MISSION MONGOLIA

Copyright © David Treanor 2010

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Acknowledgements

Thanks to my family, Tricia, Emma and Sarah for their belief and support, Rick for his advice, and Jen, Dave, Chris, Ben and all at Summersdale for making it happen.

About the Author

David Treanor was a BBC journalist for more than 25 years, editing news bulletins for the Today programme and Radio 4's Six O'clock News. The journey was made in support of the charity Save the Children.

Contents

Map
Chapter One: Good to Gobi
Chapter Two: Fire Up the Terrano
Chapter Three: Cops and Robbers
Chapter Four: Go East Old Van
Chapter Five: One Small Steppe for Van
Chapter Six: Catch of the Day
Chapter Seven: Almaty Progress
Chapter Eight: Testing Times
Chapter Nine: Break for the Border
Chapter Ten: No Van's Land
Chapter Eleven: Making Tracks
Chapter Twelve: Just Deserts
Chapter Thirteen: Things that go Clunk in the Light
Postscript
Bibliography

Chapter One

Good to Gobi

The email from senior management confirmed the rumours. The BBC was to make big job cuts – 3,000 in all. It was hoped these could be achieved through voluntary redundancies, but, if not… well, people would be told their services were no longer needed. Geoff and I were fifty-four and in our prime – prime candidates to take whatever was on offer and go. Younger colleagues with big mortgages and small families eyed us hopefully – a sacrifice was going to have to be made and they hoped we were it.

This was not an unreasonable expectation. Both of us had spent almost thirty years working day and night newsroom shifts and they were getting harder to handle. A glance in the mirror at nine in the morning after three twelve-hour nights provided convincing evidence that this was no occupation for old men. Indeed, if we wanted to live to be old men it was probably time to have no occupation. At lunchtime, along with some of the younger members of the team, we headed to the BBC Club on the fourth floor at Television Centre. At the door, the younger ones turned left for the gym while Geoff and I turned right, for the bar.

The barman saw us coming and pulled two pints of Young's. We took our glasses and headed to our usual perch in the corner.

'Are you going to go for it?' I asked. There was no need to specify exactly what. Redundancy had been dominating conversation in the newsroom.

'I suppose so.' Geoff seemed less than fully committed. 'I don't know what I'd do, though.'

We drank in unison. I stayed silent, mainly because I didn't have any idea of what I'd do either. Escape seemed the first priority; once under the wire it was a case of keep running and hope for the best.

Geoff went to the bar for a couple of refills. I picked up a newspaper discarded by an earlier drinker. When he came back, I had our plan.

'We're going to Mongolia,' I said, ignoring his look of exaggerated scorn. 'A road trip for charity, a group called Go Help. They're looking for people who'll buy an old van or pickup, drive to Mongolia any route you feel like, hand it over to the locals on arrival, they auction it to raise some cash to help local children and, hopefully, someone gets a useful vehicle. And we raise more cash for children's charities before we go.' I tapped the newspaper. 'Piece about it in here.'

Geoff glanced at the article. 'It says they don't provide any backup.'

'That's true,' I admitted, relieving him of the paper before he got to the bit about extreme temperatures, bandits and driving across rivers.

'When did you last look under the bonnet of your car?' he inquired.

This was something of an embarrassment. My car had refused to start a couple of weeks ago, and not only had I failed to find the cause, I had failed even to release the catch which held the bonnet down. The AA man had been polite and hadn't even smirked. I suppose they go on training courses entitled 'Staying Impassive When Faced With Almost Total Ignorance'.

'It'll be fine. We'll get it serviced before we go. Anyway, you know about engines and stuff.'

'Dave,' said Geoff, the scornful look returning, 'I might know more than you, but being able to top up the oil and check the water level in the windscreen washer bottle does not really qualify me for the job of expedition mechanic.'

'Oh, I don't know,' I said, encouraged by this admission of A-level mechanical skills.

'How far is it anyway?' asked Geoff.

I consulted the newspaper. 'Says here, at least eight thousand miles, maybe more depending on which route you choose. You can take as long as you like, though, it's up to you. Deserts, mountain ranges, off-road driving, sounds brilliant.'

'We'd have to get a four-wheel drive van.'

'Of course.'

'And get it properly prepared by someone who knew what they were doing.'

'Naturally.'

'And when do you have to set off?'

'You can go any time you like. You sign up to the charity, let them know when you're starting and they arrange the import papers.'

Geoff went silent. I could see a mental struggle going on between the common sense half of his brain and the part which hankered after a bit of adventure. It was a close call. He gulped down another large swig of his beer.

'Yeah OK.'

We clinked glasses. Some of our colleagues walked past from the gym, freshly showered and ready for the afternoon's work.

'Time for one more to celebrate?' I suggested.

'I think we have just cause,' agreed Geoff. I felt we would make a good team.

Back in the newsroom, I wandered over to the foreign desk and borrowed their very large atlas of the world and flicked through the pages tracing a putative route with my finger. After France, Germany and Poland came Ukraine, the names of the cities familiar from past bulletins – Lviv and Kiev, scenes of big demonstrations in support of the Orange Revolution which brought Viktor Yushchenko to power, his pock-marked poisoned face evidence of how rough politics can be in the former Soviet states. Then down to Odessa – hadn't there been a song written about that city? I put the question to Adam, a bookish journalist with a first class degree in Law from Cambridge but, more importantly, a Google-sized knowledge of pop music.

He paused from preparing the next hour's news summary. 'Indeed there has,' he confirmed. 'The Bee Gees, 1969. It was the title track off the album and, to be precise was called 'Odessa', open brackets, 'City on the Black Sea', close brackets. As I recall there were some strange lyrics, including stuff about moving to Finland and loving the vicar.'

Adam returned to his keyboard. I was going to miss being around such extraordinary knowledge. My finger moved on, crossing into Russia and reaching Volgograd – Stalingrad as it was known when it was the scene of the most epic battle of World War Two – then down to the Caspian, turn left and into Kazakhstan. Thanks to the comedian Sacha Baron Cohen the words 'Kazakhstan' and 'Borat' are inextricably linked. Which, if you are Kazakh, must be extremely irritating. In the atlas, it looked to be a huge country, about the size of Western Europe with a great deal of desert and very few roads. I followed a route across to the east, close to the border with China. I was now entering an area where the names of the cities might have given the BBC pronunciation unit pause for thought. They all seemed to feature lots of 'z's and 'y's.

I followed a road up to the north and back into Russia, the Siberian region, turning right for Mongolia. The contours of the mountains became more densely packed, with figures above 10,000 feet common. Then, once over the border, it looked about a thousand miles to Ulaanbaatar across a big, empty country. I emailed Geoff an outline of the route.

'Big Country, Adam, anything known, m'lud?'

'Frontman Stuart Adamson, who came from Dunfermline,' said Adam continuing to type. The deadline for the next summary was only a few minutes away. 'They found a rather novel way of making their guitars sound like bagpipes. Most famous song was "In a Big Country", which, I'm fairly certain, was their only US top forty hit. The summary is ready for you to check through.'

I stopped my dreaming of big countries far away and concentrated on a spot of work. More economic gloom, violence in Iraq, an inquiry announced into a case where social workers had failed to spot child abuse, a survey showing a rather disturbing thirty-four per cent of people questioned believed evidence of UFOs was being hidden from the public by the government and, near the bottom, another news item which caught my eye – police in southern Russia were searching for a gang of men who hijacked a van which had been driven from Germany, and forced the driver to lie by the side of the road while they drove over his legs to prevent him raising the alarm. Nasty. And just the sort of news item to put Geoff off the suggested route I had just emailed him.

'This Russian hijack story Adam, where has that come from?'

'On Reuters a few hours ago – I was just doing a quick trawl back to find something to vary the mix a bit. Do you think it doesn't quite make it?'

'Well, maybe not quite. If it had been a Brit driver, of course, that would have been fine. But a German? And they didn't actually kill him. Maybe it would be best to drop it and put back in that story about the Government minister who wants compulsory health checks for skinny models.'

'OK, will do. You're right. Probably doesn't quite cut it. And it's a long way away.' Adam made the changes and sprinted down to the studio with the summary.

A few weeks later came the news from the Human Resources Department, as personnel is now called in big organisations, that our redundancy applications had been approved. It was winter, and I pencilled in a date at the end of April for us to set off, giving us a few months' preparation. I reckoned this would be the ideal time – we'd reach Mongolia before the rains in July and August and we could cross deserts in Mongolia and Kazakhstan before the high summer temperatures, which can, in Kazakhstan at least, hit 50°C and more. From Geoff's point of view this scenario had one big downside – we'd be travelling on our own. If we left a couple of months later we could set off with others who were taking part in an official Mongolia charity rally, giving the prospect of some company en route and perhaps some help if things went wrong.

He had already been open about his worries – 'Whenever I think about it, the prospect just seems so daunting that I start to feel queasy' he told me. This feeling wasn't eased when he began some detailed research on Mongolia, majoring in Deadly Diseases. He rang me with some of his findings.

'Have you heard of TBE?' he inquired. I confessed ignorance.

'Tick-borne encephalitis,' he explained. 'Very common in Mongolia. Basically, you're camping, this tick which lives in the grass nips out and bites you, your brain swells up you go into a coma, then you die.'

'There's probably a jab we can get,' I replied, optimistically.

'There is,' said Geoff. 'I've looked into it. Trouble is, it's only ninety per cent effective.'

'That sounds pretty good,' I told him encouragingly. 'That's practically a hundred per cent.'

'Dave, it isn't a hundred per cent. It's ninety per cent. That means out of every ten people who have the jab and get bitten, one is going to die. It's a sort of Mongolian roulette. Given that the stakes are so high, those are not great odds.'

Well, put like that I had to concur, although I did feel that Geoff's pessimistic side was kicking in.

'Then there's rabies,' he continued.

'Everywhere has rabies except Britain. France has rabies and you're not going to stop going to Calais to stock up on wine are you?'

'We are not talking about a few foxes living in the forest. We are talking one in ten dogs. And that includes family pets. Although "pets" isn't quite the right word to describe the dogs kept by most Mongolians. I've been reading up about them. They're big, they're vicious and their chief function is to fend off attacks by wolves. In the absence of wolves, they like to practise a bit on strangers.'

I patted the head of my golden retriever, Humphrey, who was sitting in his usual position at my feet. He seemed a long way removed from his Mongolian relations, terrorised as he was by our cats and, in truth, not one to put up much of a fight against a daddy-long-legs in a bad mood. I tried to look on the positive side.

'Well, that means nine out of ten aren't infected! And, again, I'm sure there's an injection you can get.'

Geoff gave what writers of popular fiction sometimes call a hollow laugh. 'You can. And there's one big downside. Even if you've had the jab, once you get bitten, or even just slobbered on, you have twenty-four hours to get to a hospital. Outside of the capital, Ulaanbaatar, hospitals are fairly thin on the ground in Mongolia. And from the border to the capital is about a week's driving.'

'So the message is, if you're going to get bitten by a rabid dog, leave it until the last day or so!'

Geoff ignored me and pressed on. He'd been saving the worst until last.

'And then there's the plague.'

'What plague? Locusts? Bees? Flying ants?'

'The bubonic sort. Otherwise known as the Black Death. The plague which wiped out nearly half the population of Britain in around 1350. Interestingly, it's thought to have originated in the Gobi Desert in Mongolia and was carried to Europe by the invading Mongol army. I have some facts to hand.'

There was the sound of paper being rustled.

'First recorded instance in Europe in 1347 in the Crimea. The city of Caffa was under siege. The Mongol army decided to catapult infected corpses over the city walls. You might say the first example of biological warfare.'

'And they still have it?' Interesting as the history lesson was, I had to admit that my tenner would have be placed on the plague dying out worldwide sometime during the last couple of centuries.

'Oh yes. Carried by fleas on marmots. A very common rodent in Mongolia, often found in the cooking pot. It likes to get its own back occasionally.'

'And I don't suppose there's a jab against that?' I already knew what the answer would be.

'Not as such.'

'So the message seems to be avoid ticks, don't pat any dogs and keep clear of marmots and everything should be tickety-boo, as it were. Perhaps we could just drive across Mongolia and not get out of the van.'

'No, that's no good. The guide book warns that if you drive over a dead marmot the fleas which carry the plague are released into the vehicle's ventilation system.' His voice had risen a couple of octaves as he contemplated the perils which lay ahead.

'Well all I can suggest is that we drive round them. And you'd better make sure your will is in order.' I chuckled. Geoff didn't.

'I already have,' he replied.

The more Geoff researched the trip, the more his concerns piled up. 'I'm beginning to lose my nerve,' he emailed. 'I know you're keen to go early, but I'm already losing sleep over the prospect of tackling it alone. Strength in numbers and all that! If you're not convinced, what about taking the tarmac approach through Russia then a sharp right down to UB. Pathetic I know, but I'm just too old to ignore what seem to me like potentially big problems.'

I was now genuinely fearful that the whole thing might fall apart. I won't pretend I didn't have worries of my own – chief among them encountering a ferocious and possibly rabid dog. But I began to feel that I had underestimated Geoff's anxieties and had bounced him into agreeing to a trip that in his heart he really didn't want to do. I admired his honest approach – but for me, to keep the trip to a tarmac drive through Russia and only a little of Mongolia went against the spirit of the adventure. I rang him. It was time for openness from both of us, and there would be no hard feelings if we agreed our visions of what we wanted were just too different to achieve. Geoff insisted there was no way he wanted to back out; I was relieved because the Geoff I'd known for years was easy-going, calm in a crisis and sociable. But there was little I could offer in the way of practical reassurance. He would be travelling with someone who could rustle up a half decent curry, but skill with a frying pan would be no use at all if the van gave up the ghost in the Gobi.

'It'll be fun,' I told him, lamely.

'That's all I wanted to hear,' he replied. The trip was on. The search for a vehicle could begin in earnest.

We found out that the Mongolian authorities had brought in new rules on what could be imported without paying tax – motorbikes were fine, but I hadn't ridden anything on two wheels since I sold my Lambretta with my name on the flyscreen back in 1971. Cars, even rugged four-wheel drives, had to pay tax but commercial vehicles, such as lorries, pickup trucks and vans, were exempted provided they were less than ten years old.

I took advice from Dave West at Risboro 4x4, the man who has looked after my Subaru for the past five years. When it comes to my mechanical knowledge there are no secrets between us – Dave knows better than anyone the depth of my ignorance. I outlined our plans.

'How far is it to Mongolia?' he asked.

'Depends on which route we take, but about eight thousand miles, maybe more.'

I thought I detected Dave wincing slightly. 'And the roads are likely to be pretty bad, I suppose.'

'Off-road tracks, deserts and mountains for about half of it,' I confirmed cheerfully.

'And the weather?'

'Well, we're planning to go end of April, so we'll get some quite hot stuff by the time we get to the deserts but there'll still be snow in Siberia.'

Dave bit his bottom lip, which was strange because I'd never seen him do that before. 'But the other chap you're going with, he knows about vehicles and engines, right?'

'Weeeell, not really. A little bit maybe. More than me certainly,' I said, trying to sound encouraging.

This information seemed to do little to brighten his mood. 'So when you break down…'

I noticed that Dave said 'when' rather than 'if' but I let it go. 'Oh, we'll be OK, we'll just find someone to fix it,' I replied airily with a dismissive wave of the hand.

'OK,' said Dave, slowly and with the air of a man who had just been faced with a choice between the burning deck or the ocean, 'and how much have you got to spend on this vehicle that's going to take you there?'

'About a thousand pounds each.'

Dave stayed silent.

'Two thousand pounds in total,' I added, in case his maths was as weak as mine and not wanting him to think we were trying to do this on the cheap.

'Jeez.'

'And we'd like you to prepare it for us. Anything you'd recommend?'

'Staying at home.'

I made a mental note never to introduce Dave to Geoff. 'How about a Land Rover Freelander van?' I suggested, trying to move the conversation onto more positive territory.

'Got to be a diesel version,' said Dave, concentrating now on the practical side of things. 'I wouldn't even contemplate a trip like that in a petrol Freelander. They've got no guts. A diesel is a much better bet, more solid. And the more modern ones have got BMW engines. Plus, of course, if you're going to be driving through water there are no spark plugs or leads to get wet.'

'Yes,' I agreed, 'I'd been thinking that myself.'

This was, of course, a lie, and from the look Dave gave me I suspected he'd seen right through me.

I relayed this information to Geoff and we scoured Internet ads. There, in Wigan, about two hundred miles to the north of where I lived, was a vehicle which sounded like it might fit the bill. A diesel Freelander van, nine years old, 82,000 miles on the clock and £2,400. A little over budget but perhaps with a bit of negotiation, close to our price range. We made an appointment to view and set off in buoyant mood.

On the outskirts of Wigan, Geoff reached into his pocket and produced a small screen with a wire attached. He removed the cigarette lighter, plugged it in, fixed it to the windscreen and tapped in some numbers and letters. The screen lit up and a female voice, attractive but with a note of command, ordered me to take the second exit at the next roundabout. Now I know that for the rest of the country satnavs have been commonplace for years. Everyone, except probably me and a Welsh hill farmer named Ivor who drives only to the local village on market day, has used one. But think back to your first time. Everyone must remember it. That sense of wonder that a device about a couple of inches square could know where you were and give you instructions. How could it possibly work? My brain started to hurt with the effort of trying to work that one out, so I gave up and did as I was told and took the second exit.

A few minutes later the voice told me I had reached my destination. We stopped and looked round. We were in the middle of an industrial estate with nothing bearing the legend 'Mick Simms Autos' which we'd been told to look out for. Geoff rang Mick on his mobile phone. He arrived and led us to a locked and anonymous unit. Opening the door, he motioned us inside to where a dozen or so unwanted cars stood parked in a row. Several still bore on their windscreens the inflated prices of the original garages which had failed to sell them. Ours, I noticed, had been on offer for £500 more. Mick started it up and drove it outside.

'Well it starts anyway,' Geoff observed, assuming his role as lead mechanic.

I nodded sagely and kicked a tyre as I had seen people do on Minder.

'Has it got any history?' I asked Mick. I wasn't really sure what this meant but it was a phrase I had heard used in similar circumstances.

'It's here,' said Mick, passing me a book. I opened it and after several minutes study managed to translate the unfamiliar letters and numbers. It seemed the van had done 82,000 miles but its last service had been at 40,000. Even I knew that this was Not a Good Thing. We opened the back and peered in. Yup, it was a van. Mick opened the bonnet. There didn't seem to be an engine, just a large plastic box. Geoff explained that this was how diesels looked. I saw something I assumed was an oil dipstick and knew the correct form was to examine this and 'tut' several times. With Mick watching I tried to remove it. It seemed stuck. I tried twisting it and pulling it but it was in no mood to budge so I stepped back and said 'Hmmmmm' in what I hoped was a deeply meaningful way.

Mick offered to let us have a drive, so I naturally deferred to Geoff who took it out first. He came back looking not too happy.

'Very odd knocks and bangs,' he observed. 'See what you think.'

I took the wheel with Mick at my side and we set off. It all seemed fine to me.

'I can't hear anything odd,' I told Mick.

He looked at me pityingly. I could sense a mental struggle – whether to agree with me and suggest Geoff must have been mistaken or to admit the truth. It seemed a close call but in the face of such touching naivety, truth won. 'You have to go over a few bumps,' he explained, in the measured tones one would use when addressing a rather slow child.

'Oh OK,' I said, accelerating over a speed hump and hearing the distinct clunks which confirmed Geoff had indeed been right.

Back at the lock-up, we decided to adjourn for lunch and talk things over.

We walked to the centre of Wigan and looked in at the first pub we came to, but that had only one person in it and he was the barman. We took that as a bad sign and walked on. Across the square we spotted another bar. From the menu, Geoff ordered a cheeseburger and I plumped for a beef baguette with onions. I thought these might be some raw red onions, or perhaps a few caramelised versions. I hadn't expected them to be swimming in a warm and rather splodgy gravy which rested perilously at the top of the bread. Geoff's cheeseburger, on the other hand, was accompanied by a good quantity of crisp and light brown chips.

'You'll have to eat far worse in Mongolia,' said Geoff, collecting our glasses and going to the bar for a refill. I felt this was a rather unsympathetic approach, so stole several of his chips while his back was turned, before picking up the baguette delicately. Not delicately enough, though, as the gravy spurted lava-like from both sides, trickled over my fingers and bounced from the plate to my jeans. I managed to suck some of the excess from the bread, wiped my beard with the back of my hand and chewed thoughtfully on a piece on beef.

I was still chewing on the same piece when Geoff arrived back with the drinks several minutes later.

'Not good, huh?' he inquired. 'And perhaps a touch messy.'

There was a long pause before I answered as the beef was proving a tough opponent. 'Gravy's not too bad. Just a surprise that anyone thought filling a bread roll with it was a good idea.'

'Well I've got plenty of chips, help yourself,' he offered, generously.

'Thanks very much,' I replied, taking a handful.

Once we'd finished eating, we discussed the van. It was a long way home empty handed, but if the van was clunking over a few speed bumps in Wigan, it would be making far worse noises by the time we were halfway through the trip. We set the satnav for the M6 and headed back south.

Over the next few weeks, we criss-crossed the country, visiting vans in Torquay, Birmingham, Aylesbury and Bristol, sometimes together, sometimes on our own. Each time there seemed a good reason not to buy. But we were becoming disheartened so it was time to give the search for a vehicle a rest and concentrate on other preparations. In particular, the need to face the needle, or rather, in my case, look away with eyes closed tight as a nurse jabbed my arm full of various things that my body never thought it would need.

Geoff took all this in his stride. He gives blood. He can look on while a jar fills with the stuff which only moments before has been coursing though his veins. He can do this without fainting or even going just a little bit weak at the knees.

I, on the other hand, avoid doctors like, er, the plague. Which, of course, was one of the things we couldn't have jabs for, as the nurse at my local clinic confirmed after she'd given me a Travel Risk Assessment Form to fill out, with its discouraging questions such as 'How far will you be at any one time from emergency medical treatment?'. I put down several thousand miles and hoped that would do.

I also noticed that one of the questions asked 'Do you feint at the sight of needles?' I know I should have ignored this. I know that it was an irritating and pedantic thing to cross it out and write 'faint' above it in pencil. I should have learned my lesson when I failed in my campaign to get my local supermarket to change 'ten items or less' to 'ten items or fewer'. But I'd had decades of being a language pedant and old habits die hard. The nurse, however, was not amused.

'It's the American spelling,' she suggested.

'I don't think it is,' I said, rolling up a sleeve. 'It means to make a deceptive movement, often used in fencing.'

She glared at me.

'Actually,' I said, trying to dig myself out of the hole I had created, 'you could argue it's a rather appropriate use of the word. I expect lots of people feint when they see a needle heading towards them. Ha ha.'

She didn't laugh. 'We don't have time here to check spellings,' she told me, coldly, breaking a second needle out of its box. 'Roll up both sleeves. I think you'd better have two injections today.'

While I wondered which sore arm to rub first, the nurse consulted the long list of vaccinations still to come and filled out an appointment card.

'The trip is to raise money for charity, you say?' she asked. I confirmed that we were raising cash for Save the Children before we set off, and that the van itself would be donated to raise more money for local children's charities once we were there.

'These inoculations are quite expensive,' said the nurse, scrolling down the list of charges. 'What did you say your occupation was?'

'Well, I've just retired but I suppose I'm still a journalist.'

'About to become a bat handler, you say? Well that is interesting work. And, of course, you will be aware that, as a bat handler, you are entitled to these rabies jabs without charge.'

She smiled and gave me a broad wink.

'Ah, yes, of course,' I replied. 'Some people might consider bat handling an unusual choice for a second career, but I believe I'll find it most satisfying work.'

She smiled again. 'Excellent. Well, I'll see you in two weeks' time for the next jabs. Let me know if there are any side effects.'

We now turned our attention to some more detailed planning of the route and how long to allow. Geoff had been won over by the argument that it was better to avoid heat and travel alone, so we met at his house with maps, guidebooks and the foreign office advice on the countries which we were to visit. Geoff had printed this out and highlighted the worrying passages with a marker pen. There was a lot of yellow on the pages.

I have some sympathy with the Foreign Office – they have to err on the side of extreme caution, otherwise when something goes wrong and a Brit ends up in trouble abroad, some hack looks up what the official travel advice is and uses it as a stick with which to beat them. But to take all the Foreign and Commonwealth Office's warnings to heart would probably mean travelling no further than the neighbouring English county. Take Ukraine, for example. We were planning to drive across from Lviv in the west, to Kiev, down to Odessa and out at the Russian border near Mariupol. The Foreign Office is discouraging: 'You should avoid driving outside urban areas,' it cautions. 'Driving standards are poor and roads are of variable quality. There are a high number of traffic accidents, including fatalities. Take extra care.'

Our guidebook was even more gloomy, adopting an apocalyptic tone: 'There aren't enough pages in this book to list the reasons you should not want to drive in Ukraine,' it warned.

As for Russia, the main threat seemed to be violent robbery after making new 'friends' in bars. OK, that one was easy to avoid.

So if we didn't buy drinks for strangers and got through Russia unscathed, there was Kazakhstan to come. About three thousand miles of it. The FCO's advice didn't sound too promising. I skimmed through it:

'Service stations and petrol/water access can be limited outside the main cities. Make sure you take all you need for your journey… a significant proportion of cars are not safely maintained… in some remote parts of Kazakhstan animals can be seen regularly on the roads and can be especially difficult to see in the dark… driving can be erratic… many roads are poorly maintained…' And so on.

Then it would be back to Russia where we would have to cross the semi-autonomous republic of Altai. The main problem here seemed to be the FSB – the successors to the KGB – who had been put in charge of security. They were very keen to make it as difficult as possible for foreigners to visit, and travel blogs reported that they kept a helicopter on standby to whisk away those who didn't have the correct papers. That would include us, as the procedure for getting them seemed too cumbersome to contemplate.

'It'll be fine,' I assured Geoff. 'We'll just be transiting through. We won't need all that paperwork. Bureaucratic nonsense. The FSB won't worry about people like us.'

Geoff sighed deeply and pushed the FCO's pages on travelling in Mongolia across the table.

'If you are planning to travel into the countryside, you should consider carrying a Global Positioning System and emergency communications, such as a satellite phone… extreme temperatures… weather can change without warning… standard of driving very poor… many fatal accidents… '

Added to that, our guidebook suggested the first Mongolian phrase every traveller should learn was 'hold the dog'.

I wrote down 'Things to Buy' on a blank sheet of paper, then number one: 'Stout walking stick'.

I couldn't immediately think of a number two, so started a new sheet of paper, which I headed 'The Schedule'.

We spread out our maps on Geoff's dining room table. The Western European section was easy to estimate, Ukraine and Russia less so but at least we knew they had tarmac roads, even if the quality was variable. The tricky bit started in Kazakhstan.

'That's a red road there, must be OK,' I asserted confidently, my index finger moving swiftly across a few inches of map which represented about eight hundred miles. 'I reckon two days to do that stretch. Then, let's say three to do there to there, another two would get us up to there.'

My finger jabbed at another unpronounceable town. 'That looks doable.'

I could see Geoff had his doubts from the way that he just kept shaking his head, and repeating 'Well, maybe' but in the land of the ignorant the blusterer is king. I jotted down our estimates: 'Right, let's say Western Europe two days; Eastern Europe five days; Russia, four days should be plenty; then Kazakhstan, that's a bit more tricky, two weeks, maybe a bit less, I'll put down thirteen days, hope that's not unlucky; then we've got Siberia and Altai, three days and Mongolia, let's say a week to cross it, that means leave on Thursday, April the thirtieth and arrive,' I used my fingers to help with the complicated calculation, 'on June the first. Job done. '

We'd agreed our wives, Tricia and Jackie, would arrive on Friday, 5 June, so that gave us three days 'spare' in case things went wrong. Not a lot, but I felt confident we could achieve it. Indeed, I convinced myself I'd been pretty generous with the time allowed and that – apart from the couple of 'rest days' I'd built in – there would be plenty of time for a bit of sightseeing as well.

'Right, that's that sorted,' I said brightly, folding away the maps before Geoff had a chance to check through the figures. 'Let's see what Jackie's left us for lunch.'

The dates and route set, it was time to put some more renewed effort into finding a vehicle. Rather in the manner of an estate agent, Geoff kept emailing me details of attractive, but ever more expensive vehicles which were always that bit too much outside our budget.

Then he unearthed a gem. Not a Land Rover, but a Nissan Terrano van – short, but chunky like a Tonka toy. And four-wheel drive. And offered at a fiver under £2,000. It was for sale in Lincoln and a date was set to visit – the day, it turned out, that the winds turned, the weather changed and southern England ground to a halt under a thick and unfamiliar coating of snow. I turned on the weather forecast – more was on the way, warned the forecaster, followed by the usual irritating instruction that no one should venture out of doors unless their journey was absolutely necessary and they were accompanied at all times by a team of huskies.

There was a knock at the front door. Through the blizzard, I could make out a frosted figure on the step.

'Geoff?' I asked. The figure managed to nod its head, then, walking stiffly, stepped inside and started to melt in the hall. Once his teeth had stopped chattering, he explained that he'd had to abandon his car – a large Volvo – down the road nearby as he couldn't make it up the lane to my house. I told him he had brought shame on Swedish car owners everywhere but he protested that I had no idea what it was like, he'd taken three hours to do sixty miles, there were drifts ten feet high and if we tried to set off for Lincoln there was every chance of getting stuck and becoming a statistic on the evening news while weather forecasters everywhere said 'Told you so, but you just wouldn't listen'.

I sat him down and made him a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich while I went to check out the road conditions and the latest forecast online. It was not good at all. The M40 just to the north of me was closed completely, the nearby A40 was clogged with abandoned vehicles, and the snow was set to continue to fall thickly for hours. This was no time for the brutal truth.

'It's all looking good,' I told Geoff cheerily when I returned to the kitchen. 'Snow's about to stop falling and in the east they've hardly seen a flake. Probably best, on balance, to avoid the motorway but I've worked out a cross-country route. We'll be fine. Eat up and we'll get underway.'

I patted him on a soggy shoulder then, a little more roughly as he seemed disinclined to move, pulled him to his feet and we set off with me at the wheel. Five hours later, we arrived in Lincoln just before the banks closed and I nipped inside to withdraw a large wad of cash. It had been a tough journey, but I was optimistic. This van was feeling like it might be 'The One'.

'Right,' I said to Geoff, 'what's the address?'

'Glebe Farmhouse,' he replied, fishing in his pocket for his satnav.

'That's unusual,' I replied, 'a farmhouse in a city. I suppose it must be in the old part. Probably built centuries ago.'

Geoff keyed in the postcode. It came up with a destination thirty miles away. Thirty miles almost straight back in the direction we had just come.

'Try it again,' I suggested. 'It must have made a mistake.' I frowned at the satnav and tapped its irritating screen.

Geoff did as he was bidden. It was the same result. Glebe Farmhouse was not situated in a suburb of Lincoln but a small village in Lincolnshire.

'OK,' I said, trying to sound brightly cheerful and falling some way short, 'nothing for it. Let's get going. If we're quick we might make it before it goes dark.'

We pulled out of the car park. 'Turn left,' said the satnav. I did as I was told. 'Turn right, then take the next turning on the left.' I followed the instructions precisely and came to a halt behind a large wagon in Sainsbury's loading bay. We returned to the last junction and switched on the satnav again. Ten minutes and a whole series of instructions later, we arrived in the car park of the local magistrates' court. It was time for old-fashioned technology. I got the map out and worked out the route while Geoff made excuses for his toy along the lines that the town must have introduced a new one-way system and no one had let the satnav people know. I tried not to glare at him, but it was hard and I think I failed.

An hour later and we were bouncing down the muddy, potholed track to Glebe Farm. There, parked outside, was the vehicle we had come to see. We knocked on the farm door. There was no reply. We tried again. There was the sound of movement inside, then a teenage youth appeared looking slightly out of breath.

'Is it my dad?' asked a female voice from within.

'No just someone about the van,' he called, over his shoulder. It seemed we had disturbed their afternoon's peace.

He produced the key to the van and left us to it, telling us to feel free to take it for a test drive. His father, who owned it, was out but would be back later.

Geoff assumed his rightful role of expedition mechanic and took the key. The van started first time. A little noisily, perhaps, but it was a diesel after all. Geoff selected first gear. There was a grating noise. First, it seemed, was off the menu. As was second. And reverse.

'Let me try,' I said, impatiently. We hadn't driven all this way to be beaten by a dodgy clutch. I pumped the pedal hard, went for first and met determined resistance. I tried again. And failed. I gripped the gear lever hard and aimed for second. With much protest, the van engaged gear and we were off. I got it up to third, but when I tried to return to second, the van was having none of it. Brute force failed, so, revving hard to get going, we kept it in third and returned to the farmhouse. The youth was summoned to explain.

He shrugged his shoulders. 'It's fine once it's warmed up,' he insisted. 'I've driven it loads. Bit sticky at first, but just let it warm up and it's no problem.'

'A bit sticky?' repeated Geoff, indignantly. 'The clutch is completely knackered. Probably the gearbox as well. When was it last serviced?'

'Ah, there you've got me,' admitted the youth. 'You'll have to ask my dad.'

We all knew there was no point. The van was a mistreated specimen and doomed to an early resting place in the local scrapyard.

We walked silently back to my car in the gathering gloom, a state of affairs which exactly matched our mood.

'Let's get some food,' I suggested. Neither of us had eaten since the bacon sandwich in my kitchen. 'There was a pub we passed in the village down the road. Looked OK.'

We entered and asked for the menu.

'Chef's night off,' said the barmaid, cheerily. 'We've got peanuts.'

We ordered a packet each and two pints of bitter to wash them down.

'Beer's off, I'm afraid,' said the barmaid. 'We should have had a delivery today, but they couldn't get through the snow.'

We settled unhappily for two bottles of lager and ate and drank in silence. Our journey, I reflected, hadn't been essential at all. I should have listened to the weatherman.

After the Fiasco in the Fens we returned home with promises to forget about trying to buy a van for a few days. But sitting at my keyboard the next morning I thought it was worth just one more Internet search. Page one revealed nothing. Nor did pages two, three, four, five or six. But there on page seven was a short one line ad which had possibilities. I felt like a gold mining prospector who gets a glimpse of a nugget at the bottom on his pan amid all the dirt and grit.

'Nissan Terrano van four-wheel drive 52 reg, fsh, 74,000 miles, drives well, will part-ex. £2,200.'

I rang the Ipswich number given. 'Hello, I'm interested in the van.'

'Yeaah?' A cautious response, uttered slightly defensively. 'Interested in what way?'

'Interested in buying it.'

His tone changed. 'Oh, right, well yeh, it's a beauty. Goes like a dream. Real bargain.'

'The thing is,' I continued, 'a friend and I are planning a charity drive to Mongolia in it. We've had a lot of wasted journeys criss-crossing the country looking at vans which turn out to be totally unsuitable. The last one we couldn't even get into gear. So to save us a wasted trek, just tell me if there are any big faults which we'd have to put right.'

The voice took on an offended tone. 'Would I sell a van with faults? Me? I've serviced it myself and it comes with my personal guarantee. I wouldn't let you drive away if there was anything wrong. I couldn't take your money.'

I felt he was going to add 'on my mother's grave' but he stopped just short.

'And cos it's for charity,' he went on, 'I'll knock £200 off. Cos I like to support a good cause.'

His sales pitch had done little to reassure me, but, on the face of it, the van was just what we were looking for and a bargain. The voice, who said his name was Nick, confirmed he would be around the next day if we wanted to come and view it.

I rang Geoff. The next day, a Saturday, wouldn't be any good for him. Crystal Palace were at home to Barnsley and he had tickets. Now, to many people, an excuse to get out of going to see Crystal Palace against Barnsley might be something to be seized. I do not share that view. Supporting an underachieving football team through thick and, more often, very thin times is a sign of good character. The only advice about men I have ever given my daughters is to be suspicious of someone who supports a top side, unless it can be shown their grandfather was a season ticket holder, or they were born round the corner from the ground. Following a team that never wins anything prepares a person for life's inevitable disappointments and setbacks. It instils virtues of loyalty and fortitude. And compared with my own team, Tranmere Rovers, Crystal Palace have at least tasted life at the top.

Geoff rang Nick and a time on Sunday was agreed. We met at a motorway junction and set off, Geoff driving along roads free of snow, which still lay thick in the fields around. And this time he had taken the precaution, which I should have done myself, of asking Nick where he lived. So, with the aid of that wonderful and simple invention, a map, we could see it was a village about forty miles from Ipswich. The satnav grumbled occasionally and demanded we turn left or right where we didn't want to, but we ignored it and it fell into a silent sulk.

We arrived and spotted the van parked outside a bungalow. A head popped up over the fence next door. It introduced itself as Nick and said he'd just been having a cup of tea with the neighbours. The van, in white, with the names of its previous owners, Anglian Water, faded but still visible on the side, looked the business. Upright, eager, ready to go. It started first time and Geoff set off with Nick at the wheel.

While they were gone, I had a wander around. Glancing through the window of the bungalow, where Nick said he lived, I noticed there was a slightly suspicious absence of any furniture. And in the garden was a 'To Let' sign. Still, I thought, maybe he'd just split up with his wife and was preparing to move out. And the van did look very nice. Geoff arrived back, reasonably happy with the way it had gone, but a touch disappointed that Nick hadn't let him drive it on the grounds that he might not be insured and, as a cautious man, he couldn't take the risk. The bonnet was opened and we peered in, Geoff doing excellent work firing a series of quickfire questions to Nick in the manner of John Humphrys in the Mastermind chair.

'Nick your specialist subject is this Nissan Terrano van, can you tell me when it last had an oil change?'

'Err, last week. Last month. No, wait a minute, I'm about to do it. I've bought the oil and everything.'

'And how long are the service intervals?

'Ten thousand miles. Fifteen thousand miles. Every year whether it needs one or not.'

Nick clearly hadn't grasped the concept that he was only allowed one answer. In another life, he could have had a successful career in politics. The questioning went on and a thin film of perspiration appeared on his upper lip.

Eventually, we had gleaned as much as we were going to and had a quick confab. We agreed Nick was about as trustworthy as a Manchester United supporter from Maidstone, but, well, the van seemed OK, and if we could get a bit more off the price, then that would give us some cash in hand to do any repairs. And, in truth, we both wanted to believe in it. It would be a relief just to have a vehicle even if it needed bit of attention. Geoff went to work on the hard bargaining and, with protestations that there was now hardly any profit in it for him, Nick shook hands on £1,850. We handed over the notes and set off to find a pub. The nearest one was a busy, friendly place and it sold proper beer. We took that as a good omen and clinked glasses.

'Cheers!'

'By the way,' I asked Geoff, 'did you get a receipt?'

He paused, glass halfway to his lips. 'No,' he replied, 'I thought you had.'

I shook my head and we fell into a rather uncomfortable silence while we contemplated the fact that we had committed a series of textbook errors from Chapter One of the How Not to Buy a Car Guide.

'Never mind,' I said sipping the excellent Adnams, a beer always calculated to induce optimism and well-being. 'I'm sure it'll be fine.'

The vehicle bought, we could concentrate on supplies; broadly speaking, Geoff bought things for the van – spare wheels, couple of jacks, a tow rope, etc. – while, as self-appointed expedition cook, I stocked up on the camping stoves and enough food to make sure we didn't go hungry if supplies were hard to come by.

I also made sure we weren't going to be short of loo rolls, scattering several dozen among our ever-growing pile of equipment. I also constructed a 'desert dumper' out of a wooden chair and a toilet seat. This, I was convinced, would be an essential piece of kit. We each allowed the other some indulgences – I bought some expensive but excellent Cretan extra virgin olive oil for what I was convinced would be our many leisurely lunchtime picnics and dinners of fresh local ingredients cooked on a couple of gas stoves.

Geoff invested in a dashboard compass, a GPS system and a fire extinguisher.

'We don't need that,' I told him. 'I've been driving for nearly forty years and never had a fire in a car.'

'Look at it this way,' Geoff retorted, 'if your walking stick fails to deter a large and rabid hound, what are you going to do? With a fire extinguisher you have a fall back line of defence. Your can see it off with a jet of foam.'

It was a winning argument.

'I'd really like to take a satellite phone,' said Geoff, clearly feeling he was on a roll. 'We've no idea what mobile reception will be like, and even if we get a signal in major towns there are huge distances in between when there'll be nothing.'

'The thing is,' I replied. 'If you take a satphone, and we break down, who are we going to ring?'

Geoff considered this reasoning for a moment and admitted defeat. The satphone was struck from the list.

We made some half-hearted efforts to get sponsorship, writing to Arsenal, Chelsea and Manchester United in the hope that they might have some small merchandise – perhaps an out-of-date range of souvenirs – that we could give to children in extremely poor parts of the world, where the names of those famous clubs were nevertheless known by every youngster who kicked a football.

Arsenal sent a signed photo of Arsene Wenger which we could sell to raise cash, and some club brochures. Chelsea sent a letter of apology, pointing out they had a great many such requests and couldn't accede to them all. Manchester United didn't reply.

What did genuinely surprise and touch us was the generosity of friends, former colleagues and, in some cases, people we barely knew to our Save the Children appeal. We'd set a target of £1,000, and Geoff had opened a Just Giving page. I'd felt this was an optimistic total, and that, although we were covering all our own costs and giving away the van at the end of it, most people would regard the trip as a bit of a jolly. I was wrong. Hugely generous donations and messages of support began to come in – £1,000 was quickly achieved, then £2,000 until by the end we weren't far short of £3,000.

The van now insured and taxed, it was time to return to Dave West. I parked outside and went into his workshop.

'Good news, Dave, we've bought a van. There's a few weeks before we set off, so just time for you to give it a quick once over and make sure it's good enough to get us there.'

Dave did not look like a man who had just been given good news. His expression was more of someone whose lottery numbers had come up the week he'd decided not to bother entering.

'Here it is,' I told him proudly, leading him outside by the elbow. 'A bargain. All ready for the rough stuff.'

The weight of responsibility seemed to cause his shoulders to sag. Dave had already generously offered to do any necessary work at cost as it was a charity venture. Now the full implications of the undertaking were kicking in.

'Leave it with me,' he replied, taking the key gingerly as if fearful of what horrors might be revealed once he started the engine. 'I'll give you a call.'

The call, once it came, brought mixed news.

'I've checked the van over and its basically sound. The engine's good and the body's solid. Clutch and gearbox OK, I've relined the brakes and put a new battery on, changed all your lubricants, new filters etc. I've also ordered you four new tyres, good off-road ones, won't cost you too much as I've got a good deal for you.'

So far so good, but I felt a 'but' was lurking.

'But I'm afraid we might have a problem with the diff.'

Dave might as well have said 'We might have a problem with the scrottle manifold'. I had no idea what he was talking about. But I wasn't going to admit it.

'Oh dear,' I said. 'Could be a big job, huh?'

'Of course. Potentially. Thing is I was checking the oil in the diff and I noticed there were bits of metal in it.'

'Doesn't sound too good,' I asserted, confidently.

'Well they shouldn't be there, that's for sure. I'm going to have to get it opened up and have a look.'

Dave sounded like a surgeon who had spotted something nasty on an X-ray. An operation would be necessary. 'Could be maybe just a couple of cogs have splintered. Could be more. I'll let you know.'

I put the phone down and entered 'vehicle diff' into Google. It instantly produced a number of sites offering explanations of what one was. One suggested that the job of the diff – or differential – was 'to act as the final gear reduction in the vehicle, slowing the rotational speed of the transmission one final time before it hits the wheels'. Well, that made everything clear, then. Another offered that the job of the diff was 'to transmit the power to the wheels allowing them to rotate at different speeds'. This was even more confusing. I had always assumed a vehicle's wheels went round at the same speed. Not so, it seemed. I didn't really understand how they could go at different speeds without coming to grief, but that didn't matter. What the sites made clear was that the differential was pretty damn important. And a big – and costly – job to replace.

I rang Geoff: 'Looks like we might have a problem with the diff.' He understood the significance immediately and without having to resort to an Internet search.

'Christ, that could be expensive. What's wrong with it?'

I relayed Dave's information. Geoff took comfort from the fact that Dave was being so thorough that the problem had been uncovered and I promised to ring him back when there was further news. When it came it wasn't good. A good proportion of the cogs which go to make up a differential were chewed and broken. It was greatly excessive wear for a van of that age and mileage. I asked how it could have happened. Dave speculated that it could have been caused by two of the van's wheels being in mud and the other two on tarmac – and the driver gunning it hard and repeatedly in an attempt to free it. It was going to be a costly job to put right.

'So how long do you think it would have lasted?' I asked Dave.

'Hard to put an exact figure on it. Could have gone before you reached the Channel or could have lasted for a couple of months. Best guess, about two thousand miles. Then it would have seized up.'

That would probably have meant somewhere in Ukraine. Whatever the cost, it was indeed good to have the problem uncovered now rather than coming to a grinding halt in an Eastern European roadside trying to work out the Ukrainian for 'Can I have a tow please?'.

But there was more bad news to come. Dave made inquires and rang again to say Nissan no longer made new differentials for vans the age of ours – it was too old by a year. And the replacement unit for the newer models were of a slightly different axle size. It seemed that with only days to go before we planned to be on the road, we might have to start looking for another vehicle.

After more phone calls, however, Dave called back sounding more hopeful – the axle units were indeed the wrong size, but the cogs inside weren't. He could get a replacement unit and fillet it for the right parts. We were back in business.

'I'm fed up with all the planning and worrying,' said Geoff when I told him the news. 'I'll be glad just to be on our way.'

He spoke for us both. Much as it's often said that work expands to fill the time available, so it seemed planning for a trip like this did the same. And perhaps as we were both retired we'd had too much time. But now we could order the ferry tickets. We were ready to go, and, as in so many times in the past in the newsroom, we'd hit our deadline – just.

Chapter Two

Fire Up the Terrano

Start day, 30 April, up at half five to be away by six. Sadly for my family, my wife Tricia and daughters Emma and Sarah, that meant they had to be up too. But they gamely gathered to say goodbye with hugs and expressions of good luck. Tricia pressed a sausage sandwich wrapped in tinfoil into my hands and I was away, driving through leafy Oxfordshire lanes to the motorway. I set the milometer to zero. If we reached Ulaanbaatar it would read at least 8,000 – a year's mileage for many people. I had always brushed aside Geoff's worries with a dismissive wave and an insistence that 'It'll be fine'. Now the journey was underway I was a little less blasé, listening keenly to the van's engine note, accelerating smoothly and changing gear gently. Everything seemed in order. The van was running sweetly, no suspicious rattles or clunks. Dave West had done his job well.

I relaxed and turned on the radio. The weather forecaster promised another warm, sunny day, with temperatures well above normal for the time of year. It should be a smooth Channel crossing.

To celebrate, I decided to break open my sausage sandwich. It was still warm and I bit into it enthusiastically. Tomato sauce spurted out from both sides and landed in large blobs on my freshly ironed polo shirt. I carried on eating, then did my best to clean up the mess with some wet wipes. Ten minutes into the trip and I was already dipping into supplies intended for more remote places than the M40. It wasn't wholly successful. Dark stains betrayed me. The more I rubbed at them, the more ingrained they appeared. Normally this wouldn't have worried me. I am a messy eater. Not intentionally, of course, it just happens. When the waiter clears the plates in a restaurant, mine is always the place with the ring of food stains on the tablecloth.

By contrast, Geoff was a man who could eat a croissant without making crumbs and would, I knew, be immaculately turned out. A shame if I turned up looking like I'd had a heavy night in a burger joint.

I took another handful of wet wipes, squeezed them over the offending area and hoped the large wet patch would dry by the time I reached East Grinstead in Sussex.

Geoff was outside when I arrived and keen to be away. He was, I noticed, dressed in a white T-shirt, which I felt was just showing off. He said nothing, but I saw his eyes drawn to the Impressionist-style stains that decorated the front of my shirt.

'That would be tomato sauce,' I explained. 'And possibly a little sausage fat. I have half a sandwich left if you'd like it.'

'I've had some muesli,' Geoff confessed, and I gave him a sympathetic look. It seemed to me that a bowl of muesli was no way to prepare for a regular day, never mind an 8,000-mile cross-continental drive.

I opened the back of the van and helped him with his bags. One seemed especially heavy, as if a few half bricks had been slipped in for ballast.

'What the heck have you got in here?' I asked.

'Batteries,' Geoff replied. 'For the GPS,' he added, seeing my puzzled look. 'When I've been testing it, it seemed to run down quite quickly and I didn't want us to run out.'

Using both hands, I heaved the bag into the little remaining space in the back of the van. Several twelve-pack A4s, extra-long life, tumbled out from a side pocket.

'There's more in the bag,' said Geoff, concerned lest I think that he might be risking a flat GPS. As it was, I felt we had enough batteries to power it round the clock for at least a couple of years.

The bags packed, we turned our attention to the jerry cans. All five of them. They stood in a neat line, nozzles facing the same way, as if waiting to be loaded. I looked at them and sighed. The plan had been to buy two jerry cans, one for water, one for fuel. Geoff had returned with five, on the grounds that he'd got a much better price for buying in bulk.

'We can't leave them behind,' he said, looking at the cans fondly, as if they were refugees, or perhaps his children.

'They can't all come, there's just no space,' I said, brutally.

Geoff winced, fearing perhaps that the cans would understand that, for some of them, it was to be an empty life.

'We can try, dammit,' he said approaching the van with a can in each hand. 'Maybe if we just shuffle stuff around a bit.'

We shuffled, and repacked, and pressed bags into unnatural shapes and after about twenty minutes had fitted in four of the cans.

'That's it, that's the lot,' I said, firmly, and began shutting the door. Geoff threw the final can through the gap and slammed the door shut before it had chance to fall out.

'There,' he said, triumphantly. 'I knew there was room.'

It was at this point that we realised we had forgotten to pack the tents. To open the rear door would have invited a cascade of cans, so the tents were squeezed snugly behind the seats. Geoff said his farewells to his family, waved to his neighbours who had turned out to watch our departure and we were on our way.

A smooth run down to Dover and an equally smooth ferry crossing. We sipped coffee and watched a despairing teacher try to control a school party of teenage boys whose mission seemed to be to empty the onboard shop of strong lager. There would be trouble ahead and we congratulated ourselves on having chosen journalism as a career rather than teaching.

Our van, with its London–Ulaanbaatar stickers, attracted some attention as we waited to disembark.

'You guys going all the way to Mongolia?' asked an incredulous American voice.

'We hope so. Where are you headed for?'

'Bruges,' came the reply, which made us feel like rather superior world travellers. A few hours later we felt a little less superior as a wrong exit out of a petrol station on the edge of Brussels found us headed for the middle of that traffic-clogged city rather than scooting round the bypass.

'I think I can get us out of this,' I told Geoff, with a wholly misplaced confidence.

'Turn left at the next lights, straight on for a bit, then look for another left turn. That should do the trick. Be on the bypass in no time.'

Geoff did as he was bidden. The traffic seemed as thick as ever. We then passed a building which I thought, uneasily, looked rather familiar. It did to Geoff, too.

'I'm sure we passed that building earlier,' he observed. We had plenty of time to study it. We now weren't moving at all.

'Possibly,' I agreed. 'Not sure how that happened. Well, better take a right, rather than a left.'

Geoff took a right turn. Several of them. Half an hour later there was no doubt – we were back at the same spot and running out of options.

'Straight on then,' I instructed. 'If we just keep heading straight we have to hit the ring road eventually.'

Geoff breathed slightly heavily but said nothing. An hour of going straight on brought us finally to the ring road, which was by now doing a passable imitation of conditions on the M25 just after a new set of road works had been put in place.

Hopes of reaching a campsite in Cologne – which we had pencilled in as our first stop – were beginning to fade.

'I suppose,' I suggested cautiously, 'we could always just head to the city centre when we get to Cologne and find a hotel.'

Geoff and I are men of iron resolve. Rusted, rather brittle iron.

'Excellent plan,' he agreed instantly. 'Not our fault we hit this traffic. Would have been camping otherwise.'

That was agreed then. Our good resolutions to spend most of the trip under canvas had lasted for half a day. Our tents, one of which Geoff had warned was thirty years old and no longer waterproof, could be left untested behind the seats.

Encouraged by the prospect of a comfortable bed, we pressed on, crossing the border into Germany and, taking advantage of the relaxed German attitude to speed limits, pushing the van up to an unfamiliar ninety miles an hour. The fuel gauge started to drop noticeably quickly, but the two-point-seven-litre diesel engine, more commonly found powering London taxis, chugged along as if it were a born motorway cruiser.

On the edge of the city, we followed the wide, brown Rhine to the centre and parked near the station. A basic hotel nearby had a twin room available, many times the cost of a campsite, but we lied to each other that this was just a special treat. We dumped our bags and headed out.

Cologne suffered from Allied bombing in World War Two. There were more than 250 raids, including the first raid by 1,000 Allied planes. But its towering cathedral – the largest in Germany – remained intact. The cathedral has been declared a World Cultural Heritage site, and lovers of Gothic majesty will feel that its architecture is as good as it gets. For the casual tourist, however, the effect has been somewhat spoiled by the recently renovated and very visible public toilets rights outside. Strangely, these seem to be a matter of some pride for the city: when they were reopened, an official ceremony was held at which they were blessed with holy

water by the Archbishop of Cologne.

But we had time only for the most cursory sightseeing – our priorities were food and beer, but not in that order. Round the corner, we found a brewery tavern which looked quite jolly, a large crowd having gathered, with tables set for dinner. We ordered beef stroganoff and the local lager which arrived, disappointingly, in sherry-sized glasses. We looked around. Everyone seemed to be drinking in the same mean measure.

Geoff, who had told me he'd studied German to A-level standard, took charge of the situation.

'Entschuldigen sie mich, could we have zwei big ones, bitte?'

The waiter looked unimpressed. I matched him, look for look.

'I thought you said you could speak German,' I said, accusingly.

'It was a long time ago,' said Geoff. 'Amazing how much you forget.'

It was clear Geoff's language skills weren't up to the job, so we left in search of a bar where an understanding of English and bigger measures were the norm.

We found it in a nearby square which was picture-postcard pretty. Brightly coloured buildings, most four storeys high and with sharply angled roofs, were clustered together, giving the impression of having been crammed in so they could all enjoy the view. More importantly, several were bars with tables and chairs outside, so their customers could enjoy the warm, late spring evening. We ordered a jug of lager and settled back in our chairs.

'Hello there boys, and what brings you to this town?'

An Irish voice from a table nearby. It belonged to a man in his late thirties, long blonde hair parted in the middle, a glass of beer with a spirit chaser in front of him. His friend – similar age but with short dark hair – nodded a greeting.

'We're just passing through,' we replied, not wanting to launch straight away into a long explanation of our trip.

'Ah that's what I said five years ago and I've been here ever since. My advice. Don't get tangled up with any of the local women. They might be good-lookers, but they'll have you trapped. I ended up marrying one of them. Divorced now of course. But still here.'

They joined our table and introduced themselves. Damon, from County Cork, and his friend Andy from London. They were both chefs on a day off. And they'd spent it drinking. All of it. And they were in no mood to stop.

'So passing through to where?' Damon wasn't going to let us get away with English reticence. We told them about the trip. Andy winced.

'You've done it now,' he said in a mock serious tone. 'Damon will be in the back of the van with you.'

Damon confirmed that the trip was an interesting prospect.

'That's amazing,' he said. 'Just amazing. Fantastic.'

Actually, he punctuated that sentence with a number of expletives to emphasise just how fantastic he thought it was. More drinks were ordered.

'Will you leave that ugly man of yours and move in with me?' he inquired of the barmaid as the next round was brought. She indicated that there was little chance of that happening.

'That's it then boys. She won't have me, so I'm chucking it all in here and coming with you. Cheers.' He grinned amiably and raised his glass to his lips.

'You've got trouble now,' observed Andy.

'Trouble? Me? I'm no trouble. I'm…' Damon paused and searched for the right word. His large intake of alcohol meant that he had trouble finding it.

'I'm a dolphin,' he exclaimed for no apparent reason, moving seat so he could put his arm round Geoff. 'I'm a dolphin. That's what I am. Cheers.'

He downed whatever spirit had been in his shot glass. 'What time do we leave?'

'It's a very small van and it's full of our gear,' said Geoff, politely, trying to free himself from Damon's arm that was now firmly round his shoulders.

'Ah, and aren't I only small meself?' asked Damon, rhetorically.

And then, in one of those bizarre moments that would seem so unlikely as to be beyond reasonable coincidence, he asked: 'And what do you boys do anyway? Do you work for the BBC?'

We exchanged bemused glances and confirmed that, up until recently, that had indeed been the case.

'You see,' said Damon. 'I'm a dolphin.'

Dolphins, it seemed, were animals possessed of psychic powers. It was shaping up to be a long session and it was looking increasingly like unless we wanted an additional travelling companion it might be time to make our excuses and leave. Damon seemed unsurprised and took our departure in his stride.

'Ah well, you've missed your chance to have a dolphin travelling with you,' he observed shaking our hands. 'I wish you good luck boys. You're going to make it though, I can tell you that.'

As we left he was explaining to the barmaid that it was her lucky day because he'd be staying after all.

Our hotel bedroom was stuffy and I lay awake for a while. It was then that I made a terrible discovery about the sleeping habits of my travelling companion, one that cast a black shadow when I contemplated the next five weeks together. Geoff snored. Loudly. Rather like waves breaking upon a shore, they seemed to follow a set pattern. There would be half a dozen small, grunting snores then one mighty shuddering snort which seemed to end mid-breath. It seemed inevitable that this final snore would wake him up. But no. He slept on. There would then be silence for, perhaps, two minutes in which my hopes rose that he might have stopped, then the sequence would start again. I lay awake while this pattern was repeated over and over until, with dawn showing through a gap in the curtains, I drifted off myself.

At breakfast there was a slightly uncomfortable silence between us. I wondered how to broach the subject or, indeed, whether to mention anything at all. It was tricky.

'Sleep OK?' I inquired eventually.

'Bit mixed,' he replied. 'What about you?'

'Not too bad. I suppose. Once I'd managed to get off. Took a while.'

He didn't ask why, so the matter rested there. I consoled myself with the thought that we'd probably be in separate tents from now on, so it wouldn't really be a problem.

We checked out and walked back to the van, our spirits lifted by another morning of blue skies and sunshine. A youth approached me, scruffily dressed, unshaven. Even though he spoke in German, the meaning was clear enough, he wanted some money. This was an easy one to bat away.

'Sorry,' I told him, 'I'm English. I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'Ah, English,' he replied instantly. 'Well let me explain. My wallet has been stolen and I have lost my train ticket and all my money. I am trying to get home to Berlin. I wonder if you could help me by making a donation.'

I felt this said something for the German education system when even beggars who slept on the street were perfectly bilingual. However, I had a general rule of always giving to buskers and never to beggars, even those with advanced language skills, so I turned him away and he approached another target with the same story.

After a couple of false starts, we found the right road out of Cologne and headed for the motorway. We were aiming for Colditz Castle, in the state of Saxony, about forty miles from Dresden, in what had been East Germany up until reunification in 1990. The castle is best known as a maximum security prison in World War Two, when it was called Oflag 1V-C, and designated to hold high-profile allied prisoners, in particular those who were prone to escape attempts.

We reached the castle in late afternoon. It sits just above the village which bears its name, close to the Mulde River. For people of my generation, it was brought to life by the 1970s TV series, Escape from Colditz, in which British officers displayed their derring-do by plotting frequent escape attempts. Irritatingly, in real life the first three successful escapes were by French officers and, less irritatingly, the next four by Dutchmen, but the Brits eventually got themselves organised with 'home runs' of their own.

Such was the popularity of the series that it spawned a board game and many books.

We were expecting a grim, rather forbidding place, but in recent years Colditz Castle has been renovated and now, on a sunny afternoon and with a fresh coat of white paint, the turrets and thick stone walls looked more welcoming than threatening and far from the brooding building we had been expecting. Part of it is in use as a youth hostel, and on the day we arrived the village was holding its May Day festival in the lower courtyard. There were stalls similar to those found at any English village fete, and a stage on which local singers could show Colditz had talent. It was all very jovial and carried the added advantage that the castle was open without charge, so we wandered at will, down stone stairwells and along narrow passages, finding the spot below the chapel where the remains of an escape tunnel could be seen.

The main courtyard was decorated with life-sized wooden cut-outs of some of the famous prisoners – including Airey Neave, the first British officer to escape, later an MP and a close ally of Margaret Thatcher when she became Conservative Party leader, who was to die in an Irish National Liberation Army car bomb at the Commons in 1979.

Some of the cut-outs showed the prisoners in their escape attempt disguises – a fake electrician posed next to the real electrician he was imitating in an attempt to walk to freedom. Another showed a rather butch French officer disguised as a woman. This one failed which, surely, must have been no surprise to the other prisoners.

'Ow do I look, Francois?'

'Lovely Pierre, that colour really suits you.' (Crosses fingers behind his back.)

Pierre smoothes down skirt and does a twirl in front of the mirror.

'You do not think it should be a little 'igher, I av' very good knees. Or so I've been told.' (Lifts skirt up and pirouettes around bunk bed).

Sadly, he didn't get past the main gate.

The weather was warm with the promise of a long evening. If we were going to camp there would never be a better time. We spotted signs to a site on the edge of town and followed them. Unfortunately, they led straight into a wood where the track grew increasingly narrow.

'This is what four-wheel drive was invented for,' I told an apprehensive-looking Geoff as I steered the van further into the trees. The track narrowed to a footpath and then narrowed again, and with the branches of the trees beating angrily against the windscreen, I had to admit defeat. Reversing, we retraced our steps and eventually found the tarmac route to the site.

Geoff erected the tents while I assembled our folding table, chairs and cooking implements. All we needed now were some beers, and the camp shop provided them well-chilled from the fridge. Perfect. I knocked up some pasta and a beef casserole, which was thirsty work in the heat, while Geoff enjoyed a well-earned drink after his efforts with the tents. Our beer supplies, which had seemed ample when we bought them, ran out rather more quickly than we were expecting. I staggered off in the falling light to stock up but found the shop shuttered and bolted. Rattles at the door produced no response. There was only one thing to do in the circumstances – break open our 'emergency rations' box which Tricia had packed for when times got tough. I knew that this contained a bottle of Scotch. It wasn't quite the tough conditions that Tricia had intended, but, well, it was a lovely evening and it seemed there would never be a better time to perhaps have a nightcap before bed.

'But I don't drink whisky,' said Geoff, as I uncorked the malt. 'Well, perhaps just a small one then.'

A small one, as is the way at these times, led inexorably to another slightly bigger one, then a very large one indeed.

'I told you I done drink wishky. Don't like tayshte,' said Geoff, slurring the words all together, shaking his head, and holding out his glass at the same time.

To my amazement, after I had refilled us both, the bottle appeared to be empty. Clearly, some of it must have spilled somewhere.

It was now pitch dark, the rest of the camp was asleep, and it was certainly bedtime for both of us. We stood, rather uncertainly, and I headed for my tent. This involved a route past the five jerry cans, which sat piled up by the side of the van, having spilled out as soon as I opened the rear door. I approached them cautiously, swaying to the left, then the right. The cans swayed too, making navigation somewhat tricky. I waited until they stopped moving, then made a dash for it. The cans repositioned themselves and there was no time to take evasive action. I stumbled into them, sending them crashing in all directions.

'Bugger,' I shouted, making another attempt to reach the entrance to my tent. My right foot caught one of the cans, sending it banging into the side of the van. My left foot sent another can skidding into the trees. Geoff was now sitting on the grass, humming the theme tune to the Escape from Colditz series.

'Shhhhh,' he begged, holding his finger to his lips. 'You'll wake the goons.'

There were flashes of light all around the camp as torches were clicked on and a guttural voice in German asked a question which I assumed was along the lines of 'What on earth's going on?'

Crawling on hands and knees I reached the entrance to my tent and dragged myself inside. It was then that I remembered I had only half inflated my airbed. Too late now. I struggled out of my clothes and into the unfamiliar confines of my sleeping bag. I made half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to zip it up then fell into a fitful slumber.

I was woken in the small hours by a deflated airbed and the sound of a wild boar which must have got into the site from the surrounding woods. I lay still and listened as it grunted and snuffled, then snorted angrily several times. It was close. Too close for comfort. I sat up anxiously wondering what I might use for a weapon. There it was again, and now it seemed to be coming from Geoff's tent.

'Geoff, are you OK?'

There was no reply. He was asleep. Deeply. And taking snoring to new and terrible decibel levels.

Over a breakfast coffee I wondered whether to broach the issue. However, to my surprise, Geoff got there first. Not with an admission, but an accusation. His night had been disturbed, he alleged, by constant, vibrating snores coming from my tent. He had been, he claimed with a straight face, unable to sleep for several hours. I retorted with a counterclaim and the terrible truth dawned us both at the same time. We were equally guilty as charged.

'Our poor wives,' I remarked.

'Must be hell,' agreed Geoff.

We left the campsite and picked up the motorway again near Dresden. Our destination that day was Kraków in southern Poland. I'd first visited it nearly twenty years before, after the fall of Communism, sent there on a foreign office scheme intended to help Polish journalists establish a radio station suitable for the new democratic era. My 'pupils' had been a mixture of the old guard who had been in their jobs under the Communists and younger people – many of whom had come to journalism from other professions such as teaching.

The biggest difference in our cultures at the time was probably the lack of accountability of politicians: the idea that a government minister should appear live on a news programme and be subjected to unscripted questions was something totally unfamiliar, though they were very keen to try it.

It was a time of great change for Poland – younger people were full of hope, older ones worried that their traditional security of a job and a flat were being threatened. Most wanted a Western lifestyle, though feared it could be a long time coming. They took hope in small signs of change – the opening of the first McDonald's restaurant, in Warsaw, was greeted with excitement. In the shops, they pointed to the first evidence of Western goods bringing the promise of choice in such mundane matters as toothpaste and shampoo.

Overwhelmingly, they looked West rather than East and longed for the day when they could join the EU – though they feared it could take several generations. Few had travelled outside their country – and the years of Communist rule and lack of immigration had created an ethnically narrow society. They wanted to know about lifestyles – and salaries – in the West, which seemed unimaginable riches. And though they disagreed on the pace of change and how it might be achieved, there was one thing which united them – a huge pride in the city of Kraków, their one-time capital. It was beautiful, they said, and a place of great learning – the one place I must visit.

So, one weekend, I caught the train from Warsaw and walked from the station to the vast expanse of the Rynek Główny – the main market place – and sat on some steps while the haunting notes of the hourly bugle call echoed round the largely empty square.

The tradition of the bugle call dates from early medieval times – it ends abruptly and is said to mark the death of a bugler in 1241 who was shot by an arrow while sounding the alarm to warn of a Mongol invasion.

Now, as Geoff and I stood in the same square two decades later, following in reverse the route of those conquerors from the East, the evidence of a new invader was plain – not the Mongol hordes, but the tourist hordes had swamped the city. Kraków was a party town. Cafes jostled for pavement space. Narrow side streets, which had once been quiet thoroughfares where footsteps echoed against tall buildings housing second hand bookshops, were now bright and bustling, alive with bars and boutiques. In an Internet cafe a group of English lads clustered round a computer screen studying a page which boasted 'Kraków – the Ultimate Stag Weekend'. It was booming and prosperous, that was undeniable. But it seemed that Kraków – once a slightly stuffy blue stocking intellectual – had changed into a blousy blonde good-time girl.

So far on the trip we had crossed four borders in Continental Europe without noticing the join. Now, as we headed for Ukraine, we knew it wouldn't be so easy. Our destination was Lviv – one of those unfortunate cities which, for reasons of geography, have changed their nationality many times over the centuries as invaders conquer and boundaries are redrawn. Lviv has been in turn part of Poland, an outpost of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and then, after World War Two, part of Ukraine and firmly under the control of the Soviet Union. Then, in 2004, images from its medieval city centre were beamed around the world as demonstrators, clutching the orange banners which gave their revolution its name, thronged the streets in support of the opposition presidential candidate, Viktor Yushchenko, who had refused to accept the result of the election – claiming that victory for the pro-Communist Viktor Yanukovich had been rigged.

In the end, the victor of the two Viktors was Yushchenko – his pockmarked face witness to an attempted suspected poisoning by his opponents. Westminster politicians might trade insults, but at least they don't slip something nasty into each other's tea.

But, though Russia's man had lost that battle, the old imperial power was reluctant to ease its influence. Ukraine might have its independence, but if it wanted to stay warm in winter it was going to have to keep well in with Mother Russia. Gas was the cane with which Moscow kept its offspring in order – the supplies on which Ukraine relied could be quite easily switched on and off. As Ukraine struggles to catch up with other European economies, its ambitions to join the EU seem a long way from being fulfilled. But then, so had Poland's twenty years before.

It was quiet as we approached the border. We parked and were immediately redirected by an irritable man in military uniform to park somewhere else. We shifted the van thirty feet and he seemed happy.

'Perhaps that was the Colonel's personal space,' I suggested.

I spotted the hut containing passport control and wandered over with both our passports while Geoff tried again to explain to a guard that, yes, we really were driving to Mongolia, no, no one was forcing us to do it, and yes, it really was for charity.

Inside the wooden booth with the flaking paint and the sliding glass window, which stuck halfway, was a Slavic beauty. Think Julia Roberts in a peaked cap. Only without the smiles. She looked at me coldly, an expression which turned to well below freezing when I tried a friendly greeting and a grin. A slender hand with well manicured fingernails was extended out of the window to take our passports.

She looked through mine and seemed satisfied. Then she opened Geoff's. Now it should be pointed out at this stage that although Geoff's passport is a few years old, the photo in it is even older. It shows a youth, long blonde wavy hair, clear complexion, perhaps of an age at which a suspicious supermarket checkout person might ask for ID if he tried to buy alcohol. Since it was taken, the inevitable ageing process has kicked in, given extra impetus by too many night shifts.

The border guard looked at the passport, then looked to Geoff who had joined me outside her booth. Then she looked back to the passport. You don't get a front-line job in Ukrainian customs if you crack a smile under pressure. But this was a tough test. And she failed it. One corner of her mouth gave an involuntary twitch. Then the other. Then she gave a great, big, huge grin.

She knew no English but could manage some German: 'Dieses foto war im kindergarten.'

She laughed, an earthy, warm laugh. It was probably the first time her booth had heard such a sound.

'I know,' I said, 'he's an ugly bugger now, but once upon a time…' I shrugged.

She stamped our passports, still chuckling, and directed us where to go next.

'Ha bloody ha,' said Geoff, snapping the passport shut and returning it swiftly to his pocket. 'Don't say anything. I'm going to change that photo as soon as we get home.'

After more confusion on our part as we tried to visit the various huts in the right order with the various pieces of paper to be stamped, we were on our way to the exit – to deal with the problem of how to buy insurance for the van. We had been unable to arrange this in the UK – Poland was the limit of our cover – and we had heard it was possible to buy a short-term policy as we crossed each border. But inquiries from every official we came across just produced a shrug. Ahead of us were two other blokes who seemed to be on the same mission – and happily for us, one of them, a Pole, could communicate with the guards.

They introduced themselves. Mikhail and his friend, Andreas, a Swede. Mikhail had established that a hut just the other side of the barrier was where insurance was sold and he set off with Geoff, in whose name our van had been registered, to do the necessary form filling.

After about half an hour or so they returned clutching bits of paper in Ukrainian and we set off, with me driving. We'd gone just a few hundred yards when a police car cruised by and a thought struck me. Geoff was clearly insured as his passport details were on the form – but was I? There seemed to be nothing there which was the equivalent of a 'named driver'. I had given Geoff my passport – but it seemed no one had asked for my details.

We stopped. There was nothing else for it. We would have to go back and make sure. We returned, reluctantly, to the border and re-entered the hut. The scene inside was much as Geoff had described it. Half a dozen middle aged women sat in a makeshift office, a cheap desk, a filing cabinet, and comfortable chairs taking up most of the rest of the floor space. They had a kettle, a packet of biscuits and a vase of flowers. Several of them were knitting. On the wall was last year's calendar showing Ukrainian landscapes. It all looked quite homely, if not quite our expectation of what an insurance office would look like.

I approached the woman occupying the biggest chair which I thought might denote rank.

'Excuse me, I wonder if you can help,' I began, politely but rather pointlessly as Geoff had warned me none of them spoke any English. 'My friend has just bought this insurance policy for our van.' I held out the policy and pointed to it. 'And I was wondering, does it cover me to drive as well?'

I made as much sense to them as if they had asked me the same question in Ukrainian. The head saleswoman looked at me in a curious, but not hostile manner, examined the insurance policy and beamed.

'Insurance for machina,' she explained, clearly thinking she was dealing with someone without a full deck in the brain cells department.

'Ah,' I said. 'But is it insurance just for my friend.' Here I pointed at Geoff. 'Or is it OK for both of us to drive?'

At this point I put my arm around Geoff and clutched him to my chest.

'OK for two of us to drive?' I asked, pointing first to myself, then to Geoff, who was wriggling slightly uncomfortably in my grip.

I have no idea what interpretation they put on this mime, but they all giggled and exchanged muttered comments.

I let go of Geoff's shoulder. 'Can I drive machina?' I asked, miming turning a steering wheel rather sharply.

One of the women thought she should try to explain to this slow-witted, but probably harmless foreigner who was providing an interesting diversion to their afternoon's routine. She took hold of the policy.

'Mach-in-a,' she enunciated, looking at me encouragingly, and nodding. 'In-sur-ance. Drive. Beep beep. Bye bye.'

'I don't think we're going to get very far here,' Geoff observed. 'Maybe I should just carry on driving until we get to Lviv and hopefully find someone who speaks English.'

This was a sound plan. In fact, it was our only plan. The women waved us a cheerful farewell and picked up their knitting needles as we headed back to the van.

Chapter Three

Cops and Robbers

The distance between Kraków and Lviv is about two hundred miles – and for every mile over the border it seemed like we were stepping back a year in time. The road was marked on the map as a main route, but its surface was broken, slowing us to a crawl as we dodged potholes which posed a threat to wheel rims and suspension. By the side, thin horses grazed on the sparse grass, their legs hobbled together. It was a sorry sight. Occasionally we braked sharply as a cow wandered leisurely across our path. In the villages, many of the houses were little more than shacks. Horses and carts were used regularly as transport, while in the fields families worked together, bent double, sowing crops by hand. A local bus overtook us, its exhaust belching enough diesel fumes to cloak it in a shroud of pollution.

We reached Lviv by late afternoon and spotted a hotel near the centre, a splendid building, four storeys high, sitting square and solidly at a crossroads, its salmon-pink walls broken up by wrought-iron balconies and big arched windows. Inside, an imposing arched lobby and a wide, twin staircase guarded by gold pillars reinforced the impression of a majestic past. The receptionist was friendly, and she checked us into a twin room then took a look at our insurance policy and assured us that we were both covered. The system in Ukraine, it seemed, was to insure the vehicle – so long as the registered owner was in it, anyone could drive.

We took our bags up to our room, which was also from a vintage era with solid oak furniture, a dining table and chairs and heavy draped curtains. On the way up the stairs an art deco figure of a woman was set in stained glass. The whole place had an air of faded opulence, long past its pomp but still taking a pride in its appearance. In keeping with the impression that times were hard, the bathroom was clean and spacious but, sadly, didn't appear to run hot water.

We wandered around the ancient pedestrian centre, bustling enough, but without the teeming crowds of Kraków. The evening was warm, and we sat outside at a restaurant and ordered 'fillet steak with the swine and blackcurrant sauce, mashed potatoes with walnuts and spinach'.

The spinach, it turned out, was off, and the potatoes came without a trace of walnuts, but we were hungry and the steak, with its side order of bacon, was generous and we tucked in.

The more I worked my way through the meat, with its slightly unusual fatty texture, the more I wondered if this really was fillet steak. As one American politician put it in another context, 'Where's the beef?'

'What do you think of your steak?' I asked Geoff.

'It's good,' he replied between mouthfuls. 'Certainly a generous piece.'

'And so cheap,' I commented, looking at the price on the menu. 'One pound seventy-five pence. Including vegetables. If you eat it without the blackcurrant sauce, it has a slightly unusual flavour.'

Geoff chewed thoughtfully and a look of realisation crossed his face. 'You think it might be, er, possibly…'

'Yup,' I concurred. We had both come to the same conclusion. It was almost certainly horse meat. There are those who will make a perfectly rational argument that if you're going to eat meat, there's no point in being squeamish about which animal it has come from. I understand completely that point of view. But there is something about horses, their friendliness, their trusting and intelligent eyes, that makes me believe they should be reserved for transport and recreation rather than the plate. It was too late now, though. We had eaten and enjoyed our dinner and felt better for it.

Back in our room the race began to be first asleep before the other started snoring. I'd like to say this was good natured, but in fact there was a certain desperation about it. The stakes were high – a good night's sleep or a fretful and disturbed doze. That night I won and woke in the morning feeling refreshed and ready for the road.

Breakfast brought more mealtime disappointment for Geoff, who searched in vain for muesli or fresh fruit. This was still Eastern Europe, even if it was tentatively getting to grips with democracy, and the idea of choice had not reached as far as the breakfast table.

The friendly waiter presented us each with the full Ukrainian – a plate of egg and mayonnaise, cheese, ham and some excellent warm pancakes filled with yoghurt. This was tasty stuff and I polished it off while Geoff grumbled and pushed it round his plate with his fork.

Our next stop was the Ukrainian capital, Kiev, about three hundred and fifty miles away. The map indicated that the final half of the journey was motorway – but first we had to get to that point and the roads worsened as we left town, mile after mile of bumping along on broken tarmac. Then relief – a flat, repaired stretch of road.

'Thank goodness for that,' said Geoff, who was driving. 'I was beginning to think we'd never make Kiev. Better make the most of this smooth stuff.'

He worked the van up into fifth gear and the speedometer crept past sixty.

'I wonder why that driver just flashed his lights at us,' I mused from the passenger seat.

'Dunno,' said Geoff, 'maybe there's been an accident. Looks all clear, though.'

Ahead of us was a long, straight empty stretch of road, a petrol station on the left and a couple of barns on the right.

The cop appeared from behind the bushes, a baton in one hand and a radar gun in the other. We had already been pulled over by the police a couple of times for a 'routine' check – a look at our passports, vehicle documents, an inquiry about where we were going; a nuisance, but after five minutes or so each time, we were waved on our way. Now though, it was different.

The cop stuck his head through the passenger window, and flashed us a gold-toothed grin. He looked happy. This was payday. He said something in Ukrainian and tapped the screen of his speed camera. It didn't need much skill to translate the gist. We had been going too fast.

We were very sorry, we told him, we were English, we didn't know what the speed limit was, we wouldn't do it again, we promised. That wasn't going to work. He asked to see our papers. I reached behind the seat to get them and, in doing so, picked up a packet of Marlboro and casually dropped it on the dashboard. Mistake. The cop pointed at them in apparent anger, as if insulted that we should think him corruptible for a packet of fags. I felt the price of settling this incident might have just gone up.

'You speed through village,' he said, pointing down the road. We turned and looked behind us. The petrol station and the barns were the only buildings. They, it seemed, were enough for a village to be declared. There had been no sign to suggest the speed limit on the main road had been reduced, we protested. Our pleas were getting us nowhere.

'Have you been to bank?' inquired the cop, getting down to business.

We lied and denied we had. It was fairly clear he didn't believe us. The atmosphere was becoming more strained. Then the cop examined our passports. He opened Geoff's and his face beamed, the gold teeth glinting in the sunshine.

He pointed at Geoff's photo. 'Oooh, angelica,' he remarked, all pals again.

He motioned to Geoff, who had been driving, to follow him to the police car, which, in a rather unsporting manner, had been well hidden in the bushes.

After a few minutes they returned together. Geoff told me the conversation went something like this.

'Have a you a present for the police? Thirty Euros.'

'We haven't got any Euros. What about ten dollars?'

'Dollars no. Two-hundred hryvnia.'

Geoff paid up in local currency. The cop indicated the money should not be given to him directly, but left on the driver's seat. It seemed a rather fine distinction. Either way, it was going into his pocket.

They walked back to the van together. The cop looked round our vehicle, expressed incredulity that we were driving it to Mongolia, and commented on how nice our tyres were.

While he had his nose round in the back of the van, I turned to the page in my notebook where I'd written out an instant 'ready reckoner' to convert local currency in each country we would visit into pounds. The cop stuck his head back through the window and saw the chart. He motioned I should give him the book, and his finger traced down to the point where 200 hryvnia was turned into sterling. It was the equivalent of seventeen quid. This evidence of just how far the Ukrainian currency had fallen recently seemed to upset him.

'Yie, eye eye,' he muttered, shaking his head. 'Sheesh.'

Clearly, he felt he had let Geoff off lightly. He returned my diary and indicated he wanted to examine my pen. It was a cheap one, bought in a packet of three from a supermarket. He looked at it. Clearly it wasn't worth stealing and he threw it back at me in disgust. Still muttering about the outrageous exchange rate, he stood to one side, and with a jerk of the head, indicated we were free to go. As we looked behind, he had taken up position by the side of the road, a Ukrainian Dirty Harry armed with a radar gun ready to shoot down serial speeders. The chances were he wouldn't be bagging such a lucrative catch again that day.

The road deteriorated again and we were back to being bounced about. At least we didn't have to worry about speed traps – no one would be going fast enough. The countryside was flat, fields being worked by hand, a horse and cart the most popular form of transport. Villages straggled the road, houses with corrugated iron roofs behind wire fences, the images softened by the blossom on the fruit trees. And there was one 'must have' accessory in each village – a stork's nest on top of a telegraph pole. In Ukraine the stork is known as the messenger of spring because it's one of the first birds to return from winter migration – and it's considered a symbol of good luck which will bring prosperity. For most of those villages it looked as if the stork had been falling down on the job.

Eventually we made the motorway and a good surface – though there were new hazards that kept our speed limited. The Highway Code in the UK is pretty strict about what isn't allowed on a motorway – pedestrians, cyclists, horse riders and tractors all get the thumbs down. In Ukraine, there are no such restrictions.

'I live in the countryside,' I said to Geoff, as I overtook a horse-drawn buggy, 'I slow down for horses. But I don't expect to on the M40.'

'And watch out for those cows,' said Geoff. 'I think that woman is about to herd them across.'

Ahead of us a half a dozen black and white cows, three calves in tow, wandered leisurely along the verge, pausing occasionally, as cows do, to munch on grass. They were being followed by a large woman dressed in a red coat above a pair of black wellington boots. The coat could have been chosen for safety reasons or it could have been the only one she owned. In her hand she held a large stick which she swished at the cows' backsides to keep them moving.

'Don't be silly,' I said to Geoff. 'Even in Ukraine no one is going to herd their cows from one side of a motorway to another. Oh shit, she is.'

I braked hard and the van juddered to a halt, our possessions in the back shunted forward, jerry cans and toilet rolls pressed up against the mesh barrier separating us from the rear of the van. The lead cow stepped out in front of me, turned its head my way and gave me a reproachful look. The woman did the same. The rest of the cows strolled across unconcerned. This was clearly their regular route. Everyone knew that.

The outskirts of Kiev brought a welcome return to urban life. Buses which pulled out without signalling, big black four-wheel drives which cut us up without a thought, motorbikes which undertook and swerved in front of us. It was just like being in London. It felt like home.

We found a hotel near the centre and checked in. We had established a certain routine. I would approach the reception desk and ask if they had a room with two single beds. They would confirm that was the case and quote a price which, invariably, as we were both tired, we agreed without argument. They would pass us the register to sign in. At this point, with a pen in his hand, a worried look would cross Geoff's face and a recurring, niggling concern would rise to the surface.

'This room does have single beds?' he would ask anxiously. 'That's one room, but two separate beds?'

The desk clerk would confirm that was indeed the case and Geoff would sign. On this occasion, though, the woman on reception misinterpreted his concerns.

'Well,' she said, leaning forward conspiratorially and lowering her voice, 'you can have a double if you like.'

Geoff assured her that wouldn't be necessary.

'It's OK,' said the receptionist. 'This is Kiev.' She beamed encouragingly.

Happy as Geoff was to learn that Kiev has a modern and sensible approach to gay relationships, he insisted vehemently that two beds were just what was required.

She shrugged, making it clear she didn't mind either way, and I asked about breakfast.

'Don't eat it here,' she replied with disarming honesty. 'It's no good. Plenty of better places nearby.'

We thanked her for the advice and set off to explore.

In contrast to rundown rural Ukraine, Kiev had a lively, affluent feel with grand buildings and tree-lined boulevards. Illuminated advertising hoardings for liquor and lingerie lit up the streets as dusk fell. A statue of Lenin on a stone plinth looked down disapprovingly. I had thought we would be arriving in the early afternoon, giving us plenty of time to look around – but it was becoming clear that my forecasts of how long a day's journey would take were far too optimistic. The roads were worse than I'd been expecting, there was the aggravation of speed traps and police checks and often the lack of signs meant we got lost just finding our way in or out of a town.

Now it was early evening; we had a long drive to Odessa tomorrow and there would be little time to do Kiev justice. I promised myself I would return one day for a proper look round. In the meantime, there was one essential item to be bought. Ever since we had set off the sun had been shining – and I had forgotten to bring my sunglasses. Geoff had generously offered to lend me his while I was driving, but while I appreciated the gesture, I had to decline. The sort of sunglasses I favoured usually came free with a few gallons of petrol. I had never seen the point of spending a lot of cash on some tinted plastic, and plenty of reports have proven that the ultraviolet

protection of cheap sunglasses is exactly the same as expensive ones.

Geoff thought differently – he had a 'designer' pair which he looked after lovingly, wiping them carefully after use and returning them to their case. They were so expensive he wouldn't tell me how much. But I knew that if I had them for any length of time, there would be a high risk of them being sat upon, dropped, or just tossed carelessly down on the dashboard, all of which would cause Geoff understandable pain. I couldn't take the risk. I had to buy some of my own.

Now it looked like my luck was in. There, on a street corner, was a sunglasses stall. Dozens of pairs and all of them, I hoped, available at very reasonable cost.

'Can I help you? Would you like to try any of them on?'

The questions, in virtually accentless English, came from a girl in her early twenties, a few years younger than my daughters. She had cropped hair, a bright smile and a good line in sales patter.

'How much are these?' I inquired, pointing pretty much at random to a pair.

'Those? Here let me help you try them on. Have a look in the mirror. They suit you. Only two hundred hryvnia.'

I winced slightly. 'That's a little more than I wanted to spend.'

'Wait I will ask my mother if she can make a special price for you.'

Some words in Ukrainian were exchanged with a woman who looked easily old enough to be a grandparent.

'She says for you, one hundred and fifty hryvnia only.'

I had reached the end of my negotiating abilities and they probably knew it. Just over ten pounds wasn't too bad, I thought, even though I knew it was much more than a local would have paid.

'Where are you from?' she asked as she gave me my change.

'London,' I told her.

The expression on her face changed to one of wistful longing. London was where she wanted to be. She'd got a friend there who said what a wonderful city it was, so full of life and opportunity. Ever since the story of Dick Whittington became a stage play 400 years ago, London has been a city with a magnetic lure for the young and hopeful – now it's gone global.

'One day,' she said, 'I will go there.'

'I hope you do,' I replied.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye her mother overhearing the exchange, her expression suggesting there would be a fair bit of opposition to her daughter's ambition to travel. I hoped that a year from then she wouldn't still be selling sunglasses on a street corner in Kiev.

We walked on, looking for a place to eat. Just off the road was a square surrounded by flower beds, buskers congregated around a fountain, and a restaurant with outside tables under an awning. It looked a busy place but there was a table free so we sat down. A woman seated nearby caught my eye and smiled. Friendly locals, I thought as I studied the menu and returned her smile. Then I became aware that she had shifted her seat and was smiling at me some more. Also that she was on her own, was a little too heavily made-up and had just a glass of water in front of her.

I turned round in my seat and twisted my head to avoid catching her eye.

'Have you decided what to order?' I asked Geoff.

He looked up from the menu. 'Is there something wrong with your neck?'

'No, no it's fine,' I said, keeping my head at an angle of about forty-five degrees. 'It's just that there's a woman over there who keeps smiling at me.' I rolled my eyeballs in her direction.

'Oh you mean the local hooker.'

'Yes. I didn't realise at first. I thought she was just being friendly.'

'Well you've certainly got her hopes up.'

The woman had now moved her chair and was grinning at me again, inclining her head at a similar angle to mine to make sure our eyes met and indicating that I might have some neck deformity but that was OK. I retreated behind the menu.

'Chicken kebab please,' I told the waitress, still holding the menu as a barrier.

She tried to take it from me and a brief tug of war ensued, but my grip held and she gave up, muttering something in Ukrainian, no doubt including the words 'English' and 'loopy'.

As we reached the end of our meal another middle-aged man came in, looked around as if unsure of himself, and sat at a vacant table. We immediately decided he couldn't be anything other than English. He wore brown cord trousers, a check shirt and a cardigan. He was short, portly and balding. He studied the menu with the aid of some brown-framed spectacles. He looked out of place – as if Captain Mainwaring had suddenly found himself on an SAS training course. The woman at the nearby table flashed him a beam and he responded, politely. She shifted her seat again, this time to be in his direct line of vision and raised her glass of water, mouthing 'cheers'. He smiled again, more nervously this time and tried to concentrate on the menu. He looked very unhappy. But it was time for us to go, and, feeling a little mean at leaving him to fend for himself, we returned to the hotel.

In the morning, we took the receptionist's advice to give the hotel breakfast a miss and had another raid on Tricia's 'Treats Box', which contained some rich, dark chocolate. We found our way out of Kiev with only one wrong turning and a detour of about a mile, which was much better than our average. And now the roads were good – a smooth, straight dual carriageway would take us almost all the 350 miles to Odessa, which, as the Bee Gees had so thoughtfully explained, was indeed a city on the Black Sea. There was hardly any traffic on the roads, but plenty of fat cops armed with radar guns, who lurked by the side about every five miles. As a deterrent to speeding it was undeniably effective, though a little labour intensive. We weren't in the mood to risk another fine, so we kept the speed down, leaving a couple of dozen cops staring after us with disappointed expressions.

As we trundled along there were regular reminders that Ukraine wasn't a place for animal lovers. We'd seen hobbled horses, open lorries crammed with chickens, scattering clouds of feathers in their wake, and in Lviv, a German Shepherd dog lying dead on the pavement while people walked round it, unconcerned. Now, by the side of the motorway, there was the sight of thin, abandoned dogs foraging for food, hoping to chance upon a roadkill. At one point, miles from any houses, three dogs sat in a line on the edge of the hard shoulder, all looking down the road in the same direction waiting for an owner who was never going to return.

I studied the map. We were making steady progress and would reach Odessa by late afternoon.

'We could camp again tonight,' I suggested, hesitantly. 'Odessa is a resort as well as a big port. There must be sites.'

'Yes,' said Geoff, adding after a long pause 'I suppose we could.'

There was silence for a while then Geoff said: 'Of course, we did pack the tents while they were still soaking wet from that overnight dew. Goodness knows what condition they're in now.'

I glanced at the tents, lying in the space behind the front seats, wrapped in their bags and probably starting to smell a bit.

'Hotels in Ukraine have been very cheap so far,' I observed.

'If we got one on the edge of town it would probably only set us back a tenner each, maybe less,' agreed Geoff. 'Perhaps we should see what the weather's like when we get there.'

I looked through the van window at a sky of almost uninterrupted blue, just a couple of white puffs in the distance.

'I think it's clouding over,' I said.

'I think you're right,' agreed Geoff. 'No point in risking a soaking.'

We reached Odessa, a city of more than a million people, by 5 p.m. On the edge of the town centre was a hotel, a typical Soviet-style concrete block – run-down, crumbling. We pulled up outside.

'This looks cheap,' I suggested.

We went inside. The surly staff matched the run-down exterior, but we had been right about the cost. A twin room for less than twenty quid. We signed in. The room was small, two fold-down single beds and a bathroom well past retirement age. The water was cold. There was a balcony, but access to it meant first struggling with the cracked glass door, which clearly hadn't seen regular use for some time. We should probably have moved on, but that would have meant negotiating with the harridan on reception for our money back as she'd demanded cash up front.

Instead, I went to move the van to the small car park round the back, reversing slowly and carefully into the single remaining space. I was especially cautious as the other spaces were filled with more than a dozen Harley Davidson motorbikes and their owners sat on a nearby wall watching my manoeuvres with interest.

I got out of the van and they wandered over towards me. I'm six feet tall and years of good living have added more excess pounds than I'd like, but as these guys approached I felt small and rather svelte. They favoured leather jackets from which the arms had been removed, the better to display a variety of intricate tattoos in which skeletons riding large motorcycles figured prominently. Their jackets remained unfastened, mainly because trying to do so would have certainly ended in failure. They all held half-litre bottles of beer, which, in their hands, looked like miniatures.

I was pretty certain I hadn't clipped any of their bikes as I parked, but perhaps, the thought occurred to me, I had occupied a space which they had planned to use for some chums who were arriving shortly. In which case I would move the van. No problem. No trouble at all.

Their leader approached me. He was, even by the considerable standards of the rest of the bikers, a big bloke. His head was freshly shaved, but he compensated for the lack of hair on top by a luxuriant walrus moustache, which did have the effect of making the scars on his cheeks seem less threatening. He looked at the van.

'You are from England?

'Yes.' It came out much more high pitched than I would have liked. I tried again, a couple of octaves lower. 'Yes that's right.'

'On holiday?'

'Not really. Myself and a friend are driving to Mongolia. It's a project to help children's charities. When we get there we give them the van and they sell it to raise money.'

'Very good.' The lead biker provided a translation for the rest of the gang and there was a general chorus of approval. Things were going well.

'Maybe we should ride to Mongolia.'

'Well, they welcome donations of motorbikes. They're very useful for the herdsmen.'

He took a swig of his beer, which pretty much drained the bottle. He looked more serious. This had not been a sensible suggestion.

'We would not give away our motorbikes.'

'Ah, no, of course not, that would be a total waste. They're much too nice. Ha ha. Any old, small, spare motorbike, of course, that would be different.' I was gabbling. He looked at me as if I was making no sense and it was time to bring the conversation to an end.

'Good luck.' He held out his hand. I shook it. Or rather, I placed my hand into a large, warm, four-fingered pork pie which moved my wrist up and down. I retreated gratefully back to the hotel.

As with many cities, Odessa's industrial suburbs are unattractive – but the centre is very different. Grand, well kept buildings painted in pastel colours, cobbled streets and immaculately-tended flower beds make it a pleasant place to stroll. We wandered down to the Potemkin Steps – made famous in the classic film about the Russian Revolution, The Battleship Potemkin – and found a restaurant with an outside terrace. We ordered some beers.

'Here's to the first two thousand miles completed,' I said. 'Cheers'.

We clinked glasses, but our celebration was muted. This had been the easy part. There were still around six thousand miles to go. We might have moaned about the roads in Ukraine, but soon enough they would run out altogether.

'I wish I knew what it was going to be like,' said Geoff, as if reading my thoughts.

'It'll be fine,' I said. It was my standard reply. 'Don't think of it as one great big journey, think of it as a series of little ones. That's what I do. It seems much better then.'

We pushed any worries to the back of our minds with the help of a couple more beers.

Our food arrived, some fried chicken and chips, and as we ate, I noticed with concern that leaning against the wall of the building next door was a man armed with what looked to my inexpert eye like a sub-machine gun. No one else seemed at all bothered and, at one point, another man, obviously an acquaintance, paused for a chat as he walked down the street. I took a discreet picture and, after we had settled the bill, we strolled past, thinking it must be an embassy or perhaps a government building. It turned out to be a jeweller's – obviously the level of security required was higher than we were used to at home.

We intended to make an early start the next morning and had little hope that the hotel would provide a decent breakfast, so we stopped at a food stall and bought a couple of cheese pies and some small cakes to see us on our way. Back in the room, we studied our map. There was a main road that ran along the coast, a straight run for the most part, a few towns marked but also long, empty stretches.

'I think if we set off at dawn we can reach this town here,' I pointed to Mariupol, a port close to the Russian border. 'It would mean we wouldn't have to drive far to the border the next day, so even if we're held up for hours we should be able to reach Rostov-on-Don.' Rostov was our first planned stop in Russia.

'It looks a long drive,' Geoff observed.

I did some measurements on the map. 'It is. About five hundred miles. It would mean a very early alarm.'

'OK, let's go for it,' agreed Geoff.

I set the alarm on my phone for half five. We could leave town and be on the open road well before any morning rush.

We climbed into our beds and both fell into a deep and apparently snore-free slumber. We were both still asleep when the alarm went off. I got up and pulled back the curtains. It was a light, bright morning. I noticed from the window that many people were already up and about, far more than I would have expected. There was a queue of a dozen cars or more at the traffic lights in the street below.

'Gets busy early here,' I remarked to Geoff.

He reached for his mobile phone. 'What time did you set the alarm for?'

'Half five.'

'It's half seven.'

I looked at my own phone in disbelief. Sure enough it said 5.32 a.m. That would be 5.32 a.m. English time. I'd ignored the two-hour time difference.

'Oh shit. I've buggered it up. I'm so sorry.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Geoff, graciously. 'Quick shower each and we can be out of here in fifteen minutes. It's still pretty early.'

We showered in haste, helped by a lack of hot water which removed any slight temptation to linger. Geoff drove carefully round the motorbikes and we turned onto the main road, using our compass to head east.

Odessa is a busy place in the mornings. Old Ladas and smoking buses compete for road space with the occasional four-by-four with blacked-out windows, the vehicle of choice for the newly rich across the former Soviet bloc. None was particularly sympathetic towards a foreign van which didn't quite know which lane it should be in. We crawled along, scanning junctions for a road sign that would point the way to the M14 which would take us to Mariupol. There was none. At a fork in the road, there was no obvious way to go.

'I reckon right,' I suggested, trying to get some clues from the map. But the scale was too big to help make an informed decision.

Geoff turned right. The road swung round and so did our compass. We carried on. This had happened before when leaving towns. In a minute the road could well swing round again putting us back on track. It could have. But it didn't. The traffic was even heavier now and we inched forward in first gear. More minutes passed.

'We've taken the wrong turn,' said Geoff, looking at the compass which was pointing resolutely to the west.

I agreed. We were on a dual carriageway now, a barrier across the central reservation ruling out the option of turning round. We pressed on, looking in vain for a main turning to make our escape. The sea came into view, but it was on our left. We were going totally the wrong way. Then we hit a one-way system which propelled us remorselessly back towards the town centre. I wasn't having a great morning.

'That was a bad call at that junction. Sorry about that.'

Geoff bore no grudges. 'It was an easy mistake to make. There were no signs. You've just got to make a choice in those circumstances and hope for the best.'

We turned a corner and there was a familiar building. Grey concrete, a dozen-storeys high, an advertising hoarding for a bank stuck on the side and the word 'HOTEL' in large blue letters. We were back to where we started. It had taken us exactly an hour.

We retraced our route to the junction and turned left.

Freed from Odessa's embrace, we were once again on the open road, at times being bumped along and slowing to third gear, at others hitting smooth tarmac and trying to make up time. In one town we slowed to a crawl along broken roads, huge potholes straddling the surface from one side to the other, axle-breaking ruts if taken at anything more than about five miles an hour. Then, in the middle of the road, stretching from one side to another, was a mound of tarmac. It had been used, not to fill one of the many holes, but to create a speed hump. By the side of it, a sign had been erected warning of its presence.

'I think that shows someone in the highways department has a very sharp sense of humour,' I suggested.

We pressed on. Better roads brought the return of speed traps. We were now getting much better at avoiding these, mainly because we had tuned in to the locals' habit of flashing a warning. I started to do the same in return. This brought a warm response from other drivers, who would raise both hands from the wheel to give me enthusiastic thumbs-up signs, their passengers leaning out of the windows shouting slogans in solidarity. I felt like an honorary Ukrainian and the miles passed more quickly in a warm glow of camaraderie.

The area we were driving through was Ukraine's grain belt – in the days of the Soviet Union, it was traditionally known as 'Russia's breadbasket'. But it was also the scene of the events of 1932–1933, which every Ukrainian child learns about and has a powerful influence over the national psyche and relations with Moscow. It is known in Ukraine as the Holodomor – which come from the words 'h olod' meaning hunger, and 'mor' meaning plague. As with all such big events, historians will argue about numbers, but what is generally accepted is that between seven and ten million people died of starvation or disease in a famine which swept the country. Most Ukrainians put the blame firmly on Stalin and his policy of collectivisation of the peasant farms. This meant the Soviet government quotas had to be fulfilled before the farm workers themselves could have access to the grain they produced. And in 1932 Stalin raised Ukraine's grain procurement quotas by forty-four per cent.

There are those in Ukraine who believe that this was a deliberate act to crush nationalist sentiment – in effect, genocide. In 2009 laws were drafted to make Holodomor denial a criminal offence.

Modern-day Ukraine now relies on its grain production to bring in much-needed foreign currency. We passed mile upon mile of vast, flat fields and, unlike on the peasant farm we had seen in the west of the country, there was plenty of evidence of modern mechanisation, tractors and trailers replacing horses and carts. The country produces around thirty to thirty-five million tons of grain per year – and has ambitious plans to raise this to eighty million tons. This, though, requires investment in storage facilities and fertiliser and, like any farming, is subject to the variable of the weather. But as the old steel industries of the east of Ukraine decline, this seems perhaps the best hope for increasing exports

As we drove on, our thoughts turned to our food, but the cheese pies we had bought proved to be as hard going as some of the roads. Perhaps they would have been better warmed up. But the pastry was heavy and fatty, and the cheese sauce solid with a rubbery texture which defied long chewing.

A pack of four, thin, wild dogs crossed the road in front of us and we skidded to a halt and threw the pies out of the window in their general direction. They quickly found them, and, while they seemed to have as much trouble chewing them as we had done, we hoped that, for the morning at least, they would have full stomachs. We settled for a late breakfast of cakes and a handful of yesterday's peanuts for lunch.

Our destination, Mariupol, was a city of 500,000 with a split population – roughly fifty-fifty Ukrainian and Russian – and a split personality. It was at the same time a resort and a centre of heavy industry, particularly steel and chemicals, with a history of emissions which would put it near the top of any premier league of international polluters.

Our drive had been long, so it was early evening when we arrived. A sign on the main street pointed to a hotel. We were tired and didn't even make the pretence about considering camping. We needed a bed for the night and some food.

The hotel was newly built, a casino attached to tempt gamblers and half a dozen hookers in the lobby to help them spend any winnings. That way the money never left the building.

We went straight to our room to freshen up. Well, we would have done, but in my enthusiasm to get inside I turned the key the wrong way and it broke in the lock. Geoff slumped to the floor while I returned to reception to confess. The woman on duty was not amused. She examined the broken stub.

'The rest of the key is in the lock?' she inquired.

I confirmed that was the case.

'It must have been very flimsy,' I suggested in my defence.

'You will have to pay for the damage,' she told me, sternly.

I thought this fell a bit short on the customer service front and protested that this was no way to treat a guest from foreign parts which had travelled 2,500 miles to be there.

She agreed to speak to someone in higher authority but returned with the same message.

'You must pay for the damage to the door. It will be twenty hryvnia.'

'That's outrageous,' I began to say, but then paused. 'How much exactly?'

'Twenty hryvnia. Cash.'

I quickly consulted my ready reckoner. It was the equivalent of about £1.50. Certainly not worth an argument. I paid up and was given the key to another room.

Inside, I kicked off my shoes and became immediately aware that, out of consideration for my room-mate, they were going to have to live outside. They had been a long way past their prime at the start of the trip – and a week's solid wear, in generally warm conditions, meant they had started to have the delicate odour of a ripe brie. My socks, too, would need a wash. I put the shoes on the window ledge and filled a basin with hot, soapy water.

Geoff decided he would take advantage of our first hot water in several days and have shower. He reappeared moments later grumbling and wrapped in a towel.

'There's no hot water at all,' he alleged.

This was strange because only minutes before I had washed my socks and there had been plenty.

'Nonsense,' I told him, 'you must just be turning the wrong taps.'

I went into the bathroom to prove my argument, but found he was right. The water which had been steaming minutes ago now ran cold.

Geoff was already on the phone to reception to complain.

'Hello, I'd like to report that there is no hot water in our room.'

There was a brief conversation and he replaced the receiver.

'She said there was no hot water in the whole hotel,' Geoff reported, unhappily, his eye drawn accusingly to my socks which lay drying on the balcony, a gentle steam rising from them.

'I can't have used up the entire hotel's hot water supply, just by washing my socks,' I said, defensively.

Geoff raised his eyebrows as if to indicate that, well, they had been pretty mucky. Reluctantly, he put his grubby clothes back on and we went to move the van. Secure parking had become one of our obsessions, understandable when everything we relied on to complete the trip was inside.

There were a large number of heavily set men in dark suits milling around the hotel entrance. We asked one chap, about six feet six inches tall and too wide to fit through a normal door without turning sideways, where we could safely leave our van. He clicked some fingers the size of Cumberland sausages and summoned an assistant to remove a vehicle from right outside the front door. We could park our van there he told us; it would cost only fifteen hryvnia – not much more than a pound – and it would be quite secure.

We looked at his face, which bore the scars of past disputes, and felt his word on matters of security could be trusted. It was a bargain. We drove up and parked between two big four-by-fours with blackened glass. It was as if our van was a local celebrity, protected by a couple of bodyguards. No local youth would surely risk plundering the contents and having to answer to the owners of the hotel and their associates.

Once parked, it was time to work our way through our exhaustive list of maintenance checks. These concentrated on the water level in the radiator (fine), the oil (down a bit) and the windscreen, which was caked in the multicoloured carnage of a thousand small insects. Our labours were interrupted by an amiable Australian accent.

'G'day guys, nice to hear English voices in this out of the way place; what brings you here?'

The accent belonged to a man of similar age to ourselves, balding, stocky and wearing a short-sleeved shirt, daubed paintbox style with many colours. We exchanged introductions, and explained the nature of our trip. He said his name was Bob, he came from Brisbane, and he was disarmingly frank about his own reasons for being there.

'I'm here to do a spot of shopping. I want a takeaway – a takeaway bride.' He laughed loudly at this well practised line. And, while he was content with the quality of the goods on offer, he was far from happy with the prices he was being quoted.

'They're far more expensive than they told me before I left Brisbane,' Bob complained, shaking his head sadly at the injustice of it all. 'I'll just have to keep trying to barter them down and get the best deal. Nice looking girls, though, no arguments on that front.'

With that consoling thought he wandered off to pursue negotiations elsewhere.

On the basis that when in foreign parts it's a good idea to eat where the locals do, we settled for the hotel's restaurant. It was rightly popular. Our homemade beefburgers came not only with chips, but also an assortment of roasted vegetables and a green salad, fresh produce which had seemed in scarce supply in other parts of Ukraine. Along with four pints each of Staropramen, the bill came to £12 a head, including tip. We felt wealthy, but I pointed out that our encounter with the Australian had shown there was a dark side to this economic disparity.

Geoff disagreed: 'What's the problem? If everyone involved is an adult and there's no coercion, then surely that's fine. Bob gets a bride, he's happy, a young woman gets to start a new life away from this dump, she's happy. Everyone's a winner.'

'It's got to be more complicated than that,' I insisted. 'I have no problem in a young woman wanting to get out any way she can. My argument is with Bob. He's about our age, bald, fat, has obviously failed to find an Australian girl to marry him, so he pitches up here where the women are good looking – but they're also poor and desperate. So because, in their terms, he's mega-rich he'll get some poor girl to agree to marry him for money.'

'Well that's not unknown is it,' Geoff retorted. 'How many rich blokes have younger wives far more attractive than them?'

'It's different,' I insisted. 'This is someone going from a prosperous country to one on the other side of the world that's poor and on its uppers in order to buy a woman. There's not even any pretence at romance or affection.'

'So you're saying that any young woman here should be denied an easy way out and has to stay to fall in love with a local lad who probably won't be able to find a job. Very considerate of you. I'm sure they appreciate it.'

'I'm saying that people in rich countries have a moral duty not to exploit the world's poor. I'm surprised you can't see that.'

We glared at each other across the dining table. We ordered another pint each and had a further go at convincing the other of the rightness of our argument, but we ending up failing and going round in circles.

We called it a day with the matter unresolved and went to bed.

I was quickly asleep but it wasn't to last. At around midnight I was woken by a cacophony of grunts from the neighbouring bed. Geoff had come up with a technological solution to the problem of how to get a good night's sleep. His ears were stuffed with the headphones from his MP3 player and he was contentedly snuffling like a warthog on the trail of a truffle while Steely Dan played on a loop and blotted out any extraneous sounds. As an effective tactic, I had to admire it. But my player, loaded with 500 of punk's greatest hits, was in the van. I tried stuffing tissue in my ears and putting a spare pillow over my head, but nothing worked. The decibel level was too great. One o'clock came and went, then two, then, as I tossed and turned, four and five until I dozed off as the room filled with the morning light.

The pound we had invested in secure parking proved money well spent, as our van had remained untouched all night. After the usual couple of circuits of the centre while we tried to find the road out, we headed towards the Russian border, about thirty miles away.

On the edge of Mariupol, we slowed to a crawl, our vision blurred by a toxic fog which enveloped the road and caused us to keep the windows tightly shut and the air vents closed. The source was a steelworks the size of a small county, with its own roads and rail system, and a collection of many chimneys each competing to win the title of that day's biggest polluter.

'Look on the bright side,' I told Geoff who was having a coughing fit and turning a sort of livid chartreuse in colour. 'At least there won't be any speed traps for a while. Even the money-grubbing Ukrainian police couldn't stand out in the open in this.'

Geoff made a hacking noise in response, which I took to be agreement.

Further down the road, floodlights and barbed wire fences gave away the presence of the border. The Ukrainians seemed a fairly relaxed bunch, not too demanding with the paperwork and showing an interest only in the packet of Marlboro we kept on the dashboard. I readily handed over the packet – we had another nine under the seat and if the reaction of the Ukrainian policeman had been anything to go by, we would be hard pushed to give them away.

Onto the Russian side, we were motioned to park while a mildly curious customs official studied our papers. I'd been to Russia a few times before and was always mindful of Basil Fawlty's advice to the Irish workman about to be upbraided by Sybil Fawlty for some shoddy work – 'For God's sake don't smile'. Russians regard smiling without very good cause as a strange and suspicious Western perversion. They favour the blank look, at least until a bottle or two of vodka has gone down, at which point they either start laughing or singing sad songs about the Motherland. It could always go either way. I explained where we were going.

'Why?' he asked, genuinely puzzled. 'Mongolia is very poor.'

I explained as best I could about it being a charity project, handing over the van once there, but he just shook his head, whether from lack of English, or from not being able to understand why anyone would bother doing such a thing, wasn't clear.

'Open the back,' he instructed. 'Any guns? Drugs? Syringes?'

I denied having any of the above. He opened the lid to the plastic box containing my medical kit.

'Needles? You have needles?' He mimed injecting himself in an arm.

'No,' I insisted, truthfully. 'No needles.'

'OK, you go.'

I was waved on to the next collection of huts where Geoff was waiting with a group of about a dozen lorry drivers on a raised platform outside one of the buildings.

We felt like the new boys in class, unsure of what we should be doing or even where we should be standing. Every so often the door to the hut opened and a driver emerged while another took his place. There was no formal queue – the drivers lolled around sitting on fences, leaning against walls, smoking, not saying much, but each knew who had arrived in which order and there was never a dispute about whose turn it was to go next.

After about half an hour I noticed that the drivers all had one thing in common – they were holding the same forms. Ones we didn't have. I used sign language to ask where we should get one and was directed to another hut across the road next to a security barrier. I went over, and outside was a shoebox full of blank forms. I picked one out. It was all in Cyrillic. I hunted through the box hoping to chance upon an English language version, but to no great surprise there weren't any.

Geoff and I studied the forms. Information had to be filled out, but as far as we were concerned it could have been asking for our passport number, what was the cubic capacity of our engine or how many units of alcohol we had drunk in the past week, a figure not dissimilar to the cc of the van. Further down the page, there was a series of questions with boxes to be ticked or crossed.

'Well, it's no good guessing,' I said. 'Tick the wrong box and we could be admitting to being well-armed drug smugglers with a series of infectious diseases.'

We stood staring at the forms rather pointlessly, as if the letters would suddenly change to reveal the English characters underneath. A border guard appeared from the nearby hut, smartly turned out in his uniform, a thick head of wavy blonde hair and an expression, although not actually smiling, at least not hostile.

'I wonder if you could help?' I inquired. 'We're English and I'm afraid we don't speak Russian.'

He took pity on us and motioned to follow him. He led us across the compound to another hut and exchanged words through the window with the woman inside. She indicated that we should hand over the forms, completed them in seconds and sold us some insurance for Russia. The friendly guard now gestured that we should return and join the queue of lorry drivers. Its composition hadn't changed much. There were about ten drivers waiting and it seemed to be taking around fifteen minutes to process each person. Even with my tenuous grasp of maths I could work out that was about a two and a half hour wait.

Our fellow drivers showed no sign of frustration or annoyance. This was part of their daily lives and they just accepted it stoically. But Geoff was finding it hard.

'Why can't they get a move on in there?' he asked, pressing his nose to the smoked-glass window of the hut. 'It looks like there's only one bloke inside to process all these people. Why don't they employ some more?'

It was a perfectly fair question, but one to which I didn't have an answer.

'You love all this, don't you,' he said, accusingly. 'All this Eastern European stuff. All this bureaucratic crap.'

The form he was holding was becoming crunched up into a ball of frustration.

'Won't be too long now,' I suggested, my voice artificially bright. I took the paperwork and smoothed it out. 'They've speeded up. I reckon it's up to one person every ten minutes.'

Geoff looked at me sceptically, not really buying it. Before he could challenge my assertion, there was a burst of activity. Not from the hut, but the road outside. A red Renault saloon was being driven at speed the wrong way towards the barrier. It skidded noisily to a halt in a shower of gravel and all four doors were flung open. Four men, all in plain clothes, got out, two of them dragging a fifth passenger reluctantly from the back seat, each taking an arm and pulling him the few yards into the nearby hut, from where the friendly Russian had emerged to help us with our forms. He made no sound and there were no cries of protest or calls for help. The driver stayed outside the hut, shouting instructions to another of the men who was crouched down recording the scene on a video camera. The door to the hut was left open and the cameraman took up position on the steps, filming whatever was happening inside.

'Jesus, what the heck's going on?' Geoff asked, in the way people do when the totally unexpected happens, even if they know there will be no explanation.

'Perhaps he ticked the wrong box on the form,' I suggested. But neither of us laughed.

The driver was now glaring up at us, pacing back and forth and looking agitated. He was a skinny man with stooped shoulders, somewhere in his mid thirties. He had a large beaked nose and his mouth hung open. He reminded me of a younger version of Rigsby, the character in Rising Damp played by Leonard Rossiter. Only not quite so funny. And now he was staring at the waiting area where we lolled with the lorry drivers trying unsuccessfully to look both unconcerned and disinterested.

Another car had arrived and the driver exchanged words with the man with the stoop. From the body language the new arrival was the boss. He was tall and broad, wearing jeans and a black polo shirt which clung tightly to his muscular torso. He walked slowly, calmly, looked around and looked directly at us. We studied our shoes. I had taken out my mobile phone wondering if I might sneak a picture. Now I put it back into my pocket and hoped that in my scruffy T-shirt I looked like just another local lorry man. I did not want to be bundled into a car and driven off while yelping protests that I was a British citizen and someone call the Embassy. I glanced back cautiously to the scene below. The boss had entered the hut, the cameraman outside continued recording. Then the boss re emerged, gave instructions to the cameraman who stopped filming, and told stoop-shoulders to move his car. The door to the hut was closed, the cameraman standing guard outside.

'Maybe they're making a film,' I suggested hopefully. Certainly the scene had all the ingredients of a spy drama and it would have been a comforting explanation. But we both knew that whatever was going on, it was for real.

The lorry drivers acted as if nothing untoward had taken place. A few sidelong glances to the scene below was all that betrayed their curiosity. No one spoke. No one called out 'Oi, what's going on?'. It was nobody's business. They just wanted to get the paperwork sorted and get back on the road. The slow wheels of Russian bureaucracy continued rolling and eventually it was our turn.

Inside, a plump middle-aged man sat at a keyboard. On his desk was a vase of fake pink flowers and a kettle. There were two hard chairs below a cracked window in which he'd stuffed some cardboard to try to stop the draught. A single bar electric fire glowed in the corner. He looked at us unhappily. His day was about to get a whole lot worse. We sat down and passed him our passports and documents for the van.

'Speak Russian?' he asked us, more in hope than expectation. We shook our heads. He sighed deeply and picked up our papers. They meant as much to him as the Cyrillic form had done to us. He said something under his breath which was probably the Russian for 'Oh my golly gosh, why me?' and looked despairingly from our documents to the new blank page on his computer screen with its many boxes, all of which had to be filled in. It was going to be a long job.

He was a kindly man and we clustered round the screen trying to help as best we could. I produced my Russian phrase book, and, although limited in its scope, between the three of us we managed, in about half an hour, to complete the job. Copies were printed, signed, filed, and we were directed to the next stop in the border complex.

On our way out, we drove cautiously past the hut where the action had taken place. There was no sign of life, and the door was firmly shut. We were waved through for a final bit of admin at another window before being released into Russia. The whole operation had taken three hours, but we were on our way with Rostov-on-Don, our next planned stop, looking achievable by late afternoon.

That feeling of optimism lasted about five miles.

Ahead of us loomed what looked like a mini border post. Warning lights flashed, there was a red and white barrier, a cluster of buildings and a temporary cabin. And a stop sign. But, as we approached, there was no evidence of anyone about. And the barrier was upright.

'It'll be fine,' I told Geoff, who was driving. 'I'm sure there's no need to actually stop. Just slow up a bit and potter straight through.'

'OK,' said Geoff, sounding a bit uncertain. 'If you're sure.'

As advice goes, this was right down there with the lookout on the Titanic who said 'This iceberg, I reckon we can just skirt round it'. Geoff did as he was bidden, slowed down but went past the stop sign. Within seconds several Russian police and army officers of assorted rank appeared from behind a parked car and, with an impressive display of weaponry, had surrounded the van and brought us to a halt. Our passports were inspected, the 'passport for machina ' examined, the back of the van peered into and we were told sternly that 'a very serious offence' had been committed.

More precisely, Geoff, as driver, faced the full wrath of the law, his driving licence and international licence were examined suspiciously and he was frogmarched off, a cop on either side, to the cabin nearby.

I was left talking to the youngest of the cops, an amiable chap who, although having no English, took an interest in our trip. Time passed quite happily with us both leaning on the bonnet, a map spread out in front of us while I traced the route with my finger.

After about half an hour when Geoff still hadn't reappeared, I thought I'd better to go in search of him to see if I could provide any moral support. Through the window of the cabin I could see him standing in front of a desk waving his arms in a gesture of apology while a doubtless very senior Russian cop sat stony-faced listening to his appeal for freedom.

He didn't seem to be getting very far and I felt we had wasted enough time, so I waved at him through the glass and tapped my wrist to indicate it might be an idea if he got a move on. He glared at me, so I found a sunny spot to sit until he reappeared.

After about another ten minutes a flushed and irritable Geoff was released from Russian custody.

'That,' he said, pointing an accusing finger, 'was all your fault.'

'You didn't have to listen to my advice,' I retorted, realising that as defences go, this one was unlikely to sway a jury.

'Don't worry,' he replied. 'I've learned my lesson. I won't be making that mistake again.'

He started up the van and drove off while I waved a cheery goodbye to the amiable young cop.

'Was there a fine?' I inquired once we were back on the road.

'Started off at fifty dollars, got him down to twenty.'

'Well done,' I said, once again genuinely impressed at his negotiating ability. To celebrate, I opened a packet of Bombay Mix and we pressed on, cautiously, towards Rostov.

Chapter Four

Go East Old Van

Eighty miles away was Rostov, a city of around 1.3 million people and an important trading centre occupying a strategic position on the estuary of the Don River. Over the centuries, empires and invading armies have recognised its significance. The Greeks were first with a settlement, followed by the Turks who swapped control with the Russians a few times before Peter the Great finally gained lasting control in 1774. The Germans made it a top target, occupying it twice during World War Two. On the road, we paused by a concrete monument remembering those who died in the fighting, in the shape of a horseshoe about a hundred feet high, blank on the outside, but inside depicting soldiers crouched in battle. To the casual passer-by it is both powerful and primitive, glorifying the soldier but in a way that is quite touchingly naive.

We parked near the golden-domed nativity cathedral and wandered round the market stalls clustered in the streets outside. I had been practising my best Russian to ask directions to our hotel, but it quickly became clear that my best, even applied to the few words needed, was some way short of getting the job done. English speakers have become lazy travellers, mainly because wherever you are in the world there will be someone to hand who speaks the language. Except in Russia. My efforts produced everything from occasional giggles from office girls to mild panic in older people.

'Are you sure you're asking for directions?' inquired Geoff after about twenty minutes. 'People are starting to look alarmed. Perhaps you're asking them to go back to the hotel with you.'

I ignored him and kept trying. Eventually a group teenaged girls, probably out of curiosity, stopped while I ran through my 'Excuse me, can you direct me to the hotel?' routine and, after repeating back what I had said several times among themselves, finally translated it into understandable Russian and gave me directions.

We arrived at reception and presented our booking form. We were a day earlier than planned, because we were trying to reach Volgograd the next day in time for their big annual Victory Day parade. We were anticipating this might cause difficulty and we weren't disappointed.

'This booking is for tomorrow,' said the blonde receptionist, accusingly.

'That's correct,' I confirmed. 'But we would like to stay tonight.'

'OK. That will be a hundred and twenty dollars.'

'No, I'm sorry, I did not make myself clear. We want to stay tonight instead of tomorrow. We have paid for the room in advance, so we just want to bring the booking forward by one night.'

Before I remembered where I was, I smiled. Damn. Bad move.

The receptionist looked at us as if I had requested some Class A drugs to be sent up to the room and inquired if she had any sisters who worked cheap. Actually, I think she looked more shocked at the idea that travel plans could be changed on a whim.

'This is problem. I will have to ask,' she told us in a tone which suggested the chances of anyone agreeing to such an unorthodox arrangement were pretty slim.

She disappeared into an office behind reception. Through the glass we watched as she explained our request to an older and more senior colleague. The second woman's jaw dropped open and her head swivelled round and stared at us. She said something which we assumed translated as 'They want to do what?!', took our booking form gingerly, as if it were contaminated with an infectious disease, and disappeared, no doubt to relay the outrageous nature of our demand ever higher up the management chain. After some minutes the receptionist returned.

'It is not possible without authorisation,' she told us, happily, as if playing a trump card which could not be bettered.

'OK,' I said, remembering where I was and getting into the Russian frame of mind, 'I will get authorisation from the senior manager at the firm which made the booking. Now, if you would just let us have the room key I can ring them.'

She hesitated. This response had not been anticipated. I held out my hand. She passed over a key, but kept hold of one end of it.

'You must get authorisation in email,' she said, attempting to recover some lost ground.

'Of course,' I replied, 'it will be done.' I gave my end of the key a quick tug and she let go. We grabbed our bags before she could snatch it back and fled to our room. After ten minutes the phone rang.

'Have you authorisation?'

'We're trying to get through to London. Having trouble with the line. Have sent email,' I lied in triplicate.

Ten minutes later the phone rang again. It was her boss sounding increasingly agitated and muttering that we had to ring someone in Moscow or face eviction. We decided not to answer any more calls and head into town. I reckoned that if we returned late enough, the day shift would have gone home, the night shift wouldn't know who we were and, in any case, wouldn't want to be part of what looked like a pretty horrendous cock-up by their colleagues:

'These two Englishmen arrived a night early and do you know what the day shift did?'

'Tell me.'

'Only gave them a room.'

'You're kidding.'

'It's as true as I'm standing here.'

There would be much shaking of heads, along with a desire 'Not To Get Involved'. And in the morning we could skip breakfast and make a speedy exit.

A plan in place, we wandered down the wide main street looking for somewhere to eat. It is a sound general rule in life never to enter a restaurant which has pictures of its food on the menu. But it came down to a choice between ordering blind in Cyrillic and plumping for pictures, so we paused outside a basement bar and examined the photos of the fare on offer. Many of the pictures were faded and hard to make out – there seemed to be assorted dumplings, some sort of red stew covered in cream and a yellow stew, also cream coated, and a plate with some plump sausages resting by a pile of fresh salad.

'That doesn't look too bad,' said Geoff, hopefully, his finger pointing at the salad. He had begun to worry about his diet and the sharply reduced intake of fresh stuff which it had undergone. 'At least you know what you're getting with sausages. And that salad looks great.'

I was happy to go along with his choice, so we went down the steps to the bar, found a free table and ordered some large beers from the friendly waitress and indicated we'd like two portions of the sausage salad.

She returned with the beers and a few minutes later with our food. A plate the size of a carving dish arrived piled high with a perilously-balanced banger mountain. There looked to be a couple of dozen of them, long skinny ones, standard issue sausages and huge bumper bangers about a foot long, bursting through their skins, the whole artifice glistening as if it had been sprayed with grease by the chef as a final finishing flourish. At the bottom of the plate, squashed beneath the pile of processed pork, sat two limp, pale green lettuce leaves. We both stared at the mound, silently contemplating the sausage fest which had been put before us. We made no move to begin eating and the waitress looked concerned.

'Is two portions,' she explained. 'Two portions, one plate.'

Hard as it seemed to believe, it dawned on us that she was worried we thought we were being chiselled out of our fair share, that the reason we did not immediately begin tucking in was because we expected another, similar sized, plateful to be produced.

We assured her all was well, quantity-wise, and ordered more beer. We were going to need something to wash these down. I stuck my fork in one of the smaller sausages and a spurt of grease shot upwards and caught me in the eye. I wiped it away, opened my mouth, took a large bite and chewed. Then I chewed some more as the lumps of fat proved a touch stubborn to break down. Geoff had made no move to begin eating.

'Not bad at all really,' I said, encouragingly, while crossing my fingers under the table. He looked unconvinced, which was not surprising as I was still chewing on the first mouthful.

'Think of the cholesterol,' said Geoff, his fork raised but his hand unwilling to strike the pile. 'Think of the heart disease.'

'Here,' I said, trying to cheer him up, 'you can have my lettuce leaf.'

Half an hour's chopping and chewing and we had made only a small impression on the pile. The waitress returned to inquire if all was well. We could have told her that there were five times as many sausages as we could possibly eat and please take them away and bring more salad. But we were English, after all, so made appreciative lip smacking noises along with assurances that they were 'Mmmmm, really good'.

After about an hour we reached sausage saturation point. We counted up the ones we had left. There were fifteen. Fearing that to return so many would cause grave offence to the chef, we surreptitiously wrapped up as many as we could in tissue paper and stuffed them into our pockets. Outside, we attempted to unpeel the tissue, but it had already melted into the grease, so we left them on a grass verge where we had seen some stray dogs sniffing around earlier in the evening.

At the hotel there had been the expected shift change. No one took any notice of us and the phone stayed silent. We rose early, left the key at reception and drove off without any more awkward questions.

The city of Volgograd is better known as Stalingrad – the scene of World War Two's most epic battle. Those who want the full story can do no better than read Stalingrad – Antony Beevor's gripping account. Up to 1.75 million people on both the German and Russian sides died in the fight to control the city which lasted seven months, from July 1942 to February 1943. The suffering of the civilian population was great. Hundreds of thousands of people starved or froze to death. Sometimes statistics are trotted out and easily absorbed. Sometimes they need pause for thought. That one needs some minutes of reflection. One-and-three-quarter million people. In a fight – often hand to hand – to win control of one city. At the end there wasn't much left but a pile of rubble. But the flag which flew over the rubble was Russian. They had inflicted a vital defeat on Germany – one which many military historians argue was a key turning point in the war.

The next day, 9 May, was the date the Russians celebrate as marking the end of the conflict in Europe, and in Volgograd, as in many other towns, it is marked by a big parade. But in few other places are the memories so poignant. An opinion poll a few years ago showed up to forty per cent of people would like the name of the city changed back to Stalingrad. It's been Volgograd since 1961, when Khrushchev ordered the new identity as part of his campaign to purge traces of the old dictator.

Volgograd today is an industrial city which stretches itself leisurely along the banks of the Volga River for about sixty miles. Its biggest industrial concern is a huge factory producing tractors and military equipment. Finding the centre was our first problem. We were driving along a six-lane highway which looked like taking us through the city and out the other side. There were no signs to give us a clue. Geoff was driving and I was the navigator.

'Let's try left at these lights,' I suggested, trying to sound as if I had a reason for believing that was the right direction. We came to another junction.

'Right here,' I instructed, pretty much picking a road at random.

More lights. 'Straight on.'

Another set. 'Left here.'

Geoff said nothing but I could tell his confidence in my navigation was frail. 'Straight on at this roundabout,' I asserted. In front of us was a wide square, tree-lined gardens surrounded by grand buildings.

'There it is,' I said. 'There's our hotel.'

Geoff was having difficulty trusting the evidence of his eyes.

'It can't be,' he insisted. 'It just can't be. It can't have been that easy.'

We pulled up outside while he blinked at the hotel sign in disbelief.

Because of the parade the next day, however, the hotel was full. They suggested we try another one nearby, across the square.

'Have you a room with two single beds?' I inquired, hopefully. I didn't want to set off into the Volgograd traffic again. And we would never be so lucky finding our way anywhere a second time.

The receptionist shook his head. 'No, all such rooms are booked.'

'Is there another room available?' I asked.

'We have a room with a double bed for five hundred roubles,' he suggested, hesitantly.

This was no time to be picky. 'We'll take it,' I told him.

There was a yelp of protest behind me. Geoff was shaking his head and going 'but, but, but'. The nightmare he had dreaded since the start of the trip was coming true.

'Haven't you any singles?' he asked, desperately, pushing me away from the reception desk.

If they'd had any singles available, surely they would have said so.

'Look Geoff, it'll be fine,' I insisted. 'I promise to stay on my side of the bed and not to fart.'

Geoff looked unconvinced. 'You should never make promises you can't keep,' he retorted.

But I was forgetting we were in Russia. Questions are answered correctly, but information is seldom freely given. I had asked for 'a room' and that is what I had been offered. The receptionist consulted his computer and confirmed that two singles were available that night.

'And how much are they?' asked Geoff, reaching for his wallet. If the receptionist had judged this correctly he could have made himself a good few roubles. If he had thought of a price and then trebled it, Geoff would have paid. In fact, it turned out that two singles were exactly the price of one double. Perfect. A room each, a snore free night and all for the same money. I owed Geoff a beer. So we decided to go and have one.

Outside, the square was being dressed for the next day's big parade. Red flags lined the pavement in the afternoon sunshine and the red white and blue of the Russian national flag fluttered from buildings. A stage had been erected, behind it a huge poster displayed a picture of a World War Two Russian soldier carrying a child in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other, a white dove of peace fluttering nearby. Another poster showed a crouching silhouette of a man carrying a red flag with the dates 1945–2009. Below him was a depiction of a medal with the hammer and sickle, symbol of the old Soviet Union. At the last local elections the people of Volgograd had surprised the pundits and rejected the candidate from Prime Minister Putin's party, United Russia, and chosen a Communist mayor. This could be an indication of a hankering for the old days, the old certainties, or it could be a reaction against the previous Mayor, a member of United Russia, who had been arrested on charges of 'illegal entrepreneurial activities', 'abuse of office' and 'illegal storage of ammunition'. To complicate matters further, there are some commentators on Russian affairs who believe the ex-Mayor's real crime was lack of sufficient loyalty to his party leader.

We crossed the square and found a bar with tables outside. This was clearly the place to go for the young and newly rich. The menu – cheap by Western standards but right up at the top end of aspirations for the average Russian – was in both Cyrillic and English. The customers appeared to be mostly in their twenties – young men with aviator sunglasses and T-shirts with Western slogans extolling 'Anarchy in the UK' and appealing that 'God Save the Queen'; the women stick-thin with long, highlighted blonde hair, sipping espressos and eating nothing. Every so often a BMW would pull up outside and another fashionable couple would take a table. They all seemed to know each other. The uniform drink of choice was not beer or vodka, but coffee. For the trendy young, rejecting the ways of their parents, alcohol was out.

One table was the exception. Three men, looking middle aged but probably younger, sat in the corner. The waitress looked at them with distaste but took their order. One beer. When she had gone, they reached under their table and produced a plastic bag. From it, they withdrew three paper cups, one bottle of vodka and one large sausage. This they cut into chunks with a penknife, downed the beer in one and happily shared out the vodka. Old Russia vs the New.

We'd skipped lunch so ordered an omelette with our beer. It arrived fluffy, light and perfectly cooked with a delicately arranged salad of red peppers and tomatoes on the side, decorated with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar and a basil leaf. We could have been in the West End of London.

Refreshed, we strolled down to the riverfront. This was the Volga, the longest river in Europe, 2,300 miles from its source between Moscow and St Petersburg until it empties into the Caspian Sea. It was wide, too. We stood and looked across to the opposite bank – there were buildings, but they were too far away to make out any detail.

By the pier, pleasure boats ran a shuttle service of sightseeing trips, while further out in the river working barges drifted downstream like floating pencils. A fairground had been set up and children queued for rides, while teenagers threw darts at a balloon stall. Burst one and win a soft toy. Like fairgrounds everywhere, no one seemed to succeed. We felt relaxed, happy in the knowledge that the next day was a day out of the van, our first – we had to change hotels, but that was only a matter of a hundred-yard walk, rather than a 400-mile drive. We joined in the holiday atmosphere and took lots of pictures and generally behaved like regular tourists.

In the evening the weather turned and a thunderstorm trapped us in our hotel. We pressed our noses to the windows, keen for it to stop so we could do some more exploring – but there was no let-up, the streets quickly flooded, the gutters unable to cope with the torrent of water. It had to be the hotel's dining room.

We pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered. It was a huge room with a triple aspect, tables laid around the edge by the windows, only two of them occupied, one by a young couple, another by a party of about ten; two families it appeared, each accompanied by an old man smartly dressed in a dark suit and tie, their jackets weighed down with an extensive collection of medals – two of the surviving veterans of the battle there as a living reminder to the younger generations. Every few minutes one of the party would rise to their feet and make a speech, which would be followed by a round of vodka toasts, glasses filled and downed in one.

We waited to be shown to a table. The middle-aged waitress arrived, looking flustered and unhappy, her lined face creased readily into a frown.

'Have you a table for two please?' I asked, pointing to a table and holding up two fingers. This, I reckoned, would be a pretty easy one to answer. There were about fifteen free tables, any one of which would be fine by us.

The waitress replied with a question in Russian and pointed to a ledger in which were written reservations for that evening. The page looked almost blank.

'Ah, no,' I replied, shaking my head. 'We do not have a booking.'

The waitress sighed heavily and looked round the nearly empty dining room wondering if she could justify

turning us away. Reluctantly, she decided that, perhaps, we could just be squeezed in but made her displeasure clear by ignoring the tables by the windows and seating us at an unlaid table in the middle of the room, where she left us for five minutes before returning with a cloth and cutlery. These she set out, with more heavy sighing accompanied by a fair bit of banging and tutting.

The menu had an English translation and we ordered some beers while we studied it.

'Oh good,' said Geoff, brightening as he read through the choices. 'Lots of vegetables.'

The waitress returned to take our order.

'Chicken and chips please,' said Geoff. 'And some broccoli.'

The waitress shook her head.

'Some spinach?'

'Nyet.'

'Peas?'

Another shake of the head. The waitress took the menu and pointed. From the extensive vegetables section there was sweetcorn. Take it or leave it. Geoff took it and I ordered the same. Plus another couple of beers for the vitamin value.

Next morning the skies had cleared and the crowds gathered in warm sunshine for the parade. Along one side of the square the dignitaries assembled – politicians and civic leaders rubbing shoulders with senior military officers. And in pride of place were the veterans, the survivors – a couple of hundred of them, their numbers dwindling by the year. Before them paraded today's youthful military, pale young men whose hats seemed too big, brass bands and, incongruously, a troupe of women drummers in tall feathered hats, red jackets and white miniskirts looking more like a collection of American drum majorettes. We watched respectfully from the edge of the crowd, detached, like mourners at a funeral at which we hadn't known the deceased.

Speeches were made, a singer took the microphone for an emotional song or two, cannons were fired, then it was over.

The crowds had circled the square forty deep, older men in jackets and ties, teenagers in shell suits. Some took photographs, others watched silently, others still – women and men – wiped away tears. Children were raised onto the shoulders of their fathers for a better view. Now they moved off, all heading for the same destination, the Mamayev Kurgan, a hill a couple of miles from the centre which saw some of the fiercest fighting for control of the city. In 1967 it was topped by a remarkable monument – The Motherland Calls – commonly known as the Mother Russia statue.

Now Mother Russia is a big girl – 300 feet high, made of concrete and weighing in at around 8,000 tons. She's no pussycat either. Her left hand brandishes a sword high into the air, her right appears to be beckoning her followers who are lagging some way behind. Her mouth is open, as if shouting an exhortation to them to get a move on. However, she has a problem. Owing to having been plonked down without proper foundations on soggy ground, she's leaning – a sort of Russian Tower of Pisa. So far, her list has reached about eight inches. Experts think another couple of inches and she could topple over. It's estimated that it would cost more than five hundred million roubles – about five million pounds – to put it right, money the city says it can not afford.

None of that bothered the tens of thousands of people who snaked up the hill to pay their respects. There are 200 steps up to the monument, representing the 200 days of the battle, and the crowds lined them from side to side. Along the way some veterans stood enjoying the sunshine. All except one.

He stood smart in his uniform, shoulders back, a small, neat man, rows of medals filling every inch of his chest on both sides of his jacket. There must have been about fifty of them. And he looked as unhappy as a hero can be. The reason for his pained expression was standing next to him, and towering at least a foot above him. A full figured woman, late middle age, wearing a billowing purple dress and a necklace of pearls. Think Hyacinth Bucket's Russian cousin and you've got it.

She was keeping alive a rather charming tradition of reading a poem to a veteran eulogising their deeds. It looked like one she had written herself, in a large A4-sized notepad. And it was plainly a long poem. She had turned many pages of the notepad and showed no sign of slowing up. It was an epic poem. It made Coleridge's The Rime Of the Ancient Mariner, which certainly goes on a bit, look like a work which had been cut short in its prime. I suspected she had been composing it since the last Victory Day parade, probably putting in twelve-hour shifts and working at weekends.

'Do you reckon they'd mind if I took a photo?' Geoff wondered.

'You could ask,' I suggested. 'It would certainly make a good picture.'

Geoff hovered around for ten minutes or so, not wishing to interrupt the woman, who was now approaching the halfway point in her notebook. He caught the eye of the veteran and raised his camera, adopting a questioning expression. The old soldier stepped forward, shook him by the hand and patted him on the shoulder as if he were a long-lost nephew.

A photo would be fine, he indicated. More than fine. An excellent plan. He'd be pleased to oblige. Now, where would Geoff like him to stand, perhaps over the other side of the square, next to those colourful balloon sellers, that would make a good backdrop. He steered Geoff by the elbow, leaving the woman standing there, paused mid stanza. I tried to follow as the veteran bobbed and weaved past the candyfloss stands and the hawkers offering Russian flags, eventually taking up a position on the edge of a small park. He looked around him anxiously, indicated Geoff should take his picture sharpish, then turned to go.

He had taken no more than three paces when she caught him, stepping from behind the cover of a large oak tree. She held him firmly by the wrist, waved us goodbye, and flicked through the pages of her notebook trying to find where she'd left off.

He looked pleadingly at us, but there was nothing we could do for him. Guiltily we left and walked back to the city centre, pausing to watch a procession by bearded monks of the Russian Orthodox Church, well turned out in their brightest orange vestments.

With the parade over, we checked out of our hotel and crossed the square to the one we had pre-booked.

'Would you like me to register you?' inquired the desk clerk. Russia is a country which likes to keep tabs on where people are. Travelling from place to place, it's essential to get each hotel to register your presence with local officials – or if they can't, to collect assorted pieces of paper with official looking stamps and keep them safe in your passport. If you don't, it can mean bother when you try to leave. We'd missed out on registration in Rostov because of the difficulty over the room and yesterday had been a public holiday. Now it was good to find a hotel employee volunteering to do this small chore without being asked. I confirmed we would like this service.

'Well I cannot register you, it is the weekend,' came the reply. I almost expected him to add 'So there, yah boo sucks, ha ha ha'.

Next morning, we lingered over breakfast of bread and jam. We were in no hurry to leave. Our day off had broken the routine of get up, get in the van and drive. We had done more than 3,000 miles in ten days. Now there was another 300 to do, following the Volga River south to Astrakhan. That would be our last stop in Russia before crossing into Kazakhstan. We packed our bags in the back. Geoff started the engine and moved off.

'Have you got the case?' he asked after we'd gone a few hundred yards.

The case was our most precious possession. The case was a slimline brown leather number with an embossed picture of Red Square in Moscow. I had found it in an antiques shop in Chipping Norton. It held everything important to us. Our passports. Driving licences. Insurances. And about three hundred dollars. It always lived tucked behind the passenger seat so we both knew where it was. Only when I turned round to check it wasn't there. It was my case. I looked after it. This time I'd failed. Geoff parked and turned off the ignition.

'I had it earlier,' I confessed. 'I'm sure I picked it up when we left the room.'

'Maybe it's in the back with the bags,' suggested Geoff.

We opened the back door and took the bags out. No sign of it. We both looked. Then, absurdly, as if we might have somehow missed seeing it, we looked in all the same places again. Then I checked below the front seats. Then in the road around the van. Then, with an increasing sense of desperation, I ran back to the hotel.

I arrived red-faced at the reception desk. The clerk saw me coming, waited until my breath returned enough to begin speaking, then before I could finish my sentence, reached under the desk and produced the case. He almost grinned.

The drive out of town was quiet. It was Sunday morning and most people seemed to be having a lie-in. Including the owners of petrol stations. Our fuel gauge was dangerously into the red, but we hadn't been unduly worried. After all, we were in a big city, we were taking the main road out. There would be plenty of opportunities to fill up.

'There's one on the right,' I said to Geoff. He indicated to pull over, then cancelled the manoeuvre. The garage had a red and white metal chain across the entrance.

'OK another one over there, 300 yards on the left.'

Geoff swung round. It was open. We scanned the three rows of pumps for the symbol denoting diesel. Then we looked at each pump again. There was none. We turned back onto the main road. Passed two more garages, both shut. Then another, which didn't stock diesel. We were reaching the edge of the city now. In the back, our four empty jerry cans rattled mockingly. We'd planned to fill a couple of them before leaving Russia for Kazakhstan. Now it looked like we should have taken that precaution a little earlier.

'There's just got to be somewhere,' I insisted for no particular good reason, as Geoff's eyes flicked anxiously between the road and the fuel gauge. I took a discreet look at the road map. There didn't seem to be a town of any significance between Volgograd and Astrakhan, almost 300 miles away. We couldn't take the risk of leaving town without filling up. Ahead was another petrol station – on our side of the road. It looked quiet. Geoff pulled in. There was no one around. Then a car pulled up beside us, the driver got out and began filling his tank. And there was a diesel pump.

'Thank God for that,' said Geoff. 'That was getting much too close for comfort.'

He filled the tank to the brim, and one of the jerry cans as well. He returned from the kiosk at a trot, and started the engine.

'Right, let's get going. That should get us to Astrakhan without any more delays.'

The first delay came after about half a mile. The Russian cop was probably bored, there wasn't much on the road and the sight of a van with English plates was too much to resist. He waved his baton at us, and we pulled over.

I reached behind the seat for our case with our papers, feeling doubly grateful to Geoff for having checked whether it was there. The cop was young and seemed amiable, giving us a grin which displayed a fine collection of gold teeth. Traditionally, it's claimed, people in the former Soviet states had gold teeth so there would be enough money to bury them when they died. Now it just seems to be as much a part of the police uniform as a gun and a big hat.

We got out of the van and handed over our passports and visas. He looked at my place of birth.

'Liverpool? Liverpool good team. Steven Gerrard. You watch Liverpool?'

I thought of explaining that, in fact, I was a lifelong supporter of Tranmere Rovers but we had 300 miles to drive and there was no point in creating delays.

'Yes, Liverpool good team,' I agreed.

'Chelsea better,' he grinned displaying enough gold to pay Tranmere's players a week's wages. 'Roman Abramovich. Rich man.'

Perhaps to the cop's surprise, I was perfectly happy to agree that, yes, Chelsea were a much better side.

'Where you going?' he asked, but in a tone which suggested just curiosity.

'Astrakhan next stop,' I told him. 'Then, eventually all the way to Mongolia.'

I pointed at the London–Ulaanbaatar sticker on the side of our van.

'Mongolia, why?' We were used to that question by now and I went through the familiar routine.

'To help children,' I explained, holding my hand about three feet off the ground and patting an imaginary child on the head. 'For charity.'

The cop looked puzzled. Geoff tried to make things clear. 'We like to help children,' he said, patting a whole row of imaginary children and then miming embracing them. 'We raise money for them.'

The cop was now looking extremely alarmed. He stepped back a pace and his tone of voice changed.

'Money for children?' he asked, trying to check he'd got this right. A serious misunderstanding was developing.

'Geoff,' I cautioned, 'I think he's got the wrong end of the stick here. He thinks we're going to Mongolia to purchase some kiddies.'

Geoff paled as the potential consequences sunk in. I reached for my Russian dictionary, looked up 'charity', and pointed urgently to the 'Save the Children' sticker on our windscreen. The cop relaxed and gave us back our documents.

'You English. You crazy.' Crazy was OK. We were happy to concur. He waved us on our way and we left Volgograd behind and took the M6 to Astrakhan.

This M6 differs in a number of significant ways to the one which runs between London and Birmingham. It has temporary stalls by the side of the road at which fishermen sell their catch from the nearby Volga; it has far less traffic and far more sheep and goats. These animals graze by the side of the motorway, then, reflecting on the old saying that the grass is always greener on the other side, cross it pretty much at random.

We dodged them all as we headed south, reaching Astrakhan by late afternoon. The hotel we'd booked before leaving home was near the river and looked smart, seven storeys high, with a major refurbishment going on. Sadly, it's always unwise to judge a hotel by its cladding. Our room was as it had been when the hotel was built, perhaps forty years before. And the hot water was cold. Again. This was tough. It wasn't like we'd been to public school. We weren't used to cold showers.

We took our maps and went to sit on a bench by the Volga. There were flower baskets hanging from lamp posts and couples strolling hand in hand. But the river had been running through Russia for a couple of thousand miles and many factories had dumped into it. It flowed slowly, like thick gravy, and carried an industrial smell. This didn't put off some local men who stood by the railings, fishing rods dangling into the murky water. I found it hard to decide whether they'd be lucky to catch something or lucky if they didn't.

We opened the map and looked at the way to go. Astrakhan lies close to the Caspian Sea. Turn right, if coming from the north, and in just over 150 miles you get to Dagestan, probably one of the most dangerous places on the planet. An Islamist rebellion had spilled over from neighbouring Chechnya and there had been frequent attacks on the Russian police and security forces, and government ministers. Beheading was a popular way of despatching captives. Journalists, too, were a regular target for the extremists. More than 300 had been murdered in the previous fifteen years. Kidnapping was a thriving local industry – Western aid workers had been a prized target until most of them pulled out. On the other side of the argument, local people complained of innocent relatives being taken away by the security forces never to be seen again.

Turn left, on the other hand, and in under fifty miles you get to Kazakhstan. That seemed like a good incentive to make sure that we were on tip-top form next morning regarding navigation.

'So once we've crossed the border, before we're back in Russia again, it's how far do you reckon?' asked Geoff.

'At least three thousand miles. It'll mean we'll have done almost seven thousand by the time we reach Siberia.'

'And the roads…'

'Are bad.'

We looked at the map contemplating what lay ahead. The last time we had studied it in any detail had been in Geoff's dining room. Then it had been a long way off. Now we were nearly in Asia and the unfamiliar place names were about to become real.

'Let's hope it's quicker getting out of Russia than getting in,' said Geoff.

'We didn't do too badly. The only thing they seemed concerned about was whether we had any needles.'

'Who was concerned about needles?'

'The soldier who checked in the back of the van. I think you were off getting a form stamped. Or torn in half. Or something. Anyway, it's OK, we haven't got any needles.'

Geoff looked at me and he didn't look happy. 'I have.'

'You didn't tell me.'

'You didn't ask. It's a sensible precaution. What if we have an accident and get taken to hospital?'

'Well the Ruskies were very keen to know if we had any. Perhaps they'd take that as evidence of drug use or something. I don't know. Anyway, we've now got to get out of Russia and into Kazakhstan then in and out of Russia again a couple of weeks later. What do you want to do?'

Geoff was torn. He went silent as he weighed the risks of potential bother at a few borders against the knowledge that the needles were there in case of medical emergency. It wasn't a happy choice. After a few minutes he stood up.

'I'm going to throw them away,' he announced and walked back to the van.

That night we had an informal sleep rota. Two hours of sleeping and snoring, two hours of tossing and turning and cursing the noises coming from the adjacent bed. In the morning, there was still no hot water, but there was the compensation of a friendly chap on reception who drew a map to help us navigate out of town.

After about twenty miles we came to a hut by the side of the road, a barrier blocking our way. I consulted the map. It seemed too soon to be the border. An elderly man, his skin weathered and dark brown like crinkled leather, leaned out of the hut and held out his hand. I offered our passports. In a steam of Russian, sprayed at us from a mouth which held few teeth, he made it clear that passports were not what he wanted. Our fallback offer of a packet of Marlboro was also rejected with similar vehemence.

'I think he wants money,' said Geoff.

I reached for my wallet and pulled out an assortment of small denomination notes. The man in the hut reached down and sorted through them. He took one, the lowest, equivalent to about fifty pence and returned the rest. If he wanted a bribe he was easily bought. To our surprise, he then issued us with a receipt and raised the barrier. We inched forward cautiously. Around a corner was a pontoon bridge over the wide Buzan River. It was a toll bridge. Kazakhstan, and Asia, lay just down the road. We approached it cautiously. The river was the colour of drinking chocolate and we were very close to it. The steel sections of the bridge were held together by clamps and we could see the joins. Water was sloshing over the surface. It was either from the river or it had been raining especially heavily. We hoped it was rain. The bridge gave a little shudder as we drove onto it, causing a ripple in the sections ahead of us. Geoff kept to the middle, going slowly, not speaking. A local van had no such inhibitions, catching us up halfway across and tooting for us to pull over to let it through. It was probably about a quarter of a mile from bank to bank. It felt like five miles.

By mid morning we had reached the border. I'd kept a copy of assorted Russian forms we'd had to complete on the way in, and, using these as our template, we were quickly through to the Kazakh side. There, a helpful woman filled out our vehicle registration form for us and changed some money. The usual ritual of shuffling from hut to hut with assorted pieces of paper was proceeding smoothly until Geoff reached the customs shack. The officer inside beckoned him to lean forward through the hatch. A brief conversation took place. Geoff's head reappeared.

'He wants a present,' he informed me.

'What sort of present?'

'Well, his suggestion was a hundred dollars. I offered fags and he got quite offended. Said cigarettes were bad things and he didn't want to risk his health. Said he liked to play sport and keep fit. But don't worry, I think we've agreed a compromise.'

Geoff opened the back of the van, rooted round in his bag, and reappeared with two old T-shirts, both of which displayed the BBC logo. He returned to the customs shed and held them up by the window. There were enthusiastic gestures of approval from within, the T-shirts were passed through the hatch and we were on our way.

Clear of the border, we parked near a cafe and an assortment of weather-beaten huts. Inside one of them, we had been told, we could buy insurance for the van. It was now lunchtime and they all appeared to be locked. We asked around and were directed to an old railway carriage, set apart on some waste ground. We knocked on the door. Nothing. We sat and pondered our next move when a window opened and a voice asked us, we assumed, what it was we wanted. We explained as best we could holding out the Russian insurance form as an example. The window was shut, the door opened and a man appeared wiping his lunch from the corner of his mouth. He beckoned us to follow him to one of the huts. Inside was a wooden desk and chair and a filing cabinet. The man was short and lean, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and an assortment of tattoos. He sat behind the desk and examined our vehicle documents.

We had now been joined in the hut by several of his friends. They were not the sort of insurance salesmen we were used to. These looked more like the type of chaps the local TV news showed being escorted into a police van after a successful drugs raid on a dodgy housing estate.

The man behind the desk pulled a form from a drawer.

'How long you want for insurance?'

We hoped to cross Kazakhstan in two weeks – to allow for delays we asked for three weeks' cover.

The salesman named his price.

'Insurance, three weeks, a hundred and fifty dollars.'

We gasped in protest.

'No, no, too much. We're not paying that. That's far too dear.'

A uneasy silence settled over the hut. The man behind the desk fixed us with a dark eye which suggested that, unlike the customs officials, he wasn't used to dropping his price for rich westerners. A couple of his friends moved to the door in case we contemplated a speedy exit before the matter in hand had been resolved.

'A hundred and fifty dollars,' he repeated, carrying on filling out the form.

He completed the section for vehicle details and moved on to people. He picked up Geoff's passport and flicked it open. He looked at the photo. Then he looked at Geoff. He put down his pen and grinned. Then he chuckled. It was a jolly chuckle, the chuckle not of a man about to rob a couple of travellers, but the chuckle of a friendly uncle in an indulgent mood.

'Haw haw haw,' he spluttered, pointing at the photo. He said something in Kazakh, and passed the passport to one of his henchmen while the others clustered round. If the boss was happy, they were happy too and the hut filled with warm laughter. I tried to take advantage of the change in mood.

How much, I inquired, would the insurance be in tenge, the local currency.

The boss punched some numbers into his calculator. In tenge it would be 5,000. I took my ready reckoner from my pocket. The cost had been cut dramatically – to £22.50. Either he was a bit hazy about the exchange rate or Geoff's passport picture had caused such a happy mood that he was able to offer a once-in-a-lifetime-never-to be-repeated bargain price. Either way, this was no time to hesitate. We shook hands on the deal, handed over the cash and headed sharply back to the van.

Chapter Five

One Small Steppe for Van

Kazakhstan is a big country – the ninth largest in the world. That makes it about the size of the whole of Western Europe. And yet it's almost as if it's been hidden from view. The only time Kazakhstan hit the headlines around the world was after the release of Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. The portrayal by Sacha Baron Cohen of a fictional TV journalist and his home country had nothing to do with reality – but that didn't really matter. For most people, Kazakhstan was a blank canvas on which could be painted an alternative truth with impunity.

The Russians had found it useful that no one thought too much about Kazakhstan, which was part of the Soviet Union from 1920 until it declared independence in 1991. It was, most notoriously, used as a nuclear testing ground. A site, near the city of Semey in the north, was the scene of more than 450 explosions over forty years, a programme which has left a legacy of cancer and birth defects; in the south, Aralsk was once a thriving fishing port until the Soviet policy of diverting a couple of rivers to boost cotton production left it high and dry; and many of the gulags – the prison camps for those considered politically or socially undesirable – were in Kazakhstan. Probably the most famous gulag inmate, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, spent several years in the early 1950s in the camp at Ekibastuz in the north, and was later sent into internal exile at Kok-Terek in the south.

But independence has brought a change of fortune. Kazakhstan is oil rich and has a huge stock of minerals – gold, silver, copper, lead and uranium are all to be found in significant quantities. Some cities have the feel of gold rush towns – four-wheel drives and four-ale bars abound. However, it's a country of geographic and social extremes – and there are plenty of towns and villages which have yet to sniff the heady aroma of petrodollars.

We drove away from the border on a smooth tarmac road. The sheep and goats which had wandered across our path in southern Russia had now been replaced by cattle and camels. The landscape was flat and featureless and the vegetation mainly scrubland. There had been steady rain for days and the villages that we passed looked like urban outposts marooned in a sea of soggy sand, single-storey homes with corrugated iron roofs, their boundaries marked by rusted wire fences. Not much sign of an oil rush there, although the occasional nodding derrick on the horizon showed there were riches hidden underneath the poor soil.

'How far to Atyrau?' asked Geoff, who was at the wheel.

Atyrau was where we planned to stay the night, the first major town we would come to if we kept to the road, which followed the edge of the Caspian. The name means 'The place where the river flows into the sea'. In Soviet times, fishing had been the main industry; now the huge oil fields nearby meant Atyrau was boom-town territory. But not for everyone. Our excellent Bradt guidebook, written in engaging style by the British Ambassador to Kazakhstan, Paul Brummell, pointed out that the oil bonanza had created resentments as not all had reaped its rewards. Atyrau, he cautioned, was one of the less safe cities in Kazakhstan.

I peered uncertainly at the map, trying to read the distance through the scratches on the lens of my glasses. I had brought three pairs of reading specs with me, but had treated them cruelly, tossing them onto the dashboard when I had finished using them, from where, when we hit a few bumps, they would slide to the floor. I was now paying the price of such casual disregard.

'I can't see,' I complained, tilting my head to try to get a clear line of sight through the marks on the lens. 'Hang on, I should have another pair somewhere.'

I fished around in the pocket of the door, another storage area for my glasses but one which contained its own hazards in the form of a collection of pens, phone chargers and packets of batteries. The pair of glasses I withdrew seemed to be see-through, but the arms were bent and misshapen. I tried to straighten them out and one snapped off.

'Ooops,' I said, apologetically.

Geoff sighed deeply.

'Here, borrow mine,' he instructed, fishing a pair from inside the front of his T-shirt, where they lived in comfort and safety.

'That's much better,' I confirmed, able to see clearly at last. 'Three hundred and thirty-eight kilometres, that's…' I struggled with the maths.

'That's two hundred and ten miles,' said Geoff, knowing that unless he chipped in with the answer, the next ten minutes of the journey would be filled with my mental fumbling along the lines of: 'That must be about two hundred, no, hang on, it's more than that. Maybe two hundred and fifty. No, no, bear with me, probably not quite that much.'

And so it would go on. Geoff had several times explained the conversion formula to me which involved a lot of multiplication and division, processes impossible without a fairly advanced calculator.

'These specs are in very good condition,' I said admiringly, holding them out and examining them.

Geoff's frustration with my behaviour showed through.

'That's because I look after them. I don't just chuck them about. I don't understand why you treat things like that. They're bound to get scratched. And, honestly, what's the point of having spectacles if you can't see through them?'

All of which was true. It was just that, well, they were only spectacles. They cost £1 a pair from my local supermarket.

'I'm a victim of the disposable society,' I argued in my defence. 'My only crime, your honour, is in not bringing enough pairs.'

I met an unsympathetic response. 'That pair I just lent you. They cost £1. They were the ones I asked you to buy for me about three years ago. I don't need to carry a suitcase full of spectacles around because I look after them. That way they last. And they are usable. They do what spectacles are supposed to do. I don't have to incline my head about forty-five degrees to see through them.'

This was turning into a piece of dialogue from The Odd Couple Go Stir-Crazy After Spending Too Much Time in a Small Van. We needed something to look forward to to lighten the mood. A night in a tent wasn't going to cut it.

'They have nice hotels in Atyrau,' I told Geoff, examining the entry in the guidebook.

'Really?' He looked hopeful. But he wasn't sure if he could trust me.

'Oh yes,' I assured him. 'Big, modern, comfortable, clean sheets, hot water and everything. And I've got a proposition for you.'

Geoff was looking a bit anxious now but I knew how to tempt him. I had an offer he couldn't resist. 'We could get two single rooms.'

Geoff said nothing. He just moaned, softly. The last couple of nights had combined a shared room with loud snores and cold showers. The prospect of a room each, a clean bed and warm water provided a holy trinity of hope.

We pressed on, enthusiasm renewed. For the most part the road surface was good and there was little other traffic, though big, wheel-breaking potholes became more frequent as we neared the town.

Atyrau sits in a flat plain around the Ural River. Banks, modern apartment blocks and tall hotels are visible evidence of economic good times. We checked in to an international hotel which delivered all the facilities promised in the guidebook – at a price. But it seemed one well worth paying. We had now driven more than 3,500 miles. We assured each other that we deserved a treat. We might not get another chance for a while. The rain had stopped, the evening was warm and we sat in the hotel garden. To complete the expat experience we ordered cheeseburgers and fries. We were happy.

At the next table a man on his own gave the waitress his order in a broad Scottish brogue. We introduced ourselves. His name was Alex and he was an oilman. Wiry, muscular, short cropped hair. He looked tough. And as he described life on the rigs in the Caspian it was clear he would have to be. It got hot out there. Very hot. Often above forty degrees in the heat of summer – while in winter the number was the same, only with a minus sign in front of it. The spring brought mild temperatures – but also mud. The drainage around these parts couldn't cope with the rains, Alex told us. He pointed to a trough outside the entrance to the hotel with what looked like a broom propped up against the wall.

'All the shops and hotels here have those,' he said. 'It's so you can wipe the mud off your boots before you go inside. Then after the mud come the mosquitoes. Swarms of them. Very determined biters they are too.'

It didn't sound like a great place to spend your working life. There must be compensations.

'Oh aye,' Alex conceded. 'The money's good. That's for sure.'

And he insisted there was plenty of oil waiting to be brought to the surface.

'There's huge reserves down there. Just in the Caspian. When it all comes on stream this country is going to be the ninth biggest producer in the world.'

He asked us what brought us to Atyrau and we explained about our trip. Alex raised his eyebrows.

'Well, I hope it's an old and battered van you're driving.'

I thought he meant that only such a van would be suitable for Kazakhstan's notorious roads and I laughed.

'Well, I'm sure it'll be a bit battered by the end of the trip. But it's in quite good order at the moment. We've got a four-wheel drive and it had a thorough health check before we left. I think it'll cope with the conditions.'

'It wasn't the roads I was referring to. I meant if it was old and battered you'd stand less chance of getting it stolen. What you've got to understand is a nice four-wheel drive van is going to be a highly desirable object to a lot of people in this country.'

'Is that a real risk?' I was hoping the answer was going to be along the lines of 'No, not really, only kidding'. Alex looked thoughtful.

'Is it just you two or are there others travelling with you?'

Just us, we confirmed. Alex puffed out his cheeks at this news.

'Well, let's put it like this. There are a few very rich people in Kazakhstan but many more very poor ones. And where you've got that sort of mix in any country in the world you're going to get crime. And the criminals here all carry guns. So, if I was doing your journey I'd just take sensible basic precautions. Don't drive when it's dark and try to stay somewhere secure at night.' He caught sight of our anxious expressions and added: 'And of course most people will be kind and hospitable.'

We thanked him for his advice and he said good night. He had a helicopter to catch at an early hour. We ordered another cold Russian beer.

'Well if anyone's going to point a gun at me and ask for the van, I'm handing over the ignition key,' said Geoff.

I agreed. 'Absolutely right. I only hope they don't ask for the service history because I left that at home.'

We sipped our beers thoughtfully and looked around. Our eyes didn't have to rove far to observe the contrast Alex had mentioned. Next to the hotel was an older building, a typical former Soviet-era housing block, flat fronted, grey concrete, crumbling at the edges. Washing lines were strung across balconies. The rooms overlooked the well-manicured hotel garden, with its cooling swimming pool. Those who lived in the flats could observe the prosperity the oil had brought, if not share in it.

Back in our rooms we turned up the air conditioning, turned down the sheets and turned in. There was a hard day's drive ahead of us, around four hundred miles to the town of Aktobe. We hoped the road would stay as good as it had been so far.

Next morning, that hope lasted about thirty miles. Then the potholes began. Geoff dodged and weaved around them. Most of them. Some were unavoidable.

'I think I shall probably have to write a letter to the local council complaining about their road maintenance department,' he suggested.

We both laughed. We wouldn't have if we had known what was round the corner. As the surface deteriorated and the rain started to beat down on the roof of the van in an angry drumroll, we reached the town of Makat. I don't want to be too hard on Makat. Nowhere looks its best in the wet. And a serious mud problem is only going to make things worse. But Makat was a town to sink the spirits. Treeless, featureless and filthy, it straddled the main road, which, according to our map, ran straight through the middle and out the other side. Except it didn't. It seemed to end right there. We bounced around exploring every turning we could find. All were dead ends, or took us round in a circle back to our starting point. Makat was the end of the line.

We knew we needed to head east. Following our compass brought us to a factory on the edge of town. The road ran to a security gate and stopped. We pulled up. Behind us two lorries appeared. But instead of heading through the factory gates, a collective madness seemed to grip the drivers and they turned off the road, straight into a sandy bog.

I once went on an office trip to the British Army tank training ground on Salisbury Plain. That stretch of land has had years of abuse. Many tanks have bounced across its surface, their caterpillar tracks churning it up, then others have followed and made it a bit worse, then still more have come after. The Challenger battle tank can now find some stretches hard going. It was into a very similar environment that the two lorries were driven.

'They'll never get through that,' said Geoff, shaking his head.

But the lorries, big Russian-built sixteen-wheelers, pressed on. We watched as their drivers coaxed them steadily through the ruts, their vehicles lurching together like two drunks on a dance floor.

'Well,' said Geoff as they disappeared from view. 'I'm bloody glad we don't have to go that way.'

I agreed. But the question remained, which way did we go? At that moment a woman appeared through the factory gates, picking her way slowly across the puddle-strewn pavement. I got out of the van and approached her with my map.

'Excuse me, can you help us?' I asked. 'We're trying to find the road to Aktobe.' I pointed to our destination.

She looked at the map and nodded to show she understood. Then she turned and pointed into the bog by the side of the road. The one the lorries had just lurched across. There must, I felt certain, be some mistake. It was probably my fault for not making myself clear.

'I'm sorry,' I said, 'we need the road to Aktobe. This town here.' My finger pointed to our destination on the map and I spoke slightly louder in the way we Brits are programmed to do when dealing with foreigners who are a bit slow understanding us. There was also a touch of desperation in my voice. But she had understood the first time. And her directions weren't going to change. She pointed firmly into the wasteland. I thanked her, weakly, and returned to the van.

'Well, the good news is she knew the way and was able to give me directions.'

'Great,' said Geoff, turning the key in the ignition, 'let's get out of here.'

'I'm afraid the bad news is that the road is that way. Where those lorries went.' I nodded in the direction of the swamp.

Geoff resisted the temptation to retort with one of those clichéd responses – 'You're joking', 'You can't be serious', 'You're having me on'. Instead, he stayed silent, slumped in his seat. Then he pressed the clutch in, selected low ratio four-wheel drive, and inched forward off the road.

We didn't get very far. In fact, we got about ten yards. Then we stopped, stuck. Our chunky off-road tyres were useless because there was nothing to grip onto. Only mud. Deep, oozing, clinging mud. I opened the passenger door and looked down. It was unclear how far I would sink if I jumped out and tried to give the van a push and it would almost certainly be a waste of effort. I decided to stay put and offer a few helpful suggestions instead.

'Try reverse,' I counselled.

'I was just about to,' Geoff replied, a touch curtly.

He changed gear and released the clutch tentatively. The wheels spun, sending an arc of mud spraying upwards, but then one of the tyres found something to grip onto, perhaps a few pebbles, and we squirmed backwards for about three feet. Geoff put the handbrake on and we sank, settling down softly with the mud just below the door sill.

'Try again,' I urged. 'Aim for that little lump of ground on the right.' I pointed to a small semi-dry island.

Silently, he put the van into a forward gear, second this time to try to avoid so much wheel spin, eased the clutch out gently, and turned the steering wheel slowly in the direction of the lump of land. The van groaned then lurched forward and we were moving. We were going sideways, but it was progress. We bumped up onto the island and paused. Ahead of us we could see the tyre imprints the lorries had left behind. The mud at the bottom of the tracks had been compacted by the weight of the heavy vehicles, giving us hope we could find a better grip.

Geoff aimed for them, pointing the front of the van towards the ruts. They were too deep for us. We ended up resting on a mud shelf, while the wheels turned uselessly inches above the ground below. We sat there and felt ourselves gradually sinking. Then with a joyful spurt of mud in all directions the wheels found grip again and we were away.

'Well done,' I shouted. 'Great stuff. We can do it!' adding, pointlessly, 'Just keep going.'

'Well I had considered stopping to admire the view, but perhaps we should press on,' said Geoff, wearily.

We continued slithering along in the tracks left by the trucks for about a mile until, gradually, we reached firmer ground. Then, across our path, was something which had once been a road, a line in the sand which retained enough of its tarmac to be an identifiable surface.

We pulled onto it and stopped. The lorries were long gone and there was no other traffic. The rain had eased, so we got out and inspected our van. It was as if someone had sprayed it with a high-pressure mud hose. Our London–Ulaanbaatar stickers near the roof had disappeared. The rear door and window were caked in dirt an inch thick, the lights and number plate hidden under a mud camouflage. We cleaned off the worst to give ourselves some visibility and pondered which way to go.

The road stretched away to the left and the right across semi-desert scrubland. We had by now lost all sense of direction. Aktobe, we knew, lay to the east. The compass told us that it was to the right, so we turned the wheel that way and carried on. We had more than 300 miles still to do.

We drove saying little, Geoff still at the wheel. We used the full width of the road to dodge and weave around potholes as best we could, fearful of the damage we could do to a tyre or suspension if we hit them at any speed.

'It can't get any worse,' I suggested.

That, of course, was a foolish thing to say and within a few miles the road changed from one which was merely broken by potholes to one which looked like it had been used as target practice by warplanes on a bombing run. These weren't potholes any more, they were potcraters. Most of them were half full of water so their depth was uncertain. We inched cautiously down into them. They were big enough to swallow the van whole. We could have drowned in there. We changed position and I took over the driving.

Geoff studied the map.

'We're never going to make Aktobe at this rate.'

It was looking increasingly unlikely. The road was now one long series of holes, connected by short stretches of rough ground. We ploughed on, mile after mile, taking whichever side of the road seemed smoother. There was virtually no other traffic so it never mattered if we were on the left or the right. Even when there was a rare oncoming lorry, it didn't seem to concern the driver and we would bounce by each other, maintaining our chosen course. Often we'd then switch to where the other vehicle had been in the hope its driver knew something we didn't. But it never seemed to be any better.

'The other man's potholes,' I observed, philosophically, 'are always shallower.'

The vegetation began to change, the scrubby grassland thinning out to give way to sandy desert. We noticed that from time to time others had given up on the road and taken to rough tracks through the sand which ran alongside. Occasionally, we would take these and for a time they'd seem smoother and we would make better progress, then they would be bisected by a gully which was brimming with water after the recent rains and we would have to divert back to the road, and the few precious minutes we had saved would be lost.

As dusk began to fall, we still had around a hundred miles to go.

'We should think about stopping and pitching camp, somewhere out of sight,' suggested Geoff. 'We don't want to end up driving in the dark.'

I was about to agree when, on a hillside a few miles ahead, I noticed something which gave hope.

'Geoff, what do you see up there?' I asked, wondering if perhaps my eyes were playing tricks.

He raised his head from the map. 'A road?'

'Yup, but what colour is it?'

'It's black,' he replied, an edge of excitement in his voice. 'All of it. Continuous black like, well, like it's smooth tarmac.' He whispered the words as if to speak them out loud would cause the road to disappear like a mirage.

'That's what I see too.' I had been prepared to accept that I was hallucinating, but not both of us. 'And if it's like that all the way to Aktobe, then…'

Geoff interrupted. 'It won't be.'

'But if it is, and if we can average say, fifty miles an hour,' – I was keeping the maths simple here – 'then we could be there in two hours. In time for dinner!'

Geoff shook his head sorrowfully at my misguided optimism. And he was right. It wasn't smooth going all the way. A few miles down the road it changed back to a broken surface and I slowed. But soon we were on a decent road again and doing 50 mph in fifth gear. We carried on with hope renewed. For about thirty miles we followed a Lada. Its driver knew the road, knew where to swerve, when to take the opposite side. We stuck together, as close as a couple of tango dancers, and I felt a sense of betrayal when he finally turned off. But the surface was more consistent now and the miles started to fall away.

'We are going to do it,' I insisted.

We went through a village and were stopped at a police checkpoint, but they were only curious, saluted as they approached the van and after a quick document check and inquiry as to where we were going we were on our way. I pressed on, grimly determined. It was now dark but we could see the lights of Aktobe in the distance. We turned off what looked like a ring road and took a route we hoped would lead us to the centre. By some traffic lights was another police patrol. Again, they were courteous, and confirmed we were on the right road for the middle of town. The lights changed to green, we crossed the junction – to be stopped by a third patrol. Aktobe, we felt, should be a peaceable and crime free place given the amount of cops on active duty. We asked directions to a hotel and were pointed down the road we were on.

We reached what we felt must be the centre. A tree-lined square, a few bars and cafes, a railway station, a cinema. But no sign of a hotel. We parked and walked round. A couple of people indicated we should go back the way we'd come. Perhaps we hadn't noticed a hotel in the dark. We returned to the van, I started it up and put it into reverse. The van juddered and groaned, moving in fits and starts as if I'd left the handbrake on. I tried first. Same result.

Geoff looked anxious. 'That doesn't sound too good.'

I then realised I'd left it in four-wheel drive. Essential for the sort of conditions we'd just driven through, but not good for low speeds on tarmac. In those circumstances, the van wanted two-wheel drive and it wasn't in the mood to compromise. It was tired and so were we.

'It's OK,' I reassured Geoff, 'I'd just left it in four-wheel drive. It makes that noise if you try to move off on a hard surface. I'll put into two-wheel drive. It'll be fine.'

Geoff looked highly suspicious at this claim of some mechanical knowledge. It was as if I'd expressed a fondness for mental arithmetic and challenged him to a race converting kilometres to miles.

I selected two-wheel drive and tried again. The van shook itself, squeaked that it really wanted a rest, trembled a few times at being asked to do yet more miles and reluctantly moved off with enough bangs and clunks to attract the stares of passers-by. We did another circuit of the town, peering through the gloom for a hotel sign. Nothing. We found ourselves back in the same square and stopped near a group of teenagers. One of them was the centre of attention, a sort of Kazakh version of The Fonz – tall, tight jeans and a 1950s quiff. He had an admiring crowd of girls around him, probably because of his looks but also because he was leaning against the driver's door of a red Lada twirling a bunch of car keys. Among the local youths, he had high status.

'Do you suppose,' Geoff suggested, 'he might be persuaded to drive to a hotel while we follow?'

'It's worth a try. If that doesn't work, there was a lay-by on the road in. We'll just have to park there and camp or kip in the van.'

Geoff crossed the road and returned in minutes. 'Yup, he'll do it. He wants money of course and prefers dollars.'

'Whatever he wants it's fine with me if he gets us to a hotel which has beer and beds.'

Shaking a girl off each arm, our guide started up his car and beckoned us to follow.

We drove out of the square down to some traffic lights a few hundred yards away, turned right, took the first left, then the first right which brought us straight to a hotel tucked away off the main road between two blocks of flats. We had been so close. The journey had taken us about four minutes. Our guide sauntered over.

'Hotel,' he gestured with his left hand, while holding out his right. 'Ten dollars. Welcome to Kazakhstan.' He grinned. It was a huge sum for such a short journey, but the request was delivered with a smile and, the fact was, we could have driven all evening without finding the hotel. We paid him and entered.

The hotel was modern, a wide staircase leading up to a first floor reception. The girl at the desk seemed surprised to be disturbed and even more surprised to be asked if there were any vacancies. She confirmed they had rooms free and we booked two. It seemed hard to go back to sharing after the pleasure of the previous night's uninterrupted sleep. And to cheer ourselves up further we booked for two nights. It was now nearly 11 p.m. and the thought of getting straight back into the van for another hard day's driving was easy to resist.

We were given the keys to rooms one and two. The hotel looked quiet. We suspected we might be the only guests. The bedrooms were large and modern, newly carpeted with bathrooms attached and the added luxury of air conditioning.

We dumped our bags and inquired about getting something to eat and drink. The receptionist directed us up another flight of stairs. The bar, she said, was closed but she would find someone to open up for us. There was also a lounge available for use by residents.

We set off to explore. On the floor above was a wide hallway, with a heavy wooden door to the left and the right. Geoff pushed open the one on the right, I went for the left-hand side.

'You simply have to come and see this,' Geoff called out. I joined him. The door he had opened led to the residents' lounge. That is to say a residents' lounge from an English castle circa 1670. A lounge in which King Charles II could have stretched out his legs and felt at home. The first things that struck you, unexpected in Kazakhstan, were the suits of armour. They stood to attention in a line, four of them, against a wood-panelled wall. At the far end of the room was a huge, stone-built open fireplace, big enough to spit-roast a whole hog. Embroidered flags were draped from the thick wooden ceiling beams. The seats, showing an eclectic influence from a later period, were rococo chaise longues. There was no one else there. I wondered who had drawn up the plans for the hotel and what the brief to the interior designer had been.

'We could be getting a lot of English oilmen coming through this way and we want them to feel right at home. I'm thinking tradition, I'm thinking pewter tankards, pikestaffs, pig roasts… now go to it.'

'Dare we,' I asked, 'see what the bar is like?'

We pushed open the other door together. This was a much bigger room. Big enough to hold concerts. We deduced that from the stage at the far end and the wooden dance floor below. Around the dance floor, on a raised platform, were about a hundred tables, each laid for dinner with a white cloth, each untroubled by any diners. Against the opposite wall was a bar. That was empty too.

'You want beer?'

The voice behind us startled us out of our contemplation. It belonged to a boy, probably not out of his teens, wearing black trousers and a white waiter's jacket. He looked anxious. We confirmed beer was a good idea and sat at a table by the window.

'Is there any food?' I asked him when he brought our drinks. He looked even more worried and gestured to say he did not understand. I reached for my Russian dictionary and found the words for potato and fried. He nodded and disappeared.

A few minutes later he returned with a plate piled high with pale, slightly soggy crinkle-cut oven chips and a bowl of tomato sauce. They were warm, they were food and I tucked in stabbing them with my fork like a spear fisherman. Geoff, however, seemed too tired to eat and was worrying about the van.

'We'll have to get it to a garage to have a look at that noise. God knows how we'll manage that. And God knows if they'll be able to fix it.'

'It'll be OK,' I said, attempting reassurance through a mouthful of reconstituted potato. 'It just needs a rest. It's come nearly four thousand miles. It'll be fine in the morning. It was just the four-wheel drive objecting to tarmac.'

Geoff gave me a look which implied my opinion on anything mechanical was not worth uttering. 'If it's making that noise tonight,' he insisted. 'It'll be making it tomorrow.'

'Well maybe, maybe not. Nothing we can do about it now. Have a chip.'

But Geoff was too worn out and too anxious about the journey for his mood to lighten. We ordered two more beers while I finished off the chips in silence and we went to bed.

I slept well, but Geoff was less lucky. His room had been stuffy and he'd left his window open. The local mosquitoes had seized their chance to nip in. And nip him. He sat and scratched at the breakfast table. Like the night before, we were the only customers and the waitress inspected us with a slightly puzzled expression.

'You want breakfast?'

We confirmed we did.

'OK.' It was an OK which said: 'Really? You sure? Oh, very well then.' She disappeared and returned some minutes later with a surprise. In keeping with the faux English décor of the public rooms, she produced a faux full English breakfast. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage and tomatoes – plus a local touch, a basket of dense black bread.

For me, this was a welcome start to the day. For Geoff, it was yet another disappointment on the food front. It's not like he was hard to please. Some rolled oats and a few dried prunes and he'd have been a happy man. As it was, he picked at the bread, poked his egg with it and ate his tomato before pushing his plate aside with a heavy sigh. I hated seeing fried food go to waste.

'Well, if you're not going to eat that…' My fork hovered hopefully above his plate.

'Help yourself. Then when you've finished we can inspect the van.'

The last piece of his bacon was just in my mouth and he was on his feet. There was no putting it off any longer.

'Ready?' he inquired.

I eased myself up reluctantly from the table, reflecting on the old saying about the condemned man eating a hearty breakfast. Or, in my case, two hearty breakfasts. I passed Geoff the key to the van and followed him outside. I believed the van would be OK. But it was faith rather than rationality. If I was wrong, it could be a long job trying to find someone to put it right.

I sat in the passenger seat and Geoff put the key in the ignition. I moistened my lips. Are you feeling lucky, punk? The van made my day. It started first time and the big diesel engine chugged happily. Geoff selected reverse gear. The van moved backwards smoothly, with not a hint of reluctance. Not a rattle or a moan. He put it into first and it moved off uncomplainingly, eagerly even.

I said nothing. There was a road test to come. Into second and out of the car park. The van was driving like it could do 300 miles before lunch. On a piece of waste ground nearby, Geoff put the van through a series of Top Gear style manoeuvres. Full lock left, then right, back into reverse, sharp acceleration forward, an emergency stop. We both listened for any untoward sound. There was none.

'I think it's going to be OK,' he said, his voice tinged with disbelief and relief in about equal measure. If this had been a movie, violins would have played and the two old men watching from the corner of the car park would have wiped away a few of tears before shouting 'The van – she lives' and hugging each other, hats thrown into the air in celebration.

'Great,' I said. 'Let's walk into town, stock up on food and water and then have a beer.'

We came to a main road and paused to cross opposite a garage. Had we needed to find someone to repair the van we wouldn't have had to go far – here, in this small Kazakh town a long way from anywhere was a Nissan dealership. Full marks to the Japanese export drive.

We crossed roads awash with brown puddles, tiptoeing along the few pieces of drier ground. The local housing, although standard Soviet-issue blocks of flats, was low- rise, and most homes looked out onto tree lined streets. Small shops were well stocked, and the assistants friendly when we called in to replace some basic supplies. Near the centre, a park boasted an outdoor stage, surrounded by colourful flags. Overall, Aktobe gave the impression of being a comfortable provincial town – nothing too flash, you understand, but doing alright, thanks.

It's not a regular stop on the tourist trail. Anyone compiling a list of attractions for a 'Top Ten Sights in Aktobe' leaflet might get to number three and start chewing their pencil. Its most honoured daughter is Aliya Moldagulova, who is remembered with a couple of statues and a museum devoted to her life. Aliya, for those unfamiliar with her story, was one of the most successful female snipers to serve with the Soviet Army in World War Two, dispatching ninety-one German soldiers before being killed in battle in 1944, aged just eighteen. She was posthumously awarded the title Hero of the Soviet Union. Our guidebook told us that newly wed couples came to her monument to be photographed and to lay flowers at her feet. Once you get tired of visiting the statue, there's a planetarium on the edge of town.

It was quite warm and we found a bar with an awning to shelter us from the rain so we could sit with a beer and some nuts and watch the world slosh by. A deaf and dumb street seller approached us with a couple of ballpoint pens and an optimistic price tag – a lot for him, not much for us, so I bought two.

Back at the hotel, our van had attracted the attention of a couple of local blokes who were peering in through the windows. We shook hands, and, going through a now fairly well-established combination of mime, maps and pointing I outlined the nature of our trip. I drew my finger along the main road to our next planned stop, the town of Aralsk, about four hundred miles away. Was the road bumpy or smooth? They looked at each other with expressions which said 'Should we tell him the truth? Oh boy.' They winced, made wave motions with their hands, shook their heads and tutted. The road was bad.

'All the way to Aralsk?' I asked, copying their gestures and pointing to the town. They nodded. Oh yes. Duane Eddy once released a song called 'Forty Miles of Bad Road'. He should have visited Kazakhstan. He'd have added a zero. Actually, make that two zeros.

This was going to be more than one day's journey, and according to the map there was no town to find a bed for the night anywhere around the halfway point. Then I spotted another road, shorter than the main route and with a town called Shalkar by a lake at around midway. I looked it up in the guidebook. It confirmed there was accommodation there – huts, basic, but in a great position in woods by the lake shore. It cautioned that the lake supported a large population of hungry mosquitoes so I decided not to mention that bit to Geoff, who was still itching from the bites of the previous night.

'I think I might have found us a better route,' I told him.

He looked suspicious. 'Show me.'

'It's here.' I tapped the map. 'We've heard the main road is in a bad state and the chaps in the car park confirmed it. Plus there's nowhere to stop. Now if we go here,' I traced the alternative route with my forefinger, 'we actually save miles and there's a town by a lake around halfway where we can get at least rent a hut for the night.'

Geoff looked at the map and looked back to me. He wasn't happy.

'It's a yellow road,' he pointed out, a rising note of alarm in his voice as if a yellow road also indicated the presence of a leper colony. 'We can't go down a yellow road.'

'Well, we were on a red road yesterday and that was barely driveable. It just can't be any worse. And if it's the same, at least it's a shorter distance.'

I could tell he wasn't reassured. He peered at the map for some time as if hoping that a third, previously unspotted smooth highway might suddenly appear. As it was, the choice was between one which was definitely awful and one which was probably awful. And he allowed himself to be swayed by my enthusiasm.

'Well, I suppose we might as well give it a try. Like you say, if it's equally as bad, at least it's not so far.'

Next morning we checked out and the hotel reverted back to its guest-free state. The first fifty miles were fine, but that was no surprise because we were retracing our steps as far as the town of Kandyagash where we would turn off. The tarmac held for about another hour, then the first potholes started to reappear and we were back to dodging and weaving. We headed south into a range of hills, beautiful on another day but bleak and lonely in the grey drizzle. We saw little other traffic now and the road had become a gravel track.

We crested the brow of a hill and looked down in horror. Below was a flat plain stretching in all directions as far as the eye could see. And the road had disappeared, replaced by a sea of mud. It was as if there had been a volcanic eruption from the hills, mud instead of lava spurting forth and spreading across the valley floor. We knew where the road should be because for the first few miles it was marked by a scattering of lorries and trucks, lying stranded at strange angles. Of their drivers, there was no sign. They might have been there for weeks. Longer. There could be skeletons in those cabs.

'Bloody hell.' Geoff spoke for us both. There was no way round, no other road we could take. It was a straightforward choice. Try to get through or spend the rest of the day going back to our starting point. We sat for a while with the engine ticking over and just looked.

'We don't know how far it goes on like this,' I pointed out. 'It might be OK ten miles down the track.'

'You're driving,' said Geoff. 'It's your choice.'

I selected low ratio four-wheel drive. The van's engine note changed, seeming to become deeper, more muscular. The wheels gripped tightly to the surface as the additional power went down. This van felt like it meant business, as if it were bracing itself for the task ahead. After all those years in the service of Anglian Water, all it had really yearned for was a challenge that would take it to the limit. Bring it on.

I crawled down the gravel slope towards the mud. Geoff straightened in his seat and took hold of the grab handle above the door. Then we were into the mud, following others' tracks at first, slowly, more slowly than walking pace, but steadily making progress.

Our first abandoned lorry lay just ahead of us, its trailer jackknifed across the road. I turned the wheel cautiously to ease past. The road was on top of a raised embankment at this point and on either side was a steep twenty-foot drop into a marshy bog. The steering failed to respond; we were carrying straight on. Straight for the side of the lorry. I touched the brakes as gently as I dared and we slowed almost to a stop. A rut provided a little grip and we crawled around the lorry, inch by inch. But we were still moving, and going in the right direction. We carried on, past the other abandoned vehicles. We were easing ourselves by one lorry when a face appeared at the side window. The man watched us with interest. He waved his arm as if directing traffic. Keep going.

'I wonder how long he's been there,' mused Geoff.

'And how long he'll have to stay there,' I added. 'Nothing's going to be able to tow him out. There's no choice but to wait until the weather changes and the mud firms up.'

The thought that this could be several days or even longer was a sobering one, had we needed sobering. But we had seldom felt more temperate. The road climbed gently as we reached the far side of the valley.

'Perhaps once we've got over this hill it will be OK,' I suggested. We were pinning a lot of hope on that. We'd done about ten miles and it had taken us over an hour. We still had about a hundred to go to the lakeside town of Shalkar. Even my maths could manage that speed, time and distance equation. Slowly we crawled up the hill, craning our necks to see over the brow. At the summit there was a bitter disappointment awaiting. Another valley. Another sea of mud. There were no abandoned vehicles this time, but there were wheel tracks. Someone had got through. This gave me a glimmer of hope. If we could keep going we would get clear, no matter how long it took.

We swapped seats after a few hours and Geoff took the wheel. Slowly, imperceptibly, the conditions began to ease. They were still atrocious – but at least we had options. Where the road earlier had been banked up, leaving us no choice but to stick with it, now it was level with the surrounding countryside and there were other tracks by the side. Sometimes, we took these and were able to get up to about thirty miles per hour in third.

At one point we were overtaken by a pickup truck, its back filled with workmen being taken home. They hung on to the side, and each other, as it bounced and swayed, abandoning the mud road for a wet, sandy alternative which ran parallel. We followed, hoping to piggyback on their local knowledge. It worked well for a few miles, then the pickup came to a gully and there was no way across, even for them. The workmen waved at us to retreat the way we had come.

A few miles further on we caught up with a van, about the size of one used for small removals, being driven with extraordinary skill given its total lack of suitability for the conditions. We kept pace behind it, slewing this way and that, like trying to walk on ice in greased shoes. A sharp incline brought it almost to a halt and we passed, the driver and his two passengers giving us cheery waves, unperturbed by the conditions.

Then, as night fell, we could see the lights of Shalkar on the horizon. So near – perhaps twenty miles – but that was at least an hour and a half's journey.

'We're not going to make it,' said Geoff.

I agreed. 'You're right. It's not worth trying. If we got to the town it would be pitch dark, then we'd have to try to find these huts in the wood. It's not going to happen.'

We were driving along one of the tracks by the side of the road. We stopped and considered our options. Geoff stuck his head out of the window.

'Well, I don't fancy trying to pitch a tent in this bog.'

Neither did I. 'OK, that leaves a night in the van. We can manage. Let's find somewhere to stop, I'll get some food going, we can eat and turn in.'

We drove on slowly, looking for a place to park. There was nowhere obvious. The road had the more solid surface, beneath its layer of mud, but every so often a local vehicle would weave its way along it and being parked in the dark didn't appeal. Geoff had a real concern that if we just stopped on one of the sandy tracks there was a danger of us sinking during the night, particularly if it started to rain heavily again, as it was threatening to do. By the side of the road we spotted a patch of slightly higher ground, perhaps half the size of a tennis court. We bounced across the scrubland and parked on it. Jumping out of the van caused us to sink to the top of our shoes, but it was as solid as we were going to find.

I set up a camping gas stove on the bonnet, boiled some water and cooked couscous, chucking in a packet of peanuts for protein. Behind the driver's seat was our emergency bottle of Scotch. And right then the conditions ticked all the qualifying boxes. We opened it and each had a good slug. The van we had passed earlier drove by us tooting a cheerful tattoo on its horn – those inside felt like comrades in arms and we waved back enthusiastically, watching as its lights disappeared.

'I reckon there's some better road up there,' said Geoff. 'It seems to have picked up speed and isn't lurching so much.'

Another vehicle came by and we studied its progress carefully. It was true. About a mile or so down the track the surface definitely improved. Too late for us tonight, but an encouraging thought for the morning.

The rear lights faded and we were alone. Or we would have been but for a high pitched whine in the van. Then there was another. Then a third. The mosquitoes from the lake down the road, or their first cousins, had found their way in and were hoping for dinner. And we were the main course. We needed some heavy-duty protection. Our spray released only a gentle mist which we doubted would be enough of a deterrent, so we unscrewed the top, cupped our hands, and filled them as best we could, closed our eyes and soaked our face, neck and the inside of our ears. Then we filled our hands again and gave our hair a shampoo.

The van's seats reclined only a few inches before hitting the barrier which separated us from the goods area – far less than on an aircraft. But we'd had years of snatching a snooze sitting at our desks on a nightshift, and we wrapped our sleeping bags around us, rolled up our jackets for pillows and dozed off in a haze of whisky fumes and insect repellent, disturbed only by the sound of mosquitoes coughing and spluttering.

In the early hours the rain returned, heavy and hard, beating a noisy tattoo on the roof of the van. Cramped and uncomfortable though it was in the front seats, I was grateful not to be under canvas. I dozed off again, happy to be dry.

Our sleep lasted until 5 a.m. when we were woken by an enthusiastic tapping on the side window where I was resting my head. I sat up with a jolt. Outside a couple of lads were grinning, apparently delighted to find company in this remote spot.

Although a touch resentful at having been woken so abruptly, we shook hands and exchanged greetings. They stuck their heads through the van window and chatted among themselves about us and our gear. Their car was on the road at the top of the embankment, an old Russian Volga of the sort still used as taxis all over the former Soviet Union. More lads were appearing from it, another three hurrying down the embankment to meet us and carrying – I noticed with a certain alarm – several bottles of vodka.

Even by our fairly relaxed standards about when it was or wasn't appropriate to have a drink, 5 a.m., still rubbing the sleep from our eyes, seemed a bit early to start. Not to mention the risk of breaking whatever the local laws were on drink-driving. Impolite as it might have seemed, we agreed it was time to make our excuses and leave.

'Well, at least it means we've got an early start on the road,' I said, determined to see the positive side as Geoff encouraged the van up the embankment and back onto the main track. 'I make it only about a hundred and forty miles down to Aralsk. We should be there nice and early.'

'Hmmm,' said Geoff. 'Let's hope so.'

We had been right about the road surface improving. As we approached Shalkar, the potholes became fewer and there was evidence that the repairmen had been out and about. We skirted around the edge of the town looking for the road to Aralsk. There was no one to ask – most people were still asleep – and there were no road signs.

'I'm glad we didn't bother pressing on last night,' I commented looking round at the scattering of poor, single storey houses separated by puddle-strewn tracks.

'Nothing here to stop for,' agreed Geoff. 'And no sign of those lakeside huts the guidebook mentioned. Must be a few miles further on.'

We came to a crossroads and had to make a choice. We stopped and studied the map. It showed a rail track running in the direction we wanted. According to the map, we needed to keep it close by on our right. We could see a rail line ahead, but no road running alongside for us to follow. This wasn't too surprising. By now we had become used to finding that the map, with a scale of one to three million, was sometimes an approximation of the facts on the ground, especially in the more out of the way places. And there was often more than one rail line. We drove over the tracks and carried on in what the compass told us was the right general direction.

We both thought that yesterday we had coped with the worst road conditions Kazakhstan could throw at us. But we turned a corner and found that it had one more trick up its sleeve – the 'sunken subsided road'. We stopped the van and released what is usually described in these circumstances as a torrent of expletives. Ahead of us it was as if the land had been quarried, leaving behind pits which had filled with water. They were more than ponds; they were lakes, dark and still. Big enough to hire rowing boats on. A few small, grey islands broke the surface. The road dropped steeply for perhaps thirty feet then stretched for several hundred yards, a thin ribbon of mud between the two biggest lakes. There was no way round. To the left an alternative track ended abruptly in mid-air where the road had collapsed beneath it. To the right were more pools connected by thin strips of mud unsuitable even for someone on foot. We could see the road emerge steeply from the pit on the far side of the lakes and continue into the distance. That was the way it had to be.

'It could be worse,' I said. 'At least it's stopped raining.'

Geoff seemed to take little comfort from this observation and eased the van cautiously down the incline. This was genuinely scary. Yesterday on the worst of the mud roads there had been, perhaps, a twenty-foot drop down an embankment. Had we left the road we would no doubt have damaged the van, but the likelihood was we would have been fine. If we left the road now, we would end up in the unknown depths of the lakes to either side of us.

No words were exchanged between us as we crossed the ribbon of mud at slower than walking pace. The squelching under the wheels seemed amplified in the quarry-like conditions, and I could feel the van's uncertain grip. I licked my lips. My mouth was dry. It probably took about five minutes to cross, but it felt like several hours. Then, a quick burst of acceleration and we were up the hill on the far side.

'Terra firma,' breathed Geoff.

'Firmer terror,' I responded.

We carried on, the road veered to the right and the compass became increasingly unhappy. We stopped and studied the map again. We were both reluctant to admit it, but from the way the road was curling, away from the rail line, it was clear we were on the wrong route. This was taking us in the opposite direction to our destination.

I had several goes at speaking the following words and managed it on the fourth try: 'We've got to go back.'

Geoff nodded. We swapped seats. It was my turn to take on the quarry. I tried to find a different way round and ended at the top of a small hillock with nowhere to go. In front of me, to the left and to the right, the land had fallen away, taking the road with it. The edges were wet and jagged and it looked like more of the earth would go the same way at any moment, especially if, say, anyone was foolish enough to drive up in a vehicle. There was no room to turn round. I reversed back and picked up the tyre tracks we had made on the first crossing. I followed them, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Like a climber told not to look down, I was determined to avoid glancing to the left or the right. After a drive which seemed to last for several days, we were through again and out the other side.

We worked our way back to the rail line. There was a signal box beside the road and a man inside. We stopped and he came out to greet us. We explained where we wanted to go. He walked round our van inspecting our tyres and nodding in approval. Then he mimed a question – were we four-wheel drive or two-wheel drive? Four, we confirmed. He nodded again, satisfied.

'Aralsk,' he said and pointed down a footpath by the side of the tracks. Not for the first time in Kazakhstan we questioned directions from a local. But this time we really must have misunderstood. It was just a sunken, sandy path through fairly dense undergrowth. The railman insisted. That was the road. That was the way we must go.

I turned the wheel and headed down the path. It was just wide enough for the van, a twisting track hemmed in on both sides by bushes and stubby trees. But others had indeed been that way, leaving wheel ruts behind. Once the van was in them, it steered itself as if it were a fairground ride. I put my hands behind my head.

'Look Geoff, no hands!'

The van hit a deep rut, rose in the air, then sank back to the ground landing with a bang which caused the whole vehicle to shudder. Geoff shuddered too.

'Owwww,' he called out, as if he had felt the van's pain himself.

I put my hands back on the wheel and slowed down. This was no place to spring an oil leak or lose an exhaust pipe.

Half an hour's weaving through the woods brought us to a clearing. Ahead of us stretched a vast semi-desert. Our course, a sandy track with grass growing down the middle, cut through it like a faint scar. To our right, running almost parallel, was the more solid line marking the railway. We had seen no trains, but this evidence of human activity was comforting. We set off, glancing at it from time to time. It made us feel less alone.

Chapter Six

Catch of the Day

The desiccation of the Aral Sea is one of the planet's worst ecological disasters and it is entirely due to man. The man, or men in this case, were the rulers of the Soviet Union who, in the 1960s, decided to divert two of the rivers which fed the Aral Sea in an irrigation project designed to boost cotton production in the surrounding deserts. The consequences weren't even a surprise – they knew what would happen. Scientists had predicted the disaster, but their warnings were ignored. It was considered a price worth paying.

The Aral Sea was once the fourth largest inland sea in the world, with a total size of 42,253 square miles, which is about the size of Ireland. It supported a huge fishing industry with a variety of species including sturgeon, pike, carp, bream and roach. The waters provided one sixth of the Soviet Union's entire catch and 40,000 people were employed in the fishing industry.

Once the rivers were diverted, the sea's decline was rapid. By 2004 it had shrunk to a quarter of its original size. By 2007 it was down to ten per cent and had split into three separate lakes. In 2009 satellite photos showed one of these lakes had dried out completely, far sooner than scientific predictions of just a few years earlier.

As well as this huge loss of habitat, there was another consequence which destroyed fish stocks – the water became much more salty. In two of the three lakes no fish could survive, and where once the water had been, huge salt plains were created. In the intense heat of summer these dried out and the wind whipped them into salty dust storms which carried with them other dangers. Toxic chemicals from the heavy use of pesticides and fertilisers had been washed down and settled on the seabed. Now they mixed with the dust clouds and contaminated surrounding towns and villages causing an increase in cancer, lung disease and other illnesses, such as typhoid and hepatitis. The rate of the last two in Aralsk is nearly thirty times the national average for Kazakhstan.

And there is one other man-made danger. When the sea was at its full size, it contained an island called Vozrozhdenie. Because it was so remote it was chosen by the Soviet Union to be the site of its experiments in chemical warfare. The top secret facility, referred to as Aralsk-7, was a 416 square mile open-air test site for anthrax, the plague, brucellosis, smallpox and typhus. Monkeys were used as the victims. As the waters began to recede, scientists worried about what might happen if this contaminated island were to join to the mainland, allowing possibly diseased rodents to cross over. It now has. The island is a peninsula.

The Russians abandoned the island in 1991 – and a year later a top biological weapons scientist, Colonel Kanatjan Alibekov, (now known as Ken Alibek) defected to the United States. He told the Americans that containers of anthrax had been buried in eleven pits on the island. The Americans studied satellite photographs to identify the sites, and in 2002, spurred on by the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks and the thought of what might happen if this anthrax fell into the wrong hands, sent in a specialist team to deal with the dump. They cleaned up almost two hundred tons of anthrax over a three month period.

There is another glimmer of hope for the beleaguered people of that part of Kazakhstan. In 2005 a new dam was completed to increase the water flow into the northern lake of the Aral Sea, and its effect has been rapid. The water level there is rising and the fish are returning – so much so that a fishing industry is being re-established. And the water which had retreated almost sixty-two miles from the port of Aralsk is now about twelve miles away and closing.

We pressed on, certain that we would reach Aralsk that day. There was no one else on the track. We crossed under the rail line and had a choice of routes – so we chose the one closest to the embankment. An hour or so later there was a speck on the horizon, moving quite quickly. It was a motorbike, carrying two men, the first vehicle we had seen since leaving Shalkar about four hours earlier.

We got out and flagged it down. This might be our only chance for another four hours to check we were on the right road.

The men were friendly, shook hands and confirmed by pointing that, yes, Aralsk was in the direction we were headed. We thanked them and drove off – Geoff glanced in the rear-view mirror.

'Oh dear,' he said, 'I hope they're not cursing us.'

I looked behind. One man was standing beside the motorbike while the other tried repeatedly to kick start it into life.

Feeling slightly guilty, we carried on, the freshly-made motorcycle tracks clearly visible. We followed them as best we could, judging that they would have taken the firmest line through the boggiest stretches. Half an hour or so later we came to a settlement, the first village since Shalkar. The road led us between wooden stockade fences on either side, leaning and weather-beaten like some Wild West frontier town. Inside the fence, the road petered out between a cluster of single-storey shacks, some with a type of thatched roof, others breeze block and corrugated iron. We slowed to a crawl, unsure of the way to go. There was no one around to ask. We skirted the edge of the village and ended up in a farmyard, to our left a barn in which half a dozen camels were tethered, a dung heap and a pile of decaying straw piled outside.

A scattering of tracks led out of the village and back into the desert. We took the one which looked the most used, and, keeping the railway line in view for reassurance, headed onwards. For the next two hours we saw no one, then, on the horizon, was another settlement, bigger than the last, the houses still poor but with a more solid appearance. We reached it and stopped to study the map.

'We could be there,' I suggested, pointing to a village. 'If we are, that would make us only about thirty-five miles from Aralsk.'

Geoff shook his head. 'We can't be. We can't have come that far. Much more likely we're here.' He pointed to a dot about thirty miles back.

'Unless that was the last place?'

'That was hardly a village at all. I doubt that would even be marked.'

The truth was neither of us knew for certain. It mattered because if we were at the furthest village we would have to cross the railway line. It had been on our left for most of that day; for the last stretch into Aralsk the map showed it would be on our right.

We set off again, looking for a road out. There were many tracks to choose from, strips of sand with weeds and marsh grass down the middle. We picked the most well worn and headed off. It was smooth driving, though the vegetation was changing. Now it seemed like we were crossing a salt marsh. And the railway line was becoming further away until it curled to our left and slipped out of sight. We pressed on, hoping to pick it up again.

Our route forked. We took a turning at random and continued. It petered out at a wooden hut, long since abandoned. There was nothing for it but to turn back. We took the other fork, hoping to pick up the railway to give us our bearings. Many other tracks were now crossing our path. We took the ones which we hoped would lead us in the right direction, criss-crossing the marshland in an effort to find our way back. Sometimes the tracks dipped between dunes, twisting and turning, sunken lanes of sand which disorientated us until, emerging again onto the flat salt marsh, we realised we had lost all sense of direction. We scanned the horizon at each point of the compass. There was nothing to give us our bearings.

I stopped the van. 'We're lost,' I said, stating the obvious. It was quiet, lonely and bleak. Trying to follow random paths to zigzag our way back to the railway line was hopeless. There was no alternative, we would have to retrace our own tyre tracks back the way we had come, no matter how long it took.

We set off in silence, driving slowly, pausing at each sandy crossroads to examine the ground and make sure we were following the right tyre marks.

It was time-consuming and frustrating, but we had no choice. I glanced at the fuel gauge. Less than a quarter full. Enough to get us about fifty miles. We had filled one four-gallon jerry can. It looked like we might need it. I was glad, too, that we had another four gallon can filled with water as the sun had now come out and the temperature was rising sharply.

Suddenly Geoff broke the silence with a shout of relief: 'There it is!'

There was a sharply defined line drawn just below the horizon. We had found the railway. We drove straight to it, leaving the paths and bouncing across the stubby grass.

We got as close to it as we could, the metal of the tracks glinting in the sun on top of their high embankment.

'OK,' I said. 'We now know that we must keep the line to our left. If we do that, eventually it will lead us to where we need to be. I suggest we just follow it, sticking as close as possible.'

Geoff agreed and we set off. The path we were on was barely used, little more than a sheep-track. Gradually, it faded until it was hard to see it at all. Then it disappeared altogether and we were in sand, unmarked by any footprints.

Still we pressed on, convinced that so long as we kept the line in our vision we would be alright. Our progress slowed as the wheels began to sink in the soft surface. We turned a corner and there in front of us was a sandy bunker, guarded on the far side by a steep dune. Geoff took a run at it, but it was too much for our van, the

wheels spun and we began to fall back slowly the way we had come.

We came to rest at the bottom and pondered our next move. We were running out of options. Then, in the stillness and the quiet, we thought we heard the sound of human voices. The windows were wound down and we sat motionless. I turned off the engine. There they were again. Unmistakably, the sound of voices, shouting urgently. We looked around. We could see nothing. The shouting persisted and we got out of the van. There, on top of the railway embankment, some distance away, were three workmen. They were calling to us and all were pointing. Back the way we had come. Geoff set off towards them, map in hand, scrambling up the rail embankment, sometimes on all fours, stones cascading down from under his hands and feet.

I watched as he greeted them and had a short conversation. The body language was clear enough. The repeated pointing showed we had to backtrack.

Geoff returned with their message. 'We're on the wrong side of the line. We have to go back. At some point the road crosses over the tracks. That's where we must go.'

'We have to get back to the last village.'

Geoff nodded.

'Then that's OK. We'll be able to find it and then we will know for certain where we are.'

We set off again, but this time with definite purpose. After half an hour's careful driving, making sure we never lost sight of the rail line, now to our right, a cluster of dots appeared on the horizon. We sped up and they grew larger, recognisable as the settlement we had left about three hours before. We reached it and stopped. We could afford no mistakes this time.

There was a school nearby and it was break time. About fifty children were outside, playing football, standing in group, chasing and chattering as children do, wherever you are in the world. They were being supervised by a couple of teachers. We drove up and Geoff got out and approached them. The arrival of our van had caused a flurry of excitement. All the children stopped what they were doing, and, in an exuberant stream, ran from their playground and surrounded us, smiling and chattering, brown hands pushed through the window of the van, all wanting a handshake and a greeting. If we'd been visiting rock stars we couldn't have had a more enthusiastic welcome.

Geoff returned, children in tow, with the confirmation we needed. We should drive through the centre of the village and about half a mile further on we would reach a level crossing. We needed to take it, turn right and we would be back on the correct road for Aralsk.

We did as instructed and crossed the tracks. Ahead of us the lane disappeared into high sand dunes. We stopped. The fuel gauge was heading towards red and we were more cautious now.

We studied the map to make sure we could pinpoint our exact position.

'Do you realise,' I asked Geoff, 'that we've just spent several hours criss-crossing the dried-up bed of what was once the Aral Sea?'

'And that village with those friendly kids was once on the water's edge.'

It brought home to us the scale of what had happened. As we tried to make out the right way to go between the dunes, we noticed a dot in the distance, moving towards us. As we waited, it became clear it was a man on a motorbike. I got out and flagged him down. We had to head through the dunes, he indicated, then we would pick up a clearer track and should turn right.

We set off again, now feeling much more optimistic. I glanced in my rear-view mirror.

'I don't think we're going to be too popular with motorcyclists in these parts if word gets out,' I said, wincing.

Geoff turned round to look. The man was making repeated and unsuccessful attempts to kick-start his bike.

'Do you realise that's only the second vehicle of any sort we've seen today?'

I glanced at the dashboard clock. 'That makes it the second vehicle in ten hours of driving.'

'And we've left them both stalled and going nowhere.'

It wasn't a record to be proud of. But now we were certain we were on the right road, a sandy track through tall dunes, topped with a few determined tufts of grass. In summer, the wind would blow the dunes into ever changing shapes – now, with all the rain from recent days, they were fixed and soggy, the texture of wet cement. We stopped at a village to try to find fuel, but there was no diesel so we poured the contents of our jerry can into the tank and carried on.

Aralsk is a rundown town of low-rise houses beside potholed roads, guarded by packs of scruffy dogs. Its population is around thirty-five thousand. In the centre of town was a large square where a few traders had set up stalls near some local government buildings. There was a war memorial nearby, and a statue of a woman holding out a laurel wreath in one hand and a baby in her other. This, our guidebook told us, was a monument to honour local mothers who had produced heroically large numbers of offspring.

We headed down to the abandoned harbour, where the town's only hotel was to be found. After last night in the van, we needed somewhere to clean up and stretch out. Somewhere dry and warm. And which sold beer. We parked outside the building, another typically Soviet-style construction of flat concrete. There were curtains in the windows on the first two floors – the top floor seemed abandoned.

Inside, at reception, a middle-aged woman with a face which looked like it had seen many hardships produced a sheet of paper with the room prices. We asked for one with a shower and were given a key. We carried our bags up the concrete staircase which had been coated with a sort of burgundy enamel and opened out onto a residents' lounge, the walls painted a livid turquoise, a few sagging sofas and chairs around the edge of the room. Plant pots held displays of bright yellow plastic roses. In the corners were what looked like chipboard dressing tables topped with tall mirrors. There was no one there. It was hard to imagine a situation in which any guest would say, 'Hmmm, I've got a few minutes to kill, I think I'll just head down to the lounge and stretch out for a while.'

We hurried on to our room. This turned out to be a suite, a sad place which must once have been grand. No doubt when the Aral Sea was at its full height and Aralsk was shipping train-loads of fish off to Moscow, this was a hotel of some significance, the best place in town, where the Communist party grandees would choose to spend a few days. Perhaps many of them had occupied our suite, enjoying its space and the view down to the bustling harbour.

Now, little remained in which a hotelier could take pride. There was a stale, damp smell, and as we walked further into the bedroom we stepped on the source. The carpet was sodden, and squelched underfoot. There was a double and a single bed, both covered in a brown blanket edged in flowers. The pillowcases were decorated with the same sort of yellow roses found in the pots in the lounge.

In the bathroom, cracked beige tiles seemed to be held together by dirt. There was no seat on the toilet, and, had anyone wished to use it, no paper in the loo roll holder. There was a waste bucket lined with a plastic bag – which had been emptied many times without being replaced. The shower, we decided, was not one in which a guest could stand comfortably without socks for protection.

Off the bedroom was a sitting room with a white chipboard cupboard and chest of drawers, edged in gold. On one of the shelves someone had taken the trouble to balance half a dozen blue china teacups on top of one another in a pyramid. There was a table covered in a plastic cloth, a few white, hardback chairs, and an armchair against a wall. A fridge and a television set completed the furnishings.

'Well, it's a tough choice,' said Geoff, inspecting the beds, 'But as you're bigger than me I'll do the decent thing and take the single.'

It was a generous offer and a wise one too. He sat down on the wooden-framed bed which creaked and groaned in protest. It if had been forced to contend with my extra few stones, no bookie would have given decent odds against it surviving the night.

I had brought my sleeping bag up from the van. I decided I would not be pulling back the sheets and making further investigations into the condition of the double. It seemed sturdy enough, and the sleeping bag on top would be just fine.

We headed down the stairs, intending to take a walk round what had once been the harbour. By reception a cleaner approached us and indicated we should follow her. She led us outside and mimed that we should bring our van.

'I think she's offering us to show us where to park,' said Geoff.

He followed the cleaner on foot while I drove. A little way down the road she stopped outside a whitewashed bungalow and pulled open a tall, heavy pair of metal gates, which had been fastened with a padlock. Inside, next to the bungalow, was a short driveway. The cleaner indicated this was to be our parking place, for a fee of £1.50 for the night. We noticed a kennel with a large dog on the end of a chain and reckoned it was a price well worth paying for a secure spot. She went to the back door and shouted an instruction. A small boy appeared, aged about nine with a grin as cheeky as the Artful Dodger.

With well-practised gestures and sharp instructions in Kazakh, he guided me into the drive of the house, and motioned me back and forth, making a succession of fine adjustments, until he was satisfied I was parked in precisely the correct spot. I stepped out of the van and he held out his hand, indicating that a suitable payment was required for his car parking services. I fished in my pocket and gave him the equivalent of 50p, then, as an afterthought, threw in a packet of biscuits. A smaller version of the boy appeared at the end of the drive, watching the transaction but too shy to approach. It was obvious they were brothers. I indicated to the elder one that perhaps the packet of biscuits could be shared, but got the impression that this was unlikely.

We left and walked past the kennel, which the dog saw as a challenge to test out the length of its chain. Fortunately for us, it ended about two feet short and the dog retreated sulkily. I asked the boy if it bit, baring my teeth and making chomping motions. He nodded enthusiastically and mimed biting, as if taking large chunks out of an imaginary apple.

He waved us goodbye and closed the gate behind us. We strolled the few yards to what had once been a busy harbour. Around the edge, cranes stood motionless, their derricks poised for action and pointing out to sea, ready to lift cargos which no longer came. By the side of the jetty, half a dozen working boats had been drawn up onto concrete blocks and left to rest and to rust, lifeless reminders of how things used to be. Some empty vodka bottles peeped through the silt below them. The sea was somewhere out there, and the building of the dam meant it was creeping nearer. But for the time being the marsh grass held onto its colonised land, which extended beyond the horizon.

It should have been a bleak scene, and in many ways it was. And yet, and yet… there was a whiff of hope in the air in Aralsk, almost imperceptible, as faint as the sea breeze by the quayside – but look around, breathe in, and there it was. This is a town which had refused to die. It had survived the worst. Opposite our run-down hotel, carpenters and bricklayers were at work renovating a building which, when complete, would be a rival place to stay, a sign that someone was prepared to put hard cash behind the belief expressed in the film Field of Dreams that, if you build it, they will come.

And there, sitting in a folding chair on the quayside enjoying the evening sun, was another physical representation of optimism in the shape of a man in early middle age, a thick head of black hair and a bushy moustache bearing an uncanny resemblance to Saddam Hussein in his pomp. He had set up his chair outside what looked like a large plastic marquee, surrounded by railings. He saw us and beckoned us over.

'It's probably an exhibition of some kind,' I suggested to Geoff. 'Perhaps a display of how things used to be by the docks.'

We opened the gate in the railings and the man rose to greet us, shaking hands and telling us his name, Arman. He ushered us into the marquee. We reached for our wallets, thinking there must be an admission charge for whatever was inside, but he waved them away. He guided us through a turnstile and down a short corridor, our curiosity increasing with every step. Then he pushed aside a plastic screen, entered a room and stood back, holding out both arms in a gesture of pride at whatever lay inside. We followed him in, stepping under a builder's ladder and around some tools on the floor. The area was about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. It was taken up almost entirely by a blue plastic rectangular construction some five feet high. We went up and peered inside. Arman was grinning like a father of newborn twins.

It dawned on us both at the same time what was in the finishing stages of being built.

'It's a swimming pool,' we chorused, and mimed diving in.

Arman nodded happily, clearly the proudest man in Aralsk. The sun got very hot, he indicated, and then people would come to his pool to relax and cool down.

'It's brilliant,' I said, slightly at a loss to find the correct way of displaying our enthusiasm to its beaming creator.

'Amazing,' chipped in Geoff.

'Very good. Very very good.' I nodded enthusiastically.

Arman seemed happy enough with our reaction and took us to the end of the room where some changing cubicles and a couple of showers were being installed. Then another circuit of the still-dry pool and we parted, leaving him sitting smiling in front of his creation.

A boy aged about twelve who I had noticed watching us earlier approached. In my suspicious Western way I thought we were about to be asked for money. He came up to me and held out his hand – not to beg, but to shake mine.

'Hello, my name is Talgat.'

I shook his hand guiltily. 'My name is David.'

'Where are you from?'

'We come from England. We are driving to Mongolia.'

Talgat considered this information, nodded and ran off, perhaps to spread the word among his friends that there were two foreigners in town. We wandered back to the hotel and asked the receptionist where we might get a drink. She pointed to a small corridor which ran behind her desk. It led us to the hotel's dining room, though no one seemed to be eating. A few tables were occupied by groups of youths, sipping beer and looking at us suspiciously. No one nodded to us or smiled a greeting. It reminded me of those remote rural pubs where it goes quiet when you walk in and you start to worry if you have occupied the chair that old Thomas has sat in every night since 1946. He's going to be in soon and he's going to have his ferrets with him. It could get messy.

Geoff went up to the bar and came back with two large glasses of local lager and some crisps in a bowl. The lager was a good brew – cold, clean tasting, a decent head. We repeated a couple of times, added a plate of samsa, small spicy pasties filled with meat and onions, then decided that, with another early start planned and uncertainty over how long it would be before the roads improved, we should probably turn in.

We settled into our sleeping bags and were quickly asleep. I was woken a few hours later by noises in the night. Not Geoff's snores, but more furtive, surreptitious sounds. I lay still and listened. Creatures were scuttling round the room, urgently exploring our belongings. They would pause from time to time, perhaps retreating when they came near my trainers, and fall silent for a few seconds. Then they would start again, pattering across the floor, stopping, scratching and at one point I was convinced I could hear chewing.

Then my ears picked out a different noise. It was as if someone was clicking one fingernail against another. And these noises were much closer, not far from my head. I sat up and reached for my mobile phone, turning it on and shining the light from its screen around the room. There, making their way leisurely up the curtains were a family of bugs, black, hard-shelled, the parents about the size of matchboxes, their half dozen offspring more like beetles. The light from my phone faded and they were invisible again; only their clicking marked their ascent towards the curtain rail.

I imagined them getting to the top and then losing their grip, spiralling down and hoping for a soft landing on my cheeks. I didn't have to imagine this for very long before deciding it was time to decamp. I got up, clutching my sleeping bag, and crept past Geoff into the other room. He stirred as I walked past.

'Sorry, Geoff, I'm going to try to kip next door. There's too much wildlife in this bedroom for my taste.'

'Oh well, never mind.'

He rolled over and shut his eyes. I thought this showed great aplomb. Or it could have been that when it came to a choice between listening to my snores or a few bugs scratching about there was only ever going to be one winner. In the sitting room, I lined up the three hard chairs, used the arm of the armchair for a pillow and stretched out. It was like trying to sleep on a bumpy shelf, but years of nightshift training kicked in and I dozed off.

In the morning, we retrieved our van from its parking lot and, after a couple of wrong turns, found ourselves back on the main road – and it was a good one too. A few hours later we'd clocked up not far off 150 miles and were driving past a secret corner of Kazakhstan that has remained as Russian as the rouble. Indeed, the rouble is the official currency in the town, of around seventy thousand people. Its name is Baikonur – but that is an assumed identity, for the site is the centre of the Russian, formerly the Soviet, space programme.

In reality, the original village was called Tyuratam. When Yuri Gargarin made the first manned space flight in 1961, the Soviet authorities had to declare the launch site in order to register the flight with the International Aviation Federation. To keep the location of the base a secret from the world, they put it down as Baikonur – a place several hundred miles to the north-east – and the name stuck. After Kazakh independence, Russia took out a lease on the base and the town until 2050.

Nowadays, it is possible for foreigners to visit – but not casual tourists. There are a couple of official tour agencies, but they require forty days' notice and visitors must be accompanied at all times and aren't allowed to wander around freely. Our guidebook warned us not to think about arriving unannounced – there are checkpoints on the roads in and unexpected callers run the considerable risk of being detained for questioning. The best we could do was pause on the main road and peer at distant buildings with their huge satellite dishes and antennas reaching into the sky.

One bonus, though, which we put down to the presence of the base, was that the roads were the best we had encountered in Kazakhstan – well maintained, smooth, flat tarmac and with little other traffic. We sped on towards our next destination, Kyzylorda, feeling very chipper. The van eased itself comfortably up to 70 mph, bringing with it the prospect of an early finish to the day.

For what happened next I hold the Coen brothers to blame. I was recounting to Geoff, who was doing a good job of feigning interest, an email correspondence I'd had with the British Board of Film Classification over the opening scene to the movie the brothers had directed, No Country for Old Men.

Those who have seen the film will remember it – for those who haven't, in brief, the Sheriff's deputy pulls in the villain for questioning and is then strangled with his own handcuffs. In the scene, there is a close-up of his face in its death throes, his feet are shown kicking helplessly, his shoes leaving scuff marks across the floor. Graphic stuff. And that was my argument to the British Board of Film Classification, who had given the film a 15 certificate. Their own guidelines state 'violence may be strong, but should not dwell on the infliction of pain or injury'.

'And that,' I said to Geoff in the manner of a courtroom barrister concluding a convincing summing-up for the prosecution, 'was the key point. That scene dwelt. There were close-ups. There were the gurgling noises of someone being strangled. I think it was allowed a certificate 15 because it was directed by the Coen brothers, who have a bit of an arty reputation among film buffs.'

I explained this to Geoff, because he is not one of life's cinema lovers. Indeed, I noticed that he had closed his eyes as he concentrated on weighing up my case.

'What do you reckon?' I prompted him.

'Oh, er, what was the reply?'

'Well, in short the censors said yup, it was pretty dramatic stuff but, in their words, the scene didn't "linger" over the officer's suffering. Complete nonsense, in my opinion. Absolutely avoiding the issue. It didn't just linger, the camera seemed to relish the violence. Totally should have been a certificate eighteen or that scene should have been cut out.'

I glanced at Geoff to make sure he was with me on this one. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.

'Watch out! Bandits!' he yelled.

My head jerked back to the road ahead. There, in front of us, frantically waving us to a halt with his baton, was a cop. In his other hand he held a speed camera. I swerved round him and jammed on the brakes, creating a cloud of dust and stones as I skidded to a stop.

'Ooops,' I said as the cloud cleared to reveal the policeman, a grey spectre brushing roadside debris from his uniform and spitting a few pebbles from his mouth. He advanced towards us, slowly, trying to remove grit from the corner of his eye. I wound down the window and fixed an amiable grin to my mouth.

'Hello.'

He was in no mood for small talk. Well, he might have been, but it was hard to tell from the stream of Kazakh he directed towards me. From the tone of voice, though, I deduced he was not happy. He indicated I should step outside the van.

'Papers. Passport. Passport machina.' He jiggled his fingers impatiently while I searched for them.

They were eventually produced from behind the seat and he took them to a police car which had been concealed behind a few bushes down a side road. He returned and wiped clean the screen of his radar gun. He indicated I should look at the reading on the display. I fished on the dashboard for my glasses and peered at the numbers. They read '115' – a little over 70 mph. That seemed about right. I couldn't argue with that.

'Very sorry,' I offered.

He shook his head, unsmiling, and took a pen and piece of paper from his pocket. On the paper he wrote '50'. This, I deduced, was the speed limit for this fine, smooth, deserted stretch of road. The cop pointed down the way I had come. There were no buildings, there were no other vehicles but there was a crossroads. I was getting the drift. The speed limit through the crossroads had been 50 kph, around thirty miles per hour. I had been doing more than double, though, of course, there had been no warning sign. The last time we had seen a sign advising of the speed limit had been about two thousand miles back.

'I am English. I didn't know,' I tried. This cut no ice.

'Come.' He beckoned me to follow him to the police car. Inside sat a fellow officer of the law, fat and unsmiling, filling the passenger seat and clutching our documents tightly in a podgy hand. The first cop reached in and from under the dashboard produced a chart attached to a clipboard. This seemed to be divided into paragraphs, all in Kazakh, and a series of numbers. He tapped one high up the page.

'You,' he said.

I shrugged. 'Sorry. I am English. I don't understand.'

He tapped the clipboard again. If it was some sort of list of offences, he was indicating I was pretty near the top of the charts. Perhaps I wasn't just getting done for speeding. Perhaps he was throwing in 'showering a member of the traffic police in small stones'. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote on a scrap of paper. $100.

'That's far too much,' I protested, mentally converting $100 into the equivalent in pounds. About sixty pounds at the exchange rate operating then. Even allowing for no points on the licence that was a stiff fine.

'I don't have that much,' I insisted.

I reached into my right trouser pocket, the one in which I kept my 'mugger wallet' – $20, a few pounds in local currency and a few out-of-date bank cards along with an old AA card and Sainsbury's Homebase loyalty card for added realism. I withdrew the $20 and held it out. But this cop was in no mood to bargain. Either that, or he was much better at it than me. He tapped the figure of $100, then tapped my chest: 'You pay.'

I took his pen, crossed out 100 and wrote 50. He shook his head. Firmly. I wasn't very good at this game so I retreated to the van and broke the bad news to Geoff.

'Jesus, that's steep.'

'I know. Thing is we've got a choice. We can stay here and argue, he can empty out the back of the van and hold us up for an hour, we could insist we go down to the cop shop, or we can pay up and be on our way.'

'OK. You've done your best, we'll have to pay him. I don't want to hang around here any longer than we have to. This hurts though.'

My dollars were hidden under the carpet in the passenger side. Geoff got out his wallet and counted out $100 in twenty-dollar notes. I took them to the cop. He indicated they should be placed on the dashboard. His friend counted them and handed back our documents with a curt nod.

The first cop walked back with me to the van, his demeanour now completely changed. He removed his hat and flashed me a smile, revealing the now familiar collection of gold teeth. I got back into the driver's seat.

The cop said something which sounded like ' shuftee, shuftee ', and motioned 'slowly' with his hands. He then lifted up his speed gun, raised his arm and pointed down the road. The meaning was clear. There were more like him in store.

'You shuftee,' he advised, obviously feeling that having probably cleaned us out of dollars there was no point in his chums a few miles further on having another go.

I started the engine and drove off, shuftee. The relief I felt at getting going again was cancelled out by feelings of irritation. I should have been a better negotiator.

'Forget it,' said Geoff. 'He was hostile. There were no little signs that he was going to give ground. You need some hint that they're willing to negotiate. I'd have done the same in your position.'

This was very generous of him, but I still felt to blame. The incident had cost us more than it should have done. I could have done better. I was sure Geoff would have been able to. I sat in silence and brooded.

'Don't beat yourself up about it,' said Geoff. 'It's done now, we're on our way again, we know to keep a lookout for others. Sure it hurts, sure it's annoying, but that's how things are out here. Forget it.'

It was good advice, if hard to adhere to. But going over the incident repeatedly would achieve nothing. We drove on steadily, if cautiously, on a long flat stretch of road, the desert shimmering into the distance on either side. It was our hottest day so far and the temperature gauge in the van rose above 30°C . We glugged water and agreed we were glad we weren't likely to have to contend with anything much hotter.

We reached Kyzylorda by mid afternoon. It's now the regional capital, but for a few years in the 1920s it served as the capital for the whole country. Then the railway came to Almaty which took over the top spot and Kyzylorda settled back into regional obscurity. But it was lucky. Unlike Aralsk which relied on fishing for its prosperity, Kyzylorda was a centre of rice production. And then, after independence, it was found to be near some major oil reserves. As we drove nearer the town centre it was clear there was money about – well maintained roads and pavements, new homes being built, neat blocks of flats three or four storeys high, architecture from the 1970s but their roofs lined with twenty-first-century satellite dishes. Modern offices and banks were further signs of recent investment. There's no shortage of building land around Kyzylorda, so the town planners could afford to create wide streets and keep the buildings low-rise. These factors combined to give the centre a spacious, relaxed feel. Public gardens provided pockets of greenery, wooden benches were meeting points for young mothers to sit and chat while their children played.

We pulled in to a garage to fill up with diesel. It was a modern forecourt. Rows of self-service pumps, a kiosk to pay in the corner. Nothing to distinguish it from any petrol station in Britain. Except for one thing. Something which, at home, might cause you to select reverse and get out of there with all speed while reaching for your mobile to call the emergency services once at a safe distance. For strolling among the drivers filling their tanks with apparent unconcern was a man dressed in combat fatigues and army boots cradling an automatic rifle. It was probably an AK-47, but I'm no expert in these matters and didn't like to ask. He wandered over towards us and looked the van over before continuing on his beat.

'I hope he never has to fire that gun in anger,' I said to Geoff. 'Having bullets whizzing around a petrol station is just asking for trouble. I'll go and pay and get directions to a hotel. Or maybe,' I added as an afterthought, 'I could ask if there's anywhere good to camp. Weather looks set fair.'

'Yes,' said Geoff, slowly. 'Camping is an option. We should definitely think about it.' We thought about it for, oh, at least thirty seconds, then agreed that after the disappointment of last night's accommodation we should give Kazakhstan's hoteliers a chance to redeem themselves.

Inside the kiosk, the guard was leaning on the desk chatting to the cashier and gave me a friendly nod.

'Hello, I'm from England.' He smiled and shook my hand. 'We're looking for a hotel – gastonitsa – can you give me directions?'

He understood enough of my request and was keen to help, shouldering his gun and retreating into an office. He returned with a pen and paper and drew a quick sketch of the town centre, marking the petrol station and putting a large cross on a spot a few roads away.

'Gastonitsa Ky zylorda. OK.' I thanked him and took the map. Another handshake, and we were on our way.

'Seemed like a nice chap,' I remarked to Geoff.

'Indeed,' he agreed. 'Still seems a bit over the top though, having matey in combat gear armed to the teeth to patrol some petrol pumps. Mind you, I suppose it would discourage anyone tempted to leave without paying.'

I laughed. 'I guess it's because it's a cash economy – no one uses credit cards to pay for their fuel, so these places are going to build up a big stash of cash. Enough to tempt any local hoodlums who probably have bugger all. Knock over a petrol station at the end of the day and it's probably their equivalent of the Great Train Robbery.'

The map was accurate and we pulled up outside a modern hotel and checked into a room with the twin benefits of air conditioning and hot water and the bonus of no wildlife. The temperature dropped only a little as evening approached and we headed out for something cooling to drink and a plate of something filling. A few blocks away from the hotel was a cafe, tables set out in the shade of an overhanging tree.

Geoff went off to get the drinks while I studied the menu with the help of my Russian dictionary. Kazakhs have their own language but most, especially in the urban areas, are fluent in Russian, which has a formal status as 'the language of inter-ethnic communication'.

I scoured the Cyrillic letters trying to find something that looked familiar. I spotted chicken, looked up vegetables and practised saying them several times under my breath in order to impress Geoff when he returned. He came, followed by a waitress carrying two large glasses of light blonde lager. I cleared my throat and made my request, following the pronunciation guide set out in my phrasebook.

'Kuritsa i ovash, pazhalsta.'

The waitress looked at me suspiciously. She shook her head to signify either that she didn't understand or that it was off the menu. I reckoned the former was the better bet. I tried again, pronouncing my order slowly and carefully.

'Ku-rit-sa i ov-ash?' I pointed to the menu, and grinned hopefully. She asked me a question in Russian of which I couldn't understand a word, but I said 'da da' and nodded as if I did. I pointed to myself and Geoff. 'Two,' I said.

'Dva?' she seemed puzzled that we would want two portions. I assured her that we did. One for each of us. She wrote down our order and left.

'OK, very impressive, so what are we having?' asked Geoff.

'Chicken and vegetables,' I replied, confidently. More confidently than I felt.

'Sounds good,' said Geoff, keen to increase his vitamin C intake. 'We've had a pretty stodgy diet of late, mainly bread, crisps and peanuts. I could do with something a bit lighter and fresh.'

'Count on it,' I said, trying to keep the edge of anxiety out of my voice. 'This beer's very good.'

'Local brew on draught,' said Geoff. 'Shymkentskoye. Made, as you might guess, in Shymkent a few hundred miles away.'

His ordering had gone well. I could only hope for a similar result on the food front. Then the waitress reappeared carrying an enormous pizza which she placed between us. We sat and looked at it.

'Dave,' said Geoff, 'we're in the middle of Kazakhstan, at a local restaurant where, all around us,' he indicated our fellow diners with a sweep of his hand, 'people are eating interesting plates of food and you have managed to order us a pizza. A chicken pizza. And an enormous one. Enough for about six.'

'And not just one,' I replied. I had seen the waitress heading back our way. And she was carrying another pizza, of similar size. She shuffled the first pizza and our plates around to make space for the second one on the table. It was a tight fit.

'I think that one must be yours,' I suggested, exploring it with my fork. 'By the looks of it, they're both chicken. I think we're going to need more beer to wash these down.'

I turned round and held out my glass to try to attract the waitress's attention. She was now attending to a man, sitting alone at a neighbouring table. He was unusual in that he was Indian, the first person from that continent we had seen in Kazakhstan. He too, had an empty glass and appeared to be ordering more beer. Then he pointed to us and held up two fingers. The waitress looked over and nodded.

'Gentlemen, I hope you will allow me, I have ordered two more beers on your behalf. Please enjoy them as my guests. It is very unusual to hear English spoken at these tables.'

He spoke perfect English himself, with an educated, upper-crust accent. I judged he was in his early forties, hair neatly trimmed, casual trousers with a sharp crease and a freshly ironed white, short-sleeved shirt.

'We would be delighted to,' I confirmed, readily. 'I don't suppose I could interest you in a slice of pizza? Or possibly two slices?'

He laughed. 'Ah, no, that is kind of you to offer, but I have my own order coming. They do a very good chicken shashlik here, simple barbecued meat, cooked over charcoal and served with onions and tomatoes. I can recommend it if you're eating here again.'

'Too late,' said Geoff sadly, 'We're only here one night and we have some industrial-sized pizzas to polish off.'

Our beers arrived and we raised our glasses and exchanged introductions. His name was Daamadar and he had lived in Kazakhstan for ten years.

'I'm a drugs dealer,' he told us, which caused us to pause with laden forks halfway to our mouths. 'Only legal ones of course, ha ha. I represent a big Indian drugs company and this is my patch. I cover Kazakhstan from where we are now in the south, over to Almaty in the east and up to Semey and the capital, Astana in the north.'

I tried to picture the size of his territory. 'That sounds like a lot of ground.'

He laughed again. 'About the size of the UK, France and Germany rolled into one. I do a lot of travelling.'

'So how's business?' I asked. 'Has the recession hit your sales?'

'Oh no, hardly at all. That would be the last thing many people here would cut back on. They do like to take a pill if they suffer from any ailment. There are a great many hypochondriacs in Kazakhstan,' he observed, sighing happily and tucking into his tasty-looking shashlik.

He asked what brought us to Kyzylorda and Geoff explained the purpose of our trip. He also ordered another round of beers as he had noticed Daamadar's glass was empty.

My thoughts had returned to the events earlier in the day and I was keen to get some expert advice.

'So you must cover a huge mileage on Kazakh roads?' I suggested.

Daamadar confirmed that was the case.

'How do you manage with all these cops about? Especially the ones with the radar guns and a taste for supplementing their salaries with travellers' dollars?'

Daamadar understood at once. 'Ah, you have had dealings with the traffic police, a corrupt bunch almost to a man. Yes, they are a nuisance and will stop you for no reason at all in the hope of finding something wrong with your papers. If they are in order, though, you will be on your way soon enough. If you've been speeding, however, then there will be a fine or a bribe to pay, call it what you will.'

'So what would be the going rate?' I asked.

Daamadar took another large swig of beer and considered the scale of charges. 'Well, for a local person caught, say, going just a few miles an hour over the limit, it would be, perhaps, the equivalent of a few pounds, a thousand tenge, double that if the speed were higher. But for you, my friends, they will try to swindle you out of whatever they think they can get away with. You are Westerners and, if I may say so, you are not poor youngsters. To them, you are rich, you will be carrying dollars, they will know that.'

'Not quite as rich as we were at the start of the day,' I observed.

'I sympathise. It is difficult. Take some basic precautions. Never let them see your wallet, they will try to empty it. Have twenty dollars to hand, perhaps in a top pocket. Let them see it when they ask for your papers, assuming you have been going too fast. If they know you understand the rules, it should be a fairly swift transaction.'

'So what are the speed limits?' asked Geoff. 'There are never any signs.'

'Of course not. You are lucky to find a decent road in most parts of the country, never mind signs. But for a main road, I would keep to below ninety kilometres an hour, and well below fifty – nearer to forty kilometres – in any village. Anywhere there is a settlement, they will be there. Many of them will be perfectly polite and courteous when they stop you. If everything is in order, they will not cause you any trouble. Local people expect to be pulled over. It is just part of life. A job in the traffic police is a very sought-after occupation.'

We thanked him for his advice and I ordered another round of beers. The evening was still very warm and it was pleasant to sit under a shady tree with a glass of cold lager and some convivial company. Daamadar gave us some tips on routes and accommodation and insisted on buying us more beer which, of course, we had to match with rounds of our own. By the time we rose from the table the hour was late and the cafe had emptied. Back at the hotel I filled in my diary in bed. The entry is revealing.

'Dinner,' I wrote. 'Tried to order chicken and vegetables but got two pizzas. Too much beer, but OK.'

Just below that I had written:

'Dinner. Asked for chicken and vegetables but got two pizzas. Too much beer. OK though.'

Then I must have fallen asleep.

Chapter Seven

Almaty Progress

We slept in a little later than planned but compensated for that by finding our way out of the town centre without any wrong turnings. The first police check of the day came just as we left the built-up area behind. I got out of the van clutching the necessary paperwork. The cop was young and quite small – his peaked cap seemed far too large for his head. He saluted as I approached, offering him an outstretched hand and a friendly smile. He took my hand and shook it. Having stopped a couple of foreigners he seemed at a loss what to do next, examined my passport for a while, then turned it the right way up and examined it from a new angle. He gave a cursory glance to the rest of the paperwork, handed it back and saluted again.

'If only all police checks could be that swift,' I said, climbing back into the van. 'He seemed like a nice lad.'

'Let's hope he stays that way,' said Geoff.

We left Kyzylorda and headed back into flat semi-desert, the road running parallel to a railway line and a river. This was the M32, which would take us to Shymkent. From there we planned to turn left and stop at Taraz, close to the border with Kyrgyzstan. It was a long trip, about four hundred miles, but from talking to Daamadar last night we were confident the roads would be good.

Taraz could claim to be both one of the oldest and newest cities in Kazakhstan. It celebrated its 2,000-year anniversary in 2001, based on records which showed when a fortress had first been built on the site. Over the centuries it underwent a series of name changes and rulers as occupiers came and went. It prospered as a city on the Silk Road, which carried trade between China and the Mediterranean, but in 1220 found itself in the path of Genghis Khan's invading Mongol army. It's well documented that if a city surrendered quickly to the Mongols, it could escape relatively unscathed. Taraz, though, must have put up a spirited resistance as it was razed to the ground and was rebuilt with the name Yany.

After a few more incarnations under different rulers, the Russians arrived in 1864 when it was known as Aulie Ata. That lasted until 1936, when it was renamed Mirzpoyan after a Communist party leader in Kazakhstan. However, he fell from grace and was executed by Stalin, prompting a swift rethink on the name which was changed to Dzhambul after a Kazakh poet. Then in 1997, a few years after Kazakh independence, the centuries old name of Taraz was restored.

The road towards Shymkent was long, straight and smooth, which was why there really shouldn't have been any rattles coming from the van.

'Can you hear anything?' asked Geoff, cocking his head to one side.

I pretended to listen hard. 'Noooo, don't think so.'

'Listen again. Something's rattling somewhere.'

'Oh that rattle? It's always made that noise.'

Geoff was not to be fooled. 'I don't think it has. That's a new noise. It's sort of vibrating. And I think there's a clunk lurking there as well.'

There was no denying it. The van had a bit of a rattle, a sort of smoker's cough in the chest. Discernable, but faint. A long way, I felt, from being terminal. It was running well enough, the temperature gauge was normal and all the essentials were performing their functions as they should. In such circumstances there was only one course of action. Drown out the noise.

'How about some music?' I suggested, fishing in the glove box and pulling out my MP3 player and a cassette which would allow us to play it through the van's speakers.

Geoff, I could see, was torn. The choice was listening to the van rattle or listening to an assortment of the greatest punk songs ever recorded. He took a long time to answer. For a fan of Steely Dan with their intricate, jazz-influenced sound, with a bit of funk thrown into the mix, the prospect of a succession of tracks with a few chords played with energy and abandon was not one to relish. We went over a bump and the van rattled more noisily.

'OK then,' said Geoff. 'Let's have some music.'

I set the MP3 player to shuffle and plugged it in. The first track it chose came out of the speakers in a blast of

clashing chords, which made Geoff wince in pain. Indeed, it sounded like the lead singer was in considerable distress as well, for this was the American punk band NOFX. Mercifully for Geoff, NOFX tracks have one thing in common; hardly any last much beyond two and a half minutes, so it was all over quite quickly.

The MP3 player had a think about the next track. And it was in the mood for something classic, 'Complete Control' by The Clash.

'Who's playing now?'

'Geoff,' I said, surprised that even he hadn't recognised it, 'this is The Clash. It's one of my desert island discs.'

This wasn't working. Geoff was being very tolerant, but given a choice between listening to The Clash and listening to the van rattle, I had a feeling I knew where his vote would go.

Then the MP3 player relented. It went for something we could both enjoy – 'Gimme Back My Dog' by Slobberbone. The novelist Stephen King described that record as one of the three greatest rock and roll songs ever. He wasn't wrong. And for my money they were also in the top three of best ever live bands. We had both seen them twice at The Borderline club in London, nights when their gutsy Texan music made the walls rattle. Now it seemed an appropriate choice – as we drove through a wide and desolate plain with oil derricks nodding along to the music we could have been on a drive to Dallas. I turned up the volume and played the whole album, the sun shone and we wound down the windows.

As we headed further south, the scenery began to change. It was now much greener and trees began to line the side of the road.

We bypassed Shymkent and wound through fertile hills and well-kept villages. Stalls appeared at the side of the road selling buckets of apples and walnuts. Kazakhstan, I remembered reading, claimed to be the home of the apple, and also the tulip. As we drove on the produce became more varied; tables piled high with wild mushrooms and Winnie the Pooh-sized jars of honey, glistening yellow and gold, their owners relaxing in front of the stalls in battered arm chairs. There was mile upon mile of such stalls, a vast river of honey, surely far more than any local could ever buy.

'If we were enterprising,' said Geoff, 'we could make our fortune buying this up, repackaging it as organic Kazakh honey and selling it in little jars in expensive shops.'

'I agree. But there's one big flaw in that plan.'

'We're both too idle.'

While we chuckled in agreement a car overtook us, an old, white Lada, done up with chequered stripes down the side. A youth stuck his head through the passenger window, looked at us and spat.

'I don't think that boy likes us,' I observed.

Geoff leaned over and glanced at the milometer. 'Well, we've done nearly five thousand miles and that's the first sign of hostility we've had.'

'That's not bad going,' I agreed, slowing to a crawl to keep behind the Lada. The driver seemed keen for us to overtake, but I didn't want to play that game. For the next half a dozen miles the car sped up and slowed down, tempting us to pass. Each time I held back. Finally, the driver grew bored and turned off onto a side road in a screech of tyres and an assortment of abusive gestures.

We reached Taraz by early evening. We were looking out for the unpromisingly named Gasworker Hotel, which Daamadar has assured us was a decent place to stay. Our first impression of Taraz was that someone had bought a job lot of pastel paints and had been let loose on all the main buildings. It was like a Kazakh Tobermory, the colourful fishing port on the Isle of Mull made famous as the setting for the children's TV series Balamoray. Colour was everywhere in Taraz, pink featuring prominently in various shades, but also turquoise blues, lime greens and yellows.

Our hotel, as it turned out, was a sort of pale mustard and magnolia combo – quite restrained by Taraz standards. And inside was a friendly receptionist who spoke perfect English. We checked in and headed straight for the bar.

It was quiet in there. A young barman, a bored waiter clutching some menus and a few local girls with nowhere better to hang out. A provincial town anywhere in the world on a Sunday night. So dull that our arrival sparked some interest – and one of the girls, who had been elected by the others as the best English speaker, was prompted to say hello. She introduced herself. Her name was Asil. She was in her early twenties, shoulder length dark hair, a bright, intelligent face.

'You are English?' she asked. We confirmed that was the case. 'Where are you from in England?' London, we told her. Her expression at once took me back to that street corner in Kiev where a girl of similar age was selling sunglasses and dreaming of escape.

'I would love to go there. London looks so exciting. I have seen it in films.'

Taraz is nice, we told her. Much better than many places we had visited in Kazakhstan. The buildings were in good condition. The colours gave it a lively, vibrant appearance. There were rows of pollarded trees outside the hotel between which people strolled on pleasant footpaths.

She wrinkled up her nose. I suppose a line or two of pollarded trees is not high on your wish list when you are young.

There was nothing to do in Taraz, she insisted. And there were no jobs. The recession had seen to that. She'd had a job at the hotel we were in now, but that had gone when they cut back on staff. There was no future there. But also nowhere to go.

Her English was very good, I told her. Had she been on a special course? No, she said, she'd just listened to her teachers at school. But there seemed little point. There was not much demand for English speakers in Taraz.

I felt sorry for her. She was lively, sparky with so much potential. But she was disillusioned. I wondered if she spent most nights sitting in the bar of a near-deserted provincial hotel. I pondered whether to tell her not to give up, to hang on to her dreams. But it didn't seem my place. I knew nothing of the local situation. And perhaps she was right. Perhaps there were few prospects, little chance of escape. Perhaps, as she claimed, it was young women whose prospects suffered more when times were hard. It gave the old mantra of jobs for the boys a new twist. Our food arrived – chicken shashlik, ordered successfully – and we took it to a table outside to enjoy the evening sun.

'It's been nice talking to you,' I said to Asil. 'Good luck in whatever you do.'

In the morning we showered and dressed with a sense of anticipation. We would be arriving in Almaty that afternoon, which our Bradt guidebook described as the largest and most cosmopolitan city in the country. And, even better, we planned to stay two nights. The next day would be a 'rest day'. A treat.

It was 8 a.m. when we went downstairs in search of breakfast. The same girl was on reception as when we had arrived fifteen hours before. That was a long shift. But perhaps she thought she was lucky. Unlike Asil, she had kept her job. She directed us to the basement – the breakfast room was near the bar. As we headed for the stairs she reached for the phone.

We descended to find the place in darkness. We pushed open a door. There were half a dozen tables laid for breakfast, but no one about.

'Hello?' we called out, hopefully. The phone on the bar was ringing, but no one came to answer. We wandered down a corridor. There, to our left, was the kitchen. Deserted.

'Anyone about?' There was no reply. Still the phone rang.

We carried on down the corridor and opened a door at the end. The room was in darkness. A couple of sofas against the walls, some armchairs pushed together and stretched out on them, breathing the slow, heavy breaths of deep and contented sleep we could make out the shapes of four people, snug under blankets, seat cushions for pillows.

I coughed: 'This is your early morning alarm call.'

Four people woke at once, sitting up simultaneously, cartoon-style, and peering at us, sleepy eyes blinking in the gloom.

'Any chance of a spot of brekker?'

The nearest figure, a pale, skinny youth was first to stagger to his feet, smoothing down tousled hair with his hands and ushering us back the way we had come. He sat us at a table in the breakfast room and left to answer the telephone by the bar.

'Yes, yes, we're awake now. We all overslept. Why didn't you call us? What do you mean you tried but we wouldn't wake up? OK well we're up now, let's hope these two foreigners don't make a fuss.'

All was spoken in Kazakh, of course, but from the glances in our direction it was fairly easy to get the drift. The youth returned with pad and pen to take our order. We decided to keep it simple and opted for fried eggs, bread and tea. He brought us a cold vegetable salad as well, perhaps to keep Geoff happy and stop us snitching to management.

Back on the road the scenery began to change again and we got our first glimpse of the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the northern Tian Shan mountain range. There were fields of poppies, too – acre upon acre, a sea of red carpeting the valley floor. They were grown openly and no doubt cultivated for legal purposes, but were a reminder that Afghanistan was not so very far away and Kazakhstan is now a significant transit route on the drugs trade to Russia and Western Europe. Whereas once the Silk Road served the West's desire for satins, perfumes and spices from the East, now the demand is for heroin and hashish.

We stopped to study our map. The main road we were on headed straight into Kyrgyzstan, through the capital, Bishkek, and out the other side back into Kazakhstan.

We had heard it was very easy to stray over the border – but we had no visa for Kyrgyzstan, and, more importantly, only a single entry visa for Kazakhstan. We didn't want to find ourselves stuck with visa complications before we could resume our journey.

The map showed a small yellow road, leaving the main red route, and skirting close to the edge of Kyrgyzstan before rejoining the main road again the other side of the border, about a hundred miles further on. It was not marked with any number which we could look out for on road signs, and I kept a careful note of the mileage and the towns we passed through.

In the event, the junction was well marked and, to our surprise, the road surface was good. The food stalls by the side of the road we had passed yesterday had now been replaced by displays of Kazakh embroidery: rugs, clothes, slippers hand-stitched in vivid reds, blues and oranges. Mile upon mile of traders.

'They just can't do much business,' said Geoff. 'Look at how little traffic there is on this road.'

He was right, and there did seem to be signs of desperation to sell among some of the stall holders who would step into the road in front of us to try to flag us down, pointing to their goods on display.

'I feel guilty in a way that we're not stopping,' I remarked.

Geoff agreed. 'I know. But there are so many, how on earth would we choose? And how would we know what a fair price was?'

We pressed on, leaving a trail of disappointed-looking people behind us. At a junction with no road signs, we used the compass to get our bearings and find our way back to the main road. The fields around us were smeared with wild flowers, an Impressionist painting of colour framed by forbidding mountains. On another occasion it would have been a place to pause, to picnic, to snooze in the sun and breathe in scented air. We stopped and sat but quickly grew restive. We had nearly 350 miles to drive that day if we were to reach Almaty. We couldn't afford the luxury of lingering too long.

Almaty was known in Soviet times as Alma-Ata, which means 'grandfather of the apple'. Like many other cities in Kazakhstan it was changed after independence, when it also lost its status as the country's capital. But that didn't dent its expansion, or its reputation as the country's financial centre.

Almaty is big – a population of not far off one and a half million – and it bustles. International banks are there, oil companies, commercial centres – and everyone who is anyone now drives a big, black four-by-four. Along streets which were never designed to take them. And in a manner which suggests their drivers would like to kill you.

Geoff was at the wheel, twisting and turning, twitching the wheel one way then the other as if the van were part of a giant dodgem ride. I tried to keep the map steady and tell him where to go, but I wasn't doing a great job. We had the name of a hotel Daamadar had recommended to us a couple of nights before and I could see it marked – but the scale of the map wasn't up to the job.

'We're going to have to stop,' I told Geoff. 'I'll go and ask those cops.'

A couple of uniformed officers loitered by the side of the road, twirling their batons and wondering who to pull over next. I went up and asked them the way. They couldn't have been more helpful, overcoming the language barrier with sketches and sign language.

'The good news is I know the way,' I told Geoff. 'The bad news is we're going to have to turn round.'

I think we survived because the manoeuvre took the other drivers by surprise. They probably reckoned that no one capable of coherent thought would attempt to pull out across six lanes of traffic fighting for every inch of road space as if auditioning for a remake of Death Race 2000.

When I opened my eyes again we were on the right road and the hotel was in sight.

We could have been anywhere. Multilingual staff, white boards pointing the way to business meetings and training sessions in various rooms, a lobby bar charging West End of London prices for small bottles of international brand lager, a uniformed porter to carry our bags and English language television in our air conditioned room. And we loved it. We had a day off the next day, we could wander around the town, do some shopping, find a restaurant with an English menu and generally behave like tourists rather than travellers.

'It feels like we're on holiday,' said Geoff who was visibly relaxing after the tension of the drive. 'Just one chore to do. I've got to get under that van to see if I can find the source of that rattle.'

I went outside with him, not because I could help on the mechanical front but to give the inside of our dirt caked van a bit of a spruce up with some wet wipes and generally reorganise and repack our stuff in the back.

We were joined by a curious hotel maintenance man who spoke some English and I went through the usual routine of explaining the nature of our trip.

'You have a great many of those,' he said pointing to our barely touched loo roll mountain, piled up like a pyramid by the side of the van. 'Are you not well?'

'We're fine,' I assured him. 'Just a precaution for the lonely places to come.'

'You have travelled a long way.'

'More than five and a half thousand miles – around nine thousand kilometres,' I confirmed.

There had, I realised, been a subtle shift. In the early part of the journey people asked how far we had to go – now the balance had changed. The greater distance was how far we had come. It made me feel a sense of achievement.

Geoff reappeared from under the van.

'Well, I can't see anything that might be causing a clunk – but I think I've detected the source of the rattle.'

He lifted the bonnet and pointed to a line of holes in the bodywork at the front of the van.

'There should be nuts and bolts in each one of those,' he explained. 'They're to hold on the whole of this front section, the metal over the radiator, these big plastic bumpers. They must have vibrated loose then fallen out. It's only being held on by a couple of bolts at the side – if they'd come out it would have fallen off. Not terminal mechanically, but it would have made a mess if we'd been going any speed, and, of course, would have been impossible to replace.'

He fished in his toolbox and produced some plastic grabs of the sort to hold down luggage to a roof rack.

'These should do the trick. Bit of a bodge job, but it should keep everything in place.' He disappeared under the van and emerged a few minutes later to pronounce himself happy with his handiwork.

'That'll hold alright.' He gave the bumper a firm shake. It didn't move.

'Excellent work,' I told him. 'Time to celebrate in the usual manner.'

Down the road from the hotel was a Russian bar, all chrome and big, smoked glass windows, doormen in dinner jackets and bow ties, a menu outside in English. It also had the clinching boast that it contained a microbrewery.

It could have been my imagination but I did think the bouncer held open the door just a touch reluctantly, but we went in and found a table by the window.

The other people in there looked to be divided about fifty-fifty between Kazakhs and Westerners. All looked under thirty, smartly dressed, sharp well-cut suits, good haircuts, the women fashionable, perfumed, perfect make up. We felt scruffy and old, mainly because that's what we were. Nearly three weeks of travelling had exacted a toll on our clothes which a quick hand wash hadn't fixed. Geoff, who had begun the trip clean-shaven, now sported the makings of a beard of many colours which sprouted with untrimmed abandon.

'If you saw us in the street at home you'd probably put your head down, quicken your pace and hope we didn't ask you for money,' I suggested.

The waitress clearly felt the same way, approaching our table with caution, holding her pen in front of her like a defensive weapon.

'Are you ready to order?' she asked, in a tone of voice which suggested 'or perhaps you've had a think about it and have decided to go somewhere else. Like a soup kitchen, perhaps?'

'We'd like some beer, please.' I said. 'Big ones. Like those.' I pointed to a nearby table where some jolly Kazakh men had glasses containing about half a week's recommended units. 'And some sausages'.

'And sauerkraut,' said Geoff.

'And garlic bread,' I added. 'We're on holiday.'

Several plates of food and a refill or two later I raised a weak hand and asked for the bill. We had grown used to eating cheaply. Now we were in for a shock. Almaty is in the top fifty of the world's most expensive cities. As demonstrated by our bill.

'That can't be right,' said Geoff, reaching for the menu and doing some adding up. But it was.

'Doesn't matter,' I told him. 'For tonight and tomorrow we're relaxing and hang the expense. Back to travelling soon enough.'

The next morning we had a lie in. We watched BBC World News. We showered in sweet-smelling gel. And in the hotel's dining room, it was breakfast heaven. For Geoff, fresh fruit. Muesli. Yoghurt. I wandered down the buffet lifting steel lids with childish excitement going 'Oooh bacon', 'Look, sausages in that one', 'Hey, baked beans', 'Wow, scrambled eggs'. We sat happily, our plates piled high with our respective treats.

Afterwards, we waddled slowly into the city centre, down cool, tree-lined streets, low-rise houses set well back, expensive cars parked outside.

We took photos, found a store with a whole floor devoted to local crafts, bought presents for our wives and thought about writing postcards home of the 'Hey, having a great time in Almaty, weather sunny, wish you were here' variety.

At lunchtime an open-air bar beckoned. We were still quite full from our breakfast blowout, but agreed that some small nibbles might be nice with our Russian Baltica beer. I opened negotiations with the waiter. These, I felt, went quite well, despite the language barrier. He seemed to get my drift and, after a couple of minutes, asked us if we wanted crudités. I confirmed that would fit the bill perfectly. He looked slightly puzzled, but went off to fulfil the order.

'Excellent,' I told Geoff, 'we'll be getting an assortment of dips. Just shows how French is the international language of food, even thousands of miles away in Kazakhstan.'

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Geoff had retained a touching faith in my food-ordering abilities.

'That's great,' he said. 'I'll look forward to a few dips. Just right.'

A few minutes later the waiter appeared – with a large plate of unshelled prawns.

'These,' said Geoff firmly, with the air of Michel Roux taking a contestant to task on Masterchef: The Professionals, 'are not crudités. You have failed yet again to deliver the promised goods.'

'I was sure he asked me if I wanted crudités,' I said, plaintively. Then a thought struck. I got out my Russian dictionary and looked up the word for prawns. According to the pronunciation guide it was 'krivyetkas'. Close enough, I felt, to explain what was obviously a quite reasonable misunderstanding.

We shelled a few. They had a hot spicy coating, so much that any taste of prawn had been completely smothered. We ate them cautiously and without enthusiasm. No one else was eating prawns. This wasn't a fish restaurant. We were a very long way from the sea. And we were back on the road tomorrow. We shelled a few more to show willing then pushed the plate aside. I got out my dictionary and looked up the word for olives and placed a new order.

Next morning we were in no hurry to depart, which was just as well as we'd seen how gridlocked the streets became in rush hour. We made the most of breakfast and headed out around mid morning. We'd set ourselves an easy target that day – the town of Taldykorgan, a couple of hundred miles to the north. That would be our jump-off point for a big, 500-mile drive to Semey, not far from the Russian border.

The inside of the van looked fresher for the quick clean with wet wipes the day before – not showroom condition, exactly, but at least the dials on the dashboard were no longer hidden under a layer of dust and grime. And thanks to Geoff's ingenuity with the luggage grips, the worst of the rattles had disappeared. Getting out of town was easier than getting in, and we headed north on a smooth dual carriageway which cut through the steppe and brought us close to Lake Kapchagai – actually a reservoir sixty miles long, created in the late 1960s by damming the Ile River. Since then its shores have become a favourite place for people living in Almaty who want to escape the summer heat – and the government has designated a new role for the town of Kapchagai itself, that of gambling capital, or the 'Las Vegas of the Steppe' as it has been ambitiously called.

One of the consequences of capitalism was a rapid growth in casinos, so to control this perceived problem, gambling has been made illegal in all but two places, Kapchagai, and Schuchinsk near Astana in the north. So far, though, development has been slow, and whereas Las Vegas rises from the desert in a shimmer of colourful and varied tower block hotels and casinos, Kapchagai struggles to its feet, a uniformly dull Soviet-era town little changed from its creation in the 1970s when a hydroelectric power station was built to take advantage of the Ile River dam. It was going to be a long time before any high rollers rolled into town.

We pressed on and reached Taldykorgan by mid afternoon. Some towns you arrive in seem to be populated exclusively by OAPs. Think Dorset seaside in September. The sort of place where someone in their mid-fifties, such as myself, would be called 'young man' by a shopkeeper. Well, Taldykorgan is the opposite. Everyone seemed to be a teenager, with the occasional slightly older brother or sister. They sat on benches chatting in groups, while others who had paired off strolled hand in hand through leafy parks. Everyone seemed friendly and relaxed – there was no litter, no sign of young men pumped up on cheap vodka and keen for a spot of bother, no loud music.

We parked and walked round the centre to get our bearings. In Almaty, drivers had regarded it as a matter of pride to make a pedestrian run. Now, cars stopped at zebra crossings at the first sign that someone might even be contemplating crossing over, their drivers smiling encouragingly from behind the wheel.

It was hot – our hottest day so far – and we kept to the shade as we followed a path through trees which opened out onto a square lined with flowerbeds. There were grand buildings at either end: one was modern, five storeys high, fronted in blue glass, its rectangular construction softened by a pleasing bow; the other was much older, to a design inspired by Roman temples, with tall pillars guarding the entrance. In between them were rows of stalls handing out leaflets about university and college courses. Hundreds of young people browsed from one to the other.

It was time to find somewhere to stay. We approached a couple of teenagers and asked if they spoke English. They confirmed they did.

'Is there a hotel in town?' I asked, adding, 'Or perhaps you could tell us of a good place to camp? We have tents.'

They looked us up and down. We were probably older than their fathers, a bit frayed around the edges, a film of perspiration dampening our foreheads under the hot summer sun. The teenagers exchanged glances. Their expressions said 'Hey, these guys are no spring chickens and they don't look like the Bear Grylls type either. Better get them a bed for the night.'

'We will show you a nice hotel,' said one. 'Follow us.'

They guided us through the park and pointed to what looked like a small warehouse from an industrial estate, painted sky blue and with a shady garden to the front.

'A hotel,' they confirmed, seeing our doubtful expressions. We thanked them and went inside.

The woman behind the desk was strange in that she was an old person in this town of the young. She spoke no English, and we made slow progress.

'We would like one room with two beds,' I explained, with the help of my phrasebook.

She looked from one to the other of us. She didn't seem happy. This could have been because my Russian was failing again, or the idea of two men sharing a room troubled her. Either way, she produced two keys, gave us one each, and pointed to the scale of charges. They were far removed from the international rates of Almaty and we were happy to pay up. We had an early start the next morning and two rooms would ensure a restful night, although, bizarrely, we seemed to have grown used to each other's snoring and it no longer troubled us as it had done.

The rooms were large, and each had two beds. The pale blue theme of the outside of the hotel was continued indoors – pale blue curtains, wallpaper, sofa and between the beds a print of three swans swimming serenely on a pale blue lake, below a sky in a slightly lighter shade of pale blue.

Geoff went out for a walk and to take some photos while I spent a pleasant hour sitting under a tree in the hotel's garden writing out, in my neatest Cyrillic: 'We will be leaving at six-thirty in the morning. Please can the gate be left open. We will not need brekkie. Thanks.'

Geoff returned and we set off to buy supplies for the next day's long drive and find somewhere to eat. At a crossroads, we followed women with shopping bags into an indoor market. The stallholders were friendly too, smiled at us, waited patiently while we fumbled for the right money and waved us goodbye. We stocked up on water, nuts and chocolate and walked on. By the side of the road barbecues had sprung up, basic chairs and tables on the pavement. Some were roasting kebabs, others had large, mysterious pots simmering. Customers queued with battered pans of various shapes and sizes waiting for them to be filled. Not far away was a building which looked like it had probably been a cinema in the 1950s. Now, what must once had been the foyer had been turned into a cafe, windowless, cool and with tables around the edge.

Geoff went off to attend to the beer order and returned with a couple of pints of Derbes, a Kazakh brew, pale golden, ice-cold and with a generous frothy head.

'Right,' he said, 'that's my job done, now it's down to you.'

I had been studying the menu. It was all in Cyrillic.

'Do the staff speak English?' I asked hopefully.

He shook his head and gave a mischievous grin. 'Not a word.'

The waitress was now at our table, poised, notebook in hand. I felt under pressure. I pushed the menu to one side.

'Lamb kebab and chips please,' I said in my best Russian. This was the same best Russian which had let us down on so many other occasions. This time it was no different. The waitress looked totally blank. She asked me a question. I shrugged. She opened the menu and pointed to something, questioning. I gave up.

'Yes please,' I said. 'Two of those. Dva.'

She took the menus away.

'So,' said Geoff. 'Are you going to tell me or is it a complete surprise?'

'Well, I ordered lamb kebab and chips,' I replied. 'I'm sure she understood. I can't have got that wrong.'

Geoff said nothing, but the grin returned, which he tried to hide by taking a big gulp of beer.

After a tense few minute the waitress came back, carrying three baskets of food. One basket contained chopped up chunks of crusty, brown Kazakh bread. The other two were piled high with chopped up chunks of fish.

'Don't say a word,' I told Geoff. 'Unless it's to tell me what sort of fish you think it is.'

'There's plenty of it,' he observed. 'It was a big fish once. Lightly grilled, bit pink and bloody in the middle.'

I cut myself a mouthful. 'Translucent flesh. Moist. Not salty. Maybe a little muddy.'

'Could be pike,' Geoff suggested.

It seemed a reasonable proposition, though neither of us knew if pike was a regular on Kazakh menus. We tucked in.

At the back of the restaurant, which was now about two-thirds full, a woman appeared with a microphone.

'I think we're in for some entertainment as well,' I speculated.

The woman finished speaking and moved to the side, arm outstretched, introducing an act. From the speakers came the pounding repetitive sound of American hip hop music. And from a side door which led onto the street came three Kazakh boys, two of them in their middle teens, the third barely out of primary school, dressed in T shirts and baggy trousers, bandanas round their heads.

They stood in a line in front of a small area of clear floorspace between the tables. Then the first one threw himself forward, a handstand, a backflip and a somersault all executed perfectly in time to the music. Then it was the turn of the other older boy. He put one hand on the floor and twisted and turned, dropping onto his shoulders to spin round at dizzying speeds. But they were only warming up. For the next fifteen minutes we watched entranced as they executed move after extraordinary move, incredible acrobatic athleticism coupled with dance routines, each trying to outdo the other in complexity and speed. The younger boy was a prop, flipped between them like a beachball, spinning through the air with grace and style.

'This is absolutely amazing,' said Geoff.

'They're sensational,' I agreed. 'If they were in New York they would surely be megastars.'

'And mega-rich,' Geoff observed.

As it was, when they finished their routine they passed a plate round the restaurant. About half the people there gave them something – the rest waved them away. We gave. They deserved it.

Back at the hotel the receptionist was waiting anxiously for us. She took down the keys to our rooms from a board behind the desk and indicated she would accompany us up the stairs. Once inside my room, she led me to my fridge and opened it. There, on a plate wrapped in cling film, were two boiled eggs in their shells, some cheese, slices of a salami-style sausage and two bread rolls.

She pointed. 'Zaftrak!' Breakfast.

'Thank you,' I said. 'You are very thoughtful and very kind.'

For the first time she smiled, her expression lighting up her lined face and showing that once she would have been pretty.

The reception desk was empty when we left in the morning, but a man had been delegated to wait by the door and unlock the gate.

We had more than 500 miles to do to reach Semey, directly to the north and our last stop in Kazakhstan. After that we'd cross back into Russia – in Siberia – then we'd drive through the Altai Republic and into Mongolia. We made good time at first, as the smooth road followed the line of the Dzhungarsky Alatau Mountains, which mark the border with China, about fifty miles away. They rise to more than 4,500 m (nearly 15,000 ft), are snow-capped the year round and have scenery offering glaciers and spruce forests, home to the Tian Shan brown bear. The road was about as near as we were going to get, though, as the region is a sensitive border zone requiring a special permit to visit.

As we swung inland, heading directly north, the surface deteriorated and we were back to dodging potholes. And police. A couple of routine checks were over quickly enough, but we found them increasingly irritating. And they brought out a selfish streak in us both. We took to tailgating other vehicles through villages in the hope that we could sneak past unobserved. 'I hope they stop them, not us, please not us' we would mutter as we spotted another couple of bored cops eyeing up the oncoming traffic. If we saw someone else being pulled over we would whoop with joy and punch the air as if our football team had scored a goal.

'If anyone still thinks identity cards are a good idea they should do this trip,' I commented.

Geoff and I don't agree on everything – but on this we were as one.

'There's no point in having them unless it's compulsory to carry them.'

'And no point in that unless the police are given powers to check them at random.'

'And no point in that unless they exercise those powers from time to time.'

Trust us on this: it's very wearing and builds a seething resentment against those who have the right to stop you on a whim, even if you are acting in a perfectly law-abiding manner.

As the roads worsened, the scenery changed. We left the hills behind and followed a track through scrubland and salt marsh with few settlements to break the monotony, just an occasional single-storey farm building, its roof sagging, a few broken fences which had long ago given up the job of trying to contain the sheep and goats which wandered in the road. We kept to a strict routine, taking it in turns to drive two hours on, two hours off, talking little, concentrating on getting the journey done.

Geoff was at the wheel when we hit a rare long, straight stretch of good tarmac, miles from any village. A lonely road that undulated into the distance. He sped up, but not too much. We were doing under 60 mph when we crested the brow of a hill. They were waiting on the other side. The now familiar routine. A radar gun produced, the driver summoned to the police car, a fine handed over. And left on the seat.

'How much this time?' I asked Geoff on his return.

'Managed to halve it,' he reported, but without any pleasure. 'Ten thousand tenge down to five thousand. Twenty-two pounds fifty.'

This time the police didn't even have the excuse that we were speeding. This was just highway robbery in the true sense.

'Scumbags,' I commented.

'Yup.'

We drove on. Lunch was taken in the van, as usual. Lunch was to be looked forward to, put off until well into the afternoon and eaten slowly because it provided a diversion. With care, lunch could be made to last for half an hour. A half hour of self absorption for the passenger while the driver concentrated on the road. Lunch that day started with a boiled egg which was left over from the breakfast the hotel provided. This was peeled slowly, checked carefully for fragments of shell, then eaten in small bites, each mouthful savoured. Then a handful of peanuts, inspected for size, colour and saltiness and taken one at a time. Then a glug of water. Then a chocolate bar, broken into pieces, nibbled, rolled around the mouth with the tongue, the wrapper checked for any stray crumbs. Once it was over, it was back to spotting potholes and police and thinking of unexplored avenues of conversation.

'Right, I've got one,' one of us would announce, breaking the silence, 'choose six dinner party guests, all have to be still alive and surnames have to include the letter L.'

And so the miles would pass. After almost twelve hours of driving we reached the town of Georgievka, where we turned left. We had around a hundred miles to go, but for the last fifty the road surface had been good. We were optimistic we could make Semey before dark. It was time for a change of shift so we swapped seats and I took the wheel.

We were now on a dual carriageway. Once, probably before the break up of the Soviet Union, this had been a good, fast, well-maintained highway. Now it was a wreck, a piece of road which looked like a Russian tank brigade had used it for a firing range before pulling out. More craters than tarmac.

Occasionally there would be a smooth stretch for perhaps a few hundred yards. I would speed up. Then, after a warning shout from Geoff, I would brake sharply in front of a huge pothole straddling our path.

For a while, Western law-abiding sensitivities hold and you try to keep to your side of the central reservation. But then you realise that most other people going your way are going faster – because they are driving up the wrong side of the road. You hesitate for a few miles, because it just doesn't seem right. You are, after all, on a main road, the M38. But then, coming up in front of you, is a huge gap where a central reservation barrier used to be. And the other side of the road looks so much smoother. Even very old Ladas are going faster than you. Then there is a Lord of the Flies 2 moment. You are going to cross over.

'Looks better on the other side of the road,' you say to your passenger. 'Maybe we should give it a go.'

'Yeah, maybe. All the locals seem to be going up that side.'

That's the clinching argument. The one which has been in use since 387 when a chap called St Ambrose invented it. The story goes that another saint, Augustine, noticed that, unlike the Romans, the Milanese didn't fast on a Saturday and asked why. Ambrose, then Bishop of Milan, had a ready answer: 'When I am in Rome I fast on a Saturday, when I am in Milan I do not'. Later subbed down to the more pithy, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'.

You turn the wheel to the left and cross over the central reservation and into Kazakh traffic anarchy.

Anarchy: depending on your definition, it's either chaos or a rather idealised cooperation between individuals. On the M38 into Semey, it's both.

There you are, driving up the wrong side of the road at, for the terrain, an impressively speedy 35 mph when, from round a bend in front of you, comes a sixteen-wheel truck. You are on his side of the road, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't flash his headlights, gesticulate angrily at you and leap for his mobile phone to call the police. You are now in a place where having something coming towards you on the wrong side of the road is normal. There is no wrong side of the road. You look for a patch of solid ground to manoeuvre onto – there is a bit between two craters to the right. You head for this. He sees where you are going and turns the other way. You pass without a glance. Repeat several hundred times and you have got a sense of the approach road to Semey.

Chapter Eight

Testing Times

Around about the time when the people of Aralsk were witnessing the destruction of their livelihoods with the drying up of the Aral Sea, their water supply polluted and their crops refusing to grow, they could console themselves with one thought: 'Thank God we don't live in Semipalatinsk'.

When the Russians moved out after Kazakhstan became independent, Semipalatinsk changed its name for the same reason people sometimes do – it wanted to escape its past. Officially, it's now just Semey, though the old name is still there on road signs.

In 1947, when the Soviet Union was trying to develop an atomic bomb, Stalin's security chief, Lavrenti Beria, selected an area of the Kazakh desert to become the test site. He described the area as uninhabited, conveniently overlooking a town of several hundred thousand people just over ninety miles away. This was Semipalatinsk.

The first bomb went off in 1949. And for the next forty years there were a total of 456 nuclear explosions with a combined power of around two-and-a-half thousand times the Hiroshima bomb. Three hundred and forty of the tests were underground – the rest, 116 of them, were atmospheric tests. Open air. You don't have to be a student of the subject to know that radiation doesn't just stay in one spot: it can get blown about a bit by the wind.

Children began to be born with terrible birth defects, there was a big upsurge in cancers and dogs were seen wandering around without any fur. Nearly half a million people have been recognised by the Kazakh authorities as having been affected by the testing. They receive a modest disability allowance. Many others still struggle to get official recognition.

And it's not over yet. Scientists now believe that people could be passing on faulty genes to their children because their DNA has been damaged.

The site itself is now abandoned. Near its centre, radiation levels are still so high that the maximum amount of time a person could spend there without something very nasty happening to them is half an hour.

And yet, despite this, some people still go there. Looters. Many tunnels on the site contain copper wire. Copper has a value of around $6,000 a ton. And for a few of the very poor it's worth the risk. Freshly made trenches can be seen at the site, where the copper has been dug up and stripped out.

We finally arrived in Semey fifteen hours after setting off, found a hotel and checked in for two nights. We were told to park round the back. Ours was the only vehicle and there was no gate to stop direct access from the road, but there wasn't much we could do about that. A man emerged from the rear of the hotel and watched us unload. We nodded a greeting, but he didn't approach for a chat.

The hotel provided some food, a couple of beers, and we were ready for bed.

'I'm just going down to the van,' said Geoff. 'There's a few more things I'd like to bring in.'

He returned shivering.

'Temperature has dropped, it's really cold out there. And you know that bloke who was watching us unload? He's obviously some sort of night watchman. He was sitting on the bonnet of our van, wrapped up in an anorak and gloves. I think the poor bugger's going to be there all night.'

In the morning, after a breakfast of pancakes and jam, we went to check all was well. The watchman was still there, leaning against a wall in the corner of the car park and smoking a matchstick-thin roll-up. I got a packet of Marlboro from under the seat and offered them to him. He was pleased. Far more pleased than anyone should have been to receive such a small gift.

We set off on the short walk to the town's museum down a tree-lined street of solid houses, once perhaps merchants' homes, most now official buildings. There were few people about. The museum was housed in a white, single-storey late nineteenth-century building which was once home to the governor of the region. There was little to give away its presence, other than a couple of canons and an old, blue tractor by the front door. Inside, we paid our entrance fee and were directed first into a room with exhibits relating to prehistory, interspersed with a few cases of stuffed animals.

We moved quickly on, to displays charting the rise of the town, watched with suspicion by the woman who had taken our entrance money and now felt obliged to follow us around, switching lights on and off as we entered various rooms.

Eventually, we found what we had come to see. In a room dedicated mainly to displays concerning World War Two, there were a couple of glass-fronted cases in the corner. Inside were photos, letters, newspaper cuttings and badges relating to the protest movement set up in 1989 by a Kazakh poet, Olzhas Suleimenov, to get the nuclear testing stopped. Up until then, Suleimenov had been a member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. But the movement he set up – which linked Semey to the United States test site in Nevada – attracted worldwide attention. Two years later, in August 1991, President Nazarbayev signed a decree closing the test site, a copy of which was on display. Suleimenov went on to have a political career, becoming speaker of the Kazakh parliament, and was appointed his country's ambassador at the United Nations.

There were photos as well, somehow given extra impact for being in black and white. They showed the test site, concrete bunkers, rusting signs warning people to keep out, and broken-down rolls of barbed wire showing some people haven't obeyed them.

One photo seemed to have been taken from the window of a plane, showing Lake Chagan, created in 1965 by an underground explosion on the dried up bed of the Chagan River. The idea was to form a crater which would be filled by water from the river during its peak flow in the spring. It succeeded. The lake has a diameter of around four hundred metres and is 100 metres deep. Unfortunately, it's still radioactive – sometimes known as the 'Atomic Lake'.

We weren't the only ones in the museum. A party of teenage schoolgirls, neatly dressed in their uniforms of black skirts and white blouses, heard our English accents, and the bravest of them was pushed forward by her friends.

'Excuse me,' she said to Geoff, in precise, accentless English. 'Can you tell me the time please?'

'Of course,' said Geoff, slightly taken aback by the request and looking at his watch. 'It's half past eleven.'

Having broken the ice, the girl was pressed by her friends to ask us both some slightly more interesting questions, such as where were we going to and where were we from? Unlike the others, she didn't say how wonderful London must be and how she would like to be there. Instead, she asked a question which, from the hopeful look in her eye, really mattered.

'Can you tell me, please, what do you think of our town?'

It was addressed to me.

'We haven't really had chance to explore yet. We are looking forward to doing so.'

I could tell from her slightly disappointed expression that my answer wasn't good enough. I tried again.

'Your town has had bad days but those are behind it. And it is in Kazakhstan, a wonderful, extraordinary country of such contrasts – beautiful mountain ranges and vast oil-rich deserts. And kind, friendly people.'

She smiled, relieved, and relayed this answer to her classmates. Then they all solemnly shook hands with both of us and continued their tour of the museum.

We left and walked down to the Irtysh River. The homes were the familiar Soviet-style blocks of flats, though here and there an old timber-built house had survived. Across the river was a new suspension bridge, a visible sign of hope for the future. Paths led through trees to the water's edge – there were jetties, but no sign of any pleasure boats, as there had been on the Volga. We walked back through the central park, a cheerful place with what looked like a school fete taking place, stalls bedecked with balloons and live traditional Kazakh music on a stage nearby.

But our destination lay a little further on, in Victory Park. All over the world there are people with strange hobbies involving 'spotting' their obsession. Birds, trains, single-decker buses, that sort of thing. I have even read of people who like to 'spot' statues of Lenin in former Soviet states before they are all taken down. They should get along double quick to Semey.

There, in Victory Park, there are about a dozen of them, plus a Marx and a few other assorted one-time Communist heroes. Most of them are busts, standing guard either side of a footpath. But there, at the end, towering above them all, is the granddaddy of all Lenin statues. He stands, right hand extended pointing over his shoulder, perhaps to a brighter future, left hand holding his jacket slightly open, as if about to declaim on the evils of capitalism. And he is huge. I went and stood beside him. My head came to just by the top of his shoes.

An elderly man came up and gave me a toothless grin. He was clearly proud of the statue and keen to try to tell me how high it was, but, between us, our language skills weren't up to it. He indicated a block of flats nearby and pointed out the one in which he lived. It was obviously a prime spot having an uninterrupted view of all the Lenins arranged below.

We strolled in a circle back to the hotel.

'See that car,' I said to Geoff. 'Parked just off the main road at the entrance to the car park with a view of the hotel's front door.'

'Red one, two men in it?'

'That's the one. Strange thing is, it was there when we left this morning.'

We walked past and glanced inside. Two men, thirties, black leather jackets looked the other way. Eye contact was not wanted. One of them had what looked like a clipboard and papers on his knee.

'Well, they're clearly interested in someone's comings and goings from the hotel,' said Geoff. 'Can't imagine it's us.'

'At least it makes the car park a bit more secure,' I pointed out.

In the morning a different car was parked there, with just one man inside. Happily, and probably due more to the diligence of the hotel's nightwatchman, our van had remained untouched.

It was to be our last day in Kazakhstan – next stop, back to Russia, but this time Siberia. The border was about a hundred miles away and the road was good. Just one routine police check and we were there by mid morning.

The first hurdle was to exit Kazakhstan. There was no one else about as we drove up to the barrier. A guard advanced to meet us. We handed over our passports. He looked at mine first, and gave it back. Then he opened Geoff's.

'I hope we're not going to have any bother here,' said Geoff. It was a forlorn hope.

The guard's head bobbed up and down as he looked first at the photo then back to Geoff who sat uncomfortably in the driver's seat.

'Is not you,' he announced firmly, and not unreasonably given the real-life Geoff in front of him.

'It is me, really. It's just an old picture. And I've grown a beard.'

The guard had another look but stood by his original verdict.

'Is not you,' he repeated. He snapped the passport shut, returned it to Geoff, and began to walk back to his barrier.

It looked like our trip could have come to a halt. If all other Kazakh guards and assorted border officials took a similar hard line we could be taking up residency.

'Wait,' said Geoff, opening our case in which all our documents were kept. 'Look, I've got other ID.'

He pulled out his international driving licence with its rather more up-to-date picture. The guard returned reluctantly.

'See,' said Geoff, holding it out. 'There, look. That's me. There's my name, just like in the passport, place of birth, it all matches.'

The guard examined the document suspiciously. Then he grinned. It was a grin which suggested a man with a sense of humour lurked below the uniform.

'OK,' he said, raising the barrier and waving us through the first hurdle.

An hour of so of form filling, then refilling as we had made some small mistake, then finding the right hut to take it to for it to be stamped and returned to us for filing elsewhere and we were almost out of Kazakhstan. Almost, not quite. One very fat customs officer saw in us a chance to earn a performance bonus and inquired rather bluntly about the prospect of us giving him some dollars.

'Why?' Geoff asked, perfectly fairly, which threw the customs man into a bit of a strop and he slumped down on his sofa and began texting someone on his mobile phone. No doubt to complain about life's injustices and the meanness of foreigners.

'No point in your offering him one of your T-shirts,' I said to Geoff. 'They wouldn't go anywhere near him. Even mine would come up a bit short around that tum.'

It was left to a more junior operative to give us the final clearance to leave and we were through to the Russian side.

At first, we felt we were among friends. Or, at least, a friend. A Russian soldier with a remarkable resemblance to Ray Mears took us under his wing, showed us where to park, where to put our ticks in which boxes, where then to take the completed forms and how to make a shelter for the night out of a few sticks and some dried ferns. OK, not that last bit. But if Ray Mears is ever going that way he should look up that soldier. He must be related pretty closely.

'What a nice bloke,' I said.

'Don't know what we'd have done without him,' agreed Geoff.

'Just shows, there are still some genuinely helpful people in the world, even at border posts.'

The soldier then took us out of the hut, round the back out of earshot of any of his colleagues and held out his hand.

'Money.'

I think we refused because we were so disappointed. We had really believed he was just a good guy. We feigned ignorance, pretending not to understand what was wanted. He glared at us and walked off.

We went back to the van and drove it round the corner for a customs check. The soldier was waiting for us. And he had brought his mates, half a dozen off them in three different sorts of uniform. We got out.

'Open the back.' One of them, a tall, thin man with ginger hair spoke English. We did as we were told.

'What's in these?' He pointed at the jerry cans.

'Diesel in a couple of them, water in the other.'

'Take them out.'

We lined them up by the van.

'And those, take them out.' He pointed to our two spare wheels.

Grumbling, we heaved them out of the back. The third spare wheel, bolted to the rear door, seemed for some reason not to interest them. That was fine by us. No point in attracting attention to it. Ginger had now got the taste for seeing our possessions arranged on his forecourt. Our box of food followed, our tools, tents and utensils. Not forgetting our enormous toilet roll collection, which was now becoming a little squashed and tattered. We piled them up in a rather crooked pyramid.

'Wheels and cans over there.'

Ginger pointed to a shed about fifty yards away. Inside was an old conveyor belt which led into a scanner. He pressed a button and it wheezed and groaned and started into life.

'Everything on there.'

'Really? Everything? Are you serious?'

He was. He grinned, enjoying our discomfort. Between us, Geoff and I heaved the cans and tyres onto the belt and they set off on their journey through the frayed curtains of the scanner. Geoff was instructed to go round to the other side of the shed, and I was ordered back to the van. One of Ginger's friends thought he had made an exciting discovery. He held out my walking stick.

'Is gun,' he announced.

'Is not gun,' I replied, knowing that right was on my side on this one.

'Is gun,' he repeated, firmly, trying and failing to remove the metal tip from the end of the stick where he clearly expected to find a hidden barrel. I felt he had spent too much time watching bad spy movies.

'Is really not gun. Is walking stick. Is to ward off savage dogs.'

He looked puzzled, not understanding. I took the stick from him.

'Look,' I said to him. 'Woof woof. Grrrrrrrrrr.'

I mimed landing a couple of sharp blows on a snarling dog which was trying to bite my legs.

Ginger had reappeared from the shed to see one of the Englishmen they had detained thrashing the air with a walking stick and barking.

He said something in Russian to his chum which I suspected translated as 'Jeez, looks like we've got a real fruit loop here, I don't think this gun-running charge is going to hold up'.

The walking stick/gun accusations were abandoned and they moved on to my medical kit, clearly feeling that if they couldn't get us on the illegal arms count, then maybe there might be some mileage in accusations of drug smuggling.

My medicine box had been assembled by my elder daughter, Emma. And with touching concern for her father's welfare it contained enough pills, liquids, creams and bandages to stock a small field hospital. These were laid out in a line in the back of the van. Actually, several lines.

'What are these?' asked Ginger, holding up half a dozen packets of crystals.

I had absolutely no idea. Emma had been thorough in her preparations. Had I had the misfortune to be bitten by a mosquito carrying, say, the West Nile Virus, I felt completely confident that within the medical kit there would be a specialist dressing, a cream and a course of pills to combat the worst of the effects.

I peered at the sachets Ginger had found. They were rehydration fluids.

'Those are in case we get the trots,' I explained.

His English was good, but not quite colloquial enough to provide an accurate translation.

'What are these trots?'

'Ah, let's see, well not Trotskyites, obviously, erm the squits, the runs, er…' My eye fell upon the toilet seat from our portable desert dumper, which was propped against a rear wheel. I picked it up.

'It's in case of the old bowel trouble,' I explained, crouching down and pointed inside the toilet seat.

'OK,' said Ginger, hastily, holding up his hand to stop the mime before it went any further.

He worked his way along my impressive collection of medicines, occasionally opening up packets of pills and sniffing the contents of bottles. The smell of TCP seemed unfamiliar and made him recoil. He summoned a couple of the others and gave them an instruction. I caught a word which sounded like 'syringee'. Geoff's decision to ditch his needles in Astrakhan looked like a good call. They began a search of the back of the van, going carefully through our food box and giggling at a couple of boxes of boil-in-the-bag curries. I wondered why, until I noticed they were pointing at an Indian woman in a sari on the packaging. They seemed to find that very funny.

Geoff returned, straining under the weight of a jerry can on the end of each arm. The scan had revealed nothing untoward. We returned to the shed to retrieve the rest of our belongings.

'Those buggers,' he said, with feeling, 'made me stand at the end of the conveyor belt and grab the stuff as it shot off. Those wheels are heavy, especially when they come at you waist height.'

I sympathised, and we wheeled them back to the van and began repacking. Ginger and his chums had given up the search for needles and, having enjoyed an hour's sport, had decided to knock off, leaving the Ray Mears lookalike to supervise our repacking.

'Quick, quick,' he told us. We were brave enough to pause and glare at him. It was, after all, his fault that our stuff was littering their tarmac.

Loaded up and on our way again we considered whether, with hindsight, we would have done anything differently. We agreed that $10 would have kept the soldier happy and avoided an hour or so's delay and a lot of bother. We considered this in silence for a while. Geoff spoke first. And he'd been reading my thoughts.

'I'm glad we didn't give him anything, even if it did cause us a bit of grief.'

I nodded. 'So am I.'

We were now in Siberia, and, as we drove on towards Barnaul, a couple of hundred miles away, the temperature started to drop. A few days ago it had been above 30°C – now the dashboard thermometer went from 12 to 10 to 8 before our eyes. By the time we reached Barnaul it was down to 4°C.

We had booked a hotel for one night – now, as we thought about the rest of the trip, we decided to stay for two. It would give us a chance to check the van over and buy some maps and essential supplies in the last city of any size before Ulaanbaatar.

The young fellow on reception desk, though, looked alarmed by the request.

'Two nights. Not one night? I do not know if that is possible.' He was inexperienced, barely out of his teens. And he had bad acne. Stress like this would only make the spots worse. He scratched at them distractedly. Why did foreigners turn up and make trouble with requests for unauthorised second-night stays?

'Is the room free tomorrow night as well as tonight? Or is the hotel full?' I asked, trying to get to the nub of the matter.

He looked at us unhappily. 'Hey, come on guys,' you felt him thinking, 'leave me alone will you? I can't just go giving out that sort of information to anyone who asks. Get real.'

'I will find the answer to your question,' he told us, his fingernails betraying his anxiety as he beheaded a couple of spots.

It was the best answer we were going to get for the time being, so we dumped our bags and headed for the restaurant. We were the only customers. There was no draught beer, but there were bottles of the local brew in the fridge and a food menu in English. We ordered chicken stuffed with mushrooms and a side order of chips, which came with a basket of chewy and flavoursome black bread. The food was cheap by the standards of home – perhaps half what we would expect to pay, and even though it was one of the most expensive hotels we had booked, the room rate was about a third less than a comparable hotel in the West.

We discussed the next stage of our journey. The Mongolian border was about five hundred and fifty miles away. In the way was the Altai Republic, a semi-autonomous region of the Russian federation with its own president and parliament. It's one of those secretive mountain places which few foreigners visit, home to bears, wolves and snow leopards. It's sensitive politically too, with a border which touches upon Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China.

Vladimir Putin, when he was Russian President, put the FSB – the successor of the KGB – in charge of security. And for foreigners who want to go there, things got a whole lot more complicated. To visit the border zone area, people from other countries are now supposed to submit a request to the FSB one month in advance. And the forms must be filled in, in Russian, by a local company authorised to arrange visits. And there must be a precise itinerary, listing places to stay and the duration. We didn't have any of these things. And then there was the matter of the FSB helicopter, kept on standby to fly out foreigners who hadn't reported to them as soon as they entered the Republic.

'Which is people like us,' Geoff pointed out.

'Nah, we'll be OK. We're just transiting through. I've checked. It'll be fine.'

'Maybe,' said Geoff. He looked unconvinced. Which was fair enough because I was making it up. I had no idea what the attitude of the FSB would be. They weren't known for being the sort of chaps who said 'Rules? Hell, they're just made to be broken. Who gives a monkey's about paperwork? You two have a nice day now.'

'They won't worry about us,' I continued. 'It's a very lonely place. Virtually no one about. If we set off at dawn, we could be halfway through before they've finished breakfast. And anyway, they've got all these armed gangs of drug smugglers to worry about. I was reading, it's become the new route for the heroin trade to Russia.'

As far as reassuring Geoff went, I had fallen some way short. We agreed the most sensible thing was to try to buy a map the next day, work out our route and take it from there.

'We should probably stock up on other essentials as well,' I suggested. I got a pen and a scrap of paper from the bar and made a shopping list:

Beer

Water

Map

Crisps/peanuts

Onions

'Onions?' queried Geoff.

'Always good to have onions if cooking anything. They'll give a meal some flavour and pad it out a bit. Plus they'll keep a while before going off.'

'Maybe we could add some fresh fruit?' he suggested, hopefully. I put it down as number six with a question mark.

We returned to our room and the phone rang. Permission had been granted for us to stay a second night. Hooray.

When we woke up it had been snowing. June was only a few days away, but this was Siberia. We headed out to try to find the shops. At the bottom of the stairs we lost our bearings and turned left rather than right to the exit. Along a short corridor was a room, reflective glass in the window but the door open. I glanced inside. A collection of weapons was piled casually against a desk. I was about to call Geoff to have a look when the door was shut firmly in my face. We retreated the right way.

'Looked like a gunroom in there,' I told him.

'There's a casino next door. Could be something to do with that,' he suggested.

'That's possible,' I agreed. 'No point in being a bad loser around here.'

Outside the hotel was a row of windows, the faces of former Soviet leaders etched in the glass. Lenin was there, of course, along with Putin, Stalin making perhaps a surprise appearance, but one window had attracted the attention of the locals above all others. One was covered from top to bottom and from side to side in spittle. That was the one showing the face of Mikhail Gorbachev – the man who many in the West would regard as a political hero, for his reformist policies and for his refusal to send in the tanks when demonstrators across Eastern Europe took to the streets demanding their freedom. But he is hated in his homeland for giving away an empire.

A few streets away was a well-stocked bookshop which sold maps. We were the only customers, which, I suppose, was why the store detective gave us such a personal service. He was, as is appropriate for store detectives, a gimlet-eyed man in his early thirties, who in another city, could have risen to the position of Chief Traffic Warden.

'Clearly he thinks we're up to no good,' said Geoff. As we crouched on the floor looking through a cardboard box containing detailed local maps, the man was standing about a yard behind us, peering over my shoulder.

'It's not a policy to encourage browsers,' I agreed. 'Perhaps it explains why there's no one in.'

'I suppose if there aren't any customers, there's no one to steal anything. Interesting strategy.'

In the box was a guidebook written in English.

'Listen to this,' said Geoff, quoting a section. '"It is inadvisable to go drinking with local people in Altai. They tend to get drunk very quickly and develop a hostile, aggressive attitude towards strangers."'

'Sounds just like the radio newsroom,' I quipped, thinking fondly of some of my old colleagues.

We chose a map and stood up. The store detective stepped back sharply, followed us to the till, then escorted us out of the front door. A supermarket down the road – unfortunately our new friend had abandoned us at this point – supplied the rest of the items on our list, although Geoff had to settle for dried apricots in the absence of fresh fruit.

'Right,' I said, 'we need somewhere to study the map. It's lunchtime and I've got a treat for you. Follow me.'

We wandered down the wide tree-lined main street.

Barnaul is a city built on the profits from silver and copper mines which boomed in the eighteenth century. As it prospered and grew, its civic buildings reflected its wealth and importance – big, solid structures, three or four storeys high, grand entrances guarded by pillars, well-tended flower beds outside. They had the look of a Victorian town hall, or perhaps a cotton exchange, in a northern English city. Close by were modern office blocks – but all set back from the road, often behind gardens giving the town a spacious feel. The snow had melted and we skipped over brown puddles.

'Can't be much above freezing,' said Geoff, zipping up his jacket. 'Where are we going anyway?'

'You'll see. I'll order something to warm you up. No Russian sausages,' I promised. 'Right, this is it. Fancy chilli con carne, cooked by an authentic Mexican chef? In Siberia? Look no further.'

'Excellent,' said Geoff. 'Well researched. Can't go wrong here.'

We stepped inside. The restaurant certainly looked Mexican: chequered tablecloths, stone floors, Aztec-type stuff hanging on the wall. Sadly, we were the only people in there apart from a maintenance man armed with an electric drill, his belt sporting an assortment of hammers. During a brief lull in the drilling, we ordered our chilli and examined our map.

It looked about one hundred and fifty miles to the border of the Altai Republic. After that there seemed to be only one town of any size, then a succession of villages as the road to the Mongolian frontier – the Chuiskiy Highway – snaked along beside rivers and through increasingly high mountain passes. There were a lot of bends in the road.

'We're never going to be able to do that in a day,' said Geoff. 'Even if the surface is OK, look at those twists and turns. It's too much.'

'And it's no good trying to stay in that town,' I said, pointing to Gorno-Altaisk, 'because that's where the FSB office is where you're supposed to register. Which we can't as we don't have the correct permissions. So any hotel would be unlikely to take us; and, anyway, we don't really want to draw attention to ourselves.'

'I don't fancy camping,' said Geoff. 'It's cold enough here. What's it going to be like in those mountains?'

He looked at the contours on the map. 'There's one there more than fourteen thousand feet.'

There had to be another solution.

'How about if we use this town here as our starting point?' I pointed to a place called Biysk, about a hundred miles from where we were in Barnaul. 'Looks a reasonable sized town, bound to have a hotel. Then we're only about fifty miles from the Altai border, and about four hundred to Mongolia. An early start and we can do it.'

Whatever Geoff replied was lost forever as the workman fired up his drill and began constructing a neat line of holes in the wall behind us. Then the waitress arrived with our lunches.

'Thanks,' I shouted and mimed 'two more beers'.

We ate mainly in silence, not so much because we were brooding on the trip but because the workman was now drilling a trench through the plaster of the wall to lay some electric cable.

Had we been able to talk, I might have remarked that I was a touch disappointed in the chilli; the meat seemed very fatty, lumps of gristle and even – yikes, something crunched under my teeth – there must be a huge piece of bone in there. I spat it out and examined it. Sharp, solid splinters of something. I fished cautiously around in the bottom of my bowl, pulling more to the surface. It could be bone, but on the other hand… opposite me Geoff began to splutter.

'What the heck's in here?' he yelled. He needn't have done, because just at that moment the workman stopped drilling.

Geoff trawled through his bowl and brought more bits to the surface. We arranged them on the side of our plates. They weren't bones, they were lumps of broken brown pot, enough if pieced together to make, say, a small tea cup.

The drilling restarted and we admitted defeat, leaving the rest of our Mexican chilli and heading back out into chilly Siberian summer.

Chapter Nine

Break for the Border

I woke up and pulled back the curtain. I couldn't see very far. Grey snow swirled around, although little seemed to be settling – the ground was too wet. We paid the bill and checked out. The young fellow on reception had been replaced by an older man who spoke English and had filled out the necessary official registration forms to cover our stay.

Geoff looked at his. 'What does this bit say?' he asked.

'It really doesn't matter. You don't need to know. All you need to do is to keep them safe in your passport and take them out when someone asks you for them.'

He looked at the two fifty-something men in front of him and a worried look crossed his face.

'Just don't lose them,' he told us, speaking very slowly, for emphasis. We felt it was good advice.

As was often the case when we were in no hurry, we found our way out of town easily. The temperature gauge in the van showed that outside it was down to one degree above freezing, but the roads were clear, running straight and smooth through a landscape of Siberian birch trees, their thin white trunks forming an anorexic woodland.

We reached Biysk by lunchtime. It's a town of a quarter of a million people – making it less than half the size of Barnaul – and it feels like the place that missed out when the prizes were being shared. Barnaul has boulevards and flower borders – Biysk has blocks of grim, grey Soviet flats, connected by strips of waste ground. There were poorly-dressed people hanging round on street corners watching the world go by, even though nothing much was moving.

We found a hotel, indistinguishable from one of the smaller concrete tower blocks, and asked about a room. There were three women on reception, but none spoke English, so it was back to my dictionary. And despite the rundown appearance of the place, we warmed to them. They had a sense of humour, and laughed, but not unkindly, at my linguistic fumblings and showed us where, for the equivalent of £1, we could have twenty-four hour secure parking on a piece of ground which someone had enterprisingly carved out of the central reservation of the road outside.

We got a room on the fourth floor and the lift was a cosy fit for the two of us and our overnight bags. It set off slowly, grumbling and groaning with a distinct side-to-side wobble. We fell silent, as people do in lifts, especially ones in which the odds on completing the journey don't look too great. It wheezed its way agonisingly up to the fourth floor and settled with a jolt, as if surprised it had made it. There was a wait of several days until the doors opened and we stepped into the corridor.

'Stairs from now on?'

'I think so.'

The room was basic but clean and the bedlinen had been freshly laundered. We ran the hot water tap hopefully, but without success.

Registration with the local authorities in Biysk was much more formal than elsewhere in Russia: the women at reception told us we had missed the morning deadline and the next was at 3 p.m. We had to present ourselves at the desk in person. This, they emphasised with serious expressions, was very important.

The hotel was linked to a cafe next door, so, with a couple of hours to kill, we wandered in. The inside was bright enough, the walls freshly painted pale green, a couple of pictures of mountain scenes, the tables clean and the crockery shone like it had been freshly polished. There was one person on duty, a woman in her late forties with blonde hair, black roots, and a manner which suggested life had taught her not to stand for any nonsense.

We took a table and she sized us up accurately. Either that or word of our by now legendary incompetence in ordering food had reached this corner of Siberia. She held a menu but thought better of offering it to us.

'You want beef or chicken?' she inquired.

We both opted for chicken.

'And you want beer.' She was telling us rather than asking us, but she was correct nonetheless.

Only one other table was occupied. A couple of Russian men, brash, loud and suited were eating, and sharing a bottle of French brandy. A whole bottle, measures being poured as if it were red wine.

The beer was delivered to our table without delay and in big glasses. A good lager, just the right amount of head and exactly the right temperature.

'I think our waitress is probably the boss here,' said Geoff, taking an appreciative gulp. 'She's just like one of those old-style pub landladies who keeps everything in order.'

Someone was keeping order in the kitchen too. Our chicken breast came rolled in breadcrumbs, with thick hand-cut chips, perfectly cooked, and a generous green salad. It was far better than we had been expecting.

The waitress also showed she had a sixth sense for when our glasses needed refreshing and the time flew by. So fast, indeed, that when I said to Geoff 'What time is it, must be coming up to three soon?' and he looked at his watch we were both surprised to find it was already a quarter past. We settled the bill with a generous tip and re entered the hotel.

A row of stern faces greeted our return to reception. The clock on the wall behind the desk was pointed to.

'Ooops,' I said. 'It looks like we've missed registration.'

We stood, feeling transported back to school days standing outside the headmaster's study, while the women had a confab about what to do. Eventually, forms were produced from a drawer and they set to filling them in and giving them several hearty stamps. Finally satisfied with their work, and after making it clear that this was pretty poor behaviour on our part and if it happened again we would most certainly face a few hundred lines if not detention, we were released.

We needed to check if there were any emails from home, because we knew that in the whole of the Altai Republic there was no public Internet facility. And probably not much of a phone signal in the mountains. We asked if there was an Internet cafe in town, and were directed to the post office where, we were told, there were a few terminals which the public could use.

Latest statistics show the level of personal computer ownership in Russia is one for every 200 people. And that's for the whole country, including comparatively wealthy cities such as Moscow or St Petersburg. Biysk was patently not wealthy. Personal computer ownership would be far below the average. And yet in this town of a quarter of a million people there was no Internet cafe. Just the three terminals in the corner of the post office. And when we arrived, two of them were free.

'Might as well check what's been going on in the world,' I said to Geoff as we logged in. I entered the BBC address. Computer said no.

'I can't get onto the BBC site. You try.'

'Won't let me.'

We gave up and read our emails. And there was one which had slightly worrying news. It was from one of the Go Help organisers, saying that a presidential election was taking place in Mongolia that day – a Monday – and suggesting we delay our approach to the border until at least Tuesday. We rang to find out more.

The situation was uncertain, we were told. The outcome of the election was likely to be close – the opposition, standing on an anti-corruption platform and promising change, believed they were in sight of victory. But they'd believed that the year before in the parliamentary elections – and when results were declared saying they'd lost, their supporters cried fraud and rioted in Ulaanbaatar, setting fire to buildings. A state of emergency had been declared.

We were keen to press on; friendly as the hotel was in Biysk, there weren't too many attractions to detain us for long. The charity's organisers promised to keep in touch – and pointed out that we might prefer to be in a hotel in Biysk than stuck at a very bleak border post if the political situation deteriorated and the crossing was closed. We discussed our options.

'I vote we press on tomorrow unless we hear firmly that the borders have been sealed,' I said to Geoff.

'I agree. I don't want to hang around here any longer than I have to.'

It was a risk, though. The border crossing we were planning to use had only been open to foreigners for a few years. Before that it had been restricted to local freight traffic. If there was a repeat of the trouble which followed the parliamentary elections, and another state of emergency, it could be the worst place to try to enter.

I was already awake when the alarm on my phone began beeping at 5.30 a.m. A cold shower each, a gulp of water and we were driving out of Biysk ten minutes later with the road to ourselves. There had been no more snow and conditions were good. An hour later, we were skirting the main town in Altai, Gorno-Altaysk, and heading for the mountains.

'No sign of the FSB, probably all still tucked up in their beds,' I said as we left the town behind and headed into the lush, green countryside.

The road followed the course of a river, wide and shallow, a paradise for fishermen or white-water rafters, but with little sign of human activity. A scattering of what looked like holiday chalets in the trees, but no sign of anyone staying. The hills became thickly wooded and villages were few; occasionally a collection of wooden houses with steeply sloping roofs huddled in the valleys, sometimes just a poor looking farmhouse or two, a few sheep and cattle, a vegetable garden by the side.

'That's the Katun River,' I told Geoff. I had been swotting up. 'It has as its source the Gelber Glacier on the highest mountain in the republic, Mount Belukha, an impressive —' I consulted the notes I had made in my pocket book, 'fourteen thousand feet up. It is believed by many locals to be the gateway to the mystical land of Shambhala, which, as you will know, according to Tibetan Buddhist tradition is a mythical kingdom hidden somewhere in inner Asia and is mentioned in ancient texts.'

'If you're expecting a tip for the tour guide stuff you'll be out of luck,' Geoff responded. 'It is incredibly beautiful though. And we have it all to ourselves.'

We stopped by a bridge over the river to stretch our legs. It was guarded at either end by a sentry in a box. We walked towards one of them to get a better view over the water, and wondered if he would emerge to challenge us, but he decided to stay inside in the warm.

He had made a wise choice. It was now below freezing and, though the day was bright, the wind held a cutting chill. I shivered.

'You didn't pack a pullover did you?' asked Geoff.

I shook my head.

'So you've got a fairly short, thin jacket and a load of T-shirts.'

'I thought I could wear layers,' I explained.

Geoff sighed. 'OK, I've got a couple of spare fleeces, you can have one of those.'

I accepted without hesitation. It really was very cold. The fleece was several sizes too small, but that was OK because it made it a snug and cosy fit. I felt rather like Winnie the Pooh before Tigger said, 'I don't want to get personal Winnie, but look at the way you're busting out of that top. I really think you should consider a spell on the low-sugar honey.'

We set off again, climbing higher, the van's thermometer showing the outside temperature was now well into the minus numbers. The road surface was smooth and we made good time. The woods on either side gradually became more sparse as the vegetation thinned out and then we were driving through a Christmas card scene of thick snow broken by stark firs, their branches heavy and white.

We twisted and turned through mountain passes, always a tumbling river below us, occasionally crossed by a rickety wooden bridge. Above us we grew used to the sight of eagles, their huge wingspans black as they drifted leisurely across a deep blue sky. It was easy to see how a belief in Shambhala, a land of peace and tranquillity, could take hold.

The next village, though, had a reminder that this was not always a tranquil place. In a field next to the road, guarded by several well-armed soldiers, was a military helicopter.

'Must be the FSB chopper mentioned in those travel blogs,' said Geoff. 'So long as it's on the ground and not following us for a bit of sport, that's fine by me.'

The road dropped slightly as we neared the border. Now the only snow was on the peaks which rose in the distance. We were in a less fertile landscape, stony, with a smear of short, rough grass that would provide poor grazing for even the hardiest sheep.

Then Geoff's phone beeped. He had an incoming text message. This was a rare phenomenon. Geoff seldom sends or receives texts. Which was just as well since, for virtually the whole time since we'd left Western Europe, his phone had stubbornly refused to pick up a signal. Mine – and here I must pay tribute to O2 – had worked whenever we were in a town, across Ukraine, Russia and Kazakhstan. Now, in this bleak and uninhabited spot mine was dead. Not surprisingly. But Geoff's had sparked into life and someone, somewhere had a message for him.

We stopped the van and I searched for a pair of reading glasses while Geoff's thumb twitched fairly at random on the phone's keypad as he attempted to open his text.

'If this is Swinton Insurance Brokers again I shall be very cross.'

That was the last text he'd received when his phone briefly flared into life as we left Volgograd. They'd been touting for business after he'd expressed an interest in a quote on his house renewal policy. This time the text was more interesting. It was from Dulguun, the Go Help representative in Ulaanbaatar. And she sent good news. The election was proceeding peacefully and the border was open. She had spoken to a high-ranking customs officer and they were expecting us. All was well.

'That's fantastic,' said Geoff, with feeling.

'Brilliant news,' I said, equally relieved. 'And at the rate we're going, we'll be there by mid afternoon – certainly well before seven when it closes. There should be plenty of time for us to cross into Mongolia today, no bother.'

With our optimism topped up we decided we'd better do the same to the fuel tank, so we stopped at the village of Kosh-Agach where there was a petrol station. We also filled the two empty jerry cans. Supplies from now on would be unpredictable.

We drove on towards the border. We had the road to ourselves as it wound along the edge of a mountain summit, the ground barren and infertile. But we weren't quite alone. Suddenly, up ahead, where a second before there had been no one, there were two figures standing in the road. Soldiers in camouflage kit, both well armed. One motioned me to pull over.

'Where the heck did they spring from?' asked Geoff. It was a good question. It was as if they'd popped up from a hole in the ground.

I got out, clutching our assortment of documents which we'd grown use to providing at checks. Passports, vehicle registration document, insurance papers, international driving licence. I held them out. The first soldier approached. If I'd seen his photograph and had to guess where he was from I'd have said one of the Nordic countries. He was fair skinned, a well-defined jawline, slight stubble, blue eyes, a high forehead.

He took only the passports and waved the rest of the documents away. The other man stood back a couple of yards, his finger, I noticed, uncomfortably near the trigger on his gun.

Our passports were examined swiftly – the soldier flicked straight to the pages with the visas and the entry stamps.

'English, huh?'

I nodded. 'We're going to Mongolia. Charity trip. Helping children.'

He wasn't interested. A gust as sharp as a blade whipped round the mountainside and I shivered.

'You cold?'

'It's a bit windy here.'

'It's always windy here.'

He returned our passports. 'On your way, English.'

The whole check had taken seconds. As we drove away I glanced in my rear-view mirror. The soldiers were nowhere to be seen.

Less than an hour later a collection of buildings came into view ahead. The Russian border post. We drove up to the barrier and were redirected to a hut further back down the track where our passports would be checked.

We pushed open the door and were hit by a blast of warm air. Inside it looked cosy – half office, half sitting room. The walls were decorated with prints of alpine flowers, and a 1950s-style mirror which hung from a chain. In one corner was the working area, containing a filing cabinet, on which perched a kettle, a couple of mugs and a bowl of sugar, and next to it a desk with a computer terminal. In the other corner, in front of a two bar electric fire, was a sofa. And stretched on the sofa, a picture of relaxed comfort, was a neatly dressed man, a little younger than ourselves with a thick head of wavy, jet black hair giving him the looking of an ageing Lothario. He rose to greet us.

Unusually for a Russian, he had a face which creased readily into a smile. Actually, more of a great big beam. He couldn't have looked more pleased to see us. We exchanged introductions and handshakes.

'You English?'

We confirmed we were.

'You ride motorbikes?'

No, we told him, we drive a van. He looked a bit disappointed at this.

'How you like Russia?'

Very much, we confirmed, such an interesting country to visit. He seemed in no hurry to get on with the paperwork.

'It's cold outside.'

We agreed that was so, and held out our passports as a bit of a hint. He took them without enthusiasm, as if reluctant to let work intrude on such a pleasant exchange. I was waved away to a stool in the corner. Geoff, he indicated, should come and sit on the chair next to his.

He turned on the computer and opened Geoff's passport. Geoff was by now used to the reaction of border officials at the sight of the photo of him with long, blonde locks. But this time there were no sniggers, no insistence that it couldn't possibly be him.

'How you say your name? Gee-off-ree?'

'Jeff-ree,' said Geoff.

'Gee-off-ree.'

'Near enough,' said Geoff, obligingly.

'No, I want to get it right. Gee-off-ree.'

'That's it. Perfect.'

With a small sigh, prompted, no doubt, at the intrusion of work, the man set to, filling out the boxes on the screen. It was a long process, which involved much questioning of Geoff over dates, places, hotels, registration forms, and I felt my eyes closing in the warmth of the hut. Eventually it was done and I stepped forward for my turn.

He waved me away.

'For you is the same. All OK.' He printed some paperwork for Geoff, changed his name to mine on the screen and gave me a printout as well. He rose from his chair reluctantly. He seemed to have enjoyed our company.

'One more thing. I want photo.' He passed me his mobile phone. 'You take photo of me and Gee-off-ree.'

He put his arm round Geoff in a friendly gesture, their faces close together so I could get them both in, and I took the picture. I stepped forward for my turn.

'No, no. Is enough photos. You go now.'

'Friendly fellow,' I commented as we stepped outside.

'Yes,' agreed Geoff. 'Fancy him wanting to take a picture of me. That's a bit of a novelty.'

We drove the short distance back to the border gate. Ahead of us waited two Mongolian jeeps which had just driven up – rugged-looking, basic vehicles like chunky Mini Mokes. The rear door of one of them opened and out stepped a Mongolian man, followed by two women and another man. It must have been a tight squeeze in the back. A similar number of people emerged from the other vehicle.

The jeeps' drivers stretched their legs, lit up cigarettes and chatted to each other. They saw our van and wandered over, all smiles and handshakes. We mimed the usual explanations of what we were doing there. It seemed they were running a taxi service, along with an import business. They were keen to show us their cargo – packed into every corner of their vehicles were tins of food. Most of them seemed to be fruit – tinned prunes, peaches and pineapple chunks poked out from around wheel arches and from under seats.

'You sell these?' we mimed.

They nodded enthusiastically, rubbing their fingers together in the universal gesture for money.

There was no sign of activity behind the border gate. We walked over and asked the young soldier how long we would have to wait. He shrugged. On the hillside nearby a makeshift football pitch had been created and two teams battled it out, watched by a small but vocal crowd.

I went over to have a look, standing in the neutrals section around the halfway line. We were about ten thousand feet up, the sort of height at which guidebooks caution against strenuous activity lest altitude sickness set in. None of that tempered the enthusiasm of the players. The game had the atmosphere of a local derby – tackles were flying in, goals celebrated as if it were a cup final, refereeing decisions disputed vigorously. I have supported Tranmere Rovers all my life, so, to my eyes, the standard looked pretty high. The left winger for one of the teams was certainly rather nifty, carving out huge gaps in the opposition defence, as we football writers like to say, and leaving his fullback for dead. Or at least looking rather out of breath.

I saw three goals in the time I was watching, divided two-one. I didn't know how many others had gone in before I arrived, but the team which had scored two were clearly the winners, running to their fans to celebrate, while the others trooped off dejectedly, heads low, shoulders slumped, the posture of the losers.

I left the field and wandered back to the van. No one had moved. It might have been coincidence, but the end of the game seemed to signal some activity the other side of the border fence. Suddenly there seemed more people about, figures went into buildings, emerged again, glanced in our direction, studied the sky, held long and intense conversations, perhaps debating whether that final goal should have been ruled out for offside. Then action. A soldier approached the border gate, gave an instruction to the guard on duty, the barrier was raised and the two jeeps were let through. It was our turn next. Our last Russian border post. Mongolia was within touching distance. We sat trying to make eye contact with the guard as if we could by force of will make him let us cross. Then he stepped forward and beckoned. We were through. Once we were inside, it was our speediest Russian border yet, all forms ticked, signed and stamped within an hour.

The last barrier was raised and we headed off down the gravel track towards Mongolia.

Chapter Ten

No Van's Land

It was a drive of about six miles or so to the Mongolian side, between outcrops of harsh, bare rock behind tall border fences. Beautiful only to a beholder who likes the bleakest of vistas. If the wind was ever going to do any howling, it would be around those peaks. No-man's-land seemed an appropriate description – for who would ever want to own it? It provided a haven, though, for dozens of marmots, each the size of a small dog. Looking a bit like outsized squirrels with small, rounded ears and stumpy tails, they sat upright on their rocks and watched us go past. Elsewhere in Mongolia, marmots were hunted enthusiastically for their meat and fur. When frightened, they warn each other with a series of loud shrieks and dart back to their burrows. Here they were silent, unconcerned by our passing, safe within a border zone wildlife refuge.

We pottered happily along, as carefree as the marmots. We came bearing a gift and would be among friends. They were expecting us. There would be smiles, perhaps a bit of form stamping, then a wave of the hand and we would be on our way.

'Bye-bye bossy Russians.'

'Hello happy Mongolians.'

We rehearsed a few cheery grins. Anticipated the warm glow from the welcome which would be ours. Practised a few phrases modestly accepting their congratulations on having come so far for a good cause.

About ten minutes later we got our first sight of a cluster of buildings flying the Mongolian flag. We'd done well. It was 4.30 p.m. Biysk to the border in less than twelve hours. Plenty of time before it closed to get the paperwork processed.

There was no one about as we drove up. We parked outside the main building and picked up the case with our documents, withdrawing for the first time the 'vehicle passport' provided by Go Help which contained all the details necessary to speed our way through Mongolian customs.

We skipped up the wooden steps to the door, pushed it open, and entered. It was on a tight spring and banged shut noisily behind us. Half a dozen officials in uniform looked up – and looked down again, not wanting to be the one who would have to deal with this intrusion into their peaceful afternoon. No matter. Once they knew who we were it would be time to break out the bunting.

Geoff went up to the desk. 'Hello, I think you're expecting us. We've driven from England on a charity trip.'

A blank expression from the young woman the other side of the glass.

'The details are all here.' Geoff pushed our vehicle documents through the gap at the bottom of the partition.

She received them with all the enthusiasm of a debt defaulter being served with a court injunction, and took them off to be examined by her boss, a balding man in his late forties with a neat tie and a serious expression.

He flicked through the paperwork and looked even more unhappy. His cheeks puffed out, his bottom lip jutted and he shook his head. The woman was ordered back to the window to collect our passports.

'We'll be OK,' I said to Geoff. 'Just stand where they can see you. Once they get to your passport photo, that'll break the ice.'

I knew we were in trouble when they looked at the photo, looked at Geoff and didn't crack a smile. None of them. Not even a teeny grin. We were waved away to sit in the corner while our case was considered. We watched through the glass as the junior operatives clustered round the boss. They glanced over towards us occasionally, expressions set. If they were a jury, there was going to be only one verdict.

The woman returned to deliver it. 'You must pay import duty,' she told us, firmly. 'Two thousand dollars.'

'But it's a van,' we replied. 'It's exempt. It's being imported to be given away to a charity in Ulaanbaatar. It's a project to help Mongolian children.'

Our pleas met a response as stony as the road outside. 'You must pay. Cash.'

This, we replied firmly, and genuinely, was not possible. Even if we handed over all our dollars and left ourselves broke we would still be about sixteen hundred dollars short. We insisted that authorisation for our entry had been given by the head of customs. They must go and check.

This message was relayed back to the boss who appeared with a posse trailing behind him, including another woman with a camera. The van was to be the star of a photoshoot. We followed them outside.

The van's doors were opened, it was peered into, photographs were taken inside and out and from every angle. We watched and shivered unhappily. This was looking like being a long job.

'Hello, where you from?' The questioner was a Mongolian man in his early thirties, casually dressed in trainers, jeans, a blue bomber jacket and a red baseball cap. He smiled affably.

'We're from England,' we told him.

'Ah, England,' he said, nodding knowledgably, 'Drink whisky. Very good.'

We agreed that whisky was indeed very good. I felt I could do with one there and then. A large one.

'I visit Japan,' said our new friend. 'Drink sake. Very good.'

Sake, we concurred, was also a fine drink. Sadly, none of us seemed to have any.

The man told us he was the Border Intelligence Officer, and showed us his ID which confirmed his job.

The three of us stood in a line and watched as the camera-wielding customs clerk framed some shots of the front seats and the handbrake.

'What is problem?' he asked, nodding in the direction of his uniformed colleagues.

We explained the difficulty. The intelligence officer shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, well, uniformed branch, what do you expect, and produced his mobile phone.

'Maybe I can help. Give me number of charity person in Ulaanbaatar. I will call her.'

A couple of phone calls and a few conversations later and we were no further forward, although at least we had some understanding of what the difficulty was. Customs central office seemed to be saying all was OK – customs at the border either weren't getting the message or didn't want to be bossed about from above. The problem seemed to be that the people on the ground felt our van was a car in disguise. If it was a car, they could charge us import duty, and they were reluctant to be denied the dosh.

We trooped back inside and sat and watched as phone calls were made and heads were scratched and then shaken. We were ignored by everyone except for the woman in charge of Health Declaration Forms who arrived with a couple for us to fill in. We confirmed that we didn't have a sore throat, the snuffles or any sexually transmitted diseases.

Geoff, I noticed, was starting to squirm around in his seat. 'I need a pee,' he announced.

He approached the woman behind the desk to ask directions.

'Excuse me,' he said. 'Could you tell me where the public lavatory is?'

She looked at him blankly.

'You'll have to do a mime,' I told him.

'Ha ha, very amusing.' He was now hopping up and down from one foot to the other. 'Lavatory, gents, place to pee. Where the hell's that Russian dictionary of yours?'

'Haven't got it,' I lied. I noticed that, despite the cold, a few beads of sweat had appeared on Geoff's brow.

'I gave you my fleece,' he pointed out. 'Find your dictionary. And quick.'

I took it from my pocket and looked up the right word. 'Tu-al-yet,' I told him. 'Emphasis on the yet. '

'Emphasis on the bloody desperate,' he replied.

He was directed outside to the far side of the compound. After a few minutes he returned shaking, but I wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or shock.

'It's awful, just terrible,' he told me, his eyes having the look of someone who has witnessed something ghastly and is trying to blot out the memory.

Gradually, the full horror was coaxed out of him. The toilet was a three-sided wooden structure set above a pit. It had been dug a long, long time ago, possibly back in the last century. Many people had come and gone, and, over time as the pit filled, others in urgent need had been forced further and further away. The cordon sanitaire around the toilet was now about ten feet in diameter.

I went outside to the van and got him a new packet of wet wipes. We had started to ration them as we were running low, but these were exceptional times.

'Have two,' I told him. 'You can pay me back another time.'

On the other side of the glass nothing much seemed to be happening. The customs officials occupied themselves with whatever their normal business was and took no notice of us. Inquiries as to progress produced blank stares or, from the more communicative ones, a shrug of the shoulders.

'I tell you what,' I said to Geoff, 'if they don't get a move on, we're going to be stuck here for the night.'

Our forced laughter at this prospect was interrupted by the return of the intelligence officer. And he brought bad news. The question of the status of our van was still in dispute. Until it was resolved, the vehicle was being impounded. In the meantime, the border was being closed until morning.

'Don't worry,' he told us. 'I find somewhere for you to stay the night. You will have warm house and food. Twenty dollars. Very good.'

He made a call on his mobile phone as we were led outside and instructed to drive the van across the yard to a garage where it would be locked away. We did as we were told. We had no choice in the matter. The temperature was now well below freezing, the wind was blowing hard and the sky was darkening.

We drove into the garage and grabbed what essentials we could before it was locked away. These came down to two sleeping bags and two bottles of beer.

'Place to stay all good,' said the intelligence officer cheerfully, pushing his baseball cap firmly down on his head and turning up his collar. 'You follow me. Snow tonight. Much snow. Very bad.'

We trudged after him, feeling a sense of loss from being parted from the van in which we had spent so much of the previous month. He led us away from the customs sheds, past the now unmanned security barrier.

'Ah well, whatever happens, at least we can say we made Mongolia,' I said.

A few hundred yards away, down a rough track and enclosed by a wire fence, lay a collection of small single storey, whitewashed dwellings scattered irregularly across some rough ground. We followed the intelligence officer down a footpath that led into the village compound. A couple of mangy dogs stood guard, one of them looking like a cross between a Rhodesian Ridgeback and a pony, the other slightly larger. I hung back, regretting that I had not grabbed my walking stick from behind the seat of the van. The intelligence officer picked up a stone and sent it skidding across the earth towards the dogs, who decided that, for the time being, retreat was the better option.

'This way.' He turned and beckoned us down the path and we trailed cautiously behind. He stopped outside a shack, entered a small porch and knocked on the front door. It was answered by a man of similar age, and the intelligence officer made the introductions. The man whose house it was lived there alone. He had wide, slightly startled eyes which flicked anxiously from one to the other of us.

The first impression we got as we stepped inside was of heat. Cloying, sauna-strength heat which made the air thick and deprived it of oxygen. The source wasn't hard to find. Through the front door and to the left was the kitchen. In the middle of the floor was a circular brick fireplace and in it, glowing with a fierce intensity was what looked like a charcoal fire.

'Yak shit,' explained the intelligence officer. 'It dries and it burns hot. Plenty yak shit. Very good.'

On top of the fireplace, resting on metal slats, was a large, iron cooking pot. Our host beckoned us over and lifted the lid, releasing a steam which curled into the heady air, wafted round our noses and made us both take an involuntary step backwards. I was transported back in time to my schooldays, queuing in the canteen for lunch and recoiling as the lids were lifted on cooking pots which had been bubbling for many hours to soften the cheapest cuts of fatty meat.

We peered into the pot, our two heads inching forward together to see over the edge. Inside was a greyish broth in which various lumps of unidentifiable meat floated half submerged. It bubbled gently, thick soft bubbles which swelled and then burst releasing little pockets of gas.

'Your dinner,' said the intelligence officer. The house owner nodded, proudly. He had cooked it himself. He pointed to the two bowls and knives and forks which he had laid on the small kitchen table. There was a ladle for dipping into the pot.

'What, er, what, er exactly is the meat?' I asked, nervously.

'It is goat,' explained the intelligence officer, smiling.

Well, that wasn't too bad. I could handle goat.

'It is goats', I don't know word. Goats'…' and he pointed to his groin, laughing. 'Very good.'

Despite the heat, I noticed that Geoff's face appeared drained of colour.

'I promise you,' I said to him. 'Hand on heart. I did not order that.'

We were saved the embarrassment of serving ourselves really teeny portions, and muttering about how we were still ever so full after lunch, only because our host wanted to continue our tour of his house.

The front door had opened directly into the living room. It was furnished with a battered two-seat sofa, over which a red blanket had been thrown, a small black and white portable television set and a stool. The floor was brown linoleum. In one corner was a basin, set in a wooden washstand. Next to it was a tin can containing about a gallon of water. The waste from the basin drained into another tin can underneath.

Off the sitting room, and backing onto the kitchen, was the bedroom. It had a wrought-iron single bed with a thin mattress and a chipboard chest of drawers. Everywhere was immaculately clean. An hotel inspector would have been hard pushed to run a finger across any surface and find dirt. Before he left us to our lodgings, the house owner took us outside and pointed to several wooden huts erected on a patch of ground about fifty yards away. The one on the end, on the left, he indicated was ours, should we need the toilet.

We thanked him for his kindness and he left with the intelligence officer, who promised to return for us when the border opened at 9 a.m. We were on our own. We sat silently on the sofa and sweated.

'Dinner?' I inquired.

Geoff indicated that he wasn't hungry. Not even a little bit peckish.

'We've got to get the temperature down in here,' he said. 'I can hardly breathe. I'd never be able to sleep in this.'

I agreed. The fire was still belting out heat and must have been doing so for many hours because the walls themselves, whitewashed and made, we guessed, of mud bricks, had themselves heated up and were now like were like radiators, hot to the touch.

We opened the living room door to the porch a few inches. The outside door was closed, but there were cracks in the wood and a steady stream of crisp, cold air came through the gaps.

We opened our beers and discussed the events of the day. I admitted that, for me, this was the lowest point in the trip.

'It's just so utterly frustrating,' I railed. 'Everything is out of our hands. We can't communicate properly with these people, we can't argue our case, we don't know what they're thinking or what's going on.'

'The mud was worse,' said Geoff, after a while. 'The sheer terror of thinking that at any moment we'd get stuck or, worse, go off the road and down that embankment, wreck the van, injure ourselves. But here we're warm and we're safe. We're dealing with people – so there'll be a solution.'

'The mud was grim,' I agreed. 'But the crucial difference to whether we made progress or not was in our own hands. It was under our control. Here there's nothing we can do. We're relying on others to see sense – and there's not much sign of that.'

'We could always sell the van and pay for a ride in a passing jeep,' said Geoff. 'The intelligence officer kept asking me how much the van was worth. I reckon he was keen to buy it.'

I didn't reply. I didn't think he was really serious. We were both down – but we weren't out yet.

There was nothing more to be done. Geoff took the small single bed, I had the sofa. I unrolled my sleeping bag, took off my trousers and Geoff's fleece and squashed them into the sleeping bag's carrier to form a pillow. My legs flopped over the end of the sofa, but I'd slept in more uncomfortable positions and I dozed off.

I was woken in the early hours by a combination of the cold and the awkward feeling that the beer had worked its way through to my bladder. The yak-dung fire had burned itself out and what had once seemed like a welcome stream of cool air through the front door had now turned into an icy chill which made my nose tingle. In a few hours the house had gone from feeling like an oven to something more like a freezer.

I got up and put my head outside. The intelligence officer had been right in his weather forecast. It was now snowing. Thick flakes the size of scallops swirled around, covering the ground and reducing visibility to a few feet. I shut the door quickly. I had only the clothes I stood up in, and to venture outside even for a few minutes would have meant getting soaked, and there was no way of drying out. But my need was becoming urgent. I hopped from one foot to the other in the darkness of the cold sitting room.

'Oh dear,' I muttered to myself. 'Oh dear oh dear oh dear.'

In the gloom I stumbled against the beer bottle and it rolled, clinking across the lino. I picked it up and looked at it. It would be a tricky operation, but there was nothing else for it. There was no light in the house. I fished my pencil torch from my pocket and considered the options urgently. I needed to hold the bottle in one hand and the torch in the other. I did not have enough hands to complete the job. I tried putting the torch in my mouth, holding down the on switch with my teeth, but the beam of light shone uselessly the wrong way. The situation was reaching crisis point and I had to find a solution – quickly.

I grabbed the bottle, went back to the freezing porch, put the bottle on the frosty ground, switched the pencil torch on and knelt down as if in prayer. The relief was intense.

'Thank God,' I said aloud.

'If only,' said a voice behind me, with genuine longing, 'if only I hadn't left my camera in the van.'

We shut both doors as firmly as we could, I put Geoff's fleece back on and we went back to bed. After a few more hours' sleep we woke and peered out of the window. Although it was morning, it was dark. The blizzard was still blowing hard. Occasionally, the wind would pull back the curtain of snowflakes to reveal a glimpse of the buildings at the border, ghostly and deserted. The ground was smooth with snow with occasional clear patches where the gusts had blown the flakes into drifts against fences and walls.

Geoff spoke aloud what we were both thinking: 'Even if we get going today, how the hell will we find our way in this?'

It was a fair question and not one for which there was a ready answer. We sat silently together on the sofa, feeling grubby, and waited for the intelligence officer to return to pick us up, as he had promised to do. Every few minutes, one of us would get up and walk to the window and peer out as if hoping we had been transported to another place.

After a time the snowflakes appeared to be thinning out and we could see people arriving for work at the border post. A lorry which must have driven up during the night was parked by the barrier. We decided to return on our own and set off from the shack, keeping a nervous look out for the dogs of the night before.

At the border, it was the same cast list as the previous day, the officials ensconced behind their glass partitions, huddled around heaters. The radiators in the public areas weren't working and were stone cold to the touch. No one took any notice of us, so we sat by a security scanner in the hope that its electric motor would give out a little warmth and wondered what to do. Dulguun rang from Ulaanbaatar to find out how we were. She was working hard on our behalf, she assured us, and was confident a resolution could be found. After a while we were joined by the intelligence officer, who looked pale and much the worse for wear.

'Drink vodka,' he explained. 'Very bad. Poor head. Very very bad.'

It looked like we would be breaking open our medical kit for the first time. In return for our van's release from the lock up garage, we could provide aspirin. The deal was quickly struck, and we gave our friend a strip of soluble painkillers. His need was clearly great. He tore open the pack with shaking hands, put a handful into his mouth and crunched them up. He thanked us and indicated he was going for a bit of a lie down.

'Poor head,' he said again, with feeling. We returned to our place by the wall and waited. Encouragingly, the weather seemed to be changing. It had stopped snowing and the clouds were lifting to reveal distant peaks. And the wind was doing a good job of clearing the snow from the track.

There was now some action from the uniformed branch. The boss appeared, walking briskly to show he was engaged upon an 'Important Errand', his face set to serious. He was accompanied once again by the photographer and a cluster of more junior officials who trailed along behind. We were summoned to open the van and empty it. Reluctantly, we unloaded our possessions. Jerry cans, spare wheels, boxes of food, our bags, tools, folding table and chairs, and, of course, our still largely intact collection of toilet rolls which the wind caught and unfurled like the famous advertisement featuring a cute puppy. Everything, down to the smallest item, had to be removed from the back and piled on the ground. The photographer began taking pictures of the inside from every angle.

'Hello, I hear you're having trouble entering my country.'

We had been joined by a Mongolian man in jeans and a thick anorak, zipped up against the cold. He was friendly, he wanted to help – and he spoke perfect English. He was the driver of the lorry we had seen parked by the barrier, on his way to Russia to collect a cargo of timber. We shook his hand gratefully and explained the situation. The customs boss had now climbed into the back of the van and was poking around suspiciously. Some rubber mouldings by the rear wheels came in for close scrutiny.

Our new friend translated for us. 'He thinks those could be used to fit rear seatbelts.'

I shrugged. Well, perhaps he was right. But the same could be said of almost any van. It could always be converted to a car if someone was determined enough.

The barrier which separated the front seats from the back of the van was now treated to a photoshoot and given a good shake.

'He wants to know if that was fitted at the factory or did you fit it yourself?'

'It was fitted when we bought the van,' I replied, truthfully, if dodging the central premise of the question.

Then it was the turn of the front seats to be given the once over.

'He asks do they recline?'

'Tell him they go back only a very little bit,' I answered, again truthfully, but omitting to point out they would go back a lot further if the barrier behind them wasn't in the way.

More questions followed about what use we had made of the van during our ownership. Had the back been used to carry people or used only, as our friend translated it, 'for luggage'?

It was at this point that I felt we made a breakthrough – I found the line in the registration document which designated the van a 'goods vehicle'. This crucial piece of information was translated and relayed to the boss.

The lorry driver had taken on the role of our advocate. He argued our case fiercely, his finger repeatedly jabbing the keywords in the registration document, his expression stern as he rejected the counter-arguments put by the customs man.

The conversation ended, the boss summoned his subordinates with a wave of his hand and they trooped back inside, leaving us to repack.

The driver was optimistic. 'I think you will be OK now,' he said. 'It's Mongolia, things take time. But it will be sorted out.'

We shook his hand gratefully. If it did all work out, I felt much would be down to him. But where, we asked, had he learned to speak such good English? He shrugged modestly. He was an international lorry driver. He had to cross many borders. It was necessary to speak English well. He wished us good luck with the rest of our journey, climbed into his cab, revved the engine and was gone.

Back inside, there seemed to be more activity. Dulguun called us to say it was good news – the customs had accepted our vehicle was indeed a van. There would be paperwork to be completed, but we should be on our way soon enough. We were more cautious – not least because the entire staff had disappeared. We went for a wander round the building and found them in their canteen having lunch. Their looks showed us they didn't welcome the intrusion.

There was still no heating in the public areas and despite our layers of clothes we were starting to shiver. But it did seem progress was being made – once lunchtime was over, we were asked for our documents and one man was given the laborious task of translating our vehicle registration paper, word for word, into Mongolian. He sat at a keyboard, a dictionary by his side. Many people are two-finger typists. He had never got beyond one finger. We could hear agonising pauses between each letter; sometimes whole hours seemed to pass between the start and finish of a very long word.

Then activity. The woman customs officer who spoke English opened the door to their office, releasing a little puff of warm air which reached the tips of our noses then evaporated. She approached us holding out a kettle.

'You have water?' she inquired.

Geoff nodded. But then he'd been nodding for about half an hour or so as his shivering hit warp factor two.

'We have no water. Can you fill kettle?' She held it out. Geoff made several attempts to get hold of it, narrowly missing on the third try, so I got hold of his wrist and held it steady while he grasped the handle.

'They're g-g-going to make us coffee,' I said. 'Or t-t-tea maybe. Something hot to d-drink. Either would be f f-fine.'

Geoff nodded some more and headed out to the van where we had our bottled mineral water, returning a few minutes later, his face an interesting shade of cobalt blue. He passed the kettle through the door to the office which was opened and shut quickly lest the warm air from the heaters escape to the public zone.

We sat together and watched through the glass as the kettle boiled. We saw steam rising from the spout. We licked our lips as mugs were retrieved from a cupboard, a jar of coffee granules produced from a desk. The coffee was made and served and the customs officers sat round and sipped it thankfully, because even in their heated offices it was getting a bit chilly. No one looked our way.

We beat a pained retreat to the van, turned on the engine and sat until it warmed up enough to put the heater on. Then we took it in shifts, one of us sat in the van with the engine running while the other sat in the customs shed in case there were any developments and we were needed to sign something.

Our mood was lightened by the return of the intelligence officer, looking much refreshed. The aspirin, and, we suspected, a few hours' kip, had done their work.

'Head much better,' he confirmed. 'Vodka very bad.'

He also brought news that there had indeed been progress in sorting out our problem – and we should be gone by the end of the day.

The next hour or so was spent in a language lesson – I taught him some English phrases he suggested were essential to his job, including 'There will be a decision soon' and 'You are very pretty', while he taught me some Mongolian words, though not the ones I wanted to use about his uniformed colleagues. However, I managed to master 'Bring me two beers, please' and 'Bring me some food' and felt we were now much better equipped for whatever lay ahead. He was a good man and we appreciated his company – I showed him photos of my wife and daughters and he took a picture of his girlfriend from his wallet. She was pretty, with that eager and optimistic expression of a young person with their best years to come.

'She's lovely. You should marry her,' I urged.

He gave me a sideways male look, as if to say, yes, well, perhaps, sometime, let's just see how things work out. 'No, you should,' I insisted. 'A man of your age, a good job, it's time to settle down.'

He looked thoughtful. 'Maybe,' he said. 'Maybe soon.' He returned the photo gently to his wallet.

Another call from Dulguun produced the best news yet – everything had been agreed, there was some money she had to pay, but it was being transferred there and then into the appropriate account. And suddenly, as if the 'on' button had been pressed, the officials sprang into life. Printers whirred, papers were brought for us to sign, forms were stamped, there were smiles, handshakes and – just as we were about to leave – we were asked were we hungry and would we like some food?

But we were keen to be on our way. We got the map of Mongolia out. It showed a clear, red main road from the border post all the way to Ulaanbaatar, more than 1,000 miles away. But the lorry driver had confirmed what we had heard from others – that the map was a work of fiction. There were no roads as we would recognise them until near the capital.

'How long?' we had asked him.

He had shrugged and grinned. 'That's up to you,' he replied. 'It depends on how long you can keep driving. Maybe a week, maybe less if you are lucky with breakdowns and punctures. And if you don't get lost too often!'

Right then any possible pitfalls or perils didn't matter. The snow had blown clear from the track, we had a tankful of diesel and an entry permit. We were on the road again.

Chapter Eleven

Making Tracks

Mongolia can properly be described as a wilderness – a landlocked country of deserts, steppes and mountains, it spreads across more than 932,000 square miles, making it the world's largest landlocked country. That's slightly bigger than France, Spain and Germany put together. It's also number one in the ranking of least densely populated nations. There are only about two and a half million Mongolians, and almost half of them live in Ulaanbaatar. Around a quarter of a million live in a scattering of small towns and the rest are nomads – herdsmen who live in round tents commonly called yurts, although that derives from a Russian word and in Mongolia they're referred to as gers. There's a lot of Mongolia with no one in it at all.

It was under the control of the Soviet Union – which viewed it as a strategically important buffer state between Russia and China – until the Soviet empire started to unravel and Mongolia had its own revolution in 1990. The years of Soviet domination did much to destroy the influence of the country's major organised religion, Buddhism – but for many Mongolians it was the power of Shamanism which held sway. Shamans, it is believed, act as intermediaries between the human and spirit world and claim healing powers. Evidence of the influence of Shamanism isn't hard to find: ovoos, piles of rocks found on mountain passes, are common, most of them decorated with blue objects – pieces of cloth, ribbons or just blue plastic – as a symbolic reference to the worship of the sky. To ensure a good journey the traveller is supposed to stop at an ovoo, walk round it three times clockwise and place an offering – usually just another rock or stone. Drivers in a bit of a hurry hope to satisfy the spirits with a toot of their horns.

As we headed away from the border, it seemed like we might need all the help we could get – the track deteriorated and then splintered into dozens of different paths as it headed across a wide plateau. There were no other vehicles – or people – around. For company, we had huge eagles which, taking advantage of the novelty of having someone to follow, kept pace overhead, gliding leisurely on the thermals while we bounced around below.

We aimed for a middle course through the tracks and kept going until we reached a village where we looked round for a shop to stock up on some essentials, which in our case came down to beer. But there appeared to be nowhere. Just shacks, grey and broken, smoke curling from crooked chimneys showing they were inhabited, but few other signs of life apart from scruffy dogs which scratched hopefully in the many rubbish tips. We weaved around mud paths which led from one building to another, but seemingly none of them out of town. It was as if the road from the border ended there and that was it – there was nowhere else to go. The arrow on our GPS pointed in the direction we needed to be – but there was no sign of any track which went that way.

'We'll have to ask,' I said to Geoff, a decision easier to make than to execute as there was no one about.

Then he spotted an old woman, trudging slowly through the mud, and I drove up to her. Geoff got out and approached her with map in hand, pointed to the nearest town and mimicked 'Which way'? She didn't understand what he was asking.

'Ölgii?' he said, hopefully. His pronunciation was obviously near enough because the woman pointed with an outstretched arm. I looked in the direction she indicated. There seemed to be several mountain peaks in our way and no sign of how to navigate around them. I turned the van in the right direction, and zigzagged through the shanty town until we were clear of buildings, following tracks which became fewer and less well-used as we left the settlement behind, and headed slowly for the hills.

A few miles later, the paths forked. The GPS couldn't make its mind up here. It really wanted us to go straight on, perhaps slightly favouring the left hand track. But that looked much less well-used. The tyre tracks on the right hand path suggested that was the more popular route.

'They probably both go round that mountain peak,' I postulated, indicating the barren rock ahead. 'One to the left, one to the right and meet the other side. The right hand one looks like the better choice to me.'

Geoff was more hesitant.

'The GPS is indicating we need to be slightly to the left,' he pointed out. But he conceded the right hand track clearly had the more wear. We took it, bumping along for about half an hour, edging to the right of the mountain summit until we turned a corner to find a dead end. A cluster of huts huddled in the lee of the mountain, an old pickup truck parked outside one of them. Behind them a sheer wall of rock. There was no way to go.

Our experience in Kazakhstan had taught us it was foolish to try to take short cuts, so, cursing silently, or in my case rather loudly, we did a U-turn and headed back the way we had come until we found the fork again. Almost a precious hour lost. It was an early lesson – the better-used track in Mongolia didn't always mean it was the main one.

We drove on. We had about forty miles to go to reach Ölgii where we hoped to find a bed for the night, but at the speed were averaging that would take us about three hours. We would be lucky to make it in the light, though we pinned our hopes on information from the intelligence officer who had told us that the last ten miles into the town had been resurfaced in a rare stretch of tarmac.

The arrow on the GPS dial confirmed we were now heading in the right direction – but barring our way rose a sheer peak stretching high into the darkening sky. A track was faintly discernible running up to the summit.

'Straight on,' said Geoff, consulting the GPS. 'We've got to take it.'

I had real doubts. 'I'm not sure we can do it – look at how steep it is, it just runs up the side of that mountain. It's almost vertical.'

'We could try to drive round,' agreed Geoff, 'but who knows how long that would take. And we could easily get lost.'

It was getting colder again, and with memories of last night's blizzard making sleeping in the van an option to avoid, I selected low ratio four-wheel drive and set off in first gear. We inched up the mountain, wheels scrabbling for grip like a goat.

'Geoff,' I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the anxiety out of my voice. 'I can't see anything except sky.'

Geoff leaned forward until his nose touched the windscreen.

'You're doing fine,' he assured me. 'I think we're still on the track.'

'Think?' I squeaked in protest. '"Think" doesn't quite cut it. We don't know what we're driving along here. How do you know we're not heading for a ravine?'

We were barely moving, the track increasingly uneven and broken by boulders. The van groaned and creaked like a sailing ship in heavy seas as the wheels sought something to gain that extra traction to inch us forward. Above me in the early evening sky a couple of buzzards circled, hoping for a late supper.

Then, as if we'd come to the top of a roller coaster, the windscreen filled with the sight of a valley, a dozen rough trails heading into the distance in the direction we wanted. We had reached the summit and were on the way down.

Edgar Purnell Hooley might not be a name many people are familiar with. This is a wrong which should be addressed. Edgar Purnell Hooley was a surveyor employed by Nottingham County Council who, in 1901, was sauntering past a tar works when he noticed a barrel of tar had been spilled on the road and someone, trying no doubt to avoid getting sticky feet, had dumped a load of gravel on top, which had set hard. This combination, when compared to the dusty adjacent lane, seemed rather a good thing so he went away and patented tarmacadam. And his wonderful invention has now reached to within ten miles of Ölgii in Western Mongolia. We knew this was only a short stretch, and why anyone had bothered when all the surrounding roads were lumpen tracks seemed a mystery. But it felt good. We enjoyed the novelty of pushing the van though the gears – all of them – until we were doing sixty miles an hour. The last ten miles into Ölgii took us ten minutes. The previous ten miles had taken not far short of an hour. Well done Mr Hooley!

Ölgii has a frontier town feel – more than that, it feels like the final frontier town, the last settlement before the barren hills close in and even the hardiest souls decide there's nothing worth stopping for. It sprouts, a smear of crumbling, whitewashed concrete and mud bricks, from the stony valley floor. You half expect Clint Eastwood to appear round a corner muttering about ordering more coffins.

It was late evening, the last of the daylight starting to fade. We cruised slowly along the potholed streets. Ours was the only vehicle on the move and few of the town's 25,000 inhabitants were about. Those who were glanced at us briefly then hurried on, as if anxious to be off the streets before night fell. We spotted somewhere to stay. It was on a piece of waste ground off a side street, a two-storey flat-roofed building with 'HOTEL' in large capital letters across the front.

Inside, the young woman on the reception desk seemed surprised to see us but confirmed she spoke some English. Had she a room with two single beds, we asked. She had. Did it have a shower? It did. And hot water? We knew we were pushing our luck here, but it was twist or stick and we were going for a five-card trick. Yes, she assured us, there was hot water. We signed in.

She led us down a couple of corridors to a room round the back, gave us the key and fled. After a brief struggle with the lock, Geoff opened the door. Now there are some hotel rooms you walk into and it's instant delight. The hotelier has succeeded in pulling off that tough trick of making it look like you are the first guest to have stayed there. There are others where the illusion is spoiled by traces of previous guests left behind. And then there was Ölgii.

'Dear God,' said Geoff.

I joined him in the room. 'Oh my Lord.'

We'd had conversations earlier in the trip about which was the worst hotel we had stayed in. These discussions helped pass quite a few miles and we could never quite agree. Was it in Aralsk with the bedbugs and the very large insects climbing the curtains in the night? Or maybe Odessa with the door which wouldn't shut, the put you-up beds and the cold water showers? Suddenly, it was no contest.

First, there was the smell. Mainly damp, but mingled with a good dose of drains. The walls flaked from floor to ceiling. Touch them, or even breathe on them too hard, and a cascade of light blue paint gave up the unequal struggle of trying to cling to the plaster and fell onto the beds. There was a window, which opened onto a yard in which it appeared several dozen skips had emptied their cargo of general rubbish. It looked like rodent heaven. Two single beds had been squeezed into the room, a space of about two feet between them.

Geoff put his head into the bathroom. And pulled it out again sharpish.

'Jesus Christ.' We were running out of words to continue our profanity.

I looked inside. We had earlier come up with a simple grading system for bathrooms – socks on or socks off. This, however, was a boots-on bathroom. There was a toilet without a seat, the bowl stained chocolate brown, and a cracked washbasin hanging grimly to the damp wall but about to give up. A handheld shower lay on broken, green tiles. And green had not been their colour when they had left the tile showroom all those years ago.

'Well, I know it's grim but I need to use the loo,' I said to Geoff. I would have shut the door behind me, if there had been one. He retreated to the other end of the bedroom and tried to count the rats in the rubbish dump outside the window.

I pulled the piece of wire poking out of the top of the cistern and tried to flush the toilet. It gave a small gurgle of laughter and a trickle of water was released, totally inadequate to do the job for which it was designed.

I turned the hot water tap in the basin. Nothing. I turned the cold water tap. The pipes shuddered, a few speckles of sludge appeared from the tap, then it dried up. We could have left, but the room had one advantage over the van – we could lie down. And we had paid in advance. And it was late. And we had our sleeping bags.

We went back to reception, inquired about the absence of water and were told it was a general problem in the town but, not to worry, it would be coming back on. Some time soon. As for parking, she directed us round the back where she said our van would be secure. We followed her instructions and arrived at a rickety wire mesh gate. We tooted our horn and an old man appeared from a shed and motioned us inside.

We drove past him and his companion, an enormous dog clearly related to the hounds of the night before, except this one was their disreputable cousin with behavioural problems and a string of convictions for violence. It was, I was relieved to notice, on the end of a long and sturdy-looking chain. It glared at our van and slobbered.

Back in our room, we decided against either asking if the hotel could provide any food, or, as it was now growing dark, venturing out to see if there was anywhere which did. There were food and camping gas stoves in the van – we could buy beer in the hotel and we could cook in the room.

I'd noticed, when we arrived, that a gate next to the hotel opened onto a path running to the rear between ruined buildings. This was clearly a short cut to the car park. We clambered over rubble, turned the corner and there, standing next to our van, unchained and cocking its leg against a tyre was the dog. It saw me and I swear it grinned. Its look said: 'Right big boy, I've been let off the chain and I'm in the mood for some juicy, plump Western ass. And you fit the bill. Just hang on right there while I finish this pee.'

Behind me, Geoff hadn't yet seen the danger. I held up my hand to stop him going any further.

'Just turn around and walk back the way we have come, slowly and steadily,' I instructed. 'The dog is off his chain and he's looking peckish.'

We retreated, carefully at first, then, once we were round the corner, at a run, back through the gate and ending up breathless at reception.

'The dog,' I explained, between gasps for air. 'Off the chain. By the van. Can't get near. Tell the old man to chain it up again.'

The receptionist gave us a look which mingled pity and contempt – about ninety per cent contempt and ten per cent pity.

She left her desk and went outside, back through the gate by the side of the hotel and over the rubble with the two of us following cautiously behind, each jockeying for position at the back. The dog saw her and wagged its tail. She said something to it in Mongolian, and it rolled on its back for its stomach to be tickled. She gave it another instruction and it went to lie down by its chain. She attached the end to its collar, and beckoned us to come out from where we were hiding behind the corner of the building.

'Thanks very much,' I said. 'Can't be too careful with dogs. You never know.'

The dog lay with its head between its paws and looked at me.

'OK,' it said. 'You got away with it this time. But just wait until you're on your own. I only need to get lucky once.'

Back in the room I set up a cooking stove on a small chest of drawers, boiled some mineral water for pasta, fried some onions and added a packet of lamb casserole. It was our first hot food for forty-eight hours, and we ate hurriedly, from a combination of both hunger and our surroundings which didn't encourage unnecessary lingering over food. But it tasted good and with full stomachs, we climbed into our sleeping bags and settled down for the night.

In the morning, I woke to find myself in a cocoon of blue paint which had flaked from the wall. I sat up and tried to get the biggest pieces out of my hair, shaking the rest from my sleeping bag. They rose and then settled again like a fake snowstorm in a child's glass toy.

The front door was locked and we rattled it until the receptionist emerged from what looked like her bedsit just off the lobby. In the road outside something had died. Half a dozen huge birds of prey swooped down skilfully between the buildings for a breakfast feast.

We packed up the van and studied the map. The next town marked was Khovd, about one hundred and fifty miles away. It was founded in the early part of the eighteenth century as a Chinese outpost, although the area has evidence of much older inhabitants. Cave paintings have been found dating from the Stone Age, 15–20,000 years ago, much less well known than similar finds in France and Spain, showing various animals including mammoths and ostriches. Sadly, they've been vandalised.

We left Ölgii and headed for the hills. The road snaked south through mountain passes, a rough, stony track, but clear enough to follow. There were stretches, though, where the tyre tracks of big lorries which had gone before had compressed the surface into mile upon mile of ridges, like corrugated iron. Driving over these caused the van to vibrate from bumper to bumper and a target of 150 miles began to look a bit ambitious.

'We're down to ten miles an hour average,' said Geoff who had been doing some calculations. 'If this keeps up we'll never make Khovd. And the van will be shaken into tiny pieces well before Ulaanbaatar.'

Then, for no reason which we could fathom, the surface changed again, smoother now, allowing us to get the van into third gear and up to a heady 30 mph.

Mongolia was living up to its name as the land of the blue skies – from horizon to horizon it was the clearest, deepest blue, with not even one small cloud to intrude. We drove across one river – in reality, not much more than a wide stream, the water well below the bottom of the driver's door. Then, a few miles further on was a more formidable obstacle. A wider, faster-flowing, deeper river. The sort of river which, at home, no one in a van like ours would even contemplate driving through. Not even for a very large bet. We stopped and got out to take a closer look.

'I can't see the bottom,' said Geoff, peering into the water from a mossy bank. 'We can't cross this. We haven't seen another vehicle for hours. If we get stuck goodness knows how long we might be here.'

'Someone's been through it,' I said, pointing at tracks which disappeared into the water on either bank.

'Could have been a much bigger vehicle than ours,' Geoff pointed out. 'And we don't know how high the river was when they were made. This is the time of year when the snows melt and rivers can rise very quickly.'

All of which was perfectly true.

Just nearby, on the river bank, was a single ger, the circular tent-like structure which is the portable home of the Mongolian nomads. The design has been unchanged for centuries – there had probably been a ger or two at that spot since the time of Genghis Khan. The frame of the ger is a wooden lattice construction, over which layers of felt made from sheep's wool are wrapped, covered in a final layer of white cotton. Poles support the conical roof, with a gap in the centre to take the chimney from the stove. Now, a wisp of smoke curled from the chimney – someone was keeping the place warm, the stove ready for cooking. But there was no one in sight. Then the blue-painted door opened, and from inside, stooping low to get through the door frame, came a man, tall, as many Mongolians are, especially when compared to other peoples in Asia. He was wearing a traditional deel, the three-quarter-length gown, worn by both men and women, and buttoned high at the collar. His was dark blue, with a purple sash round the middle. But this was not an outfit for special occasions, as might have been the case if he were a city-dweller. These were his working clothes, shabby and worn, as stained as a butcher's apron. He strode towards us purposefully. I extended my hand in greeting – he smiled and shook his head, pointing to his own hand, black from working with animals and on the land. He made his hand into a fist, and instead of a shake, we touched knuckles.

Then we saw a little girl peeping round the open door of the ger, perhaps six years old, wavy black hair, a dress as grubby as her father's hand.

'Hello there,' I crouched down, smiled and waved to her. She watched me closely with large brown, hesitant eyes, then took a few quick steps and hid behind her father's legs.

The herdsman was appraising our van, looking thoughtfully at it, then at the river.

'Can we get through there?' asked Geoff, pointing to where the other wheel tracks disappeared into the water.

The man shook his head. Just as well we hadn't tried. He pointed to a spot further down the bank. It didn't look like anything else had crossed there, and to our eyes it looked even deeper at that point.

'Here?' asked Geoff, standing at the spot. 'Right here? Are you sure?'

The herdsman smiled and nodded firmly. That was the place. We returned to the van, Geoff dropped it into low ratio four-wheel drive and selected first gear. The bank was boggy and steep and we slid slightly as Geoff eased the van down into the river, the water above the front bumper. Then we got all four wheels down the bank and levelled out, the wheels gripped on the shingle at the bottom of the river and slowly, steadily, leaving a gentle wake behind us, we inched across and up the far bank. We stopped and shouted our thanks. Now there was the safety of the river between us, the little girl let go of her father's legs and ran to the bank to wave us goodbye.

'We should have given them something to say thank you,' I said, feeling guilty. We had been so preoccupied with ourselves we hadn't thought to repay the man's help with a gift. We had packs of felt tip pens and balloons for just such occasions – things we'd been told would be welcome by children throughout Mongolia.

'You're right, we should have,' agreed Geoff. 'I just didn't think, I was so worried about getting across. But I don't reckon he expected anything. He was just helping someone travelling through because that was the right thing to do.'

We were dropping down from the mountains now and the scenery began to change, the hard tracks of the morning giving way to softer routes through semi-desert, but scattered with sharp stones. We were able to pick up speed and in mid afternoon we saw in the distance a smear of green, like an oasis. It was Khovd, a low-slung town nestling in a river valley, a water supply which meant trees could grow and around thirty thousand people could live there, making it a big centre by Mongolian standards.

We crossed over a bridge and there, on the other side, was a police checkpoint.

'I'm not sure it's in use,' said Geoff, who was navigating. The barrier was raised and the building by the side looked abandoned, one window was broken and white paint was peeling from its brickwork.

'No point in taking any chances,' I said, slowing to a crawl. And there, coming out of the building, was a group of about half a dozen men. We stopped.

'Funny looking cops,' I said. 'All in plain clothes.'

'And some of them are just teenagers,' said Geoff. 'I don't think they're cops at all.'

It was now too late to drive on. An older man had crossed the road to my side of the van and was leaning on the door, his face pushed through the open window. He grinned at me amiably, and said a few slurred words in Mongolian. He was Khovd's answer to Rab C. Nesbitt and he thought it was his lucky day. In the dust and dirt on the van door he wrote '2,000', pointed to it and looked at me hopefully.

'He wants money,' I explained to Geoff. 'Just under a quid. Got to give him credit for trying.'

I shook my head and the man adopted a pained expression, crossing out 2,000 and substituting 1,000.

The teenagers, meanwhile, were trying to attract our attention to a problem at the rear of the van. Geoff stuck his head through the window.

'Shit, we've got a flat tyre.'

For the last few miles I'd been driving through soft sand and the handling hadn't given any hint of a puncture.

Our new friend Rab was now crossing out 1,000 and making a final offer of 500 and I felt it was time to leave.

We drove on, the van limping, the two of us bickering like a couple in need of counselling.

'You can't drive on that flat.'

'Well we can't change it here, we'd have to unload all our stuff and those kids and their grandad would be all over it.'

'You'll just have to stop – you'll ruin the tyre.'

'It might be ruined anyway. We've got another three.'

'Well it might not be. But it certainly will be if you drive any further on it.'

'Not necessarily. And I'm going to try to find a hotel. We're nearly at the town centre. We can change the tyre without being pestered.'

'If I was driving we'd be stopped here and now.'

I carried on at a crawl, the tyre making flapping noises in protest. I turned left at a junction and there, a hundred yards on the right, was a flat-fronted brick building, probably early 1950s, three storeys and with the word 'hotel' in red letters on the roof.

I drove up. It was in need of a makeover, some of the bricks were missing and the paint was peeling, but all the windows were intact and it looked a much better prospect than the one in Ölgii. Plus there was a piece of rough ground round the back, protected by an iron gate. Ours was the only vehicle.

Just inside the front door a woman sat at a desk. She was friendly and wanted no money up front. We checked in and were shown to a suite.

'Hey, there's a bathroom. Shower works. Doesn't seem to drain, but never mind.'

'Any hot water?'

'Well, no, not hot exactly. But not stone cold either. Certainly slightly warm.' A month ago we would have grumbled – now we were just delighted.

'That's pretty good. And there's no smell of damp in the bedroom at all, carpet's a bit threadbare but it's certainly dry.'

'The loo flushes. Well, it's a very small flush, but the cold tap works so we can fill a pan of water and flush it that way.'

'Excellent. We've struck lucky here.'

We explored excitedly.

'And there's a table and chairs in the room next door. If we can't find anywhere to eat in town we can cook here and sit in comfort.'

'Brilliant.'

Our mood much lifted, we went back to the car park and Geoff changed the tyre. I tried to help but he told me I was getting in the way, which was fair enough as I undoubtedly was, so I left him to it and sat in the sun on the hotel steps studying a map to try to find a bank. I'd changed some dollars into the Mongolian currency – the tögrög – through one of the customs officers at the border, and at a rate of exchange so mean it came close to being a criminal offence. But now Geoff needed to change some too.

A new wheel in place, Geoff reappeared and I directed him to a bank just down the street. He was back a few minutes later still without any tögrögs.

'Was it closed?' I asked.

'Nope – well, there were people in there, a security guard and a few bank clerks. Trouble was they were playing table tennis and sent me away.'

This struck me as a rather admirable approach to the world of work and finance. Perhaps if more bankers had devoted more time to table tennis rather than fixing up dodgy loans the international financial crisis would have taken on a very different shape. However, it didn't help our immediate personal financial crisis. Petrol stations, hotels, shops which sold beer, all dealt only in cash. And we didn't have much of the local stuff left.

We set off to find another bank, walking along uneven streets lined with poplars, planted when the Chinese occupied the town. There was a ruined fort left over from their time as rulers, little more now than a heap of rubble, and not a great deal else to the casual observer to suggest it was once a Chinese outpost. We crossed the wide main square, the size of a football pitch, a theatre and the town hall on two sides, a busy children's playground in the corner. A couple of men on horseback trotted past, taking a short cut, brown leather cowboy hats worn at a jaunty angle. The next bank we came to was closed and the third uninterested in changing dollars. We were running out of options. Cash machines were nowhere to be seen and there was only one more bank marked on the map, on the other side of town. We walked there along wide streets, past public buildings which looked mostly well kept, though behind them low flat-roofed blocks of flats were crumbling and neglected. There were a few shops and bars, secretive-looking places, small dark windows giving little clue as to what they were like inside, no tables or chairs to provide the option of sitting outdoors even though it was hot.

We reached the town's final bank, and thankfully it was open and changed foreign currency. Geoff joined a long queue while I sat and waited. I was joined by a man in his middle twenties, dressed Western-style in jeans and a polo shirt. He had heard us speaking English and, as his was perfect, he was keen for a conversation. He explained he was a teacher and his wife was studying English in London.

It occurred to me that after all the anxiety over whether the election was going to lead to closed borders, we didn't know the result. 'Who won?' I asked.

The young man was happy. It had been a victory for the opposition Democratic Party against the incumbent from the Mongolian People's Revolutionary Party, which had ruled Mongolia throughout the Communist years. The full results were still being declared – but President Nambaryn Enkhbayar had admitted defeat. This was a first – the first time in Mongolian history that a president had been thrown out in a free election.

The winner, he explained, was Tsakhiagiin Elbegdorj, a former Harvard-educated journalist who had been one of the leaders of the revolution in 1990 which ended Communist rule. It had been an election which pitted town against traditional countryside and, especially, the young against the old. People like himself now had hope for the future, said the young man, his optimism reflected in his eyes; their new president had stood on an anti corruption platform and, perhaps, under his leadership, some of Mongolia's mineral riches could be exploited in a way that brought greater wealth to the people.

It's always humbling to meet someone for whom having a vote is a novelty; and the power to use it to change governments really matters. I wished him good luck and Geoff, his wallet now bulging with tögrögs, walked with me back to the hotel.

'A good afternoon's work,' I said. 'A tyre changed and dollars converted to tögrögs. Time for something cold.'

We headed for the hotel bar and beer was brought from the fridge. We sat in a dining room with tables laid for dinner, but the plates in front of us were grimy with dried food from the last meal served on them. We had a couple more beers then raided our supplies in the van and headed back to our suite to cook dinner and watch the Mongolian version of Peter Snow do his stuff on television as the last results were declared.

In the morning, I drove us round the town hoping to spot a workshop where our puncture could be repaired. There was nowhere. We stopped at a petrol station and filled up with diesel. I pointed to the tyre on the rear door of the van and hissed, lowering my hand. The attendant understood and gave us pointed directions to somewhere we could take it. We were in an area of poor-looking housing, small, single-storey dwellings lining unmade side streets. We bumped along looking for a telltale pile of tyres. Nothing.

We realised we were following a car, an old Russian-built Moskvitch, based on the French Simca. The road came to a dead end in front of some houses. The Moskvitch stopped and a young man got out, looking at us slightly suspiciously.

'I'll ask him, see if he knows where there's a tyre repair place,' said Geoff, hurrying out of the van and going through the hissing, hand-lowering routine.

The man understood, got back in his car and indicated we should follow him. A few turns later, he stopped outside a shed on the edge of town, a nondescript building, no signs outside – nothing to suggest we'd been taken to somewhere a puncture could be fixed.

The man got out of his car and we followed. He opened the door to the shed. Inside was a workshop, another man in grubby overalls, a stack of tyres piled up on the floor. Words were exchanged and both men went back outside and removed our flat from the door of the van. A washing up bowl of water was produced, some air pumped into the tyre and, in a way which reminded me of mending a bicycle puncture as a boy, they turned it carefully through the water waiting for the telltale bubbles to appear. (Actually, of course, I never did mend a bicycle puncture, but I had a friend called Ian who lived next door and he did it for me.)

After a couple of minutes there was a slight 'ploop ploop' in the bowl and the tyre was withdrawn to reveal a small hole, probably caused by a sharp stone.

The man took the wheel to his workbench and set to, making the hole bigger, then selecting a plug from a packet and ramming it in hard. Geoff watched while I did my best to make conversation with the man who brought us there, who introduced himself as Chulguun. We sat in the seats of the van and I brought out a map of Mongolia to show him our planned route. He looked at it, with curiosity.

'Where England?' he asked. A map was something he had never seen before. I explained the map was just of Mongolia. In the dust on the side of the van I drew a very rough route of the countries we had been through. How far, he wanted to know. I drew 12,000 kilometres in the dirt. That, he indicated, was an impressive total.

I was keen to tap his local knowledge of the state of the roads from now on. Chulguun was clearly an optimistic type, or much more used to driving over bumpy tracks than we were. One day to get to the next town, Altay, he insisted. I looked at the map. Altay was 300 miles away. Around twice the distance we had managed the day before. Chulguun admitted in sign language that the road was pretty rough but mimed that so long as we didn't pussyfoot around and got on with it, we'd be fine. I felt he was probably expecting a bit too much of us.

Chulguun rolled himself a cigarette and I offered him a packet of Marlboro from our barely-touched supply under the seat. He took it happily. Then he noticed on the windscreen the symbol of no smoking, a cigarette inside a red circle with a line through it, which had been placed by the van's previous owners, Anglian Water. This caused Chulguun considerable amusement. He pointed to it and laughed, then looked at me with raised eyebrows. Why, he clearly wanted to know, would anyone want to forbid smoking in a van? What was the point of doing that? This was a tricky one to explain with only a few words in common between us. I took the easy way out and decided to blame Geoff, pointing at him and indicating he was a bit of an anti-smoking fanatic. It was his sticker. Chulguun accepted this and gave me an understanding look.

We carried on our amiable conversation as best we could. Chulguun wanted to know how our GPS worked, but I wasn't much help as I didn't know myself, and he was interested in the price of diesel in the UK, which, we both agreed, was quite shockingly expensive. He was also keen to give me the inside track on the rival merits of women in Khovd and Ulaanbaatar. Those in Ulaanbaatar, he made clear with elaborate but translatable sign language, held a high place in his affections.

The puncture repair was completed, the tyre inflated and bounced round a bit in the road to the satisfaction of all. Geoff was asked for one dollar. He gave five. It was well worth it to us and the least we could do to show our appreciation. We bolted it to the back of our van and said our farewells and thanks to Chulguun.

Geoff took the wheel and did a careful four-point turn in the narrow road, a manoeuvre made more difficult by the large number of sheep that were being sold on the opposite side of the street. The buyers were local people who, in the main, were shopping for just one each. An old Soviet-made car would drive up, the driver would inspect the sheep carefully paying particular attention to both the mouth and the opposite end, a price would be noisily negotiated, then, the unfortunate sheep bought, it would be bundled bleating into the boot and driven away.

We found the right road out of town and headed towards Altay. After an hour we had managed seventeen miles and it was clear that our style of driving and Chulguun's were far apart. We inched cautiously along, bouncing over the uneven surface, swerving round the worst of the potholes. I had told Geoff of Chulguun's estimate.

'This isn't going to take us one day, it'll take us three if we're lucky,' he said, twitching the wheel to avoid a large rock in our path.

Gradually it became hotter as we dropped down through the hills. The track was as rough as ever, and we were back to the corrugated iron finish which had slowed us so much the day before. To either side of us a green, spiky weed thrived in the rough soil, acres of it, carpeting the ground.

'Maybe we'd be better off the track,' I suggested to Geoff. 'Try driving over that grassy stuff.'

'Worth a go,' he agreed and turned into the scrubland.

The weed crunched under our wheels, instantly releasing a powerful aroma which filled the van.

'Wow, that's a strong smell,' I remarked.

He breathed in deeply. 'It's amazing. I've never smelled anything like that. Really intense.'

'Quite a heady aroma,' I said, sniffing appreciatively, 'I wonder what it is?'

'No idea, a sort of musty, herby scent.'

We continued like this for some miles, the aroma from the plant coming thick and strong through the van's air vents as we crushed it under the wheels, managing to pick up a little speed.

'Altay. Maybe not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after.' This thought struck me as very profound.

'Yeah, yeah. Whenever. It'll be fine,' said Geoff, with a relaxed wave of the hand.

I noticed he was grinning happily for no apparent reason. I felt happy too. I grinned back as the van bucked and jolted over the weeds.

'Bouncy bouncy bouncy,' I said, jigging about in my seat.

'Bouncy bouncy,' Geoff joined in enthusiastically.

The van filled with our happy giggles as the miles melted away and we zigzagged unsteadily towards the Gobi Desert.

Chapter Twelve

Just Deserts

Alice Mildred Cable, a British missionary who wrote about her adventures in Mongolia in the 1920s, noted: 'Only a fool crosses the Gobi without misgivings.' It's the biggest desert in Asia – around a thousand miles wide and five hundred miles, top to bottom. Approaching it from the west, we followed the trail through a wide valley, framed by jagged mountain peaks rising high enough to keep a covering of snow all year.

The snow leopard, one of the world's most endangered species, clings precariously to life in these vast, uninhabited hills. Estimates of numbers vary. At the most optimistic end of the range, there might be as many as a thousand left in Mongolia, while other conservationists think it could be half that number, and it's reckoned there could be around another four thousand in other parts of Asia. Protected areas have been set up in Mongolia to try to save the snow leopard – but it has a couple of big problems. Its bones are valued in traditional Chinese medicine, and its pelt fetches big money in the fur trade. Plus one of its favourite foods is a wild sheep – but it doesn't distinguish between the wild and the farmed variety. A herdsman who finds his flock threatened is likely to dispatch a snow leopard in the same way as a chicken farmer in Britain deals with a fox.

We drove on, passing scattered communities of gers in the valley, where the grass was green enough for grazing sheep and black, hairy yaks, along with herds of semi-wild horses. Both animals are vital to the Mongolians – there are around half a million yaks in the country, amiable-looking beasts, sometimes called Tibetan oxen. They seemed untroubled by our passing, their large, black eyes peering curiously through a thick and unkempt fringe; Mongolian moptops with shaggy coats, designed to withstand the bitter cold of winter. The people collect the hair in the spring and use it for weaving. Yak dung is an important source of fuel and the animals themselves provide milk and meat – as well as being used for haulage.

But if the yak is a multi-purpose animal, the horse is at the centre of every nomad's life and children learn to ride as soon as they can stand. Mongolian horses are small, sturdy creatures, to Western eyes they look like ponies, but to describe them as such to a Mongolian would cause offence. It was skill in the saddle which gave the invading armies of Genghis Khan the edge in battle, and the horse is celebrated today in songs handed down over the centuries – the Mongolian language has more than 300 words to describe a horse. They outnumber people in Mongolia, and live outdoors all year round and forage for their own food.

As we drove on, every hour or two we would see a cloud of dust in the distance, the tell tale sign of another vehicle. Sometimes it would be a jeep, driven as if responding to an emergency call, spending more time above the ground than on it as it hurtled over the ruts. Sometimes it would be a lorry, loaded high with a dismantled ger, some people and a dog or two, the whole lot swaying precariously as they picked their way cautiously over the uneven ground in search of a good spot to settle for the summer.

Dust was now becoming a serious problem for us. Even with the windows shut it seeped in, finding gaps in the back door, settling thickly on bags, pans and plastic plates. Finding something to eat in our box of food was like a lucky dip in a bran tub. Every surface inside the van was coated – the dials on the dashboard disappeared and a sudden movement in the seats released puffball clouds of particles which rose then settled back again. But most of all the dust liked to cling to us.

'Your hair has turned ginger,' Geoff observed. His had too. So had our beards. At a stroke, my middle-aged grey had disappeared. I could have been a before and after advertisement for a new hair dye. The dust settled on our face, necks and arms, burrowing into the pores of our skin. Attempts to get clean with a wet wipes removed only the top layer, the veneer of dirt, revealing dark, caked strata underneath.

'We look like the finalists in the Benn Gunn lookalike contest,' I laughed.

I timed how long it took for the inside of my sunglasses to fill with so much dust that I could no longer see through them. It was six minutes. My nose felt bunged up as if I had a heavy cold. I blew it on a tissue. It's best for sensitive readers if I don't describe in too much detail what emerged. Two huge lumps of soggy sand will be description enough.

The grazing petered out as we drove on; grass which had been quite lush and green in patches now came in pale yellow smears on the ground, too poor to support livestock. Gradually even this vegetation faded away to be replaced by a scattering of short, spiky bushes and tufts of dried-up grass which clung on and waited for the rainy season. The nomads' gers, from which children had run to wave as we drove past, were no more. Even here there was life, though. We startled an antelope which leaped away from the van, kicking its back legs as it streaked across the desert at an extraordinary speed.

The track had been easy to see as we left Khovd. Now, as the ground became hard-packed and stony like a flat pebble beach, the path splintered into many, then splintered again, fading each time until there was nothing visible left to follow.

We kept an eye on the direction arrow on our GPS and maintained a steady course.

It was an empty landscape now with huge horizons in every direction, far removed from the traditional image of a desert with undulating sand dunes. This was a compressed, flattened desert. A steam-rollered desert where man had no place.

Then, up ahead of us, we saw what looked like figures on the horizon.

'Are they people?' I asked Geoff.

'Could be,' he agreed. 'It's hard to say. There's certainly something up there.'

We drove on cautiously. The figures stood out like Lowry matchstick men, perhaps six or eight of them standing in the emptiness watching us approach.

'How far away do you think they are?'

'Very difficult to estimate. We've got no reference point in this landscape. Could be two miles, could be ten or twenty, or more.'

'If it's that far, they can't be people. They're too big.'

'Could be a fence.'

'What is there here that anyone would want to fence in?'

'Maybe a building.'

'Again, why would anyone want to build anything here?'

'Maybe they're camels.'

'It's possible, but they're not moving. Unless they're gathered round a water hole. Just doesn't look like camels though.'

We stopped the van and peered into the distance, the sun behind us, the horizon ahead shimmering slightly in the heat haze. Only the chugging of the van's engine broke the silence.

'I still think it's people. Look, one of them's moving.'

'Well, they're right in our path, we'll find out soon enough.'

We climbed back into the van, I selected first and we moved towards the figures. We drove for perhaps fifteen minutes. Gradually, as we approached, the matchsticks became more defined, joining together in firmer lines until it was clear what it was. A lorry. A battered old blue lorry, a split-windscreen cab from the 1950s, with wooden boards, also painted blue, enclosing the load area. It wasn't carrying anything we could see. Two men were closing the bonnet and returning to the cab.

As we pulled alongside, they started the engine, there was a puff of smoke from the exhaust and they were on their way again.

'I suppose you have to be able to carry out running repairs if you're going to drive across this place,' I said, and then immediately regretted it. We lacked the skills to carry out even basic fixes. If the van stopped working we were stuck. No one knew where we were and our last mobile phone signal had been 150 miles ago.

We were carrying a jerry can of water, twenty litres, and had another fifteen litres in bottles behind the front seats. We were well off for food. All these thoughts went through my mind as we watched the lorrymen drive off.

'We've got plenty of supplies,' I said, in case Geoff was thinking the same thing.

'If we broke down it could be hours – days even – before anyone came past,' he pointed out.

'It's possible,' I agreed. 'The problem with this stretch of desert is there are no defined tracks which people keep to. Vehicles will probably be going by but they could be a few miles either to the left or right of us. But we could sit it out.'

Evening was approaching. We had managed only 160 miles since leaving Khovd. It was time to find somewhere to stop. Except there wasn't anywhere.

'I think we should aim for those hills up ahead,' I said, pointing into the far distance. But as we drove on the hills didn't seem to get any closer. It was as if they were moving with us.

The sun behind us was now starting to drop in the sky.

'We're just going to have to stop where we are,' said Geoff. 'It seems weird not to have anything to park against, but we could drive all night and still be on this flat plain.'

He was right. I slowed the van to a crawl, looking round for a hillock or even a bush to park by. There was nothing. Just the baked earth with its covering of stones. I drifted the van to a halt, put the handbrake on and turned off the engine. The silence closed in around us.

'Will here do?' I asked.

'Well, it's as good a spot as anywhere else for the next hundred miles or so.'

We got out, stretched our legs, opened a couple of beers and looked around.

The vastness of the Gobi Desert continues to provide a stream of interesting discoveries for enterprising explorers. In 2008, an expedition found a burial ground of an ancient tribe whose patch it was 2,700 years ago. Opening up the grave of what looked like the top man owing to the amount of stuff he had buried with him, they discovered horse bridles, archery equipment, a make-up bag – I'm making no judgement here – a harp, and most interesting of all to the archaeologists, a leather bag containing two pounds of cannabis. They were excited because this was the first evidence of a drug culture among humans.

The Gobi can claim a number of other firsts – the first velociraptor skeleton ever found (the velociraptor was one of the small but vicious stars of the film Jurassic Park ) and the first dinosaur eggs were also uncovered there, ending a dispute among scientists about whether dinosaurs gave birth to live young.

Both of those discoveries were made in the 1920s by an explorer called Roy Chapman Andrews, who, it's sometimes claimed, was the inspiration for the film character Indiana Jones. Whether that's true or not, he certainly enjoyed a colourful life – he led his first expedition into the Gobi using 125 camels and a fleet of Dodge cars, one of which had a machine gun mounted on the bonnet to use against the armed gangs which were then common in the area.

Roy Chapman Andrews also made the first written reference to a creature which Mongolians believe firmly to exist, but which has defied all attempts to capture it. This is the Mongolian death worm. In his book, On the Trail of Ancient Man 3, published in 1926, he writes of the creature which his Mongolian guides were all able to describe minutely. And from the sound of it, this is undoubtedly a worm with attitude. It's said to be red, between two and five feet long and has the Mongolian name Ol goi-khorkhoi – which loosely translates as intestine worm because it looks like the intestine of a cow.

But the thing that sets this worm apart from its relatives elsewhere in the globe is its ability to spit poison several yards which is venomous enough to kill a camel – and as a back up, should anyone still want to get too close, it packs a fatal punch in the form of an electric shock. It's said to live under the sand and only emerge after a rain shower.

Now, I know this creature is probably a myth. No specimen has ever been found alive or dead. But when I took the spade from the back of the van and set off to dig a hole for our latrine, well, I just couldn't help thinking about it.

I scraped back the top layer of stones carefully, and examined the ground for any suspicious burrows. Then, after a large swig of lager for courage, I dug down with the spade into the hard-baked ground and scooped out a hole big enough to fulfil our needs.

I peered down into it. All seemed quiet. I poked round a bit more with the spade. No sign of anything wriggling. With a feeling of trepidation, I squatted cautiously over the sand. I was OK until I remembered the death worm's predilection for staying underground until there's a shower of rain. I imagined it hurrying excitedly to the surface, feeling an intense disappointment as it discovered the truth, then lying there just below me thinking 'I'm so angry I could spit'.

I returned to the van at a trot, fastening my belt as I went.

'Everything all right?' Geoff asked as I arrived, slightly flushed and breathless.

'Yes, no problem at all,' I replied. 'Everything's fine. Now, how about a spot of dinner?'

A boil in the bag curry, some more beer and a Blackadder tape playing on the cassette player. Everything was good. The sun slipped down behind us as if returning to a slot in the desert, the sky turned yellow, then darkened, and more stars than we had ever imagined existed came out.

We got out of the van. It was perfectly still and totally quiet. That's something we're not used to in the UK. Even in remote places – Dartmoor, say, or the Scottish Highlands – there is usually some noise, perhaps a tinkling stream, the cry of a bird or the bark of a fox. Here there was nothing.

We stood and stared up into the sky, first turning one way, then another. We didn't speak. The usual superlatives to describe a view would have been woefully inadequate. We took no pictures. No photo could have done it justice.

The temperature dropped as night set in and we wrapped ourselves into our sleeping bags and settled down in the front seats of the van. We were woken at 5 a.m. by the sunrise, as dramatic as the sunset had been the previous evening. It was going to be another day of uninterrupted blue skies.

I shook some desert dust from a couple of teabags, rinsed our mugs of the worst of the grit which had collected inside and brewed up. As we filtered our tea through our teeth, a flock of wild camels appeared, strolling leisurely across the desert within fifty yards of us, taking no notice of our presence.

There didn't seem much point in trying to wash as we would be covered in dust again within minutes, so by 5.30 a.m. we were on the move. We had the place to ourselves for a couple of hours, then we finally reached the line of hills which had seemed so tantalisingly close the evening before. We aimed for a gap, a valley between two high ridges. The assorted tracks across the stony desert floor merged together, and we followed a better-marked way through a slight rise until, round a corner, we came across six lorries parked side by side outside a couple of gers. A transport cafe.

The ger is the symbol of one of the world's last true nomadic nations. But even in rural Mongolia some elements from the modern age are finding their way in, and these had both solar panels and satellite television dishes.

Below us another plain stretched out, the mirror image of the one the other side of the hills. We followed the track as it wound down, then set off along the flat again, the floor of the desert more sandy than before and the route better defined. Ahead of us were two dust clouds. We had company. The clouds were coming towards us quickly. Whatever was underneath them was making much faster progress than we were.

After ten minutes we could make out the first vehicle: a public minibus – a Russian-built UAZ, four-wheel drive – sitting high off the road, its radiator grille and headlamp layout giving it a permanently surprised open mouthed expression as if looking at the road ahead and yelling 'Oh my God'. Another was following a few hundred yards behind.

'Would you believe it?' I said, 'You wait three days for a bus then two come along at once.'

Geoff glanced at his watch in mock concern. 'I think they're running a little late. That must be the six fifty-five Altay to Khovd commuter special. It's now seven fifteen. Tut tut.'

From the speed the buses were travelling it did seem as if they had time to make up. They bucked like a pair of rodeo steers, their drivers making no concession to the terrain. Inside, it didn't look like there was a seat to spare; rows of faces pressing against the windows looked our way, a few arms raised in greeting.

We kept to second gear most of the time, in the flatter parts changing up a gear and hitting thirty. At this speed it would take us until lunchtime to reach Altay. The next place of any size after that, Bayankhongor, 300 miles further on, was way beyond our reach. But at least we were still going.

A few yards away to our left, two men raised their arms and waved at us, flagging us down. They were standing by a motorcycle. Geoff turned the wheel and bounced towards them over the uneven ground.

'We'll have to stop, of course, but if they've broken down I fear we're not going to be much use to them,' he said.

The two men grinned broadly as we drew alongside. One was stocky and looked in middle age, his companion taller and younger. Parts of motorcycle engine were laid on a cloth on the ground, alongside some tools.

I lowered the window and the older man stuck his head inside. He looked at me and burst out laughing, stepping back and pointing, beckoning his companion over to have a look.

'Well you've cheered him up,' Geoff observed. 'He might be broken down in the middle of the desert and we might be no help in practical terms, but at least you've given him a good laugh.'

The two men returned together to the window and peered in. Words were exchanged between them. The second man concurred with the first's verdict and chuckled happily. Then they looked over at Geoff. He, too, was a source of great mirth. It was as if they'd chanced upon the Mongolian Morecambe and Wise and were running over all their favourite lines. When they had regained their composure, the older man pointed to his eyes, then to us and grinned.

'It's our sunglasses,' I said, as realisation dawned. 'They think our sunglasses are hilarious.'

'Well, yours are,' said Geoff. 'But you'd think they'd recognise a quality pair.'

We took off the sunglasses and shook hands with the men. Their motorbike, they explained with gestures, was broken. The younger man pointed the way we were going – perhaps, he suggested, he could hitch a ride in the back of our van. Feeling hugely guilty, we showed them behind the seats, the rear piled from floor to ceiling with tyres, jerry cans and equipment. It would have been hard to fit a shoebox inside, let along a man. He didn't seem at all upset by this. He shrugged, stood back and mimed that, never mind, the motorcycle would be fixed soon enough. They waved us on our way, still all smiles. As we looked behind, they were still pointing at their eyes and reliving the strangeness of foreigners. They would have a good tale to tell when they reached their destination.

We reached Altay by lunchtime, and found a petrol station on the edge of town. After filling up, we drove past fenced ger encampments surrounding the town to find a shop for our other essential, beer.

We stopped in what looked like the main street, a row of single storey whitewashed buildings, a few sparse trees lining the pavement. There were no other vehicles and few people about. An old man in a trilby hat sat outside his front door smoking a pipe and watching us thoughtfully. I got out. There was nothing to indicate which, if any, of the buildings was a shop. Then a woman carrying a bag entered one of them, and I followed. Inside, in what could have been someone's front room, was a counter behind which stood a lined old woman, her shelves stocked with loaves of bread and a few tins but no sign of any beer.

I left. A few yards down the road a front door was slightly ajar. I peeped in: a rival general store, with the same bread and tins but also bars of chocolate and, better still, bottles of lager. The woman in charge was chubby and cheerful and smiled as I entered. I pointed at the beer and held up four fingers. She put them on the counter and wrote down a price on a piece of paper, then wrote another, very slightly larger price. She wanted me to pay the larger one but was very concerned I should know why. After a few minutes of mime and confusion, I understood. There was a deposit on the bottles.

Before we left home, Geoff had looked up the coordinates for all the towns and villages on our route through Mongolia. Now, he set the GPS for Buutsagaan, a dot on the map about halfway between Altay and Bayankhongor. We left town and took a well-used track through the hills, passing through a valley where horse racing was taking place. The jockeys at such events are all children – girls as well as boys – and they start them young, traditionally from five years old, although the law says they must be aged at least seven. The retirement age is twelve. It's estimated that there are about thirty thousand child jockeys in Mongolia. And unlike our image of a racetrack, the courses in Mongolia are over open countryside and range from about nine to nineteen miles. It's a test of stamina for horse and rider. We stopped and watched as one race came to a conclusion, the horses kicking up the dust as they thundered along the steppe, their tiny jockeys clinging on determinedly, three horses finding the strength to fight it out to the end for the honour of winning in front of an enthusiastic crowd of several hundred.

It sounds dangerous and it is. For the most part, the children ride bareback and without riding helmets. Every year horses collapse and die from exhaustion – and many of their riders are hurt and even killed in falls from their mounts. Accurate figures on how many are impossible to find – a report from the International Labour Organisation could describe the number only as 'substantial'.

We drove on, swerving round new hazards which littered that stretch of road – piles of broken glass. Beer bottles might carry a deposit, but it seemed that vodka bottles didn't, or else no one could be bothered taking them back. Dozens of them lay shattered on the ground, chucked from passing vehicles. Later, we asked a Mongolian woman about this and she said some Mongolians had a superstitious fear of having an empty bottle about the place. This might be true – or she might have been trying to find an explanation which would satisfy two gullible westerners.

I'm not for one moment suggesting Mongolians are alone in having a litter lout problem – you don't have to go far down an English country lane to see evidence of people who have driven, probably several miles, to find just the right hedgerow in which to dump a fridge. But you'd think if you were going to smash a vodka bottle you might just wander away from the road a bit in case you came back that way later and the broken glass shredded your tyre. Or perhaps after you have finished a bottle of vodka you just don't care.

We pressed on, weaving successfully around piles of glass, until around the middle of the afternoon we came to a village.

'Must be Delger,' I said, looking at the map. 'Would mean we've done about fifty miles since Altay.'

'That sounds about right,' agreed Geoff, studying the GPS. 'It says eighty miles to Buutsagaan, but it always measures distance in a straight line, so it'll be more in reality.'

In the village centre a minibus was taking on passengers, who waited with boxes and bags piled high with their possessions. It would be a real feat of expert packing to get them all in. A group of schoolchildren among them smiled and waved enthusiastically as we passed.

Outside the village the road forked as it crossed a line of hills. The advice from the GPS was unclear – it could be either route. The minibus went by, rocking from side to side, the interior a seething mass of people. It made the London Underground at rush hour look half empty. No one, it appeared, had been left behind. They all seemed delighted to see us again so soon and the windows were a sea of hands waving to us. The minibus took the left fork.

'Might as well follow it,' I suggested. 'They must be going to the same place as us, there can't be anywhere else. No other village marked.'

We followed the minibus for a few miles as it wound through the hills, overtaking it as it stopped to drop off a couple of passengers, though where they were going was a mystery. There were no buildings or even any gers in sight.

'Perhaps the overcrowding has become too much and they've decided to wait for the next bus,' I suggested.

'That must be it,' said Geoff. 'There'll probably be another one along in a day or two.'

We were quickly overtaken again, to the obvious pleasure of the children on board the bus, as we inched cautiously down the track. The minibus streaked ahead, a cloud of dust giving away its position for a few miles until that faded away and we were alone again.

We were back in a flat desert plain once more, the well-marked trail we had been following dividing and subdividing. The surface was still scattered with stones – but the sand underneath appeared softer than before, tyre tracks providing some comforting evidence that others had been that way.

Geoff was studying the GPS and looking anxious.

'This doesn't seem to make sense,' he announced. 'According to the map, Buutsagaan should be straight ahead, yet the arrow is pointing firmly to the left, at about nine o'clock. It's as if we're running parallel to it and it's over there somewhere.'

He peered towards the horizon to our left. There was no sign of any buildings.

'Well I wouldn't trust the map,' I replied. 'It's a work of fiction as regards the roads. And there are plenty of wheel marks through this sand.'

Geoff punched some figures into the GPS. 'Stop a minute, we can find out exactly where we are. This will give us our position to within twenty feet.'

We stopped and the dial gave us a reading. We compared it with the latitude and longitude lines on the map. There was no mistake. Buutsagaan was well to our left. Somewhere we had gone wrong. We were about seventy miles south of where we should have been. Instead of skirting round the edge of the Gobi on a road with at least a couple of villages marked, we were on a course that would take us right back into the desert and into an uninhabited area.

We tried to work out where we could have taken a wrong turning. It looked most likely that the last village we had been through was not Delger, as we had thought, but a place called Biger. And to get there we must have gone wrong as far back as Altay, about four hours before.

'We can't go back,' I said. 'It would mean losing the best part of a day.'

'We should think seriously about it,' said Geoff. 'I know it would be hugely frustrating but we don't know what conditions are like up ahead.'

We sat in silence and weighed up the unattractive options. Then in the distance we spotted a dust cloud. Something was coming our way. As it drew near we could see it was a lorry, a modern twelve-wheeler, its bonnet propped open, presumably to allow extra air into the engine, its side bearing the legend '–30°C Freezer Express'. It was making good speed.

'I think that's good enough,' I suggested. 'If that's come through the desert that way, it's a recognised course. And there are lots of tracks to suggest others have done the same.'

Geoff was convinced. 'OK, let's go for it. If we keep heading slightly left we should eventually get back on the main route a few miles short of Bayankhongor.'

'How far's that?' I asked, then wished I hadn't.

'About two hundred miles,' Geoff replied.

I selected first and drove on. At 5.30 p.m. we realised we had been driving for twelve hours, virtually non-stop. We had covered 260 miles. But, excitingly, just ahead of us in the flat desert was something to park against for the night – a saxhaul bush, a metre or so high and a similar width. It was poking from the top of a slight mound.

Saxhaul is a woody shrub which can grow for twenty-five years and reach a height of thirteen feet. The Mongolian name for it is zag. It's a tough survivor – able to tolerate saltwater and droughts. But it's popular with camels as a source of food and with nomads as a source of fuel, and it's in decline.

I reversed the van up to it and we got out. Saxhaul has small yellow flowers – and the ones on this bush had attracted a couple of bees. We looked round – stones and sand as far as we could see in each direction. Yet here was this stubby bush apparently supporting a few insects as well.

And there was something else growing which seemed even more extraordinary. Poking through the stones was a plant, red stalks like thin rhubarb growing from its centre, topped with something which looked a little like small red and yellow cauliflowers. From the bottom grew two purple cabbage-like leaves which spread flat over the surface. It looked utterly out of place in the stony ground – with no evidence of any water supply. Yet there it was.

We went through our familiar routine of cooking, playing a Blackadder tape, having a beer. This section of the Gobi was less lonely than the night before – about once every hour as evening fell we'd see headlights on the far horizon. We sat and watched them move closer. I timed how long they took to reach us – it was just under an hour. Then they would draw close and a lorry would roll past, taking a route perhaps half a mile to the left of us.

'Last night in the desert,' I said. 'We should make Arvayheer tomorrow. After that it's supposed to be tarmac all the way to UB. We'll be there the next day.'

Geoff shook his head firmly. 'We'll never do it in that time.'

We didn't argue. Like an old married couple who have grown comfortable with each other's contrary ways, we settled back in our seats, opened another bottle, and waited for our planetarium show to begin.

Chapter Thirteen

Things that go Clink in the Night

We awoke again at dawn, had a quick cup of tea and were on the move. I'd delved into the lucky dip that passed for our food box and withdrawn, by chance, a jar of peanut butter (crunchy) and some tortilla wraps. If anyone is thinking about making a similar trip and wants a few tips on what to take, peanut butter would come pretty high up my list, somewhere in between a compass and a packet of wet wipes. I spread it thickly on the tortillas, rolled them up and passed one to Geoff. The peanut butter, thick and cloying, stuck to the roofs of our mouths, making conversation difficult. But Geoff was keen to show his appreciation.

'Umm, yum, good.' He gave a thumbs-up sign.

'Mmmmumm,' I added, nodding in agreement, my jaws and tongue working hard to shift the peanut butter from mouth to stomach where it sat, deliciously and fillingly.

We bounced across the uneven desert to the path we'd seen the lorries taking the night before. There was a 'thunk, thunk' noise from somewhere at the front of the van. Geoff cocked his head to one side.

'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

'That "thunk, thunk" noise.'

'Thunk,' went the van as it lurched across a ditch about two-feet deep.

'I can't hear anything.'

'You must be able to,' Geoff insisted. 'Listen, there it was again. A thunk followed by a clunk clunk.'

We had reached the path made by the lorries now, where their wheels had compressed the surface into something approaching a smooth sandy track. The van breathed a sign of relief and fell silent.

'No,' I said, pretending to listen hard. 'All sounds quiet to me.'

'Well it is now,' said Geoff, both irritated by and suspicious of my refusal to hear anything untoward. 'But it wasn't when we were going over that rough stuff. There were very definite thunks and clunks.'

We pressed on down the lorry track, the GPS telling us we were heading in the right direction for Bayankhongor. Around mid morning we spotted a ger settlement ahead, with a river providing water for people and animals. We stopped by the edge and got out. It was about fifty feet to the far side, but from the ripples in the middle it looked shallow. A man emerged from one of the gers and beckoned to us, indicating it was safe to cross.

Mongolia is divided into twenty-one provinces, which are known as aimags. And each has its own capital, or administrative centre. Bayankhongor is the name for both the aimag we were entering and the capital itself. To provide a quick reminder of the scale of Mongolia, the aimag of Bayankhongor has an area of more than 72,000 square miles, which is not far off six times the size of Wales. To the south, near the border with China, is the Great Gobi Strictly Protected Area, home of the Gobi bear, or mazaalai, a small brown bear – and the only one in the world adapted to living in a desert. No one outside Mongolia knew the bears existed until 1900 when a Russian researcher saw their tracks, and the first confirmed sighting wasn't until nearly fifty years later.

But if the snow leopard is in trouble, the mazaalai 's plight is dire. Its population is measured in dozens – the most gloomy estimates put it at two dozen. Threats to their survival include wolves which attack their cubs, hunting by man and dwindling food supplies as the desert spreads further. A report in 2003 by two scientists, Peter J. Balint and Jennifer A. Steinberg, Conservation Case Study of the Gobi Bear, no ted that the wildlife warden responsible for patrolling the area had had his budget cut and could only rarely afford petrol for his motorcycle. And a supplementary feeding programme, which involved leaving out food pellets for the bears after their winter hibernation, had also been reduced because of lack of funds. Money for a few gallons of petrol and some food pellets once a year could save the Gobi bear from extinction. Not much, but when you are a country as poor as Mongolia perhaps more than you can afford. It would be heart-warming to think Western countries might just shell out a very small amount of loose change – the cost of refurbishing an MP's moat, say; no, on second thoughts, nothing like that much – to prevent an animal species from disappearing forever.

We reached the town of Bayankhongor by lunchtime. It gives the impression of a secretive place. Around the edge, ger settlements and shacks lurk behind wooden fences, only the tops of their roofs visible, each compound separated by a dirt road; a stockaded town surrounded by barren hills. It looked deserted as if its population of about twenty thousand had decided en masse that there was a better life elsewhere. We drove in cautiously and then had the immediate problem of how to find our way out. Our GPS was pointing the way to our next town, Arvaikheer, but as we'd encountered before, there didn't seem to be any road.

We stopped at a junction and approached a man who had been watching with interest as we drove past him several times in different directions.

Geoff pointed at the map.

'Arvaikheer?' he asked, hopefully.

The man beamed. He seemed pleased for some company. Probably the last vehicle to go past had been an hour earlier. And the last one to stop for a chat maybe weeks before. He began a long discourse in Mongolian, which might have included directions to Arvaikheer, or might have just been a list of the attractions of his hometown, Bayankhongor. Certainly his arms pointed in many directions, first to the rather unattractive Soviet-era government house, then to the more interesting Buddhist stupa, a dome-shaped memorial shrine, on the hill above the town.

After about five minutes, Geoff attempted, politely, to interrupt his flow.

'So, Arvaikheer that way?' He pointed across a patch of rough ground.

The man gestured first in one direction, then the other, then moved his arms in a wide circle above his head.

'Arvaikheer?' he seemed to be saying, in the manner of a hippy philosopher, 'It's here, it's there, it's wherever you believe it to be, man. Arvaikheer is all around you. Chill.'

We thanked him anyway and he waved us goodbye, smiling happily. We'd noticed an airstrip on the way into town and I suggested we try there.

'Must be a reasonable chance of someone speaking English,' I ventured.

We stopped by the low perimeter fence. On the other side of the wall was a control tower with a car parked outside.

'I'll give it a go,' said Geoff, climbing over the wall and disappearing into the tower. Security is more relaxed at airports in Mongolia. He emerged a few minutes later in the company of a man, who got into the parked car and drove away. Geoff arrived back at the van at a trot.

'He's going to show us the way,' he explained. 'Follow that car.'

'Not too much incoming air traffic this afternoon then?' I asked.

'Seems not. He was on his own in there and having lunch, but was happy to break off and leave the place unmanned.'

The car appeared from the airport entrance a couple of hundred yards down the road and I followed as it weaved through the town, dodging potholes in what must have been a familiar routine, and eventually stopping by what looked like a checkpoint, a hut with a lowered barrier next to it. The driver pointed that was the way to go, waved, and turned back the way he had come.

We drove up and a hand was extended out of the window. It was a tollbooth. The fee was the equivalent of 50p. We drove through with a mounting sense of excitement as a smooth tarmac road stretched ahead of us.

'This is brilliant,' I said, accelerating up through the gears to an unfamiliar 50 mph. We hadn't been expected any tarmac for another 200 miles.

'Fantastic,' agreed Geoff. 'Totally unexpected. It's just wonderful.'

Our elation lasted for about two miles. The first potholes appeared and we slowed. Then huge cracks appeared across the road's surface and the edges crumbled away. Just after we had driven through a large blue arch marking, we assumed, the city boundaries, the road disappeared and we were back to a stony track.

'Clunk clunk,' went the van, echoing our disappointment. 'Thunk.'

'It's making that noise again,' said Geoff, unhappily.

I couldn't argue.

'We'll nurse it along, take it gently and we'll get there, even if we have to slow to a crawl.'

A few miles down the road the rough track we were following ended. It seemed like there had been a landslide and the way was blocked. We skirted round the rubble, as others had done before us, and worked our way across the semi-desert to a village we could see on our left.

We stopped at a petrol station to fill with diesel and check we were on the right road. A jeep driver pointed the way and we headed off into the hills, a multitude of gravel tracks with weeds growing down the middle winding up and over distant summits. We picked one at random, driving gently, easing the van along, keeping to about ten miles per hour when the surface broke up or turned to corrugated ridges, wincing every time the clunk

warned us that we really might have trouble ahead.

Thirteen hours after setting off from our overnight desert halt we reached Arvaikheer and drove to the centre looking for a hotel. I don't want to make it seem like we were getting picky, but from the outside the couple of hotels we found made the one in Ölgii look like it might be a contender for a Michelin recommendation. We paused outside the one with the fewer broken windows and considered our options. Geoff volunteered to take a look inside.

'It's deserted,' he reported, getting back into the van. 'No one around at all. No sign of any guests or any staff. Looks a bit grim.'

We had spent two nights in the van – we might as well make it a hat-trick.

'Drive on and see if we can reach the tarmac?'

'Why not? We've got a couple of hours of daylight left. Let's see how far we can get.'

A quick stop to buy more beer and we headed out of town. A hour or so's drive later and we reached it. A ribbon of black tarmac stretching arrow-like across a grassy plain, horses and yaks grazing by its side. No false dawns this time. This was the road we believed would whisk us the couple of hundred miles to Ulaanbaatar. There was a toll booth where we paid our 50p willingly and drove along relishing every mile, the van silent and the men inside whooping with delight.

As dusk fell, we pulled off the road at a bend, where a bridge crossed a small river. Immediately by the river it was boggy, but we drove a couple of hundred yards up a gentle hill to drier ground, and parked next to the ruins of a hut, its roof long gone, a few jagged stumps of walls all that remained. From there we had a clear view of the road we had just travelled, Roman-straight, a smooth black line ironed across the plain. On the horizon, a ridge of low hills. No one on the move.

No need to ration our food stocks now, tomorrow we would be in UB. I cooked a generous pan of pasta, stirred in a jar of pesto, fried the last of the onions we'd bought in Barnaul, added couple of tins of mince, some baked beans, some kidney beans and a good sprinkling of hot chilli powder. We ate greedily.

'It's good,' said Geoff, appreciatively, spooning out a second helping. 'Really tasty.'

'You don't think perhaps the chilli overpowers the pesto a touch?' I inquired. 'And maybe a rather high-risk quantity of pulses?'

But Geoff was in the mood to live life on the edge: 'No, no, not at all. It's excellent. Any left?' He was a great guy to cook for.

We scraped the bowls clean and we retired to our berths in the front seats with full stomachs and happy hearts.

I was woken some hours later by the sound of a vehicle tooting its horn. Below me, on the moonlit road, a large four-by-four had stopped after crossing the bridge. There was a similar vehicle about one hundred yards ahead of it. The car by the bridge flashed its lights, and the one in front reversed back and pulled alongside. The occupants had a shouted conversation. An arm was extended through the window and a finger pointed at us.

Then engines were revved, the vehicles move forward together, turned off the road and headed up the hill towards us, their headlights dazzling, pointing straight into the van.

My hand reached down to check the ignition key was there. Geoff was snoring softly in the seat to my left. I shook his shoulder.

'Sorry Geoff, I think you'd better wake up. We might have a spot of trouble.'

Geoff had been deeply asleep and woke with a yelp, shielding his eyes from the lights.

'Shit.'

The vehicles were being driven at speed and were only feet away from us. Then they swerved to the right and pulled up behind a small hillock a few yards away. They turned off their engines and cut their lights. All was quiet again.

Geoff twisted his neck and peered through the window.

'They've both stopped, side by side. Can't see any activity.'

'I'll have a look,' I said. 'I need a pee anyway.'

The night air was cold and I shivered. I went round the back of the van and peered cautiously over the mound. I could see the rear of the vehicles. They were a pair of identical Toyota Land Cruisers and they were in darkness. There was no one about.

I reported back. 'It looks OK. No sign of life.'

'They're probably just doing the same as us and catching a few hours' kip.'

It seemed the most likely explanation. We wrapped ourselves in our sleeping bags and shut our eyes. But we made sure the doors to the van were locked. Just in case.

They left before us, as soon as dawn broke. Now it was light we could see that both vehicles had the name of a travel company emblazoned on the doors. Their drivers gave us a friendly wave as they departed.

We got up and went through our usual routine cheerfully, knowing it would be our last morning on the road. A pan of water was boiled for tea, and our food stocks raided for the last of our breakfast bars. There were five left. We could have two each and still have one spare. Then, on the top of the hill, we noticed a man on horseback watching us. He rode down, dismounted and introduced himself, tapping his chest and saying his name, Batsaikhan.

He was dressed in an immaculate purple deel, which, in the countryside style, had fingerless gloves sewn onto the ends of the sleeves, almost like a pair of slippers that could cover his hands. Over this he wore a blue tunic with bright green silk piping around the edges. The outfit was completed by stout brown leather boots and, incongruously, a blue baseball cap.

Batsaikhan was keen to show us his horse – a stocky animal, like most in Mongolia, its chestnut coat immaculately groomed, a purple and green saddle on top of a patterned cloth.

'If he asks us to ride it, I'm going to have to leave that to you,' I told Geoff, patting the horse cautiously.

'Ha ha. I've never sat on a horse in my life. And I'm not about to start.'

But Batsaikhan had probably judged us correctly and made no suggestion that we should take his mount for a trial canter around the hills. Instead, he squatted down to watch us, sitting on his haunches in the way that Asian men can do easily but Europeans find so uncomfortable.

I offered him a tea, our last breakfast bar, and a packet of Marlboro. He accepted them all happily, drank the tea with noisy slurps and then belched loudly as he handed back his mug and lit a cigarette.

We carried on with our routine, digging a hole to bury our rubbish, cleaning the lights and windscreen on the van, and repacking our gear in the back. Batsaikhan watched all this with an amiable curiosity, nodding and smiling if we caught his eye. It was time for us to leave, we shook hands, he mounted his horse and rode away, turning and pausing at the top of a ridge to watch us drive off.

'UB by lunchtime easy,' I said grinning at Geoff.

He didn't demur. The road was smooth and the van rolled along happily. The end was in sight. The home run.

A few miles on we stopped by a pair of ovoos, some of the biggest we had seen, piles of stones as high as the van, from their centre masts as tall as telegraph poles, wrapped in binding and flying scraps of cloth like anarchic flag poles, mainly blue but with some red, yellow and greens mixed in.

'This must be an especially sacred place to have two ovoos that size,' I said, pulling up. 'Let's stop and take some pics.'

We knew what the form was: we had read about the ritual and seen people do it. You walk round an ovoo three times and add a stone to the pile as an offering to the spirits who guard the mountains to ensure a good journey. For some reason, we didn't. We just took a few photos. Bad move.

Twenty miles further on, the tarmac stopped like it had been sliced through with a knife, leaving exposed the rocky foundations of where the road had once been. To our left and right a myriad of tracks headed off into the hills. We followed one. It was as rough a road as we had encountered. At some time in the past heavy rain had turned the valley to a bog. Vehicles had driven through it, creating huge ruts, which had dried in the sun. We set off through them.

The van objected, loudly. It had taken enough abuse. It had moved on from a sort of muffled thunk and had upped its repertoire, concentrating now on dongs, metal on metal, like an erratic Big Ben striking the hour at random. We crawled along in first gear, at no more than five miles an hour.

'Ho, ho,' laughed the spirits of the ovoo. 'Maybe next time you'll do the walk round three times thing and chuck a stone on the pile. Who's sorry now, huh?'

'Maybe this doesn't last more than a mile or two,' I said hopefully. 'Perhaps over the brow of this hill we'll see the tarmac again.'

But the brow of the hill brought only more disappointment. The tracks stretched over the rough ground ahead of us as far as the eye could see.

A jeep drew alongside and we had a snatched conversation with the driver. This was difficult because we were both bobbing up and down like a fairground roundabout and we had to shout above the van's clunking.

'How far do these ruts go?' I yelled, making a motion like a wave.

The other driver disappeared from view, then reappeared holding up a hand, fingers and thumb apart, making the number five.

'Five kilometres?' That wouldn't be too bad.

He shook his head, held up his hand again, then made a zero with forefinger and thumb.

'Fifty kilometres?' I asked, hoping I had misunderstood. I hadn't. He nodded confirmation and was gone.

We were so near. The last 150 miles of an 8,000-mile drive.

'We're going to have to stop,' said Geoff. 'I've got to get underneath and see if I can spot what's wrong and if there's anything I can do about it.'

'OK,' I agreed. 'You're right. We can't just keep going like this.'

I think from the look on Geoff's face this shocked him more than anything else. If I'd agreed to stop, then there really must be a problem.

I slowed to a halt in the middle of a track. There were dozens of routes on either side of us and no other vehicles in sight, but I got the red triangle out of the back as a precaution while Geoff laid an old pair of curtains on the ground and crawled underneath the engine.

'Well,' he announced, 'it's fairly obvious what's making the noise.'

I joined him underneath the van. Those of you who understand how cars work will just have to be patient with me here. I realise that the forthcoming description of what was wrong is wholly inadequate. But it's the best I can do.

This is what I saw: there was a steel spring of several layers, shaped like a bow, and with a hole in the middle. This had contained some sort of bolt which held the spring to the axle. But the bolt had broken in half and the stubby end left was banging against the metal of the spring. Does that make any sense? Anyway, seeing something was wrong and being able to do something about it are, of course, two different things. And we had no idea if we could carry on like that or if the whole thing was going to collapse. Given the ground were driving over, the latter seemed the short odds favourite.

Geoff got out the box which contained his tools, a sorry collection of rusting spanners and screwdrivers with chewed and misshapen ends. Actually, those were the ones I had contributed. Geoff's were slightly better. And there were two other bits of kit which he had assured me at the start of the trip would come in handy – a ball of string and some green garden wire. The string we had already used to make a washing line at a hotel in Russia somewhere. Now he picked up the wire.

'I just wonder….' He mused aloud and disappeared back under the van.

I popped my head under to see what he was up to. The broken-off stubby bolt thing had been stuffed back into the hole in the spring and the whole lot was getting a wire bandage treatment. Round and round, the bolt, spring and axle were getting a green gift wrapping. Eventually he reappeared, having run out of wire.

'That's the best I can do. Let's hope it holds until we hit tarmac.'

Who was it who said 'Organisation is the enemy of improvisation'? Whoever it was would have been proud of Geoff.

We set off again, the van clunking but in a muffled way, as if it had been gagged. We crawled along. Hours passed and turned into days, the miles fell away at a rate of about one a week, but we were still moving. Then ahead of us, starting as abruptly as it had finished, a strip of tarmac. We were so conscious it might not last we didn't even drive on it at first, but bumped along on a track by the side, just looking at it longingly and wondering if we dared hope it went all the way. There were no vehicles on the road, but then there weren't any on the hillside either. The tarmac looked new and it seemed to stretch into the distance.

'Do you think we should?' asked Geoff, who was driving.

I reckoned the ovoo spirits had given us a big enough fright and were in forgiving mood. 'I think we should go for it.'

Geoff eased the van up the steep embankment and onto the road. It was like switching from bed of nails to one stuffed with feathers. We had the road to ourselves. Geoff worked the van through the gears and up to 60 mph, a speed which felt quite dizzying. There were indications that we were nearing journey's end. We began to spot ger encampments by the roadside, not for locals but for tourists. Colourful signs promised attractions such as bars and hot showers.

Then I began to worry. A strange smell was filling the inside of the van, a sort of boiled cabbage smell. But boiled cabbage which had been left lying round for a few days, then mixed with a few very old Brussels sprouts. And heated up until it stuck to the bottom of the pan.

'Can you smell something peculiar?' I asked.

'I had been noticing something,' Geoff agreed.

'Do you think it's coming from the engine?'

Geoff sniffed. 'Could be.' He checked the temperature gauge. 'We're not overheating.'

The smell seemed to be getting stronger, but the van was trundling along happily.

Then a thought occurred to me.

'When did we last change our clothes?' I asked Geoff.

'Let's see. Not the last three nights, obviously, they've been spent in the van and we've just woken up and started driving. I suppose must have been back in Khovd, four days ago.'

'And how long since we last had a shower with soap and hot water?'

'Ooooh, soap and hot water?' Geoff sounded wistful. Soap and hot water was a distant memory. 'Well, we couldn't shower in Khovd because the drain was blocked and anyway there wasn't any hot water. Not in Ölgii because there was no water at all. Not at the border because we were staying in that hut with nowhere to wash. Night before that was in Biysk, the water was utterly freezing there, a quick splash and that was it. I suppose it must have been Barnaul.'

Barnaul had been nine days ago.

'Do you suppose,' I postulated. 'That this cabbage smell could be coming from us?'

Geoff looked horrified. He turned to look at me. His skin looked deeply tanned as if he'd had a month in the sun. But it was only grime. His hair stuck up in a collection of matted spikes. And his clothes bore witness to the pervasive powers of desert dust. Had they been used for a washing powder advertisement on television, no viewer would have believed that they could ever become clean again. And mine were slightly worse.

'It couldn't be us,' he insisted, adding after a couple of minutes, 'could it?'

The road ran straight and smooth now until we got the first sight of Ulaanbaatar – the tall buildings of a modern city surrounded by what looked like a refugee camp in the hills. This was the city suburbs – tens of thousands of gers clustered close together in fenced compounds, homes to countryside people drawn to the city like a magnet but hanging on to their rural traditions, some perhaps out of choice, others out of necessity because the supply of permanent homes falls well short of the demand.

Ulaanbaatar means 'red hero', and the city was given the name in 1924 to honour Damdin Sükhbaatar, the country's revolutionary leader who allied himself with the Soviet Union to end Chinese occupation. There's a square in the city centre named after him, with a statue of him astride his horse.

We drove in. No one could put their hand on their heart, take a lie detector test, and say that Ulaanbaatar was beautiful. Teeming, certainly. Noisy, absolutely. Heady, definitely. But a good looker? I'm afraid not.

It's not surprising really. Fifty years ago the population was under 50,000. Now it's more than a million. And still increasing. That's some rate of growth. After the ger encampments on the edge come the ugly Soviet era blocks of flats, the same bare concrete design found wherever the old Communist party functionaries ran the town hall.

We headed towards the centre, where tall modern banks and blocks of offices suggested there was money to be made in Mongolia. Geoff was at the wheel. The main route through the middle of the city is called Peace Avenue, a name which perhaps conjures up an image of a tree-lined boulevard, a relaxing sort of place for an evening stroll, a sort of Asiatic Vienna.

At the risk of perpetuating a cliché, I'm going to say that Geoff's knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel. Which was no mean feat considering the layers of dirt on his hands. Ulaanbaatar teems with trucks, minibuses, motorbikes and cars, both old Ladas and modern off-road vehicles. All their drivers believe that the appropriate response to anything impeding their progress – a red traffic light say, or another vehicle turning at a junction – is to sound their horn very loudly. And keep sounding it until they get moving again. There's a zero tolerance policy towards pedestrians, and don't even think about riding a bicycle. Jeremy Clarkson would feel right at home. Many of the drivers were very friendly – vehicles would pull alongside, the occupants would wind down the window and wave and, if they spoke any English, have a chat and ask us where we were from. Pleasant as these conversational exchanges were, they did seem to irritate other drivers behind us who would turn into the oncoming traffic to get past – a good reason for a lot more tooting.

Bumps and scrapes were commonplace. Occasionally, a traffic policeman would stand at a junction trying to impose some sort of order. And fail.

'How far to the hotel?' croaked Geoff, wide eyes fixed straight ahead, unblinking, the wheel twitching and jerking as he fought to avoid being herded onto the pavement or onto the wrong side of the road.

I looked at the map. 'Not too far. Straight down this road. Maybe a couple of miles.'

'We've done eight thousand miles,' he said. 'It would be a terrible shame to die in the last two.'

I kept up a running commentary of encouragement as we passed landmarks shown on the map: 'That's the Peace and Friendship Building on the left, there's the State Department Store, Russian Embassy just on the right, aaargh, watch out for that motorbike, there's Sükhbaatar Square – Christ, how did you miss that bus? – nice work, there's old Lenin on the left, not far now.'

Then we were there. Left at some lights, across a few lanes of traffic, and we pulled up outside one of the city's few international standard hotels, the Kempinski Khan Palace. We sat for a couple of minutes until our breathing returned to normal, then walked up to the door of the hotel, shedding little puffs of dust with every step, and entered the immaculate marble lobby.

Inside stood the manager, tall, urbane, late thirties, dressed in a lightweight suit, expensively cut, his shoes polished to army standard. Behind him, fear in their eyes as we approached, stood his staff.

He stepped forward and spoke, English with just a hint of a Germanic accent.

'Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to the Kempinski.' Then, without even a flicker of hesitation or reluctance, he shook my hand.

'We've come a long way,' I offered by way of an excuse for our condition. 'We've driven from England. We haven't had a change of clothes for a while.'

He shrugged as if to say it was of no consequence.

'As you can see, gentlemen,' he replied, 'I sometimes favour casual dress. Today is a public holiday in Mongolia. You will notice I am not wearing a tie.'

Postscript

Once in our room we rang home to tell our wives the good news that we had arrived safely and there was no need to dust off the life insurance policies. They were pleased because they were coming out to see us in a few days and had already bought the plane tickets.

The next urgent priority was a shower. Geoff went first, a pattern we had established during the trip. This made good sense. Geoff had the gift of being able to use a bathroom and then emerge leaving it looking untouched. I do not have that ability. When I leave a bathroom it looks like it has been ransacked by a couple of thieves convinced there is loot inside – and then, when they find there isn't, decide to flood the place out of spite.

I stood under the powerful jet of steaming water, soaped and shampooed, and watched a coffee-coloured river curl down the plughole. I stepped out and dried myself on the fluffy white towel. This, I noticed, quickly turned a sort of mucky chestnut. I stepped back into the shower to repeat the process.

Then it was down to the hotel bar to feast on buuz, a steamed mutton dumpling, and the delicious huushuur, a type of flat, fried pasty containing mutton or beef. And to sink a few pints of Chinggis. Chinggis is the more accurate Mongolian version of the name we spell as Genghis – as in Genghis Khan. He was a bit of a non-person in the years under Communist rule lest he spark a nationalist sentiment. But since independence he's made a big comeback and his name now appears on a huge range of products – beer, vodka, nightclubs, even the city's airport has been renamed after him. Chinggis beer we found to be very good. We stayed in the bar a long time.

The next day we had the small chore of clearing out the van. In a corner of the hotel car park was a skip. Geoff deposited an armful of junk: the old curtains he had brought from home to use as a mat when lying under the van; his battered garden spade; the forty-year-old leaky tent and an old shoulder bag, so dirty it was beyond salvage; some squashed water bottles.

I gathered up another load – our many toilet rolls, now filthy and flattened beyond recognition; some sandy teabags and a half-empty jar of peanut butter; our collection of rusty and bent tools; a couple of flattened packets of Marlboro.

I turned to walk to the skip. Inside it, excitedly taking out all the rubbish Geoff had just deposited, was a group of street children, two older ones who looked perhaps ten or twelve, and three younger ones, maybe aged six or eight. They retrieved the curtains, one holding one end, one the other, shook out the worst of the dust and folded them carefully, like expert nurses making up a bed. One of the group disappeared at once with the water bottles. The tent, the spade and the bag were laid out by the side of the skip. Precious objects. The biggest of the gang stood guard lest a rival group hear of their haul and come to relieve them of their booty. I walked over, my arms full of more of our unwanted goods. One of the younger of the boys saw me coming and ran up, arms outstretched, an excited smile on his face as he took the stuff from me as if I were delivering Christmas presents. 'Thank you,' he said.

Ulaanbaatar still has a problem with street children, but it used to be worse. After the collapse of Communism in 1990, the transition years to a market economy were hard for many. In the early 1990s it was estimated there were about six thousand children living full-time on the streets of Ulaanbaatar. It's a harsh environment. In winter the temperatures can fall to as low as minus 40°C . To survive, the children moved underground – where the pipes which carry hot water around the city provided enough warmth for them to stay alive. Since then, the Mongolian government and aid agencies have been taking action to provide shelters and educational facilities and, while an accurate figure is hard to come by, it's now estimated that the number of children living full-time on the street is measured in hundreds, with probably around five thousand out on the streets during the day and returning to shelters or their families at night.

Save the Children ( www.savethechildren.org.uk ) – the charity we had been raising money for – runs a number of projects in Ulaanbaatar.

The next day we met a young couple who had been following our progress with interest. Jonathan, from Oregon, and his French wife, Marielle, run a charity called Edurelief ( www.edurelief.org ) which provides and delivers schoolbooks and educational equipment to remote areas of Mongolia. They'd been doing this good work from the back of a motorbike – but had now raised some money to buy a van. They hoped ours might fit the bill.

But before they could take delivery, the Mongolian bureaucracy stepped in with a bill of its own. An import bill. Our van should have been exempt – but while the arguing had been going on at the border, Go Help ( www.gohelp.org.uk ) had paid a total of $3,600 in import tax, VAT and customs tax, confident that it could be reclaimed. That confidence was misplaced. In Mongolia, they were told, tax was not refundable once it had been paid. I didn't begrudge them the money. Like the rest of the country, the Mongolian government has very little. Health, education, sanitation, a feeding programme for the Gobi bears – there are dozens of worthwhile projects on which a windfall of a few thousand dollars could be spent.

But it put the price of our van out of the reach of Jonathan and Marielle. In Mongolia, serviceable four-wheel drive vehicles are at a premium. And a mining company was keen to buy it for $4,500. We were happy it would be put to good use – mining is the industry upon which the future prosperity of Mongolia depends. And the price paid for the van meant the charity could recover all the tax – and have nearly $1,000 profit which could be donated to Save the Children for their two drop-in centres for vulnerable street-children. This was a welcome addition to the almost £3,000 we had raised for Save the Children before leaving the UK.

We left a few days later to return to the comforts of home. Jonathan and Marielle found another van and returned to the small town in northern Mongolia which is their base. They were in it for the long term, they told us. This was their life's work. As I write, there is a few inches of snow on the ground and the temperature last night fell to minus five. In Ulaanbaatar it was minus 37°C.

Bibliography

1. Beevor, Antony Stalingrad (1999, Penguin Books Ltd)

2. Golding, William Lord of the Flies (1973, Faber & Faber)

3. Chapman Andrews, Roy On the Trail of Ancient Man (1926, G. P. Putnam's Sons)

Read on for an exclusive extract from 'A Short Ride in the Jungle', by Summersdale Publishers.

CHAPTER 1

THE WORLD'S DEADLIEST ROAD

It was early March and a thick grey pall hung over Hanoi. Standing on the first floor balcony of my hotel in the capital's Old Quarter, I hunched my shoulders against the chill morning air. Still on British time, I took a beer from the minibar, lit a cigarette and leant over the concrete balustrade. Below, a buzzing, beeping river of mopeds and taxis flowed down narrow Nguyen Van To Street. Women squatted on the pavement hacking the heads off fish, their hands glistening with silver scales. Others sawed at slabs of raw meat, trickles of crimson blood running into the gutter. On the balcony opposite, two yellow songbirds chirruped in an ornate wooden cage. And in every direction stained buildings leant on each other like a crowd of drunkards, clothed in an unkempt mass of tangled wires, crooked balconies, grimy air conditioning units and half-open shutters. The drab, colourless order of London couldn't have felt further away.

Excitement and anxiety about what lay ahead had kept sleep at bay for the entirety of the flight from England. Now in Hanoi, I was eager to get on with the task at hand. Sleep could wait. In a couple of days' time I would be loading my panniers and setting off down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. For the next seven weeks it would just be me and my two-wheeled partner, a twenty-five-year-old Honda C90. No back up, no mechanics - just the hum of my tiny 90-cc engine.

Impatient to meet my bike, I dialled Digby's number.

'Ants-oi!' said Digby as he answered, suffixing my name with a Vietnamese colloquialism. 'Welcome to Hanoi. Are you ready to meet your wheels?'

'Absolutely, I can't wait. How is she?'

'She's very pretty actually – shockingly pink. The boys have done a great job. I'll pick you up in half an hour and you can come and meet her yourself.'

It had all started almost exactly a year previously. I was supposed to be going to Siberia. Flights had been reserved, drivers booked, permits applied for. But a week before I was due to fly, Fate stuck her oar in. Turning around with a guilty smile on his face, my boss said to me, 'How do you feel about a little trip to Vietnam and Laos instead?'

'Err, great,' I replied hesitantly.

'Wonderful, we'll book you a flight for the end of the week.'

As a freelance television producer I was used to being thrown into things at the last minute, dropping everything to fly to Alaska, Argentina or Aberdeen with barely a moment to pack my toothbrush. It was exciting, unpredictable and at times infuriating. This time though, I could never have foreseen how this abrupt change of plan would affect the next few years of my life.

A month earlier I'd accepted a job producing the popular BBC television series World's Most Dangerous Roads. Since then I'd been having crackly Skype conversations with fixers in Magadan and watching grainy films of hollow-cheeked prisoners digging Siberia's 'Road of Bones' out of the ice. But unexpected changes in the filming schedule meant I needed to get on a plane to Hanoi and recce the Ho Chi Minh Trail instead. Someone else would go to Russia in my place. It was January, half of Britain was snivelling with flu and in Siberia temperatures were plummeting towards minus fifty. I'd be less likely to get frostbite in Southeast Asia, or be forced to eat reindeer's testicles; neither of which was on my bucket list. A trip to the tropics sounded like an extremely good idea.

I'd heard of the Ho Chi Minh Trail and knew it was something to do with the Vietnam War, but beyond that I was ignorant. With only four days until my flight I had to find a local fixer, wade through a pile of research, get a Vietnamese visa (I'd have to get my Lao one in Hanoi), pack my bags and go.

My boyfriend Marley was less than delighted about my latest task.

'So, let me get this straight, you're going to be spending a week riding a motorbike through the jungle with your thighs wrapped around another man? I'm not the jealous type, but…'

'Well, it is my job,' I replied weakly before heading East.

The 'other man' was our programme consultant Digby, the Australian head honcho of a Hanoi-based motorbike tour company, Explore Indochina. Digby was obsessed with both bikes and the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and had been riding all over Vietnam and Laos for the best part of two decades. I'd been told about him by a television acquaintance of mine who had described him as 'aloof… but one of the few people alive today who really knows about the remaining whereabouts of the Trail.' Thirty-eight years on from the war in Southeast Asia only a handful of devotees knew the routes of this once gargantuan transport network. Digby was one of them.

Since we were making a primetime BBC series with two well-known presenters, every inch of the route had to be scrutinised in advance. The BBC had to know it was dangerous enough to make good television, but not so dangerous that we'd kill off the talent. The presenters' agent needed reassurance that the amenities along the route provided a whiff of the luxury her charges were accustomed to.

As Digby was a biker we opted to do the recce on a single Kawasaki 250-cc dirt bike with me riding pillion. I'd never ridden off-road, and now wasn't the time to start.

'I've never ridden the Trail two-up,' Digby had admitted on the phone the day before I left. 'I'm not even sure it's possible. But we'll give it a go. Just be prepared to get a very sore backside.'

The next thing I knew I was pouring myself into the tiny space between Digby and our bundle of luggage, barely room for a Higgs boson between us. For six exhilarating, bottom-numbing days we rode through south-eastern Laos, mapping a route for the programme. Charismatic, mercurial and possessing eagle-like acuity, Digby's knowledge of the Trail was impressive. After almost two decades of studying it, it seemed there was nothing he didn't know.

A week later I flew home to deliver my findings. The BBC was satisfied that we'd ticked all the boxes. The danger element was provided by the remote terrain, the unexploded bombs that littered the jungle, and some hefty rivers to negotiate. Unsurprisingly the presenter's agent was jittery about the luxury quotient – Egyptian cotton, fluffy white towels and daily massages were not going to be in abundance. She wasn't sure how the celebs would cope.

The following month the television circus returned to film the two celebrities bumping down a one-thousand-mile section of the Trail. This time we had four jeeps, two medics, four drivers, two Laotian government officials, a translator, the two presenters and the camera crew – sixteen in total. It was a bumpy ride in more ways than one.

In my two encounters with the Ho Chi Minh Trail, I'd been astounded by how fast such an important piece of history was being swallowed by development. Even in the six weeks between the recce and the filming, new roads had been started and new patches of jungle stripped of their valuable wood. Like a poor man who had just found the key to the treasure chest he was sitting on, Laos was damming its rivers, selling its precious forests and handing out mining licences like raffle tickets. Gold, copper, zinc, bauxite, coal, gypsum, tin, hydropower, teak, yellow balau, keruing, rosewood – the mountains of Laos hid an inestimable wealth. People with first-hand knowledge of the Trail were getting old and dying, and the new generation were more interested in western fashion and smartphones. In a decade all traces of the original Trail could be gone, buried under tarmac and dug up by mining companies.

I wanted to return to the Trail, to explore some of the remaining sections of what was once the world's deadliest road; to know more about the lands it cut through, the people who built it, walked it, bombed it and died on it, before it was lost forever.

This time I wanted to do it without medics, translators, jeeps and drivers. This time I wanted to do it alone.

The Truong Son Strategic Supply Route, better known by its American moniker, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, was one of the greatest feats of military engineering in history. A paragon of ingenuity and bloody determination, at its peak this twelve-thousand-mile transport network spread like a spider's web through Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia; an ever-mutating labyrinth of roads, tracks, communication lines, fuel pipelines, command centres, supply bases and waterways. Constructed in the face of an unprecedented onslaught of modern warfare, forged through inhospitable mountainous terrain, and subjected to the biggest bombing campaign in history, the Trail was the fulcrum of the Second Indochina War.

The Trail was the bastard child of the 1954 Geneva Accords, an international agreement which divided Vietnam into two separate states: the North to Ho Chi Minh's Communist Party, the South to the US backed president, Ngo Dinh Diem. The aim was to turn the South into a model capitalist, non-colonial Southeast Asian country – a buffer against the disturbing swell of Asian communism. Unification elections were set to occur in 1956, but when they never happened Ho resolved to 'liberate' the South and unify the country under a single communist flag. In May 1959 secret instructions were given to Colonel Vo Bam of North Vietnam's Ministry of Defence to organise 'a special military communication line to send supplies to the revolution in the South.' Three weeks later he and 308 boi dois, North Vietnamese soldiers, set off from a village just north of the seventeenth parallel, the dividing line between North and South Vietnam. Carrying bundles of rifles and ammunition and dressed in simple pyjamas and palm leaf hats, they spent more than two months walking south, living by the motto: 'To walk without footprints, to cook without smoke, to speak without sound.' Tracks were crossed using plastic sheets and leaves placed over any incriminating footprints. On 20 August the men and goods arrived at the A Shau valley in South Vietnam. Little did these pioneers know that their two-month mission was the seed of the legendary Ho Chi Minh Trail.

From the beginning life on the Trail was harsh. The boi dois lived on a meagre diet of rice, salt and wild roots. Foot soldiers carried up to their own weight in supplies – military equipment, medicine, a rifle, ammunition, rice, salt and sugar. Sunburnt peasants pushed bicycles loaded with 300 kg of supplies, and horses and elephants lumbered south with rice, big guns and boxes of ammunition.

In 1961 an agreement was made with the Laotian communists to extend the Trail over the Truong Son Mountains into Laos. These high peaks and virgin forests – the natural barrier between Vietnam and Laos – would provide perfect cover for Trail activity. But this wild landscape, as well as being an ally, was also a formidable adversary and the boi dois had to claw and grope their way through the jungle. Later on, once the War was underway, one North Vietnamese soldier counted twenty-four ways in which you could die on the Trail – bombs could vaporise you, tigers and bears attack you, mud, rivers and landslides wash you away, and malaria and dysentery suck the very life from your veins. Hunger, thirst, fear and loneliness were omnipresent.

US intervention in 1965 called for an escalation of the war effort. The following year motorised transport joined the march southwards. Driving at night with little or no lights, bombed relentlessly, hunted by AC-130 Spectre gunships and deprived of food and sleep, life for truck drivers, the 'pilots of the ground,' wasn't that much easier.

The Trail embodied Vietnam's struggle for a unified, independent nation. Without it, there could have been no war against the South, a fact America knew only too well. For eight years they subjected the Trail to a scale of warfare that still seems inconceivable. Vast swathes of Indochina were reduced to a burning, blistered mass of bomb craters, charred corpses, rubble and blackened tree stumps. Steeped in Cold War neuroses, desperate to stop Hanoi feeding the communist insurgency in the South, the US dropped more bombs on neutral Laos than were dropped by all parties in the whole of World War Two. They seeded rain to produce landslides, stripped the jungles with toxic chemicals and wired the forests with electronic listening devices.

But even the might of the most powerful nation on earth could not cut the Trail or weaken Hanoi's resolve. With limitless guile and resilience, the communists fought back. The Vietnamese had been one of the few races to defeat the marauding Mongols on the battlefield. They had broken the French; they weren't going to be beaten by America and the South.

Despite its significance, few westerners have taken a serious interest in the Ho Chi Minh Trail since the war ended, or made more than cursory efforts to explore what is left of this once mighty web. Scores of backpackers ride a tourist-friendly version of the Trail in Vietnam, replete with guides and a T-shirt, but only a smattering of devotees have followed the guts of the Trail into Laos and Cambodia.

Digby started his explorations in 2003, first crossing the border into Laos in late 2004. Riding a Minsk, he was only able to get as far as Sepon, slowly pushing farther south each year. Since then he has returned to the Laotian side of the Trail sixteen times, finding, among other things, a US spy camera, a pilot's radio rescue beacon, the dashboard from a Chinese tank and two AK47s. The only other person to have travelled the Trail as extensively is Don Duvall, an eccentric American biker based in Vientiane who has spent more than a decade exploring the Trail in Laos from the back of his Honda XR400. I'd met Don the previous year when he joined Digby and me for a section of our BBC recce ride.

As far as I knew I would be the first female to travel the Trail solo, and certainly the first person to attempt it on an antiquated pink Cub. My seven-week journey was going to take me several thousand miles through some of the most remote and difficult terrain in Southeast Asia. From Hanoi I would follow the recently constructed Ho Chi Minh Highway south, cross into Laos, clunk on to Cambodia and finally end in Vietnam's southern metropolis of Saigon. Unlike the hundreds of thousands who walked, drove and worked on the Trail in the sixties and seventies, I wouldn't have to deal with a daily deluge of bombs. Neither would I have to push a bicycle loaded with 300 kg of ammunition or survive on roots and 150 g of plain rice a day. But to some degree, many of the other dangers were still very much present. UXO, unexploded ordnance, littered my route south. Cerebral malaria, dengue fever and dysentery were still prevalent. The trees slithered and crawled with deadly vipers, venomous scorpions and spiders bigger than my hand. And although tigers, bears, panthers and clouded leopards were sadly now extremely rare, an attack by one wasn't inconceivable.

All of these things were unlikely, but they were by no means impossible, and thinking about them opened a mental Pandora's box of potential catastrophes. During braver moments I told myself that I was just going for a short ride in the jungle. At other times fear of the impending trip stalked my consciousness. Whatever happened, it was unlikely to be an easy trip.

Exactly on time, Digby's motorbike pulled up outside my hotel. In the intensity of television shoots you get to know people pretty well, and it was good to see him again. Small and dark, his mischievous face was creased from two decades of Asian sun, tens of thousands of miles on motorbikes and a surfeit of booze and laughter. Brought up in Canberra – much to his dismay – and trained as a lawyer, he had fled the constraints of Australian society aged twenty-six and never gone home. Rebellious by nature, Digby never seemed to care what other people thought of him, and had the sort of uproarious laugh which could infect a roomful of curmudgeons. Occasionally, his garrulousness was replaced by unpredictable silences, the source of his supposedly aloof reputation. But his generosity, humour, razor-sharp intellect and passion for bikes and the Trail far outweighed the occasionally taciturn aspects of his personality.

As soon as I had decided to tackle the Trail solo, I'd contacted Digby. Doing it by bike was the only logical solution, and although I'd be travelling alone I wanted someone in Hanoi to source and pimp my wheels for me. Digby's knowledge of the Trail would be vital, and his Vietnamese business partner, Cuong, was the best motorbike mechanic in

Vietnam.

In the last decade riding a motorbike in Vietnam has gained cult status on the Southeast Asian traveller circuit. Not content with dancing till dawn at Full Moon Parties in Koh Pha Ngan and tubing in Vang Vieng, travellers seeking the ultimate thrill now head for Hanoi, saddle up and explore the country on two wheels. Biking has become as synonymous with Vietnam as partying is with Thailand. Almost entirely responsible for this burst in biker tourism are Digby and Cuong. Cuong famously built the three bikes for Top Gear's iconic Vietnam special, which culminated in the Unholy Trinity floating across Halong Bay on a pink Minsk, a Honda C90 and a Vespa. If he could construct three semi-amphibious motorbikes, there was no doubt Cuong could dig up a C90 capable of taking on the Trail. Fortunately for me, they agreed to help.

Explore Indochina's Hanoi warehouse is a biker's fantasy. Lines of beautifully restored vintage Urals and Minsks stretch from wall to wall, serried ranks of the finest Soviet steel. Rarely seen in western Europe, these machines were the work horses of the former USSR, their popularity and usage spreading to Vietnam on the tide of communism. The larger 650-cc Urals, based on a stolen 1940s BMW R71 design, took Stalin's troops to the battlegrounds of the Eastern Front, and have carried Russian farmers ever since. Leviathans among motorcycles, they still roll off the production line of their original factory in Irbit, Siberia.

The Belarusian Minsks, smaller 125-cc beasts, are equally robust. Their service manual states: 'These motorcycles are especially suitable for use in the countryside where there are bad or no roads.' Both are the sort of bikes that conjure visions of speeding across snowy wastes, tweed scarf flying in the Arctic wind. While they are eschewed by most Vietnamese as outdated, unreliable technology, Digby and Cuong have created a cult around them. To see so many of these rare and handsome machines under one roof was quite a sight.

Eager to see my bike, I scanned the warehouse looking for a glint of pink among the rows of gunmetal grey and army green.

'There she is,' said Digby, pointing to the gloom at the back of the building.

Dwarfed between two muscular Urals, a gamine blonde in a sea of burly weightlifters, was a small, perfectly pink Honda Cub. With the classic curved lines of the older models, spotless pink paintwork and a sparkling steel exhaust, she was a truly beautiful specimen.

'Take her for a ride,' suggested Digby. 'She goes like the clappers.'

As I wheeled her out, two of the mechanics stood up from the Ural they were working on to watch. For a nanosecond, as I sat on her and fumbled with the key, I felt like I'd never ridden a bike before.

This could be embarrassing, I thought, trying not to look flustered.

But as her engine purred to life everything felt normal again. Compared to my old C90 at home she sounded like a well-serviced Bugatti, and we flew around the block without incident.

Minutes later Cuong arrived at the warehouse on a beaten-up red Honda moped. Dressed in an immaculate white silk shirt and pressed black trousers, he looked far too dapper to be a motorbike mechanic, albeit the best in the country. Thin and boyish looking, with close cut hair, he appeared younger than his forty-three years. The self-confessed 'country boy' had been the black sheep of his village when he was a teenager, so naughty that none of the families in the area would allow their daughters to marry him. Mad about motorbikes, he and his friends would cut the brakes on their 100-cc Honda Wins and race them to Hanoi and back. Even his eventual wife's parents – 'peasants' as he called them in his accented English – took more than a year of persuasion before they would hand over their daughter. The man in front of me now had come a long way since then.

The master mechanic soon got down to the nitty-gritty.

'Do you know how to change wheels?' he asked.

'No, I'm afraid not,' I replied, slightly sheepishly.

'We had five punctures in a single day on one of our rides, you got to know how to do this,' he said, getting out his tools.

Without tarnishing his shirt, Cuong squatted on the ground and deftly showed me how to take off a wheel and repair a puncture. The whole process took him no more than four minutes. I suspected it might take me a little longer.

Near where we squatted lay the battered, rusted remnants of James May's green Honda C90 from Top Gear. It was a sorrowful sight, never having recovered from its dunking in the salty waters of Halong Bay.

'Why don't you take a part from it for good luck?' suggested Digby.

I was already carrying a small arsenal of lucky talismans: a Buddha icon from Nepal, a piece of Mexican lapis lazuli given to me by a friend, a Bolivian offering to Pachamama, an evil eye and my well-travelled teddy, Wirral. Adding a piece of James May's bike to my collection was an excellent idea. Taking the seat, fairing or major engine parts was impractical so I settled on the key, tying it around my bike's handlebars.

Before leaving the warehouse I asked the boys what they had done to the bike – apart from spraying it pink as I'd requested – which had started life as a 1989 green Honda C50.

'I buy from someone in my village for $350. It look like total crap when we got it,' laughed Cuong. 'I wish I take pictures of it then, you wouldn't believe how much it change. Since then it's had new everything – piston, valves, spokes, chain, cam chain, exhaust, suspension – everything.'

'What about the tyres?' I asked, looking at her smooth city slicks. 'They're not going to be much good on the dirt, is there any way of getting off-road ones to fit her?'

'I look everywhere in Hanoi to find off-road tyres for Honda Cub, but no find,' replied Cuong.

Much of my journey was going to be through mud, sand and mountains; having off-road tyres would be a huge advantage. But if Cuong said he couldn't find any to fit, I believed him.

'During the rainy season the tribal people tie rubber straps around their wheels for extra traction. You could try that if you get really stuck' suggested Digby, noticing my furrowed brow.

I turned to one of the mechanics who had worked on her with Cuong.

'Do you think the Ho Chi Minh Trail is possible on a C90?'

'Yeah, easy,' he replied, looking proudly at his handiwork. 'As long as you remember to put oil in.'

'Look, it's the best bloody Honda C90 on the planet,' added Digby. 'You won't even need a toolkit. Nothing's going to go wrong with this bike. It'll be a breeze.'

I hoped he was right.

ONE STEPPE BEYOND

Across Russia in a VW Camper

Thom Wheeler

ISBN: 978 0 85765 327 7 (ePub), 978 0 85765 369 7 (Mobi)

Travelling across the former Soviet Union is a challenge at the best of times – but in a dilapidated VDub… that’s got to be plain daft... hasn’t it?

A chance job offer at a timber yard in Estonia gives Thom and his old pal Jo a taste for the unknown. So when Uncle Tony asks them to drive to Vladivostok for another job, they can’t think of a good reason why not.

The result is a classic caper across the former Soviet Union in Max, a rusty old VW camper. Knowing little of the language or the geography ahead, they embark on probably the longest commute ever, encountering corrupt officials, film star mechanics and over-friendly gangsters. Far off the tourist trail, they bear witness to the collapse of one nation and the birth of a new one during the free-for-all that was Russia in the nineties.

THE HOTEL ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD

Five Years in Tibet

Alec le Sueur

ISBN: 978 0 85765 836 4 (ePub), 978 0 85765 835 7 (Mobi)

The very aptly named Mr Pong had the kind of breath that could stun at over ten feet… This wasn’t just bad – there was something rotten down there. Something had crawled in and died. Gunter howled with laughter as he saw the look of horror on my face. It was the best entertainment he had seen since he had watched Chef chasing yaks through the kitchens.

Few foreigners are lucky enough to set foot on Tibetan soil, but Alec Le Sueur spent five extraordinary years there, working in the unlikeliest Holiday Inn in the world. Against the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayas unfolds a highly amusing and enlightening account of his experiences. Fly infestations at state banquets, unexpected deliveries of live snakes, a predominance of yaks and everything yak-related, the unbelievable Miss Tibet competition, insurmountable communication problems and a dead guest are just some of the entertainments to be found at the ‘Fawlty Towers’ of Lhasa.

Le Sueur, the only Westerner since the days of Heinrich Harrer to spend so long in Tibet, examines the country’s intriguing cultural background, providing a fascinating insight into a country that was only just opening up to the outside world.

THE ROAD HEADED WEST

A Cycling Adventure Through North America

Leon McCarron

ISBN: 978 1 78372 212 9 (ePub), 978 1 78372 211 2 (Mobi)

It seemed a terrible shame to meet my end in Iowa; I couldn’t imagine any where more disappointing to die. The scenery hadn’t changed for weeks and I was slowly dissolving into stimulation-deprived madness. My current predicament,then – attempting to escape through cornfields from a gun-toting alcohol soaked rancher – was not something I expected.

Terrified at the prospect of a life spent behind a desk, without challenge oradventure, Leon took off to cross America on an overloaded bicycle packed with everything but common sense.Over five months and 6,000 miles, he cycled from New York to Seattle and then on to the Mexican border, facing tornados, swollen river crossings and one hungry black bear along the way. But he also met kind strangers who offered their food,wisdom, hospitality and even the occasional local history lesson, and learned what happens when you take a chance and follow the scent of adventure.

THE GRINGO TRAIL

A Darkly Comic Road Trip Through South America

Mark Mann

ISBN: 978 1 78372 206 8 (ePub), 978 1 78372 205 1 (Mobi)

… there I was in the middle of Bogotá, coked up to my eyeballs, in a hallway holding two machetes, while some drunk Colombians argued about whether or not to blow up a bar with a live hand grenade…

Asia has the hippie trail. South America has the gringo trail. Mark Mann and his girlfriend Melissa set off to explore the ancient monuments, mountains and rainforests of South America. But for their friend Mark, South America meant only one thing: drugs. Sad, funny and shocking, The Gringo Trail is an 'On the Road' for the Lonely Planet generation – a darkly comic road-trip and a revealing journey through South America's turbulent history. Drama and discovery. Culture and cocaine. Fact is stranger than fiction…

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