From Rostov-on-Don to the Mongolian border (July 24th to August 13th)

August 13^th: 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 11^th, 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 8^th to 10^th: 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 7^th, 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 6^th, 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 6^th 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 4^th and 5^th, 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 1^st and 2^nd, 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 4^th.  One thing we did do was to contact the U.S. embassy in Astana, Kazakhstan and schedule a visit on August 7^th.  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 30^th, 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 28^th and 29^th, 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 27^th, 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 26^th, 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.  

UPDATE: Volgograd, Russia on 7/24, blogs from 7/17 to 7/23

Sorry for any brief or partial entries as I have some catching up to do....

Wednesday, July 24- Rostov-on-Don, Russia to Volgograd, Russia:  currently staying the night and hope to tour sights in the morning before departing towards Astrakhan to the south.  Had to skip Moscow for practicality but will make the most of our new route….

Tuesday, July 23- Prymorsk, Ukraine to Rostov-on-Don, Russia:  Daily mileage: 212, Total mileage: 2874

We were very excited about getting to the Russian border following two days in Ukraine but anticipated a long wait once we arrived at the crossing.  Needless to say it was another early start.  Lisa admitted that she hadn’t slept all that well, having stayed up well into the night keeping vigil armed with a large rubber mallet.  Morning revealed that the strange sounds Lisa associated with some drunken, prowling stranger had more likely emanated from our neighbor the cow, who had been foraging nearby all night.  There was a large spider in the corner of the tent, something Lisa very calmly pointed out and then evicted as we emptied the tent and packed up our belongings.  A number of unwelcome ants made the job somewhat more difficult than usual and I received several bites, but mercifully we hadn’t pitched over an entire nest.  We worked in shifts crudely smashing them with our thumbs while rolling up sleeping mats and stuffing sleeping bags.  It would seem we hadn’t done all that bad at selecting our first free-range camping location, no small accomplishment in this particular country.  Once we were back on the road there was one last city for us to pass through, called Mariupol, and the Russian border lay just beyond.  Yet again, Ukraine did not disappoint in its ability to consistently present the dustiest, dirtiest, most chaotic and dilapidated arrangement of roads, bridges, houses, buildings, buses and streetcars even in the easternmost of its southern cities.  Mariupol was the crown jewel, complete with a massive industrial complex on the far side of town whose sole purpose seemed to be the production of noxious fumes, rust, grit and broken glass for export to the rest of the country.  It must have been a proud sight when it was new, and although it appeared to be fully operational it had clearly not aged well.  All teasing aside I did feel there was more to Ukraine than what we had seen and experienced and probably a heart-wrenching explanation as to its condition.  I could very well be unfair in my assessment, but as I was ignorant of such things I remained unmoved at that particular moment.  And so, having passed through the country’s lower digestive tract we finally approached the Russian frontier.  To our amazement, it was pristine.  The border crossing was the cleanest and most modern we’d yet seen.  The roads appeared to be entirely normal.  As the car’s dedicated driver I felt a smile creeping across my face as I drove up to the passport control area without steering wildly to avoid gaping holes or massive bumps.  Following a brief glance at the contents of our trunk we were told there was some paperwork to fill out, and the Russians were most particular as to how it was done.  I filled mine out and Lisa hers, a guard approached, inspected it gravely, shook his head and handed us another form.  After three attempts I finally managed to complete a very simple, single page form to the satisfaction of the border guard sporting the largest hat and the most stars on his epaulettes.  Stamps were applied, our paperwork was handed back and then redistributed to other guards and they waved us through without so much as a passing glance.  All told we had spent just two hours leaving Ukraine and entering Russia.  Before us lay an arrow-straight black ribbon of the most luxuriously smooth pavement I’d seen since leaving the EU.  It instantly reminded me of the U.S. and again I found my expectations were entirely wrong.  Russia was not the crumbling post-Soviet dinosaur I had expected it to be.  We stopped first in Taganrog and as we approached the city center we found it to be relatively clean and well maintained, which puzzled us.  We were making a necessary stop in search of a currency exchange, a quick meal and some wifi access and were bewildered after finding all three in the space of an hour and a half.  Up until now we had never accomplished so much in so little time, and we therefore agreed that we both loved Russia.  Driving further to Rostov-on-Don we stopped once again for groceries, this time for another package of frozen shrimp which we hoped to incorporate into our evening meal.  We’d actually tried this the day before from Malitopol and it worked well enough.  The roads snaking out of the city ran through an industrial area and were more akin to those in Ukraine, but eventually we were back on a well-travelled and well-maintained road.  It took us north along the banks of the Don River through what was an area of riverside resorts and restaurants, though many were in various states of disrepair.  We noticed numerous pull-offs and roads leading into the woods, the traditional method by which Russians must have enjoyed the outdoors.  We’d noticed that signs marking campgrounds had all but disappeared beyond Romania, which made sense considering the vastness of Russia and the relative informality of the people.  They needn’t bother with campgrounds as there was an absurd abundance of countryside.  We picked one such road near several other cars and found a modest clearing in the woods, the main road still in sight but obscured by trees.  As we set up and began to cook a small doe-colored dog wandered into camp, clearly very hungry and hoping for a meal.  We obliged and found him to be very entertaining company.  Being just a pup he was at times overbearing and occasionally an outright nuisance, but we noticed him guarding our campsite from the occasional interloper.  Cars would often pull off the main road in search of a spot, and our new friend kept a close eye on them in exchange for a portion of food.  We had time to build a fire, which also served as a sort of “occupied” notice, and slept soundly through the night with the dog lounging right up against the tent.   

Monday, July 22- Odessa, Ukraine to Prymorsk, Ukraine.  Daily mileage: 324, Total mileage: 2662

The roads leading eastward from the city improved only slightly, with some occasional smooth patches and higher quality pavement interrupting the usual mixture of holes and mounds of asphalt.  In all honesty driving in Ukraine was still extremely demanding due to numerous road hazards and uneven pavement.  The further east we drove we would still encounter dangerous patches full of deep holes and high ridges threatening to burst tires or tear open the bottom of our car.  When we weren’t completely preoccupied dodging the aforementioned obstacles, the countryside passing by the window consisted of near endless sunflower fields and the occasional roadside stands selling honey or, more often than not, watermelons.  As we passed one such stand we noticed the old Soviet flag flying and had a good chuckle.  It’s no wonder they reminisced about the Soviet Union, as it appeared nothing in the entire country had been at all maintained since at least 1990- around the time Ukraine gained its independence.  It did not appear that they had done anything of significance since, besides growing copious amounts of sunflowers and watermelons.  We made a stop in Malitopol for groceries and found it to be an equally depressing and disappointing destination.  The grocery store, however, was very nice and the young woman at the checkout was all smiles and very helpful.  Otherwise southern Ukraine was turning out to be a complete disaster, very much to our surprise.  We had expected an improvement from Romania but were constantly faced with the opposite, realizing that this country or at least the southern coast was far worse off than its western neighbor.  We drove as far as Prymorsk in hopes on camping near the shores of the Sea of Azov, turned off the main road and clumsily searched for the turn into the town proper.  There didn’t appear to be any sense to the road network leading in, nor were there any street signs to the center of town.  I assumed we were there when we passed several shops and then a square with a statue of Lenin, which I enthusiastically pointed out.  The town was a relic!  A little ways further and we indeed made it to a beach complete with patrons, but the public nature of the causeway road leading to it and lack of private areas to camp forced us back inland in search of a place to sleep.  We passed by what looked like run down and abandoned apartment blocks and then a soccer field.  This was another remnant of Soviet times, as it was enclosed by a fence sporting a motif of the Olympic rings and symbols of the 1980 Moscow Olympics (see picture below). 

As we left town and headed back towards the main road to the north we saw a dirt track leading off the road next to a church graveyard.  It seemed promising and looked passable for our car, so we turned off and explored it a bit further.  As luck would have it, there was a private spot far removed and a nice, flat area for the tent and the car.  We pitched up in this cow pasture in the company of one brown cow grazing nearby, parking next to a concrete wall that enclosed another field.  We settled in, brought out the camp stove and cooked our dinner with relative ease.  From that point on we heard nothing but the distant barking of a few neighborhood dogs, then dozens, then hundreds, then what sounded like every damn dog in all of southern Ukraine until about 3am. 

Sunday, July 21- Constanta, Romania to Odessa, Ukraine.  Daily mileage: 344, Total mileage: 2338

Guys selling fish on the side of the road, the town of gypsies on the banks of the Danube where everyone appears to be offering free hugs, long 3.5 hours at Moldova and Ukraine borders, then shocked by the appalling roads on way to Odessa.  The first town was Reni, a small, cramped and dusty community with streets in such poor condition that they rivaled what you might expect on an active missile test range.  None were marked either, so without our satellite navigation system we could well have wasted an hour just trying to find the best route out of town.  Headed for Ismail and then followed signs to Odessa as they came up.  Ran into another rally team on way, convoyed for a bit and attempted to avoid the endless string of potholes, ruts and long parallel ridges that comprised the majority of Ukrainian road surfaces.    Shockingly they never really improved and stayed more or less in the same state of disrepair all the way to Odessa.  Didn’t make it before dark and so we again fell back to the satnav to find a place to stay.  It turned out to be a four star hotel and in my haste I simply paid the $179 and took it as an acceptable expense.  It frightened the other rally team off pretty quickly as well. 

Saturday, July 20- Constanta, Romania.  Daily mileage: 7, Total mileage: 1994

Decided to take a break from the driving and enjoy ourselves.  Had mussels and grilled mullet for lunch at La Pesta, walked around a little and saw the posh, clubby areas to the south.  Lounged on the beach, swam in the Black Sea, did laundry, bought pork at the grocery store from an extremely ill-tempered clerk and had a great dinner.  Mission accomplished.

Friday, July 19- Sibiu, Romania to Constanta, Romania.  Daily mileage: 354, Total mileage: 1987

Drove a few hours and stopped at a town to see about getting the radiator fan checked out or buying a replacement that I could install later on.  Mechanic named Bobby helped us, spoke perfect English.  Romania got a lot more interesting and far more beautiful as we crossed the Carpathians.  They were far more imposing than either of us anticipated, and in one town seemed to shoot straight up into the sky.  Atop a peak there was a large cross, presumably concrete, and we wondered what it took to put it there.  Roads improved and we made better time, finally seeing the coastline come into view around 7:30pm as we got to the outskirts of Constanta.  Arrived late at Oha Beach but really at a normal time for us (8:30), great campsite but really bad bathroom facilities.

Thursday, July 18- Mako, Hungary to Sibiu, Romania.  Daily mileage: 230, Total mileage: 1633

The spotting of roadside prostitutes became a bit of sport along the way, and they became increasingly common as we left the city and proceeded into the countryside.  Country roads were very slow progress, and we were frequently behind innumerable trucks which created a constant backup.  Speeds rarely exceeded 40mph.  Stuck in a traffic jam at one point, and shortly thereafter the car overheated and came dangerously close to repeating the head gasket incident….

Wednesday, July 17- Magyarovar, Hungary to Mako, Hungary.  Daily mileage: 263, Total mileage: 1403

After a quiet night and some well-needed rest we took our time packing up the next morning, having done a little laundry that still needed to dry out.  We had everything down by around 9am but Lisa found herself searching for the car keys and her debit card.  As is often the case when people misplace something of importance, the debit card was in her pocket between the pages of her passport, and I spotted the car keys on the ground just next to the car.  Crisis averted, we set off

UPDATE: current location and blog for 7/16

Current mileage on 

Mileage update for 7/18: 88327 on the odometer, for a grand total of 1,559 miles from Thames Ditton, Surrey UK to Deva, Romania @ 3:45pm local time, en route to Sibui, Romania campsite.

 Blog for 7/17 & 7/18 will be posted ASAP…

Tuesday, July 16- Klenovy, Czech Republic to Magyarovar, Hungary: we woke early in the morning, around 7:30am, to a relatively quiet campsite despite celebrations lasting well into the early morning.  A small village had formed around our tent while we were socializing at the castle, and among our neighbors was a particularly rambunctious pair; an Italian and a Spaniard.  They politely asked if they could pitch up next to us, then proceeded to blast club music through their car stereo (actually it was "Get Lucky" on continuous loop) and dance on the hood.  Part of me was jealous, but mostly all I could think about was trying to sleep through the night with that going on 5 feet away with nothing between my head and the noise except for a thin nylon barrier.  Before turning in we opted to move the tent to a more secluded spot behind a stand of trees, which did the trick.  Our plan was to drive down to Austria and cut across to Hungary and the town of Gyor by around 7pm, and we departed before the actual sendoff party.  As much as we hated to miss it, we wanted to make good time.  All was going well until the next major town, when I was flagged down by a Czech policeman for going 64kph in a 50kph zone.  This was all very flattering as I wasn’t aware our Alto could travel at such fantastic speeds uphill, but his radar setup seemed legit and I had no choice but to take him at his word.  In broken German I managed to deduce that the policeman was going to fine me 500 crowns, which came out to around $24 USD.  We didn’t have any crowns on us and he refused to accept anything but, and so he retained my drivers’ license and passport so we could return to the center of town and obtain the necessary hard currency.  We returned about 45 minutes later, and surprisingly he spend about 10 minutes filling out paperwork and a receipt.  He took great care to note the amount and to show me that the documents he was returning to me were, in fact, mine.  Accepting that we had been pulled over and fined first in an EU country and not in some eastern European nation, we laughed and drove on.  The trip through Austria was again on small country roads to avoid tolls for using the main highways, and to see more of the small towns and countryside we’d miss otherwise.  The experience was a pleasant one, but we only passed through the outskirts of Vienna and weren’t able to stop for any sight-seeing.  When we reached Hungary there was a definite change in everything, even more so than from Germany to the Czech Republic.  Use of the English language was also rapidly diminishing and now we were presented with signs that neither of us could properly read nor pronounce.  There was occasional German in use, but only on signage and I presume for the benefit of travelers from neighboring Austria.  One thing we’d managed to do on the way was to seek out wifi during a lunch stop and research prospective campsites in and around Gyor.  Shamelessly using the satellite navigation, we punched several of them in as the evening wore on.  In a curious turn of events, however, we’d come to realize that camping seemed to be wildly popular in Hungary and it was doubtful we’d even need the help of our GPS unit to find a good spot.  Signage indicating nearby hotels, fuel, camping and dining locations were everywhere, even on the rough country roads we were traveling.  It soon became obvious that we’d have missed any chance of finding a campsite had we been on major thoroughfares, unless of course travelers on those roads were equally well informed by signs. As we passed through the town of Magyarovar we spotted several grocery stores, gas stations and then a very nice looking campsite/restaurant nestled on a riverbank.  Just 34km from our original destination of Gyor, we figured that seeing was believing and opted to turn around and stay at the campsite in Magyarovar.  As we arrived around 7pm, we had plenty of time to visit the local grocery store for some cubed beef and to stop at an ATM for Hungarian currency to pay our campsite bill.  We cooked a nice dinner and even ran into another rally team, two quiet Dutch gentleman who had filmed the morning events at the castle.  They were kind enough to show them to us, so we hadn’t entirely missed out on all the fun.

Monday, July 15- Chimay, Belgium to Klenovy, Czech Republic: one of several revelations provided by our brief access to wifi was that we had been mistaken regarding the date of the rally launch from the Czech Republic.  It was, in fact, the night of the 15^th rather than the 16^th.  We still planned to pass through Luxembourg on the way, a small victory in the “driving through countries we’d never been to” department but nevertheless a hollow one.  There would be precious little time for stops or side trips on our route eastward.  We would have to make spectacular time to get to Klenovy,  if only to enjoy a free meal, and convenient to our predicament a vast and gleaming ribbon of German highway lay before us.  We passed into France once again and then to Luxembourg, through several tunnels and finally into Germany.  Again, there was a problem.  The disappointing reality of our driving a 1.1 liter Suzuki Alto on this miracle of automotive transit pains me in ways I find difficult to describe.  Whatever joy I might otherwise have derived from the experience was sapped away by the chore of keeping our vehicle, traveling at around 70mph, from becoming a stationary barrier to pretty much every other vehicle on the road.  Sports cars, heavy trucks, Zambonis, tractors, mule carts, they were all rocketing past us at speeds we could only dream of.  I made every effort to stay out of their way despite any feelings of jealousy.  I felt a modest swelling of pride as we entered Baden-Württemberg and then passed a turnoff for Stuttgart, my grandmother’s ancestral homeland and also that of Porsche.  I insisted on returning, not just to revisit the old country and explore my ancestral roots but more importantly to do so in an absurdly fast car.  For the moment we were hopelessly outgunned and tried our best to make good time in our little economy car.  Anger and frustration stirred as we passed one significant landmark after another, a repeat of France, Belgium and the Ardennes.  Europe is beyond measure given the historical perspective of an American, and we comforted ourselves with the knowledge that it would take a lifetime to enjoy just a handful of what there was to see.  We would come back, of course.  Nearing the Czech border we left the frustrating reality of high-speed German highways behind, opting for the more infrequently traveled country roads.  Just as in France we passed by rolling farmland and one picturesque village after another, with one notable difference being the architecture of the church steeple/bell tower.  The sharp Romanesque profile of French churches had been replaced by the Baroque, onion-like domes of German ones.  Again I marveled at Europe, at its age and its determination to look and feel as solid as the ground it was built upon.  America wasn’t without its own wonders but the newness and modernity of it all felt hollow and fragile when compared to places like this.  Everything was so old and traditional, so supremely fashioned and solidly built that it had withstood centuries of the worst sorts of chaos mankind could think to throw at it.  Well, perhaps not here, or at least I had to think so.  No place could possibly look so serene were it not in some sort of protective bubble.  Waldmuchen was our last stop on the German side, and we had to proceed on a dirt road because of some construction.  Not long after we were back on pavement and then passed through yet another unceremonious Eurozone border crossing, this time into the Czech Republic.  Here was another entirely distinct language and culture in the distance it would take to travel from my hometown in eastern Kentucky to Nashville, Tennessee.  I remarked to Lisa that the transition was actually not unlike the border with Kentucky and Virginia, aside from the fact that language and nationality were only slightly more apparent here…..

UPDATE: 7/12 to 7/14, from Thames Ditton to Chimay

Note: I'll be listing the mileage per day ASAP....

Sunday, July 14- Launch Day: 

Not long after waking up in what was soon to become an oven at around 8am, the crowd also began to stir and soon a fellow with a megaphone was out to get us moving.  Lisa and I walked down to get breakfast and allow the morning dew to dry before packing up our tent in preparation for departure.  Breakfast was a simple bacon sandwich and we were a little miffed about having to pay for coffee, but at this point half of our mild complaining stemmed from simply waking up hung over.  We headed back up the hill and got the tent together, then packed up the car and waited with everyone else for what came next; the awards ceremony.  There were some rather modest goodies given to teams that had raised the most for charity (The Old Blues Brothers- two very nice gentlemen named Paul and Ian driving a Smart ForFour), came far too overprepared (can't remember the team name, but they were given a large television set that had been painted gold and instructed to produce it at the finish line), broken down numerous times already (Team Serpico) and so on.  Throughout the morning young men dressed in period chain mail and armed with swords staged duels and wrestled around on the ground to get the crowd worked up, and Lisa jumped at a photo op.  This was followed by a little jousting, first by two guys on horseback and then a round of horse versus rally car just to get the crowd in high spirits.  Soon after we took some group photos in front of the stage, filed off to our cars and slowly began moving towards the stage in our cars for our official sendoff.  Our little Alto struggled just a bit getting up the ramp but I managed to get us up and over without stalling it or getting hung up on the boards, which I’d really been worried about.  That’s exactly what had happened to Team Serpico as they were driving up to receive their “least likely to make it” award, which drew a roar of laughter and applause from the crowd.  I really hope those guys make it, we’re all rooting for them.  After passing over the stage and making a short drive back around the grounds and we were on the road, heading to the ferry landing at Dover and our short trip across the channel to France.  Loading at the ferry docks went smoothly, and the sheer size and scale of the facilities used by these ships came as a surprise.  We boarded the French-flagged vessel Rodin and arrived in Calais perhaps an hour later.  After getting back on the road, this time driving on the right-hand side, we somewhat cautiously maneuvered our car down the less traveled country roads and avoided the larger highways on our way to Belgium and Luxembourg.  Being a Sunday we noted that the entire nation of France, aside from the docks at Calais, seemed to have closed up shop for the day.  I’m not exaggerating, the streets were deserted in every town we drove through (I am somewhat embarrassed to admit this but a few days later I was politely informed by my own mother that on Sunday, July 14 it was, in fact, Bastille Day- practically the French equivalent to the 4th of July).  As evening hours approached and we passed through more and more of these picturesque French villages we did notice the occasional pub open to small groups of patrons, but this was relatively rare and otherwise all was quiet.  The towns themselves were enviable in their beauty, almost as if they had been constructed solely for the benefit of passing tourists.  You could always spot them from miles off simply by looking for a large Romanesque church steeple or bell tower marking their location on the horizon.  Most of any appreciable size also had a soldiers’ memorial somewhere in the town center, often painted, rifle in hand complete with bayonet and usually sporting a uniform dating back to World War I. The countryside was beautiful; rolling farmland and tree-lined highways stretched on for miles.  It was also dotted with British and Canadian WWI cemeteries, so I presumed we were passing through what had once been the front lines of a massive battlefield.  As daylight hours dwindled we made an attempt to locate camp sites using our satellite navigation.  Though we passed a number of good spots to pull over in the Ardennes forest, facilities were of particular interest.  After a few dead ends we turned for the town of Chimay, entered Belgium with little more than a small sign to let us know we were in it and found a hotel at the last minute.  Tomorrow we set off for the Czech Republic and our last official meeting point with other teams before we all head further east.

Saturday, July 13:

Waking around 8am with plenty of time to spare the four of us shared a pot of fresh coffee courtesy of the now fully operations gasoline powered cooking stove.  We had a few stops to make that morning and some very important errands to run.  We needed an ample supply of dry goods for our food pantry and a laundry list of important items for the car, including two new rear tires.  The plan was to mount the old ones on some cheap spare rims and throw them in the car as cheap back-ups, but sadly the tire store didn’t have any.  At any rate they did have the new tires we needed in stock and were kind enough to leave us the old ones.  We made a few stops for additional tools; a mallet, large flathead screwdriver, jumper cables, fire extinguisher, tow rope and a spare quart of oil should the car start burning more than it should.  Despite those essentials we still lacked a spare drive belt and those rims, so we’d have to try again once we got to mainland Europe.   At Morrison’s, a very large chain grocery, we stocked up on foodstuffs and even grabbed two large plastic bins to keep everything in.  We cheerfully filled them up in the parking lot with all of our food in one and sleeping bags, pillows and inflatable mats in the other, very glad to have our car a little more organized prior to our departure.  At that point it was time to head off to Bodiam and to the startline festivities that were waiting for us there.  The drive was gorgeous, if not a bit nerve racking on some very narrow hedge-lined country roads.  The car navigation system (yes, we cheated) took us on what seemed to be a very roundabout and haphazard way, but eventually we saw signs for the castle followed by a large grouping of very tiny cars in the distance.  That was our destination.  We pulled into a spot and immediately ran into Sam Moore and Thunder from Down Under.  We’d heard they also ran into some problems with their D&K sourced car and were glad to see they were in good spirits and their vehicle seemed fully operational.  We met a nice couple traveling as “the B-team” and all stretched out for some wine and to exchange stories up to that point.  Before long word got around that we’d be able to set up our tents.  Ever mindful of just how precious a nice, flat place for your tent can be and how essential it is to a good night’s sleep we jumped at the opportunity to get moving.  Our placement was a good ways up a hillside adjacent to the castle, but certainly level enough to prevent us from ending up in a heap at the far side of the tent.  With everything set up, sleeping bags zipped together and mats properly inflated we walked back down the hill to rejoin the festivities and eventually claim our much anticipated portion of what had been billed as a feast.  This turned out to be a disappointing hamburger with sautéed onions which we wolfed down anyway, and not a half bad one either.  A short time later we were all herded off to the castle and Lisa pounced on a rare photo-op with some chain mail clad period actors.  They would be a source of entertainment throughout our walk to Bodiam a few hundred yards away, occasionally stopping to challenge each other to swordplay or some wrestling for our amusement.  At Bodiam we wandered the parapets, enjoyed the free mead while it lasted and had a brief chat with Tim the Disco Wizard.  He was an unusual fellow that bore a sort of medieval resemblance to Jack Sparrow and pointedly refused to break character.  He may well have been under the influence of some very strong drugs, but was harmless enough as he wandered around the crowd.  Enter the team clad in speedos, prompting about a half hour of staring, photo ops and a quick chat with a security guard.  I assured him those gentlemen hadn’t smuggled in anything of concern based on our observations. 

Friday, July 12: 

After a morning check-in with the mechanic, it turned out the work on our rally car was soon to be completed.  We packed up our belongings and bid London a fond but much needed farewell, as we’d dallied there much longer than anticipated.  Dave Leach advised us to catch the 2:10pm train out to Thames Ditton and was waiting for us at the station in Vauxhall, all smiles as usual.  He had very generously and enthusiastically taken off early from work to accompany us.  Once back at Dave’s house we hopped into his red ’89 BMW (aka The Rockabilly Cruise Machine) and headed down to the mechanic’s shop, The Weybridge Garage on 34 Walton Road, to survey the damage and collect our wounded car.  The shop keeper was very optimistic, stating that our Alto “had plenty of heart, and with a little care, vigilance and no small degree of luck it would get us to Mongolia”.  The butcher’s bill was a staggering 712GBP, but at that point we were prepared for the shock and honestly just grateful to have a fully operational vehicle.  Having successfully retrieved our pitiful car we said our goodbyes to Dave Leach, our savior for the last week along with Candace Blair who provided accommodations in London.  I’d been provided a useful tip for a good campsite and we headed south towards the coast and the town of Herstmonceaux.  Once there we set up camp for the night at a pub called the Bull’s Head, which had a field in the back for people to set up tents and some surprisingly nice bathroom facilities at 15GBP.  As we surveyed a plot a cheerful young couple walked up and said “you look like you’re about to drive to Mongolia!”.  That was Chase and his girlfriend, and we opted to join them across the field to socialize a bit and enjoy a flatter, thistle-free location.  After setting up our ridiculously palatial tent next to their baby blue Fiat Panda, we walked back to the pub for a nice dinner.  Bangers and mash for myself and steak pie for Lisa, and the food was excellent.  The next day was our big trip to the start line at Bodiam Castle, about 18 miles away.