Bye bye Baikal!

Despite taking a days rest at the Baikal Plaza, it didn't inspire me to prolong my stay any longer. Whilst it was nice to spend my time amongst a more cosmopolitan environment, it wasn't enough for me to cool my heels. I've felt on a mission to reach Mongolia, and whilst the east of Lake Baikal feels as if you're in Mongolia it just doesn't quite fit the bill; there are still too many white folk around to fool yourself. The terrain falls from hilly forest alongside the lake, to flat grazing land around Ulan Ude. Heading towards the A165 from the city it changes subtly at first, but very soon it becomes a very different world. What at first appeared only as faint shadows on the horizon, gradually closed in to form distinct ridges to either side and followed me as I rode on down to the border. Finally turning onto the A165 itself they are close companions, I could see the details of them, they made me feel at home. If there is nothing I like better than riding my bike, it's riding through mountainous regions. (Photo: Hoopoe - Roadside dosshouse; Mongolia)

I've realised how harsh I sound about Russia, as though the areas I passed through were unpleasant, or boring. Nothing could be further from the truth, I never got bored of the place; tired of it maybe, but the landscape wasn't boring. To be surrounded by such vast open spaces is quite amazing, though the endless empty landscape, and endless long straight road, failed to inspire me to greatness; it simply urged me on the reach the end of it. It invoked a strong drive to get somewhere, which probably showed all to clearly by my relentless pace across the steppes. They don't actually stop at Lake Baikal, the area a just before, and around Baikal, was merely a relieving break. It done wonders for my morale, I was driving myself into the ground, days of taking it easy was to try and maintain a speed of only 70 mph, for up to ten hours. Obviously with stops and holdups (not the highwayman type) I never managed such drastic mileage as 700 miles, the best I managed in one day was 550. In reality that is far too much to do on poor quality, single carriageway highways.It paid it's toll, not drastically, but bad enough. Time spent riding is great, the evenings alone can be a bit on the lonely side. (Photo: A new day dawns - Roadside dosshouse; Mongolia)

Being very much a people person it comes as a surprise to find myself segregating myself from other people. Ok, I know this has something to do with not being able to communicate effectively, however, that knowledge doesn't make it any easier. Don't get me wrong, I feel content to keep myself to myself. I don't shun people, though neither do I initiate contact. The times I can share a language I willingly do, though I don't leach onto people. Like a French couple I met, I chatted in French to the guy, then in English to his wife. We then rode off in the same direction, at least for a short while, I sort of make tracks slightly faster than them and lost them within a few miles. Actually, I done a nifty overtake and saw nothing of them ever after. It worried me a touch when there was no sign of any traffic after me for a while. So I stopped and preyed nothing untoward had happened, even turning back round and heading back to check. As there was no sign of them or any accident I assumed they had turned off to find a place to stay for the night. I couldn't bring myself to ignore their apparent disappearance; images of a distressed biker trying to deal with a squashed partner wouldn't leave my thoughts. I'm glad to think I care enough not to carry on regardless. Not that I could have done a great deal, but if it had been a drastic situation a fellow motorcyclist would surely have been better than dealing with hoards of curious onlookers who you couldn't communicate with at all. (Photo: Roadside dosshouse - Mongolia)

But my last few days in Russia enlivened me more and more, the riding got better with each successive day. Windier roads and more interesting scenery acted as the perfect tonic. And the final day was the best of all, discounting the border crossing! The road was almost devoid of other traffic, the countryside virtually empty. It was lovely to stop and bask in the silence, only occasionally would anything come along. Following a valley rather than crossing an open plain was therapeutic, it made me feel glad to be alive, and with that came the tears that Cai wasn't. I don't strive to fight off these feelings, they don't destroy the moment, it just saddens me. For years such experiences would entail enthusing about them with Cai, either at the moment or shortly after, I always shared the thrill of travelling with him, he loved to hear the stories of my adventures, or even better the be at my side and marvel at the moment with me. I guess in that way I've lost more than my son, that closeness is what made my travels even more of a thrill; maybe that's one reason why it's so important to share them with other people now. Sometimes it makes me wonder whether there is any point in merely going through the motions, because it often feels that way, but no more so than life itself. Therefore I have to remind myself that doing something worthwhile is a more constructive way to continue with life than moping at home on my own. (Photo: Child's play - Open grazing land; Mongolia)

Nearing the border the bends starting rising and falling as I passed through the hills. Forests closed in and the ride was only slightly marred by the atrocious surface conditions of the tarmac. It could have been much worse, and then it was; it started to rain. Adverse camber and broken tarmac gave a slightly unreliable ride. Often the bike would give a slight wiggle, not enough to threaten my safety, but it certainly made it feel dodgy. But it had already been a breakthrough day, I was relaxed and unhurried, so curbed my speed that little bit more to compensate. It lashed it down for about an hour, but fortune smiled on me, buy the time I reached the mayhem of the border it had stopped. The sun shone down, boiling me alive, not only did I need to shed the waterproofs asap, it was a matter of stripping off as many layers as I dared. Whenever I had to confront any official I made sure neither my dreads or my tattoos were on display. They raise eyebrows, in Russia tattoos have connotations of prison life, they are an integral part of the criminal element; it isn't the impression I want to create with customs or immigration. Heaven knows what the delays might have been if the officials found cause to be suspicious, it was a tedious affair as it was. Not aimed at me personally, the Russian authorities do not hurry for anyone, and I had it easier than most. The wait to even enter the compound was a couple of hours, all in all it took four hours to get out of Russia. (Photo: Camel herder in traditional garb- Roadside; Mongolia)

A friendly Mongolian assured me no such problem would greet me on the Mongolian side, and thankfully he was right. The procedures proved more convoluted than entering or leaving Russia, but given able assistance by English speakers it was almost a pleasure. Everyone, without exception, expressed pleasure to welcome me to their country, officials and general returning nationals alike. The amount of form filling was immense, having each question translated for me took a bit of time, but the whole process took less than an hour, then I was free to discover exactly what awaited me. Boy did it change! Borders invariably are desolate places, and often squalid towns await the overlander, I never find it pleasant and generally I hightail it out of there as quick as possible. Being informed that cheap motoring insurance was available immediately exiting the border post gave me cause to pause. I can only assume it was closed, I searched and searched but to no avail. Some offices were closed, certainly the one declaring Reinsurance and National Insurance was, it could prove foolhardy but I decided I would set out for Darkhan and sort it out there, or in the capital if absolutely necessary. So off I set, with the intention of filling my belly as soon as possible then finding a convenient place to make camp. Suchaan Baatar was only a short hop from the border and it seemed a better place to fulfil my needs, infinitely better than dealing with the disreputable scrotes hanging around at the border. (Photo: Lakeside scene - Nr Darkhan; Mongolia)

As soon as I left the gates of the border compound the bike was surrounded by a dozen characters; scruffy, dirty guys who's sole purpose seemed to be hanging around to see what entertainment turned up. I shouldn't question their integrity, but I must follow my instincts. They weren't in the least threatening, but neither were they up to any good. They crowded the bike, poking and prodding various parts, checking the luggage, how it was secured to the bike, which bits featured additional security. They twisted the throttle, operated the brakes and generally interfered with all the controls. Establishing I couldn't understand them they laughed and joked between themselves, no doubt at my expense. I made light of the situation, laughing with them, especially when one asked me to allow him to unlock the topbox. What could I do but show clearly what a joke that was, even more at his winks and attempts to cajole me into agreeing. Maybe he thought I was a complete mug, maybe some fool had complied at some distant occasion in the past. He could be sure of one thing though, in that aspect at least I am no mug! I wouldn't leave the bike to look for the insurance hut, and I certainly wasn't going to hang about overnight, hotels or not. Already being 6.30pm I didn't want to waste any more time so off into the land of the all conquering hoards, the birthplace of the great Khan. (Photo: Heading for the hills - Road to Ulaan Baatar; Mongolia)