Location of the Party
How I Drove from UK to Mongolia in a Shitty Car
"Sure I'm a British citizen!" I exclaimed.
I never thought having to lie to a British insurance agent about my nationality was going to be a part of the plan. But then again, my plan was kind of ridiculous. I was going to drive from London to Mongolia as part of the Mongol Rally - a 10,000 mile charity road trip that hundreds of cars participate in every year.
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Tim and I on Los Angeles FOX news segment, right before the trip |
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So I had always heard that getting auto insurance in Europe as an American was a daunting task. But why the hell did we need insurance anyway? The .899 liter engine FIAT SEICENTO I had purchased for 900 bucks was pretty much death on wheels. Hitting a German shepherd in the middle of a street would pretty much guarantee your paralysis.
But the rule for the rally was simple and rigid: your steed had to be a small, piece of crap vehicle; a Range Rover would just be yawn-filled, right? And other loonies from around the world were going to join you. 400 teams, one crazy adventure.
"Thanks for signing up with Privilege insurance! I'm going to debit 800 dollars from your credit card now", the nice lady said with her nice British accent.
The last logistical hurdle before our departure had passed. Little did Privilege Auto Insurance know that I was going to be all over their refundable cancellation policy like a Mongolian mouth on Yak milk.
I quit my job 3 months before this rally. Doing this road trip had a lot to do with the timing of my departure. My new full time job was planning this behemoth of an adventure. I spent my days getting visas, planning routes, and making itineraries while I spent my nights battling time zone differences to communicate with consulates across the world. But the timing was right. Might as well do a trip like this now during whatever youth-filled time I have.
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Our car in England |
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We boarded our trans-atlantic flight in early July. My teammate, Tim – an aspiring artist – was going to stay in England for a week while I traveled Italy for 6 days. We had arrived in Europe to see that Los Angeles FOX news had aired their segment on Team Rubik Crew. It was a loony 3 minute spot that highlighted us as insane, bored, risk takers. An accurate diagnosis!
Team Rubik Crew? Oh yeah, we loved solving Rubik's Cubes so we planned to paint our car like one as we drove across the continents.
We eventually got to Stevenage, England. A guy I met through the Mongol Rally forum had been able to purchase our car for us. As expected, the car was waiting patiently in the driveway. I had just 48 hours to paint it like a Rubik’s Cube and to learn how to drive it. Europeans have a hard time understanding how 90% of Americans are not familiar with manual transmission. I had to learn quickly. On top of that, I had to learn how to drive on the left side of the road. Whenever I got to a rotary, my head would spin, and I’d willingly stall the car in the center of the road, as angry cars would whiz by my state of confusion.
On July 18th, Team Rubik Crew had made it down to Goodwood Speedway. This is kind of like the Daytona of America. There were hundreds of other delusional, hysterically minded 20 somethings in the most breathtaking testament to quarter life crises I've ever witnessed. Folks, comprising some 95% testosterone-filled men, laughing in the face of their imminent spiraling destruction. We were all driving the worst, smallest cars ever created, and we were all going to make it to Mongolia. I left Goodwood with Rubik's Cubes, cautiously high hopes, and a bottle of champagne to celebrate our first break down.
Europe flashed by in a blur - our Seicento chugged along, offering us incredible, hilly views. Memorable moments include: getting lost in France at 2am with ounces of gasoline left, knowing which building my friend in Brussels lived in – but without any phone number or flat number – standing outside his door for hours only to give up and sleep at a gas station, and taking a detour into gorgeous Luxembourg to eat the most delicious omelettes ever tasted.
By the second day, we were already in Germany, making it to Munich. We spent time in the only tourist area to be discovered: the main drag with strip clubs and porn shops. Everyone rides bicycles in that city, by the way.
By the third day, we made it to Czech Republic and spent the day in Prague. I was able to see a friend of mine who coordinated my study abroad program there 4 years prior. That evening was the acclaimed “Czech Out Party” and it was a good 150 miles away from Prague in the rolling hills of Bohemia.
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Location of the Party
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We ventured out, eventually finding this giant, pristine, bonafide castle from the 12th century – totally reserved for a giant Mongol Rally party. Old rock-laced rooms, via tiny small stone staircases – each space having it’s own DJ and turntables or live band act. 90% guys everywhere, completely drunk. I looked in the corner to see a 12th century headless statue; a British drunkard thought its noggin would make a great trophy for his bedroom wall.
A raucous time in the most pristine, impressive party ever witnessed. While, back to the castle's parking lot, trying to sleep, we found the drunken revelry too much for our ears. So we went to some field with bugs everywhere and passed out.
On day 4, we woke up bright and early to drive over 1,000 miles straight to Istanbul. We bolted out of Czech Republic and into Slovakia (had lunch, spotting the most beautiful women in the world), into Hungary (failed to see the Franz Liszt Museum and the village home of the actual creator of the Rubik's Cube) and crashed into Serbia (shithole) by midnight.
Getting through Serbia would take 7 hours, all through the middle of the night. To get into the country, we had to pay 110 euros for “insurance”. The policy I had fraudently purchased in England didn’t cover non-EU countries…. And judging by how shitty Serbia looked, I recognized immediately its non-EU status.
So the morning of Day 5, we made it into Bulgaria, got lucky for not being flagged down by one of their 5,000 cops carrying batons, and got to the Turkish Border.
Something really hilarious happened here. To get into Turkey, you have to leave the Bulgarian border. At the guard's booth, the man inside screamed at us: “Green Card! Green Card!!” I had no idea what this dude was talking about. He held up a sample document, through the window, to show us what we needed to reveal.
Apparently, green cards are given with your insurance, to signify your proper EU coverage (Yes, Bulgaria is in the EU). Since ours was fraudulent, I didn’t exactly have this card he needed. So, quickly, I looked in the glove compartment, grabbed a document that had some green on it, and gave it to him.
He looked at the document, stamped it, and let us go. The document I gave him was my car’s emissions inspection certificate. It had green and a lot of English on it that he didn’t understand.
We had 4 hours to get to Istanbul from the western border of turkey. This small stretch of land to get to Istanbul was Turkey’s only extension into continental Europe. Once we’d get to Istanbul, the Bosphorus strait would separate the city, and partition the country into the Middle East.
Traffic totally sucked once we were in Istanbul. Insane drivers, everywhere, fueling their appetite for recklessness with the idiocy of slower, more incompetent drivers around them. Donned in Rubik’s Cube colored paint, they despised us with all of Allah’s power.
A major highlight of driving Turkish highways was our complete disregard for paying the toll booths. We’d just rip through the “E-Z Pass” style lane, and triggered alarms would blare loudly as inept, fat cops outside their vehicles just sat there. We were driving through – why should we pay!!!!!!!
Made it to Istanbul, saw my college roommate Ryan. His Turkish girlfriend hinted the best spots for us to check out, so we dined at the top of a building overlooking the city’s night lights. Very cool scene. Drank then took our 30-hour plus driving tiredness to our hostel’s crappy beds at 1am. “Chill Out Hostel” never failed us (nor did it 3 years prior when Ryan and I were there the first time)
Next morning, we parted ways, and because of a completely failed and rebellious stomach, I didn’t say goodbye to Ryan as he boarded his flight. Tim and I got in our car, and kept driving through Turkey.
Turkey, above everything, is a home to some of the friendliest people in the world. Everywhere we went, we were greeted with waves of the hand and smiles. Invitation after invitation was extended for us to come inside their abodes and drink tea with them. Stickers were given. Maps were given. They were just so excited for us.
Turkey was a pretty long way to go, but we did it in two full days. Hours before heading into Georgia, we stopped in a city called Trabzon, which offered quick access to the roadside Black Sea. We dipped in the water only to leave in our car having dropped Tim’s sunglasses from the roof. They flew into the busy main road. As Tim gets out, he dodges one car... dodges a second… makes his “Frogger” attempt to go into traffic for the sunglasses…. Aaaaannd… an angry, Irate, probably racist Turkish driver swerves OUT OF HIS WAY to crush them under his tires. I laughed wholeheartedly.
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Meet George from Georgia |
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As we arrived into Georgia, I had told Tim just how great an experience it would be. It was a Friday night, and we were to spend the weekend there, with my good friend George. (Yup, George from Georgia). I had traveled there three years ago with Ryan and my friend Chase, and ended up staying an extra 3 weeks that same summer. The Georgian culture, for me, is one that I hold very special – friendly people, amazing cuisine, diverse landscapes, and totally insane times.
After escaping a fraudulent scheme in the no-man's land between Turkey and Georgia, the insanity began in quick fashion. First, George tells me he’s going to get married. Then he tells me his fiancée, Sophie, is pregnant. After reuniting with George, we immediately ate dinner, got drunk off vodka, and an hour later I found myself, in my underwear, on the windshield of George’s black SUV, holding onto my life as he drove 40mph, swerving in the pouring rain. George, his friend and I ended our night in refreshing fashion by stripping down and jumped in the black sea at 3am.
Swedish Dude with Penis Smiley Face Tattoo |
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The next day we drove to Tbilisi, the capital, where all my friends live. On the way there we see three Swedish guys on the highway. We invite them to follow us, and we convene at a grocery store. George invited the Swedish guys to crash on his living room floor. The first night we were there, we just chilled out a bit. The Swedish guys were nuts… total party animals. One of them had a smiley face tattoo on his penis that he insisted on showing everyone in the kitchen.
We ended up staying an extra night there, pushing the schedule back a day (which wasn’t a problem). The next day I went with George and Sophie to the municipal office so they could get legally married then had. We celebrated by trekking out into the woods with George and Sophie to see his family at his summer house. We shot shotguns, screaming our chauvinistic disdain for aggressor Russia. We then got back to Tbilisi at night and checked out a steak house we’ve invested in. Delicious steak.
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Valuable Lessons Learned |
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It was time to go. But before we left, George was able to connect me with the name of the Georgian officer in charge at the border to Azerbaijan, to make sure we don't have much problems. The guy's name was "Dito Sakhvadze", and he ran the operation.
3 hours later, we pulled up to exit of the Georgian border, I got out and yelled "WHERE'S DITO SAKHVADZE!". A stocky man in his forties wearing a uniform comes out, sees our car, laughs, and looks at my passport. He then begins a 10 minute Q&A about bison - having seen the pastoral images in my passport. He asked me if I’ve seen one, owned one, petted one. This dude loved bison. He let us pass through.
We were now heading to the Azeri border from the Georgian exit - not before witnessing one of the most oddly situated, ironically portentous road signs hanging above us reading nothing but: GOOD LUCK.
Azerbaijan was a total shit hole. Such a drive-through country.
Five minutes in and I see 18 year olds donning machine guns bigger than their torsos, guarding the gate of entry into quite possibly the most vile country officially recognized by the United Nations. Our first taste of silly bureaucracy trickled in as bribe after bribe was paid to officer after officer, each filling out and stamping mysterious documents that apparently ensured our proper transit through the country. At one point, I found myself at station #3, in the middle of a room of 10 uniformed agents, behind computers screaming at each other, and passing the same pile of documents back and forth in a flurry of stampings and signings. I had no idea what they were doing, but it looked like a promiscuous orgy of inefficiency.
Scene from the Azeri Border |
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4 hours later the worst corruption witnessed transmogrified itself into the worst roads ever witnessed. 200 miles of sharp, gravelly rocks and deep potholes - all one giant highway festooned with cranes and under construction (putting that oil-money infused GDP to work!). On a side note, I made my first logical deduction about the beauty of women and the quality of roads. As we moved farther and farther East, the worsening of the roads was directly proportional to the plummeting quality a woman's aesthetic beauty. And that seems shallow, sorry.
To preclude our first flat fire was a stark injection of joy - a delicious restaurant dinner prepared through the use of animal sounds, explaining to the chef our menu choices. And then we got coerced to dance with 9 Azeri men to their silly, corrupt Azeri dances.
Our goal was to go from Baku - Azerbaijan's capital - to Aktau, Kazakhstan. This would be a 500 mile, 24 hour voyage across the Caspian Sea. I had done ample research to know that this ferry departed once every 3-5 days, costing 40 bucks per car. Basically, the ferry was a giant cargo ship, primarily for the transportation of oil resources. Our cars were a peripheral importance, as we were expected to be relegated to whatever space the oil tanks didn't occupy. Oh, and the same ferry line sank three years ago, taking the lives of 100 people. Great.
The ferry port in Baku revealed a denizen of ralliers, all either waiting to go to Turkmenistan or Kazakhstan. The Turkmenistan ferry apparently left once a day. As for us and our passports devoid of Turkmenistan visas, we would have to wait for however long this Kazakhstan ferry would arrive for us. We joined 3 teams waiting for the same ferry. It eventually grew to 4, 5, 6. Then 7, 8. Eventually, 12 teams would reside in a small parking lot, where we sat 200 yards from a port that would be our destined egress.
The parking lot was a veritable prison, with sneering, asshole Azeri port officers as its supply of dickhead wardens. They messed with us, never smiled, nor never cared about our suck-filled position. Even worse was the port ticketing office that decided to, in an exceptional capitalist exploitation of this year's mongol rally, jack up ticket prices 12x higher than what they were for us "rich" westerners to cough up dough. A $40 ticket was now $500. Teams were absolutely irate by this. We pretty much lost all of our bargaining position due to 2 cranky teams who were willing to pay whatever to get out.
In general, Azerbaijan was a weird place. Policy wise, its police officers apparently have to pay $10,000 to buy their jobs, and then pay $500 a month to keep them. That's basically all bribe money that keeps them "employed". The streets of Baku were littered with police officers pulling over cars, demanding money for inconsequential offenses. The cops looked like rotund, fickle children, stamping their feet in tantrums while standing outside each pulled over luxury car. Above them, and throughout the country, were billboards donning Heydar, their supreme 1990’s president.
Bartered Shirt |
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The nightlife, however, proved to be more fun, as the new rally friendships we made were forged over drunken nights at ex-pat bars. One highlight was going out to a bar and seeing an Azeri guy my age wearing a shirt I really wanted reading, "I'M FROM AZERBAIJAN". Ignoring the irony of an Azeri wearing a shirt like this, I asked him if I could have it. Without one second of hesitation he shrugs "Sure!" and we go in an alley, get shirtless, and switch shirts. I walked away with the shirt I wanted, and he was able to enjoy my red shirt displaying the entire Periodic Table. Day after day we waited.
Bored in Baku |
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What began as an innocent:
"Hey! Waiting for this ferry is all part sorting through the trials of the rally!"
...turned into a bitter:
"Where in God's F***ing name IS THIS F***ING BOAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
We eventually became Tom Hanks character in the movie Cast Away, carving marks into the parking lot pavement, denoting how many days trapped on this steamrolled island of despair.
For every horrifying pothole....................... Azerbaijan After 6 days of waiting, the boat finally arrived. We had to pay 5 more bribes (at this point we just accepted our fate and paid them dutifully). While stamping out of the country, a team we had become friends with had run out of time on their transit visas. The officer said, “Big problem!” (all officials loved saying that to us). But all it took was “one phone call to the minister of the interior” and a 40 dollar fee was levied. One last kick-in-the-balls bribe they had to pay.
We drove our cars onto this massive boat called the Mercurie II. After hours and hours the boat finally set sail.
About 15 different teams were on the boat with us. We had all become very close at this point, having been marooned together. The boat was actually quite enjoyable. Cabins with the quintessential circle window that latched open and closed, as the freshest sea-breeze rushed in, petting us to sleep.
While on the boat, we befriended two very interesting individuals. One of the guys, Noel, was from Wisconsin and he was riding a bicycle from Spain to Singapore. And another guy was from Holland, HITCHHIKING his way to China. Both of them were equally crazy, and they happened to meet each other with all us ralliers on the boat.
After 18 hours, the boat arrived in the port of Aktau, Kazakhstan. We were 3 miles from the shore, and they dropped the anchor. After sitting in port for 12 hours (efficiency breaks down, if you haven’t noticed that already), we were finally let off of the boat on Monday early evening.
All of the drivers were separated from the passengers, as we began the border process. We waited in a dingy room for hours, until one by one, we passed through the border agents. After getting the passport stamped, I moved to another room with two agents wearing swine flu masks. Weird. They looked specifically for any literature. Not contaminants, or glowing pieces of plutonium… but all books and documents. Hilariously, the man, in a thick accent goes:
“Terrorist?” Paused. “I mean… Tourist?”
We both shared a laugh, as I didn’t answer him and walked away.
The boat’s crew had finally moved the train cargo out of the boat, so we could now go under and drive our cars out. But the ineptitude of the crew didn’t let us down. They started moving on all this NEW train cargo that needed to be sent to Baku. After ten minutes, they realized 18 cars were waiting to get out, and they had to move the train cargo in the opposite direction.
The entire city smelled like nauseating gas. This was Kazakhstan’s chief export. Nauseating gas. As we drove our cars into the border parking lot, they closed the fence on us, separating all drivers from passengers who were still in the border office. They wouldn’t let either party cross into the other party’s territory. One of the dumbest and funniest s to memory is tossing all of our passengers’ sleeping bags over a ten foot fence, so they could properly go to sleep on the floor of that shitty office. We had the luxury of sleeping in our cars.
The next morning began what would be another 15 hours trapped in this ridiculous border. Basically, all the guards hated us with the passion of Joseph Stalin sitting through a performance of the Vagina Monologues. It was a labyrinth of bureaucracy again. Had to buy 1 dollar car insurance, convert currency, make 5 copies of the proof of insurance which needed to be sent to 5 different offices in a radius of 1 mile, and had to wait 3 hours for a casual lunch break from the office that stamped our cars out. In this office, they disparaged us, screamed at us, snapped their fingers at us, and treated us like Uzbeks, or something. When I got my paperwork from this pair of assholes, I said casually and openly, “Thanks idiots, I hope you rot in hell!” as I smiled brightly, making them think I said something cordial and nice.
8 cars, about 20 of us, finally got out of that detention experience from hell. Noel, the biker, carried on. Hitchhiking guy from Holland stayed with us.
After Azerbaijan, the boat, and Kazakh border, we all felt we could use some delicious justice. Just 2 miles in, we see like an oasis an expat bar called “GUNS AND ROSES”. We all flocked there, kicked down the doors, and ordered the most delicious beers and cheeseburgers. It was our escape from misery and a reunion with revelry. We deserved it.
After we ate, our 8 cars followed each other to a gas station, filled up, found a local our age who studied in Oklahoma for a bit. We asked him, “Where’s the road to Beyneu?” He responded, “What road?”. Apparently, the worst road on the Mongol Rally was coming up, and we needed to get through 120 miles of it. Our new friend showed us the way to the “road” and set us on our way.
Our first trek into Kazakhstan - The convoy |
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It was pure exhilaration to be driving… well the first 30 miles were great at least. Our first desert landscape, just in time for a brilliantly purplish sun to set on our backsides. We acted like complete maniacs. Drunk off our newfound freedom, we were riding on the top of ours, swerving in front of each other, screaming at the top of our lungs, and taking spontaneous photo shoots. We were able to get this good stretch in before night, as we found a camping ground, pitched tents, and went to sleep. We didn’t really know what we’d get ourselves into the next day.
Wednesday August 5th. Day 18. We had woken up at sunrise. We continued on the road, and BAM 3 miles away, the fabled horror began to reveal itself under our tires.
It was like driving on Mars… with roads. One of the cars, the Batlimo – which was a black stretch limousine Volvo as an identical replica of the Bat Mobile – suffered a flat tire. They soon discovered one of their spares had a rim that was slightly larger than the hub. So they continued to drive, as the rim slowly grinded into the hub, potentially ruining the car's mobility.
This road truly was a desolate, horrible monster. We only saw cars drive by once every half hour (they were sports utility vehicles by the way). If you were careless for one fraction of a second, you could find your car's bumper hitting the rim of a pothole. As Andrew from Flatlanders and I nursed the Batlimo at 13 mph, we came across a very hilarious situation. We flagged down a tractor trailer, with an empty trailer, to see if they could help. Communicating through drawing pictures in my notebook of the batlimo driving up wooden planks into the back of their trailer, they immediately knew what we wanted to do...... but had no wooden planks. So these creative Kazakhs ushered us to multiple roadsides, as they descended below the road, backed up, and tried to use the height in between as a roll-on point for the Batlimo. We came unimaginably close to committing sending the Batlimo onto the back. As much as I urged everyone to try it just for the sake of the story, I'm kinda glad it never was attempted.
At this point, all the other cars drove off, and the Batlimo (two guys from Denmark) and Team Flatlanders (Two guys from Kansas) remained. It was at this point we would not see any other cars, and we three teams would continue on together. We did 100 miles that day, from 7am to 10pm.
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Batlimo driving on these worst roads ever |
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An ailing Batlimo trying to get on the back of a tractor trailer via roadside ditch |
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Uh, yeah. True Story
The last day saved all of its surprises for us. Having rejoiced with overcoming the previous night's trials, we started the morning bright and early, knocking out 3 hours of solid driving.
But then, just 20 miles before the last major city before Ulaan Baatar, our gearbox (transmission) seemingly became malfunctional. First and second gear didn't work, and neither did third and fourth. Seemed strange. All of this was happening out of no where. So, after successfully driving 3 miles in reverse on Worst Roads Ever, white smoke eventually erupted from under our hood, as a hissing sound and steam exploded from the coolant tank. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Rendering our car as kaput, I took out our celebratory bottle of champagne, shook it, and popped the cork under the hood as champagne poured all over the engine. It sizzled like a frying pan. We were in the middle of a desert, and my car was mocking my state of near starvation with the sound of delicious frying eggs.
Fast forward 20 minutes later, and we found ourselves towed to the back of a minibus carrying a cramped 23 people. For 25 bucks, the bus dropped off us in the city. While there, we witnessed a half dozen teams in what looked to be their last throes of survival. One team's alternator belt tore apart, another team had no brakes, while another had no tire tubes. And just as we were dropped off, we realized we had a flat.
All we had were 250 miles to get to Ulaan Baatar.
The irony was that the rest of the trip was entirely asphalt. Beautiful, paved asphalt.
In desperation, we tried working the car again while stuck in the city, ignoring the fact that there was so much white smoke coming out of the engine 3 hours earlier that I thought the car had elected a new Pope. And.... it actually worked. Turns out that the teeth in the clutch weren't meeting properly with the gears. By easing it in, we could get it to fit and we could go. But it only worked in fifth gear. So we had to start the car in fifth gear, crank it until it met its proper speed, and we were good.
We knocked out 60 miles. 190 remained to the finish line.
But then we met a hill so steep the car basically said, "Screw you guys" and the gearbox wasn't exactly acting clutch. We flagged down one trucker who, using our ropes improperly, snapped them at its first tug. I waved goodbye as the truck left us in its dust. Another Mongolian stopped and successfully got us up the hill. Gliding down the mountain, our 5th gear worked... for another 20 miles.
170 miles remained.
At this point, you might as well have added a dramatic hollywood score, because lightning was rolling in on the horizon. Now in the distance was a mountain 3 times bigger than the hill we had just overcame 20 miles previously. At the base of it, we flagged down random vehicles to help us climb it. One guy with a flatbed truck- who was driving in the opposite direction of Ulaan Baatar - took out a measuring string and showed how we were 6 inches too long to fit on the back. With his wife and 5 year old kid in the car, as rain gushed down on everyone, he was determined to go home, drop off his family, come back, and just tow us 170 miles to the capital for 150 bucks.
"30 minutes!" he basically said in Mongolian. "I'll return!"
It was until an hour, stranded, with thunder booming above us, where I realized Family Man wasn't coming back to save us. I got back out in the Tsunami and leapt in front of cars, hoping one would get us over this goddamn mountain. Eventually, a minibus (this one carrying 27 people) tugged us up the mountain 2 kilometers to a dry, warm roadside restaurant.
6pm now. Ate really shitty mutton soup a drunk man dunked his face in.
Car effectively destroyed. Got back out to find something to take us all the way to the capital.
Eventually met a guy who was driving a different minibus this time carrying 30 people. More passengers, more danger risked. So with the same mangy, disgusting, now 7-times-severed piece of rope, this driver was going to drag our car 5 feet ahead, with 30 lives crammed in his bus, as the slick, wet roads acted as metaphorically salivating our inevitable caroming off of a cliff.
2 miles in, rope snapped. I wanted to cry.
7pm now, 165 miles from the finish line.
And there was no rope - anywhere - better than this one which worked more appropriately as a kitten leash than our ticket to salvation.
We perfunctorily retied the thing, and tried again. Things worked out. We were on our way. I lost sight of everything around me as my concentration was focused on 5 feet of frayed twine, bridging our broken car to this minibus. If the rope showed slack, I gently braked to restore a taut connection. For if I didn't, a nailbiting, slack-filled tug from the bus would be enough to make it's jerry-rigged tying destroy
