Encouraged by three months of escapism and the fascination of motoring successfully from London to Peking and then down to Hong Kong in 1990 we decided to take our Bentley S1 Continental, again overland, to the Far East but this time to Saigon.
Where the 1990 motor challenge had its fascination in the Silk Route and the old Karnates of Southern Asia so this new challenge had Tibet, the Himalayas and the Taklamakan desert.
Any major event of one’s life never equals the excitement of the first experience. And so departing was a more casual affair this time. We thought we knew all there was to know about such lengthy motor trips. We were wrong. Preparation for London to Peking had taken us 18 months, most of it sheer joy coupled with great anticipation. This time the actual preparation was put in about 4 weeks before the start and so we left London in a very relaxed frame of mind knowing the car’s capabilities and somehow thinking that we knew this new route.
It was on August 15th 1992 with a small posse of assorted 4 wheel drives, a 1935 Ford Woody, a Volkswagen Microbus, a Mercedes Benz saloon and a modern Saab that we left Tower Bridge.
Apart from blazing across Germany on the E5 which road would eventually take us to Moscow, there was little to report. It was fairly mundane motoring until we drew into the orbit of Moscow. The long dual-carriage road into Moscow was negotiated on a dull and wet Friday evening. The Muscovites, seemingly millions of them, panic escape to their dacha’s for the weekend. And they are mad. Their madness, aggravated by vodka and shaken with just enough aggression to keep them all jostling in a headlong dash before nightfall in their Moskovitch’s. The exodus is totally out of control as is the police force, which is few in number, ill equipped and partial to bribes.
A Very-Light, strawberry in colour, ascended the sky on the undulating road stretching ahead between the black pine forests, warning of some distant disaster. The traffic had been heavy but as we went further, the outward bound traffic had taken up most of our road until we were forced to drive on what should have been the hard shoulder. One of those giant Russian Lorries had hit a Volga motorcar causing colossal damage and blocking this major artery both in and out of Moscow. Advancing as quickly as we could we realised that we would be in the Capital and completely lost, well after nightfall.
We eventually came into the centre having passed the external peripherique and searching for the internal ring road missed this giant causeway not once, not twice but three times. And third time was not lucky. The police were waiting and took us to the side while constantly demanding in “perfect” English “Papers please”. We laboriously explained how we were lost and where we were headed, Saigon. But language rendered these arguments useless. A Young student girl was walking-by and I asked her if she could speak English which she could and fluently. She translated and explained our mission, how we were lost and where we were going, but the police remained impassive if not slightly surly. “Papers please” they kept repeating. She went on to explain
that we would have to give our passports and car documentation to them and then visit the police station. We knew that would be putting our feet into the quagmire of sticky bureaucracy in which the Russian system excelled. There was only one course of action. We gave one policeman a packet of 20 Marlborough cigarettes together with adequate back slapping and a little sermon on how the cold war was over. With a broad grin and “Mrs. Thatcher good” they held the traffic up for us to do yet another U turn cutting across all 8 lanes again and with clear directions we were waved goodbye. Within 10 minutes we found our German owned hotel, The Penta.
Leaving Moscow was also very difficult and our departure attracted renewed police attention. We had come in followed by Joe Sullivan, an American, in a General Motors Jimmy. We were departing followed by Don Saunders, another American, in a GMC Suburban.
Somewhere in the suburbs, bound South East for Ryazan a young police officer cautioned us to stop abruptly. Don Saunders in the Suburban sailed by and hid in the bushes about 1/4 mile ahead. I asked Sue to prepare one packet of Marlborough from our 200 pack which we had bought with this purpose in mind. It hurt, for a non-smoker, to buy these bribes but they had such a powerful value that it would have been unwise to have held our principles too highly.
Some minutes elapsed, with the policeman standing in front of the car and my attempts at diplomacy bouncing off his rough grey uniform, when suddenly a portly, avuncular, middle-aged policeman strode up smiling widely in fact excessively. “Benkley Sportz?” he asked. Good, I thought, I will smooth him with a look under the bonnet, a sit at the controls, and a copy of our route. That should dissuade him from bringing a charge against us for jumping that red light and traveling at miles per hour instead of kilometers per hour. My heart was pumping hard. As it turned out he spoke fluent English and was the chief of the local police. He was also a classic car enthusiast owning one of Joe Stalin’s Zis motor cars. We talked about the Bentley which he knew intimately. He offered lunch, though it was breakfast time, which we refused, and then made his move. He wanted to swap his Zis limousine for our Bentley and he would throw in some crates of vodka and some of the best Russian cigarettes. Not overly impressed with his offer we gave him a packet of Marlborough and shook hands enough times to last us through the Soviet Union and departed with good and clear instructions on how to find the main road down to Reyzan.
Crossing Russia is a grueling ordeal in poor weather.
The land for the most part is featureless with great communal farms having removed the scruffy yet picturesque small holdings which would have given some life and interest to these regions. The main road is reasonable and the traffic is minimal, mainly lorries and motorcycle combinations, the latter have two wheel shaft drive and carry families long distances. Turning off, the road descends into a muddy, rutted and undulating track constantly churned up by rapidly driven lorries.
Under a grey sky and through this monotonous landscape, relieved occasionally by churches which stand like precious jewels with their blue and gold onion domed roofs topping the cleanest white stucco, we motored in a south easterly direction heading to the Aral Sea with the weather improving day by day until it was no longer miserable but hot and arid.
Our recce report had warned us that a particular stretch of road 100 kilometres before Aralsk would be a trial of strength for man and machine.
But we, veterans of the Gobi Desert, heeded the report with little concern. The Bentley was doing well, we were fit and healthy if a little lean. Everybody was in good spirits under a prolonged spell of blue sky. We were though, finding the starter motor a little sluggish and the ammeter reading pretty high. Examination of the battery revealed that it had been boiling and so now we drove with headlights on, all fans running, to absorb the current as we suspected the regulator of overcharging.
The entry into Kazakstan had produced a little moment as we crossed the Russo/Kazak border; Jo Sullivan had been roughed up and had several items, including his cigarettes, confiscated. Though an American he swears this is the first time he has had a revolver pushed under his nose in anger. Oblivious of this incident we flashed through the border control, with a blaring of Bentley horns, a flashing of headlights, listening to B.B.C. World Service and with the sun roof open we waved happily to the morose Kazak customs officers.
We had now come to the dreaded road and stopping at its head, where the metalled surface expired, we leisurely made tea and discussed again the battery with our maintenance crew. We all decided it was the regulator and that nothing could be done, save soaking up as much current as was possible to save the battery from excess charging. After lowering the tyre pressures yet again we set off on the 100 kilometers of stony surface which had been pounded by heavy lorries such that any speed in excess of 5 mph had the Bentley digging its nose into the rock surface followed by its tail being grounded sending up showers of sparks to the fear and anxiety of our fellow challengers. They knew that the over generous Russians not only filled our tanks to the brim but often, in the case of the Bentley, also managed to partially fill the rear wing with petrol.
Sitting high up above the desert surface on the road, which had been built by collecting stones from the surrounding land, we banged and clattered and thought that the winding tracks drilled on either side must offer a more relaxed less demanding ride. The 4-wheel vehicles were tearing along those desert tracks, the Volkswagen Microbus was over to the left and bucking up and down like a rowing boat on a swell. We ventured down and we tried alternately the three or four tracks on the right, each was worse than the other, then we crossed and tried the tracks on the left, and they were worse again. By now the main original road took on the appearance of perfection, but once upon it again we were being bashed to pieces.
Already our hooters had been smashed off, our number plate at the front had been bent under and one headlamp glass had been cracked, while at the rear the exhaust tail pipe had been ground at an angle, but most worrying of all, the shock absorbers were now useless.
This was a major disappointment as we had fitted the telescopic type in addition to the Bentley originals. It was about 4.30 pm and we had done less than 20 miles out of 60. The sun was still high in the sky but getting weaker which was a relief as it had been a hot day.
On the left of the road now and down in fine pink sand again which had been driven in a series of endless small undulations by the wind, the great car bucked its way forward. Too fast a speed and the suspension caused the car to wallow and pitch while too slow a speed caused stiction as the sand gripped the belly of the car. The terrain was hopeless for a Bentley and we even saw the 4-wheel drives making heavy going with only the large lorries seemingly able to cope. Then we came upon the stranded Volkswagen Microbus. They had been driving fast and with their rear-mounted engine had obviously been enjoying good traction. Now one of those body slam landings had ripped off their throttle linkage and handbrake cable. We exchanged sympathies and left them in the care of Joe Sullivan with the 4-wheel drive Jimmy. Taking it more slowly we headed back up onto the road which we once again decided had to be better than the soft sand of the desert.
The tracks on either side of the road had been made by heavy lorries, probably military vehicles. An ideal track would be one where a heavy lorry had gone through virgin sand and then we could follow in its wheel marks. But none were fresh and each time they became deeper causing our wheels to spin violently as the underpan, gearbox and axle grounded on the central ridge between the wheel ruts.
With much nervousness we again drove back on the road and fearing for our dental fillings drove at about 5 mph over the broken and rutted rock surface. Off in the distance we saw a white vehicle. We could tell it was not moving, there was no dust plume, as we approached we realised it was Don Saunders and Bonita in the mighty 4-wheel drive Chevrolet Suburban. As we pulled alongside, thinking that they had stopped for refreshments or to photograph some of the fabulous Steppe Eagles which were so abundant and perched on any prominence, we realised that they had broken down.
Glad of a break from the bumping, bouncing and rattling we stopped to give ourselves and the Bentley time to cool down. They had broken their shock absorber mountings off the chassis. They would have to wait for the back-up maintenance vehicle that would reweld those parts. They were running their tyres at 80 p.s.i., while we, having started out for the autobahn with 35 p.s.i., had successively reduced our pressures to 20 p.s.i. in the Michelin 235/75 Radials.
We waved goodbye knowing that we were among the last on the road that day with only the Volkswagen, the Jimmy, the G-wagen and now the Suburban all waiting for the Land Rover maintenance vehicle following up the rear. Dusk was pressing on and the miles counted round very slowly. As we looked down on the western side of the road the low sun now gave relief, by their shadows, to the heavy rutting which we had been trying to negotiate on those desert tracks. Those tracks looked impossible and it was now obvious how we had lost our hooters and ruined our rear shock absorbers, but amazing how we had come through so far. With a feeling of loneliness and inadequacy we trundled across that wasteland, hopeful even of seeing one of the large, Russian lorries whose crews always gave an enthusiastic wave and a blast on their powerful horns. But there was nothing ahead and nothing behind and as the eye swung around only the Steppe Eagles awaiting early desert rats showed any signs of life.
Another anxiety had crept upon us, we knew the rear shock absorbers were useless and we had known the battery was boiling but when we restarted after stopping to help the Suburban, the starter performed in a very lazy fashion. We had thought we were overcharging. We had used all our fans, of which there were four, and all our lights to soak up the charge. It now became clear that the battery was losing power or perhaps the alternator was faulty and we wondered whether we could continue to use any electricity in case we stalled and could not restart. Night-time was coming fast and there is then nothing worse than electrical failure, which is a Chinese puzzle to the average motorist, at the end of a fatiguing day made worse by what would be the inky blackness of a freezing desert night. Shocking ourselves with these thoughts we drove on ever so steadily in second gear.
In the late dusk we came upon a better surface. We had not ventured down on to the desert tracks again but rattled and bounced slowly and surely so that the tripmeter now recorded 55 miles. We knew there could only be about 5 miles and then a decent surface down to Aralsk. But suddenly the road turned better and was fairly well surfaced.
We were now able to bring the speed up to a smooth and silent 40 mph. A symbol swinging from what looked like goal posts arched across the road ahead. It was a police checkpoint. There we could see some of our vehicles and as we drew closer also the Kazak police cars. They told us to pull over and wait.
These police were very jolly and showed some interest in the car but instructed us to wait for the rest of our Challengers. The lorry drivers held in a convoy by the police were making tea on large gas rings, fed by giant cylinders, which they obviously carried for that purpose. It was a modern desert caravan. Some looked friendly while others looked savage reminding us of the lorry driver and his mate who had stopped us on the road earlier trying to buy weapons thinking most affluent westerners were bound to be carrying pistols. These lorries had been stopped by the police to allow our cars through. We thought that they would have a long wait but, they didn’t seem to be in any hurry.
We explained to the police by sign language and shouting, that our battery was dying, that our alternator was suspect and that we could not switch off the engine and that we should go down to Aralsk alone. For some obscure reason the Aralsk police wanted to form a convoy of us together, maybe it was the encroaching darkness. After a short argument we were off onto a newly resurfaced shiny black road along which we sometimes touched 90 mph. All our cares and concerns, the anxieties and the stress, went out through the open sun roof and back windows with the dust. The road threaded its way down, like a black ribbon through the sandy desert, silky smooth, providing quiet and effortless driving, a reward for all the agonies that the desert road had put us through. We were happy again. Each telegraph pole had a magnificent Steppe Eagle perched waiting for us to do their killing as we swept by oblivious of rodents or lizards we might be running over.
At about 10.30 pm we came into the seedy town of Aralsk. This one time prosperous fishing port on one of the largest inland seas was now close to destitution and it showed. The roads in all Soviet Union towns were bad, worse than the highways by far, Aralsk was no exception. We found our hotel and after refueling washed for dinner which we had been warned we really should not eat because of the high state of pollution in the dwindling water supply.
The Aral Sea had been drained as part of a Soviet master-plan in order to irrigate vast tracts of desert on which they would grow melons and cotton. These crops were perennially a failure and the sea had all but disappeared, save for a polluted muddy creek, from Aralsk.
Our other challengers having arrived earlier had eaten. With only sweetened orange squash to drink and no beer at Aralsk we eagerly awaited the arrival of the “stragglers” which included the Suburban carrying our German beer supplies bought in Poland. Sometime past midnight they arrived tired and dejected, so after a few beers we all went to bed.
Leaving Aralsk we took a small tour around what would have been the bay. An expanse of sand with the rusting hulks of fishing boats, jetties and fish establishments are all that could interest the eye. Few people were evident, some old ropes running down to metal tanks, whose chains indicated that they had been floating platforms for fishing boats to hitch on to in what had been a thriving, bustling seaport. We took half a dozen photographs and headed out in much the same way that we had come in.
It was hot by 9.30 am and the sky was blue. The flat land all around should have been a desert but some feeble crops grew due to intensive irrigation. Actually we thought little about this but perceived, a fine, relatively fine, hardened metalled road surface, this took our attention after yesterday’s buffeting. Now we took stock in this relaxed environment, of the Bentley, and after considering all things, decided we should have flown out new shock absorbers to Lhasa and perhaps a new alternator. The tyres, which we expected would have been lacerated, showed no signs of wear and the engine, the immortal heart of the beast, ran cool and smooth. But while we were considering our good fortune we saw a gathering of our fellow challengers on the road ahead. The centre of activity was the Ford V8 Woody.
One of the agonies or perhaps more politely mixed blessings of taking an older car, among many new 4-wheel drives, on these marathon motor challenges is of becoming a focal point for other people’s boredom. Driving on the vast open roads of Asia is a challenge in many ways but the development and technology has improved the comfort and the reliability to such a point that one is cocooned from the world outside in the modern car. The, suspension, drive and steering has ironed out the road to such a refined level that human imagination becomes a bit frantic in the wastelands roads of Asia which were designed for the donkey, the horse and the camel. The older the car, actually, the more one gets out of the environment taking more care and becoming more observant, being more in tune with the spirit of the event. It would be the practice, inevitably, for the fleet-footed 4-wheel drive vehicles to charge ahead. But to what avail? On arrival the stark hotel could offer, at best, warm beer followed by a cold shower and stodgy food, the rooms were little better than cells in many cases.
“Woody” had a congregation which we joined. We all like to see the other man’s adversity and on such a run as this it is, initially, quite a buzz. The attraction of stopping and staring and thinking-“thank God it’s not me” and “poor old Woody” uttered every second breath. Actually he was O.K., having broken his rear shock absorbers. These were duly removed and he would arrange to have flown out, to Golmud or Lhasa, replacement items. When we rejoined our car we found that we needed a jump start. Our electrics were becoming a problem.
The road between here and the Chinese border was really pleasant, as was the weather.
We motored along in hot, dry, clear summer weather finding interest in all we saw. We were heading for Lake Issyk-Kul. This route brought us on the lovely road that runs parallel with the Tian-Shan mountain range, the poor relation of the western Himalayas, and the great, red poppy fields which we had known from our previous trip. We diverted off this charming road to the famous stables of Ferghana where we saw thoroughbred horses which were so thorough that they could have been cast from pure gold such was the refinement, even to their coats of these legendary horses. Winding our way we finally arrived at Lake Issyk-Kul and our hotel.
It might be disrespectful or complimentary to make a comparison between Lake Issyk-Kul and some of the earlier tourist developments on the Mediterranean or Adriatic, but there was a similarity—only the tourists were missing. The sun was still high in the sky when we arrived. Our hotel was two years old and under the harsh sunlight looked impressive but it had all the spiv hallmarks of Soviet bureaucratic cheap and very nasty planning and construction. We checked in and went down to the lake where many of our number were relaxing.
The lake was vast, clear and calm with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains given good relief by the shimmering dark coniferous forests which ran down to the shoreline on the opposite bank. Our side of the lake had great blocks of volcanic stone filled in with fine silver sand in which sharp, tough grasses had tried to colonize this salt free beach. Regrettably the Soviets had erected basketball goal posts, high seats for life guards, amusement arcades and ice cream pavilions, all of which were derelict and rusting with accelerated antiquity brought about by the use of cheap materials and shoddy workmanship.
We were happy; the swimming was good and the camaraderie wonderful. After a relaxing though stimulating dinner, of which we ate little but drank a lot, we took to our rooms to find a very high powered rock concert blasting us out of our beds from the piazza below. This went on for several hours. We were glad to leave Lake Issyk-Kul the next morning for the Chinese border. And so it became on these motoring adventures a desire to continuously find now horizons. China beckoned and the thought of Kashgar excited us.
After breakfast which we made for ourselves out of Lyons Green Label Coffee, Mcvities Digestive biscuits and the last of our Laughing Cow processed cheese, we went down and having packed the Bentley found it started without a problem. Plenty of power in the battery. We had avoided the hotel breakfast, as we normally did but collected the packed lunch and set off around the lake. We had to refuel just outside the small town of Issyk-Kul and passing a giant white painted hammer and sickle,
turned off the road into the filling station. Others were refueling and we watched the inevitable sloppiness and carelessness. It seemed that in USSR the petrol pistol, with its trigger release, either does not work or the operators cannot fathom it out. The re-fuelling procedure was always the same. Commencing with an interpreter asking exactly how many litres were required. In response most challengers over estimated, and the number of litres was called across to a control room and the pump was started. It would then continue pumping until the preset amount had been issued. If the amount was too much, and screaming in the direction of the control room by all those standing around the car (some actually smoking) would bring about a lazy response and the flow would subside. Any surplus was pumped over the floor of the filling station. This happened every day.
We had prepared the Bentley with additional petrol capacity in the form of a 5-gallon tank set within the chassis cruciform below the floor of the passenger seat. Access to which was brought about by lifting the carpets, then lifting a trap door, to reveal a Bentley screw down petrol cap. Filling that tank was a complete nightmare. I undertook the refueling, of this tank in particular and of the Bentley in general, personally whenever I could. But this morning the Russian attendants went ahead with filling the main tank, overflowing it into the wing and after some remonstration I was allowed to fill the auxiliary tank.
Ed and Carolyn Hammond driving a Range Rover Vogue, had been suffering petrol contamination and he therefore always insisted upon the petrol going through a filter funnel. On one occasion the process was very slow, caused by so much debris in the fuel blocking the gauze filter. It was only the swift reaction of Ed that stopped one of the attendants trying to poke through the filter mesh to speed up the process that saved Ed’s filter from distruction and his tank from receiving several ounces of rubbish!
On the road again, reeking of petrol, which somehow stinks once you get away from Europe, we slipped along through the Alpine-like scenery. We were on the way to Narin and then the Chinese border to head down to Kashgar.
Departing the old Soviet Union was splendid.
The dirt road, seemingly made up from chalk and small stones offered a wonderful fast surface. We all kept our distance and threw-up great clouds of white dust. Steadily climbing into the mountains with the atmosphere getting thinner and colder we saw nomads on horseback,
shepherding their flocks, on both sides of the road. Constantly gaining altitude we drove up and towards the frontier of China passing several Soviet military outposts which looked almost deserted. Climbing yet higher and passing miles of barbed wire fencing which looked so out of place, ridiculous even, we realised that we would soon be at the border crossing between these two ancient rivals.
The Russian Control was very austere and the hinterland was severe with a good covering of snow, a grey sky and a chill wind blowing. The road up to this point had been a fairly good dirt road with mud and shallow puddles alternating with slush. Having stopped lower down and made morning coffee with Jonathan and Malcolm we four had been gently rebuked by the back-up crew and warned not to be late, for fear of holding everybody up. We then put the Bentley through its paces on this mountain road and flashed passed a lot of other challengers including the back-up vehicle, on one occasion drowning “Woody” in a mixture of slush and mud as we sped through an unseen puddle while overtaking. Incidents like this can engender ill feeling on a long, tough motor challenge but Roger Woody “rolled with the punches” which I suppose is part of the character of somebody who would take such an interesting old car on such a demanding run. Later we found that his wipers did not work.
We were lined up and keeping our engines running to keep warm, waiting for Peter and Heather in the Dettol Range Rover who were missing. The back-up vehicle had arrived and we all took the opportunity to clean our windscreens, have lunch and be entertained by some local horsemen who were offering rides on their ponies in exchange for Polaroid photographs of themselves. We had found, on our last trip, the real advantage of a Polaroid picture to people in these remote parts of the world. A colour photograph instantly produced was a sort of miracle to them.
After about 45 minutes “Dettol” arrived having had a serious front wheel blowout which had damaged the rim of the wheel. We now crossed the border saying goodbye to our Russian interpreters and guides, two of whom, Eleanora and Serge, we had known from previous excursions. It was sad to be leaving them as they had worked so hard at each hotel to obtain scarce items from their depressed economy. They always did their best for all of us and with a smile.
The Russian customs officials and young soldiers gave us all a cursory inspection but seemed to concentrate on the Mercedes saloon driven by Stuart and Nan. We were soon driving through no man’s land and entering China. This gap still retained the cold war atmosphere and the little used winding red, dirt road between the two countries undulated and caused the 4-wheel drive Lada driven by the two girls Caroline and Nikki, to bog down immovably.
A snowballing raid took the tension out of waiting to enter China through an elaborate gateway. But running about at that altitude, 12,000 feet, soon calmed the snowballing frenzy. We entered China and proceeded to wait about three hours for Customs clearance, and for our Chinese guides to arrive.