Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. We've driven over 9,000 miles in the past seven weeks. By comparison, our final task doesn't sound quite so epic: crawling about 500m across Ulaanbaatar to the finish line. Woo-hoo. Still, that's harder than it sounds when you've got no idea where you're going, the electronics in your car are buggered, and you're sharing the road with a bunch of utter lunatics. It's even harder when the owner of the guesthouse buggers off with the key to the car-park so you can't get out. In other words, we're not counting it as a given till we've got that damn Punto across that damn finish line.
We're up early unloading all the shite from Mr Wazzboobleyoid in advance of the handover. It's a weird feeling. To be honest it's pretty ace to be able to ditch most of the stuff, as it's caked in two-months worth of general grime and a shitload of dust from a week in the desert. And Jeff peed on the back seat. But I've become used to life on the road, and thinking about giving away Mr W, who is essentially my first car (at age 32), it's a sad day.
I unload my drum kit into Guillermo's ambulance - he knows someone who runs a school project that would love to take it on. So it's all worthwhile - we lugged it all the way here on the roof, and I only played the fucker once, but at least now some kids are going to benefit. Who knows, it could inspire the next Phil Collins. Genghisis.
The drive to the finish doesn't feel anything like a cert. We're all a bit on edge as we meander our way lost round the city, trying to avoid collisions with these maniacs. Any fuck-up now would be unbelievably dumb. But after several laps of the place we manage to find a useful landmark and work out where we are.
We spot the sign for the finish line, and Steve drives us through a car park towards it. A bloke unchains a barrier, and we're in. It's all highly surreal. Loads of people are staring at the car. We get out. Now they're staring at us. 'Welcome to Mongolia,' says one guy. Thanks. We arrived a week ago.
We soon realise it's because we're about an hour away from one of the auctions, and these people are looking to be first to get their grubby hands on our merchandise.
Next up it's a beer, and chucking shampers around, taking a few photos. Then I fill out a couple of forms, hand over the keys and we're done.
Done. Stenalees to Ulaabaatar. 50 days. 9,101 miles.
We hear word that an auction has started inside, so we go in to get a taste of what awaits Mr W once we're gone. It's weird being in a roomful of Mongolian city-dwellers bidding for piece-of-shit cars that are totally unsuitable for use in their country. Especially ones that are covered in stickers and marker-pen scrawls. As Jeff points out, the roads are gridlocked. Who needs another city car? I wonder where everyone is going. The city is small enough to walk around, and there's bugger all beyond the city anyway.
Still they're snapping up the cars. We watch the Potters' Punto go for, I think, $999. I wonder how much they'll pay for an identical car with only one back seat. And one which is covered in wee...
Thanklettes
In true hip-hop album sleeve style, I'd like to give a few shout outs. We'd like to say thanks especially to Gabi and his family for befriending us back in Bulgaria and for staying in touch with the story all the way through. I'm sorry to report no Big Problems, not even the horrific sexual abuse you predicted for us in Turkmenistan. The idiots won...
I'd also like to thank Alisher and the guys from the wedding in Uzbekistan for the warmest welcome of the trip, and to remind anyone in a position to carpet-bomb rural Azerbaijan to do so, in a bid to eradicate the menace that is the little shepherd twat who stole Doug and our football.
Thanks also to Andy, Dan and Lamorna at the Adventurists for helping set up such a memorable trip. And for reading and enjoying the blogs. Finally I'd like to thank everyone who sponsored us - you easily passed the fundraising target for Mercy Corps, and are so close to the Cornwall Hospice Care total. Another cheap party should sort that out. It's all been a massive laugh. And finally again I'd like to thank everyone for reading this blog. I'm genuinely chuffed to know that people have been out there following the inane crap we've been getting into. We'll be tweaking the blog over the next few weeks, putting in the best pictures and more video clips once we have the luxury of a bit more time.
And I'm brewing up another trip for next year that will be designed to keep people entertained. So stay in touch for that.
A special final shout goes out to Greg in the Daihatsu, for a comment that really tickled me:
Greg meets a bloke on the road who keeps referring to the Lonely Planet as the 'Lonely P'.
'Please don't speak to me,' he says.
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Well that about wraps her up. This blog has been brought to you by the letters S, S, and C, and the number 3. And the music of Talking Heads, Beck, the Raconteurs, Led Zeppelin, the White Stripes, System of a Down, Guerner, Cinematic Orchestra, Aphrodite's Child and two iPods'-worth of shuffle.
As a potentially over-informative aside, my challenge of avoiding self-pleasure for the duration of the trip proved too much. It was a close-run thing but, over the course of the seven weeks, wanks beat wet dreams 3-2.
We'll leave the last word to my big bro: 'Keep on truckin'...'
Thanks again for reading,
Stenalees Surf Club Mongol Rally Minstrel Division
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