Mongolia

September

Mongolia was immediately another big change. The border crossing went smoothley and we met a bunch of guys doing the Mongol Rally - A semi-orgianised car charity drive to Mongolia. After the border we were straight onto a heavily corrugated gravel road, and after maybe the first 40km the road turned into a small track and lots of sidetracks started appearing. We had to guess at the correct route, and followed a track up and over hill. On the other side we found a perfect asphalt road leading all the way to the village of Olgi.

Stormy weather just after crossing the border.

UAZ 4x4 minibus in a stunning valley

The Mongolians are a nation of bikers, and a mixture of old Russian Izh smokers, Ural outfits and Chinese 125s have become the new horses for many Mongolians. The plan was to buy a bike for Eva to ride on, both to make the trip across the country more fun for her and to give the DR350 an easier time on the harsh roads expected ahead.. The cities of Mongolia came as quite a shock to us - They're the size of small towns, but they're full of shops, banks and even sometimes internet/gaming centers. The first place we came to was Olgii, and we were sure we'd be able to find a bike there as the streets were littered with them, including many motorcycle taxis.

Local Kazakh bikers. We think they all were taxi-drivers offering cheap transport around the town.

Preliminary enquiries got us driven to see a few bikes for sale on the outskirts. Two Izh got rejected for for numerous problems including steering head bearings more notched than I would have thought possible, numerous holes in crankcases repaired with epoxy, knackered wheel bearings, and fork legs that wobbled so much on the stanchions that the bottom of the legs were moving about 2inches from one extreme to the other (and even more if you included to the play in the head bearings). Being took to see an OHV Ural got me all excited about the prospect of giving Eva the 350 and me riding an outfit across the country, but it was in such bad condition it'd take weeks of hard work and no end of parts to put right. What also was coming apparent was that the prices they were asking were taking the piss by astonishing amounts - $500 US for a bike in dangerous condition that in the UK wouldn't be worth fifty quid. Time out was taken from the bike shopping to meet a cool French family traveling in a converted Renault military truck. The father had done all the work himself and was understandably very proud of the result - What a great experience for his young sons to spend six months driving around half way round the world!!

Extreme French 'campervan'.

Outside billiards

Meanwhile we were starting to get famous in town and even had guys pull up offering to sell us their bikes whilst we were walking around. The prices however remained ridiculous, and what the locals considered a good bike still normally lacked a working front break and certainly had wobbly wheel bearings. In the bazaar we ended up being shown a bunch of Ural outfits one after the other by their taxi driver riders. A crowd gathered to watch me ping stupidly loose and broken spokes, wobble wheels on unfathomely loose bearings, pull off inlet rubbers which besides being cracked and hardened weren't even jubilee clipped in place, and bounce suspension which had long since given up any damping properties it offered. I couldn't work out whether the onlookers were laughing with me at the state of the bikes, at me for inspecting such unroadworthy heaps, or at the general spectacle of a strange foreigner shopping for old soviet bikes. One of the Urals even had all its spokes on one side of its rear wheel welded to an apparently steel hub, and of course they were all still loose at the rim! And none of these Urals could be put into gear with the engine running without horrendous gearbox grinding.

A crowd gathers round...

"One careful owner"

A decision was made - We weren't going to get a rideable bike for sane money in this town, perhaps down to the predominantly Kazakh population who didn't seem to understand that we weren't going to pay good money for worthless rubbish. Riding on to the next city took us through beautiful Altai mountain scenery, though there was a threat of rain and it was freezing bloody cold. The road got even more corrugated and even more a maze of tracks heading off in different directions upon a high plateau. It was just about possible to stay on the main route, though I was glad there was a jeep some distance ahead who I hoped was driving the main road as well (if not we were going to end up somewhere strange!). After descending from the plateau we found ourselves in green-ish valley wtih a small river running through the middle of it. Shelter from the wind and soft ground to camp on was too good to pass up, so we rode across the river and camped up for the night.

In the quest to get some soft ground and a good nights sleep, crossing rivers was not out of the question...

Perfect camping spot

At the next city we bumped into the Mongol Rally guys we'd met at the border who were stopped for repairs. The road had seen them suffer no end of punctures, dented rims and suspension failures along with major ground clearance worries. We got the vibe that this town wasn't so full with bikes for the buying, and I was also starting to worry that the roads might be getting too bad for a local bike to cope with, and for Eva to be able to ride without crashing. I was also reassured and pleasantly surprised by the way the DR had been carrying stupid amounts of weight and taking a real pummeling without any signs of problems. We stocked up on supplies and rode out of town. Whilst we were stopped just outside the town the Mongol rally convoy appeared, and we decided when we got moving again after a little stop we'd catch them up and camp the night together. After only about 40km the convoy was stopped by a major problem - A routine "stop and luck under the car to see if we've broken anything" check revealed a cracked gearbox peeing out oil on the zebra striped Skoda. All the small 2wd cars were complaining of grounding out on the bumps, but homemade sumpguards were saving them from real problems untill now. An quick epoxy fix attempt failed predictably due to the gearbox being covered in oil, and with it being pretty late anyway everyone agreed to camp up near the road (with the Skoda being towed by the little 4x4 Suzuki Jimny) where the Zebra guys could drain the remaining oil, clean it up good, and patch the gearbox along with extending their sumpguard to protect the fragile area. I have to say I was pretty impressed by the inginuity and resolve of the Mongol rally guys to get stuck in and fix their cars despite not having any real mechanical experience or background. I took the opportunity of being stopped with people with electric air compressors to change over my front tyre to the motocross style spare I was carrying.

Roadside picnic table, mongol style...

Mongol Rally crew.

Excellent view looking back towards Hovd.

Barren spot for camping, but those mountains in the distance were a fair trek away.

The following day saw more kilometre munching on the worsening roads, and a long stop in a village to wait out the intense midday sun (the only time in the country so far when we were complaining about being too hot). Before camping up in the evening we happened across a pair of KLR650 riding Aussies travelling in the opposite direction, who were stopped with the Mongol Rally Suzuki who had passed us earlier in the day. We swapped tales and news of the road ahead before parting company to travel a little extra distance before camping for the night again in the Mongol Rally camp. A morning ly-in was interrupted by the sound of approaching bikes which ceased right outside the tent. I went out to investigate barely dressed and found five local hearders/shepards on four bikes. They seemed pretty friendly though they did take it for granted that the DR was available for test rides. I'd heard this was the way with the motorcycle riding locals so I was neither surprised nor bothered.

School children in a medium sized village

Roadside meeting with two different Aussie duos.

Lining up to scrutinise the suzuki.

Struggling to kickstart the bike. I've not yet had chance to dress...

The road to the next city had worsened further and by the time we arrived there all ambitions of buying another bike were abandoned. The Suzuki was having no problems whatsoever coping with its payload, and one really bad sand/trench/bump arrangement even saw us get slightly airborne. As the road became rougher there was less gravel and most importantly less corrugated sections, so the riding become less uncomfortable. We'd been warned by the Aussie duo that things became really sandy on the next section, but conditions were perfect for tackling the generally short stretches of soft sand with aggressive acceleration. Our average speed shot up and I was having great fun putting the bike to hard use the way it was intended. Riding off-piste in Western Kazakhstan had taught me how to deal with sand, and in comparison to the nightmare of endless soft sands I'd faced there the roads here were not a problem.

A good confidence inspiring day ended with a proper riving crossing. It wasn't amazingly fast flowing and the water couldn't have been much more than 2foot high, but the place where we were directed to cross at by locals saw the river spawn 20-30m width. I decided as it was the main fording point for most of the traffic using the road that it wasn't worth fannying around checking depths or walking the luggage across. So with the locals stood watching there was nothing to be gained by over annalysing the situation - I ploughed straight in with luggage and pillion, slipping the clutch in first gear to keep moving through the sizeable stretch of water. Even with the high footrests the water level was lapping at the top of my boots so we got a little wet, but most importantly made the crossing without falling in. A bit of off-roading took us away from the small settlement at the ford to somewhere to camp the night at the side of the river.

The sun sets on our camping spot next to the river we'd just crossed

Getting held up by traffic on the main road to UlanBataar...

Arid landscape, long roads, and the intense sun beating down.

We were always seeing reminders that Mongolia is a Buddhist country.

At the next town we met an American ex-pat who advised us of the route to a nearby Buddhist monestery which sounded like a nice little detour from the main road. We had to follow a track by a river, but unfortunately followed the wrong track by the wrong river and ended up somewhere else instead. With the help of some translation by a passing Mongol tourist from UB we learned where we really were off a bike riding local, and that he was heading to where we wanted to go in an hours time and that we should follow him. I was skeptical as to why we needed to follow someone rather than just be pointed onto the right track, but decided we didn't have much choice but to wait for him.

Why bother with roads when you can ride 'as the crow flies'.

This guy was an off-road riding legend.

I knew straight way it wasn't going to be a normal little bimble when the guy drove straight out of the village and and veered off the road down to a small ford, and then from the other bank straight back into the river again. This time he road out the water up a steep little goat track using his feet to help get the 125cc bike up the tricky slope past some big rocks, with his wife sat on the back and two big bags of grain as panniers. Riding a tough dirtbike on fresh nobblies I was hardly going to refuse a challenge and followed this guy who I instantly recognised as clearly being both totally nuts but also talented on a bike. His route took us over chunky rocks, up and down steep hills, occasionally on jeep tracks, mostly on motorcycle tracks, and sometimes on no visable tracks at all. I was amazed at the speed the guy was riding at on the flat, amazed that he actually got the thing up some of the steeper climbs (though I think he did have to resort to slipping the clutch in 1st gear at a few really tricky steep bits), amazed that his wife was grinning the whole time rather than being gripped with fear like she ought to have been, but more than anything amazed at the balls this guy had to be riding stuff that should theoretically be impossible on his bike even without the heavy load.

Amazing scenery. I think this was their regular stop-off on his wife's "commute" to work!

At a hilltop fag break (where we also did the whole throwing stones in a pile thing that is some kind of Buddhist ritual), I got the opportunity for the obligatory bike swap. I was almost surprised when I got on his Chinese 125 and found it was wobbly and unstable and guttless, like most other really small bikes. I was already gobsmacked by this guys skill and balls, but after riding his bike a little way I was in awe. Interestingly he didn't seem to like the 350 at all and rode it in a tiny slow speed circle looking petrefied the whole time, though when I think back to the first time I rode the thing having never before sat on a high-seated dirtbike I could sympathise. Even with a total language barrier between us he managed to crack a joke about swapping women as well! We rode onto his yurt and somehow managed to mostly avoid the obligatory being-offered-disgusting-local-food thing before being directed onto a bigger track leading the rest of the way to the monestary.

Nice monestary in a remote setting, but the best part was the ride there!

The route back to town saw a few more river crossings, and by now we were ploughing straight through them barely pausing to consider the best places to cross. There was only 200km of dirt before we hit the tarmac taking us the rest of the way to UB, though the route was made a little more interesting by getting lost for the first time since entering the country. I'd been warned that a GPS was essential for Mongolia, and to be honest that's a load of rubbish. I'm sure trying to find small places away from any roads would be almost impossible without one, but for general riding between the towns old fashioned low tech navigational techniques worked fine. Stop and ask people, and if you've strayed from the main track like we did, use the sun or a compass to head back in the right direction to find the main route. The ground across much of the country is good and hard, so riding off-piste is very easy.

Buddhist prayer rags tied round a post.

The final campout before hitting the capital city, UlanBataar, saw time enough to get all the gear off the bike and have a little play about riding around the hills. There is clearly a lot of fun to be had in simply riding off in any direction you want and bombing around off-road till you find your way back to a road or track. No place I've been to before has this amount of land available for genuine hardcore off roading - Not on tracks or trails, and with no end of hills and rivers and rocks to scramble about around on. Eva also had a ride around on the bike, though she seemed to have forgotten some of what she'd picked up whilst stopped in Kyrgyzia and fell off a lot. As we approached UB I started to regret that we'd ridden pretty much straight across the country, passing up the opportunity for almost endless adventure which lay in store at almost any deviation from the main 'road'.

Ulan Bataar was a huge developed city, in massive contrast to the rest of Mongolia. At first we were pleased to be back in civilisation, with proper shops and restaurants, though my memory now is of yet another city out of dozens I saw on the trip - Our 10 day adventure riding across the country probably the highlight of the whole six months on the road.