Russian Documents Mongolian Dust

By Rensina van den Heuvel

Russia was never really a place I’d intended to travel to. "It’s icy cold isn’t it?" Russian Documents... Mongolian Dust is a story about a 21,000 kilometre journey, camping in a Land Rover. It spans over five months, across eleven countries. This “off the beaten track” journey begins in Brisbane, Australia. Flying to Korea, we try to pick up the car and drive north, where we intend to catch a car ferry to Russia. Sounds simple?
Smiling Korean faces are still etched in my mind as we face stark Russian officialdom.
After filling out a mile of paperwork, parting with a sizeable chunk of our hard earned cash and being interrogated, we head off across the cold, wet, dreary grey landscape, which is Russia. Just how I’d imagined it would be!

Eastern Russia and we snake our way through hundreds of tiny villages, filled with broken down cottages, abandoned buildings and peasants with colourful scarves, left to fend for themselves after the iron curtain fell. We camp on the edge of the magnificent Lake Baikal, one of the largest lakes on earth and swim in her icy sapphire waters.

At the locked border gate, we’re jam packed in a bottle neck queue, with dozens of others trying to get into Mongolia. Sleeping under the watchful eye of the Russian spotlights, we squeeze through the narrow entry into Mongolia and make our own tracks across the absolutely dynamic and vast steppe of Mongolia. No fences, no bitumen, no roads, just tracks. Hundreds of kilometres of vastness, thousands of goats and massive contrasts in weather from intense dust storms, blinding heat and teeth chattering icy conditions.
Mongolia is the jewel of my journey as we linger for seven weeks amidst the herders, their gers, the culture and simple lifestyle of these warm, friendly and very resilient people. Back into Russia, we both experience severe bouts of sickness and are ‘adopted’ by a Russian couple who take us to their home and nurture us with dumplings and hot baths back to health, before the next leg of our journey.
Down into Kazakhstan, we drive for ten days at fifteen to twenty five kilometres per hour on a road that was built in hell. Every day is filled with new experiences. Back at the border into Russia we show our ‘documents’ again and again.....over and over. Stuck in a shipping compound in Russia, we wait for the ship to dock which will take us across the Black Sea. We build friendships with Polish, Turk and Armenien truck drivers. After a three day, rocking and rolling crossing of the Black Sea, on a truck ferry with twenty five smoking, card playing truckies, we drive onto Bulgarian soil.

Early winter is upon us and we are pushed to move on. It snows a lot! Sharing the massive highways with horse drawn sulkies filled with gypsy families and fast moving semi trailers in Romania, the contrast of old and new appears so stark. In Hungary, we camp amongst windbreaks of golden leafed trees between fields in fallow,. On to Germany and ‘modern’ Europe the pace of life speeds up unbelievably and we weave our way to our final destination, Switzerland.

I find joy in the many unique interactions with local folk in dusty, desolate towns of Eastern Siberia, with nomadic herders out on the vast steppe of Mongolia and so many people, in so many diverse cultures despite the ‘verbal’ language barrier. Living in a Landrover with someone I’d only known for a few short months provides a pillowcase full of weird experiences. Extracted from my daily diaries, Russian Documents...Mongolian Dust is raw, uncut and unique and encompasses both the physical expedition and my own personal footprints. My account of this journey is interlaced with heartfelt experiences, spiced with humour and tempered with joy as learn to cope with the continual challenges of an unpredictable and unfamiliar environment. I cherish the bitter sweet challenging experiences which is the essence of overland travel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rensina van den Heuvel
• Release date: Aug 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476186221

Rensina van den Heuvel

My partner and I are Australian Overland travellers. Sometimes in a Land Rover and other times in a Uaz Russian 4X4 van or our Russian Gaz truck.We have run a few Overland Cultural CampingTours in Mongolia and I organise a walking Cultural Tour in Morocco most years.Home is on a big, remote property in North Queensland, Australia.Currently writing my second book about travelling overland in a Russian Gaz ex military truck from Finland to Jordan. We've also overlanded from Bulgaria to Senegal.We are planning to go down West coast of Africa in December 2017, from Bulgaria.Latest Bloghttp://womentravelblog.com/women-travel-writing/rensina-overland/walk-with-camels/.https://www.facebook.com/RensinasTravelAdventuresBlog: http://www.womentravelblog.com/destinations/asia/mongolia/mongolia/Smashwords Interview: https://www.smashwords.com/interview/rensinaSmashwords profile page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/rensina

Book preview

I began to write my story somewhere in Eastern Russia, in the form of a few words thrown together in an email, to some of my favourite ‘sisters’. Those precious girlfriends, those fabulous women, who are the ‘treasure’ of every woman’s life, are the reason that I wrote my story down at all.....It was their enthusiasm and their encouragement that propelled me through the transition of jotting down the ‘odd’ sentence, to becoming a full blown, passionate writing addict. Through this process, I embraced an even greater love of writing and also developed the confidence to turn my words into this, my first book.

So, my story is a raw and open account of about how it was for me, a woman travelling and camping in a Land Rover from Australia to Switzerland. A monumental journey, spanning five months, over 21,000 kilometres. We weaved our way through eleven countries.

Written from a woman’s perspective, I am sharing both the physical expedition and my own personal, often challenging journey. The rich mixture of different cultures, through so many countries, offered a diverse tapestry of encounters. My experiences were as diverse as the spectacular landscapes we travelled through, and at times, as rugged.

From the scorching heat of the vast Gobi Desert, to the freezing four sleeping bag nights in the forests of Russia, we camped in 117 different places. Through Korea, Russia, Mongolia, Kazakhstan, across the Black Sea to Bulgaria then on to Romania, Hungary, Germany, France and Switzerland.

I really did not know what to expect before I embarked on this trip. I had no idea of what degree of difficulty I would experience, nor how great the challenges might be. However, personal challenge has always excited me. I was born for it......I jumped into the abyss.

This trip has given me so much. The greatest gifts it has given me are memories, some of which are indelibly imprinted in my mind.

Along the way, I felt love from many strangers......A Mongolian woman at an isolated well, deep in the Gobi Desert.....A hungry street child gazing into my eyes in Ulan Battaar......The old herdsman with blood pouring from his nose outside Olgi....... Gaileena, the Russian angel who adopted us........The old Bulgarian herdsman, astride his tiny donkey.

I know now, more than ever, that it’s the simple and most basic things in life, which are crucial to our survival. We all need warmth, food and shelter. But most of all we need love. The key ingredient is LOVE. To get it, you must first give it.

It was an incredible trip and I want to share it with you through this book. I hope it stirs within you, your nomadic soul. My desire is to encourage and motivate others, particularly women. The main message in this book is not about whether you love travelling or not but more about finding your ‘thing’, your passion, your goals and ....DOING IT! Excavate your courage and live your dreams. Create your memories.

1

Australia to South Korea.

The eyes seem to glare back at me from the massive blackened cauldron. It’s full of them and other round things. Bubbling away there on the Mongolian’s stove. The English subtitle on the screen tells me eye and testicle of the goat is a delicacy for Mongolian people. Ouww! So what I am seeing is a potful of goats eyes and balls. There must have been a hundred of them, all flopping to the surface. The eyes seem to glance at me before they go spinning back under the thick bubbling liquid with the other little brown rubberlike balls. No way! I can eat almost anything but I am NOT trying that! I hope Mongolia has more to offer in the way of food, than that. If not, I’ll be going hungry! I yawn as I turn the computer off as it’s late and I am tired. My research into the customs and culture of Russia and Mongolia is turning out to be very enlightening!

Five weeks later…..

The Land Rover is in the ‘China Shipping’ container and Allen’s under the car, placing wooden blocks between the chassis and the axle housings. Using ratchet tie downs, he hooks the ends to the floor of the container, then onto the four corners of the underside of the car and pulls them tight. She’s tied down tight, prevented from swaying too much on the high seas. The container will be on it’s way to South Korea within a few days and two weeks later we’ll be over there, as ready as we’re ever going to be, to begin our overland journey.

Sinking back into the comfortable economy class Eva Airlines seat, I can hardly contain my excitement. My belly’s filled with butterflies but Allen is looking as calm as a well fed python. An Asian hostess blurs into the background, her safety procedures no longer stealing my attention as my mind wanders back to reflect on events, which led me to this moment.

Living in the backblocks of the Sunshine Coast hinterland, I had all but given up on finding a friend who shared the same passion as me, for travelling. A grand plan for a volunteer project ‘somewhere’ in Africa was taking shape in my head. I was at a crossroad, I had returned from Teaching English in China more than a year ago and was wading through a Counselling Course through correspondance. I was ripe for some adventure.

Before I had a chance to put any concrete plans into place, my treasured travelling buddy turned up.

"Want to travel across Russia in a Land Rover with me?" came the message on my screen. I hesitated, momentarily. "Is he serious? I wondered as my heart rate instantaneously sky rocketed out of control. Yes, absolutely! I tapped onto the keyboard without a moments hesitation and as I hovered over the send button I remember thinking, Isn’t Russia cold?" SEND! I knew it was right, somewhere deep in my soul, it felt so right.

My destiny took a sharp left and from that moment, my life changed forever.

A few treasured girlfriends raised their eyebrows and arms in horror, "You’re going where? Did you say Russia? Who with? For how long? But who is this man that you’re going with? You’ve only just met him, haven’t you?" they asked. "Well, actually, no, I answered with a chuckle, I haven’t actually met him face to face yet!". "Whaaaaattt? You’re going across Russia in a Land Rover for six months, camping with a man you’ve never even set eyes on, you bloody crazy woman?"

So a few jaws dropped, even though they’d observed my ‘hairbrained’ adventures and schemes on many occasions over the years. This one was what they considered the most risky so far. "Oh what risk? I quipped, casually. What’s the worst thing that could happen?"

My most favourite line in the whole world!

The decision to go with my ever trusted intuition, turned out to be one of the great pivotal points of my life.

And so our journey began. The physical and the emotional. Plans and preparations for the Russian expedition, are well under way within a few short months, to ‘allow it to happen". Countless hours are spent on the computer, searching for ways to get Russian invitations and hunting for airfares. We both study the Russian language, apply for Russian and Mongolian visas, have our HIV tests, prepare the Land Rover, construct the canvas shelter to fit onto the back of the car, sew it…. unpick it, (after I sewed it back to front), sew it again and in between all this activity, I go away to work four days on, four off cooking for some miners at Nebo, to rustle up some cash. A couple of months before we’re due to depart, we also go on a three week expedition to Ethabooka and the Simpson Desert, taking a nice bunch of folks with us.

Allen and I have lengthy discussions about exactly what we will need to pack into the Land Rover, to enable us to live in it for six months.

And all through that time, Allen and I go through a process of learning about each other. There’s lots of sweat, some blood and yep…plenty of tears. It’s been a long and interesting haul to get to here. Questions run through my head as I contemplate the uncertainty of many aspects of the trip which lies ahead. "What will we experience? Will we be safe? Will Russia be as cold as I imagine it? Will our friendship survive the rigors of living in the car and spending every moment together for the next six months?" and, "Have I rushed into this?" Yes, I have. It’s my way. I only met this man seven months ago "Is it risky? Yes it is", I answer myself.

Ah, but what is my life without risk, challenge and experiences which propel me out of my own personal comfort zone?

For me, not a life at all!

A thundering rumble of passionate anticipation, growls deep in my belly. An involuntary grin erupts on my face, as the aircraft slides away from the terminal. Allen’s expression remains calm as he looks over at me. Its difficult for me to read how he’s feeling as he’s not very emotionally expressive.

This is the beginning of our journey of over twenty one thousand kilometres, across eleven countries. Thrust back in my seat, I close my eyes as a tear slides down my cheek. I savour the feeling as the giant jet lifts us into our escapade.

It’s very wet at Seoul Airport, 10.35pm local time. An hour through customs and we’re dragging our luggage up the stairs of the bus, headed into the city area. Seoul, like most cities doesn’t sleep. A heavy flow of traffic chocks up the streets, even at midnight. The driver drops us off on a corner, somewhere in the back blocks of the outer city. Was it my imagination, or did the rain begin to fall heavier the minute we stepped off the bus? Making Cairns wet season rain look like a Pommie drizzle, it takes us from dry to drenched in thirty seconds. Now’s not a good time to question my decision, not to buy a good weather proof coat, before I left Australia, because, "It will be cheaper overseas."

Oh great! Squeezing under a small awning, we try to escape the deluge and work out what our next move will be. Allen asks" Okay, so which way?" I really didn’t have a clue. All I had was a few ‘very loose’ directions, scrawled into my notebook. I’d gotten them off the Traveller A Hostel site, on the internet. Everything, as far as the eye can see, is written in Korean. There’s a large hotel nearby, so I venture in to see if I can rustle up a sleepy, front desk clerk or maybe a night watchman.

Luck is on our side as a young, helpful, English speaking fella points us in the ‘general’ direction. Loaded up with our luggage again, we carefully navigate our way across the busy road, dodging the late night traffic. We had tried to pack as much stuff into the Land Rover as possible so we wouldn’t have too much luggage to carry. But you know how you always have those ‘last minute’ things to pack? Like fifteen kilograms of car parts?

Down a tiny alley, it’s dimly lit, quiet and away from the main road. Reminds me very much of China. There doesn’t seem to be a single soul around. All I can hear is the sound of my own breath and the sloshing noise of us wading through the channels of water. Streams of rivulets are running down my forehead, into my eyes, causing my vision to blur as I survey my surroundings. Looking up, I scour the fluorescent lit, coloured signs for something…..anything written in English. They are smudged and fuzzy, like wet paint running down a canvas.

"The guesthouse is supposed to be around here somewhere," I tell Allen, hearing a hopeful tone on my own voice.

Laden like a couple of drenched mules, we approach a minuscule café. Dim light, falls out onto the street, casting a welcome golden glow amongst the wet, murky shadows. Inside there are two men and a woman seated on rickety wooden chairs, talking. They all look up at me, startled as I enter, water dripping off me leaving a sodden trail. I enquire, "Travellers A Hostel? I realise that my English is not understood at all, as one of the men shakes his head adamantly. I began to perform some actions, as if I was sleeping. As I attempt to communicate, one of the little Korean men studies my face with great intensity. Suddenly his face breaks into a huge grin, making his eyes crinkle up at the edges. I can almost see the light globe come on above his head, as he understands what I’m trying to communicate. Becoming very animated, he speaks to the woman and other man, jumps up and grabs his enormous black umbrella. Beckoning us outside into the torrential rain, still with a big smile, he opens the umbrella and holds it over us. He himself was not under it. We walked hurriedly, down two tinier, drenched streets. He then stops and points down one of the streets to a big sign, lit up in English, which says Travellers A Hostel". I thank him profusely and he rewards me with another broad Korean smile and a slight bow. He turns and scurries off, quickly blending, then vanishing, swallowed up by the shadows. He was an angel and one of the many Korean people who so generously helped us on the early part of our journey.

Up the rickety, steep stairs we climbed, to see a wizened, tiny old woman, rising sleepily from her mat on the floor of her two metre square office. I guess she could hear us coming, as each step squeaked with the weight of us, our luggage….oh and the fifteen kilograms of car parts! It was so good to be out of the rain.

Our little room is incredibly welcoming after the day’s travels. We are both exhausted. The bed, resembling a slab of concrete is actually very comfortable once you get used to it. I slept on one for six months in China. So long as you don’t try to trampoline on them, they’re fine. They don’t bounce! Not even a centimetre! You could do yourself some permanent damage trying.

Sitting on the bed, I leaned against one of the pillows. It made a kind of rustling sound. Mmm! That’s different! "Hey listen to this," I quipped, as I picked one up and shook it. It sounded like it was filled with uncooked pasta. Unzipping the case, I find it is filled with hundreds of bits of yellow plastic straws, all chopped up. It crackled loudly in my ears when I laid my head on it.

Our room has an Asian style ‘ensuite ’ consisting of a shower/toilet combination, which is just big enough for a smallish person to get into.

It’s very functional, once you squeeze in, that is. You can have a hot shower, brush your teeth at the basin and sit on the toilet, all at the same time.

The next morning, I gaze out of our miniature window at a repeat of yesterday’s weather conditions, bleak, grey, blustery and wet. Buildings, power lines, washing hanging out. Staircases on the outsides of the buildings, spiralling down to the wet street below, us were typical of the other Asian cities I have visited. The buildings, old, stained, broken down and crammed vertically together like sardines in a tin.

We pay our sweet little old host for our accommodation and load our bags onto each other then venture out to find a market to buy some food and raincoats, or at least an umbrella. Walking down a few streets, ducking under eaves to escape the heaviest rain, we find a market not too far away. We are hungry and find only a few stalls open. An older Korean man in an extremely inebriated state decided he would ‘help’ us. The fumes coming off him are lethal as he staggers around us, trying to make friends in stilted English. We bought some overpriced inferior, ‘sad’ looking fruit and an extremely overpriced Chinese umbrella which sadly fell apart really quickly. I’m sure the old Korean meant well but he really wasn’t a lot of help.

Finding an internet place, we book some accommodation at the Busan Guesthouse then begin the search for a bus to get us there. It’s over four hundred kilometres away. Our bags and packs seem to be getting heavier by the minute. Like being shackled to a lead weight. Once again, I ducked into a large Hotel reception area to ask for directions. You can almost always be assured that someone in there speaks a little English. They did! Once we had explained to the male receptionist that we wanted to go to the long distance bus terminal, he walked outside with us, waved a taxi down, spoke to the driver, agreed on a price and took the cabs number plate. He then sent us on our way with a generous smile. All of the Korean people we have met so far have been gentle, kind and very obliging.

Ten minutes later, we were buying our tickets, eating some fishy pancakes on skewers, dipped in soy sauce and getting aboard the bus ….which left three minutes later for Busan. Hows that for synchronicity!

It was sheer bliss putting our packs down and our feet up. The five hours it would take to reach Busan would give us a much needed rest. The past few days, weeks, months… had been pretty full on.

As the bus’s engine roared into life, I felt a wave of fatigue wash over me.

Once out of the city, the countryside was spectacular, the mountains so enormous, the valleys so deep and picturesque. My eyes kept trying to close as the overwhelming tiredness settled over me, like a heavy woollen blanket. Torn between the incredible urge to sleep and also, not wanting to miss out on seeing Korea for the first time, I dozed on and off all the way to Busan. Allen did the same. It seemed that every available space, including the edges of the road, was planted with crops. Even the steep mountainsides were planted with vegetable crops and on the flat land, there were rice paddies. It was so different from Australia’s wide open spaces. The roads were so well made, freeways right across the country, with hundreds of tunnels going right through the mountains. The rain continued to pelt down the whole way.

Arriving in Busan, another sprawling city, the second largest in South Korea made Brisbane look like a small country town. It looked and smelled appallingly polluted. The acrid smell burned the back of my throat. It again reminded me of China, where I had lived for six months in 2005. Finding the Busan Guesthouse in this seething mass of civilisation, combined with the continuous rain, seemed like a daunting task. We thought we would try our luck down in the underground rail system. The subway.

I was being optimistic in hoping that some of the signs may have been in English when a clear voice wafted over my shoulder in English. "Can I help you? It was Park, a young Korean man with a dazzling smile. For the next half hour he stayed with us, showing us where and how to buy subway tickets and even travelling with us on the subway. On the train, we met a New Zealander, who was working in Busan and his Korean girlfriend. His ‘kiwi’ accent sounded so foreign and fabulous! Clambering up the stairs from the busy underground station, Park hailed a taxi for us, wrote instructions in Korean for the driver to take us to Busan Guesthouse and sent us on our way. Another winged one", I thought, as I looked back, waving to Park as the taxi pulled away from the curb. Aren’t we the lucky ones!

Climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, we were welcomed by Han, her husband, an energetic 16 month old boy and the 40 inch, big screen, colour, electronic babysitter.

The Busan Guesthouse was a home away from home. Our tiny room consisted of another concrete style, three quarter size bed and a large window overlooking a ‘not too busy’ street. Our plan was to stay one night, whip over to Korean Customs, release the Land Rover from her container, head north to catch the Dong Chun Ferry and sail over to Russia. Sounds fairly straight forward?….. In a perfect world!

Next morning taking our entire luggage with us and saying our farewells to our hosts, we catch another taxi to the Port of Busan. Firstly, we go to the shipping agents office to do a mile of paperwork. The female Agent accompanies us into the Customs office at the dock. The customs officials want a lot of our hard earned money, a mile of paperwork written up and six hours of our time before they even let us near the shipping container.

So it is late in the afternoon before Allen finally unlocks the padlock on the container.

The Korean Officials weren’t expecting a padlock and thought they could just open the container themselves. They’re all looking a wee bit edgy, as if they are expecting something to rush out of the container as Allen opens it. When Allen walks into the container and begins to undo the tie downs the Koreans become even more restless. Paranoia is rife here, just like everywhere else in the world, due to bombs going off at random, all the time……somewhere!

For me, it was a magnificent moment when Allen drove the car from the container. She was to be our home and our freedom, for the next six months. And NO MORE lugging heavy bags (and car parts!)

After driving through the customs compound, back to the office, it looked like most of the formalities were completed and we were almost ready to roll. "Where’s my International Drivers Licence? asked Allen, coming out of the customs office, heading towards the car. "I know it’s here somewhere and they won’t let us go until they have sighted it and copied it," he said as he began to search. For the next half an hour, we practically pulled the whole car apart, looking in every nook and cranny but with no reward. Allens International driving Permit is nowhere to be found.

I had my licence but the officials would not accept it as the car was Allen’s and his name is on the Registration papers as the owner and importer. For the next hour there is lots of incomprehensible yelling in Korean and some intense moments as our shipping Agent argued on our behalf to try to have the car released.

The head Korean Official was adamant and would not budge. Red faced, frustrated and looking like he was ready for the coronary ward at the Busan General Hospital, he rants and raves in Korean. It was more than a bit obvious to us, that the Land Rover was absolutely, positively, not going to drive out of those gates and onto Korean soil, until he had sighted the document.

The Customs office door closes for the night as we climb into a taxi. We are both feeling dejected, tired, negative and devastatingly disappointed, as we head back to Han’s hospitality at the Busan Guesthouse.

My dislike of cities is radically reinforced as we travel through Busan. I am already feeling low and as I look around the streets as we drive through town, I realise that Busan is no different than so many large cities of the world. Sprawling, ugly, grey and polluted. There is zilch about cities that I find appealing.

No amount of movie theatres, restaurants and ‘great’ shopping will ever counterbalance against the overwhelming traffic congestion, staggering population, rampant consumerism, visual advertising propaganda and the rotten toxic pollution which stings my eyes, burns my throat and leaves an acrid taste in my mouth.

I long for the wide open spaces of Mongolia where I know the sky will be clear and the air will be clean.

And I also know somewhere deep down in my soul that it will be the jewel in my travel crown.

The next couple days we spend most of our time emailing Allen’s son Dan, and some friends of mine to try to organise a new permit. My friend, Amanda puts things in perspective a bit when she sends me an email saying," Just a minor technical hiccup, hey?" She’s right, but at the time we saw it as a gigantic problem and a devastating set back, especially because it was right at the start of our journey! Han allowed us to use her computer as much as we needed to. It was time consuming and frustrating.

In the evening, Han cooked a special dinner and invited us to share it, along with a young Taiwanese student who was also staying in the guesthouse. Sitting together on cushions on the polished wooden floor, we shared a veritable feast of fish, rice, pickled vegetables, tofu soup with pipis, miso soup, bean paste and many different side dishes of condiments. When we thanked her, she said simply, "I cook for you, you are wery busy". She was very kind and extremely generous.

In the afternoons, Han’s little boy, who loved tussling with Allen, would come waddling down to our room. The pitter-patter of his tiny feet slapped the floor and he hit the door with his chubby hands, trying to attract our attention. Allen would grab him and ‘aeroplane’ him around the room and drop him on the bed, over and over, his squeals of delightful laughter ringing through the house. The ‘concrete mattress didn’t seem to worry him as he came back for more, over and over, giggling till he was breathless.

Another night we went out for a walk and found ourselves in some softly lit back alleys with many tiny cafes. The red lanterns hanging outside, indicated the eating places. Being more than a little unsure of the menus, as they were all written in Korean, we stood outside one place deciding whether to venture in. Two older women beckoned to us. Initially, I couldn’t tell if they were shooing us away or waving us in. We ordered some vegetable dishes and rice, with the help of our Korean phrase book.

One of the women watched us curiously while the other one served us traditional dishes. Korean food wakes up every taste bud in your mouth. It’s full of flavour and scrumptious. The individual dishes were very salty, sour and very bloody ‘chilly’ hot.

The two women stood smiling, watching us as we devoured the food and laughed with glee as I fanned my burning lips. Chilli induced sweat, dripping from both our foreheads.

Wednesday 4th July around lunchtime, we say our goodbyes to Han for the second time, armed with all documents, emailed, faxed, copied, every way possible for the Customs Officials, to be sure that we have covered every possible stuff up. We do! The Customs officials have received faxed copies of Allen’s International drivers permit and are ready to release the Land-Rover.

While we fuss around the vehicle, getting ourselves organised to leave, the head of the Customs hovers around, apologising profusely and shaking our hands. A short stocky man with a thick unruly mop of black wavy hair, peers at me through his thick-rimmed glasses. With a hopeful expression on his face he asks, "Are you a Christian?, I shake my head and resist the temptation to reply, No, I am a Muslim!"

I think that would have rocked his world!

Instead, I give him my version of a half hearted smile and leave it at that. After the past few days of setbacks, I thought it best to quell my urge to piss him off!

He gives Allen his card and with a big grin says, "Any probrem with poreece, you wing me, okay?"

Walking down to the large steel gates, as we drive slowly behind him, he instructs the guard to open it. Free at last, we drive out and park fifty metres down the road. That’s the limit of our travel until the traffic dies down, somewhere around 2am the next morning.

Allen works on getting the GPS loaded with some world maps but doesn’t have a lot of luck. Locking the car, we go exploring into the city area, to use some of the spare time we have on our hands. The city centre is just a whole bunch of concrete manmade buildings without any cultural character and the landscape as far as the eye can see is filled with thousands of signs. We find an interesting underground arcade, with numerous small shops filled with everything from clothes and shoes to fascinating curios, knick knacks and souvenirs. There’s a fabulous shop in there which stocks a captivating range of dazzling, sparkly, belly dancing outfits. It was a visual feast! Oh! all that colour, glitter, beads and sequins!

Finding a Chinese restaurant, we ventured in eat dinner. Like menu’s in many Asian countries the English is a bit hit and miss and translations go a bit ‘skewiff.’

It was hilarious when Allen ordered Vegetable fried rice and ended up with Pork rissoles and vegetables. Upon enquiring whether it was what he had ordered, the waitress assured him that this was indeed, Vegetable fried rice. They changed his meal once he explained that he did not want to eat meat. In China we called the mixed language, Chinglish, I guess we could call it Korenglish. The food was yummy!

Getting back to the Land-Rover (and pleased to see that it was still parked where we had left it), we decided to try to get some sleep before our planned 2am departure, into the (hopefully) deserted streets. The inside of the car was hot and there were a few dozen, very hungry, Korean mosquitos. They have an extra loud ‘buzz’.

Eventually, we both fall into a fitful sleep with just the distant sounds of a garbage truck on it’s rounds in a street, far away. I’m not sure whether I actually did go to sleep but somewhere in my subconscious, the sound of the garbage trucks never really recedes. They just seem to get louder and louder. Lifting the curtain, I peer out of the window. Under the bright spotlights which surround the Customs compound, I see that we are parked just ten metres from the garbage collection area. And one by one, down the road they came. First it was the massive garbage truck with the crane on the back, which reversed along side us, so close that I could almost smell the drivers breath. He picked up a couple of bins, emptied them into the trucks disposal unit, then left. "Great! I thought as I was drifting off to sleep. It appeared that Allen was sleeping through it. Not even a movement! Heck, he must be exhausted to sleep through this." I was tempted to feel his pulse!

Next came the compacter, who picked up some other bins and emptied them into the truck amidst loud crashing noises. After that, came a couple of smaller utilities with people in the back, who picked up all the cardboard.

Then the recycle truck rolled in and they took the glass. That was loud!

Every one of those trucks that turned up, reversed within a gnats breath of the Land Rover.

Maybe we were in a NO PARKING zone! I was dozing off again, just as the cleaners arrived to sweep the entire area.

Allen woke up at this point and we decided that it might be a good time to leave Busan. It was exactly 2am!

With sleepy, scratchy eyes, copious amounts of yawns and Allen driving, we began our four hundred and fifty kilometre journey on the right hand side of the road, north to Sokcho.

2

*Pusan to Sokcho.

*Pusan = Busan.

A good description of our trip north, in Korea was that it was a mongrel of a drive.

The foggy pollution was thick and made visibility, extremely poor. The taste in the air was vile and the smell was putrid. It sort of burned my throat. We drove through hundreds of red traffic lights, which everyone seemed to ignore at that time of the day, including us.

It was slow, arduous and stressful going.

The city seemed to go on forever, like a massive sprawl of human habitation, and did in fact go on for about fifty kilometres. It took us two and a half hours to drive the first 100 kilometres.

At one point we became lost in a maze of tiny streets and thick haze. Trying to find our way back to the highway through the dark streets without the GPS working properly was a nightmare.

By 6.30am we were both having trouble keeping our eyes open so we searched for somewhere to stop, eat some breakfast and rest awhile. A great idea in theory but it also turned out to be a arduous task. There are so many towns, built up with buildings and concrete and everywhere else huge mountain ranges or crops. There’s no space to stop. There appeared to be nowhere for a couple of Aussies to park their Land Rover and catch fifty winks!

Eventually we found some road works and were able to pull over.

Allen went to collect some water, which was running into a culvert nearby and took a mud-bath while he was there, losing his footing and going into the brown slippery mud well up to his knees.

We cooked some rice and ate it with sultanas and banana before we clambered into the back of the car and lay there in two exhausted heaps.

After two hours, the heat of the Korean Summer sun forced us out of our slumber. It wasn’t enough sleep but we both felt revived enough to hop into the front of the car and continue our journey.

We had to keep moving to link up with the Dong Chun Ferry, which departed for Russia at 1pm. We had booked and paid for it months before in Australia and neither of us wanted to miss it.

The coastal road from then on was beautifully rugged with small towns dotted along the route but the smog did not lift at all as the day progressed. The thick haze remaining suspended in the air.

The sun is now a huge red globe. Mother Earth is choking. It saddens me and makes me feel powerless. Who will be accountable?

Arriving in Sokcho, on Thursday 5th July, we find it be a fairly large city with some striking coastline.

I have always loved the beach. Just to see the coastline and the expanse of water always creates images of freedom in me. Children running into the water with squeals of delight, families relaxing on towels, having picnics, shells and sandcastles and surfers playing the waves.

The high fences topped with coiled razor wire, which run along the entire length of the dunes, dramatically dispels any of those images.

How lucky we are in Australia.

Sweat runs down my body and settles into my crevices. The air is hot, sticky and humid as we drive around the coastline looking for a port and the Dong Chun Ferry Terminal.

We find it after asking a few directions from friendly, helpful locals. There is an extensive bitumen car park, so we lock the car and hurry into the terminal building. We’re cutting it abit fine as it's right on 1pm.

Inside the large terminal, it’s chaotic and as noisy, as a school yard at lunchtime. It’s alive with adult Russians and Koreans and a couple of hundred kids. All yelling, squealing, laughing, playing and chasing each other over the stacks of luggage.

We make our way to the booking counter and join the queue. The Korean girl there is totally stressed and not interested one bit in trying to understand my English. While I am there, Allen tries to find someone else in the main office who can assist us. An amicable, young manager, Mr Lee comes to our rescue. He’s of slim build and dressed immaculately in his crisp, white shirt and black trousers. "We have accommodation for you on Ferry but we have no room for car" He implores, "Please, can you wait for Sunday’s departure?" We tell him that we can wait but explain to him that we are camping in the car and have nowhere to go. I ask if we can stay in the car park with the car and we are given permission to camp until departure on Sunday.

Finding a place to camp in a bitumen car park for three days is not a spellbinding experience. There are no rivers, lakes or shady trees so we settle on a fence away from the terminal. Putting the tarp over the back of the car, we tie it to the fence. It gives us some shelter, shade and privacy. The car is safe and we are able to wander off into the streets nearby to look for some fresh food.

The tiny back streets are filled with dried fish shops. Hundreds of them. Out the front of one shop there is a table with cut up watermelon on it. That grabs my attention! The middle aged Korean woman is friendly. She offers us a seat and a slice of watermelon. It’s cold, sweet and refreshing. The woman sits with us and we communicate with the help of our Korean phrase book. It’s a welcome respite from the intense heat and high humidity. When we are ready to leave, I ask her how much she’d like for the watermelon. She laughs and waves the query away, saying No, No.

In Korean and some sign language, she indicates that she put the chairs out the front, as it was a cool spot and motions for us to eat as much watermelon as we like. She then asks if we would like coffee or perhaps some dried fish as she holds up a half metre long, flat, grey, whole fish. Declining both, I thank her very much and we continue on our walk.

Back at the car, after finding vegetables and seaweed, I cook some tea then go over to the terminal, which is now empty and quiet.

The security guard nods a greeting as my footsteps clap on the marble floor, echoing throughout the empty hall. I find the womens toilet and wash my sweaty body with cold water from a basin.

Back in the car, we both fall into fitful, erratic sleep. We’re overtired, overstimulated and it’s still broad daylight at 9pm.

It’s Saturday afternoon and we have found an enormous fresh food market with stalls which spill out all over the tiny alleys and into wider streets, overflowing with many varieties of fish, dried and fresh fruit and vegetables. The sellers sit around in tiny stalls, their produce neatly arranged around them. Stacks of every sort of fruit and vegetable, dried fruits, nuts, live fish and fresh noodles. We eat our way around, nibbling on various Korean delicacies, like prawns, small omelettes, tempura zucchinis and dumplings.

Loaded up with vegetables and fruit, we wander back to the car. Yesterday we also walked a lot, exploring our surroundings and venturing along the sea front. Seaweed hung on wire fences to dry, like washing which had been whipped by the wind into long ropes. All along the foreshore, stacks of massive, rounded concrete shapes had been stacked to form retaining walls. They look like gigantic knucklebones or pieces of a puzzle thrown and left there, never to be assembled. Further on we discovered a strange looking ‘roundish’ building which looked like it landed there from the far reaches of outer space. It’s made from pieces of aluminium all riveted together. Its windows are round and look like small portholes. It’s a work of art