Khovd, Mongolia. We're at the Mongol Rally graveyard, a garage full of wrecks of rally vehicles that died in the country and could only make it this far on a tow-rope. It's an eery sight.
There's only so many blown tyres and wrecked windscreens you can look at before you start thinking there's no chance your little Punto will ever make it. Thankfully Mr W is parked outside and doesn't have to see this.
One car advertises its sponsor, a motor parts supplier, as 'one of the cheapest in the UK'. Seeing their dead motor here, that's not a great advert. We're here to try and score a spare tyre. Trouble is, as we've already noticed, no-one round here drives Puntos, and tyres are particular beasts. But Jeff and Steve go off to a mad market full of watermelons and animal skins and manage to find a wheel that's both the right size and has the right bolt spacing on it.
So we leave safe in the knowledge we've got a fine rear end and a couple of proper spares. Which is handy - the road from Khovd to the next town is an infamous 200km car-killer.
We woke up that morning at the ger camp, refreshed from a decent night's sleep and a shower powered by a particularly shit generator. Much faffing ensues, with the convoy taking practically all day to get almost nothing done. The only achievements are Steve having around $20 nicked from his wallet, and Robbie, one of the blokes from the Mong Way Round team, being relieved of $100. Thieving shits.
There's also chance for Greg to discover he's snapped a rear spring in his Daihatsu. Luckily we've still got the Audi springs that were too crap to take Mr W's weight and had to be replaced. They do the ridiculous and stick one onto his wagon as a temporary measure. It seems to work.
Paul continues his run of fine cow-shit chefery by cooking a ridiculous breakfast of omelette and beans. It's a sad day for us, as we have to say our farewells and god-speeds to Greg and Karmel and the German boys. They're up for making their way to the finish line incredibly slowly, heading off into the countryside to check out more lakes. It's a shame, as they're ace people and we've had a cracking time together, arse-fat and all. If you're reading this, chaps, remember the door is always open in Cornwall.
After way way more faffing, we finally get on the road at about 6pm. We're starting to get a bit frustrated with all this. It's clearly just a product of moving in a large group, but coming as it does right near the end of the trip we'd much rather be moving - at whatever pace - than sitting around waiting for other people to sort their shit out. You never saw Rubber Ducky parked in a lay-by waiting half an hour for the other truck drivers to buy crisps. But it's a convoy and that's what you do. You don't want to be the bell-ends that cane off ahead only to break down and need people's help four miles down the road.
We drive past some guys in a Mongolian van, who gesture at us to stop. One guy comes over wearing camouflage gear and stinking of booze. 'What is your name?!' he shouts. 'How old are you?!' Turns out he's a Mongolian throat singer. He treats us to a little burn...
When we do finally get on the road there are problems straight away. Mong Way Round's Skoda punctures its gearbox when we're out in the middle of nowhere. As usual I get stuck right into the engine work:
Light is fading, so this dictates where we camp - next to the Skoda. It's not like there's a road you can camp next to - there's just a series of trails. We just need to set up somewhere in between them, and hope no-one decides to forge their own new path right through us in the middle of the night.
We sit around drinking vodka. Stunning place. Blah blah blah. Tomorrow, however, we have to face our futures - on that car-killing road...
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