Day 15 – England 
July 28th 2013 – Iran/Turkmenistan border

Whether it was the lorries, the heat, the noises in the night or just the general discomfort, I don’t know, but some combination managed to rob us of a good night’s sleep. Momentarily we are vaguely cheered by the latest of Dave’s gadgets, an electric shower, but as we set off we are all tired. I Know I Khan has also been a little tired of late, and noisy. Joss assures us it is a bearing, and we stop at Grogan to have it replaced. After 40 minutes of stern assessment and numerous Iranian mechanics fiddling with I Know I Khan’s wheels, they determine that no action is necessary.

After a disappointing trip to Gonbad-e-Kavus Funerary tower, the discovery of a café serving food in the middle of the day during Ramadan — albeit behind newspapered windows — was most welcome. After lunch we head onwards and our road suddenly swerves down to the bottom of a hidden valley. Golden steppes and gullies of the Golestan National Park line our path for an hour until we meander uphill. At the brow, for all the world, we could be in England again. Over 4,000 miles driving, and we are suddenly surrounded by hedgerows, brambles and patchwork fields.

Camping on concrete at a border crossing turns out to be surprisingly comfortable. This is what we have been forced to do. The idea was to meet Joss, whom had gone on before us to find a camping spot, on the road after Quchan. Not only had we not been able to find this road — fortuitously an English-speaking Iranian pulled up on a moped as we pored over the maps and kindly guided us to the correct route — but the road had turned out to be much longer than we expected. In the darkness there was no sign of Joss. Eventually we arrive at the border crossing and find a jovial and most helpful group of bored border guards. Unfortunately their phone calls to the hotel — 100 meters into the crossing, where Joss is currently situated — reveal only that it is shut. So here we are, tents on a concrete path, outside a hotel in the Iranian-to-Turkmenistan border crossing, cooking pasta on a camping stove.

Car wheels can be fascinating.

First camel of the trip.

Day 16 – No Photos

July 29th 2013 – Ashgabat

One guard has his head in I Am Sure I Khan’s roof box, while another is rifling through bags in the boot. The latter raises his head and holds up a couple of small white cylindrical objects before sniffing them and looking quizzically at Dave. “Ladies’ stuff”, Dave explains. The guard seems to understand this and immediately drops them and forgoes the rest of the search. Another guard has discovered a football in I Know I Khan’s roof box, and he and I are now kicking this to each other across the tarmac. As with the Iranian border, it has already become clear that it is officially part of the border guard job description to support Chelsea.

We had been warned that this will be a long crossing and it is proving to be so. The process goes something like this: Passport check, letters of invitation, visas, bank, car registration and insurance, bank, customs administration, customs car check. After the visas stage we tried driving out of the compound, but this simply caused a lot of men in uniform to wave their arms and shout at us.

After five hours we finally emerge into a small hill top car park where Murat, our guide, is waiting by his people carrier to lead our cars down the hill into Ashgabat. After a mile or so I attempt to take a picture. Murat is a tall, thin man who moves and drives laboriously slowly. However, my exit from the car with a camera brings about quite a change in his character. Seldom has a man U-turned a minivan and headed back uphill with such speed and alacrity. “No photo,” he says, a phrase I would hear a lot over the next day. As we continue the journey to the city Thomas and I note a fence that follows the line of the road. Cameras are positioned every 20 meters and a guard posts stand on top of every hill.

Ashgabat — or Dubai Disney Vegas Land, as it should be known — is incredible. I have been to a lot of cities, but never have I been to one where so many of the fountains are functional. Palatial high-rise marble buildings line vast avenues that extend into the distance. It seems impossible to believe that there are enough wealthy people to occupy what I assume is first-class accommodation. Murat allows us to leave the car and take photographs. Despite photography being permitted in this area, we are watched by a policeman the second we leave the vehicle. This may just be paranoia on my part, as we are gazed at by just about everybody in this part of the world. There are very few people on the ultra clean streets, but the roads are packed with shiny modern cars. At the city centre, a vast marble column with a globe at its summit stands in the middle of the road, and marble palaces with golden domes shimmer at its base. Every corner and roundabout has at least two policemen and is very definitely a “no photo” area.

Joss, Dave and Thomas decide to leave Ashgabat and drive for four hours into the night to visit the Darvaza crater, a huge gas crater lit by the Russians. I desperately want to join them on this adventure but I know we only have two days in Turkmenistan, so I opt to explore Ashgabat a little more. A taxi picks me up from the hotel. The driver, a small 50-year-old man with more gold teeth than real, drives for 20 yards before switching the radio on very loud to some terrible 1990s dance music. He turns and grins broadly me at me and then punches the air rhythmically “Eh? Eh?”  he questions. It is easiest just to affirm that I am enjoying his musical taste very much.

As dusk falls, it is evident that every building, monument and palace is illuminated and all the bulbs work. As the temperature drops, the parks become crowded with groups of people who sit and talk and eat whilst little children run and play under the sprinklers. Everyone seems happy.

Things we have learnt:

• Turkmenistan women all wear traditional costume. It can be of any colour, is ankle length and reminiscent of a kimono with Peruvian patterning round the collar. An African-style head piece is also often worn. Turkmen women can be very beautiful.

The subject of my first “No Photos” and you can see why! Maybe the guide was simply trying to bring to my attention that it was a rubbish photo.

Sunset over Ashgabat

It is a little known fact that President Niyazov has a pigeon on his head at all times. Ashgabat.

White marble buildings of Berzengi. Ashgabat.

“I don’t know mate it just landed ere alf an hour ago.” Arch of Neutrality, Ashgabat.

Turkmen girls in earring size order.

July 30th 2013 – Mary

The road from Ashgabat to Mary is pristine. Well, at least the first 20 kilometres are.

Achmed is my guide today. He has perfect English as long as the word you want is ‘yes’. Achmed has proved to be a very safe driver and has stayed well within the very low speed limit. At our last stop I made a foot-on-the-floor motion. Achmed understood this and obliged. About 400 meters later the road veered sharply to the left and turned into a very different sort of road. As I slam on the breaks and go through the gears to narrowly avoid hitting a barrier it becomes apparent it is now the kind of road, a road where danger lurks round every corner. Except there aren’t very many corners, so danger has been forced to relocate to all the straights as well. I know little of road construction but I am pretty sure, especially when you’re laying down a road in a hot country, it is pretty imperative to use material that doesn’t melt. This particular road has at some stage become soft — so soft that huge ruts have been created. Fortunately the rutted stretches are interspersed with massive potholes. There are no rules to this road. If one section is less eroded then that is where you drive, regardless of whether it’s your side.

I Know I Khan, which is the car I am driving, requires new shocks and is the only one of the Khan cars that is not four-wheel drive. I Know I Khan is not enjoying this road. There are constant decisions to be made: Should I swerve to miss the pothole and possibly end up on a collision course with a lorry? Or should I slam on the breaks and risk becoming far more familiar with the driver behind me? Or maybe I should take on the pothole, which will probably throw me in front of the lorry anyway.  For eight hours we grind our way to Mary. Somewhere there is a fire, and smoke hangs everywhere in the air, softening the sunset to an eerie yellow glow. Just before dusk the road eases a little and we pass under Mary’s enormous entry arch

Achmed guides us straight to our hotel for the night. I am relieved to find I Think I Khan and I Am Sure I Khan parked in front of the hotel. Joss informs me they only arrived five minutes before us and goes on to tell me that the hotel receptionist is “right up my street” and then pulls the knob off the toilet door.

After a quick shower I locate the rest of my team sitting at a table on the patio of the Russian restaurant that neighbours the hotel. We eat dinner together and drink vodka and beer before all turning to bed, tired but happy.

Things we have learnt:

• The blue triangular signs with the word PYGG inscribed on them mean police!
• I have lost count of how many dead dogs I have seen.

The road from Ashgabat to Mary.

Day 18 – Dates

July 31st 2013 – Turkmen/Uzbek border

Ancient Merv really is the most excellently named mud ruins I have ever had the pleasure of visiting. Unfortunately Achmed does not share my pleasure in seeing and photographing Ancient Merv. He has taken to looking at his watch and repeating the word “Farap”, our destination for the day. I was hoping to meet the other Khans at Merv, but seemingly running out of time to make it to Farap we decide to leave.

The road from Mary to Farap is, surprisingly, in far better condition. We make good time. What is noticeable about the middle of Turkmenistan are the vast swathes of nothingness. The land is now desert, but what is technically known as ugly desert. Sparse thorny-looking bushes cling to the sand desperately trying to stave off their metamorphosis to tumbleweed. It also seems that all the world’s haze likes to holiday in this area. Rather unexpectedly for such an arid environment, muddy-looking rivers occasionally intersect the road. Here are the only signs of life we see. The river water has been used to irrigate a few channels, and the reeds that these give life to are being harvested by leather-faced people who have hidden as much as their flesh from the sun as they can. They look a little like Sand People, only their eyes are visible from beneath their hooded cloth wraps.

A man in yet another booth is demanding money from me. I am not sure why he wants the money and I have just paid a hard-faced policeman in a booth two yards away 20 manat. I bend down to peer through the window into the gloom. In the darkness is a pot-bellied man wearing only a vest. I don’t like this. I resolve to pay him immediately and hand him my last money, which equates to $12. At the border there is no sign of the other Khans, but the guards point excitedly through the border and say ‘”friends”.  I guess they must have gone through. This worries me a little as I have no money and Joss is the official owner of I Know I Khan so he needs to be present or the car insurance will not be valid.

The border controllers don’t mention Chelsea but they do introduce themselves as Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp. Inside the border there is no sign of the Khans. The normal rigmarole ensues. Whilst my car details are being noted in a large A4 book I do my best to look at previous entries. I can see no Khans, although several other Rally teams have gone through today. With only one further passport stamp required there is still no sign of my teammates. Watching the road nervously from a window for signs of my teammates I chat with two other Mongol teams, Raiders of  Ulaanbaatar and Kangaroos. They do their best to assure me all will be ok and offer to lend me money. No longer sure what to do and with no signs of the Khans I approach the desk slightly downcast for my last stamp. It is now that the decision is made for me. The passport officials find something amusing — always a worrying sign — push my passport in my face and point to my Uzbek visa. The entry date is tomorrow. D’oh.

Me posing with Merv.

Thomas, all the Khan cars and the hut that provided us with some shelter at the Turkmenistan – Uzbekistan border.

Day 19 – Latif 

 August 1st 2013 – Uzbekistan – somewhere

We are trying to find somewhere to camp in Uzbekistan. We have driven about a mile up a dirt track. We are all tired. No sooner had I exited the border gates yesterday back to Turkmenistan than the other Khans arrived. We camped in and around a small, disused hut. The heat and the sand didn’t make for a good night’s sleep. Today we are exhausted and this road is proving fruitless. We pull over to discuss our options.

A small white Daewoo van – a type commonly used as taxis in this part of the world — immediately stops beside us. A small, stocky man is becoming quite animated. Dave appears from his conversation with the man and informs us we can’t camp here. He seems to have determined from the dialogue that this road is used by heavy farming vehicles throughout the night. The man and his tall associate have exited their car and the small man is peering into I Think I Khan, in which Joss and I are seated. It becomes clear, mainly through a series of hand gestures, he would like us to stay at his house. It doesn’t look like he is taking no for an answer.

Ten minutes and several dirt tracks later we are being directed to manoeuvre our cars over a small brook into the entrance of a mud-walled barn. The entrance leads to a small courtyard behind the barn, and next to that stands a building that is obviously the man’s house. He and his wife are laying out rugs and cushions in a neat square and excitedly beckoning us to sit down. No sooner are we seated than food is thrown down before us. Latif is the man’s name and his excitement and pride at having the strange bunch of foreigners as his guests is palpable. He is hurriedly cutting up tomatoes and peppers and mixing them with what looks like yoghurt whilst instructing his wife to cut melons and bring chai. The evening extends before us, the food is all home produced and basic but delicious, and the vodka is ceremonial and free flowing. Latif excitedly invites more and more of his friends over until there are at least 15 of them and us. Numerous phone calls are being made to other friends and the phone passed to us to prove we exist. The obvious surprise on the other end of the phone line causes huge amounts of mirth. Gerant, Latif’s tall associate, makes cycling actions and points to the bikes on the back of I Know I khan. We detach one and he disappears to a mythical supermarket and appears 10 minutes later with a large bottle of beer. Suggestions are being made regarding Thomas and Latif’s attractive 20-year-old daughter. Numerous pictures are taken. Whiskey is dragged from under one of the seats of I Am Sure I Khan and a bowls of flavoursome rice and vegetables are placed in front of us. We drink, laugh and make broken conversation until what feels like deep into the night before the rugs are rearranged into mattresses and we sleep in a row, the five of us and Latif, under the stars in Uzbekistan.

I have woken up to far better sights. Turkmenistan/Uzbek border

We stopped at Bukhara for lunch. Children love Bukhara’s ancient architecture.

August 2nd 2013 – Samarkand

If Fiat is ever in the market for an Uzbek to endorse their cars, they really need look no further than Latif. Joss has vacated the hot seat of I Think I Khan and been replaced by Latif. I am in the passenger seat and have been given strict instructions by Joss: “I am not being funny, but don’t let him break it”.

Far from breaking the car, Latif is driving very sensibly. This is mainly because this moment could well be the happiest of his life and he intends to make it last as long as possible. He has the window wound right down and is almost leaning out of the car as he drives. He waves, shouts and gesticulates to everyone we pass and even a few animals. No one in the village is going to miss him driving the strange little car and leading the even stranger bunch of foreigners, his new friends, out of his village. All except one woman, whom he makes it clear — using the universal language of signs — is a sour-faced cow.

We wave our goodbyes to Latif at the motorway and take its bumpy, eroded course to Samarkand. Yesterday’s desert has given way to lush irrigated fields worked by bent figures, lifting themselves to full height to gaze at us as we pass. Donkeys carry men and drag impossibly overladen carts along the hard shoulder, and the soft morning sun paints everything it touches a golden yellow.

Samarkland is a touristy town full of brightly frescoed mosques and mausoleums. We stop to ask directions at a restaurant and a man in his twenties with a startling high voice leads us to our hotel. The day has become too hot for Englishmen and lady, plus we are all tired from our crack of dawn rise. We recline on cushions in the shade of the hotel courtyard and take tea and watermelon. The hotel has a high terrace to which we adjourn to study our road maps. A refreshing wind and cool beers help the midday pass, and when the temperature finally drops we set out to explore Samarkand.

Latif in restrained mode

The gang behind our sleeping area and blankets.

Backstreets of Samarkand and the Bibi-Khanym, Mosque

Woman selling Uzbek bread at Samarkand market

click pic for more

Day 21- Benzin  

August 3rd Aug2013 – Termez

Ant is back and we are a whole team again. The breakfast table is laden with fruit, tea and sweet breads. As we eat the discussion turns to our route. Unfortunately the border we need to cross is shut, which means we must deviate from our initial plans if we are still to drive the Pamir highway. This notoriously hard and dangerous stretch of road has been one of the primary objectives for Ant and Dave since their first Mongol Rally discussions. Return flights and personal schedules may have to be changed but we resolve to try and drive the Pamir.

Since we arrived in Uzbekistan there has been one major difficulty: Benzin! That’s petrol to you and me. The major problem with benzin is there ain’t none. Not one gas station we have pulled into has had any benzin. They have only had gas, as the name would suggest I guess. Uzbekistan is a major natural-gas producer and therefore basically everything runs on gas. The way to buy benzin here is from individuals, and the way you know if an individual has benzin is by looking for a bottle placed on a brick by the side of the road. If you are eagle-eyed enough to spot one of these bottles, the correct course of action is then to pull over, be greeted by an excitable child, wait for them to get an adult, haggle over price, give way, get your funnel and let them fill your vehicle with as much benzin as they have. Which is never enough.

We drive further and further south toward the Afghan border city of Termez. Impossibly there is yet another increase in the amount of donkeys. I had no idea they were still so popular. Cows are now joining in on dogs’ fun and games, waiting until you are virtually on top of them before deciding to cross the road. Nearly dry rivers arch out of the barren lands and run alongside us. To our surprise the river beds are populated by cars and lorries. Young and old men alike gather up the precious water from the rivers and dash it against their vehicles before returning to the road, a new layer of dust already in place.

In the soft evening light the landscape and everything in it has taken on a single hue, a dusty pale brown colour. Brown mud huts snuggle against the brown undulating hills, and the brown faces of the herders and shepherds follow our course as we momentarily touch their lives. We turn off before Termez, stopping at a small village to fill our water tanks and buy beer. In the last evening light we turn left onto a dusty track and pitch our tents on an arid riverbed. Ant brought cheddar with him from KL, which we slice onto our pasta before leaning back with beers in our hands to count the shooting stars.

Looking for a camping spot. Near Termez

Day 22 – Milkshakes

August 4th 2013 – Dushanbe

The manner in which people greet us as we drive has changed in Uzbekistan. It is difficult to put our fingers on how exactly but it is somehow more intimidating. Cars quietly pull alongside us, the occupants unsmiling as they strain to catch a glimpse of us before the driver aggressively punches the horn. They pull away without so much as a glimmer of friendliness in their expression. This is odd, because our experience outside cars has been of a friendly people who are desperate to talk and find out about us or help in any way they can.

There is definitely something different about breakfast this morning. It could be the raised lump of mud we are using as a table and food preparation area. Perhaps it’s the bread and beans that Ant is preparing. Maybe it’s the three-in-one coffee and tea. Or possibly it’s the small Uzbek man squatting two meters behind us with a shepherding stick across his lap.

He is in no way unfriendly, but it would be a struggle to say he was actually friendly. So far he hasn’t smiled or said anything. We have offered him tea, which he drank, and bread and beans. He demolished the bread but suspected the beans poisoned and left them completely untouched. I tried to explain they were Heinz but it made no difference. I am forced to assume he is either a fan of Tesco’s own brand or a total bean avoider. Either way he was happy to squat a couple meters behind us and watch us. If that is his bag we will just have to put up with it.

The border between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan really is rubbish. It’s so rubbish they haven’t even bothered to construct an actual road. A dilapidated half-dirt, half-eroded road guides us from one border to another. The Tajiks seem keen on keeping all foreigners waiting for no apparent reason other than it amuses them, or it is hot outside so they can’t be bothered to check the cars. We eventually pass into Tajikistan and the road alternates between, dirt, gravel and immaculate tarmac. Just as you become accustomed to the tarmac without warning it stops and the road returns to being a bumpy dirt track. Locals drive at top speed, rushing past us and beeping as they do so. Blue-doored single-floor buildings line the road. They have a rustic charm and are obviously still occupied, as families sit in their doorways. Outlines of mountains are now visible through the haze and what look like cool mountain rivers intersect the road. Groups of dark-skinned boys hurl themselves high into the air and land with an enormous splash and shouts of glee into the torrents. When they spot our cars they gather on the roadside in glistening groups and hurl their arms into the air as we pass.

I never suspected I would ever see the inside of a Tajikistan hospital. As I lie with a needle in my arm, I survey the ward. It is white, with orange curtains, and the round light fittings sit slightly proud of their holes.  The most noticeable thing is the lack of patients, doctors and nurses. In the 10- to 15-bed ward I am the only patient. There is one doctor and one nurse. Despite the language gap, I can tell both are irritated with me as they want to go home.

About 2 hours ago we arrived in Dushanbe and immediately set about lunching. Having bolted my lunch I left my teammates to finish theirs whilst I rushed off to try and take a few photos of Dushanbe. Quite suddenly I realized I was in trouble. My hands became very itchy very quickly, and with a few minutes I was aware I didn’t have enough energy to make it back to our meeting place. Enough or not I was going to have to, so I packed up and struggled through the sun and eventually found Julie, Dave and Thomas in a shop where we had this conversation:

“Are you all right?”

“No I am not.”

Sometimes basic conversation covers it. An adjoining restaurant to the shop let me sit in their air-conditioned lobby before allowing me to spend 45 minutes in their bathroom throwing up and putting ice and water over myself. Given the way I was feeling and the severity of the Pamir highway, the drive we are about to undertake, it seemed judicious to have myself checked over. That is why I am now prostrate on an immaculately clean bed with two vaguely annoyed people pacing the ward and looking anxiously at their watches and the drip that is feeding into my arm.

We delayed our departure from Dushanbe for a day, and at 10 o’clock in the evening Thomas and I venture out to find food. Which we do in SFC chicken restaurant, a lawsuit waiting to happen. Chatting with the waitresses and drinking milkshakes proves a pleasant end to a surprising day.

Bean avoider.

Goats love a photo op.

Day 23 – Knockin

August 5th 2013 – Kulob

“Is that a new bang?” I calmly enquire.

“Yes,” Thomas calmly responds.

Either we have run over a midget who is now wedged under the car and repeatedly hitting the undercarriage with great ferocity, or there has been some sort of technical malfunction. The best thing for us to do is to stop and all get down on our hands and knees and watch the underside of the car. Joss wipes off his knees as he stands up.

“That isn’t right,” he says. “Needs to go to a garage.”

So back we head to Kulob, where two earnest and strangely silent mechanics remove the wheel and confirm our suspicions. The bearing we tried to have replaced in Iran is finally kaput. The mechanics seem pleased and indicate it is no problem to replace. Except 10 minutes later it is a problem, a very big problem. The bearing is part of the wheel hub assembly and needs to be bought as one piece. Oddly there aren’t any Fiat Panda dealers in Tajikistan. Dave and I retreat to the local Internet café to try to procure the hub assembly and have it immediately DHL’ed. After a brief fight with Skype we contact the UK and U.S. dealers. We then attempt to contact just about any other Fiat office in the world. When all else fails I text my dad.

Back at the garage there is talk amongst the locals of a direct link from Moscow to Dushanbe and calls are made to locate the part. One thing is for sure: Nothing will happen today. Joss and Ant disappeared a few hours ago to set up camp, but it seems there has been some miscommunication. After a couple of hours waiting for their return Dave, Julie, Thomas and I are forced to search for a hotel. A stocky young man called Latif who thinks I am 25, which is odd as I think he is 25 and in fact we are 40 and 18 respectively, drives us to a horrible 70s Russian-looking building that proclaims itself a hotel. The man behind the desk makes Basil Fawlty seem content. However we are tired and check in. A lady who we assume is his wife appears out of the gloom and shows us to our rooms. Shortly after seeing our rooms and discovering the curtains fall down and there are no light bulbs or running water, we decide to vacate. Today hasn’t gone well.

Ant and Joss giving lollipops to locals! Nurek Resevoir.

Bearing up. Kulob.

Day 24 – C***ts 

August 6th 2013

Team harmony isn’t exactly at the levels it should be this morning. Rant and Rave are back for the first time since Turkey. We hold a brief meeting to discuss our options regarding I Know I Khan. It takes a couple of minutes to discern that we are in fact all c***ts and it is in fact everybody’s fault except the person speaking at that precise moment. The mechanics look on with some fascination.

We have three options:

1. Order a new assembly hub. This would more than likely take a week to arrive and some of our team really don’t have that time.

2. Ditch I Know I Khan. This would mean one less car for charity, and we would probably be unable to drive the Pamir highway with three people in each car. Plus we are not sure if we can actually ditch it in Tajikistan. It might be attached to us via our passports.

3. Bodge a bearing. The mechanics seem to have found a way to do so, but Fiat have strongly advised against this for safety reasons.

This adventure was never going to be easy, and with that in mind and in the spirit of adventure we decide to see exactly how bodgy the mechanics’ work will be. One of them disappears to Dushanbe in a taxi to have a bearing compressed into the hub assembly. He returns five hours later with a bearing that looks unbelievably good, particularly to people who don’t know what they’re talking about. Within an hour it is fitted, as is the wheel. I have test-drive I Know I Khan and the new bearing around the block several times hitting as many potholes as possible. All seems good.

So remarkably off we go again. All three cars climb the hill that leads to the road that leads to the Pamir highway. I Think I Khan and I Am Sure I Khan both overheat on the way up, but the brave I Know I Khan struggles to the summit.

At the summit we get our first view of Afghanistan. Our objective today is to make it beyond the part of the road that runs alongside the river that acts as the Tajikistan-Afghan border. The hope is that we can do this before dark and therefore avoid being kidnapped or blown up by landmines as we bang our tent pegs in. From the minute we start over the summit the landscape and road are amazing. The ground crumbles away at the roadside and vertical drops are ominously close. Lorries and taxis in the form of people carriers stream past us churning balls of dust, seemingly unaware of the danger. As much as there is danger there is beauty. The rolling hills give way to rugged cliffs, which in turn give way to a massive, lush, green alluvial plain that extends to the sharply rising red-earth mountains of Afghanistan. We zigzag our way down into the plain, where the road meets the river, and side-by-side we plunge into steeply rising rock faces. The road itself has become rocky and unreliable, often no more than a potholed scarred track, until quite suddenly we hit several kilometres of pristine tarmac.

Afghanistan is only a stone’s throw away from us at all times on this drive and it becomes clear we are not going to make it to our chosen destination. Ant spots a homestay that seems a far more sensible option than erecting our tents in the semi-darkness. It proves a great find and a perfect end to what has been a very hard day. Six mattresses are laid out in a large room where we are to sleep. Our explorations reveal a lack of shower but do reveal a bathing hole in the river. So in the dusk we submerge ourselves in the icy waters of the river before being cooked fish and chips on an open fire whilst we recline on cushions under a huge fig tree.

Start of the Pamir. The road to Khorog.

A good end to a traumatic day.

Day 25 – Hospital

August 7th 2013 – Khorog

It is a little known fact that this part of Tajikistan is home to 93.7% of the world’s dust. It will be significantly less when we leave, as everything in all our cars is now entirely covered in a red layer of it, including us.

The drive to Khorog is spectacular. Refreshed by morning ablutions in the river, which according to my map may well be the River Gunt (please let it be so), we take to the road once again. The road climbs and falls, twists and turns, but is always accompanied by the murky torrent that crashes into submerged boulders and smashes into the riverbanks. Sharp rock faces and parched mountains rise rapidly either side of the river. Villages of mud huts surrounded by oases of lush vegetation cling to plateaus on the hillside or valley floor. Our road is mirrored by what looks like a mud track on the Afghan side. It is cut into mountain and rock alike and at several points appears to dip below the river level. A track occasionally branches off the Afghan and takes an unbelievably precipitous path up the mountainside to goodness knows where. We are fairly sure it must be to a Taliban hideout! The Tajikistan road is fairly well trod/driven, but for all my looking during the drive I see only a single solitary figure on a moped using the Afghan path.

At a checkpoint, a Dutch motorcyclist assists Thomas and me with directions: “Whatever you do, don’t cross the river.” One hour later we are back at the checkpoint crossing the river, which was only a tributary of the Gunt. We are now substantially behind our teammates. The road rises and falls again, and new rock faces loom before us, before quite suddenly the river calms and we are surrounded by green fields and golden stacks of hay. Beautiful girls in colourful dress walk hand-in-hand through the villages, while older women squat by the side of the road cleaning dishes in irrigation trenches and children stare at our cars in amazement.

Things we have learnt:

• If your tripod falls over on the edge of a cliff with a raging torrent of a river below, it is best to grab one of the slowly disappearing legs. Even if you do achieve this, as I did, it will not stop your 70-200mm lens from breaking. I am not sure how well my lens is working, but I know the image stabiliser is not and the auto focus is now dodgy. I think it looks OK optically but it is hard to be sure.

Our washing hole. Pyandzh River (becomes Gunt) separates Tajikistan and Afghanistan.

Village in Afghanistan near Jamarj-e Bala from Tajikistan.

Thomas in I Know I Khan crossing Vanch River.

Day 26 – Homestay Tearoom Fish 

August 8th 2013 – Alichur

On the map Jelandy boasts some hot springs. In reality it is a small group of disparate houses that don’t even have a town sign to unify or identify them. Unfortunately when we set out from Khorog this morning this is where we had agreed to meet. This is also where we failed to meet.

I am assuming that this is why I am now at the top of the Koy-Tezek pass on the Pamir highway on my own. I Know I Khan has been behaving very well since the bodged bearing, but for about the seventh time in the last couple of hours she has got a little hot. This would be less frustrating if I wasn’t at 4,272 meters and feeling more than a little unusual. I open the door and walk slowly to the bonnet before returning to my seat with equal measure. I haven’t seen another car in about an hour and I am not sure I Know I Khan is going to make it over the small climb that lays ahead of me. Ten minutes later I Know I Khan’s temperature seems to have dropped to an acceptable level to attempt the assent. The climb itself should be no trouble — a small matter of 50 meters — but two-thirds of the way up the rutted road is covered by a four or five meter stretch of sand. I Know I Khan is only a two-wheel drive and is not keen on sand. The small sandy section of road looms ever larger as I struggle up the hill. I feel the rocky track change to soft sand under I Know I Khan’s wheels. All is going well until I feel large rut that was submerged in the sand hit the undercarriage and momentarily pause our progress. Nothing for it but to put my foot to the floor. For two or three seconds I am a stationary sand storm. Just as it seems I am high and dry, a new noise emanates from below me. I Know I Khan has managed to dig deep enough to find some rocks. Her tyres grip and slowly – very, very slowly — her front wheels edge out of the sand and onto the track. We creep to the summit where I would have collapsed with relief except collapsing with relief would have been too tiring at this altitude. I just carry on driving.

Huge, jagged mountains rise out of the smooth desert. A vast snow-white pool stains the desert floor, the salty remnants of an evaporated lake. The track loops down to the desert floor, and I continue my journey hoping to find my teammates and benzin at the first village after the pass. Unfortunately there is no sign of my teammates at Alichur. There is, however, benzin and a homestay. The sun will be setting in a couple of hours, and not knowing the condition of the roads I feel it would be unwise to attempt to drive at night. Three large words are painted on a nearby white wall ‘Homestay tearoom fish’, enough to lure anyone in and I head for an opening in the wall. I am greeted and booked into the homestay by a young lady called Aisha. Maybe my perception is tainted by relief having survived todays’ hair-raising drive, my first experience of high altitude and seemingly being abandoned by my teammates, but Aisha has one of the most beautiful and welcoming smiles I have ever seen.

Alichur is a mishmash of white or mud single-floor buildings that dogs and cows roam freely between. I am befriended by a young man called Daniel, who helps translate as I talk to villagers. He offers me tea at his family home. I remove my shoes, then I am ushered through a small dark hallway into a large, dark room. The circumference is cushioned with the exception of one corner, where the stove sits. Daniel’s brother, Baha, sits cross-legged in the near darkness listening to loud rap music on his phone. And so it is that at 4,000 meters in Tajikistan in near dark, whilst Daniel’s mum prepares tea on a wood-burning stove I play Faithless on my iPhone to Baha.

A roadside village on the Pamir Highway near Khorog.

Lunar lanscape near Alichur, Pamir Highway.

A welcoming smile. Aisha in Alichur

A Tajik cooking stove. Daniel’s house Alichur

Day 27 – Lost 

August 9th 2013 – Osh

Ant had warned us that the effects of altitude can be similar to having a panic attack. He proved to be remarkably accurate. Lying down to sleep is tantamount to lying down to seven hours of mild anxiety. It turns out that the symptoms of a panic attack are not conducive to sleep. Therefore I am very tired this morning. It is 6 a.m. and the soft morning light is shining through the smoke that gently rises from the metal tube chimneys of Alichur. The wide, muddy areas that pass for streets are empty except for a dog that sniffs the ground and ambles on. Grassy plains extend from the side of the road, petering out at the base of the mountains. Small marshy areas and lakes, still frozen from the cool night air, reflect the snowy caps.

The road is better than I imagined. Other than the normal bumps, ruts and potholes, it is tarmacked and smooth, and I make good time. Murgab is my first destination of the day. I am hoping that my teammates will have camped there. I arrive to find a larger town than Alichur but somehow more squalid in atmosphere. Finding none of my teammates I depart quickly, heading for the lake town of Karakul.

The high green plains have died away and the mountains and desert are increasingly lunar. Red and black rock now cuts into the sky and the mountainsides are etched with white and green veins. I haven’t seen another car in hours, and I am beginning to doubt if I am on the right road. There is only one, so it would have been one hell of a wrong turn. Another mountain pass and again the tarmac dies away to bone-shuddering track. Every bump and thud fill me with dread that I Know I Khan will finally have had enough, but she keeps going. Finally a glimpse of blue below the horizon: Lake Karakul. The tarmac returns and the road, which straightens out in a manner the Romans would have been proud of, and disappears into the distance.

Joss and Ant are looking tired but reclining on the cushions of the homestay and eating watermelon. Driving round the streets of Karakul, I had given up on being reunited and decided instead to check out the homestays. It was at this moment I noticed I Think I Khan parked in a side alley, with several men poking around under her hood. On enquiry I had been told that there was a problem, but not to worry: The Master, a pleased looking mechanic, was at work and I could find my friends in the homestay. An hour later, after the Master had weaved his magic, we set off together for Kyrgyzstan. A further two hours later, several river crossings and two of the most lax border controls I have ever been through — we had to wake them up – we were weaving our way down a muddy wet road into Kyrgyzstan.

It is 6 o’clock when we enter the massive openness of the Alau Valley. The light is pale and muted, but the scenery is easily the most beautiful of our journey so far, utterly breathtaking. The Chong Alau Range fills my rear view mirror and the Kichi Alay Range my windscreen. We pass between the two on an elevated road through a massive grassy plain. No longer are there donkeys. Now there are men on horses, Asian cowboys herding their livestock and yurts sitting proud amongst the grassland looking as much as part of the natural habitat as the grass itself. Round faced children play in the dirt outside the yurts, their big brown eyes gazing in bewilderment at us as we pass. This is why I came to Mongolia!!

An early morning yoke in Alichur.

The long and not so winding Pamir Highway.

High altitude reflections.

A far braver man than me. Pamir Highway.

Alone at last.

Karakul and Lake Karakul.

Day 28 – Gosh 

August 10th 2013 – Ashuut Pass

Osh is an easy place name to rhyme with. That is about as much as I know of Osh. A city even older than Rome, apparently, and the oldest in Asia. Our experiences there include: a cheap hotel, drinking some beer, a couple of packet of crisps — dried snack selection was poor in terms of both variety and taste — speaking to a Russian air pilot and leaving.

Here is something I never thought I would say: Kyrgyzstan may well be the most beautiful country I have ever been to. Unfortunately, I have no pictures to prove it, for two reasons: Our schedule didn’t allow us to stop and the weather was far from great. Despite the weather, Kyrgyzstan was still utterly amazing, more Middle Earth than the Middle Earth in “The Lord Of The Rings.” Huge green slopes sweep down from massive mountains. Tiny white yurts sit snuggly at the bottom of the vast slopes, smoke rising from their chimneys as washing lines adorned with colourful clothes sway in the breeze.  Herds of wild horses and cattle appear as distant pinpricks on the precipitous inclines that weather-beaten men ride out to on stallions.

We reach the Too Ashuu Pass, an utterly breath taking road, a never-ending mass of coils. Each one seems to improve the view. As we descend it begins to rain. This is the first rain we have seen since Turkey, and it is not a nice sort of rain. It is exactly the sort of rain that no windscreen wiper setting on your car is designed for. It continues to rain in this manner until we set camp. At this point it rains a lot harder, exactly the sort of rain which would be covered by all windscreen wiper settings. Unfortunately (!) we are now stationary and huddled under the boot of I Am Sure I Khan shovelling noodles into our mouths in semi darkness before retiring for an early night.

Day 29 – Bumpy 

August 11th 2013 – Almaty

I haven’t mentioned the police checks. Since we entered the ’Stans there have been a great deal of them. At first they ignored us, but of late they consistently pull one of our cars over.

A policeman with a fluorescent orange baton stands at the side of the road and will wave his baton in an ambiguous ushering motion if he would like you to stop. Once you are stopped he will completely ignore you for as long as possible. Eventually he will wander over to your car and say “passport”, which he will flick through seemingly just for his own enjoyment. Then he will say “machine passport”. This means car passport. Neither of the docs we hand them makes any sense to 90% of the policemen. The next step of the process is to have a conversation regarding our nationality, during which some sort of financial remuneration will be asked for. The correct way to avoid the fine is to say “Grand Britannia” quite loudly until it is understood where you originate from, and at that point you need to say the words “Manchester United”. The conversation then deviates and the fine will be forgotten. We are waved off with smiles.

I am looking at a policeman on the other side of the road at quite a large police checkpoint before the Kazakhstan border. When I return my gaze to the road I Am Sure I Khan is quite a lot larger in my vision than it should be. It also has two red lights twinkling at me. A good way to make an impression on a policeman who was going to ignore you is to slam into the back of your teammate’s car at quite high velocity. I Know I Khan’s brakes are not great at the best of times, but when you start braking as late as I did they just aren’t going to do the job. I Am Sure I Khan becomes increasingly large as the brakes squeal until there is a God-awful crunch. We are all OK, and on first inspection both cars seem to be running despite some superficial damage.

Unfortunately, the policeman is now very interested in us. Very interested indeed. We can see he is lining up for another favourite police word. He saunters over to us and waves his batons at both our cars and then he unleashes it: “problem”. We counter with one of our favourite expressions: “no problem”. But it just isn’t going to cut the mustard. He beckons us to his office, where he demands 2,000 som from each of us. Dave says “no”. I flick through my nearly empty wallet, and he immediately drops to 1,000 som each. Dave throws it on the table and we march off.

We cross to Kazakhstan with some difficulty, but once again football comes to the rescue, as the top customs official is a fan of the Premier League .

On the outskirts of Almaty it becomes clear that we weren’t as lucky with the crash as we had first perceived. I Know I Khan overheats on the forecourt of a petrol station. We strip the front end to find the front bumper severely buckled into the radiator, which in turn has stopped the fan working. We need a garage, and as luck would have it there is one 400 meters away. The mechanics take an initial look and inform us they’re closing soon, so we will have to wait till tomorrow. However, we can see one of them is very interested in us and the car, so we hang around until he starts fiddling inside the bonnet. One hour later he has fixed I Know I Khan and refuses payment other than a carton of cigarettes. We continue into Almaty, home of all the world’s prettiest women and a pizza that causes me to throw up all night.

Day 30 – Dull

August 12th 2013 – Ayagoz

The middle of Kazakhstan is absolutely fascinating for the first five kilometres, and then it is mind-numbingly boring.

It is a flat nondescript piece of land that refuses to undulate, change or offer anything of interest in any way for as long as you care to drive through it or look at it. If you are already feeling a little tired, this is dangerous. Your mind will start to wander on to important issues such as what happens to all the watermelons that aren’t sold. If Kazakhstan is anything to go by there must be millions, and as far as I am aware there are no watermelon by-products. They don’t even juice well, and comedy hats really aren’t that profitable.

As we pull into a garage a huge grey cloud that has been looming ominously over us unleashes its wrath. Shortly afterwards — and with Hardyesque symbolism — Joss and I Think I Khan reduce the population of the local feathered fraternity by one. Whilst on a perfectly flat piece of tarmac at around the 761st km of nothingness, I Know I Khan veers dramatically to the right. Something is most definitely wrong. A roadside inspection reveals the brake block is definitely out of position. A closer roadside inspection once the wheel is removed reveals the snub axle to be sheared off. This has two immediate effects: Dave puts the kettle on, and Joss stands motionless with a frowning expression and stares intently at the wheel for about two minutes.

Dimitri is a tall lean man with a shaved head and eyes that only ever momentarily alight on you even when you are in direct conversation. He is part of a two-car French-Kiwi team that stopped when they saw our stationary convoy. The thing about Dimitri is he is useful and kind and he speaks Russian. The latter of these is proving very helpful at the moment. He has already procured the services of two tow trucks and their drivers via a policeman, neither of which we use, and is currently in heated conversation with at least eight members of a local garage. It is unclear if they want to fix I Know I Khan, tow her, or if one of their brothers wants to buy her, but something is definitely going to happen.

What happens is:

• Bakdaulet, the brother of a small mechanic, arrives.
• Dimitri’s teammates get fed up with waiting for him and demand him back.
• Thomas jumps into I Am Sure I Khan with Dave and Julie and they continue onto the Russian border.
• I have to go to a place called a Notary with Bakdaulet to see if we can obtain the correct paperwork to sell I Know I Khan should she be defunct. We can’t.

It seems that Bakdaulet and his brother Baurzhan think they can fix I Know I Khan, but it will take some time — and we don’t have that time. The only option is to sell I Know I Khan to the brothers and hope they can eventually repair her. As we chat to them it starts to dawn on us that they might be able to implement a fix a lot quicker than they first suggested. Tentatively we try to back out of our deal to sell I Know I Khan. We do this by saying “machine, fix, Mongolia” and making a driving action. A spate of fevered activity leads to Joss and Baurzhan disappearing into town to find a different size bolt leaving Bakdaulet, Ant and I to throw stones at a nearby road sign. When Joss and Baurzhan return with the bolt I Know I Khan makes it about a kilometre up the road towards Ayagoz before her wheel falls off again and Joss and Baurzhan disappear again. It is now late and it is clear that even if we manage a fix we are not going anywhere tonight. Fortunately we are invited to be guests at Bakdaulet’s and Baurzhans’s family house.

Contemplation in a truck stop somewhere in the middle of Kazakhstan.

Sheared off.

I Know I Khan’s resting place.

Bakdaulet and Baurzhan’s late night fix.

Day 31 – Paperwork 

August 13th 2013 – Ayagoz

The evening at Bakdaulet’s house had been extremely pleasant. Ant, Joss and I were fed handsomely. Plates are apparently not en vogue in Kazakhstan. A large bowl/saucepan of food was placed in the middle of the table from which all the diners liberate forkfuls of food at their whim. Tea was supplied throughout the meal. Little bowls were constantly refilled and placed in front of us. A small amount of black tea from a pot was poured into the bowl and then a larger amount of milk, and finally the bowl was topped up from an electric hot water urn that stood at the head of the table like a tea Darlek.

The many garages and mechanic shops of Ayagoz could not provide a part that Joss had hoped would provide a workable fix, so we are officially a car down and Bakdaulet is a car up — if he can repair it.

Joss and Ant follow Dave, Julie and Thomas and continue onto Russia leaving me alone in Kazakhstan to attempt to glean the correct paperwork to allow me to leave the country without I Know I Khan and Bakdaulet to receive the vehicle as a gift. We spend the entire day traipsing from office to office to procure the documents but fail to attain anything that the authorities will deem official. Several phone conversations with the curt but kind Svetlana at the British consulate leave me in no doubt that I am not allowed to leave Kazakhstan without I Know I Khan. She is also very clear in reminding me that this is an ex soviet country and paperwork and procedures still take time, time I don’t have. Should I be caught I can expect to be here at least a month trying to attain the right paperwork. Svetlana advices me that the most judicious method for me to depart the country would be by flight from one of the major airports. It is extremely unlikely I will be asked to produce my entry declaration at an airport.

I think it is fair to say that I am not overly thrilled with the turn of events. I am now alone in a small town in the middle Kazakhstan without transport or support and will have to break the law in order to leave the country.  My supposed team mates willingness to depart leaving me to resolve our now my issues is not what I would have expected at the outset of the Mongol Rally. I had envisaged a team cohesion that has never been present. Possibly my optimistic view was naive. With the exception of  Joss I have never met any of my team mates prior to the rally. My late entry into the rally meant  I had little participation in the organisation and consequently I felt I had little sway to question or refuse decisions that were hoist on me. Had the team dynamic been different and had I had more input I would not have made these decisions. As I plod round Ayagoz I dwell on this. I feel let down and annoyed but I am at least free of the bickering and the tension that has existed between some of my team mates since day one.

On the plus side Bakdaulet is very very happy. His entire family have sat in I Know I Khan despite her still being jacked up. He demands a photo shoot and then wants another at his brother’s house where 1 or 2 of us will be having dinner. I think it might be a celebration.

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Me a child and Bakdaulet.

I Know I Khan’t.

A couple of people over for dinner!!.

Day 32 – Slow
August 14th 2013 – Semey

I have had some good experiences in the backs of cars and I have had some excellent times in larders, but my seven hours in the back of a Lada today was one of the most terminally dull, depressing and frustrating portions of my life. This was the only taxi I have ever been in that was going so slowly the driver rarely needed to watch the road — a road that was a potholed death trap at the best of times. There were times when the driver was fiddling intently with his ear or phone or suddenly found some roadside construction work absolutely fascinating that I wanted to lean over and push his foot to the floor.

When I eventually arrived at Semey airport I found it to be completely deserted. It took me nearly five minutes to locate a member of the staff in the small terminal building. A young, slightly gangly lady with unruly teeth emerged from behind a door and then immediately returned to the room she had emerged from and sat behind a darkened window. She spoke no English, so we used an internet translation tool to determine that there are no flights today and no tickets for flights tomorrow. We order a taxi to take me to the train station, a train station that on first viewing was quite definitely under construction. I cannot make myself understood at the ticket office or to any member of the staff. I have no map, no guidebook, no phrasebook. I am at my lowest ebb and thinking about having a little cry when a quiet voice from behind me says “excuse me can I help?” I go with “YES’ as a response. Yera is a Kazakh and a student of the University of Warwick and boy does he help: Internet, trains, flights, accommodation and much more. I buy Yera dinner.

Day 33 – Extreme

August 15th 2013 – Kazakhstan somewhere on a train

I have been staring at a large, young lady on the train for a while now. Her T-shirt is emblazoned with fluorescent letters that say ” STOP KILLING WHAE”. I am really not sure if this is an obvious joke misspelt, a subtle joke I don’t get or just a misprint. Either way, there is strong chance I am starting to make her feel uncomfortable, and I have spent far too long thinking about it.

The result of my trip to Semey is a train journey back through Kazakhstan to Almaty, where I will spend 18 hours and then attempt to catch a flight to Beijing and from there to Ulaanbaatar. I say attempt because there is an excellent chance customs will not allow me to leave the country without I Know I Khan or the right paperwork. It is going to be an anxious 48 hours.

Pavel and Jenya are extremists. They didn’t mention this fact when they asked if they could share my taxi to the train station or when they helped me find the right carriage or even when they made a special trip down the train to tell me that there was a spare bed near them. Now that we are sitting down to pot noodles and three-in-one tea they are happy to announce they are extremists.  They are, in fact, journalists who don’t always take the Kazakhstan government’s angle on stories. They have been reporting on the effects of radiation from nuclear testing that the government carried out near Semey many years ago. Now they are on a sleeper train to Almaty with me and a carriage full of very strange people indeed. I am very grateful to them. They made what could have been a very painful 18 hours journey in a crammed 1960s Russian train a lot more bearable. Extremists are fun.

Just the 18 hours.

Day 34 – Boarding 
August 16th 2013 – Almaty

The train pulled into Almaty in the dead of night. Pavel and Jenya’s driver was waiting and whisked us off.  We drop Jenya to her house and Pavel and I to his flat where he had kindly agreed to let me sleep for the couple of hours remaining until dawn.

Jenya and I spend the day walking round Almaty. She is an excellent tour guide and obviously loves Almaty. It is sunny and we walk through the cities parks, take a cable car to Kok Tobe view point that overlook s the city and discuss the many differences between our countries. All the while my appointment at the airport is looming closer and I am very aware of the possibility of spending a lot longer in Almaty than just today.

The customs official is regarding me suspiciously. He is aware that is something wrong and something is wrong; I have been traveling for over 40 hours with very little sleep, I have just left my phone in a taxi and I have left a car in his country and I don’t have the relevant paperwork to do so. “Registration” he says, I fumble around in my folder for a small bit of paper that was issued to us on arrival in Kazakhstan. Thankfully it comes easily to hand. This satisfies him momentarily and his eyes return to my passport. I can feel my heart beating, I am aware I am trying to act naturally and trying to act naturally isn’t conducive to acting naturally. The official picks up the stamp to mark my passport and I feel a wave of relief sweep over me. His hand falters and he narrows his eyes before returning them to me and then saying something to me in Kazakh. This time I feel a wave of panic sweep over me. He calls another official, I hope in an interpretation capacity, they both study my passport. The new official looks me straight in the eye and says:

“Where are you traveling?”,

“Ulaanbaatar” I reply,

“Beijing?” he questions

“I transfer there”, I clarify,

They both look down again,

“You only have one boarding pass” he says,

I feel another, much larger, wave of relief sweep over me.

Ascension Cathedral, Panfilov Park, Almaty

Day 35 – UB

August 17th 2013 – Ulaanbaatar

The taxi driver has told me he knows every guest house in Ulaanbaatar. In fact he has told me this about 15 times in an effort to get me in his cab. Eventually I acquiesce to his persistence. We pull out of the airport and into Ulaanbaatar. To be precise we pull out of the airport onto a dusty pot holed road where we immediately become stuck in a traffic jam. An hour later the taxi driver proves good to his word and we edge down a dirt road lined with corrugated fencing behind which ferocious dogs are barking and people are living their lives in tiny dilapidated wooden and corrugated constructions to the guest house.

By hook and by crook, without my car, without my teammates and with substantially less money than I set out with I have made it to Mongolia. I sleep for 12 hours.

A little bit of I Know I Khan made it to Ulaanbaatar.

I Think I Khan, Ant, Joss and I at the finish line.

FIN