Day 43: Lake Ugii to Ulaanbaatar , The van tour (Day 5)

A man sits on top of derelict stone walls.
Broken walls, buried treasure.

Today

  1. Dark visions
  2. Venting steam
  3. On the move
  4. The ruins of Khar Bukh
  5. Return to UB
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Map showing the co-ordinates latitude 47.919863 and longitude 106.893997.

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Day 43/298
Tour progress 14%

A hot night in hell helps heal our broken bonds. We clamber over the squeaky ruins of Khar Bukh, before making our way back to the city of smog.

Dark visions

The dark ger is like a sauna.

Heat and vodka seem to be a deadly combination. The nightmares are back and they’re worse than ever.

Real life dreams and anxieties morph into soap opera, then twist into a dark family secret before descending into graphic horror. At one point I feel an overwhelming rush of grief, but I push it away and it quickly passes.

I yearn to know exactly what happened, but the dream is paused like a program on the holodeck. Pinned down by the oppressive shroud, I’m powerless to pursue it.

Maybe my visions are tied to the lake, why it is dirty and we don’t drink from it.

Venting steam

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Looking up at a partially open ventilation hole in the center of the ger roof.
The sole ventilation hole.
The ornate door of our ger is wide open.
Airing us out.
A hanging stone secures a strap across the roof of the ger.
Protection from the wind.
Identical windowless huts, yellow with red roofs.
Ger-like huts.
Identical windowed huts, light brown with green roofs.
Modern huts, with windows.
A billboard in a paddock shows white gers on a backdrop of green hills.
Steppes of green.
Shadows of people are cast on the grass.
Shadowy tourists.

Breakfast is beans on toast.

The toast tastes like home. Oily or eggy toast could be a nice addition to my camping menu.

My organising travel companion apologises for making the tent so hot last night. Piling fuel on the fire right before bedtime isn’t exactly a cardinal sin, but with only one heat source and one ventilation hole there’s obviously a trick to managing the temperature inside a ger.

Her apology is appreciated and we start to mend our broken bonds. We talk about our inspirations for coming to Mongolia and take a walk by the lake.

A large billboard models green steppes, like those promised to me by Tom Allen. Not for us, we make do with coffee and sweet bread instead.

On the move

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A white horse walks in front of a line of six brown horses.
At the lake, the white horse leads.
A black horse stands away from a group of brown and white horses.
While the black horse is rejected.
A man on a horse rounds up cattle.
A herder drives sheep and goats.
People load pieces of a ger onto the back of a flatbed van.
Nomads move house.
Three horses cross the highway.
Horses cross.
A humped camel crosses the road while another waits to cross.
And camels cross. Camels!
A small caravan of camels walk away from the road.
Bye, camels..
A small caravan of camels recede into the distance.
Bye…

On the steppes and the highway, everyone and everything seems to be on the move, including us.

Good horses lead badly, herders drive their sheep and goats, nomads move house, and horses and camels cross the road.

Camels!!!

Back in the van, we share playlists over Bluetooth. It’s a good chance to musically explain who I am. But Google music has unhelpfully synched random music on to my phone and I constantly apologise for the B grade selection.

The ruins of Khar Bukh

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The squeaky gate.
A man sits on top of derelict stone walls.
Broken walls, buried treasure.
A v-shaped hole in a tall stone wall.
Emergency exit.
A stone wall separates the blue sky from the dry yellow grass.
Layered composition.
A row of holes in the centre of a stone wall.
Cavities.
Small shrubs in the steppes outside the stone walls.
Wild surrounds.
The empty desert landscape around the derelict stone walls.
Deserted desert.

At Khar Bukh (Blackbull), we clamber over the falling down walls of the old monastery, perhaps explaining their demise.

A beautifully squeaky gate can be heard in every part of the ruins. It reverberates through the blustery blue sky and the surrounding nothingness. I love it.

Our driver sits peacefully atop one of the walls, gazing into the countryside. When I join him, he explains that there is a tomb here, containing gold, silver and people.

As I walk around the perimeter, I have a flashback to the Lego castles of my childhood. The right angle brick walls seem to be built on a grid. My masterpieces had a habit of falling down too.

Return to UB

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A grey two lane highway stretches through a light brown landscape.
The long dry road.
A man in a yellow vest approaches a parked car.
Country cop.
Red metal rails run along the sides of an asphalt road bridge.
Red rails.
A red Dayun motorcycle parked outside a square white building with blue trim.
Chinese steed.
At the crest of a hill, a band of grey cloud extends across the horizon.
The UB smog.
Industrial buildings on the side of a three land road.
City outskirts.
A busy landscape of cars, buses, high rises and houses.
Town traffic.
Babies model colourful knitted beanies and onesies.
Babywear.
A black and white printout explains how to pee into a western style sit down toilet.
City rules.

And then we’re on our way home, to Ulaanbaatar or UB as we now affectionally call it.

Or not. Travelling down the long dry road, the first we see of Ulaanbaatar is its blanket of smog, a line in the sky demarcating town and country.

Sure, the city has parks, supermarkets, bars, restaurants, high rises and coffee shops, but none of that stacks up to the big skies and serene landscapes out west.

It must be a really tough call for nomads to move into the metropolis and settle down there.

First written 14th October 2015.

Last updated 4th December 2023.

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