STUCK AT SEA

After staring out across the Caspian Sea for a while, she slowly pulled herself up onto the railing. First she sat, and then she stood, balancing a few stories above the water. There were a few of us out enjoying the sun, and as she made her move, we exchanged a volley of nervous glances. It was a long drop, and there would be no easy way to retrieve her from the sea if she were to jump. Not from a cargo ship. 

When the crew noticed from down below they didn’t hesitate. A group of men filed up the stairs and raced towards her. With the language barrier, there was no coaxing her down, and before she could jump they aggressively yanked her from the railing. She landed on her feet and stumbled. One of the men grabbed her arm but she angrily twisted free, yelling at them to let her go. At that point I was up, and she ran over and clung to my side. The angry sailors shuffled over as I stood there shielding the frantic women. They shouted at her, and looked at me, searching for answers. I didn’t understand a word, but I got what they were saying. 

The woman’s name was Adrian. She was a school teacher back in the states and was doing the Mongol Rally with her uncle. Her restlessness had been growing. We all had cabin fever, but she had it bad. 

It had taken sixteen hours to cover the 200 miles between Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan. We left Baku early on a Saturday afternoon, and by Sunday morning the Turkmenbashi skyline broke the horizon. Then we dropped anchor. And sat there. Floating. Waiting. For three days. It would’ve been fine if we’d been moving the whole time, but with the Turkmen coast looming before us, and repeated false promises from the crew about heading into port, the waiting game began to test our sanity.

Ten Mongol Rally teams had squeezed their cars onto the boat along with the regular cargo. It was a boisterous group - six British teams, a German team, a Canadian team, and two American teams including us. Everyone brought their fair share of booze for the voyage, but the generous Germans came with enough beer for a party. There was a three-car team called the Desert Spoons who had joined forces with another gang called the B-Team. We’d met them for the first time in Romania at the all-night beach party on the Black Sea. They were a young bunch, most were still in university, but they were fun and interesting, and I was enjoying our budding friendship. On the roof deck sat an inflatable kiddie pool, and not long after setting sail the beers were floating around in the warm water amongst a dozen pairs of feet and some stirred up sediment. It seemed oddly fitting for a grim and dingy cargo ship. The sunset that evening was spectacular, and everyone was in good spirits as we cruised into the night.

I didn’t have a bed. The few available bunks were snatched up first come first serve, and those left without had to fend for themselves. There was a common area just off the corridor where the bunks were. It had a few windows, but was dimly lit. The ceiling was a few inches above my head, and the walls were lined with grimy chairs that were all connected - probably pulled from an old passenger boat. People lounged about, read, played cards, and smoked cigarettes. At night they hung out and drank. The space became cluttered and filthy. People slept there, on the chairs, or strewn out across the floor on sleeping matts. Not me. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink in that dungeon. So I found a spot up on the roof deck.

Luckily, white noise knocks me out. At home I have a fan going in my bedroom year round. And on airplanes I rarely make it to liftoff before I’m drooling on my neighbor’s shoulder. But the cargo ship was the ultimate sedative. Although I had nothing soft to sleep on, the hum of the engine, the warm sea breeze, and the sound of the ocean had me sprawled out on the deck in a slumbrous coma. And I barely woke up the next morning. Maybe I had a slight hangover, but the entire first day I was nothing but a lethargic zombie, stumbling around the ship and collapsing into spontaneous naps. I needed the rest, but the day-long sleeping binge threw me off. My mind was blank. I had a book to read but couldn’t seem to follow the words. 

Once we anchored off the coast of Turkmenistan, the waiting game stretched the clock and time seemed to creep along. After weeks of being stuffed in a tiny car, tumbling through an ever-changing landscape, I was suddenly stuck on a hulking vessel, staring out over a vast and static panorama. When I became tired of looking out to sea, I would turn and fixate on the ship, the machine that was holding me captive. The texture, the gears and metal, the layers of chipped and pealing paint. It was cold and lifeless. I was detached from the world. Stuck between two places. The ship slowly pivoted around the anchor, the rugged coast shifting back and forth from one side of the bow to the other.   

Every few hours news would trickle down from the crew that we’d have to wait a little longer before heading into port. A few more hours. Later today. Tomorrow morning. There were a handful of other cargo ships in line. The port can only handle two boats at a time. Sporadic wind and rain with choppy seas was another excuse.

We had only brought enough food for a few meals, so after a couple days the crew started to feed us. Two meals a day - stale bread and the same potato and onion soup, more watered down with every serving. One day we had pasta. There was no sauce so we put ketchup on it. At night we’d convince the crew to sell us vodka. They’d claim it was their last bottle, but the next night they’d have another, and charge us more.

On the last morning I woke up to a glassy sea and clear skies, and a few hours after Adrian was pulled down from the railing, the anchor was lifted and we made our way into port. It was dusk by the time we set foot in Turkmenistan, and after five long and puzzling hours in customs, we entered one of the most mysterious countries in the world. 

AZERBAIJAN

Our one-night stay in Tbilisi was a complete tease. I could tell on the way out the next morning that we’d missed out on a splendid city. But ‘tis the nature of the Mongol Rally. Adios, Georgia! Onward ho! 

It was around sixty kilometers from Tbilisi to the border, and after leaving the city we cruised into a barren landscape. Henry and Brad were still following us, and we convoyed east through the desert towards Azerbaijan. The border was backed up, and the bottleneck brought together a caravan of around ten rally cars. 

I took over driving from Johannes once we crossed the border, and soon after that I was pulled over by the cops. It was a lonely stretch of road, and off to the side stood a big police station. At that point in the rally there had been cars driving through Azerbaijan for at least a week, and rumor had it that the police were notorious for their rally car shakedowns. Sure enough, as soon as they saw our car cruising along with a big Mongol Rally sticker across the hood, they waved us down. We were towards the front of a staggered convoy, and watched as they plucked our fellow ralliers from the flow of traffic. 

My approach to interacting with authorities in foreign lands has always been to do so with a smile. Body language is everything. The only thing we understood from the cop was that he wanted 800 Euros. That’s over a thousand bucks. No need to fuss! I kindly smiled, shook my head, and acted confused and oblivious to the gratuitous demand. I was unyielding, yet cheerful. A few other policemen filed out of the station as the line of rally cars grew, and with a number of guiltless drivers to choose from, they eventually let us go. It pays to be nice. How’re you supposed to feel good about swindling someone if they’re jolly and dumb? Being confrontational in situations like that won’t get you anywhere. We heard later that there was an ATM inside the police station, and that a few unfortunate teams were coerced into withdrawing hefty fines.

We drove towards the evening through a bleak and lifeless landscape. The sporadic villages we passed through were dismal - tiny grids of simple brown-concrete structures, dimly lit and seemingly deserted. Traffic was heavy at times, and full of menacing trucks that kicked up dust as they barreled through the desert. For a while we joined a small convoy of rally cars, but eventually broke free from the pack. At some point we lost Henry and Brad, but knew we’d bump into them down the road. Everyone who was in Azerbaijan for the Mongol Rally was heading to Baku to board a cargo ship across the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan. We’d heard the boat schedule was inconsistent, and before boarding we needed to acquire our Turkmen visas. The embassy was only open on Friday and Monday mornings, and it was a Thursday evening, so our hope was to get the visas taken care of the following day so we could jump the next ship to Turkmenistan. We thought we'd find a place to camp outside the city and get an early start in the morning, but I was in the zone, and before we knew it we were cruising into the capital.

Baku glowed. It was a complete contrast from the drab terrain we’d been driving through all day. We breached the city limits around 10:30 and entered an oasis of oil money opulence. The streets wound along the bay past immaculate buildings with brightly lit facades. Three modern skyscrapers called the Flame Towers illuminated the skyline, with LED light shows that wrapped the exteriors and dazzled the night sky with dancing flames. After the monotony of desert driving, Baku was a sensory overload.

We found a small pub with wifi and looked for hostels over beers. We didn’t have a guidebook, but once we got online it was apparent that Baku was not a popular destination for budget travelers. There were only a few cheap hostels, but we managed to nab a few bunks at a place within walking distance. A resurgence in the petroleum industry has added a modern and lavish layer to the capital, but at the heart of Baku, surrounded by towering walls, is the old-city. Our hostel was inside, and once we passed through the gates we quickly lost our way in a maze of narrow alleys and winding streets. We were tired, but it was a beautiful place to be lost, and eventually we found someone to show us the way.

I always imagine foreign embassies to occupy stately buildings, perhaps located along a wide, tree-lined boulevard. The Turkmen embassy was situated in a dusty alleyway off a smoggy road in the further reaches of Baku. It would have been easy to miss had it not been for the growing crowd of Mongol Rally teams waiting outside the gate. Henry and Brad were there; we knew we’d see them again. They’d joined another convoy and had attempted to camp outside of Baku but had been roused by local authorities and chased away in the middle of the night. They were with a large group of young brits, many of whom we’d already met a long the way. I could tell we’d be boarding the cargo ship with a fun and lively bunch. 

Acquiring a Turkmen visa required a letter of invitation, which we took care of before we left home. Brad and Henry didn’t have one and were denied their visas. They would still board a cargo ship, but instead would head north to Kazakhstan. Once we got our visas, we took off to find the port of departure. There was a massive eight-lane street that ran along the bay, and just past a Bentley dealership was a dirt road that took us to the docks. A small assembly of Mongol Rally teams had already started to form, and word had it that the boat wasn’t leaving until the next day.

With some time to kill in Baku, we set out with Brad and Henry to explore. Our stroll revolved around beer and local cuisine. And then vodka and more local cuisine. From park-side cafes, to underground beer halls, to late-night hookah bars, we saw as much as we could. It was a fun day, and it was well after dark by the time we stumbled back to the shipyard to call it a night. 

The next morning we woke up early and stocked up on groceries for the boat. We said farewell to Brad and Henry. It had been almost a week since we’d met them in Batumi, and we had enjoyed their company along the way. We were about to set off on different paths, and it was the last time we’d see them.

People were anxious to set sail, but getting ten cars through customs and loaded onto the ship took a while. It was early afternoon by the time we made it on board, and a couple hours after that when we finally pushed off and set out into the Caspian Sea. The city of Turkmenbashi was less than 200 miles east, and we were expecting to reach our fourteenth country the following day, but little did we know...

BORJOMI

There’s an ancient monastery in southern Georgia called Vardzia. It was built into the side of a cliff hundreds of years ago and consists of over 200 cave dwellings. There’s also an isolated and nondescript village in northern Georgia with the same name. We meant to go to the monastery, but went to the village instead. We also thought it would be a short day trip from Batumi, but it wasn’t.

Our new friends and fellow ralliers, Brad and Henry, followed along, and by the time we realized that we’d wound up at the wrong place, we were far from Batumi and daylight was fading. We’d gone pretty far east, and would’ve continued on down the road except that we still had to head back to Batumi to pick up Azerbaijan visas for Derick and Johannes.

Instead of backtracking through the night on sketchy roads with even sketchier drivers, we decided we’d find a place to crash. And that’s when we rolled into Borjomi. If we’d had any sort of guidebook, we would have seen it coming, but to blindly stumble into an old Soviet resort town was quite a delight! The road into Borjomi paralleled a river through a wooded gorge. The town almost came out of nowhere, and its apparent charm seemed promising, so we parked the cars and set out on foot to find a place to stay. It wasn’t long before we came across the only hostel in town, and just our luck they had a room full of bunks with an awesome second floor balcony overlooking the street. We ran back and got the cars, dropped our bags, and pulled some chairs and a table out onto the balcony. Henry provided the vodka, and Johannes a deck of cards, and we all sat around and enjoyed the night.

Johannes and Derick were up early the next morning and back on the road to Batumi to retrieve their Azerbaijan visas. I had no reason to go back, and neither did Brad and Henry, so we decided we’d hang out in Borjomi for the day and rendezvous in Tbilisi later that night. We’d been on the road for over two weeks, and this was the first time I’d split ways with Derick and Johannes. They had a long stretch of driving ahead of them, and we didn’t, so the day was ours to hang out and explore. 

After basking in the sun on the balcony all morning, we went for a walk. Borjomi is wedged in a valley surrounded by steep mountains, and we strolled out of town up to a park cradled in a ravine. We got to a gondola, and for about seventy-five cents each caught a lift up to a ridge overlooking the town. There was a ferris wheel at the top, and not much else, except for a few cows in the road. We took a ride on the ferris wheel and then posted up on a balcony above the gondola terminus. Cold beers and a view! That was our afternoon. And it felt good to sit still and take in a static landscape after spending days on end in a car.

We were back on the road by late afternoon and made it to Tbilisi around sundown. Derick and Johannes found us at our hostel a few hours later, and the next day we hit the road to Azerbaijan...

BATUMI

After driving out of the mountains, we arrived at the Black Sea and cruised east towards Georgia. We stopped for a quick dip before entering our twelfth country, and after an hour or so at the border drove into the beach town of Batumi. 

Once we crossed that invisible line in the earth, the first and most blatant difference was the traffic. The driving! And the complete disregard for any sort of traffic law. Second, was the writing. No more Roman alphabet! This made navigation a little challenging. We were without a map and looking for a cheap place to stay. Johannes was behind the wheel and we cruised around cautiously until we were directed to a hostel on the outskirts of the old-town. Derick and Johannes needed visas for Azerbaijan. It was Saturday and the consulate didn’t open until Monday. It was looking like we’d have the chance to get to know the place a little.

With a blossoming tourism industry and a recent boom in commercial construction, Batumi has been undergoing a facelift over the last few years. The old-town has been getting a candy-coating and the shoreline and boardwalk sprinkled with modern high-rises. At night the facades are lit with an array of colored lights that paint the city in rainbow. One of the high-rises along the water has a little ferris wheel built into it! It’s a weird mix of old and new architecture, and the juxtaposition seems rather forced. Tourism is Batumi’s biggest draw, in large part due to the subtropical weather, but a few things just seemed a little peculiar. 

One day we came across an Avatar statue along the boardwalk. As in, the blue alien girl from the 2009 blockbuster. It was on the edge of a playground, and except for the head, which accurately represented the character from the movie, the rest of the sculpture was simply a life-sized naked women’s body painted blue. She held a bow that had snapped in half and had been poorly repaired with packing tape. Her tail also required a tape job and was secured at the bottom with a wrap just below the knee. We thought it was pretty tacky, but the hard-packed dirt around the base was evidence of her popularity with posing tourists. Soon after that we passed a lady cop wearing heels. It was the little things...

On-and-off rain resulted in a relaxing stay in Batumi. I was feeling a little under the weather as well, so it was nice to stay put and take it easy. We met two Brits at our hostel who were also doing the Mongol Rally, Brad and Henry. They were great, and we ended up hanging out and convoying with them for a few days...

LAKE UZUNGÖL

We were on the road bright and early after our night of cow pasture camping, and before long the highway hit the Black Sea. We paralleled the coast for most of the day. It was a smooth and scenic drive under sunny skies, cruising on a coastal highway through tunnels and towns, sandwiched between the mountains and the sea.

A little after midday we took a turn onto a windy road up towards Lake Uzungöl. Once we left the coast and entered the highlands the temperature began to drop and a sporadic but heavy cloud cover tumbled through skies above. The road took us into a region of Turkey known for its tea, and the valley we drove through was surrounded by precipitous terrain that held a patchwork of plantations. We arrived at Uzungöl, a little village wrapped around a mountain lake. A large white mosque sat at one end, with gift shops and restaurants lining the water on both sides. There was a noticeable amount of construction going on - guesthouses and little hotels sprouting up throughout the town. It was only mid-afternoon, but unlike our cow pasture camping debacle the night before, we thought we’d get an early start on finding a place to pitch the tent. We drove around the lake and up into the mountains, and within five minutes the steep and windy road turned to dirt.

With every hairpin turn and break in the trees the view became more dramatic, and the farther up we got, the more the temperature dropped. We came to a convergence of roads and spotted a cluster of houses spilling down an opposing mountainside. Johannes was on the search for some tea. We’d passed up the chance to buy some earlier, so we thought we’d try the village. There was no store, only a few dozen homes and a mosque. After parking the car, Johannes asked a couple of men where he could find some tea. When they found out he was German, they yelled down into the village for their friend Ali. It took a couple of minutes, but soon an old man came walking up the path. Ali was Turkish, but had lived in Germany for fifteen years. He’d retired from his job as a welder and had moved back to the village where he was born. 

Johannes’ idea was to buy to some tea to take with us, but instead we were invited into Ali’s home for an afternoon snack. After removing our shoes at the door, he took us into his living room. His home was simple, but nice. The room was dim with the curtains drawn, but the Turkish rugs and wood paneled walls gave the place a cozy feel. Under one of the windows mint leaves where spread out to dry in the afternoon light. It was still Ramadan, so our host couldn’t partake, but he gave us tea and cookies, and sat down to talk with Johannes. They chatted for a while, and Derick and I sat and enjoyed the tea. Evening was approaching, and we still needed to find a place to camp, so after an hour or so, we thanked Ali and left the village.

We retraced the road back to the intersection, and then continued driving up towards the clouds. The tree line broke as we approached another village, and after a bend in the road we smacked into some stunning views. The cloud cover was heavy overhead, and the sun was dropping over the mountaintops, shooting beams of twilight across the valley. We could see Lake Uzungöl below, surrounded by the red-roofed houses of the village. The mountainside was steep, but we spotted some flat ground around the bend, a few hundred yards downhill from the road.

It was an especially choice place to put up a tent, the views were amazing. And after eating what little food we had, we crawled into our tent for the night. The ominous cloud cover was free of rain, but once night fell the chill creeped up through the cold earth and left me with a restless night of sleep. We were awake before dawn and left the tent to welcome the sunrise. The sun brought some much needed warmth, and after packing up our gear, we hit the road for Georgia...

A SHOT IN THE DARK

We left Istanbul in the morning and drove across the Bosporus from Europe into Asia. Johannes took the wheel for the first half of the day, and I drove the rest. We cruised east through a landscape reminiscent of a western movie - red dirt, textured mountain ranges, and big skies. It was approaching dusk and we needed to find a place to camp. We’d already stocked up on some food for the night, and all we needed was a place to sleep. We turned left off the main road and within 200 yards hit dirt and gravel. The sun was getting low, and our dream of parking somewhere along the Black Sea and camping by the water was starting to look pretty grim. So we pulled into a cow pasture. We thought it would be ok, but then we heard gunshots outside of our tent!

It was dark, but I hit record. Here's a crappy little video...

As we packed up our tent the next morning, the same two men that almost chased us out of the cow pasture stopped by to bid us farewell. What a night...

ISTANBUL

Border crossings always take longer than expected. We were all excited once we crossed into Turkey, but it was already well after midnight and we still had a ways to go.

It was approaching dawn by the time we arrived in Sultanachmet, the old-town section of Istanbul. We pulled over by the famous Blue Mosque, looked at a map, wandered around, found some free wifi outside of a hotel, and located a hostel close by.  

We were all pretty wiped out the next morning. Derick had an unsuccessful attempt at acquiring a visa at the Azerbaijan consulate, and I hung out at the hostel and caught up on sleep. We’d been going non-stop for a week, and with plans to stay in Istanbul for a few days, it was nice to unwind a little. 

Derick caught word that a couple of his teacher friends from Korea were passing through, and right after sending them an email, they coincidentally strolled by our hostel while we were outside eating lunch. Müge and Sheryl had just finished a few years of teaching in Korea, and were traveling a bit before heading home. It had been a while since Derick had seen them so we celebrated with a few rounds of beers. They’d planned to head south on a bus that night, but we convinced them to postpone their departure for a day and hang out. After some beers at the hostel, we walked around the corner for dinner. And from there we took a cab to Taksim Square to get a taste of Istanbul’s nightlife. The neighborhood was bustling for a Monday night. We explored the network of alleyways that branch off of the main strip, listened to some live music, and eventually ended up at a bar where the crowd had spilled into the street for an impromptu block party. It was a lot of fun, and not surprisingly turned into another late night.

The next day we said farewell to Müge and Sheryl. Derick stayed back at the hostel, and Johannes and I took off to meet up with my friend Gülce and her sister Janset. Gülce is one of my sister’s best friends from Gettysburg and was in Turkey visiting family. She moved to the states from Istanbul when she was eight and has returned almost every year since. It was great to hang out with someone who spoke Turkish and knew their way around. Plus, Gülce is awesome!

The four of us caught a boat up the Bosporus Straight, which connects the Black Sea with the Mediterranean, and divides the European and Asian continents. We jumped off at the last stop north, and hiked up to a little hilltop castle with great views overlooking the Black Sea. After the hike back down we snacked on tasty fish sandwiches before boarding the boat back to Istanbul. It was late afternoon by the time we returned, and after a beer we parted ways with Gülce and her sister. It had been a lot of fun, and luckily we had plans to meet up and hang out again the next day. Derick, Johannes and I gave Taksim Square another go that night. What a fun place! We were pretty tired, so after a tasty seafood diner and some live music, we called it a night.

On our last full day in Istanbul we met up with Gülce and her sister for another adventure. Gülce’s friend Brendan also joined us. He had just finished the Peace Corps in Moldova and was making his way back to the states. We all met up in Kadiköy on the east side of the Bosporous, and after checking out a street market, ventured north in a bus. After an unsuccessful go at visiting an old palace, we ended up spending late afternoon by the water, eating ice cream and talking about life. Gülce and Janset had to head back to their grandmother's for dinner, so we parted ways. It was great hanging out with Gülce. Random rendezvous in foreign lands are the best! 

Brendan was staying with a friend close to Taksim Square, so we tagged along with him on the way back. We took a boat across the Bosporus, then hopped a metro up to Taksim Square. From there we walked down to an old lookout tower at dusk. The views from the top were great, and it was the perfect spot for an Istanbul sunset. After coming back down, we parted with ways with Brendan and slowly made our way back to our hostel on foot. We took our time and stopped for beers on the way, and once we got back we packed up the car in anticipation of an early departure the next day.

I need to visit Istanbul again. It was nice to be able to stay for a couple of days, but that city is most excellent, and is ripe for exploring. Food, music, culture, history - it’s got it all! And I will return.

SOFIA

I was more tired than anything when I woke up on the beach the day after the party. A young mother and her kids walked by and gave me funny looks. A sandy mess of dirty-blonde hair poking out of my sleeping bag.

The Black Sea was refreshing, and gave me a good waking up. It was a shallow beach, and I found myself hanging out with a group of brits, playing catch with a rugby ball in the calm waste-deep water. We’d bumped into them at the top of the Transfagarasan. They were a fun bunch - nine guys rolling in a caravan of three cars.

We relaxed, took in some sun, and hit the road around midday. Most teams were heading further east, but we decided to backtrack and head southwest into Bulgaria. Our Bulgarian classmate Boryana was in Sofia for the summer and we wanted to pay her a visit. I took over driving from Johannes once we crossed the border, and Derick continued to sleep in the back seat. The drive was great, a pleasant cruise through pastoral Bulgaria - rolling hills and sweeping vistas. We caught a great sunset from the road and drove on into the night. 

It was another late arrival. Big surprise. Boryana had plans for us to go out and check out the night life, but after an all night beach party and a day of driving, we were tuckered out and ready for bed.

The next day the four of us walked the streets of Bulgaria's capital. Boryana grew up in Sliven, but went to university in Sofia, and knew the city well. She was a most excellent tour guide and enriched our urban hike with history and culture. Through graffiti-lined streets, from bleak Eastern Bloc apartment complexes to the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral - we had a wonderful time with Boryana, and it was great to see her in her native environment. 

Our visit with Boryana was short but sweet, and that evening we set out for Istanbul, and our eleventh country - Turkey...

BLACK SEA BEACH PARTY

After conquering the Transfagarasan, we b-lined it east to the Black Sea. There was another Mongol Rally check point in eastern Romania, an all-night party on the beach. Once we came down out of the mountains it was a straight shot to Bucarest. After weaving through Romania’s capital at dusk, we hit another freeway and zipped out to the coastal city of Constanta. We thought we’d made good time, but of course finding the beach party was a bit of a challenge, and we didn’t end up arriving until midnight. Late for the party. Par for the course.

The Mongol Rally had been underway for almost a week, and we’d gotten to know a few teams along the way. Reuniting on the beach was fun. A week in, and plenty of stories to be told. The bar was set up towards the back of the beach under a roofed patio, along with a DJ table, dance floor, and a loud sound system. From there out to the water the sand was scattered with massive pillows and canvas lean-tos. It was a good mix of ralliers and locals, and the place was packed.

We partied late into the night, and at one point I found myself in a grizzly bear suit. When the horizon began to glow with the approach of dawn, we hiked back to the parking lot with some fellow ralliers and ate some noodles. Many teams had pitched their tents by the cars, others were sprawled out on the pillows that covered the beach. Derick nestled up by our Hyundai and Johannes and I walked back out to the beach to find a nice patch of sand. 

I caught the sunrise and watched some fishermen bring in their boat. People lined the beach to welcome the new day. And soon after that I crawled into my sleeping bag for a sandy sleep.

TRANSFAGARASAN

From Budapest we spent an entire day in the car on the way to Romania. It was a long stretch of driving but we finally made it to the town of Sibiu, and put ourselves in the perfect position to tackle the Transfagarasan! 

I’ve seen the show Top Gear a few times, but not enough to know that they featured the Transfagarasan in an episode a few years back and labeled it the ‘the best road in the world.’ It’s pretty popular now, and a lot of Mongol Rally teams set out to conquer it.

We got a little lost trying to find our way, but before long our trusty little Hyundai was making the ascent towards the 6,600 foot pass. As soon as we started climbing, the road began to twist and turn, but it wasn’t until the final push to the top where things got really crazy. I mean, the road is called the ‘Transfagarasan’ because that’s what it appears to spell out in cursive from a birds-eye view. Just kidding.

Johannes drove up and Derick drove down. I sat in the passenger seat and enjoyed the view. Road trips can be pretty awesome when they involve a road like this. There’s nothing like connecting the dots on a map with a few squiggles!

BUDAPEST

We left Prague the next morning and drove southeast towards Budapest. Between the Czech Republic and Hungary we drove through Slovakia, where we got a ticket for not driving with our lights on, and Austria, where we stopped for a quick dip in Lake Neusiedlersee. 

It was late in the day by the time we checked into our hostel, and not long after that we set out on foot to explore the city. We walked south along the Danube River and made our way towards the Citadella - an old fortress on a hilltop overlooking the city. We missed the sunset, but made it up in time to watch the city lights come to life as daylight faded. We zigzagged on the way back to the hostel, and stopped for a few beers before calling it a night.

One day in Hungary. It was another typical quick stopover during the Mongol Rally. Next up, Romania...

PRAGUE

I was hurting the day after the Czech Out Party. Completely worthless. It was a short drive to Prague and while Derick slept in the back seat, I sat shotgun and navigated with a dull headache. Good thing Johannes was well-rested.

From what I saw of it, Prague was awesome. Our visit was brief, and I realized that these kind of layovers would be commonplace throughout The Mongol Rally. What a tease!

After checking into a hostel and taking a short nap, we took a walk up to a hilltop park overlooking the old city. The views were great. We arrived at a beer garden, but I passed on the refreshments. After strolling back down the hill, we crossed the river and weaved through the old town. That night we ventured across town to explore a neighborhood from a friend's recommendation.

I guess you could say it was a good preview for my next visit. It’s hard not to want to go back to a city like that. The next day we took off for Budapest, for another equally tantalizing layover...  

THE CZECH OUT PARTY

There was a second launch party at a castle in the Czech Republic that was even bigger than the first. Many teams from around Europe didn’t make it to the UK for the party at Bodium Castle, so for many people it was the official start of the rally.

We were late for the party again, and the castle was a little off the beaten path. After a few wrong turns, we finally pulled into a large make-shift parking lot full of cars and scattered with tents. It was a short hike uphill through some dark woods to the castle. Along the way we found ourselves surrounded by a couple of teams dressed in full-body animals suits - two elephants and three pandas. Typical for the Mongol Rally.

Unlike the launch party in the UK that used Bodium Castle as a mere backdrop, this one actually took place inside the castle. Set up just outside was a food tent and a bar. We scarfed down some meat, took a shot of absinth, grabbed a few beers, then made our way into the castle. 

There was an open-air courtyard inside with a stage set up and another beverage tent. We’d missed the performances, but the place was still overrun by rowdy ralliers. Colorful spotlights lit the old brick walls, and lanterns were strung about to brighten the grassy yard. There were a handful of dark stairwells leading up and down, most of them closed off to the party, but a few that opened up into debaucherous dungeons. One was a straight-up rave. We opted for the more mellow scene - a hookah den/tea bar, with arched ceilings and oriental rugs. We bumped into a couple of guys who we’d met at the UK launch party and joined them for a drink. Others gathered around and the conversation became lively with talk of the rally. 

Eventually the party in the castle came to an end, but down the hill in an abandoned airplane hanger the after party raged, with DJs and dancing late into the night. Was I still jet-lagged? Perhaps. But when I saw a dull glow in the sky, I felt the urge to push on. I wandered up to the parking lot and mingled until the sun came up - hitting golf balls with guys in elephant suits, climbing atop a school bus for views of the parking lot, and juggling a soccer ball with some Norwegians. Johannes had gone to bed hours ago. I joined Derick in the tent at 8:30 AM when Johannes was getting up for the day. The Mongol Rally had officially launched, and it was off to great start.

GERMANY

On our first day we spanned five countries - from England to Germany, and didn’t get to Johannes’ home town of Röttingen until after 2 o’clock in the morning. 

We woke up early the next day to meet his parents before his dad left for work, and then jumped back into bed to snooze until midmorning. Johannes’ mom cooked us a wonderful traditional lunch of schnitzel, spätzle and potato salad. Not long after, we were on the road again. It was a short stay, but it was great to see my friend’s hometown and eat a delicious home-cooked meal. Family pictures of Johannes as a chubby-cheeked adolescent were also quite entertaining.

On to Derick’s family. To his grandfather Frederick Dirmaier. To Altenschwand.

Derick delivered his grandfather’s eulogy in March. They were very close. Before he passed, they talked about the Mongol Rally and how Derick might have the chance to visit the small Bavarian village where Frederick was born. It had been years since his grandfather had lived there, but he’d always felt a kindred connection with Althenschwand, and had shared many stories about it with his family throughout his life. 

The drive to Altenschwand took us through a tranquil bucolic Bavaria. Two hours after leaving Röttingen, we pulled off the highway. We were approaching a mythical place in Derick’s paternal lineage. He had no known connections there. All he carried was his last name - Dirmaier- and a few old family photos on his cell phone. 

The first person we came across as we rolled into the 900 person village was an old man on a walker, sauntering up the street. We asked him if he knew of any Dirmaiers and he directed us towards a house in the village. After a couple wrong turns and another inquiry, we found the house, located on the edge of town next to large barn full of dairy cows. It took some lingering and a few knocks before we got someone to answer the door. 

It was a young couple and their daughter- Derick’s cousins. Johannes translated as Derick explained why he was there. Soon, the muddled family tree began to bloom. 

Derick’s grandfather had been born there, at that exact spot. The house had since been rebuilt, but that plot of land in Altenschwand was the center of the universe for a young Frederick Dirmaier. 

Johann Dirmaier appeared, the father of the young couple. He was in briefs, and wore a white tank top that covered a bulbous tummy. He was bald with white hair on the sides and had a doughy jowl that jiggled as he spoke. His breathing was heavy, and so was his step; he’d been working the family land for years. He suggested that we head down the street to pay a visit to Josef Grabinger, another cousin, and one that was very close to Frederick. We helped him into our car and drove off.

Josef peeped his head out of a second floor window after we knocked, and Johan yelled up to him with news of the unexpected visitor. Moments later Josef appeared at the door with a warm and excited smile. He was tall, thin, and tan, with wireframe glasses and crows-feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was happy to invite us in, and we soon found ourselves in a cozy, warmly lit study, with a wall full of books and a spiral staircase in the corner. Josef had been a teacher at the local elementary school for years, and he spoke English well. He was quite a bit younger than Derick’s grandfather, but had wonderful memories of Frederick, and had maintained a correspondence with him for most of his life.

Derick became emotional as he shared with his newfound family the story of how his grandfather came to rest. But as he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, Josef turned the conversation back to happier times and told us tales about Frederick that Derick had never heard. The photo albums soon followed, and once again Derick was introduced to  a new side of his family, including childhood photos of his father that he had never seen.

We left around dusk, and Josef waived to us as from the road as we drove away from the village. Derick was happy. His grandfather had passed away in March, but he’d gotten to know him a little better after our brief stop in Altenschwand.

Next stop - Czech Republic!

THE LAUNCH PARTY

The Mongol Rally kicked off with a launch party at a castle in the British countryside. Bodium castle - surrounded by a moat and everything! You just don’t get stuff like that in America, so I was pretty psyched. I’d just spent a few days with Mo in Devon county, Derick had flown into London the night before, and Johannes was coming up from Germany with the car. Our plan was to meet up late afternoon at the castle, but with a few mishaps, like me catching the wrong train, the reunion didn’t happen until late night. 

Johannes picked me up at the train station, and by the time we got to the castle the festivities were well underway. We parked our car towards the back of a dirt lot that held a couple hundred rally cars and waltzed over towards the party. Food and drinks were being served under a large tent, and there were a scattering of hay bales for people to hang out on. A DJ was set up on a stage with disco lights and a fog machine, and people were dancing around on the lawn below. Behind all of that sat Bodium Castle. The crowd was lively, people were drinking, mingling, and talking excitedly about the upcoming adventure. Many of the teams were decked out in zany costumes, full-body animal suits, decorative cover-alls, face paint and silly hair. One team of boisterous young brits wore nothing but speedos.

By the time Derick showed up it was already nearing midnight. The party was still buzzing, but we were all a little exhausted from a day of traveling. Johannes arrived earlier that afternoon and set up our tent on a big lawn up the hill from the parking lot, so after a beer we hit the hay.

The next morning the castle campground was alive with people prepping for the launch of the rally. After breakfast we broke down our tent and packed up the car. An energetic young guy took the stage midmorning to emcee the launch event and people gathered around as different teams were recognized and awarded for various prizes - ‘most money raised for charity’, and ‘least and most prepared’. After a huge group photo, the teams ran back to their cars and the rally was underway! 

The next checkpoint would happen a few days later in the Czech Republic, but our goal that night was to make it to Germany, to stay with Johannes’s parents in the village where he grew up. It wasn’t too long a drive to Dover where we boarded a ferry to France, and checked off England as the first country of many on our way to Mongolia!

DEVON

The Mongol Rally kicked off in England the weekend of July 13th, but I left New York a few days early to hang out with my friend Merissa, or Mo. This is not the first time Mo has appeared on my blog, if you scroll back to last summer you can read about our adventures in the Philippines!

I landed at Heathrow on Tuesday evening, and after Mo swooped me up from the airport, we drove to her parents house in Leighton Buzzard for the night. It was a short but pleasant stay, and the next morning we left for Mo’s place in Torquay, on the southwest coast of Devon County. I’d been to England before, both times to London, so I was excited to get out of the city and explore the coastal countryside. Devon was amazing, and it changed my whole perception of England. I also just happened to catch some extremely ideal weather. 

Mo was an excellent host, and we packed in a good three days of non-stop exploring. Devon is full of patch-work farmland and rolling hills that cradle quaint villages and butt up against dramatic sea cliffs. We drove along winding roads and bopped from town to town, drank beers by the seaside and snacked on Cornish pasties. We walked through the medieval village of Cockington, strolled along the River Teign, hiked around Dartmoor National Park, and caught an amazing sunset from Berry Head Lighthouse. 

Saturday came too soon, but it was time for me to head to Bodium Castle for the launch of the Mongol Rally. First task - find Johannes and Derick...

THE MONGOL RALLY

Right now I’m driving a third of the way around the world from the UK to Mongolia, in a 1.2 liter engine Hyundai Atos, with two dudes who are both taller than me...

After a handful of years in advertising, followed by a good stretch of traveling, I decided to chase a new career and go back to school for a masters degree in journalism. I got into NYU and started last fall in a program that focuses on multimedia storytelling and adapting journalism to the web. After our first year we were expected to find a summer internship, but with my perpetual traveling itch, I couldn’t ignore the urge to leave the city, go on some adventures, and tell some stories! I’d heard about this annual excursion called the Mongol Rally, and after looking into it, decided that it sounded awesome. And while it wasn’t exactly an “internship”, I thought that if I approached it from a journalistic angle, it could be a good learning experience - and an epic adventure! It didn’t take much convincing to get my classmates and friends, Derick and Johannes, to jump on board, and our team was formed. We approached the Brooklyn-based digital publishers The Atavist about working on a project together, so when we return to school in the fall we’ll be producing a multi-media ebook about our journey. Hopefully it will be most excellent.

It’s taken a lot of planning - we launched a successful Indiegogo campaign to help raise the funds, Johannes’s parents, who live in Germany, helped us acquire a car, and we scrambled up to the last minute to get our visas lined up. But here we are, on a 10,000 mile road trip around the globe, in a rally with over 300 cars! The ebook won’t be done until later in the year, but you can follow our journey here on my blog. And I’ll start with England...

PULAU PALAMBAK

With a move to New York City looming, I wanted to spend my last few days in Indonesia somewhere serene and remote - where I could relax, reflect, and gain composure before jumping back into the hustle and bustle. I spotted a cluster of coastal islands on a map called Pulau Banyak, due west of Lake Toba. They seemed ideal, and we were thrilled when Adam and Michael decided to join us.

The trip to the coast took a while, and by the time we caught a boat out to the islands it was late afternoon. We stayed in a town called Balai that night, and the next day hired a boat to Pulau Palambak. 

There are five bungalows on Palambak, owned and operated by a charming couple with a lively young daughter named Leila. The interior is marshy and covered with coconut palms - no roads, no paths, and only a handful of other shacks where fisherman or coconut farmers live. We pretty much had the whole island to ourselves. Adam and Michael brought fishing poles and fly fished every day. We did a lot of swimming, card playing, walking along the beaches, and snacking on coconuts. It was perfect. 

After four flawless days we left the island. Adam, Michael, and Susan ventured further south into Sumatra, and after almost six months in Asia, I started my long journey back to the states. After a quick stop in San Francisco I made my way to New York City, my new home.

That was almost a year ago, and since then I’ve completed my first year of graduate school at NYU. These last four posts were long overdue, but it’s better late than never, and right now I’m already underway on my latest adventure... The Mongol Rally.

LAKE TOBA

After conquering Mount Sibayak in the morning, we showered up, packed our bags, and jumped in a shared taxi to Lake Toba. At over 60 miles long and 18 miles wide, it’s the biggest lake in Indonesia, and the largest volcanic lake in the world. In the middle of the lake is a massive mountainous island, scattered with towns and villages. The van dropped us off in Parapat, and from there we caught an evening ferry to a little village on the east side of the island called Tuk Tuk. We met two Americans on the boat, Michael and Adam, and became quick friends. The ferry skirted around the shore and the four of us all jumped off at the same guesthouse. 

The next day we rented motorbikes with our new friends and set out to cruise the island. It was a leisurely ride, and we stopped in villages along the way to explore by foot. Like Berastagi and the village of Payung, Lake Toba is mostly populated by Karo Batak, the ethnic group that my parents focused their research on as anthropologists. And even though I’d never been before, the traditional bowed-roof houses with ornate woodwork were warmly familiar. After grabbing lunch on the far side of the island, we rode up into the interior. It was hilly and steep, and towards the top we were rewarded with great views. The road took us through small villages and into a forest before dropping us down a steep and windy decline on the east side of the island. We stopped at a hillside shack for a beer as the sun was going down, and continued on towards the guesthouse as daylight faded.

The next day was more of the same, zipping around the island on motorbikes. We were invited into a village by a friendly stranger who scaled a monstrous palm tree and fetched us delicious coconuts, and finished the day with beers and an evening swim in the lake. I’d been in Asia for more than five months, and my journey was coming to an end, but before heading back to the states, I needed to hit up some islands...

MOUNT SIBAYAK

The next morning we got up early to hike Mount Sibayak, the smaller of two volcanos that straddle Berastagi. The innkeeper hired a guide for us since the hike up can be tricky, and soon after day break we were off to the trail head. The trek took us through a forest and up above the tree line, over a steep and craggy landscape, to a massive crater at the top of the mountain. Fissures in the rock released hissing plumes of sulfuric mist - quite loud, and very smelly. The trail ran along a ridge that half-circled the crater and provided sweeping views of Berastagi and the valleys below. We hiked down on another path, and after a quick coffee, hitched a ride with some guys on motorbikes to a bus stop where we jumped a bus back into town. We’d hiked a volcano in the morning, and that afternoon we left Berastagi for Lake Toba.

PAYUNG

My parents met in graduate school in Pittsburgh while pursuing their doctorates in anthropology, and in the early 70s took off for northern Sumatra to do their fieldwork. Their first lengthy stint was spent in a village called Payung, at the base of a volcano in the heart of Karoland. And while my father eventually left academia to raise our family, my mother continued to focus her research on that small corner of the world. The house I grew up in reflected their livelihood - through the food we ate, the art that hung from our walls, and the stories that we’d hear after every jaunt in Southeast Asia. I used to sit in our living room and stare at a large batik wallhanging of the Indonesian archipelago - the islands became etched in my mind - but until last year I’d never had the chance to visit.  

I spent last summer in Borneo, and before heading to New York to start grad school, I decided to visit northern Sumatra and retrace my parents anthropological footsteps. My friend Susan was teaching English in Korea and decided to join me in Indonesia after she finished for the semester. So after a wonderful four months in Borneo with Charlie and friends, I caught a flight from Kota Kinabalu to Jakarta. Susan arrived later that evening, the next afternoon we took a flight north to Medan, and the following morning we boarded a bus to Berastagi.

There’s not a word about Payung in the guidebooks - it was midday by the time we got to Berastagi, and everyone I’d asked up to that point hadn’t a clue about the tiny village. We found a guesthouse up the road from the bus stop and after checking in I asked the innkeeper if he knew about Payung. He did! And was curious as to why I was interested. It wasn’t too far away, and since it was still early afternoon, he offered to call up a friend who could drive us there. As soon as we put down our bags we were off to Payung.

Outside of Berastagi the pastoral Karo highlands seemed to be stuck in time, and I wondered how much had changed in the forty years since my parents had lived there. A half hour later we turned off the main road onto a bumpy dirt track towards the village. I’m not sure when the last foreigners visited Payung - for all I know it could’ve been my parents - but when Susan and I stepped out of the car people were quick to notice. Payung is tiny. The village center faces a small concrete square, a few depleted shops and a cafe line the perimeter, and a simple network of hard-packed dirt paths branch out to make up the village grid. Some houses are clapboard with tin roofs, others are basic concrete structures. I had no plans upon arrival, and while I’d picked up a little Malay in Borneo (Indonesian is basically the same language), I knew nothing of the local Karo Batak dialect. All I had was the Karo family name that my father took while he lived there - Bangun.

A handful of children approached with candid curiosity, and a few ran off to get the village chief. A few minutes later he appeared, and I stood there while our driver explained to him what little he knew about us. All I needed to say was, “Richard and Rita.... Bangun”, and he knew. He introduced himself as Riswan, and I later found out from my father that he was the nephew of my father’s ‘brother’ at the time, the village chief forty years ago. Riswan was barely a teen then, but remembered my parents, and was delighted that I’d come to visit.

Excitement grew, along with the crowd of curious villagers, and Susan and I were soon swept into a nearby home for a meal. We ate and they watched. Around twenty people, mostly kids, crowded around the door for the prandial viewing. When we finished, Riswan took us around to a couple burial sites around the village, most of the older people who had known my parents had already passed, and he showed me the family graves where they lay.

After that Susan and I broke free from Riswan to explore. With cameras in hand we walked the village paths, people poked their heads out as we strolled along, and like Pied Pipers, we drew a mob of children in our wake. The kids took us across a river, down a hill, and out of the village. We followed a road to some hot springs and walked out into the fields where we could look up at the volcano that laid watch over the village. We turned back after a while and returned to the square. The throng of children had gotten a little overwhelming, so we ducked into the cafe for a drink. A few old men sat around smoking clove cigarettes and we sat with them and smiled as the kids lined the outside of the cafe. Riswan found us, and invited us to stay the night. I would have, but we hadn’t come prepared. Plus, we had a volcano to hike the next morning. As we got in the car to leave, the villagers and children crowded around to see us off and stuffed our hands and pockets with passion fruits. 

I want to go back with my father. After years and years of hearing about it, I followed my parents footsteps, but I want to return with the storyteller. At least now I’ve actualized what used to be a myth in my mind. I’ve since inherited the batik map of Indonesia from my parents, the one I used to stare at as a kid. It hangs on the wall in my apartment, and it means more to me now than it ever has.