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A Turkish Trucker's Tall Tale:
What Transit Could Look Like in a Few Years
Ramazan
is a Turkish truck driver who is taking a consignment of shirts to Italy for a
Turkish hauling company. Now that the road network in the Balkans has been
considerably improved, he prefers traveling by road rather than taking the
ferry from Istanbul to Brindisi.
This morning, he reports to Haydar
Pasa Customs in the port of Istanbul, where the export declaration for his
consignment is lodged and processed. His agent has also prepared a TIR carnet. The
Customs inspector examines the consignment (Turkish Customs want to make sure
that no narcotics are exported), and seals it with a new kind of seal, the size
of a pack of cigarettes, which is locked with a special key. As the export
declaration is validated in the computer system of Customs, the inspector also
reads the bar code on the TIR carnet, and slides a smartcard in a special
reader. He gives the smartcard and the carnet to Ramazan, who is off on his
journey. The Customs man waves him good bye, and tells him to remember that he
is now an “approved haulier”, and that he should keep the smartcard on the
dashboard all the time he is in the truck. Ramazan wonders if that means that
he will spend even longer waiting at the border.
After a two and half hour ride, he
reaches Kapikule, on the Bulgarian border. On the way, he spotted some uniforms
in a car parked in the emergency lane, and he thought he saw one of the men
pointing a radar-like device in his direction. That encouraged him to slow
down, but he was not stopped at the Edirne toll-gate, so he assumed the radar
may not have been working too well. As he enters the Kapikule border station,
however, he realizes that the uniforms were in fact Customs, not Police. There
is now a large signpost directing TIR “approved hauliers” to a special lane. Ramazan
remembers what the Customs man told him this morning, and decides to give the
lane a try. A road sign says that he should slow to walking pace. As he reaches
the Customs booth, he is worried that he has not had the opportunity to stop
and have the TIR carnet stamped. His worries are short-lasting, because the
officer in the booth collects the carnet, flicks a laser reader on the
bar-code, and asks for the smartcard, which he slides in a computer. Ramazan
sees that the computer screen now displays the export declaration he lodged
this morning and flashes green. Instantly, the red traffic light in front of
him turns green, and the officer waves him on. Of course, the next hurdle is
the Police check, but Ramazan knows that Turkish Police officers are more
relaxed with their nationals. He shows his passport, but what the policeman is
really interested in is the smartcard. As soon as he has put it in the reader,
he says,
“Right, Mr. Gemruk, have a safe trip
to Brindisi.” How did he know I was going to Brindisi? wonders Ramazan.
Now he is in the no-mans-land before
Bulgaria, and he can spot the characteristic watch tower to the left. Interestingly
enough, there is no one in it today, but a lot of satellite antennae cover the
top. Anyway, Ramazan goes through the disinfection pit, at the exit of which a
pretty Bulgarian sanitary officer asks him for his smartcard. By now, he is
used to it, so he casually hands it through the window. A sign lights up in
front of him, saying “4 DEM”, so he starts fumbling through his wallet, but the
girl hands back the card, and a receipt printed in Bulgarian and Turkish.
“I must have a closer look at it,”
thinks Ramazan, but there is another truck behind him, and he must move on. He
still has his passport in front of him as he reaches the immigration
checkpoint, and he remembers suddenly that with all this, he has forgotten to
prepare the 10 DEM banknote he usually folds in his passport for Bulgarian
immigration. Anyway, it is too late now, he has already handed his passport to
a smart looking Bulgarian policeman, with Ray Ban sunglasses, and braces
himself for a long wait. The policeman goes through the passport, pushes it in
a stamping machine, and gives it back before Ramazan has even realized that he
is now in Bulgaria. He is off again and spots the familiar Mitnica/Douane sign,
so the banknote may come in handy now. To his immense surprise, the red light
turns green, and he is casually waved on by a Bulgarian Customs officer busy
inspecting some documents. Then, Ramazan realizes that he did not even have to
stop as he was driving over the weigh-bridge, and no one asked him for the
weight charge. He also remembers it is time for mid-morning coffee, so he pulls
up at the brand new transport café which is jointly operated by the Bulgarians
and the Turks.
In the coffee shop, he spots his
colleague Adem, from a competing trucking company.
“It’s unbelievable. Are they all on
strike today?”
“No, it’s the new system. They have
all the data from the declaration on the smartcard, and it gets read
automatically as you go through the checkpoints.”
“But the Bulgarians? They barely
looked at me.”
“Because they receive an instant
message from the Turkish side, and if it matches what they read on your card,
they don’t bother to check you.”
“You must be joking.”
“No, they only stop trucks when they
have a doubt, and then you’re in for trouble, because they will keep you for a
day. Of course, they only do it if they are reasonably sure of finding
something, and most of the time they are right. You know, now they have
incentive bonuses for detection, so they find it more gratifying looking for
smuggling than asking for small bribes from every driver. And with their new
staff policy, they move the people, so you never know who is going to be on
duty where. Since they introduced all the specialist rummage teams, there are
too many people around for any officer to quietly ask for a bribe.”
“But what about the disinfection
fee? I didn’t pay anything.”
“Of course you did, but it was taken
off from the credit on your card, so you don’t have to bother about small
change anymore.”
“And the weighing bit? Used to be a
nightmare.”
“Not anymore. As you drive on the
bridge, the scale sends a message which is electronically written on your card,
and the weight tax is also debited. The weight will be again checked in the same
way when you enter Macedonia, and they will match it against what the
Bulgarians recorded, so don’t unload anything while you are in Bulgaria.”
“But the Macedonians won’t tell
them.”
“Sure, but the computer will. They
have a regional integrated system now.”
Ramazan then realizes that he is
spending more time with Adem than he ever spent at the border, but it is more
pleasant, and he decides to pay for both coffees with the money he saved.
“With what you are going to save on
the rest of the journey, you can buy me lunch next time.”
On the road to Plovdiv, the Police
stop Ramazan, although he made sure he stayed well within the speed limit. Again,
he recognizes the gun-radar like apparatus which a uniformed Customs officer,
who accompanies the policemen, is carrying. He is made to pull up on the side. At
least, this sounds familiar, thinks Ramazan as he gets out of the cab. The
Customs officer asks him for his smartcard, while a policeman rushes to the
back of the truck.
“Stop! shouts the Customs man. Don’t
touch the seal, or you’ll ruin it.”
“What do you mean, we have the right
to open what we want.”
The Customs officer takes his Police
colleague discreetly to the side, but Ramazan understands enough Bulgarian to
follow the conversation.
“You don’t normally have the right
to open TIR trucks … or any other trucks for that matter …without the presence
of a Customs officer. But with the new system, if you even touch the seal, it
will show on the chip which is inside, and if you try to open it, my detector,
or the ones at the border or along the main roads, will turn red, and the
driver will be stopped at every checkpoint.”
“So what?
“Well, you’re in trouble, because
when the truck reaches its destination, the driver has to hand in his card, and
it gets audited. Every stop is monitored, and they can actually pin it down to
a specific checkpoint. We then get angry remarks from your and my supervisors,
and I have to make a written report.”
Boris, the policeman, knows what a
report is: He had to write one, once, after seriously molesting a motorist who
would not pay him money, and turned out to be the friend of a minister. But he
is still skeptic.
“Didn’t you say that that Turk was
going to Albania. Anyway, how did you know that, you didn’t even look at his
documents.”
“No, but I read his card, and the
screen shows all the details of the trip, including the fact that he is on the
right road, at the right time. So we can let him go, because I also know the
seal was not tampered with.”
Boris is still reluctant.
“If it’s the Albanians who check the
card, what difference does it make to us? They will never come back to
Bulgarian police.”
“But the computer system will, and
there is a regional coordination body that is strongly supported by all our
countries. So, don’t take the risk. Let’s wait for another truck, we are bound
to find one that is off its route or schedule, or with messed-up seals.”
And Ramazan is allowed to move on. As
he reaches the outskirts of Sofia, he sees a mobile road sign, with waiting
times at different borders. It says Gyueshevo 20 minutes, and Dolna Krushica 60
minutes. Today is market day, so many Macedonians from Novo Selo are probably
going shopping. He decides to take the normal route.
When he reaches Gyueshevo, on the
Macedonian border, he has memories of long waits up in the mountain, with no
catering facilities and the Police blocking all trucks before the border zone
because they said that the Macedonians were slow in processing entrance traffic
and they did not want to block the border platform. Sometimes, as much as one
hundred trucks were waiting by the old copper mine, with pickpockets and
moneychangers hanging around (the ones who gave you a wad of neatly cut old
newspapers sandwiched between two genuine German bank notes), but today the place
is deserted, apart from the odd taxi driver. By now, Ramazan knows what to
expect, so he unhesitatingly selects the “approved” lane and has his card
ready. The Bulgarian Customs official asks for the TIR carnet, reads the
bar-code, then checks the card, and allows him to drive on, without his having
to go out of the cab. Ramazan wonders why they even bother with the TIR carnet,
since the card should be sufficient. The Police check is equally fast, and in
no time, he is on the Macedonian side, with again the disinfection pit and the
weigh bridge. As he drives out of the Deve Bair precinct, he sees the disused
fenced road that used to lead to the Customs clearance office, now turned into
a restaurant. He decides to stop, because he is hungry, and has to make a phone
call to his boss.
In the restaurant, despite the loud
music, he can overhear the conversation between two Macedonian Customs
officers.
“Did you know the only reason they
had to keep the old carnet was because some countries in the West are not yet
computerized for transit, and still have to match the paperwork?”
“Is that the reason for the bar
code?”
“Precisely. When you read the bar
code, it is transferred to the computer system, and matched with the smartcard.
When the transit is closed in one country, the system clears the carnet number,
and they report it as discharged to Geneva.”
“Wouldn’t the smartcard be
sufficient?”
“Not yet, because it cannot
reproduce all the data from the carnet. Thank God, we don’t have to detach the
leafs anymore.”
“But if you need a hard copy, in
case something goes wrong, or you have to claim from the association, or
something?”
“The carnet is scanned at the office
of departure, and the image is on the chip in the card. You can always print it
when you need it.”
“What about the stamps on the
leaves?”
“Recordings on the smartcard are
considered sufficient evidence.”
Now the lines are less busy, so
Ramazan can call his head office, to tell them that he is safely in Macedonia.
“Good thing you called. There is a
snag.”
“What?”
“You don’t go to Durres and
Brindisi. The stuff is needed in Tetovo, in Macedonia.
“What do I do? I am expected to
leave the country in twelve hours, according to the TIR carnet.”
“You do nothing. Just drive to
Tetovo Customs house, they will sort it out.”
A policeman has now joined the two
Customs officers.
“Zdravo, Marian. Busy today?”
“You should tell me. Nowadays, it’s
you, Customs guys, who know everything about the traffic.”
“Well, we had five hundred trucks
reported out of Sofia ring road in the past twelve hours, so we should start
expecting them very soon.”
“Good. I’ll bring a couple of extra
officers on the shift.”
“Do you mean they are at home
watching television?”
“No, they’re busy going through the
list of drivers and truck numbers you passed on to us this morning. Found a few
interesting one. Can you imagine, there is a driver who’s been on our files for
months for several speeding offenses, and we would like to have a friendly chat
with him when he turns up. Apparently, he is scheduled for Deve Bair pretty
soon, but we informed Novo Selo, just in case he changes his mind.”
“Well, we have to go. I want to make
sure that the road authority has received the message about the expected
traffic. There could be a traffic jam entering Skopje.”
“The Police will deal with it.”
“Only if they know what to expect. Do
you know we have highly inflammable cargo on the way?”
“I didn’t, but now I do.”
Now Ramazan is driving down the
motorway from Kumanovo to Skopje, and he reaches a toll gate. There is a
dedicated lane for “approved” traffic, but there is no one to be seen in the
booth. He slows down, makes sure his card is in front of the dashboard, and is
slightly disappointed when he cannot physically feel the money being debited
from the card as he drives through the detector loop. After Skopje, he reaches
Tetovo, which has become his point of destination. The Customs terminal is well
indicated, and there is a checkpoint at the entrance. A notice in several
languages says: “Approved TIR drivers need not stop. Please proceed to the
holding bay”.
Ramazan walks into the clearing
agent’s office, gives his card and the TIR carnet to a clerk.
“First things first. Let us clear
your card.”
The girl runs the card through a
reader, and the computer screen lights up.
“So you left Istanbul yesterday, and
you were scheduled for Brindisi?
“Yes but my boss, you know…”
“Never mind. Now, you have been
reported to Tetovo Customs as you entered the terminal. I see your Turkish
export declaration on my screen. Of course, we will have to prepare an import
one for Macedonian Customs.”
“More paperwork?”
“Of course not. It’s all paper-less.
All I do is add the elements which you or your company are going to give me…”
“Such as?”
“Who you actually deliver the goods
to, and all that, but most of it should already be in my system.”
“How?”
“Because the consignee has already
prepared an import declaration, which will be merged with what I shall retrieve
on your smartcard.”
“What about the carnet?”
“Give it to me now. Customs will
scan the bar code, and discharge it. This will automatically inform the
Albanian border not to expect you any more.”
“Can I have my card back? As a
souvenir?”
“Certainly not. It’s expensive, and
will be recycled for another trip as soon as Customs have cleared the
shipment.”
“When will that be?”
“Let me check. Oh, it’s already
done!”
“What?”
“Yes, green circuit, duty debited,
guarantee discharged. It’s all done.”
“But what about the inspection? You
know, when they all collect like scavengers around the truck, pretending to
count every shirt, and asking for some, for their mothers in law?”
“Well, inspections are exceptional
these days. They only examine if they have a doubt, or if the seals have been
messed up, or if you are on their files.”
“So I’m not?”
“No, but that doesn’t prevent them
from examining at random, and the computer also runs a chance selection
program.”
“What about the seal?”
“I’ll come with you and remove it. They
are recyclable too.”
“Isn’t there a warehousing fee?”
“Yes, it will be debited from our
account as soon as I stop the clock when you drive out.”
“Where do I go now?”
“Well, go and deliver the shirts.”
“But I have to sleep somewhere?”
“Go to the Tourist office.”
“Are they computerized?”
“I doubt it.”
Michel
Zarnowiecki
13 Sept
1999 [ed. 9 Sept 2001]
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