Day 28: Tabriz (Iran) to Erzurun (Turkey)

After a long and fairly dull motorway drive we reach the first border post and are told to wait in line for our turn which we do… for an hour…

We then move to the actual border building. It’s changed a lot since my last visit. Then there were a couple of small buildings manned by a small number of guards taking care of just a couple of tourists during the three hours I had to spend there. A large modern building manned by at least one hundred people has now replaced them. We are told to go to the border policeman. As we enter the building we are faced with a scene from Dante’s Inferno. There are literally hundreds of people, most of them local fpamilies squatting in the various halls on mats they have brought along for this very purpose. There are many children which the mothers struggle to keep entertained. Most of the women are veiled from their head to their ankles. It seems that they have been waiting there for a long time. As we pass by, we see them preparing tea and even lunch with the gas burners they have brought along. Outside, bus drivers are cooking rice and heating some canned meat on the roadside for all their passengers. They all seem patient even resigned to the long waits which are typical of borders in these countries. It seems time has a different meaning for them. We should consider ourselves lucky to live and travel in the West. It will be a long time before any of see countries will be able to emulate life style.

When it’s my turn, I approach the booth and hand my passport over to the border policeman. There begins a charade which I was not prepared for. He cannot figure out which country has issued my passport (Hungary). Despite the name of the country being translated in a fair number of languages he starts guessing: Germany, France, England then moves on to different continents – Mongolia, Malaysia, Australia, then Costarica, Honduras and Nicaragua. Meanwhile Mattia and the other crews are giggling behind my back and making bets on how many other countries he is going to read out from the computer. Finally he looks at the cover of my passport and proudly announces: Magyarstan! and puts a stamp in my passport. Wow! I thought I would never get out of Iran until the border policeman had run out of countries…and now I realise that I too am a citizen of a “…stan”

We are all cheering as we cross over to the Turkish side, arms raised to the sky. We are finally out. We then complete the Turkish formalities fairly quickly. Not quite Europe but much better than what we went through in the previous countries.

Over 300Km to tonights hotel in Erzurum. This is after this morning’s 300Km… good roads though, far better than when I passed by here last. Pity we cannot really take advantage of them as we hit terminal velocity at no more than 85Kph!

Soon after the border we are offered the majestic view of Mount Ararat, of biblical memory. Despite the very top being hidden by clouds it’s an incredible spectacle. It rises uninterrupted from about 1,500m on the plateau where we are, to over 5,000m, the highest mountain this side of Europe. It’s a dormant volcano which last erupted in the mid 19th century.

Noah’s ark has yet to be found.

We cross a number of villages, similar to those we have left behind near the Iranian border. In the countryside more cows, sheep, goats and shepherds on horseback. Not much else of notice before we arrive other than a ruined but beautiful Ottoman bridge, then, finally, a superb dinner at our hotel in the great Turkish tradition.

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Day 27: Rasht to Tabriz (Iran)

With the first morning light we can see that our hotel is right in front of the beach. Not a great beach day though.  The sky is the colour of lead, it’ s still raining and there is a gale force wind blowing from the Caspian.  We are going to get very wet.  I want my desert back!

We begin the day by fixing our windshield wiper and replacing the inner tube of our flat tire.  We seem to have misplaced our spare tubes so we borrow one from the mechanics team  Working under a canopy makes the job much easier.  In less than half an hour we are done are off.  We are on the motorway leading towards the mountains when suddenly the windshield wiper comes off and flies into the bushes on the side of the road.  Great!  We make a feeble attempt to find it but soon decide to soldier on. The rain has dropped to a light drizzle and the windshield can stay up.

Just before beginning our climb, we pass by some towns and villages where banners (in English) have been placed high up across the streets with slogans such as “move towards a world full of peace and tranquillity”, “Iran is the capital of all kindness”, “war mongers are not after peace” and the cherry on the cake: “Nuclear power for all, nuclear weapon for no one”.  This is the only country which up to now has thrown political slogans in our route.   Why am I not surprised?!

The road up the mountains facing the Caspian Sea is a continuous climb from about -20m (the Caspian is below sea level) to over 2,200m. The trouble with our Chevy is that whist it is capable of keeping an acceptable cruising speed on a level surface, it struggles as soon as there is the lightest incline. In addition it has only three gears.  It doesn’t lack a fourth.  In fact it lacks a third. This means that there is an excessive gap between second and top. While this is not a problem on flat ground, it’s a real struggle uphill. When we rev up in second gear and try third the engine just dies. So we are forced  to stay in second at a maximum of 50Kph with the engine so noisy it feels like a piston might shoot out of the bonnet at any moment.

It starts raining again and as we climb to the top  we end up in the clouds. Visibility is close to nil and it’s also very cold. None of the Iranian cars coming in the opposite direction have their lights on and we often see them at the last moment. As was the case last night we must focus on the only reference points we have, the middle and side white lines which are not always there.  And there is always the odd cow or goat crossing the road at the wrong moment.  Finally, as we finish climbing we are over the clouds and the scenery that opens in front of us is spectacular with fewer trees and some open fields where sheep and goats graze the lush grass. It’s no longer raining and the sun finally begins to shine through the clouds. In fact, as we begin our descent, the clouds quickly disappear, the fields become more arid and all of a sudden we are back in the desert.  It’s also suddenly hotter and we have to quickly stop to strip out of our warmer clothes and waterproofs.  An amazing contrast from only a few kilometres back and our morning wish come true.

The descent in The Valley is very steep and for a while it’s one hairpin after another.  We shift down to second gear but we soon see that it’s not enough. We are pushing hard on the breaks and know they will not last long, certainly not all the way to the bottom. We stop, the only way to switch to first gear and continue at a crawl while the engine revs high and the gearbox whines loudly. We still need to use our breaks but are able not to overheat them.   Half way down we come across a number of crews who have stopped their cars on the side of a broader hairpin. Their breaks have overheated and they are busy throwing water on them to cool them down. They were evidently going to fast or using a higher gear than we were.

As we continue our descent, Mattia hears a hissing sound behind his back.  I turn around and listen too.  It’s our spare tire, placed behind our back, which is deflating apparently from the valve.  That means that we no longer have a ready spare tyre.  We have one spare tube but that will take a while to put on if we have a flat.  Let’s hope for the best.

A little later we run out of fuel short of the fuel station we had marked on the map. We evidently used more fuel than we had expected going up the steep mountain.  No problem, as we have two full jerry-cans. A man selling tiny watermelons across the street comes over to see what we are doing and brings two of his watermelons.  He refuses payment so we offer him in exchange a bagful of our pistachios.  That works and we shake hands and exchange smiles, a sign of a mutual understanding and respect.

As we approach Tabriz on the motorway, our accelerator pedal once again sinks to the bottom and we are forced to turn off the engine and stop in a safe place on the roadside.  This time it’s not the spring that’s come off.  Instead it’s the whole mechanism that is attached on the carburettor. It’s clear that he vibrations sustained during this journey plus our keeping the pedal floored in an effort to get some action from the engine have caused it to snap. After fiddling with it for a few minutes, Mattia figures out that he can snap the mechanism back on the carburettor.  We only have 30Km to the final time control so we hope it will hold until we can show it to the mechanics.  As it’s late we rush back into the car and speed (week sort of) off levying behind on the rear of the car… our road book. On the back of it are two pages with two large signs one of which we must always display at the back of our car when we stop on the side of the road:   OK  (even if we have a mechanical problem) and SOS in case someone is injured.  When we realise it’s too late and we cannot turn around to fetch it as we are on a four lane highway with guard rails in the middle.  I was navigating so it’s my fault.  Though we remember the name of the hotel where the final time control is located we no longer have directions to lead us to it.  In a town of over 600,000 people it can be tricky.  Even our sat-nav is only partially useful as it shows the way-point we have to reach but not the roads that can lead us there.  We consider our options.  The most straightforward one is to find a taxi at the beginning of the town and ask us to lead us there.  As we approach it, however, we notice that, as in many large towns, there can be several ways into it.  We could end up entering the wrong way or circling it endlessly.  With limited time available it’s important we get it right the first time.  Suddenly I see a sign “El Gulli” which I remember seeing in the road book.  We decide to follow it irrespective of whether the road book might have said about it (like, for example, don’t follow signs for El Gulli).  We are again in luck and, shortly after following that sign, we are guided by a traffic police patrol which points us to our hotel which we reach just minutes before our maximum time allowance. Once again, despite mechanical failure, we manage (just) to reach our final destination.

Need to do maintenance and get a new tube. I am in charge of the latter and while Mattia gets out his tools I start looking for inner tubes. Model As have the same tire size and the  owner of one of them has just received some and can spare one.   Soon after, one of the Iranian car club members offers to drive me to a tyre shop.  They have all been willing to lend a hand and many crews owe them a lot;  for example, the owner of the convertible VW got his entire engine replaced in just 24 hours when one of the key bearings failed.  We get into his car and drive off. Suddenly I feel as if I am about to take off in a jet.  I do not know what he has done to his ’70s vintage american car’s engine but it’s a rocket and he wants to make sure I notice.  He drives like a maniac down a four lane road zigzagging between less powerful cars, making sure they notice his presence with either his headlights or his horn. Not sure if he drives like this every day or whether he has taken my tube change as ting an emergency.  He tells me in very broken english that he is a veterinarian.  That does not does not really explain his driving style.  He adds, though, that he loves american cars, particularly muscle cars from the ’60s and ’70s.  He also owns a Camaro and a Blazer, both with major engine and suspension mods.  He tells me that though no new American cars have been imported since the revolution, getting parts is not affected by either import restrictions nor by the embargo.  Anyway, after about 10 minutes of digging my nails into the door handle and the seat upholstery we reach our destination. He explains to the shop owner what I need and while he does that I get the impression that Farsi resembles Turkish.  Not so.  They ARE speaking Turkish!  My “escort” explains to me that most people in Tabriz speak the Azerbaijan version of Turkish rather than Farsi.  In ten minutes we are done and are again into rocket mode back to the hotel.  In the meantime, Mattia has had the throttle mechanism welded back.  He hopes it will hold but is not too confident.

Shortly after we are informed that the reception organised by the Iranian classic car association will be attended by a senior government authority figure, possibly the vice-president.  Again we have political interference in an event that has nothing to do with politics.  The government has been involved in the organisation of this event and wants to make sure its voice is heard. The reports I get from other crews who agreed to go are in line with my expectations and I am glad to have had plenty to do on our car as a polite excuse no to go.

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Day 26: Gorgan to Rasht (Iran)

We leave early fearing the roadblocks we had been warned about because to avoid of the President’s visit. I am thinking of suggesting we should make a roadblock of our own with our vintage cars…

Anyway, all time and passage controls have been eliminated and we are free to make our way in our own time The morning route takes us towards the Caspian sea, the main resort for the wealthy of Teheran. We drive past many cheap Florida look alike high rise developments alternating with secluded beachfront villas.

Soon after reaching the town of Tonekabon, just after midday, it starts raining. It is the first time since the beginning of our rally so we can’t not really complain. We discover, however that our single windshield wiper has stopped working so we lookfor a place to stop to fix it to allow us to put up the roof. As it is almost lunchtime we also look around for a place to eat some Caspian fish. Following the suggestion of a well dressed couple we end in a unpretentious but very good restaurant. As we later discover, it is one of the favourite hangouts of wealthy Teheran families which continue arriving as we are eating a delicious meal of fried Caspian fish and kebab. We are the only foreigners in the restaurant and, clearly, the object of everyone’s attention. Most smile and wave hello and some even have the “audacity” of approaching us to ask us where we were from, what we were doing in town and where we were travelling next. They were all quite surprised when we told them our story and many discretely go out of the restaurant to look at our car. One man sits at our table and asks us how we manage without wine and then goes on to tell us that he has plenty at home which he gets through some special channels. He adds that if we have time he can have also help us get caviar from some people he knows at the local fish market. We thank him but politely decline telling him we have to reach our next destination by that evening. When we set off it has stopped raining. We hope the weather will hold. We have repaired our single windshield wiper but do not know how long it will last. It begins to rain again and soon our wiper ceases to function. Soon it starts pouring. At that point we have no choice but to fold down the windshield and put on visors onto our helmets. At least we manage to see something.

We pass through several resort towns. Traffic is heavy but despite the rain, people are out in the street to cheer us on. At a junction we are stopped by the police. Perhaps we have been driving too fast in town. Not so. We are given flowers as a sign of welcome to their town. We are both amazed. As it gets dark late it is still raining heavily and the driving becomes even more difficult and unpleasant. The road is very dark, the cars coming from the opposite direction keep their high beams always on. This lights up the little droplets of water on my screen and I am completely blinded. I have to slow down considerably and focus on the white line on the side of the road to keep the car in the right direction. When the rain finally diminishes a little I take off my visor preferring some drops in my eyes to being blinded by each car driving in the opposite direction. We also have to drive an extra 40Km as the Organisation has changed the hotel at the last minute to allow us all to stay together in one place.

We are still about 30Km from our final destination when I suddenly feel the car wobble in the rear and the typical sound of a flat tyre. Damn! I move the car slowly to the nearest lamp post and, still under the rain we get to work. Soon a number of local teen agers come over to offer to help. We tell them we are ok but they stay on and use their flashlights to warn the oncoming traffic of our presence.

After about a quarter of an hour we are done and after thanking the boys we set off for the las few kilometres. It was our first real flat since the beginning of the rally and we had a working spare. We are definitely the exception. Others have had anything up to 20 flats or blow-outs, often several in a day, which clearly caused them to have to change tubes, taking much longer than we ever did. Yes, we did break down in the rain but we got back on the road in no time. I think we can consider ourselves lucky.

After finally arriving at the hotel we are assigned a room in a bungalow which we are escorted to and reach after walking with luggage under the rain for… a mile!!! Not a good end of the day. And no wine at dinner… luckily we meet some of the other crews who are cheerful enough to put both of us back in a positive state of mind, John and Nelly Bishop in particular.

One more day in this dump of a country and we are out.

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Day 25: Ashgabad (Turkmenistan) to Gorgan (Iran)

The day I have always felt uneasy about has finally arrived. Today we are crossing border with Iran where we shall stay for three nights. Mattia has never been to Iran before while I have travelled there once before back in 1995 while I was attempting to go around the world on a motorcycle. I had crossed the border from Turkey at Bazargan (where we shall make our exit on this trip) and quickly perceived a sombre atmosphere which never changed or softened during that trip. The country was beautiful, the sights incredible and the people kind and hospitable but always weary to speak to a foreigner. I was very curious about what had changed in the last 15 years.

We set off for the short journey to the border but not before having a last quick tour of Ashgabad’s mad buildings. The road to the border was a 40Km steep climb up a mountain that severely tested our engine’s cooling system. When we finally got to the top it was another case of hurry up and wait. The formalities for co-drivers were simple and straight forward while for drivers and cars it was again quite complicated. In the end though, we managed to finish off the formalities in About One hour. Things were not moving as fast however on the Iranian side. By 1pm we pulled out our gas burner and started preparing lunch and espresso which we offered to all the other crews that were stuck with us between Turkmenistan and Iran. Finally at two we were invited into Iran and into the border building. It was utter chaos there and many crews had been waiting for up to 5 hours. Apparently it was a religious holiday and the border guard were taking it easy. To speed things up, though, the head of the Iranian Classic Car Club got in touch with the Vice-President of Iran who apparently intervened with the border post and finally things started moving. It took us less than an hour to get our passport stamped and back on the road. At the border exit we were welcomed by a number of members of the classic car club who had been waiting for our arrival since the previous night. After a few minutes of handshakes and pictures we set off for our 600Km drive to Gorgan where we did not expect to arrive before midnight.

The first few miles were essentially a continuation of the Turkmenistan landscape until we finally came down from the hills and onto a main road going North towards the Caspian sea. We passed through a town where we stopped to buy some dried fruit and nuts from one of the innumerable shops on the main road.

Traffic there was quite heavy and, much to our surprise, the people along the roads and through a first town cheered and screamed while taking pictures with their camera phones as we drove by.

We moved our watches back by 1 1/2 hours to Iranian time. This meant the sun set quite early and by 5:30 it started getting dark. The enthusiasm of the people did not diminish though. In fact all those who were returning from a long weekend were jockeying for position to drive by our car, asking us where we were from, welcoming us to Iran and continuing to take pictures, blinding us us with their flashes. It felt almost like being at a premiere with us being the movie stars! We were also very surprised about how many women smiled and waved at us. At a certain point we stopped to get petrol and were showered with flowers by a group of young women who had been waiting near a petrol station for the rally cars to refuel. Later kids on motorcycles challenged us to race against them zigzagging around us to capture our attention. The asked us to use our horn and got all frenzied upon hearing the 20s style sound. It was a very very different atmosphere from my first trip to Iran. Sometimes, however, you can get too much of a good thing. Driving at night on an old car is a chore. Having to respond politely and wave at everybody as you cross every town and village only made more tiring. By midnight, when we reached the hotel in Gorgan, we were really exhausted. We were approached by Heidi, one of the senior staff members, with the following: “do you want the bad news or the terrible news?”. As the President of Iran was visiting the town the following day, all rooms in the hotels where we were supposed to stay in had been requisitioned for his staff, body guards etc. In addition we were advised to leave town the next morning as early as possible because otherwise we could be stuck by roadblocks. WELCOME TO IRAN! We had two options: a single star establishment a couple of miles away or to get our tents out and pitch them in the parking lot of this hotel, the only one that had not been requisitioned. We chose the first option as we were too tired to pull out our camping equipment and were in desperate need of a shower. In the end it was not as bad as we feared (better than in Semey) and we also had secure parking for our car. We had stopped for a bite at a truck stop on the way so we immediately turned in for a few (very few) hours’ sleep.

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Day 24: Turkmenabat to Ashgabad (Turkmenistan)

It’s going to be a long day with over 600Km to cover on roads, we hear, are not absolutely fantastic.  We have a relatively late starting time. To give more time to the slower cars the Organization has set the starting times according to the total times achieved to date.  The result is that we are starting in 58th position. The problem is that we’re decently placed in the rankings because we have broken little not because we are fast. Our cruising speed of about 70-80Kph, in fact, is close to our maximum speed of 90Kph.  Most of the cars, even those of our era, can cruise at speeds far higher than ours, some well above 120Kph.  As expected soon after leaving Turkmenabat we are overtaken by the Bentleys, Lagondas, Alvises and even by the 1920 Vauxhall.  Later however we see the Vauxhall on the roadside with its front wheels no longer parallel, evidence of a steering arm problem mechanics are already there so we just wave and move on.

It’s hot and getting hotter.   I consider taking my leather jacket off but like Mattia, decide that it’s probably better to keep it on as a protection from the sun as to keep my body’s humidity inside.  We cross a semi-desert area which soon turns into a fully fledged desert with sand dunes etc.

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Day 23: Samarkand to Turkmenabat (Turkmenistan)

We leave early this morning as there are over 350Km to the border with Turkmenistan.  Breakfast is a rushed affair and we are off.  The drive out of Samarkand shows us a different side of the city, one that has been completely renovated, for the first time since the earthquake of the early 60s and though it may now look a little gentrified, it is nevertheless remarkable.

My sore point today is our inability to visit Buchara, after Samarkand, one of the other key cities on the Silk Route.  Some of the crews have left earlier this morning or last night so as to be able to see it.  Someone has even booked breakfast for all at a local hotel. We have not been able to join because to do so would have obliged us to skip the timed start and lose the gold status.  Leaving on time and making a detour to Buchara would have forced us to miss our arrival time control at the border plus the risk of missing the border all together for the day.  All those who chose to go have had problems with their cars before and have therefore de facto out of the race.  We learned later they had a superb time and breakfast.  Damn!

Passing the border was less problematic than expected, despite the early warning by the organization (it’s called managing expectations) and the innumerable officers Mattia had to go through to get all the required stamps on his papers.

We arrive in Turkmenabat, a fairly anonymous town, at a reasonable time that gives us a little time work on a car.  We later look for a restaurant and find that George and Xavier are already there in a private room away from the deafening karaoke in the main one.  We later  learn that most of the restaurants play loud music. All public places are bugged by the government so this is the only way people can have private conversations without being overheard.

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Days 21-22: Tashkent to Samarkand plus rest day

This is the day I have been longing for since travelling across Asia on a motorcycle in the mid to late 90s. Then I was hoping travel the silk route avoiding Iran (and Afghanistan!) through the various former Soviet republics and then China.  Unfortunately then, China would not allow anyone to travel with one’s own vehicle. I therefore had to chose the southern route that went through Iran and Pakistan and onto India.  I have no regrets about that route which turned out to be memorable but I had been longing to travel to Samarkand since then.  It turned out to be even better than my expectations.  Getting there was fairly uneventful. It was mostly motorway driving and the only excitement came from the drivers who passed us while taking pictures, would then slow down to film us and finally move on.

As soon as we arrived we went across the street to visit the first sights.  Across from our hotel was the Guri Amir and Ak-Saray mausoleums.  The former was remarkable for it’s refined Persian influenced design. Similar in design but on a much grander scale is the Registan, a complex of mosques and madrases that we visited the next day together with Steven Harris (Porsche 356), professor of architecture at Yale. Though he confessed a lack of knowledge of the specific buildings, he offered precious and insightful comments as we made our way through the various buildings. We also climbed up one of the minarets.  It’s normally not allowed but one of the guards (!?!) let the three of us up for $10.  It was an almost scary experience going up at least sixty plus very tall steps in a very narrow space where a normal sized person could just fit.  Once you reached the top you stuck up your head through the roof.  The view from above was truly spectacular.  I came back down walking backwards, as if on a ladder.  Missing one step going forward would have meant rolling and bouncing against the wall all the way down to the bottom.

Once back down we visited several of the tiny shops located within the walls of the Registan.  There were some very elegant scarves, hats and bags.   For the first time since the beginning of the rally we actually find stuff worth buying!

After lunch we split up. Mattia and I continued to the enormous Bibi-Khanim mosque, the local bazaar and then on to the Shah-I-Zinda (tomb of the living king). It is a narrow avenue of blue tiled mausoleums one of which is said to contain the remains of a cousin of the prophet Mohammed who is believed to have brought Islam to this area in the 7th century.

Later in the afternoon we joined a number of the crews to celebrate Catriona Rings’ birthday (co-driver of Alistair Caldwell on Alfa Romeo 6C) at a café located within a recently developed pedestrian zone/park/shopping centre near the mosque and the Bazaar.  Lots of appetisers, drink and great camaraderie.

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Day 20: Shimkent to Tashkent

We are pleased to report that today, for the first time in this rally, we have little to report in terms of mechanical failures and problems.  Well, one of our spot lights is loose and to save time we have taken it off.  Also our horn does not work very well but that’s about it.

As we are still in the race, we try to stick to the proper schedule and leave punctually at 7:34. Many who are not, however, leave much earlier.  Tim Scott, the sole (masochist) motorcyclist whose contraption has spent more time on trucks than on asphalt, is an example.  Despite arriving at 4:30am, had a shower and was back on the road to reach the border asap.  Simon and Rupert on their recently fixed Model A did the same as did a number of others. 

Our drive to the border is fairly straight and uneventful. Once we arrive, however,  we are assaulted by a horde of money changers who scramble to offer us the best rate.  We finally negotiate 1600 local dingalings per dollar, about the same as the official rate.  Later we find out we could have received at least 2000 which is the black market rate.  The other curious thing is that the largest banknote is 1000 dingalings.  That means that when we change just two hundred dollars we receive a ton of paper money, 360 banknotes to be exact (later 400 with the better rate).  Once we complete the formalities (about 2h as usual) which includes a detailed currency declaration, we move swiftly towards Tashkent.  The scenery over the border could not be more different from Kazakhstan.  Instead of flat empty plains, many cultivated fields.  Many of them are cotton and are being harvested as we drive along. 

Driving manners are marginally worse than in Kazakhstan with people u-turning on major highways with only a modest concern for the oncoming vehicles.  This seems a very protectionist country.  An evident sign of this is the lack of any imported vehicles whether new or used.  The last ones are old Ladas, Volgas and Moskwich.  All the others are Korean Chevrolets.  The most popular one is the Matiz which is produced locally.  About one out of every two cars is a Matiz.  Petrol also seems to be a problem here.  Octane levels are down to 80 and even that is not always easy to find. Uzbekistan must be in  economic trouble if they can’t supply it on a regular basis and their currency is so messed up.  We tank up with it anyway and move on without any hint of trouble from the engine. 

On the other hand what really impresses us is the incredible level of cleanliness all around.  There is not one piece of rubbish anywhere.  Not on the road, not in front of the homes, nowhere.  Even better than Kazakhstan.  We reach Tashkent just in time for a late lunch which we have in a superb restaurant across the street from our hotel.  We are the only customers there and, at first, are a little e suspicious. We are invited to sit in an indoor patio and, as the menu is only in Uzbeck we let the pretty waitress chose for us. We end up with a delicious tomato salad, some samsa, a puff pastry containing some beef. And lamb and beef kebabs. Superb and light. P

Ready for an afternoon excursion we head for the Chorsu Bazaar.  We grab a taxi (also a Matiz)  which takes us through the city’s very wide avenues. It turns out to be one of the largest produce markets we have ever seen.  A whole section is dedicated to meat which is butchered in front of our eyes on huge wood blocks which must have been in use for decades.  Then vegetables, fruit, dried fruit and nuts, spices, bread, shaped like a shallow bowl, and sweets of which we buy different varieties to try with the local green tea.  Mattia bought a colourful Uzbek hat (trying to catch up with Hugo and some of the other English crews) and from then on I kept of losing him as with his beard he blended perfectly in the crowd.

Dinner is at Caravan, a restaurant recommended by a newly made acquaintance of Mattia, together with a number of the crews.  Great company with some of the crews but the food turns out to be a disappointment compared to the meal earlier in the day.  We try Uzbek wine too which we first smell and discover it has an aroma which is a cross between glue and turpentine.  We don’t go as far as tasting it…

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Day 19: Almaty to Shymkent

This morning Mattia woke up saying “I had a dream!” … that he needed to change the “T” joint connecting the mechanical and electric pumps to the fuel line leading to the carburetors.  I guess these are sometimes the kind of dreams one has when doing these rallies!   Since last night, he had been mulling over the joint that had been fabricated and installed by the local mechanics because the car had been sputtering and stopping on the way to the hotel.  We had checked and changed the points the previous evening and the car seemed to work fine.  Nevertheless as he was given a new T-joint by one of the mechanics he thought of installing it before breakfasts.  So he did.

We leave punctually at 6:34 (!) but soon after we realise that the car is not running smoothly. It sputters and backfires and then finally stops. This happens several times before we give up and stop by the side of the road. We’ve only done 7Km. We dismantle the carburetor bowl and discover some rubber debris in it, possibly caused by the careless installation of the local mechanics. Maybe that’s what been preventing the fuel from flowing smoothly. We are not entirely convinced, however fear having to dismantle the carb jet on our own.  Sure enough after just a few hundred metres we stop again. Damn!  We call Simon who has just passed us.  He cannot turn back and suggests ringing Peter Banham who is at the back. A Kazakh mechanic stops his van and offers to help.  We tell him we are waiting for our own support but he hangs around and offers us some of his tools which facilitate our work.. It’s amazing how kind and helpful people try to be with foreigners. It must be part of a culture of hospitality of this people.  Peter arrives a few minutes later and after a few futile attempts on the electrics – distributor, coil – he attacks the carburetor. Sure enough he discovers a some rubber debris in one of the jets, probably the result of some of the stuff done in the workshop yesterday. Once more confirming that we shouldn’t let anyone put hands on our car. We put everything back and  run off. We are an hour and a half late on our schedule. It will not be easy to catch up. Another exciting start to our day!

Leaving Almaty at 8 is a lot harder than an hour and a half before.  Better than the way into town which has turned into a parking lot.  The road is excellent both the double carriageway and the single that follows.  We are trying to catch up and have calculated that if we stay above 70Kph we should be able to reach the final time control without incurring penalties.  We pass through a few towns, probably at a speed higher than allowed and on a couple of occasions policemen whistle and make signs for us to stop. We don’t and wave back in as friendly way as possible smiling all along!   When we stop to refill our tank, Peter Banham, who was tailing us, stops to tell us that they were stopped in our place for speeding and fined accordingly!  He didn’t have enough cash to pay the fine but he managed to negotiate a discount in exchange for not demanding a receipt…obviously we promptly reimbursed him. Beware of tailing the “mad Italian motorists” when they are running late!

The rest of the day went smoothly, that is if we leave out a 17Km stretch of road that seemed to have been recently air-bombed given its huge craters. They were larger even than anything we had seen in Mongolia.  Only survival strategy was to advance at a crawling pace swinging the car from side to side to minimise the “strikes”. Brought back fond memories of Mongolia after so much asphalt!

By the evening we managed to catch up some of the slower cars and some like the now famous blue Model A belonging to Rupert and Simon and Nigel and Hugo’s Lagonda still marred by mechanical problems. They both managed, however, to reach our hotel in Shimkent.

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Days 17-18: Almaty (Kazakhstan) – Rest days

Mariyam’s advice for Almaty was excellent.  Unfortunately, due to the heavy work load for the car we only got to follow it in a limited way.  We took the car to the local Nissan dealer who had emptied his workshop to allow as many of us to use it to do work on our car.  He  put his mechanics at our disposal to help us with certain complex issues or speed up the work.  We divided our roles, Mattia staying with the car while I went to look for supplies (parts, oil, etc.).

I hitched a ride with Nigel Gambier in his blue Lagonda to Red Scorpion, another mechanic which had a supplies shop.  It was a great ride during which he told me how this car had been in his family since his grandfather bought it new for his grandmother back in 1934.  It’s his only classic car and he has driven it on a previous P2P as well as in several other long distance rallies around the world.  He also uses it to take his family around on short trips.

In the garage Mattia carried out a full service and regular maintenance. Unfortunately what was supposed to be a half day exercise stretched over almost two days.  The starter motor mysteriously stopped working only to magically start working again once it was dismantled. Go figure! As work was progressing slowly I asked mechanic Bob Macharov to join Mattia at the workshop to speed things up and allow him some rest.

I found and purchased the best oil money could buy and to complete my other errands I then hired a driver to take me around.  He was of Turkish origin and I managed to exchange a few words with him in his language as well as in his limited English.  He took me to a large market.  I went through a maze of narrow alleys where hundreds of shops sold all sorts of car supplies, tools, consumables, etc.  I then found a glass cutting shop who had some thick Plexiglas.  I asked him whether he could fabricate a couple of aero-screens in case the windshield, which was being welded once again, were to collapse for the third time).  I showed him a picture of one which I had taken of one of the rally cars and gave him some indicative measurements.  He told me to come back in an hour. I took the opportunity to look for somewhere to have lunch and with help of my Turkish driver managed to order some delicious food. During lunch he told me how his parents had been deported by Stalin to Kazakhstan, how certain things were better now that the Soviets had left (the obvious ones – freedom, choice, etc) but how certain others had been better under the Russians – jobs, simpler life, less competition.  I went back to the glass shop to find they had completely bungled the job and had produced one screen half the size I had requested.  I looked around the shop and found that a mirror they had just cut had the shape and width that I requested.  I placed it over the Plexiglas and told them to cut it around it’s semi-circled top and indicated the maximum length. This time they got it and in 15 minutes it was ready.

Back at the hotel I discovered that car 22, a 1929 Chevrolet roadster not very different from ours, had caught fire on the way to Almaty and was now a heap of ashes.  The crew, David Clements and Russel Stevenson, who had been our yurt-mates, were now looking for alternative transportation to get them to Paris.  We later learned that they did find a modern something and spent their entire time in Almaty getting the right export and registration papers to allow them to continue their trip.  We understand this is the third example of crews having to do so.  Others, like David Rayner in his BMW have simply walked away.

The rest of the time was spent… well actually resting a little, something we had not done in several days.  We checked out a couple of restaurants in the evenings with some of our newly made friends.  Of these, Alashà, stood out for great food, live musical entertainment and belly dancing. We felt that both the local rhythms and belly dancing were far superior to anything that we had seen elsewhere.   Some of the locals approached us to find out more about our rally.  They had some great laughs at our adventures, probably thinking we were all nuts.  Some of them turned out to be local entertainment celebrities and took turns to sing to everyone’s enjoyment.   They then asked all of us to join them in the dancing to celebrate someone’s birthday.

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