Ulaan Bataar, the dregs!

A game of two half's it can be said for most of the world, and Mongolia in no exception. On my first morning here I felt chilled and relaxed, waking early and snapping some nice photos. As I strolled back towards the hovel where I slept, a guy beckoned me from the other cafe. He invited me in to eat and as I tried to explain I was eating at the other establishment he rudely awakened his sister, who spoke reasonable English. So we sat and got chatting, whilst her mother served us milk tea, an insipid watery concoction that had not the slightest hint of tea in the taste. It was palatable though, certainly not unpleasant, and as I finished each cup it was refilled instantly. Having explained I had no money on me, she said the needed none for the tea. Then came a bowl of food, tiny dumplings filled with meat, floating in more milk tea; traditional Mongol breakfast apparently. At the first bite I was unsure, on the second it tickled the palate, and by the time I stuffed the third one in my mouth I approved whole-heartedly. The meat was lamb, or sheep she called it, but it wasn’t tough like I’d consider mutton to be. Tasty though the meat was, the dumpling was purely unflavored boiled dumpling, relying completely on the filling for any taste. This is what had thrown me at first, taken as a whole it was pleasant, though not what I’d consider breakfast fodder. For over an hour we chatted, covering many aspects of our relative lives. She’s a teacher, born the same year as Cai, her mother was born in 1960, the same year as me. Reading the date on my tattoo it made her question the relevance of the dates, unlike the discomfort many western people exhibit when hearing the news of Cai’s death she didn’t, showing simple acceptance. When returning with money to pay for the food the family refused, I really should have given a little present, maybe a couple of my dice for her baby sister. (Photo: Cityscape - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

In comparison I encountered my first ugly situation with a drunk Mongolian, later on in the same day. It all seemed to blow up so quick, as far as I could deduce because they women in the cafe I was eating in wouldn't serve him any more alcohol. One moment it was a slightly slurred request being made, then a raised voice followed immediately by shouting. With no hesitation he starting kicking the counter, hurling abuse at the women in the kitchen. As he stormed out he picked up a chair and threw it violently at the floor, I was gobsmacked, but kept my head down as I didn't want to get involved. Once he'd left I did follow him to the door, just to ensure he wasn't going to vent his anger on the BMW. Since arriving in Ulaan Baatar (the correct spelling this time) I've witnessed a number of outbursts from drunks, it is true the storeys of aggressive drunks here, they can be seen daily, and the number of outrageously drunk guys can be witnessed 24 hours a day. Innocently I sat eating at a local restaurant, a couple of guys came in, one really pissed, within minutes the drunk one was shouting abuse in my direction, or so I assume. The staff interposed and made sure he didn't have access to me, the fairly large cook came out and stood between us, then sat down blocking him in. The city dwelling Mongolians have not shown any desire to acknowledge me in passing. Yet it's common for them to nudge each other, point me out and snigger or blatantly laugh at my expense. In any Asian cities europeans stick out like a sore thumb, especially if you're over five feet tall. I've never come across such reluctance to extend any form of welcome or acceptance as here. It doesn't matter that you make eye contact, or smile, say hi, anything; they will look away, pretend you aren't even there. And that can often apply to merchants as well, which is really strange!! (Photo: Cityscape - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

I've now spent five days in the capital and I can't say I've enjoyed them tremendously. The high points have been the other travellers in the guesthouse, after the weeks of hacking across the steppes alone the company has been welcome. Rather peculiar for me was the willingness to share part of my journey with other motorcyclists, but they mainly seem to have failed to make it. I thought there were a number of groups leaving the UK sometime in June, but so far they have either not made it out the country or are not contactable. But while I've been here the bike has been serviced and is ready for the next leg, crossing the Gobi desert. This is the real challenge, a tougher one than I've ever attempted before on a bike, and I don't treat it lightly. Tomorrow I set off, into one of the harshest riding zones you can imagine. No Roads, and I mean none at all. Pick a track and follow it, hope it gets you where you want to go. There are main routes, there are tracks to follow, but the terrain is harsh, it can be treacherously deep quagmires, washed out tracks, and flooded sections to navigate through. I feel rather apprehensive about it, I'm as ready as I can be, but it still shits me up at the prospect of going it alone, right the way across. With my huge fuel carrying capacity I shouldn't need to worry about running out, I can carry 6.5 litres of water and pump unlimited amounts through my carbon filter, so I won't die of thirst because it's wet out there at this time of year. It isn't a matter of risking life and limb, it's purely a matter of the physical hardship I'll be putting myself through. It could be a couple of weeks or so before I blog again, so don't go freaking out coz you've not heard from me, don't fret, it'll be fine. I've plenty of cash on me for people to rob, so there's not reason for me to come to harm that way. It'll be cool, I'll tell you all about it soon enough! (Photo: Not quite living on the high side - Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)