The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor WhitallЧитать онлайн книгу.

       This is the dreaded Zahlkarte form, to be completed to allow you to transit West Germany. Woe betide you if you completed it incorrrectly! ‘Du bist ein dummkopf! ’.

      Leaning forward so his nose was virtually touching the Perspex and turning a mild shade of purple, he shouted, ‘Du bist un blödman dummkopf, Englander . . . vo . . . is . . . der . . . plumbs?’

      There was a deathly silence in the corridor.

      Then, out of nowhere, the sound of a familiar voice, my giant Dutch friend.

      ‘Hallo Ivor, I did not expect to see you again so soon,’ he said, with a hearty laugh. ‘What is the problem now?’

      Nothing seemed to bother my huge friend.

      ‘The officer thinks I’m carrying plums even though the carnet says cement,’ I explained.

      With that he burst into laughter, telling all and sundry the tale of the Englishman who thought plumbs were plums! Even the purple-faced official managed a smile. Oh to be multilingual, even one other language would do! There and then I made it a promise to myself that I’d be at least conversant in German.

      ‘Why is everyone laughing Johann?’

      ‘My friend, these plumbs are not fruit, they are spelt PLUMBS, and you English are the only ones that call them seals!’

      My face turned bright red as I thought what a fool I’d been.

      ‘I have three plumbs,’ I stuttered.

      ‘Good, then let’s get this finished and out of here,’ said Johann, still smiling after a quick word with the customs officer.

      ‘You must bring your lorry outside the office, so he can check your plumbs,’ he laughed. ‘Then we will have a coffee.’

      Checking my seals and finally handing over my carnet, I had one more heart-stopping moment as he said, ‘Moment Englander, diesel,’ making an unscrewing motion with his hand.

      A quick glance inside with his torch sufficed.

      ‘Go.’

      Treating Johann to a quick cup of coffee before heading off to catch my train was the least I could do, considering the help he had given me.

      ‘Germany is a good place to drive if everything is in order,’ he explained. ‘Just make sure all lights and boards are clean, that your paperwork is in order, then the BAG man (equivalent to our Ministry of Transport inspectors, now the DVSA) will leave you alone. However, if you cross their path with problems it could be an expensive fine.’

      Thanking him for his valuable assistance, we said our goodbyes, little realising our paths would cross again in Istanbul a few years later.

      Driving out of the tree-lined slip road, I headed for my next little adventure at Eifel Tor and hopefully my train to Ludwigsburg. I’d already realised I was hopelessly prepared for a trip of this magnitude, but luckily, being blessed with a stubborn streak and a never say die attitude, I’d see the job through. Taking the autobahn exit, I could see a goods yard down below. Brilliant, I thought, Lady Luck is with me at last, as I lost view of the sidings and ignored the ‘Container Bahnof’ sign, not realising what it meant. Before I knew it I was in the Köln suburbs and lost! Stopping and asking for ‘the station’ elicited numerous reactions, from shoulder shrugging, to hand waving and finger pointing. I visited three stations, two of which were U-Bahns (underground), before I showed my ticket to a taxi driver, who immediately understood and motioned me to follow him. There followed 10 minutes of Wacky Races as I fought to keep up with his Mercedes in my fully freighted DAF. There’s that sign again, ‘Container Bahnof’ as he indicated left and drove into the terminal. It seems I’m going to learn German by default. Of course, Lady Luck has deserted me again; she’s a pretty fickle mistress, as I find that I’m not booked on tonight’s train after all. There is no such thing as a block booking. When you book, you get a train time; seems logical.

      “If I’m going to be hanging around here for 24 hours I might as well try the local grub.”

      ‘What’s the next train I can book for please? I asked.

      ‘I can put you on tomorrow night, if you wish.’

      That’ll do, I thought. It’ll give Damien a chance to catch up.

      ‘Can you book for two vehicles?’ I asked, giving him both registration numbers.

      On the way in, I’d noticed a wooden shack-type cafe. If I’m going to be hanging around here for 24 hours I might as well try the local grub. Wandering back down the sidings, I overheard a couple of English lads sitting outside in the afternoon sun, eating some sort of sausage and drinking beer. Exchanging the usual pleasantries, they asked if I was on tonight’s train?

      ‘I thought I was,’ and recounted my tale of woe.

      ‘That’s a bit of a pain then,’ piped up a West Country voice. ‘You’m gunner be weekended in Orstria matey.’

      He explained what he meant on seeing my questioning look.

      ‘You’m can’t drive in Orstria after three o’clock Sa’arday afternoon.’

      ‘Bloody great,’ was all I could say.

      Permits, tankschein, driving bans, whatever next!

      ‘Here, have a beer,’ the other guy offered.

      We chatted away for over an hour, during which time I’d managed to fall in love with those bochwurst sausages. Otherwise known as Frankfurters, they’re steamed, covered in mustard and wrapped in an unbuttered baguette. They were that good I bought another three, plus a couple of beers for later.

      ‘It’s time we got back,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘It’s a quarter past five and they’ll be starting to load pretty soon.’

      I’d already resigned myself to another day here and, settling back in the cab, I climbed onto the bunk, cracked open a beer and rolled a ciggie. I might as well relax, as I searched out 208 on the radio for Luxembourg, the ‘saviour’ of many a poor driver’s sanity. It was half past six, my train will be leaving soon without me. I wondered where Damien is?

      I must have drifted off to sleep, as I awoke with a start to someone banging on the cab door. Its Lady Luck come to save me. I scrambled off the bed, knocking over my beer in the process and fell into the driver’s seat.

      ‘Schnell Englander, giff me your ticket pliss.’ My window had never been wound down faster. ‘Sumvun hass not arrifed, unt zer is a wacancy on ze train. You must be fast as it vill leaf in fife minutes.’

      I’ve never been so fast, beer was slopping around in the central console and my ciggie was now wetter than a soggy Woodbine, but I wasn’t going to let Lady Luck go, at least not until I’d taken my ‘rightful’ place at the back end of the train. I can clean this mess up later. Collecting my pillow, sleeping bag, bochwurst and remaining beer, I trundled, as rapidly as my little legs would carry me the quarter of a mile or so to the slavenwagon (railway carriage) at the other end of the rail yard. Puffing like a steam train, I clambered aboard. There were numerous empty compartments, but I decided to join two fellow drivers and deposited my gear in a heap on one of the empty bunks.

      “Ooh,