Tara's Diary - Part 1

Part 2

The boys were advised to get rid of some baggage to free up some weight for the car. This old bag therefore found herself stranded in Greece, with no means of transport, trying to figure out just how she could get to China.

Deciding to go freelance 'navigator' as a 'spare part' leaving the cramped conditions of transverse seating and neck twists behind, I soon found an all together more luxurious arrangement in the back of a 50's Bentley. I assumed my driver, an experienced 70 year old rally competitor would be a safer and sedate option, but I quickly realised this was a flawed assumption. Hanging onto the car straps for dear life, we tore around hairpin bends on the narrow mountain passes blindly overtaking trucks. I was contemplating a return to the confines of the Mercedes, but gradually became less perturbed and more used to the soft furnishings. Mike, my new chauffeur, entertained me with his croons to Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby tunes for hours, until we finally arrived at our destination in Thessalonika (16 hours later) at 2 am. The boys having arrived 3 beers and 2 vodkas previously were in high spirit as we shared our hair- raising experiences. The rest day that followed was much appreciated by all. This also provided me with an opportunity for some serious networking to negotiate by next ride into Turkey.

As luck would have it the 1918 'Silver Ghost' Rolls Royce (the oldest and most elegant of all the cars) was in dire need of a navigator, since the previous floozie had been deported. On Tower Bridge, the driver had been abandoned by his friend, who was taken ill at the last minute. He had asked if anyone would accompany him (due to rally rules) and a blonde jumped on board, leaving her kids and cats behind. Passportless she had weaselled her way across the borders without a problem, but would not manage past the Turks. She now had to return to facew thew music of the Press stories along with her maternal duties.

Sitting on the throne of the Silver Ghost, I felt like Royalty as the masses waved us on. The driver Terry, was a 60 year old American who wore a Scottish beret and knickerbockers. Planning ahead was vital as the locomotive took a good 5 seconds to break, it was just as well that the maximum speed was 50 miles an hour.

After interminable waiting at the border of the Turkish customs, the light was starting to fade along with my hopes of arriving before nightfall. The 'Ghost' did not possess any form of lights, which was a daunting thought when faced with the vast traffic jams into Istanbul along the motorway.

A Guardian Angel appeared amidst a haven of sweaty rally drivers and asked me if I could possibly accompany her to Istanbul in her red 60's Chevrolet, the 'Jam Tart', as her co driver was leaving her. The roads to Istanbul were familiar to her as her boyfriend lived there. I took my seat in the Jam Tart and left my worries of navigation, brakes and headlights at the border, heading swiftly to Istanbul.

I hopped into Ted's Taxi for my next ride crossing the border into Asia. A 65 year old Chrysler Airflow, which had caught on fire a few days before according to Bill and his daughter Kelly "nearly burnt our asses!'' until they put the fire out with lemonade. The word had got round that I was hitching to Peking and Kelly, seeking relief from paternal pressures jumped at the chance to have some young female company. All that stood in the way was 10 suitcases of 'round the world' supplies, including a generator and 10 pairs of shoes, all stacked high in the back of the taxi. A space was eventually cleared and I snuggled in, sandwiched between Addidas shoes, buckets and Brake fluid cans. I ended up buried under piles of bags every time we took a sharp corner with screams of "Dad, the brakes don't work, why haven't you fixed them yet!" We then made our way across Turkey along the Black Sea amidst rolling green hills through villages full of excitement at the sight of the whacky racers passing through. We were even given an official welcome party as we stopped at one petrol station en route. The government had proclaimed our arrival and so we were greeted by a gaggle of giggling girls in traditional costume eager to practice their english with us. We crossed the border into Georgia with surprising ease (much palm greasing must have taken place), severe looking military men carrying huge guns loomed on every corner. As soon as we crossed the border a stark contrast became apparent. The buildings were dilapidated and crumbling, the people wearing black and somber clothing looked pale and small. Communication dropped from minimal to almost non -existent. We were presented with bouquets of flowers and film crews awaited our arrival alongside crowds of excited villagers. The TV crews didn't speak much english so I had to tell them what questions to ask us! The boys meanwhile were also being filmed for national TV at the opening of a supermarket in a nearby village, but this time a sheep was being slaughtered in their honour!

Even in our Soviet style hotel with dormitory like rooms spouting brown water and beach towels in the bathroom, we were given a royal welcome. A banquet dinner was laid on by the minister of Tourism to welcome us to Georgia. The local music and dance schools provided us with a 10 act spectacle while we gorged ourselves on the local delicacies, increasingly unsure as to what we eating as the night went on. Georgian costumes were on display whilst the dance troupes flung themselves around the room beneath crystal chandeliers. Prizes were then presented by the minister to a few rally drivers, along with numerous toasts to love, youth, children and friendship, accompanied by swigging of sweet white sherry.