Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan KM 9960 to KM 15270

I spent a lot of my time  in Mongolia thinking I knew exactly where I was while actually being completely lost. But being lost in Mongolia is never really a problem, because help is always close by, usually on horseback and knowing where every dirt track and goat trail leads. Sometimes it was a matter of sitting at a fork in the road and waiting for someone to pass by and point me in the right direction. At other times, I would drive down the trail heading west until it turned another direction, split into a web of livestock paths, or simply faded into grassy pastures. One of my wrong turns lead me to Buka and his family, who adopted me for a day that was my most memorable in Mongolia. I got a rare view of a typical day on the Mongolian steppe: the milking of mares, preparation of food and all kinds of dairy products, and even a haircutting ceremony for all three-year-old Mongolian males, in which family members (and the occasional wandering foreigner) snip locks of hair of the youngster, tying them into the knots of a blue satin sash while offering blessings and gifts to the child. It was a magical day, a wrong turn that ended up being a right turn.

Buka (second from left) and family

I spent nine days driving westward from Ulan Bataar on a road of dirt, sand, grave, and rock across the beautifully vast expanse of Mongolia. What struck me most was the simplicity of the country. Outside of the few cities and towns, there are few distractions, no government, no agriculture, no electricity; only three things: animals, the land, and the people.

I got my first wreck out of the way. I had spent part of the morning waiting with fifteen other motorcyclists for the gas pump operator to show up with the key to the only fuel pump within 100 miles in any direction. While we waited, some of the guys took turns trying on my gloves and helmet while one seemed serious about trading his Russian clunker of a motorcycle for mine. One talkative nomad spat into my helmet before cramming onto his head which was notably larger and rounder than mine. So after I had filled up with 80 octane gas, I was cruising down a decent gravel road, decent enough that I could allow my mind to wander, and I was thinking: “Why in the world did that guy have to spit into my helmet? Was that a Mongolian thing or just one of his superstitious quirks? Does he spit into his own hat before putting it on? And before I could react, I was headed at 50 mph straight into a pit of silt a foot deep, twenty feet long, and stretching across the width of the road. I was over the handlebars and in the air, an somehow landed on my back in the silt pit. The cloud of dust Jesse and I produced was impressive as it blew across the steppe. The damage to myself and the bike was minimal, just a gentle reminder to keep my eyes on the road, or maybe Jesse telling me to keep that 80 octane fuel out of her tank. Considering the soft landing, I think I can consider it a good wreck.

The high road in the Altai Mountains that leads to Russia was snowy and cold, and my timing was a little off, wo the border was closed when I arrived. Rather than having to backtrack to the nearest town or spend a well-below-freezing night in a tent, I ended up staying with the head Mongolian Immigrations officer and having dinner with him, a customs official, and a security officer. Needless to say, crossing the border the next morning was a breeze. The decent from the border into the Russian Altai was the most beautiful drive so far. The trees were at the peak of their changing colors. The road traced the edge of a clear turquoise river that twisted through a narrow valley dotted with rustic cabins and sealed in with rocky peaks on both sides. On the floor of the valley, horse-drawn rakes gathered freshly cut hay that would be loaded onto a rickety wagon pulled by an ancient tractor almost undoubtedly driven by a rough-handed Russian wearing a camouflage jacket and smoking a cigarette. Rather than take the common route northwest to Barnaul and back down into Kazakhstan, I followed the river in search of a short-cut into Kazakhstan. The most promising road dead-ended in a tiny village, and another attempt ended with a sympathetic but characteristically stubborn Russian soldier planted behind a red and white striped bar across the road. So I backtracked and took the road to the northwest, where I fell in with the freeriders of Barnaul, a motley group of bikers who, armed with cell phones, racing leathers, and Russian determination, made things happen with impressive efficiency.

While Jesse was in their shop having parts rebuilt, welds repaired, lost bolts replaced, filters cleaned, and much more, I was glued to the back of a high-speed Japanese street bike, being transported around town in search of parts. The driver treated cars and pedestrians like cones on an obstacle course, and once he saw even the smallest gap between vehicles, he would accelerate through at insane speeds. I peeked over his shoulder at the speedometer on a straightaway and read 180 km/hr. That’s pretty fast for city driving. After seeing first-hand how bikers look out for each other in Barnaul, I headed south into Kazakhstan, which at first glance seems a lot like Russia. The nomadic Kazakh nomadic culture was almost completely replaced with the sedentary Russian lifestyle during the Soviet era. It took two days to cross the desolate steppe of Kazakhstan; flat, dry, and vacant. I spent a few days  in leafy Almaty in the Southeast of the country, marvelling at it’s cosmopolitan feel, european style, and outrageous prices. On a crisp Saturday morning, I gave in and had a six dollar latte but passed on the fourteen dollar omellete. I shared a 4-bed dorm room with three Krgyz boxing coaches, one of whom filled the room with the smoke of two cigarettes before my head was off the pillow each morning. With my visas in order, I drove into Krgystan, skirting the towering snowy peaks that border Almaty to the south.

I have some video footage that I will add when I find a faster internet connection.