only light was that carved out by the main beam of my truck.
The map had shown Maribor to be the first large town. Luckily, I’ve spotted a sign in the headlights. It’s unlit, faded and off to the side. Maribor, and it’s probably a good analogy of what was hidden behind the Iron Curtain; poorly lit and faded. I was tired now. It had been a long day and within the hour I was parked up alongside a few other trucks and rolling a smoke. It was midnight and, setting the alarm for six o’clock, I fell asleep feeling quite proud of my achievements so far. Where was Damien?
Six forty-five and I awoke with a start. I must have been out like a zombie and not heard the alarm. Splashing water over my face, I put the kettle on and ate my last rather stale and now sorry-looking bochwurst. Now I was out of Western Europe and didn’t have a tachograph, I was a ‘free agent’. The only restrictions were going to be self-imposed ones and, of course, those applied by any police that might wish to interfere with my progress!
Looking out of the window at my first view of the country, my initial thought was, what a dump. It looked so untidy and unkempt. Rubbish lay strewn about and what little hardstanding was left in the lay-by had been virtually destroyed by the countless passage of heavy vehicles. It was a mixture of dried mud and broken tarmac.
“I must have been out like a zombie and not heard the alarm.”
The road down to Zagreb, my next target, wasn’t too bad, and on reaching the outskirts I picked up TIR signs that divert heavy goods vehicles in a large arc around the north of the city, to re-join the ‘E5’ on the southern side. The next 440 km to Belgrade were an eye-opener as to the road conditions that might lie ahead, and tested the mettle of man and machine to the limit. Straight enough to have been constructed by the Romans, I don’t think that other than a thin top coat of tarmac, the underlying strata of cobblestones had had any repair work done since! The whole journey down was a vibration-led ‘thump and crash’ of mechanical noises as the poor old DAF, and my spine, struggled to cope with what was a main road in name only!
“I pulled off onto a large parking area that would have done credit to the Somme!”
My stomach was now telling me it required nourishment and, spotting a rust-scarred camping sign with a knife and fork emblem, I pulled off onto a large parking area that would have done credit to the Somme! At the back corner was what looked like a restaurant. Manoeuvring around the minefield of ‘bomb craters’, I pulled up next to another British-registered lorry. He was just drawing his curtains and I recognised his face from yesterday’s train journey. Winding my window down, I introduced myself to Morrie.
‘Going for a wash and some breakfast mate?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m starving.’
‘The Trees’, as I came to know it, became another of the legendary stopping points on the way down, and it wasn’t all to do with the ‘quality’ of service in the restaurant. Other services were also on offer in and amongst the trucks. Mind you, most of them wore welly boots instead of high heels, such was the state of the parking area!
Sitting down at the lino-covered table, we were just about to order when, ‘’Allo boyo’s, ’ow’s it doing?
It was the unmistakeable sound of a Welshman in song. Introducing himself as Taffy, he inferred that, as he was fluent in Serb–Croat, he’d order our meal of ham, egg and chips.
‘Garçon,’ he called across to a bemused waitress standing in the corner. No response.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he called again, once more eliciting nothing other than a shuffling of her feet. With that he called again, including a wave of his arm. This did the trick and she ambled over.
‘Ham, egg and chips three times please love.’
‘Thought you spoke Serb–Croat?’ commented Morrie, as the woman looked at us nonplussed.
‘Just a bit rusty is all,’ he laughed, standing and doing the old chicken routine while clucking loudly. Her face lit up in a flash of understanding as she pointed at each one of us.
‘Si,’ said Taffy, ‘and tri pivos (beer), grazie. There ’ew are boys, dun job innit. Be ’ere toute suite.’
Half an hour later, after a couple of pivos, our ham, egg and chips arrived, looking remarkably like boiled chicken and boiled potatoes. We all burst out laughing.
‘Well done Taff, at least it’s food.’
1975. Londra Camping and on the way to Saudi with my favourite girl. She may have had only 226 horses under the bonnet but she never let me down.
1975, and off to Kuwait on my very first trip. The stamp at the top of page left was my very first Turkish ‘visa’ at Kapikule, dated 20 April 1975. By the time I called it a day I’d filled quite a few passports with border stamps.
And it was, basic at best, with potatoes that looked a bit grey round the gills, but at least it was edible and at 10 Dinar, when there’s 30 to the Pound, it’s as cheap as it’s likely to get. We decided to run down to the Turkish border together and it’s amazing how the idea of having company on my first trip lightened my mood. On top of that, these guys weren’t the bullshitting kind I’d already been unfortunate enough to meet.
‘Right,’ said Morrie, who’d been to the Middle East numerous times. ‘We’ll have a good session, stop for a coffee, then crack on to the Bulgarian border. How’s that grab you?’
And that was settled, Morrie was our resident ‘expert’, so he was in charge. The three of us had a whale of a time convoying it down to Belgrade, even though the road surface was atrocious. Traffic was light and what transport there was consisted mostly of small grey-bonneted