22^nd August, Ulaanbaatar

Our main goal for the day was to get our car back. It was going to be a struggle and no doubt about it. At first we thought we had lost the phone number, then we couldn’t get through. We heard that a vehicle had arrived at the circus but when we got there we soon realised it belonged to another team. A little later we heard that some cars had arrived on the outskirts of town and that ours was amongst them.

It was getting late, perhaps seven o’clock. Jonno was still hoping he might get the train out at eight thirty. It did feel like a good time to leave. The Rally was really over now. Everyone was flying home that day or the next.

Nassan’s brother, a huge bear of a man, came to pick us up and take us out to where the cars were waiting. There was already a stressful dispute in progress. Some other ralliers had arrived and were arguing with the drivers of the trucks about how much to pay and were asking for compensation for the damage done to their cars. The drivers were refusing to drive to the circus where they were not really allowed to go and one lorry had broken down. It was a real shambles. Someone with shiny shoes and a cheap cotton shirt had turned up and was offering to mediate but he looked a prat and nobody was listening to him.

Our car was still on the back of the lorry we had rolled it onto four days earlier in Altai. Without the three ghurs, sixteen schoolgirls and their Gran on top we could see Amélie was looking really worse for wear. The weight of all the baggage had stretched the roof and forced the rear window out. The scars from the sandblasting she had received during our epic tow also looked far worse than we had remembered.

Together we rolled her down and thanked the drivers, who we noticed had helped themselves to our pump. Nassan’s brother said he would tow us to the circus. We smashed what was left out of the ruined window and made for the finishing line. Our car was totalled. The windows gone, the roof smashed, the wing missing, lights all gone – it was finished.

By the time we got the car deposited and registered we were really tired and stressed, but relieved. Jonno had missed the train so we went for a meal. We decided to try a highly recommended South Indian restaurant that was located on the third floor of a large hotel. We were fresh from the final ordeal of collecting our car and probably smelling high. Some American tourists, who appeared impossibly rich to us, after our month on the road, curled their noses as we squeezed into the lift with them. I smiled to myself – I had earned my place there and had no reason to be ashamed. As a Bradfordian, Jonno had sampled his fair share of quality Asian cuisine and had commented that he would not be easily satisfied. However, we agreed it was the best curry ever and perfectly accompanied by a delicious, creamy Kerala naan.

While we were walking back to the hostel we passed a derelict old house. Although it had fallen on hard times, it had once been palatial. All of its tall, wide windows had been smashed or boarded up and there seemed to be a strange light coming from inside the building, as if from a fire. A boy sat on a window ledge and looked down, gesturing and pretending to shoot at us. He had a manic look in his eyes and a horrible grin across his face. From another window was draped a banner with a swastika emblazoned upon it. In Asia, where the symbol originated thousands of years ago, it is not so readily associated with national socialism. It is much more often used traditionally as a religious symbol to represent cosmic dance, balance, infinity and even to denote vegetarian food. However, in this context its reading as a symbol of the inhabitants’ benign, perhaps Buddhist, leanings did not really occur to me. More curious than frightened, but not knowing quite how to react, we side-stepped some youths gathered in the entrance, one of whom was armed with a baseball bat. We were quite a way down the street before one of us broke the silence and mentioned it.

If there had been more time, I would certainly have tried to work out what was going on. It was just another unresolved surprise in our brief Mongolian adventure, perhaps the strangest and least in keeping with everything else we had encountered. It definitely was not enough to overshadow all of the tenderness and generosity we had encountered. Tenderness and generosity that had perhaps not only saved our lives but ensured we completed our journey in style. At least this final encounter had served to remind us how little we knew – that we had barely scraped the surface of this remarkable and rapidly changing country.

Its people and landscapes may seem remote but in the global scene they are far from it and in fact their central position between Russia and China puts their future in rather unpredictable territory.

We certainly felt our journey had brought Mongolia closer to us, permanently so. Driving less than 10,000 miles – what many people clock up on the way to work and back in a year – we had reached the other side of the Eurasian continent and all in a car less appropriate than most people use to do their shopping, school run or daily commute.

So that was it, the end of our trip. The trip of a lifetime, or perhaps one of many more to come. It left me exhausted, exhilarated but wiser and a little more aware of how big a Citroën 2CV really is.

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:9780956196613 - 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