6 WEEKS, 20 COUNTRIES, AND 10,000 MILES LATER...

Our third day in Mongolia was great. For me, at least. I had escaped the wrath of Chinggis Gold, but it conquered both Derick and JP. Derick had moved from the tent to the back seat of the car in the middle of the night, and didn't budge the next morning while JP and I broke the camp. JP was still a tad drunk, loading up the car with a giddy grin. His hangover would strike later.

We were packed and ready to go by 7 AM, and left the rest of the convoy behind as we took to the desert. It was another outstanding day of driving, less adventurous than the day before, but continually stunning. The panorama was painted in stripes. From the roadside to the rocky horizon, the topography was banded in a sequence of muted desert hues - striated layers of prairie grass, wildflowers, and rugged buff mountains, topped with a bold blue sky and cotton-ball clouds. For lunch we stopped to eat in a field of white ankle-high flowers, with a lone camel grazing in the distance. 

Derick had mostly recovered by late afternoon, while JP had only gotten worse. We rotated seats around 4 PM - JP sprawled out in the back and Derick took the wheel and drove us to Altay. We found a nice spot to camp on the outskirts of town, and enjoyed a magnificent sunset, the sky ablaze in a fiery swirl of pink and orange.

We started our fourth day in Mongolia on 120 kilometers of paved road. Then it abruptly ended, dropping us back onto a sluggish and rugged dirt track. A half hour later we came across another rally team, driving slowly in our direction. It was the same guys we'd helped tow out of a mud pit a couple of days earlier, so we stopped to chat. Their reckless ways had once again gotten the best of them, except this time they'd cracked an axle. The car was barely drivable, and they were backtracking to Altay with hopes of getting it fixed. We wished them luck and carried on. Their misfortune was not uncommon on the Mongol Rally; rather, it was more unusual that we'd pretty much kept a clean sheet.

An hour later we got stuck in the sand. Nothing big -- we dug ourselves out. But not long after that we got our first flat of the entire Mongol Rally. On the second to last day of the trip! Almost a clean sheet.

Bayanhangor was the largest town we’d been to since reaching Mongolia, and it was after dark when we arrived. We met a nice young guy who spoke English, grabbed dinner together, and then drove to the outskirts of town to find a place to camp.

We spent the next morning getting the tire patched that we’d blown the day before, and scarfed down mutton pies and warm milk for breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall next to the tire shop. At the time, we weren't sure it would be our last day, but once we heard that the roads from Bayanhangor to Ulaanbaatar were mostly paved, we knew we were on the home stretch.

We left Bayanhangor around noon, continuing our voyage through a bucolic Mongolia, but as we approached the capital, traffic increased and the distance between towns shrunk. We had one last session of off-roading in an afternoon thunderstorm, and then it was nothing but paved roads until the end.

A couple of hours after dark, the horizon began to glow. 

Six weeks earlier we'd left a medieval castle in the British countryside, and twenty countries and 10,000 miles later, we were finally bringing our journey to an end. We made it! 

Our jubilation peaked once we hit the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar, and quickly dwindled during the hour-long drive through a smoggy and traffic-jammed city. By the time we got to the Chinggis Khaan Hotel, the official finish line of the Mongol Rally, we were pooped. It was nearing midnight, and the mood was mellow to say the least. The hotel lobby was decorated with banners and signage to welcome and congratulate those who had finished, but despite a few weathered and weary ralliers, the place was empty. There had been completion parties at four, five, and six weeks out, and we'd missed the last one by a day. But none of that mattered. It had been a crazy six weeks, topped off by an amazing last few days in Mongolia, and we'd made it to Ulaanbaatar in one piece. Warm showers and comfy beds were all that we wanted, and that’s exactly what we got. 

We ran into our friends the Desert Spoons and the B-Team the morning after we arrived. We'd met them for the first time in the mountains of Romania, and had shared some great moments together throughout the trip. It was awesome reuniting with them at the finish line, and we all celebrated together that night. Derick and JP left a couple of days later, and I hung out with our rally friends for the rest of the week until I caught my flight home. I had just wrapped up one of the most memorable adventures of my life, and only had a few days left before starting my last semester of grad school at NYU. But plans were already in the works for a late September trip to Bosnia...

CHINGGIS GOLD

The late afternoon sun was at our backs as we drove away from Khov'd. The packed-dirt road provided a straight shot across a parched valley, up and over some craggy hills, and back into a lonely desert. Bilge was waiting for us on a pass overlooking the town. We thought we'd seen the last of him, but he wasn't quite done with us. He was posted up by a solitary gazebo with a bottle of Chinggis Gold, and walked over to the roadside to wave us down as we approached. We could've blown right by, but decided we'd oblige, and stopped to join our new friend for another round of libations and broken philosophical ramblings...

We had woken up early that morning after camping by Tolbo Lake, roused by the cold and on the move by 6:30. The sun rose over the mountains to our left sending warm beams of light through the windows. A galaxy of glowing dust particles floated around the car, and I sprawled out in the backseat as we bounced along the earthen road. The landscape continued to impress, and we enjoyed the scenery as we moved along at snail's pace. It was the beginning of our second day in Mongolia, thirty-eight days into our trip - on the homestretch to Ulaanbaatar.

We passed through a small village and made our way into the mountains. Not long after that, another rally car appeared in the rear-view, trailing in the distance until we reached our first stream-crossing. The water was shallow and didn't look to be very menacing, but we stopped and got out to reconnoiter, wary of our car's puny character. The guys behind us didn't think twice. They came tearing along and splashed through without hesitation, leaving us in the dust and forcing us to question our mettle. But their undiscerning approach didn't work out so well on the next one. We caught up to them in a mountain meadow where the road disappeared into a muddy bog. They were stuck in the middle. After executing a successful ford, we backed up our little Hyundai and towed them out, and a car full of thankful Brits followed us down the road. 

We caught up to five more teams at the next water-crossing. A staggered spread of cars had been stacking up at every obstacle, and after another successful traverse, we joined the motley convoy across the steppe. It was an amazing day of driving, packed with river-crossings (all of which we conquered) and continually stunning vistas. Camels dotted the terrain and young shepherds on horseback drove massive goat herds across the land. Mongolia was all that I had imagined - rugged, rustic, and beautiful. 

The Buyant River splays out across an otherwise arid valley, and the town of Khov’d rests on its grassy banks. The convoy had all but dispersed by the time we arrived, but like Ulgii the day before, the streets were sprinkled with a disoriented flow of rally cars. We decided to treat ourselves to a decent meal, and found a nice sit-down restaurant in the middle of town.

And that’s when we met Bilge. He was hidden in a group of fellow ralliers - four boisterous Aussies sitting around a table of empty plates and vodka bottles. They waved us over, and not long after joining them we realized that Bilge was the instigator of the afternoon binge. But the Aussies needed an outlet, and only used us as an escape. It was a quick trade-off, us for them, and they ran off before Bilge could force anymore vodka down their throats. 

So we ordered food, and Bilge ordered another bottle.

Bilge was a middle-aged man, proud of his Mongolian heritage, and eager to represent his country. He lived in Ulaanbaatar and was visiting Khov'd for work. He hinted at his wealth and explained that he sat at the top of a large natural resources and mining company. His English was limited, but his delivery was passionate, and he talked of Chingghis Khan, the Mongolian Empire, and his blunt dislike for China. He came strong with the vodka and was incessant on pouring shots. I'd committed to driving that evening and had to start covering my glass after the first few rounds, and consequently lost his respect as he questioned my manhood. But Derick and JP rolled with the punches, and the three of them went round for round. By late afternoon things started to get debaucherous at the dinner table, and when some nearby patrons asked Bilge to keep it down, he condescendingly snapped back at them. It was time to go. 

Breaking free from Bilge was no easy task, he wanted us to stay and drink all night. We told him that we'd planned on camping, and that we needed gas and groceries before heading back into the desert, and he insisted on helping us run our errands. Bilge footed the bill and called his driver to come pick us up. His chauffeur arrived in a large SUV which felt like a spaceship compared to our little Hyundai, and he drove us down the street to a supermarket. After we stocked up on food, he dropped us off at our car, and had us follow him to a gas station on the outskirts of town. We thanked him as we filled our tank, and he abruptly drove away.

We left town on a lonesome road with a full tank of gas and an afternoon buzz. It was a straight shot into the desert, and we had all intentions of getting some good mileage in before stopping to camp. That is, until Bilge intercepted us on a mountain pass with a bottle of Chinggis Gold. More vodka. What a sneaky guy. It was a continuation of the rowdiness from the restaurant, except we were sitting at a sheltered concrete table on the side of a desert road. The gazebo sat next to a pull-off where people could park and walk up to a couple of ovoos situated atop some nearby hills. After a couple swills, I left Derick and JP with Bilge and the vodka and hiked up to check out the monuments. 

An ovoo is a place of shaman worship. Built out of circular rock-piles and wood, they sit perched on hilltops throughout Mongolia. Those who wish to give thanks and praise to the surrounding environment, the mountains and the sky, visit an ovoo. Travelers also stop to pay tribute and leave offerings in hopes of a safe journey. There were two of them on neighboring hills, decorated with sheep skulls and strewn with shredded blue fabric that flapped in the warm desert breeze. I walked around them both, spun circles, listened to the wind, and took in the view. I looked down to where Derick and JP sat with Bilge, and across the valley to the town that we'd just left. I was feeling good, euphoric, my thoughts filtered by Chinggis Gold.

Just then I noticed a string of cars, a Mongol Rally convoy, coming up the road out of Khov'd. I stumbled down the hill just in time to get their attention, and they swerved off the road one-by-one as I waived them down. I realized I didn’t have an explanation as to why I pulled them over (except that it would give us an excuse to escape from Bilge), but no one cared, and within seconds the gazebo was surrounded and the bottle of Chinggis Gold was making the rounds. But the engines were still running, the hilltop hoopla was short lived, and the dust had barely settled before the caravan packed up and hit the road down the backside of the mountain. We gotta go, Bilge. Thanks for everything! We joined the eight-car convoy, and having been the last to say our goodbyes, brought up the rear as we cruised into the desert.

The sun sat low in the sky, almost touching the rocky horizon behind us, as the cars ahead kicked up a billow of golden-brown dust. The network of woven dirt tracks splayed out across the terrain as we came down off the mountain, and the single-file convoy began to spread as each team picked a line through the steppe. Engines revved and cars swerved to avoid earthen obstacles, but we moved along with haste, tearing through the twilight in a criss-crossing herd. 

The mise en scéne was magnificent; the lighting, magical. And while the Mongol Rally is by no means a competition, I was overcome with a boost of moxie as I manned the wheel. It helped that I was being wildly encouraged by a drunken backseat cheerleader by the name of Derick. And, well, a punch of liquid confidence from the Chinggis Gold. So I charged ahead, aggressively shifting gears and navigating through the magic-hour maze of motoring madness. I was feeling it. In the zone. Floating through a moment that would eventually come to define my experience in the Mongol Rally. I zig-zagged through the entire pack, and was about to take pole position when the lead car smashed through a ditch off to the right. The front of the vehicle crunched against the earth, ripping off the bumper and flattening a tire.

The convoy came to a halt. Luckily no one was hurt. People huddled around to check out the damage, lingering about as the crash victims prepared to fix their car. The sun was all but gone, shooting its last few beams of light across the desert. Still reeling after the Mad Max dash across the steppe, I coaxed Derick and JP back into the car for one last push before setting up camp.

More and more of Mongolia’s roads are getting paved, but it's sporadic. Along with the strips that lead in and out of towns, there are also random and isolated sections that don't seem to connect to anything. We hit one of them that evening, not long after leaving the convoy. It was slightly raised, but I found a way up and pulled the car onto a brand-spanking-new, straight-as-an-arrow stretch of road. It was flawless and fresh, as though it had been paved just for us. And it was smooth, oh-so-smooth! I looked out over the unobstructed runway, down a steady slope towards a majestic mountain range, and I f@$#in’ punched it! Pedal to the metal. 150 kilometers an hour. We were floating. And once I topped out I threw it into neutral and coasted. The windows were down and the wind blasted through the car in a muffled roar. Dusk had prevailed, and the sky was morphing into a heavy purple. When a full moon started its ascent into the heavens over the snowcapped peaks ahead, I couldn’t have asked for more...

Not long after turning on the headlights, we hit a roadblock, a massive mound of dirt across the tarmac - pretty common in Mongolia. It was getting dark so we decided it was a good sign that we should stop for the night. Eventually the rest of the convoy arrived. Eight cars lined up just off the road and set up camp under starry skies. Merriment ensued as we lit a bonfire and prepped food to be shared throughout the group. 

Our second day in Mongolia had been epic to say the least. We’d come a long way since England, and only had a few more days left until Ulaanbaatar, but that day would stand out as a momentous chapter in our Mongol Rally.   

FINALLY... MONGOLIA!

We slept in the car that night, third in line at the border behind a couple of big trucks, and woke up in the morning with a long queue trailing us. Word had it that some rally teams had gotten stuck at the Mongolian border for days, but luckily we didn't have any hold-ups. We got in early, and would've made it through quicker if the Mongolian customs officials hadn't taken an early lunch. They disappeared right after stamping our passports, and left us parked in front of a locked gate with a handful of other teams. 

A small village straddled the road just past the checkpoint, so we walked in with a few people to find some food. Ten of us crowded into a dim shanty and had mutton dumplings and tea for lunch. JP ran back to the car and got our last melon which we shared with everyone, including our hosts, for dessert.

It was almost 3 by the time we got back to our car, and once we broke through the gate and hit the open road, we tumbled into a Mongolian postcard - yak herds and scattered yurts, rolling hills backed by craggy mountains, with majestic snowcapped peaks looming behind all. The steppe was a brownish-green moonscape, a grassy expanse, with not a tree in sight. 

And it was true what we'd heard: as soon as we crossed into Mongolia the pavement ended. From any hilltop, looking down a roadway across a valley, we could see paths weaving across the earth - loosely braided strands of dirt and gravel. Rarely was there just one option for passage. At times the weave was taut, squeezing through a narrow valley, at times it was half a mile wide or more. We drove in a general direction, guided by a loose network of rugged trails dictated by the landscape. There was no centerline, no left-side or right-side driving - just pick a line and go. Even along the limited stretches of tarmac, dusty tracks paralleled the road. The traffic was sporadic and thin, and plumes of dust trailed every vehicle.

We reached Ulgii late afternoon. It was a bleak town, our first taste of civilization since crossing the border. We zig-zagged until we found a place to buy some groceries, passing a few other rally cars along the way, and exchanged nods with other equally weathered road trippers. After stocking up on food we left town and drove into the steppe to find a place to camp.

Tolbo Lake revealed itself following a gradual climb to a sweeping pass, and after a bumpy descent, we turned off the road and made our way towards the grassy lakeshore. The moon was waxing, almost full, and crept up from behind the hills opposite the setting sun. It was a celestial teeter-totter, and the cosmic counterparts briefly faced-off before swapping places in the evening sky. The moon arched up into an almost cloudless ether, over a distant snowcapped range which still held a coral tint from the crepuscular glow. The tranquil lake reflected the heavens, and a quiet chill arrived with nightfall. All was peaceful on the steppe.

RUSSIA

By landmass, Russia is the largest country in the world. Top ten in population. We spent a whopping day and a half there. Broken up into equal parts driving, sleeping, and drinking vodka. Alright, mostly driving and sleeping. We barely tickled the toe of Mother Russia - but it was a good introduction.

After a lovely afternoon drive through pastoral Russia, we arrived in Barnaul and scarfed down some dinner at America's number-one fast food chain, Subway. Man alive did that taste good. They had free wifi, so we got online and found the only hostel in town. On the way there we were intercepted by some enthusiastic young Russians. They pulled up next to us on a two-lane street and rolled down their windows. Hello! Where are you from?! Please pull over! They seemed harmless, so we stopped to chat. Talk about a warm reception, all they wanted to do was help us, and insisted that they guide us to our accommodation.

The hostel was lively. The parking lot held a few rally cars, and we were greeted outside by a handful of drunken ralliers. There aren't that many options for crossing into Mongolia by land from the west, so no matter the route from England, most Mongol Rally teams end up funneling through the same few border crossings. It was the beginning of the bottleneck, with all roads leading to Ulaanbaatar. Our Russian guides were excited to meet more foreigners, but after helping us check-in and tweeting a group picture, they took off. We spent the rest of the evening partying with the mish-mash of people in the hotel bar, and swapping stories with the other teams. We'd had our fair share of hold-ups along the way, but it was becoming more apparent that out of the 300-plus cars in the rally, we were towards the back of the pack. Thirty-five days on the road, and it had all seemed to go by so fast, yet we were still lagging. 

I was up early the next day, and spent a good chunk of the morning listening to a drunk Russian girl named Olga have a one-sided conversation with me. I really didn't know what to say, especially since we coudn't actually communicate. But it was 8AM and she was wasted, so that was interesting. 

We were on the road by 10. The landscape beautified after lunch, providing us with an exciting and dramatic build towards our final country. This is how I had imagined Mongolia, and the excitement grew with the light at the end of the tunnel. We drove through mountains and paralleled a river for most of the afternoon. The roads were smooth and traffic was light. Evening approached, and a warm sunset chased us through a narrow canyon into a chilly twilight. Ominous clouds hung above the earth ahead, and snowcapped mountains loomed on the horizon. The oncoming storm looked menacing, so we pushed on, hesitant to stop and set up camp under dark skies. We drove into the night, somehow avoiding the front, stopped for food in a one-street town, and continued on to look for a place to pitch the tent.

Then we hit the border. It snuck up on us sooner than we anticipated. And suddenly we were staring out into the darkness towards Mongolia. We'd made it! Well, almost. We still had hundreds of miles to go, on some of the roughest roads (or lack thereof) that we would encounter throughout the entire journey.

The border wasn't open, but a few semi-trucks had already started to line up, so we joined the queue, and slept in the car. The next day we would enter our last and twentieth country of the Mongol Rally... Mongolia!

KAZAKHSTAN

Dusk had settled over a drab terrain and nightfall brought with it a windy chill. We'd pulled off the road in a sweep of rolling hills, not a tree in sight, the greyish-brown grass crunched under our tires as we searched for a place to camp. We found some level ground tucked away from the road, and ate our measly dinner as we set up the tent. 

What is that? A silhouette topped the hill. Just one at first. And then more followed. At least twenty men, side by side, spread out in a staggered line across the ridge. We froze. Are they coming for us? Is this when we get in the car and drive like hell? It was like a scene from an old western film, when a menacing band of American Indians rises up over a hilltop above a convoy of innocent settlers. Or a zombie apocalypse, trapped in a deserted wasteland, besieged by a lifeless horde.

And then they stopped. And started urinating. Watering the hopelessly dead grass. Peeing in our general direction. It was nothing but an evening pitstop, the bus parked out of sight over the hill.

And that was the most excitement we had in Kazakhstan. 

Whereas Kyrgyzstan was a sensory overload, Kazakhstan was underwhelming. But we were OK with the lack of distractions. We’d been on the road for over a month, and were starting to feel the pressure of time. It was the middle of August, and our last semester of grad school was starting after Labor Day. We’d put a bookend to our journey and purchased our plane tickets home while we were in Bishkek, and our flights out of Ulaanbaatar gave us motivation to pick up the pace.

After that first night of camping, having barely escaped the piddling zombies, we put in a smooth twelve-hour day of driving. The roads were easy, the landscape was bland. I'm sure there’s a lot of beauty in Kazakhstan, but we seemed to bypass all of it. We camped by a river on our second night, and put ourselves within half a day of our second-to-last country, Russia.

KYRGYZSTAN

In 1999 I went to the movies to watch The Matrix with my friend Robbie. I walked into the theater with no expectations, having not heard a thing about the film. And it blew me away. The opening scene was spectacular -- the bullet-time slow-mo and the action-packed chase scene when Trinity lays waste to a room full of cops and then eludes the agents on a dash across the rooftops. I had never seen anything like it.

Entering Kyrgyzstan was a similar experience. I knew almost nothing about where we were going, let alone how to pronounce the name (it's Keer-ghiz-staan), but soon after crossing into our seventeenth country, the landscape transformed dramatically... and it blew me away. Luckily I was in a car and and not a theater, so I could yell out 'holy shit, this is awesome!' as loud as I wanted. And I did that a lot, throughout the entire country. I had no idea what to expect, and Kyrgyzstan was a wonderful surprise.

It was midday by the time we made it through the border crossing, and within thirty minutes of leaving Uzbekistan we ascended into a mountainous landscape. Our first stop was an emerald lake. The water looked fake, as though Mother Nature had dialed up the saturation in photoshop, and the opposing bank rose quickly into a craggy range. We had to go for a swim. The lakeshore was pebbly, and we joined a scattered handful of people down by the water. After our dip we were approached by some friendly and curious teens. They weren't used to seeing foreigners, and came over to ask if they could take a picture with us. First impressions of Kyrgyzstan - extremely beautiful and relatively untouched by the western world - so far so good.

We decided to head for Lake Toktogul and find a place to camp for the night, and the drive only got better. We left the emerald lake and followed its tributary through a windy and precipitous canyon, the river was a bold turquoise, and we cruised along through what seemed a perpetual magic hour. After stopping for food in a small town at the base of a mountain, we carried on, up and over a windy pass, until we descended upon Lake Toktogul.

We spotted some cars parked by the lakeside, and pulled off the highway onto a bumpy gravel road towards the water, then turned onto a track that paralleled the shore to look for a place to camp. We found the perfect patch of grass in a field of knee-high weeds (of what appeared to be some strain of cannabis), and set up the tent as the sun fell towards the mountainous horizon across the lake. We walked down to the rocky beach for a sunset swim, while the rest of the folks packed up their cars for the day. Another curious local came over to chat. Her name was Sagida, and like so many people we’d met in Central Asia, she was kind and curious, excited to meet some foreigners, and happy to get the chance to practice her English. After she left, we had the place to ourselves. 

Sagida came back the next morning, bright and early. She wanted to catch us before we left and tried to convince us to stay and hang out at the lake for the day. The invitation was tempting, but we were aiming to get to Bishkek that night to meet up with Miles. I’d been put in touch with Miles through my friend Gülce (who we met up with in Istanbul) and my sister. Miles did Peace Corps in Kyrgyzstan and had been living in Bishkek for a few years. So after a morning swim with Sagida, we took off for the capital.

I wasn’t sure we’d be able to top our introduction to Kyrgyzstan, but the second day was even more beautiful than the first. The road around Lake Toktogul clung to rolling hills that tumbled into turquoise, every bend providing a view across the water and a panorama of mountains upon mountains. From blue-green lakes to jagged ranges, through sweeping green meadows backed by snow-capped peaks, the day was broken up into geological chapters, and every few hours we entered a new story in the saga of the Kyrgyz landscape. Yurts dotted the terrain and bands of horses grazed in the expanse. It was the best day of driving to date, and I was giddy the entire time.

JP was driving on the outskirts of Bishkek when we got pulled over for breaking a mysterious traffic law. The station was right there, so they brought us in, and once again we ended up smiling our way out of a ticket. We also once again left with an afternoon snack, another melon. Our trunk was turning into a fruit stand.

We arrived in Bishkek late afternoon and found a nice cafe with wi-fi on a main thoroughfare. I got online and notified Miles that we’d arrived, and not long after ordering a round of beers, he showed up. We hung out at the cafe for a while before checking into a nearby hostel, and then went out on the town. Hanging out with Miles was awesome. It’s always best to see a city with someone who knows their way around, and Miles showed us a great time.

We got off to a late start the next day and made for the border. We’d only seen a fraction of Kyrgyzstan, and the short visit had me thirsty for more. But on to Kazakhstan...

SAMARKAND

I was going 77 in a 70 kilometer per hour zone - less than 5 mph over the speed limit. It was a speed trap, I was caught on camera, and they waved me over down the road. I pulled onto the shoulder, bounced out of the car, and waltzed back to face three policemen lounging around their car.

My California ID got me out of the speeding ticket. The Uzbek cops were psyched to meet a 'surfer dude.' I was sporting a shaggy mop-top ‘do with a dirty tan, and I acted the part - all jovial and buffoonish, bobbing my head. They laughed at me, and reciprocated my enthusiastic gestures as they passed around my ID. Yeeaaah, California! 

Our British friends, the B-Team and the Desert Spoons, blew by in their four-car caravan as I smiled my way out of the speeding ticket. We hadn’t seen them since Turkmenistan. They honked, pointed, laughed, and pulled over down the road to wait for us. We were a couple hours outside of Samarkand, and once again running on fumes, our engine still rattling from the last poisonous refill. We joined the convoy and swerved through traffic on a dusty highway, finally finding gas on the outskirts of town. Uzbekistan’s second largest city sat before us, an Islamic cultural hub, and one of the oldest inhabited cities in the world - a historic midway-point on the Silk Road.

We were fifteen deep, having cruised into town with our fellow ralliers, and after parking we set out to explore. I stuck close to Henry, one of the leaders of the Desert Spoons. He'd done the Mongol Rally before, and had passed through Samarkand a few years back. Henry was a respectful traveler, interested in the world, and culturally aware of his surroundings. I admired him for that. Especially since the rally at times felt like an insular party-on-wheels. Derick, JP, and I had been traveling sans guidebook, and it was great having Henry around that day.

At the heart of Samarkand is the Registan, the old public square. Three majestic madrasahs (Islamic schools) face the common, and the old-town grows from there. The timeworn architecture is beautiful, noted for its tiled mosaic walls and ornate facades. Sadly, the Registan was closed due to an upcoming event, so we wandered the perimeter and explored some of the surrounding monuments. The old-town was magical at dusk, the parks and public spaces filled with townspeople as the temperature cooled, with children playing in the streets, and a pink and orange sky hanging over the minarets of the ancient city. Our British friends continued down the road after dinner, but we decided to stay, and spent the evening on the rooftop deck of our hostel, drinking beers and enjoying the view.

Our little Hyundai didn't sound so good, and we spent a good chunk of the next day at the hostel trying to get to the bottom of it, but with no luck. Tashkent was only a few hours away, so we left for the capital city mid-afternoon in hopes of finding a trusty mechanic. An hour outside of Samarkand a cop waved us down at an intersection on a country road. But for what? All we did was drive by looking foreign and confused, as usual. Which way to Tashkent?  He pointed down the road, and then yelled over to a farmer in a nearby melon patch. A few minutes later he had two fresh cantaloups for us. No ticket, just an afternoon snack, and another slice of Uzbekistani hospitality.

We spent twenty-four hours in Tashkent, a pretty uneventful stay, except that we got the car fixed for cheap. We left at dusk with our newly flushed-out engine purring like a kitten, and drove into the night towards country number seventeen - Kyrgyzstan.

UZ-BREAKFAST-STAN

I was up at 6:30, left the tent for the passenger seat of the car, and was tapping away on my laptop with the door open. Excuse me. Excuse me. I turned around to see a man and woman peering at me from the roadside. Excuse me, said the woman in perfect English, Please come for breakfast.

We'd left the desert the previous day, and had entered a greener landscape, rich with vegetation and agriculture. We’d arrived in Bukhara after dark, and drove in circles trying to find the cultural and historical town center. With no luck, we drove back into the countryside to find a place to camp. JP cruised at snail’s pace while I scoured the roadside with my flashlight, looking for a break in the thicket. We found spot to pitch our tent, blind to the surroundings outside of our headlights, and not long after, a car pulled over and a man got out. We thought he was going to chase us off his land, but after I spoke up to say I was an American and only spoke English, he hopped back in his car and drove away.

At the woman’s unexpected invitation, I got out of the car smiling and shook the tent to wake up JP and Derick. She was an economics professor at a local college, and it was her husband who had spotted us the night before as we were setting up the tent. He thought we had run off the road, and had stopped to see if we needed any help. She told us that she’d had a hard time sleeping that night because she was so excited to meet us, and had eagerly awaited sunrise so that she could invite us to breakfast. She wished that we’d stayed with her family.

We walked down a long driveway towards the family compound, through a gate, and into a hard-packed sandy courtyard. The pastel-blue buildings were simple and well-kept, and a lush garden sealed the enclosure. After cleaning up, we joined the family for breakfast, eleven altogether. We sat on an elevated platform in the courtyard, under a trellis of plump green grapes, in the warmth of a magical morning glow. There was a basket of bread and an assortment of melons, with the main dish being a large bowl of buttery, warm milk. I followed suit and filled my bowl with chunks of bread. Delicious! At least I thought so. Derick and JP couldn’t seem to stomach it. It was a wonderful way to start the day, and after thanking our hosts, we hit the road.

Unconditional hospitality seems to happen in foreign lands - being invited in by strangers out of curiosity and kindness. I can’t say I’ve ever done this in the states. But whenever something like this happens, I tell myself that I'll try it some day. 

NUKUS

One US Dollar converts to around 2,250 Uzbekistani Som. With an exchange rate like that, you’d expect to see a lot of zeros on their bills. But the largest note in Uzbekistan is a mere 5,000 Som - worth a little more than two bucks - and they only started issuing it about a year ago. The next largest is 1,000 Som - worth less than a dollar! After we exchanged our money, enough for three guys to spend a few days in Uzbekistan, we bought a black briefcase so we could carry around our stacks of cash. Not really. 

We crossed from Turkmenistan into Uzbekistan on the last day of Ramadan. Traveling through a largely Muslim part of the world during the Islamic holy month of fasting was no problem, but entering a new country on the holiday that breaks the fast posed a few challenges. Nothing was open. The town of Nukus was peaceful and quiet. The banks were all closed and we needed to exchange money. Standing by our car and looking confused helped, and soon a nice man stopped to lend a hand. We followed him to a hotel and then parted ways.

Alisher sat behind the front the desk. The hotel was closed. He was the only employee working the holiday shift, and it was his birthday. He couldn't help us exchange money or take credit cards, but he offered to cook us dinner in the hotel kitchen. We obliged and decided to help him celebrate. He was friendly, curious, excited to practice English, and happy to make some new friends. Even though we had no way of paying, Alisher invited us to stay at the hotel that night. I hit the hay after dinner, and JP and Derick stayed up late drinking and hanging out. 

The city was back in business the next day. We exchanged money at an outdoor market with a bunch of dudes standing around holding fat wads of cash. Black Market. Apparently it was a better exchange rate than the banks. Whatever. After returning to the hotel to pay Alisher, we left Nukus. I drove us back out into the desert, JP rode shotgun, and Derick stretched out in the back to sleep off his hangover. The roads were smooth, and we made good time as we cruised through a dry and dusty landscape. 

I'd heard rumors of a gas shortage in Uzbekistan, and it was true. The gas stations were all pumping a mixture of compressed propane and methane into cars with converted engines, but there was not a single drop of gasoline to be found. We had an empty canister in the trunk, and kicked ourselves for not having filled it up in Turkmenistan. By late day we were running on fumes, and entered a ghostly desert town knowing we'd be stuck unless we found some gas. Unlike Nukus, the few people we encountered were less than thrilled to help us. Eventually we found some fuel at an old tire shop run by a grumpy father and son. After some haggling, they pulled an old container out of the back and funneled half a tank into our car. We paid more than we should have, but were in no place to bargain.

What a relief! We hit the road with a regained confidence and cruised into the dusk. But within a half a mile the engine started to rattle and tick. Our trusty little car, which had been healthy up to that point, had just been poisoned with some bad gas. There was little we could do at the time, and we knew we’d have to get it fixed, but at least we weren’t stranded. On to Bukhara...

THE DOOR TO HELL

Once upon a time, deep in the Karakum Desert, a Soviet oil drilling rig was swallowed up by a sinkhole. No one was killed, but when the rig disappeared into the earth, a massive crater formed, releasing large amounts of methane gas. Scientists thought it would be a good idea to light it, thinking it would burn off in a few weeks... That was over forty years ago.

It wasn't long after leaving Ashgabat that we were back out on cracked desert roads, weaving around potholes in a scattered caravan of heavy trucks. We drove north from the capital, away from the mountains that bordered Iran, and into the sand dunes of central Turkmenistan. Uzbekistan was up next, but only after a night of camping by the Door to Hell.

The sun was moving towards the horizon, and the shadow from our car danced over the scorched earth along the side of the road. According to the map we were getting close, and some young shepherds chasing goats across the road reaffirmed our hunch. Turkmenistan doesn't garner enough tourists to turn the outlandish Door to Hell into a full on attraction, but the Mongol Rally had been providing its annual influx of curious travelers, so of course there were a handful of helpful locals to show us the way. We followed an old SUV off the main road and parked our car by a rustic hut at the base of a hill. We opted to hike in rather than catch a lift, and after packing up our gear, we followed a sandy road up into the dunes. The ground was soft and the footing was sluggish, but it felt good to use my legs for something besides pushing the gas pedal and clutch. 

An hour into our trek a convoy of SUVs came blasting through the twilight - it was the Desert Spoons and the B-Team, our fellow ralliers and friends from the Caspian Sea. They had hired a lift, and whooped and hollered at us as they blew by. It was good to know that we where heading in the right direction. 

The horizon was dark purple, and dusk had all but retired when I saw an orange glow pushing up from the earth. I picked up my step and jogged towards the light. Derick and JP followed as I scrambled up onto a small hilltop overlooking the Door to Hell. It was hauntingly stunning, a truly devilish collaboration between Mother Nature and humankind. We took in the view from atop - our friends' silhouettes dotted the fiery gash in the desert floor - and then hiked down to join the party.

It was a cargo ship reunion, and we'd swapped turquoise and metal for fire and sand. We traded stories about Ashgabat's weirdness and our past few days in Turkmenistan, and they shared their warm beers with us as we discussed plans for Uzbekistan. Gusts of dry desert wind kicked up dust around the flaming pit and bursts of hot air stung our faces. The fire was mesmerizing. The gathering was lively, but the flames seemed to pull people into a state of reflectiveness. Solitary strolls around the crater were common that night - where the hell am I? The B-Team had spun off the road that day after hitting a soft patch of gravel. Everyone was ok, despite some rattled nerves. We were a long way from home, and only just over halfway to Ulaanbaatar.

The next morning, after a final loop around the devil's doorway, we packed up and hiked out. The SUVs showed up to shuttle our friends back to the road, and we bade them farewell until next time. It was midmorning by the time we got back to our car. We were sweaty and covered in dust. After emptying the sand from our shoes, we hit the road to Uzbekistan.

ASHGABAT

We hit mid-90s gas prices in Turkmenistan - less than a buck a gallon. Back in Turkey, where gas prices are some of the highest in the world, we'd payed ten times that much. The gas station price-boards in Turkmenistan weren't even changeable, no digital display or plastic cards, the prices were literally fixed - painted on. 

With the fall of the Soviet Union, Turkmenistan gained its independence and Saparmurat Niyazov became president for life, running the country under a big-brother-like, one-party government. After Niyazov's unexpected death in 2006, Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow came into power and started building his own cult of personality, keeping Turkmenistan under tight watch as one of the most censored countries in the world. It's not the easiest place to visit, tourists can only stay for seven days and are required to go through an agency-guided tour. We were able to get a seven-day transit visa as a part of the Mongol Rally, but entering the country was a drag. There was not a single computer in the maze of offices that we pinballed through, and after five hours, we left customs with 250 dollars less and a confusing stack of papers.

We got off to an early start on our first morning, after our bizarre homestay with Roshan. Derick drove for most of the day. The roads were riddled with potholes, and the heavy truck traffic had carved out long stretches of deep ruts. Our little Hyundai had low clearance and small wheels, and the going was slow as we straddled, dodged, and weaved our way through the desert towards Ashgabat. It was dusty and dry. Craggy mountains rose from the horizon and camels dotted the landscape. It had been while since we'd put in a good day of driving, and we were excited to be on the move again.

We'd heard that Ashgabat had more fountains than Las Vegas, and as we drove into the capital, and transitioned from broken desert roads into smooth wide boulevards, we felt like we'd entered an oasis. The city was immaculate - gleaming white-marble buildings, gold statues, gushing fountains, and lush gardens. Even the street lights were ornate. But pedestrians were almost nowhere to be seen. It was extravagantly eerie, a garish ghost town. Policemen ushered traffic down streets lined with grandiose buildings, where no one came and went. The sidewalks were empty, and gardeners tended vacant parks. It was a strange scene, and we were breaking the law by not having washed our car before entering the city.

We got the hell out of the city-center and drove into a more welcoming neighborhood. It was nice having arrived with some daylight to spare, and we enjoyed the afternoon over some beers at an outdoor cafe. It had been almost a week since we'd been online, so after some food, we found an internet cafe - we're alive! Finding a place to stay was a challenge. The first two hotels turned us down, claiming there were no more vacancies. Both places had key racks behind the front desk that were full of room keys. We were beat by the time we found a hotel that would take us. It was a little more pricey than we wanted, but we were approaching the 11PM national curfew, so we had no choice. 

The next day we took another spin around the candy-coated capital. After getting reprimanded by a policeman for stopping the car to take pictures, we decided it was time to head back into the desert. Next stop, the Door to Hell...

TURKMEN HOMESTAY

Glancing over my shoulder I saw a portly woman, modestly dressed in a long skirt, her eyes glued to the floor. She entered the apartment quietly and slid into a room with Roshan’s friend. I wouldn’t have guessed she was a prostitute, but Roshan’s blatant hand gestures left no room for a mistake. He looked me in the eye and smacked his fist into his palm repeatedly, nodding towards the room she had just entered. It was an invitation for me to take the next turn. No thanks. Derick and JP also kindly declined.

We sat in a circle on a floor covered in Turkmen rugs. Empty soup bowls, a couple loaves of bread, and a dish of candies filled the space between us. It was nearing 2 AM and we were on our second bottle of vodka. Roshan had approached us on the street an hour earlier with blood-shot eyes and a drunken grin. We’d parked in front of his building and not a minute had passed before he invited us in for the night. We accepted his invitation, and followed him up into a dark, concrete apartment block. He flicked on the lights and woke up an old man named Casper who was curled up on the floor, and another he called Chief, who had passed out on the flat’s lone piece of furniture. Roshan sent a third man out to buy more vodka, and he returned with with the hooker. It was an impromptu soirée in a room of Turkmen oil workers, their temporary abode while out on the job. The conversation was broken but lively, and we bonded over shots of vodka and manhood. Casper didn’t speak a lick of English, but he managed to dominate the conversation, building his stories with a pair of weathered hands. Roshan translated what he could, and we chipped in with muddled smiles. After being stuck on a cargo ship in the Caspian Sea for three days, capped off by a hellish five-hour trudge through customs, this was our introduction to Turkmenistan.

It was 3 AM by the time we convinced our hosts to let us go to sleep, and they held their promise of an early rise by waking us up the next day before 7. With the call girl there, I doubt Roshan and his friends got much sleep, but they were as chipper as could be as they saw us off. After some tea and a round of hugs, we drove into the dessert. Our first twelve hours in Turkmenistan had been surreal. And it would only get weirder. We were happy to be on the road again. On to Ashgabat!

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...