Category Mongolia

We recently did a visa run. As with many people who live in China, we have to leave the country every 60 or 90 days to reactivate our 1-year visas. We recently decided to try the Beijing-Erlian visa run rather than the traditional Beijing to Hong Kong run. Here are a few details on how to make your visa run a quick success:

1) There are loads of buses that go to Erlian, you can leave from any one of the stations, and it is easy to call ahead of time if you speak even a little Chinese to ensure the buses leave on your scheduled day. Here are the Beijing Long Distance Bus Options.Or, a few other options on how to get to Mongolia.

2) Once you arrive (and if you take the bus you’ll arrive at 3 or 4:00am) you may need to stay at a hotel for a few hours until the border opens. It opens at 8:00am. If you arrive at the bus station you can easily find a driver to take you to a local hotel. Bargain, but you should be able to get the ride and the hotel for under $12 USD. Prices should be in Chinese. The hotels are not great, ours was heated by a stove and had wooden beds and a squat hallway toilet, but we only stayed a few hours and it was much-needed rest after 11 hours on a sleeper bus.

3) Crossing the border takes patience. You have to get a cab to the gate. Make sure they use the meter, as they’ll try to charge triple what the meter would have. The cab drops you off at the border, then you have to negotiate with a jeep driver to take you across the no-man’s-land to the actual Chinese immigration building. No walking allowed!

4) You use the same jeep to get all the way to the Mongolian immigration side and then through that to the first town across the Mongolian border. Your jeep should cost about 50RMB or less. We negotiated hard and paid only 30RMB, but we also went all out and even included one of the Chinese border guards, who was extremely helpful.

5) If you want, you can easily get your jeep driver to drop you off at the city square, otherwise you can simply turn around without leaving the Mongolian border zone and negotiate with a new jeep driver to take you back to the Chinese side. Getting back to the Chinese side is cheaper and easier as most Jeep drivers have limited loads.

6) Once back in Erlian, you can take a cab from the bus station in Erliain to Beijing for around 200RMB a person. The bus is 200RMB as well, so if you want to save some time, the cab ride is 7 hours while the bus ride is a grueling 11. I prefer the bus as its a sleeper unit so you can relax, sleep and even read.

7) Your visa will need to be registered once you get back to China. Good luck!

Having finished the official aspects of the rally our convoy of nine set about enjoying the lovely city of Ulaan Bataar, which ralliers refer to as UB. While on our previous visit in 2007 to Mongolia we thought UB was a dust-covered wasteland that looked more like a Russian prison camp than a city. By 2010 the city had taken on new charm and was decorated in bright, flashing lights and paved sidewalks, with only the occasional dust storm. Buildings being demolished in 2007 had made way for newer, safer looking structures and even a 5 star hotel. We were impressed with the upgrades.

The convoy, having enjoyed its finish line party until late, was led by yours truly to the only hotel that would accept nine drunk ralliers at 3:00am without a deposit, the Miami Hotel. This was conveniently located near the finish line bar, so a parade of dirty ralliers stumbled from the bar to the Miami, singing and cheering their own accomplishments on the rally. We settled into the hotel and, in the morning, discovered it wasn’t a hotel but a brothel. I talked with the reception personal in a mix of Russian and Chinese to discover they didn’t particularly want us shutting down business, which our presence apparently was. We packed up that morning and spent a few hours wandering around with our luggage looking for a hotel. None were to be had, UB was booked. We returned to the brothel for another evening and, despite their looks of dismay, the 90 year old receptionist allowed us our previous rooms.

After securing accommodation for the night we set about securing food for our desperately hungry bellies. A Chinese restaurant around the corner had peaked our interest, so we spent a few hours gorging ourselves until even the Irish were unable to eat another bite. We shopped, dined and then, heading back to Miami, we got ready to hit the town for an epic Saturday evening.

We returned to the Finish Line party to meet more ralliers who were streaming into the city daily. We ran into some of the same teams we’d been bumping into across the steppe. An ambulance we thought had died 200 miles back appeared in the parking lot that evening, with all of the occupants alive and well– a surprise to many of us. One lad did injure himself trying to do fire walking while drunk, but aside from that their injuries were only psychological. It was a great sense of finality and completion to be at the Finish line while other teams came in, to hear their amazing stories and to see their dust-covered faces and starved stomaches as they smiles from ear-to-ear and cheered their arrival at the finish line.

We went to the car auction downtown to see what became of our donated rally cars. We discovered that the cars are auctioned in ‘as-is’ status to the highest bidder in a public arena. Pictures of the cars and their basic facts are put on a powerpoint slide and displayed to a throng of bidders. Most cars were selling for anywhere between $1,000 USD – $1,500 USD, despite the fact that most cars were also in a dire state of disarray. We learned that cars are one of Mongolia’s chief imports and sell for much higher than they would in the US or Europe. We don’t know, yet, what our little Citroen Saxo sold for, or if it was sold at all. Some cars apparently become the property of the owners of the various drop-off points. We found this out by visiting several of the drop-offs and seeing cars from the ’08 and ’09 rallies sitting, stripped of parts, in the parking areas. It was sad to see some rally cars cast off like that, knowing the epic adventures people went through to get them to Mongolia.

We spent the next several days shopping for gifts for family and supporting sponsors, as well as taking pictures, enjoying our last days as a convoy family, and preparing to head in our own separate directions. It was sad when the first of our group had to depart, the convoy felt broken and at a loss. It was hardest to say goodbye to the Norwegians who had so heroically saved several teams from demise by allowing them (and all their gear) to be loaded into the Fiat and carried to UB, despite the fact that they risked not finishing at all by carrying so much weight in their car for everyone else. We’ll miss Aslan and Bear! It was also hard to say goodbye to the two Irish. One from the north, and opinionated like a radio talk show host, the other from the south and as vocal and witty as a salesman. It was rough leaving the Aussie giant as well, who had grown close to Mike and developed a great giant-chiwawa relationship. Slowly, the convoy drifted in different directions towards Europe while Mike and I drifted towards China and Bill caught a flight back to the USA.

The Citroen Saxo was literally breaking in half. Our previous day’s welding was only a band aid on the larger fact that the frame was splitting in half, right down the middle. We had already removed all excess weight, and were riding with the three lightest people in our car, Mike, Lauren and Chris– a man from Southern Ireland who had a pension for story telling.

All of us expected a hard ride ahead, but after the welding at the last drop off point, we were riding in high spirits and having a blast. Chris jumped on the roof of our Citroen and rode, zip-tied to the roof, for over an hour. Watching the sunset behind us as we raced for the finish line, it was a highlight of the entire trip. 9 people in high spirits with the future ahead and trials an tribulations already behind us. Even if the cars exploded and died on the spot our mood couldn’t be ruined. Watching the sun set, with our cars weaving in and out of the light, our roofs covered in screaming and ecstatic ralliers, we were euphoric. We had less than 500 miles to go, and 200 of those miles would be on hard pavement, we learned. We were almost home free!

As the roads worsened (and we had heard roomers that they got worse before they got better) we noticed new sounds emanating from the Citroen. We took out even more weight, and only Chris and Mike were left in the car. Lauren rode with the Norwegians, Bill with the Aussie in his Suzuki Swift. What happened next was as unfortunate, but still proved interesting. Somehow, driving through the night, the Norwegian car got separated from the group. I was in that car, and we reached the pavement around 2:00am. we looked around, eager to celebrate the end of the bumpy roads, but the other two cars were long gone. We didn’t know if they were ahead of us or behind. After taking a vote, we decided to wait on the edge of the pavement until morning. I didn’t sleep at all, and at first light I was flagging down cars with messages scribbled on bits of trash. I asked each driver to take a note to the cars if they saw them ahead. The notes just had our location and the time. I showed the drivers pictures of the missing cars on my camera and then waved them off. By mid-morning a Chinese driver told me he’d seen two red cars broken down about 50 miles ahead of us on the pavement. We all jumped in the car and were ready to pull out when, from behind us, the Suziki Swift pulled up and Bill and the Aussie jumped out. They reported that the Citroen Saxo, the fearless ATC car, was finally dead. It had died during the night sometime, the engine having seized, the oil and gas filters both filled with dust and sand. It wouldn’t even turn over. It was scrap metal, they reported. Mike and Chris were back with the Citroen trying to get a tow from a passing trucker. Meanwhile, and to double the trouble, the Swift had a leak in the gas can. I jumped in the Swift to translate (in case they spoke Chinese) and we rushed to the next drop-off town some half hour down the road. The Norwegians went back for the ATCs dead car.

With the Swift, we had the gas tank patched and called the Adventurists’ contact in the city to report that the ATC car was on its way. The contact arrived, a lovely vegetarian, Christian lady– a double oddity in Mongolia. The Swift headed back to pick up the Norwegians and the dead ATC car. Meanwhile, she took pity on me, as I was pitiful, and took me to her vegetarian restaurant. She made me lunch and I ate with her and her family. She then dropped me in free room at her upstairs hotel. I napped for four hours. When I woke up she made me tea and talked to me about becoming a vegetarian. To be honest, it was surreal. Finally, as dusk was approaching, I heard the three cars pull up and my 8 team mates jumped out and we began to rip the ATC car apart. We sold a lot of the interior goods to the vegetarian and her husband. The rest we had to trash. We put four in the Swift and 5 in the Norwegian Fiat (some on the roof). That night was the last party for the finish line and it had long been a goal of ours to make the party. The Norwegians put their foot to the floor and we were bumping along behind the Swift as fast as possible.

It was midnight before we reached Ulaan Bataar. We saw it in the distance, an orange glow in the sky up ahead, and cheered. In the Swift, Phil the Aussie, Mike, Chris the Irish and I were all choking on the horrible smell from Chris’ shoes. It was so vile that Phil eventually slammed on the breaks, in sight of the city and the finish line goal, and threatened to toss the shoes. He even pledged his last beer to wash them out, anything to kill the smell. I’ll admit, it was rank. But with the city so close, it wasn’t that big a deal. It was hilarious to watch Phil stomp around as he got Chris’ shoes and tied them to the roof, before peeling out and re-joining traffic.

In town, we were all euphoric about finally reaching our goal. Bill crawled on the roof of the Norwegian’s car and, not surprisingly, they were pulled over by the Mongolian police and warned. The Swift didn’t wait to see the punishment. Chris was driving and he took that moment to admit he didn’t have a driver’s license and the car wasn’t registered to him! We panicked. The odds of not getting pulled over for a bribe or minor offense were extremely low. Nevertheless, we forged ahead looking for the finish line. Bill crawled back on the roof of the car and was pulled over yet again, this time within sight of the finish line. The cops were not as friendly this time, they took Aslan, the Norwegian driver, and kept his passport, setting a disciplinary meeting for the next morning.

We jumped across the finish line to see only one other team sitting around. They reported that the finish line party was over. There was no one around but the cops who had arrested Aslan, which put a sour taste in our mouths since we were, after all, here to donate a ton of money and cars. We walked around town for a while, eventually returning to the bar near the finish line. We met up with a few other teams around 2:00am and had a nice time celebrating our finish.

Looking around at the other cars in the finish line holding pen, we were happy to see friend’s cars from along the route, including the Face Race team and Mongol Schumachers, both of whom we caravanned with for the first half of the rally. It was like seeing an old friend to see their cars there.

43 days on the road, 10,000+ miles and we had finally made it to the finish line. Sure, some of us were arrested, one of our cars didn’t make it, one passport was missing and we had no where to go for the night, but we were happy and excited to have made it across 1/3 of the globe by land.

Next– ATC spends a week in Ulaan Bataar… why?

After leaving the Aussie mining camp we hit the road hard, trying to make up time and cover ground since we’d been relaxing for two days at the camp. We were nearly spoiled by the warm showers, hot food and great entertainment on the mining compound, and it was a sad moment piling back into the dirty cars and hitting the road. That night, we made it quite far and shockingly without incident. We even found a decent hotel to stay in, only our second hotel for the entire trip. Since our tent was ruined and still dripping wet from the rain storm two days ago, we were out of other options. The hotel was nice enough, and a friendly Mongolian lady helped translate for us and dinned on eggs and potatoes with our caravan.

The next morning we found the mechanic’s shop– a small garage on the outskirts of town, and had them set about welding our back end. Since we had too much weight in the car over unstable and bumpy roads, the frame in the back of the car literally split in two. The tires were rubbing on the wheel wells, and the back right tire had already worn through the gas line. The mechanics took the entire day welding in a bar across the trunk, separating and pushing back the two sides of the car and playing a round of darts between each act. We had literally run the thing into breaking in half. They patched the gas line and we were ready to roll. Unfortunately, it was already late evening by the time we got away from the mechanics. The rest of the caravan had waited patiently the entire day. Now we had a problem. Our car couldn’t support the weight it was carrying. We dumped everything we owned on the ground and began selling things to anyone who walked by. the tires fetched $25. Our expensive tent got us a return of about $15. Food, games, books, clothing, supplies, car parts– everything was dumped in the trash or sold. We put the remainder, our three personal bags, in the back of the Norwegian’s car, and we put three lighter weight people in the Citroen Saxo to keep the weight down even more. We were still riding low and it was only a matter of time before the gas line was rubbed raw again.

It was going to be a rough trip to the capital, this we could already see. The caravan was patient with our pathetic situation, and Aslan the Norwegian even offered to carry the people if we could all go through our supplies and leave what wasn’t necessary. They tossed stuff from their car, selling the spare battery, the sound system, all unnecessary food, etc. They were serious about keeping everyone safe. Once you get a challenge in a Norwegian’s head, it’s as good as achieved. They were determined to get us all to the finish line.

While the mechanics were ignoring/working on our car, the caravan filled the hours by shopping for traditional Mongolian dress, which most of us bought (our team excluded since we were broke after the car repairs). Everyone looked dashing in their Mongolian garb. We set off down the road only to encounter a massive hill crossing right out of the gates. The car made it to the top before the gear linkage popped out again.

Come back one more time to see if we make it to Ulaan Bataar! In the next episode– the end of the rally!

This is the story of how a lone Aussie walking around in an un-named ger village in the middle of the Mongolian steppe managed to save our rag-tag convoy of international ralliers. For this to make sense, you may have to read the previous post, The Surprise Recovery of the ATC Saxo, which outlines how our car was nearly dead when suddenly another team’s Fiat died and was towed by the Red Cross to a small ger camp.

We arrived in the camp only to discover that the afore-promised two truck was out of commission. The camp’s only shop was charging over $4 a soda, and the food was so inflated in cost that there was little we could afford. We were all eager to get out of town as soon as was possible, and stood about negotiating with various locals to secure tow for our fallen Fiat Diablo and their Norwegian owners. Suddenly, Al the Canadian walked over with wild stories about having met an Aussie miner. Chappy, he had been called, had invited us all to dine, shower and sleep at the mining camp a short distance off. We all smiled from ear to ear but as Al was a prankster, the smiles faded as soon as the realization that he must be joking set in. He laughed and waved over a strange messiah of a character with a long flowing grey beard and the kindest blue eyes. He was wearing denim and a yellow rain jacket that would have fit in perfectly on the docks of any major port. He looked tired and yet welcoming, worn and yet incredibly alive. Chappy shook our hands and told us to follow him. Meanwhile, he had the Diablo towed to the mining camp’s garage for safe keeping.

We followed Chappy around several small hills and into a ravine. I began to doubt we were going anywhere but on a wild goose chase when suddenly a small, walled-in camp emerged in the distance. A parking lot with white rock spaces rested out front with a chain-link fence surrounding about 20-25 gers. Two buildings stood at the southern end, with roughly ten shipping containers in various positions acting as different storage, living and bathing compartments. We were welcomed by Chappy and some of the other English-speaking workers at the camp. The head of safety and regulations was a Mongolian lady with perfect English who showed me, the only woman in our convoy, to the lady’s bathroom. The bathroom was a shipping container with a wooden door that led to two shower stalls and a small bathroom with a sink. She claimed there was constant hot water, a statement that nearly made me hug her. She next led me to a the wooden buildings at the southern center of the compound which revealed a game room complete with pool table, ping-pong, darts and work-out equipment and a game table for chess or cards and a small library and computer room for internet. The adjoining room was divided by shipping container walls but housed a small kitchen with state-of-the-art facilities and tables to seat over 100. Here I was introduced to a Mongolian woman who was married to an American diplomat (stationed overseas at present). She immediately took an interest in us and made sure we had everything we could ever need. She led us to an unoccupied ger where several workers were bringing in extra beds and covering them in blankets and pillows. Their kindness was overwhelming and we all melted into a sensation of comfort and glee.

I jumped in the shower so fast I nearly left the shampoo in the ger. It was indeed hot water, and the first I had encountered since arriving in Mongolia six days prior. I was ecstatic, and stayed in the shower for twenty minutes until the water ran clear and all of the dust and soot was out of my hair. Afterwards, I met the rest of the convoy in the dining room and gorged myself on expertly cooked Mongolian cuisine and juice. The first home-cooked meal in Mongolia and the first non-packaged food in a long while. We met and chatted with several Westerners who were at the mining camp doing reporting, analysis and safety checks. They did not seem as happy about the hot showers and amazing food as we were, but everyone’s spirits in the camp rose when they saw how happy they were making us all, and how appreciative we all were.

The next morning, after sleeping in a bed for the first time in a long while, we arose to a full breakfast and a day of waiting in the camp’s game room while the Norwegians tended to their car. We all believed it was dead, but by dinner time they emerged with news that an entire team of mining engineers had the day off and had decided to help rebuild engine and come up with a solution. They had, essentially, fixed the Diablo for free and used their expert advise to mend a broken fuel pump. We ate dinner with the miners and Chappy’s whole crew before setting out nearly at dusk for the next town on the road.

Chappy made us aware that not only had we taken a series of wrong turns to get where we were, but that he could get us back on track with one minor correction. We were appreciative of his advice, and the whole crew took pictures with our tiny convoy before setting out.

THANK YOU CHAPPY, and THANK YOU TO THE LEIGHTON CONTRACTORS and Mongolian support teams!

Coming next: Find out if the ATC team’s Citroen Saxo makes it to Ulaan Bataar

We pulled out of Khovd behind schedule and a bit fearful of our Citroen Saxo’s ability to make it all the way to UlaanBataar. The gear linkage continued to pop out roughly every 50k. We would all jump out, jack up the car, and Bill would do his magic under the machine while Mike and I repacked the car and got ready to toss the jack in the trunk. We could fix the issue and be mobile again within five minutes. Despite this, the fear was ever-present that one of these times it would not be as simple a fix as a duct-tape band around the linkage. We held a short team meeting and decided to forge ahead. We were now convoying with two other cars. A Suzuki Swift with an Aussie and a Irish guy, and a Fiet Diablo with a Norwegian duo in it carrying a hitch-hiking Irish and a waylaid Canadian. Together, we set off towards the next check point, with everyone involved fully aware that our little Citroen Saxo might not make it.

That first day we made it roughly 100 miles, traveling for roughly seven hours. We didn’t stop until well into the night. At one point the road disappeared and our three cars could be seen from a distance, I’m sure, bobbing around on the Steppe going nowhere in particular. Since we couldn’t see the road, we decided to stop. The Norwegians took off to scout out the road, telling the other cars not to turn off their lights. Naturally, once they were out of range we hit the lights and watched them drive around in circles across the Steppe for a few moments before taking pity on them. We set up a campfire, set up our tents and cooked a massive joint meal of ramen and Norwegian military ration packs. That night it rained, and it became apparent to Mike and I that our trusty tent was no longer water proof. Rivers of water ran down the interior of the tent and the bottom, far from being water proof, was now a swimming pool holding our sleeping bags. We jumped out as soon as the rain let down and slept restlessly in the car.

If we thought things would get easier from this point on we were sorely mistaken. In the morning, we packed up our soaking wet belongings and hit the non-existant road. We eventually found the path we needed through the hills and saw a road up ahead in the distance. As with all things in Mongolia, our roof rack began to wear and tear and less then an hour after departing it slid off the roof. We spent an hour jerry-rigging the rack, ripping apart the useless bits and duct-taping the entire newly constructed frame to the car. Thanks to the Norwegians, we had a few extra zip ties to secure it. We set off, leaving a pile of broken roof rack bits in the grass. About ten minutes later, the gear linkage popped again.

Despite all the problems with our car, what happened next was the biggest surprise of the day. I was riding in the front seat of the Fiat Diablo with Aslan, the Norwegian warrior. He was in the midsts of telling me that the only thing that could disable his beast of a car was a computer error. We jumped up on the road that we had all seen in the distance and within five meters of riding on smooth asphalt the Fiet went dead. Aslan was as calm as when the Vikings invaded the New World, and jumped out of the car to assess the damage. Five hours later, there was nothing to be done. The engine was jerry-rigged in much the same fashion as our roof rack, with wires and plugs duct tapped around pipes and hoses. It looked like modern art, and it worked…. for a while. Eventually the Fiat needed a tow, and a friendly Red Cross volunteer showed up with a Jeep just in time to town the Fiat to the top of the hill where a small collection of gers stood around a tiny shop. There was literally nothing else in sight for miles. The Red Cross worker spoke some English and explained that she could secure a tow truck tot take the Fiat to Ulaan Bataar, meanwhile the Norwegians donated their tool kit to the Jeep driver for the tow. It slowly became obvious to us that the tow truck could not materialize for days and the cost was skyrocketing the more people got involved. It wasn’t looking good for the trusty Fiat. Just when we were all discussing how to move forward without abandoning any of our convy, the Canadian walked over the hill with a bearded Aussie in tow to save the day.

Coming next– How an Aussie in the Mongolian Outback Saved the Rally for our Norwegian Heroes

Despite the horrible past few days, we were determined to enjoy Mongolia as much as possible and to return to having fun on the rally. We drove carefully along the Mongolian roads, which cannot be fairly called roads at all, but are more like a suggested path through the Steppe. Often the road would end at a giant bolder and we’d go around it, or up a giant hill we’d have to make it up in first gear. The roads were mud or gravel, but not cement. We edged the car along doing 20 mph on a good stretch. Suddenly we were aware that we wouldn’t be making the final party on Saturday the 4th. There was no way on roads like this! That night we pulled into the first town, Ogli, by 6:00pm. We didn’t feel like stopping yet, but at the same time we needed a shower, a real meal, and if we drove on we could lose the main road and get lost on the Steppe in the dark. Since there are no road signs, you are pretty much guessing when you come to a fork in the dirt road.

We found a small ger camp with advertised hot showers for $10 a ger. We confirmed the price with the lady in the office after hearing it from a tourists who had been living in the ger for a few days. We threw our stuff in the ger, put the car in an ancient garage behind back, and set off looking for food. We found a Turkish restaurant other ralliers had recommended, and dined on lamb and salads with fanta. Not bad for the middle of nowhere. Back in the ger, we settled in and I took a shower. It was, perhaps, the coldest shower I’ve ever been in. It had slivers of ice in the water, which only came out of the spout but not the shower head so that you had to bend down and stick your head covered in shampoo under the tap of ice water. I was shivering profusely when I got back in the ger and climbed under all the blankets. I couldn’t stop shaking for over an hour. We hung out, Mike and Bill had a beer while I stayed warm, the shivers subsiding. Around 10:30 there was a knock at the door and two young women came in and demanded money. We asked what for, bored already by the game they were trying to play.

They wanted $10 a person for the ger. We were rightly outraged. We even had it written on a piece of paper that it was $10 a ger. After the past two days, this was too much. The two tiny girls tried to throw us out of the ger, but we were, obviously, too big to be thrown. They called their boss, who refused to listen and said he had lots of expenses and needed the money. I told him the shower was ice water, and unusable, and the ger was not insulated. He didn’t care or listen but demanded we pay the girls or leave. He hung up on us. We didn’t budge. After over an hour, we agreed to pay $5 a person or else. The boss man agreed, but not after a huge scene with the girls. I paid them, but wouldn’t let my hand go of the bill until the other girl brought exact change. They were furious, but also, you don’t’ barge into someone’s room late at night demanding they pay. What kind of hospitality or businesses sense is that? We were already sick of Mongolia, and we’d only been in the country three days. We fell asleep and in the morning got started around 10:00am since our car was blocked in by other rally team cars. We drove off, hoping to make it to the next town that night.

The next town was Khovd. Outside of town we saw a poster for a ger camp that was catering to ralliers. This could go either way, but we wanted to see who was there. Inside the ger camp we found five teams having dinner and talking about camping outside of town for free but using the warm gers now. Seemed sensible. We drove out of town to set up, but on the way met a team of 2 Norwegians who had picked up a stray Canadian and lost Irishman. They were towing a broken-down car with a giant Aussie and a disgruntled Irishman in it. They asked if we had room to carry one of them, but with our car weight already exceeding the max and nowhere for the person to sit, we had to decline. They were dropping off the Aussie’s car at the drop-off point (only one in each major town sponsored by the rally) and were then going back to the ger camps. We followed them there and had a great night getting to know the boys and hearing about their broken car. In the morning, we agreed to set off together in convoy after picking up a few more tires.

That morning proved the biggest scare of the trip for our team. The Saxo refused to go into first or second gear! The gear linkages had been falling out intermittently, but this was a first. We took it to a shop where it was magically fixed and we put on a new tire. Other teams were swapping tires at the drop-off point and after a few hours we were all ready to roll together. It would be nice to be in convoy again.

It wasn’t that late when the army arrived. Five men in camouflage must have heard the guards were being treated like kings and wanted a piece of the action. They had large rifles over their shoulders, fingers on the hilt. They did not look amused. To entertain the guards and make the holding pen bearable teams had purchased vodka. The army guards rounded up all the bottles and put them in the trunk of a car and told the ralliers not to drink. They turned off the music and said we needed to keep it quiet. A little drunk already, the ralliers thought they could charm the army guards the same way they thought they were charming the border guards. One of the army men pulled his rifle in front of him, cocked the weapon and leveled it at a young British kid in a purple scarf. The kid’s eyes widened but he didn’t move of yell. He just stared straight ahead with his hands in his pockets. I was out of my tent and standing near the boy in the scarf. The guard eventually lowered his rifle, and the kid nearly crumbled to the ground, he was in shock, I think. In the background I saw another army guard with his rifle pressed against a rallier’s back, bending him over the hood of a van. Everyone was silent, mouths agape. The man pushed his gun hard into the rallier’s back one more time then they withdrew and told the ralliers to be silent.

After they left a new emotion settled on the group. It wasn’t anger this time, but pure defiance. Someone turned back on the music and someone else got out the vodka. After a while of drinking a third person had the bright idea to drag race the cars across the holding pen. They lined up several cars. I was in my tent reading again and heard the idea as it was shouted out. Knowing no one was sober enough to drive out there, I got out of my tent. I didn’t want to be run over and wrapped up in tent fabric. I jumped out, video-camera in hand, and filmed the cars reaching the end line. Next came e-brake contests trying to spin the cars. They came dangerously close to the tents, people sleeping inside. Next came the idea to race the ambulances. They were lined up and reeving their engines. Some moron turned on the sirens and as they cleared a bigger race area the army guards reappeared. This time, I couldn’t really blame them. Ralliers were drunk and drag racing ON government property after being warned to be quiet. I turned on the video-camera and caught the guards harassing ralliers, pushing them with their weapons and then, stealing everyone’s cameras. They didn’t get mine as I snuck back in my tent and filmed through the tent fabric.

In the morning, I marched into the border guard office and demanded to use a phone to call the American embassy. I wanted out of this situation. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine how last night could have gotten out of hand if the ralliers had thought it a good idea to fight back against the guards, or if the guards had lost it, or god forbid, if someone had brought a local girl back to the holding pen or something. I wanted out right now, and I wanted the American embassy to know what was going on to file a complaint against the Mongolian government. I demanded a phone (politely at first). They turned white, shook a little and took me to a phone. Since it was long distance, they said I couldn’t call and tried hard to keep me off the phone. I knew there was a phone in town at the post office. I turned on my heel to go call from there but I heard in the background the guard picking up the phone and very quickly issuing a new command. At the post office, to no shock at all, we found the door bolted. Locals around the post office said it was strange and should be opened. Obviously they had called ahead to have it closed. The post office clerk was probably watching us through the peep hole. A sympathetic local pointed to the top of a nearby hill. ‘Emergency phone’ she said. It was a good 2 hour hike up the hill, and yesterday when ralliers had tried to fly a kite on the hill they had been held in a separate room and questioned for a while. We couldn’t reach that phone without being seen. No cell phone reception in the valley so we were literally stuck and back to square one. I went back and told the guards I’d be reporting them in UlaanBataar. They promised we would all get out that day, Saturday, as the place would be closed Sunday and they didn’t want to babysit us another night.

It was not surprising when they cleared every car in the pen by 5:00pm. We were out at 3:30pm, having been forced to pay yet another bribe. $10 USD directly into the guards pocked that everyone was kissing up to the night before. I’m glad we didn’t participate in the sucking up process. I took a picture of the head guard stuffing money into his pockets, and we sped off down the road.

We had been held for two days, no food or water provided, no heat or comfort, no explanation, no phones or way to contact anyone, and no help from the guards or the Adventurists. Everyone came out of the holding pen speeding. A small booth selling insurance demanded everyone pay, our car stuck out middle fingers and didn’t slow down. No more bribes from us, that’s final! We pushed the car as fast as it would go on the gravel road out of town. We rounded the second bend and came to a screeching halt. The Belfast boys car was ahead of us in the ditch. Before the car had halted we were running down into the ditch. The boys were not there, the van was totaled and the windshield broken. Glass was everywhere, but half the insides of the van were gone. All of their bags, everything. They had left maybe 2 hours ahead of us. There was no blood inside the car. We packed up as much of their stuff as we could gather and fit in our trunk then set off towards UlaanBataar, hoping we’d find news along the way of the Belfast boys and return some of their stuff. We slowed down our car and drove carefully again.

What a harrowing two days, the worst of the rally. The Adventurists did not help us at all, what was the registration fee for? They had one job, one job in the entire rally and that was to make sure we imported the cars legally and quickly and they had failed. As a result, guns were pulled the night before on what could have been a horrible incident, and today the Belfast boys had crashed, probably doing just what we had done- sped out of the holding pen. It was unacceptable, and the Adventurists would be hearing about everyone’s anger and the danger they had put us in. Already one rallier had died, and they could have easily had several more deaths at the border and right outside it because no one cared that we were being held there, treated like animals, and robbed.

From the previous post you learned we had trouble getting through the various windows to get through Mongolian customs and border control. In fact, they were holding us (and about 20 other teams) in a cement and metal pen off to the side of the compound. We walked around asking what was going on and the other ralliers in the pen were livid and dripping with anger. The anger was raw and bubbling to the surface the longer the ralliers were held there. Everyone was lying to them and keeping them against their will in an inhumane pen, when all they wanted to do was get to UlaanBataar to donate their car and the money they had raised for charity. It was a classic case of doing good and being punished for it, they felt. I walked around talking to various teams for several hours. The consensus was that we were not getting out any time soon and that there was nothing to do but wait since we had literally no idea, as a group, what the problem was. Some teams had already called the Adventurists and reported that the adventurists had to pay a $900.00 fee per car to import them legally into Mongolia. The Adventurists said their bank account was not sufficient to pay for all of the cars at once, and indeed could only pay for a handful of cars each day. Another team heard a similar story but that they were drawing the money out of an account that had a withdraw limit per day, thus only a few cars a day could go through. The border guards refused to let the ralliers go on good faith, assuming the Adventurists would pay eventually. Meanwhile, the Adventurists distrusted the guards and refused to pay for teams that had not yet arrived since they thought the guards would keep the money and hold the ralliers. It was a catch 22. Apparently the Adventurists thought this arrangement was acceptable. The ralliers being held in a cement pen disagreed.

The first day, we arrived in the pen around 11:00am and once we figured out we’d be there a while we set up our tents to get out of the harsh summer sun. At night, we were told, it would drop to well below zero. Mike did not have a sleeping pad, so we dumped all of our clothes on the floor of the tent to make a bed to keep him off the cement. I ripped the back seat out of the car as my sleeping pad. We set up, expecting a freeze that night but sweating profusely during the hot daytime hours. Card games were played in the shade of the cars and another team had a poker game going. Someone had a guitar, and music was played until his fingers were sore, then the Belfast boys put on their Ipod and aimed the speakers at the compound.

We learned that we could leave but the cars couldn’t. Technically, then, they were not holding us against our will. We left the car in the holding pen and walked into the small border town. Not surprisingly, the locals took their cue from the guards and tried to rip us off. They charged triple the actual cost for anything we needed, knowing we were being held in the pen and needed food and water. Teams paid ridiculous prices for sustenance. I was too stubborn, so Mike and I cooked on our tniy stove in the holding pen and ate ramen.

That night, it did get cold, but not as cold as the previous night. The border guards came into the holding pen and several ralliers fell into their palms like sheep. They were obviously looking for hand-outs in exchange for supposed favor in the morning’s car pick (remember, only so many cars can go through a day). Ralliers fell over themselves sucking up to the guards, and put them in the limited camp chairs, stuffed American cigarettes in their mouths and poured them shots of good vodka. Mike and I didn’t participate, knowing they would leave and laugh and not give any favor in the morning to anyone who had given them money or gifts tonight. It was sick to watch the people who were the angriest and meanest in the pen, now sweetly talking to the guards and handing them coloring books for their children. At one point, the guards offered to bring in several Mongolian women if the ralliers were bored. Did I mention I was one of only two women in the holding pen? I was sickened by the whole show and went into my tent to read.

We waited in line with the Belfast Boys who had arrived at the Mongolian border before us until 9:00am. As the gates were ready to open, a local came up and told us we needed to move our cars out of the front of the line, go back 300 yards down the road, and register our passports with the authorities in the unmarked building down the way. We ignored them, since they had been trying to edge their cars around ours in line all night. Then, when a guard came up with the same instructions, we nearly lost it. “Why didn’t you tell us this at 5:00am, when we arrived?!” We soon found out why. The registration office opened at 9:00am, the gates opened at 9:00am, so no one in line had registered but the catch was Mongolians didn’t need to, nor did the Russians—so we were the only ones in line still jumping through hoops. We ran to the office then sat outside waiting until it officially ticked 9:01am. We quickly registered, jumped in the cars and… the guards motioned the Mongolians behind us through first. This wasn’t going to be an easy day, we could tell already.

We ended up through the gates by 10:00am. The Russians checked our passports, again the guards did not think the childish and somewhat chubby face on Mike’s passport picture was actually him—the dirty, bearded, thin man standing before them. It didn’t help that he was exhausted and looked older than he was. Eventually they let him through, but not after calling over every guard in the establishment to weigh in on their opinion. Bill and Lauren made it through easily and waited in the car while the Russians searched through the trunk. The head man was on site that morning, so the guards did a great job of looking without touching or taking, which made it the easiest Russian border crossing yet. Thanks, boss man!

We started driving through no-man’s land. This is usually a 1-3k empty area, a demilitarized zone agreed to by both parties. This no-man’s land was much more. We drove for ten minutes through barren hills covered and re-covered in barbed wire. The roads were the only passable part of the area so that nothing could drive across except on the roads. Guards (from which country, we don’t know) were laying more barbed wire, as if there were not enough deterrents already. A mid-way station revealed that we get a slip of paper showing we drove through legally. A friendly Russian and friendlier Mongolian both signed the car with our Sharpi marker, and waved us cheerily on.

A few minutes down the road we arrived at the Mongolian border. It consisted of a long line of cars waiting outside a fenced-in compound. This was odd since not that many cars had passed us at the Russian border, some of these cars came from elsewhere or from the day before. At 10:30 I met Betty, a Mongolian border guard who speaks decent English. We chatted for half an hour about her family, my family, and life in Mongolia. I introduced her to the team, and the Belfast boys. Meanwhile, a man had some up to the team and demanded money for driving the cars through the ‘disinfectant pool’ which was apparently a huge puddle of dirty, feces-filled water behind us. We refused to pay, as it was so ludicrous it was actually laughable but as Bill had showed him our car registration the man had grabbed it and run off into his office. He would return the registration for a small fee. Let me stop here. On the entire Mongol Rally we’ve avoided paying any bribes, any pay-outs or favors. This would be a first. I went into the office and slammed my hand on the desk and demanded it back, I ran after Betty and she advised us just to pay, as it was a small amount. I returned to the crap-pool and told the guard it made our car dirty and the fee was equal to the fee he demanded for dirtying our car. None of this worked and eventually Bill and Mike demanded I just pay the small bribe, so I pulled out one $USD and slammed it on the table in a small pile of food and fly gut residue. He was irate but I snatched the registration and walked away. So much for a bribe-free trip, and for a disinfectant wash that is probably corroding the bottom of the car?

We eventually made it through the gate Betty was guarding, and were instructed to park in front of the customs building. Once inside, you’ll never guess what happened. I’ll tell you, but I think you already know. They handed us a form called an ‘official health declaration’ which we filled out claiming we were healthy and sane. They wanted $5 USD to accept the form. You can’t process a visa without it and they wouldn’t accept it without the money. Yet another fake fee. The old woman smiled and knew she was going to get the money eventually. Yet again I yelled and smashed my hand on various desks. “Where here for charity, we raised money to help Mongolia, we’re donating our car to you to help raise more money for charity and yet you steal from us?” It was greeted with a lame, semi-toothless smile. She understood me.

Next in line was a lady who would stamp your visas and passport. Americans don’t need a visa for Mongolia (we donate huge sums of money in the form of aid) so we just got a stamp while the Brits and Irish had their visas checked. There was no fee here, which was a welcomed change, but we had one more window to go, so I wasn’t reforming my opinions about the Mongolian border guards just yet.

The final window was to register the car as being imported into Mongolia. There was a fee here… a $900.00 one! Since we had signed up with the rally we gave the Adventurists, (the body that organized the entire Mongol Rally) a deposit to pay this fee for us, and then when the car is sold they make that money back. However, this was the part that ended up costing us a bit of sanity and several days of our lives. Either the Adventurists refused to pay until they had already sold some of the cars in UlaanBataar, or the guards where holding out for a massive bribe. There was no way to know, even after calling the Adventurists we got the feeling we were being played by them as well. We were told to move our cars into the holding pen down the road. We checked this out. It was a cement platform with a cage around it. Two out houses 150yards away were the only facilities on hand. There was no water, no access to food in the compound, and nowhere to go. We pulled our cars into the pen, joining roughly twenty other cars that had been parked there for quite a while. Tents were assembled around the cars so that very little room was left. People walked around discussing what to do, some had their camp chairs out and were cooking breakfast, others played soccer against the fence or worked on their cars. Some people looked to have been there a long while. I walked around and asked what the deal was. Here was the raw deal we got in exchange for raising money for the Mongolians:

We were to wait in the pen until the border guards issued a form saying we could legally import the car into Mongolia. The guards claimed the Adventurists refused to pay the car import fee of $900.00, while the Adventurists insisted they were paying for 10 -20 cars a day (which would still leave several teams stranded for multiple days). There is no way to know the truth since it turned out the Adventurists were as corrupt as the guards. What happened over the next two days while we were held in this pen on the Steppe will shock you, so I’ve set it into another post entirely. Prepare yourselves to be shocked!

Before leaving Tashkent I spent several hours pouring over countless maps of Kazakhstan and Russia, trying to work out the best route to Mongolia. Since we rested a week in Tashkent, we had the added benefit of being able to read other team’s reports online, and the reports on road conditions in Kazakhstan were not favorable. One report in particular, from a team called Yak to the Future, told us that the roads straight North-East from Uzbekistan were so bad that it was actually easier and better for the car to just drive off-road. With some 1,500k to cover in Kazakhstan, our little Saxo would not be able to handle the abuse. Already, the car’s frame was cracking, the back tires rubbed noisily on the wheel wells, and the gear linkage popped out freely over big bumps. Our car simply carried too much weight over imperfect roads. We couldn’t take that risk. So, I continued to look at maps.

Eventually an alternative plan emerged. I decided to take our team some 700k out of the way on good roads, which would save the car and only cost us the additional gas money. Since fuel in Kazakhstan is relatively cheap, it was a good trade off. We would avoid Almaty and head towards Astana, cutting east before the city and bearing south-east and then north to Russia. It was a hell of a long way out of the way, but after hours of online research about the road conditions, I discovered that in 2007 the road I had chosen was refinished, making it a much, much smarter bet than the ancient panel-style cement roads that cut straight towards Russia.

We set off on our new route on the morning of the 23rd, with plans to make the Mongolian border in less than 5 days, with over 2,000k to travel across rough terrain with three border crossings. We were feeling optimistic. The road we chose turned out to be a good decision. We were essentially on highway for three days, with only intermittent dinosaur-sized pot holes. The worn ridges from semis on the roads remained, so that you were driving on the crest of two cement waves for the duration of Kazakhstan.

We easily crossed into Russia after a few days of non-stop driving, camping at night, and eating limited camp food at night. It was more work than play to cover that kind of distance. The Russian border, though we had heard it would be difficult and the guards had already acquired a reputation for demanding bribes, turned out to be a breeze for us. The only snag was that with his beard, the guards did not think Mike was the same boy from his passport pictures. After several minutes of laughing with them and threatening to shave on the spot, they let us pass. We looked at the map and made a snap decision. It was still early and we had made it through the border, we stopped in the first town to eat and take a short break, refill on groceries and water, and hit the road. We ran into another team that was aiming for the Mongolian border some 1000k away by nightfall.

The Mongolian border closes on weekends. We suddenly realized it was Thursday. If we drove until we arrived at the border we might, just might, make it through before closing time on Friday. We revved up the 1.1 liter engine and drove through the night, arriving at the Russian border at 4am. A team from Belfast was in front of us in line, we slept in the car for a few hours and at ten am we again greeted Russian border guards, but this would be the last time we’d see Russians in a long while, so we endeavored to enjoy the experience.

There is something very strange about the way humans approach booze, and how each nation address alcohol both politically and culturally in extremely unique ways. For example, in America we make it illegal for anyone under 21 to buy alcohol. However, when you do reach that age there is a massive party wherein your first introduction to the drink is compounded by the fact that everyone you know comes out to the bar to get you intoxicated. It is a right of passage, a coming of age ritual and a test of one’s man or womanhood. After that fateful night, drinking in America takes on a purely social atmosphere, and no real gathering is complete without it and every gathering with liquor is somewhat more casual because of the addition. Our time in Europe showed the same to be true, though with a bit less of an adherence to drinking ages. Not so elsewhere.

In China, where we’ve spent quite a bit of time, there seems to be no legal age (although officially it is 18-19). You can often find youths drinking at the bars who appear to be quite young. And in fact no one is ever ‘carded’ in China. Contrary to what most people might assume, this does not breed an atmosphere ripe for degradation. Chinese youths hardly ever take their lax drinking rules for granted, nor do they abuse the booze at a young age, as would be expected if we suddenly made the drinking age 18 in the USA. There is, however, a similar ‘right of passage’ for most Chinese males that involves alcohol. At banquets (which are the preferred method of congregation) everyone sits around a round table, and the person of honor goes around the table and does a small glass of beer  or rice wine with every guest. This makes the guest of honor extremely drunk, and this is something to be quite proud of and admired (on special occasions, only). This often prompts Chinese men to approach Mike and ask, “How many beers can you drink?” Which, of course, Mike did not know the answer to at first. Now it appears this is a staple of maleness, though I cannot stress enough that it seems to happen only in large groups. By the way, the Chinese way of saying ‘cheers’ is “gan-bei” which literally means ’empty glass’ or ‘bottoms up.’ which they take literally when drinking beer. Another interesting bit of drinking culture in China– the person of more status should always have their glass slightly higher when clinking it with someone glasses. So, if you are not the guest of honor, your goal is to touch the top of your glass with the bottom of theirs. This results in fun games where people try to show honor to each other by putting their glasses lower. I saw one group of men putting their glasses on the floor to clink them, showing no one was higher than the other. Here is an example from a Chinese TV show:

In Central Asia we found drinking to be somewhat deplorable. Even worse than a man drinking is a woman drinking, and on the rare occasions I ordered a beer in public I could sense eyes judging me. However, we did notice quite a few drunk people on the streets at night, which means it is an underbelly sort of activity reserved for underbelly types. This obviously wasn’t the case in the major cities we visited in Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, but definitely in smaller towns drinking seemed to be a big no-no!

In Mongolia, drinking is a large part of life. We stayed with a family in their ger for three days and nights, and the husband attempted to get us intoxicated on a nightly basis. He would drink after dinner and smoke Pal Mall unfiltered outside his ger as he looked up at the stars. This cowboy lifestyle works well for them and they are extremely happy. Meanwhile, their drinking culture is very inclusive, they pull in everyone and the goal is to have as much fun as possible. There was little segregation because of my gender, and contrary to what I assumed, they welcomed me into their poker game almost immediately. When we left to get on the bus on our final day, our host bought us a round of beers which we all chugged before climbing aboard for a 3 hour ride (big mistake!). Alcohol is used as a social tool to make people happy, include more people into the gathering, and draw everyone into one ger for warmth, entertainment (no TVs out on the steppe) and hours of story telling and card playing.

We’re not experts on these cultures or their drinking habits, but that is what we observed while traveling around from place to place and trying to experience these cultures in the ways they exist when no one is watching.

Mongolians

Having done quite a bit of research on how to find sponsors for our team in the 2010 Mongol Rally, we thought it might be helpful to write about the process for other folks in the rally, or similar adventures.

Step one – analysis. We read as much information as was possible on the Mongol Rally, including the main demographic, audience, marketability, legality, etc. Once we were confident we could easily explain even the most obscure details of the rally, we moved on. We even purchased and read the only book published by a former rally adventurer.

Step two – organize. We created an excel spreadsheet and brainstormed backwards, thinking about the items our team would need on the rally and then compiling a list of companies that might be interested in sponsoring us. Our spreadsheet was broken down into sectors, like ‘camping equipment’ for example, and then companies, like ‘REI’, and then their contact information so we can keep track of our correspondence with each potential sponsor.

Step three — proposal. We created a snazzy sponsorship proposal that compiled information on the rally, our team, our charity and then listed how sponsors could benefit by helping out our team and charity. Then we sent the proposal to the companies in our spreadsheet from step two.

Step four – press. While contacting sponsors, we also created a spreadsheet for potential press and media coverage, and set about contacting local and international media about our team and the event. After the creation of the proposal, we simply morphed the same document into a mini press kit for interested media affiliates.

Step five—website SEO. While all of this was going on, we maintained the website and blog, and did a bit of much-needed SEO, including some link building and revamping the landing page and Mongol Rally page of our site, gearing them towards the rally and securing sponsorships.

Step six – phone calls. While all of these documents and online work can go a long way towards endearing the team to potential sponsors, nothing is as meaningful as a phone call. We followed up all potential sponsor leads with calls, because in the end it is about people helping people, and the human element is the most essential one.

Good luck with your own fund-raising, and have fun!

Mercy Corps Mongolia helps these folks

Last weekend I saw an episode of Conan on Late Night where Ben Stiller wore the stillerstrong.org headband. It made me realize our targets in fundraising have been grossly underscored. While they are ripping off Lance Armstrong’s Livestrong philosophy, it still seems to be raising an astronomical amount of funds. I feel like all I need is one big celebrity to get Mercy Corps Mongolia a crap-load of money for their good deeds back on the old’ Steppe.

We want to raise a ton of money for our charity and for our team, and if any celebrity out there still has the balls to take on Ben Stiller and Lance Armstrong to fight for the greatest charity (and the coolest team in the Mongol Rally), then don’t hesitate to contact me. I’m more than willing (and capable) of standing up to these Hollywood giants to fight the celebrity charity stand-off this Christmas season to win it all for Mercy Mongolia and for the Mongol Rally and Abandon the Cube. Bring it on, Hollywood!

Mongol Rally Logo

Lauren and Mike landed a team in the Mongol Rally 2010! We’re in the process of picking a few team members, looking for sponsors, and planning our route. You can follow all of our progress via the blog, but we’ll also be creating a Mongol Rally page on our website soon with updates and more information.

The Mongol Rally is a charity event wherein each team (500 total) take a 1 liter car from Europe to Mongolia to donate the car to charity along with $1500 for Mercy Corps. We’re overwhelmed with glee that we get to participate in the event this year, having witnessed several teams from the 2009 rally while in Turkmenistan. It is a once-in-a-lifetime, crazy event and it’s for a good cause.

Our team, the Abandon the Cube team, is conjoined with the Not Cubists team from Yelm, Washington. We’re busy with the preliminary aspects of putting together two winning cars with one winning strategy to make it to Mongolia in our perfectly unsuitable, tiny little cars.

More information on the Mongol Rally  or for other volunteer experiences, see our “Events ” drop-down menu.

To sponsor us, or if you have ideas for sponsors please send us an email at lauren (at) abandonthecube.com or mike (at) abandonthecube.com

The next morning we awoke to the sounds of horses. Billig had brought in a rather large brown horse for the evening, and he had strolled around the yard all night eating every blade of grass and then leaving large piles of evidence strewn about, which the two dogs were rolling in when I stepped out of the yurt. I walked near the horse to say hello, sleep still in my eyes. The horse pivoted with such grace and speed that I hardly had time to react before it shifted all its weight to its front legs and kicked ferociously back with both hind legs. Mike was just stepping out of the yurt and yelled a too-late warning. The back leg kicked millimeters past my fragile skull and landed harmlessly back on the grassless ground. Startled, I realized that this was the second near-miss by a horse in as many days.

Trans-Siberian railway

Nevertheless, we asked Billig for horses for the day and walked into town while we waited for our mystery meal and for Billig to collect the horses from a friend. In town (which was a good mile hike) we bough the necessary provisions for a long ride, namely, a giant bottle of vodka and some orange juice to mix it with. On the mile walk back, we split the two bottles half and half and set about emptying them into our bellies. We were starving, our stomachs were raw from devouring mysterious substances for the past several days, and in town we could not find anything other than a large round loaf of bread to purchase for sustenance.

Back at camp we had carrots and noodles spiced with a tar-like substance I can only imagine was reheated dog. We chewed on wild onion shoots and looked across the kiddy table at each other. Mike looked ragged, tired and diseased; dark circles nearly eclipsed his blood-shot eyes. Still, he was an attractive man and I could not help but smile at what he had gone through the previous night for me. Wife had served a bowel of raw yogurt to the both of us, being lactose intolerant Mike slyly ate both his and mine, and as a result had spent the evening frequenting the outhouse via flashlight. Romance at its finest– or at least, romance on the steppe.

Billig returned with two horses, a small brown one which I presumed was mine and a large glorious grey one which could only, in this male chauvinist culture, be meant for Mike. Billig was not alone; he had a rather cheery Asian accomplice with him who he introduced as his Japanese friend. The two had met while Billig was looking for gold with the American. I wanted to learn more about the gold hunting, but would wait until later to ask.

Billig and the Japanese man (who was in a purple track suit) pulled out several bottles of beer and poured glasses for the men. Mike interjected and calmly and politely explained that white women also drank. Everyone in the yurt thought this was amazingly funny, and the Japanese man laughed as he poured me a full bowel of beer. We clinked and clanked bowels and all downed our drinks. Wife sat in the corner laughing and batting her eyes at Billig. He asked her to drink, but she said it was bad for her skin, and declined.

We drank several beers before another strange man arrived. This man was clad in traditional Mongolian gear, with a large cloth jacket tied on with a sash belt that also held a giant dagger. He wore a cowboy hat and had a long blade of grass between his teeth. He was fairly handsome, and Wife blushed as he walked in. Billig introduced him as the horse man, the until now supplier of our previous day’s brutes. Billig also explained that his wife had a massive crush on the cowboy, and he poured the man a bowel of beer and joked that his wife would someday ‘change to the other one,’ meaning the handsome cowboy. I thought that if Marlboro could have signed this lad, they would have won as many hearts as smokers. The man had brought the horses for us while we were off gathering booze, and had returned with saddles. It had started to rain and he and Wife went out and collected the saddles and set them in the yurt.

We drank a bit more, chewed our dog meat, and then the Japanese man in the track suit asked if white women also gambled. Mike assured him that they did and I found myself playing a very confusing local Mongolian variety of poker. Somehow I managed to beat Billig, though with the Japanese man’s help and constant cheering to assist me.

Tipsy and a bit lethargic, Mike and I mounted our horses and decided to go as far into the valley as we could before sunset. Already it was 11am and we were on the verge of being useless thanks to the endless bowel clanking. Wife set off across the fields with a bucket and the cowboy, Japanese man and Billig all got in a small white car (when had that arrived?) and took off spinning in circles, across the fields for town.

-Posted by Lauren.

Lady on wheel

Tipsy and aboard a very stubborn and slow horse, I became angry at the brute for not obeying my drunken commands to go faster. Mike laughed at me and my silly little horse while he strode confidently atop a giant beautiful stallion. We carried on in this manner for about an hour before the beautiful scenery sobered us up and we sat in awe of the majestic mountains and streams that surrounded us. Taking it slowly to absorb the view, we headed deep into the rugged valley, the horses stepping over corpses of horses along the way.

We passed several other yurt camps, some with as many as twenty small felt yurts in a circle around an open fire, some as small as a single yurt and a lean-to shed for the goats. We trekked up several rather large hills before finally spotting our turn around point—the largest hill in the distance, its top covered in fog and invisible.

Mike took the hill at a jog, my stubborn ass-like horse ambled up slowly behind and I arrived atop the hill a full ten minutes behind Mike. When I got off my inbred horse, I tied the brute to a tree and looked around for Mike. In the distance I saw something out of the ordinary and walked in that direction. Mike was lying on his belly looking over the edge of the hill. Upon hearing me approach he rolled over and pulled me on top of him, all smiles. “Would you look at that!” he quipped, pointing down the opposite hillside. A large herd of wild horses were grazing slowly up the valley, herding their young fawns in the middle. Mike’s tears were moist, though he tried to hide that fact from me, and I was amazed that such wild things still existed.

After stalling on the hillside long enough, we set off back towards camp at a slow jog. Mike switched horses with me after a bit and I took off at a full sprint atop the beautiful stallion, I turned him quickly, had him chase goats, ran him towards yurt camps and then away, raced up hillsides and generally had the wind blowing back every strand of my hair. I made a wide circle and raced back towards Mike, who was sitting grumpy atop my stupid half-donkey horse. He cheered up as I approached; apparently I had a splattered bug on my forehead. I didn’t care. I steered the giant horse and ran in circles around Mike. After a while the horse and I tired of the charade and Mike tired of the ass. We switched again and I felt trapped atop the slow pack animal. Finally we reached the camp, exhausted and sore in the hind regions from bouncing in the saddle. Neither of us knew how to ride properly, and we had bounced around for the past two days pulverizing our rear ends.

When we reached the camp we had to pack. Today was our last day in the national park. It was a sad packing session, and we hurriedly threw everything into bags so we could spend the last few moments saying goodbye to the dogs and horses before heading to town to find Billig and Wife. We set off across the field and saw the couple flirting in the distance as they headed in our direction. They were tickling each other and laughing as they approached, unashamed to be so affectionate in front of us. Billig asked Mike to step into the white car with him, it was 100 or so yards back in the field. Mike and Billig set off while I waited on a bench in town. Wife had gone back after a cheery goodbye, to make more yogurt because her mother was visiting the camp that afternoon.

Mike and Billig sat in the back of the car while the cowboy and the Japanese man sat up front. I was extremely worried that something scary was happening inside the car, and I was terrified for Mike. After about ten minutes Billig jumped out, yelled something into the car and jogged away. Mike came over and sat on the bench with me. The cowboy sat guarding us while the Japanese man idled in the driver sat of the car. Mike was contemplative and looked tired. I asked what had happened, but just then Billig appeared holding three beers. He smiled and downed a beer, sharing it generously with an elderly man sitting on the bench near us. We all drank our beers, exchanged addresses and the Billig set off across the field waving goodbye. Mike explained that he had paid a bit more than he was comfortable with for the use of the horses to the cowboy, but that Billig was reasonable and fair, and the whole trip had cost a fraction of what we had budgeted.

We boarded a bus and prayed it would hold together. It jumped and creaked the whole way back to Ulan Bator, where we said goodbye to the driver and jumped on a plane back to Shanghai. It was another tumultuous flight that left me gasping into a barf-bag and ecstatic when we finally landed back on the ground—where humans are meant to be.

-Posted by Lauren.

The next morning we awoke early and asked Billig about borrowing a few horses. He pulled out his cell phone and made a few calls as he paced the yard, the dogs close behind. ‘Wife’ was gone when we awoke, but she appeared after a call from her husband, from across the field, carrying a bucket of sloshing milk, again dressed in high heels and a skirt, and a low-cut shirt. She made the milk into yogurt and made Mike and I a nice breakfast of noodles, meat and bits of carrot. It was strikingly similar to the previous nights dinner. She pulled out two reeds of wild onion and showed us how to nibble on the end of it between bites for added flavor.

Teeth brushing

Billig said it would be a few hours before horses would arrive, as he needed to secure his horses from a friend who was using them for work that day. We decided to climb the nearby hills while we waited, and set off towards the tallest hill. Walking vertically among pine trees we marveled at the amount of skeletons we crossed, some horse but mostly cattle. Had they perhaps slipped on the slopes and broken a leg? Was the meat devoured by Mongolia’s infamous wolf packs? We side-stepped piles of dung and bones to reach the peak of a rather massive hill overlooking the valley. Small yurt camps were visible in the distance as well as Billig’s three-yurt camp at the base of the hill. Smoke was already pouring out of the tops of several yurts in the distance and it was a truly calming and beautiful sight.

We descended when we saw Billig return to the yurt with several horses in tow. Once back at the camp, Billig showed us how to get on a horse form the left side only, and to pull back to stop. He said the word ‘chir’ meant ‘go’ and that we should cry that word authoritatively and kick with our heels to make the beast run. I did as instructed and my Mongolian mustang took off at a gallop, nearly leaving my pelvis in ruin. Mike’s horse was not far behind. Billig slapped his hand against his forehead, shook his head, and went into his yurt with his dogs. I’m sure we looked ridiculous, having only ridden a horse on a few occasions in the past.

We walked our horses down a green fertile valley. It was, perhaps, too fertile, and the river overtook the valley leaving no room to ride. We backtracked up the hill and went the other way, past the yurt camp. Up a soft, rolling set of hills we saw a herd of goats, and decided to round them up, cowboy style. We yelped and rushed, but the goats were not frightened, and after a bit we gave up the silly task and decided to scale the hill on horseback. From atop the hill we could see an entire new section of the national park. It was all forests and lakes, with the aforementioned river parting the valley. Birch trees spotted the green with dots of white, and a clear blue sky was spotted with hawks.

After resting atop the hill for some time, we headed back down. Now, at this point its fair to mention that I have been thrown off of every horse I have ever been on, and have always felt that horses were evil. My sister, an avid equestrian, mocks me as not dedicated to the horse’s needs, however, I think they are just unamused at being harnessed and forced to carry other mammals. As we descended the hill I was thinking that my sister would love this horse-filled adventure. Just was I was thinking about this, my horse lurched forward and I was tossed haphazardly off the horse, head-first, saddle and all.

Mike laughed and rushed over to help me up. We looked at the saddle. Unsure about how to reattach it to the beast’s belly. I remembered seeing my sister lift a flap and pull a strap, so with this motto in mind, i tried to refit the contraption. It was lose, but doable. A reign had split in the fall, so I tied off some rope and made a makeshift device to steer the brute back towards camp. When we hit level ground I switched horses with Mike and took his rather large, yellow-hided horse at a full gallop across the fields, screaming ‘chir’ as I gently tapped his belly with my heels. It was exhilarating. Mike caught up on the makeshift horse and we trotted home. Bum-bruised and happy.

Mike on a horse

Dinner was ready when we arrived and we cleaned up the horses and sat down at the kiddi table. The meat was a rather strange, chewy tasteless thing that was mixed (not surprisingly) with bits of carrot and noodles. After a long day of activity we were famished and devoured the meal. After we were finished Mike noticed that Wife’s plate was devoid of noodle and carrot, but all the meat pieces were pushed to the side and uneaten. He then noticed that the freezer that the meat was stored in was unplugged. Wife said it was always unplugged during the day, so as to save on electricity. Our jaws dropped open. Mike’s stomach began to turn and I gulped down my tea hoping it would counteract the bad meat.

Standing outside in the yard playing with the dogs after the meal, I asked Wife if Mongolians ate dog. She said, “of course!” and motioned towards the freezer. “Last year mother of Kazak die. Very strange. Good dog. Good mother. Die sudden. Much eating.” My jaw dropped for the second time that evening. We had just eaten Kazak’s mother, who had died of mysterious causes suddenly and been resting in her final tomb- an unplugged freezer– since early that year. Mike ran to the outhouse and returned with a grimace a half hour later. “Well, at least we can say we tried dog.”

-Posted by Lauren.

Our home

Once we had arrived in the capital of the national park, which was just called Terelij, a very Russian sounding name for a town full of Russian influence, we found a kind man with a boyish face named Billig who took us to his yurt camp and installed us in his spare yurt. No prices were mentioned as he called his wife on his razor cell phone and a beautiful Mongolian woman set off across a vast empty field in high heels and a denim skirt and introduced her self as ‘wife.’ The couple spoke little English, but what they could speak they had learned from a children’s English manual Billig had gleaned while working with a gold exploration company that also employed an American.

Billig’s camp was composed of three large yurts. A yurt is a round tent made of sheep’s wool with a tiny wooden door and a hole in the top for a small pot-belly stove. The floors inside were bare cement atop dirt, and the walls were pieces of wood holding up the felt. Our yurt had several wooden beds with blankets folded atop them as beds. A small stove in the center and a table that was no higher than a foot off the ground with mini chairs to match. Billig showed us the yurt with great pride, pointing out the great construction and bright colors and especially showing us a blanket from Kazakhstan, his home country.

Inside our yurt

His wife cooked the small group a nice meal of noodles and mystery meat with tiny pieces of carrot and giant bowels of goat yogurt. She talked slowly but with pride. She had gone to university in the country’s capital and studied finance. She listed the words she knew in English, “Book, eat, much, woman, husband, money, bank and food.” She was a wonderful wife, and the two were like teenagers with their constant side-long glances, giggling, kissing and occasional prodding. Billig pretended to taunt the woman by demanding she cook us a delicious meal. She responded with mock hurt before throwing a wad of noodles at her husband.

The couple had two rather massive dogs, which Billig claimed were his sole hobby and passion. A German shepherd named Bruno and a rather scary bull named Kazak. The giant dogs rested their chins on the door frame while we ate dinner, and after the meal attacked their owner with friendly play and he wrestled them in his small, fenced in yard. The yurt camp looked out over rolling hills, a large empty field lay before that and several horses grazed in the area. An outhouse lay 200 yards out in the filed, and the wife took off in that direction, throwing clumps of sod back at the dogs as she went.

That evening, exhausted form the march from the broken-down bus to the town, we fell asleep soundly in the hard wooden beds, near a warm natural fire in the cleanest and most beautiful air we had breathed in years. It was as if we were in heaven. Billig and his wife knew how lucky they were to have such a place, in such a perfect location, and the couple stood in their yard starring at the stars and smooching as we slept.

-posted by Lauren.

Broken bus

The station no longer existed but we heard a rumor that one bus a day went out to the national park. We had missed the bus for that day so a friendly lady near the bus stop walked us to her apartment, which was also a hostel, and we stayed with her that evening, watching a film in Russian and drinking vinegar vodka. She arranged for us to take the bus the next morning, and swore that a friend of her family’s would meet us at the end of the bus route and take us to her family’s yurt (ger) up in the mountains for a few days. We eagerly agreed.

We awoke early, visited Ulan Bator’s famous Buddhist temple, walked more around the depressing city, starred at the nuclear power plants and saw the Trans-Siberian tracks. After a tasty but plain meal we finally boarded the one-a-day bus to Terelj, Mongolia’s national park. We were to meet up with our contact when the bus stopped. Speaking not a word of Mongolian, we boarded the bus and sat staring out the windows as we rolled out of Ulan Bator. The bus became so crowded the the entire isle was filled with people, chickens, babies and boxes. We rode for what felt like hours until finally, after two stops in the middle of nowhere where several people had disembarked, the bus sputted, coughed and came to a complete stop amid beautiful pine trees and rolling green hills. After twenty minutes the bus driver admitted the engine was kaput, and we all grabbed our bags and began walking. Nobody knew how far until the next town, we set off at a determined march that slowly degenerated into an idle stroll, and, after a fairly decent climb, we arrived at a township in the middle of the park where we decided to grab a beer and make a new plan. Meeting up with our contact was now impossible, as the bus had broken down and we did not know where we were, let alone where the contact was.

-Posted by Lauren.

In typical fashion, Mike and I had an impulse one afternoon and decided to see if we could go up to Mongolia to renew our visas. In China on our tourist visas we could only stay in the country for 90 days at a time, and had to vacate the country every 90 days in order to stay legal. Our legal time was running out on our current stay and we needed to exit the country fast. Usually our companies sent us to Hong Kong, which is a cheap trip with a quick turn around so we can be back in the office, exhausted or not, in less than two days.

Air China flight

Our impulse was to see if we could convince our companies to send us to Mongolia instead. It was a bit of a reach, but somehow– it worked! It would be slightly cheaper to go to Mongolia than Hong Kong, so we sold them on that idea. Once I had the okay from my boss, I had my company secretary book our flights and called Mike. He agreed, told his boss he would be in a yurt in the north, and would try to be back Monday morning. We rushed home, threw a few shirts in a bag and headed outside. After a quick stop to buy hiking boots we were at the airport, maneuvering through security. We knew virtually nothing about Mongolia, nor did we have a guide of any sort.

The flight to Ulan Bator, the capital, was tumultuous and terrifying and I felt exhausted when the plane finally touched down on a sand-covered runway. The Genghis Khan airport had one entrance for planes and one exit for passengers, we exchanged a bit of Chinese currency for Tughriks and grabbed a cab to the city center to hunt for a hostel. Our cab driver had gold teeth and tried to swindle us for almost triple what the fare should have been. We paid a reasonable amount amid loud, crow-drawing complaints and entered a hostel.

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Ulan Bator, sucking in the worst pollution imaginable and starring at broken down factories and dejected, sad looking locals. It was truly the most depressing city we have ever encountered. Vowing to get out as soon as possible we returned to the hostel, packed out bags and headed to the bus station.

-posted by Lauren.