Friday 5 September 2008

Rolling in to Ulaanbaatar

After 6 weeks, 10,000 miles, 19 countries, 2 break downs, 3 flat tyres, one ferry of doom, one bus ride from hell, 14 escaped police fines, a string of convoys and several bowls of mutton stew, the Soyombo Racers have made to the Finish Line at Dave's Place, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia!

Riding the never-ending nothingness of the Kazakhstan landscape, it felt like the scenery would never change until we stumbled across pony-land, where hundreds of horses and foals grazed alongside the potholed roads of the vast steppe. It's unfathomable that places like that exist on this planet, with no civilization, industry or life in general softening the bleak and rugged terrain. Driving for hours with nothing changing was almost unbearable, just the odd carcass of a death-daring cow or a truck rumbling in the opposite direction. We still had to get through Russia, not to mention Mongolia and we had a tight deadline. When would Kazakhstan ever end?!

Eventually we came to Karaganda where we waived the name of a hostel we found on a website at a couple of young police officers who then decided it was best that they directed us by riding along in our tiny Micra, three in the back (with the luggage) and two in the front. Borbonky enjoys joyride number 4. After dashing across the town trying my darn hardest not to go through any red lights and follow the guards abrupt instructions, they eventually gave up, and handed us over to a frantic looking taxi driver. We followed his car through the darkened streets onto a road which choppy surface felt more like driving on the sea. Arriving at the address, it was clearly not a hostel but some poor bloke's house. Being about 11pm we cringed as the highly strung taxi driver began to hammer on the back gate, riling all the dogs on the street. Anger seems to be an emotion shared by most of the Kazakhs, including the canine kind. Our ears pricked as we heard a pretty peeved voice answer back 'I don't speak Russian' and round popped a curious face. As rally coincidence would have it, he turned out to be the founder of the website Hospitality Club, a network which hooks you up with fellow travellers around the globe for a free home stay. Veit, the English speaking German guy, had no idea why the address was listed online as a hostel as the house belonged to a local Kazakh guy who they knew through Hospitality Club, but we were invited in anyway and entertained (or talked them to death) about our on-the-road endeavours. We also learnt by Veit's Kazakh girlfriend Viola, that throughout our travels across ex-soviet lands, when we had been replying, 'pa Ruski, pa Ruski!' to officials, passers-by and generally everybody who tried to communicate with us, thinking we were informing them we spoke 'no Russian, no Russian!' in the hope they would leave us alone, we were actually saying 'in Russian, in Russian!' which would explain why they would then chat away expecting an in-depth conversation to our incompetent bewilderment.

We gladly saw the back of Kazakhstan as we embarked on the Russian border. Piston Broke and the Professionals rejoined us at the gates as us girls reminisced Tatu and decided the only way to enter Russia was wearing a lot of brightly coloured, uncoordinated make-up before stocking up on vodka immediately.

We slid along the tarmacked roads and set up camp with the lads, in what was the coldest night so far, mind-boggling to imagine that just over a week ago we were frying ourselves silly in the Turkmenistan desert, our ice cold water turning to tea-less tea within minutes.

The next day we decided we needed to lose the boys and quicken up the pace if we were going to make Lucy's flight deadline. As we dashed across smooth roads mingling through lush hills, we came across a very unusual sight - a mini with a phone box on its roof. Two chaps clad in bowler hats and suits along with two lasses flagged us down and borrowed a bladeless hacksaw to get their beaten motor back on the road. Amused by such an encounter we whizzed off to get as close as possible to the Mongolian border.

Stopping off for some faggot dumplings (there's no place for vegetarians in Central Asia), transfixed by the small fuzzy TV showing some poncy Olympic skipping dance and unable to bear facing the biting cold again outside, we asked the woman in the 'kaff' if it was possible to kip on her floor. She refused but pointed us in the direction of a wee bloke who was hovering by the door. It turned out he was a night worker at an electricity power station and had access to a little (heated!) cottage for sparkies on a night shift. We cosied in like little evacuees from the war and got a decent 40 winks before the next 200km to the final border of our trip. We were greeted by Piston Broke, The Professionals, A Very British Adventure and Heels on Wheels who all swiftly made it through the border whilst we were held back due to water stains on Lucy's passport and a balls-up with her visa dates.

Little did we know it would take a lot of convincing, pleading, telephone calls to 3 different embassies, an overnight stay at the woman border guard's house (and inevitably a home cooked lamb stew washed down with 'peeva' - beer - and vodka by her plastered hubby) and eventually dishing out threats the next day that Tony Blair was very angry with the 'Cheff' guard, before we were allowed into the country we had drove across a third of the planet to reach. Thank god Lucy's dad is 'best mates' with Tony Blair and the Mongolians don't realize our Tony's actually retired.


The minute you hit Mongolian soil, you understand that this is what the rally is about. In a nutshell, the roads are corrugated dirt tracks heading into oblivion which branch out into different directions, no matter which one you choose they're basically just a variation of each other, with same size pot holes just in different places. Navigating is purely by compass or just following the telegraph poles. Average speed is about 20 mph. Mobile phones are useless as there is only signal in towns which are all separated by 200 km of this barren, bumpy 'road'.


We caught up with the other teams in Olgi but again had to put our foot down and as night fell we found a bus load of Mongolians who were heading the same way as us so we let them lead the way. This was in between several stop offs to get towed through river crossings which seemed to get deeper and wider each time. After snoozing at a road side cafe and sipping the local salty tea, we hit the road to Khovd where we tried in vain to get hold of some tugrog but none of the banks accepted our cards. About 30km away from the town a giant sand storm enveloped the mountainous landscape, blindfolding all but a meter around us. Perfect timing for Borbonky to start chugging, spluttering and failing to accelerate. It all felt worryingly familiar and memories of the break down in Hungary flashed back. We chugged along, the sump guard working it's magic, until she finally conked. Mid sandstorm meant we couldn't get out the car or pop the hood, the sand burnt your skin it was so strong (and also snatched our map of Mongolia, never to return). When the storm eventually cleared, herds of camels, mountains, gers (yurt tents) and a golden sunset appeared. About 1 car an hour passed, but all going in the opposite direction. One car informed us (through highly exaggerated hand gestures) that another 3 rally cars had also broken down 5 km along the way and kindly wrote us a note in Mongolian asking for a towing to them. Hope was alive. By now it was pitch black, we had no money, no signal and not much food. We cracked open a tin of peas and waited for a truck. An hour or so of flagging down vehicles under the crystal clear Milky Way and abundant shooting stars, we got two kind fellows to tow us to the other ralliers. To our despair as we caught a glimpse of the ralliers they were also being towed, away from us. Our hearts sank. The towers couldn't take us any further so we were back at square one. Another truck soon came along and agreed to tow us to the next town, 70 km away. The next morning, after the men spent all night digging their truck out of the sand - they got over-excited at the sight of a pack of wolves and thought it would be fun to chase them off the track until the wheel got stuck - we reached the town and found the other ralliers, who luckily, turned out to be mechanics. After pulling apart Borbonky's brain, they gently informed us the head gasket (basically the engine) had blown. There were no spares in this neck of the woods.

Alone again but still hopeful, we had to get the car to the charity drop off point, 400 km away. Amazingly we spotted 3 rally teams go by, 2 of them mini 4x4's, perfect towing material. And so we set for the evening's ride across rocky dark terrain, we were kept in high spirits as the boys trudged on without complaint until we made it all the way to Altai. Perfect example of Rally endurance and hospitality. There's no 'i' in 'convoy' after all!

Reaching the rally drop off point, Borbonky was given a thorough once over by the Mongolian garage but the bad news was inevitable, we had no choice but to leave the car with them. Tearfully we gathered our belongings from our beloved friend, what a trooper she was, getting us all the way from Ireland to London and to the back end of nowhere. Leaving her at the rally graveyard was a sorrowful send-off, but the other teams reassured us that we had done a grand job getting to Mongolia where the car's value will go to charity (and what a value she will make), and reminded us that the rally t-shirts say 'From London to Mongolia', no one knows where Ulaanbaatar is anyway! We had accomplished a great deal in old Borbonky, she had served us well.

The next point of the journey was by far the most tedious, frustrating and uncomfortable as we boarded the sardine bus. It was meant to take 24 hours max, but due to stop offs every half hour, for toilet breaks, to change shredded tyres or to fix the broken front window mid snow storm, and once for the driver to go relax at his friend's gaff for a couple of hours, we staggered into Ulaanbaatar. The bus ride was 36 hours later of singing along to the driver's blaring pop tunes from the Mongolian family on board, 3 mutton stews, one bottle of 'airag' fermented mare's milk (which tastes an awful lot like home brewed cider if you forget that it's creamy white and comes from a horse's udder). Little sleep was had on the bus, the choices for seats were limited, given that it was a bus for 13 people, yet 18 somehow were squeezed in. The luggage behind and around you meant there was no room for your feet and the seat back was wedged forward, making the only possible position to sit was curled up like an embryo with your head lent against the chair in front of you until each bump you went over bounced you against it and caused a constant headache. Not to mention the sleeping Mongolian who gradually ended up on your lap every five minutes.

Deciding we deserved a comfy bed, a hot shower and a good greasy brekky, we checked into one of UB's more comfortable abodes. Clean and refreshed we walked as a team to the Rally Finish Line, ordered ourselves some frosty pints with old friends The Professionals and marvelled at our success and persistence at independently getting our unprepared, inexperienced, jammy, relentless, sweet talking backsides through mechanical mayhem, across desserts and over mountain ranges, through rivers and sand storms, with temperature degrees sweeping from over 40 to below 10, inedible food, incomprehensible language barriers, angry border guards and confused traffic police, in one (albeit messy, smelly and exhausted) piece.

Thank you to all those who have supported and been in touch with us along the way, as you can see we have had a truly amazing experience, one that we will always remember. It was all and nothing of what we expected and it is truly astounding to know we got ourselves this far. We have raised over 2,500 quid for our charities and we can still collect more, so if you have a few pennies you can chuck our way, please give us a shout, there are links above to our Will We Make It site where you can make a payment online. We hope you have enjoyed the updates along the way and thank you all for keeping in touch. There will soon be a link on this website for Sheryl's ongoing overland travels to China for your lunch time reads! But in the meantime, thank you to all of you for keeping us in mind, sorting us out with preparations, in whatever way you have helped, we have seen really tremendous generosity from people before as well as during the rally in so many ways, we are utterly grateful to you all.

Soyombo Racers did Mongol Rally!

...It couldn't have happened without ya!

Love and mutton,

Soyombo Racers






'Come Back to Russia'

Oh my mutton it's been not so long since we updated this blog but a million centuries at the same time!
We left you at the cusp of Central Asia, we are now in Mongolia, but we will try and fill you in on the hecticness we have expeienced thus far!
Kyrgyztan:
Osh: Sampling the local Lagnam (meaty, stewy noodles) we enjoyed a boozy evening with the No Mean Fiat boys, an entertaining sloppy cake fuelled evening which was cut short by the electricty power cut which routinely conks out at 12am, due to the dried up resevoir that pumps the city.
We took Borbonky to a local mechanic who fitted her with a well-needed Sump guard to ensure us through the infamously non-existant Mongolian roads, haggled him down to 20% of the original price and let them spray paint our car to keep them sweet!
Lake Issy-Kol: Necked vodka with locals claiming to be the decendants of Genghis Khan, chanting 'Chengiz Khan' into the brewing storm. Spent the second night on the lake with No Mean Fiat, woke up to an empty space where their make-shift tent once stood, and our car completely sealed with cling film and ponging of mare's milk! No Mean Fiat nowhere to be seen! Oh the joys of the rally!
Kazackstan:
Entered Borat territory and was welcomed by a hefty police fine for a minor mistake. Took us an hour or so to convince the officers not to fine us and to hand back Lucy's passport. They seemed to take offence when we offered them the money the were pestering us for (they originally asked for $150) and eventually shook our hands and handed us back documents and set us free. Police fine number 10 aptly avoided!

Mongolia:
We are now in Mongolia, we will have to keep you on the edge of your seats as we have to get to our host who is driving us to our Yurt stay this evening. Once in Ulan Batur we will give you all the ins and outs, but for now, in a nutshell, since we got to the border of Mongolia, everything has tipped us onto a new level. We have battled it out with the border guards to grant us entry as Lucy's visa had the wrong dates on, and water stains on the pages of her passports got the guards in a tiff. The only border we had trouble at was the last one, they refused to let us into the country and as it was nearly 6pm and their hometime, they decided they didn't want to deal with us and told us we must turn around and 'come back to Russia'. More details in the next blog but for now here's a taster of what's been going on: we experienced Mongolian hopspitality to the fuillest (by the very guard at the border that originally turned us away), broke down in the middle of the desert in a sand storm, were towed 400km (the ditance from Birmingham to Kent) by team Loud Noises, the Long Breakdown and Lose the Game, who were complete dudes the whole way, partied with Emu Draft and their convoy who have kept us in high spirits, and been caught up with long term savoiurs the Professionals, we have reached the pick up point with the car, meaning the car will go to charity. It can't go to Ulan Batur as the engine has blown, we have done all we possibly can but decided it is most important that we finish this rally as a team, even if this means losing the car and catching a sardine bus all the way to UB. We are over the moon to get this far, in no way disappointed. Lucky to have met all these amazing people, conducted a spontaneous car boot sale and made $20. Laughing all the way!!! Love to everyone, Soyombo Racers! xxxx

Wednesday 13 August 2008

We ain't in Kansas anymore!

Driving through Central Asia could be summed up on one quote from Miss Glover, "There's no need to cycle towards me with no lights in the pitch black on a mountain!"

Yep, it's getting hairy!

We've just passed through Fegana Valley, Uzbekistan, by reputation a volatile place due to the 2005 masacre in Andijon, but our experience of the place has left us with many a kind word to say for the Uzbek people. The journey so far has taught us 'if in doubt, ask a local', a rule which we applied a couple of nights ago when hunting for a hotel in Kokand, Uzbekistan. The enthusiastic taxi driver and his family insisted we follow him to his gaff, where he introduced us to his extended family and their beautiful home. We were presented with a three course meal of grapes from the vines growing above their courtyard, melon, tradional 'Plov' - mixed rice, beans and meat with fresh basil and chilli, bread and copius amounts of chai. Followed by an Uzbeki make-over by Maryfat, the bubbly granny, who painted green ink squeezed from leaves onto our eyebrows which stains them dark, apparently a mono-brow adds the wow-factor. The next day they treated us further to a tour around the Khan's palace, where he took his string of concubines for one night only marriages, and fed us up with yet another feast and some delicious yoghurt drink made with basil and chilli.

Meeting the Uzbek family was just what we needed for a positive introduction to Central Asia. The ferry of doom turned out to be not so deathly, despite the rude welcoming from very angry Russian staff who demanded our passports before ushering us to the toilet/ hell and our rust ridden cabin, but thanks to vodka and convoys, we all clambered into what we thought would be the safest part of the boat (the on-deck lifeboat) and made a merry night out of a potentially traumatising expeience.

After 5 hours of zigzagging back and forth across the border office to get into Turkmenistan, signing a million forms in an alphabet that might as well be from mars, we left the port of Turkmenbashi in our 5 car convoy and stopped over at the Kow Ata Underground Sulphur Lake. There's nothing like a sweaty eggy hot bath in the 40 degree KaraKum Desert!

Ashgabat greeted us with the overpowering arms of Communism as we rallied around the ex-Soviet city on the hunt for a homestay. The gleaming gold statue of their beloved former president Niyazov loomed down at us in the Vegas-esque square, the statue revolves to follow the sun throughout the day, they really love that Niyazov guy.

It was a relief to leave the land of Niyazov fanatics and 11pm curfews, although we do miss the full tank of petrol for $4! We now sit just 150 km from China, you can see it in the people's features. We're currently waiting on the mechanics to fix a Sump Guard onto the bottom of Borbonky, to protect her from the non-existent Kazach roads...Let the games begin!

Sunday 27 July 2008

Istanbul must have a carrot

We last wrote from Zıtas mansıon nestled hıgh ın the Budapest hills.. were now panting lıke rabıd Romanian dogs ın a steamy ınternet cafe on the streets of Istanbul..Yes! We have fled Eastern Europe for the dizzying heat of Turkey. With sweat beads decoratıng our foreheads weve spent today countıng our lucky stars that we made it here relatively unscathed..

On Thursday afternoon we were stıll waitıng anxiously for news about Bourbonkys broken dıstrıbutor.. but the fuel pump gods must have been smiling down as we got the call that the correct part had been located, purchased and stuffed right up Bourbonkys jacksie. We took to the streets of Budapest ın celebratıon enjoyıng some tradıtıonal Hungarıan pea soup and pork steak. Wonder woman Zıta, who has totally saved our arses throughout the break down drama, joıned us on the traın to the vıllage where we had left the car.

The lovely famıly of mechanıcs had fıxed our baby up real good even sıgnıng the car with adorable good luck messages. Theır son, Gabor (nıcknamed cookıe on account of hıs penchant for bıscuıts) even swang by to present us wıth a box of shortbread for the road. All was swell agaın untıl the sleazy tow-truck man attempted to rıp us off for the parts and servıce prices. We battered him in three languages and Zıta threatened to get the IRS ınvolved before he dropped the henıously expensıve bıll down a notch or two. Thankyou Zıta!!!

We took a power nap from 12-3am before wavıng a sad goodbye to our Hungarıan Heroıne and hıttıng the road. Wıth a deadlıne of Saturday to make ıt to Turkey we had only 36 hours to cross 3 countrıes. Our rejuvınated automobıle had her work cut out as we tore through Hungary and ınto Romanıa, a country full of half built houses and no roadsigns. Our 2.99 Aldı map dıd us proud and we made ıt through Draculas back garden ın 24 hours travellıng on roads peppered wıth gypıes, dead dogs and old ladıes that look lıke prunes. Although our transıt was speedy we bore wıtness to the effect of Romanıas poverty. Chıldren scourıng rubbısh dumps, costructıon workers beggıng as we passed and maımed, possıbly rabıd anımals were commonplace sıghts.
Enterıng Bulgarıa was a surprısıng affaır, reachıng the border we were expectıng to drıve on through on roads however a phantom rıver, not detaıled on our map blocked our passage.. we were forced to buy ferry tıckets from the border for Borbonkys fırst pleasure cruıse.

We drove through Bulgarıa enjoyıng the sunrıse over beautıful mountaıns..we bumped ınto two more rally teams along the way, the knowledge we werent the last ones through was as soothıng as the stıng relıef on our many many mozzıe bıtes..

The Turkısh border was as expected.. a bıg doner kebab welcomed us ınto the Euro-Asıan land. We shared some Turkısh Delıght wıth the frıendly border guard named Mustafa Kahrat (Must have a carrot) and headed down the motorway to Istanbul.. arrıvıng was hectıc and wıld.. eventually we located the revered South Route Rallıers we had been textıng sınce Hungary. We dropped our bags, locked the car up and ordered ourselves three very well deserved frosty beers. A nıght of drınkıng ended on the roof top of our hostel as the many Mosques of the cıty sang out to one another for mornıng prayer.. the spıky archıtecture of the rooftops, glowıng mosques, scent of kebabs and roasted corn cobs ın the aır makes us all feel that we,re on our way out of Europe. Thıs ıs where the road gets a bıt bumpıer, the people more curıous and the anımals more rabıd.. Borbonky, I dont thınk were ın Kansas anymore..

Yours Faıthfully,
The very sweaty Soymobo Racers

Thursday 24 July 2008

Kaputt

We're very close to the end of our tether... The 'trusty' Nissan, which we have fondly named Borbonky, is currently sitting in the yard of a Hungarian family of mechanics, who have been checking her left, right and centre, since she started doing the kangaroo dance down the motorway on Tuesday, at approximately 7pm, 40km from Budapest.



Luckily for us, after spending the night at the mechanics with a bottle of vino and some marsh mellows, under a relentless blanket of rain like we've never seen before, we have a connection in Budapest, in the form of Zita, who has taken us under her royal wing and invited us to her palace, where we have been chaffuered around the city's highlights, and sipped lemon sorbets to cure the hang over.



We're expecting to hear from the mechanics any time soon, and have all our fingers and toes crossed that it's good news. We are a day behind schedule, which means we may have to skip Romania, but we're being so well looked after. Teresa, the mom at the mechanics has been on hand with glasses of coke and Hungarian treats to keep the spirits (and the sugar levels) at a high, despite the odds. They are a real special family to meet and have been doing everything possible to get Borbonky back on her feet. A few years ago they lost their son Tomas in a car accident on a race rally, so we would really like to pay tribute to him and to remind people at home that we are by no means racing in this rally. We never intend to compromise our safety to make up for time and meeting these people is a clear sign for us to drive safe, especially in the conditions we are travelling in.



So all at home please send us out some good vibes to coax Borbonky back on the road so we can whisk her off to the Turkish Baths for a well deserved rub-down.



Photos to follow....

Thursday 10 July 2008

Get your kicks on route 66

Check out the link for our full page spread in the Birmingham Mail this week! More features to follow...

Thursday 3 July 2008

As the drunken crow flies

The path to Mongolia is hurtling towards us and we havn't even got behind the wheel yet. Just two more weeks of rainy days, Tetleys tea and good-night's-sleep before we take the Micra-wave on the ride of her life! Follow the link (in this post's title) to see the Soyombo Racers' chosen route to the back end of nowhere and keep checking this blog to guffaw at the japes we'll be encountering along the way!



And if you've got a nickel, penny-farthing, ruppee or whatever down the back of the sofa that could go to our charitable cause, go to our fundraising site (see links) and chuck it our way!