I will write about Russia.

A time will come where I will explain the effects of seven bottles of vodka given by a hospitable hotel manager. I will write about pool played with fifteen cue balls, the devastating realities of police stops, and tips on bribing and avoiding traffic officers.

I will write about all that. But not today. Today, we set up our first camp since Bulgaria. In Kazakhstan. And it was magnificent. We were working our way across 400 kilometers of the most strenuous road yet encountered on the trip. It was a road (in the loosest sense of the word) that consisted of six lanes. Two dirt tracks to the left, a hundred feet of scrub land, one half to two lanes of occasionally paved road, and another two dirt tracks far to the right.

The pavement was cratered with potholes, so massive that some could fit all four of our panda wheels in them at the same time. When he potholes weren't present, the pavement buckled and crested, like an uneasy sea.

At times, we approached the potholes by weaving between them. For a kilometer, we followed an oil track left by another rally team that had tore open their sump and drained six literal of oil on the road. We met this team later in Aktobe.

So, less than halfway through this challenging and exciting drive, we found a road heading to the only hill in site. By hill, I mean about a twenty foot rise. Flat does not express Western Kazakhstan. Scientific instruments are tested here for accuracy.

We pulled to the top of this mighty summit, and set about making camp. We each attended to what we felt was most important. Joey (one of the two aussies in our convoy) set up the kitchen. Sean popped the hood of his car and began fixing it. Shane and Roberta pitched their tent. I pulled out croquet, set up a course, and slipped on my tuxedo jacket. We would be glassy on the Kazakhi steppe. Our aussie friends cut cool figures in black sports coats, Roberta slid into a slinky grey dress, and Shane changed his T shirt.

The inaugural Mongol Rally Kazakhi Croquet Championship began. Although the Americans put up a good fight, the aussies clinched the win. Sean had a strong finish, quickly rounding the last third of the course.

Games out of the way, we settled into dinner. Roberta and I had fish drizzled in olive oil on a baguette (sardines on bread), which Shane did not approve of. He had bread. Nor did Shane want to tuck into our tinned duck rations. And no one had picked up canned horse at the store. It is hard to please some people.

After several drinks, we mustered the courage to look at our maps and assess our poor forward progress. Getting stuck in a sand pit and utterly lost in a small oil town had dampened our speed to a crawl. We were not halfway to Aktobe. This was hard news, since it put in jeopardy our ability to cross the more interesting and wild portions of southern Kazakhstan. It appeared we would be forced to take the northern route through Astana.

With these heavy thoughts, we fell asleep on the steppe. Glad to be in tents after our five star hotel in Atyrau.