Another guest appearance.

And here's the link to the next of my articles:

http://www.wesaidgotravel.com/contraband-kyrgyzstan-kazakhstan

Hope you enjoy reading it.

A guest appearance.

In the midst of compiling "4 Guys in a Car: The Book" (working title) I decided to enter a couple of our stories in a writing contest. Each entry gets posted separately over several weeks, and the first one of mine went up this morning. Click here to have a look.

Starting the ball of bureaucracy rolling.

Having made the decision to ship Trevor home at the end of the trip, we’ve spent the last couple of months waiting in anticipation for his scheduled arrival date of the 22^nd of May. Over the last few days Ben’s been making some enquiries as to what we’d have to do to actually retrieve him, so having emailed through copies of a few things such as our Carnet and copies of our Bill of Lading, the next step was for Ben and I to make the trip out to Customs House at Tullamarine to start the ball of bureaucracy rolling. We made the trip out there this afternoon (May 21^st) and after waiting at one end of the room to have our Carnet stamped back into Australia, we took a numbered ticket and queued up at the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry down the other end of the room. It seemed a little odd to be sent to such a department about the shipment of a car, but apparently their services extend to all quarantine matters. We’d come prepared with copies of our passports (Ben’s and mine as the names on the shipping documents and Denner’s as the named owner of the car), our original Carnet, the originals and copies of our Bill of Lading and various unnecessary car documents such as registration, just in case. We sat twiddling our thumbs while someone took our documents away for a while, after which we were asked for the arrival date and the port of entry so a quarantine inspection booking could be organised, for which we had to pay $105. A pile of papers including our own original documents were slid across the desk to us and we were sent on our way.

Tomorrow Ben will visit the Maersk office (the company we’ve shipped with) to drop of our Bill of Lading which is the document issued at the port of exit with the details of the shipment and where/whom the cargo should be unloaded to (us). When that’s taken care of all we have to do is wait for our quarantine inspection and unless we missed some dirt on the body of the car, or something else that will require a hold up and of course some extra fees, we should be free to drive off.

We found out this afternoon that the ship Trevor’s on has already been to Perth. It’s hard to imagine that he’s actually already been to Australia and that hopefully within a few days will be in our possession.

One Car on a Ship.

Now that we're back in Melbourne (except Denner who decided to stay in London for a while), settling back into life as somewhat normal people, obviously there isn't much more to report on here. The only thing still left is the arrival of Trevor, our trusty and much-loved Toyota 4Runner who is currently on a ship somewhere in the Indian Ocean, scheduled to arrive in Melbourne on the 22nd of May. You can find details about the cost of this on the Trip Costs page if you're interested, which will be up-dated when he arrives to include whatever costs we have to pay on this end, and of course any stories about the process.

We’ve had a lot of enquiries about whether “4 Guys in a Car: The Book” might be written, so I’m happy to report that my project for the next while is in fact writing it. We’ll keep everyone updated on any progress on that as it goes, but hopefully in a few months it will be lining book shelves for everyone to enjoy.

Whose Country is it anyway? by Ben Crowley.

Firstly let me apologise for the lateness of this blog. After arriving home in Melbourne and being inundated with admirers and fans, I found it difficult to find the time to complete the quality product that those following our blog have become accustomed to.

                Excited by this frozen in time glimpse at the former Soviet Union, I traversed the potholed highway signposted to Tiraspol, considered just a regional outpost in Moldova, but the capital city to the 550,000 people who call Transnistria home. Flying along one of the better roads (ease of military movement assured) that Eastern Europe had to offer, I was brought to a sudden stop by a large Russian tank sitting in the middle of the road. At this point 3 or 4 soldiers came running towards the car, pointing their rifles in a rather aggressive nature towards our vehicle.

                “Otkuda vy?” yelled the light infantryman with the clearly visible Russian flag sewn to his shoulder.

                “Privet, Avstraliya,” Tom Unkles sitting in the passenger seat replied.

                “Ah Avstraliya! Sydaney! Melbon! Kangaroo!” they laughed and joked as the Russian soldier continued to interrogate. “Mashina otkuda?”

                “Avstraliya” Tom replied once again.

                “Mashina Avstraliya!” at this point they were almost on the ground with laughter, “kuda? Ukrayina?”

                “Tiraspol,” Tom told the man. “Turizm.”

                “Ah Tiraspol,” he then continued to (we assume) tell us that we certainly weren’t getting through this way and that we’d need to turn around and take our first left in order to cross at the only legal crossing, located in the town Bendery.

Transnistria, also known as Trans-Dniestr, Transdniestria or to make matters even more confusing, Pridnistrovie in Russian (literally left bank of the river Dniester), gained its quasi-pseudo-de facto independence in 1992, two years of full scale war after they declared themselves separate from Moldova. However since then, only other “non-states” such as South Ossetia (Blog Day 220 – Revolutionary Ideas), Abkhazia and Nagorno-Karabakh (Blog Travelling to Nagorno Karabkh, by Ben Crowley) have recognised its autonomy. Even Russia, who as its protector has its 14^th Army stationed there as a buffer against Moldovan aggression, has yet to recognise Transnistria’s sovereignty.

Once we got to what appeared to be the only border crossing, situated in the town of Bendery, we found ourselves faced with numerous contradictions, the sort that we had become used to in the former Soviet Union. From the onset it appeared nothing more than a shambolic police check, the usual cones, barricades, crudely written стоп (Stop) signs and some portable buildings; nothing permanent except maybe a flag pole. However, the immigration/customs process seemed very permanent and ran in a surprisingly efficient manner, still of course bearing the usual Sovietesque qualities. Unlike our previous encounters, these were Transnistria’s own forces and they appeared to take their task quite seriously.

I was originally in charge of this particular border crossing (we usually took turns), but they wanted nothing of me. The guards dealing with customs were insistent that the legal owner of the vehicle was to deal with the paperwork, something we had not particularly come across in the past. So we gave them what they wanted, what most people want, Tom Denner.

Like an Englishman defending his nation’s culinary pedigree, we struggled through the temporary import documents, all printed only in Russian and Moldovan (Romanian) and found ourselves not getting very far. We were relieved to enlist the help of a local who spoke quite proficient English but still struggled to explain the automotive jargon. Whilst having our completed paperwork examined I was lucky enough to have this man whose name is now forgotten in history explain his thoughts on the question of his nation’s sovereignty.

“Things are very difficult in Transnistria, the rest of the world doesn’t accept our wishes and it makes it very difficult. The Moldovans make it very hard, we just want to live peacefully with them,” he stated, expounding the same sort of rhetoric we had heard all over the world. I asked him why he was travelling from Moldova. “I need to work in Chisinau as there is no work in Tiraspol. I think most people will leave for Moldova or Russia.”

“Even though you fought against Moldova?” I asked.

“We were once brothers and sisters, but they went crazy when the Soviet Union fell. I don’t hate them, I just don’t understand why they won’t respect our wishes to be independent, why they discriminate against us and make things so hard.”

I asked him whether it was safe in Transnistria and what there was to see, to which he proudly told me that Tiraspol is probably safer than anywhere in Western Europe. There might be organised crime but not crime against individuals. He also noted that Tiraspol has some interesting architecture, in particular and he was quite adamant about this, from the exact years 1954 and 1976, which having spent a lot of time in the former Soviet Bloc I found hard to believe, let alone from years so specific.

Before we left there was one line that he did say quite forcefully considering how calm and well natured he was, “To Transnistrians our independence is not disputed. It is fact.” Finally the car paperwork was completed and then all we had left was the extremely simple process (please note sarcasm) of crossing the road to the passport office, completing more forms (in Russian/Moldovan), and receiving temporary (24 hour) immigration cards which we had to go into Tiraspol the next day to get a 24 hour extension for because the Registration of Foreign Aliens Department of the police force were on holidays. Finally on the third day we went to the Registration of Foreign Aliens Department to be given full registration as tourists to stay in Transnistria. During this process we only needed to visit five different offices multiple times over the three days and spend many hours of our short stay. I don’t think it’s possible to make a process much easier than that!

The first thing we noticed when driving from Bendery to Tiraspol was how dark it was. At this point night had fallen and there was a distinct lack of street lighting and light pollution from buildings. That and the Soviet era apartment blocks, trolley buses, Lada Nivas, Russian tanks and Sovietesque billboards and signs depicting enough hammer and sickles to bring any card carrying communist to their knees with ecstasy. All those things and how dark it was. We made the small drive to Tiraspol and then began our search for accommodation. 

Day 339 – Wine fizzing for beginners. (Scotland)

Leading up to the end of the trip I had been somewhat concerned about what the actual finish line would entail. We had chosen Appin as our destination because as the village where I went to primary school and consider myself to be “from”, it was a significant end point conveniently located on the other side of the world. Throughout the trip it was this far away place that we were heading ambiguously in the direction of, but as it became closer and began seeming a bit more realistic we had to stop leaving it for Future Eilidh, Ben, Tom and Tom to worry about. I had an image of us driving up to the pier or the shop, stopping the car, probably not being able to see anything through the rain, but me assuring everyone that it was very pretty, then saying “ok well, this is Appin. We made it,” and turning around and leaving. Having moved away at the age of 12 I’ve kept in contact with a couple of people, but I had no hopes or intentions of organising any sort of welcoming party. To make our arrival seem a bit more poignant I asked my grandparents if they wouldn’t mind making the two hour drive up to Appin to greet us when we arrived and I knew two of my mum’s sisters and one of my cousins were planning to come. At the last minute a Kiwi friend of Ben’s and mine who we lived with in Port Douglas three years ago and is currently living in Edinburgh decided to hitch a ride with my grandparents too, so we’d have a small welcoming party.

There are two ways to drive from Glasgow, where we stayed for a couple of days with my grandparents, to Appin, and we chose to take the slightly longer but more spectacular route. The road wiggles around Loch Lomond and slices through Glencoe and is surely one of the most stunning drives in the world. You might think I’d be biased, and maybe I would be, but I appreciated this drive more this time than I ever had before. We had a 1pm deadline to be at the car park opposite the Church in Appin to meet a journalist and photographer from the Oban Times, so we left in plenty of time so we could enjoy the drive and stop a couple of times along the way if we felt so inclined. Unfortunately it took us a bit longer than expected to find the hidden away LPG station (LPG is available in Scotland, but not readily at most petrol stations and there very well not have been anywhere north of Glasgow that would sell it), but we still had time to pause for our last shisha overlooking the Black Mount and Loch Tulla. By the time we chatted to some other folks stopped there, finished our shisha and stopped for a couple of photos in front of the “Appin” sign we were running a little late for our 1pm date with the Oban Times, but nothing had us prepared for what was coming next.

As we drove into Appin, the sun shining on us through a perfectly blue sky as it had been the whole way up, I was busy pointing out to my companions, “there’s Lettershuna, and that’s where the Salvarlis lived. Those houses are new, and that view point thing was put up after we left. That’s Kinlochlaich where we’ll stay tonight with the Hutchisons, that’s the school and a bunch of new houses, and Shelia Lawrie’s house and the hair dresser’s. There’s Gunn’s Garage, Kirkton, and oooh what’s that fancy new car park opposite the Church? And what are all those people standing around in the car park for...?”

And then the FINISH sign strung on a ribbon across the entrance to the car park came into view and I spotted my grandparents and the others I was expecting and realised that this group were all waving at us. This group of 20 or 30 was our welcoming party!

“Is this for us? Oh wow! Oh wow!” We turned into the car park and we were caught so unawares we didn’t know what to do. “Do we just stop? Do we drive through the sign? What do we do?” We drove through the “finish” line as directed and stopped amidst our supporters. There aren’t many times I can look back on throughout my life and honestly say I was speechless, but at this point I really was, literally, speechless. Unable to wipe the grin from my face and still just staring around completely flabbergasted by the whole situation I was re-united with so many people from my childhood memories. We were introduced to Euan from the Oban Times who set us up for an arrival celebration photo shoot which went on to provide much hilarity.

He had Tom and Tom climb on top of the car, and Ben and I were to perch on the bonnet – the others were all fine with this, but climbing onto the bonnet with my long legs and natural athletic prowess (for those who don’t know me this is sarcastic, I have neither long legs nor any sort of natural athletic prowess) was not an easy feat and Ben kept having to push me up as I slid off whilst trying to rearrange myself. Eventually I got arranged and Euan handed me a bottle of bubbly and showed me how to make it fizz up. Then he decided it would be better if I was standing in front of the car with the bubbly – great, just wish he’d thought of that before the entire village had laughed at me scrambling up the front of my car! Well the hilarity was far from over. As it turns out fizzing up bottles of sparkling wine to make them spray everywhere in the celebratory fashion that we’re accustomed to isn’t all that simple. At first it just sort of dribbled out over my arms as I was shaking it up, and then when I thrust the bottle forward for the spray, nothing happened. I tried several times, and each time I was sure I was going to get it, and each time everyone held their breath as I thrust the bottle for the spray, and each time was only more ridiculous than the last. When the bottle was empty Susie Hutchison who was the brains and hands behind the “FINISH” sign and who we would stay with that night pulled another bottle from her boot and we tried again. Eventually I managed to get one half decent spray, and needless to say that’s the photo that made it to the newspaper, but not after having everyone in fits at my sub-par sparkling wine spraying skills. I don’t know how these celebrities manage to do it so easily all the time. Do they also have several takes for each wine fizzing? Or is it something one gets taught in celebrity school?

We were taken into the Church hall where a fantastic spread of sandwiches, cakes and drinks were waiting for us. Amidst interviewing with Euan we all continued to be touched and amazed by how closely all these people that I assumed would have forgotten me by now and were complete strangers to the others had followed the blog and our photos and how much they cared about us. All my concerns about the anti-climax of finishing the trip were gone, and we could not have asked for a better, more special end point. My image of driving down to the pier and looking around in the rain while I assured the others that it really was very pretty, then turning around and leaving, couldn’t have been further from the reality. Thanks Appin!

Day 335 – A long drive. (England, Scotland)

On our way from Dover to Grady’s house boat we were jammed up on London’s motorways (although the traffic situation in London is really just not as bad as everyone would like to believe and we get quite frustrated with such complaints), when we spotted a maroon Nissan Patrol in a neighbouring lane trying to get a good look at our vehicle. They were doing that dance thing where they hang back so we could catch up, then move in directly next to us and let us go ahead a little so they can see the back of the car, staring sideways at us as we pass. We know this manoeuvre as it’s been made on us many a time before, and it’s not as if we’ve never used it ourselves. In fact once we realised what they were up to we began doing the same thing to them, as there was something on the cover of their spare wheel mounted on the back door that caught our attention. The number plate was from the UK, but the wheel cover read “DUNCAN NISSAN, AUSTRALIA’S BIGGEST PATROL DEALERS, VICTORIA PARK, 9262 5111”. Was it an Australian vehicle that had been driven there and re-registered? Or shipped over? Or was the wheel itself imported for some reason and it was just a coincidence? Or maybe it was just a cover they’d acquired and we were reading too much into it. But they had been staring at us first! It seemed a bit coincidental that the one other car on the road that was particularly interested in us had the details of an Australian car dealership on their back if it wasn’t related. We wound down our window and tried to call out to each other over the noise of the traffic, but all we managed to ask was where they were from, to which they responded in a perfect London accent “Uzbekistan”. We still have no idea what their story is or why they had advertising for Duncan Nissan from Victoria Park on their spare wheel, or even what it was that they were particularly interested in about us.

When we left London we were heading straight to Glasgow, leaving early in the morning and intending on arriving that evening. Ideally we would have had at least a few days to meander through England and Wales, not to mention the chance to visit some of my family, and earlier in the trip we’d even toyed with the idea of detouring to Ireland if we had time. We’d prioritised our time elsewhere though and now unfortunately we only had seven days until Ben was flying out of Glasgow so we really didn’t have any time to spare. However we decided to make one short stop on the way up to visit the RAF Base in Benson, near Oxford. My great grandfather was a photo reconnaissance pilot in WWII and he was declared missing, assumed to have been shot down in September 1944. But it wasn’t until 1992 that remains of his spitfire were discovered near Oldenburg (Bremen) in northern Germany and my family, most notably my grandmother, his daughter, were filled in with more of the story and able to find out a lot more of what actually happened to him. In 2011 a replica of the spitfire was mounted at the entrance to the RAF Base as a memorial to my great grandfather and others in the Photographic Reconnaissance Unit (PRU) who were killed flying solo and unarmed in their Spitfires over enemy territory. My family were all invited as guests of honour to the opening ceremony in 2011, but living on the other side of the world doesn’t lend itself so well to attending such events so it was very special for me to be able to pay my respects. For more on this visit my grandmother's website: http://www.cuckoo57.co.uk/duncans-story/

The drive from London to Glasgow which is about 700km was one of the longest drives we’d tackled in one day on the whole trip. The only other places where we would have travelled further in a single day were Australia when we had to make a dash for the pushed forward shipping date (Blog Day 10 - The desert, the outback and thetropics), and China where our plans were turned topsy turvey because of the badly timed closure of Tibet, meaning we had to drive 6,715 km in two weeks instead of the 3,400 or so we were supposed to travel in three weeks (Blogs Day 87, Day 93, Day 94, Day 117 and Day 118). Although we covered a lot of distance over the whole journey, we did do it over a year for the point of not being in a rush and to be able to stop in places and not drive 1000’s of kilometres every day. For the majority of the trip we also didn’t have the opportunity to cover these sorts of distances on a daily basis, as the quality of a lot of roads we travelled on meant that even when we drove for eight or ten hours, we’d only cover a couple hundred kilometres anyway.

This was one of the few days on which we took turns driving, the only other times being when we had extra people in the car, whether wanted or unwanted, so it was less comfortable for the passengers such as when we had Lui in China (un-wanted: Blog Day 118 -The Incompetency of NAVO: Part 2 - Our sub-par tour guide), or Josje and Remco in Kazakhstan (yes, that means we had six in the car so we really needed to switch seats often, but they were definitely wanted: Blog Day 138 – How an afternoon searching forflamingos became six days in the desert with some hitch hikers). The reason we switched around on this drive was different though: it was so that we could all share in the drive that would take us to Scotland. We got off the M6 for the border so we could stop and take a photo or two, though unfortunately it was dark by the time we got there and all of our cameras were beginning to struggle under the workload they’ve been given this year, so our photos at the “SCOTLAND welcomes you” sign in Gretna Green aren’t brilliant, but we can see where we are and that’s the main thing.

Gretna Green is a village on the Scottish side of the border which was made famous when Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act was brought into play in England and Wales in 1754. Under the act it was necessary for brides and grooms to have parental permission under the age of 21, whilst in Scotland it was still permissible for boys to get married at 14 and girls at 12 without their parents’ consent. As a result there was a swell in young English and Welsh couples fleeing to Scotland to tie the knot, and as the first village accessible from England Gretna Green was a convenient place for these “runaway marriages” to take place. Since that time the laws in Scotland, England and Wales have changed many times causing rises and falls in the trends, but to this day Gretna Green is a very popular place for weddings, especially for English couples. Directly opposite the “SCOTLAND welcomes you” sign is the cottage which historically was used for these ceremonies and the facts are proudly painted on the stone walls. The side of the building facing Scotland reads “last house in Scotland marriage room” and the wall which faces England reads “first house in Scotland marriage room”. Another sign boasts that over 10,000 marriages have been performed in that marriage room.

Our next stop, and the last one before Glasgow, was for dinner in the village of Moffat. Glad to be in Scotland and desperate to experience Scottish cuisine at its finest we found a chippie (a chippie being fish and chip shop, not a carpenter as any Australian readers might think) and indulged ourselves in a haggis supper and Irn Bru each. Scotland at its finest.