Through the Mother of God: Andes to the Amazon

Chris Raven grabs his South American phrasebook and heads for the mountains of Peru where he catches a bus in Cusco and travels along the uncompleted Transoceanic Highway, on a bumpy 36 hour journey through the Mother of God.

by Chris Raven

www.chrisraven.com

AS I STAND HERE in Cusco bus station with a thumping hangover, it suddenly dawns on me that the idea of catching a 36 hour bus journey that starts at 16,000 feet above sea level in the Andes and finishes in the steamy jungles of the Peruvian Amazon is absolutely crazy.

It all happened last night while my brother Simon and I were celebrating our return from Matchu Pichu and drinking warm Chicha, a popular local drink made from fermented maize, in some drinking hole off Plaza de Armas. “Get the plane” a backpacker advised us, who after a few drinks confessed to suffering from parcopresis. Hmm, why didn’t we listen to him? We spot a lone kiosk with a brightly coloured sign above the desk that reads “Turismo Mendivil” and “Pto. Maldonado”. Our nightmare journey is about to begin.

I’m in Peru, a country in western South America bordering Ecuador, Colombia, Brazil, Chile and Bolivia. It’s a country famous for the Inca Empire (1438 to 1533) and Machu Picchu (the Lost City of the Incas discovered in 1911 by the American historian Hiram Bingham), Nazca lines (ancient geoglyphs located in the Nazca Desert in southern Peru), Andes Mountains (stretching for 7,000 km), the Peruvian Amazon (largest number of bird species in the world), Llamas (originated from the central plains of North America about 40 million years ago), Traditional Andean music (panflute), Pisco (a strong, colourless grape brandy), fresh fish (861 different species), potatoes (5000 different types world wide), surfing (Máncora) and Lake Titicaca (the highest lake in the world).

So, at the kiosk local Peruvians crowd around and struggle with their luggage that’s tied up in enormous bundles. We follow suit and slip our rucksacks in thick yellow plastic bags that we’d bought from a hardware shop called ‘Plasticos’. There isn’t much to do here while we’re waiting, so we hang around drinking strong black coffee and observe our fellow passengers. They look like they might be market traders buying goods from Cusco to sell in Puerto Maldonado, or illegal loggers on their way to help cut down the Amazon rainforest for the wood or to help clear the area for the new 3,400 km transoceanic highway. At this moment in time as I write, this section of road in Peru hasn’t even been built yet. But Peruvian engineers will soon be hard at work on the road’s last, and most problematic, section: a tortuous, 460-mile stretch from the steamy Amazon Basin and over the frosty Andes, which will connect down to the Pacific coast.

Eventually, everyone slowly heads down to the platform, and we follow close behind and wait outside in the sunshine for the bus to arrive. It doesn’t. We take the delay in our stride and remind ourselves that when crossing a frontier like this nothing can be expected to go to plan.

Some hours later a huge noisy vehicle skids into the station, and as the fumes engulf us we realise our transport to the Amazon has finally arrived. The blue Volvo bus with “Turismo Mendivil” along the side appears to have a truck chassis with the body of a bus plonked on top. Raised high off the ground the truck has huge wheels with deep treads and is perfectly designed for off road driving. We feel more confident that if we are going to complete this journey at all, we’ll have a better chance if we’re travelling on one of these mean machines. Everybody immediately starts scrambling for position, but we choose to hang back and watch as they load the truck with everyone’s luggage. Hauling huge sacks onto the roof and lashing them to the metal frame. We feel relieved our bags are watertight.

Climbing aboard, we’re welcomed by a strong smell of the countryside and stale cheese and as soon as we’re settled into our seats I quickly slide open the window. Our fellow passengers are of all ages, from mothers with children to men on their own and even an elderly couple perhaps visiting family in Puerto Maldonado for the first time in their lives. It must be incredibly annoying for these people knowing that down the road is an airport where they can catch a one hour flight to Porto Maldindo instead of a nightmare 36 hour bus journey.

Before we know it we’re pulling out of the bus terminal. The driver seems to be extremely confident when it comes to controlling this tank, and I assume to drive these roads it would be a necessary requirement. We head out of Cuzco on the road to Urcos and hurtle through the beautiful countryside, passing the tranquil village of San Jeronimo on the Rio Huatanay. We drive on fairly good surfaced tarmac into the evening and watch the sun drop below the mountains, as we pass the town of Quincemil 240kms from Urcos. My ears keep popping and I guess we must be dropping in altitude quite quickly.

The road becomes suddenly more hazardous as it begins to grow dark, and I try to ignore the sound of the squealing brakes when we whip around sharp bends and skid along narrow mountain passes. Somehow, I drift off to sleep and some hours later I wake to the sound of the engine cutting out. I assume we’ve pulled up for the night at a rest stop and I feel relieved we’re not travelling in the dark. We both snuggle under our blankets and snooze until daylight.

I wake up in morning to find we’re the only ones sitting on the bus. Where is everybody? I ask Si, but he just shrugs his shoulders and tucks into a bruised apple. “Why has everyone got off?” Suddenly, the driver sparks up the tank and cranks it into gear. I peer out of the window and can see the other passengers standing on the corner. There has been a landslide and mud has covered a small section of the mountain dirt road. We’re literally balancing on a cliff edge thousands of feet up. One wrong move and we’ll be kissing the metal roof and wishing we’d got the plane. No wonder the driver waited until the morning to attempt this. We’re paralysed with fear and accept our fate; it’s too late to get off. The bus rocks slowly and the wheels spin as they battle to cross through the mud. I can’t believe no one woke us up. The driver creeps forward slowly, but stops when the bus leans over the edge at an angle which quite literally causes me to pee in my pants. Finally, the bus makes it over to the other side and the passengers all quickly leap back on board. “Thanks for waking us us!” I consider shouting. But I chicken out. We continue on our way. All in  a day’s work.

After filling up with fuel in the small town of Mazuk 1,000 feet above sea level, we continue our decent and I notice everywhere is much greener and lush with thick jungle vegetation. We pull up outside of a small restaurant. There’s a sign outside which reads, “BAR RESTARANT, EL CHEF MAGALY”, and we follow the other passengers into a dimly lit wooden building. We perch ourselves on the end of a long wooden table and wait to be served. A pretty young girl with rosy cheeks and petite features serves us a plate of rice with steaming meat and vegetables pilled on top of it. I’m not sure when we’ll get another chance to eat, so I happily tuck into the morning’s feast. The curious dark faces sat around the table glance up at us and shyly look away and a guy with a Nike baseball cap smiles. With stomachs bursting, we climb aboard the bus and once again we hit the dirt road and continue our decent through the lush jungle.

I feel hot so I wipe my sticky forehead on my T-shirt. Si rocks backwards and forwards and nods his head in time to the unpredictable motion of the bus. I pull the thin red curtain to one side and poke my head out of the window; smelling the sweet jungle. The road we’re driving on is a stony unsurfaced dirt track similar to the road we travelled on across the Andes. We approach a red iron bridge and the truck mounts the wooden boards. It seems incredible that a vehicle of this size can drive across wooden planks without them buckling under the weight, but we make it across the wide river without collapsing into the water. We cross many more of these identical red bridges, and I blink in disbelief when we pass a large billboard in the middle of nowhere promoting the construction of the new ‘Trans-Oceanica’. It shows a picture of a luxury coach cruising down a beautifully paved highway. The modern world has come knocking on the door of one of the world’s most amazing wildernesses, and nothing is going to stop it ploughing down the trees and thundering right through.

The deeper we penetrate through the Madre de Dios (Mother of God) the more trucks begin to appear, as they make the long journey over the Andes to the Pacific coast where their cargo of lucrative mahogany will be loaded onto ships bound for the United States and Europe. It’s the first signs of deforestation; the first signs of this highway cutting out the lungs of the earth.  Pulling over to allow the trucks to squeeze by I look at the faces of the loggers and construction workers travelling between Puerto Maldonado and Cuzco. It’s slow going as we reverse and shunt in the depths of the jungle.

Observing the natural beauty of the green jungle I study the tall trees and their thick vines. Grabbing my camera, I photograph the bright red tropical flowers growing at the roadside, which until now I had only ever seen plonked in vases on office reception desks or in hotel lobbies. All of a sudden I hear squawking above my head, I look up and see a flock of grey parrots with white clown faces flying alongside the truck. They’re so close I can practically reach out and touch them. They look like miniature macaws with small eyes and wrinkles on their white faces. They look at me with keen interest and continue to chase us through the forest. It’s a deeply surreal experience and I try to imagine what we must look like from above, as this strange manmade vehicle speeds through millions of hectares of sub-tropical rainforest. The parrots fly off and we struggle to pass a queue of trucks carrying wood on a sharp bend, which loops around a twenty-foot high waterfall. Fears of a paved highway immediately disappear.

This region is harsh terrain and we wait, once again, for a few trucks to squeeze past before attempting the bend. I look to my right and wonder where the smart guy has gone who was sitting across the aisle from Simon. He was reading a translated copy of ‘The Da Vinci Code’ by Dan Brown. I look up and down the truck, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I wonder if he jumped out somewhere along route, although, we haven’t passed any towns for ages and he looked too well groomed to be a logger. I look to the front of the truck and suddenly realise he’s driving! Stripped down to his white vest, he’s covered in sweat and battles with the steering wheel. The muscles on his arms look tense, but I catch a glimpse of his face in the large rear view mirror and I can see he’s laughing and having the time of his life. It fascinates me to think that a few hours ago he was reading ‘The Da Vinci Code’ and possibly imagining he was in Paris or London, and now he’s behind the wheel of a truck battling along a dirt track in the middle of the Peruvian Amazon. The bus slows down and the guy jumps out and chats to a truck driver. I look out of my window and realise we’re facing a wide river. There doesn’t appear to be a bridge anywhere in sight and the dirt track simply disappears into the water. Climbing back into the truck, the guy cracks his fingers, exercises his arms and cranks the bus into gear. We head straight for the water and I look out of my window in amazement, as the wheels gradually disappear below the surface. We slowly head down stream and hit boulders and sink into potholes. The truck rocks from side-to-side and the driver shunts and battles against the flow, causing the truck to lean sharply to the right. A few people scream and then laugh, my buttocks clench the seat and I wipe sweat from my forehead. The truck once again leans to the right and then sharply to the left. The potholes are deep and the truck struggles to get through them. As it jerks violently to the left again, a bag stored up above the seats falls onto a woman’s head. She screams and throws the bag to the floor. It all seems to be getting a little nasty. The truck suddenly leans to the right and stays at that angle for 20 seconds before correcting itself. I grasp the armrests and turn to Si. We’re speechless. This is all too much for us. If the truck leans a little bit further we’re fucked. I look for exit points in case it tips onto its side in the deep water, but realise there aren’t any. The truck is packed with people. They’ll be panic if it rolls. The windows only open a small amount, not enough to climb through. It seems the main door is the only way out. That’s if you can get there before you drown. I hate the thought of drowning with my brother sitting next to me. If I have to drown I’d prefer to do it in private. The wheels disappear completely, and the water level reaches the luggage compartment beneath the bus, which is well over a metre high. I think about our bags sloshing around in a foot of water in the luggage compartment. Our nightmare river journey from hell lasts for over an hour, and we thankfully emerge on the other side of the river and wheel spin onto the bank. I feel relieved to be back on dry land, and I’m close to handing the guy a $20 note as a thank you for not killing us. I still cannot believe this dude was originally a passenger. Sadly, this isn’t the last of our river experiences and we battle across many more flooded areas.

In the early evening we find ourselves on a dirt track again, and begin to pass shacks along the roadside. Thirty-three hours have passed since we left Cuzco and we haven’t had a pit stop for hours. As it begins to grow dark the skies open up, and hot tropical rain thunders down overhead. I feel physically and mentally exhausted. My body aches and my face is sore and my mouth is as dry as a bone. Simon looks like he’s just fought a battle and lost miserably. The thought of being close to the bright lights of Puerto Maldonado makes me want to jump out of my seat and kiss every single person on this putrid smelling truck. Cusco seems like another trip, another month, another year.

Bright lights appear on the horizon as we approach the frontier town of Puerto Maldonado. The truck is on a tarmac road now, and it truly feels like we’re driving over silk. People shelter from the rain outside the rows of tatty shops and karaoke bars and young teenagers on mopeds watch as our tank makes its presence known. It seems to be a fairly rundown place, which I kind of expect from a frontier town at the end of the line. People around us stand up and organize their belongings, and the driver/passenger who has returned to his seat quickly finishes the last page of his book. He slams it shut and blinks at his reflection in the window. We too gather our bags together, and release a sigh of relief when the bus jerks to a halt for the last time. The doors swing open and everyone charges down the aisle and pushes for the exit. We’re the last ones off. I step down and look around. It’s stiflingly hot and I’m instantly swarmed by a group of taxi drivers. They shout out to grab my attention and wave leaflets in my face. Everything seems to be in slow motion. I look down at the side of the bus and see our yellow sacks lying on the wet pavement. Simon falls off the bus close behind and runs over to the bags. They follow him too and shout in his face. It is madness, but we calmly grab our bags and walk over to a three-wheeled moto-taxi parked up nearby. The guy strikes the two-stroke engine and we speed away from the chaos  and zig-zag through the wet streets of Porto Maldonado.

We have made it to our destination. It has been one hell of a bus ride and the scariest and most dramatic journey I have ever been on. I praise the driver’s who have to battle along this road and the concentration they endure must be physically exhausting. The construction of the new highway isn’t popular with a lot of people living around here, but for the bus drivers the transoceanic highway will be a gift from heaven.

We pull up outside a hotel and fall into a small dark room. At this moment in time I’m so tired I wouldn’t have cared if the room didn’t come with a roof and four walls. My last delirious thought as I lay back on the lumpy hard bed – bollocks, the mosquitoes are going to eat us alive.

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A Little Walk on Top of the World (Norway)

Chris Raven, travel writer and photographer, grabs his umbrella and heads to the island of Magerøya in Finnmark Norway to walk the Knivskjellodden, Europe’s northernmost hiking trail.

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

I’ve always been intrigued to find out what lies at the very top of Norway, 500 miles beyond the Arctic Circle and in the far depths of northern Europe. So, here I am in an empty car park on top of the world at the start of the Knivskjellodden trail, waiting patiently for an Arctic storm to pass by. The radio in my Vauxhall Corsa has broken, which has forced me to occupy myself in other ways by munching on stale custard creams and reading the information on the back of the suntan lotion (Butyl Methoxydibenzoylmethane?). Why I have suntan lotion in the Arctic is a mystery, because from where I’m sitting there’s about as much chance of grabbing some Vitamin D from the fire ball as a polar bear tapping on my window.

Mission: To walk the Knivskjellodden trail (18km rtn – starting point just off Highway E69 before Nordkapp entrance toll).

Location: Magerøya Island, Finnmark, North Cape, Norway – 3,330 km from London – 500 miles north of the Arctic Circle – 71°11’08″ latitude.

Fellow adventurer: Simon Raven (brother/journalist and photographer).

Arctic Experience: A little (once built an igloo in the back garden when I was seven).

Clothing & equipment: Scarf, walking boots, binoculars, umbrella, 99p plastic poncho (forgot to bring a coat).

Risk factor: Medium/high (may trip over rock, stray off trail, fall off a cliff or get eaten by a reindeer).

Norway “The Land of the Midnight Sun”, and a country famous for the Fjords, fishing, mountains, snow, sailors, Vikings, beautiful scenery, brightly painted houses, Lofoten Islands, pickled raw fish, cod racks, hunting and eating Whales, Nobel Prize, Reindeer, Northern Lights, oil & gas, expensive fast food (£12 for McDonalds Big Mac meal), Hammerfest (most northern city and an excellent small museum ‘The Royal and Ancient Polar Bear Society’), 24 hrs of daylight and old people driving huge motor homes and clogging up the roads. What’s even more interesting is that there are apparently more Norwegian descendants living in the United States than there are Norwegians in Norway, and if you balanced the country on its end and let go it would crash into Morocco. This is going to be fun…

The Arctic storm eventually buggers off and whips across the barren landscape and, with my belly full of custard creams and my knowledge of the ingredients of suntan lotion vastly improved, Simon and I get out of the car and smell the fresh polar air. An hour ago you could only just see a foot in front of you due to mist and now the flat, boulder-littered tundra can be seen to the horizon and in the direction of the North Cape Plateau.

It’s 6:00am, and it’s not as nippy as I had imagined considering we’re in the Arctic. Still, in case the storm returns, we take all the natural precautions for changeable weather and slip on our gloves (well, I do, Si forgot his, so he’ll be using a pair of socks), two jumpers and a fleece (we forgot to bring coats) and brightly coloured plastic ponchos and a golf umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me that we’re not as organized as I had first thought, and certainly not compared to most experienced road trippers and motor home lovers on their ‘Arctic’ adventure.

Not letting our lack of experience and preparation skills get in the way of our ultimate goal, we double check we have water and a few packets of crisps and a sandwich in the rucksack, before setting off along the Knivskjellodden trail. The trail lies about 1,500 metres further north than the supposed Nordkapp latitude, which must be very annoying for the tourists who didn’t know this before remortgaging their homes to go on a coach tour to the most northern point of European mainland. Blame your tour company. Anyway, we set off feeling strong and follow the marked trail across the flat, spongy, treeless tundra with its sharp, craggy rocks and boggy puddles. Sometimes we stray completely off the trail into areas of snow, and wander in the wrong direction, but we stop, have a quick debate about which is the correct way, and get back on the trail. The markers are a little confusing and the trail could do with having clearer marker points. If we were doing this hike in a polar mist, we’d have no chance. Markers that flash orange when it’s misty would be a good idea. Or maybe it’s just our rather lousy navigation skills. I wonder how many people get severely lost up here for hours and hours in the cold, or never return? We continue to follow the arrows painted onto the piles of stones along the trail and soon make our decent down to sea level where we see a small island off the coast.

The views of the deep blue waters of the Arctic Ocean and the eerie black cliffs of North Cape are fantastic. A herd of reindeer’s race by and there are a couple of cute youngsters hugging their mother’s side. A dotterel appears and sings a song for us, it’s rather tame and we don’t seem to be a threat. It comes quite close. A skua flies from out of nowhere and crash lands on a small blue glistening lake to our left. The Arctic seabird flaps its wings and dips its head under the water before going airborne again and disappearing over the hills. I smell the clean air and smile at the beauty of this place. There’s nothing more amazing than being surrounded by nature and open space. Plus we seem to be the only people on the trail. We haven’t seen one single person. 6am was a good time to start. More reindeer’s pass by as we slowly climb down the plateau to sea level. The clouds are dark and menacing, making everywhere seem even more eerie and prehistoric. The red arrows keep us marching in the right direction, and after scrambling down a slope and over rocks we make it to the open sea. Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, a massive white-tailed eagle flies off a jagged ridge in the cliff face close by and swoops in circles above our heads riding the Arctic air currents. I’ve never seen an eagle of this size before. We stand and watch this beautiful bird of prey for a while, cranking our necks and looking up at it through the binoculars.

Tripping sideways over rocks, we arrive at the bottom of the cliffs. Have we made it to the end of the trail? Si then spots another red arrow pointing to the left and up and over more rocks. We stop and catch our breath. I wouldn’t say we were unfit, slightly knackered, maybe, and there’s a slight pain in my chest, but I know for sure, this 18km round trip will not have us both bed bound and dribbling into our soups. Well, I hope not, anyway. I release a tiny sigh – a ‘no-way-my-feet-and-chest-hurt-but-no-problem-come-on-we’re-nearly-there; sigh, which is more than I can say for Si’s “Jesus Christ, you’re f***king kidding me!” We continue on that extra mile, jumping over crevasses and stumbling over huge boulders. A cormorant skims the ocean and seagulls cry out as they fly over head. It feels like we’re the last people on the planet and, up ahead in the distance, I see a round pink buoy and a spike with a yellow ball stuck on top of a concrete plinth. We had made it 1500 metres more north than Nordkapp and to the furthest point in mainland Europe. “Well done!” I sing, as we both link arms and have a little dance. We stop dancing and look out across the Arctic Ocean, as the waves swell and crash against the cliffs. It’s incredible to think where we are on the world map.  Iceland is way down and we’re practically on the same latitude as Greenland and Alaska. The island of Svalbard is the next land mass before you reach the North Pole, and it’s an island inhabited by polar bears, where it’s against the law to leave your house without a gun. For us, we don’t have to worry about polar bears, but it occurs to me how many people right now are currently further north than we are; maybe only a few thousand, or so. I feel privileged to be able to stand here and experience this amazing Peninsula; a Peninsula that has witnessed great explorers like Englishman Richard Chancellor, who passed by this exact point in 1553 as he went in search for a Northeast Passage.

The Knivskjellodden trail is a great five hour hike, and I very much recommend it. You really do feel as though you are on top of the world, and the atmosphere of the Arctic weather, the reindeer, the birdlife, the howls of the wind blowing across the wild tundra, the little yellow flowers growing out of the spongy vegetation and the barren landscape and views are breathtaking. It’s well worth the journey to get here, despite the hefty toll charges. Get up early and be the first to hit the trail.

My mission to hike Europe’s most northernmost trail is complete. And for those people who paid the entrance fee to enter Nordkapp and stood by the globe on the North Cape, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.

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Trip Sideways (Tromso to Hammerfest): For a scenic journey of a lifetime, head to Tromsø in Northern Norway and drive the spectacular E6 highway to Hammerfest, Europe’s Northernmost town. This region is home to spectacular fjords, Native Sami Reindeer Herders and incredible birdlife. Full article here >

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In Search of the Greater One-Horned Rhino, Kaziranga National Park, India.

Writer and photographer, Chris Raven, grabs his binoculars and heads to the Kaziranga National Park in Assam, in search of the Greater One-Horned Indian Rhino.

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

AFTER A BUMPY bus ride from Guwhati, I have finally arrived at the Kaziranga National Park in Assam, India, with my brother Simon and photographer and journalist Lucy Calder. Our mission: To ride on top of an elephant and catch a glimpse of the rare Greater one-horned Indian Rhino.

Assam is located in the far northeast of India bordering Nagaland and Bhutan, and has the best tea plantations in the world. Not only does Assam produce tasty tea, but the popular Kaziranga National Park, first established in 1908, is one of the most highly awarded natural treasures in Asia and a World Heritage Site with two-thirds of the world’s one-horned Indian Rhino. Located on the banks of the River Brahmaputra, the park also has the highest density of tigers, is home to large breeding populations of elephants, wild water buffalo, swamp deer and over 200 species of birds.

It’s good to be back in incredible India. The last time I came here in 2008 I saw my first wild tiger in the Kanha National Park, and enjoyed a hot chai with some glazed baba in Khajuraho, who could wrap his legs around his head and lift himself off the ground, which was very impressive. I love India and its craziness. I love the great light and amazing faces. It’s the birthplace of Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism, yoga and chess, and a colourful, friendly, hectic, poverty-stricken country that’s the second most populous in the world after China (1.21 billion), and famous for silk and woven fabrics (lovely cushion covers), tea (try Orange Pekoe, Assam tea plantation), tigers (1,700, on the rise), cricket (won world cup 2011), spicy food, (chicken tikka masala), men with moustaches (superstar Rajinikanth, Tamal actor), Dalai Lama (His Holiness’s hobbies include meditating, gardening, and repairing watches), Sri Sathya Sai Baba (was one of India’s top spiritual leaders and had a funky hair do), the Taj Mahal (a pretty impressive example of Mughal architecture) and, finally, some bisexual dude called Mahatma Gandhi (a leader and civil disobedience champion, who left his wife to live with a German-Jewish bodybuilder).

Anyway, the following morning at 5:30am, we’re standing at the ready with puffy eyes, a bag full of food and binoculars hanging around our necks. It’s a clear morning, the sun is creeping up slowly over the horizon and our open top jeep rocks up bang on time. There’s nothing like a cold wind in your face to clear the sleep, and after a short jeep ride we pass through the gates to the Kaziranga National Park. I can’t wait to see some wildlife. Ever since I was a wee nipper at the age of six, when pulling girls’ pig tails and fighting through brambles with toy guns was a daily occurrence, I have always been fascinated with wildlife from around the world. I even had a folder with amazing photos taken by world class photographers of tigers running through swamps, lions on the hunt in the Maasai Mara, endangered mountain gorillas in Uganda, great white sharks in South Africa, crocodiles lifting 250kg blue wildebeests through the air during the great migration, polar bears in the Arctic, grizzly bears in Yellowstone and even a picture of a wild fluffy British country rabbit nibbling on a blade of grass (I was six, remember).

Driving into the national park, I see eight elephants up ahead and a group of tourists standing on a wooden tower. We haven’t seen tourists for a while, not since the Adivasi market near Koraput in Orissa. Oh, and we did see a German couple in Nagaland. We climb up the tower and hear our names being called out. The other tourists look surprised by our speedy depart and shake their heads as we’re herded to the front of the queue. It’s first come first service when booking your ride at the office, and the rangers go by the order of the names on the list, so we climb on board our trusty elephant with its large white tusks, hairy head and watery eyes. I smile at our friendly mahout, who has a pink scarf wrapped around his neck, and grab the seat at the back of the beast and, I don’t know whether it’s my large feet, long legs, bony ass, or the fact that I’m sitting on my testicles, but it’s a battle to get comfy. I don’t remember it being this awkward the last time I went on an elephant. I turn to the other tourists standing glum on the tower and wave, they don’t wave back. Three women with a North American, Texas, big hair appearance and, literally the world’s longest camera lenses hanging down to their knee caps,  shake their heads and point over to us. “Shove your camera lenses up your toosh!” I wanted to shout. The mahout smacks the elephant on top of its head using a stick and with a swish of its trunk it cuts through the long grass at surprising speed; but the other tourists are hot on our trail. It isn’t long before they all catch up with us and two bald guys, who are rather over-weight and wearing matching red jackets, bounce by, also carrying massive lenses, and who keep shouting to the their mahout “We want to see a tiger!” followed by the three big-haired women passing along side of us, who throw daggers at me and shout to their mahout “go faster!”

For us, we’re chilling, swaying and appreciating our beautiful surroundings and the sounds of the wildlife, the birds and our elephant thundering through the grass, while watching the sunrise ignite an amazing orange glow across the misty swamps and marshland of the Kaziranga. Swamp deers leap by and our mahout points out a couple of wild boars sniffing around in the undergrowth. Then, in the distance, across the open water meadows, we see what we came here to see – a Greater One-Horned Rhino with her calf. The two over-weight bald guys and the three big-haired women are already there surrounding the rhinos, firing off shots and battling to get the best position. We slowly squeeze through and catch a glimpse of the rhinos munching on the fresh green grass. I take a couple of snaps, but I put my camera down and study these magnificent animals through my eyes rather than a viewfinder. The mother is huge, like a tank, and with armor plates on her legs she is one solid machine.

We leave them to eat their breakfast and carry on through the marshy meadows and into the tall elephant grass. Suddenly, I see a grey body and it’s another huge rhino, this time on its own. Our elephant gets very close and it wouldn’t take much for the rhino to spin around and charge. Luckily, it’s too busy devouring reeds and slowly makes its way through the marsh. My heart is beating rapidly and the adrenalin is pumping fast.  Our mahout saddles up to a ranger on his elephant and passes my camera to him. We pose and smile; a memory to treasure. Before long we see another rhino and another, and another. It’s fantastic to see so many. The rhino crashes at speed through the long grass towards our elephant, snorting and waving its head, almost ready to charge. Is this the moment I had feared? I know these rhinos can be aggressive, and they’ll attack if they’re pissed off, I’ve seen a video clip on youtube. But I have faith in my mahout, although, thing’s do go wrong in the wild, its unpredictable. The rhino gets closer to our elephant, but thankfully turns off sharply and disappears through the long grass away from us. I’ve never buzzed so much in my life, truly amazing.

We head back to the tower and climb off the elephant. We hand the mahout some rupees and, in true John Wayne style’ I swagger back to the jeep. My ass is numb and my legs ache, but after that experience, it’s worth a little pain. After playing with a cute baby elephant for a while, we jump back in the jeep and head off for a few hours through the national park. We drive along a dirt track, stopping at watch towers, where we see wild elephants, pelicans and deers. The jeep ride is slow, which is great and we stop constantly, scanning the grasslands for tigers too, and watch rhinos cross in front of us and I spot the bony backbones of a family of wild elephants trudging through the long grass a stone’s throw away. It reminds me of Kruger in South Africa. We stop and watch a stand off between a rhino and an elephant; a David Attenborough documentary is coming alive. Who will win? The elephant confidently passes by and the rhino stands its ground, but no battle is to commence.

The driver shows us a family of tortoises before making his way back to the hotel. My day in Kaziranga National Park has been very special indeed, and it’s an experience I will certainly never forget. Simon and Lucy are also amazed by the parks beauty and we all agree it’s one of the finest National Parks we’ve visited in a while. The abundance of rhinos and wild elephants is truly wonderful to see. Despite reading about poachers killing at least four rhinos this year, the Greater One-horned rhino is pretty much a success story here in India and in Nepal (compared to the endangered Java rhino), and it is being heavily protected. Horns are being illegally traded through routes to the Middle East and sold for medicine and to make dagger handles – this is a reality, but from what I have seen here at Kaziranga, the rhino population is thriving. So hopefully, just like the tiger with its rising population, I won’t fear their extinction too soon and, although, there is still a long way to go with help from the World Wildlife Fund and conservation efforts, I am relieved to know that my only chances of seeing these magnificent animals aren’t just in a zoo but in the their wild natural environment.

Up the Etna: Chris Raven drives up Mt Etna in a £130 Rover

The Raven brothers head for Sicily, Italy, and attempt to drive their £130 Rover up Mt Etna, one of the most active volcanoes in the world.

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

ONCE AGAIN, I have returned home from a little road trip adventure with my bushy-haired brother, Simon. This time it was Europe, the Mediterranean, and the flamboyant country of Italy; famous for the anise-flavoured ‘blow-your-eyeballs-out-of-your-face’ Sambuca, the Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati and the Fiat, the Roman Empire, the Vatican (Pope), Pasta, Pizza, Spaghetti, the Mafia, the sinking city of Venice, trendy fashion designers, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Sicily, the beautiful Dolomites, Mt Vesuvius and Pompeii, Mt Etna (Muncibeddu in Sicilian), da Vinci and Michelangelo, Pavarotti (god bless his soul), delicious coffee, fine wine, world class cuisine, aftershave drenched, well-groomed men who tie colourful jumpers around their necks, sexy women (Elisabetta Canalis), footballers (Roberto Baggio), the horny Prime Minister and entrepreneur Berlusconi (The Knight) and basically a country famous for fiery people who wave their hands in the air alot and drive really, really fast.

Our mission: to drive up Mount Etna to Refugio Sapienza, elevation 6,500 feet. Distance: UK-Sicily: 1908.95 km. Our vehicle: Rover 214 GSi, silver, bought for £150 in cash (£130 to be precise – it came with £20 worth of petrol in the tank). Assembled at the Longbridge car plant in Birmingham, Midlands, in the year the Iraqi forces invaded and conquered Kuwait – Margaret Thatcher, the iron lady, resigned as UK Prime Minister – the movie Dances with Wolves with Kevin Costner was a big hit and ‘I Wish It Would Rain Down’ by Phil Collins was blaring out of every Pioneer LP turntable/record player music station around the world. Yep, the car was born in the year 1990.

OK, so it was a rather old, almost classic, motor with fake wooden upholstery and a well thought out coin tray for your loose change, genius idea. The seats were comfy, music came out of the radio, it had an electric sunroof, electric windows, the brakes worked, which was important, the engine looked like a proper engine and all of the four wheels rolled. What more did we need? The fact that the steering wheel shook quite dramatically whenever the speed dial peaked 60mph, and the Rover swerved severely to the left due to the tracking, but, at the end of the day, they were all very minor technical hitches that could be easily ironed out, because nothing was going to stop us from driving up Mt Etna, the highest volcano in Europe (10,922 ft) and one of the most active volcanoes in the world. No other country in Europe has as many volcanoes as Italy, so, let’s not forget the other two, Stromboli and Vesuvius, which are equally as active. Maybe we were both being a couple of unrealistic jokers with this Laissez-Faire attitude. I mean, Mount Etna had already blown its top five months before and In 2002–2003, a much larger eruption threw up a huge column of ash that could easily be seen from space and fell as far away as Libya, 600 km south across the Mediterranean Sea. To the ancient Greeks, Mt Etna was the realm of Vulcan, god of fire, and the home of the one-eyed monster known as the Cyclops, to us, it was nothing more than a big beautiful smoking lump of rock, a challenge, and a great way to blow your gasket and burn your brakes…we were driving a banger!

Anyway, we zipped through the protest-free streets of Reggio de Calabria, a town on the boot of Italy, home to the ‘Ndrangheta criminal organization, who make money from drug trafficking, extortion and money laundering activities, and skidded into the docks just in the nick of time to catch the last ferry to Messina on the north east side of the island of Sicily. The small car ferry was practically empty, I counted more staff than passengers, and the journey only took about an hour. It was not far off 6:30pm and the sun was hugging the horizon, painting flames, as our ferry cut smoothly through the swell of the waves. Boats bound for Malta were silhouetted in the distance and to our right we saw Mt Etna and a trail of smoke coming out of the crater that was streaking across the orange sky. It was going to be fun.

Early the following morning, after spending the night in a service station on the E45 outside of the city of Messina and, with our stomachs full of cheap tins of fish, bread and coffee, we were back on the road and heading south along the coast towards the Mt Etna National Park. I still couldn’t believe our £130 Rover had made it all the way to Sicily. Driving at 55mph for 2,000kms had certainly paid off despite the unnecessary abuse from the 18-wheeler Artic lorry drivers, who seemed to think it was funny filling our wing mirror with their bloody front grill; so to speak.

Skidding onto the SS114 coastal road, we passed through the charming, historic, hillside town of Taromina (Sicily’s Monte Carlo) and one of the island’s main tourist resorts. Luckily for us, most of the package tourist and posh people had gone home, so the town was relatively quiet. Whacking the Rover down a side street, we grabbed our cameras, rolled on some deodorant and wandered up and down the main street, Corso Umberto I, admiring the architecture, the Torre dell’Orogio clock tower, the souvenir shops, the ice cream parlours and two pretty chickadees sweeping the pavement outside a trendy clothes shop. A movie or Italian advert was being filmed in a delightful, sun-kissed plaza, so, not wanting to cause thousands of pounds worth of damage, we carefully tip-toed passed and tried not to trip over any of the equipment. Hungry to reach the volcano and, to be honest, a little jealous that we weren’t staying in one of the sweet-smelling boutique hotels and eating swordfish that night, we raced back to the comfy Rover and nudged our way onto the SS114 coastal road with its dramatic ocean views.

Buying a bag of huge juicy peaches from the roadside (the best I have ever tasted), we weaved through the delightful seaside resort town of Giardini Naxos with sticky fingers, and continued to thunder south along the SS114 for 6 km, before entering the town of Fiumefreddo di Sicilia where we turned right down via Regina del Clelo and onto the SS120, a small winding road, where we zig-zapped through green countryside with citrus groves, orchards of lemons and figs, vineyards, farms, cattle, forests and little towns, and moved closer to the looming Mt Etna volcano.

We reached Linguaglossa, a pretty town, with its rich production of wine grapes, walnuts, almonds, chestnuts and cattle breeding, which sits in the shadow of the volcano and on a large tongue of lava, and then turned south for Zafferani. It puzzled me how the hell the people living in these towns and villages could relax knowing a very large time bomb is on the other side of their garden fence, which seems to enjoy puking out lava and smoke quite frequently. I mean, is it on their mind when they’re rushing to get ready for work or about to make love? If I lived underneath one of the world’s most active volcanoes I’d think about moving (although, not sure how you’d sell your property). Here’s what an ad in the local paper might look like ‘Lovely 4 bedroom house with garage and large garden…and, uh, a big active volcano in spitting distance that might erupt and possibly turn you to ash.’ Maybe, this menacing volcano isn’t really a threat, and Etna isn’t a real danger to peoples’ lives. You would think the evacuation warnings are pretty good.

After a quick gas stove meal, consisting of pasta and tinned fish with a slice of cheese and shit loads of tomato sauce, we arrived at the Mt Etna National Park. We pulled over and looked at the small road leading up into the dark clouds. It was a hot day, but the weather wasn’t looking good. What was the worse that could happen I thought to myself? Ok, so we were driving an old Rover with dodgy tracking and we had absolutely no survival equipment, and zero knowledge of volcanoes. But so what? People have crossed deserts without the knowledge of, uh, sand. Or crossed oceans without the knowledge of water, and there we were contemplating if we should drive up a silly volcano. Suddenly, a convoy of RV’s zoomed passed followed by a small fiat with a pensioner sat hunched behind the wheel. I turned to Simon and said “Fuck it, let’s drive. If they can do it so can we!” So we did.

Higher and higher we went. The landscape was amazing with patches of green forest growing around the barren black volcanic stone, called ‘sciara’. The Rover was running smoothly, the brakes were working just fine and the engine was purring like an old lioness. We were over 3,000 metres in altitude when the cigarette lighter suddenly exploded giving us both a fright. But this little test didn’t distract us from what we had come here to do; the challenge we had set out to achieve and the adventurous story for us to tell our grandchildren in front of the fire in the years’ to come. We felt like soldiers hurtling towards the Taliban; knights in shining armour brandishing sharp swords and charging towards the battlefield, the Rover our sturdy stallion. Nothing was going to stop us from reaching our goal…nothing! I slammed my foot down on the pedal and we raced to the finish line. Well, when I say raced, I mean, we went a little faster.

A wild fox ran across the road, it looked at us with its dark, evil eyes, and then a pack of wild dogs, practically wolves, soon appeared. We motored on. The landscape was now totally barren black rock at elevation 6,500 feet. What will be at the top; smoking craters, lava pouring out, a snap shot from 230 million years ago during the Triassic period? Our mission was soon complete. I was shaking. My heart was thumping. We followed the road around a bend, but sadly our illusions of being surrounded by spewing lava and dinosaurs were suddenly trashed when we were presented with a really big car park full of cars, RV’s, and tour coaches. There was even a restaurant, souvenir shops and a bloody hotel. Crowds of tourists walked by our car, filtering into the many tourist facilities. I couldn’t believe it. We had risked our lives (well, not quite) to drive up a smoking volcano and we get to the top and there was practically a theme park waiting for us. I won’t say I was a little disappointed when I reached Refugio Sapienza, and I’m not one for moaning, but I wasn’t expecting it to be such a tourist attraction. They may as well of built a great big roller coaster and a McDonald’s up there too. We parked the car, paid for a ticket, joined a really long queue and grabbed a coffee.

The clouds were low and rain was soon to arrive. It was pointless jumping in the cable car or paying for a 4×4 jeep ride to the crater another 1,000 meters up. So, after munching on a Kit Kat and a packet of crisps, we admired the misty landscape from high up on Mt Etna before jumping in our Rover and driving back down to the ocean to the smell of our burning brakes, which nearly caught fire.

It was a wonderful road trip to Sicily, but there was more to come. From volcanoes and Catacombs in Palermo to ancient Greek ruins, we were going to see it all. We had the whole of the Mediterranean to explore and, while we waited for the brakes to stop smoking, I flicked open the road map and pointed to Seville in Spain. When you are on a road trip you have the freedom to go where ever you want to go, and we like that.

Happy travels…

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Rowing the Ganges: A boat, a Goat and Three Chickens

Three friends seeking adventure leave their factory jobs and go on a journey across India. It isn’t long before they find what they are looking for when they buy a boat, a goat and three chickens in Allahabad and attempt to row the Holy River Ganges.

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

It’s a beautiful day in St Tropez and I’m relaxing on the deck of my luxury yacht named Amnesia, sipping a Naked Lady (1 oz. White rum 1 oz. Martini rosso (sweet), 4 dashes Apricot brandy, 2 dashes Grenadine, 4 dashes Lemon juice), and absorbing the warm Mediterranean rays. Today sees the last regatta of the season for St Tropez on the French Riviera, and I’ve got a feeling it’s going to kick off in style this year. Les Voiles d’Automne is a highly demanding, high level competition for the ultra skilled, so that’s why I haven’t entered. I like to think of myself as a very skilled spectator. My girlfriend, Cinderella, joins me at the table carrying a tray full of fresh bread, cheese and a bottle of Romanée Conti red wine from Cote de Nuits in Burgundy. She is topless with wet curly blonde hair and the sweat on her large tanned breasts glistens in the sunlight. A former Playboy bunny and famous model from St Tropez, Cinderella’s stunning features resembles that of a young Brigitte Bardot and sex kitten Honey Rider in Dr No. I met her three days ago at the opening of the new restaurant at Le Byblos. Our eyes meet over a crowded, pretentious room and it wasn’t until the clock struck midnight, when she was slamming me up against a toilet wall and ripping open my Escada jeans, that we properly introduced ourselves. It was love.

‘Are you having a beautiful day, my darling?’ Cinderella asks as she whips off her shades and sits down on my lap.

‘Life doesn’t get any better than this,’ I laugh, kissing her left breast.

Cinderella giggles and grinds her firm buttocks into my crotch. At that moment Simon and Darell, aka Captain Ginger, skid across the wooden deck wearing bright Hawaiian shirts with two gorgeous models in bikinis wrapped around them.

‘Bonjour, brother, how’s it hanging?’ Si grins, puffing on a Behike cigar.

‘Well, let’s just say with Cinderella sitting on my diamonds, there’s no hanging!’

Everyone laughs out loud and slaps their thighs.

‘Anyway, where have you guys been hiding?’

‘We’ve been eating Bouillabaisse on the seafront and discussing the French Revolution with a bearded man from Aruba,’ Darell sings, dancing over to the table. He pours himself a large glass of wine and winks at Cinderella.

‘Really?’

‘Uh, no, amigo, I’ve been leap frogging in the master bedroom with Abella and Roesia. These girls are full of surprises I can tell you.’ The girls kiss his cheek and caress his chest. ‘By the way, dude, who names a multi-million dollar yacht after memory loss and the inability to imagine the future?’

I lean back in my super soft expensive leather chair and ponder on Darell’s question. He’s right, who names a multi-million dollar yacht Amnesia? I shrug my shoulders and smell the sweet Mediterranean Sea air. Oh, our lives have certainly changed since our Radio 4 interview. Books have flown out of the garden shed into the hands of our fans faster than ever before. With five million books sold (two number one bestsellers and a chewing gum commercial under our belts) we’ve waved goodbye to our old poor lives of working nights in windowless warehouses, and said a big Hola to pure luxury with high performance sports cars, mega yachts and beautiful French girls massaging our tanned buttocks. We’re rich beyond our wildest dreams, millionaires with freedom to roam our wonderful planet. I sometimes have to pinch myself just to make sure I’m not dreaming. Finally, I don’t have any more money worries – no more ‘sorry’ postcards to my bank manager whenever I go on an adventure, no more cheap wine from the bottom rack, no more taking women on romantic dates to expensive looking restaurants with cheap menus, no more buying clothes from second hand shops, no more cheap aftershave that burns your neck and peels the skin, no more cheap economy flights, no more staying in flea-bitten hotels with sticky floors.

‘Chris, my darling, would you like another glass of wine before we make love to the sounds of St Tropez,’ Cinderella whispers in my ear.

I stare into her liquid blue eyes and kiss her ruby lips. ‘Yes, one more glass.’

‘You’re amazing,’ she smiles, sliding her long red fingernails down my chest. ‘I’ve never made love to a guy who is so kind, handsome and giving. You are like rays of bright sunshine over a beautiful meadow. I have a little surprise for you.’

‘A surprise?’

‘Yes, a surprise. My lesbian friend and ex hardcore porn star, Summer Moon, is coming over to the yacht tonight. We can all get naked and have fun. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Noo, no, uh, that’s g-great,’ I stutter, pouring a glass of wine. ‘Any friend of yours is certainly a friend of … hang on a minute, not Summer Moon from the hit X-rated movie Indiana Pussy and the Raiders of the lost Dildo?

‘Yes!’

‘Fantastic,’ I beam with joy, spilling my glass of very expensive Romanée Conti onto the deck of my multi-million pound Mega Yacht. With excitement, I leap out of my super soft leather chair and jump onto the beautifully designed diving board. Facing the blue ocean I raise my arms into the air, and smile. ‘Oh, thank you Lord for this beautiful…’ I suddenly flick open my eyes and find myself lying on a bed fully clothed in a small room in Allahabad. The sweet smell of apple tobacco is heavy in the air, and I can hear the lively Indian street life outside the window.

‘…Wakey-wakey, it’s time to go!’ Si shouts, throwing a wet towel on my face.

‘Go where?’ I mumble, rubbing my eyes.

‘Varanasi. We’re going to buy a boat and row to Varanasi, remember?’

I use all of my strength and lean up against the cold white wall. My head is spinning 360 after our little Mcdowell’s No.1 whiskey session last night in some local drinking hole. It takes me four blinks and a slap around the face for my brain to kick start into action; part of me is still nuts deep in a marina in St Tropez. With the help of a large gulp of warm water, I swing my legs off the bed and look over at Darell sat smoking the shisha pipe in an old armchair.

‘Whose crazy idea was it to buy a boat?’

‘Not sure,’ he smiles, blowing a large smoke cloud into the air, ‘but I think it was yours.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yeah, it was yours,’ Si snaps, shoving his neatly folded clothes into the top of his rucksack.

‘Really? Oh, I must have been drunk. Where do we buy a boat?’

‘Down by the river I would imagine,’ Si frowns, pulling the straps tightly on his worn rucksack.

‘What about the goat?’ Darell laughs, puffing on the pipe.

‘Goat?’ I reply.

‘Yeah, the goat and three chickens.’

‘Three chickens?’ I scratch my head and try to comprehend what Darell is saying. Then I laugh, when it suddenly occurs to me that my fellow travelling companions are indeed a bunch of monkeys. ‘This is all very funny, guys, but I’m not in the mood for your childish sexual fantasies involving goats and chickens?’

‘It was your idea,’ Si mumbles, kicking his rucksack. ‘You said it would be like the book Three Men in a Boat, but instead of the dog we’d take a goat and three chickens.’

‘Okay, okay, hold on a minute, so let me get this right. Last night, after a few cheeky shots of whiskey and a chicken biryani, I came up with this great idea of buying a boat, a goat and three chickens and rowing from here in Allahabad to the Holy city of Varanasi, you know – the three of us in a boat, in India, rowing, animals, birds – rowing, us, factory workers – a goat?’

‘Yes,’ Si laughs, throwing a peanut at my head. ‘Come on, let’s go!’

With our rucksacks on our backs, we skip out of the hotel and into the streets of Allahabad, a city in the north Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. It’s my second time to this vibrant and colourful, challenging and poverty stricken country. Ten years have passed since I was last in India and I’m glad to be back. Bony cows munch on newspaper in the hot smelly streets, beside rows of shops selling pretty much everything you can imagine. Rickshaws, horse and carts and bicycles zoom past at speed; only the most experienced or totally insane attempt to cross the road. People dash through the streets and colourful blue and orange saris glow bright against the black, shabby walls. There’s no space on the streets to ponder, no room to stop and look at a map or have a fascinating conversation about the Dalai Lama and his Holiness’s hobbies of meditating, gardening and repairing watches. You need eyes in the back of your head, a sixth sense to enable you to dodge the traffic, the hawkers, the cows, the crowds, the homeless, the thieves and the pot holes in the crumbling pavements.

We bundle into the back of a rickshaw and zigzag through the congested streets to the Yamuna River and the new Yamuna Bridge, which is one of the largest constructions in India. They are not wrong when they say it’s the largest. This massive concrete structure towers above us with its Cable-Stayed four lane road stretching out into the distance. From the road we can see a group of small wooden boats moored up at the edge of the river with men sitting on them. It isn’t long before a small guy wearing a red jumper spots us and runs up the bank. He slides up next to us, introducing himself as Arnav, and invites us on a boat trip down the river. We kindly decline, but I can’t resist asking him if he has a boat for sale. The guy drops his smile, and frowns.

I point to the boats on the river. ‘We want to buy one of those.’

Arnav stares at me dumbfounded, like I had just shown him an erotic cartoon drawing of Siva and Goddess Lakshmi having sex on top of an elephant.

‘I whip a handful of notes out of my pocket and wave them in the air. ‘Money for the boat,’ I smile, waiting for his response. ‘We want to buy a boat.’

Finally his eyes light up. He nods vigorously and rubs his hands together. ‘Ah, yes, yes, buy boat! Please, follow me.’

We follow him down to the river where he shows us a seven metre long wooden boat moored up. He invites us to climb aboard. It’s a fairly large boat considering there’s no engine and only wooden oars. There’s a roof and a green flag at the stern flapping in the hot wind. The men from the other boats walk over and one of them starts talking to Arnav. They babble on for a few minutes, obviously discussing the price. Arnav laughs and they look over at us. He then fires back a figure of 29,000 rupees. We rattle our brains and work out the exchange rate with the dollar. We discover it’s roughly around $600. It sounds a lot, so we try to barter the price down. Arnav shakes his head and sticks with the price. We consider climbing off the boat and walking away, but we know it won’t make any difference. By now the word has spread that three dumb-ass tourists are buying a boat and, before you can say Aishwarya Rai, a crowd of unshaven men have gathered around us. They stare, which makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. Maybe this is a crazy idea after all I think to myself – one hell of a silly way to throw $600 down the drain, but then part of me wants to continue on and experience this once in a life time adventure of rowing along the Ganges. At the end of the day it’s only $200 each. Ok, so we’re not on a multi-million dollar yacht, but rowing will do.

After much discussion we all agree to buy the boat. Handing over the cash, we make Arnav write out a receipt as proof of purchase with contact names and mobile numbers. Well, I say receipt. It’s more like a tatty piece of paper pulled from his back pocket. Nevertheless, the last thing we need is some annoyed local running alongside the Ganges demanding his boat back. Arnav scribbles his signature and writes down the total amount paid at the bottom of the piece of paper. Darell grabs his mobile phone and rings the number. Arnav answers his mobile and chats to Darell, so we know the number is correct. With all the paperwork complete and the deal done and dusted, we make sure we have a little practice rowing the boat first before we hit the Yamuna River and the Ganges. Funnily enough we discover very quickly that we’re all crap. That is apart from Captain Ginger, who was once in the Sea Cadets. He manoeuvres the boat and works the oars with great skill and judgment. It’s a beautiful sight to see, and I suddenly feel more relaxed knowing that at least one of us knows what he’s doing.

We’re about to set off, when Si remembers the supplies and the goat and the three chickens. We leap off the boat with our bags, and squeeze through the huge crowd of men that has gathered up on the river’s edge. There are even a couple of school children hiding at the back. I inform Arnav about our shopping plans and tell him we’ll be back in half-an hour. Like excited children, we run up the bank and hail two bicycle taxis. I’m with Darell and we head to a farmers market somewhere in the city. The guy cycling is very thin and he is wearing a thick brown cardigan. There is no sweat on his face and he has a lot of strength, considering he weighs the same as a ballerina. He turns sharply and pedals down a narrow bumpy side road, where he effortlessly weaves around the rubbish and the people. Up ahead I see a herd of sheep and a pen full of goats – we’re heading in the right direction. There is straw on the stony road and what with all the animals around, including huge pigs, it’s like we’ve journeyed back in time three hundred years. Before long the driver pulls up outside an old building with a small open hatch at the front. Goat’s heads and many other body parts are displayed for sale in the sunshine. We climb out and are greeted by a man with a moustache, whose fingers are stained red from blood. He takes us down a side alley and into a backroom where there are five goats huddled together in a corner. Chunks of meat are dotted around the concrete floor that’s covered with red straw. The smell of blood is strong and the fear in the goat’s eyes is truly disturbing. The five goats are bleating loudly and running in circles, they know what is happening. The guy grabs a black and white one by the neck and drags it over to us. He nods and points to the goat. Darell squeezes the goat’s stomach and raises his thumb. The deal has been done, 1,500 rupees. I climb on to the back with the goat between my legs. The poor thing sneezes and looks out into the street while I try hard not to look into its eyes. Darell names the goat Bruce, and on the way back to the boat we stop at a hardware shop and buy a big pot, plates, cutlery, a knife and three rather plucked white chickens from a farmer next door. With all the supplies on the list ticked, we return to the river and see Si has made it back before us. He’s sitting on the boat with bags full of supplies, and laughs when he sees Darell walking over with the goat and carrying three flapping chickens upside down by their feet.

It’s time to leave Allahabad. Arnav pushes the boat out while Darell and Si each grab an oar and quickly find their rowing rhythm.

‘Ship Ahoy,’ I sing, waving goodbye to the crowd watching from the bank. Everyone waves back apart from Arnav, who is too busy counting his money and smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Darrel and Si work as a team and row the boat effortlessly in the right direction towards the bridge. It’s like they have both been rowing boats for years. I look over my shoulder and see the crowd are now the size of ants – we’re making progress. Bruce seems happy enough munching on the boat, but the chickens don’t look so good. I bend down and untie the string wrapped around their feet and laugh as they cluck and flap around the boat. The flapping doesn’t distract Darell – he just continues to plough all of his energy and concentration into propelling the boat through the water. Si on the other hand keeps stopping to blow on his blistered hands. This causes a few problems and we find ourselves drifting the wrong way.

‘Keep rowing, monkey boy, keep the rhythm!’ I scream every time Si stops to complain about the pain.

Si yells obscenities in between rows, and says something in the region of ‘Go fuck yourself, butt munch, my hands are shredded to shit.’ Something similar to that, I can’t quite hear over the noise of the crying goat and the clucking of the chickens. Tempers were flying.

‘The goat has just taken a dump on my bag!’ Si yells, throwing the oar down. ‘We must eat him immediately.’

Suddenly, our Ganges experience is turning into a nightmare. Maybe we should have paid for a guide. Darell stays focused and, after a sip of water and a puff on a cigarette, Si too was back on the oars. We pass under the bridge and head towards the Magh Mela festival on the left side of the Yamuna River. Millions of pilgrims come to this sacred religious festival from all over India to wash away their sins and attain enlightenment. Thousands of tents line up as far as the eye can see and masses of men and women bath in the river. Boats full of people pass by and they stare at us and Bruce. We seem to be getting an interesting reaction from the Indian folk on the river, but I’m not too sure if it was such a good idea bringing the goat. Up ahead we see the river change from an orange colour to a blue where the Yamuna River and the Ganges meet. I navigate the boat to the right, so we move away from the festival and join the Ganges River. In the distance the grey body of a dolphin arches out of the water. It’s amazing to see. I knew dolphins lived in the polluted Ganges, but I never realized I would actually see one. The last dolphin Si saw was in the Thames in London years ago. Another dolphin skims the surface and then another and another, four in all and they pass close to the boat. It’s a ‘dolphin lover’s’ dream and a truly beautiful sight. Our attention has been slightly distracted and the current has taken us off course, so my trusty rowers grab their oars and continue to battle on like true brave warriors. A wave of guilt washes over me, and I ask Si if he wants to swap over and navigate for a while, as I can see he looks a bit red from the sun and sweaty, but he shakes his head, blows his hands and carries on.

After an hour of rowing, the city of Allahabad and the festival are now out of sight. It’s quiet out here and there are no buildings, only a vulture pecking on a decaying body and a small group of people burning the dead on the river bank. Now we are out of the city and in no man’s land we are alone – alone in a boat with all of our belongings and a goat and three chickens. The river widens and the current becomes faster, making the boat more difficult to control. We begin to drift to the right into a much faster part of the river. I shout out to the guys, letting them know who should row and who shouldn’t. It sounds straightforward, but when you are competing against the power of a river, you’ve got no chance. You can hear the panic in my voice, which doesn’t help the situation, and up ahead I see a black object floating towards the boat. At first we think it’s the head of a dead buffalo or a large black piece of wood, but when it passes by we see that it’s a dead body. I’ve never seen a dead body floating in a river before, especially not a kid of about twelve years old. He’s stomach is bloated and his mouth is wide open. I hope it was a natural death, but from the look of horror on the kid’s face I don’t think so. In the Indian culture, families who are poor and can’t afford the wood to burn their love ones often throw the body into the Holy Ganges. Naturally, this absolutely freaks us all out, and I can quite literally say the rowing adventure we first had in mind has suddenly taken a different turn. It doesn’t take long before my navigating skills land us in trouble and instead of directing the boat to the right and into a wider, deeper part of the river, we slowly drift into shallow water and get stuck on a muddy bank. We had to think fast because this area looks lawless, and it won’t be long before someone see’s us with all our belongings. Suddenly, a group of boys swimming nearby run over and help out by attempting to pull the boat away from the marshy bank, but the boat is too heavy for them and we’re stranded on the Ganges in the middle of nowhere. How are we going to pull the boat into deeper water? The boys stand around the boat and laugh. I then notice a man stumbling towards us through the long reeds. My fears have become a reality, and I know instantly that this guy is not about to offer us a helping hand. The guy is wearing rags and looks like he is on drugs. His face is thin, stubbly and weather beaten. He looks at us with his red blood shot eyes and peers into the boat. He sees our rucksacks and then looks at Bruce. He begins shouting at us and saying ‘danikka’, but we haven’t a clue what that means. The boys jump around and continue to laugh. The guy begins to get angry and shouts at the top of his voice – ‘danikka!’ ‘danikka!’, and tells one of the boys to go and fetch something for him. I don’t know what to do. He then raises his hand to Darell’s head and symbolizes the shape of a gun with his bony fingers. My heart drops. We have to do something now – fast. He then raises his fingers to Si’s head and pretends to be dead and floating in the river. I reach into my back pocket and whip out a 1000 rupee note. I hand it to the guy, and he smiles. Darell grabs a load of cash and hands it to him. The guy stops shouting and looks at me. He mumbles something before stumbling away. This is our chance to get the hell out of here. We grab the oars and row like crazy. I stick my oar into the mud and push the boat away from the marshy bank, my sudden strength appearing from out of nowhere. The boat slides out of the mud and reaches deeper water. We continue rowing, but the current is taking us back towards the bank and towards the guy who robbed us. We panic and row harder, but it’s no use. Suddenly, Darell throws down his oar, whips off his trainers and leaps out of the boat and into the Ganges. He grabs the boat and pulls it through the water towards the dead body floating further up stream. Si follows suit and helps pull the boat. They both jump back in the boat as the bright orange sun is low in the sky. It won’t be long before it drops below the horizon. We decide to turn back to Allahabad; the thought of carrying on for three days along the river is out of the question. The problem with our decision is that it’ll be dark in two hours and that’s not enough time to get back to the bridge. It’s either carry on up the river or row in the dark. From incredible adrenalin to utter fear and panic, we find ourselves in a situation where we have to make a decision which could ultimately change our lives. Just as we are about to set off on the long journey to the city, I suddenly see a large boat in the distance. It’s on the other side of the river and heading in our direction. I grab an oar and begin rowing like crazy and shouting and waving. Darell rows too and we battle hard at fighting the current. Slowly we drift over to the other side of the river and reach the large boat that has moored up. We shout out to the two guys standing on top and plead with them to tow us back to Allahabad. The guys look confused when they see us rowing towards them with Bruce and three chickens in the boat. Luckily, one of the guys speaks English and calls for us to throw him a rope. It hasn’t even crossed our minds that these guys could now also rob us, but we take the chance as it is an amazing relief to see another boat and the smiles from fellow human beings. One of the guys ties the rope onto his boat and waves us on board. We jump onto the bank and on to the boat. The guy who speaks English is friendly with a welcoming smile. He seems genuine and is truly concerned about what has happened to us. We tell them our story of rowing to Varanasi. They shake their heads and tell us about the danger and the people who live along the river, the untouchables. He seems to know about these people. I notice a laptop on the deck and I ask him what he’s doing. He tells me they are working for the government and measuring the depths of the river at different stages. Still extremely traumatized by the whole experience, we are all exhausted and keen to get back to the city and have a strong drink. We ask the guy if he’d like to have our boat as a thank you gift for saving us from the river, but he just laughs and quickly gets back to work.

After an hour, the guys finish off their work and we slowly make our way back to the city. The sun is kissing the horizon and the clouds paint bright yellow and orange flames across the sky. It’s truly beautiful, one of the most dramatic sunsets I have ever seen. We stand on the boat in silence and look out across the Ganges. In the distance you can see the faint outline of the Yamuna Bridge and the silhouetted body of a dolphin in the water close by. The boat slows down and pulls up next to five boats similar to ours on the river bank. There are a few huts and a group of men and women sat in a circle by a roaring fire. The guy shouts out to them and unties our boat. He tells us to grab our rucksacks from the boat and if it is okay for us to leave it with these local people living on the river. With no use for it now we are happy to give them our boat, Bruce and the chickens.

You could say I was crazy to even attempt such a journey, especially when it involves putting our lives in danger. This is true. Sometimes it is the dangerous and the hard times on an adventure which make it memorable. Our trip to India was to seek adventure. What we did was extreme and a fantastic way to throw $600 dollars down the drain, but it’s only money. For us now we’re hitting the road. No more rowing or buying boats. I think we’ll journey to Varanasi by public transport instead. RIP Bruce.

Road to Damascus in a $500 Ford Escort

By Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

An open road, a set of wheels and absolutely no time limit is, for me, the ultimate freedom. In fact, I would rather go on a really, really long road trip in a car without air-con across a desert with Uri Geller rattling on about how he can bend spoons with the power of his mind due to paranormal powers given to him by extraterrestrials, than spend two weeks on a package tour holiday with a load of Brits and get dive bombed by a drunk dude with a beer belly. Living in a car can be a little uncomfortable at times, but once you’ve become used to a steering wheel wedged between your thighs, permanent neck ache, backache, and the gas stove cuisine of tinned food, spaghetti and cheap chicken, the sensation of passing through foreign lands and peoples’ lives is hard to beat.

So, here I am in my £300 Ford Escort at sunrise parked up somewhere near to the Göreme Open Air Museum in the Cappadocia region of Turkey. My brother is snoring next to me in the passenger seat, his unwashed long hair resembling that of a shaggy dog curled up in front of the fire. I wind down the window and peer out across the bright orange desert.  The raw of a flame can be heard in the distance, and a yellow and blue hot air balloon rides the hot air currents and drifts slowly over the dry landscape with its strange volcanic mushroom-shaped rock formations named “fairy chimneys” sprouting out from the ground. Holes are dotted across the rocks where ancient civilizations have carved windows and doorways into these natural dwellings, and Byzantines have made chapels with paintings during the spread of Early Christianity.

My passion for road trips had been stirred at a young age with family camping holidays to the South of France.  There is nothing more exciting than catching a midnight ferry, and it has certainly inspired us to live like gypsies at least once a year and explore foreign lands by car. This time our transportation is a rusty Ford Escort that we’d bought from our mechanic friend for £300, and our chosen destination is Damascus in Syria. We launched ourselves on this journey from the traffic jam invested East Midlands in the UK and have driven through the Loire valley to the South of France via St Tropez and Monaco – onwards towards the archeological wonders of Pisa and the leaning Tower, across to the labyrinth of canals and winding narrow streets of Venice and then down the sunny Croatian coast, across into rainy Bosnia and Herzegovina to shrapnel covered Sarajevo where we slept on Sniper Alley, across the whole of Bulgaria and down through the centre of Turkey. It has been an amazing journey so far, with ever changing scenery that has been as beautiful as Fiona Butler’s naked bottom in the cheeky 1976 photo ‘Tennis Girl’ by Martin Elliott. I guess some might consider driving an old banger 3544 kilometers to Damascus is a teeny-weeny bit crazy, especially when the car has dodgy tracking and an engine that looks more like a heap of decaying scrap metal, but knowing the car will make it all the way there and back without any problems is, in my world, sooo missionary position. I’m sure Top Gear’s Mr Jezza C would agree. Our destination is the Middle East and I am not sure why. I caught a glimpse of the news a few days before we left, and five British men had been kidnapped in Iraq by a group calling themselves the Asaib al-Haq, or the Band of the Righteous, and the BBC journalist Alan Johnston was still making the headlines since his kidnapping by Gaza militants. For obvious reasons, this did worry us for a few minutes as Syria is precariously located between both Iraq and Israel. We drank beer in the garden and tapped our chins late into the night, contemplating whether a road trip to Syria was too dangerous.

‘Maybe we should drive to Finland instead,’ Si had suggested, with his head buried deep inside a world atlas.

‘No, we should drive to Syria and check it out,’ I’d replied, throwing a burger under the grill. ‘Let’s put these little ‘kidnapping concerns’ into the ’stop watching the news box’ and book the midnight ferry. After all, on the Foreign Office website it says Syria is a safe country with low crime. In fact, it’s probably where the terrorists go for their holidays.’ Cracking open another beer we’d both agreed to continue with our plans. The adventure was mapped out.

With the sun burning bright over the dry moonscape and my chicken noodle and bread breakfast now lying heavy in my stomach, I fire up the Escort and head south through the Cappadocia region. Si slots in one of his many mixed tapes into the cassette player and blasts out his Stone Roses, shoe gazing tracks. Before long we pass through the town of Nevşehir in the heart of Cappadocia and drive alongside a field full of yellow sunflowers on the D765 to the agricultural city of Nigde. The windows are down and there’s an open road in front of us as we cruise the High Taurus, a mountain range full to the brim with important chromium deposits and other minerals such as silver, copper, iron, lignite and zinc. It isn’t long before we turn left onto the E90 and pass through the large city of Adana and the blue waters of the Seyhan River reservoir. I spot a woman selling grapes at the roadside and I can’t resist pulling over and buying a bag. Adana produces great quantities of grapes and citrus fruits and also cotton, wheat, corn, soy bean and barley. Once outside the hustle and bustle of Adana, we begin to drive along the Mediterranean coast to the town of İskenderun at the foot of the Nur Mountains. We pull over in a lay by and cook a tin of meatballs and spaghetti on the gas stove, and afterwards I take the opportunity to grab a shave using the hot spaghetti water.

Around one o’clock in the afternoon we reach the small Yayladağı border checkpoint with Syria. It’s a gorgeous day and the mountain roads are captivating, although, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared by the thought of entering this Middle Eastern country. I’m absolutely terrified! Have we finally lost the plot? Sleeping in the car and doing long road trips is nothing new to us, but driving towards a war zone feels slightly insane. Maybe we should turn around and drive home. No one will care. What are we trying to prove? It’s been twelve days since I’ve read a newspaper and I begin to wonder if it might have been wise to check the current political situation in Syria before heading blindly for the border. Part of me was hoping the Escort would splutter its last breath and blow a gasket on the Mediterranean coast. At least that way we wouldn’t have to drive our banger to Damascus that’s a mere 466.46 miles from Baghdad and next door to one of the most dangerous countries on earth. Soldiers have been fighting hard in Iraq recently and Bush has ordered the deployment of 20,000 American troops in order to provide security to Baghdad and Al Anbar Province.

I mention my fears to Si, and he calms me with the knowledge that the President of Syria, Bashar al-Assad, opposed the 2003 invasion of Iraq and has good foreign relations with the United States and the European Union. Composing ourselves, we crawl over to the checkpoint and pull up alongside a border guard. He’s a friendly looking guy wearing glasses and a mustard coloured uniform. He leans forward and smiles at us before glancing into the back of the car. Apart from the sleeping bags, a torn road map and a few tins of Irish stew, there’s little of interest. He asks for our passports and quickly flicks to the visas, which we had obtained from the Syrian Embassy in London on route to Dover. He hands back our passports and asks to see the documents for the car. Si fumbles inside the glove box and pulls out a red folder full of tatty pieces of paper. He thumbs through the pages and whips out the Escort’s V5. He passes it over to the guard and with a frown he skim reads the front before handing it back.

‘Are you sure we don’t need some kind of Customs Certificate?’ Si mumbles, looking extremely nervous.

‘I don’t know. I think we just need car insurance or a Green Card thingy-me-bob.’

‘A Green Card thingy-me-bob?’

‘Yeah, but I did read on the internet about some certificate you can get from the Automobile Clubs and Touring Clubs, which is against a deposit of quarter of the current market value of the vehicle. I don’t think we need that, though.’

We both turn to the guard, and smile. He peers over his glasses and looks at us curiously.

‘We need insurance,’ Si smiles, tapping the steering wheel.

The guard indicates for us to open the boot of the car. We both climb out and Si quickly whips it open. The guard rummages through the pots and pans and junk that has accumulated over the past two weeks. He nods and tells us to close the boot. He points to a building on the right and informs us that we can get our car insurance from there. We thank him and I pull the car over to the side. Locking the doors, we walk into the building and into a dimly lit office with a bed against a wall where we are welcomed by a smartly dressed young guy sitting behind a messy desk. He smiles and shakes our hands. We tell him we need car insurance and in an instant he’s typing away on his old dusty computer and printing out some kind of form. The guy’s English is exceptionally good and from his appearance you can tell he has had a good education. I ask him if many tourists pass through this checkpoint, and he tells me they normally enter at the bigger one at Kargamış. I ask him what the situation is like in Syria at the moment and he just tells us not to worry. ‘This is not Iraq,’ he smiles, gathering all the relevant paperwork together. ‘Welcome to Syria.’ A huge weight is immediately lifted off our shoulders. I can see that this guy is genuine and really happy to see tourists visiting his country, and I wonder how much Syria’s economy has been affected by the lack of tourism as a result of the war. We chat to the guy for a while, and tell him about our trip overland from the UK. Si asks him about the massive influx of Iraqi refugees into Syria which had brought about rising prices and overcrowding, but he tells us most Syrians seem to have accepted more than a million of the refugees happily enough. We pay the costly US$150 for the two week car insurance and bid our friend goodbye.

After an hour of skipping into various customs buildings and having our passports checked and stamped, we jump in the car and pass through the first barrier. We’re told we need to take our documents into another office, which like all the others doesn’t look like it’s been decorated since the 1950’s. Two over weight guards sit slouched behind a wooden desk and a large bunch of electrical wires stick out of the wall directly above their heads. We wait patiently for them to figure out why all of the paperwork keeps blowing around the office. I point to the open window behind them and they all laugh and thank me for my help. Finally, after waiting for a long line of truckers to sneak piles of cash under the desk in a bid to bribe the officials into letting them transport their cargo over the border, our paperwork is stamped and we’re told we can go. Syria here we come!

We drive slowly down the winding mountain roads and keep our distance from the Syrian car in front. The landscape is surprisingly green here despite the soaring temperatures. I suddenly notice the petrol tank is low, so we go on the hunt for a filling station. You’d imagine this would be fairly straightforward in a country neighbouring such an oil rich nation as Iraq, but much to our frustration we can’t seem to find one. Gritting our teeth with each mile as the fuel gauge dips below the red, it’s not until we’re on the coast heading for Lattakia that we stumble across one. Pulling up beside a rusty petrol pump, an African guy wearing overalls walks over to the car. I fall into conversation with him and I find out he is from Nigeria. I tell him about our road trip and that we’ve driven all the way from England. He seems unhappy, and tells me he would love to go to London because they are racist here in Syria. He fills the tank to the top and I pay for the petrol, which works out at around 25p ($0.50) a litre (2007). That’s more like it! I give the guy a tip and wish him well. Back on the dusty road, it isn’t long before we reach the port town of Lattakia. In addition to serving as the biggest port in Syria, the city is bursting with ancient history, street cafes and pleasant beaches. We pull over and enjoy the ocean views. People walking past stop and study our number plate and GB sticker, a clear indication of how far we have driven. We’re now closer to Baghdad than Bucharest. We consider removing the GB sticker from the car, for fear of advertising our country of origin to unsavory people, but in the end we decide to risk it and continue to enjoy the fresh sea air. Journeying on, we leave Lattakia and drive south to Tartus along the Mediterranean Coast bordered by the Alawite Mountains. It’s a scruffy little town with the majority of the population ethnic Levantine Arab and about 3,000 people of Greek origin. The History of Tartus goes back to the 2nd millennium BC when it was founded as a Phoenician colony of Aradus. We take a stroll around the Old Town, but decide not to have a dip in the ocean or walk on the messy beach. I look out across the water and realize that a hundred miles across the ocean is the island of Cyprus. Here we are in the Middle East, a region of the world that has become synonymous in recent years with death and war, and a stone’s throw away in Ayia Napa there are thousands of Brits drinking beer and dancing to Lady GaGa. We continue south towards the Lebanese border as we head for the Crac des Chevaliers, a fortress that was one of the Crusader’s most important strongholds in the Middle East. Skimming above Lebanon we head westward on a four-lane highway before turning off through a lush green valley. A few minutes later we spy the Crac des Chevaliers on top of a high hill. It looks like a castle from a child’s imagination, with towers and turrets on top of a mountain reaching up into the clouds. Putting the Escort to the test, we pass a mosque and two donkeys and begin to climb a seriously steep hill through the town of al-Husn. Local people stop in their tracks and watch our beast of a car splutter and kangaroo. We eventually pull over at the side of the road to give the engine a rest. A group of kids riding bicycles crowd around us and look inside the car. They laugh at us before cycling away. An old man sits outside a little shop and waves. We wave back and take the opportunity to shot a few pictures. Driving further up the hill, a shepherd crosses the road with a flock of sheep and we turn left into the car park in front of the magnificent castle walls. The sun is slowly setting, so we decide to park up and spend the night here. We see a hotel a little further up the hill, and park the car looking out over the town below and the mountainous landscape that reaches out to the Lebanon.

As it grows dark, we decide to head inside the hotel and grab a bite to eat. We’re welcomed into the restaurant by a large man with a beard and his young son. The place is empty with the exception of a small group of German tourists. We sit by the window that looks out across the mountains and order lamb kebabs and a couple of bottles of beer. The guy asks us if we would like a room for the night, but we explain to him that we’ve got an early start and need to sleep in the car. We negotiate a price to use the shower and toilet facilities, and as a gesture of good will he throws a couple of clean towels into the deal. He tells us we are sixteen miles from the Lebanese border and only the other day machine gun fire could be heard in the distance. Thanking the owner, we eventually retire to the car exhausted from our journey and buzzing with excitement at the promise of reaching Damascus in the morning.

Waking at sunrise with a slight hangover, we grab our cameras and capture bright purple thistles and poppies growing beside the castle that’s drenched in orange light. A witness of many great battles and a World National Heritage site, it’s a magnificent piece of Limestone architecture built by Crusaders between the mid-12th and late 13th centuries and is one of the most important preserved medieval military castles in the world. The castle was built in order to control the so-called “Homs Gap”, the gateway to Syria, and it was through this passage that Syria communicated with the Mediterranean. After a few hours ducking and diving with our cameras around the old Crac, we grab some food and other supplies and head south through the desert on the legendary ‘Road to Damascus’. The term ‘The Road to Damascus’ was coined in the New Testament and refers to the conversion of Saul of Tarsus, later known as the Apostle Paul, to Christianity while travelling to Damascus to persecute Christians.  Today we refer to ‘A road to Damascus’ moment, or change, as an important point in someone’s life where a great change, or reversal, of ideas or beliefs occurs. All of a sudden a sign whips over our heads pointing to Baghdad, and I experience a similar reversal of ideas about what on earth we’re doing so close to Iraq! The desert landscape either side of the road stretches for miles into the distance; there are hills and small brick houses shimmering on the horizon. The heat is immense this morning. Cars and dirty trucks beep their horns and a man zooms by on a motorbike wearing a red and white keffiyeh, which flaps on top of his head. We pass a truck that has crashed into a derelict building, and moments later I swerve around a car parked up in the slow lane. For some reason the driver appears to think it’s safe to stop on the highway and have a little chat with his buddy walking along the hard shoulder. Pylons and hundreds of large billboards of the president are lined up along the highway. President Bashar al-Assad, trained in ophthalmology at the Western Eye Hospital in London, but his education was cut short due to his brother’s death and subsequent confirmation as President by an unopposed referendum in 2001. He was expected to bring a more liberal approach to the leadership than his father. He is married to Asma (Emma) Assad, née Akhras, a Syrian Sunni Muslim from Acton in west London who he met in England. I try to imagine the British Prime Minister Gordon Brown’s ugly mug stuck on hundreds of massive posters along the M1. If the traffic jams aren’t enough to cope with, seeing Mr B smiling at you as you crawl past would certainly turn you to drink. A blue road sign flashes over head with ‘Jordan Damascus’ on it in big white letters. We’re getting close now and the traffic is building up. Without warning, the front right tyre suddenly blows and I’m forced to swerve over onto the side of the highway. The traffic zooms dangerously past and, with military precision, we jump into action faster than a couple of dedicated F1 mechanics in the pits.

Within seconds we’re dripping with sweat in the 40oC heat and leaping back inside the car. Joining the heavy traffic I grab a towel and dab my face – the adrenalin is really starting to kick in now as a road sign for Beruit flashes past. Much to our relief we eventually hit the outskirts of Damascus and join the heaving traffic. People in vehicles either side of us smile and look at the car. They seem fascinated by the fact the steering wheel is on the other side. I’m nervous and feel uncomfortable with all of the attention. We’re hitting the capital of Syria, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, and our driving skills are being tested to the max. There are no rules and the pedestrians walk right in front of the car. We haven’t a clue where we’re going. Suddenly, a yellow taxi passes by and we’re surprised to see a young guy of Arabic appearance stick his head out of the taxi window and shout “Are you from England?” We know instantly he is from Manchester due to his strong Mancunian accent. We are absolutely dumb-founded. “Have you driven all the way?” he laughs, reaching out his hand. Before Si has had time to shake him by the hand the taxi pulls off and disappears into the chaos. We’re rendered speechless. Concentrating on finding a hotel, we turn down a very narrow street into the Old City. There’s hardly any room to make a mistake and if we do it’ll be goodbye to the wing mirrors. I feel like I’m in a scene from an Indiana Jones movie. We pass market stalls as we crawl through the ancient bazaar selling exotic herbs and spices, then weave around wooden carts piled high with colourful fruit and vegetables and see groups of men sitting in the shade drinking tea and smoking water pipes. Si maneuvers the car skillfully through the cobbled streets and we eventually find our way back onto the busy road leading through to the central part of the city. Clothing in Syria is very diverse, with men wearing traditional kuffiyahs, turbans, head wraps and others in modern suits or jeans and t-shirts. Short hair on women and long hair on men is equally uncommon, so my hippie brother stands out like a sore thumb. Arab women, some wearing long black garments called Abayah that covers them from their shoulders to their feet and others in full burqa, walk in groups along the pavement as they carry shopping and browse the market stalls. After driving around for an hour we eventually find a car park not too far from the Old Town. There’s a free space, so we grab it. Straight away a man with a grey moustache and baggy trousers runs over. He appears to be the car park attendant. We fall out of the car and try to ask him if it’s ok to park here for a couple of nights. He seems happy enough for us to leave it here. I feel completely overwhelmed that we’ve made it to Damascus. We’re sore, exhausted, hungry and ready for a lie down. Si takes the GB sticker off the back of the car while I offer the guy some money. He smiles and whips the cash out of my hand. Throwing our rucksacks over our shoulders we head off in search of a hotel. Shop owners and people in the street smile at us as we battle through the crowds. Our search for a hotel doesn’t start well, ok, so our budget is limited and the Carlton, Four Seasons and the Blue Tower are definitely off the list, but we get turned away from a couple of two star joints, who appear to either have a problem with foreigners or are suspicious of our bedraggled appearances. Continuing in our search, we eventually find a room in a hotel way above of our budget. It has a grand reception with a lot of glass and expensive lighting, lush sofas and rich looking Arabs sitting in the foyer who make me feel rather under dressed. We pay for two nights and head to the room.

Three hours later after a beautiful power sleep, a shower and a shave (using hot tap water not hot spaghetti water), I flick on the telly and watch an episode of the classic British sitcom ‘Open all Hours’ on Satellite, where it’s all fun and frolics in the small grocer’s shop in Balby. Arkwright traps his fingers in the till and tries desperately to get Nurse Gladys Emmanuel into bed, while Gr-Granville, the sad errand boy, falls off his bike and hopes someday he’ll fall in love and have a meaningful social life. Slipping on some clean clothes, I look out of the window at the city of Damascus below. Satellite dishes dominate the roofs of the buildings, and a huge banner of the president hangs down the side of a 20 storey office block. The sun begins to set, sparking off a haunting chorus of Muslim prayer which is broadcast from loud speakers from the many mosques across the city. We’re starving and ready to try some local Syrian cuisine, so heading out into the street we jump into a taxi and head for the Jabri House, which is supposed to be one of the most attractive restaurants in Damascus. Our friendly taxi driver nips through the city walls and squeezes through the maze of narrow back streets of the Old City near to the Ummayad Mosque and pulls up outside an old building. Inside the restaurant it’s busy with a great atmosphere, and the old Ottoman house, built in 1737, has traditional Damascene architecture and interior design. There’s a delightful courtyard, a stage to my right and a water fountain in the middle with tables full of people enjoying an evening out. A smartly dressed waiter in black leads us up the stairs to the second floor and shows us to a table on a balcony that over looks the courtyard below. We order grilled skewers of chicken with humus and peppers, plus a huge water pipe to smoke at the table and, because the restaurant doesn’t sell alcoholic drinks due to its close proximity to the mosque, two glasses of fresh orange juice. I peer over the balcony and watch a Syrian family taking photos of each other, and notice an attractive woman in a blue headscarf smoking a water pipe in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It all seems very liberal. The music kicks in and a live band begins to play a selection of traditional Syrian songs. People get up and dance. All of the problems surrounding this country are not on the minds of these happy people tonight.

With bellies bursting, we walk through the crowed narrow streets to the Christian Quarter of the Old City. Western faces begin to appear and we reach a square and the area where there are a few bars. We set up home in a bar cum club on the corner called Mar Mar. It’s very quiet, with people eating at tables inside and out. Claiming stools at the bar, we order a couple of pricey beers in celebration of our arrival to Damascus. Its one o’clock in the morning by the time the party people arrive and before you can say ‘dancing in Damascus’ the place is heaving with the young and fashionable. We drink, dance, make friends with a blonde couple from Belgium and chat to a guy in a sharp suit from Dubai, who’s smoking a cigar and babbling on about how rich he is. The funky Middle Eastern music is amazing and we stumble out of the place with empty wallets, but with big smiles across our faces.

The next morning I feel like my head is about to explode and taking advantage of the complimentary breakfast, we fall out of our beds and collapse in front of a bowl of cereal and a strong coffee. It doesn’t take us long to feel human again, and with our cameras ready for action we hit the Old Town. Grabbing money from a cash point, I get my trainers cleaned by a shoe shine kid, whose smile wins my business. He does a grand job, so I pay him kindly. I love the fast pace of this city and the cultural differences. It’s so exotic and you really do feel like you are on an adventure. I’m starting to get used to seeing a gun sticking out from the back of some guy’s jeans, and the women completely covered up. We arrive at the Al-Hamidiyah souk, which is the largest and the most central souk in Syria, located inside the old walled city next to the Citadel. The souk starts at Al-Thawra Street and ends at the Umayyad Mosque plaza. Shops line the street selling spices, tourist souvenirs, sticky Arab sweets, jewellery, mundane kitchen utensils, clothing and make-up. A man offers Si a pack of cheap white socks, and I’m surprised when he jabs his fingers into his pocket and hands the guy some cash. Si smiles at his new socks, and I imagine family members back home looking very disappointed when he gives them a pair of plain white socks each as a souvenir from the Middle East. We decide to buy everyone back home delicious spices instead. Arriving at the plaza, I’m stunned by the sight of the Umayyad Mosque, one of the largest and oldest mosques in the world which was completed in 715. The mosque holds a shrine which is said to contain the head of John the Baptist honored as a prophet by Muslims and Christians. We sit down and watch people going about their business, a group of children dance in the water fountain nearby and I take pictures of a UN soldier standing by his jeep. It all feels extremely safe here, but in the back of my mind I know there is always the threat of terrorism. I feel the same when I’m in London. We consider going to the car park and checking up on the car, but decide not to. Walking down a maze of streets, we buy some fresh double apple Shisha tobacco from a man who makes it himself in a room at the back of his shop. It’s a good gift for our friend Darell.

Joining a busy two lane road, we take photos of a statue of Saladin on horse back, a Kurdish Muslim who became the Sultan of Egypt and Syria. I later notice the statue is on the Syrian bank notes. Heading back to the hotel we walk past a newly constructed mosque on Sh al-Jumhuriyya. A kid covered in dust and wearing a red and white patterned kuffiyah sits on a wall and smokes a cigarette. I say hello and ask if I can take his picture. Jumping down from the wall he flicks his cigarette into this mouth and poses in front of the camera. For the rest of the afternoon and evening we enjoy the atmosphere around the hotel and use a small internet café nearby. We fall into conversation with the owner of the place and his friend from Iraq. Before I’ve logged into my Hotmail, we’re chatting to the other two guys using computers and we suddenly realise that in this small room there is someone from Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, America and Britain. Obviously, the main topic of conversation is politics, so I mumble something about Tony Blair and take a back seat. After the debate, we make our excuses and leave. It’s an early night.

Checking out of the hotel the next morning, we cross our fingers the car is still parked up where we left it. I’m relieved when I see the dirty blue rust bucket that has transported us all this way from the UK to the Middle East. The same man runs over and looks pleased at our return. He talks fast and points to the car and then at his chest, as if to suggest he has been watching the car 24/7. I give him some cash. We throw our bags into the boot and jump into the car. Our road trip to Damascus it seems has come to an end. Firing up the car we hurtle out of the city towards the highway – now all that is left for us to do is drive back home…

Driving the Trans-Siberian in a $500 Ford Sierra

In May 2003 the Raven brothers took on the ultimate journey with this epic  road trip across Russia, Siberia and through the Zilov Gap in a $500 Ford Sierra.

Well, someone had to do it!

Date of road trip: 03 May 2003. Vehicle: 1.8 litre £300 Ford Sierra with 100,000 miles on the clock. Length of journey:  UK-Vladivostok. Duration: 6 weeks. Hotel : 2 nights.  Slept in the car: 45 days.

Did they meet many freaks? Many.

Robbed? Nearly.

Was it an adventure? ….Oh, yeah!

By Simon Raven & Chris Raven

www.tripsideways.com

Driving from the UK across Russia and Siberia to Vladivostok along the Trans-Siberian Railway in a 1.8litre £300 Ford Sierra with 100,000 miles on the clock  was all too irresistible. Our family and friends thought we had finally lost the plot when we told them about our idea of driving to Vladivostok. They thought we were taking this new lifestyle of ours a little too far. OK, so maybe we were going a bit over the top. I mean, just because we had driven across the US six months before, it didn’t really give us the right to worry everyone or give us the confidence to play fools and take on the world with this massive overland adventure. We hadn’t even met anybody who had been to Russia before, let alone driven across it. Were we kidding ourselves? You could say it would be suicidal to even attempt such a journey, especially as we hadn’t spent weeks researching the roads, or invested money on the correct equipment that would be required for such a huge expedition. Of course, we made sure we had oil, a few spare tyres, a GB sticker and an SAS Survival Guide, which Simon bought from Oxfam for 50p, but apart from this, we took the attitude that we’d just see what happened along the way. A few weeks before our departure, we jumped on the internet to see if we could find any websites by fellow adventurers who had driven along the Trans-Siberian Railway to Vladivostok. It was quite worrying as I only found a few. They were driving huge 4×4’s and both had been heavily sponsored. It showed pictures of them driving over dusty potholed roads and crossing deep rivers. It looked impossible, and neither of them had managed to complete the journey to Vladivostok without putting their vehicle on the train. What really put doubt in my mind, was the fact that there appeared to be a section of highway in Eastern Siberia between Chita and Khabarovsk that was still under construction. What chance did we have if the highway was still being bulldozed? How would we be able to make it across Siberia without a 4×4? I mentioned this to Si in passing, but he just shrugged his shoulders and told me not to worry. Deep down, I knew that if we were going to do it we might as well take the bull by the horns and go in blind. Adventurers: Simon Raven & Chris Raven.

Buy ‘The Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian’

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

Chita, Siberia 2003.

Chita, a city closed to the outside world until 1988 and deep in the arse end of nowhere is located on a dusty, windswept plain 6200km from Moscow and is the last major stop before the Trans-Manchurian train line branches off for China 100km east. We leave Chita and race through the barren countryside; the rusty Sierra is running well considering we have driven it all the way from Northamptonshire in the UK to Calais onto Belgium, Germany, Eastern Europe, through the Baltic States into Russia, over the Ural Mountains,  and around Lake Baikal. Siberia is BIG. In fact, it’s so big you can scoop up the whole of the USA and drop it into Siberia without even touching the sides. Add to this Alaska and all of the European countries, with the exception of Eastern Russia, and still there would be an incredible 300,000 square miles of territory left. We’ve been on the road for four weeks now, we smell, we’re tired and we have only slept in a hotel twice. The first hotel was in St Pertersberg and the other was in Vologda at the Sretenskaya Church Dorm, an old 1700′s church that has been converted into a dormitory for students by the Ministry of Culture’s study program. Apart from strange noises coming from under the bonnet and a missing bolt (or metal screw thingy connected to the engine) and a few close encounters with the GAI (traffic police) and a roadside robber trying to sell us a red Ruby ring, the journey across Russia has been as smooth as a ballerina’s bottom. The road suddenly becomes stony and unsurfaced as it stretches out towards the horizon. We drive for twenty miles without seeing a single vehicle; we have arrived at the road under construction. Unsure if we’re heading in the right direction, we decide to pull over and wait for signs of life. Staring out across the dry empty landscape towards Mongolia, there is an eerie silence. Not one single bird, not a single house or telegraph pole. We’re completely alone, vulnerable – just the dusty road, the Sierra and us. I begin to feel like we’re the last humans on the planet, and if it were not for the dry grass clinging to the rolling hills, we could well be on Mars. We wait for what feels like an eternity. Half an hour slowly becomes an hour, an hour becomes three hours. I pace around the car and take a leak at the side of the road. Chris stops drumming an irritating tune on the dashboard and suggests we continue on to the first settlement on the map, but I feel nervous about what might happen if we breakdown out here. Fifty miles in the wilderness is a long way without rescue. We need to be sure that people are using this road. We have to wait for passing traffic. Our morale deteriorates with each passing minute – doubt fills my mind. This route across the top of China has always been impassable, only the construction of the Trans-Siberian train line – an incredible feat of engineering which cost thousands of lives, has managed to connect the cities of Chita and Khabarovsk across the swamps and deep valleys of this hostile terrain. After waiting an hour we suddenly see cars appear on the horizon. They pass by one by one, and we notice they are all right hand drive vehicles imported from nearby Japan. None of the cars have proper registration plates, instead they just have a number taped inside the front window screen. We watch as a second convoy speeds past. We will name these drivers our Guardian angels. Some of them wear white gloves, others are stripped to the waist or wearing shades. All of the brand new cars have protective covers over their headlights and masking tape wrapped around their bumpers. As the dust settles we head off in the opposite direction, passing more cars travelling in convoy along the new dirt road. We see brand new Toyota saloons and Mitsubishi estates with tyre blowouts, and watch the drivers change the wheels at great speed like mechanics in the pits at the Grand Prix. We continue on, heading across a wide-open plain. We slow down and watch as a Mongolian sheepherder crosses the road in front of us with his flock. He carries a crooked staff and skillfully drives the dozens of curly horned creatures safely to the other side. They look unlike any sheep I have seen before, with huge wooly coats that protect them against the harsh Siberian winter. I look in awe at the old man’s weatherbeaten face. It looks like it has been carved from wood. He takes little notice of us and continues on his journey. I can’t help wondering where the hell he’s taking his flock, as there is literally no sign of life in any direction.

Several hours later, we eventually reach a remote frontier town called, “Yephbiwebck”. Our guidebook is useless here, and without an English translation for the Russian names on our map we’re very much on our own. The town is a grim looking place and consists of tin-roofed shacks and a concrete block of flats around a large industrial factory. Keen to take advantage of what could be our last opportunity to buy fuel, we stop at a junction and gather our bearings. Just as we’re about to pull away, some dude in an old brown Larda pulls up beside us. He sticks his white scruffy head of hair out of the window and babbles something in Russian.

‘Nyet Rooskeey,’ Chris grins.

The guy falls out of his car and staggers over to us, it looks like he’s had a few drinks. He peers through the passenger window and glances around inside. I move towards Chris and smile falsely. His breath stinks of booze and cigarettes and his teeth are brown and rotten. He laughs hysterically.

‘Hello!’ I cry.

I show him the map and point to the symbol for a petrol station. He leans against the car door and points over his shoulder.

‘Banya!’ he shouts, pointing to us both.

‘What’s he say?’ Chris chuckles.

‘Banya, I think. It’s a Russian sauna and steam bath. I think he wants us to join him for a sauna.’

Chris screws up his face. ‘No way!’

The guy frowns and begins to laugh. Despite the fact that we probably look as though we need a good wash, we politely decline. He then points at a grotty concrete tower block a few hundred yards away and begins to flick a finger repeatedly against his throat. We get the distinct impression he wants us to go back to his place for a glass of vodka. Not wishing to offend the poor guy, I nod and smile and indicate to him that we’re in a hurry. It turns out this is a wise decision, as he starts behaving strangely and proceeds tapping his wrist and simulates jacking-up with heroin. Smiling falsely, Chris slowly rolls the car forward. The guy lets go of the door and stumbles back to his Larda. Finding the petrol station, which is basically a couple of ancient petrol pumps next to a tin hut, we top up the tank. A brand new Toyota pulls up on the other side of the pump and a tall Russian guy steps out and smiles at us. His mouth is full of sparkling gold teeth, and he looks not unlike the character ‘Jaws’ from the James Bond movie Moonraker. Tucking his smart polo shirt into his jeans, he greets us over the roof of the car. I point at his Toyota and nod approvingly. He taps the top of the roof, and I can tell he’s ecstatic to have made it here from Vladivostok in one piece. The car is covered in dust, but with a wash and a few minor repairs I imagine he will be able to fetch a very decent price for it. We try to ask him about the road ahead, but he just grins and shrugs his shoulders. We shake hands and part company. Leaving the town, we drive for twenty miles along the yellow dirt track before parking up for the night behind a large Volvo digger. There really is no turning back now. If we breakdown out here we’re well and truly screwed. All we can do is try and keep an eye out for the Russians, our guardian angels, who will hopefully show us the way to Vladivostok. We devour a tin of fish with some of the bread we bought in Chita, and Chris proceeds to scare the shit out of me with statistics about how far we’ve travelled and how far we still have to go. We’re above China now, and have passed through a staggering eight time zones. We’re closer to Tokyo than Moscow and nearer to Seattle than London. Vladivostok is still a great distance away, which leaves me wondering as I snuggle inside my sleeping bag, what the hell lies in between?

***

The following morning we find the road ahead is blocked. A sign with an arrow pointing to the left diverts us down a narrow dirt track leading into the dark forest. We have absolutely no idea where we’re going. We just have to hope the diversion will take us up and around the road works and back onto the main road under construction. Si insists we play it safe, so we wait half-an-hour for a guardian angel to pass by. Seeing the lone car swing around the corner, we feel confident we’re heading in the right direction. Potholes are our main problem here, as the exhaust pipe underneath the Sierra takes a pounding every few metres. We cringe with every scrape, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference how slow we go or how hard we try to avoid the potholes, the Sierra is just too low to the ground. With no option, other than to turn around and head back to Chita, we’re forced to grit our teeth and hope for the best as we push deeper and deeper into the thick forest.

After fifty miles of careful driving, we’re brought to a sudden halt by a river.

‘I hope you’ve brought your arm bands?’ Si laughs.

I reverse the car and rev the engine.

He drops his smile. ‘You’re not seriously going to drive through that, are you?’

‘Of course I am. What else are we going to do, wait for the water to evaporate?’

‘Well, shouldn’t we check to see how deep it is first?’

‘It can’t be that deep.’

Si frowns. ‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t…’

Slamming my foot on the accelerator pedal, the wheels spin as the Sierra speeds towards the river. With a gigantic splash the car nosedives into the river. The water hits the window screen with a loud thud and sprays dramatically into the air. The buzz is unbelievable as the car burns through the water and flies out onto the other side of the bank. After sometime we find ourselves on a relatively flat stretch of road. It carries us through a tiny deserted village and beneath a bridge supporting the Trans-Siberian train line. It’s surreal to see signs of civilization out here in the remote wilderness, and following the train tracks for a few miles we stumble across a pretty little house and café at a bend in the road. We’re in serious need of some refreshments, so we decide to check it out. Walking through a small yellow gate into the back garden, we find a few wooden tables and chairs dotted around on a patch of freshly cut grass. A Chinese woman looks over at us as she rocks a baby in her arms inside the doorway to the house. We sit down at a table and smile in her direction. She stares vacantly at us and continues to rock her baby gently in her arms. On the other side of the garden, a man wearing a camouflage jacket drives a wooden post into the ground with a sledgehammer.

‘Are you sure this is a café?’ Si whispers.

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Maybe we should leave? I think we’ve just walked into someone’s back garden.’

The woman calls over to the guy building the fence. He drops his sledgehammer to the ground and marches over to us. He sweats profusely as he dusts himself down. With dark features and thick stubble, he looks more Italian than Russian. We order two bowls of borshch, the refreshing beetroot soup, and some coffee (kof-yeh). He smiles and disappears into the house. After our little feed the man walks over and points to our map. He seems to take interest in where we are from. Si points to England and the man points to Azerbaijan.

‘Caspian Sea,’ I beam.

The man nods vigorously. ‘Da, Caspian!’

He points past the house and over at the train tracks.

‘Chita?’ he grins.

Si frowns. ‘Chita?’

The guy points to us both. ‘Chita?’

‘No, no,’ Si replies. ‘Vladivostok.’

He looks surprised.

I try to ask the guy which direction is Vladivostok, and he encourages us to follow him across the garden. He swings open the garden gate and waves us over. We follow him across the dirt road and through knee length grass onto the railway tracks. Two train lines run parallel to each other, one going to Moscow and the other heading in the opposite direction to Vladivostok. With caution we stand on the wooden sleepers. The guy points up the line towards the horizon.

‘Vladivostok,’ he smiles.

The train tracks stretch out into the distance, and I look with excitement in the direction of a city we’ve been driving continually towards now for over five weeks. The man slaps Si on the back and smiles before returning to the café. I take one last look around and savour this incredible opportunity to stand with my feet on the legendary Trans-Siberian railway line. Returning to the café, we pay the bill and shake the guy by the hand. We walk back to the car and just as I’m about to jump inside I suddenly hear the roaring sound of an approaching train.

‘It’s the Trans-Siberian!’ Si grins.

We sprint as fast as we can back through the long grass and stand at the side of the tracks. The guy from the café runs to the garden gate and points in its direction.

‘Vladivostok!’ he cries.

The train grows bigger and bigger until it thunders past us at great speed, whipping Si’s hair across his face. Each carriage zips by one by one and we jump in the air and dance around like excited kids at a fun fair.

As we continue on through the forest the road suddenly becomes incredibly narrow and steep, and we’re forced to use the whole road in order to maneuver the Sierra over craters that are literally the size of the car. This tends to be a disruption for the guardian angels driving down the hill in the opposite direction, as they have to wait for us to pass by. It occurs to me that we must be the first people ever to cause a traffic jam in deepest Siberia. From the state of the road, it’s clear this track has been heavily used for quite some time. The potholes are worn away more steeply on the far side, making it nearly impossible for us to pull the car out of the pothole without scraping the exhaust pipe along the ground. This becomes a major problem, and we can’t drive for more than a few meters without getting stuck. Forced to drive into one particularly deep crater, Si revs the engine and accelerates up the steep side of the pothole. There’s a loud crunch. Jumping out, we run around to the back and examine the damage. The exhaust pipe hangs in two pieces beneath the car, the join in the middle has been completely torn apart. We come up with the idea of plugging it back together, so we quickly gather together the equipment and within a jiffy we’ve connected the two pipes together, sealed them with exhaust paste and wrapped kitchen foil and wire around them for extra strength.

***

Reaching a remote village at the bottom of the mountain, we drive past a cute house with blue shutters and a derelict building, three dirty little faces suddenly appear over a mound of rubble. The hostile looking savages, who can’t be older than five or six, are stripped to the waist and scramble rat-like towards the car. I wave at them out of the window, but they respond by hurling bricks and concrete at us. One jagged piece of slate scuffs across the bonnet of the car and Chris sounds the horn and accelerates away. The village is perfectly simple, and it’s clear it has been completely locked away from the outside world until now. It feels like we’ve travelled back in time a hundred years, and I wonder what they make of all these futuristic vehicles suddenly descending on their world and ruining their tranquility. An old man staggers out of his garden gate and flags us down. He grips onto the side of the car and rants and rages at us. Si tries to ask him which direction we need to go for Vladivostok, but looking confused he blinks at us – quite understandably really as we’re still thousands of kilometres away. He won’t let go of the door and continues to shout at us as we try to explain to him that we don’t speak Russian. Chris points to England on the map, and this is all too much for a man who has probably spent his entire life in the remote wilderness. He looks about eighty-years-old, and it suddenly occurs to me that he was a young boy of about ten when the Gulags (labour camps) were put into operation. As part of Stalin’s grand plan to turn the USSR into an industrial power in 1929, he forced collectivization of agriculture with the aim of getting peasants to fulfill production quotas, which would feed the growing cities and provide food exports to pay for imported heavy machinery. Farmers who resisted were either killed or deported to labour camps and this guy must have lived through that entire period. Looking into his pale grey eyes, I wonder what stories he has to tell about that time. He seems pretty upset by this sudden invasion to his world. He finally loses his grip on the door and throws up his hands in despair. I feel guilty as we pull away. I guess he has spent his whole life out here building a new life in a community that had been up-routed and forced to work for the good of the nation. In his mind perhaps, especially in his old age, he felt at least he should be given the right to enjoy peace and quiet in a place his family had been forced to call home. We leave the town and head back through the countryside towards the new highway, and studying the map I console myself with the thought that before long the Amur Highway will be complete and this village will be returned to the wilderness once more. We eventually find our way back onto the highway and cruise at 20mph along a stony, but relatively good section of the road until it gets dark. We’re physically exhausted. I take a picture of Chris behind the wheel, his hair and clothes and the interior of the car are covered in dust. Pulling up close to the impenetrable forest, we pass out from nearly sixteen hours on the road.

At sunrise the next morning, Chris crawls under the Sierra and patches up the torn kitchen foil wrapped around the exhaust. He does a pretty good job and putting some air in the tyres with the squeaky foot pump, we feel confident to head back on the road. We drive through the morning until we reach a stretch of the highway that is in full construction. Enormous diggers shovel tons of earth as they clear a path for the road. Volvo dumper trucks tower over the Sierra, transporting rocks and stones along never ending stretches of the highway. We feel nervous weaving beneath their huge wheels and crawl along tracks that tail off into deep canyons. We battle against the road works from dawn until dusk, at an average speed of roughly five miles an hour. Sections of the road force us to drive up steep hills at a frightening angle of 45 degrees, and we approach each turn cautiously for fear of colliding with a digger. Reversing and shunting, we carefully manipulate the car along the edge of sheer drops and around huge boulders. At one point we nearly tip sideways down a twenty foot drop. It takes incredible concentration, and pounding the underneath of the car against sharp rocks and smashing the bumper into the ground, we curse out of anger and laugh out of insanity with every knock and scrape. Desperately trying to stay sane we head slowly towards the never-ending horizon.

We pass through the small town of “HeBep” around noon the next day. The place feels like a city after more than three days on the Amur Hellway, and we grin with excitement at making it this far without any major setbacks. That said the car looks like it has been in a battle and lost. The front bumper hangs close to the ground and is held in place by little more than some electrical tape and a fist full of rubber bands. The bodywork is caked in mud and blue exhaust fumes leak from under the car. To make matters worse there appears to be something wrong with the starter motor, because when we turn off the ignition the car rattles and shakes for about thirty seconds before the engine stalls. We fill up with petrol, grab more supplies from a small shop and try to find our way out of the town. We quickly become lost and find ourselves heading up a road, which Chris thinks might be the M56 to Yakutsk and Magadan. In 1932, Stalin sent thousands of prisoners to Magadan to build docks and piers, so they could transport gold found in the Kolyma region. It became a major marshalling point for the prisoners who were sent there to work in the mines. Being sent to Magadan was a death sentence. Of over the estimated 20 million people who were shot, starved, beaten, tortured or worked to death in Stalin’s Gulag camps an estimated one fifth died in camps around the Kolyma region. The road to Magadan is even called the Road of Bones because of the thousands of prisoners who died building it. Back on the right road we begin to pass fly-overs that are under construction and cross over fast flowing rivers and wide canyons. Workmen wearing yellow hard hats sweat in the heat as they move huge concrete pillars with cranes and shift millions of tons of earth. This is the first time we’ve seen fly-overs on the Amur Hellway and it’s a very surreal sight. We follow a dirt track that skims alongside these huge concrete pillars, which sprout out of the ground like bizarre monuments. The highway that will run over the top hasn’t even been built yet, and it’s amazing to witness this incredible feat of engineering with our very own eyes. In a couple of years this dirt road we’re driving on will disappear, reclaimed by the forest and returned to the wilderness once more.

After four long days, and nearly a month on the road, we finally reach tarmac and arrive in Vladivostok happy, but physically and mentally exhausted. Our mission to drive a rusty £300 Ford Sierra across Russia and Siberia along the Amur highway has now become a reality. It’s amazing we made it – it’s amazing there was a road at all. Handing the car keys to a young guy working at the Vladivostok Hotel, we grab our rucksacks and head for China; from one insane journey to another.

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