August 13th: leaving the border enclosure at Tsagaannuur and
entering Mongolia
Odometer reading: 94,576
Mileage to next destination: 60
Cumulative mileage to date: 7,808
By 4pm we had passed through the gates ourselves, now
traveling with two teams from Switzerland and Finland, and managed to drive a
few hundred yards before being stopped by an old man in a brown suit jacket brandishing
an orange traffic wand. He and two
younger women were running what was presumed to be a legitimate car insurance
office out of a roadside weigh station on the edge of town. The practice of
people selling insurance in and around border crossings was quite common
outside of the European Union and, as such, this one didn't immediately strike
us as unusual. Short-term auto policies
were frequently required for foreign motorists upon entering various countries
outside of the EU and could be purchased at the borders, typically costing
anywhere from $10 to $30. We found out
later that evening that the $24 we paid for an official looking auto policy in
Mongolia turned out to be a scam- all of it done within sight of the official
border crossing and inside of a public structure, both of which were a convenient
means of conveying legitimacy. The
border guards and officials must have known what was going on- they routinely
walked past the operation on their way to work and during lunch breaks
throughout the day- but obviously turned a blind eye. The Mongolians were not endearing themselves
to anyone at this point. Charity was one
thing we were all happy to provide, but this particular incident and the level
of deception involved left us feeling unsympathetic. Yet another attempt was made at a gas station
in the town of Olgi just a few hours later, where the attendant insisted we had
only handed him one 20,000 togrog note (for a 29,000 togrog purchase of fuel) rather
than two. Lisa immediately went on the
offensive, noting how the two bills she very clearly produced had quickly
disappeared into the large wad of cash in the man’s hands. She was visibly angry, and in her defense she
recognized his little stunt for what it was- an attempt to steal from us. After a few tense minutes of Lisa grilling the
man rather intensely he relented and grudgingly produced the proper change,
though even this took more insistence until the exact amount was forthcoming. The Finnish team, also buying gas at the same
station, witnessed the exchange and was somewhat uncomfortable with the
confrontation. Their mood changed
shortly thereafter, however, having realized that as Lisa squabbled with the
attendant they’d been tricked into overpaying for their fuel! Not all of our experiences the first day
unfolded this way, but we all came to the conclusion that some vigilance would
be required as there was no shortage of opportunists among the locals.
August 11th, leaving Manzherok, Russia for Tashanta and the Mongolian border crossing
Odometer reading: 94,264
Mileage to next destination: 297
Cumulative mileage to date: 7,496
Our drive to the border town of Tashanta on August 11
th
again lead us through an amazing and beautiful landscape, the road winding
through deep river valleys and past jagged snow-capped mountain ranges lying
just to the south. We were surprisingly close
to China, in fact, and steadily began to appreciate just how far we’d come in
our travels. We paid close attention to
our maps, noting the landscape would soon change and open into a broad valley
as we climbed further in elevation and neared Mongolia. Slowly but surely the dark, angular forested
mountains shed their trees and retreated into the distance, and the once raging
rivers grew smaller and smaller as we passed 5000’ in elevation. Huge peaks choked with snow and ice could
still be seen to the south, but the valley we were passing through had widened
substantially. The landscape had evolved
into dry grassland dotted with swampy patches and crisscrossed by sluggish,
winding streams. The mountains, now
rounded and treeless, loomed more quietly in the distance. The road became almost arrow straight and the
valley flattened into a broad plain which continued for perhaps 60 miles. Gradually small rolling hills closed in and
hugged the roadside, and as dusk approached we were within sight of the
Tashanta border crossing. A long line of
cars and several large trucks were parked silently on the road, and it was
clear the crossing was closed for the day.
We had expected this, and were not opposed to spending the night and
getting an early start the following morning.
It turns out we didn’t have a choice in the matter either way, and like
everyone else we would be camping at the border and waiting for the Russians to
open it at their convenience. The last
interaction we’d had with any other ralliers, aside from a brief roadside meeting
with two teams just east of Barnaul, had been with the Dutch team “Ramblin’
Men” in Shymkent, Kazakhstan some ten days before. At the border crossing of Tashanta we found
over a dozen teams already congregated under a makeshift shelter, having been
caught by the closed border and now waiting for their turn to cross. We spent hours exchanging stories and
information as we set up our tents and cooked dinner. Having traveled so far, many of us on our own
for extended periods of time, it was exciting and reassuring to see so many
other ralliers together for the last leg of the journey. Dozens of teams had failed to make it this
far, while many more had already passed through. We were all anxious to hit Mongolian soil but,
for the moment, were forced to wait somewhat impatiently on the Russian side of
the border. Starting at 9am the next day
this friendly and cheerful mass of people, and not all of them ralliers, descended
upon the border gates in a sort of restrained and passive-aggressive free-for-all. It was a frenzy of line-cutting followed by
hours of mind-numbing inactivity, an elaborate obstacle course of mysterious paperwork
and waiting designed to test the limits of patience and frustration. All of it was necessary to get through the
border gate and cross the remaining 14 miles to Mongolian territory. For our part, having arrived around 7:30pm on
the night of the 11
th, it took another 21 hours before we were
cleared to leave Russia. Having reached
the Mongolian border at 4:30pm on August 12
th we were forced to wait
on yet another process, this time for our car and perhaps 20 others to be
processed for import. Ralliers were
directed to park in a fenced-off area, a holding center for people not yet
cleared to leave, and to wait there until further notice. Undeterred, a growing camp of Mongol Rally
cars and team members from dozens of countries quickly made themselves at home
in this miniature refugee camp.
We all
understood they could hold us there indefinitely but we also resolved to make
the most of it, as there was little else to do.
Tents were pitched, tables and chairs were produced, a soccer ball was
routinely passed around, an English team started to play cricket, the Americans
organized a game of baseball, the Irish made coffee, the Spaniards and the
Dutch drank wine together, a Finnish team removed one of their tires and then everyone
started taking their cars apart and making repairs. Despite the benign nature of all of this
activity some of the more senior Mongolian guards quickly became exasperated. Irritated by the decaying state of order in our
encampment, a stern looking officer conducted two walk-throughs to express his
displeasure. Having made several
attempts to put a stop to things like camping and cooking, eventually even he recognized
the hopelessness of the situation and probably decided just to get rid of us all
as soon as possible. We reasoned there
would be more rally teams arriving in the coming days, no doubt inviting the
possibility of a music festival and thereby throwing everything into complete
chaos for this poor man. Much to our
satisfaction (and probably to that of the guards) the import process was well
underway on the morning of the 13
th, and slowly but surely teams
were being released and allowed to pass beyond the main gate and into Mongolia. In short time we’d be driving on Mongolian
soil for the last leg of a very long and arduous journey. We’d already driven just over 7,800 miles
from England but still had another 1,200 more to go before reaching the capital
city of Ulaanbaatar, and western Mongolia was rumored to be the toughest part
of the entire drive. Nowhere else, we
were frequently told, could roads that were as consistently and collectively
bad as those in Mongolia be found.
Evidently there were statistics to prove it- the Adventurists claimed a
full 25% of Mongol rally teams failed to successfully transit the country, and
another claimed the nation had the highest vehicle attrition rate in the world (i.e.
the roads here were particularly lethal to cars). Having driven through western Kazakhstan we
found that last one hard to believe, but nevertheless we were willing to keep an
open mind. Would we make it? Would our
car survive the remaining 1,200 miles?
Only time would tell, but at least we’d made it as far as the western
border.
August 8th to 10th: brief stay in
Novosibirsk, then southeast to Manzherok, Russia
Odometer reading: 93,597
Mileage to next destination: 354
Cumulative mileage to date: 6,829
Our stay in Novosibirsk, Russia from August 8
th
to the morning of August 10
th afforded some much-needed time to book
flights out of Ulaanbaatar and to make final preparations for our arrival in
Mongolia, which was now just a few days away.
I hadn’t yet recovered from a stomach illness that had persisted since
Almaty, Kazakhstan, but found that after a full days rest and three complete
meals I was, at last, on the mend. The
small hostel we were using as home base was the nicest we had encountered since
leaving Iceland, and the young woman at the front desk proved to be a shining
example of kindness from check-in to check-out.
Throughout our stay she was determined to be as helpful and hospitable
as possible, making us feel more like guests in someone’s home rather than like
paying customers in a guest house. It
was a little disappointing to leave Novosibirsk, both because of our new friend
at Hostel 48 and because we knew there was so much more to see in this large
Siberian city of 1.5 million people. A
two day stay simply had not done the place justice.
Our drive out took us over the River Ob, a
huge Siberian river that had been dammed in the vicinity of Novosibirsk to
create one massive lake. I recalled
reading somewhere that the sudden appearance of this large body of water had
actually altered the local climate, the results of which were slightly milder
winter temperatures (at least by Siberian standards). I’d previously read about the size of the region’s rivers
and came to appreciate just how big they were after driving along the banks of
the Ob for several hours. As we drove
south we passed through the city of Barnaul, perhaps two hours away from Novosibirsk,
and then gradually headed eastward into the mountainous Altai region of south central
Russia. The change in scenery became
more and more breathtaking the further east we drove, our surprise growing with
each passing mile. Neither myself nor
Lisa had quite been prepared for what we were seeing, as our preconceptions
about central Russia hadn’t involved Switzerland-like scenes of snowcapped
peaks, crystal-clear rivers and quiet mountain villages.
Our regret of having not stayed longer in
Novosibirsk was quickly replaced with the regret of having not proceeded to the
Altai region sooner- it was camping paradise.
As evening approached we found ourselves just west of the town of
Manzherok, traveling along the banks of a pristine mountain river whose shores
were lined with potential campsites.
Seeing a number of locals were already settled in for the evening we
decided to stop, several hours ahead of schedule, so as not to miss out on the
opportunity ourselves. We were right to
do so. That evening we enjoyed an
endless supply of cold running water, ample firewood and plenty of friendly
people around to keep us company. Our
worries about mosquitoes quickly faded as we observed (and mimicked) the
behavior of our Russian neighbors, who were burning green saplings in their
camp fires to ward them off. A fine
smoky mist from dozens of nearby fires had settled over the shoreline and
enveloped our campsite by dusk, proving to be just enough to keep the bugs
away.
When we woke on the morning of
August 11
th we took our time in departing, using the nearby river as
the perfect excuse to take care of a few essential chores. First, there was a discussion about bathing
in the frigid waters, and as we debated the merits of such an undertaking we
could hear the shrill screams of people around us who were already fully
engaged in the process. Having just
listened to the tortured sounds of Russians braving the river- people who were
presumably well-adapted to freezing temperatures- I couldn’t muster the courage
to dive in. Alternatively, I elected to
stand in knee-deep water and wash my hair while Lisa took the far braver step
of submerging herself completely. She
claimed it wasn’t all that bad afterwards, like ripping off a band-aid. I remarked that my legs had gone completely
numb and I’d have likely fallen in given a few more minutes. Following that ritual we cleaned all the car
windows of the fine layer of mud and grime that had been obstructing our view, filled
the windshield wiper reservoir, then packed up our belongings and prepared for
our drive to the Mongolian border crossing.
As of that morning, we had already driven some 7,494 miles from Thames Ditton,
England to Manzherok, Russia and were now just 300 miles from the town of
Tashanta and the Mongolian border.
August 7th, leaving the outskirts of Astana and
heading out of Kazakhstan via Pavlodar
Odometer reading: 93,218
Mileage to next destination: 379
Cumulative mileage to date: 6,450
The morning of August 7
th found us departing yet
another roadsite campsite about 20 miles north of Astana, this one conveniently
hidden behind a quiet stand of birch trees on an otherwise green, lush and grassy
landscape. We’d left Astana around
6:45pm the night before, following our visit to the U.S. embassy, and opted for
what had gradually become our preferred method of securing accommodation-
camping. It might have been basic but it
was also routine and hassle-free, compared to the frustrations of hunting down
hotel rooms or even a decent meal. As
we’d discovered from weeks of camping across endless miles of open terrain from
eastern Ukraine to Kazakhstan, camping was easy. It may come as a surprise to read the
following but quite literally there was never any fencing along the roadside,
anywhere, nearly ever, for all those thousands of miles we had thus far
driven. We had freely camped wherever it
suited us (within reason) without any problems, and it seemed the locals did
the same thing wherever it suited them. We
carried a substantial stock of non-perishable food and water and a campstove
that operated on unleaded gasoline, so we were free to cook and eat whatever we
had on hand pretty much anywhere we liked.
The biggest limitation, however, was always the desire for a hot shower
and internet access, which we often went without for days. Again, this was part of the journey, but at
least we were fresh from a recent hotel stay in the capital city. Our intended destination for the day was the
Russian border crossing, just past the city of Pavlodar in northeastern
Kazakhstan. The landscape had become
noticeably greener somewhere south of Astana a few days before, and adding to
that we were treated to several impressive downpours as we drove further north. These storm fronts could be seen approaching from
many miles off and provided for some spectacular scenery.
During our drive north to the border we
passed another roadside monument, this one to the old Soviet space
program. About the size of a manhole
cover, the painted concrete bust of a cosmonaut- wearing a space helmet with
the acronym C.C.C.P. (U.S.S.R. in the English language)- occupied an
unceremonious and inconspicuous spot at a roadside pull-off.
Perhaps two hours away from Pavlodar and
almost clear of the much-maligned Kazakh police, we found ourselves squarely in
the crosshairs of a much-maligned Kazakh police officer’s speed camera. Out came the dreaded ‘orange wand’,
essentially a brightly colored nightstick used to wave offenders off the road
in much the same way people at the airport guide planes to the terminal. They didn’t chase you in Kazakhstan, which
probably meant they didn’t need to. Lisa
remarked that “at least in the U.S. police have to earn it by catching up to
you first”. Pondering this for a moment,
I still stopped. The policeman was
pleasant enough and extremely chatty, speaking a little broken English as he
directed me into a nearby police car.
This is another strange difference between our two systems- you are
expected to get out of your car and practically have lunch with them in their
front seat. The fellow in the back even
showed me family photos from his wallet while the guy in the front seat was
asking me about the Chicago Bulls. It
was unnerving at first but eventually made me feel pretty good about getting
what was going to be an expensive ticket.
62kph in a 50kph zone, and these sneaky guys had it all on a little
hand-held camera. I was quoted a very
specific price tag of 8,360 Tenge and foolishly paid it- about $65 U.S.
dollars. I was later told that speeding
ticket prices were always subject to negotiation. I had also made the grave mistake of immediately
communicating with them. Pretending not
to understand anything they say and smiling a lot had gotten me out of several
fines already, as this was not the first time I had been pulled over in
Kazakhstan. I was simply disarmed by
their English and far too responsive- I could have gotten out of it for less
than $20 just by playing dumb. We
continued on our way to the border, reaching the checkpoint around 5pm and
clearing the Kazakh side in just a few minutes.
As always the Russian border agents were quite friendly to us. Several of them spoke a little English and I
could toss around a few words of Russian, so we were able to communicate and
even joke around a little. They smiled
when faced with the large jug of fresh water in the back of the car, asking
‘vodka?’ and grinning from ear to ear. Shaking
my head, I answered with ‘va-da’ (meaning ‘water’) in a disappointing tone,
which made them laugh. I realized at
that point that it wouldn’t have been unusual, in any way whatsoever, for us to
be hauling 4 gallons of vodka across the border and that they were surprised
we’d chosen water instead. Moving
inside, I overheard the word ‘Americanitz’ and then our national anthem being
whistled from behind an office partition- they’d taken notice of our American
passports. I responded by whistling the
Russian anthem back to them and promptly saw four smiling faces appear in a nearby
window. We’d made friends of the entire
border office at that point. We were
very glad to be back in Russia, as it still reminded us of home in some strange
and unexplainable way. We had always
liked the Russians we’d met, and they had always liked us. Giving it some thought, perhaps if one were
to peel away the language and politics we might just have more in common with
them than almost any other nationality.
Place yourself in the middle of Asia and they practically become
family. We drove on for several hours
until dusk, when we again pulled off the main road and proceeded into a field
and to another stand of birch trees. Our
ending mileage on the odometer read 93,597, meaning we had driven some 6,829
miles from England. Tomorrow, August 8
th,
we would take a northerly detour to Novosibirsk, one of Russia’s largest cities
and certainly one of the last vestiges of western culture we were likely to see
for a very long time. We hoped for an
extra day there before heading southeast to Barnaul, through the Altai region
and on to the Russian-Mongolian border town of Tashanta.
August 6th, Astana and the U.S. Embassy visit
Odometer reading: 93,180
Mileage to next destination: 38
Cumulative mileage to date: 6,412
On the morning of August 6th the staff at the Art
Hotel Astana proved to be invaluable, as they were incredibly helpful in our
quest to repair the car’s broken suspension spring. Within minutes of inquiring at reception they
had contacted a man who first guided me through traffic to a mechanic’s shop,
then accompanied me to a local auto parts bazar in a lengthy quest to find the
correct springs. It took some time
locating the correct fit; over a dozen inquiries and two trips were needed
before we found a suitable pair of Daihatsu Matiz suspension springs, but
within about 2 hours and 8,000 Tenge later (or about $60) the rear suspension
was fixed and we still had an old spring for use a back-up. The mechanic even let me leave with only half
payment in hand, and I was quick to reward that kindness by returning promptly
with the rest of the bill. Placing trust
in a stranger, and especially in a foreigner with immediate means to escape his
debt, was a significant gesture. I find
that when you are on the receiving end of that kind of trust you should always bend
over backwards for the person offering it.
Having returned to the hotel with the car repaired, Lisa and I prepared
to make our U.S. embassy appointment at 6pm by first locating it and then
staying very close by until our arrival was expected. This gave us a chance to explore the most
modern and lavish part of Astana, and I say that without a hint of sarcasm. It was as if most of it had been built within
the last ten years, and indeed much was still being built. New apartment construction lined the broad
avenues leading past the U.S. embassy and into the government sector, where we
passed stately and attractive national offices and institutions occupying a
sprawling portion of the city. When
taken in as a whole it bore an unusual resemblance to Las Vegas, minus the
signage and advertisements. Colorful
blue-tinted glass windows were commonplace in nearly every building, as was
gold-colored metal window trimmings. The
architecture itself exuded the colors sky-blue and yellow, found on the Kazakh
national flag, and I’m certain this was no coincidence. The country was clearly expressing its own independent
character and personality, as well as flexing its economic and political muscle
whenever and wherever possible. The symbolism
was evident everywhere you looked. On a
side note, the government of Kazakhstan is widely understood to be less-than-democratic,
authoritarian and even heavy-handed at times; the same man has now occupied the
office of the presidency for over twenty years.
In terms of other central Asian republics, however, it is by far the
wealthiest and probably the most efficiently run. Though ostentatious at times and in some
cases outright wasteful (take the absurdity that is the presidential palace as
an example), the investment in infrastructure wasn’t limited to cosmetic
projects in the capital city. We’d
witnessed as much since entering the country, noting a growing network of
modern highways, countless road construction projects and innumerable bus stops
for every hamlet or village that might occupy a speck on the map. I’d like to emphasize that one; public
transportation was widely available, albeit by bus, to any Kazakh finding him
or herself within walking distance of a major road. We’d stopped at a few ourselves for bathroom
breaks and were always surprised by how remote some of them were. Perhaps it all represented just a trickle in
terms of the overall wealth of Kazakhstan, but it seemed to be finding its way
to essential projects necessary to build a modern nation. As 6pm approached we parked at the U.S.
embassy visitation lot and then proceeded through security at the
entrance. Imagine our relief, to be
greeted by a dozen or so embassy workers with smiles and enthusiasm. We all socialized for the next half hour,
during which time we were surprised to discover that the U.S. ambassador to
Kazakhstan was among the group, Mr. Kenneth Fairfax. As introductions were made he immediately
conveyed a welcome air of ease and informality and quickly began exchanging
stories and making small talk. A Nelson
county, Kentucky native and one seriously friendly guy, he was all too eager to
pose for photos with our rally car (and we’re told we’ll be receiving copies of
our own soon enough). We were given a
large bag filled with candy, pencils, paper fans, notepads and little American
flags to distribute along the way, and in return we promised to hand it all out
generously while putting our best feet forward as Americans traveling
abroad. As we said our goodbyes and
turned out of the parking lot I believe we drove away listening to James
Brown’s “Living in America”, a bit unconventional but perhaps the most uplifting
and patriotic song in our music library.
We’d played it many times before to boost morale and would return to it
time and time again for the same reason.
(Naturally, we wish to convey our gratitude and sincere thanks to the
late and great James Brown, to Mrs. Katherine Kaetzer-Hodson for making the embassy
visitation arrangements, and to U.S. Ambassador Kenneth Fairfax and all the
other wonderful folks at the American embassy in Astana, Kazakhstan for personally
making us feel welcome and wishing us luck on our journey to Mongolia.)
August 4th and 5th, leaving Almaty and
heading north towards Astana, Kazakhstan
Odometer reading: 92,373
Mileage to next destination: 429
Cumulative mileage to date: 5,605
On the morning of August 4
th we left the hustle
and bustle of Almaty breathing a sigh of relief. From there we drove north for the city of
Balqash and a vast freshwater lake of the same name. On the way we found yet another bizarre photo op, this time in an unusual statue standing in the middle of nowhere just off the road. Only the picture included here does it justice, as it is beyond explaination.
When Balqash finally came into view sometime later it resembled
something from the Caribbean; lush, green shores and waters of an impossible
turquoise blue that stretched to the horizon.
It stood in significant contrast to the surrounding landscape of
parched, rocky hills and dull, tan-colored grassland. We intended to camp along the shoreline but
were met with some difficulty in finding easy road access, eventually ending up
in downtown Balqash. We found a street leading
south to a small beach and were able to stop and step into the water for a few
moments, but the area was far too populated for safe camping. Dusk was fast approaching, making the
prospect of finding a spot along the shoreline before nightfall even less
likely. Reluctantly, we had to drive
north and back onto the steppes in search of a place to camp for the
evening. There would be no evening swim waiting
for us. We finally found a low-lying
depression a few hundred yards off the road that afforded some privacy and set
up our camping equipment, being about 20 miles north of the city. In the distance were rocky hills that
resembled extinct volcanoes and the landscape bore some similarity to parts of the
American west, something from an old western perhaps. The only visitor for the evening was to be a large
insect not unlike a camel spider, which Lisa promptly dispatched with a rock despite
my pleas for diplomacy. Better safe than
sorry, I supposed. Had it ended up on my
face in the middle of the night I’d have certainly regretted my original
position (and in the process I’d have given Lisa just cause to dispatch me with
a rock). On the morning of the 5
th
we again headed north for the capital city of Astana but not without one small
problem along the way. Surprised by our
fortunes with respect to road quality, the only real problem we had encountered
since Balqash, aside from the occasional stray pothole, were large undulations
in the road surface. You know the ones;
they make your stomach rise in your chest and then sink abruptly, giving the
brief sensation of a free-fall. Items that
are carefully packed in your car spring to life, jump towards the roof and then
fall back down to a roughly original configuration. It’s like a carnival ride in the middle of
the road, and I’d like to think that we all speed up for them whenever their presence
is common knowledge. At any rate, perhaps
an hour south of Astana and while driving over one such imperfection we heard a
dull ‘pop’ from the back of the car, followed by rhythmic thuds and grinding
sounds. After all we had driven over it
was a disappointment to break something on relatively smooth roads. Assuming it was the exhaust, which by that
point must have been hanging precariously from the bottom of the car in half a
dozen pieces, upon inspection it turned out to be a broken suspension spring. We had little choice but to continue to
Astana and try to find a replacement in the morning. A spring was a simple fix, relatively
speaking, but the delay it would cause in terms of negotiating another busy
city while hunting automotive parts, drawing bad pictures for and miming
ridiculously to the amusement of the Kazakhs was an added frustration. It was all part of the journey, however. Whether we liked it or not occasionally we
would find ourselves in need of assistance even in the simplest of forms. Basic monetary transactions, for example, had
often required entire minutes of confused gesticulations and elaborate diagrams
hastily drawn on scraps of paper. We
could only wonder how this new problem might unfold for us, but we left it for
the morning. Arriving in Astana perhaps
an hour later, wincing at the sounds now emanating from the back of the car
given the slightest jolt or bump, we found a hotel and stayed put. The desk staff spoke fluent English, and I
intended to take full advantage of it the next morning as we searched for a
garage and a place to buy spare suspension springs. As of that evening, the night of August 5
th,
we had traveled some 6,450 miles since July 14
th and were within
about two weeks of our final destination in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.
August 1st and 2nd, driving from Shymkent
to Almaty, Kazakhstan
Odometer reading: 91,842
Mileage to next destination: 328
Cumulative mileage to date: 5,074
Our drive from Shymkent to Almaty brought us back to freshly
paved roads and onto a modern highway skirting the border with Kyrgyzstan. Along the drive we could see large mountains
to the south, as well as the barbed wire fencing and guard towers demarcating
the frontier between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.
We passed a number of roadside markets and restaurants serving as bus
and truck stops, with many passengers and drivers taking in freshly cooked
meals or out to stretch their legs. We
made several stops in search of a package of frozen meat or dumplings for our
own dinner that evening. We picked up
the practice in Ukraine, discovering that frozen meals purchased within a few
hours of our destination would be sufficiently thawed by the end of our drive
and afforded fairly luxurious meals.
Eventually we located a small shop with some dumplings and began our
search for a campsite. The car was being
temperamental once again and threatened to overheat on our way up a hill, and
so we turned around in favor of a side road leading down a tree-lined
valley. The prospect of shade and
running water was a rare treat and we managed to find both after traveling just
a few miles. We set up our tent next to
a small stream under the cover of apple trees and in the company of perhaps a
dozen cows grazing close by. There were
empty vodka bottles everywhere and we’d hear an occasional ‘clink’ sound
whenever a cow’s hoof shuffled past a stray bottle. One cow in particular, maybe the headmistress
of the group, strolled right through the campsite and gave us a thorough
inspection as we set up the tent and cookstove.
Following a close encounter with our car I decided it was best to shoo
her away. As dusk approached a man on a
horse rode past, presumably out to collect his livestock. Within a half hour, following closely behind
a large cloud of dust that had rolled in through the trees, the same man
returned driving a herd of cattle down the adjacent road. He made a quick side trip to the creek to
water his horse, waved in our direction and promptly rode off in pursuit of his
cows. It was more than enough entertainment
for one evening but not the last visit we would enjoy during our brief
stay.
On the morning of August 2
nd,
as we heated water for morning coffee, another man traveling by car had stopped
on the road and motioned for me to come closer.
Smiling, he brought his index fingers up to his forehead and made the
universal gesture for ‘cow’, then pointed further up the road and
shrugged. I smiled back, understanding
that he had a stray and was wondering if it had passed by. There was a mutual exchange of charades, more
smiles and off he went in search of his missing cow. Not long after a goat herder stopped by for a
chat. An older gentleman, he was surprisingly
well dressed in a clean dress shirt tucked into blue jeans, leather shoulder
bag at his side, a small black velvet cap on his head and a whip in his
hand. We did our best to exchange
pleasantries despite the language barrier and smiled and nodded awkwardly at
each other, but eventually parted company to tend to our respective
chores. It was a recurring theme; the
constant frustration of being unable to effectively communicate with people you
met, though it never stopped us from trying.
We left shortly thereafter for the old capital city of Almaty, where we
intended to rest for an extra day and take in the sights.
Almaty, Kazakhstan was a city of breathtaking surroundings,
nestled against the edge of one of the world’s great mountain ranges. It was a welcome change to the near endless
grasslands constituting the bulk of Kazakhstan we had thus far traversed. That being said, it was an absolute nightmare
to negotiate Almaty in a car. There were
no dedicated turn lanes or corresponding turn signals anywhere and drivers
routinely sped around turning vehicles, making the prospect of a left turn (or
any turn for that matter) a near suicidal enterprise. Traffic was a chaotic free-for-all and getting
through it was that much more difficult in our tiny and underpowered
right-hand-drive car. I dealt with it
the only way I knew how; with a great deal of harsh language (most of it profane in nature), and frequent stops
on the roadside to collect myself. At
one point a man with Kyrgyz plates passed by, driving the same make and model car as ours, and he
honked and waved and directed a thumbs-up at us exuberantly. Lisa and I shared a good laugh until we
considered that it was the only other Alto we’d seen in weeks. We stopped laughing. Perhaps this gentleman was just happy to see
he wasn’t the only maniac in the country driving around in a ridiculous car. We laughed again, very nervously. Our Suzuki Alto was again on the edge of
overheating and during another cool-down stop, this time next to a busy
construction site, a curious foreman walked over to help. Using a comical mixture of hand gestures and
sounds I explained that the engine was hot and I suspected the radiator fan
wasn’t doing its job. He thought for a
moment, pointed to the battery and then the fan wiring while touching his
fingertips together and making a ‘zzzzt zzzzt’ sound. Eureka!
We understood each other immediately.
I grabbed a tool kit from the back of the car and he returned with some
wires and tape, and the two of us spent a few moments wiring the fan directly
to the battery. It was crude, but it
worked; the car cooled off in moments.
We drove away smiling, honking and waving. On the south side of town and along a road
lined with restaurants and small resorts we found a hostel inside a climbing
gymnasium, where we spent the next two days recuperating. I had a stomach ailment, presumably from
either raw onions or a chicken kebab I’d eaten for lunch, and wasn’t keen on
doing anything other than resting until August 4th. One thing we did do was to contact the U.S.
embassy in Astana, Kazakhstan and schedule a visit on August 7th. We really wanted to pick up some American
flags, candy and souvenirs to distribute to people on our way to Mongolia and
Ulaanbaatar. The Dutch team we’d
traveled with from Dossor to Shymkent had been well prepared with colored
pencils and balloons for children, and we lightheartedly joked that they were
making us look bad. If anything, we had
come underprepared in this respect and hoped to remedy that.
July 30th, leaving Aral and heading south to
Kyzlorda and Shymkent
Odometer reading: 91,245
Mileage to next destination: 335
Cumulative mileage to date: 4,477
On July 30
th we managed an early start from the
rough 4x4 trail outside of Aral that we’d been stuck on the day before. We continued forward and slowly made our way across
the countryside to the main road. We did
so under a light rain and dark skies that offered some relief from what was
gradually becoming uncomfortably hot weather.
As we headed further south the road conditions again degraded, this time
presenting a frustrating cycle of bridge construction detours and heavily
congested, dusty side roads crossing endless miles of irrigation canals and
small waterways on the way to Kyzlorda.
The heat was stifling and we began to drink ridiculous quantities of
water to cope with it, most of which was consumed reluctantly because of how
hot it would get. The outside
temperature hovered at around 100 degrees Fahrenheit and with the windows down
it was little different than sitting next to a large hairdryer. Eventually we stopped at one of the many bridges
crossing an irrigation canal and two members of the Dutch team went for a quick
swim. We’d seen numerous instances of
the same behavior amongst the locals throughout the day, but noted that we
never saw any women taking part. By the
time we reached Kyzlorda everyone in our convoy was tired and ready to settle
in for the evening, but not before we dealt with another problem that had come
to our attention. In Kazakhstan it is
law to register with the police or at a hotel within five days of entering the
country, and neither ourselves nor the Dutch team had done so. We still had another day, but the Dutch were
several days behind and seeking a hotel that might be willing to back-date a
stamp in their passports. We tried
several hotels in town but met with no success and decided to drive further in
search of a campsite. Registration would
have to wait until tomorrow, perhaps in the next major city. We found a spot on the edge of a small town
about 20 miles from Kyzlorda and were visited by a few of the curious locals,
always happy to shake hands and keenly interested in inspecting our campstoves
and equipment. The next morning, July 31
st,
we packed up our tents and headed towards the city of Turkistan where there was
a mausoleum of interest to the Dutch team.
It was the hottest day we had yet experienced, the temperature outside
exceeding 104 degrees. We reached the
city, located the police station for future reference, negotiated our way to
the mausoleum and spent perhaps an hour and a half relaxing and attempting to
be tourists. We took lunch in a small
open-air restaurant, where the young girls working in the kitchen and serving
the food laughed and giggled and took pictures of us all with their cell phones. We had told them one of our Dutch companions
was Brad Pitt’s younger brother. After
lunch we had a pleasant chat with a young English-speaking Kazakh woman and her
travel companions, all pilgrims who were visiting the mausoleum complex. We were all enjoying ice cold water pouring
from an open spigot next to the parking area, one of those things that tend to
bring people together on a hot day. From
there we returned to the local police station in an attempt to complete our
registration with immigration, but they insisted we had to drive further south
to Shymkent. The trip took several more
hours, but eventually we succeeded in finding a large police complex around 6pm
and, following a few inquiries, were guided through a gate and into a courtyard. Along the way we noticed a line of basement
windows, most without glass but all sporting steel bars from top to
bottom. Behind those barred windows, and
in the dark, there were people. That was
their equivalent of jail, and we began to wonder if they wouldn’t put us all in
for a few days for being late to register! Our Dutch companions- Tom, Lex, Ferri and Jason- were visibly nervous.
We entered another building and climbed the stairs to the second floor
offices. The registration process eventually
began following several tense minutes of pleading, as we had arrived right at
closing time. An interpreter was brought
in to speed things along and I was designated as the representative of our
little group, apparently because I was its oldest member. The guard was all smiles and full of jokes,
calling me “James Bond” and taking me aside to another room for paperwork. I was given everyone’s passports, a pen and
blank sheet of paper and told to take down information for the chief of the
immigration police. This included an apology and a polite request for him to register all members of our party at his
convenience. Tom, Lex, Ferri and Jason (not to mention both Lisa and myself) were all astounded to hear that no fine or bribe of any kind was expected despite their
being five days late to register. They
seemed to think I had worked some sort of miracle or contacted someone of
importance, but in all honesty the police and office staff had just wanted to
help us out. We celebrated on the street
with cold Coca Colas and soon after we found a hotel with air conditioned rooms
and hot showers. It was a very odd
place, however, as it all seemed to have been converted from offices to
individual hotel rooms and communal bathrooms.
It was also incredibly hot inside, about 92 degrees according to the
large A/C units in the hallway. This
came as no surprise given the day’s temperature had soared above 100
degrees. We turned on the A/C units in
our rooms, cleaned ourselves up and went out for a decent meal not cooked over
a campstove. The following morning,
August 1
st, our teams reluctantly parted company as the Dutch team
headed south to Tashkent, Uzbekistan to deal with a Russian visa problem and we
headed east to Almaty, Kazakhstan. We were sad to see them go and hoped we would run into them again.
July 28th and 29th, the rough road to
Aktobe and the smooth, effortless pavement to Aral
Odometer reading: 90,646
Mileage to next destination: 210
Cumulative mileage to date: 3,878
On the morning of July 28
th we found ourselves
stuck in the dry, sandy soil of western Kazakhstan. We had all suspected as much the night before
but were happy to ignore it after such a rough day of driving. Well rested and well fed, we set ourselves to
the task at hand. The Dutch team made
several attempts to climb up to the road and had made steady progress over a
few minutes time, but a truck happened by and was kind enough to pull them up
the last few feet. While moving our car
into position I managed to get it up the hill and onto the road unassisted, with
the Dutch team cheering me on and myself shrugging in disbelief- it was a small
but nonetheless important victory for our little car. Once back on track we slowly but surely
negotiated more of the same horrible roads for another 70 miles, at which point
we were elated to see the return of smooth asphalt pavement. It continued for 140 more miles into Aktobe,
where we found decent hotel rooms and a good restaurant for the six of us. As we ate we noticed a contrail in the
southern sky and realized that we had missed a Russian rocket launch from
Baikanur, the Russian space center that lay further to the south. We had planned to pass through the area
around the same time but delays and road conditions had made it
impossible. Still, our two teams had
completed what was the most challenging leg of our journey thus far. On July 29
th we departed Aktobe
for the town of Aral and rocketed southward on brand new roads at speeds we’d
only dreamed about just days before. We
traveled almost 400 miles and very nearly ran out of gas, as there was little
in the way of towns or service stations between the two cities. Once in Aral (where we enjoyed a good laugh stemming from a mix-up between the Latin vs. Cyrillic letter 'P' and a road sign) we hoped to find our way to the
“ship graveyard” lying on the edge of the old Aral Sea shoreline.
There visitors could view the remnants of a
once vibrant fishing industry that had fallen victim to 1960’s Soviet
irrigation projects and subsequent changes they caused to the sea. Those projects diverted waters feeding the
Aral Sea in order to support large scale cotton production in neighboring
Uzbekistan, a crop that requires staggering amounts of water. The diversion of those waters coupled with
the poor construction of irrigation canals and the inefficient use of water
resources inadvertently wrecked the Aral Sea ecosystem, tipping the balance in
favor of evaporation and causing the sea to steadily shrink. Once the world’s 4
th largest lake
in terms of surface area, today it represents less than 15% of its pre-1960
size. Sadly, we were not to make it to
our intended destination. The rough road
leading to the ship graveyard was little more than a rude track across the
steppe, well-traveled by Lada 4x4’s but far too sandy for our car or the
Renault of the Dutch team. We bogged
down several times, overheating the engine and boiling off most of our
coolant. As it started to get dark we
decided to stay put until morning, making camp where we were and waiting for
daylight to find our way back to paved roads.
By chance we were only 100 yards from a major rail line and amused
ourselves by waving to passing freight and passenger trains and attempting to
get a horn blast for our troubles.
July 27th, the city of Atyrau and the
disappearance of paved roads shortly after
Odometer reading: 90,417
Mileage to next destination: 229
Cumulative mileage to date: 3,649
On the morning of July 27
th, following a night of
camping on the steppe in the company of goats, camels and a fox, we drove the
remaining 30 miles to Atyrau, Kazakhstan and were pleased to note that the
roads steadily improved as we neared the city.
Once there we had to search for a bank and make an ATM stop for Tenge,
the currency of Kazakhstan. Atyrau was a
very modern city and appeared to be a major regional hub for the petroleum and
banking industries. There were numerous
banking institutions lining the city square, large apartments, condos and multi-story buildings topped with
prominent signs in Cyrillic, a mosque, an extensive flower garden and a statue memorializing
the Turkic chieftain Tamerlane (the Kazakh equivalent of Ghengis Khan), and all
of it was very recently constructed.
We
found a number of new and very modern fuel stations throughout the city that
were also branded locally, as Kazakhstan was indeed a large regional oil and
gas producer. They were nicer than most
you’d find in the U.S., clean beyond comparison, full-service and staffed with
attendants in spotless royal blue uniforms both inside and at the pumps. Impressed, we filled up the car for about the
same as it would cost back home and headed out of town on highway A-27 towards
the city of Dossor. From here, however,
things would begin to get a lot more interesting in terms of road conditions. The roads were actually smooth all the way to
Dossor but on the far side of town the asphalt pavement quite suddenly
stopped. We found our way blocked by a
pile of dirt which directed us off the road and down into a sand pit perhaps 50
yards long, and we very nearly got stuck in it.
Without explanation the road returned on the other side. We drove towards the next town of Makat,
stopping briefly on the roadside to allow our engine to cool down. As we waited we heard the unmistakable tune
“La Cucaracha” from an approaching car and were then greeted by a Dutch rally
team of four who called themselves the Ramblin’ Men, traveling in a yellow
Renault Kangoo that was best described as a minivan-meets-delivery-truck. Their names were Tom, Lex, Ferry and Jason,
they were cheerful and friendly and spoke better English than we did! They gave us a walkie-talkie and we decided
to tag along with them for the extra company.
A short time later we arrived in Makat, got lost trying to find our way
out of town and back to the road, then slowly but surely we realized that we
wouldn’t find any asphalt road leading out of town. The road was gone, more or less. In its place was some distant memory of a
track leading eastward, a road that had either been half-built long ago or just
forgotten following its completion and never maintained from that day to the
present. There was no trace of
asphalt. The surface was a minefield of
deep holes and sudden drops within a hard matrix of cobbles that made travel
above 20mph nearly impossible, at least if we hoped to keep our tiny little
car, its pitiful 13” tires and stock suspension intact. We soon learned that the dirt tracks running
parallel to the road, formed by locals simply leaving the main road and driving
across the steppe, were far smoother and occasionally made speeds in excess of
20mph a real possibility, albeit a dusty one.
The further we drove the more we began to accept that it wasn’t going to
change any time soon. We heard rumors
that it continued that way for hundreds of miles and most of the way to Aktobe,
and we rarely saw another vehicle traveling the same route.
Soon every surface in the car became
blanketed by a fine layer of dust, including ourselves, and eventually my
camera ceased to function. This was becoming
the challenge we’d heard about and now there was a real possibility of breaking
down in the absolute middle of nowhere.
There were no trees in sight, no rivers or streams, nor towns, houses or
even people. Occasionally there were
small herds of goats or a few cows but otherwise we were very much alone. As nighttime approached we made an attempt to
find gas in Sagiz, the first village we’d come across since leaving Makat, but
met with no success. We had traveled
less than 80 miles in over five hours. Tired
and in need of a break, ourselves and our four Dutch companions drove onto a
side road northeast of the village and then down onto the steppe to make camp
for the evening. We were still 200 miles
from our destination of Aktobe and had driven some 3,878 miles since leaving
England.
July 26th, leaving Russia for Kazakhstan
Odometer reading: 90,220
Mileage to next destination: 197
Cumulative mileage to date: 3,452
As we drove from Astrakhan, Russia to the Kazakh border on
July 26
th we crossed a pontoon bridge and through several small
towns in the Volga River delta. Along
the way we ran into two English gentlemen making the trip on 125cc motorcycles,
and eventually we all ended up together at the border crossing. Not unlike the Russian border facilities with
the Ukraine Kazakhstan’s was relatively new in appearance and very modern, and
I was able to snap a quick photo from a distance.
Several of the border guards spoke a bit of
English and were very helpful in getting us processed quickly, while the locals
scrambled around in line and argued with one another impatiently. This would become a theme throughout the country;
friendly as they all might be in person, they seemed disinclined to wait in
line for anything and especially when behind the wheel of a car. As such, they consistently cut in line and
passed one another on the roads with impunity.
We cleared the border and proceeded not a mile down very bad roads
before being flagged down by a policeman.
All smiles, he thrust an open hand into the car and insisted on shaking
hands, then asked me to accompany him into the adjacent building. I had run a stop sign that was being entirely
ignored by everyone on the road even as we walked inside. Again, introductions and handshakes followed
by a brief inspection of my paperwork and then a request for cigarettes. They beamed when I produced a pack of Lucky
Strikes, purchased a month earlier in Iceland for just such an occasion. The policeman smiled and gestured at the
pack, removed five and distributed them around the room. He slid my paperwork across the desk towards
me, smiled, waved and said “goodbye” as did a few of his colleagues, which I
took as my cue to leave. Lisa and I
drove away laughing and with a sense of relief, as the police seemed to be more
curious and genuinely friendly than we had previously expected. From this point onward the roads degraded
into some of the worst conditions imaginable for paved roads, even more so than
in the Ukraine. We had a very long, slow
and arduous drive towards the city of Atyrau but couldn’t quite make it before
nightfall. About 60 miles short of the
city we decided to camp off the road and wait for daylight to finish our
trip. As we cooked dinner we were
visited by a very bold large-eared fox that was circling our table in search of
food. In the distance we could hear and
see the first of many two-humped camels grazing by the roadside. We had no idea what to expect the next
morning but were looking forward to seeing more of Kazakhstan and the city of
Atyrau.
Wednesday, July 24- Rostov-on-Don, Russia to Volgograd,
Russia:
Odometer reading: 89,642
Mileage to next destination: 293
Cumulative mileage to date: 2,874
We departed Rostov-on-Don on the morning of June 24
th
heading for the city of Volgograd, better known by its older name of
Stalingrad. It was raining early that
morning but the weather gradually cleared and treated us to relatively mild
temperatures under overcast skies. The
absolute vastness of the Russian steppe soon became apparent as farmland and
sunflower fields gave way to simple windswept grasslands for countless miles. We passed the occasional town and noted there
was always a corresponding graveyard on the outskirts, all of which were
surprisingly cramped and relatively compact in nature given the availability of
space. They were hard to miss, studded
with hundreds of Orthodox crosses and little fences on an otherwise
nondescript, rolling landscape. There
were several large river crossings as well, deep incisions carved out over the
millennia by the waters bearing away the Russian winter’s snow and ice. As we approached the outskirts of Volgograd
it became hot and dusty, and the roads gradually deteriorated into potholes and
uneven surfaces. The city was situated on
the west bank of the Volga River, built upon large river deposits left by the
Volga’s meandering waters which provided anything but a stable foundation. Though industrial and run-down it was
actually a relatively new city, having been completely leveled during the
Second World War and thus rebuilt after 1943.
We drove into the city center and stopped in a large public square near
the train station to seek out wifi and a place to stay for the night. We followed a promising lead onto terrible
side-streets, but indeed found a small and unassuming hotel with a very
friendly and patient proprietor. The
people continued to be gracious and remarkably friendly, and we loved Russia
for that. On the morning of the 25
th
we eagerly stopped to visit the city’s memorial plaza, situated on the heights
of Mamayev Kurgan overlooking Volgograd and the river to the east.
We climbed 200 steps (symbolizing the 200
days of battle for the city) to a reflecting pond lined with statues, passed
towering murals depicting soldiers in battle, and then entered an open memorial
rotunda. Inside were two soldiers
standing guard before a large sculpture of an outstretched hand holding a
burning torch, and on the walls were the names of those who had fallen in the city’s
defense. The guard changed while we were
there, and just after we proceeded further up the hill to get a close-up view
of The Motherland Calls. Completed in
1967, it is a colossal concrete statue of a sword-wielding woman standing 297
feet in height (actually just a few feet short of the Statue of Liberty,
pedestal included). It was an impressive
sight and we puzzled over the engineering required to maintain her flowing
garments and a 108 foot long sword at alarming, gravity-defying angles. Satisfied we’d taken enough pictures and
gawked for a sufficient period of time, we headed back for the car and then
drove south for Astrakhan and the Volga River delta. Astrakhan was a bustling port city situated
just inland of the Caspian Sea, somewhat reminiscent of New Orleans given its
position near the delta of a large river.
We struggled to exit the city and had to find lodging for the night
instead, as the road out seemed to be closed off. While there we walked around the old city,
passing several canals and the Kremlin walls.
Not unlike a smaller version of what one might see in Moscow, these were
part of a fortress complex enclosing government and religious buildings. On the morning of the 26
th, having
already driven 3,167 miles, we found an alternative route crossing another
channel of the Volga and headed through marshland and the delta proper on our
way to Kazakhstan.
