Under difficult conditions

As the weather forecast had predicted, we are greeted by a gloomy day dominated by the master. We have breakfast in our room and carry our bikes and equipment from the second floor to the first floor today, perhaps for the last time on this stage. We lean our trestles against the hotel’s outhouse and load them up as it starts to rain. We immediately put on our rain jackets, rain trousers, gloves and overshoes. Then we leave Ishuuj to conquer the next mountain straight away. The first ridge surprises us at over 1,300 meters. The second with 1,400 meters. The third takes us to 1,500 meters and the fourth to just under 1,600 meters. Even though the marathon ascents of the South Siberian Mountains, the mountain ranges on Olkhon Island, the Chamar-Daban Mountains on Lake Baikal and the Mongolian Mountains were a constant challenge, it looks like the mountains really wanted to heat us up again on the last day. The master has also sharpened his teeth once again to maltreat our overworked bodies. At 1,500 meters it starts to hail. The grains of ice hit us in the face and drum on our helmets. The thermometer fluctuates between three and six degrees plus. Depending on how high we are. At 13:00 we have only 17 kilometers behind us. Mainly inclines. We reach a small desolate nest. The houses duck into the wind. There are hardly any people to be seen. A neglected flat stone building gives us the impression that it is something similar to a restaurant. As our clothes are completely soaked again from sweating and we are freezing to death, we stop. While Tanja waits outside, I enter the cottage to ask if we can get something warm to eat here. A television is on in the unheated room, with Chinese soldiers flickering across the screen. A lonely wooden table, four chairs and two car seats are lost on the tiled floor. In the next room there is a tiny grocery store with a freshly slaughtered sheep for sale on the counter. It smells unpleasant. The kitchen is empty. No activity. “We have nothing to eat,” I hear disappointedly. “Can we have some tea?” I ask, because Tanja and I really need to rest a little. The woman nods. I immediately rush outside and fetch Tanja. We sit down at the wooden table. “Is this even a restaurant? It looks like people live here,” she says. “I don’t know. But the woman said we could have some hot tea.” It doesn’t take long for the shopkeeper to pour the salted Mongolian butter tea into our cups. Then she hands us a bag of Aruul. (dried curd cheese that looks like sweet cookies) Since I had bad experiences with the tasty but fatty dairy product during our last Mongolia expedition, and constantly suffered from diarrhea, I only take one. “Have some more,” says the woman, whereupon Tanja grabs another Aruul piece. Then we drink the fatty tea that takes some getting used to, eat the sugar-free curd creation and wait for a bit of warmth to return to our bodies. “I’ll go to the store. Maybe there are some real cookies,” I say. Because the Mongolian woman doesn’t want anything for the butter tea and the homemade, sour-tasting pieces of dried curd on offer, I want to give her a deal and buy two bars of chocolate and a bag of Russian cookies. We get hot water, hang our own tea bags from Sonnentor in the cups and devour everything I’ve just bought.

We leave the strange roadside restaurant at 14:00. Outside, the icy cold wind from Siberia greets us again. With stiff limbs and still freezing terribly, we cycle up the next 1,500 meter high mountain ridge. As Tanja takes a long time to climb, I use the time to take some photos of the imposing Obul. “I can’t take any more. I feel terribly sick. I have to throw up first!” Tanja calls out to me when she arrives at the Obul a little later. Tanja actually lifts her bike onto the stand, stands next to it and breaks. “Can I help you?” I ask anxiously. “No,” I hear and over the next 15 minutes I witness her insides choking outwards. Because of the icy cold wind at the top of the pass, it doesn’t take long before our bodies are barely under control from all the shivering. “Is it working again? We have to get out of here or we’ll freeze to death,” I say. “I still feel sick, but we can carry on,” Tanja replies, chattering her teeth and visibly shaken. “Drive carefully!” I shout, letting my Intercontinental roll down the hill. We stop again just 100 meters below. Tanja leans her vehicle against a crash barrier and hurries off into the countryside. “Next?” I ask when she comes back shortly afterwards. “I don’t have another chance,” she says, whereupon we continue our descent.

Once again we reach a poor village. We stop again at a grocery store. “Go into the store and warm yourself up. I’ll put your bike against the fence,” I say, trying to free Tanja from the master’s clutches as quickly as possible. As I lift up the back of her buck to lean it against the metal fence, the rear tire falls down a bit. Horrified, I notice that the quick-release fastener has come loose. I click the Ortlieb panniers off the frame, put the tire back in correctly and tighten the quick release, still stunned. “The bumpy road must have caused the trailer to release the quick release. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we hadn’t taken a break here and I hadn’t lifted Tanja’s aluminum donkey to park it. All it takes is one bump in the road to lose the rear tire at full speed,” I think. I hastily take refuge in the unheated grocery store. The friendly owner speaks reasonably good German. She lived in Berlin for a few years and has since spoken to Tanja. Tanja’s face is ashen and her whole body is shaking as she crouches on a wooden stool. “Is there somewhere to stay in this town?” I ask, because Tanja needs to get into a warm bed straight away. “No. The next one is in Ulan Bator,” replies the woman. “I have to go out,” Tanja suddenly says, gets up and leaves the store. Standing at the side of the road, she spits like a heron. The obviously spoiled dry curd cookies leave her body in fountains. I watch her anxiously. “What should we do?” I ponder. Now, shortly before our destination, we have to make sure that nothing goes wrong. If we keep driving, we have to concentrate. “Don’t make any mistakes. Don’t make any wrong decisions,” runs through my brain. When Tanja re-enters the uncomfortably cold grocery store, she looks even weaker than before. “How are you feeling?” “A little better. I think most of it’s outside.” “The woman says it’s only twelve kilometers to the edge of town. When we reach it, you’ll have made it. Do you still have enough strength?” “Yes, I can do it.” “Are you sure? We can’t take any more risks now. An accident just before the finish is the last thing we need. But if you still have your bike under control, we can give it a go,” I say. “There’s no point in sitting here much longer and continuing to cool down. I can do it,” Tanja assures us through chattering teeth. “Okay, I’ll call Gambold now and tell him to be on the outskirts of Ulan Bator in an hour,” I decide and dial the number. “Ah, hello Denis. Where are you right now?” “In a small village outside the capital. We could be there in an hour.” “Very good. There’s a restaurant next to the police station. I’ll pick you up there,” he says and hangs up.

After covering 3,438 kilometers (approx. 2,900 kilometers by bike) and 15,100 vertical meters on this stage, we let our bikes roll down towards the finish. As we drive around a large bend, we see the ugliness of Ulan Bator. The city, which was founded in 1649 under the name Urga around a monastery and was the permanent seat of the head of Lamaism in Mongolia from 1778, stretches across a wide mountain valley. Smoke lies above the metropolis at an altitude of 1,350 meters. Power stations spew out nasty-looking smoke that covers all the houses, buildings and streets like a suffocating blanket. Although we have other things to worry about at the moment, I am appalled by the sight of Mongolia’s political and cultural center. Since 1996, the last time we were here, the once dormant and forgotten town has developed into a stinking and hectic industrial site, where almost all exhaust fumes are blown unfiltered into the atmosphere and the lungs of the people and the waste water is pumped into the Tuul River, reaching ten times the permitted level of pollutants and contaminating the drinking water of the hinterland.

It is probably due to the difficult conditions such as mountains up to 1,600 meters high, cold, hail, the evil master, Tanja’s food poisoning and our resulting overexertion that we hardly feel anything when we reach the Ulan Bator police station described by Gambold and thus our destination. “We are here. We’ve made it,” I say. Tanja gets off her bike and crouches at the side of the road as I set up our riese und müller on the outskirts of Ulan Bator for the final photo of the successful stage four of our Trans-East expedition. I click the Leica onto the tripod and ask: “Can you?” “I’ll try,” she says. We stand in front of the road trains and when I press the radio trigger we laugh as triumphantly as we can. “One more”, I say because I don’t know if the first picture turned out well. Then I send Tanja into the restaurant and dismantle the tripod again. “I’d like to be happier but I feel too sick,” says Tanja a little later, sitting in the restaurant. “We’ll be happy later. When we’re no longer cold and you’re no longer sick. But congratulations anyway. That was a fantastic, eventful trip and you’ve achieved an enormous amount. Congratulations,” I reply. “Congratulations to you too,” she says as a jeep pulls up. Although we have never seen Gambold before in our lives, we recognize him immediately. “Hello, nice that you made it to Ulan Bator,” the friendly man greets us in very good German. “Can we get all this into your jeep?” I ask, pointing at the two fully loaded road trains. “No problem,” he says, but it only takes a while before we realize that we can’t find a place for the second bike with the best will in the world. “No problem,” says Gambold and wants to tie my riese und müller behind the spare tire with a strap. “But it looks dangerous. I don’t want my noble steed to end up being damaged,” I refuse to allow the valuable bike to be attached to a spare tire with just two straps dangling freely. “No problem. We are nomads. We tie everything down, even horses and camels,” Gambold repeats and continues to buzz the frame unimpressed. “Gambold, I’ve heard the no problem thing before. When we crossed the Gobi desert with camels back then, the camel man always said: “No problem.” Then the load slipped off the camel’s back and got stuck on the camel’s hind legs. The cop panicked so much that he kicked the backpack and all its contents to the ground. The result was very problematic. We were able to throw away a camera and a laptop afterwards. So don’t tell me it’s not a problem,” I try to explain. As if Gambold didn’t even hear my story, he pulls a knot and says, “That should hold. Please get in.” “Okay, I give up. It will be in divine order,” I resign, taking one last look at my beloved bike. “You can sit here,” says Gambold, pointing to a tiny camping stool that sticks out between the front tire of Tanja’s bike and all her luggage. “You couldn’t even fit a midget in there,” I reply. “Of course,” he replies, climbing like a contortionist over the luggage that reaches up to the roof and showing me how to sit. “Okay,” I say and try to position my body on the stool as well. As I squirm in a completely contorted position, my feet hang out of the window. Gambold lifts her up and pushes her inside. Not a chance. Gambold and Tanja join forces to push the door shut until my entire body is squeezed into the luggage. “I’m fine,” he says dryly, which makes Tanja laugh despite her discomfort. Then we set off and find ourselves in a traffic chaos of madness just one kilometer further on. “Please drive slowly. Think of my bike dangling back there,” I admonish. “I can’t drive slowly,” replies Gambold with amusement. “I didn’t know Ulan Bator had such crazy traffic. When we were here, there were hardly any cars on the road,” I say, a little squeezed by my contorted position and tormented by cramps. “Times have changed,” says Gambold with a laugh. “We should check on the bike,” suggests Tanja, who has stopped shivering because of the heating. “We lost the wheel long ago. We don’t need to look anymore,” we hear and try to get used to the man’s sense of humor. After half an hour, I’m at the end of my tether and become envious of Tanja’s position as co-driver. “How much further is it?” “Half an hour or three quarters of an hour.” “What, I can’t stand it. My leg muscles are going to tear at any moment and my butt has taken on the shape of a discus.” “Ha, ha, ha. Hi, hi, hi.” Is the answer. Hot flushes rush through my body and the exhaust fumes are also making me nauseous. The Mongolians have a driving style that can make even an old sow sick. Above all, we are surprised by the mercilessness and ruthlessness they display. Two-lane roads are declared three-lane roads. There is honking and swearing, cutting in and braking at the very last second. If you enter a traffic circle, you only have the chance to force your way in. No one gives the other a centimeter’s head start. In all the night-time madness, which reminds me of the traffic in Cairo, police officers standing in the center of the rolling heaps of metal try to regulate the traffic with their whistles and glow sticks. “It can’t be long before someone like that dies of lung cancer,” I think and shake my head. “Is the traffic always like this?” “Yes, every morning and every evening. You can allow an hour for ten kilometers. It’s better at weekends and during the day,” explains Gambold, who is shooting like an arrow between a group of cars, turning the original two-lane road into a four-lane road.

Ten hours after setting off this morning, we arrive safely at the completely overheated apartment that Gambold has organized for us at 8pm. With the last of our strength and the active support of our new friend, we drag all our belongings up to the fifth floor. For 29,000 Tugrik (14 euros) a day, we move into a brand new, modernly furnished three-room luxury apartment that leaves us speechless. An elderly gentleman greets us in a friendly manner and explains how to operate the washing machine and everything else. He is a mathematics professor and the head of a university in this city. His daughter, Gambold’s niece, works for the Foreign Ministry. A picture of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, a small gondola in Venice, the skyline of New York, a picture of Prague and the Colosseum in Rome adorn the wall cabinet and bear witness to her extensive travels abroad.

“Do you need anything from the supermarket? I’ll drive you there,” asks Gambold after all the details have been clarified. “We’re tired but very hungry. I think we should do some shopping. How are you Tanja?” “I’m physically exhausted but I don’t feel sick anymore. I think I’ve spit all the bacteria into the wind.” “Great, then off to the supermarket,” I say enthusiastically. Here in Ulan Bator we are delighted to be able to get almost everything our taste buds crave and we quickly stock up for the next few days. Gambold drives our shopping back to the apartment. “I’ll come and visit you tomorrow. Then we can take care of your plane ticket, shipping your equipment and getting the boxes for your bikes,” he says with a laugh and drives off. “A nice man,” says Tanja. Yes, really fantastic that we got this contact from Getrud and Günter Niederle. It would be unthinkable if we still had to go through this traffic madness today. Hardly any cyclist can survive that,” I reply. Even though it’s late and our muscles are aching, we celebrate our success. We lounge on the comfortable couch, enjoy a salad and, because Tanja is feeling better again, a few beers. Until midnight, we review the day and the adrenaline of joy gives us positive energy.

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