Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
We stopped that night under a broad, leafy tree. We were in the middle of the
desert and it was the first tree we'd seen in 1000 kilometres! I could think of no
explanation for its presence and it was so unusual that we called an early halt to
camp under it.
Over dinner, we were treated to a spectacular show of colour as the sun sank be-
low the desert horizon. I sat mesmerised, watching the drifting grey clouds begin-
ning to cycle through an incredible, fiery spectrum of reds and oranges. Tim was
frantically hurling clothing from his panniers in an attempt to find a fresh video
camera battery.
'Quick, Chris,' he barked, firing off rapid instructions. 'Get your bike and get
up to the top of that rise asap I want a silhouette shot in the next minute.
Come on
,
mate!' he urged. 'Can't you see it'll be gone soon? We absolutely
have
to catch this
scene on film!'
The next evening we camped a little way outside of Ulaan Ule. We'd equalled
our longest-period-without-washing record of eighteen days, and were planning a
special celebratory dinner with the only delicacy we'd been able to buy - a jar
of pickles. When I sat down to fire up the stove, however, I saw that we were in
trouble. 'Shit,' I said to Tim. 'I can't get this bloody stove to work.'
'Huh?' He hurried over. 'Here let me have a go.'
Tim carefully disassembled, cleaned, then reassembled the stove before banging
it on a rock for good measure. He pumped pressure into the diesel canister, opened
the valve and struck a match, but we could only watch blankly as again the yellow
flame chuffed a few times and died. It appeared that after months on life-support,
our struggling little MSR stove had belched its last.
There was nothing for it. We swallowed our western pride, stalked out to scan
the ground and did as the locals do. We collected a big pile of dried horse crap
and, after much time and effort, produced an exotic-flavoured, lukewarm meal on
a campfire made of poo!
The next morning we entered the town of Ulaan Ule. I let a few kids clamber
up onto the back of my bike, and they sat behind me on top of my packs as though
they were simply climbing onto the back of a horse. I raced up and down the main
street a few times with passengers on board. The little kids were loving it but one
little girl took the horse riding analogy a bit too far and started yanking hard on
my hair when she wanted me to turn. Enough was enough, I decided, and the game
came to an abrupt stop.
