Heading for the Gobi!

My body tingled with increasing excitement as I’d said my farewells to the other travellers at Gana’s Guesthouse, it was the closest to a buzz I’d experienced so far on this journey. Such thrills are the reason I’ve always found for travelling, it’s a feeling that had been sadly lacking until now. The hot and sunny day was a welcome relief from the daily rain than had plagued my stay in Ulaan Baatar, it never feels good to face such weather with an off-road ride in mind. As the mayhem of city traffic engulfed me, the choking dust and pollution clogging my nose and throat, I set off for the wilder side of Mongolia. Left to pure guesswork, I navigated the city slums trying to find a way around the construction on the main arterial road out. I wasn’t the only one, even the locals seemed lost, stopping and asking for a way back to Peace Avenue. At a crawl I followed cars through a dusty maze, grubby Gers (yurts for the uninitiated) hid inside fenced enclosures, filthy kids ran loose intent of mischief. This was a side of the city I hadn’t seen before, not that it surprised, Ulaan Baatar had failed to enamour me. (Photo: On and off the tarmac - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

(Photo: Open country, quiet lands - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

With relief I found the link road out the city dry, at least I didn’t have to contend with the quagmire that had welcomed me to the metropolis.Much of the traffic plying back and forth transported animals, sheep, goats and horses. Numerous trucks already overloaded with wool, cabs crammed with people, stopped frequently to relieve herders of their pitiful piles by the roadside. It’s summer time, the season for rain, and also for shearing and trade. Horses filled high-sided pick-up trucks, while luckless sheep were lashed down atop mounds of inanimate merchandise. Sheep and goats are merely food, they are very low in the ranks of consideration. Horses are status, meet one lad who, at the age of 12 yrs was master of 18 horses, a proud achievement at such a young age. He was still extremely curious of my proud beast. (Photo: He should have used his wellies - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Once clear of the city driving is less frantic, drivers more considerate, it allows the eyes to wander, to take in an ever shifting scenario of beautiful nature, often marred by the detritus of human occupation. In the wilderness nomads may well live in harmony with nature, once congregating in clusters the results litter the verges, blow in the wind; plastic bottles and bags don’t belong in this place. Without thought or care litter is thrown from vehicle windows, it accumulates in ugly piles, wherever wind or water carries it. Some people obviously care, near shops and cafes old rusty oil barrels act as incinerators, burning is the only form of waste disposal here. But is this any surprise, it’s the way of the less developed world, worsened by the cheap throwaway materials of the western world. (Photo: Luckless sheep - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

(Photo: Sun shining on the mountain dew - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)


Dense clouds loom on the horizon, casting gloomy shadows on the otherwise beautiful landscape, giving the appearance of large bodies of water enriching the land. Whilst at a standstill the sun gives warmth, making me feel lazy and content. Once moving, a chilly wind makes me shiver; stopping and adding a warmer layer puts paid to that, handlebar heaters mean my summer gloves are still sufficient for comfort. The weather appears changeable, the wind blowing the clouds swiftly across the sky overhead, but all is well, I’m warm rain is a long way off. Not a lot of attention is given to the weather anyway, there is so much else to occupy my senses. It would be hard to ride across the country of Mongolia without breathing deep and appreciating how wonderful it is, how unspoilt when lifting my eyes from the discarded litter on the verges. Don’t get me wrong, this country is no rubbish tip, only near settled habitation are such accumulations noticed. (Photo: Marshland - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

(Photo: Swan at the edge of Central Mongolia - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)

Raised above the surrounding plains the road meanders pleasantly, gently rising and falling with the natural contours. To have thought I’d be riding through a dry and inhospitable land was a misconception, water seems plentiful, it’s not what I’d call desert. Rather than endless scorched plains, flat grassy land forms a rich margin of grazing, flanked by rounded hills, backed by ragged peaks. Life is plentiful; people seem happy, getting on with a simple lifestyle, only the use of modern vehicles seems to have changed their traditional way of life. Traditional dress is common, horses are still the mainstay of many, yet Gers inevitably have small Chinese motorbikes parked outside, Korean trucks are the means to which the nomads transport themselves, even fancy Toyota Land Cruisers are a common possession. Living for the moment is common, saving and investment doesn’t come natural, if you have money spend it. Reportedly western materialism is alive and well, the latest vehicle or flat screen TV is preferable to saving for the future. Maybe day-to-day living has been a necessity for too long, live well now for there may not be a tomorrow. (Photo: Go west young man - Gobi bound, Mongolia)

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 curious visitors to 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 get drunk when having to ride the following morning? (Photos: 1] Bringing home the herd; 2] Camping it up on the plains - West of Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia)