Tango's Traumatic Travels

[tango15]

THE LEIPZIG TRADE FAIR

Leipzig is home to one of the oldest trade fair venues in the world. The ‘Leipziger Messe’ was established at the intersection of two important historical trade routes about 500 years ago. Following World War Two, when Leipzig found itself in East Germany, the Soviet Union saw an opportunity to open trade with the West with what was known as Comecon, a sort of Eastern Bloc precursor to the EEC. Of course, there wasn’t a huge amount that the West wanted from Comecon, but that didn’t matter. It was the perfect platform for intelligence-gathering.

The fair was an annual event, and anyone could attend. The Eastern Europeans loved it, because they were off the leash for a week, and they could eat, drink, and be merry. It also meant that we could meet our customers in a more relaxed atmosphere. Lots of meetings, but at least the food was decent, and this led my boss and me to a little adventure. There were food stalls dotted around the site, one of which sold very acceptable hot dogs. My boss began to acquire a taste for them, especially the sausages. On the last day, he asked me if I would do him a favour – he wanted to buy some sausages to take home. We hatched a plan over a couple of Czech beers. We knew I couldn’t just walk up to the stall and ask for them, because the Brunhildas running the stall would just say ‘Nein,’ but as the German-speaker, it was my task, so a little subterfuge was required. If we left it until late in the afternoon, there was a chance that there might be some left over. I waited for a quiet moment and went to the stall. I bought two hot dogs and then asked if I could buy some sausages to take away. They were surprised and naturally, a little suspicious. I said that I liked them and wanted to take some home. She asked me if we had sausages in England, and I said we did, but not like these. That seemed to be the clincher, and she asked how many I wanted, (eight). We agreed on a price, and I was told to come to the back of the stall in about 15 minutes, which I did. The sausages were wrapped in that day’s copy of Neues Deutschland, the East German equivalent of Pravda, with an apology that there was nothing else available. My boss packed them in his suitcase and we flew home. Our paths didn’t cross for a couple of weeks, but eventually I had the chance to ask him how he had enjoyed them. He was a bit sheepish, knowing how much trouble I had gone to, but he eventually confessed that, having cooked and eaten them himself (his wife was Indian), he wasn’t that impressed. After some discussion, we both agreed that once you take food out of its country of origin (even East Germany), it’s just not the same.

On one occasion, we were there over a weekend. Colditz was showing on TV at the time, and I thought this was an ideal opportunity to visit. (Unlike Russia, you could travel anywhere in East Germany: the Russian visas stated which cities you were allowed to visit). I checked the trains, and a day trip was possible, so off I went. My boss didn’t want to join me, perhaps fearing that it would be a one-way trip! Having made my way to the entrance, I knocked at a very large wooden door, and eventually a hatch opened, through which I could see an older lady in a nurse’s uniform. I explained that I was visiting the trade fair and that there was a TV programme running in the UK about it. Somewhat to my surprise, she was very pleasant, and explained that visiting the castle was impossible because it was now a hospital “für die Kranken im Kopf,” whilst pointing at her head, perhaps for added emphasis. She apologised and suggested that I go down to the square where there was a bierstube. Apparently, some of the prisoners were marched down there from time to time and allowed to have a pint or two, something I didn’t remember from the TV programme. She gave me directions, and I wandered down into the town square and went into the bar. They quickly realised that I wasn’t German, and a conversation ensued. The bar owner then introduced me to several regulars who were sitting around the stammtisch (regulars' table). I don’t remember much else, apart from the fact that they were very welcoming. A couple of them had worked in the castle during the war. The impression I got was that although it was escape-proof, it was nowhere as bad as some of the other German POW camps, but definitely very forbidding, especially later, as I was standing on Colditz station platform, looking up at the castle. On the trip home, feeling somewhat mellow, I reflected on the fact that even in East Germany, which was by far the worst of the countries I regularly visited, ordinary people are the same wherever you go in the world. It’s the politicians who mess everything up.

I don’t think my boss ever believed that I made it to Colditz. I told him the story, but I don’t think he could believe that I’d spent a very pleasant afternoon in a pub with a group of East Germans, although he was aware of the fact that I’d had a few drinks!

[llondel]

I don’t think my boss ever believed that I made it to Colditz. I told him the story, but I don’t think he could believe that I’d spent a very pleasant afternoon in a pub with a group of East Germans, although he was aware of the fact that I’d had a few drinks!

You must have been there earlier than me, they were refurbishing the place and making it safe, so we didn't get to see everything.

February 2004 is when I got to visit. Second image is of the prisoners' courtyard.

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[tango15]

Thanks llondel. The third picture is more how I remember it, because I only ever saw the outside. I did plan to return when I heard that they had opened it, but never got around to it. My visit was in 1974, so 30 years before - wow!

[tango15]

HUNGARY

Relatively speaking, Hungary was probably one of the nicest countries in the Bloc to visit. We had one big customer there, but we weren’t allowed to visit, despite several requests. I discovered many years later that it was next to a factory that produced armoured vehicles, which explained a lot. Budapest is actually two cities, Buda and Pest, which lie either side of the (not very blue) Danube. Buda is the more photogenic and thus the one that appears on the travel posters. Hungarian is totally unintelligible, so all communications were in either English or German. There are various theories about the origin of the language, some of which link it to Finnish, but there is no definitive proof of this. Certainly, here was still no love lost between the Russians and the Hungarians, as the events of 1956 had proved. The few who spoke Russian would only do so under duress, but few, if any, Russians spoke Hungarian.

The food (not just goulash), and the wine (not just Bull’s Blood), were probably the best in Eastern Europe, and even in mid-winter, Budapest is an attractive city. But despite their detestation of all things Soviet, the same rules applied when it came to hotel stays, though. You could book the hotel of your choice, but your passport would be taken at check-in and only returned after the bill had been paid. This almost proved my undoing one morning, having checked out of the hotel after enjoying more Bull’s Blood than I should have during the previous evening, after the hotel forgot to give me/I forgot to ask for, my passport. It was only as we arrived at the airport that I realised my passport was still in the hotel. I asked the taxi driver to take me back to the hotel. He spoke some English and obviously understood the problem. He asked me to wait while he spoke to the woman on check-in, showing her a badge, and then dashed out of the terminal. Seeing my concern, she explained that he was with the Secret Service, and that he had gone back to the hotel to collect my passport and that I should not worry, and have a coffee while I was waiting. I told her that I was worried about missing my flight. I can’t remember now where I was flying to, but in those days, there were very few daily flights. She told me not to worry, as they would hold the flight until the taxi driver returned, which was a relief, because I still had to go through the money-changing routine before I could check in.

After a very anxious 40 minutes or so, the taxi driver came back through the doors and handed me my passport. He would only accept the standard payment, plus a tip. With the remaining money successfully changed back (to Deutschmarks I think), I checked in, and the flight left more or less on time. I found Budapest to be a very pleasant city. Prague has its much vaunted attractions, but I have always preferred cities with rivers running through them. Prague does have the Vitava, but it’s not as impressive as the Danube in my opinion.

[Karearea]

Egri Bikavér - I remembered, without googling; haven't thought of it for decades.

[tango15]

Egri Bikavér - I remembered, without googling; haven't thought of it for decades.

That's the one! I even learnt how to pronounce it properly - the only two words of Hungarian I know, but useful ones! I worked with a Hungarian lady at Luton who was much amused by my knowledge. I mean, who the hell besides Hungarians speaks Hungarian?

[tango15]

GEORGIA

Many years ago, during a visit to Moscow, bored and fed up with the food in the hotel, and having heard about a Georgian restaurant, I decided to try it out. I wandered in, sat down and deciphered the menu, whilst ordering a glass of excellent Georgian red wine. There were a few other diners, but also a group at a large table. After a while, one of the group came over and asked me in Russian if I was alone, and if I would like to join them. When they learnt I was English, more booze was ordered, and a couple of them began to chat in English. They had not long arrived, but the food had apparently been pre-ordered. Much of their food is mezze style, so they just bring out the platters and everyone tucks in. The food was excellent, the best I had eaten in Moscow. It transpired that it was the birthday of one of the group, so there was much toasting (in Georgian), but toasting is the same in any language. After the meal, the cognac bottles appeared, and there was more toasting. They were using shot glasses, which once consumed were thrown into the (lit) fireplace in the corner – a Georgian tradition, apparently. Such fireplaces were a staple in older Russian restaurants, since they were the only form of heating. (Regular readers may recall that almost all visits to Russia took place in the winter). Despite there being very little cognac left in the glasses, the effect on the fire and the chimney, was spectacular. Soon, the no doubt long-accumulated soot began to dislodge itself from the chimney and make its way into the fireplace and billow into the restaurant, to the extent that we had to evacuate it, but by this time, the celebrations were coming to an end, anyway. I never heard from or saw any of the group again, but I decided that I would put Georgia on my list of places to visit one day.

Fast forward about 35 years, and I decided to visit Georgia for a week’s holiday. A couple of days in the capital, Tbilisi, in the company of some oilies who had escaped from Azerbaijan for a few days’ R&R were excellent, and Tbilisi is a very pleasant city. I also visited the appropriately-named town of Gori, birthplace of Joseph Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, more commonly known as Stalin, derived from a Russian word meaning ‘man of steel’, a nickname of which he apparently approved. The house in which he allegedly lived is open to the public, although some dispute that this is neither the original house nor the site. Nevertheless, it gives an authentic impression of what his early life must have been like. The other main exhibit is the heavily-armoured railway carriage in which he regularly travelled, which weighs 70 tons. Like Kim Jong Un, Stalin did not like flying – what is it with dictators and flying? Not being in control, perhaps.

In the process of all this gallivanting, the sole separated from the upper part of one of my shoes. I asked the hotel reception if there was a shoe repairer nearby and I was directed to a side street where there was a small old-fashioned cobblers. There was no window display, just a cobbler’s bench, at which he was working. I explained the problem to him in my best Russian, and he told me to come back at about 5 pm the next day. I went back at the appointed time to find the shop in darkness, and the door shutter all but closed. I went into full panic mode because I was leaving for Batumi early the next morning. A few bangs on the door brought the cobbler to the front of the shop. Apparently, he was working in the back. He had done an excellent job of reuniting the upper and the sole, and charged me the princely sum of $2.

The following morning, I checked-in for the flight to Batumi, and a Soviet-era bus took us out to the stand where a Yak-40 was waiting. Boarding proceeded normally, and the seats were quickly filled. So quickly, in fact, that it soon became apparent that there were more passengers than seats. There were raised voices with the cabin crew, and soon the captain, who was in mid-cigarette, strolled into the cabin and sorted things out. The rear entrance door was closed, and with three additional standing passengers hanging on to the seats, we taxied out. The flight continued normally, and I took a taxi to the hotel. That evening, I went to the bar and ordered a beer before setting off for a meal. The beer was served in a large bottle and was very pleasant, so I ordered a second one. I realised that it was quite strong, and checked the label. The only thing I could understand was 11%. I have never seen beer that strong before or since! Batumi is a major port and resort on the Black Sea. It was pleasant enough, but seemed a little run down when I was there, rather like its Russian equivalent, Sochi, down the coast. Georgia has no mineral resources of its own, but because nearby Azerbaijan cannot export its oil easily, it is conveyed by rail to Batumi, where it is loaded onto ocean-going tankers. For this service, Georgia takes an agreed percentage of the oil for itself. However, since my visit, there has been a huge amount of foreign investment, and the town is now a thriving resort, principally entertaining holidaymakers from Russia, Turkey and Central Asia. Even in those days, the food was excellent, the people very friendly, and the women, almost without exception, were beautiful. Dubai? Pffft!

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[tango15]

A couple more from Georgia:

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The interior of Stalin's coach.

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Batumi as it is today

[tango15]

JET2 TO VENICE – A STORY OF CONSEQUENCES

A slightly different story this time, and probably the last in the series, but one which deserves to be told. Some years ago now, I was working in ops for one of the handling agents at Manchester Airport. Jet2 already had a significant presence at the airport, and we handled all their flights, apart from the check-in. On this particular day, although sometimes on dispatch duties, I was working in the office. The full story was revealed at the subsequent inquiry, and yours truly was only involved in parts of it, thankfully.

The Jet2 flight to Venice operated twice a week, principally to connect with cruises operating to the Adriatic and Eastern Mediterranean. There weren’t many on board who were about to pay €10 for a coffee in St Mark’s Square, or even more for a cocktail in Harry’s Bar. It being a cruise-connecting flight, there were no restrictions on baggage, so the baggage weight was significantly higher than usual. The aircraft operating the service was a 737-300.
A fuel figure of five tonnes had been passed to the dispatcher. The first indication of a problem came when the captain called up on the company frequency, and asked why he had nine tons of fuel on board. (The fueller had long-since disappeared). A call to the dispatcher revealed that he had passed a figure of nine tons to the fueller. This now put the aircraft significantly over the MTOW, given that the flight was full with pax, baggage, catering, etc.

It was mid-summer, and Jet2 didn’t have a spare aircraft available, so the only answer, but an unpalatable one, was to de-fuel the aircraft. Yours truly calls the fuellers, who once they had stopped groaning, said it would take about half an hour to set up. Jet2 had a habit of calling the flights to the gate early, so by this time, most of the pax are already at the gate.

The aircraft is dragged to a far corner of the airport for the de-fuelling process. We give the Jet2 staff a new ETD, send a delay signal to Venice, and meal vouchers are issued, partly to get the pax away from the gate, since it’s required for another flight. By this time, word of the debacle has reached the Station Manager, who immediately suspends the dispatcher and asks me to take over the handling of the flight. Believing that the worst is now over, I keep a watching brief on things, waiting for a call from the fuellers to say that four tonnes have been removed, and we can send a tug driver over. The call comes, I inform ground control, and we are allocated a new gate. I go out and explain to the tug driver what he needs to do, and off he goes. Call the Jet2 crew-room to tell them what’s happening. Some minutes later, the tug-driver comes rushing into the office, to inform me that, for reasons best known to themselves, the de-fuelling has taken place in a landside area of the airport. The bags had remained on board during this time, so now they will all have to come off and be re-screened. Now we have to find a crew to do this, so we grab a couple of guys off flights that are lightly loaded, and I put my fingers in my ears as I explain what we need to do. I go out and explain to the captain, who understandably is less than happy and starts muttering about duty time. By now, my heart is sinking faster than the Titanic. Fortunately, the baggage scan is completed quite quickly, and soon both pax and baggage are being loaded simultaneously. Yours truly prepares a new loadsheet and the captain requests a new slot, which carries a further thirty-minute delay. I am asked to stay until the flight is airborne, plus fifteen minutes Finally it’s airborne, and I track it for the required fifteen minutes, whilst enjoying a well-earned cup of tea.

But that’s not the end of the story, oh no! A couple of days off and then the phone rings. Could I stay on for an hour tomorrow, to give my version of events? OK. It was then that the full story of what happened next was revealed. Ultimately, the flight was about four hours late, and by the time it reached Venice, the coaches due to meet the flight had long since disappeared, and the cruise ship had sailed. About 100 pax had to be found transport, meals, and accommodation for the night in high season Venice. The next destination for the cruise was Dubrovnik, too far to travel by coach to be sure of connecting with the ship, so a flight had to be chartered and coaches arranged to meet it, to ensure that the pax would arrive in time to join the ship the following day. The reason for the de-fuelling truck being landside was also revealed. It seems that it had broken down some days before and had been moved landside to make it easier for the breakdown crew to access it.
So there we are. A classic tale of all the holes in the Swiss cheese being aligned. The handling agent was sent a bill by Jet2, which I was told was only just short of six figures. The dispatcher was sacked, of course, although rather worryingly, I later learned that he went to work for Bentley in Crewe. So when I win the EuroMillions and I go there to place my order for one of their luxury cars, I shall ask whether he is still employed!

Now, Tango is thinking of doing a round-the-world trip later this year, starting with the Global A380 to New York – anyone fancy joining me?

[tango15]

VENEZUELA

Goldfinger was on TV a few days ago, and it reminded me of a little vignette from my days at BAe. Our agent in Venezuela was Sir Raymond Smith, in the days when Venezuela’s oil wealth was more evenly distributed than it is today. He was also the agent for several other high-profile British defence companies, including Rolls-Royce, representations which had made him a multi-millionaire. In the cut-and-thrust world of defence business, he had also made some enemies, not least the in-country ambo, about which more later. It was several years after I joined when I needed to visit. We were arranging a demo tour, and my boss had asked me to call in and discuss it with Sir Raymond when I was next in the area. Arrangements for me to visit were made, and just before I left, he called me in for a briefing. I don’t remember the briefing in detail, but one part of it stuck in my mind. It started something like this:
“You’ll be met at the airport by Oddjob.”
“Oddjob?”
“Yes, you’ve seen Goldfinger? Well, he has a manservant who is a dead ringer for him. He will be at the baggage carousel, just catch his eye, nod, and he will then drive you to your hotel in one of(!) Sir Raymond’s Rolls-Royces. Now, when you’re in the car, slide down in the seat below the level of the window – he has enemies.”

Caracas is a very hilly city, so the airport had to be built on the only piece of flat land in the vicinity, which was 16 miles (26 km) away, down on the coast, and it’s uphill all the way into town. So with ‘Oddjob’ having collected my bag and whisked me through immigration and customs in a heartbeat, I was now sitting behind the smooth but silent V8 engine of a Silver Shadow, making the roads through the hills of Caracas seem like a Dutch motorway.

I called Sir Raymond from the hotel, and we arranged to meet the next day. Oddjob collected me from my hotel and deposited me at Sir Raymond’s anonymous office in the centre of the city. His office had no windows, but a noisy air conditioner throbbed on the wall behind him. This was unfortunate, because Sir Raymond had contracted a form of throat cancer, which meant that his voice rarely rose above a whisper. We discussed the forthcoming demo, and he asked who the competition was. I told him it was Fokker with the F-27, to which he responded, “Do you want me to have them stopped at the airport?” Having experienced the ease with which Oddjob had whisked me through the airport, I did not doubt that he was quite capable of that, but I decided against it, on the basis that Fokker could quite possibly extract their revenge elsewhere in the future. We discussed the plans for the forthcoming demo, and I moved on.

We did the demo a few weeks later, and everything went well. The rest of the team moved on, leaving me and one of the engineers who was doing some support work in Colombia. Sir Raymond invited us to his house for dinner. The house was quite magnificent, like something out of a film set. The garage alone was capable of holding five cars, with two different marques of Rolls-Royces and a Ferrari belonging to one of his sons parked outside. Sir Raymond met us at the door and led us down the hallway. On the wall was a large painting, no doubt a very expensive copy, of Canaletto’s La piazza San Marco in Venice. The engineer stopped at the painting and said, “Is that one of them cannellonis?” Sir Raymond turned to him, a wry smile on his face, answered, “Something like that, yes.”

The dinner was excellent, and during it, Sir Raymond told us of the increasing difficulties of doing business in Venezuela at that time. The previous year, there had been a British exhibition in Caracas, arranged by the embassy. Sir Raymond went to the ambo with an idea. Put a Rolls-Royce on a plinth at the entrance to the exhibition and raffle it. The takings would go to local charities, and Sir Raymond would provide the vehicle. Apparently, the ambo thought this vulgar and pooh-poohed the idea, but Sir Raymond was not to be outdone. Late at night, the day before the exhibition was due to open, he had a Roller taken out of the showroom, put onto a trailer and taken to the site. The trailer was then parked at the entrance, adorned with palm leaves and plants in pots, together with a large sign explaining the raffle. When the ambo arrived the next day to open the exhibition, he was furious, but there was nothing he could do. They never spoke again, nor was Sir Raymond invited to the Queen’s Birthday Celebration, a sure sign for an expat that you are persona non grata.

So, what of ‘Oddjob’? Well, my boss and I discussed this shortly afterwards one night over a few beers. He told me that the guy was originally from the south of Venezuela, hence the indigenous (Indian) appearance. He didn’t wear the top hat, or any hat, but he did wear a three-piece suit and a black tie. He never spoke to me, but he was neither deaf nor dumb, because I heard him in conversation with Sir Raymond on several occasions. He had worked for Sir Raymond for about 30 years, my boss reckoned. Both Sir Raymond and Ian Fleming worked in naval intelligence during WWII, and it’s quite possible that they knew each other, and since Jamaica and Venezuela are not that far apart, Fleming may well have visited him, and this was the inspiration for the character, but who knows? About a year after that visit, Sir Raymond died of cancer. He was succeeded by two sons, one of whom had developed a cocaine habit, and the other, who, for some reason, was painfully shy. The business was dissolved not long afterwards.

[OFSO]

Tango, brilliant writing and amazing tales. Sadly I cannot contribute any stories of my own, since I'm dependent on my previous employer for both pension and comprehensive medical benefits. One or two have appeared, heavily disguised, on The Register, but that's as far as a former civil servant can go.