Day 36: shock and awe

Taldyqorghan, Kazakhstan. We're on the way out of the city, doing about 10 miles an hour round a left-hand bend, when there's an almighty clang. What the hell was that? We take a look. That'll be the rear shocks snapped then. So we end up covering 600km, on the most dilapidated roads we've seen so far, with Mr W's back-end scraping the ground. By the end of the day the car's not the only one whose arse is suffering.

It's a shame about the roads, as otherwise the drive is stunning. We're well out in the middle of nowhere now, out on the plains, barren countryside stretching for miles. The sun sets behind jagged peaks, casting its serene light upon a lake. We're not alone on the road, but otherwise there's nothing human here but the odd bulb-lit concrete hut promising Nescafe, and kids on horses herding sheep. I suddenly see a kid cycling down the road. Where are you going? And where from? The stars are incredible, lit up orange by occasional flashes of lightning.

We're heading for the Russian border in the north, and the town of Semey, which is still suffering the effects of the Soviets testing nuclear bombs on the steppes just outside the town. They call the area the Polygon. They tested around 450 bombs there, as recently as 1989. You can still go and wander around it if you like, but you're recommended to wear a radiation suit. That hasn't stopped the locals ambling around it, or grazing their sheep there. I'll have the talking lamb casserole please. Shock and awe the enemy, turn your kids' gums into rubber. Maybe Mr W will benefit from a dose of radiation. She could grow legs or something, run us to Ulaanbaatar.

Of course we shouldn't diss her. Jeff points out it's one hell of an achievement to have gone 6,500 miles without anything going properly wrong. But we'll need to get it sorted before Mongolia. There's no way we'll make it anywhere in a country where the roads make Kazakhstan's rally tracks look like Silverstone.

The first half of today's drive is a dream. Even with no suspension at the back the roads aren't too bad, the sun's out of course, and despite the ongoing lack of signage the drive across the open moorland still warms the soul. Until the cops show up. Getting stopped is no fun in these parts. We get a $30 fine for nothing, and pay up once he threatens to take us back to the last town and write up a proper ticket. Even mentioning Manchester United wouldn't get you off round here.

Jeff looks at the map and points out that China is just past the mountains to our right. We've driven to China. For some reason that sounds far more ridiculous than the fact we've driven to Kazakhstan. Which in itself is pretty stupid. My head hits the ceiling as the rear right wheel yelps its way over a bump.

Once the sun drops things get worse. There's a new noise, which seems to be coming from under the handbrake. Jeff reckons it's coming from back left. We turn the music down, and drift alone in the dark, listening for clues. It reminds me of Jaws when they're out in the boat, nothing but the sound of water lapping on the hull as they train their ears for any ominous sign of their predator.

Rumble rumble clank... rumble rumble clank...

And so it continues for about 150km. Steve's a seasoned driver, no stranger to caning his old Mini round Cornish backlanes, or go-karts round suicidal race tracks. But right now his driving stance looks like that of an old woman. He's Miss Daisy driving. 'All I can do is press my eyeballs to the windscreen and stare at shadows,' he says.

Our inept map shows a motorway ahead. That would be a god-send. We see some lights, which may be it, and aim for them, further up a road that looks like it's seen a few nuclear tests of its own. Soon we crawl past the barely discernable shapes of more concrete huts, dark and mysterious, their lights revealing shadowy figures moving about inside. Then the road gets more ridiculous - huge bomb craters that would be guaranteed to kill the car if you were unfortunate enough to fall in them. This can't be the main road. We pick our way back through it all again, back to some guys outside a hut. It is the main road, they say. Unbelievable. Keep going, 100km, straight, straight, straight, straight... Not that driving straight is even an option on these trails.

And so it continues: pick your way through the mess, first gear, second gear, up to third, peering through the windscreen into the gloom. Back to first, pick, weave, dodge the pothole, hit the pothole, swap onto the road running parallel, see if that's any better. It's not, go back on the first road, into first gear, our first kilometre. Only another 99 to go. The weirdest thing is that we haven't taken a wrong turn. This is the right road, the main road, and loads of other idiots are using it too.

It's nearing midnight. Portishead comes on the shuffle. It's the first time this trip, and the combination of dusty drums, dubby basslines and ethereal vocals are the perfect soundtrack to our increasingly surreal night. We listen to the whole of the Dummy album, as we bump our way through the darkness.

Jeff takes over for the final hour, Steve crashes in the back exhausted. It's more of the same, except now Nick Drake provides the maudlin soundscapes, as we're flanked by sprawling mausuleums in the fields. I would drive, but watching the road even as a passenger is tiring enough for bushes to start looking like living people out the corner of your eye. Just writing this blog had been playing with my mind enough already. Last night I awoke from a dream remembering only that I'd described something on the trip as 'like Pac Man in a war'. I wish I could remember what that was.

Finally we make it to Semey, which in our current state of mind looks even more ominously Soviet than it ordinarily would. Huge grey concrete buildings and massive pilons. That's all I see. Some guys guide us to a hotel, itself a huge concrete block, brightened pathetically by a strange string of Christmas lights. Blatantly another cheap Kazakh knocking shop.

We end the marathon day in the kafe with a beer. It's a room of yellow flowered wallpaper, lit only by the light from one little red lamp. The flowers seem to have giant eye-balls at their centre. Fitting for a former surveillance state. In the USSR, even the radioactive flora is watching you...