CHAPTER
22 - CEUTA TRIP with SURESH
Don't you just hate it when you lose
your passport?
OK, OK, OK .... but that is not what
the story is about.
This chapter is about my Marco Polo days, when I travelled with a suitcase full
of samples in an effort to get orders. This was not my
idea, it was my Dad's.
"Tu crees que tu ya sabes todo del negocio? Venga, tirate al
ruedo!"
("You think you know all about
business? Go on then jump into the ring!")
Y al ruedo me tire! (and jump in
I did!)
For my first venture I decided I needed
a partner. The choice was between David Hassan and Toby both my closest
friends. But David had moved on to UK where he got a job with Tito Benady in
insurance. Or perhaps the insurance job came after that, but in any case, David
was not in Gib. So, I got together with Toby who was working as a receptionist
at the Victoria Hotel at the time. We registered the name British Commercial
Agency which I felt sounded rather solid, and wrote to several companies asking
to become their rep.
I must mention here, there was certain
young lady who worked at the Registry Office in Town Range in those days. To my
shame her name escapes me, though even today, when we do cross paths in our
home town, we still say hello to each other although perhaps she does not know
why I cherish her smile and salutations so much. The reason for this is that
this was my first independent venture. With a bravado that has become second
nature to me, (I was barely 17 when I walked into the Registry Office) I asked her
how to register a company name. This young lady who, apart from being very good
looking, was charming and kind and "simpatica al max!" helped me fill
out the forms. Then she wished us the very best of luck too. I am talking about
something rather mundane that happened over 50 years ago. Yet to this day I
remember and cherish the way she encouraged me.
Perhaps she may even read these chapters too ....who knows?
WAIT ...yes ... this was Christine Nuñez!
There! I remembered ...
Back to the story.
I remember going to the local
Outfitters, now none of us are left, with samples of Donovan caps. 
J Attias - The Tailor
I.M.Hassans
Garcia
Pitto & Sons
Harvey's in Cannon Lane ...or was it
Irish Town at than time?
C.H.Bernards
.... there were probably a couple more
which I cannot remember right now.
We managed to get orders from all of them as well as TEO naturally.
We placed one single composite order and then waited… and waited … since
delivery in those days was by sea. Air freight was prohibitively expensive then.
When the consignment arrived in 3 big boxes, Toby and I split it into the
orders, delivered, invoiced through British Commercial Agency and got paid, all
this in our own time, never during are normal working hours.
Several years later I went solo trying
to sell Levi's in Canary Islands, Melilla and Ceuta. One Ceuta trip sticks to
my mind. We had several Indian employees working with us. I remember Ramesh,
Suresh, Lal and Duru. I must say that they were the most hard-working of all
the nationalities I have ever worked with. Suresh and I, no relation to any
Suresh in Gibraltar since this one left years ago, packed our samples and
organised a trip to Ceuta. This was in the early 70s when the frontier was very
shut.
The only way to get there were two, by sea, or flying to Tangiers, then
driving through the Moroccan/Spanish border and on to Ceuta itself. Suresh, an
Indian National, would have needed a visa to do this, and in any case the idea
of crossing frontiers especially with samples, was not something we fancied
doing. The paperwork required was colossal. So off I went to Sheppard's Marina
looking for a boat that would cross the Straits to take us there and bring us
back 2 days later. The only one I found that would do so at a sensible price
was an evil-smelling, tug-type, diesel-reeking boat whose skipper smelt even
worse. I remember negotiating with him, me on the solid quay, he on the bobbing
boat, and already feeling queasy.
One of the things I never inherited from my Dad's DNA was his love of the sea.
So, early one October morning and we
went on board ...." a la buena de Dios" as they say.
We were an hour out, in the middle of
the Straits, when the choppy seas became seriously rough. Suresh, our two
suitcases of samples and I were on the bridge watching the waves grow around
us. The boat was like a cork, bobbing up and down, slipping sideways on a wave,
splashing sea water on each trough, and somehow clambering up the next wave
again.
The captain seemed unconcerned; it was
only later we realised he was blind drunk!
Suresh and I were putting on brave
faces trying to fool each other we were not scared.
Our stomachs ....oh our stomachs!!!!...
They were pitching inside our bodies as violently as the waves around us. I
could not take it any longer and holding on to the greasy rails I baptized the
sea with leftover coffee, scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice!
As I tried to make my way back to the
bridge I was faced with the only green-faced Indian I had ever seen!
Suresh slammed against the rails,
holding on for dear life as his nan and chapatis joined the remnants of my
breakfast.
We continued these hellish trips,
bridge to rails, rails to bridge only to return to the rails even when there
was nothing but sorrow left in our stomachs. I felt it took us longer to reach
land than Columbus to reach America.
We went straight to a hotel hoping to
die peacefully .... or at least have a shower and rest.
The next day it rained!
But even so, suitcases in one hand, umbrellas in the other, we went visiting
shops and plying our wares, Levis in one and Inega Jeans in the other. Inega
brand was the cutting edge of stone washed, “destroyed look”, denim fashion at
the time. It was also considered prohibitively expensive, almost double the
cost of a pair of Levi's. We slapped the wet sidewalk up and down Ceuta with
lukewarm success and soaked clothes all day long. I remember one retailer who
was delighted to see us and told us he wanted to buy genuine Levi's.
Counterfeit Levi's made in Morocco were flooding the market and he wanted only
the real thing.
" I can tell when it is a genuine
Levi's and when it is counterfeit " he assured me. Well so could I, but I
was interested to know how he could distinguish one from the other.
"My brother and I” he said, “ were
working in a store room on the top shelf, some 3 meters high, when he fell
down. Luckily a belt loop from his Levi's got caught on the corner of the
platform and he held on hanging from the belt loop until I could get down, pick
up the ladders and help him down..... And my brother weighs 120 kilos!"
Suresh and I looked at each other.
This certainly was a new one on us. But if the client was happy who were we to
argue?
"So now I'm going to test your
Levi's to see if they are genuine"
"How are you going to test it
" I asked
“Like this!”
He grabbed hold of one of the Levi's with one hand, inserted his fingers
through the belt loop with the other, and pulled with all his might.
The belt loop tore the fabric of the
jeans as we knew it would.
"You see! You are trying to sell
me fake Levi's. Levi's never tear even with my 120 kilos brother hanging from
able group!"
There's not much I could say to that
at, at least not much which he would have liked to hear. So, we packed the torn
Levi's, authentic Levi certificates, price lists, publicity material,
everything…. and went back into the rain.
We were luckier with another retailer
though.
He replaced his Levi's order and was very curious to know what I had in the
other suitcase. Having felt the pulse of retailers there are I knew “Inega” was
priced out of the market. The man insisted and who am I to say no?
And that is exactly what I said, No!
"No, no, ... this is not for you
... this is .... well, a bit more than your clients can afford" I told him
as respectfully as I could.
"Hombre, who do you think you are
talking to?"
Obviously, I did not wish to offend
him, but reverse psychology was called for.
"No, leave it ... it is a new
brand, so new, no one has seen in to all of Spain yet" (that was very
true)
"You think I do not have the
money place an order?"
"No, of course not ... I am sure
you can place an even bigger order than with Levis ... but ...."
That gave him pause, but after boasting
to me about his buying power, he was certainly not going to climb down.
I showed him the range, giving him my
best sales pitch, always apologising that the prices were high (which they
were!)... and he placed a big, big order!
In all honesty the Inega range was
fantastic and sold faster than we could get supplies. I was really pleased with
myself that day.
But not the next day.
We had got so soaked that my leather
boots were soggy on the inside. There was no point going out that evening, so
we stayed in the hotel. l took off my boots and place them on the heater to
dry.
In the morning they had shrunk 2 sizes
and were baked hard!
Honestly, like dog-biscuit hard!
I still had to put them on to go to a
shoe shop and then, much as I loved those boots, I threw them away and prepared
to return home.
(I guess, Nancy, they were not meant
for walking, not in the Ceuta rain at least!)
The thought of boarding that tramp
steamer back to Gibraltar was more than I could bear. Suresh had no option
because of visa restrictions, but I decided I would take a taxi across the
Spanish/Moroccan Frontier, on to Tangiers, and fly "YogiBair" back home.
BUT ..... and here we come back to the
opening sentence, my passport.
Once at the Frontier, I realised I had
a big problem.
I had travelled to Israel earlier that
year and naturally, had Israeli stamps on my passport. In those days, that
invalidated it as a travel document to go into any Muslim country.
What to do?
We drove back into Ceuta to the
chambers of a lawyer friend of mine. There. I asked him for two 50 peseta Duty Stamps
(timbres) as used in official documents, contracts and affidavits. I stuck them
on, covering the Israeli stamps and signed on top as officially as possible
with a scribble (un garabato) and wrote underneath "Agente de
Aduanas".
Back to the frontier we drove where I
showed my passport on the Spanish side. There the Spanish Guardia Civil checked
it, looked at the ‘timbres’…. not knowing what to make of them, stamped over
them and let me through.
On the Moroccan side the Frontier Police
did the same and on seeing the stamped stamps asked me:
"Que es esto?" (What's this?)
"Yo que se? El Guardia Civil me dijo que tenia que pagar 100
pesetas... "
(How do I know? The Guardia Civil told I had to pay 100 pesetas....)
He looked at me, at the passport, and
returned it to me letting me through with his final remark being:
"Estos Guardia Civil españoles son hijoputas!" (Those Spanish Guardia Civiles are sons of
bitches!)
Who was I to argue?
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