Word spreads fast on the rally. Rumors abound. Teams leave cryptic Facebook posts. Information and misinformation run rampant, and are hard to differentiate.

But, one thing was for sure: 18 teams were waiting at the Mongolian border. Some had been there for three days.

So, before approaching the border, team Gobi or Go Home stocked themselves up. We prepared mentally and physically for the wait in no man's land. We purchased water and food. We made sure croquet was strapped to the top of the car. I had been in a Siberian market for no more than five minutes before I had half a case of wine in my basket.

If we were going to be stuck, we would be stuck in style. The next morning, we pulled up to the Russian border shortly before opening time. Four other rally cars had queued ahead of us. Damn. The Brits are great at queueing. Two more cars joined behind us.

A Russian border guard met us, and sent us a half kilometer back to town, where a metal shack with a piece of paper simply said "Immigration Control". I was proud of my Cyrillic that this sign could be read. We sent a brave delegate into the shack with a dozen passports. We later discovered thqt our delegate had accidentally leaned on the immigration police's power supply and killed the sole computer jn the building. Luckily, this was once processing was done. The rest of us drank instant coffee that we bought wig whatever rupples we still had on us.

Eventually, we crossed out of Siberia. What met us on the other side was unexpected: a black tar snake of pavement stretched into the distance. Mongolia had apparently acquired good roads.

Our expectations were later met. We soon passed a final Russian flag and gate. The road turned to dirt. And the Mongolian passport control could be seen nestled in the next valley.

Other teams abounded. We had all readied ourselves for the border. A team had brought the makings of a not insubstantial bar. Another team readied the stumps for a cricket match. We set up a croquet pitch. Stoves heated water for tea and pot noodles. All this was done on a scrubby bit of concrete surrounded by tall border towers and low fences.

The Mongolian border guards appeared amused but unsurprised.

An international cricket match, featuring England, India, France, Italy, and the USA highlighted the afternoon. Although the Indians were modest about their bowling, they proved to be solid pitchers. Europe and tthe colonies proved poor batsmen. The English, rising to the occasion, and spirited by their recent ashes win (pity no Aussies were about), sent a few balls over the border fence.

This created a sticky situation. We were rapidly running out of balls, since the asphalt pitch was not kind to the rubber practice balls. An Englishman shouted, "Do you mind throwing us our ball," to the guard on the other side of the fence. But it was no avail. Luckily, a brave passenger was let through the border, since his passport was already stamped. The ball was retrieved.

After a two hour lunch, the Mongolians set about processing our cars.

Processing the cars involved checking out their going rates on the English version of Craigslist. This determined the taxation rate for import. One border guard checked a van several times in attempt to find a tenth seat, which would up the import fee substantially. The Adventurists handled import fees for us. However, since many cars never make Mongolia, they don't wire the money until the car is at the border. So, a good deal of the process for rally teams crossing the border involves a guard refreshing a website, waiting for the wire to clear.

Remember, wire transfers are not as sexy as they are in the movies. But we didn't care. We had cricket, and an English couple was setting up a bar.

However, as the closing time for the border approached, car after car was flagged to the main customs control. The Marabby was flagged thirty minutes before border close. She was given the proper stamp and signature, meaning she could cross into Mongolia.

I felt conflicted. On the one hand, we had left Almaty (full of good cafes, women in striking dresses, and the Cads and Bounders) a day early to wait at the border. I had bottles of wine and a nice bottle of cognac to share. But, on the other hand, we had cleared the border in a day, and could use the extra two nights to help assure our timely arrival in UB.

So, we waved goodbye to our rally mates who were still waiting, and drove unto the Mongolian wilds. Little did we realize that adventure and trials equal to everything we had done in the past month lay in the drive across Mongolia.