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I had been asleep for an hour or so when I was woken by horses gently pressing
the tent with their snouts and snuffling. I opened the door to see a curious herd sil-
houetted by the predawn hues. Their manes shivered in the breeze far more fluidly
than my body had done all night. This would be a routine that carried on for weeks
ahead into China. Herds of horses and camels would surround the tent just on dawn
and wake us. It was a special time of morning, when the earth seemed to be exhal-
ing and at its calmest. I thought I might as well get up and do some filming.
By the time Chris rose, I was lying on the dirt outside, cradling the video camera
and staring blankly at the tent. I had watched as the frost rose in a vapour with the
first rays of the sun. I didn't have the energy to talk and preferred to keep still; it
felt like someone had been kicking me in the guts all night. Thank God it's Chris's
turn to cook, I thought.
It was mind destroying to wonder how many debilitating nights lay before the
refuge of China. The intense cold was another worrying factor - it felt like we were
being chased by the onset of winter; frostbite was the last thing I wanted.
'Chris, don't bother with sugar or milk in the porridge. I don't think I can stom-
ach it,' were the only words I could manage.
After breakfast Chris joined me in the dirt and we spread out the gimmicky map
between us. For a few days we'd been planning to diverge from the line of the
trans-Mongolian and do a 300-kilometre loop into nowhere and rejoin the railway
at Sainshand. With several trucks a day passing we had been yearning to go out and
see what it was really like away from this major route.
'So what do you reckon?' I asked Chris.
'I don't know. I'd love to get out there. It's just that we aren't in good shape
at the moment. It would be harder, but definitely more interesting. What do you
think?' he asked.
'Yeah, I agree.'
Somehow, as perverse as it seemed, we decided to take the plunge. With waves
of nausea still flowing from my stomach, I was agonisingly aware that we were
choosing to make life harder.
In Choyr we filled up with some salty, sulphur-smelling water that was pumped
up from a well. It was selling at one cent for every ten litres and was considered
very good quality by Gobi standards.
On the way out we asked for directions to the tiny settlement of Ondershil. The
men swung their arms out in an arc pointing towards one of any number of tracks
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