Mongolia 2

September 4, 2006

On The Road

Shadows are strange, secret and magic things.  As we drove away from Harhorin, almost 400 km from Ulaan Baatar, I was obsessed with the following shadow of Max, Janet and me.  The sun now, once a molten red apparition on the low hills to the east was now almost silver.  A crow flashed silver as it took flight, wings changing in an instant from black to silver.  The road ahead showing silver in the distance but the long black shadow consumed my interest.

What was hidden in the shadows of my mind, what was in Janet’s mind?  I wondered about the impact of Harhorin because it became more than just a place to visit and move on?  Would I, would we ever know?

“The road is paved all the way to Harhorin.”  This was great news because we had already tried the dirt track leading out of Zamin Uud and failed after only 25 km.  I was not looking to punish Max any more.  Now it was to be “…slowly, slowly, slowly” as Frank had told us on the ride out of Beijing.  The road was rough and bumpy, not unlike the Chinese roads I had ridden for two years and that was OK. 

The only bad thing was that we had left late.  We had to take the time to send the airline tickets back to Ella because I knew I would not arrive in Istanbul in time to return to Changchun for the last week of September and I had to send the clutch plate back to Jim.  Sending mail can be a problem.  We don’t know the services available at the post office, can’t make our wishes understood and they can’t tell us what we need to know.  Everything is difficult when one can neither speak, read nor write.

We climbed the lazy curves and steep hills heading west out of Ulaan Baatar.  Max was doing well and we were happy to finally be on the move—too many idle days.  “Harhorin?”  I asked.  A blank stare.  “Chinggis Kahn?” I added to the man squatting beside the road.  Then a sign of recognition and he pointed to the direction I was to follow.  The road was getting bumpier but it was still paved and we pressed on.

Larger pot holes and many more of them now.  Our speed has slowed substantially and my thought of arriving quickly was quickly fading.  As we crested one hill the holes became so frequent that we couldn’t avoid them any more.  They also became substantially larger and deeper.  Janet was getting tired so we decided to stop for the evening.  I was also having trouble shifting and didn’t want to force anything.  I would look at it in the morning.  A dirt track led off into the grass and disappeared around a small hill.  “There, we’ll follow the track until we find a flat spot and camp there.”  As I maneuvered the bike onto a flat area large enough to accommodate the bike, tent and equipment I could feel the loss of power as one carb quit working—“SHIT!  I’ll take care of it tomorrow as well.”

It gets cold on the Mongolian plane in late August but with the late rising of the sun, everything warms nicely in a clear blue sky.  I wasn’t sure if I was having trouble with the transmission or the clutch.  I had been hearing strange sounds for the last part of the afternoon as we began to encounter larger pot holes in the road so I decided to simply change the transmission fluid to see if that would help.  A small hole dug, I removed the plug and let the fluid drain and then filled the transmission with new fluid.  Then I thought I would check the clutch cable.

The adjustment was wrong.  I don’t know if these things stretch or not but there was too much play and the throw out rod was not moving the clutch plate.  Replacing the cable would be no problem.  The first cable I put in broke immediately.  The next one would not fit because it had a nub that wouldn’t fit into the slot in the clutch lever on the handlebars.  Finally the third one fit but the nut on the slotted bolt was too big and wouldn’t engage the thread on the bolt.  So much for Chinese quality and quality control.

I removed the cable of the broken clutch cable and removed a strand of wire about six inches long, wrapped it twice around the slotted bolt and twisted it so that it fit tightly against the nut.  Then by turning the bolt I was able to secure the nut against the arm that holds the assembly in place.  It worked.  But being someone that always seems to go for over-kill; I tool a longer three-strand piece of cable and fastened both sides of the slotted adjustment bolt just to be sure.  Time to test the fix.  I started the engine and sure enough, I had only one carb operational.  I looked down and found the right carb had slipped off the tube extending out of the cylinder—probably due to vibration.

I refastened the carb, started the engine and watched as the carb vibrate off again.  No matter how tight I tried to get the clamps, the carb would not hold.  I removed another three strand length of clutch cable and carefully wound it around the carb body and fastened it to the cylinder.  It held when I started the engine.  Maybe I’m learning more about field maintenance of motorcycles.

With Max packed and ready to go we headed off on the ‘paved’ road to Harhorin.  In the distance, huge dust clouds were rising from vehicles approaching us.  Why aren’t they on the paved road?

The road had so deteriorated that all vehicles had opted to make several tracks in the area adjacent to the road.  Now the vibrations started again as we began to follow the dirt tracks.  Again we hit bone jarring bumps and were thrown off the track and into the grass as the camber of the road drastically and immediately changed.  Finally, I learned to always take the far right track and ride on the far left.  Control was much easier but our speed had fallen dramatically.

Suddenly, it was as if some fairy godmother had touched the road with her magic wand, the holes disappeared, the invisible bumps were gone and we had good road, really good road ahead.  Our speed increased to about 55 km/h and my spirits soared.

I assumed that the road to Harhorin was straight ahead.  Our direction as indicated on the GPS bore no resemblance to what I had seen on the Garmin maps.  Finally, we found people  and asked, “Harhorin?  Ginggis Khan?”  We had missed a turn some 30 to 40 km back and then it was another 80 km from there.  Not too serious a mistake but a delay none the less.

We found the turn and started off to our final destination when Janet said, “Stop”.  She had had it.  I countered, “But we are only about 60 km from Harhorin.”  She wouldn’t have it, she couldn’t continue.  Another dirt track leading off into the desert led us to a flat area and home for the night.

We had just finished eating when a motorcycle approached.  The man drove off the track and stopped; the woman on the back got off and approached.  I looked at his bike, he looked at Max.  We talked, both frustrated at not having more words but enjoying more understanding than communication.  We did learn that the woman was a doctor and I assume they were married.  Then they invited us to go back to their (I assume) ger for a drink of airag.

Airag is the traditional drink of Mongolia.  Made from fermented mare’s milk with about a 5% alcohol content, it is drunk both daily by all members of the family and as a welcome for new friends.  But it was getting late and I was too tired to think about a night of drinking.  We, as politely as we could, refused and called it a night.

The carb stayed in place, no more strange sounds from either clutch or transmission, and the sixty of so km behind us, Harhorin came into sight.  The structure dominating the plain is a large walled area with turret structures spaced evenly along all four walls.  At first I thought it was a reconstruction of Chinggis Khan’s ancient capital but later learned that it is the Erdene Zuu Museum and Monastery.  Only after I had gotten used to this impressive structure did I notice the town of Harhorin.  Really quite large for being so remote but then maybe tourism supports the population.

Harhorin

Our first priority was lunch.  I had been attracted to a large ger that I had seen after the visual impact of Erdene Zuu.  A quick right turn onto a paved road and then a left, down into a small gully brought us to the front door.  A hand gesture indicating food to pretty girl who appeared at the large double doors resulted in an invitation to enter.  A young man, William, appeared and made suggestions in English.

The ger is the central attraction of this ger camp/motel/restaurant complex.  The motel is being refurbished but the gers are available for $12.00 per person per night.  Who could resist the opportunity to stay in a ger, even if it was a tourist ger?  “You can park your bike next to the ger.”  That sealed the deal for me.

A ger is a rather remarkable structure providing a warm interior in the cold Mongolian winter (temperatures to -350C and howling, Siberian winds that sweep across the plains) and a cool environment in the hot summer.  It is made from a collapsible lattice of thin wooden strips.  At the top of each ‘x’ of the lattice a pole is tied using what appears to be a coarse string of horse hair or sheep wool.  These poles then rise to fit into a large wheel supported by two large poles.  Then the entire structure is covered in thick felt blankets which is then covered in white (we did see a few blue) canvas and weighted securely with discarded tires, large stones or other heavy objects.  Our ger had a double bed, a small table with two stools and a small dresser.  In the center was a wood burning stove that vented through a stovepipe that exited the tent through the wheel at the top.

The bed was too inviting and I was too tired to venture much further, time for a nap.  The two and a half day ride over  difficult roads had exhausted me.

At lunch, we had told William about our encounter the night before and the invitation to drink airag.  He said he would arrange to get some so we could try it.  Since we had brought food with us, Janet and I decided we would cook in the ger and see William about 7:00.

When we arrived, he went behind the small bar and got a two liter, plastic bottle filled with a white liquid.  Then he brought four half liter beer mugs and sat down.  Earlier we had met William’s girlfriend Nara, the girl we first met when we arrived.  The airag poured, it was time to taste.  I took a first mouthful and was immediately hit with a very sour taste that almost gagged me but being polite (or stupid) I made the comment that it tasted different from what I expected.  Then Janet tasted it.  The same reaction.  Both William and Nara drank with relish.  “Gee,” I thought, “only 0.4 liter to go and then I’m done.

While we sat there, William told us that this ger was the largest ger in the world (maybe) covering some 5,000 square meters.  He tried to teach us the Mongolian names for the lattice, supporting poles for the two top wheels, roof poles and other components.  Then the tour extended to the traditional and historical clothing that hung high on the lattice wall.  They showed us recurved bows made from Ibex horn, a wolf and bear skin and an ancient flintlock rifle.

With the airag now finished, we retired for the night.

It was well after midnight when I woke.  I had had too much airag and had to relieve myself.  I still had on my LDComfort long underwear intended for hot weather riding but I figured that it would still help keep the cold away so I stepped out of the ger into a cold wind.  They were still there—the stars!  What a magnificent sight, the soft glow of the Milky Way extending from horizon to horizon, The stars of the constellation that I could pick out so brilliant.  For several moments I was unaware of the cold and forgot why I had stepped outside.  The night sky is once again one of my favorite natural wonders.

The ever present wind carried a coolness that I hadn’t felt for nearly a year.  It is that cool that comes with the approach of winter when one realizes that there will be no warmer days until next spring.  There will still be pleasant days but summer is gone.

We rode Max to the monastery; it was time to be tourists.  The high walls are dotted with 108 stupas or bell-shaped masonry monuments or reliquaries.

The Tsogchin Temple, the once central structure of the Erdene Zuu monastery was originally built in 1770 but destroyed in the 1940s.  It wasn’t until the early 1990s, after the Mongolian government regained independence that lamas were once again allowed to practice their religion inside the walls of their once great monastery.

The interior of the complex is nearly barren but visible are low mounds of once great walls, hints of a culture that flourished and the promise of a lifestyle slowly returning.  The gift shop sells trinkets, maps and books so typical of all tourist attractions and of no interest to either Janet or me.  We did find a few monks chanting and did have the chance to watch young monks studying ancient texts with bowls of milk tea on each desk to quench the thirst and soothe the throat from continual chanting.  This was worth the time spent visiting the monastery portion of the now museum complex.

Max always seems to attract attention.  As I approached the bike, after exiting the monastery, I watched two men pointing at and discussing Max.  “Where are you from?”  “We are from America, but we have been in China for the last five years teaching English.”  The reply given so many times that it is almost automatic.  “Now we are riding our motorcycle back to America and yes, we will cross the ocean in a boat.”  Janet approached and the questions continued.

While we talked I could hear Janet say, “Can I take your picture?”  As I turned, I saw three women, two younger women flanking a very old lady.  All were in traditional clothes.  The man said, “We are all monks here for the Autumn Festival.  We will walk around the Monastery and pray at each of the stupas.”  The two younger women helped the older woman to her feet and she began to walk towards Max.  “She is the oldest (93), traditional woman lama left alive and she is their meditation master.  She is also here for the Autumn Festival and it could very well be her last.”

The old lama leaned against Max, a big smile on her face.  I couldn’t resist.  I pointed to her, then to me and gestured that we ride together, “Vroom, Vroom”.  Another big smile and then she turned to face Janet.  Hands pressed together, she began to pray.  “She is praying for you and a successful journey, that your motorcycle will be safe and for your peace and happiness,” the man said.  The old woman nodded to a bag and one of her companions opened it and withdrew a blue silk scarf and tied it to Max’s handlebars.  I watched as the emotion of this encounter hit Janet, hands to her mouth and tears streaming down her face.  The old woman turned and with the assistance of her two students, walked away.

Janet was as moved by this encounter as by anything I have ever seen.  Between sobs, she asked the man we had been speaking with to thank the old lama, to let her know how deeply touched she felt and how her heart felt full.

I’m not sure how far it is around the monastery, but it is a long way.  The thought of this old woman’s pilgrimage, stopping at each stupa to pray, knowing it may be the last time, seemed to put our journey into a different perspective.  Not that her journey lessens ours, but somehow I see The Dragin’ Run differently now.  One more subject for future thought while I ride, one more thing for the shadows of my mind.

By mid afternoon it was time for a run to the mini-mart to buy food for dinner.  We had meat.  All we needed was a potato and some cabbage and we would have a Mongolian soup.  The mini-mart is in a small compound surrounded by metal shipping containers in which several people had small shops selling almost anything a local Mongolian could want.  Vehicles, Russian Jeeps, Land Cruisers, trucks, bicycles and horses all gathered around the small gated entry.  One man approached on his horse.  “Can I take your picture,” Janet asked.  He nodded.

He dismounted and walked to Max.  He pointed to his horse, then to me.  Next he pointed to Max then to himself—he wanted to swap.  I motioned for him to get on Max and with a big smile he threw one leg over and sat proudly while blowing Max’s horn.

If you look closely, you can see the blue silk scarf tied onto Max’s handlebars.  I took the scarf off when we returned to the ger.  It is too valuable a memento to just leave to the wind and elements.  Maybe it will be one of the most significant of the souvenirs that we will collect.

We packed that night wanting to get an early start on the ride back to UB.  We would wait for the sun to break over the hills before starting off hoping for a warm ride.  But in the morning the chill in the air said it would be cold.

For me, the chill signaled the end of fall and the start of winter and it was only September 1st.  I was glad that the fleece jackets we were wearing fit into the Darien riding jackets we had.  They would lessen the impact of the early morning chill and the windy ride home we were looking forward to.  William and Nara came by while we were loading Max to say good bye and we shared a final cup of coffee.

Max started on cue and as we left Harhorin I couldn’t help but wonder about that wonderful old woman and her pilgrimage around Erdene Zuu, about William and Nara and their future together, about the two kids from Jerusalem, Lior and Noa, who invited us to visit when we are in Israel or the others we met at the ger camp.  I thought about the emotional impact of the lama’s prayer on Janet and the smiles we gave and received from some of the warmest and most wonderful people we have met so far.

So many thoughts; so few answers.  Plato might be right, what we see of the world is like shadows on a wall, only a small reflection of what the world is really like.  There is so much more to be discovered, to be experienced.

We made the ride from Harhorin to UB in one very long and very hard day.  Now it was decision time.  Moscow is still further north than Mongolia by several hundred miles.  In the three weeks it would take to ride the 8,000 km the temperature would continue to drop and we are not prepared for the cold.  We would find a freight forwarder and arrange to ship Max to Moscow.  We would book passage on the express train.  Not really what we wanted to do but to venture off without the right equipment, forced to ride, without stopping, at least 400 km per day is not in our plans.