Mongolia by Road 2013: Part Two

Day 21: Samarkand to Kokand

We had diagnosed the problem with the car: the battery was dead. This could scupper our plans to make Kyrgyzstan by the evening.

As ever, Mr Furkat was only too happy to oblige. He sent his mechanic chap in search of a replacement battery, while we enjoyed a rather large breakfast, over which we got chatting to the Lancasters from Seattle. It seems breakfast hadn’t always been so. We really are being treated like royalty in some circumstances.

The Registan.

Walking around Registan Square – one of the most iconic places in central Asia – we came across rehearsals for an international music festival. There were no acts rehearsing, just a woman shouting names of countries and far too many Uzbek soldiers acting as flag bearers.

Awaiting news from the mechanic, we sat in the hotel’s courtyard where our cars were parked. Mr Furkat’s granddaughter was watering the plants so, to give her some respite, we gave her a bottle of bubbles to play with – once she managed to get them off Jim… Pascal lent her his camera and off she went to get pictures of the hotel’s peacocks.

We were slowly coming round to the idea of joining the Swiss for another night – especially as the Hungarians were due to arrive – when Mr Furkat’s mechanic turned up with a replacement battery. It worked. Drat.

The roads were in decent condition, but it soon became apparent we weren’t going to make the border. Especially when, just after Angren, we got caught in a huge queue up a mountain – another checkpoint. This did, however, give me time to find a new hobby: taking photos of Uzbek people waving out of cars.

Waving Uzbeks.

We came down the mountains in darkness, again. Because we’re further south, the sun sets a lot sooner (about 7.45pm) and it keeps catching us out.

We called it a day in Kokand/Qoqon. That night was depressing. We had enough Uzbek Som to fill the tank up, but that was about it. No food for us, but we did scrape enough together for a bottle of water and some Uzbek knock-off version of Irn-Bru. We had money, but because of the weird system in Uzbekistan, we were unable to get hold of it. We hadn’t touched our wallets in nearly a week as they were useless: nowhere took debit or credit cards, and they were too small to hold the amount of Som we were given.

It was a dark moment, but we were sure it would pick up soon…

Mileage: 5500.

Day 22: Kokand to Jalal-Abad

“There must be some kind of way out of here,” sang Jimi Hendrix. He’s obviously visited Uzbekistan. We knew it was possible to leave this fascinating and beautiful but massively frustrating dictator-led state, the trouble was, we did not know how!

Heading through the Fergana Valley towards Andijan we thought we’d try aiming for a border north of that city. But first, I finally got my name on the list of shame. A policeman with a speed gun (and a real gun) flagged us down. I’m pretty sure I had been speeding, but there are so few signs you’re never sure. Testing to see how intent he was on talking to us, I pulled up a few hundred yards away from him. This is a little trick we picked up a few days ago. Sometimes, if the weather is warm and they’re not the fittest of cops, they wave you on if you park too far away. This guy was prepared to walk.

After summoning us out of the car, he asked me if I’d been drinking. With last night’s paucity of funds fresh in my mind, I answered “I wish”. Probably not the best answer I could give, but he smiled. We got chatting/miming and he seemed to forget the matter in hand. That is until a herd of sheep were led round the corner and Moe mimed that he should check their speed. This jogged his memory and he showed me what speed I’d been doing: 101kmph. I think the speed limit was 50 as we’d entered a village. He just smiled and sent us on our way.

After a few wrong turns in Andijan, we were heading north. Another wrong turn sent us into some very rural villages where we found a petrol station run by a gold-toothed Paddy Considine lookalike (while Vessel in Vain from the Considine film Dead Man’s Shoes was playing). Again, no petrol. Another hour passed and we realised we were lost. We could see Kyrgyzstan but couldn’t get to it. Anyone we asked told us we were going the right way, but we weren’t convinced they knew what we were asking. There were also a fair few women sat on their rather large asses. We’d seen many of this type of woman recently, but when you see what their mules have to pull, it’s no wonder the beasts are overgrown.

Finally, a large and bustling town, one that we couldn’t place on the map, came in to view. We stopped to ask directions, and soon dozens of people were gathered round our bonnet looking at the map – including the local policemen. Some lads offered to take us to the main junction and point the direction, but I think one of them was more interested in checking out a right-hand drive car. At the junction, he got his wish as I let him have a go. He went five yards forwards and back and seemed ludicrously content.

We were heading in the right direction. Kyrgyzstan would be ours in a matter of minutes! So we thought, until the checkpoint a little down the road. The cops pulled us over, checked our documents and then shook their heads when we pointed down the road asking “Kyrgyzstan?” The map was on the bonnet again and another large crowd gathered, including passing motorists, who pulled over to see what was going on. The border we were heading to was for pedestrians only. Rats. We needed petrol though so carried on into the border town. A smaller crowd gathered at the petrol station to chat and check out the right-hand-drive car.

The border at Izboskan was pedestrian only, which could explain the crowds we were drawing, with another large group congregating here too. The nearest car border, it turned out, was 80km away at Osh.

We’d heard about Osh, that’s why we were trying to avoid it. It is often the scene of violent conflict between Kyrgyz and Uzbek groups who both believe Osh belongs to them, an after effect of the fall of the USSR when Fergana and environs were carved up indiscriminately. Almost weekly there are reports of shootings around Osh and the neighbouring Batken province, where there are many Uzbek enclaves.

We had no option though as we couldn’t pay for the petrol it would cost to get back to Tashkent. Plus, if we crossed over into Kazakhstan, we’d have to miss out Kyrgyzstan altogether as we only had a double entry Kazakh visa.

Osh it was. We also weren’t too keen on retracing our steps to Andijan, which we’d left nearly three hours previously. Fortunately, the road we were on took us back there. In just ten minutes… God knows where we’d been that had taken three hours!

The mood was low. Queen’s The Show Must Go On has never sounded so threatening (depending on your view of Queen).

Near the border we stopped for drinks. Four big bottles and two Magnum-style ice creams cost us just over £2. Was Uzbekistan going to go out on a high? Speaking of going out, Lexy’s turning in to HAL from 2001: a Space Odyssey as the central locking has gone haywire. Moe and Jim had a two-second window of opportunity to open their doors before Lexy locked them again. She wouldn’t even open the driver’s door, so I had to crawl out of the window, Dukes of Hazzard style.

So, a friendly finale for Uzbekistan? Not likely. The exit border was as bureaucratic as ever. No doubt hindered by the manner in which I had to exit/enter the vehicle. They searched everywhere, even having a go on the bubbles. Plus, it turned out the insurance we’d got on entry wasn’t actually insurance. Fed up of Uzbek bureaucracy, I was in the mood for some games. I told the official that we had the required international insurance and pulled out a cancelled Direct Line policy, pointed to a random line and told him those were the words he was looking for. As far as Jedi mind tricks go, it’s not the most impressive, but it worked. I checked the words I had assured him meant ‘global cover’. They read ‘business of the policyholder’. We were out!

To sum up Uzbekistan, it’s well worth a visit, but don’t drive. Anything to do with driving is a hassle; the lack of petrol and the ridiculous amount of checkpoints. However, the people are wonderful and the towns (specifically Bukhara and Samarkand) are must-sees.

But what of Kyrgyzstan? We’d heard it wasn’t much different, but slightly less bureaucratic. We were wrong. It’s totally different and infinitely less bureaucratic. We got rushed to the front of passport control and, after explaining our V5 was in the car, they shrugged and just asked us for the registration number. After about 15mins, we were waved off. This was unusual, and we hung around for a while expecting them to come chasing after us because we hadn’t filled in some mystery form like Application B2J45. No one came, so we headed excitedly into Osh.

The place was weird. It had cars other than Daewoo and Chevrolet. It also had an ATM! Wow. I’ve never been so pleased to see one of these in my life. We withdrew some Kyrgyz Som as well as some US dollars. This was paradise!

Through some spectacular scenery we wound our jolly way to Jalal-Abad, a smaller town than Osh, but closer to Bishkek. Although still not as close to Bishkek as we’d tried to cross into many hours earlier. I’ve renamed Jalal-Abad Shangri-La. The hotel we checked into (as it was too dark for camping – again) was one of the best I’ve ever stayed in, despite the boss’ first question being “you want girls?” and his second being “you want smoke? Not sigaretta!”

We had a huge suite with a massage chair and a monstrous balcony. After driving for ten hours due to the door situation, I was given the king size bed. Finally, a win on the sleeping front!

But first, flush with cash for the first time in two days, we wanted food. At the hotel’s outside restaurant we ordered beers and plenty of food. Then some more beers and a shisha, with the chap’s ‘special ingredient’ apparently. We felt fine, so it can’t have been what we dreaded!

Then the piece de resistance… a swimming pool! We had to follow the hotel’s regime of changing into their own shorts and having a shower first. I may also have broken the shower curtain pole… But anyway, the swim was great, especially since this was 12.30am.

It dawned on us that we were the only paying guests, hence why we were being given so much attention. The DJ’s love of playing Hotel California creeped us out a little, but the place was so nice we didn’t care if we had to stay.

Mileage: 5770.

Day 23: Jalal-Abad to Bishkek

Well, how do you follow a night like that? Breakfast seemed the obvious answer.

Again, greeted by our Armenian host (in a rare piece of diplomacy, he was at university studying Turkish), we were seated in the outside area. It was already boiling hot. As the only egg eater among the teams I made the most of the scrambled egg and sausage option. Turns out it was what’s commonly known as a ham omelette. Being in central Asia, I also indulged in a rare hot drink – green tea again. Moe ordered some kind of porridge, while Jim asked for melon. The waitress said she couldn’t understand Jim’s Hull accent. This was obviously the case as she brought him five slices of lemon.

Lemon mishaps have become an unexpected recurring theme of our trip, after Moe’s extra strong lemon drinks in Odessa. Determined to get Jim some actual melon action, Moe asked for watermelon. These are plentiful round these parts as we’ve often seen varieties of melon at dirt cheap prices. The Armenian told us he had none, but a few minutes later one of the many female waitresses came back laden with melon. Between the three of us they served an entire watermelon, after our actual breakfast. Those with experience of watermelon will know that over-indulging isn’t a wise idea – especially with a long and bumpy journey ahead.

The road ahead was simply breathtaking. Eye-watering mountain passes and bright blue alpine rivers and lakes combined on a stunning seven-hour drive through the Tien Shan mountains. Imagine the Wrynose Pass lasting for hundreds of kilometres.

A typical Kyrgyz scene.

On one of the descents the scenery changed. Suddenly yurts and their nomadic owners became more prominent, including one nomad who appeared to be making a living as a taxi driver. The weather also altered, with snow-capped peaks coming in to view. Our car has been suffering a bit lately and the ‘check engine’ light came on again. A knock sensor has gone, but we haven’t had chance to see to it yet. Up until now, there hasn’t been a problem, but we lost a fair amount of performance on the hills, and even on the level parts. With night closing in, and fuel consumption increasing, it looked as if we’d be forced to camp in the hills – again failing to make Bishkek.

The weather altered again and dampened the ground and our spirits further as a heavy shower lingered overhead. As inconvenient as all this was, coupled with the surreal scenery, it made for a spectacular moment.

The rain stopped and a petrol station was spotted. Suddenly everything was looking up again. I even purchased a Kazakh bumper sticker. We had planned to get one from each country we visited, but only Kazakhstan and Romania have been forthcoming. The Kyrgyz attendants spotted the Kazakh sticker and asked why I hadn’t got a Kyrgyzstan one. Oddly, there wasn’t one in the shop, despite them having many from neighbouring Kazakhstan.

More mountains homed into view, with another spectacular pass to be crossed. On the other side we looked to make camp just outside Kara Balta but, having seemingly stumbled on what looked like a destroyed gulag, we decided to press on for Bishkek and the USSR hostel we had booked for a previous night. On the way in, we passed three silver statues of Lenin. It seems Kyrgyzstan still clings to Russia and its past.

After being fined for driving down an “illegal road” in the centre of Bishkek (many Kyrgyz had fallen into the same trap), Moe somehow managed to end the day as it had started, with a lemon mishap. While myself and Jim ordered a beer and a burger for less than £3 at an eatery near the small Soviet hostel, Moe ordered a berry tea, asking for lemon and honey too. More slices of lemon came, despite the tea already having sufficient lemon in it. He was charged an extra 50p for this, while the thimble of honey set him back £1. If this can teach us anything, it’s that beer is king.

Mileage: 6120.

Days 24 & 25: Bishkek to Almaty

I now have a thin red line across my forehead. How it got there isn’t as interesting as it could be. Sleeping on the bottom bunk in the USSR hostel, my head had slipped under a wooden bar at the end of the bed and, as I woke, I slammed my head into the edge of the bar. I don’t like bunk beds.

The day soon improved as, within an hour of setting off, we were out of Kyrgyzstan. We’ll miss that country, easily our favourite so far, and would recommend anyone visits: the scenery, the prices, the hospitality, the national hats (like a punctured rugby ball split open at the end), and the border crossings.

The border control people took our passports so we went off to the duty free shop. It wasn’t particularly big, but before we’d finished looking around, the passports were handed back to us and we were off, back into Kazakhstan.

By comparison, the Kazakh border was a nightmare. It took us a good 50 mins to get through this! The passport control chap insisting on calling me Chuck Norris (purely because of my t-shirt, I hadn’t roundhouse-kicked my way to the front of the queue, surprisingly). While Moe and Jim relaxed in the car again, I was sent off to fill in the vehicle forms. This time the forms were in Russian, so Kyrgyzstan’s William H Macy helped me fill them in, and consequently lost his place in the queue. Not that he minded.

Rolling hills greeted us in Kazakhstan, a vast change from the western side of the country. As did a convoy of two other rally teams, including one going there and back in a Mk 1 Fiesta. We’d also had a text from the Hungarians who were going to be in Almaty tonight. Party time!

And, for possibly the first time in our trip, we’d actually arrive in a city at a civilised time, before 3pm. We even had hotels potentially sorted, as we knew where two available ones were.

But first we had a quandary to sort out: which hotel? The Astana Hotel was in town and was cheaper, but looked grubby. The Altyn Kol was out of town, had log cabins, a swimming pool and outside bar. Normally this wouldn’t have been a tricky decision, but after visiting both hotels we came to a decision. We were staying two nights so we’d do both hotels! This decision only took us three hours…

Checking in to the Astana for the first night (we wanted to be closer to town for the imminent night on the Kazakh tiles) we noticed something unusual – prices for half a night. We laughed as we could have used prices like that considering our propensity for turning up to hotels at around midnight. Then it dawned on us: this hotel just off Gogol Street could well be a bordello.

Regardless, we headed into the Almaty night, in the vague direction of the centre. Then we heard that the Hungarians were thinking of driving out of town and camping. Gertcha! Undeterred, we decided to carry on regardless and eventually found what claimed to be a snooker bar. It wasn’t, it had a terrace under tarpaulin that made us very thirsty. Fortunately they sold beer.

The next place was even further down the road, next to Mr Donerci and Burger where we’d stopped to access WiFi earlier in the day. With Moe recognising they had spoken Arabic, he went in to ascertain where the party zone was. “This place is dead,” was a rough approximation of the reply. It seems the city was empty because everyone in Almaty goes to “the seaside” in summer (which seaside I can only imagine as the nearest coastline was over 3,000km away in Pakistan). The bar next door was ours for the rest of the evening, and we even got a visit from the Hungarians who had been driving around.

They considered joining us at the hotel, until they saw it and the..erm… clientele waiting outside.

The next day was a day off, with the intention of being our last until Ulaan Baatar, and would be followed by some seriously heavy driving and a lot of camping. That’s how we justified the Altyn Kol to ourselves. With a price still cheaper than most cheap hotels in Britain, it could be seen as a luxury here but was still one of the cheapest hotels in Almaty.

But first, myself and Jim went to a mall while Moe tried to locate the city centre. The mall was in the business district and we looked incredibly out of place in our shorts and t-shirts among the Gucci, Saks and Stella McCartney stores. The reason we went was to get an adapter to connect the GoPro to the iPod so we could free up some much-needed space on the camera. The Apple store had sold out, but we did manage to find an external hard drive.

I also bought some shorts. After the incident at the Czechout party, I’d only had one pair of shorts and my swimming ones. So I purchased a snazzy pair of Colin’s shorts, I’m sure he won’t mind…

In the meantime, we’d lost Moe. It took a while to find him, but he fancied wandering round some more. We left him in the 36 degree heat and checked in at Altyn Kol. Within twenty minutes we were at the poolside bar.

Then they inflated the water slide. If you’ve ever seen Bill & Ted, Jim reacted like Napoleon did at the water park. He ran over, asked if he could go on, and was soon barging kids out of the way to get to the top. It was a good afternoon, and Moe even found the centre of Almaty.

Another tough hotel to leave, but leave we must. The rest of our trip is going to be tough, but we can almost see Mongolia in our sights!

Mileage: 6322.

Day 26: Almaty to Qyzylaghash

This was supposed to be the day of the great leap forwards, trying to get as far through Kazakhstan as possible. But first we had a few matters to attend to. I woke just after nine and sauntered to the reception where Jim was behind the desk with Katya.

He was trying to get the videos off the GoPro and onto the hard drive he bought yesterday at the ridiculously posh mall. Needless to say he failed. Computers over here are very slow. After breakfast (11.30am) we set off and immediately missed the junction which would have taken us directly to Taldykorgan. This put us back even further.

A petrol station clock told us the temperature, 40 degrees. It was tiring us out, so we stopped immediately. Conveniently we pulled up at Prince’s Casino in Qapshagay, which is staking its claim as the Kazakh Vegas. We played a few slots, had some free drinks and chatted to the staff, some of whom came out to see Lexy in all her glory. But we had miles to make up.

With myself in the driving seat making time, the roads naturally took a turn for the worst. Thirty kilometres of gravel came and eventually went when we were then met by mountains. Something near one of our back tyres went pop. We pulled over, it wasn’t a tyre but with that on my mind I didn’t see a change of speed limit sign (I doubt there was one), and I got pulled over by the police.

They told me I was doing 70kph in a 50kph zone. I knew I was doing 70 as that was the last speed limit I saw and Lexy struggles to do much more up steep hills! Handing over my actual driving licence (gaffe!) and the old V5, the police told me the fine was $100. Thankfully I’d handed over my US dollars to Jim so he could hide then. I’d also hidden 2000 tenge around my wallet. With the exchange rate of 220 tenge to the pound, I left 200 in the main part of my wallet. After a lot of shrugging and saying “I’m British, we don’t use dollars”, the guy relented and asked for the contents of my wallet. I pulled out the 200 note and handed it to him. Sheepishly he said “no” and insisted I held the wallet close to him. It was such an official fine that he couldn’t be seen to be accepting money.

So, from $100 down to 95p (and he even gave me some chewing gum!), I was quite chuffed!

The weather was still baking, but we drove on and made it past Taldykorgan before the sun started to set, and we camped on a hill with shale under the ground. The shale made it very hard to put tent pegs in. We then settled down to a tea of cheese slices and crisps as the saucepans have blistered in the sun. We were regretting our vow to have no more shashlik. It’s incredibly prevalent round here and, while delicious, we’ve had our fill of swords of pork.

With more than 400 miles to cover to reach Semey, tomorrow will be the big push. Honest!

Mileage: 6539.

Day 27: Qyzylaghash to Semey

Well that was hard work. Setting off at 7.45am we knew we had a lot of miles to cover. The scenery remained the same – wide open steppe – but the roads changed a lot. There were about ten different types of road covering, all with varying methods of ruining the surface, from foot-high ruts to monstrous pot holes and loose chippings.

Nothing was easy today, but we had to keep driving. The heat, roads and thunderstorms all tested us.

Naturally, there were some fun moments, particularly Jim singing along to Country Joe’s anti-war Fixing to Die Rag while waving to a bus full of Kazakh army men in Ayagoz.

With not much else to see, eagles came to our rescue. We’re not sure what type of eagle they were, but they were huge and plentiful. Apart from two hoopoes flying in front of the car on the way to Almaty, they were the first interesting birds we’d seen.

By the time Jim took over driving, we were on the last stretch to Semey. There was less than 200km to go and we thought it would be easy. But what looked like a main road on the map turned out to be a gravel track.

The thing about Lexy is she’s like a Salford lass on a night out in Newcastle. She’s not particularly used to the finer things in life, but even for her this was roughing it.

The road improved for a few kilometres and we bounded along on lush tarmac, but it was obviously unfinished as we were soon sent packing and onto more rough gravel by the side of it.

After 12 hours of driving, we finally arrived in Semey, a fairly big town most famous for being the site of many nuclear tests during the Soviet era. But we were in need of three things: toilets, WiFi and food – the holy trinity of travel!

We found them in an entertainment complex on the edge of town. The restaurant was nice, but the lounge bar and nightclub looked to be frequented by the local mafia. At the table next to us were a vet and his wife, out to celebrate her birthday. Or, as he later put it: “Baby at home, we come for eat, then dancing and go to hotel for *raised eyebrows and wink*”. They were very friendly and even bought me a beer. Jim missed out as he was visiting ‘another room’ for the first of the trinity. The couple even instructed the restaurant’s photographer to take pictures of us all, which she did and came back with two photos: one for us and one for them.

Turning down the offer of more beer and some vodka, we bade them farewell. We also felt we had intruded enough as we’re not sure the woman would have appreciated us crashing her birthday meal any longer.

Off into the night we went and soon set up camp in a forest clearing at just past midnight, having driven more than 500 miles on terrible roads.

Here’s a handy hint: if you’re crossing a border the day after, check to make sure you’ve not pitched your tent on top of some cannabis bushes. I blame that for the weird dreams I had, including one about three Romanian brothers, one of whom was a cow.

Mileage: 7070.

Days 28 & 29: Semey to Barnaul – Back to Russia

Weird dreams aside, the night was fairly uneventful, but we were gaining a rapidly expanding shopping list for our arrival in Barnaul – the last major city before Ulaan Baatar.

We found out the other day that our pans had blistered in the sun, having been kept in a box on the roofrack. Getting metal poisoning isn’t a priority at the moment, although Jim is insistent that the tins of fruit cocktail in the same box will be fine. I also need new tent pegs as the ones I have are bent, meaning it’s doubly hard to fasten the tent down. We’ll be sleeping under canvas a lot from now on.

But first we had the Russian border to negotiate. The 100km of road that lay in our way was in poor condition. Considering this was the route to a main international border, we didn’t have much hope that the day was going to be too promising.

At the Kazakh side of the border, something amazing happened. As the owner of the car, I’m usually dragged to one side and made to fill in countless forms, while Jim and Moe sit back and relax. That didn’t happen this time, the officials checked all the details at the same time. I hope you’re listening Moldova, Ukraine and Uzbekistan.

Russia had also been a pain when we left Ukraine, so I expected the same today. Apart from a ten minute wait to be let out of no man’s land, the Russian side was possibly easier than the Kazakh one. We all filled in our registration forms which didn’t take long, and a guy searched the car asking if we had drugs or guns. Thankfully the tents are on the roof, so the fresh air got rid of any smell from the cannabis bushes. Well done Russia, a very easy border.

Unless you were Moe.

The official at first denied him entry as his double entry visa had been used twice. Or so it seemed. In fact, the Kyrgyz official had stamped the wrong page on departure. After a slight panic, and a bit of explaining, Moe was finally free to enter Siberia.

Speaking of which, Siberia’s not as cold as you may think – certainly not in summer. Peaking in excess 30 degrees, we set off on good roads and made Barnaul just after 5pm. Again, toilets, WiFi and food were priorities, as was getting a hotel. All were achieved pretty quickly at the People’s Bar and Grill, an English-themed restaurant with red telephone box and Placebo and Arctic Monkeys playing on a loop. WiFi found us the Hotel Malta just down the road. It was cheap and had a fitness centre and indoor pool. Or so it said.

On finding the hotel, it turned out to be a small corridor of six rooms in the basement of a tower block. Perfectly nice, but not exactly what was advertised. It did, however, have private underground parking, which was a tight fit for Lexy and her roofrack. We also attracted some local drunks who thought, because we were from north of London, we were from Scotland. We must join them at their table for some whiskey, they insisted. After trying to wheedle our way out of it, we relented. Their table was just that, a little bench on the street where they were celebrating a friend’s birthday with whiskey and the ubiquitous shashlik. We had a rather large snifter of whiskey and a few lumps of chicken then headed to the hotel.

Exploring the town, we came across a biker bar. We thought we may as well pop in for a quick drink but ended up staying the whole night. They had cider and a pool table. Plus, the staff were friendly and a Turkish chap was biking to Vladivostok, so we got chatting to him too.

Today’s handy hint: When a Russian girl tells you not to drink the vodka because “game over”, listen to her.

Nothing to do with the nocturnal activities, but our minds had already been made to stay in Barnaul an extra day. The Mongolian border closes on weekends (we’ve since heard just Sunday) and it’s more than a day’s drive to the crossing at Tashanta. Plus, you can be there a couple of days at the best of times. With all this in our minds, we decided to stay in Barnaul the next day and do some shopping for supplies, pegs and pans.

Which we did. We also found more of the town, including a statue of Lenin now surrounded by skater kids, and hid from an almighty rainstorm in a ridiculously posh French restaurant. But the place we’ve spent most time is, unexpectedly, the People’s Bar and Grill, although they blotted their copybooks on the evening by bringing all mine and Jim’s food before giving Moe anything. And bringing his starter last.

An early night tonight to freshen us up and make the most of what may well be our last beds until UB. The blogs will probably be quiet for a while now as I can’t imagine WiFi being prevalent in rural Mongolia, but they’ll probably all get uploaded once we reach UB. And we will make it, oh yes!

Mileage: 7340.

Day 30: Barnaul to Ust’ Sema

The bane of our lives has become the never-ending mission to find a computer good enough to upload some of the GoPro footage, and clear some space on the memory cards in the process. We thought our prayers had been answered the day before as the hotel lady offered us use of their machine. The usual reasons for failure are not having enough time, the computer being rubbish or not having internet. This reason was slightly different again: no USB slots.

But not to worry, Jim had a back up plan. There were a few internet cafes mentioned on the internet, appropriately. On finding them, we discovered one had closed down, one was a beauty salon and the other didn’t exist at all. We had to bite the bullet and do what we’d been putting off for a while, buy some more memory cards. In Kazakhstan, 32gb ones were about £30, so we weren’t looking forward to Russian prices. As it turned out, they were £14 so we got two. It would have been foolish to have no footage of Mongolia.

After a trip to the supermarket to stock up on essentials (beans, cheese, vodka, and cans of Manchester Gin & Tonic) we left Barnaul. It’s by no means the prettiest place we’ve been, but we left with fond memories.

Shortly after stopping for a slice of cheesecake and use of the facilities in Biysk, we met up with some ralliers, Mark and Laura from Saxony. The had to be in UB by the 16th (six days time) so were understandably eager to crack on. Having said that, we soon caught them up as they were by the side of the road with more ralliers, including Scottish lads Ulaan Baatartan. They were all in the same boat and had decided to drive the 550 km to the border that night. We’d heard that it closed early on Saturday until Monday, but they were prepared/needed to take the risk. We had settled for arriving Sunday evening, giving us time to camp somewhere on the Chuysky Tract – a glorious road winding through the Altay mountains beside the Katun river.

We convoyed with the others for a while, but soon came across another team with similar intentions to ours: our old chums Chris and Karina from Auckland. That was settled then, we’d all camp somewhere by the river. And what a spot! We found somewhere right by the river, made a river fridge for the beers and started a fire, over which Jim and I made chilli and rice – a bit of a risk given the lack of facilities.

It was great to finally meet some other ralliers, as we seem to have a knack of missing everyone, and we had a good night, even if the river was too cold for a swim. Seriously, it was like ice – but it made a good fridge.

Mileage: 7537.

Day 31: Ust’ Sema to Tashanta

The morning view was pretty spectacular, the early sun rising over the hill and shining on the river. But there were two important matters to attend to. The first brought a whole new meaning to “nature calls” and I’ll leave that there, but the second proved even more challenging – getting the cars up the steep hill and back on the road.

The mighty Perodua, owned by Chris and Karina, bounced up the hill. We’re quickly learning there’s nothing the tiny car can’t do. The Rio wasn’t so successful, even with Jim’s off-road experience. It seems she’s lost quite a bit of power. After two attempts, Jim went into full Land Rover-mode and made it up the hill, with only a slight crack to the back bumper.

As we had things to do, ourselves and the Kiwis agreed to split up and meet again at the border. The road to Tashanta was spectacular, riverside roads through the mountains, with small ramshackled villages dotted along the route. We had heard Kosh Agach was the final town of any size. It didn’t even look like it a settlement, save for a few petrol stations.

The road from Kosh Agach was straight. There’s not much else to say about it. On one side, the mist from the rain shrouded the hills, while telegraph poles provided something to look at. On the other side, a few hundred yards of scrub lay in front of a dark grey wall of sky. It was like being on Bleaker Street as Christine Bleakley and, erm, actress Maxine Bleake listened to Zorba the Bleak while Nickel Bleak played Hide and Bleak with Bleakwood Mac in the bleak midsummer. What I’m trying to say is it was bleak.

Our fears of being the only teams at the border were soon shot down. There was quite a queue. Even with the rain, we settled down to have a few drinks. Thankfully Devon chaps Ollie and Ben had a large tarpaulin under which we all gathered. The party carried on into the wee small hours, but not for us sensible chaps. For once.

Mileage: 7895.

Day 32: Russian border to Mongolian border

Ugh. What a pain.

We woke early enough, the rain thankfully having not seeped through the tents. Ourselves, the Kiwis, plus Jack and Ben were all nicely placed at the front of the queue. This would be easy. Well, the Russian side would be, the Mongolian side is renowned for being a nightmare. The drivers of our groups walked up to the hut at the gate to hand over whatever they wanted.

What they wanted was for us to head back half a mile to immigration control, nicely signposted only from the Mongolian side. The queue was horrendous. It took us two and a half hours to get through this, and then we went back to original hut for the next hour and a half – before they went for lunch.

Queuing to leave Russia.

We eventually got let through the gates at about 1.30pm. And then we had the proper border to negotiate. It wasn’t easy, but we were soon through into twenty miles of no man’s land. In the middle of the route, it became quite clear where Russia ended and Mongolia started. Not only was there a monolith with each nation’s flag and another gate, but the tarmac ended suddenly. It was our first glimpse of what was to come for the next thousand miles: dusty roads and jagged rocks. On the bright side, we saw many gopher-like creatures running across the road.

At the other end of no man’s land was another gate, unsurprisingly. The car underwent its required tyre wash as the area has foot and mouth. I’m not an authority on washing cars, but even I reckon the woman did a half-baked job.

As we got let through the gate an hour later, our real ordeal began. A quick check of the car by the guards preceded us queuing at immigration. That passed quite quickly, but I saw Chris going to another room, so followed him. He was about to start importing the car and told myself, Ben and Aussie Sean to find the guy with the leather jacket and hand over the passport and V5, which we did. This was 4.30pm.

Nothing happened before the border closed at 6pm, apart from us discovering we’d need to pay two lots of $10. One to the chap who processes the importation details and another to a guy for ‘tax’. It sounded dodgy, but one girl questioned it and got left in limbo for hours.

We knew we wouldn’t get processed that night, but we wanted to know for sure. About 5.30pm, we made plans to camp in the concrete compound. We’d rounded the cars so ourselves, the Kiwis, Jack and Ben of Just a Little Bit British, and Team Helvetistan had a nice chill-out area. The tables came out, as did the beers, and a few other teams joined us. Then came the border guards, who told us there was no camping and we had to walk to the nearby town to check in to the hotel. The drivers (myself, Ben and Chris) had already been told we couldn’t leave the compound as we had no passports, hence why Jim and Moe went to the village to stock up on supplies.

Again, something smelled fishy, so we informed them we’d be staying put. They then told us there was no drinking. Boo! If we’re to stay in a car park overnight, we should be allowed a beer or two. The next border guard came round and told us it was just vodka we weren’t allowed. This seemed fair enough and we respected his wish for no fires.

With a few beers and “just fruit juices, honestly” being drunk, plus indignation at being given no idea what was going on, we put some music on the Perodua’s stereo. It was Ben’s iPod and, despite some choice tunes, the best part was seeing him squirm in anticipation of the next track. It’s fair to say God Save the Queen (the official one, not the Sex Pistols version) cheered everyone up. Another highlight of that evening was seeing a yak run down the hill in the manner that Jim dances.

It was cold that night, but Ben and Jack came up trumps with a two-bedroom tent with a large reception area, which we all huddled in before calling it a night. Pitching our sleeping tents on concrete was an interesting experience, especially without a camping mat. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it was cold. We also invented a toilet rating system as most facilities round here are outside squat toilets, not the most inviting. Our system grades them out of ten, where ten is your toilet at home and four is no facility whatsoever. The ones at the border scored a two.

Mileage: 7908.

Day 33: Mongolian border to Olgii

Up early, due to the cold (myself and Ben) and a deflated airbed (Chris), the drivers were ready to get the ball rolling properly as we were sure we were close to the front of the queue.

Last night we had heard some people say they had been drinking with the border guards. It wasn’t hard to spot which one in particular had been drinking. Some poor chap kept walking past us holding his head and looking like he was counting down the seconds until the end of his shift.

After Devonian Ben and Irish Damien came Kiwi Chris. Bring it on, it was happening! That was until the internet broke. Ben and Damien were still waiting for their cars to be valued, which was a fun process to watch as the official checked Gumtree, AutoTrader and, best of all, Desperate Seller. Some of the prices were hilarious as many vehicles had tripled in value since leaving the UK.

An hour later, the gophers had been put back on the internet wheel and we were back in action. Aussie Sean had sauntered in by this point, fresh from his night at the hotel. Apparently the bunk beds were a bit saggy so the poor chap underneath nearly suffocated.

But back to the border. My time had arrived. We’re not sure why it was taking so long the day before as, after answering my name, confirming the make of car and paying the $10, I was done and led to the valuation window. There was such inactivity that I was joined by Sean and very-Essex lad Doug from Bishop Stortford. Doug’s Citroen C1 was possibly the newest car we had seen but was in an unbelievable state. After everyone saw it, they asked “Christ, how did you do that?!” What they didn’t realise is that’s how they bought it for £200 from a scrapyard. The bonnet didn’t fit as it was from another car, the airbag was ripped out and one of the windows smashed.

Anyway, I was fully processed at about 12.30pm, with the £650 Kia being valued at £1500. While I’d been inside, Moe had been diligently repacking the car. Unfortunately, Moe hadn’t realised that the last step was a thorough boot search.

Sadly for Ben, lunch was called. Us, the Kiwis and Ben and Jack had already agreed to go in convoy so we were willing to wait for Ben. After what seemed like half an eternity, Ben’s car finally got checked over.

We left at 3pm, about 24 hours after we had arrived at the Mongolian side, and just under 48 after our arrival at the Russian side. Not bad, considering some teams had spent three days there.

Determined to get some miles under our wheels, we set off for the nearest decent sized town, Olgii. We didn’t get very far as we were stopped outside the border by some unlikely looking people ready to sell us insurance or tax. They didn’t seem sure but, as Chris and I walked off, the policeman nearby didn’t seem to care that we had refused to buy anything.

We also didn’t get far before disaster struck. A loud crash behind us was followed by the sight of a wheel overtaking us. Our ratchet had come lose, so everything on the roof fell off, including tyres and our camping box, which had smashed and left Jim’s beloved cafetiere in pieces. A few minutes later, after getting back on the road, our windscreen was blocked by wood which had also slipped from the roof. This was going to take time, so the Kiwis and Just a Little Bit British went on alone, having agreed to meet then in Olgii. This is where we lost the first part of the car, as a back mud guard fell victim to the roads.

Despite this minor setbacks the road, if you could call it a road, was fun and we made it to Olgii in decent time, but there was no sight of the others. The locals seemed friendly enough, with one guy flashing his lights at us and following us down a street where we pulled over. It transpired he ran a guest house and was looking to put us up, and said he had two cars (we presumed this meant he had room for two). We declined his offer, saying we had to meet up with the other teams, who we’d still heard nothing from. Moe phoned Karina who, unsurprisingly to people who can put two and two together, was at the guest house with the other team. Oops.

We all eventually met up, with Moe still reeling from the cost of a phone call from Mongolia to Mongolia, via the UK and New Zealand. It was a nice compound, with the owner and his family being among the many Kazakhs who live in this part of Mongolia. The food, a home-cooked stew, was delicious and we settled down for a few beers and an early night. But our host had other ideas. He wanted Karina to join him in the search for other teams. Off they went and, in the end, we were joined by five others who slept in various parts of the compound, while our host’s family slept in a car.

Mileage: 7975.

Day 34: Olgii to Tugrug

It was another early start today as we wanted to get moving, plus the Kiwis had to fly home on the 19th. Again, events transpired against us.

Like in many of the countries we’ve visited, there’s a lot of road building going on. Rumour has it there’s a new silk road being created from Istanbul to Ulaan Baatar. Parts of the road out of Olgii were finished, most of it wasn’t, and there were rather steep access ramps. Lots of damage was done to all cars, with the Wallace’s Perodua losing its exhaust. A monolith was created by the side of the road in its honour. The Devonians helped immensely (apart from new team member Lorenzo* who was suffering from drinking vodka with Mongolians the previous night), so it’s sad we lost them in the thick haze of dust. Lexy didn’t suffer too much, apart from another crack to the back bumper.

Carrying on, we headed to the hills. Or mountains, actually, as we reached 8500ft at one point. Yaks, camels, gophers and assorted birds were common sights but not as common as eagles. We even got to hold one, for a small fee, as a man was just stood at the side of the road holding his bird. As you do. There were also some streams to negotiate, which added to the fun, but proved small fry to our magnificent vehicles.

We were struggling to keep up with the Kiwis’ nippy Perodua, so it was decided to cut them loose to give them a better chance of reaching UB in good time. Ourselves, Jack and Ben were on our own, but we somehow made Khovd by 3pm. There was a bank, petrol station and a restaurant. We stayed a while, after deciding to camp about 70km outside Khovd.

The main trouble with the roads is they’re terrible in a variety of ways. Jagged rocks threaten to puncture tyres and gas tanks, uneven roads cause concern to suspension, and the ludicrous corrugated surface means it is impossible to drive at any speed unless you’re willing for you and your car to be shaken beyond belief.

Today, the main problem was rocks battering the underside of Lexy. Like a fellow large rumped and aging diva, it doesn’t matter about the rocks that she got, she’s just an amateur geologist. Or something.

Then something amazing happened. Something we thought we’d be writing about long before this day – we got a flat tyre! This was the first flat we had, a quite incredible feat considering the absolute torture they’ve been put through on a daily basis. Savoy in Howden fitted Lexy with new tyres a few weeks before we left and, not including the mileage before we set off, we’d done 8150 miles of demanding driving before anything went wrong. Massive thanks to everyone at Savoy! We’ve been wanting to say something since we crossed the desert into Uzbekistan, but didn’t for fear of jinxing it.

Tarmac came to the rescue and, after it ended far too soon, we found ourselves flung off down another large ramp to the right. There was a small town in the distance so both teams agreed to head for that to see if there was anywhere to camp. There was – a lovely plot of land near some gers and animal grazing land. Some locals came over to see us, gave us a watermelon and recommended a cow dung fire. While Moe was off collecting ‘fuel’, the locals put up his tent, marvelling at how it popped up.

The fire was pretty good, but against the locals’ recommendations we added wood to it later on.

Despite some interested animal visitors during the night, it was the best sleep I’d had in a while, which should stand us in good stead for the drive to Altay tomorrow.

*Lorenzo’s story of breaking three engines has made the Adventurists’ website.

Mileage: 8172.

Day 35: Tugrug to Darvi

Mid-Seventies wah-wahphile Peter Frampton once sang “I want you to show me the way”. Clearly he’d never convoyed with us.

Up early and ready to rock, we headed out of the village. We soon came to two river crossings. One was easy, the other less so. Added to the fact we weren’t sure we were going the right way, we turned back into town and retraced our steps over the rickety bridge and back to the route of the new road.

Again, we were off and on it, but the ramps were more manageable this time. Then came more river crossings. The first proved easy as I sauntered through it, but the second was rather deep, wide and fast flowing. Annoyingly, the new road bridge a hundred yards to our right was unfinished. The Korean project manager of the road drove by and kindly towed us across, assuring us we were on the road to Altay. It’s a good job he was Korean as we suspected the workers were Chinese and I didn’t want to test my very ropey few words of Mandarin.

Once across, we set off safe in the knowledge we were on the right track, especially as we’d heard from the Kiwis that they’d taken a wrong turn and were heading to the Chinese border. We too were driving in a southerly direction, so we checked again that this was the road to Altay. Another positive answer. An hour down the road and we saw a sign: this was the China road. Why had everyone lied to us? We came up with another plan –  head cross country to Most, Tsertseg and pick up the correct road at Darvi.

The road narrowed as we travelled through the mountain passes and it became more like a construction site. Jack was convinced we could still get to Most. We kind of agreed, but it was nearly 11am, which meant travelling back on ourselves for three hours if he was wrong. At 11, we saw a workers’ camp and asked another project manager if we could get to Altay. Ah. Mystery solved. He said we could, but pointed at a different Altay on the map. So that’s why we got all the positive answers. But what confused us was this Altay was tiny, where the one we wanted was an important city. Wouldn’t they check which one we meant?!

The chap did tell us how to get to Most though so, with Jack vindicated and our cars feeling happier, we rocked along until the turn off – a vague dirt track in the scrub. Once again stopping to check we were heading in the right direction, we were told to follow a motorbike up a mountain. The road was tricky. We first had to cross a stream at an awkward angle to get to the road which itself was steep and very rutted. After two goes we made it up and stopped for a break at the top to admire the view. To shred our confidence, a jeep with a folded ger on a trailer bounced happily up the road, followed by two kids on a scooter. The old man in the jeep did give us a huge block of (possibly) yak’s cheese for free though. It was very sour but, having eaten nothing all day, was appreciated.

The scooter followed us for a bit, with the young riders looking bemused at why a Kia Rio and a Ford Ka were travelling down these tracks in the middle of nowhere. We could see Most, but the road didn’t go in a straight line. It seems this is another thing Mongolians haven’t realised yet – the other being sit on/flush toilets. According to our phrasebook, Mongolians are only just releasing phones are a form of communication and not just a status symbol.

One final river crossing separated us from Most. There were large rocks and a ridge to navigate, but I also crushed a goat’s skull. Thankfully it was already dead. With Jim directing me perilously close to the ridge, I decided to go rogue, much to his initial disgust. Most was a welcome sight, even though there was knack-all there except for a scattering of shacks. Our next destination was Tsertseg, just a handful of miles over the mountains. It took a few dispiriting hours to get there because we couldn’t find any tracks heading in the right direction.

At the top of a mountain, we saw a track half a mile below us, but there was no way to it. The teams had a chat and decided the best way to it was as the crow flies – off roading down the hillside. Lexy and Philip (for that is the Ford Ka’s name) completed their task brilliantly, with Lexy even finishing with a celebratory hop, skip and jump as she made her way over the ridge bordering the road.

That track soon forked, with one turning right over the mountains, and the left route winding down to the valley containing the now visible Tsertseg. We chose left. We chose…poorly. The track ended with the ridge upon which it lay. We agreed to become crows again as the land seemed suitable for more off roading.

We chose…poorly. What we hadn’t spotted from our vantage point was a number of dry riverbeds cutting the land. We’d come this far so weren’t keen to turn back. No turning back is quickly becoming our motto, but this occasion looked to be a stubborn refusal too far. I may be stating the obvious here, but rivers – even dry ones – have banks that are often quite steep. Crossing the second one with a bang, we noticed we appeared to be on an island. Stuck in the middle of nowhere with seemingly no way out was a low point. Ben’s determination proved contagious though, we were going to beat this.
But not before the river banks nearly broke our car. Being a decent sized family car, Lexy has lots of overhang on the front and rear. This became a problem when she smashed into a river bank and, on the way out, lost a bit of herself. The back bumper has been hanging off since Bodiam, so it seemed the likely casualty. Amazingly that was still intact. All we had lost was a front mud guard.

With the dry rivers coming thick and fast, we drove upwards towards the mountains in the hope they’d become narrower nearer their source. We were right and soon came across a track that took us into Tsertseg. It had taken us about two hours to do ten miles. Myself and Jim kind of enjoyed it, but suspected it would be more fun during a day out with your mates, knowing someone was there to tow you out if needed and dispense cold beer on completion. This wasn’t such an occasion.

In Tsertseg, we asked directions from a couple of likely lads standing near a motorbike. They knew the way we wanted to go and would also take us to the road. After too much chatting, they hopped on their bike and sped off, with both cars in hot pursuit – although 50mph on the village’s tracks seemed far too fast. Then, in the distance, we saw what was surely a mirage. It was a perfect black tar river flowing in our direction. On reaching the welcome tarmac there was more difficult mimed chatter, until we set off towards the mountains, reaching speeds up to a daily record of 60mph.

If this road headed northwards, we wondered where it came from. It seemed such an unlikely place to have a perfect road. Then it dawned on us: China. This meant only one thing. It was a route from a mine to China, a mine that was probably in the approaching mountains. This lush road would probably end at the mine. Sure enough it did, and was replaced by a red mud road, a sign that the mine was used to extract iron ore [typically, it later transpired we had found a coal mine]. The muddy surface was caused by the rainstorm that had drifted our way and, after reaching the high point of the pass, we were treated to some incredible fork lightning in the valley below: the valley we were heading to.

At the T-junction with the road we were supposed to have taken this morning, we saw tarmac as far as the eye could see. Sadly, the eye could only see 300m in the direction we were to take, and that’s where it ran out. This was rather galling. So was the fact that where we set off from this morning was only 100km away, possibly on pretty decent tarmac and yet we’d travelled 260km on, at best, dirt roads.

The journey to Darvi wasn’t great, but we were all glad to be back on the right road, although Jim appeared to be getting tired as his judgement lacked its usual precision. Having said that, he did rescue us from a possible dip into a swamp…

Darvi was odd. A real one-horse town but with free WiFi all over. It also had a cheap hotel where we stayed the night. The steps up to the room were unusual. On the way up, the individual steps pointed downwards and, obviously, upwards on the way down. It gave the effect of being in MC Escher’s “crazy stairs” picture.

Having ventured to a local cafe for a meal of unidentified meat and noodles, plus a meat-stock drink, we retired. It was about 7pm. A poor effort, but a necessary one after the day we had endured. We still found time to watch Animal House on the iPad, during which we heard some European accents outside. Some teams we had stayed with in Olgii had only just made it: Team Helvetistan, the American couple, the Spanish and the Dutch.

Mileage: 8345.

Day 36: Darvi to Altay

“Keep you eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel,” sang Jim Morrison, referencing the Doors’ ill-fated tour of Mongolia in which keyboardist Ray Manzarek angered the famously hospitable nation by being just too damned nice. Wise words though Jim.

This was possibly the toughest day’s drive (in the right direction) yet. Flooded potholes were the first thing to challenge us, a result of the thunderstorm the previous evening. These soon gave way to the continuous corrugated ruts which threaten to shake the car apart. Braking or accelerating aren’t options as this increases the vibrations. Thick, soft sand followed. This was possibly the lesser of the evils, but proved tricky as it occasionally threw you onto a new route. Oversteering in a rut could cause untold damage to the car.

The choice of six of seven overlapping routes also added to the confusion/frustration as, somehow, we soon found ourselves overtaking Jack and Ben about 200m to their left. Keen to get back on the same track, I pulled off a not-recommendable but extremely fun manoeuvre of skipping across the scrub, three tracks, plus ridges of sand too high for the car to avoid. But, as a *ahem* skilled driver, I managed to conduct this at such a speed that the car skimmed across all the surfaces and landed in the correct lane just behind the other car.

That was a rare moment of fun during the day’s driving. Another one was coming across a friendly herd of camels which let us walk right up to them, and also seeing one of them fall over. Later, while changing a tyre, Jack and Ben decided to get rid of their ration packs. We put the box at the side of the road and wrote “free food” on it, in an attempt to help out other ralliers.

But other than that, the day got trickier. The next bit of road to test us was roadworks. Jack and Ben took the route to the left of the new road and us the right. We could see them bouncing all over the place so thought we had chosen wisely. Typically, we had chosen…poorly. Our road descended into insanity as it passed through drainage canals covered in small boulders. There was no other option but to join the lads on the other side, but getting to this rutted, ridged and rocky road was easier said than done. Trying to make it up the new road’s steep embankment at an angle saw us nearly tip the car over.

On the other side, even swathes of Half Man Half Biscuit tunes couldn’t cheer me up as the loud vibrations from the ruts drowned out the line about a man with a mullet going mad with a mallet in Millets.

I digress. Anyway, the road nearly broke me. What it actually did break was Jack and Ben’s suspension. The last 20 miles were the slowest but (selfishly) the most enjoyable of the day, as we followed the Ka doing a vibration halting 15mph.

Altay appeared like Shangri-La, but with a quieter airport. It’s quieter than Breighton airfield too as there were no planes in sight. In the town, we saw the Mongol Rally Auto Service garage and headed there to sort out the lads’ suspension, which they did in an hour or two. It’s a drop-off point for destroyed cars and we saw one of the Puntos we’d occasionally bumped into. These lads had had the worst luck – first in the queue for the Russian border but last through the Mongolian side – and had now been towed for 500km by the other Punto as something crucial had snapped. They were considering all piling into one Punto in an effort to finish the rally, but even for these young lads squeezing six people into a Punto was a long shot.

Checking in to another cheap hotel for the night, we moved out for some food and later for a drink, it was Friday night after all. It seemed everyone was in town as, on the way back from the cafe, we heard someone in heels running along the road. It turned out to be a cow making its way into the town centre for a moo-ch around. Oof.

At the Korean restaurant and bar, we bumped into the Irish and Australian teams. Ordering seven beers proved too much of a rush for a bar in this town and they had to run to a supermarket to get more, a situation exacerbated further by the now traditional arrival of the Swiss, Americans and Dutch. The Swiss had added some football shirts to the free food box, but the Americans had stuck their flag in it, claiming it as their own. The rotters.

Mileage: 8497.

Day 37: Altay to Bayankhongor

Many people have shouted “tool” at Jim before, but today would have been ideal as it seems we lost the toolbox while repacking the car.

But apart from that it was smooth sailing in the morning, with 100km of lush tarmac meaning Lexy ate up the miles. Then the tarmac ended suddenly – very suddenly – and we were back among the sand, ruts and holes.

The car started complaining at more rough treatment, as did the roof-rack. One of its legs broke, meaning we had no option but to dismantle it and jettison it into the wilds of Mongolia. The roof-rack itself was undamaged, but that’s to be expected of something made in Howdendyke. With no storage space up top, everything had to be put in the car. In the back seat, I had a spare tyre to look after, while passenger Moe had a Jerry can of fuel/bomb on his lap.

The end of tarmac.

The scenery in Mongolia is spectacular, with vast open valleys leading on to rolling mountains. It really shows you what a massive country it is as you can see for miles. It’s also clear what a sparsely populated country it is too as there’s hardly any sign of life. What there is though is big skies. We’d heard about Mongolia being the land of big skies, but it’s hard to appreciate until you see it. Perhaps it’s the altitude meaning that the sky is closer, I don’t know.

Having said all that, the scenery changed again. Gigantic boulders dotted the landscape and the Mongolian inability to make a track head in the straightest direction meant Lexy was soon winding her way through these rocks – most of them bigger than the car itself.

The problem with a road system consisting of tracks is they often change route. Mapping this can prove a pointless task and, yet again, we found ourselves heading away from where we wanted to be. However, with Jack navigating, we were confident we were travelling in the right direction. He’s got potential, that lad!

Our faith was well placed as we soon arrived in Buutsagaan, a small village halfway between our start point and target. For such a tiny place, it left a big impression on us. Driving in, we heard music blasting out of a megaphone attached to a telegraph pole for the benefit of what seemed like just half a dozen local kids. It also had WiFi in the village centre, which we made full use of – especially Ben who managed to sort out his university accommodation in the middle of rural Mongolia, a fine feat! There was also a rather beautiful Buddhist temple.

We had to leave this odd, ramshackled yet technologically advanced little paradise, after donating the now empty Jerry can to a guy who had stopped to chat to us. Off he went on his scooter, with his girlfriend not looking too happy about carrying the can while riding on the back.

It wasn’t easy to leave, not because it was that nice a place, but because we had to navigate a very steep track up a hill. I’m sure Jim and Ben gave up following the tracks and made a new route at some point.

Another problem occurred with the Ka as its starter motor broke, meaning we had to bump start it – Jim finally revealing the secret to us all. When our battery died in Uzbekistan, he wouldn’t share the knowledge as that would’ve meant he’d have to get out and push sometimes, rather than sitting in the car while we did the hard work.

Shrines and temples have become more common the further east we’ve travelled and many stone cairns adorned with blue ribbons can be seen on hills. We stopped at a few on our way as, apart from being pleasant places to see, they usually offer great views.

A view from a shrine.

Arriving in Bayankhongor, Philip the Ka needed petrol which didn’t present a problem until we had to push start it. This time we were joined by a friendly local dressed in traditional Mongolian coat and sash. An odd experience.

Bayankhongor looked like a reasonably big town as it had a dual carriageway in the middle of it. A place with proper roads is quite an important place, but one with a dual carriageway? Wow! Mongolians are clearly not used to tarmac as we noticed they drive incredibly slowly on it.

After checking in to a hotel with a shower (our first since Barnaul), we went out to search for food. Another town, another Korean restaurant, very similar clientele. The Australians and Irish Brendan from the night before were already there, so we got updates from them about the road ahead as they were in contact with the Devonians who had already finished. It didn’t sound good, with a terrible mountain pass being reported.

The Seoul Restaurant was good, but made us realise how popular South Korea is in Mongolia, as there’s loads of Korean places.

Things were looking up, despite the road report. We reckoned we could easily get to Arvaikheer tomorrow, spend Monday in Genghis Khan’s old capital and arrive in UB on the Tuesday, as long as nothing bad happened.

Mileage: 8745.

Day 38: Bayankhongor to Kharkhorin

Wary of the reports from last night, we set off at a reasonable hour. The road out was fine and continued being as such for the reported 100 km, after which a sign told us to get off the tarmac. A taxi drove by while we were contemplating our options so we followed it on the good surface.

We suspect this is where our pioneering reporters left the road and headed into the mountains. Good on them, as there’s always time for one last adventure. We also wanted the fun to continue and had set a target of getting close to Genghis Khan’s old capital and sleeping in a ger (a Mongolian yurt (a round tent which nomads sleep in)). This all depended on the roads. Having made Arvaikheer, the next city, in ridiculously good time, we felt confident we could get all the way.

Mongolian skies and roads.

Arvaikheer looked official. Many government style buildings surrounded a square, and it even had a funfair and a football ground – the first we’d seen in Mongolia. But we weren’t intent on staying in Arvaikheer too long as we didn’t know what the road to Hujirt and Kharkhorin would be like.

It wasn’t tarmaced and it was only because Jack noticed a track off to the left that we even found it. It was definitely off-roading, but was incredible fun as it was mostly on grass, through wide valleys whose scattering of nomadic residents probably hadn’t seen too many Mongol Rally cars. There were some hairy parts, namely driving down a rocky outcrop that dropped below the driver’s visibility. Jim got out and guided me down, his off-roading experience proving invaluable, apart from him belatedly telling me I should have gone right despite following his instructions.

We also had a Mongolian car gatecrash our convoy – when they weren’t stopping to let a young girl vomit. This happened four times. It appears Ben’s parents have a Land Rover because, for a young lad, his off-road driving was exceptional. Either that or he wanted to ruin the Ka/was afraid of stalling and making us push start it. They were just far enough ahead of us to miss the herd of sheep and goats being led down the mountain by a herdsman. He looked quite the novice as us and our Mongolian chums had to “help” him. This involved driving the cars towards the animals and hoping they’d go the right way.

Soon after, the Mongolian car veered off down the mountain. We mocked them, presuming it was for another vomit stop. With the British convoy continuing apace – and trying not to overturn the cars on rather sloped tracks – Just a Little Bit British came to a sudden halt: the Mongolian had taken the right road and left us heading to God knows where. Jack ran out of the car, which worried us a bit, until we realised a bottle of pop had burst and was squirting its contents all over Philip’s inside. Keen to get rid of the offending bottle, Jack tried to throw it away, only to unleash it back in the car’s direction.

The road to Hujirt was, again, enjoyable. Even the steep inclines didn’t present a problem. It looks like we are getting used to these kind of challenges. Hujirt was unusual as most of the cool Russian vans (UAZ minivans) that carried all the western tourists met us here. The sight of the tourists’ faces when they saw our cars was bewilderment followed by confused admiration.

The road surface improved, sadly. Gone was the fun, but a faster pace ensued and we made Genghis (or Chinggis in Mongolian) Khan’s former capital, Kharkhorin, by about 4pm.

After nearly a week of driving through barely inhabited wilderness where even the cities are smaller than Goole, Kharkhorin came as a surprise. The town itself is small, but the area is a proper tourist attraction. A lengthy row of stalls lined the car park next to Erdene Zuu monastery, selling traditional Mongolian food, tat, clothes and providing western tourists with a chance to hold an eagle. Muhaha, we’d already done that in the Altay mountains. It seemed we weren’t the only ones keen to mock as wild eagles swooped down eager to take the mick out of their captive cousins. Such was the shame felt by these poor creatures that, after being held and put back on its perch, one turned its back and hung its head.

It was odd seeing such a number of western tourists and it seems they were surprised to see us as a few took our pictures before we went inside the monastery. It’s reported to be the oldest Buddhist monastery in Mongolia, created in 1585 after some dude met the third Dalai Lama (check Wikipedia for the rest of the facts that I can’t be bothered to plagiarise). What I do know for certain is that the stone used to created it came from Chinggis’ old hideout which was situated out back. The monastery was impressive, with loads of Chinese style buildings and even a few monks knocking about. Moe loved it, but I was more concerned with the scrubland behind it. A gate led us out of the monastery and to a row of stalls selling weapons, chess boards and the other usual stuff…

They also had a stall whose proprietor managed to fix Jim’s flip flops that had just that minute broken. An old lady saw the predicament he was in, took them off him and sewed them back together. And he didn’t even bother to buy anything from her stall, complaining it was all tat. There’s gratitude for you.

Remains on the site of Kharkhorin, with the stupas of Erdene Zuu in the background.

The site of Kharkhorin wasn’t much to look at, just a few mounds here and there and one of Chinggis’ old turtles heads, which I rubbed for good luck. However, it was weird being where the biggest continuous land empire had its capital. From Hong Kong and Korea to northern India and Hungary, the Mongols ruled over it all. It’s worth bearing in mind we passed the western outpost of the Mongol empire on day six and have been in it ever since and we won’t get as far as Hong Kong or Korea on this trip.

With the sightseeing done for the day, we located the ger camp Jack and Ben had read about. While we weren’t lucky enough to be invited in to an authentic ger, this was good enough as we were the only guests in any of the half dozen gers.

Cooking on the fire and drinking vodka, we speculated about what tomorrow would bring. It was, barring unforeseen incidents, bound to be our last day on the road. We were within touching distance of Ulaan Baatar now and reports had said the roads were tarmaced. With a fair wind behind us we could be supping ice cold Mongolian beer by lunchtime.

Mileage: 8970.

Day 39: Kharkhorin to Ulaan Baatar

“Doo do doo doo, do do do doo, do do do doo, the final countdown,” sang Scandi-rockers Europe. And this was our final countdown. Barring any disasters, we’d reach Ulaan Baatar today and complete the Mongol Rally. With this in mind we immediately set off in the wrong direction, back to Erdene Zuu monastery, where some souvenirs and breakfast were bought.

Finally reaching the Ulaan Baatar junction we had passed the night before, we took the correct turn and were faced with a tarmac road. We could reach our destination by lunchtime if this continued. It didn’t. Pot holes and incomplete roads soon appeared, leading me to attempt an audacious overtaking manoeuvre on a twenty-metre long stretch of gravel. It worked perfectly until the tarmac appeared and a loud crunch revealed there was an unseen ledge that may or may not have bent the tow point.

Apart from a flat tyre for Jack and Ben, we made the main road in good time. A few miles down the road, Moe took over the driving. In typical fashion, the road became nightmarish as massive, invisible pot holes dotted the landscape and the traffic became busier (ie, we saw some other cars). After a few hours’ travel, UB came into view so we stopped to take photographs. After all, throughout the trip we’d been saying Dude, Where’s Baatar?, and here it was! Both teams used this opportunity to get dressed in suitable attire: dinner jackets and black tie for us, while the lads gave a debut to their new Mongolian jackets. We’d arrive at the finish line in style!

The traffic got very busy now. Genuinely. It came as quite the shock to us, having not seen any traffic to speak of for over a week. Mongolia has a population of just over three million, and about half live in UB. It’s a massive city, but doesn’t have the infrastructure as yet, so gridlock happens throughout the day, causing the drivers to become quite aggressive and selfish. At the chaotic checkpoint to enter the city, the last thing we needed was for someone to stall.

Ben appeared out of the driver’s window signalling that he’d done just that. Out I jumped, wearing my waistcoat and black tie, and I joined Jack in push starting the Ka. Jim eventually made his way to join us, in his bejewelled dinner jacket – until his flip flops broke again. I’m not sure what the locals thought of this sight…

It took a few hours to drive down Peace Avenue to the finish line at the rather swanky Chinggis Khaan hotel, but we made it, looking rather dapper with our black ties and Russian pipes, and the Bonzo’s Cool Britannia blaring from our stereo. It was a strange feeling: jubilation at having completed this amazing adventure and sadness that our fun had come to an end.

Today was a day for jubilation though. After a photo or two in smart gear, we revealed our Dove House t-shirts for the main snaps, delighted that all the cash people have pledged or donated can go to our charity. We would have felt as if we were short changing people had we fallen short.

There was a gathering of other folks at the hotel, namely the Punto guys who had suffered more misfortune and been sold some dodgy petrol which finished their cars off. They were still in high spirits, having made it most of the way through Mongolia. Quite rightly too. At the start of our trip, we were unsure whether we would make it to the finish line, but set ourselves a minimum target of reaching Mongolia. Anything else was a bonus.

After a few beers, chats and some food to celebrate, we checked in to the Chinggis Khaan hotel. Originally we only planned to stay one night at the swanky place, but we opted for two in the end.

We then took a stroll in to town and met up with various other teams at the Grand Khaan pub, an Irish bar that served Guinness. Well, kind of. They got a glass, put it under the pump and turned it on. It was fake and the Guinness came from a can. The Irish lads didn’t look too impressed, unsurprisingly. Also in the pub were the Americans we had parked next to at Bodiam. It was great to meet up with everyone and hear their stories. These were eventually drowned out by an almighty thunderstorm which blew a bulb at the bar behind us.

There were some local girls at the end of the table who started smiling at anyone who looked their way. Were they friendly or doing their “job”? We suspected the latter, so moved on. A taxi driver insisted we should go to a club and drove us around a few closed ones before finding an open one. Face. It was odd, as we had to pay a tenner to get in. Myself and Jim don’t usually frequent such places so it was a surprise. There were beers though, which was nice. There was also some garage music, not so nice (unless you’re Moe).

We arrived back quite late, but met up with some new arrivals, exchanged some more stories and called it a day. It had been a hell of a day!

Final mileage: 9210.

Days 40-43: Ulaan Baatar

So, where to start our four days without a car? Well, the micro-brewery of course. Myself and Jim took a stroll to Sukhbaatar square where we spied the MB pub hiding round a corner. A few home-brewed beers and a good portion of German sausage and we were ready for more sights. In mind if not body.

We wandered back to the hotel, where we checked in for a third night. We felt slightly bad about doing this, but we’d surely earned a bit of luxury after the past few weeks (if you’ve not read this too closely, you’ll surely agree). Besides, Cinemax was showing Smokey and the Bandit 2, a fact which Jim informed me of far too late. This could have caused the first proper argument of the trip, but we had a good night out to focus on.

Mongol Rally chief Mr Rob had organised a curry night at a local restaurant – said to be Steven Seagal’s favourite Baatar eatery. How could we turn that down? I’m sure he’s a good actor, but he can apparently cook too. Seagal knows his curry: a great selection of dishes greeted our tables. Jack and Ben, Tove (the Danish lady), the Australians and the Irish, plus Dave and Julie who we met in the hotel bar, tucked in. We were sat near Rob and Tove. It’s fair to say she has some interesting stories to tell, maybe not all to be told at the dinner table. She’d just had her Mongol Rally tattoo inked after deciding to go solo following a lot of dropouts from other ralliers. She told some stories of other tattoos in erm… private places… she’d seen during surgery, to which Rob and myself looked quizzically at each other and said “aren’t you a brain surgeon?!” She just smiled and gave a knowing smile.

Later, Mongol Rally fixer Meg joined us. It was great to hear what a Mongolian thought of the rally: she was so keen to do it she has begun saving for the 2015 rally.

After seeing the Seagal pictures on the way out, we couldn’t help but ask the owner more about the “great” actor’s connection with the curry house. Apart from being Buddhist, he’s also the patron of a local charity. Thankfully that explanation was sufficient. Who are we to argue with Seagal?

The strange thing about finishing a trip like this is your body shuts down. While the others went out for a few more beers, myself and Jim went back to the hotel, suffering from post-trip “meh”.

It wasn’t a bad choice though. While enjoying a quick nightcap, we noticed the Arkansas Country Cousins had arrived with Team Skhandinavia – after a 14-hour drive. They were emotional, but managed to tell us how they had fixed their broken rear springs. They’d used a pair of flip flops to replace the spring, wedged in between the failed item. Awesome bodge, possibly the best so far.

The next day we saw them getting a deserved photo taken. What’s better is that the guy’s flip flops were still wearable.

We couldn’t admire this ingenuity all day, we had sightseeing to do. What better place to do it than at a Sky Lounge bar? Two birds, one stone and all that.

View from the Sky bar.

There were some great views to be had: the chalk Chinggis on a nearby hill, the huge funfair and the Buddhist temple that was nearby. So nearby that we went for a look after failing to find another sky bar in the monstrous Blue Sky building. See, it wasn’t just a short-on-numbers lads’ trip, we did actual sightseeing, even if most people had told us there was nothing to see in this sort of makeshift metropolis. We viewed the parliament building, complete with giant Chinggis which could rival DC’s Abraham Lincoln. Near that was the Gotham-looking building we assumed was either a bank or the police headquarters. Either way, there was police car outside, complete with excellent livery.

Next up was arguably the city’s most visited attraction (certainly by Dave and Julie from the night before), the State Department Store. It’s a vast complex rivalling Lafayette in Paris and comprises a supermarket, a gym, food court and souvenir store on its seven floors.

With sights seen, we reverted to type and visited the biker bar down the road – purely to sample a hitherto untried type of Mongolian lager. It’s all part of the cultural experience, I promise you. This also explains why we visited some other bars, including the City Bar and Grill, located closer to Sukhbaatar Square than the microbrewery. As it was at the junction, we tried to video the Mongolian drivers’ famous lack of patience. They love their horns, but were unusually polite while we had the camera on them.

Buddhist temple with the Blue Sky building behind.

After a return trip to the Sky bar for a doomed attempt to try their Kobe beef patties came a must-see on any cultural exchange: the dive bars. It was an enjoyable experience, but not to everyone’s taste.

Feeling “happy”, we arrived back at the hotel to find the Dutch, Swiss and Spanish hankering after a trip to a club, so we thought we’d join them. A Swiss resident of UB was to be our guide, but even she couldn’t find an open club, including the Sky bar – although three trips there in one day may have been pushing it.

We had no option but to return to the hotel. There was just one problem: there were six of us and the only cars to stop for us were five-seaters. One driver decided this wasn’t a problem as long as we paid him the princely sum of £1.50 for his troubles. So, with Jim in the front, I joined four others in the back seat. Thankfully it wasn’t far.

Our final full day in Mongolia was a good one, as Moe’s relatives had invited us out to see some sights. The three of us, three of Moe’s cousins, one child and an auntie piled into a much more suitable vehicle than last night’s and headed out east into the country, the plan being to show us a tourist camp.

The name doesn’t do it justice and I was a very sceptical of walking into a tourist trap where everything was totally fake. After stopping for a beefy pizza for lunch (bear in mind that if Mongolians say beef, they usually mean yak), we arrived in the beautiful valley that was home to the camp. The intention was to show the traditional, historical way of life in Mongolia. Over five areas, spread over a massive portion of the valley, we saw various military and religious gers, plus a re-creation of a traditional classroom (also set in a ger).

There were many opportunities to don appropriate clothing (pictures were taken), and I even rode a camel. This wasn’t a novelty for Egypt-loving Moe and Jim was too scared. It turns out Jim was right to be wary as I learned the hard way that camels don’t sit down easily. I struggled to walk for the next few days.

In a ger showing a herdsman’s way of life, we were faced with what we’d all been dreading: Mongolian dairy products. First up was the salty and creamy butter. Maybe it’s because I’m not a fan of dairy, but this was disgusting and didn’t set me at ease to try fermented mare’s milk (airag). Surprisingly, this was quite alright with a taste not too dissimilar to natural yoghurt. This was washed down with some homemade vodka. Now this was great! It had none of the throat-burning properties of normal vodka and, after being warned of its potency, we still couldn’t believe it was anything more than slightly alcoholic water. In fact, we’re convinced there was a miscommunication here.

Next came the big finale – dinner in the king’s ger. We regretted eating so much already that day as we couldn’t finish our noodle soup or khushuur (and we love khushuur!). We were serenaded by a throat singer and other traditional singers, plus enjoyed more dressing up.

A brilliant day was topped off by a visit to the massive Chinggis Khaan statue, proudly stated by Mongolians as the largest equestrian statue in the world. We’d heard stories of other people’s visit to this, with them claiming it wasn’t worth the long drive as it was aimed squarely at tourists and there seemed to be no historical reason why it was sited where it was. The claim of finding a golden whip on the site is unsubstantiated, even by the tour guides themselves.

Those are all valid points. However, as we were passing on the way home, it was worth the trip. A quick tour of the archaeological findings and a trip up to the statue followed (you came out of his groin area on to the horse’s neck – perhaps a symbolic reference to most of the world being related to the chap). A cracking end to a brilliant day, with huge thanks to Moe’s family for being such great hosts.

We were shattered though and myself and Jim retired to the hotel for a quick nightcap, where we were joined by the trike guys (going round the world on a homemade trike), plus Iona and more newly arrived Australians.

Friday bought more new arrivals, namely old chums Jake and Tara. It was great to see they’d made it, despite being sad we wouldn’t have time to celebrate with them at the final party that night.

Mongolia’s a great place, but there’s always that nagging feeling that it has one last surprise up its sleeve that will scupper your plans. First up was the price of a taxi to the airport. We were quoted $90, so we hastily turned that down and found a guy loitering outside the hotel who would take us there for about $30. It’s quite a way out of town and the traffic is terrible, so this seemed acceptable to the three of us. The next problem Mongolia dealt us was the excess traffic on the roads, caused by the massive black market building burning down overnight.

However, the chap got us there in plenty of time and, after a quick flight to Beijing, two dudes bid farewell to the other one: myself and Jim arriving back in Howden at 10pm Saturday night (on a train full of depressed Hull FC fans), and Moe eventually landing back in Blighty on Monday after touring the Chinese capital.

It’s been an absolute blast and we’ve enjoyed every second of it. If anyone’s thinking of taking part, it comes highly recommended from us.

Map of the route