The road to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. Steve and a French guy are trying their best to wrap a bandage round a Mongolian's head to hold his skull together. The poor bloke has flown down a steep slope in his van and rolled it, hammering his head into the desert through smashing glass as the vehicle tipped. His moaning is rapidly becoming a gurgle. He's punctured at least one lung, which is clearly filling with blood. He has about 10 minutes to live.
Minutes before we'd come to the bottom of the track and seen the guy's van lying on its side, a massive sattelite dish and a load of wood overloading the roof that faced us, a crowd of Mongolians sitting around his body as it writhed in pain in the sand.
People are trying to move him - Steve tells them to stop, and asks the French guy if he has thought to try draining the bloke's lungs. 'Yes,' he says, 'but think about it - if we try it out here and he dies these people will kill us.' It's time for quick decisions. Steve has done everything he can to help him, and quickly opts to move us on urgently before the guy passes on and things turn hysterical. We leave as a medical team arrives, too late. Steve says it's one of the toughest decisions he's ever had to make.
It's an otherworldly moment for the final day of our trip, and it really puts everything into perspective as we finally reach the fabled tarmac for the first time in this country. The mood in the car is sombre and philosophical. Jeff points out it's a good thing to be reminded of bad things in the world. 'I fucking hate people who are ignorant of everything,' he says.
Seconds later his point is brought home when we see another wreck by the side of the road, this one put on display by the government as a stark warning to motorists to watch their speed. Judging by the state of it, the owner clearly went the way of our friend back up the road. That hasn't stopped one rallyist slapping a Mongol Rally sticker on the door. Seeing that straight after our last encounter, the intended irreverance doesn't really cut it.
But what can you do? Soon the music's back on, and we're singing along in an effort to lighten our mood. Led Zeppelin. We all remark how unfortunate Stairway to Heaven sounds right now. But the road is good, the sun is blazing, and the scenery is back to its stunning best. The day passes with a particularly poignant beauty, as we watch men on horseback herding goats in the epic landscape.
We'd had a coffee and hacky-sack break earlier beneath one set of mountains; now we stop for lunch in another incredible spot, watching loads of huge birds circling overhead. As we're cooking up our pasta we notice an ambulance approaching. It's a rally vehicle. It pulls up, and out comes a beaming gregarious Argentinian called Guillermo.
He actually finished the rally a couple of weeks back - at least he hit Ulaanbaatar, he just never bothered crossing the line and handing his vehicle over. Instead he's been driving round the countryside alone, meeting locals and trying to find a worthy recipient for his ambulance and medical kit.
He leaves us to eat. By 4pm we're back on the road. The sign says 362km to Ulaanbaatar. We start getting excited. Less than 250 miles left of a 9,000-mile journey, and smooth tarmac to bring us on home.
I take the wheel for a couple of hours. As my last ever drive with Mr W, it's particularly beautiful. Then I ask Steve to take over as the light fades - our headlights are crap, and I trust his eye-sight more than mine. This turns out to be the jammiest move - within 20 yards of the swap, the tarmac suddenly disappears, and we're thrown onto the worst road we've seen since Semey in Kazakhstan, and possibly the worst road of the entire trip. What crushing timing. We're meant to be rolling in on smooth roads. As it is we're suddenly sent crunching cruelly through lethal potholes - in the dark. It's potential suicide.
Thankfully, through some unlikely gremlin of chance, we're reunited with Guilliermo moments before. He comes past us as we're swapping seats, as he gives the local chief of police a lift to Ulaanbaatar. Guillermo knows the road, and tells us to follow him and his undulating headlights through the maze. He's an absolute god-send. If Jack Kerouac met this man he'd describe him as a mad burning Argentinian saint. In an ambulance.
Heavy rock is essential at this point. The fury of System of a Down carries us through the night. We crunch into a few pot-holes. We're only a couple of hours from our destination. Can't let Mr W die now.
Guillermo's ambulance is crucial to this whole endeavour. Without his headlights we'd be struggling. Jeff realises this, so when he needs to use the loo he decides to do it in the back of the car in a bottle, so we don't lose our escort. It's not so easy over bumpy roads, especially when the bottle has a leaky neck. He's soon complaining that he's covered himself in his own wee. About 20 seconds later the ambulance pulls over. Steve and I get out to take a leak.
Then we see lights looming into view beneath us. Ulaanbaatar. This is properly exciting. At that moment, Cinematic Orchestra comes on the iPod, Fontella Bass belting out the word 'evolution!' It's all becoming a bit lyrical. We entered the country a week ago, thrust alone into a beautiful wilderness blazing trails of dust. Now we're on to smooth tarmac, rolling easily past choking power stations and crazy traffic. We've basically driven the course of the country's evolution. If that's what it is.
Guillermo's ambulance leads us on a merry dance round the city. Our indicators are fucked, so we have to signal by winding the window down and sticking an arm into the freezing night air. Junctions are madness, cars flying everywhere. He drops off his passenger, then tries to guide us to a guesthouse. We'll tackle the finish line tomorrow. After half an hour of wrong turns, he finds it - a place with secure parking and wi-fi. We've done it. We've arrived in Ulaanbaatar.
The host takes us up to our room. Fourteen hours on the road today, all we need is a shower, food and a decent kip. And to unleash our delirium. Turns out we're in a shared dorm. There are people everwhere asleep on bunk-beds. We have to talk in whispers. And there's only one shower which is constantly in use. Shit, we say - quietly.
Soon enough though we're all cleaned up and back out in the streets. It's 1am, and Guillermo is leading us on another merry dance to find food. The only place open is a Mongolian R&B club, complete with Mafia dudes and girls in short dresses bumping and grinding on the dancefloor. We pay the door charge, and wander in unkempt and boasting an enormity of beard, ridiculously paying the fee to occupy a VIP table. After seven days out in the desert, the mountains and the steppe, we tuck into pizza and chips. Evolution indeed. But we made it. And the beer tastes incredibly good.
Tomorrow, barring any crushing disasters, we'll cross the finish line.
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