Week Four
Or I should say I did, as the others let me scout on ahead while they got a place to park up. I met a few wee Tajik kids playing with a fishing net at the river’s edge. I left my beloved ACG sandals and t-shirt under their watchful eye and examined a bit more. That was the last I’d see of them by the way. Bunch of wee thieving cunts. The Panj itself looked about 40, maybe 50 metres across at the bend I was standing on. You could wade out half way. I did.
Then a shout from behind. Bob had caught up and the only line II remember from him was “You’ll never make it! The current’s far too strong!“.
Anyone who knows me knows what happened next. Bob’s ringing endorsement of my aquatic capabilities threw me into the water after a couple of minutes on my own deliberating. “One good shift and I’m across” was my theory. I remember how long it felt doing a length of the pool back when I pretended I could swim, so I figured balls-out effort on my own variant of the front crawl would get me through. It didn’t. As I put my head above the water level – I can’t really do breathing and swimming at the same time – to inhale I was still about 5 metres off. Worse, I was now in the full force of the current and was heading downstream towards a semi-rapids type section. A frenzied bit of splashing about later had got me no further and I was sucked under the water going over this drop in the river line.
“Fuck, so this is what it feels like to drown“. The first thought as I felt the force of the river plow into my panicked body. I was wrecked from the exertions of getting half way across the main current. But I’d rather get carried downstream a few clicks than drown. So I battled back to the surface. Now out of the rough section, as well as being a lot further downstream than I thought (later I was told the others had lost sight of me once I went under), I was now in relatively calm waters. And still 5 metres from the Afghan bank! Strange how you don’t feel your tiredness when a small ray of light hits your frazzled state of mind like that. Another few seconds of last gasp smashing at the water and I will probably never be as glad to feel Afghan soil as I did at that moment. From fingertips to forearms, elbows and knees, once out of the crushing Panj river I praised Allah, no doubt about it.
So Ghanners box ticked, now all I had to do was the same again but in reverse. I began walking back upstream. The guys by now had split, some at the river’s edge brandishing a rope in much the same way you’d take a torch to fight a war, and the rest drove up above Khorog to a vantage point where they could see me wandering along the Afghan bank looking for an appropriate crossing point.
Or more accurately, a point in my head at which I’d have enough courage to get back in the water!
A couple of kilometers later, I had my spot. Which was just as well seeing as my teammates had spotted a curious Afghani en route to my position. I picked a place where the meanders of the Panj were at their widest in the hope I wouldn’t have to fight as strong a current. Steadying myself, I attempted a ‘this guy means business’ kind of dive into the blue water and nervously begin splashing my way to safety. I splashed alright – into shallow water up to my waist.
Trying to act cool I waded out past the first rocky crop of shallows. So far so good. But the river here whilst appearing less wild meant that I had a lot further to go. Out I waded looking like an ant in the middle of it – by this time a gaggle of Tajikis had come down to watch my adventure. My feet weren’t the hardest and all this walking along river stones was killing me. But anyway the time had come for another swim. This time I had learned my lesson. I seen another island a few hundred metres down from my position. I would swim out at 90° to the current hopefully taking me to a position just upstream of that island and I’d let the current take me on to it.
As it turned out I probably could have got the whole way to the Tajik shoreline but wasn’t for taking chances and anyway underestimating my ability was a nice feeling to have. By the time I got to shore a dour faced Tajik man gave me a sarcastic slow clap. Cheers mate. I didn’t care, the exhilaration of the past few hours – by now it was getting dark and when I got back to the car, as well as the shaking the head looks of disbelief that greeted me I got layers of survival clothing piled on me as a reward. In my own head I promised myself I’d live life to the fullest each day I had on this Earth after that. Well I can tell you now that this feeling of elation dies after a while but it’s good to feel it once every so often. Just don’t think I’ll do it in another swim next time…
We drove out of town a bit and I slept like a baby.
Driving northwards towards the Kyrgyz border there was a fenceline running parallel to the road looking suspiciously like it was marking a border. China perhaps but it wasn’t meant to be within 10km of the Pamir Highway. Not that you’d suspect the Chinese of a bit of diplomatic chest thumping mind you…
So we sped on past the final Tajik checkpoint at the border and another 10 miles or so later we found the Kyrgyz side. That’s the biggest stretch of No Man’s Land we’ve been through no doubt. Stopping to give a little Kyrgyz guy on a horse some sweets and we headed on. First impressions were they looked a lot more Asian than the other Stans we’d been through.
The next day we got in some awesome dust rallying down a mountain that Chinese workers were busy preparing to lay a new road on.
Although the ethnic tensions never seemed too far below the surface I never seen anything that would have made me expect the scale of violence we seen last month. A boy we met in Osh asked us about any ‘terrorists’ in Uzbekistan – while there was a mosque on the streeet we were in and his complexion struck me as not being dissimilar to that of the people of Samarkand market it was still difficult to say whether he seen Uzbeks as terrorists too or whether he was testing me with a bite.
The capital Bishkek came across a bit like Dushanbe I guess, not really the kind of place interesting enough to hang around in and spidey sense told you you’d probably get into more trouble if you did.
At the Kazakhstan border we met a few teams who arrived into Kyrgyzstan via Uzbekistan and also a Parisian guy on a solo tour round the world for a documentary in a classic Citroen. A whiny little Russian kid did his best ‘pajalsta’ to us in the queue on the Kyrgyz side of the border before doing a runner with his mate back over the border through a gap in the fence.
We made for Almaty the old Soviet capital of Kazakhstan in the South East. A welcome return to the cheap 5 star hotel treatment, although not quite as good value for money as Ashgabat. And the drink was an absolute rip off. About 7 quid a pint. Flashbacks to Norway. But there was a good crowd of us there and we had a laugh listening to two Americans in a mid-life crisis serenade a couple of ugly Kazak hookers in the hotel lobby. The breakfast the next morning was fit for kings – proper buffet and not a croissant in sight. We loaded up on the carbs and protein. And the complimentary slippers replaced my stolen ACGs from the crossing at Khorog. Result.
By now we had advance reports of the long and treacherous route to north to the Russian border. Nothing but dirt track and potholes as big as lions or something. To paraphrase Elwood:
It’s 1200 miles to the nearest Russian/Mongolian border crossing, we got a full tank of gas, half a car of vodka, it’s Wednesday, and the border closes at the weekend.
This was undoubtedly our forte. I’m not proud but driving truly ridiculous distances in adverse conditions whilst literally falling asleep at the wheel was something we knew we could do because we did it already in the Sahara.
Two days and two spare tyres later we had reached the Mongolian border. It was just after sunrise and we approached the queue of rallyers that had been steadily building up that week. There was some complications on the Mongolian side with the rally organisers having to send through car reg details/money we had already paid on demand that I reckon they held onto in case they had to pay out to authorities somewhere along the line for a vehicle being abandoned in a desert somewhere.
Aside from that, the long jouney on the M52 down from Barnaul took us through authentic Russia – with it’s coniferous forests stretching for hundreds of unbroken miles – and untouched Russia with the snow-capped Altai Mountains looking absolutely stunning as we neared our target. The sight of those mountains as dawn broke going through that final valley is definitely something I want to experience again. Probably the single most impressive scene of the rally for me.
Taking it in turns alternating between driving and catching some sleep Bob and myself kept going until one slump too many at the wheel scared us enough into asking the other to take over. There were more than a few blasts of the horn from locals who probably thought they had seen it all on their roads. Still we got there and we were going to let everyone else know we did Almaty to Mongolia in two days.
We eventually came through the labourious border routine for one last time on the rally and went a bit wild car-wise once we opened out onto the Mongolian Steppe. We ripped up one of our last 4 tyres (by now we had a running collection of 6) and just rode on the rim to the next town, Tsagaannuur. We met a nice family there who got us another tyre, drove a few hundred yards out into the open plain without any recognisable sign of a road, opened the doors and slept. Or at least we would have done had it not been too cold. Evidently we were quite high up and it was an uncomfortable night in the Suzuki.
Fuck it, we were in Mongolia!
After filling up from a hand-pumped petrol pump we met a team that could only get up hills by reversing and then shortly & inexplicably hit tarmac out in the middle of nowhere the next day. It had little crossroads going off it every mile or so, as if expecting new towns being built off the side of it any day now. We arrived in Olgii, met a few more teams, and got the mother of all tyres. “Russian Bear” was the brand. Apparently the Rooski stuff is the best regarded kit around Mongolia, with China a distant second. As the mechanic we spoke to indicated via the internationally recognised small cock symbol of his little finger arched up. We took off after a nice Chinese.
We had a bit of bother finding the pass first of all. There was a shitload of gravel on these roads and more often than not I had the wheels in grooves with the oil pan scraping along the loose stones. Soon enough we had found a hole in our fuel tank. Not a biggie but a fairly continuous drip drip drip. We were also fairly lost. This was the first section of our trip were there were no roads just dirt track that literally went in all directions. Luckily our American friend came to the rescue with some epoxy resin that seemed to plug the gap. Meanwhile, and I don’t use the word lightly, the most random Mongolians came to our aid with directions on where to next. “Not that line in the sand, this one“. And they drove off into the sunset. I fully admit to questioning what on earth they were doing out there apparently just helping us and nothing else. Still can’t quite work it out, unless the Mongol authorities paid them to be there for us. But we don’t want to think that way so we won’t go there.
By now it was getting dark. With snow. Before long it was a blizzard and we met up with 3 more Americans all in little Micras. Going was slow although we got through a river crossings or two before being waylaid by the Americans use of Google Maps overlays on their GPS. Note of caution: GMaps ‘roads’ are not always where they claim they are. Especially when it’s really just the track marks of the last few vehicles to pass by. With no real idea where we were and moving ‘forwards’ becoming more and more hazardous we hunkered down for the night effectively snowed in. Cue drinks and blasts of the car heater every 30 mins or so. It was freezing outside and it was the middle of August in the Northern Hemisphere. We must have been pretty high up. Looking back I make our position that night to be in this apparently lush green upland area just south of the marked route. The pass which we were to attempt the next day is the ridge running north-south.
The next day we gave the pass a go. Once again the Suzuki was more than up to the task while the others struggled on. We ended up towing Arb Itinerary’s Toyota over the top. And from there onto Khovd, which had a little Yuurt town on the outskirts with a ‘Mongol Rally Official Campsite’ sign. We drove on into town.
And for your information, this is what 99% of the Gobi looks like:
The other 1% is water. Water that we foolishly thought we’d tackle by driving against the current. Here’s the result:
We met another few teams here as they passed by our stricken hatchback, one of which we’d be collecting souvenirs from before the trip was out… but after witnessing the drowned Suzuki – who’s air filter we only discovered after flooding the thing was just above the wheel – splutter miraculously back to life we were on our way too.
The next big town was Bayankhongor and after attempting our own ridiculous impression of a cut n’ shut without the cut we decided to part with the Americans for the home run.
No sooner was this decided then we rounded a corner and arrived at the crash site of another group of yanks. This time the infinitely easier on the eye Team SweeTeas. Although the same couldn’t be said of their Jimny, which they successfully rolled moments before. One of them, Mollie I think? got out and immediately did what any true rallyer would have – started to take phots of the carnage. Team LRDG meanwhile had just cracked open the beers and were well into another “who’s got the worst Aussie accent?” competition when we were morally obliged to lend a chivalrous hand. I’m not sure we did much good but hey we got the shot!
I’m sitting here typing this now and I’ve still got one of their ragged business cards that I rescued from the wreckage before the locals came and made off with whatever they could find.
We headed on and passed out drunk on the Steppe for a one final night
The next day we hit Ulaan Baatar, capital of Mongolia and finish line of Team LRDG’s rally.
Thank you for the awesome read!