Just about 2 weeks have passed since I entered Mongolia. Waiting so long to write inevitably dilutes the intensity of the feelings. I’ve already have normalized my experience of two nights ago. I was ecstatic to stand under hot running water until it was used up and even to enjoy the cold flow that remained while washing a country’s worth of grime out of my hair and skin. But not all my moments have been so joyous. Of course, that’s what makes this type of trip so great.
My previous post left off at breakfast in Olgii with the Kazakh film crew. That turned into an invitation to join them for a day of shooting. Since being spontaneous is one of the most important parts of a trip life this, I shifted gears and enjoyed the gift of 12 hours with these scholars and artists. We first visited a dedication festival,(A stone monument was unveiled extolling the great, great grandfather of all all peoples of the region) complete with national wrestling, singing and children’s games: I paid they played “pop the balloon and win a prize, I thought I was paying for a couple of kids, but I must have misunderstood the price, since the man handed darts to all the children circled around. I ate my so far, only hushuur (deep fried, mutton and onion pancake, the national greasy fast food). Then it was off in search of an eagle hunter. One of the crew was a bit of a local, even though he’s been a Kazakh citizen for a long time. He located the right man in the right village, and we had a brilliant demonstration of his eagle-on-the-arm, in his full regalia. Then it was off to the ancient burial grounds and a find of deer stones. Not sure why are named that but I can tell you what they look like. They are carved weathered rocks, standing three feet high on their own, with faces and accessories still visible. Burial markers from the Bronze Age, I think. Because I was with professionals, they brought out reflectors to take better low-light photos. Not sure if mne came out that good or not. I am tentative about my new camera’s photo quality. We also saw elaborate burial sites, 2000, 3000 years old. Pretty cool stuff. Because of the Dutch “Turkologist” I was able to understand a lot as he translated for me. Then it was back to town for a concert, given by others of the entourage. Followed by a documentary with English subtitles about the Kazakh president. It was really good, though not good enough for two full hours after such a long day. It was already dark when I exited the theater, and I realized I had no idea in which direction to walk. I found a car which was available as a taxi and made it to the ger camp where I was staying, So with just 5 hours sleep, set out from Olgii early, in the direction of Khovd.
If you have a pass to climb, it’s great to get it over with in the early part of the day especially when the days get hot. That was how it worked the day I left Olgii. It was one of the more satisfying days for me so far on the trip. Meaning it was challenging and I met the demands of the day- and night, I spent the day in near silence, (except for an occasional “Hi horse”) as it was only twice that I even saw anybody. Shortly after a picnic of pistachios and cookies under a makeshift tent for shade, I decided to take a little hike to the high point on the ridge paralleling my track. Beautiful views all around. No one in sight anywhere. And I felt surprisingly calm and at peace. There was a nice long descent to Tolbo Lake, later in the day. I had to go cautiously slow as my poor choice of tires created a dangerous situation. I had no control at all on the sandy patches, I had to dismount to cross the gravel piles separating the two wheel tracks of the “road.” At this point I had had fallen only once, but I knew that with such remote conditions, I had to be extra cautious. Helmet strap tight under my chin; hands tight around the brake levers. If you know me, you know I like to ride fast downhill. My rationalizing mind has concluded that the poor traction tires may have been a lucky choice, as I felt so limited by their performance as to reduce my risk relative to how I would have ridden with knobby grippers. If you know what I mean.
I reached the lakeshore as the sky was starting to change. Still, I had time to find a perfect campsite on flat, dry grassy land (lakeshores are notoriously marshy) right near the water and far from the road. Everything is open in Mongolia, so the only way to get privacy is to get small. By gaining distance. I had time to find this site, set up my tent, have a delightful wash in the surprisingly warm lake, and cook my dinner before the rain started. But it wasn’t the rain which presented this day’s challenge: it was the wind. Fiercest, strongest, most relentless wind of my life. I got up three times to inspect the tent pegs and the integrity of my little home. I put all my panniers in the windward vestibule to resist the wind’s force on the tent fly. And I thought of people on Denali or Everest or other high places, pinned down by blizzard and avalanching snow and just surviving for days on end at altitude in the cold.. That helped me get through the night, knowing that the worst that could happen was the tent could collapse and shred in the wind. I kept my raingear at hand.
The morning dawned clear and beautiful with honking birds cheering me on my way. The optimism soon dissipated once I regained the main road. This was the worst surface I’d encountered. Not just the washboard, but the loose stones and thick sand traps. Headwind, of course, and two passes awaited. Some time in my sleepless night I had decided that I had met enough challenges so far. Isolation. Snow blizzard. Thunder. Pouring, soaking rain, Headwinds, Losing my way. Strenuous hours of pushing over a pass. Not that I felt like giving up. More like I had passed all my exams. I could graduate from this, With only three weeks more before boarding the train that would take me east to my flight back home, I was thinking about how I wanted to spend my time. Pushing my bike up two more passes and averaging only 6km per hour in the day and seeing the landscape change ever so slowly was not that appealing. It’s not like I have anything to prove to anyone. I have already proven everything to myself. I became increasingly interested in getting to Khovd and spending time exploring the mountains by horse. In fact, I had been making arrangements for a 5-9 day horse trip since I first reached Olgii. I figured I would ride the better half of the day and then when I was ready and the right vehicle came by, I would hitch.
All these thoughts wove through my mind as I bobbled over the bumps and around the sand near the village of Tolbo, picking my way through on one of the numerous parallel tracks that drivers have made alongside the road. Everyone thinks there must be a better surface than the one they are driving on, so they make new tracks everywhere, but really, all these “roads: are horrendous. Over on the main road, a red Toyota pickup track beeped and waved at me. Having been silent for so many hours I crossed the steppe to meet the drivers. Just a little conversation. When I got closer, then I realized that this was the kids from St. Andrew college in Scotland. They were participating in an organized charity program called Charity Rally (or something like that.) They’d raised money to buy an off-road ambulance (unsupplied) and this 4WD pickup to drive from London to Ulaan Baatar to donate to some local group or other. We’d met during those long border crossing hours in Russia. Turns out it took them 36 hours to cross: they’d only made it out of Russia but had to spend the night in the no-man’s land, since the Mongolian border was already closed. It was earlier than I’d intended to hitch a ride, but my bike fit so perfectly into the back of the ambulance that it was a no-brainer. The road really did suck, although it became smoother for the passes. They weren’t that difficult and I’m sure I would have enjoyed riding them, But I also enjoyed riding with these British kids and increasing my world vocabulary. The experience was truly mint. There was a bit of a surprise though, when I saw the terrain my planned horse trip would cover, as the jeep passed through the same mountains I had thought to ride in. Boring. No trees or little canyons or meadows. Just dusty green and brown and gray. I was having second thoughts.
The hotel wasn’t cheap: 10 dollars each for a bed in a large room with 5 others, a toilet and sink- cold water only- out in the hall. But the evening was lovely. After the best meal I’ve had in Mongolia, we went back to the room of an Irish guy who’d just climbed the highest Mongolian peak- on the four corners border with Kazakhstan, China and Russia. We met him and his guide at the restaurant and enjoyed some beers and laughs at the hotel: them, me, the 7 Brits and a local guy who managed to deliver the beers. Khovd is also is largely Kazakh, and that means mostly Muslim and that means no beer on Friday. But a dry town is only as dry as its inhabitants and were in the some wet company,
The next day I met my guide and quickly determined he was not the person to take me on a mountain expedition. As with many Mongolians, he was really able to take tourists to his village and ride around that area, but he was not an experienced mountain expedition guy, It was all good, because as I said, I didn’t think I wanted to go where I had intended after all. A town day. A museum. A gift shop. The local Peace Corps volunteer. The next afternoon: The Bus!
Unless you’ve traveled in the developing world, you really can’t imagine how The Bus works. Tickets are sold and when all the seats are assigned, more tickets are sold. People sit on luggage, on boxes, on each other or not at all. Just a crammed crowded mass of increasingly odorous humanity. I maintained my space and was not generous with even an inch. The bus stopped every 12 hours for a meal, or whenever someone really need to pee, or when there was a mechanical problem. It was such a gift that we got a flat tire. It was nearing sunset, and because of the long delay for the repair, I got to enjoy a real desert evening with an orange sky and the sweet, dry air, Even sweeter, was when the driver came to me holding up a dried out tube of patch glue. It had occurred to him that my bicycle, which he clearly thought was a hassle even though once a good place to stow it was identified, it was barely noticeable for the rest of the journey, had tires. And tires get punctures and punctures require repair and repairs require glue and maybe I had some….. Well, I didn’t, since I was using glueless patches this time. But 6 of my little disks were enough to secure the hole in the tube. Word spread amongst all the passengers that this weird American woman with a little blue bicycle had saved the day. Sweet.
In the wee hours of the second night, I was trundled out of the bus with all my stuff and assisted by the only other debarking passenger with transport to a hotel. 500 meters away. By 5am I was tucked into bed. By 1pm the next day, I was well on my way- to a supermarket. Arvaheer had some of the best food products available. Where the Kirkland walnuts came from, I’ll never know.
Full of enthusiasm for a weeklong ride to the capital, I was pleased with my decision to take the bus here to Arvaheer. Why here? This is where the pavement begins (or ends). 430 kms to town. Seemed like a good compromise, since the dirt roads were just too tough for my little wheels with the city slicker tires. This would give me a chance to enjoy some quality pedaling covering good distance everyday.
With two sleepless bus nights, it was all I could do to ride a little ways out of town. At the top of the first little pass, there was a gathering of women under a pavilion, all in national costume. As the first fat drops were starting to fall from the threatening sky, I turned around to ride up to the shelter and wait out the rain. They were a group of dignitaries, waiting to welcome some soon-to-be-arriving Russians. After the brief deluge ended, I was on my way again. According to the map the Swiss cyclists had given me way back in Russia, there was one river and only one that I would meet that day. I saw a tent along the bank and I paused for a while on the bridge, debating whether it was too early to stop or not. The insistent women convinced me. Three friends in their early 40s with 4 kids between them, they were picnicking with lamb and potatoes and cookies and beer. I quickly set up my tent, unpacked my bike and joined the party. I didn’t realize it was just a party tent- the kids were in the Land Cruiser and we were in the tent, as the rain was intermittent and the ground elsewhere was too wet. But they had no intention of caping- they lived nearby in town. They finally left and I was alone. I was too lazy to take up their suggestion and move my tent and all about 500 meters downstream next to a family’s ger. I took my usual precaution of locking the back wheel to the bike and twisting a strap from the front wheel to the inside of my tent. And I crashed. Slept like a rock. Until the sound of the wind on my tent woke me at 1:30 am. But it was not the wind at all. In an instant I realized that this was not a drill. Two men were inches away from me, on the other side of the fly. I understood enough Mongolian to hear them say there was a rope. And then I shouted a loud and deep “Hey!!” And they ran. I unzipped the tent and in the bright clear moonlit, I saw the two men run to their motorcycle. Scared of a middle aged woman who was trembling with adrenaline and doubt. “Hey! Hey!” they mocked back at me as they fired up the engine and drove over the bridge and across to the far bank. I stayed vigilant for the next two hours but they never returned and I finally regained sleep.
Some of you may remember that a similar thing happened to my friend Denise and I my first year riding in Kyrgyzstan. I had set the alarm, so to speak, by strapping the wheels to the tent. But I had never developed a response plan. At least this time I took action. Maybe next time I will remember not to camp in the open by a river when there are people on the other side who can see you and plan their theft. This really changed my attitude towards the safe and free image I had of this country. It necessarily changed my game plan. From now on, only camp next to families.
And so the next night, that’s what I did. I had gone about 30 kms in the morning when I came to a road side- a rarity in this part of the world. I was trying to make out where this left turn was on my map, since it wasn’t on my map. My map is actually a dangerous piece of crap. I It has misplaced towns, rivers where they aren’t, lakes where they aren’t, roads where they aren’t, intersections where they aren’t and distances off by 10 kms or more, But at this point I was just discovering how bad the map was. Meanwhile a tour guide had stopped for lunch with his tourists and saw me with my map in the wind. After a good fifteen minutes, he convinced me that I should turn off my craven pavement and take this route to Kharkhorin, my destination.
“I know these Mongolian roads,“ I said. “There is more than one road and then you don’t know which one to take. And the road s so difficult and bumpy“
“ The road is good. It is not a difficult road. Just follow the bigger road,“ he said, “and it will take you to Kharkorin. You will come to a place where the left road goes to Khujirt and you go to the right to Kharkhorin.“
Looking at the road ahead, I saw the pass.
“How many times does it go up?”
“Two. Two times it goes up, and then you get to Kharkhorin.”
Well two times I went up and the road really was good. The pastureland was stunning. It was quintessential Mongolia nomads. Horses and sheep and goats and cows and yaks and even camels. All the animals were there. Two very nice passes. I had plenty of water and snacks. At some point some English speaking tourists crossed paths with me in their jeep. That’s when I found out that the bigger road, which I had been religiously sticking to, was the one that goes to Khujirt. I never saw a place where I could turn right or left, but evidently, I had taken the left fork. No worries, it was beautiful and they assured me there were plenty of families ahead to camp near.
So as I was approaching the third (!) pass, I saw a woman herding her sheep and goats back towards her ger. I decided this would be the one I should camp near. I did some bicycle herding with her, and she agreed that I could camp nearby. I later pieced together that she was the mother-in-law, helping out with the milking and the herding. Her daughter-in-law was pregnant with her second child. There were three extra kids in the home as well. All filthy. Something I had never seen before. It seems the man of the house just doesn’t make enough trips to the river to bring water to the house. Now I understood why the mother said she doesn’t drink tea- just fermented horse milk. There was no water. At my request for water he took his motorbike down to the river to bring two 25 liter jugs back to put in the water barrel. Meanwhile the pregnant woman gave the kids candy, cookies and sugar-sweetened beverages while she fiddled with her cell phone. I really had never seen this before.
In any case I had a good sleep and a delightful ride to town the next morning. I spent a pleasant half hour chatting with an 85 year old man and his 77 year old wife. He was so intelligent we were able to converse with my pigeon Mongolian and his decrepit Russian. After I had told him about the attempted theft, he relayed the story to his wife. The only misunderstanding was that he thought I’d tied the bike not to my tent, but to myself. I let the error stand as it really made for a better story.
The man had given me directions out of town. First I wasted an hour trying to find a café, which of course meant going down the hill and across the river, out of my way to town. Came up empty and had to climb back to regain the main road. Which still was not paved. I turned the corner, following the man’s helpful details that the way lay behind the mountain, and was immediately glad I had just refilled my water bottles before leaving town. It was wicked hot. No shade at all. I think I went through 7 liters that day, and luckily there was a fair bit of downhill to cool me off once I made the first pass. This part of the road was being rebuilt, so all the traffic- and there was quite a bit as this is a big Mongolin tourist area- was on the old dirt track while I was on the soon to be paved roadbed. I occasionally had to maneuver around the tall mounds of gravel dumped across the road, but it was worth pushing through them and avoiding the giant scary looking beetle bugs that hid amongst the larger stones, to have a smooth surface and an even grade to climb on. After just 29 kilometers and the pavement returned. The distance markers were inspiring. It seemed this time my map was wrong in my favor as I counted down to Kharakhorim. Not! Another map error. The countdown was only to the intersection. Another 16kms to town. With continuous climbing. But I made it in time to visit the monastery and find my way to the Orkhon River.
My plan was to take a full day at the river, swimming, washing clothes, relaxing. I had spent three days here in 1997 and it was a highlight of my first trip, But things change. It was like one of those apocalyptic cartoons where there is dust and degradation and dismay everywhere. The whole place was overrun by tourist camps. The river was filthy (although I went in it anyway) and it was impossible to find place to camp. I just didn’t have it in my heart to pony up and spend the night in a tourist ger. A family picnicking by the river invited me to join them. Within an hour, after sheep and potatoes, my bike was on their Land Cruiser roof and I was in the backseat with the relatives as they brought me back 2 kilometers to put my tent up safely in their yard. It was a bit of a surprise the next morning when the woman escorted me to the road when she told me she has had liver pain for two years and the hospital was expensive and could I give her some money. I simply said no, but later I thought: you have a satellite dish, a tv, a washing machine, a Land Cruiser and a small shop. Are you really so broke you can’t go to the doctor. Who knows.
I set out in the morning with only 2 liters of water. Broiling. I was sipping and conserving. At the side of the road I saw two men doing truck repairs while a woman prepared lunch. I asked if they had water and they gave me a whole bottle. The woman fed me lunch. They were kind and didn’t ask for money. Refreshed I continued. There was a lake at km 65. According to my map. Even though none of the rivers had any water in them, this was a sizable lake. Which I never saw. Not even a puddle’s worth. By 2pm I’d gone 77 kilometers. The scenery hadn’t changed in two days. According to an English speaking local guy I chatted with at the top of a little pass, the scenery would remain the same until 10 kms out of UB (the capital). There was no shade, no water, no families to camp by and as far as I could see, no reason to keep riding, pavement or not. I decided that when I hit the main intersection (remember, I was still on my shortcut detour that I started 3 days prior) I would see about hitching. Well I barely had a chance, as at the intersection there was a row of guanzes which are little cafes and a big pickup with an extended cab in front of the first one.
Me: Is this your truck?
Him: Yeah
Me: I’m hitchhiking. Are you going somewhere I might want to go?
Him: We’re going to UB.
Me: Can I have a ride?
Him: We already have five people in here. (Obviously never seen 14 Mongolians get out of a 5-seater jeep nor ridden on a long distance bus.)
Me: I’ll sit in the back
Him: OK
Three high speed hours later, I was navigating the barely recognizable city that I had last seen 8 years ago.
I realize that this post is not like my previous ones, being more of a day by day journal and absent the analysis. I have a dozen photos to be inserted throughout this story. That is still to come. I spent the last two days being inefficient and procrastinating while organizing onward transport and cleaning my bike and gear, and I have no more time. I am at the last paragraph. It is after one am. For now, I need to get to sleep because in the morning I will go to the airport to fly to Hovsgol Lake where I have spent the majority of my time while in this country. I had no intention of going back there, but it seems that I am destined to.
Comments do keep me going.
