First grass became greener. Then cob walled huts dotted the landscape. And then sheep, watched over by their shepherds. Then trees appeared sporadically and neat green lines provided evidence of arable farming. With such excitement did I notice all these things - so keenly and with a happiness I must not forget, did I feel myself immersed again - into all that sustains and makes life rich.
I found a cafe and a cheap hotel in the middle of nowhere. The bed cost 10 yuan and every so often the unclosable door was pushed open by chickens, seeking escape from the rain.
The sky cleared and the chickens and I were happy again to be outside. They moved around, pecking at the dusty earth - only occasionally venturing from the fenceless grounds before returning again to eat.
Someone in the cafe ordered chicken. The waiter came out and caught one easily. He held it in his hand and it dangled, pre-emptively lifeless, as he stood and talked. He walked across the yard and the chickens avoided his steps. He knelt down on the floor and took a knife from his apron. The chicken was silent as he bent its neck toward the sky. And silent as the knife cut a precise slit down its throat. The man held the chicken still as the the blood ran in a slow, steady stream to the ground and the other chickens gathered around - pecking at the dust and lifting the blood in strands. For several minutes the blood ran steadily as the chicken's body convulsed violently. The slit was made deeper and as the blood rushed quicker, in pronounced, pulsing beats, the dying chicken clucked - the sound breaking in its open throat. Then the chicken lay still and died, leaving the others to devour its remaining blood.
Two hours later the process was repeated again and the chickens again were fed. In my new, meat-eating phase, I suppose the act of killing should be something I could manage. But I am afraid I would have failed as Jude and made an angry Arabella of my Chinese host.
What amazed me most was the stupidity of these chickens. The world was open and unguarded to them and several times a day they witnessed another of their number killed in front of them. But I suppose this is an inevitable amazement if your knowledge of chickens' intelligence comes from films like Chicken Run!
The next day I discovered that crossing the Gobi had cracked my rear hub and that a 600km detour to Beijing was needed to get a new one... still, at least I wasn't a chicken...
Friday, 28 August 2009
Thursday, 27 August 2009
China - detour to Beijing
Zamyn Uud lies in the Gobi desert, on the border with China. It is a small town and everywhere the inhospitable desert is felt. The gers are dirty and worn - marked by the sandstorms endured and indicative of a new permanence for which the structures were never designed. For, though Zamyn Uud exudes no sense of comfort, it is easier surely to stay here - to huddle like fat white penguins around the border's trade - than to return to old lives. To face once again a nomadic existence and live from a land that gives so little.
I entered China with little expectation. My last week in Mongolia impressed upon me a picture of a treacherous and uncompromising landscape: a place where the environment dictates the actions of people and not the other way around. It must be impossible to live differently. 'My idea of China must be hundreds of miles away', I thought; 'far beyond the desert. It is simply too hard to sustain that image here.'
It was a shock then to find Erlian, on the other side of the border, appearing to me as the most modern, commercially thriving town since Western Europe. The central square lay, a wide open expanse of polished stone. Trees grew amongst water features, their leaves vibrant and green, and the red rectangle of material with the little yellow stars on it, seemed proudly to declare as it danced in the heat of a Gobi breeze "This is China - we will have water fountains and ponds in the middle of the desert; our strength will allow you to forget the desert's heat and the sand that whips, and thirst and hunger too. This is China - look what we can do!"
It was impossible not to feel the energy of people. As though the heat served no longer to lull the body into laziness, but sparked a fire instead: to chase after all of capitalism's joys and to run from its discontents.
As darkness came the air fell thick - with the sweet smells of sugar and roasting peanuts - the scent of meat and spitting fat - of chilli that caught in the back of the throat and of pepper that drew water from eyes. Fresh sticky rice lent its earthy sweetness to olfactory senses and smoke swam in the warm evening air.
Everywhere a frenetic excitement filled the streets. People sold cold beer and kebabs. Photographs and plastic toys. Garish fairground rides and children playing in the square saturated the town with noise. And later it became apparent that bodies here were for sale as well.
The next day it came almost as a surprise to find the desert still there, beyond the boundaries of the town. But now the expanse slipped by, viewed from a smooth, tarmac road. And the emptiness now was interrupted. Always by telephone and electric wires, but often, too, by power stations or factories. Or with edifices unidentifiable to those without Mandarin.
Though the roads were a welcome change, I felt no longer part of the desert in the same way. From the smooth surface of the road, and scarred everywhere by the impact of humans, the desert seemed dull. And I was pleased to be continuing south.
I entered China with little expectation. My last week in Mongolia impressed upon me a picture of a treacherous and uncompromising landscape: a place where the environment dictates the actions of people and not the other way around. It must be impossible to live differently. 'My idea of China must be hundreds of miles away', I thought; 'far beyond the desert. It is simply too hard to sustain that image here.'
It was a shock then to find Erlian, on the other side of the border, appearing to me as the most modern, commercially thriving town since Western Europe. The central square lay, a wide open expanse of polished stone. Trees grew amongst water features, their leaves vibrant and green, and the red rectangle of material with the little yellow stars on it, seemed proudly to declare as it danced in the heat of a Gobi breeze "This is China - we will have water fountains and ponds in the middle of the desert; our strength will allow you to forget the desert's heat and the sand that whips, and thirst and hunger too. This is China - look what we can do!"
It was impossible not to feel the energy of people. As though the heat served no longer to lull the body into laziness, but sparked a fire instead: to chase after all of capitalism's joys and to run from its discontents.
As darkness came the air fell thick - with the sweet smells of sugar and roasting peanuts - the scent of meat and spitting fat - of chilli that caught in the back of the throat and of pepper that drew water from eyes. Fresh sticky rice lent its earthy sweetness to olfactory senses and smoke swam in the warm evening air.
Everywhere a frenetic excitement filled the streets. People sold cold beer and kebabs. Photographs and plastic toys. Garish fairground rides and children playing in the square saturated the town with noise. And later it became apparent that bodies here were for sale as well.
The next day it came almost as a surprise to find the desert still there, beyond the boundaries of the town. But now the expanse slipped by, viewed from a smooth, tarmac road. And the emptiness now was interrupted. Always by telephone and electric wires, but often, too, by power stations or factories. Or with edifices unidentifiable to those without Mandarin.
Though the roads were a welcome change, I felt no longer part of the desert in the same way. From the smooth surface of the road, and scarred everywhere by the impact of humans, the desert seemed dull. And I was pleased to be continuing south.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
The Gobi desert
Before I start to remember sunsets or the kindnesses of nomads. Before only the staggering beauty of this desert lies serenely in my memory, I must say this - the Gobi is a terrible place!
I feel now, writing from Sainshand, like my body has been tied to a pneumatic drill for four days.
As the road from Ulaanbaatar dissolves into a confusing myriad of jeep tracks, each with its own design on the destruction of skeletal systems, the landscape seems to loose everything that grants sustenance to life. A sparsely populated country becomes almost completely empty. Grass withers. Becomes yellow. Tough. And then disappears completely. Replaced only by rocks and sand.
One becomes aware, here, of the things one truly needs. The water bags, and the packets of food became the most valuable of my possessions. But the lack of people too had an effect upon me I could not have imagined and cannot explain. I have never been so terrified of a natural landscape in my life. And yet, at the end of each day, as I watched the sun set and felt its relentless heat cool, I felt an incredible freedom. No-one could be seen and, though I have never been more than 50 miles from a permanent settlement, I felt completely alone. With enough food, and enough water, when bicycle wheels no longer sink in sand, and the sun no longer stifles, the desert can seem like a very beautiful place indeed. But as water supplies begin to diminish one becomes very aware that one is not Ray Mears - and a gratefulness emerges that some people possess an incomprehensible hardiness that allows them to live here.
I have taken the easiest route possible through the Gobi. The train tracks never lie more than a few miles away and villages stand, tiny against the vastness, never more than a day's cycle apart and always promising water. As I near the Chinese border I am also aware that 300km of this desert remain to be crossed on the other side. It is perhaps, the most exciting part of my journey so far, but the Gobi is a place which makes you appreciate the richness of other places. And it is a place I will be happy to leave behind...
I feel now, writing from Sainshand, like my body has been tied to a pneumatic drill for four days.
As the road from Ulaanbaatar dissolves into a confusing myriad of jeep tracks, each with its own design on the destruction of skeletal systems, the landscape seems to loose everything that grants sustenance to life. A sparsely populated country becomes almost completely empty. Grass withers. Becomes yellow. Tough. And then disappears completely. Replaced only by rocks and sand.
One becomes aware, here, of the things one truly needs. The water bags, and the packets of food became the most valuable of my possessions. But the lack of people too had an effect upon me I could not have imagined and cannot explain. I have never been so terrified of a natural landscape in my life. And yet, at the end of each day, as I watched the sun set and felt its relentless heat cool, I felt an incredible freedom. No-one could be seen and, though I have never been more than 50 miles from a permanent settlement, I felt completely alone. With enough food, and enough water, when bicycle wheels no longer sink in sand, and the sun no longer stifles, the desert can seem like a very beautiful place indeed. But as water supplies begin to diminish one becomes very aware that one is not Ray Mears - and a gratefulness emerges that some people possess an incomprehensible hardiness that allows them to live here.
I have taken the easiest route possible through the Gobi. The train tracks never lie more than a few miles away and villages stand, tiny against the vastness, never more than a day's cycle apart and always promising water. As I near the Chinese border I am also aware that 300km of this desert remain to be crossed on the other side. It is perhaps, the most exciting part of my journey so far, but the Gobi is a place which makes you appreciate the richness of other places. And it is a place I will be happy to leave behind...
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Airag!
The dust of the city was gone. And the sheep for sale by the roadside. And the goats tied to rusty pick-up trucks. So too the chimneys' smoke, the crowded bus stops and the windowless breeze block walls. The cacophony of squealing brakes and lisping voices, of traffic whistles and loud abrasive beats fell no longer upon the ears, but lay distant and quietened - a vague recollection of a saturated sonic landscape.
Above the dryness of the empty steppe, the heat of the air swelled and grew humid. The light, spattering rain, from the gathering, darkened clouds, promised downpour and soon enough I found myself away from the road searching for a place to camp. The sandy earth drank, thirstily, the heavy, cooling water.
Only several hours later did the sun again make its presence felt. The light, warming rays came, accompanied by a beautiful, mourning voice - singing outside my tent. I went outside to meet Mungo - a malchin, or herdsman. As we sat around my phrasebook I learnt of his family; his two brothers and his parents, with whom he lived, and I tried to explain what I was doing. We shared sweets and apples as he played, fascinatedly with various parts on my bike. I felt very welcome in this new and ownerless land.
A little while later, making coffee outside, I was slightly startled to notice a horse, galloping towards me at a great pace. At the last moment the horse was pulled to a halt and another herdsman jumped down from the saddle. The furious pace of his arrival was quickly replaced with an apparent friendliness and I was once again to be found sharing fruit and chocolate - flicking through pages of Mongolian words. Pointing often, as my pronounciation seemed to rob the phrases of all meaning.
The new herdsman told me that he lived alone. And pointing to the clouds, still dark in the sky, invited me to spend the night in his ger. Excited by my first opportunity to gain an insight into the life of a Mongolian nomad, I was happy to contribute a little money towards buying some airag - fermented mare's milk.
It was only as he began to rip my tent pegs from the ground that I noticed a drunkeness was already well established within my new acquaintance. Time, perhaps, to be on my guard, but certainly no cause for panic.
My tent was packed and my bike loaded. Ready to ride to my new friend's ger. It was at this point that he turned. Pushing my bike to the ground and motioning to hit me! He swung his fists and bizzarely grinded his teeth. Jumping away, I stared perplexed at this change of behaviour. He stepped over the bike between us and, smiling, hugged me tightly, drunkenly. And, though the wetness of his lips did not find a welcome cheek, I was happy not to know his fists.
Resolved in my decision that it was time to leave I picked up my bike and said goodbye. Again he pushed my bike to the floor and the drunken scene continued for several minutes.
It was a great relief to watch him, finally, clamber upon his horse and trot away. Towards his ger, with my five thousand togrog in his pocket. He had covered just a few metres when he turned and, again, galloped towards me - lashing wildly with his horse whip as I dived out of his path. Now masterful and confident in his skills as a horseman he span around - swinging again for my scrambling body. Perhaps half a minute of this pantomime ensued before his former character surfaced. Smiling again, he motioned toward his ger and indicated that I was welcome as his guest.
"Bayta" I said. Goodbye.
Adrenaline filled as they were, I was able, over the following 15 miles of escape, to put the event into perspective. He was a drunk. And a crazy. But his aggression never crossed effectively into violence and, after regularly checking I was not being followed, I was able to sleep surprisingly well... imagining he was furthering the investigation into his personality crisis over several cups of airag.
... sorry again, really I will try next time for brevity...
Above the dryness of the empty steppe, the heat of the air swelled and grew humid. The light, spattering rain, from the gathering, darkened clouds, promised downpour and soon enough I found myself away from the road searching for a place to camp. The sandy earth drank, thirstily, the heavy, cooling water.
Only several hours later did the sun again make its presence felt. The light, warming rays came, accompanied by a beautiful, mourning voice - singing outside my tent. I went outside to meet Mungo - a malchin, or herdsman. As we sat around my phrasebook I learnt of his family; his two brothers and his parents, with whom he lived, and I tried to explain what I was doing. We shared sweets and apples as he played, fascinatedly with various parts on my bike. I felt very welcome in this new and ownerless land.
A little while later, making coffee outside, I was slightly startled to notice a horse, galloping towards me at a great pace. At the last moment the horse was pulled to a halt and another herdsman jumped down from the saddle. The furious pace of his arrival was quickly replaced with an apparent friendliness and I was once again to be found sharing fruit and chocolate - flicking through pages of Mongolian words. Pointing often, as my pronounciation seemed to rob the phrases of all meaning.
The new herdsman told me that he lived alone. And pointing to the clouds, still dark in the sky, invited me to spend the night in his ger. Excited by my first opportunity to gain an insight into the life of a Mongolian nomad, I was happy to contribute a little money towards buying some airag - fermented mare's milk.
It was only as he began to rip my tent pegs from the ground that I noticed a drunkeness was already well established within my new acquaintance. Time, perhaps, to be on my guard, but certainly no cause for panic.
My tent was packed and my bike loaded. Ready to ride to my new friend's ger. It was at this point that he turned. Pushing my bike to the ground and motioning to hit me! He swung his fists and bizzarely grinded his teeth. Jumping away, I stared perplexed at this change of behaviour. He stepped over the bike between us and, smiling, hugged me tightly, drunkenly. And, though the wetness of his lips did not find a welcome cheek, I was happy not to know his fists.
Resolved in my decision that it was time to leave I picked up my bike and said goodbye. Again he pushed my bike to the floor and the drunken scene continued for several minutes.
It was a great relief to watch him, finally, clamber upon his horse and trot away. Towards his ger, with my five thousand togrog in his pocket. He had covered just a few metres when he turned and, again, galloped towards me - lashing wildly with his horse whip as I dived out of his path. Now masterful and confident in his skills as a horseman he span around - swinging again for my scrambling body. Perhaps half a minute of this pantomime ensued before his former character surfaced. Smiling again, he motioned toward his ger and indicated that I was welcome as his guest.
"Bayta" I said. Goodbye.
Adrenaline filled as they were, I was able, over the following 15 miles of escape, to put the event into perspective. He was a drunk. And a crazy. But his aggression never crossed effectively into violence and, after regularly checking I was not being followed, I was able to sleep surprisingly well... imagining he was furthering the investigation into his personality crisis over several cups of airag.
... sorry again, really I will try next time for brevity...
Thursday, 16 July 2009
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