Kazakhs are friendly... deserts are not

Afternoon,
We're sitting in an Internet Cafe that is frustratingly devoid of the cafe element in the middle of Aqtobe (Kazakhstan) at the moment. We've been in this city three days now, not including when we first went through it about a week ago. 'But wait,' we hear you cry, 'how come you're back in a city you passed through a week ago?' Well that is a story of danger, adventure and bad Koumiss...

We last left you last when we were poised to burst forth into Kazakhstan and hit the desert like a yellow, seicento-shaped bat out of hell (we were listening to a considerable amount of Meatloaf at this point). We got stuck at the border for a night for forgetting the date, yes, but this was useful as a group of Uzbeki truckers told us to avoid a major (not yet built) motorway we had planned to use. Unfortunately we didn't find out about the later ones from them...

A few K's into Kazakshatn we pulled up alongside a convoy of Rally teams that we parked up. These guys turned out to be pretty cool. A couple of guys in a Corsa from Hereford who we later engaged in a 60+kmph egging war, a couple of fellow Fiaters in a Punto from Wales, a couple of South Africans in a swift, two guys with a fetching red Skoda and a couple of crazy DUtchmen who run their own miniature music festival in Holland who drove a Citeron 2CV. We had some fun times - eating in an English pub called the Guns N Roses in Atyrau, convoying to Uralsk then Aqtobe (first time) and seeing our first scorpion whilst encamped.

Then however, following Aqtobe, they all headed East then north to hit Ulaan Baatar before various work-related dealines for getting home and the like. We decided to head down the motorway to Aral (maybe see the Aral sea) and then onto Kyrgyzstan. Epic mistake. We said our goodbyes and headed off on our own. Before quickly finding a very helpful French team headed the same way.

Now the interesting stuff happened. After a hundred or so clicks of beautiful asphalt the motorway ceased to have been built yet and we were forced onto the rough-hewed sand and dirt tracks to the sides to make our progress. Off roading was fun at first but Seicentos are not built for it. Nor did it help that our thermostat was apparently already broken and our dash lacked a temperature gauge. Our engine overheated and we broke down. The French guys were very helpful in nearly getting it going again and made sure we'd secured a tow back to Aqtobe to get it fixed before they pressed on. Halfway through said tow, truckers decided they were mechanics and to fix our car instead by taking the broken radiator pipe and clamping it off to fix the leak. Confident in their abilities and evident skill, we cheerfully waved them on their way after half an hour of perilous towing and tried again to get to Aral with out newly fixed car.

Then the coolant sytem blew up and our engine's entire capacity for water was spread everywhere beneath the bonnet (so hot it evaporated in about a minute though). And to think, we gave those truckers our hard earned dollars and, vitally, the last of our Kazakh Cognac! Next ensued a period of between one and two hours stranded in the desert with very little water and what was previously a fairly constant traffic flow completely and mysteriously disappeared. It wasn't too bad - we had the shade of the car and I manage to find a nearby river, though it would need heavy Iodine treatment to drink, but all the same we didn't relish the idea of waiting for ages in the desert. Eventually a Kazakh van came by and though they couldn't help us they spotted us a laof of bread and some water. Luckily though, a fairly affluent chap in a huge Mitsubishi turned up. He spoke a little English and also seemed to be a mechanic (it seems to be a prerequisite for full Kazakhstan citizenship). Whilst muttering various things we assume to be expletives in Russian he rearranged various piping to do with the cooling system in the vague hope of fixing it. He gave us Sprite too. It was good to have flavoured liquid again. He couldn't quite get it to go though, and just as we were about to be towed back by him, Nikolai and Nolan turned up in their truck.

Nikolai and Nolan are two of the nicest blokes alive and testament to the kindness Kazakhs are famous for. They were employed by a Canadian oil company and Nikolai spoke good English so things were looking up. They were also mechanics and had a go at the car but again to no avail. They thought it was fixed but it broke down ten minutes later and they ended up towing us. An incident worth mentioning though is that, whilst they looked at the car, I (Chris) got stung by a scorpion. On the arse. The bugger managed to crawl up my trousers without my noticing and suddenly I feel a sharp sting (any innuendo based comments are not likely to be well recieved). Instinctively slapping my hand to the infected area I feel the crunch of an insect. My rough thinking at this point was 'Shit.' I walked around the back of the car to inspect and find a scorpion falls from my dropped trousers. This was not entertaining. Trousers replaced, I made my way to the front of the car and motioned the truckers to come over to the crushed scorpion and give it my attention. At this point, Andrew has later told me (they had already looked at it after my loud exclamation of 'fuck') he thought I was probably dead. The truckers' reaction was different. They laughed. To me, this seems a peculiar reaction but it is then explained to me the offender was just a baby scorpion and that in May or April I might actually be in some danger. This was some relief - they knew about cars - why not scorpions? So we left it and got on with things. I didn't die.

Anywho, they then proceeded to tow us to the nearest desert roadside cafe. This was quite fun. It involved showers from barrels of water over wooden huts, some of the best meat we've ever tasted (why no one eats mutton in Britain is beyond us) and copious amounts of Kazakh Cognac supplied by Nikolai and Nolan. During this night we first discovered the names that would be given to us by every Kazakh we told them to: 'Chreez', 'Andreav', and 'James Bondt'! We offered to pay but they seem to have beat us to it with the drinks, and even our night's stay which was mysteriously settled without our knowledge the next day. It also involved dancing with an old Russian lady. This was not good. Video to follow... Anyhow, after Nikolai's good booze and good conversation including trying to convince us the advantages of having a girl in every city (he was a nice bloke though honestly) we slept in the back room for 300 Tenge (250 being 1 pound) for the night next to a box of kittens listening to what sounded like the family (including grandma) settling down together for a pleasant evening of watching porn in the next room.

Nikolai and Nolan left in the morning leaving us without translator but having sorted out another mechanic for us and apparently settling our bill. During the day, mechanic in a bright yellow hat pottering about the car, we met a convoy of three American teams and one from Dubai, we recommended the food to them and instilled the appropriate fear of the road ahead. It was also during this day that the mechanic offered us the koumiss this post's title refers to. Koumiss, for those wondering, is a drink made from fermenting mare's milk. Jimmy and I sipped, nodded our heads in (incredibly faked) approval and passed it back. Andrew had two cups. Two fatal cups...

After a long day of bodged repairs the mechanic finished and declared confidently it would take us back to Aqtobe tog et it fixed properly and parts replaced. Once again our confidence was misplaced and a few kilometres down the road we discover the car can drive for fifteen minutes before overheating and then required half an hour to cool. Another couple of teams tried to help us (Team Mid-life Crisis and one to do with the Mystery/Mongolia Machine) and another truck towed us briefly. None of this worked though and after a while we adopted the perhaps ill-advised but nonetheless hardcore policy of driving for fifteen until it overheated and then pulling it by rope for half an hour until it cooled. We tried this for a while before yet another truck tried to fix it (see the pattern emerging?) before it broke and they ended up towing us.

The difference with these two was that they towed us about 300km back to Aqtobe, which was terrifying as visibility in the sand at night was zero and the rope snapped no less, but possibly more, than twelve times. Fun times. Eventually, the next morning we arrive in Aqtobe at a friend of theirs' house. Here the Kazakhs exhibited their legendary hospitality as endless chai, melon, bread and soup was put before us and they made very effort to fix our car, including trying unsuccessfully to find new parts and plugging the holes in the radiator with sticks. It was about this time when Andrew's stomach began to churn...

It soon transpires the car was pretty much dead and we decided to try and sell it to them. They jumped at the chance and we were grudgingly willing to let it go cheap so we could continue with the trip. However, the truckers' documents were in Turkistan. A city on the road that had defeated us in the first place. Reluctantly we accepted their offer to tow us there in order to sell the car. Andrew's stomach is now little worse and growls increasingly ominously. As we near the desert it becomes clear Andrew is profoundly ill, dangerously dehydrated and barely aware of what is happening around him. The desert road was no longer an option. We stopped and, along with some teams we met, tried to get a tow back to Aqtobe. The truckers agreed, for a price, but relations turned sour half way there. Other Rally teams pulled over to help but the rest of the tow back was not forthcoming for less than $70. Eventually the truckers, despite Andrew being prostrate on the floor vomiting headed onwards to Turkistan, presumably with a schedule to keep., leaving us with a completely broken car and a completely broken Andrew. Here is a good place to express eternal gratitude to said teams in taking Andrew to hospital, trying to fix the car, staying with us and the car overnight when it transpired it couldn't be fixed and then giving a lift into Aqtobe to find Andrew and the rallier who took him to hospital (also Andrew). The car and Jimmy were eventually towed back too and then followed a couple of days of hospital visits, police visits for visa registration, and finally Internet visits to update the blog. And here we are.

Tomorrow, the task faces us of trying to somehow legally get rid of the car and press on to Monglia via other means, probably bus and/or train. Blondie (the Seicento) looks well and truly dead. To summarise, we would have to replace: the radiator, the thermostate, (probably) the fan, the head gasket, the oil, the oil filter, the water filter, the cracked coolant pipes and the shock absorbers. Also the end of the exhaust was missing and dripping a milky white petrol and water mixture and the handbrake was becoming both inoperable and completely useless. In other news our naked indicator light bulb has thus far survived, huzzah!!!!

RIP Blondie.