They then usually want to beat each other

“Can we take photos of them?” a group of Christian missionaries from Korea asks us. “Gladly”, we reply and stand next to our loaded bikes in front of our Hotel Voyage. Then the ultra-modern, expensive cameras flash. We learn that the missionaries want to spread the Catholic faith in Mongolia and train and educate priests here. “We wish you a safe journey!” they call after us in perfect English and wave vigorously. Then we leave the little town behind and are immediately in the open grass steppe. Although we were assured at the border that there was not a single mountain to Ulan Bator and that we would be able to cycle along easily without exertion, we were convinced otherwise just a few kilometers after Sübataar. Almost imperceptibly, 830 meters of altitude creep under our tires, so that we initially believe that we are only imagining the greater effort. But far from it. A glance at the altimeter is infallible. However, we are lucky because most of the really high mountains are in the west of the country. There, 85% are above 1,000 meters and in the Mongolian Altai the peaks even rise to 4,362 meters. The first night frosts and cool days in the surrounding mountains have ushered in fall. The deciduous trees dab the now increasingly sparsely vegetated mountains with golden colors. Some of the mountain ranges are soon completely covered with a purple carpet. Low heather is the reason which seems to thrive very well in this area. In front of us, a small truck has lost its entire load of hay. The men are just about to buzz the mega bale tight again. As we cycle past them, they wave happily at us. They are Mongolians who probably belong to the Chalcha tribe, which makes up over 80% of the population. But it could also be Kazakhs, Dörwöd, Bajad, Buryats, Dariganga, Zakhchim, Urianchai, all of whose ethnic groups have also settled in Mongolia. We are still unable to tell the individual tribes apart, as their facial features appear to be very similar.

Despite the constant gradients of up to 12% up the mountain ridges, we make rapid progress on the relatively good road. We stop at a lonely house. A hand-painted sign presents various dishes and invites you to linger. “Can I help you?” asks a man in perfect English. It turns out that he is the owner of the Mongolian rest stop where there is also a room to spend the night. We are surprised by the perfectly designed menu, whose meals are also explained in English. “I didn’t know that Mongolians also eat dogs”, I wonder, having discovered such a dish. “No, no. We don’t eat dogs. But our Korean guests love dogs. That’s why we also offer dog meat,” explains the man who charges 3,500 tugrik (1.68 euros) for our noodle soup. “Compared to other restaurants, that’s twice as much,” Tanja wonders, whereupon he immediately reduces the price by 500 tugrik (24 euro cents). “If you write books, I’ll ask you for a great entry in my guest book,” the landlord asks us with a conciliatory smile. In the course of the conversation, we learn that tourists will soon be visiting the simple restaurant every day in summer and are no longer surprised at the prices. After satisfying our hunger, we leave the house in the steppe and work our way over another long mountain ridge. Because we want to reach Darhan today, the second largest city in Mongolia with a population of around 72,000, we are forced to cover 100 kilometers. Of course we could also pitch our tent next to the road, but for a few kilometers there is not a single tree or bush behind which we could hide. Because we were once attacked by drunken Mongolians during our horseback expedition in this country many years ago and only survived the incident with a lot of luck, we don’t want to be seen by anyone on the open steppe at the moment. The memories are too present. “Most of our men drink vodka. The tragedy is that the Mongols, just like the Indians, cannot tolerate alcohol. We don’t have the gene to break it down. Our men become aggressive and then usually want to beat each other up,” an educated Mongolian woman who doesn’t marry because she doesn’t want an alcoholic for a husband tells us later.

We are tired again after 70 kilometers because of the hills we have to overcome. “If it’s no longer possible, we should ask one of the many yurts if we can pitch our tent. I think that’s the best option. People are happy about the rare opportunity to have guests from abroad and we are automatically protected by the yurt,” I say. “A good idea,” says Tanja. Nevertheless, we will do our best to reach the city today.

The sun is just about to bathe the outskirts of Darhan in a warm golden light as our tires let our exhausted bodies roll down the mountain after 100 kilometers. The first plots are surrounded by wooden fences. Yurts have been erected between the small wooden and stone huts. Some of the nomads have settled here and apparently don’t want to part with their traditional dwellings. But it is even more likely that people do not have the money to build a permanent house with electricity and water connections. Just a few hundred meters further on, in the direction of the city center, we walk along a broken, pitted road past hideous residential buildings whose facades are crumbling away at every turn. Some of the dwellings are in an almost indescribably poor state. It takes a lot of imagination to picture these half-ruined bunkers housing people. We stop our bikes in the center of the steppe settlement to ask for a hotel. Because of the language barrier, we are hardly understood or misunderstood. But the people seem very friendly. They look at us with interest, shrug their shoulders, laugh, giggle, try a few words of English, wave and shout. Now, ten hours after we set off this morning, I barely have the strength to articulate myself properly, let alone stay upright in the saddle. My knees hurt like hell and I pray that I can stretch my battered body out on a bed as soon as possible. “Come along. I’ll show you the way,” a friendly Mongolian woman offers us in broken English. Relieved to have finally met someone who understands my questions, we follow the woman and push our heavy road trains onto the broken and cracked sidewalk. It goes over dust, dried mud, stones, building rubble and garbage. Some of the manhole covers are missing, so anyone walking around here has to be careful not to disappear forever into one of the yawning, deep holes. Especially the many small children who have conquered the sidewalk as their playground are undoubtedly in constant mortal danger. A new, yellow house with a red roof is tucked away behind large, super ugly prefabricated buildings from the communist era, which have obviously never been renovated since they were built many decades ago. SKY HOTEL, PUB, SAUNA, SNOOKER is written in red neon letters on the wall of the building and promises the weary traveler a pleasant night. “Yes, we have a room. The lux (luxury room) costs 35,000 tugrik” (16.78 euros), says the owner. We are allowed to place our bikes next to the brand new snooker table in the cellar and move into the large, beautiful room on the second floor. “The water’s hot!” I hear Tanja’s voice from the bathroom. “Fantastic!” I reply, lying transfixed on the expansive double bed.

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