We met our fellow travelers the night before we set off for the Gobi Desert. Our group was an easygoing mix of Kiwis, Brits, an Italian, a Swiss fellow and a voracious Belgian couple, anxious to buy or take anything within reach. The next morning we piled into three Russian vans with our guide Khishgee, drivers Puntsag, Bayaraa and Jigmee and a woman named Mendee whose family ger we stayed in on our first night. Mendee was catching a ride home from Ulaan Baatar but decided to stay on for the whole tour and help with the cooking and cleaning up. Her English was basic but good enough to joke with us tourists. She rode in our van for the first leg, taking pictures and chatting. "Cashmere," she grinned, pointing at The Bob's hairy legs. We headed south to her family's cluster of traditional huts, known as gers or yurts in Russian. The herd of surprisingly flatulent goats owned by Mendee and her husband were a great source of entertainment. From there the ride over the rollercoaster dirt tracks took us south to the Yol Valley, stopping along the way at another huddle of family gers to try airag, the traditional, slightly alcohol drink made from fermented horse milk. It had a mildly fizzy, sour taste but was surprisingly palatable. Unfortunately, one member of the tour discovered he was highly allergic after downing a bowl and a half and had to go back to the nearest hospital with Khishgee while the rest of us pressed on. The Russian vans, like Kombis on steroids, took the roads uncomplainingly thanks to the expertise of the drivers. Puntsag led the convoy as the oldest driver with the cheerful Jigmee and Bayaraa following. Bayaraa, who wore his patchwork bucket hat at a rakish angle and had a fondness for gangster rap and, inexplicably, Wham. Even in my wildest imaginings, I had never thought to factor George Michael into my Mongolian experience but there was something cheerful about bumping through the countryside with Last Christmas blaring.
The tourist camp in the desert had a block of coveted showers that were little more than trickles of warm water but after two days in the dust and heat of the Gobi, they appeared as the most decadent of luxuries. It was the last running water we would see for several days. We drove on to the Gobi Gurvan Saikhan National Park where the vans dropped us at one end of the valley and drove off to meet us again at the other end. We tramped 10km through stunning scenery, following a small stream and keeping an eye out for exciting wild animals like wolves or Gobi bears. The best we managed was a wild goat so far up a cliff it was more like a moving dot than an animal. Mongolians sold hand-carved souvenirs at a few spots throughout the park. The Belgian fellow and his wife, both in matching head to toe khaki outfits, stopped to look at the items and asked Khishgee to translate. "Don't tell me tourist prices!" bellowed the Belgian in his thick European accent. "I am not a tourist!"
Camping in the national park where the world is your toilet is fine, unless you happen to have raging food poisoning. I've never seen the Bob move so fast as when he dived across me and half out of the tent to demonstrate his digestive pyrotechnics. It left him out of action for a couple of days, which meant he missed the camel ride. Mongolia boasts the rarer two-humped camels which are shorter and fluffier than their mono-humped counterparts. When camels don't have enough body fat, their humps go floppy and if there's anything more comical than a camel, it's one that looks like a month-old party balloon. I was delighted to be paired with a solid humped fellow whom I nicknamed George. George was a prince among dromedaries. Seated comfortably between his two humps, I managed to encourage him into an awkward, rollicking trot towards the end of the ride. Once he was comfortably seated back at the gers, I even risked a pat. Although he didn't encourage my affections, he didn't spit on me either which I took as a sign of camaraderie.
Our last stop in the desert proper was at Bayanzag or the Flaming Cliffs, so named for the rich red and orange landscape which almost glows in the sun. It's the site of many of Mongolia's amazing dinosaur finds and we trekked through the barren landscape to be collected by the vans. The Belgians were intent on finding some kind of fossil despite the area having been extensively excavated and took twice as long as everyone else to get to the meeting point while the rest of us sweated under the desert sun. On the way out of the area the drivers stopped to show everyone what they said was a dinosaur claw still embedded in rock. The Belgian fellow immediately began trying to smash it out of the landscape to the horror of his fellow tourists and after a reasonable amount of outcry, left it alone and got back in the van.
And so, gentle readers, began the long trek north to the land where the yaks roam free...
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