How Driving from London to Mongolia Gave Me a New Perspective on Life

How many hours have we all spent staring blankly at our computer screens, fantasising about a new, adventure-laden life away from the office and our too-small room in a stressful house-share? Enough hours that they turn to days, and then to months, until you realise that you've been looking at the same screen for seven years and the closest you've come to "shaking things up" was getting a last minute Eurostar to Lille. More often than not, it takes something serious – something potentially life-threatening – to make you sit up, shut down the computer and finally do that thing you've been saying you'll do since forever.

For 24-year-old Felix Mantz, that something was a collapsed lung. It forced Felix to re-evaluate his life and made him realise that he had to make the most of the now and stop thinking so much about The Future. Most people might decide to jump on a plane and go somewhere hot to relax after suffering a collapsed lung. Not Felix. After recovering at home, he signed up for the gruelling Mongol Rally: a car "race" that starts in London and ends in Mongolia. Participants can take any route they wish and as much time as they like. The one stipulation? The car has to be as close to failing its MOT as possible. Over six weeks, Felix and a friend travelled 17,000km through 17 countries.

Here, he tells us about his journey:

The whole idea of the rally is that you're not prepared. You're not meant to do it in a Jeep, you're not meant to know everything – it's about embarking on an adventure. That's why we did it in an old Ford Fiesta, which broke down I don't know how many times. We only had a manual to help us, and nine out of ten times it didn't. I did do some reading about the rally before we went and knew about some of the more dangerous things we might encounter on the way from London to Mongolia, but the idea was to not think about it too much and just be sure that we had enough time to work things through. We had enough money with us to keep us safe, although some other ralliers would argue that that makes it too easy to pay your way out of hairy situations.

Our journey took us from London to Turkey, through Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and then up to Kazakhstan and through Russia to Mongolia – but our final stop was actually Ulan-Ude in eastern Russia. Before we set out I didn't think it was that dangerous – nor did I think we'd be arrested by the Turkish military at gunpoint.

It happened when we were travelling towards Iran and reached a small border checkpoint, which was closed. Thinking it was like any old border in Europe, where no one cares, we decided to camp there for the night and cross in the morning. What we hadn't realised was the border was actually fortified.

Shortly after trying to set up our camp, sirens started to go off in the valley from what we thought was a desolate military outpost. Clearly, it wasn't. Then we saw two armoured trucks coming down a hill that started dropping off soldiers to the left and right of us. Before we knew it we were surrounded by about 15 or so Turkish soldiers. It was quite a sobering moment, especially when I saw one of them readjust and focus his gun right on us. But, on realising we were just stupid tourists, the officer in charge quickly took off his vest and put down his gun. After some chat in broken Turkish they took us into their barracks for the night, partly to continue our passport checks but also for our own safety because the area was so volatile at that time. Sure enough, that night a bomb went off about 20 kilometres further up the border, so it was a pretty good thing they took us in.

We were travelling for six weeks, and for five nights a week we'd camp. One night a week we'd allow ourselves a hotel, and then for the other night we'd try to stay with locals. We'd meet people as we were travelling, start talking and often they'd let us stay with them. There was one guy I started chatting to on our ferry crossing to Belgium, right at the beginning of the trip. He liked the idea of the rally and just offered us a bed at his house after our first day of driving in the country. Then we slept one night with a mechanic near Mary – a city on an oasis in the Karakum Desert in Turkmenistan – who helped us repair our car after we totalled it in a crash. It would have been a write-off in Europe, but he managed to fix it and had it back up and running in about ten hours. In fact, we stayed with various mechanics in a number of places who took pity on us when our car broke down – which was a lot. They'd help us get it going again and see us on our way.

Taking part in something like the Mongol Rally, you very quickly learn to live without your daily luxuries or the things that you deem necessities. I left my normal life – my office job, my suit – completely behind. When I returned home it was weird suddenly having a wardrobe of clothes again instead of just three dirty T-shirts.

Would I do the Mongol Rally again? No. But only because I've done that trip now. Next, I'm considering driving the length of India, from the north to south, in a tuk-tuk. Like my journey to Mongolia, setting yourself that kind of challenge means you come off the beaten track and have a much more connected, unforgettable experience.