[Pictures coming soon]
Well I could say I have been composing this in my head as I have ridden through Mongolia, but it would be an utter lie, the dirt tracks which are main roads, the mud, the dust, the bumps, the potholes the complete and utter absents of any signposts together with the wondering yaks, camels horses, goats and sheep, not to mention the mind blowing scenery have fully occupied my mind and left it unable to think of anything other than the moment.
Well there has been one thing. It’s been in my head for weeks now. Well 2 things actually. When I left my house 9 weeks ago, I said to my neighbour when she said she wished she was coming with me, ‘there’s room on my horse for 2’ I still cringe when I think about it, where the hell did that come from? And anyway, there isn’t even room. So if the torture of my inappropriate reply is not bad enough since that day whenever there has been a quiet moment into my head pops Ralf Harris singing ‘2 little boys’. Its sheer agony and its takes intense concentration to find a song to sing over it. The other thing that has driven me to distraction is ‘where next?’ can’t I just be satisfied with Ulaan Baatar? But do I go back? Carry on? And why be so presumsious as to think that I might even make it there.
But back to my entry into Mongolia, it’s instant, as so many of the border crossings have been. Cross a state line and the next state bears a strong resemblance to the previous one but my change of countries since Poland have been dramatic and this one was phenomenal. Leave the paved maintained roads of modern Russia cross 25kms of no man’s land and into a wild wild country. It snowed at the border crossing beginning of August and it snowed. Then with the appropriate stamps in my passport I enter the country of my destination. No signs, no roads nothing but snow-capped mountains, dusty tracks and a vague sense of direction. My fist stop to decide what track to take when it forks I am approached by a man on horseback. Rapped in a long coat tied with a colourful scarf and a weather beaten face of leather skin and deep wrinkles that told a hundred stories none of which I know or could ever understand. I’m not a tourist here I’m an intruder. I don’t understand the first thing of his life and being in poession of a visa alone, I don’t think entitles me to be here. We are worlds and times apart, there is no comprehension of each other’s lives, but I ask if I can take his photo and he agrees, this wild man on his horse has ridden over to check me out, I have to assume he is friendly I’m on his territory, I’m vulnerable, not armed with language or knowledge and certainly not weapons or wisdom and he could have all of the above all I have is a throttle to get me out of any danger. His interest in me is short. Perhaps he’s seen the likes of me before perhaps we all look the same to him, whatever his reason to ride off into the vast and deserted landscape was you can bet it wasn’t cus his favourite soap was about to start.
I need to head south, I climb a mountain follow a track all I can see is mountains. Dark soil a single track. I’m here, I’m fuckin here. I’ve just ridden my bike to Mongolia and I’m scared and exhilarated, nervous and victorious, I’m unaware and aware of it. Thrown in the deep end of wild western Mongolia.
When I arrive in a new country I like to stay in a hotel and acclimatize for a few days. But I quickly discover that Mongolia does wilderness very well but the town and cities are awful. A lot of people drink a lot of vodka a lot of the time. Slurring drunk, dangerous drunk, unpredictable drunk, lean against ya bike till it falls over drunk. So whilst packing up my bike the following morning having slept badly and deciding at first light to wash myself and my dirty clothes on the communal sink in the stinking toilet with only cold water, before the other guests or inmates got up, I was approached by a man who speak good English,
‘How ya doin? Where ya bin? Where ya going?’ And all that, he produces a book, page by page map of this un-navagatable country with distances and bridges, river crossings and what townships have fuel, I’m so impressed , where can I get one from? He gave it to me. WOW, big WOW you have no idea what this means, you have with a single gesture completely changed my trip. Thank you so much, and if that were not enough he gave me his card and number to call if I have any problems or need translation.
This trip has been full of the goodness of humanity and my appreciation and gratitude seem so inadequate.
The map is written in cyllic. But that’s a good thing, I don’t have to read it but the people I stop to ask directions do.
I immediately head out of town 30 miles in the wrong direction, it’s not my fault, 6 different locals have told me this is the track and so did a solitary and illusive sign post. The thing is I don’t want to go the long way round, I want to go the way on my new map across these mountains, over these rivers, its 3pm and I’m back in the town I was so desperate to leave. I stop asking drunks and use some common sense and a basic sense of direction and I’m on the right road it’s next to the petrol station I filled up at 65 miles and 4 hours ago. But I’m stopped by the pigs. The president is coming down this road soon and until he does I’m not going anywhere, so I wait and sure enough in cloud of dust and scream of sirens a convoy of police cars and 4x4’s goes past I take photos of the first few but there must be 20 vehicles and I just put on my lid and wait for the word. I can go. And this is it I follow rivers through valleys and mountain ranges snow on the horizon, no signs of life ,of civilization, of anything, just a vast and endless timeless land, and I’m riding my bike through it. My bike I bought on eBay, transformed in my garage, and rode with determination and nervousness east 10,000 miles to get to this land.
Sometimes it seems like I’ve been here before, it’s just how I imagined only more so. A river to cross a real one not some photo shoot. Its fast running, knee deep. I’ve discovered that photos and videos do nothing to show the vastness of a river crossing, but stand on ya pegs behind the bars, fill ya boots with water, soak ya feet, slip ya clutch lean against the current and judge ya path avoid the rocks and bump up the far bank and the feeling of achievement is immense. I haven’t killed my phones or cameras, I just crossed a river mother fucker and I’m onward to the next obstacle. In the evening I stop in a tiny village two 4x4’s have arrived the same time German and Swiss couple we create a scene. 2 old men are looking at the bike, laughing and making fun of each other, one wants to put my helmet on and when he finally squeezes it onto his head he play fights with his mate probably lifelong buddies, and when I take their photos and show them, they thank me. I go into the little shop that sells shoes and clothes no bread but dried noodles, even here they have dried noodles, I have carried dried noodles I bought from Tesco’s for nine weeks and 9and half thousand miles as an emergency food and they are available here, it’s not that the noodles I carried were heavy but they take up precious space in my panniers, well I’ll know next time. Now I don’t feel like an intruder, I feel like a circus that had pulled into town the old men come for the matanet performance and wonder off to let the kids have their turn. One girl speaks English and is pushed to the front. ‘Do you even have an address? Does the post man come here ever? Could I send you photos? I don’t understand so many things. But I can laugh and I can speak with tones which make them laugh. And my brief encounter as my personal circus pulls out of town will fill all of our minds tonight.
But my night is not over. Cus where we make camp, we are in view of 2 riverside yurt camps and we have visitors. A man of indeterminate age and very bad teeth which are revealed in a constant smile arrives on his horse, and after some mutual and incomprehensible banter he offers to let me ride his horse, and I’m trotted off over the steepe like a ... like a biker on a horse, let’s be honest, I’m no more part of this world for this experience than he is part of mine as he giggles from behind me as I open up the throttle and show him how many horses I have under my tank. So we’ve shared our most personal passions and now we sit and he brings out his perfume, it must be perfume he asks me to sniff it, ‘what the top?’
‘No dumb arse take the top off’, he does it for me and some powder is attached to the stick ‘sniff this’ oh right now I understand. Sniff, snort, hit, bam, wow, cool, stick around, I like this shit.
We eat our pasta out visitors leave and I go to the warmth of the German camper for vodka under 12volt florescent light and we laugh and chat like the old travellers we are, backpacks long exchanged for more independent and comfortable forms of travel, still hungry for wonder and a thirst for new experiences but our desires are met in ways the guide books don’t describe. The tales we tell are not of our uni years but how we travelled before we had our on engines. Not better or worse just different and just how I want to be at this moment in time. Wouldn’t want to travel any other way once again I’m doing exactly what I want to.
And so it goes Mongolia doesn’t do civilization, or modernization well, it does wilderness best. Next morning I have possibly the best days riding I have ever had, the most fun you can have in 1st and 2nd gear, cross countless rivers and streams, over mountains, past headers and through ruts, bogs, over rocks and over every peak another view that leaves me knowing that only witnessing this first hand will ever really do it justice. Out of the blue eagle territory sky a sea gull appears it’s so unexpected and puts a song in my head, I end up playing the whole Bad Company album on my iPod and listen to the lyrics of the songs like never before, it was written for this ride, this morning, this terrain, it’s perfect.
I take tracks with confidence, cross rivers with hope, and camp out of site off of the beaten track.
The map is perfect. Well almost, there should be a turn off in 18 kms and there is, the track forks, then I need the next one in 25 kms but it doesn’t materialize, I pass a small lake, I’m supposed to be north of that, I’ve come to far, well I suppose if I just go back past the camels and do a right I should be in the right direction., there comes a point when I have simply got it wrong. I’m not where I think I am and at dusk I climb a hill to try to see the lake to give me a sense of direction. It’s so much north that it should be,
The nights are colds there is frost on my tent in the morning the sun warms up quickly but not as quick as heated handlebar grips do.
so next morning I make my own road, simply head across the grass land in the direction I feel is right, eventually I come across tyre tracks, I suppose, being nomadic a yurt is moved and after several trips have been made into town a track is created and if I follow that it will lead to another track that will get wider and dustier and lead me to town. Yeah I like that thought. But I’m not sure it is a reality. It keeps me going across uninhabited land I’m willing a town to appear out of the heat haze but it doesn’t, only the shadows of eagles over head cross my path , I pass a small Ger (that’s what they call yurts here) camp. And I do what at the time seems like the bravest thing I have ever done, I park my bike away from the settlement; just seems intrusive to ride up. I take my map and I walk towards the Ger. The family watch me, the dog’s barks, I stoop the ground to pick up a stone, the dong knows what this means and backs off. Steps take forever, my sole flaps, my heart pounds, my eyes scan, and my face holds prolonged and ineffective smile like a wedding photo. Finally I’m close enough to make facial expressions, I indicate back to the bike. Show the map. There intrigue overcomes their reluctance and they look at my map ‘I have to go past the camp and do a right’ ok, ok, ‘spar-cee-bar’ thank you. The boy calls to the dog not to fuck with me as I take the long walk back to my bike sighing hard and smiling victoriously, I rode past the camp and do a right and sure enough the flattened grass turns to track and leads to town, on the outskirts I stop to re strap my luggage which fell off on a misjudged dip and a man in traditional clothing stops to help me,, he offers me a pad lock and squats by my bike to get out his pipe and smoke it, he also thanks me for taking his photo or may be the thanks is for showing it to his daughter and making her giggle, look ya old man is in my camera, isn’t he cool?
I find a place that sells fuel wouldn’t call it a petrol station, the boy attendant seems perplexed that I’m not satisfied with 80 octane, my mate pulls up on his moped, his pipe extinguished his indications imply that 80 octane will be just fine, ‘and where exactly did you get your education on KLR’s 650’s? Ok ok just 5 litres then. Thank you.
I’m getting used to no road signs, getting used to using instinct, it’s a gift that is not used in our sterile western world, were signs tell us hot water is hot and responsibility cannot be taken for.... I’ve had this rant before but we really are crippling out selves deneighing out natural ability of judgement, I’m getting mine back, the hard bit is having faith in it and obeying it. But if the society I come from has its way, like our tails and appendix it will become something we once had or no longer have a use for.
I pass 2 Ladas both chez registered, I wave as I pass and cover them in my dust. Then when I stop for a slice of sausage on side stand bread they pass me. I call it side stand bread cus if ya park on soft ground and ya side stand sinks you can cut off slice and put it on the dirt and ya side stand wont penetrate the surface, when there are no rocks or cans available it’s the yeast ya can do.
The next time we pass we stop, 6 chez in 2 ladas, 4 boys 2 girls on a mission to buy gers and export them home, thereby helping the local economy. It’s very um... what’s the word... well its definatly very.
It was feeling ok but now I’m better, the input, the stimulation, the exchange, it revitalizes the thoughts in my helmet it’s either that or the biscuits and jam dip they put on bonnet that I tuck into as we tell our stories.
Later in a tiny town where I have stopped for water and told the cafe is not serving food, I got on my bike and it doesn’t start. I begin to pull it apart but get the inevitable audience. And noting is working, I manage to kill all the electrics, before it was at least bumpable now I have nothing, the Ladas arrive they find an open cafe and order food for me, I can’t fix it, not tonight with fading light and audience I’m tired and so dirty, electrical faults have to be considered, meditated on. I push my bike to the open cafe, and have dead animal noodle soup. It’s perfect, but I’m pre occupied, the locals have seen the contents of my panniers, and I can’t leave. But I can’t camp here in this town I will have to stay awake vigilant by my bike all night. In yet another act of limitless kindness the chez offer to not only push my bike out of town but to camp with me.
We try to tow it but the rope snatches and I fall off, so they take it in turns to push me, with deflated tyres for better traction on dirt road they take it in turns to push me out of town onto the steepe and then as the wind blows in a storm we busily and industrially erect out tents in the shelter of the cars as lightening strobes in the distance and we retreat to the shelter of out Gore-Tex and aluminium sanctuary, the wind blows so violently I don’t think my tent will take much more. It breaths in and out like a winded asthmatic marathon runner but it stays standing.
I’m up at first light take off seat and replace fuse, I have lights, bypass starter switch and it fires up. I may not know my bike inside out, but I know me, and I know when I work at my best and when I don’t work at all. But it’s not that simple, it’s rapidly turning into an intermittent electrical fault. The worst kind and the mechanical fault. The chez and me spend the next 3 hours tracing wires and bypassing connector blocks and getting nowhere, although despite no common language we respect and understand each other’s ability and work well together.
Somehow it works again but it’s no real victory as we don’t know what we’ve done. It’s been a pleasant and relaxed operation everyone has been patient and helpful, and I pack up bike and tell them I would like to buy them lunch if they have the time. they leave as they are slower than me and , when I hit the road within 5 minutes I come across them broken down and bonnets up. They insist I keep going and I ride the dirt into a black valley of rain.
I’ve leant the Mongolian word for food. And I stop at a yurt as the sky turns black and go inside
Hail and sunshine take it in turns to come through the roof. A family have entered before me, they occupy the bed and every other area, the log burner is in the middle with a big pot on it, (central heating) there is no menu, no choice, no need, I m hungry they have food, I simply sit and wait my turn, it smells good, and when oblong stainless plates are served with a kind of noodle and potatoes and onion with meat, it looks so good, I hope it tastes as good as it looks. When mine arrives it does not disappoint. It’s perfect food for the weather, it feels like November English Saturday afternoon, all it lacks is a hypnotic football commentary on the TV which as always induces sleep in me, and I yawn and wait out the storm outside, as the sides of the yurt resist the flapping the wind outside tries to cause. It feels so normal in here; babies are passed around and eventually put to the breast to keep them quiet. Family life goes on amides the uninvited diners, who would occupy every corner if only a round yurt had a corner. Colourful carpets hang from the walls and the occasional furniture is painter in Tibetan style patterns. Bones with meat still on them are stored under a bed and children of different ages stare with varying degrees of intrigue.
I’m filthy in not seen hot water since Russia, cant clean the road dirt off, I well beyond the capabilities of a wet wipe, I like to ride in fingerless gloves it gives me the dexterity to take photos and speak into my voice recorder the thoughts and observations of the day, but it has left my hands ingrained with dirt, bloody, dry and cracked with windburn.
The chez arrive as I leave they have another mechanical problem and I order their lunch and say goodbye, big waves and I’m being videoed and photographed as I pull away but with one had waving I stall the bike, it jolts and I lose my balance and fall off, backwards roll and I’m back up on my feet. 2 steps forward and lift the bike up and back on. You’d think I’d be getting better after all this time, but I’m just getting better at falling off. What an exit.
After 5 days I find a river to bathe in it feels so good, my bike is held together with cable ties and ratchet straps, my boots with duct tape, my bike cloths are filthy and just touching them blackens my hands, I haven’t seen my reflection for days other than a passing glimpse as I pass the mirrors as I fall off again.
I come off about twice a day. Trying to avoid a rut I went to close to a bank and the left-hand pannier caught it and stopped the bike dead, we both went down hard. I bent panniers and rack, smashed mirror and my poor bike is looking very sad indeed.
Pick it up assess the damage and take the live wire I have put from the battery and touch it to the started relay and it fires up and I’m off again, at some point on tiny track I do my 10,000th mile and stop for photo and shot of vodka, Glenn puts a dab on his finger and gives it to Monklet, I pat the bike, and Monklet and toast to the next 10,000 miles. Back inside my helmet it’s all quite emotional I really wasn’t expecting it to be. I recall the leaving my house and the first few miles and ‘2 little boys’ comes back in my head, arggghh.
Sometimes the dirt road is so good and the washboards so constant I find I’m up to 50mph and even leaning on the corners at a certain point you get right into the zone still concentrating but totally into the feel of the bike on the road, it’s just as I realize I’m in the zone that I tend to instantly leave it and throttle back as the forks and rear shock bottom out yet again on a misjudged pothole
I’m travelling alone again only 500kms from the capital the roads are improving in fact there is a brand new pristine smooth un driven black straight road just completed there are mounds of earth to stop you driving on it but I can ride over them easy and I ride fast and can actually look around me simultaneously for the first time in a week. But its short lived the road is not complete for very long it turns to sprayed bitumen on compressed gravel I bump over another mound and keep riding, bits fly off my tyres, I continue to bump over large mounds and ride on forbidden road. Ironic really, you can ride absolutely anywhere in this country, no fields, no crops, no fences, you make ya own path, but find a proper road and ya forbidden from using it.
Back to dirt and riding hard drifting on the corners up and down the gears hard on the throttle especially if I pass a bus, entertainment and envy for the cramped tourists and then my right foot hits the ground, my peg has fallen off I stop find it and discover that riding that bitumen road was not so smart the bike is covered in tar, its everywhere over panniers, shocks, forks, engine, number plate and rear lights are completely covered even monk let has splats on him. I’m so annoyed at myself for mistreating something that has treated me so well, the foot peg bolts have sheared off, from bumping over mounds and as I ride with one foot dangling, the other peg comes off, followed by the centre stand. The whole bike is falling apart and I ride into the next town like a jockey my feet perched on the bolt head that hold the sub frame together, it’s a sad site, tar covered bike bits strapped on everywhere. The last bit of road into town is sealed and smooth and for first time I am able to ride and think about something other than the road.
Was it some subconscious deliberate abuse to indicate destination reached, mission accomplished, it’s really depressing, and it shouldn’t be, I should be euphoric. I sat in my trailer all winter planning a bike ride to Mongolia and I’ve bloody done it. Where is the sense of achievement? I think it’s trapped under a layer of tar.
So I spent the next day in the yard of a guest house cleaning and repairing, resting and meditating on bike, location and destination. And with filthy hands and shining wheels I realized all I needed was time off of the road, time to myself, time to take it all in, I was ok before but now I’m better.
When a draining boot on the mirror drips on his head Monklet smiles
When I’m inside a yurt and he’s out in the hail Monklet smiles
When he raps his tail round the heated handlebar grips, he smiles
When he has 10,000th mile vodka he smiles
And when I wipe tar off him with a petrol rag he keeps on smiling
Clean up and carry on, with a smile on our faces
Love Flid
No comments:
Post a Comment