The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor Whitall

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      chapter six

      WHY DIDN’T I LEARN GERMAN IN SCHOOL?

      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.

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