MONGOLIA

The morning at Olgii, my first morning in Mongolia, is announcing a beautiful day in this Country-of-Blue-Skies (I think this translation is ok). But, I don’t understand how and I know you don’t expect that, I have no desire to get up. I have no desire of getting out from under the blanket, I have no desire of packing, I have no desire of washing my face and, above all, I have no desire of being bumped again on these paths, of feeling that carrot entering there deeper and deeper again. This trick takes me about an hour until I’m finally ready to fight the dust and all again. But first I need some water, something to chew on the road and some bread, as I’ll probably camp today. I meet two Polish on bicycles, about fifty years old, who tell me very optimistically that you find anything in here and they show in all directions, counting: tourist information desk, post office, store. Well, cool. Some asphalt, anything, maybe by liter?

I buy what I need and I’m ready to go on the machine gunned road. Moah… it’s so hard. I haven’t realized I’ve forgotten in one day. Again Doyle is running all ways, again all our joints are shaken. At the first stop I find out that, after few difficult parts, the left retainer ring of the front ax is fucked up. The oil is not dripping, is flowing. It got to the guide fork, so I’m almost at the point of having no brake. The ax squeaks at every bigger hole, as it’s normal. It’s getting clear. I don’t know if my initial idea of going to Ulaan Bataar on a road and returning on a different one, also through Mongolia, is the best idea. I don’t think it’s healthy for any of us, Doyle or me, to keep it this way for another month. What I’m saying here is just a part of what I’m feeling. I feel I’m playing with my life on every meter, this is what I feel. And this is not the reason I left home for. It’s a very strange feeling. I have no regret I’m here, not for a second. I only believe this road, under these circumstances, is way too much beyond my powers and beyond Doyle’s powers. There are parts of the road where I reach up to 90km/h, even there’s no asphalt, the road allows it. These parts are perfect. And not because I can ride fast, but simply because I can ride. I feel ok on these parts. And then the ordeal follows. And this is not even the problem. The problem is I can’t enjoy what’s around me at all. And I swear this is the most beautiful place that can exist in this world. I seldom ask myself how this is possible. How in the name of God this country can possibly be for real? How come? And here I am riding through it without seeing a damn thing. If I turn my head from the road is as if I’d put half of my signature of the sentence of rolling over with Doyle through the steppe. It happened, and not once, not to fall, but to lose grip of the road. Very close to falling. This is the thing that makes me sad. I’m almost determined not to return by here. I get to Ulaan Bataar and head for the north, to Lake Baikal in Russia and then west until Kazakhstan. I’ll make my route through Mongolia as winding as possible and that’s it. I don’t have any feeling of failing. In failing versus my life failing doesn’t have any chance.

I’m riding with these thoughts in my head. When I have time for them and I’m not busy putting the bike on the road again. Two children are riding on horses beside me. This is an image I’d like someone was filming. I stop and we say hello, take a picture, eat a cracker and then I leave.

I meet other four cars racing in Mongol Rally. The guys have no problem. I wouldn’t have too, with four wheels, no matter how small, beneath me. We stop to chat and crunch a cookie and then we leave. Me on one of the side roads, them on the main road. Two French bikers (on bicycles) follow. She and he, both glowing with optimism. What’s your secret, people? What should I do to laugh?

I let them behind and keep riding. At some point Marcel starts to say I’m out of the road. It’s strange, as I’m riding on a huge road and he keeps telling me there’s nothing there. I cross a river and I decide to believe Marcelino and look for the good road. I go straightly through the steppe until I find a small road that seemingly crosses the one that I lost, according to my buddy Marcel. And I take this one. Wow, it’s so good. 90 km/h again. I say hello to some camels on the right and then… that’s it. Nothing. I follow the road, it disappears in the grass, I go ahead, I find a different road, it also disappears, once again the entire story, for about thirty kilometers. I get to a mountain top that I climb in the first gear and afterwards… nothing. I’ve got lost. I don’t see any living soul. Human, horse, hawk, crow. I see a complete skeleton of a cow, nothing cheery. I’m not alone. Shit, what am I doing now? That’s it, dear Mihai, now you fall a little. There’s no need to break something, it’s enough to have Doyle fallen on your leg so that you can’t get out of there and the next human being getting lost around here will see a cow, a man and a motorcycle. I don’t dare to go further. I’d better return to where I came from, if I remember anything. On my way back, I see ten marmots and fifteen baby he-marmots or she-marmots. I succeed. Marcel was wrong. The map inside him is wrong on this stretch of the road. Don’t worry, Marcel. You took me out of so many troubles so far, you’re only human, after all, fuck the technology.

I find the lost road and I pull over to contemplate the… how is it called…that thing with the synergy. Oh my God, I’m all alone. There’s me, the mountains, Doyle and Marcel. I howl, just for the sake of it. No one hears that, not even me. That’s the thing: when I stop, I feel like staying for five years in Mongolia. When I’m on the move, I only wish I stop.

After something that, according to the map, is a small town and I was planning to put some gas into, but, in reality, it’s a bunch of yurts, I see some kind of halting place. I pull over and a girl of about fourteen years old says ‘Hello!’. She speaks a little English. I ask about coffee, but they don’t have. They have tea instead. Perfect! A tea to this guy, as he’s tired and would drink something. Surpriiiise! The tea is actually milk. Actually milk, salt and some tea, as I am to find out later. A family of Cossacks lives here. I don’t get the kinships between them, but we have: him, her, two more ladies and about ten children. After we take some pictures together, I ask them it I may put up the tent near the river, close to them. Of course I may.

The entire family is helping me. This is it; I put up a beautiful tent in a beautiful place, with the help of beautiful people. We have to milk the goats first and I’m very good at it. As if I’ve been doing this for my entire life. I believe I milked something in a previous life or I was a goat, one of these two. Or, why not, I was the kind of lamb that does that think (i.e. sucking) at two sheep. Or goats, in our case.

A volleyball match follows. I’m in only as fan of both teams. Meanwhile, pater familiae keeps saying something about drinking a beer, but I keep not understanding. I keep saying yes, but just a little bit. He keeps inviting me in, to drink a tea, two, three teas, I go out again, he asks again, I say yes again and so on.

We’re getting on the grass, where he explains clearer. He’s actually asking if I give him a beer, not if I drink a beer with him. Yes, I drink. Give, whatever. I buy a beer in PET and we share it. A couple joins us and we stay and ‘talk’. Inverted commas as I don’t understand anything beside the little English I speak with the young missy. I take out a paté can and we share it too, with home-baked bread. I drink five more jugs of tea that I don’t have to pay, as I did for the first one. These children are of fairytale. They play with whatever they put hands on. A piece of rope, a blanket, a blade, anything. Laughter after laughter. And me among them, with a stupid smile on my face, that I realize has paralyzed on my face from a certain moment.

It’s getting dark and it’s only me and the children now. ‘Mihai, let’s go to the goats’, just after I said I want to go to bed. Ok, we’re going to the goats. I understand that we have to take the goats and put them to sleep in an abandoned building. The goats follow us in peace and we say each other goodnight, after evicting the dog that was sheltering in the house of goats. Mongoliaaaa, forgive me comrades, but I have to say it: fuck myself!

I wake up in the morning and eat the last can, a paté. I meet Sisi, a very beautiful and very big lady-dog. The kids are doing her all kind of things you can’t imagine. Pulling her ears, kissing her, riding her and even… milking her. Again I fold the tent with no desire to do it, I pack everything and pick up a stone from the river bank. I’m asked if I can’t sell some gas but, regardless my goodwill, I’m not in the happiest situation. I leave while children are yelling and Doyle is honking his horn.

The road is a nightmare again. Until Khovd, where I should stop, I chat a little with some careless camels. I even see a white one, wow. Some stomach emotions are haunting me after the milky tea I had yesterday. I get rid of them under the looks of the, I repeat, careless camels. It’s Mongolia, it’s me and some camels. I climb a little hill from where I see the ghost of Khovd and I come across a market stall with water melons. Yes, I have to have one. I had milk, now I have water melon and if I have a beer tonight, well, that should be fixing my stomach.

I get to Khovd, but I get some last moment excitement related to falling when Doyle is going straightly to some grovel. I’m not falling, ah. I see a very beautiful Ovoo at the entrance. I have to go round it three times, clockwise, to throw a stone in the top of it and then to make the wish. I do so, then I mount on Doyle and then I do it again riding.

I find a hotel in the Lonely Planet guide and Tilek comes to me when I pull over in front of the hotel. He speaks English very well, he’s helping me with checking in, luggage and all. He’s a Cossack. I have a bed in a room of five where other will sleep, if the case may be. About four Euro. Then I go out with Tilek to take a walk. We eat at a tavern, we try to get some money from an ATM, but this becomes an odyssey. We eventually manage to do so, from the bank, straight from the pay office. Then Tilek wants to take me to his home, in a little town about 25 kilometers away, also called Khovd, where he teaches English. We take a car from the bazaar and we’re on the road. I can finally watch this landscape, which is blana.

We get there. He has a beautiful wife and two children. The youngest you can swear it’s a girl. The explanation pops in – when you’re a Cossack, if you raise your boy as if he were a girl, the next child will be a girl. The youngest is a boy, I know for sure, as Tilek insisted on showing me his tiny penis. Piece of art! We drink tea, eat home-baked bread and we watch a Korean movie for a while. Tilek shows me what he’s working on for the past two years. It’s the first Cossack-English dictionary in Mongolia and now he strives to get money to publish it. Then I see his bike – a Yamaha XJ 600. I reckon it’s the only Yamaha in this country. Two Englishmen gave it to him two years ago, when they got until here, decided this journey is too long for them and sold it to him for six hundred dollars. Dear Englishmen, greetings! I perfectly understand what you’ve been through, but I’m not selling anything. Then a periplus to Tilek relatives follows. And he has many of them, believe me. It’s like the entire settlement is made only of his relatives. We were to the house of his parents, then to his brother in law, then to the sister of the brother in law of the cousin of his grandfather’s wife, if I got it right. I saw how the home-baked bread – which is actually some kind of doughnuts – is baked, I entered a yurt, I saw a nine-day old baby. And I had to drink tea everywhere during these visits.

After this tour we got back to town, where we took the evening walk on the streets, followed by dinner with few Spanish teams from Mongol Rally. During dinner, Tilek ask me to communicate the Spanish that he’s writing a book and it would be great if they can help him with anything. He also adds he wants the equivalent of about twenty dollars for the two days while he was guiding me around. I don’t know what to say. I tell him he’ll have my money, he really helped me, but as regards the Spanish guys, I can’t do more than telling few words to one of them I was chatting more with. This Tilek is quite a strange guy, I admit. That’s it, I haven’t found another.

In the morning Tilek is busy with the Spanish guys. He apologizes a thousand times he can’t stay with me, but I’m fine. Meanwhile, I abuse the internet at the hotel ground floor. We meet in the afternoon and take a stroll to the city entrance, to the yurts on the river bank. He tries to explain me the difference between a Mongolian and a Cossack yurt, but I don’t get it at all. They’re all the same to me, beginning with their size to the people inside and the dogs guarding them. We find a yurt where wedding preparations are being made but unfortunately for me it’s tomorrow and I’m leaving until it starts. I have to drink vodka, home made and bottled. Wow, but just a sip, as the memories from Russia are still tormenting me. We go with the entire family to the yurt the newly-married couple will receive from their parents. We take group pictures. Old man with baby, mother and father, baby with grandmother and the other way round. Then we go to the hotel, I say goodbye to Tilek, I give him the money and I go to sleep. Tomorrow I’m leaving. Fun, again, oh me.

I’m on the road, bumped, as usual. Except there’s no cloud up in the sky and I’m about to enter that stretch of Mongolia called Gobi. The desert, that’s right. It’s not like Sahara, with dunes and all, but it’s empty. I think this is what desert really means, not the sand. I’m alone again. Alone, alone, alone. And it’s hot, hot, hot. Moreover – there’s no trace of shade, there’s nothing. I find three buildings that seem deserted. Where there’s a wall, it’s also shade if the sun it’s on your side. And it is. I’m pressing Doyle to the wall, disturbing a dog. When I get down, a lady as old as one of the other buildings makes me a sign to come to shelter in the shade of her house. OK, I’m coming. She invites me in and I get a tea and the junior dares me to play a game of ‘checkers’, with bottle caps, blue and white. Drawn game. I don’t even know if we’re playing ‘checkers’ here, but it doesn’t matter. It’s chilly in the house and this is a blessing for the plight I’m in. We have few conversations and none of us understands a thing, but both parties insist. Ah, it’s a thing I like so much here and it has happened more than once: the way people around here whisper to each other when they don’t want me to hear them.

I’m leaving and I leave some candies before in the hands of the young man. Oh my God, I’m hot. And there’s no trace of shade. The several stops we make for re-hydration are conditioned by finding at least a tiny building that provides shade for me and my horse. When I’m not finding any shade, Doyle sacrifices himself and casts his own shadow over me. Once he bends over me while my re-hydrating is at its peak, as he’s not anchored very well on his side stand. I catch him, step two steps back, we fight a little and we finally get standing. My arms hurt and I’m thinking how I’m supposed to lift this beast from the ground. But this is not a thought to occupy my mind with for a long time, as I have to accomplish a journey first.

We move over. In this desert of dust, the monotony is interrupted by… God have mercy… a tiny river crossing the road. I stop, wash my hands, my face and I feel like getting naked and rolling over in this two-finger deep water. It’s so hot that the water seems hot, but it’s not. I can’t finalize my strip-tease act as an IJ comes from behind with two gentlemen on his back and they stop for a chat. They show me their deflated front wheel and ask if there’s something we can do about it. Of course we can, I’m carrying a spare motorcycle in my luggage. With every tool I’m taking out from my armoury to complete the work, the couple goes ‘Ooooo-oooo’ and then ‘Oooo-oooo…’ again. The climax is reached when they find out there’s no pumping involved, thanks to my little compressor. This is a wonder of technology truly appreciated at its real value. That’s it, the wheel is spinning, it’s time to go. I’m leaving for about five kilometers and I’m stopped by a gentleman riding some thing from China that has run out of gas. I give him about one liter and I move on until the little town called Zereg.

I pull over and I browse my guide in order to find some place to sleep. Nothing, this town doesn’t exist according to the guide. And I’m not feeling like camping either, as I have no water and the rain doesn’t seem willing to fall on this desert. I don’t know what to do. Two gentlemen riding a motorcycle and coming from the town solve my dilemmas when they stop near me. I ask by gestures if I can sleep somewhere in this little town. ‘Of course, at my home!’ I understand from the gestured answer. I follow them and I get to a courtyard with two yurts. One of them belongs to one of the gentlemen and it seems that I’ll spend the night over here. I have a smile in the corner of my mouth. Can you see it?

The entire family welcomes me. The entire family means her and him, two boys and a girl. The youngest is a little Tarzan. Naked and covered with dust from head to toes, free as a bird. He’s spoiled and he fully enjoys it. I’m invited inside the yurt. The lady is busy cooking and the gentlemen, as various men come in and out, are busy watching some horse races and fights on TV.

They ask me if I want something to eat. At this moment, it’s like this: half of thought is about the goat balls I saw in ‘Long Way Round’ and half of thought is about the cans I’m carrying with me from Russia. Plus the pre-school common sense rule that says it’s not nice to say no. No?!? If I knew what I’m about to get, I would have shorten the pre-school time I was busy learning such common sense rules. I say yes, but just a little, as I’m not hungry. The hell I’m not. Taking this statement into account, I keep thinking how to get out to open a can and eat it without anyone seeing me. I receive a portion of meat, mutton I think, with noodles, in some kind of soup. It’s good, no complains about it. I’m saved if this is it. I knew the TV documentaries are loaded with special effects. I ask about a place where I may change my clothes and I’m taken in a room in a building nearby. Something is boiling here on a stove. Something that doesn’t smell very well. I reckon they’re preparing something for the winter supplies and I’m so lucky for not being here in the winter. I get back in the yurt and I’m not getting to sit down when the basin whose smell I met few minutes ago shows up in here. Now I’m in trouble. It’s placed in the middle of the yurt and the entire gang attacks. I think this stuff spreading all these quite not pleasant smells is some delicacy. So: one goat head, boiled, plus some feet and… if I’ve got it right, guts. A bowl full of stuff I’m afraid to touch finds its place in front of me. To be eaten by bear hands. I don’t distinguish any meat in there. I swear I pretend to put something in my mouth and chew. I take a glimpse of a square centimeter of meat and I gladly put it in my mouth. And I chew and I chew and I chew, just to look busy. Everyone around me is delighted, they eat like crazy. Lucky me, as no one pays attention to me. Until pater familiae vey gladly offers me a piece of intestine. I take it. I put it in my mouth. Shit… with all respect for the Mongolian culture and gastronomy, dear Gabi and Cristi, I confess I felt like puking. It’s not a manner of speaking. I feel my stomach going upwards and I put my hand to my mouth. Twice. I accompany this stuff with some noise, but my table companions are busy devouring. I realize I’m tough if I’ve managed not to season this food with yesterday’s meals. I push the taste limits to maximum and I manage to swallow. Fuck… I have the same feeling now when I’m writing and watching the photos. No kidding. That’s it, not anymore. I refuse as politely as possible, but I can’t do this anymore. One more bite and I offer in return a memorable olfactive sight. I go out to fresh air when the slaughter ends. I really need it. The bad thing is retching is coming as it should after a copious meal. After the first two rounds, I’m desperately trying to refrain myself. As the taste and flavours I went through earlier are returning. Oh my God, what I’ve been through.

The bed is laid, not before little Tarzan is washed while crying and screaming. The father is watching not far from the scene, with a fly splasher in his hand. He uses the splasher, very relaxed, when he decides the decibels level is getting too high.

We’re making ourselves ready to sleep. Me and the intestine withing my intestine and the family, within the yurt, within beautiful Mongolia. I’m bringing my sleeping bag that makes quite an impression and the light is turned off. I’m watching my motorcycle from beneath the yurt’s skirt, lifted for the fresh air to go in. The moon is full and my hardened Doyle is sleeping. Good night, Mihai, wow…

Wow, how many mosquitoes! Not good. The sleeping bag keeps me too warm, as I wanted to have one of those that keep you warm at minus fifteen, and if I take a finger out, there’s a battle over it. I’ve waken up for at least twenty times. I was taking out a leg, then taking it in with bites on it, then a hand, then a leg and so on. I fell asleep eventually and all I know is that I’ve waken up covered with wounds. I’ve sipped a tea in the morning and then the basin with the goat head leftovers shows up. Uhuuuu… it’s high time for me to take off, quickly. I explain them I cannot eat as I have a long road to go and I go out to pack. I try to pay for my being hosted here, but my money is refused. A knife makes the father’s eyes sparkle. Take it, it’s yours. Everybody’s waving goodbye. Thank you!

Again it’s hot beyond our powers. Again the road is killing us. Again we’re chasing shadows.