The middle of nowhere, Mongolia. The three of us sit looking at the three flat dust trails fanning out in front of us. One goes straight ahead, one bends to the left, the other splits off to the right. In navigating terms that's about as useful as being out to sea and someone saying 'hang a right at the wet patch'.
We're just staring at mountains ringing a load of sand.
Pass.
I want you now to go back and erase from your mind any cases in previous blogs where I've used the words 'mental' and 'weird'. As I feared, I really did shoot my bolt too soon there. This is where the trip truly cranks itself up to 11.
Escape from Mongatraz
We woke up among the detritus of vodka and flame, next to the Germans' ambulance, with the sun rising over the hills. The night seemed toasty at the time, but my body temperature has dropped right off. I've got the chills. Which isn't surprising given that even everyone who slept in cars is complaining of shivering all night. Greg tells me he was whimpering the whole time like a small child.
Despite the discomfort we're right back in the game, buoyed by thoughts of being back on the road before the morning's out. A groundhog lemming thing sniffs around at our pans. The big birds are still circling. We even spot a few choughs. 'This is rapidly turning into one of our best stops,' says Jeff. 'Ace nature, ace laughs.' We spot our first yak herd wandering past. 'Yak on,' says Jeff. We celebrate with more coffee and beautifully inept hacky-sack.
But the morning passes and we're still here. We get little Boldbaatr to demonstrate his prowess at Mongolian wrestling. After the Kazakh talc fight, it's the perfect chance for Jeff to reclaim some of his flagging self-respect - by wrestling a child.
The weather turns crap - blowy and wet. And we get tired and shitty again. If we're not out today I'm going to pound Andy's face in. Hi Andy. Steve creates a makeshift shelter out of a sheet of tarpaulin and the Mr Wazzboobleyoid's left flank. We sit under it and eat. Time passes, nothing happens. This is rubbish.
Soon there's more action at the entry gate - a few more cars of rallyers has arrived. We say our hellos, then all end up camped in the customs office waiting for some information. Any information. Please. It's not overly forthcoming. But towards the end of the day we hear word that our man on the other end of the phone has been given the green light - the money has been sorted and they'll be letting us out today.
And so, at 6.30pm, after 31 hours at Mongolian customs, we're finally free. Unleashed upon the world again, we're now part of our first convoy of the trip - five car-loads of idiots weaving their way out through the village onto bumpy dirt roads and into the void. We're away. Finally.
Within two minutes the Fiesta in front has caught fire. What is this? One of the team, Sam, is leaping about, chucking stuff out of the boot, with everyone rushing around her to coat the contents with the foam from fire extinguishers. They had a battery sitting in the back connected to a load of inept wiring and it blew up.
Much faffing ensues, and after two days in customs we're wired and short-tempered and in no mood to remain still, so we plough ahead. Spat out of purgatory and off into the unknown. It's amazing. We're now in proper rally territory - loud rock blaring out as the Punto wheels spit up clouds of dust in our wake. We navigate by the sun and compass. Steve's driving. Our track has just split in two, each curving off into an uncertain distance. He shrugs his shoulders. Jeff points his hand to the right. 'That's south.' We go right.
A jeep comes bombing past looking decidedly local and in the know. We follow him for a bit.
Later on we take what appears to be the road, but Steve spots a problem up ahead. 'There's a gate,' he says. 'This isn't the road.' Sure enough there's a barely discernable trail curving away to our right, under the telegraph poles. Here's one tip for desert driving - if you're not sure which road to take, stay close to the poles, as they're bound to lead to the next town.
Luckily we're taking it very easy, and the others soon catch us up, which is ideal. We've enjoyed being fairly independent of the rally so far - the whole thing has wound up being a road-trip for the three of us - but we quickly appreciate that out here we're so much better off as part of a crew. The convoy gets a big 10-4.
The Aussies in the Jimney 4x4 cane ahead, led by their GPS, with the rest of us in tow. It's a crazy scene - the sun setting behind us, cars veering off all over the place, picking trails, overtaking each other, hopping off of one trail across stoney scrub land to join another. Out the window to the right, a zebra-coloured Skoda bounces along past us in a cloud of sand. To the left it's a battered blue Fiesta. It's like Mad Max has downsized to a more fuel-efficient model.
We roll past a load of yaks grazing next to a lake. They're big-shouldered horny hairy bastards. Soon we stop to regroup, which quickly turns into a chance to throw some shapes in the desert. The yaks watch me and Jeff get funky.
Our first taste of the potentially sketchy comes when the trail leads us up a steep hill. Round here they don't believe in gently winding around mountains - the road goes straight up. Mr W is in first gear giving it everything she's got. It's nearly not enough, but she makes it. Just. Like a Scottish gym teacher panting his way up the Gladiators travelator.
The reward is to look back on one of the most stunning views we've ever experienced. Jeff has a moment. Me too - it's my second nature-based well-up of the trip, after Kyrgyzstan. The feeling is one of triumph mixed with privilege. We're lucky to be here. The mood is altered when Greg pulls up, with Stenalees Surf Club's rendition of Magic Number booming out of his jeep. I gave him the CD earlier. This is ace. We formed the band for the trip, now I'm standing in Mongolia as a new mate cranks our sound out across the desert.
The only downer is that finding the chance to write is becoming increasingly tricky. The perfect writing time used to be in the back of the car as we drove, or in a hotel of an evening once we've turned in. But now we're rolling in a convoy, there's vodka to be drunk, and the roads are so bumpy that a simple sentence can all too easifsds;5ly; tuasdhkrn isnto sthissasgh ksaind oasf shit. If I try to sneak off for a cheeky half-hour in a car, someone comes over to ask what I'm up to. Even now, it's 7.15am in the middle of the desert, I've just taken a crap next to a telegraph pole, silhouetted by the rising sun, and every other fucker just got up as I started writing this. And they're making me coffee. The selfish bastards.
The convoy crawls into town under the cover of night, guided in by a Mongolian man on a chopper with a fuel tank painted up like the Stars and Stripes. We end up at a hotel which charges $20 a piece, for a shitty room with no shower. We take over an entire floor, with everyone arranging to meet in each others' rooms for booze. It's ace, if a bit too much like university halls for someone in their thirties to be totally at ease with.
We wile the night away with the Germans and Greg and Karmel, on the vodka. It's a great night, mellow, talking. Martin makes the point that if you got 15 people together to compile their stories from the rally, you'd have an almighty collection. Then they show everyone the photos of the arse-fat they were fed in Kyrgyzstan. I hadn't expected it to be actually anus-shaped.
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