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

A fine bacon sandwich awaited us when we woke.  Jonno’s Aunt wanted to see us well set and his uncle got up to see us off.  It took a while to get to London.  Somewhere in the suburbs we spotted our first fellow Rally team.  They were a Ford Fiesta Trio who, we were surprised to note, were carrying – in addition to their provisions for the four week transcontinental drive – both a trampoline and monkey-bike.

We soon split up to take our own separate routes to Hyde Park.  As destiny would have it we ended up arriving at the same time and parked together near the front of the queue which was already a kilometre long.  What a circus it was.  Our entrance should have been spectacular, coming as we  did through a cycle gate, to the left of the traffic bollards, under a tree and onto the road with a bump. However Dan, the man in charge, was not at all impressed.  With the stiffest telling off I’ve received in years we proceeded, a little embarrassed, and joined the crowd which was excitedly discussing routes and pre-race disasters, modifications, rocket boosters and oil slick devices.  Rumour had it that Jack Osborne was there with a huge support vehicle but we were busy talking to the brave teams setting off in original Minis, Trabants, ice-cream vans and Hackney cabs.

We also caught up again with Neil and Jan, self-confessed ‘Rally Bores’.  It was an encounter with this eccentric couple that had sparked Jonno and Andy to enter the Rally in the first place.  Neil and Jan were veterans of The Mongol Rally, twice attempting it in a Citroen 2CV and succeeding the second time.  They were desperate to do the Rally again and avidly followed its developments, twice meeting up with us to share photographs, tell us stories and give us advice.

It was great to see them strolling lopsidedly along.  Both suited up in their squires’ outfits (top hats and tails), their startling difference in size was at once dramatic and endearing.  A couple of friends who were beginning their own substantial bicycle adventure around the UK came to see us off too.  My parents had also come down from Cumbria and bundled some supplies and homemade jam into the car.  My mother had stitched us up a Mongolian flag which we strapped to the car where it flapped lazily in the wind as we revved our engine in the pre-race frenzy.

It was nearly too much.  Our lack of preparation and the scale of the undertaking began to sink in.  We were to begin our journey with no hazard warning lights and no indicators. On a more personal note, I only had the underpants I was wearing and not even a pair of socks.  More immediately we had no plan of how to get from Calais to Kazakhstan and little more idea how to get across London and down to Calais.

With horns blaring and flags waving we pulled out into London proper.  It was chaotic and I did not know the first thing about navigating our way out of London.  As much by pure chance as anything else, we made it to Trafalgar Square, did a lap with a motley, strung out collection of ralliers and drove blindly off into the unknown. We soon got split up although we were always either flying past one team or another or being overtaken until we got to Calais.

At Calais, we decided to head for Belgium.  The home of the EU seemed as good a place as any.  In Belgium, they celebrate a national holiday on the 21st July.  There was a laser show in Brussels and there would be parties in all the towns.  We headed to Bruges. At this point I would like to tackle a myth.  Europeans do get drunk on such occasions.  It appeared that every self-respecting man, woman, child and dog was drunk.  When we got to Bruges, the main square was full of families dancing and singing along to a live band.  It was too late to find the youth hostel we had been recommended so we chose to drive out of town for the first of many roadside sleeps.

By the following night, the 22nd, we were just outside our expected destination, Prague.  In the morning, we encountered huge tail-backs caused by a terrible motor crash on the ring road in Prague.  In order to save fuel, avoid the risk of overheating and to provide entertainment for hundreds of Czechs also caught in the queue, we cut the engine and pushed the car some miles down the middle of a triple lane clearway that ran parallel to the river.  We also had a pleasant lunch break in a small provincial town.

While Jonno read or slept I snuck off and bought a number of cassettes for the car from a man who appeared to be the only punk in the town.  His shop was really beautiful and I had the first feeling of the trip of being in a truly foreign land.  The wonderful array of comics, T-shirts and CDs all spoke a strange language.  The summer sun was hot and as dizzying as homemade wine.  I enjoyed a moment with the owner, despite our inability to communicate, before we continued with our respective days.  Jonno decided that one of the songs on the new cassette would be the theme to the trip but I am convinced he chose a different song every time.  It was fun either way and we were soon racing along, top down, singing along with gusto and conviction to  the lyrics entirely beyond our comprehension.

By evening we were lost again.  Diversions on the road out of the Czech Republic put us off track.  A man of around five foot five with stubborn tufty blond hair put us on the right track.  He was not only handsome, he was beautiful and so were his car and his son.  He was so proud, so steady and so emotionally dispassionate, he appeared angelic.  His  son, also blond, sat absolutely still, expressionless if not a little aloof, on a booster seat waiting patiently while his dad was out of the car – a 1970’s Porsche 911.  It was jet black, with neither speck nor mar, and as glossy and enchanting as a precious stone.

Several hours later we ended up hopelessly lost and utterly exhausted somewhere in a lush and idyllic national park in the mountains of southern Poland.  I insisted on stopping and having a long sleep before continuing the journey.

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