Margaux, one of my TPMs at Amazon has claimed that our blogs can be a bit long and dialogue heavy. She recommends that we do short executive summaries at the top of each post. Let's try this:

Today we were mobbed by a crazed hoard of Kazakhi children. Still reading after the executive summary? Good. Maybe there's something to this idea.

At Aktobe, we dallied for a day to get a sump guard. Kazakhstan has amazing mechanics. In the late afternoon on a Sunday, we dropped our car off. Early the next morning, we had a custom welded skid plate bolted beneath our engine. It is quite heavy, lowers our clearance noticeably, and messes with our compass even more than the stock Panda.

Speaking of compasses. So, for the first few weeks, we navigated with a compass. However, a few days ago, I was riding shotgun. Shane asked what way we were going. "NE," I confidently replied, holding the compass in my left hand.

Taking a sip of my Red Bull, I switched compass hands, and glanced at the device. "NW now."

Having finished the Red Bull, I switched the compass again to my left hand. "NE again. Stop moving about."

"It's a straight road," Shane pointed out.

I moved the compass across the car. Surely enough, it swung through 60 degrees of freedom depending on where it was in the car. Oops. So much for technology.

Anyway, our delightful convoy with The Battlers had ended, as we remained in town to get a sump guard. With our new battle armour, we again felt comfortable heading south, to the roads paved with "disappointment and the broken dreams of travellers" according to team Dixie Chickens.

But it is a small world. As we were relaxing in the lobby of our Soviet era hotel the next morning (a hotel only vaguely reminiscent of Victory Mansions from 1984), a cad passed by. And then another cad. And then a bounder.

Indeed, it was the Cads and Bounders, a delightful team of Brits on their way to Almaty via Southern Kazakhstan. They also needed a sump guard. The mechanics in Aktobe must love the rally.

Shit roads and broken cars are, I can only assume, one of the major economic drivers in this city.

In high spirits and with a reformed convoy, we launched into the Kazakhi desert. After a rainy night pulled to the side of the road, we reached Aralsk and met another two teams by good chance. It is a small world. And rally cars stand out in a crowd.

It is easy to spot ralliers in Kazakhstan. We are the ones with red Adventurist scarves, green bracelets, no Russian skills, and gobs of street children waving to us. Driving a rally car through the stans makes one feel like a celebrity. So many honks and waves.

The two teams we met were the Thunder Yaks and the Great Danes (not the real team name, but what the limeys call them).

We also met up with two thirds of the Drama Llamas. We had earlier met the llamas in Cappadocia, about a million miles ago. Since then, they wrecked in Russia and totalled their car. Not to be dissuaded, they hitched lifts with different teams. Two men with the Yaks, one with the Cads.

Our five-team convoy headed west (a rare direction for us to head). West lay the Aral Sea. I should say, what is left of the Aral Sea. This used to be one of the largest land locked seas in the world. However, ecological mismanagement during the Soviet years meant that it shrunk a massive amount. What used to be port and fishing cities are now desert cities. The sea receded, leaving boats high and dry on the sands and livelihoods shattered. We headed west to see what remained of the sea, hunting for a boat graveyard full of beached boats in the desert.

When we got to the village, we were greeted by stares from a dozen or so children. Some waved. Some shouted hellos. (Have you forgotten about the executive summary? It will soon become applicable.)

The Thunder Yaks decided to run a socio-economical experiment. That is, they opened up a large tupperware container full of toys.

The children rushed forward. Word passed quickly through the coconut telegraph (or whatever its Kazakhi equivalent is) and soon two dozen children were about.

Some approached with caution. Others took a single toy and squatted in the street to play. More industrious kids filled their T shirts full of trinkets.

Readers of Lord of the Flies can imagine what happened next.

The mood shifted. Entrepreneurial children started trading or hoarding their toys. I imagine those with large stashes of toys became barons of industry instantly. Kings with vast reources.

Others realized that the rally cars were veritable pinatas. Filled with toy cars, sunglasses, bracelets, and even candy.

They tried the locks, climbed into the cars, peaked in windows. Some were able to climb to the top of the vehicles, playing with our Jerry cans and supplies. The Yaks had a beautiful black BMX bike on their roof rack that enthralled some six year olds who had summited the van.

We were stuck in town. We couldn't quite disentangle ourselves yet. The Danes were attempting to buy every single cold beer in the town (about thirty bottles).

So we tried to see what else we could give the hoard of kids to fend them off. There were some precious things the kids got. Roberta, for example, pawned off my Duran Duran CD. I like to think that a child is listening with delight to Girls on Film right now. Roberta hopes the child has discovered that the CD is a good frisbee.

This strategy didn't work. It was fighting fire with gasoline. The kids surged.

My teammates, unable to cope with dewy eyes of children asking for sunglasses, drove out of the village to wait things out. They are not fans of chaos as much as I.

But, stocked with cold beers, we got children off our cars and rolled out of town on a dirt track. Dirt quickly turned to sand, and a quarter mile outside of town, I watched the Marabbey high center herself. Two of the next cars got stuck as well. The sun started dipping below the horizon as seventy five percent of the convoy found themselves unable to drive forward, and unable to roll back.

Our hopes of camping in a ship graveyard looked dim.

Luckily, the Great Danes were still mobile in their Suzuki Altima. We pulled some sand ramps off the Yaks minivan and set up a tow rope. Then we pushed. Cars became unstuck, but only rolled a few feet back before getting stuck again.

Little did we know that a more dangerous thing than sand would confront us.

The village children had followed us down the track. Fourteen strangers in this small town could only mean excitement for them. Within minutes, our cars were buried in children. They clambered in the back, looking for toys while we looked for tire irons. They picked up and wandered around with the sand ramps. While we pushed the cars back, they hopped in and pushed too, although occasionally from the wrong end.

I don't know how exactly we disentangled ourselves from the kids. They were mostly dispersed down the dirt track towards the town. We abandoned the idea of visiting the ships. Who knows what the stamina of a child is. They may follow us all the way to camp.

I rode back to town in the roof rack of the Danes' car. As the panda pulled back onto the dirt main street of the village, I was shocked to see three youngsters clinging to our rear bumper.

The convoy drove quickly through the town and over the horizon. Once the lights had dimmed and we were certain the mob lay behind us, we set up a magnificent camp, replete with cold beers and sports jackets. Seldom have the stars shone so bright as they did on the Kazakhi steppes.

We were rocked to sleep sound in the knowledge that we added adventure, excitement, and a new power dynamic to the lives of a handful of children.