Schmurrr

Sounds like an amazing adventure! So tempting, too!

glennaa11

Sounds like one of those crazy Top Gear challenges.

mad_atta

So here I am guiltily returning to the thread I started with great intentions all those months ago. I'm determined finally to post some updates for those who didn't follow along on our website. Watch this space.

Mongolian 'roads' have to be seen to be believed. The toll they took on our tiny Renault was incredible in just a few short days... as you can read about shortly. What amazed me, though, when we finally hit that long-awaited asphalt, was the occasional truly horrific pothole in the middle of an otherwise excellent road surface. There was one immediately over a blind crest which we only avoided by the greatest of good luck, and it would have finished our poor, limping Renault.

I couldn't agree more. Absolutely one of the best things I have ever done. And it was fantastically exciting to meet other ralliers on the road, especially when many miles out into the middle of nowhere. I find that still if I see a small car ahead with a big load on the roof, I perk up and think "Mongol Rally team!", only to realise with disappointment that the rally is all over...

Glad you did And you'll have to read on to see our highlights. Sadly we didn't get to Georgia, though, but having seen other people's photos it's definitely on my to do list...

mad_atta

Top Gear seemed to be a favourite of many of the teams we met on the rally, perhaps unsurprisingly. Many teams chose to follow Top Gear's lead and drive across the Carpathian mountains in Romania, in search of what TG deemed 'the best road in the world'.

mad_atta

Getting to the start line the FT way (just don’t tell the other teams)

The Mongol Rally is a huge challenge for all the teams that participate. However, the overwhelming majority of them live in the UK or Europe, giving them the opportunity to prepare their vehicle at their leisure, then drive it to one of the two start lines: Goodwood racecourse in West Sussex, about an hour south of London; or Klenova Castle, near Prague in the far southwest of the Czech Republic. For us, however, there was the small matter of 3,500 miles of the North Atlantic between us and the true beginning of our adventure… which brings us to the only typically FT piece of this report: getting on a plane.

In Ayesha’s case, that involved heading to Germany to deliver a paper at a conference, before joining us in the UK. She’s a non-FTer, holder of a modest SQ Krisflyer silver card, and had booked a cheap one way ticket on SQ’s JFK-FRA service. For the two of us, it was Air Canada via Toronto to Heathrow, hoping our AC Elite status would mean our Aerolotto game of eUpgrades would be successful. This, of course, is a familiar FT narrative: where by taking the less obvious, indirect route, our FT elite heroes bask in the joys of international business class while their envious colleague flies in coach. Besides, everybody knows that SQ never op-ups anybody, anytime, ever.

And yet… somehow, inexplicably, Ayesha finds herself stretched out on the soft leather surface of SQ’s generously proportioned A380 business class bed, supping champagne and contemplating her unexpected good fortune. The Mongol Rally is supposed to be about physical challenge, mental discomfort, and the triumph of endurance over deprivation. Best not tell the other teams then.

After an upset like that, our successful occupation of Air Canada’s slightly less coveted business class seats may seem a little anticlimactic. But as the culmination of an incredibly hectic few weeks – which involved procuring our last two visa, hiring and training my replacement at work, last-minute fundraising and route planning, packing up our apartment, selling or shipping our worldly possessions, and many, many goodbye drinks – the moment of finally reclining with a G&T in seat 3A as AC721 climbed out of La Guardia en route to Toronto felt pretty damn good. Even if AC does insist on using that nasty, nasty Canada Dry tonic.

What followed was the usual routine of my AC transatlantics: an hour or two in the antiseptic surrounds of the Pearson international Maple Leaf Lounge, mostly spent trying to decide which of the pasta sauces on offer was blander and getting outraged all over again by how bad the wine is; a welcome glass or three of the Drappier Champagne from the chipper Canadian crew once on board; a mediocre dinner and most of a movie until the Xanax got the better of me; and a few hours of surprisingly deep sleep that was rudely interrupted by our descent into a damp, grey and chilly Heathrow. An hour or so later, somewhat revived by a long shower, several lousy coffees and a bacon roll in the AC Arrivals lounge, I reflected on the comfort of such familiar rituals in the face of the unknown that lay ahead.

The next few days were a blur of activity: drinks in London, the train to Somerset, picking up our trusty Renault Kangoo from the mechanic who had been accessorizing it slightly for the rally (sadly, not too many 1.2litre cars have full safari-style snorkels as standard), decking it out in its full rally stripes, stars and stickers (which had a remarkably transformative effect), many trips to Halfords and Sainsburys Homebase for essential rally supplies, the fun task of figuring out how to actually fit it all into our small vehicle, and of course many trips to the pub where we attained virtual celebrity status among the locals as the three idiots who were actually going to drive to Mongolia. This was all achieved in near-constant rain, as the UK suffered through its wettest summer on record.

And so it was that we found ourselves driving out of town in a deluge, the streets of Bruton awash with rain and the bridges almost flooded, heading for Goodwood and the traditional pre-departure ritual of camping at the starting line. As the radio confirmed widespread flooding, we contemplated our options: a Glastonbury-style night of mud and mayhem, that would ensure our camping gear was filthy and soaking wet before the rally had even begun, or searching for some more civilized lodgings. As we splashed eastwards down the sodden M27, the weather getting nastier with each passing mile, the Hilton Portsmouth loomed into our view like a damp, grey concrete caravanserei. It was at about that point that I remembered I had some HHonors points burning a hole in my pocket, and that we had 10,000+ miles ahead of us to be cold, wet and uncomfortable. As we ate pizza and surfed the free wifi in the lobby we all agreed: if we were to retain even a shred of rally credibility, no other teams were to be told that we spent the night in the Hilton.

Hence, our official pre-departure blog post is strangely silent on the subject of our trip to the starting line. You could say this chapter is an FT exclusive. Let’s keep it our little secret.

mad_atta

Written July 18th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

If it’s Tuesday it must be Bratislava

It’s 5:51 when we spin off the jarring Czech highway into Kutna Hora. What happened to the signage? We’re lost, then found again. Its 5:55. Outtatheway Skoda! 5:58 when Alistair pulls on the handbrake and Graeme’s already running up the wet stone path to the ossuary. When we took the name Khan-Tiki Tours we thought of the antipodean twenty-somethings who bus hurriedly through Europe’s sites on Con Tiki Tours. We had thought it ironic but our lightening fast progress across Europe means we’re forced to admit we’re living up to our name.

Now we’re in Bratislava, Slovakia, 2000km from where we started five days ago. The launch in Goodwood was our first chance to meet other teams and compare routes and cars. A Volkswagen Polo clad in white fur distinguishes the Polar Bear team. Also in a Kangoo, Only Fools and Horsepower have mounted a horse’s head on their roof. Rub A Dub Tub sport a claw foot bath atop their vehicle– apparently it really fills with water.

Our colourful caravan started with a lap of the historic race course beneath leaden English skies and from there teams separated, only seeing each other intermittently. We followed the coast to the Eurotunnel train. Once back on the road at Calais, France we drove through flooded Flanders fields glad we had found an overnight apartment rental online in Bruges. Olivier, the owner, met us at 10 pm and shared a beer in his penthouse on the edge of the old town. We discovered he had also lived in New York and returning to a conservative town famed for its medieval buildings is a frustration for the young architect. We’re the first guest he’s hosted, an enterprise he hopes will bring the energy of meeting new people back into his life and city. In the morning he saw us on our way with a brief tour of the old town, pointing out some of his projects along the way.

A quick lunch in Luxembourg and Graeme’s started collecting flags to stick on the car for each country we visit. We ducked past the luxury brand stores lining the main street to enjoy the break in the rain on the corniche and views of the city walls and the town’s characteristic steep slate spires. Back on the road – it wasn’t until 9pm that we rolled into sleepy Rothenburg ob der Tauber for our first night camping. Our tents held up in damp conditions but cooking on a week gas flame was frustrating and slow. What started as pasta ended as minestrone but our first outdoor cooked meal was warm and satisfying. In the morning we spun around the cutesy old town with tourist hordes admiring the traditional German buildings that looked literally like an advent calendar. The sun was bright though the day was cold and we snacked on berries before piling back into the car to drive across Germany into Czech Republic for the Czech out party.

We joined other teams camping on the hillside under Klenova castle. More vehicles to admire, the costumes even nuttier and some already retelling horror stories of breakdowns. We watched cricket in the sunshine before evening arrived and we made our way to the hilltop castle and the Theatre of the Macabre party. A Blondie inspired keyboard guitar player led an excellent local band. A Spanish DJ spun a happy mix in a cave and I met the Fire Fairies, one of two all women teams. They shared the directions to the beach party they’re hosting on the Romanian Black Sea coast in a couple of days. Absinthe coloured the night a technicolour blur of mirror balls and fire dancing.

Waking to the sound of wind and rain on the tent, we packed quickly and wove our way out through sleepy party-goers. No showers. It’s only been one day. I don’t think I smell, yet. Do I smell? No. What if I just can’t tell any more? Geez it’s only been one day. How will I survive a week? No matter. In Prague we found extra tent pegs, changed money, ate vegetables and gave ourselves an hour to enjoy the beautiful architecture around the square and river front. Is this the tourist’s equivalent of the one night stand? We guiltily got back in the car to make it to the ossuary in Kutna Hora by 6pm.

Graeme sprints in through the rain and begs us ten minutes to see the monument of bones from over 40,000 Plague victims. Is that thunder? I run behind Alistair through the cemetery. Why am I running? I never run for my living patients and this time I’m 700 years too late. We cross the threshold and the rain abruptly gives way to the cool still air of the crypt. The attendant shuts the door behind us. I’m suddenly aware of the sound of my breathing and my shoes scuff down the dusty stone stairs. The ossuary features four pyramids of skulls and the ping pong ball shaped hip joints. Each pyramid is five meters tall – sheer scale does emphasize the horror that must have beset communities where half of the town died. But it’s the baroque flourishes that undermine the guidebook’s claim that this is a monument to the importance of life and the universality of death. Ila scallop a six-foot vase in the vestibule, the family crest of 19th century owners of the ossuary wrought in delicate fibulas and a baroque candelabra of skulls boasts ulnas as its bony bunting. We escaped outside for a glimpse of late afternoon sun and were happy to move on.

In Bratislava we checked into a backpackers and Graeme’s warning that the bathroom was the sort of place you expect to wake in a tub of ice minus a kidney didn’t stop us from enjoying the showers. Slovakia’s a blur of castles, futuristic public works projects, dilapidated splendour and that Orwellian cabbage smell. Last night in a Bratislava microbrewery we snacked on cold cuts reminiscent of New York deli food and reassured ourselves that once we make the beach party we’ll slow down.

mad_atta

Written July 24th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

Transiting Transylvania Transalpina

We need to cross Romania in 24 hours to make the Fire Fairies’ party on the Black Sea Coast. In our way is over 700 km of roads and the mountains of Transylvania.

The Hungary-Romania border is demarcated by the disappearance of the motorway. The crossing was our most difficult yet and underscored that the familiarity of western Europe was behind us. At passport control two fellow ralliers from Australia scuffed their feet in the dust and anxiously awaited the verdict of the inscrutable officials. We dodge roadside hawkers and buy Rumanian Lei but not before calling our curb-side exchanger up on his attempt at a swindle.

It feels like we’ve entered Romania through the back door. The highway is a simple two lanes that passes straight through tiny hamlets. Nonetheless other drivers dart up their imagined ‘3rd lane’ and overtake on blind corners. Pat and Dave, who we met at the border, follow us in convoy. Houses are simple, few have their lights on and we see the occasional locals going about their business on horse and cart. The road is choked with trucks making the long haul across the country and bringing the most visible signs of money – neon signs announce 24-hour petrol, food and bed stops and expressionless women waiting alone or in pairs at the roadside.

The sun sets behind us painting farmland golden. As night falls the plains have become gentle hills. It’s dark and too late to set up camp so we pull into a motel. The boys order from the long list of Schnitzel on the menu and I try and figure out if a cigarette has been dropped in my Carbonara or if it is just the taste of two decades continuous smoking in this room.

The next day we climb the Transalpina highway through the Transylvanian mountains. Alistair pushes the Kangoo around the hairpin bends and steep climbs. He’s curious to see how the car performs at this altitude ahead of the more challenging Pamir highway we’ll encounter in Tajikistan. We stopped above the tree line to puff on the thin air and take photos of the panoramic views.

We make it to Vama Veche on the Black Sea Coast at 11pm. Tired after the frustrating road and an hour in a sweltering Bucharest traffic jam, we were buoyed by the cheers of other ralliers as we rolled past the bar. We pitched our tents on the beach before joining the party. We heard stories of broken clutches, seven-person push starts on the Transalpina and the team that broke their rear windshield – with their own backsides.

In the morning we woke to the sound of waves and sweltering temperatures even though the sun was still low in the sky. Relieved by a quick swim we then found espresso on the beach with our last 15 lei. Thank goodness we dodged that swindle.

The boys are growing beards and my hair’s ever more wild from the salt water. Back on the road aiming for Gallipoli tonight.

mad_atta

Written July 24th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

Gallipoli: From the Uttermost Ends of the Earth

The track to Lone Pine climbs from the sea to the ridge running along the Gallipoli peninsula. It’s midday – the sun glares oppressively from a perfect sky and sweat trickles down our necks and backs. The dense scrub of stunted olives, oak, lavernums, rhododendrons and thorns is home to butterflies and tiny birds. It’s so peaceful here now it’s hard to imagine the staccato of cicadas' cries replaced by machine gun fire.

What’s brought us on this detour to the site of a battle almost a century old? In Australia and New Zealand our generation’s been noted for its increasing observance of ANZAC Day but neither my teammates nor me are dawn service attendees. Perhaps it’s different to be here, to witness the sites for ourselves rather than to have it interpreted by politicians and officials desperate to align themselves with what is now regarded as one of the defining moments in our young countries’ history.

Instead, thanks to public radio we can listen to recordings of servicemen themselves. Here a New Zealander, Rupert Westmacott, tells the BBC of landing at Gallipoli under the leadership of a sixteen year old as bullets fell around them like rain and over already drowned soldiers in the shallow lagoon. He describes himself as a lucky amputee as half the other casualties were simply thrown overboard from our own hospital ship. It doesn’t serve official purposes to remember such negligent military leadership and our own subservient foreign policy that lead to monstrous treatment of our own men and so much bloodshed. Unless, that is, the ANZAC spirit is about battling on under incompetent leadership.

The graves at ANZAC cove remark on soldiers’ bravery, “for God, King, and Country”, “his service nobly done”. Neither God nor the King could lead my generation to war, and we’re perpetually contesting the meaning of the latter. And I’m not sure that’s bad – my throat goes tight reading one direct and personal inscription, “my only beloved son”.

New Zealand historian Jock Philips researches letters from Gallipoli and notes the shifting identification of New Zealanders from British commanders to their brave and practical Australian comrades as the standoff wore on. This certainly rings true when on our own travels we encounter Kiwis and Aussies ready to throw themselves out into the world and prepared to deal with it on its own terms. Philips also mentions the high regard diggers had for their Turkish counterparts. In our focus on the meaning of Gallipoli for us and our relationship with Australia, we seldom think of its meaning for Turkish people. Ataturk, first leader of modern Turkey and commander of Turkish forces at Gallipoli, said this in 1934:

It seems a remarkably generous statement to make after defeating an invading army.

Further up the peninsula Turkish families take picnics on a beach where concrete battlements crumble into the sea. We pick our way across the hot sand and dive into the fresh blue water of the Aegean. It’s pointless to compare one generation’s sacrifice to another’s when our circumstances are different. But if someone’s died for our freedom then we had best make the most of it – choose your own path.

gosha83

Just had a read on your website - what an amazing journey! Truly truly epic! ^

mad_atta

Thanks! It was indeed epic

mad_atta

Written July 28th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

Sleeping through the city of my dreams

Hot. Tongue stuck in mouth. Skin stuck to sheets. Why isn’t that fan working? It’s 3 am. Can’t sleep like this. I’m going outside.

That’s the fragment of febrile logic that led me to spend the rest on the night collapsed on an Istanbul balcony. It wasn’t until I awoke at dawn with an urgent need to run to the bathroom that I realized I was sick. Alistair and Graeme came for me at nine and found me drowsy, dishevelled and in no state to tour the city that only last night I had enthused was the city of my Arabian nights-inspired dreams.

In the late afternoon the guys returned with Gatorade and stories of the breathtaking interior of the 6th Century church-cum-mosque Aya Sophia. Alistair described the high vaulted interior as so vast that it was hard to find a vantage to appreciate it from. Dwarfed people speak in hushed tones on the worn flagstones, and crane to see the gold embossed Arabic inscriptions and mosaics. Graeme shows me some amazing photos before I drift off to sleep again.

Woken by the call to prayer I join the guys at dusk on a roof top restaurant. We watch a crescent moon rise over the blue mosque and chat to a Danish Rally team, The Mongol Mavericks. It’s Ramadan but Istanbul doesn’t seem to notice – “Who cares?” says the Turkish man at our hostel reception – as tourists knock back cocktails and shops continue a roaring trade. The next day I manage a walk around Topkapi Palace, the administrative and symbolic centre of the Ottoman Empire, and admire the emerald encrusted daggers, fine swords, and elaborate thrones. I’ve overexerted myself and fall asleep beneath an Elm in a courtyard.

Leaving for Ankara that afternoon Alistair channels his inner Turk and thrusts the Kangoo into barely perceptible gaps in the traffic. I dose in the back seat realising I’ve slept through the much of the city of my dreams. At least there’s plenty to come back for.

Ankara is a shabby overnight pit stop (showers, wifi) before another big drive on empty motorways that seem to be being constructed only minutes ahead of us. Another team, Takhi Racers, have left a message on our blog that they’re also bound for Cappadocia, and we meet Marco and Charis in the small town of Goreme. We stroll around the open air museum, chatting about each other’s plans while visiting the ‘fairy chimneys’. These naturally occurring towers of every conceivable shape were home to a Christian settlement as early as 100AD. The solidified volcanic ash makes a soft peach coloured rock that inhabitants dug out into rooms with adult and baby sized ledges for sleeping. They even dug out Churches with arches and pillars adorned with frescos from 1100 AD. We pitch our tents in a camping ground beneath a couple of chimneys and enjoy a beautiful sunset while taking a swim followed by a simple Turkish meal, during which our host treats us to a performance on his three stringed Turkish lute. At dawn we take a balloon ride over the landscape seeing the many different sculpted rock formations.

Leaving Cappadocia marked our departure from the tourist trail and since then travel has require perceptibly more effort. Campsites are difficult to find and often offer cabins rather than tent sites, or semi-permanent tents decked out with lounge furniture and televisions. After a couple of failed attempts to camp on the Black Sea Coast we had to crash in a hotel on the street where all of Giresun’s old men meet to play cards and drink tea. The next night in Erzurum we camped in an abandoned carnival behind a truck stop and under the flight path of the nearby airport. Now most restaurants are closed except, surprisingly, sweet shops, so yesterday’s lunch was custard and bon bons.

It was at Trabzon that Alistair noticed a 10 cm crack low in the windshield, just under the driver’s wiper. Reluctantly abandoning ideas of a final Black Sea swim, Graeme navigated us to a Renault centre handily situated on a street busy with the clamour of car workshops. Our worries that Ramadan would mean slow service were unfounded. A crowd of mechanics swarms around the car, and within minutes lift the damaged windshield off. Through sign language, recourse to a phrasebook, and the mechanics quoting the price by writing on the dusty Kangoo’s bonnet we negotiate the repairs. I’m starting to appreciate the car’s livery as more than just aesthetics. It gets us attention – especially from car enthusiasts, and we may well be dependent on their help in the future. The mechanics took a lot of interest in the comical concept of a Kangoo with a snorkel, and we take out the map of Mongolia to illustrate the river crossings. Graeme’s been collecting stickers of the flag for every country we visit, so we can point to our journey so far. As we meet other teams, many with four or five people sandwiched into truly tiny cars, we also realise the relative luxury of the Kangoo’s surprisingly cavernous interior. We even meet a team of Brits driving to Mongolia in a hand-made dune buggy, a lashed-together assortment of parts from postwar military vehicles and expired VW Beetles, without even the luxury of a windscreen.

Delayed by the repairs and a detour to Sumela Monastary we drove at night through the Kackar mountains, reaching an altitude of 2400m before descending into Erzurum. And the following morning we climbed the citadel to look out over the dusty plains to the distant mountains. Connecting routes between Persia, Russia and Constantinople the city has a rich history. We visit a madrasa exhibiting the scholarship, weaving and metal work of the area before taking the afternoon drive to camp near the Iranian border.

Dogubayazit is a Kurdish settlement under mount Ararat. The extinct volcano is snow capped and exerts a powerful presence over the town below. The town is ramshackle and slum like and heavily militarised. I counted over thirty tanks and massive barracks. We camp outside the town by a hill top palace in a stand of poplars watered by a mountain spring. We pitch our tents in the mosquito infested site and make dinner shooing away the mangy dogs. We’re joined by Polish motorcycle tourists hoping to ride up Mt Ararat and they help us polish off the whisky, gin and red wine that we’ve carried since Europe, but which can travel with us no further. Tomorrow we’re crossing into Iran which we’re all looking forward to, provided we can make it through the border and its reports of scams, thefts, full car customs inspections and bureaucratic hurdles.

mad_atta

Written August 4th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

Destroy after reading

There’s a three-mile queue of trucks on the Turkish side of the Iranian border and it looks like they’re going nowhere. Drivers rest in their cabs and Kurdish women and children beg and sell food. No signs. No man’s land. We’re nervous about this reputedly hard border crossing – and even though we’ve followed instructions on getting visas, carnet and customs to the letter, anything could go wrong. And border processes are inscrutable, perhaps deliberately so. We’re lucky to have advice passed on from a friend via Alistair’s cousin Penny: the car entry is up past the trucks. We’re relieved as the trucks look like they’ve been waiting for days.

We drive up the wrong side of the highway until we see the green white and red flags, the large Arabic inscriptions, the pictures of the Ayatollah. We pass the first test and work out the un-uniformed person asking for our customs papers is actually a money-changer. We’re relieved when the police inspection of our car turns out to be cursory, having heard other teams have had gear stolen at the border. The police wave Graeme and I inside to passport control but I wait outside and to signal to Alistair where to go when the guard releases him. Alistair stares blankly at me then smiles… and then as he approaches he says, “I was wondering why that friendly local woman was waving at me”. I’m shocked my headscarf makes me that unrecognizable. Wearing a headscarf has transformed me to self conscious and awkward teenager. I’m both convinced it is ugly and perpetually worried it will fall off.

Inside the police introduce Alistair to a tall thick-set man in a flashy shirt and jeans. His giant pecs and biceps are an ostentatious display of protein consumption among the otherwise runty locals. The words Organized Crime flash in my brain. He’s already engaged Alistair in a conversation that’s taking place a 18 inches above my head. “Excuse me, why aren’t you wearing a uniform, who are you?” I squeak from below but I’m not really able to carry my back-pack and look up with this stupid headscarf on. Mr Organized Crime mutters something about “working here” and “helping people”. (“People, good people” supplies Marlin Brando in the conversation happening within my headscarf.) Back up at altitude, Mr Organized Crime begins a well-rehearsed routine about how we have to do such and such and Alistair’s engaged in working out the logistics. Graeme and I have to wait here while Alistair gets taken into a small room somewhere else. We meet a friendly man who talks to us at length about places to visit in Iran. He seems really nice, but borders are such suspicious places that when he says goodbye and leaves the waiting room for one of the offices we wonder if he was profiling us. Later Mr OC returns without Alistair and waves our passports at the Immigration Officer, mutters something and leaves. Graeme spies a Kurdish man squatting just outside passport control.

Alistair returns later, USD$70 poorer, and we discover our passports aren’t even being processed - so much for help. We join a short but slow moving queue and inch our way to the front where we learn that New Zealand isn’t listed in the Immigration computer system. We spell it clearly, we show our visas, half an hour passes. Maybe the computer isn’t working. It’s Ramadan and everyone is tired. Eventually everyone agrees we can be recorded as Australians. The squatting Kurdish man sees his moment and runs through the “sterile zone”, past surprised guards to… freedom?

We need to change money and this time, determined not to be scammed, we go to the bank and steadfastly decline what we think are too-good-to-be-true claims by the money-changers. Wrong again – you have two thirds of the purchasing power at the bank compared to the black market, something we didn’t learn till in Tabriz the next day. In any case we have enough money and get flagged down by another un-uniformed man who requests we drive to three different points to buy insurance, which we do. We slump back in our seats tired, hot, thirsty and disappointed about having to pay bribes. But our spirits rise as every second local shouts “welcome to Iran” as they drive past. The Kangoo eats up the miles from the boarder town to Tabriz. There are bad days on the road but we always get to drive away from them.

mad_atta

Written August 7th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

Fasting and Feasting

We stumble out of Tehran’s Museum of Antiquities into a small park centred on a fountain. It’s Ramadan, 40 degrees and we’ve set an ambitious schedule of sightseeing for our so-called rest day. We try to cool off in the park while waiting to be picked up. Our plan for a sneaky Sprite in the museum toilets has been thwarted by the museum guards insisting we check in our bags. Had I already read Shahriar Mandanipour’s description of the museum in Censoring an Iranian Love Story I would know this is no place for a lovers’ rendezvous nor furtive drinking.

In the park, armed police guard the gate and adjacent buildings. We find a shady position on the lawn. The fountain’s mist cools the air but I wish I didn’t hear the tinkle of water. It’s too uncomfortable to talk and I can feel a headache starting. I’m so thirsty. Minutes tick by and I start to see what’s really happening in the park. A woman brazenly swigs on bottled water before secreting it in the folds of her chador; young men pretend to wash their face at a tap but furtively throw back big gulps; the teens on the bench seat have a straw into their bag; the man sitting against the back wall has a Pepsi behind his briefcase. Everyone is drinking in spite of the prohibition. Water, water everywhere!

Life in Iran is conducted in the grey zone between the strict rules of the Islamic Republic and what can be gotten away with. We met DIY winemakers, atheists and carpet salesmen who cry “Kia Ora” and close us inside their shop to share tea during fasting times. That isn’t to say the regime doesn’t have a big impact: we also met youths injured by police violence and people whose land and possessions were confiscated during the revolution. As threats of war between the US and Iran resurface it seems important to note Iranian people have lives as rich and colourful as our own in spite of the brutality of their government.

Tabriz, several hundred kilometres from the Turkish border, was the first city we visited. Arriving after dark in a new city, navigating to the centre and searching for accommodation without bookings is tough, no matter how many times we do it, though ever-helpful Iranians obligingly provide alternative accommodation options and directions. This time we’re lucky: the second hotel we try can host us, albeit in separate rooms and passports must be deposited at reception. If I weren’t so tired I’d be amused that requiring such sleeping arrangements has actually increased the chance that mortal sins are committed in the room next to mine. But no time for subversive thoughts, we follow our noses around the neighbourhood sniffing out the best kebab from the street vendors. Young men in T-shirts and jeans walk the street in groups. Women are out with their husbands and while some wear the chador, others wear a headscarf and a long shirt or trench as a coverall.

The following morning we explored the World Heritage-listed bazaar where, unlike Istanbul, we don’t see a single other tourist. Silver and goldsmiths, grocers, wool merchants, perfume makers and carpet shops are busy trading. In corridors of spices I remember the feasting scenes of A Thousand And One Nights: orange blossom, almond, dried burberry, rose petals, pistachio, saffron, cardamom and cinnamon. There are as many stalls selling bolts of fabric or sewing equipment as there are for mass-produced clothes. We buy bread and a sweet almond paste coloured with saffron for the road.

From Tabriz we drive through dry hills, then over a rugged mountain range to Ramsar on the Caspian Coast. The Kangoo reaches its highest altitudes so far, and we find a vertiginous viewpoint to pull over, admire the parched landscape and furtively snack. Fellow travellers wave, admire the car and pull along side us to ask where we’re from and welcome us to the country. It’s lovely but I wish they’d keep their eye on the road. In Ramsar we’re met by Ariane, the daughter of Alistair’s mother’s school friend. Ariane has generously travelled for hours from Tehran to host us for two nights at her family’s Caspian coast villa before travelling with us to Tehran where we stayed with her parents Mahine and Iraj.

Ariane treats us to an amazing dinner of traditional Caspian dishes, including aubergine stew (mirza ghasemi), rice with a savory crust from the pan (tahdig), a salad of fresh parsley, tarragon, coriander and basil and pickles and surprisingly delicious fermented garlic. Conscious of culinary deprivation to come, we eagerly devour everything. Above us a painting of a country scene depicts the tea plantations, which along with rice and oranges were specialities of temperate Northern Iran. Since then the productive land has been nationalised and given to the regimen’s apparatchiks, with paddies and plantations replaced by gaudy real estate developments. We give our own inner property magnates free rein in the first of many hard fought games of Monopoly Deal.

We awake from a much-needed sleep in to admire views of the Caspian from atop the green hills. I’m relieved the guys have been put off sea swimming by reports of pollution as I’d have to swim fully clothed. We happily spend the day by the pool, shielded from the neighbours by a two-story privacy screen of course. The day is punctuated by more delicious food from Ibrahim’s kitchen and we enjoy a thoroughly lazy day. But the beach house was just an entrée to Mahime and Iraj’s hospitality in Tehran, where we head the following day, over another incredible mountain road. Amidst impressive contemporary Iranian art we enjoyed conversation about their lives in Tehran and they heard stories of our travels. Dinner was wonderful Persian dolmas and a dessert of traditional rose water and nougat flavoured ice cream.

The following day we’re racing to see Tehran’s sites in one day. The Museum of Glass and Ceramics houses delicate perfume bottles that predate Christ, and ceramics over seven millennia old. We get lost in the world’s largest Bazaar and found again by a wily carpet salesman whose sales pitch is a theatrical masterpiece. Although we’re tired by the time we reach the Museum of Antiquities, the bas reliefs from the ancient city of Persepolis are incredible, and Alistair is fascinated to find what appears to be the mummified remains of Richard Branson (complete with long blonde hair and beard), which is uncannily well preserved salt miner from the 3rd or 4th century.

Red-lime-yellow, navy-peach-orca, blue-black-orange. The twelve screen prints are the most impressive collection of Warhol’s we’ve seen – perhaps there’s something new to think about Warhol and his studies of iconography here. The Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art’s building and collection was developed by the West infatuated Shah. There have been few acquisitions since the Islamic Revolution, and according to guidebooks the collection is seldom on display. Mao smiles softly from each portrait. I wonder if he’s happy here.

mad_atta

Written August 7th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

Midnight at the Oasis

In Isfahan’s Hotel Totia(tarian) the surly receptionist observes guests on 35 CCTV cameras. Our passports are taken at check in and our car’s plate number reported to the police. The Wifi is patchy and a combination of poor bandwidth and censorship prevents us from accessing our blog. I miss the freedom of my chadoor (Chadoor means both the full length black coverall that Iranian women wear as well as the Farsi word for tent, clearly I mean the latter). But there are no campgrounds in Iran and pitching our tent on the roadside risks a late night interaction with the police that we’re unwilling to risk.

From Tehran we’ve driven south to explore Isfahan, Yazd and the oasis town Garmeh before turning north to Mashad and the Turkmenistan border. We wonder if we’re the southernmost rally team and perhaps the slowest as friends text and post updates from Central Asia.

In Isfahan, the former Safavid capital we explore the world’s second largest square and its attached Jameh mosque. The mosque was built in the 11th century by Seljuks but repaired during the Mongol and Savafid eras and is considered to exemplify the architecture of each period. The mosaics include ancient and Arabic scripts, elaborate botanical designs and geometric patterns. Graeme is in photographic heaven.

At dusk we walk through the bridges that cross the now dry Zayandeh river. We pose for photos within their beautiful arches and watch children play on the steps where once they would have bathed or fished. We meet Ali, a high school student and son of an English teacher who shared his impressive knowledge of Persian history and the development of Farsi. We felt both lucky to meet such an articulate guide and impressed by such a clever young man. Good luck for the future from your Kiwi friends Ali!

After dinner we walk home back through the square. The 16th century polo games played here are remembered in the remaining goal posts and mosaics, but tonight now families congregate to break their fast with picnics on the massive lawn. An 11 year old girl skips up beside Alistair and I to talk. She’s soon joined by a cluster of teens, a man carrying his baby daughter, a couple of old men. The 11 year old has the best English so translates for the small crowd their questions about where are we from, how old are we and inevitably… are we married?

Mirages shimmer on the roadside. When we draw near we see low but craggy mountains skirted in dust but often they’re obscured in the desert haze. The heat raises small columns of dust in twisters. Inside the car it’s like an oven, turning the fan on is as helpful as cooling off under a hairdryer. Graeme, I’m sorry I laughed at your misting fan and now its broken. I try and sit very still and limit how often I lick my lips or peel my full length shirt off my back. I also limit how often I think about how uncomfortable I am… because there are hotter deserts to come.

The drive from Isfahan to Yazd is interrupted by a motorcyclist who pulls alongside and flags us down at Toudeshk. Mohamed invites us to the guesthouse he runs (Tak-Taku Guesthouse) to meet his family. Explaining that we have a booking in Yazd we decide it would be a welcome break from the afternoon heat. We’re taken through the narrow streets of mudbrick houses to one built around a courtyard where pomegranates grow. Persian rugs and cushions are laid in the shaded veranda. We sit and stop for tea and meet the family. The boys talk about cars, roads and travel times while I get to cradle a beautiful 30-day-old baby with lots of black hair and a gold ear piercing. His aunty speaks a little English and we talk a little about families, babies and pomegranates. The guest rooms look comfortable and clean and it’s reluctantly that we leave for Yazd knowing the homestay offers a special experience. Nonetheless we had a pleasant stay in a courtyard style hotel in Yazd and enjoyed exploring the network of tiny mudbrick allys in the still lived in old town.

In the morning we set out to find the Zoroastrian Towers of Silence. We have some sketchy directions from our hotelier but no proper map online or in guide-books. After driving for ten minutes on the wrong road out of town we turn back, try another, then another searching for the ancient construction atop a low hill that overlooks the city. Eventually we find it at N31°49.284’ and E54°21.599’. The wind is cooling but spectacularly dry. It feels sharp in our nostrils and no sooner do we break a sweat scrambling up the hill than the moisture is swept from our skin. A circular mudbrick wall crowns the hill and within its walls is a pit where the corpses of believers were left for the elements to dispose of. Despite the encroaching apartment blocks it is still an atmospheric place.

In the late afternoon we leave Yazd and travel through the pinks, oranges, browns and blues of the desert. To reach Garmeh we turn west as the sun sets and interrupt a herd of camels crossing the highway. We admire how in spite of their awkward gait they glide across the sand hills but not the funky smell.

In Garmeh we relax in a guest house and after dinner our host performs traditional Persian music. First on a drum that looks like a tamborine with small chains taking the place of symbols and then percussing the neck and oponings of two glazed vases. He wishes us good night and retires to sleep beneath a mosquito net on the roof. We make ourselves comfortable on the Persian rugs.

I unpack into the mudbrick alcoves of my tiny room. A pile of mattresses prevents me from rolling down the sloped tunnel in the left wall. I can just lie flat with a screened window at my feet. A hot breeze blows off the nearby mountains and plays with my silk sleeping bag liner. I’m too excited making out the stars in the sky and the date palms to get to sleep. When I finally doze off it’s the day before our longest drive yet.

mad_atta

Written August 10th, 2012 by: Ayesha. Unfortunately our team website is no more, but you can find our photo galleries (mostly organised by country) on our team Facebook page here.

The Petrolhead Edition

Hi from the sweltering back seat. Today’s our longest drive so far: 750 km from Garmeh’s Oasis to Mashhad. If like me you break long journeys with mental arithmetic of the distance covered here are Khan Tiki Tours’ stats on today, day 24 of our journey.

• Distance travelled so far: 8,380km
• Estimated total distance: 19,200km
• Day 24. (Including 3 non driving days)
• Highest altitude: 2650m (between Rasht and Tehran).
• Litres of petrol consumed: 822.35.
• Fastest motorway: approaching Ankara from the West - Kangoo cracks the ton (100mph) on looooong downhill section
• Best road: the wide empty race strip into Turkey from Bulgaria takes you across basins and over hills. At dusk many of the hilltops bore the silhouettes of mosques.
• Tightest fit: through mudbrick lanes in Yazd’s old city
• Craziest pursuit: following local on scooter the wrong way up a dual carriage-way
• Surrealist moment: following truck clearly driven by chickens in Ankara.
• Closest shave: scraped by bus before leaving Bruton, UK

We’ve mentioned previously the fantastic reception we’ve received in Iran and the mechanics are no exception. Yesterday we had a ten-minute pit stop where five guys crowded us at the pump. With sign language we explained our travels and our strategy for overtaking in a right hand drive (the passenger tells the driver when its safe to pull out). Our friends gave us plenty of smiles and the directions to a workshop around the corner where these two excitedly peered under the bonnet before escorting us further down the road where their friend could top our oil up.

The danger of breakdown in the desert was apparent today when we stopped between Khor and Tabas at a massive salt lake. The salt crusted like paving stones, our tyres flattening the ridges but the crystals in the centre were unbreakable. The only signs of life were the carcasses of camels. Iran has given us the chance to try desert driving with the reassurance of good roads and regular petrol stations. Two thirds of the back seat are folded, and we’ve wedged two 25 litre plastic jerry cans of water between the seat and our packs in the back. When I say we, I mean Graeme, the mastermind of our car packing routine – no doubt the fruits of years of Tetris playing. We’re not yet concerned enough to fill our metal jerry can with fuel. In spite of the water’s extra weight our fuel consumption’s been relatively constant. We won’t win the hearts of environmentalists: we average 11 km to the litre.

The roads in Iran are really good. In the desert we get down to single carriageways but that’s fine as there is little traffic. We don’t get charged at toll stops and though there have been plenty of police stops we’ve got by after showing our papers every time. Tehran was a different story, nestled within a web of motorways with no warning of exits and intersections. Locals overcame the late warnings by reversing up the freeway to have another go but we took the safe route and tried for the exit 3 times! The other drivers are quite unpredictable and pedestrians are constantly trying to martyr themselves under the Kangoo.

Most of the time the Kangoo performs really well. We had read reports of Kangoos overheating but so far we haven’t had any such problems. That’s until we hit a hill or a head wind and Alistair swears we haven’t got enough power. How then did we manage to be stopped for speeding in our overloaded 1.2L car I wonder?

We’re perpetually grateful for the excellent work done by Rob at Bruton Motors. In Turkey we did quite a few night drives including on mountain roads so the spotlights were really handy. Other modifications including the sump guard and snorkel probably won’t be tested till Mongolia.