Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
people riding there all the time. It's just getting across the border that can be diffi-
cult. Just don't tell the embassy you are taking a bike, it's as simple as that.'
A couple of days later we were given visas hassle-free. The only obstacle ahead,
we reasoned, would be smuggling our bikes over the border.
Meanwhile, Chris was trying to find the best deal on the Internet for a plane
ticket. We had discovered that the cheapest option would be to catch a train from
Beijing to Hong Kong, and fly from there. I wanted no part in the ticket discussion.
I was reluctant to accept that we were going to be in Australia in the not too distant
future. I felt irritated by Chris's persistence, and even more so by his excitement.
When the evening of our tenth and final day arrived, it felt like the end of a
prison sentence; contrary to my hopes Ulaan Baatar had not been a good place to
recuperate. We were desperate to escape. As we packed I listened to the opening
ceremony of the Sydney Olympics on BBC world radio through the one working
earphone of my Walkman. It would probably be the first and last we'd hear of the
Olympics before they were over. There was, I conceded, a part of me that longed
to share the excitement that was going on so far away.
Eventually, late in the evening, we cycled out of Ulaan Baatar. I trained my
sights on the black horizon beyond the city's perimeters. Perhaps it was out there
that our real refuge lay - in the peace and simplicity of a camp site.
———
Despite the exhaustion we awoke early, desperate to get beyond view of the city.
As dawn broke, the shadows of night peeled away to reveal a puzzling reality. The
bitumen had come to an abrupt end. Beyond it, countless dusty wheel tracks trailed
off into the distance. There were no signs and no indication that one wheel track
was used more often than another. We consulted our map.
'Hey, Chris, which do you reckon is the right route?' I asked.
'Mate, I'm buggered if I know. I guess, in theory, if we just keep heading south-
east we'll end up in China,' he replied.
I looked at our tourist map - it was a big yellow blank with a couple of fat red
and black lines denoting the train line and the only paved road in Mongolia, from
Suchbaatar to Ulaan Baatar. With no contour lines and very few details besides a
few happy-looking camels and yaks sketched on for decoration, we were going to
have to rely on compass and intuition.
'I guess you're right. We can't really get lost anyway, because we will never
know where we are with this blasted map,' I replied.
