At the border camp

(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).

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Today, too, we wake up to wonderful sunshine. After breakfast together, I continue working on our bikes. Since I only have puncture foam for one tire in my luggage, I fill it into my rear tire as a test. “Do you need this?” asks Pete and shows me an electric pump that can be used to inflate car and bicycle tires. “Sure, with those fat tires you’re pumping yourself into a wolf,” I reply. “Sorry, I should have offered you that yesterday, but I hadn’t thought of it.” “No problem,” I reply and fill the tire with air using the small compressor. To distribute the foam evenly, Jens and Peter lift the rear end of the bike while I turn the pedal crank vigorously by hand. “That should be enough,” says Jens, who is a Fahlerer in his German life and knows all about such things.

The third German couple, Mark and Miriam, arrive at our camp in the afternoon. They are also extremely nice people. When they hear about our tire problem, they offer to take the dog trailer across the border in their small camper without hesitation. As they also have their four-legged friend with them, they are now nervous as to whether he will be allowed to travel to China tomorrow without quarantine.

It is late afternoon when the Brits John and Suzanne arrive with their off-roaders. “Now everyone’s here except the Austrians,” says Jens. “So, will they make it in time for tomorrow?” I ask, because I know that the group has to leave tomorrow at the latest, even if the Austrians don’t make it. “They wrote a WhatsApp. The gearbox part they got from Germany is currently being fitted. If all goes well, they’ll set off tonight.” “700 km at night, and that on a Mongolian road?” “Well, that’s a challenge too.” “They’ll master it,” says Jens confidently.

“Tanja, Denis! Mrs. Spring has replied to our email. She will try to help you, but can’t promise anything,” says Katharina. “That’s great news,” we say happily. “Mrs. Spring also wrote us an email. She advises us to hide all our laptops and large cameras when we cross the border. We should also empty our fridges and hide them,” says Suzanne from England. “Hide fridges?” asks Jens. “She wrote it.” “Well, how are you supposed to hide a fridge?” “John and I were wondering the same thing. We just put a sheet over it.” “And why should we hide our laptops and cameras? That’s absolute nonsense. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to take cameras and laptops into the land of consumption?” The questions are now flying from group member to group member. “Did you know that the Chinese can refuse entry without giving a reason?” “Despite the visa?” “Despite the visa.” “Doesn’t sound so rosy,” I say, feeling a sense of uncertainty creeping over me.

That evening, Jens and I carry our trailer box to his VW van. We place them on the ramp installed at the rear of the vehicle. To keep the trailer upright, I look for a few bricks that I find on a pile of rubble. We push the stones under the box and Jens secures them with lashing straps. After dinner together, we talk about the day ahead. Will we bring Ajaci to China without quarantine? We don’t know at this point and from everything we’ve researched so far, a massive miracle must happen. Before I go to sleep, I tell a story, as I do on the other evenings. It’s late when I get into our tent and slip into my sleeping bag. I lie awake for a long time, listening to the sounds of the night and praying that our dog won’t have to spend a month in a kennel but will be allowed to travel to the land of the dragon as a free four-legged friend.

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