Chapter VII: The Road to Hell is Paved with Potholes and Bureaucracy

Land Ho!

Waking up to the gentle sound of waves lapping against the side of our monolithic cargo ship, we peaked out the cabin window to see the sweltering coast of our next port of entry, Turkmenistan.

As we pulled up to the harbor, the ship’s wench, Frances, gathered all the ralliers and sent us to the hull of the ship where our cars eagerly awaited our return. Walking past sleeping trucks, rusted chains, and broken pipes in the pitch black darkness of the ship’s cargo, we made our way downwards towards the “parking lot,” a musty, rusty, damp basin that held our dear Auto Goulet. In the heat we waited for over an hour before we realized we weren’t getting off the boat anytime soon. Thirty shirtless men and one clothed lady mozied around, trying to conserve what precious little water we had left.

Despite protests from the ship wench, we eventually submerged from the basin to wait it out on the deck. One hour went by, and then another. We paced a bit, had some laughs, then sat in silence, and then watched Australians give each other haircuts to pass the time.

Two hours went by this way until Frances demanded that we return to our cars. We climbed back into the pit knowing that we still weren’t going anywhere. One team miraculously had an entire season of Modern Family on their iPad which made for a decent distraction from the heat. After another hour passed, daylight began to creep into the basin. The hatch had been lifted! We rushed to our cars, revved the engines, and drove out to Freedom! Well, as much freedom as you can have in an authoritarian dictatorship, which has been called the North Korea of Central Asia.

Fittingly, that feeling of freedom was instantly crushed when we saw that our Irish biker friends, who had exited the boat 4 hours earlier, were still at the customs checkpoint. What followed was the single most insane instance of bureaucracy ever experienced by anyone, ever. For over 5 hours, we bounced between 14 separate windows in a tiny white building, getting our passport and car registration information copied and recopied and recopied and recopied and recopied and recopied. It went something like this: go to window 1, go to window 2 and pay some American dollars, go back to window 1, now to windows 4,5 and 6, now go outside to window 7, just kidding go to window 8 and then go to window 7, now go outside and find someone on the street who will exchange your dollars for Turkmen Minot, now go to window 9, then to 10 and 11 and back to 9, now back to 2, now back to 9, now to 12, and 13, and then to your car for a car check. Give the guard an American Spirit cigarette and he will go easy on you and wave you goodbye.

It was like being in a Nintendo game, on the level you can’t beat, without any cheat codes (except for the cigs).

At 11pm we exited the border and found food and a place to sleep, as all we had eaten for the entire day was a jar of peanuts.

The next day was a mad dash to Ashgabat, the capital city, and Darvaza to see the Gates of Hell. We left at 5am before the sun was up, and began driving east. As the sun began to rise we were greeted by the Turkmen desert, roving packs of camels, and some police who decided to pull us over for no reason (Turkmen police use whistles to pull you over and wear big funny hats, making the police force look more like a marching band than the controlling arm of an authoritarian government).

As we drove through the desert, we were shocked by the constant honking, waving, and “hellos!” from the locals. Nearly everyone we passed by made sure to say hi, making us feel like mini celebrities, only we had the cameras.

Although the cheers continued as we entered Ashgabat, the capital city and home of the recently deceased Turkmenbashi (leader of the Turkmen), the Goulets couldn’t help but feel something was amiss. The city was filled with grand, futuristic buildings, but there was hardly anyone on the streets. Pictures of the President for Life were plastered across the city, but there wasn’t really anyone to see them.

After grabbing lunch at a “British pub,” we left the city en route for the Gates of Hell. This major attraction is an enormous pit of fire, which is the result of a Russian attempt to burn off some natural gas rising from the ground. The pit has been burning for some 40 years now.

Day turned to night, and we were once again breaking our rule of no driving in the dark. We had previously heard there were no signs to the fire pit and that we’d just have to find them on our own. Although confident we would be able to find the gates, we couldn’t.

Driving in circles around Turkmenistan, on a road that literally rocked the Auto Goulet, in the distance 3 headlights came pummeling towards us. The lights approached and we saw three motorbikes making their way to the car. As the bikes pass we heard Irish voices yelp, “Hey it’s the Americans!” “Which Americans?” “Our Americans!” Our biker friends had reached the gates at the same time! We convoyed up, certain that whatever happened next would be awesome.

After the help of some locals we eventually found the turn off for the gates, but the AG couldn’t make it up the sandy slopes toward the gates. At 1am, determined to see the pit, we were ready to walk 2 hours over sand dunes in the pitch black, when another local popped out and offered us a ride (for a fee).

Squeezing into his 4×4, jamming out to I Will Survive, we drove toward the reddish glow in the distance. Peaking over a hill, the gates of hell opened. In the ground was a gigantic, flaming pit about the size of a football field. We ran up to the edge of the pit, only to be knocked back by a burning wind. Inching forward to the edge, standing on spongy ground, we peered over into the pit, recognizing the potential a human BBQ if any of us slipped or the ground gave way. This wasn’t your typical tourist attraction. No signs, no concessions, no guards rails. Just the Goulets, the Irish, and an flaming crater in the earth.

After taking some amazing pictures and dancing around a bit we hitched a ride back, set up camp, cooked dinner (beans) and slept without a tent under the stars and a full moon.

The morning came and we took off for Uzbekistan. Hitching up with an Australian team, the Rally Roos, we headed north for the border. But wait, is that the Irish pulled over on the side of the road? Damn, Stephen had a flat. We fixed it up and went on our way. But wait, is that the Irish pulled over on the side of the road? Damn, Stephen had another flat. And wait… What’s that? So did we! We patched em up and hit the road again. Constant potholes, massive rocks, bridges with gaps in pavement characterized the rest of the road, but fortunately we had no other issues.

With different exit points we said by to the Roos and the Irish, and went off on our own towards Dasoguz (DashoVERYguz!). Learning that the border closed at 8pm, we decided to get some food and a hotel in Turkmenistan and cross in the morning.

Driving around, once again on empty stomachs, we began to lose hope as everything seemed closed. Parked on the side of the road, shoving cellophane chips into our salivating mouths, a man walked up to our window and questioned. “Mongol Rally?” “Yes! Can you help us find food?” He beckoned us to follow him. After his first spot failed, this mystery man called his friend and told us to once again follow him.

The rest of the night was pure rally magic. Our friend, Abdul (name changed to protect his identity), took us to his friends restaurant way out of town, which was only open for a private party. We arrived and were greeted in the parking lot by the chef of the restaurant, and were escorted into a table already filled with food and drink. The moment we sat down the food started coming. We didn’t order a thing. Veggies (a rare occurrence these days- we’ve been having dreams of Chopp’d salads), noodle soup, pizza, and the best damn meat and potatoes out there. We were in absolute heaven. Abdul pulled out a bottle of vodka, and poured some out. Woohoo! But only for Alex and Brian, because Eric was driving. As Alex, Brian and Abdul took a shot, Eric looked on with sad puppy dog eyes.

“Taxi?” We asked. No answer. And then suddenly, the chef appeared and offered to drive the Auto Goulet back to our hotel for us. Eric, wary of taking advantage of the hospitality of the locals politely refused. Alex and Brian, realizing the amazing opportunity ahead insisted, and letting go of his inhibitions, Eric imbimbed the liquor.

For the next several hours we celebrated with Abdul, the Chef, and the men of the party, eating, drinking and being merry.

As the night came to a close we said our goodbyes and crammed into the AG with the chef at the wheel, and headed to our hotel to get some rest before our next border crossing.

Note: Due to the restrictive nature of the Turkmenistan government we had to leave out names and some details of our night to protect those who were so kind to us. Pictures and footage has also been removed at their request.