A trucker's part of life
Apart from having children and grandchildren, I have got to say that my days as a continental truck driver were among the happiest days of my life. Yeah there were trials and tribulations, but they paled into nothing compared to the good times. Every time you got in that truck to go abroad, it felt like the start of a new adventure. It was not like going to work to earn a living, as that seemed just incidental to whatever adventure would unfold as one travelled the roads of Europe, Scandinavia, the Middle East, and the ‘Commy Block’ as it then was. Honest truth? It just seemed like one long holiday after another to me. I loved it. Take the problems in your stride, throw some money at them if need be.
Right: We started with fridges running to southern Spain, seen here in the Services on the A6 or A7. Below: Long load, bit over the normal 13 metres, showing one of our trailers stretched out.
Beneath right: This one was a bit heavy as well as being long. Just about to unload on the day before Christmas Eve. The plant was closing for Christmas to install the new concrete plant.
They were different days to now. Truckers as a breed had massive camaraderie then, and if you broke down by the side of the road, each would stop to help each other. If you got drunk at a nightclub, bar, or Routiers or similar, they would help you back to your truck. If you got into problems with your paperwork, they would tell you how much coffee money or cigarettes to give the appropriate person to alleviate the issue. The truckers of ‘the good old days’ were a bunch apart, characters all, with integrity, honesty and set of morals that maybe ‘differed’ to the norm in both directions. By hook or by crook as the saying goes, you would get your cargo there. Maybe more by crook on some occasions, as I am sure it seemed to some of us that foreign Laws, were there just a set of suggestions, to be upheld or broken in line with whatever your moral character was; and for me at least, whichever was most fun.
After saying that, it may sound like a contradiction, that moral character and integrity was in fact very high among truckers, but that was my experience, based upon the fact that we would help each other out when needed, and help others too where we could. And, to a great degree, it did not matter what nationality you were. Yes, we called the French: Kermits, The Dutch were Cloggys, The Germans Krauts, Italian or Spanish people were always Jago, in the Middle East it was Ragheads and so on. They also had their own names for us, mostly uncomplimentary, but there was rarely if ever any animosity in it, and we all got along fine with each other almost all of the time. In fact, I would go as far as to say, that we truckers did more for international relations (and relationships :), than any of our respective Governments did. We just got on with each other, and made many friends of all nationalities, both with other truckers and the local residents. While many have drifted apart, some are still friends after all these years.
My tale in the book Stasi Swallow is fictionalised. It is not true. But, was based upon experiences, many of which were fact, and not at all unusual in the continental trucking business in those days. I know of truckers who have equally and much more amazing stories, especially the Middle East and Africa guys. A few have contacted me since publication, and they should really put their stuff on paper while we still can. Imagine being stopped in Africa at a Police road block, and being told you cannot go through, as you are not a member of the right terrorist group. Should one presume that they only let the ‘correct’ terrorists go through? It reminds me of a story I heard in a transport cafe, of a trucker in Northern Ireland, walking down a dark street at night, when a figure came out of the shadows behind him and put a knife to his throat, asking “Are you Catholic or a Proddy?” Thinking quickly, the guy replied “I am neither, I am Jewish.” The assailant was pleased with the answer “Allahu Akbar,” came from the shadow behind him, “Allah is good to me tonight.” I have no idea what subsequently happened, or whether the story was true or not, probably not, but it made me laugh.
Far right: Giant fenders unloading in Trieste, for use in a salvage job that was ongoing in The Adriatic.
Above: Silos from Italy to Scotland. This was quite a regular job.
Below Right: Andy Andrews' Scania to front, my Volvo behind, and Kevin Seaton's Volvo to right, waiting to crane off in Trieste. Below: Two of us with Pilot cars at Frejus tunnel exit, awaiting Gendarme approval to move. Although 4,000 feet up in The Alps, it could get surprisingly hot at that location.
I have been in a few ‘hairy’ situations a few times as a trucker, whether it is burning one’s brakes out going down a mountain, getting shot at, or spending nights in police cells or prisons, just because The Authorities did not have a better sense of humour. I was once arrested for not speaking the right language thinking that kahretsin amcık askim meant thank you friend. It didn’t. And the more I tried to explain, the worse it got. I well remember the phrase now: if you have dug yourself into a hole, stop digging.
I started with fridge work for Chingford Fruit, (later South London Cold Store and Solstor) which was fun, but it was all rush here, rush there, so you could wait hours at RDCs (Regional Distribution Centres) and elsewhere to be loaded/unloaded. Fly around just to be parked at some not very enjoyable places. After a few trips abroad with the fridges, we changed over to a Company called MCL Europe, which seemed to have metamorphised from a company called PlantHaul, which was almost all low-loader work with abnormal loads. This was much better, in almost every way. The company treated us really well, did not chase and hassle you all the time to get there, and paid good rates most of the time. The Project Managers (PMs) we had were really skilled people who knew the job inside out and back to front, and would often be on the road with you operating as pilot or escort cars, which was always handy, as they would then also assist with any paperwork issues you had with the authorities. Much of the time, we also had police escorts too, who were a grand bunch of people, usually.
An abnormal load, was anything too heavy, too wide, too long, too high or just plain awkward, and it took a bit of skill loading, unloading and traversing through some tight spots. We were not in a rush, as the order of the time was to get your load to it’s destination without damaging either it, or anything else such as buildings, lamp posts or road signs for example. Sometimes, we would also have a team from the different places’ equivalents of Local Councils and Highways authorities, who would travel ahead of you removing road signs and the like. Then another of their teams would follow you up, putting everything back in place.
For some loads it was a requirement that you also had a ‘second man’ in the cab, which in my case was always Ute or Sharon depending upon the time period. Sometimes we would also take one of the kids with us, Glenn or Jason, on their own or with Sharon (Mum). They all loved it too.
Most of the abnormals had to be ‘permitted’ through all the different council, prefectures and police areas. You had specific routes you had to run, depending upon the loads you were carrying. This was all handled by the PMs in the office or local agents. Sometimes we had to wait ages for the permits or police escorts to be finalised and arrive, but luckily for us, often these seemed to be at or close to nice locations, such as at the borders at the tops of mountains, or the Adriatic Riviera or the Mediterranean coast etc. Sometimes this was just for the weekend, sometimes it would be days of waiting, or even weeks. Como, Marina di Carrara, Madrid, Valencia, Almeria, Vigo, La Rochelle, Santander, Venice, Rimini, and we just had to cope with getting paid to do such things as sightseeing, laying on the beach in the sun, eating in lovely trattorias/restaurants/beach cafes, and spending our evenings drinking and dancing the night away in clubs and discotheques. It was a hard life, but someone had to do it. And I was good at it, and I like to think that I did this part of the job well, even if I had minor failings in the ‘compliance’ part of the job, and in the people I fell in love with.
But hey! That’s life! We can’t all be perfect.