The long break takes its toll

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

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After only a few hours of sleep, I feel like I’ve been beaten in the morning. For breakfast we have white bread dipped in tea. Then we leave this inhospitable place behind us. The landscape becomes flatter and flatter. We reach the edge of the Gobi Desert. Because of the endless expanse, Tanja calls this region the land where your eyes never meet. Around lunchtime, we stop next to a well-run roadside restaurant in front of which long-distance buses and trucks are lined up. When Tanja takes Ajaci inside, she is almost thrown out. “Dogs aren’t allowed here,” one of the waitresses grumbles, while another hides anxiously behind the counter. Tanja ties Ajaci in front of the restaurant to an iron fence in the shade of the house. The menu is extensive for a change and it actually tastes quite good. However, we leave the rancid meat out of the meal and serve it with ajaci. As always, he eats it with great pleasure. As soon as he has finished his sumptuous meal, one of the waitresses hurries over with a plate. “Can he have that?” she asks us kindly, pointing to the large mountain of noodles, rice, meat and vegetables. “Of course, Ajaci will be delighted,” we reply. As soon as our dog has finished his plate, the waitress appears with another portion of the best food. Our dog also eats these as if he had cycled the whole way. “I’ll get supplies,” says the young woman with a laugh. “Please don’t. He’ll end up throwing up all over his trailer,” I tell Ajaci, saving him from bursting.

While we wait for the batteries to fill up with energy, we lie down on a shady bench in front of the restaurant. “One of us should always keep an eye on the wheels. Under no circumstances should we both fall asleep,” warns Tanja. “Okay, I’ll take the first shift,” I reply, sitting up again. In this way, we take turns every 20 minutes. At 14:00 we are so tired that just the thought of driving on causes me pain. “Is it possible to spend the night here?” I ask, glancing around the inn. “I’ll ask,” I say and stand up with a groan. “Awtsch boloh hojor hünij tasalgaa uu?” (Can I have a double room?) “Ügüj, (No) we don’t have any rooms,” is the disappointing answer.

At 14:15 we get back on our bucks. Although it is already so late, we still have almost 100 kilometers to go to the next town indicated on the map. It doesn’t take long and the tiredness is pedaled away. A light wind blows at our backs, which is why we speed along at 28 to 30 km/h. Thick storm clouds pile up in the north and hurry after us with alarming speed. It’s slightly downhill, so I’m confident that I can simply ride away from the weather. An hour later, a rather modern-looking, lonely house appears on the left-hand side of the road. However, when you get closer it looks uninhabited. “Let’s ask if we can stay there!” I shout. “We don’t have to stay because of me. I feel fit again,” the wind carries Tanja’s words to my ears. “I’ll ask anyway,” I reply and leave the asphalt. Sand and gravel crunch under the cleats. As I park my bike, strong gusts of wind sweep across the course. The first raindrops lash down from the sky. Hoping that someone is at home, I push the door handle down. It opens. “Hello! Hellooo!” I call out. A Mongolian woman and a boy of about 14 come down the stairs. “Sain bajna uu,” I greet them. “Sain bajna uu”, they reply. “Can we sleep here one night?” The two look at each other and shake their heads. I’m just about to leave when the boy nudges the woman and whispers something to her. “Wait,” says the woman and asks me to follow her. On the second floor, she opens the door to an empty room. There is only one mattress on the floor. “If you want, you can stay here for 15,000 tugrik (€6.61). However, there is no toilet or running water.” Tanja and I are immediately on the same page. “It’s better to have a room with nothing in it than a filthy place like yesterday,” she says and, considering the lack of water and toilets, negotiates the price down to 10,000 tugrik (€4.41).

The boy and I are just about to push the bikes into a shed when the weather breaks over us. The initial wind develops into a storm. We have to lean the few meters to the inner courtyard against the gusts to avoid being knocked over. “Well, we got shelter just in time,” I say with relief, watching the lashing rain through the window.

After we have settled into the room, we wash ourselves at a rain barrel in the courtyard. Then we go to the small, nice-looking restaurant run by the family. There is potato salad and buuds. (Mongolian national dish, consists of minced meat and spices in steam-cooked flour dumplings) “Tastes delicious”, I praise the cook, who is delighted with my compliment.

The next morning we feel exhausted. My back and thighs hurt. “It was a bit much after the long break in U.B.,” I say. “It’s a good thing we decided to rest here for a day last night,” says Tanja, also massaging her thighs and calves. I use the day to sit in my little folding chair and archive and label the pictures we have taken. In the evening I ask for the delicious potato salad again. “I can’t offer you that anymore. It’s from yesterday,” replies the landlady. “Nice of her to point that out to us. She could serve us the old food without any problems,” says Tanja, surprised. “Really an unusual gesture in Mongolia,” I marvel. A little later, her son arrives and tells us that his mother has prepared a new potato salad. “Wow, in such a short time? Is it fresh or are they trying to foist their old stuff on us after all?” I ponder. “Oh no. They’re very nice here. I’m sure she’s made a fresh salad,” I say and order potato salad and buuds, just like yesterday. A few hours later, my stomach rumbles suspiciously. “The potato salad?” asks Tanja. “Or the Budds? They tasted particularly rancid today,” I ponder, rolling around on my sleeping mat, tormented by stomach cramps.

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