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Day 13 - Entering the land of Borat

Following on from yesterday's blog…

Astrakhan is a lovely place, but completely filled with police. Russia has an abnormal amount of law enforcement. I know, it's a big country, but it's ridiculous - everywhere you look there are police with stupid batons, batons that once waved might as well spell out some figure in the local currency or dollars, like you might do with a sparkler. Also, strangely enough, there are boy racers everywhere we've been - of course, the quality of the car has certainly dropped from the dizzy heights found at Weston-Super-Mare sea front, but they're still around. Mostly Ladas with a blue neon aerial, doing wheelspins and the like. An international pastime it seems!

 It's always so nice to wake up in a hotel - usually Will (the only one with a phone) setting an alarm to wake us up, so we never completely recharge batteries, usually deciding to get up at 7.30-8am to begin another long day on the road. But, waking up in a bed, surrounded by walls and the luxury of a ceiling high enough to stand up in, is an amazing feeling.

 Another shower for us all, despite being squeaky clean from the night before. You just never know when the next might be! Breakfast was the usual affair, Mackey going for the breakfast version of a roast dinner, Will and I playing it safe with cereal and fruit, and we were joined by the lads from Team Mongolia Is Our Everest. There we set the rather simple plan for the day - get from Astrakhan to the Russian/Kazakhstan border, a mere 71km away. Fairly difficult to accidentally sway from the simple route, the challenge of getting out the city was the only task to really plan.

 We left about 10am-ish - slightly later than usual, but Mackey went about bodging a repair for the rattling exhaust issue we've got going on. Nothing bad, but it rattles. A lot. We get so many admiring stares, so many happy and smiley faces waving with enthusiasm, and it's a shame when they all turn to embarrassment and disgust when the exhaust grabs the attention of half the city.

 This repair job involved 3 key items - some Soviet style oven gloves (heat protection with no stupid Western padding inside, just very thin for strength and efficiency), some bungee cords and some cable ties. His plan was simple - wrap the exhaust, quite far from the engine so not incredibly hot, with the oven gloves, cable tie that tight, and then bungee it to the car. Simple! This was done in front of the hotel, jacked up (the car, not Mackey) and tools spread around. Usually this would have been a shocking affair, us breaking the simple Soviet look and tidy efficiency they had going on in this particular corner of the city. Luckily though, quite a few other teams had come to seek refuge and filled the parking area with all manners of old ambulances and small cars, all looking as equally good/bad as Pete the Saxo.

 With the exhaust fixed, smiles all round when the engine was started and nothing but the little 1.1 litre French engine could be heard (other than Mackey proclaiming he was the best for quite a while), we set off towards the border. About 50km away, we decided to stop for fuel for the last time this side, being completely unaware of the fuel availability and quality once driving through the Kazakh steppe, and thinking it would be best if Pete the Saxo and his jerry cans were full. Here, we met another team - Team Mongolia or Bust, driving a red swift. Two lads from somewhere near Yorkshire-ish, the petrol station then turned into a meeting place for rallies - 8 of us sat around for a while, grabbed some snacks, and chatted away in the scorching mid morning sun exchanging stories of trials and tribulations so far presented to us.

 The three of us are really enjoying the Mongol Rally fraternity that exists - as soon as you see another team, that recognisable sticker on the bonnet, everyone will pull in and stop for a chat, exchange hints and tips, and certainly come to any aid should it be required. Most we'd never seen before, at the launch party or at Goodwood, but the camaraderie is fantastic.

 Temperatures were hot - very hot. Late 30s at the bare minimum but most likely touching 40, water consistently in demand by the three of us. Cold water is awesome when we can find it, but they don't push their fridges very hard - most of the water we've bought, from a trademark Coca Cola fridge, is warmer than our UK tap water in the summer. Thinking about it though, they probably work just as hard as our own, bringing the temperature down 20 degrees or so. If our fridges did that for 80% of the year, we'd just have ice. Also, all fridges in service stations are locked - to get a drink out, the cashier brings out a remote control more suited for a TV, and it magically unlocks. How strange is that?

 I'm rambling about fridges far too much.

 On the way to the border, we had a river to cross - quite a large one, the width of it being similar to the Tresco/Bryher channel and the name of it escaping me, which has the most amazing bridge on. Think of St Mary's pontoon, but instead spanning a deep river, barely enough room for 2 cars to pass each other, moving up and down as cars passed over it. It cost an extortionate Ј1.50 to use, but saved us a very long journey upstream to find a bridge.

 Onwards we pushed towards the border, getting to our destination just after 1pm, and as luck would have it the queue was remarkably short - 5 cars, including our own. We're well versed with border procedures now; before asked by the guard usually carrying a weapon, we'd have all of our documents in our hands ready to present. V5, insurance certificate, visas and passports.

 Apart from we couldn't find the passports. Anywhere. A brief panic and then thought back to when we last had them - the hotel! The receptionists took them when we checked in, common practice over this side of the water. Had we asked for them back? Ah, then it came back to us. Mackey checked out first, and then Will & I - we asked for our passports, but she'd told us Mackey had them. With a satisfied wave, we bid farewell and got in the car, not even thinking to check with Mackey. When told of this story, Mackey denied all knowledge - he certainly didn't have ours, let alone asking for his own (why he didn't, I have no idea).

 So, that meant driving the 1.5 hours back to the hotel, in the hottest part of the day. Mackey did the driving; Will & I can only drive at 43mph, which would have turned it into a 2.5 hour journey. Just before getting to the hotel though, going via the only route we knew (which happens to involve a short 50 meter one way street), turning into said street we were greeted by a police car and 2 baton waving officers, obviously laughing deep inside that an English car had just broken a very obviously law right in front of their eyes. We played it semi-dumb, which seems to work - ask them a few nice questions about Russia, tell them where we're going etc. They took Mackey's driving license, this time the International Driving Permit, and made finger gestures that he was to confiscate it. Without arguing, Mackey began to get out the seat and told Will to drive, already resigned in his fate. I think this threw the cop even more - they simply gave his license back, and even let him carry on down the 1 way street?!

 Once back, I walked it and told them how angry we were - it seems the receptionist had confused us with Italians. Italians?! This is one time the language barrier most definitely worked in their favour. It did however, give us the chance to stand in the 16 degree foyer; comparatively Arctic.

 Passports securely in our possession, we once again drove (we = Mackey) to the border. We passed a convoy of about 8 other Mongol Rally teams, all very curious as why we were going the wrong way. As luck wouldn't have it, we were greeted with an enormous queue of vehicles on the Russia side of the border, a sharp contrast to the handful awaiting us on attempt one. We arrived about 3.45pm, and started to queue up, aiming to get through within the hour. A Mongol Rally team joined the queue, and another, and another, and so on - before long, the majority of the first half of the queue were our comrades, the latter half the Kazakh locals desperate to get home. We met up with teams that we'd spotted and chatted to along the way, including the two Irish/New Zealand ambulances from Volgograd.

Russian border went fine - we had to do some photocopying in a very peculiar trailer home, manned by a woman and her daughter working out of a living room, looking like she'd been banished to remain in the trailer forever. Mackey had to have a little shoulder barge with a Kazakh who insisted on pushing in the queue for passport stamps, and lost. Customs took one look at the car boot, crammed full of our life for the past and next two weeks, and simply asked for a souvenir. A Ј1 miniature bottle of Jim Beam and we were through.

Next though, surprised us a lot - we entered no mans land. Unlike European countries, or even Ukraine/Russia, this no mans land was enormous - a couple of miles long through rolling green hills, bisected by a serene river. We drove for 10 minute or so through this land that presumably belongs to no one, yet maintained better roads that half the countries we've already navigated

As we eventually reached Kazakhstan, and it's mighty border control (which strangely was newer and more majestic than any other country so far), a number of rally teams were already queuing to leave no mans land and progress, including Team Stardust (Helen and Victoria, driving a Land Rover ambulance). Queuing took a couple of hours, but very slowly we inched our way forward. We thought we might be in luck, we were now at the front of the queue and ready to add our 13th country to our passport. It's never that simple though. We were pulled over to the side of the queue, literally within touching distance of the red and white swing gate that signified the next step. As were a couple of other rally teams. Were we to be searched? But we hadn't even gone through passport control.

 From what we all could gather, they wanted to let the Kazakhs in first. Fair enough but we waited hours, all of us continually trying to catch the guards attention and ensure he hadn't forgotten about the Saxo and the Swift, the ambulances and the Pandas, all crazily stickered and waiting so very patiently at the side of the road. By 8.30pm though, the teams came together in true Rally style and roadblocked the border. All 4 lanes, 2 for each opposing direction, had an ambulance or two on, aimed directly at the still shut gate. Rather than get us all arrested, it seemed to work - we were actually allowed through, much to the annoyance of the guards.

 Last step of this tedious crossing was the Kazakh customs, and we had no idea what to expect. A few hours ago, I expected the entrance to the gargantuan country as nothing more than a chain fence and a camel herder casually manning it, opening whenever a vehicle approached. But already this had been completely disproved, what with the shiny customs building that dwarfed everything we've previously seen.

 Once we approached Kazakh customs, Mackey and I were told to leave the car and walk across, getting our passports checked by a miserable man sweating profusely in a small room within the expansive building, seemingly the one occupant. I had to take off my headband to cross - apparently that drastically altered my face and looked completely different from my passport. It took a few minutes, but we were through - I was the first to walk on the mythical land of Borat. We waited for will, 100 yards down the road waiting to be searched. Once they finally got to him however, first dealing with another rally team, they simply waved him through. Team reunited, we had entered Kazakhstan.

 We drove a couple of minutes down the road, and saw Team Stardust and their ambulance pulled over. We joined them to wait for some other teams, and in true British style they made us all a lovely cup of tea. Ginger, peppermint or white tea was a very welcome evening tipple (about 10pm now), and we chatted and ate monster munch as we were joined by several other teams, each earning their freedom from no mans land.

 Convoying is great fun - even if the other teams don't have CB radios, it feels much more relaxed and safe. The lead car sets the pace, and the teams behind dutifully follow (or as best we can, the Saxo lacking the ground clearance of a Land Rover ambulance). We'd all agreed to set up camp 5 minutes away from the border, and drove deeper into the country in the darkness. It was a relatively cool night, certainly cooler than we'd experienced the last few nights - but still hovered around the 30 degree mark as we pulled into a small clearing off the road. By clearing, I meant of knee high desert bushes - although it was dark, there was not a tree that could be seen anywhere. Kazakhstan looked big.

 All in all, we had 8 or 9 teams that set up camp together - once tents were set up, excluding those lucky buggars who had the luxury of an ambulance stretcher to sleep on, everyone sat around and retold the stories of their voyage so far; breakdowns, bribes, sights and sounds, foods and drinks. This was what the rally was all about, and we loved it. Rather strangely, a black car did pull up next to the road, and out popped two Italians. Very coincidently, they too were travelling to Ulaan Baatar by car, for no other reason than because they wanted to. They asked, in very broken English, if anyone knew of a hotel close by. We didn't, but the teams rallied together, and a spare tent and two sleeping bags materialised within minutes.

 An hour or so later, the majority of the people (us included) retired to tents (ours once again being laughed at for their similarity to a coffin). It was warm enough yet again for us to not need the top sheet of the tent, instead sleeping under the net under layer, gazing up to the stars on the cloudless night that seem so different to the ones at home.