Sure The North Pole is abstract and distant but you know where it is and also that you can’t go there any more you can the moon. But Ulaanbaatar is just 10,000 kilometers away and if you felt a little restless on your way home from the supermarket, your old family car tired of the same old route and desperate for adventure, there’s probably a lot less than you think stopping you drive there yourself. That, for me, is what the Mongol Rally is about and what my book is about.

And people love the idea – the romance and the accessibility of it. I visited my former Primary School before I left to talk about the trip I was planning, the children responded with reams of drawings, which all possessed the same otherworldly quality; they didn’t know where I was heading either. All I had been able to tell them was East, deserts and mountains.

The book is true to that dream and it brings back for you some of the magic of its origins, the moments of discovery and also the trials and the disapointments too. It has received excellent reviews from readers, male and female aged 15-77. I also am most proud to say it has also proved of great interest to reluctant readers, which I myself once was. Please enjoy the preview, your comments are of interest.

Rising/Falling – Always  Hoping -can be bought online at Amazon.co.uk, - ordered by your local bookshop  for just £8.74 (the price the team’s car was auctioned for at the end of the rally) Just note the ISBN:0956196608 - or bought direct from the suppliers @ £10.99 (£8.74 plus £2.25 p&p) Address Cheques to Craig Chamberlain, Glovers Cottage, Lazonby, Penrith, CA10 1AJ

“Hi Jonno, are you looking for someone to drive to
Mongolia with?”

Martyn Johnston, aka Jonno, had been planning for, or more accurately looking forward to taking part in, The Mongol Rally for over a year. An epic journey, the Rally crosses the little seen deserts and ragged mountains of Central Asia. Jonno was originally set to go with Andy, his school friend and seasoned travel partner. However, due to commitments to his band, ‘The Touch’, Andy had to pull out with just four months to go.

“Yer man.”

Jonno had been appealing for a replacement co-driver through the Yorkshire Post, The Sheffield Star and BBC Radio Sheffield. Expecting a reply from someone he had never met, Jonno was quite surprised when I piped up and volunteered.

I knew Jonno quite well. A native Bradfordian, proud of his textile heritage you could be sure to find him wearing at least one item of tweed or knitwear, often of the ‘dirty green’ or ‘mucky orange’ variety he so loved. He also wore a distinctive ginger leprechaun beard which made him hard to miss and easy to remember.  We were neighbours on Barber Road and had become close friends as ‘freshers’ at the University of Sheffield where we both diligently studied architecture. We shared a healthy disrespect for standard practice, weakness of spirit and witlessness. And there were more than enough sources of annoyance for us to share in the architecture studio.

Jonno had already registered our team name, ‘Ey Up Genghis’, which was a little too Yorkshire for my liking. I tended to prefer ‘Genghis Khan…eh?’ but it was not a sticking point and I liked the sentiment.

Time was already tight when I got involved and I did not have long to get myself sorted. I immediately dropped plans of my own to go trekking in the mountains of Ladakh, in northern India, and started pulling out my hair organising for the new expedition. We had a rapidly approaching deadline for the visas and my passport was down to its last month. The Identity and Passport Service was more than happy to provide me with a same-day passport for slightly less than double the standard price at any of their several nationwide outlets.

We settled on Durham passport office as my parents were happy to revisit the city where they had met as students over thirty years earlier. The river was calming and the cathedral spectacular yet the town lacked vitality. Crossing the bridge into the cobbled old town, we passed a long haired youth strumming mildly at a guitar, droning on about nothing in particular. This quaint scene was shattered when a forward labouring man suggested that perhaps the budding musician should get a job, to which he lamely replied, “I can’t, I’m a student.” It made me proud of my generation, the passion and dignity with which he defended himself could not fail to move.
With my new passport in hand it was time to assault the pile of visa applications. Filling in the myriad forms from the various consulates was a nightmare, Kazakhstan’s being widely regarded as the most pedantic in the world.

We managed to bully and coax each other through. A few packets of biscuits later and, with the sun threatening to rise, we finally signed the last form.  In addition to our bureaucratic toils, we had to get a medley of injections and sort out our vehicle. The Rally limits competitors to a vehicle with an engine of one litre cubic capacity or less. Jeff, a true Sheffield character, on hearing Jonno’s radio appeal for both a partner and car, had promised us our wheels. Jeff had pledged his old family car, a Citroen AX, and after spending weeks doing it up he took it round to his mates to get it M.O.T.’d. Overnight someone stole the car for a joyride and not being insured we were left without a vehicle with just two months of exams before we departed.

Jonno soon found a Citroen 2CV on ebay and we were back in business. With a new chassis and recent engine rebuild it was the perfect car. By some weird stroke of fate its M.O.T. expired on the 21st July, the very day the car was to leave British territory and begin its swan song journey to the distant steppe of Outer Mongolia.

We quickly got very comfortable with our new car and decided to name her Amélie. On one outing we took her to show the pupils of my former school, ‘Lazonby C of E Primary School’. We had a pleasant afternoon talking the students through where we were planning to drive. The fact that we had very little idea ourselves did not get in the way and we got some excellent illustrations from the group. Stories of camels, distant mountains and people shooting deadly arrows from galloping horses seemed to get the youngsters’ imaginations going. It felt good to be giving the students something a bit out of the ordinary to be thinking about. Having had a continually mixed time throughout my education I remember fondly and clearly the odd occasion when someone offered something personal to break the monotony. I hope that Jonno and I may be remembered at the school in a similar way. I am certainly very glad of the photographs, drawings and memories I got from the day.

We got insurance organised and were putting our documents together when we realised that we did not have our V5 registration document (an essential document proving ownership of a vehicle and its key components). The problem began when we neglected to take the slip from the bottom of the last registered keepers’ V5. The DVLA believed the previous owners were still in possession of our car. It would probably be impossible to leave the EU without the V5 registration document and it would definitely be impossible to import the car into Mongolia without it.  To make matters worse the DVLA had not been properly notified about our new chassis and we needed the record of our chassis number to be updated before a V5 could be issued.

Everyone at the DVLA assured us they could not possibly get things sorted in less than five months. We only had a week to go by this stage. We were advised that a temporary V5, despite being officially inadequate, would do for our purposes and would be a lot faster and easier to get hold of. But not that easy; we were still required to register our new chassis, a process that normally has a six week waiting list. However, Jonno’s stubbornness was to pull us through, and not for the last time.

Jonno had negotiated a plan with someone at the DVLA. We would jump the queue and get the chassis registered the following week, and then we could apply for our V5. The plan relied on a number of operations working smoothly and on schedule but just when we could have really done without it there was going to be a postal strike. I was given a pack of printout directions from Route Planner and told to head for Doncaster to get our chassis registered. I hate Route Planner and soon lost track of the directions.

Given that this will be read by friends and family, I think it is a good opportunity to insist you never, ever, give me Route Planner directions. They are simply a copout and a nuisance. Show me a map; nothing but a map makes any sense. Failing that, gesture in the general direction with an extended finger, indicate distance as you would cast a fly and place your faith in God, or luck, but never in Route Planner.

I decided to bear north towards Leeds. It was nearly a complete disaster. I was hammering along a clearway, on the phone to Jonno trying to get instructions on how to get back on track, when the car started lurching. I was out of fuel. I dipped my clutch and by remarkable coincidence up came the first petrol station in miles. I had just enough momentum to get onto the forecourt before stalling with a shudder. I can still barely believe my luck.
It was after I looked at a map in the shop that I realised how much of a mistake I had made. I was now just outside Leeds, about an hour and a half into my journey and Doncaster should only have been half an hour away from my starting point. I just hoped Ulaanbaatar was better signposted.

By the time I got to Doncaster it was way past our appointed time and we had missed our slot. I had camped out the previous night and still had my equipment in the car. I emotionally reassured Jonno that I would camp out on the premises for as long as it took to get the car checked. As it turned out, Simon, the man Jonno had got in contact with, could not have been more understanding. He was quick at his job and was confident he would get through the work fast enough to fit it in. Eventually he gave up his dinner break for us.

Simon was particularly interested in our story as he had worked in Kazakhstan, maintaining technologically advanced farm equipment that the Kazakhs had neither the experience nor cultural maturity to possess. He explained that it had been a constant and futile battle to keep things working. In a nation of proud metalworkers and bodgers the Kazakhs refused to let him do his job properly, withholding parts or insisting on fabricating parts from unsuitable materials. Admittedly, financial reasons may have been a factor but several hundred thousand dollars worth of high tech western equipment was quickly destroyed and left to rot in the sand due to a culture and climate suitable only for the crude but indestructible Soviet machinery.

With his best wishes Simon sent me back to Sheffield with our first crucial hurdle negotiated. Amélie had passed the V5 inspection and the chassis number had been updated. The document Simon gave us would have to be delivered to another contact at the DVLA and, hopefully, just maybe, they would be able to return us a temporary V5 within the week.

Rising/Falling – Always Hoping -can be bought online at Amazon.co.uk, - ordered by your local bookshop for just £8.74 (the price the team’s car was auctioned for at the end of the rally) Just note the ISBN:0956196608 - or bought direct from the suppliers @ £10.99 (£8.74 plus £2.25 p&p) Address Cheques to Craig Chamberlain, Glovers Cottage, Lazonby, Penrith, CA10 1AJ

“John-O? Where does the O come from? John-O’Neil? John-O be-good?”

Matt was a bit of a wind up merchant and a fellow 2CV owner. On this occasion he was picking at the absurdity of Martyn’s nickname, ‘Jonno’. If it was not the 2CV that had first triggered Matt’s irregular orbit with its infectious eccentricity it had certainly done nothing to cramp his style. It is easy to imagine him as a hero from a Roald Dahl novel. Oft donning a sturdy pair of leather boots, some oily cords and an oversized woolly jumper, his long blonde hair would be swept back into a ponytail and his forehead and nose fingered black with oil as he brushed his fringe aside. Matt also had an inventive taste in sandwiches; one memorable example contained stuffing, baked beans and tuna.

I had met him while racing across town to catch a shop before closing time. I’d shot past him as he was pulling out of a junction, roof down with bits of fire wood poking out skyward. He pulled out sharply behind me and the characteristic antenna-like lights blinked playfully at me through my rear view mirror. Torn between getting to the shop on time and being sociable I drove on. He followed me through a few traffic lights and a junction before I gave in and mounted the nearest curb. I held out my hand and introduced myself. We quickly got onto my participation in The Mongol Rally at which point he confidently stated,

“You couldn’t have chosen a better car. My 2CV has just come back from Africa. My girlfriend and I slept on a mattress in the back for six months and crossed the Sahara in it twice. They’re brilliant off road. Because of the articulated suspension system they’re really smooth. You can take them anywhere.”

Matt was a zealous preacher who could not extol the virtues of the exemplary post-war minimalist design highly enough. We agreed to meet again in a few days to go over the car and to become educated in the peculiarities of the car’s design.

We must thank Matt as much for his tips on maintenance as for his introduction to the bizarre world of the Citroen 2CV enthusiast. He showed us how to love the car as a lifestyle choice – a manifestation of a strange yet marvellously elegant logic. The car is simply not like other cars. It has a motorbike engine with cylinders that run horizontally not vertically. The wheels are mounted on gigantic anthropomorphic arms – essential to the novel suspension system. The windscreen wipers were originally powered by the speedometer cable and the gear shifter, a horizontal piston mounted where you would expect to find the radio, takes at least a couple of days to get used to.

Not only is the experience of driving and the mechanics quite unlike that of an ordinary car, there is something more than just novelty at play. Most of the body work is actually flat, the windscreen, the windows, the doors and the boot. Yet the pressed wings, bonnet and fabric roof give the lingering impression of a voluptuous and curvy car. The never ending oddness of this little French motor may have originated in the vehicle’s design brief. It specified that the car must accommodate a peasant driving while wearing clogs and a hat and was to be able to transport a basket of eggs across the furrows of a ploughed field without breaking a single shell. The humble French farmer should have inspired more cars.

Matt was really to prove his worth when, with just a day to go, our electrics burnt out. On a particularly wet and stormy evening the window wipers had become jammed, the motor overheated and the cables set on fire. The electrical system came into the cab through the bulkhead in a bundle. This bundle had melted together. Mercifully the ignition still worked but many of the wires lay bare and it was in real danger of shorting again. We also had no lights or dashboard controls.

“No problem,” said Matt, “The electrics in a Citroen 2CV are simple really. I could write you the whole wiring system out on a postcard.”

Thankfully his confidence proved to be reasonably well-founded. We started the electrical work rather late, having spent the morning changing the engine and gear oils and replacing the points. Then Matt and I stripped all of the systems out and replaced them in order of priority; firstly the ignition, then the headlights, brake lights and reversing lights. Things were going well so we fitted a novelty horn and our sound system while Jonno fitted a carpet to dampen noise and made a platform in the boot for his bed and our accessories. The whole street came out to get involved as it was glorious and sunny. Bea, Matt’s next-door neighbour, sat on the sofa-like rear seat which we had removed from the car and left in the street. Her children, Robin and Josiah, played with oily nuts and spanners while Bea soaked up the sun.

We also had a couple of electrical engineers looking suspiciously at our Heath Robinson handy work. Zaff, a high spirited Syrian of substantial bearing (not to be confused with Matt’s girlfriend Saf) bellowed critical comments about the rigour of the joints, their capacity to carry high amps or our junkshop tools. Despite appearances it was all in good humour and he also gave us a taste of Turkish coffee and told us stories of running over German tourists on holiday in Crete. Then he showed us round his garden.

Zaff liked collecting things; strong, useful things like Saabs, fire doors and welding equipment. Conveniently, these interests worked well together. For example, his three Saabs were packed, immovable onto his modest drive. They were all full, and I mean completely full, of useful things. From the foot well to the roof, the boots and the parcel shelves, all were totally jam packed with tools and paraphernalia including four different types of welder, five wire brushes, a number of stuffed toys and several metres of several varieties of pipe – a length of which we used to shield our new electrics.

Ingeniously, a number of hoarded fire doors had been combined to create a huge garden shed cum workshop, although it had become so full of stuff it was barely useable and impossible to find anything. But Zaff was busy making more storage space. He had moved, by hand, several tonnes of earth from the bottom of the slope in his garden to the top. Having built up a retaining wall, to keep the soil piled at the back of the garden, he was now building a steel structure in front. The structure was to support an extension to his new raised, flat garden and give him vast amounts of storage space underneath. We were recruited to help move some huge sheets of shipping steel. They were sitting on a frame about four feet up and were all about four foot square. It took both me and Jonno to lift one tentatively while Zaff pushed it into place; he had lifted them all up himself. The whole project had only taken a few weeks.

When Jonno and I returned from our tour, a little bewildered, Matt had reached the end of his tether. Problems had developed when he tried to install the blinking system for the indicators and hazard warning lights. After a very long and challenging day we resigned ourselves to setting off to London and into the unknown without any indicators.

We went back to our respective homes and packed. Unsettled by the last minute set backs we had a difficult sleep. The following day we packed as early as we could and set off to Jonno’s Aunt’s house in Essex where we would base ourselves for an early start for London the following day. In true Mongol Rally style we managed to get there pretty late as we had more to sort before leaving than we thought. After a few glasses of wine and a very welcome meal we were ready for bed.

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Rising/Falling – Always Hoping -can be bought online at Amazon.co.uk, - ordered by your local bookshop for just £8.74 (the price the team’s car was auctioned for at the end of the rally) Just note the ISBN:0956196608 - or bought direct from the suppliers @ £10.99 (£8.74 plus £2.25 p&p) Address Cheques to Craig Chamberlain, Glovers Cottage, Lazonby, Penrith, CA10 1AJ

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