The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor WhitallЧитать онлайн книгу.
then?’
But he’d already wound the window back up. I certainly did know how it was with the old so-and-so . . .
The booking clerk rifled through our paperwork, withdrawing the two load carnets, CMRs and passports.
‘This’ll do for now,’ he said. ‘If you could drive your vehicles into the shed round the back, Customs will want to check how many seals you’ll require.’
‘How many seals?’ I looked at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Customs will explain.’
Damien was nearly dressed, though I’d seen him look better.
‘Follow me,’ I said as I drove into the shed.
By half eight, no one had arrived.
‘What’s going on chief?’ I asked as we walked back into the office again.
‘Ah, I was just coming out to see you,’ he said. ‘Problems I’m afraid; your carnets have no CAN numbers.’
‘What! What does that mean?’ I asked him exasperatedly.
“Bloody hell! I haven’t left the country yet and there are problems I don’t understand.”
‘It’s a Customs Assigned Number that has to be on every carnet,’ he explained patiently.
Bloody hell! I haven’t left the country yet and there are problems I don’t understand.
The upshot after numerous phone calls to Brian, Billy and Edgar, which I imagine elicited much head shaking and ‘it’s never happened before’ comments from Edgar, was to finally hand the phone to the clerk so he could speak directly to the man. It transpired that J. Woods had assigned their CAN but no one had entered it! To top it off we’d missed our booking slot and had to rebook on the 1pm sailing. This was going like a dream . . . talk about a vertical learning curve! Finally, the papers were handed to Customs and it was just a case of awaiting their appearance with the relevant seals.
Maybe things were starting to look up as within 5 minutes they were at the front of the trailers, ‘pliers’ in one hand, along with numerous round grey bits of metal and six-inch lengths of fine wire in the other.
‘Right driver,’ he said. ‘It’s most probably best to not seal the unit TIR plate.’
Perplexed, I looked at him as if he was talking gibberish.
‘Should you get problems in some faraway place,’ he responded patiently. ‘Legally you’ll not be able to detach yourself from the trailer.’
‘Ah, that’s worth knowing.’
‘So, it’s one on the front of your tilt,’ and with that he slipped the wire through a hole in the thread holding the TIR plate on, then through two holes in the bit of grey metal, which I now realised was the seal, squeezed it with his special pliers and that was it done. As I looked at the now squashed piece of metal I saw what looked like an imprint in the metal, aaah . . . so that’s a seal!
Walking towards the back he was checking to see that the securing TIR cord was intact.
‘Excuse me driver,’ he called out. ‘You don’t appear to have a rear plate.’
I scampered to the back.
‘You what!’ I exclaimed.
Sure enough, there it wasn’t.
‘Oh no.’
Panic, that’s what I’ll do, panic. The bloody ferry goes in less than an hour. We can’t miss another one. I rushed back in to see our friendly clerk.
‘Where can I get a TIR plate?’ I panted.
‘Blimey, that’s a bit short notice mate.’
I was rapidly becoming a headless chicken.
‘There’s a trailer park round the corner,’ he winked.
Of course, of course, unaccompanied trailers, very naughty, but when your need is greater than a faceless trailer . . . Within 10 minutes, once again sweating like a pig, I was screwing a ‘borrowed’ plate onto the rear of my trailer. This is ridiculous, surely it must get easier, I certainly wasn’t expecting this level of amateurism. Scooting around to catch the Customs guy before he disappeared, I came across a very distraught Damien. Seems things were going swimmingly until our Customs friend spotted a hole in the roof of his tilt.
“Not having a great deal of luck with this continental lark, are you?”
‘You’re joking,’ I exclaimed.
‘No I’m bloody not and I can’t leave till it’s repaired.’
Once again we explained the situation to our very willing clerk . . .
‘Not having a great deal of luck with this continental lark, are you?’ he smiled. ‘Wait a sec while I phone the tilt repair bloke.’
Of course, he wasn’t answering his phone, well there’s a surprise. Meanwhile, totally frustrated, I’d been watching truck after truck passing unhindered through the shed making their way to the loading lanes.
‘Listen guys, what’re you going to do?’ he asked. ‘One of you can board and if you want I can rebook the other on tonight’s boat.’
Me and Damien looked at each other.
‘You go Ivor, I’ll catch you in Zeebrugge tomorrow,’ he said despondently.
With carnet, passport, tickets for cabin and food shut safely in my briefcase I headed across the dock to the Linkspan that accessed the ferry.
‘Back it on driver,’ said the loadmaster, collecting my boarding pass.
In 10 minutes we were inching away from the berth as I looked over the rail, took a deep breath, and collected my thoughts.
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