Little Tibet

Arriving in Lanzhou in miserable weather was not inspiring. I'd thought to stay over, utilise a hotel to rest for the day. Not when I saw it, it was dirty and industrial, looking as big as Beijing with none of the charm. For over half an hour I walked back and forth, wondering what the hell to do. I'd had enough of trains, my plan had been to catch a bus to Xi Ning, a much smaller city further north, heading along the Silk Route. I was hungry, having not eaten on the train at all, and desperate for my early morning squat. I couldn't find a toilet so decided on a bus instead, now which bus station do I need. Getting there at 7.30 am gave me plenty of time to get the hell out the place, I only had to find out how. If there is one thing I'm finding out about the Chinese, they will try and help you if they can, all you have to do is approach them. (Photo: Quan Qui Shan mountains - North west China)

Badly pronouncing a city name baffles them, but they aren't perturbed. I carry a notebook with me and write it down, which tends to do the job, even though it isn't in Chinese script. Smiling lots and looking dumb works wonders, between the three of them the women at the first bus station point out the correct bus, tell me the wrong number of stops and send me on my way. Finding myself lost in the city was easily sorted too, pop in a pharmacy, where a picture of a bus and the name of my destination gets me simple directions. Either I'd counted wrong or been mislead, I'm willing to take the blame, what the hell it makes no difference. A short walk, a confused ticket teller and a bit of persistence gets me a ticket, not of the first bus but one an hour later. Aah, enough time for the loo and some food! So for the first time I'm confronted with communal toilets, and I don't mean the urinals. Yeah, I will admit to being a bit shy trying to have a dump while being stared at; having dreads can be a disadvantage sometimes. I failed, just couldn't finish my business, or even start; a quick pee was enough to be getting on with. (Photo: Quan Qui Shan mountains - North west China)

The staff in the bus station were lovely, despite the fact I could communicate nothing to them. They took me and sat me where I could get some food; well I say food, I mean pot noodles, the mainstay of the Chinese diet when they travel anywhere. Someone came and got me when the bus was ready, and made sure I was safely in my seat well before departure time. I sat quietly and content, watching an increasingly beautiful world slip by. Dozing on and off the time passed quickly, a five hour drive went in no time. Xi Ning was due to be quieter, that's what I'd convinced myself anyway. When I walked out the station I was staggered to find a heaving mass of people, of many diverse cultures and creeds. It's marginally Tibetan, but also a strong Muslim area of China; till then China had consisted mainly of Han Chinese. Sitting down to give my head time to mull over what to do I was aware of receiving a bit of attention. Lifting my head I found myself surrounded by twenty of more people pressing in close, staring and discussing me amongst themselves. Beaming smile and a bright cheery, "ni haar," seemed to do the job. At least they recognised me as human then, I got flashes of bright white teeth in response, and they weren't snarling either. It didn't do them much good when they tried to talk to me, nor when I attempted to explain I wanted either a hotel or a bus further along the road. (Photo: Ma Ti Si Temple complex- Gansu Province, China)

There weren't any buses wednesday to Zhangye So I wouldn't be leaving town till the following morning. I'd seen a couple of hotels on the approach to the bus station, so I traipsed back that way with my murderously heavy pack. There were three or more, so I tried them one after another. No, No, No and No! I didn't even have to ask, they saw me and shook their heads; no foreigners here pal. Oh well, what to do? try another teller in the station, maybe they could prove more helpful. Indeed she was, she showed me the buses due to leave the following day, in English, so at least I got a ticket. I even got to wait in the waiting room, though I thought it might be open all night, like in India, so I could doss on the floor. But no, at 6pm I got a rather irate police officer shouting at me to leave, get out. Oh dear, that isn't the sort of way to get the best out of me, it just made me linger even longer. I did finally go before he called in his buddies, but he'd left me for over half an hour without further hassle. A handicapped guy who spoke a little English asked if he could help me, so I tried to get some info from him. First and foremost was where I could find a hotel, I thought the railway station, which he confirmed. So off I set. After walking about a mile I noticed he was following just behind me, he was apparently concerned for me, still wanting to help. He seemed quite humble and genuine; an impression I wish I'd kept at the forefront of my mind, I regret not doing so. (Photo: Quan Qui Shan mountains - North west China)

Insisting the Rail station was not within walking distance he persuaded me to go back with him. When we arrived back it was to be told we would need a taxi, and my inner alarm bells went off. So I checked for a price, 3 yen I was told. So I checked again, "is that 3 yen, not 30 yen"? Assuming he'd take me to a particular hotel and reap a commission I agreed, I could deal with that when we got there. It was ages to the station, so far I was convinced something dodgy was going down. But no, after half an hour we reached the rail station, at which point I was asked for 30 yen by the driver. This is so common by taxi or tuk-tuk drivers in Asia, normally I will not budge, but it was a long way, by far more than a mere 3 yen. And the guy took me to a small and grotty hotel which only cost me 40 yen. But when it came to getting some food I blew it. Ordering a cheap meal for myself I told him to order in the same way, after ordering he asked if I eat mutton, to which I replied yes. So a plate of it duly turned up, as well as a separate meal for each of us. When it came to paying the bill was 82 yen, not expensive by western standards but a far cry from the 10 yen meal I'd ordered for myself. I really dressed him down outside the restaurant, telling him in no uncertain terms that he'd taken advantage. I didn't shout or get aggressive, but I gave him his marching orders. Stopping to get cigarettes on the way, I got back to the hotel and he was there trying to find the owner, and I sent him packing again. Now I can't get this out my mind, I can't wipe out the look on his face, a look of incomprehension. And to be honest I feel ashamed of my actions.
Half the time I'm spending in China I'm like a little boy lost, not quite out of my depth, but not handling the language barrier very well. I'm coping right enough, I'm getting very good at Pictionary, but I'm not at my quickest or brightest linguistically. I can only praise all the people who I've stumbled into, who speak no English but put in a massive effort to help me. Few have been after my money, few have been trying to take advantage. Today a woman who felt like she was accosting me when I got to Zhangye, turned up trumps in my eyes; well her and her husband, who happens to be a taxi driver. I know she gave me the correct information to begin with, there are no buses to where I wanted to go, but I failed to get her to understand I wanted to know how close I could get a bus to the site. She stated the only way to get there was by taxi, which I know to be true, but you can get halfway there by bus. I actually took her husband's taxi, and it wasn't expensive for the journey and time spent at the monastery. Considering the phone calls to an English speaking friend, organising a decent hotel for a decent price, and their company for five hours I consider it money well spent. They've both been lovely to me, concerned for my welfare and happiness, maybe my linguistic helplessness brings out the best in many people. I certainly have no complaints about the way I've been treated in China, it may be hard, but the people have been lovely with me. All it needs is a smile, some sign that I'm a human being and see them as the same. (Photo: Ma Ti Si Temple complex- Gansu Province, China)

Rough Silk on the road!

There are way too many photos to upload, having taken over 500 since leaving Beijing, so I've had to be super efficient with my choices. They're not all the best quality ones, I've tried to take a selection from across the board. I've covered many miles and even more sights since leaving the capital, and just so Beijing doesn't feel left out there's even a few of my brief sightseeing tour there. It was a short stay, the way I'd intended, but less hassle than anticipated. It didn't make me feel like extending my stay there, it is a city after all. I forced myself to go and sightsee, but only once I'd sorted out a ticket. I couldn't believe they only had standing room, it was a 16 hour journey, I just preyed they could offer me an upgrade on the train. The advice I received was to ask when I first boarded, many people book and fail to show up leaving sleeping berths, at least a seat would be nice. (Photo: Tiennamen Square - Beijing)

As it happened I got nothing better, but I was forewarned and therefore very proactive in ensuring I got the best out of the situation. Turning up a couple of hours early I hustled for an upgrade, at the wrong checkin desk, but at least they pointed me in the right direction. then I walked straight to the front of the queue and laid out my rucksack so no-one else could squeeze past. My initial attempt to secure the upgrade failed, as did the second. But I wasn't about to waste time, boarding in front the hoards I got onto the right carriage and headed for the largest space available and once again planted me rucksack, staking my claim. From the looks I got off the other standing fares they were impressed at how well I'd managed. As the journey progressed I felt a touch selfish, having twice the space any of them did. Even when stretching my legs and offering my seat to others they politely refused. I had no leg room, only the length of my pack. It was adequate though, with my feet halfway up the carriage wall I could just about stop my hamstrings cramping up. (Photo: The forbidden city - Beijing)

Beijing really is immense, it takes ages to reach the boundaries of the city. But when you do the agriculture begins immediately, true, it is interspersed with plenty of ugly construction, but that comes and goes, the crops are always there in some form or other. Mainly maize is grown, I've still not seen any rice, I'm beginning to think it isn't the season yet. That can't be right though, it's the wettest part of the year, the best season for rice. So far the soil has been very sandy, you need waterlogged paddies to grow rice, so I can only assume that is grown in abundance elsewhere in the country. There is some diversity, some evidence of vines being grown, not much, but now and again a few fields look like it's vines growing. Potatoes are also found, not acres of them again a few fields interspersed with the ubiquitous maize. It's amazing how perfect the lines to the fields are, whatever sides follow natural borders are kept tight up to that border, no room is left for wasted space. The other sides are straight as a die. (Photo: Moat or waterway - Forbidden city, Beijing)

Broken terrain sported slight terracing, there wasn't a lot of need really, but they favour flat ground to grow in, it gives better control of watering. Many ponds were dotted about, fed by small streams, there seemed little need for artificial irrigation, the amount of rain recently gives testament to that. In the distance mountains formed a hazy background with thin lines of trees standing here and there. Within a few hours the landscape got slightly more rougher, hillocks of mudstone jutted from the flat terrain, solitary ones without much attempt at terracing them. I don't think the effort is warranted, every other space is crammed full of crops, I find it hard to imagine a food shortage. One thing I noticed, like most Asian countries, the fieldwork is mainly done by hand. In fact here I haven't even noticed the use of beasts of burden to work the land. (Photo: Terracing amongst the limestone- West of Beijing)

I actually slept, through most the hours of darkness, waking to a dull grey lunar landscape, made even duller by the persistent rain. The dull grey muddy black housing failed to improve the solemness of the land. Mudstone gave it all a dirty washed out look, though as it turned more to limestone it still looked pretty grim. Quarries didn't help there either, in otherwise deserted areas a quarry or cement processing unit gave it an even more dismal appearance. Yet still, in patches undisturbed by the plant machinery, crops lined ridges and depressions. The largest area of limestone was quite amazing, acres of land collapsed to form huge flat bottomed depressions. Both the sinkholes and the plateaus were chock a block with maize plantations. Then one area would be turned into a filthy dirty quarry pit, smoke belching from machinery, churned up tracks cutting through an otherwise resplendent scene. (Photo: Tibetan people - Xi Ning, Gansu province)

Amongst all this construction was underway, in town and country, housing tower blocks, industrial processing plants, roads, bridges, tunnels, and who knows what else. China is growing rapidly, filthy tenement blocks spoil beautifully turned out rail stations, which are freshly painted and spotlessly clean. Beside the old tenements soaring tower blocks stand in various states of construction. Passing through one city I lost count of the newly finished, but empty, tower blocks for housing. I got to estimating twenty, then thirty, and gave up, there must have been at least fifty of them. All were identical, in style, design, size and colour. Could this be China admitting their one child policy has failed, their preparations for the inevitable baby boom? I thought I could escape the huge city by leaving Beijing, if that was what I wanted I should have stayed clear of Lanzhou. (Photo: Mountain Pass - Xi Ning to Zhangye, Gansu Province)

Peking, ducky!

An early start for a long train journey, now I know why I don't like being a backpacker. Gana, the owner of the guesthouse, came up trumps again and got his wife to give a few of us a lift to the station. I can only compliment him on the manner in which he runs the place, he has a good grasp of the needs of western travellers. Gers on the roof on his two storey building, an excellent way to maximise the available space. His best decision is to have a large Ger as a communal space, it pulls the guests together, ensuring many a good night of socialising. Well I'd spent two and a half weeks in Ulan Baatar sorting out the documentation for Konrad to take my bike out of Mongolia and through Russia; if it hadn't been for Gana's Guesthouse it would have driven me insane. So my personal thanks to one and all, the staff the other guests and even Gana's relatives for a great feast of traditionally cooked Mutton at Naadam. (Photo: Beauty in the Gobi - Southern Gobi Desert, Mongolia)

For the third time I crossed the Gobi, in a different direction, though I don't think that matters; however many times you cross the scenery seems different. Was it my imagination or was this route sandier? Just my imagination I think, viewed from the height of a train carriage the deep sand shows more clearly. One thing is for sure, it once more brought to mind the rigours of riding across it. For hours I sat and stared out the window, marvelling at the sight, Mongolia is awesome, a delight to travel around, however you attempt to do so. Our train was modern, doors and windows tightly sealed, air conditioned carriages ensuring a cool environment to relax in. Sharing a four berth carriage provided a nice chance to be social, even if I had my doubts at first. But my temporary companions proved interesting, the time passed quickly and thirty hours went by with no hitches. I thought I'd turn out to be the undesirable element in the compartment, but not at all, at least not that anyone showed. I spent a bit of time with people from Gana's, and a few beers with an anonymous American living in Mazatlan. I know few of you will remember the significance of that; it was the ferry port of mainland Mexico, the start of the 'Road of a thousand turns'. the windiest, wildest road I had the pleasure to ride on my Americas trip. (Photo: Swapping Bogies - Chinese Border with Mongolia)

China and Russia use different gauges for their respective railway networks, Mongolia runs the Russian gauge, so whenever trains cross the borders the whole train must have the bogies changed before continuing. It seems a mammoth task, surprisingly it only takes a few hours, probably no longer than it would take to process a train load of people through Chinese border control. So we were saved that hassle, they had the forethought to collect all the passports and process them while we waited, not too patiently, on the train. In all fairness it was an interesting thing to watch, they lifted every carriage separately, but in lines of four, then slid the old bogies out and the new one's in. Each carriage in only supported by one bogie at each end, each bogie has four wheels. All electrical connections, plumbing and everything is built into the carriages with no connections to the bogies. When they lifted our carriage we didn't even feel it, it was done with one hydraulic lift in each corner of the carriage. It was funny, all the time it was being done a Chinese guard stood to attention, one at each end of each alley, between each line of carriages. I can only assume this was to ensure there were no absconders. As soon as the Carriage was lowered they came in, made us all sit in our respective places to check we were still there too. (Photo: Chinese mountain scenery - On the way to Beijing)

From the border it was time for bed. The only thing to do was prop up the bar all night or sleep, so I chose the latter. One waking the view was delightful, gone was the expanse of desert dotted with Gers, this was a rich and fertile land framed by the hermetically sealed windows. It didn't exactly allow me to feel the country that surround us, but my experience left no doubt as to the conditions. Soil type hadn't changed a great deal since Mongolia, but the abundance of agriculture was phenomenal. It seemed that nowhere was left uncultivated, it was so ordered, so neat and precise. Further south is changed, became more mountainous, still delightful and beautifully rugged. Mudstone turned to harder rock, the hills grew in stature, I was mesmerised. Train window don't make the best medium for taking photos through, but that wasn't about to stop me trying. Soaring mountains, plunging valleys; the train snaked through a succession of tunnels. It blew my mind, I loved every minute of it. Staggering scenery, how i wished I was on the bike. (Photo: Chinese mountain scenery - On the way to Beijing)

And so we trundled ever closer to Beijing, growing slightly more perturbed by the prospect of a dirty, overcrowded city, having to battle through hoards of impolite impatient people. This was the picture painted of China for me, courtesy of most travellers I'd met. The warnings were all of huge crowds, a culture that has little respect for personal space and are discourteous to foreigners, if not down right rude. True in one respect, on leaving the station the crowds were oppressive. To be honest it was no worse than any other Asian city I've been in, better than many. Being accosted by unlicensed taxi drivers I tried to get a price to the particular hostel I'd booked into (a first for me). A young women stopped to offer her help, only to be pushed aside by one of the drivers. Poor lass, I unceremoniously dispatched him and the rest with a torrent of abuse at their actions. I couldn't apologise enough to her, thanking her profusely I decided on a bus instead, which she directed me to. for 10p I rode the few miles to Tiennamen Square. My hostel was about a ten minute walk away, it took me half an hour to find it. I was melting by the time I got there, but a shower and beer sorted me out. I managed to stop getting disgruntled when I thought they were overcharging me. Apologising I explained how hot and tired I was, a reasonable excuse for being out of sorts. (Photo: Chinese mountain scenery - On the way to Beijing)

Leo Courtyard is a lovely looking hostel, busy, but fairly quiet in the actual courtyard part, which is where I'm staying. Situated in a Hutong, old residential area it makes a nice place to wander around. Sure the main thorough way is lined with shops, it is quite touristy, but hell it's Beijing. Tiennaman and the Forbidden City are just up the road, what's more, I like it. For a city it rocks, the people are a pleasure to be amongst after Ulaan Baatar. There is no hostility, no theft that I've heard of and isn't even as busy as I expected. Ok, they stare at me loads, but people do when I walk around in short sleeves, all part of having tattoos. In reality it's the dreads they stare at most, but it's not the same as Mongolians, it's partly in amazement. Some do not respond in any way, but a smile and nod get a favourable response from the majority. The rest generally look away when I stare back, I can't quite see why so many criticised the locals here. I've found most eager to smile and say hello, even when they obviously find ma a funny sight. (Photo: City slicker - Beijing)

To make me really feel at home it poured with rain on my first day here, for half the day. There's no point cowering from adverse weather as I always claim, so an umbrella was bought, and carried ever since. There is something nice about walking through pouring rain oblivious to the deluge, I always find it soothing as long as I'm mainly dry and warm. Here it also provides a chance to battle against the host of brollies that endeavour to poke your eyes out, especially as I'm that bit taller than the average resident of Beijing. Not that they mean to, they are not very aware of other peoples space. This situation improves when it's apparent that you aren't either. I find that walking down the road if I remain oblivious to all others, if I don't weave constantly to avoid everyone else, they move out my way. I didn't try this on the squad of Red Guards who marched straight through the crowded subway, everyone moved out their way. They yelled something out now and again, warning people of their imminent passage I assume. My impression of China is favourable from my first experiences in Beijing, and all the tales I've heard are horror stories. (Photo: Loe Courtyard Hostel - Beijing)

And now I sit holding back the tears as I watch a music video of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, they're playing Californication, Cai's favourite song by them.

Plans change, but keep on truckin'

On a wet and miserable day I awoke, what an awful day to set off for the return trip to Europe. But hey it isn't me having to ride the bike this time, I can't say I envy Konrad at this stage of the game. But he woke up in an intoxicating mood, the weather wasn't putting him off in the slightest. It still made me a bit twitchy seeing my bike being ridden away by someone else, shouting yeeha as he accelerated up the ramp out of the guesthouse. Sounds like good progress has been made, up to the border in one day, across by 9 am the following morning, and then on to Irkutsk. What a shame I'm so crap at carrying my mobile phone, maybe then I could have been at hand when he found he couldn't start the bike. Yep, I'd had the same problem myself a few times. I was convinced the starter button was dodgy, but found it could be a bit temperamental; press it right and it was fine. Once discovering this it never gave any more problems for me. Oh well, Konrad's solution was to rip out the wires and now starts it by touching the wires together. If only I'd had my phone on me when the problem occurred. But I can't get into that headspace, I've entrusted my bike to him, I have to give him the freedom to make the decisions now. My poor bike, no wonder I don't let other people work on my bikes. (Photo: Desert Nomads - Gobi Desert, Mongolia)

It isn't fair of me to slag him off, he's doing me a favour, I should be grateful not critical. The main point of this is to get my bike back to Europe and give Konrad the chance to end his year of travelling with a touch of adventure. It's a two way deal, I must respect that! I have my own plans, which change with tides (not that there are any in Mongolia). Tomorrow I catch a train to Beijing, I'm a backpacker now, whether I appreciate it or not. To fully enjoy the experience I must get off the well travelled circuit, and I won't do this by taking the Trans-Siberian Express. So I'm not heading back through Russia, instead I'll try to wind my way through the north west of China by local buses. From Urumqui I can catch a bus to Almaty in Kazakhstan, before dropping down into Kyrgyzstan. So the places I get to won't change too much, and I'm still doing the tour of Tibet, but now in a 4x4. This shouldn't be too bad, same route, same atrocious road, yet in relative comfort. One benefit of this is the ability to appreciate the surrounding countryside more, sit back and enjoy the experience rather than concentrate solely on the road. I like the idea of buying a small bike once clear of China, a throwaway machine to take me round Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos. Whether this works out is yet to be seen, only time will tell. (Photo: More than a little personal space - Gobi Desert, Mongolia)

My main concern at the moment is to keep on a positive footing, by reserves are low. I don't feel too much of a failure, but neither do I fully appreciate the effort of making it this far. Spending two weeks in the capital has been awful, it's ground me down, I hate cities and begrudge having to spend time in them.Ulaan Baatar is no exception, it sucks! For days now I've hardly gone into the streets at all, it wears me out too quick, and I don't mean physically. But if I can't handle it here how will I cope with Beijing? Probably by spending as little time there as possible, There are so many cities in China my only hope it to find ways of avoiding them, hence the use of local buses. I have a nagging feeling that it will be a bit of an endurance test. There are friends to visit though, in Urumqui, so I will have a break from solitude. Really the only way to find out how suited I am the place is get there and see for myself. So many people say how difficult dealing with Chinese people can be, how harsh their culture. I guess I'll see for myself real soon. (Photo: Long and winding road - Gobi Desert, Mongolia)

Paperwork overload.

On the eve of our final attempt to placate the Russian officials we felt excited and dubious, all in the same breath. It was to be make or break. A word of warning sent to Konrad complicated the issue, was my passport stamped as having a bike in my possession, would it create a problem to leave the country without it. And sure enough there it was, an inoffensive, barely noticeable, stamp with 'MOTO' scrawled on the dotted line. Shit, we'd supposedly covered all bases! Already stating categorically that monday was the final day of reckoning, I nearly gave up hope. But no, my comrade was persistent, we can do this he insisted, we've done so much already. I had to agree, mainly due to the fact I refuse to be beat by petty minded officials. So despite drinking a hearty goodbye on sunday night to our Japanese friend Tack, who shares our Ger, an early start was planned. Bugger me if we didn't manage to get away by 9.30 am, but it was due to be a long drawn out process. The powers that be enjoy making life as difficult as possible, well at least the Russians do, boy are they arrogant in the extreme, at least the embassy staff. (Photo: Re-installing the front wheel - Gana's Guesthouse, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

The process had been dictated by the visa clerk last Monday, we must obtain a stamp from the Notary at the Mongolian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, then another from the Notary of the Russian Embassy, and then Konrad could make his application for a transit visa, giving him only ten days to cross Russia. Fair enough, it isn't a long time, but I made it in 14 days, and took three days rest on the way. He's 17 years younger than me, and German to boot, so he should manage this with ease; he's riding a BMW for god's sake! Anyway, we arrive at the Ministry before ten o'clock to be first in line, only to find we're fourth in line. However, the Mongolian officials actually try to be helpful, rather than making us wait until the afternoon they'd make an exception, we only had to wait 30 minutes, in the mean time we could make the appropriate payment at the Bank opposite. Or we could have done if the cashier had not insisted we go to a different bank, which one we needed was unclear. From her flippant gesture I assumed it was very close, though there was no sign. It turned out it was the right bank, though why she had said it wasn't possible is a mystery. On our return another cashier took the payment without any problem at all. Let's face it, we were the problem, our inability to communicate effectively in Mongolian. I can only assume the teller failed to understand our request so dismissed us out of hand. (Photo: Like long lost friends - Gana's Guesthouse, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

News from Foreign Affairs wasn't good regarding my exit without the bike, it's illegal was repeated again and again. However insistent the response was the same, but they did give me a phone number, who for I had no idea. The immediate need was to procure the stamp of the Russian embassy notary, having the stamp from the Mongolians made this quick and easy to get as well; things were definitely looking better, but I was still worried about exiting the country. Phoning the mystery number got us an invitation to visit their office, but not who they were, I had to get a waitress to write down the address. It turned out to be the Border control office, at which point I felt hope for the first time. Time was getting tight, Konrad had to hand in his application for a visa into the Russian embassy at 2 pm, we had to get to the Border Control office before three. It didn't help when a different clerk sat behind the visa desk, and he wanted to make us sweat. In short he was a complete arse, a little person with enough power to make our life difficult. I don't understand it, why do they put this type of person in such positions? I hate to say it, but it's probably because the Russian government want to make life hard for visitors. Considering the behaviour of American and British Immigration officials, it isn't really a unique situation is it? Time was running out fast, city traffic was gridlocked and we had to reach the other side of the city. (Photo: Raring to go - Konrade, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

We done it by the skin of our teeth, and it was worth the effort. "This is no problem," they informed us, " we will enter this on the computer". But of course there was still customs to consider! Shit, would it never end? Another dash, back across the city, another office, more officials. Yet again the Mongolian officials made it all plain sailing. Once establishing that the bike would leave the country two days before me, there wasn't a problem. A clearance officer gave us her phone number, once Konrad clears customs at the border with Russia she'll clear the bike from the computer leaving me free to leave the country at the Chinese border. And it was as simple as that, we achieved more through various Mongolian offices in one day than we had done in ten days with the Russian embassy. Every one was understanding, helpful and willing to ease our path through the bureaucracy. We were jubilant, high fiving each other and laughing all the way to the pub. We'd done it, we'd arranged everything for Konrad to ride my bike back to Europe. I'd pick it up whenever returning home, probably flying to Germany and riding home from there. (Photo: Konrad on his first ride - Gana's Guesthouse, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

But if I thought that was it I was sorely mistaken! Watching Konrad packing his stuff into my luggage proved hard to watch, reassurances that he'd take care with my stuff, didn't improve my subdued mood. I found it hard to, kept wandering what the hell am I doing, doubting the wisdom of the arrangement. Not for one minute was it a lack of trust, I've every confidence the bike will be ridden to Germany and will be there waiting for me when I want it again. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but I feel weird about it, it's made me withdraw into myself, and it shows. I don't want to lessen his excitement, but there's little I can do. We've had a great couple of weeks since we met and I don't want to throw a downer on it, not at this late stage. The decision has been made, the hard work done, I'm just on a general downer. (Photo: Getting his first tattoo - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Naadam Festival

Jumping on someone else's bike is simple at home, as long as you're insured there's no problem. It's a different matter when there are international borders to cross, and Russia is notorious for making things difficult. Adding to the complications was the annual Naadam festival, a week long holiday for the nation, so every bank and official office closes its doors. Not the most perfect timing for sorting out the paperwork involved for Konrad to ride the BMW back across Russia. We managed to get a translation authorising him to take my bike to Germany, into Mongolian and Russian. we even managed to get them all authenticated by a notary, and then it was Naadam. Having procured the notarised letters it was meant to be a simple process of him applying for a transit visa for Russia. At least that was the original story at the embassy, but then they decided to make it more complicated. One slight mistake gave them the excuse to reject the first attempt at getting the visa, and their demands increased. Suddenly they wanted a stamp from the Mongolian Ministry of Foreign affairs, the wording changed on the Russian version of our letter of authority, and then get it stamped by the notary at the Russian embassy. (Photo: Singing the praises of a direct hit - Naadam archery competition, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Normally it would have only taken an extra day, but not during Naadam. There was only one thing for it, chill out and make the most of the festivities. The centre of the city is like a ghost town, nothing is open, the streets are empty. There is only one focus of attention, the Naadam Stadium. We missed the opening ceremony, curtesy of the russian embassy, these guys have a lot to answer for. In truth though, tickets had sold out, it was heaving, and the pickpockets were working overtime. This is a big problem in Ulaan Baatar, not only for tourists but they are the prime targets. Every day we hear of people catching attempts at relieving people of their valuables. I'm lucky, most people are so gobsmacked by the tattoos and dreads they forget to delve into my pockets. One day Konrad caught two guys with their fingers in his pockets. The only time I've had any problem was at an ATM, a drunk youth tried crowding into the booth, showing belligerence when told to leave. His friend encouraged him to leave, which was just as well, I was trying to decide whether to forcibly remove him or recover my card and go somewhere else. One bad thing about Naadam is the increase in local drunks, the level of hostility with drunk Mongolians is a lot higher than I've encountered in other places. (Photo: Taking the strain - Naadam wrestling competition, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

It apparently never rains at Naadam, which could be said to hold true, it didn't rain during the day. Between the main days though it poured down relentlessly, a heavy deluge that forced us all indoors to take cover. Gana's guesthouse has a communal Ger, the perfect place to shelter and socialise. The clientele are a diverse mix of nations, most are open and friendly, nights are fun and entertaining. I guess it pays off. Despite the fact we bought tickets for the stadium we didn't stay long, once leaving a couple from the guesthouse benefitted by using our tickets to gain entry. Within the stadium we'd been disappointed, the wrestling was too far away, the view was awful; only with my telescopic lens could I get a decent view. The archery was better, we could line up along the length of the shooting ground. They don't use targets like in the western world, cardboard tubes are stacked on the ground, if scoring a direct hit the judges signify this by spreading their arms high and wide, often singing their praise. And the judges stand right next to the tubes/pots, it looks extremely dangerous but the arrows have cork tips; a few bruises are the only result of being hit. (Photo: Winning over your man - Naadam wrestling competition, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Best of all is the richness of the traditional garb, the variations are immense. Many are quite plain, surely the everyday clothing of the more nomadic folk, whilst the splendour of fine embroidered silk and gold thread decry the privileged sectors of society. Like anywhere the is a huge gap between the rich and poor here, but when it comes to competing there is no differentiation, they are all on an equal footing. It's obvious that some wrestlers don't have the funds for shining new costumes, but they still compete with determination, gusto even. As the winner of each bout swoops and soars with the stylistic flight of an eagle their pride is evident. Their costumes leave a lot to be desired though, cowboy boots, sparkly trunks and frontless tops. The story goes that a princess once beat all the men consistently, causing too much embarrassment, when she died they designed these tops to ensure no women could compete again; saving the men face. The thought of wrestling any of the men is bad enough, heaven knows what the princess must have been like. There isn't any weight categories, it's a free for all, though the intricacies are hard to understand. Seeing some of these guys it's little wonder the Mongols swept aside all resistance in their path. (Photo: Down and out - Naadam wrestling competition, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

I've succumbed to the persistence of Konrad to try and cut corners, skip the order of official authority in an attempt to save time. Each time it's meant hours of traipsing around in scorching hot sunshine, every time it's left me feeling totally drained and having doubts as to the whole process. For sure it will save me a couple of grand, but so would riding back home myself. The thought of returning home and setting out again is too much for my poor little head, I think I'd lose the will to bother and give up altogether. Every day spent in the city drains my already depleted reserves, I'm now at my lowest ebb for a long time. In some ways I'm just letting things happen, not having the energy to consider other options. Ok, this isn't the best way to deal with problems, it isn't exactly going with the flow, it makes me want to walk away from everything, for what isn't so clear cut. For me this is the worst time of year possible, it may have been four years now since Cai died but I miss him as much as ever. I need to pull my finger out, think clearer and more positively. Doing Tibet by in a 4x4 is the current plan, if the Chinese start to issue permits again, at present they've closed down the country, no-one seems to know why. Hey, it's China, who ever knows what is actually going on or why? Hopefully I can spend a fair bit of time in Kyrgyzstan before entering China, maybe do some horse riding. The country is meant to be beautiful, I could really do with lifting my spirits, cities do my head in, I gotta get out into nature again! (Photo: The victor soaring high - Naadam wrestling competition, Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

A surprise turn of events

As one opportunity crumbles before my very eyes another unfolds. It's a valuable lesson in life to recognise opportunities as they pop up, and they can pop up in the most unexpected places. At two in the morning the van transporting my bike back to Ulaan Baatar draws up outside a 24 hour cafe on the outskirts of Bayankongor, as I wander towards a darkened corner to relieve my bladder a rather grubby looking westerner emerges from the gloom. Life was about to take an unexpected turn, after an awful 24 hours prior to this it was a very welcome one. Once deciding to call an abrupt halt to my efforts in Altai everything had happened swiftly. I'd felt so deflated, as well as utterly exhausted, I sat in my hotel room feeling completely incapable of dealing with the simplest task. Downing painkillers did little to relieve my creaking legs, walking was a stiff-legged effort. My efforts at communicating with the staff had been ineffective, to say the least, I couldn't even get them to understand that I wanted to find transport back to Ulaan Baatar. I resorted to the linguistic skills of a staff member at the British embassy. So through this intermediary, and my newly acquired Mongolian SIM card, the details were agreed and the bike loaded into a minivan. (Photo: Watching the goings on - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Three local Mongol guys did all the work, they were happy and helpful, realising there was little I could do to help. All the seats but one row were removed, the bike slotted nicely into the newly created space and my luggage was fitted sensibly around it. They worked well together, seeming competent and professional, showing concern that i was happy with their efforts. Unfortunately their exemplary behaviour changed almost as soon as we left the town boundaries. They couldn't be accused of being nasty, merely loud, uncouth, and a pain in the arse. They took the mick, but never in english, which they could hardly utter a word, and pestered me with inane crap. I thought the high spirits would peter out, but no, it continued for the next twelve hours. At our halfway stop, Bayankongor, I meet Konrad and life became decidedly different. (Photo: Traditional delight - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

We struck up an accord almost immediately, our views and experiences in life so similar. He'd just sold his horses after a three week solo ride through central Mongolia. Having planned to spend a good deal longer on his equine excursion he was in much the same boat as me; we were both trying to get our heads round falling short of our hopes and expectations. But that came later, as we made the most of the chance to converse in a language we both understood, and it wasn't German. Initially it was the BMW that proved coincidental, he'd had an F650 GS himself, same year, same colour, even the Dakar version. Many of the next 16 hours were spent discovering a host of similarities, more than anything we shared a the same views on life, strived to experience the same type of lifestyle, valued the same things. It was like talking to a younger version of myself. When he joked that he could ride my bike back to Europe for me I merely laughed. After a couple of hours stuck in the van my head had turned over the possibility, at the next stop I declared that it wasn't such a bad idea. Who'd have imagined proposing such an idea to a complete stranger? Yet when travelling you have to trust people instinctively, otherwise your days are filled with paranoia, your experience tainted. Sure you get ripped off now and again, but that's part of the experience. Unless you're stupid or very unlucky it won't be drastic anyway; when it boils down to it property is replaceable, life and health are the important considerations. By the time we entered the capital again we'd agreed to look into the idea, see whether it was feasible or not. He could take care of the bike while I travelled, it would be easy to fly to Germany instead of Britain, and then I could still ride home. I know this tale sounds bizarre, but it's humoured us both immensely. First and foremost though we were in desperate need of rest. So abandoning his plans to return to his previous guesthouse we booked into Gana's, taking the luxury of a private room. One of the nice aspects of foreign travel is chance meetings with like minded people, every now and again strong bonds are made. The level of comradeship we seem to have found is quite unbelievable, as I said, a very rare occurrence indeed. (Photo: Participants of Naadam Festival - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Acute embarrassment was felt at having to admit my failure to complete my passage through Mongolia. The plates in my arms felt like excuses, saying it was too much for me felt lame. I found myself explaining to all and sundry the extent of my previous injuries; it still felt that I was making excuses.Whether or not folks understood, I faced no ridicule. In fact the welcome back by guests and staff alike was heart warming. But I still feel awkward telling people I'm not continuing by bike, that I didn't get all the away across Mongolia. However others may view this is unimportant, I have to deal with my own thoughts, and I am my own worst critic. Finding myself in the company of another mere mortal, another person who didn't finish the task he set out to do has helped tremendously, the respond of friends and family has also been a great help. Over a week later I still remind myself of the doubt overhanging the trip when I set out. It was a bold plan, one that would test me to my limits. And it did! (Photo: Archery judges - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Our days of rest ensued, in a vodka induced haze. Knocking back numerous bottle is easy with the help of a couple of burly Polish bikers. Gana's guesthouse has proved a wonderfully chilled place to stay, the number of kindred spirits never fails to surprise me. Places like this are seldom encountered, I've found many I appreciate but so few that attract the best of the bunch. The majority of guests are a pleasure to share time with, few days are spent without appreciating the company of others. And Konrad, well we've fallen easily into close friendship, appearing to many as travelling buddies, well versed in the easy camaraderie of people who've a well established friendship. And do I doubt the decision to entrust my beautiful machine to a near stranger? Not in the slightest, it's a good option for me and an ideal end to a year of travelling for him. (Photo: Never too old to compete - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Going to extremes!

As quickly as it blew in the rain ceased and the brilliant blue sky once more filled my world. The sky really is huge, it fills the senses, despite an endless landscape of multi-hued peaks the deep blue overshadows everything. Seeing the road winding forever onwards, it begs to be followed, to reach those distant hills, to discover their hidden delights. An empty landscape swallows me up, no towns, no villages; only the occasional Ger, a white speck in the distance. Time and again I ponder the slow progress of a bike and rider along the roadside, the pillion combing the verges, for what is unclear. It actually takes me a couple of days to realise the purpose of this scavenging, as I collect dried dung for my campfire it dawns on me. Of course this is the most likely reason for searching the roadsides, looking for fuel. The only other thing I can imagine is a forlorn hope of finding lost valuables, maybe it's simply a Mongolian version of beach combing. I know when I allowed myself the luxury of a campfire there was a plentiful supply of dung spread around the plain. I imagine it is easier to find along the roadside though, like firewood along the high tide mark. Dung tends to smoulder, it catches from only a small localised flame, but to enjoy a lovely flaming pile heap it up, wait a short while and suddenly the flames sprout from the smokey heap. It gives a surprising amount heat once achieved, and burns to a very fine powder, leaving little ash. (Photo: Is that a bike I spy laying on the track? - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

Without warning a mound of earth blocks the road, this is it, the end of paved highway, from this point it's dirt all the way; this is what I've come for, this is the challenge that inspires and frightens, all in the same breath. The last couple of hundred kilometres hadn't exactly been busy highway, a band of cracked tarmac wound through beautiful hills, animals are far more numerous than vehicles; yaks, camels, horses and goats wander freely. Eagles float effortlessly, searching the highway route for carrion, dead animals are common, the road provides plenty of sustenance. Marmots scamper across the road, vanishing into any number of holes, they certainly don't hang around for photos. Interestingly, these cute little rodents carry bubonic plague, playing host to the fleas responsible for the scourge of medieval Europe. During hunting season there are still cases of the plague, caught from the act of skinning the animals. Don't ask me why it doesn't spread and become a wide scale problem, I'm only regurgitating facts gleaned from a guide book. Not that I would have put in any effort to catch or mess with the little critters, but it pays to bear such facts in mind. Fancy that, to die of plague in this day and age. Largely the landscape is virtually empty, even the herds grazing are seen only on occasion, once leaving the confines of tarmac their number drop even more. (Photo: Endless miles of tracks - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

Though coming to the end of the road it doesn't stop, construction work continues alongside the track for many miles, a huge effort it underway to stretch the length of Mongolia. Stretches of this construction spring up at regular intervals for many days. If anyone aims to ride the wild side of Mongolia it's fast diminishing, in the coming years a black ribbon will cut through the Gobi, making travel easy, increasing the flow of trade, making it easy for the hoards to pore into the country. For now the construction continues, the raised base of the highway cuts straight through the countryside, the track veers off in a separate direction, heading into the wilderness splitting into dozens of different trails. Faced with so many choices of track could prove daunting, fears of getting lost could easily consume my thoughts. Forewarned, I know there is no need to worry, most run parallel to each other, separating for a short while but rejoining each other frequently. Simply pick which you fancy, if one is rough and unpleasant switch over to another, one section disappears into a muddy sinkhole skip across to the next. When the terrain is broken by a river, with only one bridge or fording place the tracks all rejoin, splitting into many once the obstacle is overcome. (Photo: Come home to a real dung fire - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

For the first couple of days my confidence is supreme, progress is good. Riding is fun, my speed creeps ever faster, frequently I ease off on the throttle, not wanting to hasten through the awesome scenery. 40 mph is plenty, though 50 mph actually feels easier going.My bike soaks up the lumps and bumps, it cuts through sandy hollows without effort. Flicking it left and right I avoid the worst, riding side slopes and walls of ruts at angles to miss the worst mud filled ditches. I feel on top of it all, the world really is my oyster. There are very few other vehicles, those seen are more often off to the side, following a different trail. Stopping frequently for photos finds me in a silent world, a peaceful land undisturbed by modernity, a land that is little changed for countless years. Sun bleached bones litter the land, half stripped carcasses, dry and broken, await a succession of avian consumers to savour the free range beef jerky. Overall the impression is of a dry scorched land, but deep muddy trenches frequently block my path. My tyres favour tarmac, slippery mud isn't their favourite surface to contend with. Generally these are seen from afar, but a touch of caution is wise, zooming up and over a slope can easily drop me into a muddy hollow; the heart stopping consequences are frightening. But it doesn't put me off, I'm in control, the bike responds instantly, it's my faithful friend. With 6.5 litres of water I have plenty to last a couple of days of drinking and cooking. I'm back to my old favourite, vegetable stew, each and every night. Food sources are scarce, as is water, but each day there are chances to top up on supplies. I never had to pump my water from a river or muddy puddle, only once resorting to using a local well. (Photo: I can see for miles and miles - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

And so passed the first two days of riding, the trail and scenery were excellent, I felt at ease if not exactly jubilant. It wasn't as if there were any regrets, there wasn't anywhere else I'd rather be. Normally thriving on the isolation, something had changed! I didn't pine for company, I didn't feel unable to deal with my own company, but to share the wonderful experience with a kindred spirit would have made it so much nicer. Starting to wish life hadn't left me so alone dogged my thoughts; they didn't do my head in, just made me realise how much more precious I felt good company can be. Thinking of Cai was inevitable, yeah I know the same old story, if only he hadn't of died, if only my life was still enriched by sharing it with my precious son. it wasn't a matter of feeling sorry for myself, overall I appreciated how lucky I was to be in the middle of the Gobi, it's such a gorgeous place to be in. Ironically, despite the mild loneliness, I made no attempt to fraternise with the locals. Not once did I look for family Gers to camp near, or rely on for an evening meal; I didn't intentionally avoid them, but I settled each night to my own company, my own thoughts, undisturbed by the necessity of entertaining company. In many ways this was to be a voyage of self discovery, an adventure to pit myself against adversity, to see just what I was still capable of. Mind and body have gone through hell since Cai died, my limbs will never allow me the ability to throw myself at strenuous or dangerous situations. But I need this chance to see how far I can push my body, I need to discover the person who's emerged from the trauma of recent years. Each night I nursed my arms, stretched my legs, trying to ease out the rigours the long day's ride had put me through. I slept the soundless sleep of the weary, going to bed early and waking under a blazing sun. (Photo: Oops a daisy - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

Each morning began with a careful approach to riding, setting off at 30 mph or so, allowing myself time to relax into the ride. Gradually the route would entice me to speed up, not on a conscious level, it happened of it's own accord. On my third day out it all happened in the same way, progress went well, I was set to make a few hundred kilometres, as usual. Photo stops came thick and fast, occasional vehicles past exchanging smiles and waving in acknowledgement. People are more open than in the city, showing their pleasure at seeing this strange foreigner on winding his way across the heart of their land. Whenever I stopped at encampments a cluster of locals would gather to inspect the bike, always getting thumbs up for all and sundry, "OCK?" I'd ask. Smiles and nods showed clearly it was indeed a good bike. Stopping in the middle of nowhere a guy approaches from a parked car with its hood up, something is definitely wrong, though he can't communicate what. The only solution is to go and have a look. He thinks the thermostat is broken, the car has overheated leaving a combined family of six stranded. We open the radiator cap and there is no sign of water, nor are they carrying any. I'm amazed that they would make the journey without carrying water, but they do have some coolant. So poring a good portion of coolant in I top it up with my own precious water supply, using over two litres. Though trying to refuse, they are obviously all too aware of the generous action on my behalf. Completely emptying my camelback unsettles me, however much I insist I have enough to take me far enough to find more. Hey presto, the engine temperature is fine, I tell them to continue, whether it lasts long or not, it will get them closer to a more permanent solution. As it happened only a few miles further, a well replenishes the lost supply. (Photo: My willing helpers - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

That episode changed my headspace, I no longer felt at ease. Tense and troubled the ride became more strenuous, what before I'd put down as troublesome aches to my limbs dominated my thoughts, making me very aware of increasing pain. No longer were painkillers a only solution for nightly discomfort, I began to long for enough time to pass so I could pop a few more. Whether merely coincidence or not, it was becoming more of a problem, the pain was real. My attention to it probably highlighted growing problems, the effect slowed me down considerably, my riding style forced and unnatural. Within an hour I had my first spill, the track has succumbed to deeper beds of loose, very fine gravel. A path through had to be decided upon in advance, changing course induced temporary loss of control which only powering through would curtail. At a particularly deep section a stupid moment of hesitation brought me off. Dithering between which track to take took me into a treacherous heap of the damned stuff, it sucked the front wheel into the side, throwing me out of the track's path, up onto scrubland. Without panicking I went with the flow, got the bike back under some form of control, and then saw a huge rock the size of two breeze blocks, looming in my path. I had no chance, collision was inevitable. The impact was jarring, throwing us both high in the air, flipping round through 180 degrees before crashing once more to the ground. My biggest surprise was that neither the bike nor me sustained any damage, I was sure it would have at least burst the inner tube. If I'd felt ill at ease before that certainly compounded the feeling, but it only proved a momentary delay as a driver stopped and helped me lift the bike. Before I could make more headway rain swept in from nowhere, there was no choice, rapidly pitching the tent I crawled in and tried to nourish myself with dry bread, rancid cheese and salami. I hardly slept that night as the rain lashed down continuously, for hours I tried to meditate, to calm my fraught nerves. The same question troubled my mind, "what did I think I was doing?" I knew there was no choice but to continue to Altai at least, with about 150 miles to go it could be done in one day, or so I hoped. (Photo: Ger-rific view - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

As if to answer my prayers I awoke to near silence, it was misty and grey but the rain had eased off. Determined to make the most of the lull in the storm I hastened to make tracks, not bothering with more than a couple of bites of bread and cheese. My disposition improved with the sun, I settled in quickly and got into my stride, neither hurried not hesitant. My determination didn't falter, I took spills easily, not allowing them to detract from my resolve. And the spills came thick and fast, every time I had to wait for help to lift the bike. But it always came, never with more than a half hour wait, and the people always glad to help, despite wading through mud to do so. For times that morning I came off twice from close to 40 mph, once being pinned under the bike by my right ankle. Each spill was dealt with, I never gave up hope, but they drained me completely. The mud was atrociously slippery, one spill occurred with the slightest infraction of my front wheel onto the edge of a muddy puddle. we both spun through 180 degrees (it's fast becoming my speciality), the bike dragging me through another dip filled with cloying mud. I was covered in shite, as was the bike. Each accident happened when I'd settled once more into the ride and my speed crept up, finally I vowed to slow down considerably, it was many hours before my speedo rose above the thirty mark. My body took a severe battering that morning, it had failed to break my spirit, I just picked myself back up and got on with the job of reaching Altai. By the time I did I was utterly exhausted, incapable of rational thought, almost too drained to even support the bike at a standstill, my final act of humiliation was to drop it onto someone's car as I pulled up alongside them. I ached all over, my arms were more painful than since my accident, I walked with stiff-legged weariness, I was dead on my feet. (Photo: Ever present admirers - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

it isn't a good idea to make snap decisions on a low ebb, they're bound to be the easiest option available. I needed sleep and to look at all available information, so far I felt inadequate for the job in hand. Being more than halfway across the country there was less to do than already done, which was a good sign. My sleep was more like a coma, awakening my mind was clear but my body could hardly comply with whatever I asked of it. Calculating distances and scrutinising the map could only supply partial information, what I really needed was first hand advice on the road ahead. None of it would be tarmac that much was certain, whether any better was the important thing. Rain would come and go unpredictably, that would be my biggest obstacle; what might be judged a four day ride could easily turn into six or more if sodden. Popping a handful of Codeine, I set about information gathering. It didn't provide me with what I hoped to hear; the track was no better, there were many river crossing, some of which nearly curtailed the efforts of a professional outfit in their 4x4 Toyota. So sat in a dismal hotel in Altai I made the decision I would have to live with for many days; I was not up to the task at hand. My arms and left leg were not proving strong enough, I couldn't foresee popping Codeine continuously to deal with the pain, that was not a satisfactory solution. The number of miles and the terrain yet to come made my attempts to date pale into insignificance, it would be insane to carry on, alone, by motorcycle. The brave adventurer I may like to label myself, I could no longer fill the boots I'd previously filled. I wouldn't consider my biking days over, but sustained off-road touring was beyond me. Maybe I could get my bike to the Russian border again, but I knew the route through Kazakhstan to be equal to that of Mongolia. The fabled route through Tibet, Highway 219, is notoriously harsh. I want to enjoy travelling, be thrilled by my adventures: I don't want to put myself through the grinder, I'm fed up with punishing myself. So that's it, not journey over, but riding all the way through to Laos is not going to happen. Now I need to get my head round this, at present it's hanging in shame! (Photo: To infinity and beyond - Gobi desert, Mongolia)

Tracks and trails!

After meeting only a few people outside the city, it’s apparent how different the people’s attitude to life is. I found the city folk indifferent, even rude, towards westerners. Whenever I stop in the rural areas the welcome extended seems genuine and warm, people are glad to see me, happy, even eager, to share a moment of their lives. Communicating is interesting, virtually no-one speaks any English, but there are ways around this. Two visitors, curious of the bike and tent parked in the middle of the plain, at my first night’s camp ask me how old I am, by the guy indicating his teeth and pointing at me. It took a while to understand him, but of course, how long in the tooth are you? You judge a horse’s age by tooth growth; their teeth keep growing, so with age the teeth are longer. Requests to drink Vodka are made by running a finger down your throat, a gesture following the passage of the liquid. I must be getting too old or plain boring, so far I’ve avoided such requests, using my bike as an excuse to remain sober. How could I possibly get drunk when having to ride the following morning? Some of the characters I’ve met have failed to appreciate this fact, but none have taken offense. It is funny the number of guys who have suggested I would like to swap bikes with them, it always raises a laugh and breaks the ice. (Photo: Goats in battle line - Edge of the Gobi desert, Mongolia)

If I ever thought it was exceptional that the group of men at the border town poked and pried at my bike and possessions, I was sorely mistaken. It isn’t just common found curiosity; it is without exception the national practice. As group after group congregate around the bike it undergoes intense inspection, seeming every square centimetre is scrutinised. At least one person will swing his leg over the bike, sit it upright and relate information to the rest. There is never an inquiry whether this is alright, no request for permission, they just climb on board. It’s the same with my crash helmet, I’ve given up trying to keep grubby fingers off the visor, people trying to force it onto their heads. Most don’t succeed, the average size of Mongolian heads it beyond that of my helmet, it merely sits atop their crown while they attempt the impossible, only one or two have managed to get it over their heads. I got the impression the discomfort made them doubt the wisdom of their actions, though I think they are used to discomfort and it never quite puts them off. If I accede to the frequent requests to start the engine, it’s revved stupidly high; hence the habit of removing the keys whenever I stop. For some reason my drive chain always captures their interest, they’re so intrigued by it, being unsure why I wish I could ask; it isn’t as if their little Chinese bikes don’t have chains! There again, I’ve lost count of the number of times my tyres have been tapped, a satisfied nod usually following, their actions humour but mystify me. Nods of approval follow a twist of the throttle, as if it imparts some vital piece of knowledge that I fail to appreciate. (Photo: 1] Goats checking up on the enemy; 2] Village compounds - Edge of the Gobi desert, Mongolia)

For those who may have thought the Gobi desert was a dry inhospitable place forget it. It’s certainly inhospitable, but on the journey from Central Mongolia to the desert it was far from arid. Prewarned of recent rain in the desert itself, waterlogged grasslands came as no surprise to me, my only hope was that the water wouldn’t be a feature I had to endure whilst crossing the desert. I’d heard horror stories of how bad the trails are during rain, for some strange reason dealing with deep treacherous mud wasn’t my idea of fun. The clouds hung over the mountains, their spoils ran freely to the lower plains for a few hundred kilometres from the capital, rivers were swollen, water swamped low laying areas and swans took refuge amidst clumps of high grass and the deep pools. So much standing water offers good grazing for the gathering hoards, the slopes above these areas were dense with Gers; with the big festival approaching their numbers grow daily. Further north, riding down from Russia, I’d noticed this too, seemingly every patch of land sported a Ger, corrals accompanied each one and young kids astride horses kept the animals in tight clusters. This time of year is a time of plenty, food is plentiful, and neither animals nor nomads went short. Everyone was in high spirits, enthusiasm was high, and there was no hesitation in acknowledging my passing with smiles and hearty waves. It makes for wonderful feelings of welcome in any country, for me horse borne waves induce a deeper affinity between us. Always preferring to consider this feeling reciprocal, I remain convinced the rapport between riders is strong, whatever their respective mounts may be. Being mounted imparts a similar feeling of pride, a similar sense of freedom, it doesn't matter how manner horses you have between your legs. (Photo: 1] Yaks; 2] End of the road baby - Entering the Gobi desert, Mongolia)

The land is vast, it stretches out beyond belief, never stopping. Grass undulates out from the road, forming rolling hills. Hilly mounds are punctuated by jagged ridges, darkened by the gloomy clouds gathering above. Row after row of broken silhouettes fade into infinity, the depth of the view is staggering. Above, the enormity of the sky is the only feature comparable to the immensity of the landscape. Russia, whilst much larger than Mongolia, does not compare. The flat endless steppes merely fade out of eyesight in a hazy blur; with the succession of mountain ranges continuing forever, lined up in haphazard rows, the impression of depth is endless. Barring the presence of darkened rainclouds hovering over mountain peaks, brooding bullyboys threatening violence to the stark rockiness below, sweet puffy clouds float lazily in a perfect azure sky. Bluest blue accentuates purest white, cotton wool clouds. Whilst half the sky oozes dreamlike perfection, the ominous, soot lined bearers of my worst nightmare disturb my peace of mind. I shouldn’t worry, there is no threat directly overhead, my world is dry and secure, I can ride without cause for concern. And as the road makes imperceptible gains in altitude, slight changes to the surrounding environment are noticed. The verdant lushness of the watery marshland disappears, the plains take on a sun bleached appearance as a sparser, thinner variety of grass struggles to dominate a dry dusty landscape. Signs of an arid desert location can be seen only once Ulaan Baatar is many miles behind. The soil is sandier, the grass patchier and nomads more widely spread out. At the end of each day the animals are herded back to the home compound, kept safe overnight. The following morning they are again let loose, a large herd of goats spread out in a long line stretching across the plain, advancing as if on military manoeuvres. Slowly and steadily they advance, like an avenging hoard, cutting short everything that stands in their way. (Photo: 1] Nomad Gers; 2] Winding desert trail - Edge of the Gobi desert, Mongolia)

Gathering force the storm clouds accumulate and advance, blocking out the sun, bringing a distinct chill to the air.I stop and put on my waterproofs, they act efficiently as a windproof layer, but with the threat of rain they serve a useful double purpose. Ahead the sky is clear, a vain hope pervades, maybe the rain will chose some other poor sod to pour down upon. Some hope, a few drops are all that precede a heavy deluge. My vision is obscured by a wall of water, the wind whips up and tries forcing me off the road. Battling against the elements can be fun, refreshing and thrilling; in this case it was neither. Water seeped inside my collar, dripping down my chest, the pressure of my camelback straps allowed ingress of the rain through both jackets. In only a few miles I was wet and miserable, desperate to get out the abysmal weather. A convenient cluster of huts appear through the gloom, rivulets of water pour into the cafes, bare chested men frantically dig trenches to divert the water from the open doorways. Relief washes over me as I pull up in front the nearest establishment, drawing to a stop I snick the bike into neutral and plant my foot onto the sodden soil. With no warning my foot slides through the mud and over we go, there was nothing I could do to delay the inevitable, my only action was to throw myself off the bike, using my arms to fend off the impact as I hit the dirt. What else could I do, though they are my weakest point my reactions are perfectly normal? Instantly two guys come to my aid, the bike is up in no time, safely planted on its side stand, and all I can do is swear and cus my own stupidity. Salty milk tea is the last thing I fancy, but it’s wet and warm, and the only such liquid available. After delaying my departure as long as I feasibly could, the short ride back to the tarmac road was a nervous one, slippery mud did nothing to ease my tension, I held my breath and couldn't relax. Short as it was it was fraught with fear of losing the bike again. (Photo: 1] Rough and ready trail; 2] Sunset in the desert - Gobi desert, Mongolia)