My oft touted “never, never, never, ever, ever never quit” has to, of course, has a caveat.Right now Janet is laying down trying to sleep or at that is what she wants me to think. She was so angry with me at lunch that she just got up and left the table. She made a comment, I over-reacted and hurt her, and she left to go to the room. We have been acting like this for several days. The reason I think is that the bike broke down again!Mongolia 1
Sunday, August 13, 2006

My oft touted “never, never, never, ever, ever never quit” has to, of course, has a caveat. There are times when continuing to persevere leads to disaster. One must know when to call it a day and move on, licking one’s wounds and to recover to fight another day.

Right now Janet is laying down trying to sleep or at that is what she wants me to think. She was so angry with me at lunch that she just got up and left the table. She made a comment, I over-reacted and hurt her, and she left to go to the room. We have been acting like this for several days. The reason I think is that the bike broke down again!

We made it to and across the Mongolian border by about 2:00pm on Friday. As we were driving away, I heard a sound like I had run over a piece of wire that got tangled in Max’s wheels or frame. I stopped, checked, all looked ok. Then as we were driving through Zamin Uud, the Mongolian border town, I heard some crunching and an occasional high pitched squeal. I checked again—nothing. I started forward—still nothing.

We decided to try to go about 100 km before we called it a night. In some places the dirt track was quite smooth allowing us to ride at about 30 kph while at other times the track was so washboarded that our speed decreased to about 10 kph. And then there was the sand, powder fine and deep and of course we sunk to the frame and had to try to dig our way out. In one spot we were so stuck that only by exceptional luck did a truck, the only one that entire afternoon with three young men, come along. Seeing our situation, they stopped and muscled us out of the sand and on to the hard packed surface.

Shortly thereafter my clutch blew out.

It was too late and we were too tired to continue. Nothing to be gained by trying to get back tonight, “Here is our campsite for the night,” I said. The tents went up, chairs came out and the new table was put together. Home for a night.

“What the hell are we going to do”, I wondered as Tamara went through the litany of menu items that were available from her larder? I will have to ride back to Zamin Uud and try to find a tow or truck to haul us out. We were exhausted and in bed before dark. I was up at 3:00 am for a bio-break and hoping to see the stars but was disappointed that the night sky was completely obscured; disheartened I went back to bed.

The tent that Janet had insisted on went up pretty easily and afforded us good protection from the night wind. The self inflating mattresses were wonderful and worth all of the problems carrying them on the bike entailed. At least we had made a couple of right decisions.

I used Tamara’s bike, now emptied of all luggage to make the travel safer, and set off about 7:00 am. I had marked the deep sand area that we had hit the day before on the GPS because I was going to detail it in one of these posts but now I used it to ensure that I wouldn’t get caught there again. As I approached the waypoint I slowed, looked over the terrain and found what I thought was a reasonable track past the sand. I knew from my days of dirt riding that that the two things necessary to get through this kind of sand were speed and power. Stop or slow and you’re dead. I walked the line from where the bike was to what I hoped was the exit point from what appeared to be a combination of some sand with a few small rocks. It looked ok. Once back on the bike I and blasted my way through to safety. I knew I was clear to the town.

I love to ride in the morning. In the early days of my riding experience, I rode patrol in a motorcycle park in one of Orange County’s (CA) canyons—a place called Escape Country. It’s where our two sons learned to ride when they were five and seven years old. Riding into town was just like riding through the canyon before all the other dirt bikers were allowed to power up and go tearing through the motorcycle park. No sound except the exhaust of Tamara’s bike steadily beating its way forward. Small birds and a couple of large cranes taking flight with my approach, hobbled horses trying to forage on the few grass shoots that remained on the desert floor. In the distance, about eight Bactrian camels grazing and as I passed their sideways glances made me feel like an intruder to their domain.

Finally, in the distance the first signs of town, dark roofs of broken fiber panels, the train station spire and too many power line poles for the town’s size. But no cars, no movement, no smoke from the dingy gers that lie on the town’s periphery. Finally the paved road Well, it is a road but not paved in the way one would expect. The pavement is a series of prefabricated concrete tiles maybe twenty-five centimeters thick, two and a half meters wide and about seven meters long. These tiles are laid side by side forming a smooth surface that that is very drivable except when the road curves and the tiles leave large triangular spaces as the distance between the corners increase.

No sign of a restaurant, no trucks, no Russian Jeeps and no people except for the lone individual walking to somewhere.

And then I found the square at the train station where everyone gathered to meet the people trying to buy tickets, carrying luggage or who were getting off the train. As I surveyed the area I saw some western people and approached and listened—English! I found one Mongolian who spoke English and explained my problem. “Yes, I can help you”, he said.

He was with a group of Italian trekkers whose guide was negotiating with two Russian Jeep owners for a ride somewhere, “I think $5.00 American per person is fair”, she said. The price was agreed and all left.

It takes some time and effort to explain to someone with limited English exactly what the problem is.

“I have another motorcycle just like this.”
“Oh, you must be rich.”
“No, please listen, the other motorcycle is broken.”
“But you have this fine motorcycle to ride.”
“The broken motorcycle is 25 km from here.” I pointed north.
“My wife and a friend are with the motorcycle, I need a truck to bring it here so I can fix it.”

This simplified conversation took about 15 minutes but eventually he understood. “Yes I can help you. I will find a driver.” “Where can I find coffee?” He pointed to a small building with a recently painted front. “There, coffee, food, telephone. You go, I bring driver.”

Before I left the campsite I had put my new United Mobile international SIM into my phone so I could connect with and use the Mongolian Mobile service area I could call Jim. But every time I tried to call, I got a message that the network was busy or that I couldn’t complete the call. Hmmm, he said phones when I asked about coffee. In front of the restaurant was a young man seated at the table, in front of him was maybe a dozen cell phones and a single land line. He understood a business opportunity.

As soon as you cross the boarder into Mongolia, the Chinese telephone service stops. It’s like some invisible barrier has been erected that reflect the phone signals from China back to China. I mean it is immediate, not even a little leak for a signal to get through.

Many people were crowded around the table, some just watching, others, I assume, bargaining the price for a call. “Beijing” I asked? He sorted through the phones and turned a calculator to me indicating for me to enter the phone number. He dialed and handed me the phone. “Subscriber is power off,” came the reply. No charge for the call.

I went into the restaurant and asked for coffee. The waitress simply shook her head so I asked for Cha or tea and soon came a cup of Mongolian milk tea. She offered a menu and I gave her a shrug indicating that I couldn’t read or speak her language. She pointed to a line of text on the menu and I nodded my approval. A bowl of Mongolian beef soup with dumplings and vegetables—excellent. Soon my guy from the square came to the table with a very short man and said, “Driver”. “OK, just a minute while I finish.” “You pay him $20.00 US, OK?” “OK”

The truck was parked behind some buildings about 150 meters from the square. We climbed aboard and I wondered how we were going to get Max on the truck or maybe he was going to tow me. With a quick stop at the railway supply depot we collected two long wood planks and threw them into the truck and we headed off.

It was a good thing that I had the GPS because I could give him directions back to the campsite. The GPS World Map shows a major road (we all know it is a dirt road) leaving the border and heading north to Ulaan Baator. In truth there are several tracks heading north, spread out over at least one and maybe more kilometers. The track he was following was something just over a kilometer west of the track we had taken and when I showed him the GPS screen, he simply turned right and headed east across the unblemished desert until we found the track we had followed the day before. There in the distance was Janet’s huge tent perched on the crest of a small rise.

We quickly broke camp, unloaded Max, set up the planks and positioned the bike so we could push it up the incline to the truck bed about four feet high. We pushed but didn’t quite make it. Our little Mongolian friend was ready to push again, I needed a rest. We pushed again but the planks had moved and needed to be repositioned. I needed a rest but our Mongolian was straining at the bit, he was ready to do battle with bike and gravity. This time we had Max’s front wheel onto the truck bed but the plank had slipped and the back wheel just wouldn’t make it. If we continued the back wheel would slip off the plank and the wheel would drop crushing the exhaust. If I could only get under the bike I positioned myself under the sidecar so the rear bottom of the sidecar rested on my shoulders. I knew my legs were stronger than my arms and that I could add a little stability to the bike. A final push and a lift from me and Max was aboard. Now the luggage and we were ready to head off.

I rode in the back of the truck while Tamara and Janet rode in the cab with the driver. Going over the track back to town was no easier for the truck than it was for us on the bikes going out. We were bounced and tossed all over the place. I didn’t really understand until we were unloading the bike at the hotel just how hard the trip was. Max’s rear wheel had actually broken through the wooden bed of the truck with suck impact that there was a hole in the bed where a three foot section of plank was missing and Max’s wheel was hanging loose.

Our first stop was at the square where we were trying to decide what to do. Janet and Tamara went off to get some breakfast, then we would decide which hotel to hole up in and I decided to try to call Jim again on my phone. I discovered how it worked. I place a call and a message appears that the service is down, the network is busy. When I see the message I simply hang up and then when the call is placed from wherever, the SIM places a call and when the connection is made I get a call back. Ringing, ringing, ringing, “Hello?” Jim, this is Jack, we made it to Mongolia and now either the clutch or the transmission is broken. I described the problem “Well, take out the transmission, it sounds like a bolt holding the clutch to the flywheel backed out and maybe the clutch will have to be replaced. I about lost it. The decision was made to call him back when I calmed down.

I tried to call Jim all afternoon but no answer. I called Ella in Changchun and explained our situation. “We need a new clutch and Jim wants me to install it. He also wants me to go back to Erlian and then bring it back to Mongolia but with all the problems we had earlier, I really didn’t want to do that. At the same time, I just found out that freight cannot be sent to this town because there is no Customs officer to clear it so either Jim has to bring it or I have to return to China to get it. Maybe he can ship it to Guo and I can get it that way.”

Because of all the delays we have decided to ship the bike and us to UB by train, once it has an operational clutch, and look around the area a bit and then ship the bike to Moscow. I told Janet this would also mean that we had to reduce weight. Everything that isn’t absolutely necessary has go. Now we wont need the gas can for the extra fuel needed to cross Mongolia, the second video camera, nice to have but not needed, the CD player for music wont be needed nor will the $90.00 Sampsonite computer case or some of the things we thought would be good to have—everything nonessential has to go.

I also knew that pulling the clutch was going to be difficult for me and I didn’t want to spend a day or two learning, through trial and error, how to do it. Further, I was concerned that if I screwed it up, not only would I have a bigger problem to face but I would have no further recourse with Jim. More important, I wanted to ride with a bike properly set up and not have to worry if I had left something off or if I had installed something incorrectly.

It would have been different if I had used the bike for several weeks or months and something broke but this bike was only a few days out of the shop and supposedly the hot setup for our long distance, adventure riding.

I told Tamara that she should go on to UB and meet up with Dave and if I am not there by Friday, August 18th to take the train to Istanbul and we would connect up there sometime in September. Reluctantly, but I think relieved, she headed off to the train station to find out about shipping her bike to UB and then later to get tickets on the express train.

Both Janet and I were at each others throats. With one more breakdown, Jim wanting me to do the replacement, another hotel and another delay; it was just too much. I was having trouble listening to Tamara talk about the difficulties she was having getting her bike on the train and how difficult it is to buy a ticket for a soft bunk on the train while I sit here with a broke bike and a distraught wife. It even got to the point of wondering if Janet would continue the trip or bail out and leave.

So there I sit, not knowing if I have to go back to China to pick up the clutches that Jim thinks will solve the problem, plus an extra just in case. I don’t know how to install them although I did find out that there is a mechanic here, Janet isn’t talking to me and I wonder if it is worth it.

I started to think about the last month: of the 28 days on the road so far we have effectively ridden 7 days and of those seven days only 3 have been trouble free. Today we were supposed to be getting ready to enter Russia at the far western border of Mongolia. The budget so far looks more like leisure travel than adventure riding. We have spent over 10,000 RMB on hotels, meals, taxis and shipping; Mongolia is out for riding, more expense to ship the bike to UB and Moscow, more days in hotels or on trains. So far, an absolute disaster.

Saturday, August 19, 2006
Removing the clutch wasn’t as difficult as I thought. Tedious yes because everything must be done exactly right or I would have had disassociated clutch parts around my feet and without the knowledge or expertise to know what went where I would have only exacerbated the problem.

The larger metal disk in not supposed to be in three pieces! The outer, raised ring is not supposed to be split. It is supposed to be a nice symmetrical package without strange looking areas. Obviously, this is why I lost the use of my transmission and was unable to drive the 25 km from the desert to town.

With new information, and a new clutch, I proceeded to reinstall everything and followed the directions to the letter. Without making an already too long story even longer, it didn’t work. I called Jim who said he was going to the shop to research why the clutch wouldn’t work. I was to call him in one hour. Then the network that my phone works on was so busy that I was unable to contact him for the rest of the evening.

Jim will courier the clutch to Guo and Company and I will manage somehow to get it to Zamin Uud. I have also decided to put the clutch in myself. First, I should know how to do it and if I have the problem again, the fix will be easier. Second, I am so tired of sitting and waiting that the activity will do me good and get me out of myself and the problems that seem to plague us.

Zamin Uud, Mongolia

The town is small and very poor, perhaps not unlike many border towns throughout the third world. My experience is very limited. In my previous business life, I traveled internationally so I always arrived at a major airport where most often the government tried to make a good impression on arriving passengers. But driving across borders will be very different.

The approach to Zamin Uud starts on a pot holed, macadam road that smoothes out onto a newly paved road. One and two story buildings are in stark contrast to the usual seven story apartment complexes of China. Most are old and in bad repair. It is not unusual to see roof rafters showing through broken, corrugated roof panels. Wooden, single glazed windows with spaces between masonry and frame. One wonders how people stay warm in the winter—maybe they don’t.

Many streets are simply areas of sand between buildings that propagate small dust devils in the perpetual wind that crosses the Gobi only to be interrupted by these small buildings. One large shipping container, mounted precariously on a few bricks, painted blue, is a small general store. Next to it is a wooden house that had been lathed and plastered but with the ravages of wind, time and winter, much of the exterior covering is gone. Spaces between the underlying boards intimate a cold and dusty interior.

On the outskirts of town lie a ger village, the traditional home of the nomadic Mongolian which is a collapsible circular tent of felt or skins stretched over a pole frame. I thought they would have been bigger, whiter, cleaner, something more than what they are. So much for my imagination, it is not the first time it has betrayed me.

The vehicle of choice seems to be the Russian equivalent of the American Jeep but a bit bigger. Door hinges, fuel pipe door hinges, mirrors and other similar areas are all reinforced with black steel, pop riveted in place to withstand the rigors of unpaved vibration.

When I arrived at the train station on Saturday, the square was filled with these vehicles, their drivers trying to attract the attention of people exiting the train station. Kids and adults with large two wheeled trolleys asking if they could carry bags to waiting vehicles or local hotels. This seems to be the major business of the townspeople, this and the small shops and restaurants surrounding the square. Everything centers on the train station. I won’t be sorry to leave Zamin Uud but I must admit that it was a welcome relief to the incessant constancy of China.

My clutch is supposed to arrive in Erlian today. Now to the task of trying to find a way to get it here.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Last night I called Agi, a customs official that had helped us clear the Mongolian border last Friday. He had found out that we were having trouble with Max (Zamin Uud is a small town) and had come to offer his help if we needed it. He also offered to bring a translator since his English is very limited.

I called him and said the magic words, “I need help.” I will come at 1:00 o’clock’. After Janet and I had finished dinner she went to the room; I had plans to go off to a rumored bath house (the hotel has no hot water). Agi appeared and he called the translator and ordered food for both of them. After several calls and those chunks of time when both of us wanted to talk but didn’t have the words, we set off for the train station. “You wait me here,” and he disappeared into a doorway.

Moments later he reappeared with a woman in uniform, “Hi, Agi has told me your story, let’s go inside and talk.” I was surprised; her English was too good for Zamin Uud. I told her that the parts to fix the motorcycle should arrive in Erlian on the 16th and that I needed a way to get them from Erlian to here so I could ship the bike on the 5:00 pm train on Friday and that Janet and I wanted to go on the 10:00 pm express train to UB.

An older man entered, maybe in his mid 40’s. “This is our Major, he is in charge of the train station here, and we are in the army.” More pointing, more conversation and finally she said, “The major says I can help you but you must pay me for my time.” “Of course, how much do you charge?” “As you like.” I hate that answer because the assumption is that the foreigner always over pays and I knew that some of what I was to pay her would go to the major. I also knew that if I paid well, we would have no trouble getting Max in as freight nor would we have trouble getting tickets for a soft sleeper on Friday. I just had to be careful not to pay too much.

The plan for today—I’m not sure. I am on the way to the train station to meet Chuka. I think she will put me on the train to Erlian.

Janet and I went to the train station early and had a breakfast of dumpling soup and milk tea and waited. Outside were people either coming from or going to the small towns and villages that dot the Mongolian countryside. As we walked to the station platform we saw several men washing the windows and side panels of a train, somehow different from the Mongolian trains that we had seen before. There was a crest in the center of the car and each car had a name. Across the top of the windows were the words, MOSCOW, ISTANBUL, BEIJING and the ORIENT EXPRESS.

This is not the Orient Express that runs from London to Istanbul but a sister train that runs from Moscow to Beijing. Behind the open windows, a cadre of “older people” peering out at the activity while the Mongolian Army checked passports and made sure that all documentation were in order before moving on to the Chinese checkpoint.

Chuka showed up not in uniform but rather in casual clothes, sandals, mid calf length, flowered pants and a blouse. “Are you ready? We will get on that train,” she said pointing to the Orient Express. Janet was disappointed that she had decided to stay in Zamin Uud.

Chuka talked to several of the train attendants in Russian and as the train started to move away I watched my chances to ride the Orient Express move off towards China. “Don’t worry, they are just going to connect with another car then we will board.”

In moments we were climbing aboard and ushered into a car with a large desk in one corner and several chairs lining the side. The dark wood paneling, light parquet floor and oriental rug in the center of the car forced my brain to recall the films and descriptions of murder and intrigue, spies and lovers and the romance associated with this, maybe the most famous train in the world. “Would you like coffee?” “Yes. Thank you.”

Steaming black coffee, served in thin glasses set in pewter glass holders, much too sweet for me but nevertheless much appreciated while Chuka and I sat there while Janet took pictures.

The train began to move and I guess that’s when I realized that Chuka was coming to Erlian with me. “OK, let’s go to the bar.” I like a beer, Chevas is my general choice for spirits or a good wine but it was only about 9:30 in the morning, far too early for anything stronger than Russian coffee. We moved past the people we had see from the platform, most speaking Russian, all of retirement age or older (the cost for the ride from Moscow to Beijing is 5,000 euro or about $6,000). One car is full of compartments to wash or shower. Suddenly we stopped in front of one compartment and Chuka cried out “OH! Mon Dieu” An older man looked up and in French began to talk with Chuka while exchanging hugs. His name tag, only glimpsed said Helmut. From what I could get he was the train manager or supervisor. He reached to shake my hand and in perfect English said, “I understand you have has some trouble with your motorcycle, I am glad we can help.” I thanked him and Chuka and I moved on.

The train moved slowly towards the Chinese border, guards watching as we passed until we arrived at the Erlian Train Station and almost immediately upon our stop, the Border Guards swept into the train asking for passports. Each duly scrutinized, the odd question and the inevitable stamp and the wait.

As we left the train station, I called Guo and Ella to see if the clutch had arrived—“No, not yet. It should be there this afternoon.” Good news, time for lunch.

Chuka reminded me that I had wanted to go to the bath house in Zamin Uud but had suggested that we go in Erlian. In fact she had been pushing the fact that we need to go to the ‘washing’ since we arrived. “OK, let’s go.”

The bath house must have been a regular stop for her on her regular runs to Erlian for food, clothing and general shopping because she seemed to know everyone. I asked for a bath and a massage to try to relieve some of the stress of a motorcycle that we just couldn’t seem to get going.

I was directed to a small dingy room covered in the perpetual dust of the desert. Everything seemed to have a gritty feeling, even the plastic film that had been fitted into the tub in an effort to protect the current bather from the dirt and grime of the last. Next to the tub, now filling with hot water was a foot operated shower that only seemed to provide cold water.

I carefully lowered myself into the tub letting the water surround me, relaxing finally. I generally dislike a bath. The thoughts of sitting in my own grime, having been built up over several days simply drove me out of the water. But not so simple—first my foot was caught in the film. When I tried to remove the film with a hand, the swirling water swirled the film around my hand. Now I had something to fight with, something to take out my frustrations on—the film was stronger than I thought.

Once free of film and grimy water, I called for the attendant for my massage. A young man led me to a shower room! I didn’t know they had a shower room, I didn’t have to sit in that filthy water, never mind, the massage was waiting. The young man had me lay on a table and proceeded to toss large bowls of warm water on me—wonderful.

Then he put a kind of glove on his hand and with the first pass across my chest I thought he had torn all the skin away. It seems that Chuka thought I needed a scrub and had ordered this for me. Maybe I was dirtier than I thought. I looked at him and said “Bu tong” or don’t hurt in Chinese. I closed my eyes and he continued. It felt like he was tearing away my skin. I was sure that when I got up I would see skin and blood running to the drain. But no, just water.

I called Ella, “Any word on the clutch?” “They sent it to the wrong city but we think it will be in Erlian tomorrow morning.” “OK please send Janet an email telling her the status that that I’ll stay here until the clutch arrives.” “OK, Good bye.”

I took Chuka back to the train station and saw her safely on the train to Zamin Uud and I went back to the Jin Long Hotel to wait. I waited the whole next day and the day after. Finally Guo called and said he had it. I made arrangements to return to Mongolia.

I installed the new clutch and it still didn’t work. I had had it. I saw down and considered my options:

Option Pro Con
Go on to Ulaan Baator and find a Ural mechanic to fix the bike Moving in the right direction
Jim assures me there are reliable mechanics there
New environment
Bigger city
More to do while we wait No guarantee of a fix
More language problems
More delays?
More hotel expense
Mechanics charge more
Ship the bike back to Frank’s in Beijing None Large expense for shipping, hotels, meals and transportation
Try to buy Tim’s BMW More reliable motorcycle Don’t know cost
Modification to the frame to support sidecar weight
All the cons from shipping to Beijing
Have someone from Frank’s Classic Sidecars come to Zamin Uud Max will get fixed faster
I will learn how to install a clutch
Lower expense None

The options spoke for themselves. Someone from Frank’s Classic Sidecars would have to come here. Or at least that’s what that’s what I thought. Jim was going to send Frank but without a Passport there was no way for Frank to cross the border.

It was time to make a decision rather than to continue to whine about the problem. Put the bike on a train and go to UB and find a Ural mechanic.

The Desert Rat

I called Agi again and told him I needed some help, that the next day we were leaving for UB and I needed to get the bike on the freight train that left at 5:00 pm and I needed tickets for the 10:00pm Express train to UB. As it turned out Agi’s wife was coming down from UB where she owns a clothing shop for her monthly run to Beijing to buy her stock. He would arrange for everything. He also invited Janet and me to a traditional Mongolian lunch. We of course accepted and he said, “I’ll return in a little while.”

Within the hour, Agi was back at the hotel and told us all was ready. I have seen video of traditional Mongolian food and so I expected mutton or lamb, perhaps as a soup or maybe just eating off the bone.

At the house just feet from the front entrance to the hotel was a waiting van and we piled in, except Agi had to get out of the van and give it a push to jump start it. It was then that I noticed a starter motor lying on the floor. “Oh, great, just what I need, another broke vehicle!” But the van caught right away and we were off. First to collect Baya, Agi’s friend, then to go shopping: water, beer, and vodka. Next we stopped and Agi returned with a bag of fur and it didn’t look like mutton, goat, horse or camel! Next stop for two bags of wood, some heavy wire and then Baya’s girlfriend and finally we drove off into the desert.

Van unloaded, Baya arranged wood strips into a circle, added smooth stones and then added more wood. With the help of a large blowtorch he had the blaze well under way. Next, he and his girlfriend went to collect a small glass full of purple and white flowers that were just growing all around us—a natural herb. The beer tasted good, the company was excellent and the desert calming. Even with Agi’s limited English, we seemed to be able to communicate easily, understanding body language and hand/finger signs.

The local vodka didn’t taste quite so harsh when drunk from a common bowl, after dipping in the third finger of the right hand and flicking the moisture aloft as an offering to the sky. No pressure to drink more as with the Chinese and their ”ganbei” or bottoms-up. Just a social drink among friends.

Then Baya opened the bag of fur which in and of itself seemed to be a fur bag with a meaty opening. A marmot is a large, robust rodent found in North America, Europe, and Asia, and marked by a blunt snout, short ears, a short, bushy tail, and short legs. North Americans will recognize the more common name—woodchuck. Only this marmot was sans head and the opening was the neck; otherwise the animal, at least its exterior was intact.

He reached into the cavity and started to remove meat and bone. It became obvious that someone had boned the animal leaving the skin undamaged. Legs, ribs, shoulders, hips, kidney and liver were all removed.

First, two or three hot stones are dropped into the cavity and worked down into the hind legs sizzling and crackling as hot stones began to sear the meat inside. Then more stones and some of the earlier extracted meat. Now onion flowers and salt and so the process was repeated until nearly all of the meat was inserted and sizzling and steaming. Finally the neck was secured with the heavy wire retaining all the steam and juices, except for an occasional puff of steam escaping from the anus—“Yum”, I say tongue in cheek.

The blowtorch wasn’t just intended as a tool to get a quick fire going. Baya used it to remove the course fur from the animal. First he would flame, then sear the skin, scrape fur and melted fat away from the skin. Then rotate the animal and flame and scrape again until all hair was gone. In fact the process of cooking this desert rodent went on for almost two hours.

The first taste test was some of the internal juices were squeezed from the anus into a small bowl and passed around for sampling, each sipped and murmured approval. The wire sealing the neck was removed and the meat extracted and passed around. With more beer and vodka, a few local condiments and marmot I think Janet and I were in agreement, a unique experience well worth the trying but the tough, gamy meat just wasn’t worth the effort nor was it something we would want to have again. However, because of the generosity and effort of new friends, the camaraderie, even my getting very drunk, it is a meal that I don’t think I will ever forget.

The Human Demolition Derby

As promised, Agi was at the hotel the next morning with his wife Shogi to help us get the motorcycle on the train and buy the tickets that are so hard to get. First stop the freight area where with the help of several young Mongolian men, the bike, all 500+ kilos, was lifted onto the platform for shipment to UB, approvals for the excess weight in hand, we were done with the bike.

Arrangements were made for us to pick up our tickets—no standing in a line to fight our way to the kiosk to pay. Shogi also called her friend Gana in UB, the owner of a Guesthouse, Pizza del la Casa and a shop in the local market, to arrange for lodging while there. No need to worry about how to get to the guest house, someone would meet us at the train. We waved bye to Agi and Shogi, friends who just wanted to help, generous with their time, untiring with the efforts and truly unselfish in spirit. The only thing left to do was to wait until the train boarded for the twelve hour ride.

Many merchants from UB travel to Beijing to buy goods in the markets there. Many residents of smaller Mongolian communities travel to Erlian for clothes, food, furniture and other necessities. I remember seeing what looked like a giant grape press outside one of the shops in Erlian. Not a grape press but a package press. Compressible goods would be placed in the press, the large screw turned until all the extra air and space had been removed, and then tightly bound with plastic sheeting and kilometers of two inch wide cellophane tape wrapped around until the package was now a solid cube.

At the border between China and Mongolia, we saw Russian Jeeps, Large Chinese vans and small trucks so loaded with these packages that they were often dragging on the ground as the vehicle drove ever closer to the Zamin Uud train station.

While we waited on the hard wooden bench, the crowd gathered and so did the bundles on cello taped packages, cases of beer and soft drinks, boxes of fruit, appliances and all manner of goods and supplies. Surely not for the passenger train, these packages must go in baggage somewhere.

At the appointed time, there was a rush towards the compartment doors. Laborers had been hired to move the heavy loads from platform to train to compartment. Each compartment has four beds, the walkway to the compartments narrow, no way to load packages and people.

Janet and I moved forward to the press of people. Small packages were being hurled over the heads of the waiting mass to catchers in the narrow doorway. One man hit in the eye with a box, a woman almost knocked back of the stairs leading up to the car. People shoving and pushing with only one objective—get on the train with my stuff. Two fights seemed imminent but were relegated to shouting matches. Then one man bumped into Janet and she fell. I slammed into him knocking him back and the ticket taker noticed and cleared a path for the two old foreigners.

Negotiating the passageway to our compartment was nearly impossible. Large packages, not yet carried to their owner’s compartments were strewn along the floor. People trying to pass, going in directions, all elbows and shoulders and hips. We were lucky, our compartment was the third in from the door and on arrival we literally fell into the nearly empty space. Other compartments were so full of packages, on the floor, on the bunks that there was hardly room to sit, never mind sleep. Yes, loading the compartments like this is illegal but…

Our compartment-mates were two young people, Togo and his soon to be sister-in-law and Togo spoke English! How lucky could we be? With their assistance the large duffel I was carrying and the large camera bag that Janet had was soon stowed, riding jackets, tank bag, boots, helmets and other gear disappeared under the seats and in an overhead compartment. Nothing on the beds to disturb our sleep. We had been assigned one lower and one upper bunk but Togo announced that we would sleep in the lower births while they would take the upper.

It wasn’t long before silence settled into the car, people tried after the human demolition derby. Curled around their packages, some standing because there was no other room for them, one man sleeping on his new purchases between the cars where the noise was the greatest, sleep descended on all.

I woke early, left the compartment and went to the end of the car where I could watch the landscape move past as we headed further north to UB. The first glow of a late rising sun began to reveal the slowly rolling hills, a ger silhouetted against the lightening sky, an occasional animal. It’s cold in the Gobi before sunrise but I couldn’t seem to leave my post. I had dreamed of riding here for almost two years and now all I could do was watch as it slipped by.

Then that first molten spark as the sun tried to rise over the undulating hills as if it were playing peek-a-boo with me. Up high enough to be seen only to be obscured for a moment or two and then appearing again—sunrise comes hard to travelers on this train but inevitably it wins and begins to warm everything it sees: small villages, mining operations, small bands of horses and large herds of sheep and the occasional camels that graze close to the tracks.

Small towns appear and one wonders “What do these people do?” There is nothing but desert sprawling for miles and miles in every direction except what looks like an abandoned railroad line further past these towns.

But this barrenness is magnificent. As far as I could see there was nothing to disturb the green of the land and the gray-giving-way-to-the-blue of the sky. Details becoming more common as the sun began to rise. Small stands of water and even an occasional large pond or small lake came into view. I really have to wonder, when I see two gers perched on a far away hill, about the inhabitants’ lifestyle. Sure, I have seen TV specials, watched DVDs about these nomads but when I see these gers and they are really hundreds of kilometers from what I recognize as civilization, I really wonder. The east side of our train seems to have most of the towns, railway stations, the old railroad track and other signs of life. The west side continues with its magnificent barrenness.

I returned to my compartment to find Janet awake and we whispered “Good Morning” and watched through the dirty window. “Follow me”. And we returned to my observation post at the end of the car and a cleaner window. First, a larger town and a “Jack, what do these people do? There is nothing out here?” I smiled. More gers on the distant hills. Animals, now more plentiful, grazing on the disappearing grass.

“Hon, what’s that? It looks like a road.” I said that I thought that it was an abandoned rail line. “But it looks like a road. In all the research I had done, especially on Horizons Unlimited, with the Garmin maps, no one ever mentioned a road. Even Jim, who had ridden here last year, just told me that the road from Zamin Uud to UB was 600 km of bad, dirt road. “But there is a car on it!” I couldn’t believe it. The abandoned rail line was a paved road and I had been watching it since it first appeared in the pre dawn when it was close to the track we were on. Later we discovered that the road, paved road at that, runs from UB to somewhere close to Zamin Uud on the east side of the railroad track. To say I was bummed is a huge understatement.

I was in no rush to exit the train when we pulled into UB. Prudence dictated that we wait until all the crazies with their bundles off loaded. Togo agreed and so we waited. Soon a young man poked his head into the compartment, “Are you Mr. Morgan?” “No, I’m Jack Murray.” We are the only foreigners on the train, he had to have the mane wrong, he must be looking for us. Again, we saw the sign and said, “Are you from Gana’s Guesthouse?” “Yes.”

His name is Inkblot (I am sure I have butchered the spelling) and he and a friend, with a car, had been commissioned to find us and help us get straightened away. First stop, the guesthouse and lunch. That done, it was time to get the bike from the train station. Once the fees had been paid, a small truck hired and Max aboard, it was time to find a mechanic.

I was told that Ural (the Russian equivalent of a Chang Jiang) mechanics abound in UB. Not so. In fact there are virtually no motorcycles or scooters in UB. A mechanic was going to be difficult to find.

After several phone calls we set off and pulled into a gas station with a garage behind it—Harley Davidson Face Club. Outside, several sport bikes: Hondas, Yamahas, and Kawasakis in various states of repair. Mechanics, helpers and hang-arounders crowded around the truck as I tried to explain what the problem was. The decision was to take Max to another shop where the people understood Urals and Changs.

We drove into the far north of UB, into the hills and over some extremely bad roads to a large metal gated drive. Inside, more sport bikes, parts and tools strewn across the dirt of the small compound. A few scooters rusting under a corrugated fiber roof, rubber and vinyl disintegrating in the heat of the Mongolian summer but no Urals and certainly no Changs.

Again the explanation of what was wrong and what I wanted the mechanic to do. He was not experienced on the Chang. I had to walk him through the process of removing the rear wheel, then removing the donut that connects the drive shaft from the motor to the drive shaft that connects to the rear end. Once the transmission was off, I had to intervene with the removal of the clutch assembly. Once out, I called Jim in Beijing to ensure that the sandwich of plates was installed properly. I had put it together properly but it still didn’t work. Why?

Kong had given me two extra throw-out rods, I had tried two. Install the longest one you have. Finally, Max was together once again and I started the engine, shifted to first and while not quite correct we were close. The clutch cable was adjusted and tested again—better. Then my young mechanic notices a break in the rubber covering on the clutch cable. When the lever was depressed there was movement in the coiled, metal sheath that housed the actual cable. This extra movement, coupled with the shorter throw out rod was preventing the clutch from disengaging and preventing my ability to shift. I took it for a short test ride and everything worked! All I had to do was change the clutch cable and I was home free, at least for now.

The Dalai Lama

We had heard that the Dalai Lama was in town and would appear on Saturday and Sunday. What a stroke of luck. I had heard him speak a couple of times on TV and the man is impressive. We had to see him.

We had met Onko, a young lady from UB that Tamara had befriended, in Zamin Uud. “When you get to UB, please call me.” Janet and I invited her to dinner on Friday night and spent a most pleasant evening with her. “What are your plans?” We told her that we weren’t quite sure what we were going to do until we knew if the bike would hold together but that we were definitely going to see the Dalai Lama. Janet had bought a tourist map of UB and asked Onko if she could show us where he would appear. The location was the large temple not far from the Guesthouse.

“Maybe I will come with you.” “Wonderful.” I picked up Onko at 8:30 on Saturday morning and took her to meet Janet. They took a taxi and I followed on the bike. I was also able to find a parking spot close to the temple entrance so the walk was quite short. Entrance to the temple was free and we hit it about right for the crowd had not started to build yet.

Police were everywhere. A large fire truck was stationed close to the main building and behind a large ger where several monks were chanting. Some areas were cordoned off for crowd control and manned by police stationed only a meter or so apart. We managed to get reasonably close to the large platform where we assumed the Dalai Lama would appear. The crowd in front of us was maybe five to six meters deep, then a large raised concrete square where about 100 monks were seated and then the platform.

The police continued to tell the people in our area to sit or kneel so the standing crowd behind could see. One older woman, seeing Janet’s discomfort, offered a pillow for her to kneel on—one more act of generosity demonstrated by one more Mongolian. A common occurrence here.

I had brought the new Panasonic DV camera and tripod, usually inconvenient but this time worth all the trouble. High on the platform was a seat with two microphones and I guessed that this was where the Dalai Lama would sit and address the gathered throng. I zoomed in and had a perfect line of sight over the heads of those seated in front of us. The concrete, while uncomfortable as hell, was not unbearable.

My mind wandered back to a time when I was ten or twelve years old and had gone to Camp Lawrence—a YMCA camp in central New Hampshire. I had done something to displease the camp counselor and he made me kneel on a broom stick for punishment. If I could do that, I could certainly stand the pain of kneeling while I waited to see the Dalai Lama.

Then sounds from the left of the podium, a low moan from horns and the beat of a quiet drum. He was coming. We could only see the top of the ceremonial staffs and a fringed umbrella like covering. I tried to capture it on tape but I was too far away and had no time to zoom closer. “Take your time, anticipate your shot, focus on the seat on the platform,” I thought. I moved the camera in the direction of the chair and zoomed in not looking at the screen. When I did look, there he was, the perfect shot, a little wobble but never-the-less a great shot of him saying something to the mass of people while a translator, deferentially, stood to the side.

Many people were holding white, blue, red, and gold silk scarves aloft, honoring this leader of Tibetan Buddhism. Praying hands held to their foreheads, prayer beads flashing through fingers and muttered and muted prayers offered.

He was not there to speak to the people, but to chant his prayers so that the believers could pray with him. I stayed on my knees as long as I could, I had to get up. “Janet, I’ll be over there when you are ready.”

Standing off to the side I was able to watch the people. An elderly monk so bent with time that he could hardly walk without assistance. The smallest monk, maybe five or six, so proud in his vestments, strutting along the walkway, older Mongolian men and women in their long sleeved coats tied with hand tooled belts adorned with silver and turquoise and the ever present high riding boots. Newly weds in the latest white bridal gowns clashed with others in traditional garb.

In one section of the main courtyard stands a tall pole, unique in its aloneness. Tied to the pole are several silk scarves and constantly surrounded with people who approach, touch the pole, touch the scarves. Some hold pictures against the wood and silk, all display humility. Onko later explained that the pole is an ovo, usually seen as a pile of stones, often with bits of cloth that has religious significance.

At times like this, for all my western education, for all the international business experience I have had, for the years in China, I recognize how unsophisticated I really am, how little I know about the world, about people and lives apart from my own shallow experience. I really know nothing about Buddhism or ovos, I cannot imagine how people can live in gers so far from cities or towns or villages. Nor can I imagine how the early settlers of America or the Native Americans eked out their meager existence that laid the foundation for America. It is at times like this when I recognize how little I know that I feel so small.

It is said that long distance sailing is days and sometimes weeks of total boredom punctuated by moments of absolute panic. While we have had more than our share of boredom waiting for parts and assistance, the panic of the long distance sailor is replaced with times of learning and experience that make “adventuring” worth all the trouble.

Our time here in UB is fast coming to an end. Today, Sunday August 27, 2006 Janet will go to the Internet and get another Letter of Invitation so we can get another Russian visa. I will check out the bike to make sure all the nuts and bolts are tight, that the clutch cable is properly adjusted and try to reduce our load a bit more in preparation for our departure to Harhorin, the ancient capital of Chinggis Khaan. The 365 km drive is on paved roads so while the GPS may not be needed, I will load the maps any way.

This short trip has several purposes: first to see if Max can carry us some reasonable distance without a mechanical or electrical failure; second, it will partially satisfy my desire to ride in Mongolia—a bit at least; and finally to see the meager remains of what once was the most dominant empire in the world. Harhorin is also home to one of the largest monestaries in Mongolia, a verdant valley and large waterfall and hot springs to soothe body and mind. Altogether, an excellent place to visit.