That's Beijing

From London to Mongolia in a beat-up Ford Fiesta

text by Phil Groman; photos by Stephen Edwards

It seemed like a mad dream, driving a 17-year-old Ford Fiesta from London to Mongolia. But the Mongol Rally, now preparing for its third foolhardy year, is all about driving the most unlikely of cars to the most unlikely of places: Outer Mongolia.

The only rules are that the car must be under 1,000cc, and it’s got to be a piece of junk; the older the better. We’re talking anything that has trouble mounting a curb, let alone crossing five mountain ranges, two deserts and some of the worst roads on the planet. And why, you cry, would any prudent driver take up the wheel for such an ill-advised voyage? Enter the remarkable ability of charity to justify even the most irrational behavior. With 44 teams taking part in 2005, and a minimum donation of GBP 1,000 per team, that’s a lot of money for two excellent causes: Save the Children and the elegantly titled “Send a Cow” (which supplies livestock to poor communities in Africa).

July 30th was a sunny day at the rally’s starting line in London’s Hyde Park. After breaking free from the Saturday afternoon traffic it was all top speeds and flashing borders through northern Europe. When we heard about the rally back in June, my good friend Ian and myself were sold on the idea instantly. We both agreed to take the southern route, following the Silk Road across the Balkan Peninsula to Turkey, Iran and Central Asia, then veer north towards the Altay mountains in southern Siberia before hitting Mongolia in her wildest west.

By August 2nd we were already in Romania. “Significantly more third world,” is how I described it in my journal. Yet amongst the patchwork of mountain villages, donkeys and potholes, we encountered our first taste of genuine hospitality. Stopping by the roadside for minor repairs, fascinated locals would bring us tools and tea. And as we drove away they would stand in the road, watching and waving until we disappeared into the haze. That night we negotiated the border into Bulgaria. By midday the horizon was breathing whispers of the glistening Black Sea. Occasionally it would rise above the yellow mist in the distance and then slowly disappear again. After driving non-stop from Prague the eventual plunge into the sea was sublime. The beach may have been crowded, but as we looked to the eastern sky, for one priceless moment the entire Black Sea belonged to our journey and us.

The southward road along the coast climbs high into the Strandza mountains. It winds through tunnels of dense greenery, twisting and turning through a seemingly uninhabited wilderness. Occasionally the sea would come into view, enclosed in a frame of blues and greens. Once past the Turkish border, Europe soon became a distant memory. The roads were lined with sweet tea and kebab stalls, with men sitting at tables, smoking, talking, or just watching the world go by.

We crossed Turkey in two days, heading directly east towards Iran. The multi-lane toll roads of the west come to an abrupt end at a point just outside of Ankara. The country suddenly becomes rugged and mountainous, cloaked in a shade of dusty brown. Shepherds tend to their flocks, villages hug the hillsides and serene mosques sit alongside busy gas stations. Without a valid document for the car the Iranian authorities would be loath to let us in, which would result in a major detour through Georgia and Azerbaijan – plus the small matter of crossing the Caspian Sea to Turkmenistan. That morning, as we passed under the shadow of the biblical Mount Ararat, a sense of foreboding wrapped the car in silence.

Nine hours and a small cash persuasion later, and we were refueling at Iranian prices. The local driving takes a sharp turn for the worse but the vitality and humor of the people is instantly evident. Nowhere in the world is the foreigner welcomed with such animation and joy. Even at high speed before a blind corner, one driver pulled up alongside just to swap some words of salutation and then offer us a bag of mixed nuts. We stayed with three families during our exploration of Iran. Each showered us with food, drink and merriment. And in between the music and laughter of family gatherings, friends passing the shisha pipe would talk openly and critically about politics and religion.

The mountains of the Kopetdag range mark the pass into Turkmenistan, an oil-rich country where roads are monitored by countless police checkpoints manned by corrupt officers vying to hand out fines and collect bribes from hapless foreign vehicles. Forty minutes after our passports had been confiscated, we found ourselves being charged for having the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car! Other teams also had their fair share of bizarre obstacles: After driving into a cow one night in Azerbaijan, one driver spent the night in a cell with an irate midget after the farmer kicked up a fuss with the local police.

We arrived in Uzbekistan’s most famous city, the fabled Samarkand, a city that resonates with images of Silk Road romance, just as the sun was setting behind its ensemble of turquoise and gold mosques. Ancient Arabic manuscripts refer to it as the “Gem of the East,” and it’s not hard to understand why. The city is packed with elaborate buildings and bustling markets, all still singing songs of ancient times, when the wealth of the world passed through its lavish streets.

We were soon behind the wheel again of our trusty Fiesta, for a scenic detour into Kyrgyzstan. It cost us two days, but the 400km Osh-Bishkek highway through the Tian Shan mountains made it worth our while. Soaring amongst the proud peaks, the new road dashes towards the snow capped horizon, dipping occasionally along the shores of silken blue lakes. And then suddenly we spotted a Fiat Panda towing a classic Mini up a 3,000m mountain. It could only be the Mongol Rally. The Mini’s engine was misfiring and it looked to be curtains, yet we met the drivers in Ulan Batur after they had managed to complete the rally with neither brakes nor exhaust pipe!

By the time we had bribed our way out of Kazakhstan and Russia, our car was in bad shape and only lasted a thousand kilometers of Mongolian dirt track before we found ourselves in the middle of the Gobi desert with a broken drive shaft and a pile of ball bearings. The task proved too much for local welders, forcing us to leave our trusty steed and continue on bicycle. After two weeks of cycling and hitch-hiking, we finally rolled into Ulan Batur, exhausted.