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JOURNEY'S END

Fnr six weeks we've ridden with Oliver Dixon in his Actros from Belgium to Afghanistan. Now there he reflects on the 6,000km odyssey — and heads off for a long, hot shower.

Itwist the key and hear 460Teutonic horses purr into life. I have time, so with a deftness restored by five weeks behind the wheel I single-handedly unwrap. extract, light and draw on an Uzbek Lucky Strike.

I still have time; I'm in a queue. so I dig out a CD at random and slide it into the player above my head."You have chosen wisely," the header rail retorts, as RachidTaha echoes around my home. Made in Medina fuses the traditional rhythms of the Middle East and Central Asia, underpinning them with an urgent modern beat. Verne pours out of the speakers,spreading itself over an underlay fitted by some 6,000km of road spreading from the new to the old world. Metaphor central.

Downhill from here There's movement towards the bridge.1 check my mirror and catch sight of my reflection. Three days of stubble and a thousand miles of stare gaze back at me. It's the same face that returned my stare in Brussels, but the man behind it...! really don't know.

I let the Actros choose a gear. as I have for most of the past few weeks. She chooses third, rather than the second I've become used to. Maybe that's in honour of the occasion:maybe because she knows it's all downhill from here. I don't know and! don't ask. I've come to trust her judgement.

We inch forward onto the Bridge of Friendship, the link between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. It's a bridge like many others,but one that has seen the conquerors, the vanquished, the dispossessed and the desperate 1 march,d rive and occasionally crawl across its spans.And now us... SMB 9137 and me.

We rumble across the pitted concrete deck and hit terra firma once more. Then it happens. After 15 years of driving and writing about commercial vehicles, the unthinkable. In one magic moment I'm cleansed of a decade and a half of grief from surly gatemen... of condemnation from the public.., of leg lifting from the rep with the damaged Vectra looking for a scapegoat...

After 15 years of working in an industry that's undervalued, demeaned and scorned by a society that demands its services but not its presence, one man changes everything with one word:The Afghan border guard looks up at me.smiles and says:"Welcome."

It's a Cinerama moment (widescreen for the stay-at-homes): a second that not only defines a journey, but impacts upon a life. It's worthy of Coppola; it's worthy of the widescreen.Who knows. it might even be worthy of Pseuds' Corner.Whatever.We've arrived in Afghanistan and I feel,well,different.

No doubt my convoy comrades are also deeply affected by the moment. If this were Hollywood it would be time for close-ups to show that torrent of emotion we're all feeling. But if this were Hollywood we'd all look the part of tough-but-weary truckers with hearts of gold (think Indiana Jones meets Convoy) and to tell the truth, we don't. In fact we don't look good at all.

One of our number has dressed in Lederhosen in order to mark the moment and I, along with most of the livestock in Central Asia, rather wish he hadn't.

South Park from Samarquand

A French colleague has copped for a dose from a bad bowl of Shurva scored just south of Samarciand. He doesn't know whether he's boiling or freezing, but is currently going with the latter, despite temperatures in the 80s. With his Arctic parka drawn around his head.he cuts a Kenny-type dash around the compound.

All around me there are people who have spent the past month with one aim in mind. and now we've achieved it. Catharsis is climbing in waves.

I keep thinking it should be raining. I have a tilt to strip down, and that always means rain at the very least. But I also have a gang of willing helpers. Afghans who, despite two decades of unimaginable treatment -surely these are the most bullied people on earth -still raise a smile (and a beer from my trailer box). Someone cracks open some lunch: peaand-ham soup and fresh coffee. So here we all are, drinking beer, eating pork and listening to music in a country where 18 months before you'd get thrashed with a bicycle chain for daring to smile.

There's an old tradition in haulage that the getting there is the thing.but the unloading is what you get paid for. Not this time, however. Truth is it's out of our hands and into those belonging to the Afghans.

So now is probably as good a time as any to look back on a few things. and forward to a few more.

When I took on this job a few months back knew things wouldn't be easy. Central Asia isn't easy,on trucks or drivers.

Traceca is designed to change this. Does it work? Given that we've arrived, then yes, it does. But Traceca is an idea, not a new road. If you so chose you could drive anywhere on earth from anywhere on earth:The trick is to turn money on the deal.

Azerbaijan is going through the roof. as is Turkmenistan. Georgia is hopeless: in many ways more so than Afghanistan. Demand for trucks demands demand in the economy, and with two of theTraceca countries in full goldrush mode. Economics 101 comes into play.

But we in Britain are perched on a small island off the coast of Europe. In 2007 Bulgaria joins the EU club, and one of the morals of this particular tale is that Willi Betz's decision to buy into So-Mat some years hack is likely to prove the sharpest hit of thinking since someone coined the notion of circular wheels.because Bulgaria is set to be at the centre of things. And having now knocked about with a few Bulgarian drivers, good luck to them:They're good,and they understand the notion of survival in funny places. But British trucks travelling from Ashford to Ashgebat? I doubt it.

And the Actros? Allow me another analogy When packing for this trek I worried long and hard about modern cameras versus traditional cameras. One is electronic and works a treat when it's treated nice: the other is an old warhorse that'll work out of spite after being dropped on a concrete floor.

Man's (new) best friend

The Actros is a modern truck; brim full of electronics, gadgetry and clever stuff. Six weeks ago! knew it would be good for the motorways of Western Europe, but feared it would turn into a prima donna the moment the blacktop ran out. I was so wrong.

Bit of inside information for you. In this job when we get to test trucks we spend, at most. three days in them. We rarely go anywhere challenging because, in truth, there's little of Britain that is truly challenging.

But I've driven this truck for four weeks or so. I know where things are, I know how to get the seat to my liking and! don't need a map to find the window switches or the fag lighter. For the first time in living memory! can even operate the radio and get something other than Radio Leicester. in short,! know this vehicle.

Familiarity has bred respect. She's good. No, she's very good. Without doubt this is the best truck I've driven up to now, and be very surprised if something better comes along in the future. She's not perfect, because no truck ever will be.Then again, I've no claim to being the perfect driver, so honours are even. But over the space of four weeks I've come to know and, more importantly, trust this truck.

Now is not the time for torque-hand bollocks and the like. For a professional driver trust in the tool of his trade is the highest accolade he can give and the Actros has earned that trust in spades... 6,000km of the toughest road conditions imaginable and she's started every morning with a smile.

No breakdowns, one puncture and precisely nothing about which to complain. Over the past few weeks SMB 9137 has evolved in my mind from a lump of white metal surrounding more (and better) electronics than a moonshot, to a well-liked place of work, to, ultimately,a trusted and valued colleague.

This may sound an odd way to describe a truck which is, after all,a commodity and just a part of the supply chain,but I now remember what it feels like to form a genuine partnership with a machine. I don't blame you if you accuse me of sentimentalism, but I'll refute such remarks with vehemence.This could have been the journey from hell, but it wasn't—and in many ways that is down to the Actros. So the vehicle's up to the task.The roads are more-or-less OK. What else? Mobile communications, that's what. My cell phone hasn't stopped. Salter wanting his copy, lawyers acting in divorce negotiations, people trying to sell me stuff— they can all get through courtesy of Vodafone.

With the exception of the Turkmenistan desert I've had a cellphone signal all the way. That might detract from the adventure a bit but from a practical perspective it's something of a comfort. I'll probably revise this view once the roaming bill arrives. hut until then let us marvel at the wonders of 21st century communications technology.

Road of life You'll forgive me. I hope, if I get personal for a moment.

I went into this trip as one person, and I'm pretty sure that I've come out as another. You don't do this sort of thing and stay the same. It's been the opportunity of a lifetime, and I hope that over the past six weeks I've been able to put this across.

That I have chosen not to restrict my musings to the truck and the road is deliberate. Transport is about a whole lot more than that. It underpins economies, societies, cultures. Trucks are the red blood cells of the body economic, and transport is something that crosses all linguistic and cultural boundaries The people I've met en route have scratch( their heads at my taste in music or food,but tl all understand the need to move goods from one place to another. It's called commerce an ranks, with eating, sleeping and shagging, as o of the most basic of human instincts.

Even in the roughest, most war-torn bits of Afghanistan, it's possible to derive at leas some hope from the fact that there are little market stalls springing up, and people are a more trading with each other.

Over the past few weeks Commercial Mc has travelled a journey that encompasses, simultaneously, the past, the present and th( future. I like to think that! can turn a deceru bit of prose when necessary, but the truth is. the magnitude of this trip has been such tha know it could never be done complete justi( at the keyboard of a computer.

Unfortunately, by understanding a bit m( we end up knowing a lot less, but there you! The Hollywood version would end with sor kind of dramatic denouement but this is the real thing, so I'm just going to find a shower