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The Motorcycle Diaries
Our decrepit motorcycle jolted and bounced along an abandoned horse track, its sidecar perilously overloaded with food and camping gear. In the distance, a knotted swirl of peaks and valleys grew closer, blocking the return to the Mongolian capital of Ulaanbaatar. These are the central ranges of Khangai Nuruu, birthplace of Mongolia’s longest river. My girlfriend, Christine, and I had watched the mysterious mountains rise on the horizon for days. We’d already endured 25 days on a World War II-style Russian motorcycle across the rugged grasslands to the north and the sun-baked Gobi to the south. Skirting this final obstacle would hardly be sporting, but no roads enter the Khangai Nuruu, only a foggy network of paths. With no map, no compass and no GPS, how could we find our way? The range is more than 200 kilometres long and almost as wide. You might wonder why we were in the wilds of Asia with no map, compass or GPS. The answer lies in the greatest tradition of the nomadic herdsmen: tireless generosity. In Mongolia’s humbling expanses of nothingness, we often found ourselves lost but never alone. In a country with no fences and little privately owned land, one-third of the population continues to live a semi-nomadic lifestyle. Thirty million goats, sheep, yaks, cattle and camels graze every arable crevice. Scan any distant ridge with binoculars, and a horseman in traditional robes will be peering back through a Russian spyglass. Stop for a picnic, and hordes of children will materialize. Unless you’re an exhibitionist, never skinny-dip in Mongolia. Everyone we met wanted us to visit. In the valleys, weathered white tents sprouted like giant puffballs. At the sound of our approaching engine, entire families emerged from the gers (yurts) to wave us down. Others took up chase on horseback, galloping for kilometres to cut us off. Even if we’d wanted to, these invitations were impossible to refuse. Entering darkened tents, we stepped back through centuries. Urns of salty tea, yogurt, soft cheese, fresh blood sausages and goat heart materialized. Last come frothy barrels of airag, fermented mare’s milk that is tastier than it sounds – and dizzying. This unadorned life is in sharp contrast to Ulaanbaatar’s nascent fascination with modernity. Change has yet to envelop the countryside, yet listen carefully and you can hear whispers. |
