We crossed the Caspian Sea in an ancient ex-Soviet cargo ship, from Baku in Azerbaijan, headed towards Aktau, in the world’s largest landlocked country, Kazakhstan. We had a chance to sit back and relax for a change. Having left London almost a month back we were part of 200 teams taking part in the 5th annual Mongol Rally, chasing the sunrise towards Ulan Bataar in Mongolia, all in the name of raising stacks of cash for various deserving charities. My team mate Olly and I had adopted the team name the Optimistic Fools, as we had sidelined the obvious choice of 4×4 vehicles in favor of a rusting 1971 sky blue Renault 4 called Irene who had spent the past decade or so oxidizing in a Guernsey barn.

The ferry to Aktau

We had read countless horror stories of the elusive ferry to Aktau on the internet and had prepared ourselves for the worst; however as we lay down on our simple bunks, shot vodka whilst playing backgammon with our fellow passengers and strolled around the deck for the 28-hour crossing, it became an adventure in itself. Upon disembarkation at 4am we learnt that communist bureaucracy was still alive and well in the last former USSR republic to declare independence, as stamp after stamp was sought to enable us to enter the country.

The next day, sixteen hours after docking, having twiddled our thumbs almost into knots the port gates opened, the friendly guards waved us goodbye and we were free. They say that first impressions last, however on pulling into a nearby petrol station we immediately warmed to Kazakhstan as I was bought beer by the driver of another car and Olly had to politely decline a mother’s proposal of marriage to her beautiful daughter.

The endless desert of western Kazakhstan

The deserts of Kazakhstan

Striking off into the sandy desert of the Mangistau region of Kazakhstan heading north towards the city of Aqtobe the temperature rose up into the high 40s and with foolish haste, excited to be back on the road, we had not accounted for the lack of water sources along the route. As the dust penetrated our every orifice, sapping us of all moisture perspiration became a distant memory as our bodies strove to conserve every last drop of sacred water.

Suddenly out of the haze appeared a small hut with a small lady shrouded like a Saharan nomad selling large juicy watermelons. Were that relief not so etched upon my memory I would swear it were a mirage, however never before has a watermelon been ravished as hastily as that poor little fruit, revitalising us for the onward journey through the stark yet stunning landscape dotted only with dromedaries and a few wild bands of horses.

Owed to its abundant supply of oil and gas, Kazakhstan has progressed exceptionally quickly in less than two decades of independence. Although slightly controversial in the international forum this rise is, by and large, thanks to President Nazarbaev, who is loved throughout the country and is hailed as having both freed the country from the grips of the Iron curtain and unified its many ethnicities and religions. Knowing little about this colossal country we immediately fell for its convivial charm, vodka breakfasts, naked saunas with sumo wrestlers (don’t ask) and genuinely interested and affable people eager to welcome you into their homes and chew the fat.

Our inability to speak any of the many languages of our trip did not hamper our conversations with the locals, it truly is amazing how much you can get by with learning a few words, drawings and actions. For example if we wanted eggs in a restaurant we would cluck like chickens, imitate laying an egg, pick up this imaginary egg crack it on the counter top and make a sizzling noise of a frying pan. This little show of lunacy not only got us breakfast but amused and endeared us to all the locals, the only negative side of which was that more often than not it ended in our being forced to drink vodka.

Olly and Chris letting Irene cool down in the 47°C heat of the Kazak desert

Astana

After the scorching deserts of the south we crossed into miles and miles of cornfields stretching as far as the eye could see and then on into the cold highland steppes before descending into the Sci-Fiesq new capital city; Astana. To the consternation of many in 1994 Nazerbaev uprooted his cabinet and all public offices and moved them to his new capital formed from the swampland of the northern steppes. Today this glitzy city of shinning glass and glinting metal designed by some of the world’s foremost architects is still in the making and is soon to be home to the worlds largest tent that will house a minor city replete with streets lined with cafes, an 18 hole golf course and, of course, a sea with sandy beaches. For the first city we had visited since Istanbul and being fresh of the steppes it was all a little confusing to enter this wonder world, so after a brief tour of the rollercoaster like streets, a small crash into the back of a BMW we sped on towards Russia.

I never try to imagine my destination before I get there, as I find that reality is rarely a mirror to imagination and preconception. However for Russia I couldn’t help but envision what I believed it to be like, probably thanks to James Bond, and as we were ushered from booth 1 through to booth 4 and back to 2 before finally revisiting the blond lady in booth 1 in the small, old, cold customs house flanked by tall stern looking guards at the border near Pavlodar, it seemed my preconception wasn’t too far wrong. One thing we did learn however as the guards waved us off, was that we were entering Siberia, something our research had failed to bring to our attention and in the UK Siberia is synonymous with one thing; arctic weather. So having packed for sunny warm weather we looked out at the cold empty plains and shivered.

Mongolia, via Russia

The lush pine forested hills of the Altai region of Siberia

Even though on the map it looks like Kazakhstan has a boarder with Mongolia, in reality one must enter briefly through Russia across the rolling hills, through the lush grasslands and into the Switzerland like pine forests of the Altai region.

After spending the night with a group of young Russians in the city of Barnaul who invited us to the inauguration of a new club and then graffitied Irene whilst we tinkered with her failing breaks we rolled on into the hills towards Mongolia.

Shortly before reaching the border we set up camp high up along some beaten track where we thought we could rest undisturbed by vodka-pushing locals. With the fire crackling as darkness enveloped us, a mounted rider crashed into our circle and as our hearts lurched at this sudden intrusion the rider looked down at us, his horse billowing steam through its flaring nostrils. He then jumped down, ‘Altkuda’ (where are you from) he demanded, ‘Italia’ said Olly. The man looked at him and ran his finger menacingly across Olly’s throat. He then turned to me.  ‘Germania’ I said. He smiled an unsettling smile then shouted ‘Heil Hitler’ over and over dancing around like a lunatic. Our guest then proceeded to force us to drink vodka and eat some unidentifiable meat that he pulled from his bag, all the while shouting ‘Heil Hitler’ before remounting his horse and disappearing into the darkness.

Rattled to the core in Mongolia

As we rumbled into Mongolia the smooth tarmac roads of Russia quickly became a distant dream as Irene’s bones were rattled to the core on the bumpy non-existent roads leading from the border. The barren beauty of the Mongolian steppes took our breath away as for hour after hour we drove with only brawny wild horses, hairy mythical like yaks and herds of shy Bactrian camels for company. Occasionally in the distance we would see a little wisp of smoke emanating from a small white ger, the nomads itinerant homes, as we rolled across endless swathes of open pasture, throwing the useless map I had bought in London to the floor and pulling out an old compass to lead us towards the capital.

Being the most sparsely populated country in the world, it is hailed as campers paradise as there is no shortage of unfenced open land. And we certainly had been looking forward to this. However we hadn’t been looking forward to the cold that started to seep into every bone as the sun set. So in the first market we came across we made possibly the best purchases of our lives of two thick camel hair Mongol jackets preferred by the nomads of the northwest that were as snug as any we had ever worn.

The endless sky and the cold temperatures of the Gobi desert

Our greatest expectation of Mongolia was the size of the sky that unhindered by buildings or trees blanketed the landscape leaving us feeling even smaller than usual and as we left the mountainous steppe and crossed into the sandy swathes of the Gobi desert it grew all the more. The Gobi is the fourth largest desert in the world and also the coldest where it isn’t uncommon to see frost crowning its sandy dunes, yet being the end of the summer and clad in our long warm coats we were spared the extreme temperatures that exist here at other times of the year.

Unfortunately for Irene however nothing could spare her from the brutal rocky tracks, noted on the map as motorways, which lashed and whipped her remorselessly. We bought with us four spare tyres and four spare inner tubes which proved to be too few; and on one calamitous day we ran through 15 inner tube patches until we could repair them no more and we lay stuck. We had been beaten by the Gobi. Dejected and forlorn, our meager amount of water being rationed and no food to speak of, we pulled out our gramophone bought from England for such an occasion and listened to the crackling evocative sounds of the Weimar republic.

Irene is dead, long live Irene

As evening approached a cloud of dust appeared on the horizon and a large rumbling truck came into view. After hailing them down and the initial pleasantries that are custom when two crazy foreigners in a bizarre looking car and a 1950s gramophone stop you in the middle of a desert, we offered them, with great sorrow, our trusty little Irene in exchange for a lift into the capital (where we were to catch our flight back home a day later). Jumping for joy and their assumptions of our insanity confirmed, they readily accepted, loaded us and our meager belongings into the truck, sprayed us with air freshener - we really stank - and sped off watching Irene disappear in the rear view mirror to be collected later by her new owners.

The next evening whilst strolling around Ulan Bator we came across the finish line of the rally. So moping across in search of our free beer we toasted the heroine that had bought us here, the sturdy Irene and mused where her new life, as a proxy camel, would take her.

The last resting place of Irene

–Christoph Courth

Editor’s Note: Alas, this is the final post from the Optimistic Fools. We’ve been following their progress from London to Mongolia as part of the 2008 Mongol Rally. We’re thrilled they made it, though we’re more than a little sad Chris and Olly are no longer writing about their adventures. Maybe we can convince them to do it all over again in 2009…

I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see
the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an
Irish bog to see the moon when it is full
–Lord Dunsany

My team mate , Olly, and I had been driving for about six days as part of 200-odd teams taking part in the fifth annual Mongol Rally from London to Ulan Bator in Mongolia when our trusty, 1971 sky blue Renault 4 called Irene, spluttered across the border at 1 in the morning into the world’s newest country, Montenegro. It always seems a shame to arrive in a new country at night whether by plane, train or rusting antique of a car as ones’ first impressions are impeded by darkness and only really take shape the next morning. However Montenegro proved to be an exception and was to set the standard for our impressions of this relatively unknown country.

On pulling up to a small beach side bar in order to reignite the dying embers of our energy with a couple of espressi we were greeted by a beautiful young waitress bursting with honest playful smiles who invited us to make camp on the beachfront besides the bar for the night. So with the espressos swapped for beer we lay under the Montenegrin stars with soft sand beneath and the sweet sound of the gentle Adriatic lapping at our toes.

The next morning we arose with the sun breaking over the horizon. Welcoming in the day, a solitary fisherman stood on some rocks down the beach at the base of the giant rocky mountains we had crossed the night before. After performing the routine checks on Irene we headed on down the coast to the harbor town of Kotar, an ancient fort of a town with winding alleys in between stone buildings, small hidden churches, quaint little houses and a thriving market which sat at the base of steep rising mountains. The coastal road heading down from Kotar towards Albania is truly breathtaking, both for its natural and ancient beauty and for its hair-raising drivers that navigate the winding road.

There are two things I discovered whilst in Montenegro that are worthy of mention, the first being the unparalleled sounds of the countries foremost HipHop group called the Monteniggers, who are like a mix between Cypress Hill and Vanilla Ice; and the second being the mind-boggling beauty of Montenegran women who in tune with the beauty of the countryside appear every which way you look. So with both my team mate and I being in relationships we turned on the Monteniggers, slipped on the shades, pushed Irene to the max, looked straight ahead and sped on into Albania.

Next up: Albania

In many richer European countries where Albanians go to work, they are often perceived in a negative light, as many immigrant workers tend to be. We were therefore unsure of what to expect, so on crossing the border and being confronted by miles and miles of derelict military bunkers set within a dry, arid landscape we become more apprehensive.

In Greece we learnt that Irene means “peace” in Greek.

However we were soon struck by the honest sincere nature of these misrepresented people and their stark yet impressive country. I had seen poverty in Africa, in Asia and in Latin America and it moved me each time; but these faces looked like mine and that of my family. I remember seeing an old lady who resembled my grandmother, sitting by the side of the road in a broken wheel barrow, clothed in a torn grubby dress that may have once been bright and floral, selling watermelons. It was a sobering experience for both of Olly and I, and we were left feeling humbled by this impoverished country. So having successfully navigated their pothole ridden roads we rolled onto the smooth tarmac of Greece, for two days of recharging batteries, both ours and Irenes, with some old University friends in the sea side town of Kavala.

Then on to: Greece & Turkey

Once Irene was fit and healthy again we proceeded to bumble along, and clog up, the Greek motorways into Turkey leaving Europe behind us and to where the adventure would truly begin. We hit Istanbul at 4am accompanied by a Romanian hitchhiker we had picked up at the border. She helped us navigate Irene through the many snaking streets of this vast city towards a hostel where we were both fed and allowed to camp on the roof free of charge. We had originally planned to visit the many mosques and bazaars of this highly significant city, yet on waking to the resounding calls to morning prayer we felt invigorated and itched to get back on the road, so decided to leave Istanbul to be discovered another day and fired up Irene’s gurgling engine.

The grand mosque in Istanbul

As with Albania, we were struck by both Turkey and its people. Every car we passed heading east along the dramatic, awe inspiring black sea coast had smiling faces, beeping horns and waving cheers. Everywhere we stopped, be it for a pee break or petrol we were proffered tea and food by generous strangers. In one small nondescript village called Piraziz, the mayor emptied his holiday home of its occupants to allow us to bed down for the night and his son and friends then got us drunk in a small empty disco whose sole occupants were two bored ladies of the night. One buxom and loud and the other skinny and averse to deodorant, both of whom thought it was payday when Olly and I walked in. However they soon realised that that kind of romance was not our cup of tea, so left us alone to woo a smiling old potbellied Turk sitting in the corner. The next morning after a hung-over breakfast with the mayor, tea at his office and a photo shoot at the local petrol station, we proceeded to will Irene up and down the winding roads that hug the beautiful rocky coastline of the refreshingly cold Black sea.

And then: Georgia & Azerbaijan

There are three border crossings from Turkey into Georgia, the main one leading to the old Soviet holiday resort of Batumi on the black sea and two almost deserted checkpoints deep within the Kakar Mountains. Much to Irene’s dismay the urge for adventure led us to steer clear of the more mundane Batumi crossing and to head up into the breathtaking mountains towards the bleak and dilapidated crossing at Posof. As soon as you head up into the Kakar mountains it feels as though one is already in a new country as not only does the scenery change almost instantly but also the physical characteristics of the people. It was high up in these mountains that we were invited in by a particularly hospitable family that seemed to keep growing by the minute as from every corner popped another sister, brother or nephew. Here we spent the night discussing politics, religion and the decline of family values in the west all through sign language and drawings.

Georgia had been for me relatively unknown aside from having allegedly invented wine and been the birthplace of Stalin I knew next to nothing. Yet its stunning natural landscapes and welcoming people would without doubt entice me back again. We had read that driving in Georgia was not advisable and as Irene was hurled to and fro between the bottomless potholes we realised the gravity of this understatement. It was after having visited the ancient fairytale like city of Varzia carved romantically, yet painstakingly within the cliffs of a canyon like gorge, that we heard of the Russian invasion and bombing of our host country.

The Optimistic Fools, Oliver and Christoph, fight to stay sober in Azerbaijan

We met a young man who in broken English informed us that all the men from the area had taken their hunting rifles and headed north to fight off the invasion, and that the president had promised the people the support of 2,000 U.S. troops the following day. Hearing this we thought it best to bade farewell to Georgia and leave the world’s two superpowers to battle it out once again over someone else’s oil and gas. So we finished our coffees wished the man and his country good luck and sped on to Azerbaijan.

The entry into Azerbaijan turned out to be a 3½ hour long farce of sweet-talking officials, befriending the guards and allowing the military to scribble their names on Irene. However once we were finally allowed into the country the Azeris proved to be some of the most hospitable of all. The only problem was that their hospitality came hand-in-hand with a bottle of vodka, regardless of the time of day: be it breakfast-drinking with a giggling old retired policeman, to afternoon-drinking with a rifle touting bear of a man to evening drinking with expat oil workers in the capital Baku. So by the time we eventually caught the elusive ferry to Kazakhstan our livers were pickled like gherkins.

–Christoph Courth

To find out more about this foolish adventure, click here to read their previous posts or visit the Optimistic Fools over at their own website: www.optimisticfools.co.uk

An excerpt from Chris’ last email to Viator: “I have had great difficulty getting to an internet cafe, they seem to be few and far between in the deserts of Kazakhstan. We are now in Russia. I have attached some photos, which Olly took, for you if you look at the one of the back of the car you will see the sticker of Viator I made!”

Thanks Chris, we look forward to your next update from the road. And yes, that Viator bumber sticker is pretty cool. Can we get the original when you’re done, all covered in dirt from your crazy mad journey?

The Optimistic Fools - Somewhere in Kazakhstan

Viator’s well-traveled bumper sticker

-The Viator Travel Team

Irene ın her native home, the French country sıde

“To get away from one’s working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one’s self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change.”
-Charles Horton Cooley

For so long it seemed little more than a dream: driving from London’s Hyde Park to the capital of Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar, in a sky-blue Renault 4 called Irene, in the 5th annual Mongol Rally. Preparing the car, sourcing the visas and studying the route all failed to hit it home as my teammate, Olly, and I (a.k.a. the Optimistic Fools) each went about our daily routines of waking, working, girlfriends then bed. That this simple routine was about to be blown from the waters of monotony was beyond our comprehension.

As I awoke on Saturday 19th of July in my 1-bed flat in Marble Arch, void of all its usual contents - bar a small bag and a pop-up tent I had recently purchased of eBay - I realised that I had no idea where I would lay my head that night, or any other for the next seven weeks. It was a truly glorious feeling, for a short period of time I would be completely free of my suits, schedules, appointments and, above all, tedium. For once I would have a brief glimpse into the world of a hobo and it was a feeling without description.

On the drive to the Hyde Park launch site, sitting impatiently at a red traffic light, a large silver Mercedes smoothly pulled up alongside us. A burly suited chap with sleek black aviators rolled down the window of his nicely air-conditioned and fragranced car. ‘Where are you guys off to in that rust bucket?’ he mused.

‘Mongolia, mate,’ we answered nonchalantly. ‘What about yourself?’

Yet before we could relish his retort, the lights turned green and he was off to his office, leaving us smiling in his wake as we made our way to the adventure of a lifetime.

Spluttering up to the start line we were joined by Fiat Pandas, Minis, Suzuki Sjs and an assortment of various cars, all under 1000cc, whose heydays were mostly around the time I thought Bonjovi were the best band in the world (and that was a long, long time ago). Having somehow managed to persuade the Mongolian Ambassador for a private photo shoot we were off, out of London in the direction of Folkstone, where we would cross into France via the Channel Tunnel, an ingenious feat of engineering. Now if there is anything that the elder generation of French people love more than oaky red wine and robust smelling cheese, it’s a Renault 4. And it was this nostalgıc love that endeared us to all as we bumbled down their motorways and clogged up their little country lanes.

Having lent us her forests (to me France is decidedly feminine) for two nights of free camping, the first had us chased off in the morning by an irate farmer and his son, Irene proving herself worthy as a getaway car and the second in the alpine forests in the mountains next to Switzerland. The following morning we crossed into this wonderfully neutral country. Legend has it that the Swiss boarder patrol are as overzealous and efficient as brain surgeon, so to prepare we changed the Reggae to Rakmaninov and the ripped shorts for suits, only to cross the boarder with little more than a bemused look from a cheery customs officer.

Wanting to cross into Italy within the day we drove from dawn until dusk, finding ourselves surrounded by snow-capped peaks in the middle of the night, navigating steep, windy, unlit alpine roads dressed in thin cotton suits. To say the situation felt surreal would be an understatement. Having thought that the assent was painful on Irene’s 30-year old radiator was bad, the descent proved to be even worse on her brakes, filling the car with the smell of burnt rubber. Finally we made it down to the Italian boarder, bewildered and shaky, only to be subjected to the most intense and thorough search worthy of the aforementioned Swiss legend. Yet, being the relatively good boys that we have now become, they found nothing and to add to the surreal experience of the whole day. They offered us sweets to take on our journey.

Both of have having had previous knowledge of Italy we kept up the fast pace speeding into Milan, getting lost and putting Irene’s satisfyingly intrusive horn to the test, and out again into the farmland of northern Italy. Once again it was getting late and having been on the road for 15 hours we decided to pull off the motorway at the next junction marked ‘Citadella’ in order to find a small forest where we could pitch the tent and pull out the longed-for Whiskey. Being 11 o’clock at night and thoroughly exhausted we hadn’t put two an two together to realise that you don’t call a town Citadel without reason. As we rounded a corner of the deserted town we were greeted by an enormous castle keep, flanked on either side by majestic turrets before which lay an ornate stone bridge undewhich rippled the murkey waters of a moon reflecting moat.

On surpassing the dumbfounded awe that had befallen us at this second bizarre encounter, we continued on our way to our next camp site, a small grassy lane nestled between two cornfields ripe for harvesting. As the moon glistened down in a gothic manner through the towering corn we nursed a few glasses of Whiskey and once again realised how incredibly lucky we were to be undertaking this journey.

Changing the shock absorbers in Italy after the bashing in the Alps

The next morning, wanting to get back on the road early before our morning yawns were met with the barrel of an incensed Italian farmer’s shotgun, we tickled Irene’s rusty (yet so far reliable) engine into action and continued towards the Slovenian boarder, where we would enter for a few kilometers before arriving at the Croat customs. At the passport control the guard joked with us how I, as a German, could allow myself to trust a French car. He then looked solemnly towards the Croatian boarder and remarked, ‘you see that? That is no longer the EU, if you drive just a few meters from here you will no longer be protected.’ Ollie and I looked at one another, grinned the grin of two school boys laden with fireworks outside a nunnery, and sped off with renewed vigor.

Hailed as the new med Mecca, free from the tourist hordes that plague its neighbor’s shores, I had high expectations for this rapidly developing country. So it was with great regret that I felt, no doubt unfairly, slightly let down with my perception as the smiles and waves from the previous countries were exchanged for uninterested gazes and bored faces. True the quaint beauty of the precariously windy road that meanders down the coast, dotted with small coves embraced by gently lapping blue waters and crested with small stone houses were enough to break even the sternest heart, but I was not sold.

Due to a historic political olive branch, Bosnia cuts through southern Croatia, allowing its otherwise landlocked country a few kilometers worth of coastline. So heading down the Croat coast one has to enter Bosnia for brief glimpse before reentering Croatia at the ancient and majestic fort like city of Dubrovnik. Whilst walking its white slippery stone alleys, Ollie asked two beautiful Slavic girls if they could snap a photo of he and I before the grand cathedral steps. ‘Of course,’ they chorused before handing Ollie back the camera , grabbing me each by the arm for Olly to take the photo. As they walked off, heads held high, proud of their splendor, we decided to get back on the road to hit the Montenegrin boarder before midnight.

–Christoph Courth

To find out more about this foolish adventure visit the Optimistic Fools over at their own website: www.optimisticfools.co.uk

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The
great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to
come down off this featherbed of civilization, and find the globe granite
underfoot and strewn with cutting flints”
–Robert Louis Stevenson

Mongol Rally: Gearing Up

People are regularly confused as to why my teammate and I would want to drive 10,000 miles from London to Mongolia? What perplexes them even more is our choice of vehicle, ignoring setting free one of the many SUVs from a life of boredom on inner city roads, in favor of a car built in the same decade as flower power, equipped with an engine equally as languorous. I long for a little Robert Louis Stevenson to carry around in my top pocket, to bring out whenever one of these dumbfounded faces gazes back at me, to explain with greater lucidity and clarity than I ever could, the true wonders of travel.

Teammate Oliver tinkering with Irene’s underbelly

It’s like living in a dream world, where everything is the same, yet slightly askew where one is less a participant and more a voyeur. In the thoughts of the Dice Man, such is ‘romanticism to academics yet simple neurosis to physiologists’. Either neurotic or a dreamer, as explained in my previous Mongol Rally articles for Viator, a friend and I, the Optimistic Fools, are intending to embark upon one of life’s last greatest adventures, the Mongol Rally. Leaving London’s Hyde Park on the 19th July, our aim and goal is to arrive, perhaps a trifle optimistically, 17 countries, two continents and a few time zones later, in Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia.

We will be undertaking this race in a circa 1965 sky blue Renault 4 called Irene, donated to the Fools by a marvelously generous gentleman from Guernsey. A trusty little car, Irene has spent the vast majority of her long uneventful life negotiating the small highlanes and bylanes of the tiny isle of Sark, part of the Channel Islands. Ripped from the cosy warmth of barnyard retirement she has been tickled into action by these two fervent gentlemen.

A Worthy Farce

All of you reading this article will, by the very nature of the readership of Viator, will have something burning deep inside of you yearning to break out, some hidden Columbus wanting to rupture through the surface of the humdrum drone of everyday life in search of untainted adventure. This race, however, is not just a simple jaunt designed to satiate the itch in the feet of disenfranchised, intrepid, pseudo Marco Polo’s. Quite the contrary, by way of its very blue print, which was drawn up in the architectural adventure head quarters of the Adventurists in Bristol, England, it is much more.

The actual intention is to draw on this innate animalistic yearning and to spur people to act in a foolhardy and reckless manner in the hope that wallets will open and funds will flow from those who respect lunacy, envy boldness and value adventure to support the worthy charities championed by the 200 audacious teams.

These particular Fools have decided to take on the 10,000 miles in the name of 4 highly reputable aid organisations, stemming from all corners of the globe. With Mercy Corps and the Christina Nobel Children’s Foundation in Mongolia, the PCRF in the UK and the Children’s University in Mexico we have been hot on the trail of seeking as much cash as possible to help our elected causes. Through sponsorship by companies both large and small, to generous donations from friends and family the Fools and in deed all their fellow teams are the mere stimulus for the stream of funds to pour down to those in need. (Editor’s Note: If you haven’t already donated to the Optimistic Fools’ cause, click here to donate!.)

We have teamed up with Berocca (the leader in effervescent vitamins), Viator.com (the Cassious Clay of the travel writing world), Telegraph (2007 champion of beers 6X) and Shambala (the Michelangelo of the landscaping world). Through these partnerships we have managed to secure sufficient funds to more than cover the minimum £1,000 needed to be raised for the two chosen Mongolian charities. With the help of friends, family and well-wishers we aim to exceed that for the PCRF and the Children’s University. Therefore we are continuing to seek donations, however small, to guarantee our charities receive a more than worthwhile sum. But it is not just their funds that will help, Berocca vitamins will help keep us sharp and healthy whilst on the road, Viator have offered to send relief packs for us to pick up on route and Shambalas Marc Austin designed the Fools remarkable logo.

A Traveling Fool

In the spirit of the ancient Mongolian proverb — “A traveling fool is better than a sitting wise person” — the Fools will do everything necessary to get to Mongolia. Should our trusty steed, Irene, crumble into disrepair in the highlands of Central Europe or the plains of Kazakhstan we are willing to do what ever it takes, from bicycle to donkey, to cross the finishing line in Ulan Bator.

However as this folly is a traditional race turned upside down we will ensure that so too are our preconceptions. Instead of choosing the fastest 4×4 available we have chosen a car whose rust ridden underbelly would make Keith Richards innards look fresh and healthy, instead of opting for the fastest route the Fools have chosen the hardiest and so instead of striving to come first the Fools will look to be last across that finish line. If it means that we can raise more money for our favorite charitable organisations yet missing the jubilous champagne bearing crowds and welcoming ceremonies in favor of tumble weed and perhaps a sip of fermented yak’s milk all will be worthwhile.

After having chosen the tentative route as noted in the previous article we soon changed our minds to include the primeval forests of Slovenia, the rocky Adriatic coastline of Croatia, one of the worlds newest countries Montenegro, the mountains of Albania, the rugged valleys of Macedonia, into Greece to dip our toes off the beaches of Thessalonica before heading back onto the previous course that will see us through Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Russia and finally Mongolia.

In order to prepare for the cultures that we will encounter I have poured over the Koran, battled through Crime and Punishment, studied Genghis Kahn and learnt how to say ‘hello’ in 10 different languages. The only hurdle left for us to leap is appraising ourselves with the inner workings of the wonderful Irene. To travel lightly and cheaply we will carry little more than a fishing rod, a tent, a water purifier and a 1954 portable gramophone complete with a selection of 78 records to while away the evenings spent in remote hills, cooking over an open fire, a far cry from the tube centred lifestyles we now lead. In the wise words of William Blake ‘Great things are done when men and mountain meet. This is not done by jostling in the street’.

–Christoph Courth

To find out more about this foolish adventure visit the Optimistic Fools over at their own website: www.optimisticfools.co.uk

– Mark Twain

Since the last article — which saw the Optimistic Fools without a vehicle, penniless and with no specified route — many things have changed. And the world-renowned Mongol Rally slips progressively closer into view.

This rally is unlike all its rivals in as much as it has little more than three distinct rules which its participants must adhere to. The first is that each team must raise a minimum of £1,000 for charity. The second dictates that the vehicle that will transport them from London’s Hyde Park to the capital of Mongolia, Ulan Bator, must have an engine displacement of less than 1,000cc (or 125cc if your car has two wheels) and ‘generally be considered crap’. And the final rule is that the teams are not allowed support teams following them. Even so, the road less traveled has, for the Optimistic Fools, become mildly more chartered.

The Fools — full of unfounded optimism — is made up of two idealists, Ollie and me (Chris), who have had little time to prepare for this epic escapade. The moderately loquacious lackey, Ollie, is from Guernsey, a small picturesque atoll nestled in the English Channel between France and England. In the final throws of building a house, his time has been limited to assist in the planning of such a grand adventure. And myself, half-German half-English, living and working in London (where working 9 to 5 is a cruel myth). However, despite the initial lack of planning, we Fools are steadily surmounting the many obstacles laid before us, in a slightly dubious mission to cross more than a 1/3 of the Earth’s circumference in some rusty old throw-back from the automotive world.

Mongol Rally: The Fools’ Route

Mongol Rally 2008: The Fools’ Route Options

On a weekend visit to London, Ollie and I sat for three hours in an internet café on the fashionably alternative Brick Lane. This East London street, once cheap and arguably unattractive, has since become trendy. With street signs both in Urdu and English, the road is lined with secondhand clothes shops, small cafes and Bangladeshi curry houses catering to everyone from the prosperously sleek city crowd to the followers of retro trends that are awkwardly seeping back into fashion.

The sole aim of this meeting, the first of the Fools, was to assess the route and to plan a path from the centre of London to the plains of Mongolia, and from there to our final destination, the origin of the illustrious Genghis Khan, Ulan Bator.

However this simple task proved harder than originally expected. If we decided to head south we would miss the wonders of Poland, the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains in Ukraine, and the fertile steps of Russia. Yet if we opted to travel north we would forgo the glorious sights of Turkey and the wondrous charm of the Iranian people. As frustration stated to gnaw at and penetrate our fervent enthusiasm, we dropped the map, left for the pub and picked up the pints with a mutual friend — whose suggestion that we flick a coin led us simply to our chosen route. Head south.

On this elected itinerary we would take the ferry from the English port of Dover to the French docks of Calais, across and into Belgium, the land of chocolate. Onward bound would see us accelerating down the autobahns of Germany through the ancient historic towns of the Czech Republic and into Slovakia. Hungary would follow, then mystically romantic Romania, Bulgaria, Turkey, Armenia, Azerbaijan, the long open plains of Kazakhstan, a brief glimpse of Russia and finally, after 10,000 miles of exhilarating highs and piercing lows, the glorious land of Mongolia.

Mongol Rally: The Fools Meet Irene

With the route planned, we had something to focus our hearts and minds on, something concrete. We could now start to scour the internet, dive into books and pick the minds of knowledgeable souls to learn and prepare ourselves for our epic journey across sea and plain.

The next step was also to find a vehicle under 1,000cc that could possibly be worthy — let alone capable — of such an awesome voyage. The first choice was the Citroen 2V, inimitably beautiful yet ultimately made from little more than papier-mâché. On the opposite side of the spectrum was the Suzuki SJ40, a heavy duty four-wheel drive with built-in crank, resembling a sturdy tank and therefore far too boring. Or the robust curves of the cute little mini? Light and fast, yet predisposed to trip over a pebble or drown in a puddle.

Irene using logs to aid her non-existent brakes, and Irene with Ollie in Guernsey

After much deliberation, a spectacularly kind gentleman from Guernsey who is a Renault 4 aficionado, offered to donate one of his beloved cars to the cause. Initially with a price of £200, he succumbed to the charm and charisma of my teammate and relinquished his pride and joy into the hands of us Fools. Born around 1970, this sky blue Renault 4 with four axel independent suspension originated in France as a trusty alternative to the donkey and cart. This little car is the most successful French car to have ever been produced, and in Colombia is still known affectionately as Amigo Fiel (trusty friend). With a high carriage base and simple mechanics this vehicle would suit the bumpy rural terrain of the Kazak steppes and the dusty Mongol dessert like a duck to water. And so, no doubt to her great dismay, it was that Irene became a Fool.

Mongol Rally: The Fools Need Money

Asking actual people to part with their cash is an undertaking laden with obvious hurdles. And nevermind large companies, which get a plethora of such requests on a daily basis.

Viator, however, didn’t even have to be asked and proffered their generous support before any other. But the Fools want to raise as much as humanly possible, from all possible sources, to help their four chosen charities. Suitable sponsors might be travel organizations, clothes companies, and extreme sports retailers but even after numerous letters, the effort proved to be fruitless. We even thought of oil companies such as Shell, to donate petrol for the 10,000 miles, but as it turned out they couldn’t afford (despite their record-breaking profit of $31.3 billion this year) to spare even a few hundred on much-needed positive publicity.

We soon realised that in order for companies to take us seriously, we had to have a website. So armed with embarrassingly meager IT skills the Fools set to work, pen to paper and fingers to keyboards, to conceive and give birth to optimisticfools.co.uk. Second step, we had to get the press interested, so us Fools contacted our respective local publications, smiled for the cameras, answered the questions and basked in their Andy Warhol predicted 15 minutes of fame. After this, the tide soon turned, having stirred either certain wanderlust, or the promise of an excellent marketing opportunity. The phone has started to ring…

–Christoph Courth

Editor’s Note: Please, for the love of adventure and the sake of wanderlust, send the Optimistic Fools some money! They are doing all of this for charity, the cause is worthy, and if you don’t send them 10 bucks, euros, pounds or whatever local currency you use, then we wash our hands of you! Seriously, send the fools a few bucks. Click here for full details on donating to their cause.

Do you sit in your car each morning — or on the bus, the train or tram — the sun not yet broken above the horizon and the sleep-dust still in the corners of your eyes, headed for a day in the office thinking, “why do I do this each and every day?”

The Optimistic Fools: Christoph Courth & Oliver Westgarth

If the answer is ‘yes’ then you are not alone. We all do, we all yearn for something else, something new to test ourselves and to make us feel alive again. For this very reason Oliver Westgarth and myself (Christoph Courth) have decided to take leave from the daily grind and take up the challenge of the ‘greatest adventure in the world’. As in, the Mongol Rally. Our team name: the Optimistic Fools.

Mongol Rally, Explained

Whilst sitting in a pub on a dark and dreary Sunday morning, head pounding preparing myself for another week at the office, a few friends including Ollie and I were nostalgically discussing past trips around the world. And our dreamlike adventures for the future, one of which being the Mongol Rally. The following day while downing my first cup of strong black coffee at my desk in my windowless office, I Googled the Mongol Rally website and found that the lottery to sign up for the rally was to open that very afternoon at 2. Come 2 o’clock, I excused myself from a meeting, ducked back into my office and quickly signed up for this awesome challenge. Three weeks later an email arrived in my inbox and the planning began.

Launching on the 18th of July 2008, 200 teams of ramshackle cars and bikes will convene in Hyde Park, London, ready to journey across both Europe and Asia, to meet up again, should luck and providence dictate, at the finishing line of the Mongol Rally in Ulan Bator, Mongolia. Now in its 5th year, this rally was founded not only for adventure but to help Mongolian charities such as Mercy Corps Mongolia and the Christina Noble Children’s Foundation through fund-raising and public awareness. Each team is required to raise a minimum of £1,000 which is donated to these designated charities; any extra raised by the teams can be given to a charity of choice.

Founded in Bristol, England, by the League of Adventurists International Limited, the inaugural rally rolled out of London in 2004, seeing 6 teams leave and 4 stumble across the finishing line. In 2005, 43 heaps of petrol-fuelled rust wooed the crowds in London, of which only 18 arrived intact in Ulan Bator. The 2006 Rally left the UK in July with 167 cars crossing the English Channel and 117 teams arriving in Mongolia. In 2007 the number of teams rose to 200 with only around 70% arriving at the finish line. Due to high demand, 2008 will again see the places limited to 200, however the real question remains; how many will survive the crossing?

Each year the Mongol Rally has gone from strength to strength, attracting adventure junkies and press coverage from across the globe. These modern day adventurers attempt to traverse the 8,000 - 10,000 miles in three to six weeks, crossing up to 16 different borders and two continents. Some teams even find that on arrival in Mongolia all they want to do is turn around and drive back or continue traveling into China or Russia. Those that return via plane or train donate their cars to the League of Adventurists who then pass them onto local charities.

Mongol Rally: Just a Bunch of Normal Disenfranchised Amateurs

Facing the unknown, the participants are mostly amateurs; just normal people disenfranchised with the humdrum drone of everyday life, yearning for something challenging to keep the innate restless beast at bay, if only for a short time. People from all backgrounds of all ages take part in this annual event; it was even chartered in the 2007 rally when Jack Osborne filmed his participation in a 1991 Fiat Panda for a television production.

This rally is by no means conventional for many reasons. First of all the cars must have an engine displacement of less than 1,000cc and bikes less than 125cc, which rules out all vehicles designed for such an epic voyage. Cars such as the Mini, the Renault 4, the Citroën 2cv and the Fiat 500 (and bikes such as the Yamaha RXS) are typical choices. However, exceptions to the above rule are considered “for vehicles of notable unusualness with high comedy value”; in fact the event organisers actually stipulate that the vehicle ‘must be generally considered to be crap’.

Secondly the participants have none of the comfort of support teams and have to cross the vast unpopulated areas of land, left only to their own devices. Thirdly there is no specified route, as each team can choose its own way from north through Russia to south through Turkey. And finally there is no prize for the winner; the sole golden trophy sought by the 200 contestants, is the golden cup of adventure.

Surprisingly so far, no one has been killed whilst attempting to complete this epic voyage. And my team mate and I sincerely hope not to change this astounding statistic. All routes are fraught with considerable danger and the very specification of the vehicles, with all odds stacked against them, makes for true adventure. Each year there are numerous accidents, muggings, hospitalisations and a worryingly high percentage of participants never even make it to Mongolia. (In fact the 2005 rally saw one team engaged, 3 people banned from Turkmenistan for a year, 2 teams robbed at knife point, 1 car snapped in half and another team cycling 200km to reach the finishing line after their car blew up.)

Mongol Rally: 3 Simple Rules

There are three basic rules to the rally. The first being the “on your own” rule that stipulates if you get into a ‘pickle’ you must fend for yourself. In fact prior to signing up for the challenge the organisers ask all participants to sign an agreement so that ‘you can’t sue our arses when you die’. Maybe it would have been more reassuring to use the word ‘if’ instead of ‘when’.

The second rule is the aforementioned ‘charity money rule’ whereby the participants must raise the £1,000 for the specified charities.

The third and final rule is the 1-litre car maximum. Aside from these the organisers note that participants ‘are free to sneak, bribe, cheat, connive and generally out-wit the world to get yourselves to the end’.

The widespread press coverage that this rapidly expanding rally attracts enables the participants to sell off space on the facade of their car to companies and organizations to emblazon with their logo. All money raised in this manner helps the ralliers to raise finances for their desired charities. For some companies however, sponsorship through material goods such as tents or tyres are preferable to money yet equally as important for the teams, some teams have even managed to get their vehicle donated.

So far, however, the Optimistic Fools have no car, no route and no funding as the application stage has only just come to a close. Designing the website, seeking sponsorship, finding a cheap or donated car and sourcing the route are all in their infant stages, but bit by bit this challenge, this life long dream, will become reality. To find out more about the ‘Optimistic Fools’ or to get involved in any way, keep watching the Viator website or visit www.mongolrally.com.

-Christoph Courth