June, Sheffield

“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