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)