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After a productive week of driving we reached the Russian border town of Tashanta early on the Friday morning, as planned, allowing a full day to get through border bureaucracy, in case our lack of migration cards caused any problems. The queue to enter the Russian customs area had already formed when we arrived, and consisted of a collection of early-bird Mongolian Ralliers. As with yesterday's encounter, we exchanged stories of our respective journeys so far and admired the eclectic collection of clapped-out vehicles awaiting entry to Mongolia. The local town children were inquisitive and our remaining selection of biscuits went down well. We thought it was appropriate to spread the word of the beautiful game and donated them one of our spare footballs, which, after an initial kick-about was polished with a rag, put on the back of a bike, and no longer allowed to touch the ground for fear of scuffing it!
One by one the queue dwindled, and after an hour or so we were powering up and down the stairs of the Russian customs building, going from one window to another, then back to the first, then a third, then back again (this carried on for a while), filling in customs declarations and vehicle forms. Then came passport control, where the immediate questions regarding migration cards, communicated through the international language of charades, made our hearts sink. We were sent to a back office where we were met by a relatively friendly woman to whom we presented the note we had written for us in St. Petersburg explaining that it was not our fault and that the cards had never been issued. After a short dialogue through her Russian-English translation software and many smiles and much shoulder shrugging, she took pity on us and quickly completed a couple of the elusive migration cards and sent us on our way. No problem! Mongolia here we come! After a considerable drive through the inter-border no man's land, we arrive at the Mongolian end to be quickly presented with their customs forms to complete outside the gate to the border compound. We completed the forms as best we could and waited, and waited "have they gone for lunch, perhaps?" After over an hour with no sign of activity whatsoever, we feared they had cleared off early for the weekend, leaving us and a couple of Spanish guys with their grandmother's home-made chorizo and our bottle of whisky to sustain us until Monday. Our fears were finally allayed a further hour later when the place sprang back to life and we were ushered into the compound by refreshingly friendly, relaxed and upbeat Mongolian border staff. They led us through the relevant paper work and while Dave dotted the i's on the vehicular forms, Al took one of the affable customs officers for a quick spin in the Discovery around the compound. We were given the all clear and were feeling justly cheerful after the surprisingly painless Mongolian customs experience (we had heard rumours that several British vehicles had been impounded at on the borders crossings north of Ulaanbaatar and were relieved that the troubles hadn't spread to the north western border). As we left the border compound we bumped into an English couple heading the other direction, who stopped quickly enough to tell us they had passed several broken down or stuck Mongol Ralliers and we would probably be pulling them out left, right and centre! Sounds like the terrain was going to be a challenge; well, at least if you're in a Micra or Austin Allegro! One of the reasons we decided to include Mongolia in our route was because the car was capable of getting us to places that ordinary vehicles couldn't. Mongolia is said to be a country with no roads. Lonely Planet remarks that "traveling around Mongolia with your own car is not recommended. What looks like main roads on the map are often little more than tyre tracks in the dirt, sand or mud. All maps are inadequate and there is hardly a signpost in the whole country." It was sounding like this would be the place to really justify choosing a Land Rover and its built-in quirks!
As soon as we left the border, roads, by even their loosest interpretation, ceased. To calls of: "Yeah! Lets off-road!", we were soon crashing along dirt tracks and open steppe like Sebastian Loeb, following some vague bearing towards the provincial capital town of Olgii. After a few minor course adjustments we found a recently driven track shadowed by some telegraph poles heading the right direction across the rolling hills of the Altai Mountains. It wasn't long before we had caught up with a few Mongol Rally cars that were being unloaded at the base of a steep hill for one more attempt to get over the pass. Once they had made it to the top, engines screaming, we dropped the Disco into low range and sauntered up with no fuss. We joined them at the summit, slightly smug with the mocking ease in which we climbed the track, only to find that we were the first to be humbled by the Mongolian roads. One of our beefy Mud Terrain tyres had been cut up on the rocky surface and was flat as a pancake. The sympathetic but slightly amused rally drivers courteously offered a helping hand, but we were in pit stop mode and, having taken the wheels on and off countless times when preparing the car in the UK, no assistance was required. Five minutes later the wheel was changed we dropped the tyre pressures further, packed the tools away, and continued our way to Olgii. It wasn't long before the couple in the camper van's prophecy was proven right. We found the Micra we had encountered whilst overheating on the hill the previous day surrounded by its four concerned occupants. In front was a bottoming out Peugeot 106 preparing to tow it over the 70km or so of dirt track to Olgii - that would have been interesting! We stopped to see what the problem was and weren't surprised to hear it was caused by a lack of ground clearance. They had hit a rock in the road, which had smashed their Kazakhstani improvised sump guard (made from a Mitsubishi bonnet) into their gear linkage, along with some other damage that had pretty much killed the engine. Resigned to being towed, we of course suggested we might be a more suitable tractor than an already over-laden one litre 106 and, with a look of relief, the drivers of the 106 left us to it.
We dug out the 12 tonne capacity off-road recovery rope we were carrying only to find that it was too big to attach to anything on the small Nissan so settled on a much smaller rope they had. With requests that we please drive very slowly as to not destroy their car any further, we set off. After a few kilometres of crawling along the rutted and potholed track, all of a sudden, like a mirage, appeared a beautifully flat and empty stretch of new tarmac heading in the direction we were going! Weary of the little car being pulled along behind us we chose the flattest route onto the road and more suitable speeds; and at 45mph the Micra hit its top speed since Germany some weeks and many miles earlier. The new road allowed us to make good time to Olgii, arriving with enough daylight left to find a local garage willing to have a look at the crippled Micra. The yard in front of the garage resembled a Mongol Rally A&E waiting room, with half a dozen cars queuing for repairs and modifications to hopefully get them through to Ulaanbaatar. Amongst them were a couple of chaps in an immaculate Fiesta and a Brit from Belgium who was on a 1989 sports bike who took particular interest in the Discovery and our trip. After an hour or so of chatting, and with our egos well inflated by everyone's overt flattery, we managed to tag along with the biker and a couple of cars to camp on a hill overlooking the town where they had camped the previous night. We levelled the Disco with a couple of strategically placed rocks and helped the biker pitch his tent in the ripping wind, which, we were advised, arrives on cue for an hour or so after sunrise and sunset. The bitter wind curbed the initial plans of a camp fire and forced a welcome early night with the others, who were planning to head off at first light. The foretold morning winds saw the return of an enemy thought long since vanquished in Norway - the resonating roof bars! Fortunately, they only started around the time we were due to be getting up, this time serving as a rather useful alarm clock, forcing us to get out of bed and brave the cold. We were making an early start as the Mongol Ralliers had to press on to make it to Ulaanbaatar before the final party the following weekend. With a route already in mind, we declined the offer to join them on the southern route to the capital and waved them off with mutual wishes of good luck. A quick look in the cool box and breakfast was decided for us: the dozen eggs we were carrying had not taken kindly to the terrible roads and had suffered severe casualties, leaving only five in a salvageable state. Pretty sure these wouldn't last much longer, we scrambled them and tucked in, all the time thinking of the route we had chosen, unsure what exactly lay in store. When we entered the country the previous day we had no plan for the route across from the boarder to the capital - we were going to play it by ear and decide once we were in. Listening to tales from ralliers on route, second hand stories of ralliers who had already made it, and from people leaving the country having already been through, one bit of information kept cropping up: the northern route was impassable. No one had made it through and it would destroy any car, even ours. That decided it: northern route it is then! Breakfast eaten we drove back into town to get some jobs done and stock up on fuel, cash and food. Chatting to a couple of ralliers the previous night, we had discovered a couple of them had a GPS tracking device that let people at home know where they are and send ' I'm okay' signals at the touch of a button. It also had the handy feature of an SOS function should things get really out of hand, just what we need! GPS ordered and other internet jobs done we went in search of food, some meat and veg for a barbeque later was the priority (in addition to water to replace that lost from our water but, another victim of Mongolia's roads). We quickly learnt that, with no agriculture to speak of and subsistence farming, fresh meat and veggies are very difficult to come by, looks like its tinned food for now. As ready as we would ever be, we headed back out of town on what would be the last section of tarmac we would see for some time. The first part of the 'impassable route' was a potholed track in a generally poor state of repair that wound its way along the bottom of a steep sided valley and although, a little bumpy, it proved no problem for the Land Rover. The fact that the road was so bad meant that very few foreign vehicles travelled the route, making us somewhat of a novelty. We had small children running to the road-side to wave and most adults, after an initial confused look, gave us a wave and smile as we bumped along with a cloud of dust in our wake. After an hour or so picking our way along the tack we turned a corner to be presented with an elevated view of a vast plain stretching far towards the distant mountains, interrupted only by huge isolated rocks and dissected by a few stripes of green indicating the location of the rivers we must cross. Admiring the sudden change in scenery we continued to follow the main trail and reached a small village, nestled in the shadow of a towering rock, which, with its mud brick buildings and dirt roads would not have looked out of place in a Star Wars movie.
We continued along what we had dubiously decided was the main track until, without much warning, the track turned into a river! Not easily perturbed, we powered on regardless, making an impressive bow-wave in our path and hoping the water didn't get much deeper. A few river sections later and we began to grow more and more doubtful that this was indeed the correct path. We spotted an old Mongolian man on an equally old tractor and begrudgingly stopped to ask for directions. A lot of smiling and pointing later and we had ascertained that we must go back the way we came and take a track that skirts round the edge of the enormous plane, avoiding the large marsh area that we were boldly (or foolishly) attempting to drive across. It is worth noting at this point that we do not actually have a map of Mongolia and all our navigation is done by the tiny and unclear maps printed in our Lonely Planet guide book. Most of our navigation consisted of the use of a compass and finding tracks that headed roughly in the right direction.
With one more quick stop for directions we were rattling along a decent track, skirting around the top of the basin. After a while, and in need of some rest, we happened upon another huge rocky outcrop standing prominent on the mostly flat and featureless land. A climb to the top was rewarded with an amazing panoramic of the surrounding land and also gave us the opportunity to try and spot any major tracks heading the way we wanted. We had already learnt that a major route is recognisable not by the quality of the road, or even a sign, but by the number of old abandoned, rutted and corrugated tracks that there are heading in the same direction. The tracks marked in the Lonely Planet were all in reality more than ten tracks, all at different stages in their lives but meandering in the same direction. We spotted a route that looked promising; it was in the right direction and well used. Not to make things too easy, we had the minor obstacle of a wide and deep river to get past, with, of course, no bridge.
Continuing on what seemed the most probable track, we soon found ourselves driving through the very pleasant wooded area that flanks each side of the river bed. A welcome change from the baron plane, we were picking our route amongst the flowers and trees and crossing small streams, all the while surrounded by the wooden winter houses of the semi-nomadic herdsmen of Mongolia. Given that it was still summer, these were all sitting empty while the inhabitants were away with their animals on the pastures in preparation for the harsh Mongolian winter. After some time, with still no sign of a river crossing and an ever-growing feeling that we were not on the right path, we decided to head back, a decision that was greeted with an electrical storm and its accompanying torrential rains. Back at the large rock, the scene of our earlier climbing, we once again scaled its summit to get a better view of the land and hopefully spot our track, all the time hoping that, seeing as we were the highest things for miles, the electrical storm had passed. There was nothing obvious so it was time to retrace our steps further until, spotting the tell tale sign of a line of telegraph poles, we were back on what was most likely the correct course. Another hour or so of trying to figure out which was the best of the several tracks heading in the same direction and light was fading fast, we arrived at another river and, after a quick look to find the best crossing point, drove through and set up camp on the river bank.
It was a glorious morning from the outset: an uninterrupted blue sky and absence of wind allowed the sun's power to be felt to full effect. Our campsite by the crystal clear torrent of water had a small sandy spur that stepped down quickly to the deeper water on the outside of the river bend. This made a great location for a morning dip and the warmth of the sun made it a pleasant enough to wash away the grime of the past few days on (and off) the road. Well refreshed, we set about a few tasks on the Disco, including the regular checking and topping up of fluids and oils. We also rotated the tyres in order to maintain an even wear, and, as it was the rainy season in Mongolia, having the fresh pair with the deepest tread on the ground would stand us in better stead to deal with the muddy tracks we were sure to encounter. Once everything was in order we continued to Ulaangom, via the lake of Uureg Nuur, free from any navigational problems (thanks to luck more than anything), stopping briefly in a rare wooded mountain pass to collect a stock of fire wood. On arrival in Ulaangom most shops were shut or offered a fairly paltry selection of goods, so we decided to visit a restaurant we had spied on our way in, aptly named the Chinggis Khan. As we walked through the door, we were met by a banquet table of silent Westerners who all presented us with blank-faced stares. Assuming they had booked out the entire restaurant for their mute lodge meeting - to which we had not been invited - we left and decided to head out of town to camp that night and return in the morning to see if anywhere had an internet connection we could use. Having located a suitable spot, we whipped up a bit of pasta and sparked up a decent camp fire with some of our wood collected earlier, before hitting the hay, hoping to find the town to be a bit more hospitable in the morning.
We headed back into town in time for the opening of the few shops with the aim of picking up some meat for a long anticipated barbeque or two over the next couple of days. From our very limited research into Mongolia at this point, we had ascertained that fruits and vegetables feature little in the Mongolian diet, but meat and dairy products were the staple. As such, we were disappointed to come away from every store empty handed. Resigned to make do with our existing supplies, we now drove around looking for an internet café, with frustratingly little success. However, our roaming around the town eventually lead us back to the town square where we spotted a huge ex-military Dutch overland truck, so we wandered over to say hello. We spoke to Anna who was one of a four person team researching some of the most traditional nomadic tribes, learning from them and raising awareness of the erosion of their ways of life: very commendable work. Anna kindly recommended an internet café just round the corner with a reliable connection and helpful English-speaking operator, and gave us some vague directions to a protected areas office where we might be able to pick up a map to supplement the lonely planet. After failing to find a map, we rationalised that although it would be a challenge, we could get by with what we had for now. So we left the town, paying our toll charge, and headed out down a track, confident it was one of the two that were heading in roughly the right direction. All was well. It started as a quiet grinding every half rotation of the wheels, and appeared to be originating from the driver's side front wheel. Within a matter of yards it had worsened considerably and sounded like the wheel bearing was shot. Thankfully we were carrying spares, and although neither of us had disassembled the front hub before, how difficult could it be? We dove in, and after 15 minutes, several near hand piercings and some choice language later we had finally got the blasted circlip off. We were eventually foiled by the lock-nut which, agonisingly, was about a millimetre to large for our biggest adjustable spanner and would not budge by chiselling. Admitting defeat, we decided to head back to the town where with a generous slice of luck the Nomads Life people might still be there and able to lend us a suitable spanner.
Alex tracked them down in the internet cafe and they were soon finished and out rummaging in their tool trunk to see what they had. Unfortunately their adjustable wrench was also a shade too small, and our attempt to twist it off using a couple of G-clamps was in vain. We had by this time noticed that the prop shaft had a lot more play in it than before, leading us to believe that the diff bearing was the main issue, a prognosis that was supported by the increased grating under acceleration. We needed help. Thankfully, Sergey from Land Rover Moscow had seen this coming and sold us a new outer front diff bearing, which hopefully would be enough to solve the problem. Al went to ask the English speaking internet cafe guy if he knew of mechanic who could help us and he sent his younger brother with us to show us where the workshop was, under the instructions to bring his brother back immediately. We ground our way around the town to a large yard with a cluster of men working away on a car by a small shack in the corner. Al walked the kid back to the internet cafe while Dave set about explaining the problem to anyone that would listen. An athletic Mongol in his late thirties took keen interest and Dave took him for a drive down the road to demonstrate the problem. Al returned to find the mechanics yard deserted, but any worries were quickly quashed as he heard, and then saw the Disco grind back into view. Our new Mongolian friend somehow managed to convey that we must go to a different mechanic, and we all jumped in the disco and he directed us through the dusty back alleys to a backyard mechanic. After looking at the selection of spare parts we had brought with us, an alarming shake of the prop-shaft and some cajoling by our Mongolian guide, the mechanic agreed to take the job. We were told to lock the Disco, reassured all would be well in the morning and ushered to one of his friend's car which was waiting outside. The older man drove us all to a discrete cafe where we were encouraged to eat and drink heartily, and the four of us feasted on bread, tea, dumpling soup, and beer. Naturally, we offered to pick up the bill to go some way to repaying our kind hosts, but this suggestion was dismissed, and no one paid for the meal which was apparently on the house. Once back in the car a rough conversation in broken pigeon Russian about where we were going to sleep that night lasted for the short journey to our friend's apartment. We all sat in the living room and drank a beer, battling away with some sort of conversation. We both felt a little uncomfortable with the situation at first - a discomfort that is common when being the recipient of undue hospitality - but soon began to relax. We were finishing our beers when two teenage girls appeared in the doorway and were eventually introduced to us as the daughters of our new friend, much to our relief. They were sent out for more beers and the four of us drank and talked as best we could. We found out that our friend was a doctor, and the older man was a director of a building company and former Mongolian wrestling champion in his younger days. After some amusing traditional Mongolian dancing to the repeated play of a song about Chinggis Khan, which was clearly our friend's favorite record, the old man headed home, saying he would be back at 7am to take us to the mechanics. Seven seemed early, but he was a company director so he probably had work to do. The two daughters had put some sheets down for us on the floor of the living room, which also doubled as master bedroom. (Our friend's wife was away in Ulaanbaatar). We bedded down for the night, totally unsure what the next day would bring. We were both awake and set for the off by seven, but the rest of the house was yet to stir. As it had been a late night we thought it best not to wake our host but to leave some money to cover the cost of our meal, beers, night's accommodation and his help with the car. He awoke as we were agreeing a suitable figure and quickly dressed and took us down stairs to a taxi which took the three of us to the house of the old wrestler, who, once woken, got his car out of the garage and drove us all to the mechanics.
The front hubs had been dismantled and the diff had been removed, so some progress had been made; however the mechanic pointed out that the replacement bearing was slightly different to the original part. We set off around the sleeping town on an optimistic search for the correct part, but unsurprisingly came up short, so we used the similar one anyway. The two Mongolian guys headed off, and would return in a couple of hours, so we both hung around the mechanics while he worked and were invited into his ger for refreshments by his wife. These consisted of Mongolian tea (like a salty weak chicken soup, without the chicken) and some dried curds on which David almost lost several teeth! The two locals returned shortly after the work was finished and proceeded to broker the payment to the mechanic which worked out at about 50 pounds. We were just short of this in Mongolian Togrog but our friend was able to change some of our stash of dollars for us to save us going to the bank. The story that ensues is unfortunately sour. In summary we were swindled out of around $160 by the two guys who we had taken to be the good Samaritans often referred to in Mongolian travel literature. Of course we had been more than willing to pay them for their help, but that choice, our remaining cash, and our high expectations of the Mongolian people were taken away in the old man's car. We made a short attempt to explain the situation to the police who tried hard to be helpful but we could see we were not getting past the language barrier any time soon, so chalked it down to experience and pushed on with our progress across Mongolia. The track was good which encouraged us to up the pace a little, but in the fading light we spotted a 1/2 metre wide by 1/2 metre deep trench too late to brake or swerve and we hit it hard. Physically shaken and fearing suspension damage, we stopped immediately and were relieved to find the only effects were that the hazard lights were stuck on! Lonely Planet indicated their were some hot springs by Khyargas Nuur but it was dark by the time we reached the area so we camped by on the beach of the lake and removed the fuse to kill the hazards in the freezing wind. We were beat after a long and stressful day, and willing to put up with some dodgy hazards as long as our repaired differential held out. The day started, despite the cold, with a spot of al fresco bathing in the crystal clear lake before we were once again behind the wheel, rattling our way along on the still shocking roads. The continual vibrations and occasional bone-jarring jolt are definitely taking their toll on both us and the car. Things are gradually starting to fall off (the car, not us!) and so far we have lost several pieces of kit somewhere along the roads, fortunately nothing critical, yet! After the long and arduous day on the road, we found a nice camping spot besides the lake Telmen Nuur, where, in a bid to keep the night time freezing temperatures at bay, we ate our dinner around a pretty big camp fire. warming our feet on the surrounding rocks before the cold finally penetrated and we retreated to sleeping bags.
Like the day before, much of this was spent waging war with the continually pot holed tracks and complete lack of signs that make up Mongolia's road network, where, despite us being one of the fastest vehicles on the road (which made a nice change), it takes an age to get anywhere. The novelty of Mongolian driving is definitely wearing off! In need of a break, we continued on to Terkhiin Tsagaan Nuur (Great White Lake) which is described in the Lonely Planet as 'the best camping spot in Mongolia', an ideal place to establish an early camp and get a couple of jobs done on the Land Rover. The site was nothing special: surrounded by gers and animals close to the track and, probably as a direct consequence of Lonely Planets recommendations, full of litter. It would not be unfair to dub this site 'one of the worst camping spots in Mongolia'. Certain we could do better on our own. we powered on a for few more miles where we set up a fine camp in the middle of a field of volcanic rock - not great for pitching a tent but fine for us. We set about bleeding the breaks, which hadn't been done properly at the mechanics, and topped up the ever-leaking fluids before Alex, looking like a man possessed, went to work with the axe on a dead tree, building up a healthy stockpile of fire wood to keep away the night chill. After what was probably our coldest night so far, every last ounce of will power was needed to drag ourselves out of warm sleeping bags and into the icy wind. The extra effort required to get up in the morning and converting the car back into 'driving mode' makes getting up a big enough challenge as it is, never mind adding the cold into the equation. It is a daily battle and the odds are certainly stacked against us! Once up and about, regardless of climate, we don the usual expedition attire of shorts and flip-flops. In addition to being very comfortable to drive in, not to mention not having to wash socks, we are firmly of the opinion that we are on holiday, this is what we wear on holiday, and no amount of bad weather will stop us! With everything packed away, and heaters on full, we continued our toilsome journey across the challenging yet beautiful scenery towards the town of Tsetserleg and the promise of some home comforts in the form of an ex-pat owned cafe, Fairfield. Arriving in the dusty town, the first job was to get hold of some cash as we were all but out and had very little fuel. No luck at the first place, no to our foreign cards at the second too, this is not good, we can get buy without cash living on the supplies in the car but diesel we definitely need! Third time lucky and after much form-signing and the clerk disappearing for some time in the back we managed to get hold of a healthy wedge of Mongolian Togrog.
We made our way to Fairfield cafe and, upon discovering the addition of a guest house to the cafe, booked in for the night. We ate heartily before heading out only to return not long after, when everything, including the disco we had found, shut at midnight. The next day we had decided that, given how far behind we had got with the diary writing, we would spend the day in the cafe doing work. We found ourselves a table in the corner (complete with UK plug socket!) and set to work. Of course it would have been rude to stay in the cafe all day long without ordering any food and the western style menu full of home cooked meals was put to the test on several occasions.
Our plan for the rest of Mongolia was to head south towards the Gobi desert to drive up some sand dunes before heading north to Ulaanbaatar (UB) and back to Russia. We left Fairfield late in the afternoon on the track towards Kharkhorin and stopped just short of the oldest Buddhist monastery in the country and Mongolia's former capital. Mongolia is full of birds of prey with many kestrels and hawks soaring up high or perched on telegraph poles or at the side of the road. It is also home to a smaller number of eagles. That evening, driving along the bumpy track, out of nowhere swooped a massive eagle, its wingspan wider than the car, talons bared and only metres in front of the bonnet. For a few seconds it glided, before, with a majestic beat of its enormous wings, it soared up and away into the sky leaving us in awe as we continued our bumpy journey. If only we had a camera to hand! Once we wake, the desire for breakfast is one of the main motivators that get us out of our sleeping bags and the bed folded away in preparation for the day's driving. This morning we were particularly efficient with the lure of oats with fresh berries, and longer term, the lure of the heat and sand of the Gobi desert. After 30 minutes driving, we arrived at the Buddhist Monastery of Erdene Zuu Khiid (Hundred Treasures), one of the few not to be destroyed by the Stalinist Russian purges of the 1930s, and popped in for a quick gander. Personally, we found it a little underwhelming, spoilt perhaps by the temple saturation we received in Thailand the previous year, although this example felt much more genuine. Castles and forts are much more our cup of tea, so we kept our stay short and sweet.
We enjoyed a short spell on a smooth sealed road, though it was still being built so our progress was constantly interrupted by ditches and barriers placed to keep people off the new tarmac. Somewhere along this section we stopped to buy a bottle of milk drink from a roadside seller - hoping it was fresh milk. On closer inspection it certainly was not. We would investigate further later. By late afternoon it was clear we were not on the road marked in the LP map, so we began to zig-zag our way the remaining 100 miles to the Gobi along any track that was heading was roughly aligned with our required bearing. This was undoubtedly slow going but at least we were under no illusions that we were following any of the lines on our miniscule map.
We set camp before sunset and galvanised ourselves against the cold with a generous shot of the peculiar milky substance we had bought earlier. It looked like fizzy watery milk with a film of white scum on the surface, smelt like home brew cider, and tasted, shall we say, quite unique! On an open plateau at over 2,000m it was a very cold and windy night, and with the anemometer rarely dropping bellow 40mph it was deemed too windy even for breakfast. We continued our southerly bearing and stopped for breakfast in the relative shelter of a narrow seasonal river gorge. Later, as the valley widened we picked up a friend in the form of an excitable black dog that ran after the car for 15 minutes until we threw it off our scent with some biscuits.
By midday, we had homed in on the small town of Bogd, which sat in the shadow of a mountain ridge harbouring it from the southern pains that fade into the Gobi desert: a mountain ridge that we would have to cross. We stopped at the village cafe hoping to garner directions to the mountain pass and some mutton dumplings for lunch. We received both, but they were of contrasting quality. Well fed, we followed the general direction of the dumpling woman's hand waving, but not for long. We decided to head across to the base of the ridge and it along until be came to a pass through the mountains. After a couple of aborted attempts we came to what we both agreed must be the pass all the way through the mountains and our gateway to the Gobi its sand dunes at Khongoryn Els. The pass was mainly used by cattle herders and the occasional motorbike, so involved some pretty technical 4x4-ing and had us retracing our steps to find alternative routes on more than one occasion as we slowly picked our way along. After a couple of hours, the narrow twisting ravine softened to rolling hills and mounds, allowing faster progress along a faint track. We dropped down into a shallow dry river bed where we set camp for the evening, and the much lower altitude and wind served for a better nights sleep. Motivation to type our log of events was always waning after a day of driving, especially on the physically demanding Mongolian terrain. We experimented with doing this work first thing in the morning before we set off for the day, and this particular morning we had some success to this end. Having done just enough to curb our guilt, we resumed driving the river bed we had reached the following day. At this point we were following a single set of ghost tracks from perhaps a ranger who had driven this way the week before. As the sun rose in the sky, the tracks became harder to follow with less shadow cast in the shallow dusty indents, and we soon lost them, eroded by the desert winds. The horizon gave us the new direction we required, as shimmering between the plain and sky were the smooth white teeth of distant sand dunes. From our current position and our bearing to the dunes it was clear these were not the monsters of Khongoryn Els - not least if our map was correct - but they were dunes nonetheless so we drove straight for them across the scrub. Even as the crow flies, it was further than we initially thought, however perspective gave us a good relative visual marker of our progress as the dunes grew on the horizon. The distance and scale was hard to judge until we drew very close with the largest comfortably over 200m in prominence. We drove straight up a low dune ridge and jumped out onto the warm sands. The landscape was foreign, yet immediately recognisable and quite emotive. This coupled with the effort taken to get there made it a truly memorable moment. We agreed to stay in the dunes that night, leaving us the afternoon to play about on the dunes with the car, a makeshift tarp sledge, and general running about like children in the snow.
The weather was excellent: clear blue sky, warm sun and not a wisp of wind, but we were aware it would get cold quickly after the sun had set. We collected an extensive arsenal of firewood from the surrounding shrubs and got a strip fire going over which we placed the grates from the barbeque so we could boil water over the fire. Our meal, save for the cooking method and surrounding, was utterly uninspiring, but with sundown fast approaching we were happy not to savour it.
We watched the sun set over the dunes and it did not fail to impress, with a diverse spectrum and contrasting light and shadow on the now golden dunes. Feeling small, and with a strong sense of isolation in the vast and uninhabited desert, it was one of the all too rare moments on the trip where we took a few minutes to really appreciate the magnitude of what we were doing, where we were and how we had got there. Darkness set in and we stoked up the fire with the remaining pile of fire wood, before retreating to a safe distance to break out our emergency 1litre cans of beer while it burnt itself out. As the embers faded, our eyes adjusted to the black revealing a night sky of exceptional clarity. It was breathtaking, and really highlights the effect of light pollution present even in the most rural areas of England.
We both enjoyed keeping fit in our normal lives but living in a car has presented enough barriers to keep exercise to a minimum: namely the lack of anywhere to have a shower afterwards. We had, however, been challenged by our friend, Simon Wyatt of Primal Fitness, http://www.primalfitness.co.uk to get some good workouts done along our travels, and what better place than the Gobi desert! With 20 litre jerry cans as make shift kettle bells, and a sand dune to sprint up we did a variation of one of Si's park workouts. If you want to see us die from the heat then please check out the video on the primal fitness facebook page (http://www.new.facebook.com/group.php?gid=35262379392). Later that morning, once we had got our breath back and our throats had stopped burning, we tidied camp and retraced our tracks out of the dunes, up the dry riverbed and through the mountains to Bogd where we again refuelled on mutton dumplings. Our objective now was to get to Ulaanbaatar as quickly and uneventfully as possible - a task that would be aided by the paved road running north east from Arvaikheer all the way to Ulaanbaatar, hopefully! We had reached Arvaikheer by early evening where we grabbed some food at a local Chinese restaurant and made camp on the outskirts of the town. We headed back into Arvaikheer first thing to research some hostels and pensions in UB as our Lonely Planet was 3 years out of date. We also upped the tyre pressures with the compressor in preparation for the paved road section, much to the intrigue of some passing locals. We managed a couple of hours on blissful tarmac before the path to the capital degraded to one of the most atrocious tracks we had encountered to date. As we drew slowly closer to UB, the tarmac reappeared, seemingly complete but closed off and teasing us from behind its banking or ditch as we juddered along parallel. We were having none of it: low range and diff lock were engaged enabling us to climb the steep loose mud banking to enjoy the pristine tarmac beyond to UB. On the outskirts of the city we bumped into a few straggling Mongolian rally teams who kindly gave us directions to the centre where we began our search for accommodation. Third time lucky we got a couple of dorm beds at Nassan's hostel which was centrally positioned and had the surprise bonus of secure parking. We grabbed some food at a local German-style beer house and enjoyed the at least relatively cosmopolitan feel of downtown UB before calling it a night at a reasonable hour.
We were up and out in search of breakfast before the morning rush hour, and found Amsterdam Cafe fitted the bill nicely, seeing as it was, at least, open. After a robust panini and a quick trip to the cash machine to pay for it, we returned to the hostel and headed out in the car to try and get the puncture we received on our first day in Mongolia repaired. Help was soon at hand, as a local chap at a tyre shop offered to show us to a tyre repair place where the technician patched up the inside of the tyre with a bike puncture repair patch, which appeared to work a treat and for the agreeable price of $3. We headed back to the centre for lunch, and after failing to find a LP recommended Indian, we stumbled into Berlin Berger, a popular canteen offering a variety of sturdy fayre. The afternoon was consumed by a decent internet cafe until we realised the time and headed back to the hostel, showered, changed and made our way to the new confirmed location of the Taj Mahal restaurant. Oddly run out of a couple of hotel rooms, it nevertheless served up a mean Thali that set us up nicely for a bit of a Friday night out. We headed to the well renowned Dave's Place, which was disappointingly quiet and after a quick scout of some other bars revealed they were shutting for the night, we hit the dusty trail back to the hostel in the bitter cold making plans for the next day. The helpful woman at Nassan's Hostel had obligingly located a couple of printing companies that would be able to produce us some business cards, but they were shut until Monday. She also pointed us in the direction of the car parts market where we might be able to get our broken car stereo fixed. The place was crazy. It was a huge bustling market sprawling over several square kilometres of eastern UB literally selling everything under the sun. We battled our way around before finding the car section, strewn with springs, dampers, engines and axles in puddles of dirty oil, amongst almost every second hand car part imaginable, save for any auto electronics. Confident our malfunctioning car stereo could not be fixed with a hammer and chisel, we turned our attentions to the oil sellers along one side of the market. After some deliberation, we came away with all the oils we needed to service the car and lugged the 14 litres the 40 minutes back to the hostel in the blazing sun. We had researched a good Chinese restaurant in one of the swankiest hotels in town and a nightclub in the same area for a successful Saturday night on the tiles. After food we headed to a bar popular with the locals an then onwards to the nightclub, Manhattan, in due course. We had not been their long when we were approached by a couple of English girls asking whether we wanted to share a bottle of vodka with them. After listening to the financial virtues of the deal we agreed. Already half-cut, we chatted at the bar whilst drinking the Chinggis Gold, before hitting the dance floor. The events that followed are, unfortunately, beyond our recollection. Much to our relief we both woke up the next day, although part of us perhaps wished we hadn't. From the comfort of our beds we concentrated our efforts on not dying, no doubt to the amusement of our room mates. We made a brief foray to a Japanese restaurant, where we failed to piece together some amusing evidence of our exploits the previous night, before returning to bed. Well rested and back to form, we checked out of the Hostel and returned to the printing shop that had been shut on Saturday who very efficiently produced us some simple business cards. After some dodgy Mongolian haircuts and lunch, we went to the State Department store supermarket to stock up with supplies for the road. With everything in order we stopped of to pick up a 12v rechargeable torch and inspection light before continuing north towards the border, aptly wild camping our last night in Mongolia.
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