..........................................................
Wed July 16...London So. Here we are. The first leg of the journey has begun. We left Chapelhall yesterday after four days of frantic preparation, packing, arguing, and several evenings of boy voyage among our friends. No going back now. So confession time. I've covered in shame having alerted Shields to the shock that the petrol guage in our sturdy Ford Fiesta wasn't working. We were panicking because we need to be able to judge how much petrol we have for an unpredictable journey like the one we're about to embark on. So, good as their word, Shields sorted someone in London to have a look at it. We left at midday with much confidence, me driving, with Franco continually checking me for not lane weaving. I can see how this is going to pan out! When he took the wheel after the Lake District, the usual shout rang out....'Oh faaaaaak!, Anna. Oh faaaak!.' Turns out the petrol guage is not faulty, but I was reading it the wrong way round. I'm well mortified, and have been exposed as a mere woman, giving the Spanish one plenty of ammo to sling it in my face when things get a little rough once we're on the road. Big, mighty thanks to John Meechan, whose help has been invaluable, coming up with all the last minute camping stuff and advice. And of course, to my nephew Paul Smith who has set up this link so we can keep our blog up to date. Oh, and not forgetting my cousin Alice Smith who has yet again let me crash at her splendid gaff in leafy Hatch End as we get ready for the rally. All on course for Saturday morning and the big off. Watch this space for news and pix......xx
Como estais todos.El martes dia 15 del corriente bajamos de Glasgoa Londres, como escocesa que Anna es, pensamos que deberia ser ella quien empezara conduciendo, de pronto me dice que el marcador de la gasolina no funciona, me hace llamar al garaje que nos dio el coche y que encuentren un servicio de la Ford en Londres para que lo repare, cuando me llaga el turno de conducir a mi me doy cuenta que si funcionaba pero Anna no sabia como leerlo. deje que Anna fuera quien empezara conduciendo el coche para inaugurar nuestra experienciay ahi empezo lo que espero no sea el final. "Anna me hace saber que la aguja de la gasolina no marca nada y el tanque esta lleno'. Llegamos a nuestras respectivas familias en Hatch End ( en las afueras de Londres a las 19.00hora). Salimos de Hyde Park en Londres el pasado sabado a eso de las 12.00horas. Dicen que 300 coches. Cuando llegamos al parque el coche de delante era el conducido por my hija Claudia, asi que aparcamos uno al lado del otro. La familia vino a despedirse y desearnos suerte. Tardamos 4 horas en llegar a Folkstone par coger el tren y cruzar Francia por el Eurotunel. Cojonudo, comodo y sola tarda 35 minutos en cruzar el canal. Decidimos de un tiron llegar al nuestro primer destino Praga y sin apenas dormir llegamos a la capital de la Republica Checa a las 19.00 horas, visitando en el camino a mi hija Claudia quien hacia noche 120Km antes de Praga para asistir a una fiesta, cosa que los viejos decidimos no era apta para nuestra edad. De momento estamos a las afueras de Krakow en Polonia e intentamos llegar hoy a Lviv en Ukrania. De los problemas que hemos tenido escribire manana.
SATURDAY JULY 19 - HYDE PARK - THE LAUNCH. No going back now! We were up at sparrow fart to head for Hyde Park to join the hundreds of other ralliers. First car we meet at the entrance is Claudia - Franco's daughter who is going on the rally with her friend Irene. Everyone is jumping with excitement and the park is filled with some brilliant rallying cars - everything from a London double decker bus to an old ambulance complete with klaxons and flashing lights. Real party atmosphere with Mongol wrestling and bands. Franco's daughter Charlotte, grandson George and family came to wave him off and my cousin Alice and Debbie arrived with the kids and we all soaked up the atmosphere for a couple of hours before the big off, with the park lined with people and all horns blazing. Franco and me are bickering before we get out of the park because I happened to mention I could do with a cup of tea! A couple on the sideline are paralysed at us fighting and we haven't even left the park! At 4.00pm we took the Eurotunnel to France - but not before Franco got into a fight with some guy in the line who called him a pillock because our car appeared to be too high to get under the barrier. Actually it wasn't, and once Franco was proved right, he went tearing after the guy in our car and gave him pelters - including his fat wife! Jesus! We're going to get arrested and we're not even left England. Once we hit Calais, we just kept driving - or Franco did. Miles and miles and into Luxembourg then somewhere along the line we thought we were in Germany. Franco was even saying dankechen, to the guy at the petrol station who was speaking in French! Once we disccovered we were still in France it was hilarious. Onwards and on for miles into the dark, and we're so knackered I made Franco stop the car at 2.30 so we parked up at a petrol station where there were loads of truckers and decided to sleep in the car. Car park is full of truckers and other cars. This is no place for old farts like us. We're just getting settled when Franco decides to lock us in for safety - but suddenly the alarm goes off. Blaring. Franco's expression is priceless. I'm hysterical in the front seat while he's dancing around in the car park trying to shut the alarm off. Finally drifted off to sleep for two hours, freezing, with a sleeping bag over us. We set off at 6.00 am and headed for Prague. I drove for a while on the autoban, but I'm crapping myself at the speed of these German cars flying past us at 120mph and driviing up my ass. Franco is a little tetchy, telling me I'm too close to the white lines. We end up shouting at each other, and laughing at the same time. Got lost for over an hour outside Nuremberg trying to find the motorway to Prague, and once we did, we were so knackered that we were just heading to our hotel instead of going to the official Mongol Rally party. But we decided to make a detour because Franco wanted to see Claudia before she went on her epic journey on the southern route through Iran. Everywhere we go, we're looking for Esso petrol stations because one of our sponsor John Meechan of Cardean Couriers gave us an Esso card which has been brilliant for our thirsty Ford Fiesta. So far so good. But in the Czech Republic, Franco fills the tank at an Esso station then goes in to pay, only to find they have been taken over by some compay called Agip. He was going nuts, calling everyone motherf*****s. He has to pay with his credit card, or we'll get arrested. Farily lifted the tone a bit. Drove along endless country roads - actually the Czech Republic is just like driving across Ireland. The terrain, colours and countryside is so similar, I was thinking at any moment I'd see a sign for Tipperary - even though I know it's a long, long way. (Sorry, I couldn't resist that!) We met up with Claudia in the grounds of Klenova Castle where they've pitched their tents for the night. They had also driven most of the night and, like us, were nearly hallucinating with tiredness. It's all very emotional, with Franco hugging her and crying as we leave. But it's great. Brilliant that the two of them can be be together in a place like this on an adventure like this. Driving to Prague, Franco is so knackered he thinks at one point we're still in Germany! Eventually, we get to Prague, and get lost for an hour in the city, before finally arriving at The Iron Gate Hotel. I cannot describe how tired we were. The hotel is unbelievable. Manager Chris Dobson has donated an exquisite suite for us, with champagne on ice. it really is a wonderful gesture in the best hotel in Prague. But we're so knackerd, by the time we eat dinner we can't even stand up and crash out for nearly eight ours. We meet the lovely Chris for breakfast and he gives us the lowdown on the Iron Gate and the city itself. What a fantastic guy, and brilliant staff. If you're ever in Prague, just go there for the night. It is fab. Drove through Prague and took in its splendour, before heading for Poland. Vodafone have generously given us a mobile connect so I can write this blog and do my Sunday Mirror column, but it takes a long time to set it up. Thanks to the help of Vodafone's technical help, we're now up and running. Now in Poland, after driving hundreds of miles in a slow road. I did a bit of the driving with Franco hysterically screaming at me to keep in the right lane. It's nuts, but I can't stop laughing. Arrive at motel just outside Krackow and decide to chuck it for the day. Another sandwich made by chef Franco. Lovely, then sleep. It's now 7.00 am and we're about to have breakfast and head for Ukraine.
TUESDAY, JULY 22, L’VIV, UKRAINE It was supposed to take around four hours to drive from Krackow to Ukraine, but it took nearly eight hours driving at 40-60mph in country roads that seemed to go on forever. But nothing could have prepared us for arriving in the town of L’viv, in Ukraine. After nearly two hours at the Ukraine border, with the various top heavy officialdom, we finally got on the road in the steady drizzle towards the town of L’viv. The roads out of the border were bad enough with potholes, but nothing could have prepared us for L’viv itself. It’s completely ga ga. Cobbled stone roads, potholes your car could disappear into, and no need to worry about driving on the wrong side of the road. There is no wrong side. Everyone just drives all over the place, cutting you up, honking their horns if you as much as hesitate at a changing traffic lights. Franco is driving and I’m just sitting in a state of shock, listening to the exhaust scraping on the ground, wondering now we’ve hit the centre of L’viv at 8.00pm, what the hell are we going to do. If we stop at a hotel in the centre, chances are we’ll come out in the morning with nothing but the clothes we’re wearing. And in the middle of all this twisted rail lines, a tram comes down the road. We decide to turn back and find a motel so we can head for Kiev in the morning. In torrential rain, we pull into some gated hotel job with guards on the door. But inside it’s pokey, grim and cold. Knackered, we cut our losses and book into some place for the night. Tomorrow’s another day. We managed to get a meal – I had the boiled tongue, which I kid you not, tasted like someone else’s tongue. The staff are drinking neat vodka from a bottle in the garden. It’s freezing. A bit like Lanarkshire on a wet Tuesday, but with Russian music in the background. And, once again, the internet’s not working. So tomorrow’s another day. Dig out the Andrex toilet roll and at least we’ll be able to face the journey without chaffed arses!
WEDNESDAY, JULY 23…KIEV, UKRAINE..11.15 Now in some kind of parallel universe. After 12 hours on the road, darkness falls, and the prospect of another night in the car is looming. We’ve been driving through run down towns you wouldn’t want to get out of the car in and had no idea where we were going. From nowhere, a neon light flashes and Franco says we’ve either found a hotel or a whorehouse! Either way, we’re going in because we’re completely wrecked. Thankfully, it’s a hotel, clean, beautiful and with the statutory bevvied guys at a table. The owner, Andrei shows us amazing hospitality when he finds out we are on the Mongol Rally. They are bringing in the most amazing food, with wine. Now eating some kind of ravioli and mince at midnight. At this rate I’ll be like Bimbo before I reach Mongolia! And Franco is being forced to knock back shots of vodka! We are now all speaking broken English, and promising to meet again. Earlier in the afternoon, before it all went pear shaped by getting lost, we drove around Kiev with the beautiful buildings bathed in afternoon sunshine. We needed to chill a bit, because the cops had earlier flagged us down and basically robbed us of 30 dollars – claiming it was for insurance. Franco did the talking. They were initially demanding 300 euros, and he finally got away with the only 30 dollars we had left until we get to a bank. He was going nuts at being humped by the corrupt cops, so things were a little frayed, even before we got lost. But it’s cool now, and tomorrow is yet another day. We’re headed across the remainder of Ukraine and hope to be at the Russian border in a couple of days.
Baguettes, booze and bickering By Anna Smith 27/07/2008 WHEN you’re hunched up in the car, freezing your drawers off in the dead of night, and hallucinating from lack of sleep, it’s hard to believe you actually volunteered for this. And it’s day one of our gruelling Mongol Rally for charity. It all began with some gusto as we left Hyde Park, horns blazing, in the Ford Fiesta that will hopefully take my Spanish friend Franco Rey and I across Europe for the 10,000-mile trip. We are expecting the journey into Asia to take around four weeks, give or take a few days. The Odd Couple on tour, car stuffed with enough savoury rice to feed a small African nation, a tent, a stove and a few spare tyres – including the ones Franco and I hope to lose on this trip. And yes, we were bickering before we even got out of Hyde Park, just because I wanted a cup of tea! With Franco at the wheel we’re at Folkestone in jig time. The tempo is set with a bit of tunnel rage after some fool in a flash car accused Franco of being a pillock as we tried to squeeze our car through the barrier. Then we were off at Calais and across France before you could say Hasta La Vista. Several hours and a few colon-blocking baguettes later, it’s 2am and we’ve been up since six. Franco is determined to drive on, but I force him into a petrol station car park somewhere in Germany, packed with sleeping truckers, to catch a few hours kip. First genuine comedy of the trip is when he decides to lock us in the car for security and sets off the alarm waking everyone from here to Austria. I laugh hysterically at the panic in Franco’s face. At first light, the adrenalin kicks in as we get changed in the petrol station toilets, have yet another baguette and head for the motorway. I’m driving on the autobahn this time, and General Franco is stressing out big time next to me. Angry expletives are exchanged and we carry on the journey in stoney silence, before bursting out laughing at the craziness. The truth is, Franco is really only comfortable when he is driving. I can see this bickering is going to happen a lot, but we mustn’t let it get us down. We press on, despite the tiredness after eight hours drive, because ahead in Prague we have a suite at the prestigous Iron Gate Hotel in the city’s old town. The manager, Chris Dobson, from Hull, has generously donated the 600-euro-a-night gaff so we can luxuriate in splendour on the first night, because this time next week we’ll probably be living in a tent. On the way, take a detour 50 miles into the countryside, to catch up with Franco’s daughter Claudia, 27, who is also doing the rally with her friend Irene. Advertisement - article continues below » The Iron Gate is awesome. But we’re so knackered after being lost in Prague for over an hour, we can barely eat before crashing out. I wish I had more time in this beautiful city, but we leave early in the morning, complete with a goodie bag from Chris which includes chocolate and tins of Heinz beans. Not recommended grub for tent dwellers. Whizzing through Poland, I’m beginning to feel we’ll be in Mongolia by next week. Panic is eating in because the mobile, donated by Vodafone for the trip, is having problems with the connection here. After frantic calls and help from their patient technical people back in London, we’re back in business. Another baguette, another motel, and we’re out of Poland in the morning and off to Ukraine. After nearly a two-hour wait at the border with surly officers going through our papers, we negotiate the potholes towards L’viv, Ukraine’s oldest town. In the torrential rain, we find a motel – a typical drab, Eastern European job, with matching staff. Up at sparrow fart and on to Kiev. We get flagged down by cops and basically robbed of 30 dollars – only after haggling with Franco because they demanded 300 euros or threatened jail. It’s outrageous. Hours later and another punch-up over my map reading. We end up driving in the darkness through rundown towns, when a neon light flickers like a mirage. Franco says it’s either a whorehouse or a hotel, but either way, we’re going in. It’s beautiful, clean and friendly, and less than £30 for the night. After another 10-hour drive across Ukraine, we end up in a flophouse. It’s full of truckers and, bizarrely, beautiful women in s*** me shoes. They keep disappearing and reappearing. We pay our £20 for the room, and are told by the boss that we must be out by 10am. Franco suggests I stay to see if we can recoup some of the money we’ve spent. But the way I look at the moment… Only around 7,000 miles to go. LATE NEWS: As I write, the exhaust has fallen off the car somewhere near the Russian border. A guy stopped and helped us but we’re now stranded in Ukraine because we can’t get anyone to change our sterling for dollars. Innocents abroad!
> DAY 12 - KAZAKHSTAN.... We haven't been able to update the blog because we've basically been on the move from dawn till dark.. We're now in what appears to be yet another whorehouse in the middle of nowhere in the edge of a town in the middle of nowhere. These whorehouses keep following us around, and I can only presume it's Franco's influence because it's never happened to me before. I was just outside getting something from the car, and I can hear a woman screaming from one of the hotel rooms in what can only be described as a Meg Ryan moment in When Harry Met Sally. In fact, when the waiter came to our table, I've just ordered whatever she had! It's been a busy few days, and not without it's colour moments. The first night in Russia we spent in a hotel - but it was actually a portakabin. Unbelievable. Like a prison cell, with the windows sealed and a stinking toilet. Oh, talking of toilets. These squat shots are not for the faint hearted. You hold your breath and try to hope you'll be able to get back up again! Franco is refusing to use them, but I'm getting quite good at it. We're becoming quite used to carrying toilet roll wherever we go, and the other day, Franco drove for 200 miles unaware that he had a toilet roll stuffed under his arm! I'm getting a bit fed up with Franco ogling all the beautiful women since we left London. The Ukrainian women are fabulous and while I look for places to stay and road signs, Franco looks at the women. We're quite relaxed in this hotel/whorehouse tonight, because we've spent the night before last in the car again, after driving for nine hours and unable to find a place. In one place, I was shown to a room, up a fire escape by the hotel owner. She knocked the door and a bleary eyed trucker in his boxer shorts opened the door. Yes, there were two beds, in between the other four truckers. Franco suggested we take it, and perhaps could have a Russian symphony of farting, with a bit of flamenco thrown in. I refuse, and we go to the car. I had to use my portable toilet. Picture the scene in the steady drizzle, me sitting at the side of the car in front of a row of truckers in a petrol station. Enough said. To cap that day off, Franco got fined 60 dollars by the robbing Russian cops who claimed he crossed a line on the road, which he didn't. Livid, doesn't describe his mood when he came back to the car. The bastardos took his licence off him and threatened him with jail unless he paid up. I later saw one of the big fat cops buying chocolate in the petrol station with our money. Franco has just announced that we've been in the wrong time zone for the last four days. Jeeeesus! We were wondering it was light in the middle of the night and dark at five iin the middle of the summer. I cannot believe this! Franco says this must be the reason we've been sleepiing in whorehouses - because when we arrive, we thought it was around 10.00 at night, but in fact it was 1.00 am. Oh dear. What next. Watch this space. Pip, pip,...
Welcome to Russia – where cops and robbers are one and the same thing. They don’t get paid much, but what the heck, they can bump up their wages by pulling in drivers and threatening to jail them if they don’t empty their wallets. But more of that later. After a couple hours’ wait at the Russian border, we drive for nearly eight hours until blackness forces us off the road to what can be described loosely as a hotel. My co-driver Franco and I are on the Mongol rally – a mad 10,000-mile dash across Europe that’s going to take us the best part of four weeks. I go in to look at the rooms. In the darkness a man leads us through rows of dilapidated buildings. He shows me a stinking, airless room with two tiny beds and a filthy outside toilet we have to share with another family. I’m beginning to feel like a refugee. After a sleepless night in the stupefying heat, we’re away at daybreak to get the hell out of it. But first a word here about the toilets. You can never really function properly, if you get my drift, in these disgusting squat-shot bogs with the stench knocking you off your feet. As a Chelski fan, Franco is wondering if billionaire Roman Abramovich uses these toilets when he visits his native Russia. Suspect not. Rules for the rich and rules for the poor here, in this new Russia. In the cities, fancy cars and limos jostle with Ladas with blacked-out windows. But drive into the country and it’s like stepping back in time. Wooden shanty towns dotted around empty landscapes. The people look miserable. I’m wondering if they ever dare to dream. The Mongol Rally isn’t something you can plan, with the endless hours of border crossings, collapsed roads, etc. But a map would come in handy, and ours only covers us to Ukraine. So we’re working with a pocket atlas I’ve had for 15 years. But, surprisingly, it’s getting us across Russia by plotting our route to major towns. Unfortunately for me, I find myself on a rally, but with dwindling confidence about my driving. And so does Franco. The drivers are suicidal on the tiny roads with 70mph juggernauts overtaking two and three cars in the middle of the road. Nine hours later, in the driving rain, we find a decent hotel where we eat and talk to a couple of Russian lads downing vodka. They kindly go and buy us a map. We sleep like the dead. Driving for a whole day in miserable weather, we can’t find a place to stay. We stop at one place with a flickering light. The woman says it’s full and takes me to the overspill next door. There are two beds – in between four truckers asleep in the darkness. Thanks, but no thanks. Franco is hysterical when I tell him and suggests we should have just slept there – maybe we could have had a Russian symphony of farting with a bit of Spanish flamenco thrown in! Advertisement - article continues below » It’s about to end in tears when the cops pull us in as we turn into a petrol station. A big fat greasy plod waves Franco out. They put him in the police car and he’s there a long time. They threaten him with jail for crossing a line, which he didn’t, and demand money. He offered them $20 then $40 – and they took his driving licence. Eventually Franco gives him $60, pleading with them to let him keep $20 for petrol. We drive on in the dark and, exhausted, pull into a truckers’ stop and decide to sleep in the car. Time to use my portable toilet. Picture the scene. In the drizzle at the back of the car. This is no place for a woman of a certain age. And it’s my birthday in 24 hours… We celebrate it the next night in a hotel 100 miles from the Kazakhstan border with cold pizza, salted herring and cloudy beer. After an eight-hour drive to Kazakhstan we find what appears to be yet another whorehouse next to the main train station and spend the night. There are baby cockroaches at our feet as we sit on the terrace, and the silence is broken by the orgasmic screeching of a woman in one of the hotel rooms. She just has to be faking it. This is surreal. Oh, and we’ve discovered we’ve been working on the wrong time for three days – it’s 2am and not 11pm as we thought. We wondered why it was getting dark so early. Next day we’re deep into Kazakhstan where the roads have potholes big enough to swallow the car. Franco is driving and doing a sterling job. A hundred miles later and I’m reduced to taking the portable toilet behind a remote bus shelter. It collapses just as a car passes and I’m flat on my back with skint elbows and breeks at my ankles. This is still fun, but getting difficult. Each day I’m thankful for my mobile to keep me in touch with the world, because the messages of support keep us going. At midnight, after finally getting to a town and driving in circles we find a hotel and flake out. We’re now just over half-way to Mongolia… TIP from Russian cops to cut down on speeding drivers. They put life-size imitation cop cars at the side of the roads so you slow down thinking you’re approaching the real thing.
Squeaky bum time in Mongolia – and it’s nothing to do with that rough toilet paper. It was all going so well, bouncing along what passes for roads, with craters big enough to swallow our Ford Fiesta. But at least we’re getting there. We crossed the border from Tashanta, the last outpost of Russia – a one- horse and hundred goat town, where we had slept in a stinking outhouse and paid a woman £3.20 for flea-ridden beds. Franco says it was £3 too much and he’s right. The Mongolians at Customs are pleasant and helpful – even though they try to get us to change our money during their lunch break, when they slip out of their uniforms and into civvies to become currency dealers! But onwards and upwards each day, as we say, and with a bit of luck we’ll reach our final destination of Ulan Bator, 1,000 miles away, in six days. We’ve just completed week three of the four-week, 10,000-mile Mongol Rally for charity, between London and Mongolia, in a battered old Fiesta. So much for forward planning. The first thing to strike you in Mongolia is the awesome scenery. The landscape is like another planet… dramatic hills and shadows. And deafening silence. It’s beautiful and overwhelming at the same time. Our euphoria is short-lived as we start trying to find the first big town. There are roads, but not as we know them. Huge boulders and craters like a lunar landscape, all forking in different directions towards the mountains we must cross. Franco keeps saying: "Beam me up, Scotty." We keep asking goatherds on horseback for directions by sign-language. Everyone just points in the same direction towards the six different roads. After an hour the inevitable happens and the car gets stuck on a mountain road. Whatever you read about Genghis Khan marauding and murdering his way across the steppes, from where I’m sitting, the Mongolians are wonderful. A family stop and help us, driving ahead of us in their 4x4 to make sure we’re on the right road. Hours later, we finally get to the town of Olgi. It’s rough, but we’re too tired to even look and sleep once more in a dingy motel. Up and off in the morning, feeling more and more exhausted each day but still in good spirits. I’m doing most of the driving today, with Franco simmering and complaining I’m like Stirling Moss. But I’m confident... per-haps because the roads are so lonely there’s no chance of anyone coming towards me! Advertisement - article continues below » Another night, another smelly hotel. I’ll soon need a flea collar. We’re making great time. As we left town, we chatted to a bunch of Mongolian geology students who spoke English and are going our way. We joke that if they see our car broken down and the buzzards circling, to please stop. We hope to be at our next destination before nightfall, because the last thing we want is to drive on these roads in the darkness. But in a flash, it’s all gone tits up, as they say in Mongolia. The car hits a stone and the engine cuts out. I feel panic flushing over me as we sit in the middle of nowhere, and I mean nowhere, in the blistering heat, praying someone will pass. A family stop. The dad looks in the engine and scratches his head. Franco is smoking furiously. My bowels are getting nervous. An hour passes. Then two 4x4s and a van on the horizon, and it’s the geology students. They all jump out, eager to help. Their Russian drivers know about mechanics and start to take the car apart. But even after eight of them turn the Fiesta on its side to see if the stone has cut a wire to the fuel tank, it’s still no good. This is the point I had been dreading. Franco insists I go with the students and their professor to the next town of Altay and get a truck to come back and transport the car to a mechanic. I’m protesting furiously, for two reasons. I don’t want to be alone in a town where I know nobody, looking for help, and I don’t want Franco to be alone in the car in the middle of nowhere. There’s tears and arguments, but I realise there’s no other way. The two 4x4s, and the minibus I’m in with the students, heads into the wilderness. It’s a white- knuckle ride through ditches and potholes. The students sing along to UK dance music and Mongolian ballads. At nearly midnight, the convoy pulls into a field and I sleep in the minibus with two girl students. Outside there are more stars in the sky than I could ever imagine. But I wish I wasn’t here. It’s freezing. You can always rely on the kindness of strangers. The students and their Professor Bay-san, from Ulan Bator University, have shown me such care, sharing their food and warm clothes with me, that it brings tears to my eyes. They even help get a truck in the morning so I can head for the four-hour drive to pick up Franco, who I’m praying is safe and sound. Then the mirage. As we thunder along in clouds of dust, I swear I can see our Fiesta. It can’t be. Yesterday the car was dead. Franco screeches to a halt. Apparently, while he was bored all night waiting for me, he read the car handbook. The safety switch that feeds the fuel had switched off when we hit the stone. And with a simple flick of the switch, it was back. Oh dear! There must be a moral there somewhere.
“May God give you...For every storm a rainbow, for every tear a smile, for every care a promise and a blessing in each trial. For every problem life sends, a faithful friend to share, for every sigh a sweet song and an answer for each prayer." SUNDAY AUGUST 17....Scotland.... The above quote just about sums it up. Home at last. A little earlier than planned - we missed the big party, but had to leave U.B. because the cost of flights if we'd stayed were astronomical. Nonetheless, we're feeling great. Arrived in U.B. on Wed afternoon, completely knacered, stressed out, between tears and laughter, and emotionally wrung out after our desert trauma. (Read all about it in my Sunday Mirror column below)..Plus see pix. The atmosphere in UB was brilliant with all the other ralliers arriving little by little. We probably finished around 25th in the rally, but we didn't put our car in for the first day or so because we wanted just to chill out - so we don't have the official figures. But we reckon we did not bad for a couple of people who are old enough to know better than to take off across the world in a Ford Fiesta! But at least we made it. Franco and me are still talking, and in truth, it was the most awesome journey in every sense of the word. We have asked the Mongol Rally organisers to donate our car to the two Italian Consulata Missionary priests we met, and who just happened to be there at a time when we needed support. So hopefully they'll have our car in the next few days to help with the fantastic work they are doing. Finally, we just want to thank all our sponsors from the bottom of our hearts. Vodafone, for their mobile connect which allowed us to keep the blog going and also my Sunday Mirror column. Shields, for the Ford Fiesta that became a part of our lives and will now make a difference to the lives of others in Mongolia. Fooprints, Glasgow www.footprintsglasgow.com for their tent and camping equipment. 1st Harrison.com for camping gear. Arvill Tool Hire for helping with donations. Scotshield for paying our fares back home from Mongolia. Chick at Halfords in Airdrie for the fridge equipment. And the rest of our sponsors who I will mention in more detail when I get my breath back. Thank you all so much for your generosity.
The kindness of Mongol strangers By Anna Smith 16/08/2008 Vultures! They have that knowing look as we drive past them in the heart of the Gobi Desert. We are hopelessly lost and my stomach drops when I see these ugly big birds, huge black wings outstretched like the Grim Reaper. If youre in vulture territory, its never a good sign. They dont have to follow you because this is their patch and they know you are lost. They can sit and wait like, well, like vultures. Franco makes some lightweight comment about the size of the birds to keep me from freaking out. But its not working. We set out this morning from the town of Altay for the 400km drive to our next stop on the Mongol Rally, a trek across Europe which began in London four weeks ago. But within an hour we must have taken the wrong turn on the confusing dirt tracks we have to follow. We have to keep going and see where it leads. Then disaster. Theres a massive crater and our car wont be able to cross. We try to go around it, but plunge into a deep sandpit and were stuck, wheels spinning. I feel sick. I look up to see if the vultures have seen us. They say when youre in a hole you should stop digging. But if you think your only option is to keep shovelling sand to get the wheels free, all you can do is dig. So we did. And in the 120 degree heat, its exhausting. I cannot believe how quickly you get dehydrated. We dig and dig for hours and try all sorts of methods to get the car out gathering rocks and heavy stones to place under the wheels, but each time it sinks deeper and deeper and I can see the despair on Francos face. Someone will come, he keeps saying, but we know we are so far into the hills there is little chance of anyone finding us. No mobile signal, not that we have anyone to call or could tell them where we are. The last house we saw was a nomad tent about an hour ago. We think about our water. We only have four litres and the way we are drinking well have none by morning. Suddenly it hits us we know nothing of survival skills. I walk for half an hour to the top of a hill to search the horizon but theres nothing. We sit exhausted in the car to escape the heat. We start a fire but it goes out. We talk about me walking at first light before it gets too hot to see if I can find the house we saw but Franco rules it out. You just dont go walking in the desert. Thank God I was terrified. Well put the tent up and wait, he says. We could make the water last for a few days if we stay still and dont exert ourselves. Fine. But I dont want to think about how hysterical I will be. At last, Franco might even get to slap my face. Hes been dying to do it since we left London! We dig and pray, promising all sorts of things we will change in our lives if we get out of this alive. Six hours pass, and I have a blister on my hand from digging. Franco is exhausted. I know hes as shaken as me, but hes trying to tough it out, because if he goes to pieces so will I. We decide to pitch the tent (thanks, Footprints in Glasgow!) and try to get our heads together. Night is coming and there is a serious chance we are going to die. Then there is a moment I will never forget. In the distance, clouds of dust. Its a lorry. Were hugging each other in tears and about to throw our arms around the three bemused Mongolians who arrive all smiles. I truly believe they saved our lives. They pull us out of the sand with their lorry and there is much laughter at the little yellow spade weve been using. More for planting borders than digging yourself out of sand. Our rescuers are on the way to the same town. They decide to stay the night and guide us there in the morning. I am in tears of gratitude. We share our food with them, sitting on a hillside in the setting sun. They bring out the Mongolian vodka and I dont think Ive ever felt so grateful. As darkness falls, we sit under the crescent moon and teach them English and Spanish while they give us words in Mongolian. We bed down in the tent while our Mongolian friends sleep under the stars. The stillness is broken by the robust farting of the Mongolians, like something out of Blazing Saddles. Our trekking food is clearly a change from their usual diet. Up at vulture fart and on the road, they tell us to follow but take off at 60kmph. Then the inevitable. A puncture. And the guys are nowhere to be seen. Im so stressed out, I stand and pray. Then in the distance, I see dust. Theyre coming back! They help change the wheel and we drive to our next town. When we leave them, were moved to tears by their kindness. On the road again, we meet two Italian Catholic priests building a social centre for Mongolian kids. We give them clothes and camping equipment and they provide us with a feast of a lunch. We plan to arrange to donate our car to their mission. The priests and nuns under-stand our trauma over being lost. When you face that, no possession among all the crap in your life is worth a damn. The only thing that mattered was the humbling kindness of complete strangers. Franco and I are on the road again, asking ourselves why we put ourselves through this. For charity, and for adventure. But in truth, it was sheer folly. Its good to get out of your comfort zone but we should have gone somewhere we could get a taxi back. After a 400km drive, we finally reach the Mongolian capital Ulan Bator to relish the crazy traffic. In a British bar we eat an English breakfast at 7pm, drink cold beer, have a fight and end up laughing and crying at the same time. Game over. Time we acted our age. If we go on a rally again it will be to the Lake District. Thats a promise. Share Print
