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China stops at the Mongolian border. In Inner Mongolia province we experienced a fair amount of Mongolian culture as well as tourists hailing from Ulaanbaatar. Signs were usually written in both Chinese and Mongolian script, and the cross cultural exchange was evident in nearly every facet of daily life. Mongolia crosses the border into China but the opposite does not hold true. The crossing was long and beaurocratic, we could not ride but rather took compulsory jeep trasnsport into the Mongolian Border town of Zamyn Uud. Here we found a familiarly rougher version of life with child beggars and mangy dogs wandering the dust blown streets. It is all very reminiscent of other places we have rolled into in the developing world; touts trying to "help us" with our gear, everyone asking for a payoff, that sense that this place will never change hanging thickly in the air. A world traveler who I respect and who may be reading this might say: "Bienvenidos". We checked into a Soviet style hotel and went out in search of food and provisions for the long desert crossing to come. We had recieved advice from all angles to not attempt to ride the next section,
particularly in the spring, but we were determined to try. Russian is our only hope of communication here. The local language is written in the Cyrillic alphabet but the two go together worse than Chinese and Pinyin. Luckily the oldtimers still understand Russian and our small quiver of phrases usually proves sufficient to fill our basic needs. An English speaker at the market warned of an approaching dust storm and suggested that we take the train in order to bypass the non-existant road. Meanwhile her shop-keep used the six inch stub of his left arm to hold a salami down while he cut us off a chunk with his right.
Three kilometers out of town we all knew that it was time to head back. Our water laden bikes sunk again and again into the rough semblance of a road that we followed through constant sand filled braids over the desert. Our GPS died (and continues to rest in peace) for reasons that we do not understand. The wind was impressive and left little doubt in our minds as to how all this sand got into the ruts that we were trying to follow. A half hour and two kilometers later, faced with the prospect of spending the next two(+) weeks of our lives like this, we called it and turned back to town.
Taking the train was straight forward and cheap. There was one other "whitey" on board and it was no coincidence that he shared a sleeper compartment with us. We had to load our bikes on a seperate cargo train and this took an hour or so of translation to fully understand. Parting from your gear is the bike tourist's greatest woe and this situation was no different though the crew involved seemed professional enough. In the end we paid the touts/railway employees who helped us about one tenth of what they asked for which was about ten times what we wanted to. Again: Bienvenidos.
We took the train to Choyr (don't try to pronounce it) where the road supposedly improved. Our bikes came two hours later on the next train, unscathed, and we rejoiced as did a local puppy who followed us around. We rolled into the village and found the beginning of a paved road. There we waited for businesses to open so that we might restore our bellies and water supplies. At ten or so in the morning we were taken into a restaraunt whose polished interior defied the sand scoured outside. We had mutton and noodles and were on the road by twelve just in time to catch a serious headwind. This was our first day of riding with Joe and after thirty kilometers it became our last. Daunted with the concept of battling a headwind for days to get out of the desert and pressed for time, he flagged down a passing truck, hugged us tightly, and was gone. We could never begin to blame him; it was indeed brutal, and one's time is always precious. When the gusts topped sixty Km/h the two of us also called it a day and found a hole to sleep in.
The weather is not a miracle, it does not care about luck, it does not care at all. The whole system consists of gradients, overlaps, currents, and dozens of other physical realities that can probably be best summed up as very, very, trippy; yet not beyond understanding. Laying there amongst our tent guys we thought about these principles and developed a theory based on a layman's understanding of continental temperature gradients. In short, we decided that the winds would probably be subject to a diurnal fluctuation and might be less driven in the early morning when the land behind us cooled. Dawn Patrol found us rolling at first light; with no wind! I cannot say that we were right, but I will not call it luck either. In the afternoon the winds came up strong and fierce but we had already covered 100 Km. The next day brought a similar truth to bare. When we arrived here in Ulaanbaatar, we were pleased to get a "married persons" room, gorge on treats, and sleep long.
As we head out into the wild west, our friends Kathy Halloran and Greg Higgins are flying onto the Kahiltna glacier for an attempt on Denali. It is always heartwarming to see folks getting after it. It is even better when they are twice my age. I cannot express my admiration for you both in words but I can say that I will keep screaming into the wind, keep pushing, and keep you both in my heart. "Allez, Allez" to all.
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Eli Meyer
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Charge onwards
Wonderfully written, gripping, intense. Are you guys really in Mongolia or are you just hanging out in Amsterdam writing wonderful stories? Thanks for the updates, its almost like being there, but without the dysentery. You don't need no stinking GPS. It was probably holding you back from having any sort of real adventure. Now the fun begins. -Eli