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Day 21 - Returning to Russia

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We all awoke in the Hotel Binar, Semey, after a very pleasant evening with our comrades. The general mood of the team increases hugely when we meet other teams, something that all the others agree on. There is only so much lone driving you can do, only so much banter within your car and your teammates you know so well; to include new people, new topics of discussion, new opinions and company is a fantastic thing. And now we had some of our favourite teams with us, the mood was very good.

We all headed down to breakfast, along with Ed & Emma, and ordered from the Cyrillic & English menus - set breakfast numbers 2 & 7s were on the cards, the usual choice between meat and eggs or fruit and cereal. Mackey, of course, went for the full Kazakh fry up equivalent, whereas I instead went for the healthier option. It came with a pint of yoghurt though - just in a regular glass, the 5 of us all unsure what to do with it. Drink it? Spoon it? They were left.

We'd all decided to meet up in the private hotel car park, one we'd grown to know so well, at 8.30am. As with all late night decisions, the chances of us all making our self made deadline were slim; instead, team members strolled to the collective group of Mongol Rally cars throughout the morning, finally assembling at 9.30am.

We all packed up, each car receiving a reorganisation and repacking despite not getting the tents out, and we set off towards the Kazakh/Russian border. After our previous Russian border incident, we double and triple checked that our passports were firmly in our possession, and not again left with the receptionists.

En masse (by far the best way to travel), we convoyed out of the city and attracted many waves from curious locals. The first bit of rough road though, a small pothole that we'd now laugh at after our experience in the Ukraine/Kazakhstan, and the Mongol Mongrel's exhaust fell off. Mackey's bodge job had lasted all of 1km.

Percy, the Peugeot 206 driven by Ed & Emma, now sounded like a tank. An actual tank, no doubt throwing up memories of some Soviet bygone era for the locals, but we had progress to make and no doubt time at the border to once again examine the damage. Onwards we pushed, but not too far, before we were pulled over by the Kazakh police. 

Unlike their Russian counterparts, the Kazakh police are really rather nice. It seems I hadn't put on my lights (compulsory in these parts), but instead of fining me a rather hefty amount, they just asked me to rectify the situation and sent us on our way. Very refreshing, as the Ruski bastards would have demanded some extortionate amount.

We got to the Russian border at 11.15, all making guesses on how long it would take. 6 hours was our longest, but we'd become adept to border proceedings after our many - average estimate was 3 hours.

I'm not sure what it is; Mackey looking a bit like a terrorist, or perhaps Pete the Saxo looking filthy, but we seem to get searched at every possible opportunity. Ed & Emma have been searched (or a brief look in their car) a couple of times. We however, have had Pete the Saxo searched inside and out at nearly every border. Kazakh customs were no different - despite leaving the country, they still made us take everything out and explain half of it to them. What is this? That's a first aid kit. What is that? Immodium. Of course though, they didn't understand the word, and cue Mackey acting out what Immodium was. A fantastic 2 minute demonstration, I would have loved to have filmed it all (apart from cameras are banned at border crossings, and I would have got shot).

After the convoy had  been searched (well, we had and the rest waved through), we entered the very short No Man's Land and queued at the Russian side. All was going well - passport control, the first of two checks at any side, went smoothly, despite the woman convinced it wasn't me in my passport photo. Will, being the registered owner of the car, was to get processed with Pete the Saxo, so myself and Mackey walked through the border building to get processed individually.

All was well, with a little immigration form to complete before you could proceed. Luckily, Emma & Laura (Two Mongoleers) were very prepared and brought us all in a plethora of pens to use. Will made a mistake on his, after trying to match up the Cyrillic for "tourist" with the available options on the immigration card. Instead, I think he declared himself as a drug runner or something. A blank card was quickly obtained and second time lucky, the right combination of strange characters was selected. Somehow, despite not owning in on either iPod, "You don't have to say you love me" popped into my head, and I subconsciously hummed it in the cramped shed/passport control station. Within a couple of minutes, my humming stopped to fully concentrate on the immigration card, the song continued by rallyers and locals, having also subconsciously picked it up from me. Was quite funny.

Onwards we went to the second check - customs. 

We were very prepared for the search, already opening the various doors on the car, as the Russian soldiers headed our way. Only a brief search this time however - merely a prodding through the front door compartments and the first aid kits (incredibly, these two areas get searched at every single border. If I ever plan to smuggle drugs across Central Asia, I know where not to keep my stash. With hindsight, anywhere but those two areas are pretty safe.

A short search - fantastic! Our convoy had just also been waved through, and were parked in a car park as soon as you entered the great Soviet country. Onwards we drove, happy with the 3 hour border crossing and excited to push on.

But it's never that simple, is it? Before we were allowed to proceed, we were asked for our Customs Declaration Sheet. We'd had experience with these before - the Ukraine border guards stinging us for quite a few Euros after not declaring them. As a result, we'd promised ourselves we'd list every single item in the car on them, never giving any border guard the chance to again diddle us out of more money. Confident we'd never seen another since then, we told the guard we'd never received one. We didn't know whether we were supposed to have one from our first time in Russia, as we entered Kazakhstan, or as we left Kazakhstan.

Only one guard spoke English, and  broken English at that. He made it quite clear that we couldn't proceed without this form and dismissed us. Excellent. We were now stuck in 50 meters of No Man's Land, barred from re-entering Kazakhstan due to our single use visa, and Russia being so close yet so far. Hassling him was the only way we could get anywhere, as he seemed quite content to leave us stewing without hope.

We parked up, in the sin car park, and tackled him with our paperwork trying to convince him we had never been given a customs declaration form. Lots of talking in Russian with his fellow officers, and he eventually told us we needed one from Kazakhstan. Will, being the owner, was to stroll back into the country we'd just left and get one.

Mackey and I waited, and waited, while Will went to get one. 30 minutes later, he strolled back through the various checkpoints back to the car, empty handed. Apparently the stern Kazakh woman had refused to give him one, and followed the Russian's suit and ignored our pleas.

Our convoy were patiently waiting in relative freedom, parked just behind the chain link fence that separated us. I then told Will we'd get a customs form, even if it meant stealing one, and accompanied him back towards Kazakhstan. By this time, the various guards on the checkpoints were used to us, and simply waved us through as we walked backwards and forwards between the two countries.
Will was right, Kazakh border woman was a pain in the ass. She flatly refused us, muttering "bye bye" - the only English she apparently knew. With our convoy waiting, and this seemingly our only way to continue on the rally, we did what us British do best - we waited. Hanging on her counter would probably be a more apt description, refusing to leave without the hallowed piece of A5 paper.

Eventually though, it worked. She escorted us to a hut, and then another, explaining the problem to the guards who were more than happy to pass the buck to the next. After some time, a guard seemed to understand us and gave us the form to fill out. This took about 20 seconds. Another 60 seconds of stamping it and making it official, we were presented with the declaration and once again headed to Russia to attempt to break out.

Will had been to Kazakhstan three times, and Russia three times, all in one day. Whilst the two of us were negotiating/arguing with the Kazakh border, it seems Mackey had wandered over to the chain link fence to give our convoy an update. This was apparently not a good thing to do, as he was shouted at and chased away by an irate guard, angry that Mackey had broken some international law about conversing with the released. A sniper probably had him in his sights before Mackey made a hasty retreat.

Form in hand, the tired guards eventually let us through, and we reformed the magnificent convoy. Most teams had pushed forward just 10 minutes previous, aiming to find a hotel in the next city of Barnau, leaving only the Mongol Mongrels waiting for us. Ed & Emma, we love you guys.

Towards Barnau we now went, the Russian city so very close to the Altay Mountains. The roads were quite good, avoiding the sparsely laid out pot holes with ease after our previous trials. We entered the city limits late, about 10pm, and reformed with our convoy as we cruised down the main street bisecting the city.

We began the search for the hotel, ever in contact with the other cars thanks to our amazing CB radios (so kindly provided by Sharman Multicom). Laura (Two Mongoleers) voiced her frustration at not being able to spot the Cyrillic for hotel in this ever growing municipality. I kindly pointed out the 30 foot high letters marking HOTEL adorning a skyscraper not too far ahead of us. 

We all headed to the shining beacon, and entered the city centre hotel car park. Ed, with his broken exhaust, actually managed to set off a car alarm with his booming exhaust by just pulling in next to it. Absolutely no contact was made - just his faux bad boy exhaust! We all walked in to the deserted reception. It was a fairly large hotel; the foyer was open plan, polished floors and even had free wifi. We all checked in, affording ourselves single rooms as a treat (and some privacy for a change), and all agreed to meet back in reception in an hour - time for a change into semi clean clothes and a shower.

I say semi-clean clothes; long gone are the days where we have a freshly laundered tshirt, or unstained trousers. Washing clothes has become an art, an art which we are slowly picking up. Using a small tube of "Travel Wash", and the hotel room's facilities (be it a bath or a sink), we handwash to the best of our ability. And for all those that know us, you know the best of our ability is throw it all together, swill it round for 20 seconds and wring the excess water out. Drying clothes though, that's where the magic happens. If the clothes don't dry out overnight whilst we get some much needed sleep, we take the damp items to our car. Whoever is in the back seat for the morning shift, usually Mackey, then does the drying. This consists of, one item at a time, holding it out the window. A tshirt for example, held at the bottom ends, and allow the morning air rushing by the car to fill said tshirt, and drying it in the process. Our record was the 47 degree air of a Russian heatwave - that managed to dehydrate a tshirt in less than 30 seconds. Back to the original point - we crave a washing machine.

At the hotel, we discovered a number of other rally teams in habitation; Ultimate Farmer, a French ambulance, a Spanish dude on a motorbike, the 2 Micras, Skinner & Little in a Swift, and another blue Saxo (this one with a home made bonnet scoop). By the time we all met at reception, it was very late - gone 1am, and all of us in desperate need of food that wasn't crisps or snacks.

Across the city centre road, and we found a peculiar permanent marquee erected, filled with empty tables and chairs, as well as a bar. Close to the hotel, and with smiling staff, the group of 24 of us rallyers were more than happy to enter. The poor bar lady, standing no more than 5ft and armed with 15 words of English, was overwhelmed by the orders for food and beer coming in, despite us British forming an orderly queue. But, the wait didn't matter - we had rallyers to chat with, sharing stories of highs and lows, both new and old.

The meals eventually came out - 1 by 1. Not a problem when it's just the three of us, but when 24 hungry bodies have all ordered at the same time, it ended up a little bit crazy. The last meal came out over 2 hours after the first, and even after more unordered dished materialised. Fear not, they too were swiftly demolished by the ravished drivers. The last person to eat, a vegetarian who'd ordered Mushroom Carbonara with the help of someone who spoke the two languages, sat and watched as everyone received and ate. Enquiring with the waitress to the where abbots of her food was answered with blank stares  - trying to describe Mushroom Carbonara with sign language is near on impossible. Mackey ended up coming to the rescue surprisingly, with a very questionable drawing on the back of a napkin. Which worked. The dish was served by 15 minutes later. We took a photo of his sketch - one not to be missed.

A few beers later, and the majority were  feeling the exhaustion after a long day. It was now 3am, and people began to retire to the comparative luxury of their Soviet hotel rooms. Whilst eating however, we heard a reverberating bass line coming from nearby - it seems we'd been eating next door to a Russian nightclub. Never the chance to miss some traditional Russian culture, I voiced my intention to visit. Will was a willing wingman, and eventually Mackey too rose to the challenge. Emma called it a night, but Ed too was to join us. Paul & Laura from the Two Mongoleers also shared our interest for some Russian education, as well as Skinner, Little & Oliver (from a Micra).

We headed in, looking completely out of place from the second we entered. We wore flip flops, shorts or lightweight trousers, and t shirts. The locals however, obviously the wealthy side considering the £10 entry charge, looked somewhat better. Still, onwards we went, grabbing a few beers from the packed nightclub whilst attempting to protect our ears from decibels that would have been illegal in the UK.

We grabbed a table, watching the dance floor intently to learn these traditional Russian moves. The fact that they were being performed by stunning Soviet beauties in skimpy sparkly dresses was pure coincidence. This part of Russia though, the second half of our two part trip, does seem to hold the collective talent of the entire nation. They were stunning. Not Ukraine stunning, i'll give you that, but enough to keep our posse wide awake until the last orders bell was rang at 4am.

Our Russian is coming along nicely - we can now say: Hello, Thanks, Yes, No, Beer, Chips. The six words that could probably get you through life. I even managed to string five of them together in a sentence which actually worked!

It was a late night - later than we planned, but beers with other rallyers and a chance to witness some Russian dancing was a very welcome break from the thousands of miles we've done. To our rooms we went, and sleep following soon after.