The Silk Road and Beyond: The hair-raising true adventures of a long-distance trucker in the Middle East

By Ivor Whitall

True accounts of one man’s long-distance trucking career that began in the late 1960s, these adventurous anecdotes are told by one of the first pioneers in long-distance trucking to the Middle East, Ivor Whittall. From traveling overseas to Kuwait, driving the desert trek between Jordan and Saudi Arabia, and surviving the infamously dangerous (and sometimes deadly) Tahir Pass in Eastern Turkey that has claimed the lives of truckers with its haphazard landslides and avalanches and tricky mountainous terrain, readers get a driver’s seat perspective to Whittall’s daring career. With 72 contemporary color photos of trucks, drivers, passports, visas, and custom forms, readers will be thrust into what it was like being a long-distance trucker in the 1970s. Full of disastrous near misses, border control mishaps, intense home sickness, mechanical failures, cultural misunderstandings, and so much more, this book will urge you to buckle up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Old Pond Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781912158676

Ivor Whitall

Ivor Whittall lives in Lancashire, England, and is one of the pioneers of long-distance trucking to the Middle East.

Book preview

chapter one

FROM SMALL BEGINNINGS

According to my dear old mum, babies that would fit into a pint pot and were born prematurely weren’t always likely to survive in the pre-NHS days of 1946.

But not me! Here I was, early as usual, bawling my way into this world via Leek maternity home. Ivor, a small baby with a small name.

While still very young, my family, including my brand new baby sister Patricia, were uprooted to go and live next door to an Ansells pub in Tenford, Staffordshire. The name of the pub still baffles me to this day, The Ship Inn . . . The Ship Inn! For crying out loud, there wasn’t even a culvert near the pub, let alone somewhere to park a boat, and we were at least 100 miles away from the sea.

As with many working class families in the 1940s and ’50s, life was hard, not that us kids knew it.

A cold tap and a tin bath filled with hot water boiled on the kitchen stove were the norm. Depending on your seniority and status in the family hierarchy, you might be the last person to ‘enjoy’ the, by now, lukewarm, grimy and less than salubrious bath water. How come Pat was senior to me? An unlit outside toilet that was emptied once a fortnight completed the rosy domestic picture.

A cold tap and a tin bath filled with hot water boiled on the kitchen stove were the norm.

Then, in 1957 we had a ‘change of fortune’ when Dad was asked if he’d be interested in managing The Ship, as the landlord and 11 of his ‘honest’ tenants had decided to abscond without paying the rent, and to add to the ignominy, pocketed the takings! Within a week we were installed in the comparative comfort of the pub. Blimey, as well as the beer on tap downstairs, we’d got hot water on tap in the bath upstairs! And . . . luxury of luxuries, it came with an indoor toilet and a chain pull flush! For us kids it was a different world as we also had unfettered access to a 2-acre field and large wood to play in.

For a while life seemed good, but Dad wasn’t a well man, having a history of pancreatic problems. To add to his woes, in 1960 he was diagnosed with gallstones and taken into hospital for a routine operation to remove them. Seemingly on the mend, a month later, once again feeling poorly, he was re-admitted. At five in the evening, Mum phoned to ask how he was, to be told, ‘He is doing well Mrs Whittall,’ and, happy with the news, she went back to running the pub. An hour later the phone rang. It was the hospital, and I could literally see the blood drain from her face as she was informed her husband, my father, had died! Poor Mum was distraught; Dad, with his history of pancreatitis, had succumbed to a major haemorrhage.

I was 14 years old and without a dad. To add insult to injury, facing my final year in school, Mum decided to move us away from all our friends and family to Pelsall, near Walsall. I felt like it was one disaster on top of another and it had a really negative effect on me. So much so that I had become an extremely angry young man. Without my mother’s knowledge, I left home and headed for the ‘bright lights’ of Blackpool, managing to find accommodation in a ‘doss house’ and a job at the infamous fun fair, working on the waltzer and big wheel. I’m not saying it was the making of me, as I was always independently minded, some might even say cussed, but my growing up was a short, sharp learning curve. I was not long a boy among men. In November, at the end of the 1961 season, my anger had dissipated enough for me to try and make a go of it back home with Mum.

"Bloody hell! I certainly knew how to pick the jobs. Still, I was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog."

I hadn’t the foggiest idea what I wanted to do but I had a good work ethic and was keen to earn money. For the next two or three years I tried my hand at anything and everything, which usually involved hard manual labour. From an ‘improver plasterer’, a posh word for a specialist labourer, to bread rounds man, where I passed my driving test, to delivering heat-treated metal fabrication in a Mini Pick-up, and the realisation I loved driving.

Maybe the die was cast! I was still flitting from job to job and somehow found myself driving a small Thames Trader lorry, working as a coalman at the local Co-op coal yard. Hard work doesn’t begin to cover it. With soaking wet hessian sacks dribbling rivers of black dust down the back of your trousers and pointy lumps of steam coal trying to gouge a hole in your kidneys, bloody marvellous it wasn’t . . . But at least I was driving!

Still unsure as to what I wanted to do employment wise, but certainly deciding that life as a perennially dirty coal man wasn’t the profession for me, I answered an advert from a local builder, Joe Giles, for a labourer/driver. Offering me nine old pence an hour more than I was already being paid, I jumped at it and one week later found myself at the wheel of a dilapidated petrol-driven four-wheeler. I was carting everything from sand and ballast to slabs and cement; this was fine until I realised it hadn’t any tipping gear and everything had to be shovelled or handballed, on and off!

Hell! I certainly knew how to pick the jobs. Still, I was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog.

Slowly a hazy career path was opening up in front of me as my next job also entailed driving, this time for a steel stockholder. Once again I found myself delivering metalwork in an asthmatic four-wheeler. Loading and unloading was a serious business and executed by an ancient crane that would have done credit to a 1950s Meccano set. This was bolted to a static lorry parked at the back of the yard and was a serious danger to life and limb. Operated by compression, you wound it up with a cranking handle and then flicked over the lever hoping it would start. A puff of smoke and the distinctive sound of a single pot Lister meant it was up and running. It would lift relatively heavy objects with apparent ease, but try putting them down again! The operation required nerves of steel and perfect judgement as the cargo’s descent was only controlled by the operator, in this case me, working a manual choke brake attached to the cable. The whole kit and caboodle could quite easily, and often did, end up crashing onto the deck! It was a nightmare, and not for me as I valued my extremities too much.

chapter two

MARRIED TO THE GIRL OF MY DREAMS

By now I was 19 and had left my youth behind. Although tall was never my thing, more like stocky, the attribute I was most proud of was my mane of dark, shoulder-length hair. It was 1965 and I’d moved back to the place I regarded as my spiritual home, Tean in Staffordshire. There I ‘renewed’ an acquaintance with Jenny, a girl I’d fancied when we’d both travelled on the same school bus five years earlier. Using the word ‘renewed’ is a bit of journalistic licence on my part, because when I first tried to engage her in conversation all those years ago, she totally ignored me and that, I’m afraid was the beginning and end of ‘our relationship’! This time, however, my endeavours were not to be denied. She was as beautiful as I remembered her; slim with long wavy blonde hair and blue eyes. She was perfect and agreed to meet me in the Gardeners Arms for a drink. I must have done something right because seven weeks later we were married!

Our lives were changing and not long after the wedding, Jenny’s mum bought a guest house, in, of all places, Blackpool. My new wife was going to help run the place, so it looked as if I was going to have to find yet another new job, this time a ‘proper’ one, not working the fun fair dodgems and chatting up the girls.

Casting about in the local Blackpool rag for driving jobs, I randomly selected an advert from the many on offer, John & C. Lowes, Builders Merchant and, rather than phone, I turned up at their yard asking if they had any driving vacancies.

‘Just a moment,’ smiled the receptionist. ‘I think we do, I’ll give Alf a call.’

Alf Pye was a real old-school character. Born during the First World War, he always wore a worsted blazer and tie, and judging by the grilling he gave me, was going to make sure I was the right man for the job. He quizzed me about anything and everything until finally;

‘Right young man, have you driven tipper lorries?’

Of course, I hadn’t.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘OK, Ivor isn’t it? The pay is 5s 7d (27p) an hour, with overtime at 7s (35p) an hour after 50 hours.’

Once again I was driving another old banger – I seemed to attract them – and the job was carting mostly sand and bricks around south and central Lancashire. As it was a tipper, of course, I didn’t have to do a huge amount of shovelling!

The one company artic was driven by a bloke called Derek, who was forever handing in his notice when his temper got the better of him but was back at work the following morning! It was a ten-year-old bonneted Leyland with vacuum brakes and air-operated windscreen wipers. You know, the ones that the faster you drive, the slower they swipe the screen clear, and conversely the slower you drive, the faster they operate. Then, when you’re nearly at a standstill, all you can see out of the screen is a blur of rubber screeching across the glass, setting your teeth on edge. Whose ridiculous idea was that? It was hooked up to a four in line flatbed with what’s called a Scammell coupling; the older guys will understand. It’s where you reverse under the trailer and the legs fold up automatically as you click onto the pin. There were no air lines to connect, just a bolt that when you depressed the foot brake it activated a mechanism that ‘applied’ the trailer’s brakes. For all the good they were you might as well have chucked a rubber anchor out of the window and hoped for the best. Fully loaded, driving this beast required a great deal of forward planning. Luckily they’ve been consigned to the annals of history now, as technology has moved on.

I’d often looked at it and wondered. Then one afternoon, when once again Derek had stormed past, having handed in his notice for the umpteenth time, Alf collared me and asked me to pop into the office before I went home.

‘Derek’s handed his notice in again, and we need a load collected from Ribble Cement in the morning, do you think you could drive the artic?’

‘I don’t see why not Alf,’ I responded tentatively. ‘It’s just another lorry,’ wondering if he realised I was actually too young.

I loved driving, so could this be a turning point in my fledgling career? I hardly slept with the worry and excitement, but at 5am next morning I was firing up the old Leyland, aiming to be in Clitheroe by six. All I had to do was make sure I reversed the trailer in a straight line, keeping the elevator roughly above the centre of the bed. It was all handball and the loading gang kept calling me to pull forward as they stacked the 14 tons of hot cement bags.

Off you go, park over there and collect your paperwork from the office.

‘Righto driver,’ called the foreman. ‘Off you go, park over there and collect your paperwork from the office.’

It was a beautiful sunny morning and I’d seen how Derek had roped his load, so with a couple of cross ropes holding the rear end in, I walked nonchalantly across to the office to collect my notes.

‘No Derek today then?’ came a female voice from the other side of the glass. ‘The miserable old git hasn’t jacked in again, has he?’

‘Dunno,’ I replied, not wanting to get involved.

Yeehaa, I thought, I’ve done it. Mind you, the sweat was pouring off me, so worried was I that I’d cock it up.

Yeehaa, I thought, I’ve done it. Mind you, the sweat was pouring off me, so worried was I that I’d cock it up. I stayed with Alf and J&C Lowes for the next 18 months, until I reached my 21st birthday and I could finally drive articulated lorries legally!

It was time to broaden my horizons and move on. For the last few months I’d been keeping my eyes open, looking for a better driving job, and near at hand was a company called Titchener & Brown. I knew they did ICI stuff to Liverpool Docks and they’d also got a reasonably new fleet of vehicles. So, organising an interview with the transport manager Frank and his assistant, the boss’s adopted son Martin, I turned up in my best bib and tucker ready to sell myself. It was all very weird and vaguely off-putting, in that after nearly every comment Frank would add, ‘on the other side,’ or, ‘on that one,’ even when it made no sense! It was almost like a verbal impediment!

‘Well my boy, on that one, you’ve got the job starting a week Monday.’

‘What time do you want me in?’ I asked.

‘On the other side, it’s normally a five o’clock start and that should get you to Liverpool Docks for around six.’

The money was about the same but with more hours my wage packet should look a little plumper.

Monday week, at five o’clock on the dot, I was drawing out of the yard and heading for the infamous Liverpool Docks. I’d heard all the horror stories about being delayed for weeks, starving to death, growing a beard and whiskers, all while waiting to load or unload, and now I was about to find out the truth of it. Strange that I hadn’t seen the other lads in the yard; they must have left a little earlier. A little earlier! Huh, turns out they’d left at four o’clock and were at least 200 yards ahead of me, right at the front of the queue! Dammit, this wasn’t going to go down too well with Frank.

The boat I wanted was the MV Mystic and, as I watched, a docker walked down the line of trucks chalking MVM on their tyre walls. That must be my boat and I decided to take a chance on jumping the queue, a lifetime ban if caught and it could mean the end of my fledgling career before it even started. Pulling out of the dock, I drove around the perimeter until I was out of sight, and then got out to look for an old stub end of chalk. Fortunately, I didn’t have to look long and scribbled MVM on the sidewall of my tyre. Drawing into the next gate, which luckily was empty, I pointed to my front wheel and shouted the name of the boat.

‘That’s two gates along,’ came back a broad Liverpool accent. ‘Why aren’t you in the queue?’

‘I was feeling a bit queasy and had to find a bog mate. If I go back I’ll have lost my place, there were five of us together.’

‘Go on then and don’t make a habit of it,’ he said, giving me a quizzical look.

Turning right, I drove along the inside of the dock wall hoping I’d be able to get into the queue further forward. Then, the lorry god smiled on me, as the queue shunted forward and in through the gate rolled the other four Titchener wagons! I just tagged on the back as we made our way to the shed where the chemicals discharged from the ship were stored.

There’s always a catch, and being the new boy normally meant learning the hard way. The reason they’d all left at four and not five was that pallets were handed out on a first come, first served basis and we got paid threepence for each empty pallet we collected. More importantly, if there weren’t any pallets in the yard it meant handballing the bags on at ICI, and off again at the docks, all by yourself!

Occasionally we’d reload from the docks with groundnuts, 15 tons in 100 kg sacks; that’s nearly 225 lb! That was 150 massive hessian bags dropped down in a sling, which you then had to manoeuvre into position on the bed of your trailer. I can tell you, nobody volunteered for that little number.

I gave them a call, wondering if I could blag this one . . .

On the way home after work, I’d often see a Leyland Beaver artic with a makeshift sleeper welded to the back. Sign-written on the door was the company name, and under it, UK–Italy. Intrigued and deciding nothing ventured nothing gained, I gave them a call, wondering if I could blag this one . . . Being put through to the manager, his first question was, ‘Buongiorno, parliamo Italiano?’

‘What?’ I spluttered. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, good morning, do you speak Italian? To which you replied, what, then, pardon. From that response, I can only deduce that you don’t.’ And then the phone went dead.

My renowned blagging skills weren’t going to work there then.

‘Si’ was about my limit, so with the best will in the world I wasn’t fluent.

Interestingly I got to know the driver of that truck ten years later.

chapter three

38mph FLAT OUT!

In 1970 I called it a day with Titchener & Brown and again found myself searching through the jobs page of the Blackpool Gazette . The name P. Hottersall & M. & J. Cadman caught my eye, so I made the call. A guy called Wilfred answered and it transpired that he owned the company. It also turned out he had his fingers in numerous other pies in the area, one of them being Seagull Coaches, famous in the 1960s and ’70s for their ‘Mystery Tours’. He seemed a genuine bloke and, even though he drove a Ferrari, was more than happy to get his fingernails dirty in the workshop. Once again I ended up with ‘a shed’. What is it about me, do I have ‘Gullible Ivor’ tattooed on my forehead? It was a six-year-old Atkinson with a 150 Gardner engine and six-speed David Brown gearbox, the original ‘guvnor’s wagon’. On my first day there I recognised John, an old work colleague from T&B, and quizzed him as to what to expect.

‘It’s alright Ivor, Wilf lets you get on with it. Most of the work is Sealand or Ferrymasters out of Preston Dock, and you’ll be expected to organise your own work, especially backloads. His stepson is supposed to be in charge of that, but is bloody useless.’

It wasn’t always the old Atki that I drove, but generally it was regarded as ‘my’ lorry. Other than the fact the old girl struggled to do 40 mph and had a heater that hadn’t read the instruction manual, only blowing out cold air, I quite enjoyed the variety that the job offered. All the while I was gaining experience in this dog eat dog world of road haulage.

"What is it about me, do I have ‘Gullible Ivor’ tattooed on my forehead?"

It was the end of 1973, I’d been there over three years and at the age of 27 considered myself a skilled and professional driver, having covered most of the country, albeit very slowly!

Then, in the following January, standing by the cubicle in Sealand’s office, Mike the transport co-ordinator gave me a load for Dufftown.

‘Dufftown?’ I queried. ‘Where the heck is that?’

He passed me the delivery notes, a load of oak slats for a cooperage at Glenfiddich whisky distillery in Dufftown, Morayshire. Looking at the map, it was way up past Aviemore on the A9 and turn right. I just knew this wasn’t going to be fun; summertime yes, but this was a particularly cold winter, there was heavy snow in Scotland and I’d never been to Dufftown before! The whole trip was horrendous; I had no heater and my sleeping accommodation was a piece of hardboard laid across the cab. Even though I’d got plenty of warm clothing, the interminable cold worms its way through the layers to your very core. They were four of the worst days I’d had in my driving career to date and very nearly put an end to me wanting to continue in this occupation. Heavy snow on the A9 and A95 had me slipping and sliding all over the place, struggling to make any progress. We had no snow chains back then and at one time I thought I was going to be snowed in, until a plough appeared from nowhere and I was able to tag on behind. To top it all, the questioning, ‘where have you been?’ barbs when I got back pee’d me off so much, I stormed into the garage to have it out with Wilf.

I get sent out on a job in the middle of winter, in a bloody lorry that has no effing heating and no effing bed, to a place where it’s 15 degrees below freezing.

‘Do you realise what a crap trip I’ve just had?’ I shouted. ‘I get sent out on a job in the middle of winter, in a bloody lorry that has no effing heating and no effing bed, to a place where it’s 15 degrees below freezing. It’s a bloody joke Wilf. I’ve had enough.’

He was bending down tinkering with something mechanical. I raised my voice another notch.

‘Are you listening to what I’m saying?’

‘I don’t understand the problem Ivor?’ he said, stretching up from his position. ‘Nobody else complains about the old girl.’

‘That’s because I’m the only one stupid enough to drive the antiquated old shed.’

‘Now, now, now,’ he said placatingly. ‘There’s nowt wrong with the old girl, I appreciate she’s a little slow and I’ll get the heater sorted. You get yourself on home, there’s a good lad. You’ll feel better for a night’s sleep with the missus.’ He winked, turning back to his job in hand.

What he really meant, of course, was that he didn’t want to understand, and within a moment appeared to have forgotten my outburst. The old Atki had better fuel consumption than an Isetta bubble car, and Gardner engines have as long a career as Frank Sinatra.

‘Pick up another trailer Ivor, you’ve a Sealand to Milford Haven tomorrow.’

‘Right, that’s it, I’ll pick up my cards and any outstanding money at the end of the week,’ I said, as I stormed off.

Suddenly his hearing was working again, as he stood bolt upright.

‘C’mon now Ivor,’ he called out. ‘No need to be hasty son, I’m sure we can work something out. Just deliver that load to Milford Haven and we’ll sort it when you get back.’

‘No Wilf, I’ve had a gut full. Either we sort it now or I’m off.’

‘OK, OK, so what is it you’re after then?’

‘Right, I’ve been driving that old bus for three years,’ I said. ‘All I want is a lorry with a working heater and won’t struggle to do 40 downhill! I’ll even buy my own transistor radio.’

‘OK, how’d you fancy the old Silver Roadways unit? John has handed in his notice and it’ll be available in a fortnight.’

‘Is this on the level Wilf?’ I demanded.

‘Never more so boy,’ he replied.

True to his word, after a seemingly endless two weeks of dragging the old Atki up and down the road, John left and I was the proud ‘owner’ of a beautiful cab-over Mercedes LP1413, not new by any stretch of the imagination, but the performance was in a different league, 60 mph easily. For the next few months I was as happy as a pig in the proverbial . . . as I roared up and down the M6, M5, and any other motorway that took my fancy. At last I was really enjoying my job. Then, out of the blue, the long-distance Sealand work dried up and I was back doing local deliveries, pulp paper or timber out of Preston Docks and I was lucky to do 150 miles a day!

Bloody hell! Hello Ray, how nice to see you. Must be a couple of years at least

Now I’d had a taste of proper driving with the little Mercedes, I wanted more, and once again started looking around. None of the established hauliers like Northern Ireland Trailers or Ferrymasters appealed to me; NIT because I’d had my fill of Atkinsons with Gardner engines and Ferrymasters because it was too structured and regimented for my liking. I suppose I was a bit of a ‘free spirit’ and happy to push the boundaries. Maybe I should call it a day and look for a proper job. Yeah, right!

The need to find something more ‘interesting’ had been playing on my mind for a couple of weeks and one morning, having loaded my trailer with yet more packs of wood from Preston Docks, I stopped at the office to write myself a gate pass. It being close to the dock canteen, the siren smell of fried breakfast accosted my sensitive nostrils. Not a bad idea, I thought to myself as I parked up and wandered in. Just 3s/6d (17p) bought you the full menu; four bacon, three sausages, two eggs, a heap of beans, fried bread, toast and tea. This should set me up for the day . . .

‘Well, hello young Ivor. Long time no see.’

‘Bloody hell! Hello Ray, how nice to see you. Must be a couple of years at least,’ he said as he sat down to join me for a cuppa.

Ray was an old workmate from Titcheners who’d left to try his hand elsewhere. One of life’s good guys, we spent the next half hour or so sorting out the rights and wrongs of the transport industry, and the world in general. Lorry drivers are particularly good at that sort of thing.

‘You don’t seem too happy with the job,’ noted Ray with his tooth-free grin.

‘No mate, to be honest with you I’m totally hacked off. It’s a struggle to earn a decent crack as it’s near enough all day work. I haven’t done any Sealand containers for six months or more. I’m actually thinking about packing it in.’

‘Aye, sounds like you need a change, I don’t remember seeing you this down before.’

‘I know.’ I said despondently. ‘But where do you go Ray? They’re all as bad as each other.’

‘Well . . . tell you what Ivor, how do you like the idea of driving a brand new lorry?’

‘Ha, and pigs might fly.’ I countered. ‘Wouldn’t we all, don’t know when I last saw a new truck in this part of the world. Most of them are as old as Methuselah’s second-hand chariot.’

‘Look son,’ fishing a crumpled bit of paper out of his well-worn jacket pocket and handing it over to me. ‘Try this number. They’re a major building contractor who’ve made a huge amount of money developing these new estates and, so I’ve heard, need to spend a ‘little’ to reduce their tax liability. For some reason or other they’ve decided to invest in transport.’

‘You sure of all this Ray?’ I asked. ‘Seems too good to be true, and you know what they say about that?’

‘Listen, I wouldn’t tell just anybody, but you’ve always been a good lad, and yes, it’s as true as I’m sat here. Money’s tidy as well, £55 a week plus 10% of the vehicle’s earnings and £5 per night out.’

‘Blimey,’ was all I could say, as I stuffed the already crumpled piece of paper in my trouser pocket.

Little did I realise how on such small events one’s life can turn . . .

‘Thanks for that, but I’d better be off mate,’ I smiled, shaking his hand. ‘I’ve still got four loads of timber to deliver.’

By the end of the day the nub of our conversation had slipped my mind, probably because, being a realist, I didn’t think it was true. The following morning, a Saturday, found me turning out my trouser pockets ready for the weekly wash and the crumpled scrap of paper drifted to the floor. Picking it up, rather than throwing it in the bin, I carefully unfurled it and looked at the number. Shall I, shan’t I? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound and I went out to the phone box and rang the number.

‘Can I speak to Brian please?’

And that was it, done. A truly momentous moment in my life, and I didn’t even know it . . . yet!

As the new depot hadn’t officially been opened, a meeting at his house was arranged for 10.30am the following morning. Brian was going to be my new transport manager and we hit it off straightaway, being offered a start on their first day of trading, Tuesday week. Not only that, he’d collect me from my house at seven thirty. I couldn’t imagine Wilf or any of my previous employers offering to do that! Everything was as Ray had told me, good old boy. Of course, Wilf was less than happy as I gave him the ‘good’ news, running past me all the ‘favours’ he’d done me over the last four years. I’ve never found it a pleasant experience jacking in a job, but sometimes you have to move on and this was definitely one of those times.

chapter four

AT LAST, THE FUTURE BECKONS

The week, which just happened to be Easter, dragged by interminably and as the days trickled past I felt a nervous tension building inside me, one I’d never felt before, and by Tuesday morning I was like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. Poor Jenny didn’t know what to do with me.

To the minute, Brian was collecting me from my front door and he must have sensed my nervousness; either that or my very sweaty palms gave me away, as he wiped his hands on a tissue!

‘Relax Ivor,’ he said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be great working together.’

Eighteen miles later we were rolling into W. Jackson Haulage Ltd’s new yard. At the top end there was a brand new brick-built office and at the bottom a workshop with some warehousing.

Reviews for The Silk Road and Beyond

[cathygeha · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Silk Road and Beyond by Ivor WhittalRevised and Edited by Paul RowlandsThe hair-raising true adventures of a long-distance trucker in the Middle EastHaving lived more years in the Middle East than in the USA and having traveled on the roads of more than one of those mentioned in this book I was curious to read the story of one of the men driving the long-haul trucks I have frequently seen carrying heavy freight from one destination to another. Our household goods from the USA were shipped by ocean and se to Jordan then a year later taken from Jordan to Saudi Arabia only to be taken once again from Saudi to Lebanon. Driving a truck as a profession may have been romanticized in movies but from what I have seen and heard it requires skill, patience, tenacity and an ability to drive for hours. Crossing boarders, which I have also down, requires another skill set entirely. Whether it is money or bread or cigarettes or something else that might smooth the transition through a checkpoint or across a border...a skilled driver will come prepared. I thoroughly enjoyed this look into Ivor’s life. His first trip out as a novice was intriguing and told of those who help out and just as he was helped in the beginning Ivor then often paid it forward when he saw someone he could help. Sometimes his assistance was accepted and he received a thank you while other times...well...I wanted to kick those he helped in the patoot for being so mean-minded and egocentric. Thank you to NetGalley and Fox Chapel Publishing – Old Pond Books for the ARC – this is my honest review. 5 Stars

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In the mid to late 1970s, long distance trucking from England to Kuwait via eastern Europe and Turkey was vastly different from 2019. This memoir is one man's experiences both good and bad during the Cold War until the fall of the Shah and rise of the Taliban. He tells of the hazards of driving in steep mountains with a big rig as well as the problems peculiar to driving in the desert. It's also an insightful travelog of the people who lived along the route at that time and some of the interesting foods he came to appreciate. A fascinating read, especially since I can't even drive a standard transmission let alone a big lorry! I requested and received a free ebook copy from Fox Chapel Publishing and Old Pond Books via NetGalley. Thank you!