Day Thirteen – Tarialan, etc

gosh it’s all a bit of a blur, and this shonky erdenet Cafe in Internet is going to close in 40 minutes … what to say, what to say …

Tarialan main street.

At the top of a gruelling pass I’m trailing and up ahead Tama is accosted by screaming children – at first I think it’s some kind of Tour de France-style victory party, or drunk festive locals determined to reward reward his feats of athleticism with beer and Chinggis, but of course it’s not that, of course it’s these grubby orhpan gypsy children trying to sell him jars of hand-picked wild strawberries. But, Tama doesn’t want a bar of it, it’s anybody’s guess when those hands last saw soap. We bike onwards, leaving the dusty steppe behind, and while we’re parked up having our sixth litre of water for the day this wobbly motorbike nearly skittles us, the driver falls off his bike a couple of metres ahead of us and reels up, yelling, waving his fist, demanding we … pick up his bike? Tama picks up his bike, suddenly we are best friends, the drunken peasant shakes hands, high-fives, hugs, nuzzles Tama’s neck, demands vodka, we give him cigarettes, this kind of works, he turns around and pisses all over his bike and hand, turns back and shakes my hand again, he sits by the side of the road, trying to get us to stay with him at his ger, we politely decline the invitation, Tama restrains him from throwing rocks at passing motorbikes, he hugs Tama some more and nuzzles into his neck, and elderly couple pull over in their van and tell him off, he wobbles off and we wonder how the hell to avoid him down the road, the motorbike weaves and topples over, we seize the chance and make a run for it before he can get up again, as we hoon down the hill little depraved gyspies run screaming from the gullies blocking the road and brandishing shit-stained strawberries, we plough right through them and don’t look back.

Dinner is pleasant.