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him. Without saying anything, I lay down nearby and started pushing up and down
like a maniac. I lasted fifteen before the sudden urge to vomit stopped me dead in
my tracks, and I dropped to the dusty earth.
I heard Chris do the same, but he was laughing hard. 'Tim, what the hell have
you done to yourself? Your face is bloody bright orange. That oil is for taking as a
liquid, not an ointment, you silly bastard!'
I too would have laughed if it wasn't for the fear of throwing up.
The landscape changed yet again and we were met by a howling headwind. Be-
fore us rose pointy hills and wide slab-like plateaux. Over every rise, every new
rocky saddle, there was another view stretching into the distance … just hills, wind,
vague tracks, hills beyond hills and hills beyond that again. The sea of yellow grass
was replaced by the odd thorny tuft of growth and bushes sparsely scattered among
the sand and rock. Geckoes often sprinted off in front of the bike wheels.
With the battle against diarrhoea pretty much lost, the only thread of sanity
and inspiration came through my increasing obsession with filming. I went to bed
dreaming of new angles, new shots, and wrote down lists of scenes that we had to
shoot before Beijing. At times it felt as if the journey would never end. And yet
time was running out for filming. The shot I wanted most was a silhouette of us
riding against a sunset or sunrise. There would be two projects finishing for me in
Beijing: the film and the cycling journey. And I couldn't relax until both were over.
We passed through the tiny outpost of Bayanjargalan and continued on to
Ondershil. From there we would aim back towards the railway line.
In the late afternoon I was rolling down a sandy, rutted part of the road when
I was startled by a shriek from behind. The front wheel dug in and I fell into the
sand. I spun in the direction of the voice.
A horseman with a dusty face was staring down at me. In his hand he held a long
pole and a lasso. His
dele
was faded and in tatters from years of use. He looked
enquiringly, cocking his head, before pointing over a hill, then at Chris and I; an in-
vitation to his
ger
? We had stopped at countless
gers
since the Mongolian babushka
experience, but only once since turning off from Choyr. I was keen to spend some
time with these 'wilder' Mongolians.
Chris wasn't so enthused, but after some coercion he agreed. We followed the
horseman as his
dele
flailed wildly and his horse stirred up a cloud of dust. After
some time we came to a pair of
gers
. They were plonked adjacent to a dry sandy
riverbed. One was being used for cooking and the other for sleeping.
