The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor Whitall
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу The Silk Road and Beyond - Ivor Whitall страница 15
Название: The Silk Road and Beyond
Автор: Ivor Whitall
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Автомобили и ПДД
isbn: 9781912158676
isbn:
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 all the horror stories I’d heard, but by eleven all five of us were safely ensconced on the forecourt of a Shell station on the outskirts of Ankara. We all topped up with diesel, which more than pleased the garage owner, who reciprocated with free chi all round.
As it was late, tonight’s speciality was going to be the ubiquitous ‘truckers stew’, the recipe of which varied from driver to driver and usually depended on what was available. Tonight’s effort consisted of beans, peas, luncheon meat, chicken curry, beef curry, Irish stew, carrots, and oxtail soup, all thickened up with a generous helping of instant mash powder and cooked in two saucepans. Eat your heart out Robert Carrier!
It must be me, I’m invariably the first to get up, I don’t know why. I always feel as if I’ve got to be doing something, and lying in isn’t doing anything. It was seven o’clock and the sun was already making inroads into the day, and I could tell it’s going to be a hot one.
Collecting four steaming cups of chi from the garage owner, I knocked the lads up, grumpy, ungrateful toe rags they were as well.
‘I know it’s you Ivor. Give us a break, for crying out loud,’ moaned Taff. ‘Bloody hell man, it’s only seven o’clock.’
Offering to pay for the tea, our new-found friend wouldn’t hear of it, but in Turkey, there’s always an alternative form of payment . . . Western cigarettes. Most Turks can’t afford them and usually smoke something called Bafra, and at 2p for ten you can imagine the quality. It’s almost like compacted straw, with a hint that that straw might have been involved in a rumination process first! A packet of Marlboro was always going to put you in a good light.
1975. Up in the Taurus mountains of southern Turkey heading for Adana on the way to Saudi Arabia. Once again, well over 6000-ft high and having yet another brew before the challenging 40-mile descent to the Mediterranean coast.
Diverted off-road at Nusaybin, Turkey, destination Baghdad.
1975. South of Aksaray, again aiming for Baghdad, with the Taurus mountains looming in the distance. Believe it or not, this was the main road to Saudi Arabia and most of the other Gulf countries!
By nine o’clock I’d managed to corral everyone and the five of us were on our way south to Adana, 300 miles distant. The road was not too bad, but with a well gritted and patchy tarmac surface, it was never going to be smooth. Going to have to wait till we’re in Saudi and the ‘Tapline’ for that luxury.
This is an arid dry landscape and generally speaking the vegetation, unless alongside a stream or river, looks sparse and threadbare. We were crossing the vast elevated plain of Central Anatolia now. It’s part of the huge mountain, valley and plateaux monolith that make up the majority of the land mass in this part of Turkey and Iran. This run down to Adana, though about 2000 ft above sea level, is pretty flat, the real mountains are off to the west, with Tarsus in the south yet to come. The sun was really pushing out the heat and most probably nudging 85°F as we passed the salt marshes at the top end of Lake Tuz. A salt lake, it’s vast, well over half the size of Lancashire, and is what’s known as hypersaline, making it a good source of income for the regions inhabitants. At no more than 5 ft deep, it’s one of the shallowest lakes on earth.
“The road was not too bad, but with a well gritted and patchy tarmac surface, it was never going to be smooth.”
Pulling onto a hard-packed dirt area, backed by a building with a large Restoran sign on the roof, Morrie decided that as his stomach was rumbling, we were all hungry. Among the numerous Tonkas parked up, Taff spotted two artics with English registration plates. Mick and Don, the two drivers, were sitting quietly on their own when our overenthusiastic waiter dragged an extra table and chairs across, so us Ingilis could sit together! After slightly embarrassed introductions, it turned out this was their first trip as well. While the rest got to know each other over chilled Coke, me and Mick, who seemed to hit it off straight away, wandered over to the counter to see what food was available.
‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘I think that’s the same sort of meat I had in the Mocamp. Tasty it was, too.’
Mick didn’t know what to order as everything was in Turkish.
‘Tell you what,’ I said bravely, ‘let’s order seven of these with rice. I reckon most of us will like it, not sure about Bert though.’
And so it worked out; everyone thought it was delicious, except for Bert.
‘I’m not eating that muck,’ he moaned.
‘It’s not muck, you heathen, it’s really nice,’ encouraged Don. ‘What else you gonna eat then, how’s your Turkish?’
‘Eeeurgh,’ Bert responded squeamishly. ‘How can you eat that stuff? It’s been lying about, most probably covered in fly spit and who knows what. You’ll all die of food poisoning!’
‘Stop moaning Bert,’ scowled Morrie. ‘Fish and chips ain’t a local speciality round here. Tell you what mate, you’re gonna end up a lot slimmer when you get home if all you’re gonna do is complain about the grub. It’s a long time before we’re back in England. Go on give it a bloody try.’ With that, Bert picked up a lump of meat and gingerly chewed a bit off the end. He must have liked it, as within minutes he’d scoffed the lot; rice, vegetables and all. It’s amazing what a few hunger pangs can do!
‘I СКАЧАТЬ