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the hills that were the stumps of an ancient range, I felt worn to the bone. Even with
the promise of the Internet in Ulaan Baatar, Chris was looking unusually sapped as
well.
We had not had a real break for two months, and even then it had been minimal.
We had lost a lot of weight on the Altai trip, and no matter how many bland meals
we ate, putting it back on seemed beyond us. The exhaustion made me introspect-
ive for most of the time, making me feel guilty that we were not interacting with
the people. During the entire ride to Ulaan Baatar we did not stop at a single ger .
I felt full of experiences from Russia and unable to face a new language and
culture. Russia had been the focus of our journey. Now that the intense battle was
over, we were limping towards the finish line. More than anything I just wanted to
rest, to lie down on a bed and sleep until tiredness evaporated.
We began ascending higher than we ever had; sometimes it was as much as 1000
metres before we plummeted into one of the countless valleys. We passed in the
shadow of spectacular peaks encrusted with rocky outcrops. Each saddle was mar-
ginally higher than the last, and in this way we progressively rose higher. The road
seemed long and unending.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, a couple of sumo-wrestling-sized men with
frankfurt-thick fingers waved us over to their hut. I was disappointed that they wer-
en't living in a ger but a rusty train carriage. With pride they showed us how to
slaughter sheep by hand, the Mongolian way. We were obliged to take part in rip-
ping the skin from the carcass and squeezing the faeces from the intestines. Later,
in the grimy inside of the carriage, we ate fresh fatty mutton in fist-sized chunks.
The infernal buzz of blowflies was relentless as the men slurped and gnawed away
at the bones and sinewy pieces of flesh. Their equally big wives shared chunks of
meat with their three-year-old daughters. They tore the flesh apart like lions shar-
ing prey with their young. The rain had eased in the morning and been replaced by
a blue sky and baking hot sun. I didn't want to ride in the heat, but the thought of
spending more time in the carriage made my stomach churn.
In the evening, my bouts of diarrhoea began. Long after dinner, the violent con-
vulsions in my digestive system calmed and I crawled sedately into my sleeping
bag. Through the fly-netting of the tent door I gazed at the spectacle of a starry sky.
Taking deep breaths, I felt my leg muscles loosen in the warmth of the puffy down,
their job over for the day.
As though from a great distance, somebody began to sing. I held my breath and
listened. It was a woman's voice. Gradually it became louder, and with it came the
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