Mongolian Blues

Lost and hunted in the nomadic heartlands

This excerpt from my upcoming book describes my time in Mongolia. A shorter version originally appeared in a 2012 edition of 10 Magazine and was one of my first published essays. Included in the book, but not here, is the story of how I illegally crossed from Mongolia into Russian territory and was almost shot.

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If the tribes of North America had never lost their land, and if they still roamed the Great Plains and hunted in the foothills of the West, and if the animals they lived among—the deer, the leopards, and the wolves—continued to freely fill the landscape, then the result would be something like what Mongolia is today. That was the judgment of my friend and coworker John, with whom I traveled through the country a few years ago. According to him, it was one of the most pristine places on earth. The ragged Altai peaks of the west, carpeted with pines. The gentle grasslands of the east. The burning belly of the southern Gobi Desert. The maze of alpine rivers in the north, tumbling into Siberia, feeding the great Baygan Nuur, or Lake Baikal, the oldest and deepest lake in the world, which so placidly reflects the sharp pale air above you almost think it’s a mirage. When I read that the source of these reflective waters lay in Mongolia, I couldn’t wait to go.

As it happened, John was already planning to be there at the same time. He was a motorcyclist and wanted to travel overland by bike. I had wanted to go by horseback, like a warrior of the Golden Horde, but this would’ve necessitated a guide and greatly limited the extent of the country we could’ve seen. Mongolia is more than 600,000 square miles or over twice the size of Texas. John, an experienced motorcyclist, convinced me to take two wheels instead, so we spent a few weeks researching models and prices online, worked out a plausible route, and when summer came we packed our bags and flew to Ulaanbaatar.

The Land of Blue Skies, they call it. Sounded heavenly. I remember hearing that when Mongolia was forming its new government, it seriously considered turning the entire country into a national park. The entire country. But this made sense, I thought, since the majority of the land is already untouched and the majority of the people are nomads with no interest in owning any particular patch of ground. But I didn’t know which of Mongolia’s new governments this was. Was it when Mongolia gained independence from China in 1911? Or when it became communist in 1924? Or when it became democratic in 1992? Still, it was so romantic. I liked Mongolia already.

Until I actually got there. The city was filthy and dull, one of the ugliest places I’d ever seen, the people were rude, and at night it felt positively unsafe. We began our search for a pair of Russian bikes, which were cheaper and more reliable than anything else, and easier to work on too—simple parts that only required a wrench and a screwdriver, if not your hands. No special tools needed. No computer parts. Say what you will about Stalinist social planning, Soviet machines are reliable pieces of equipment. The AK-47, the T-34 tank, Belarus Tractors, or the first-ever crossover SUV the Lada Niva. All indestructible classics. But the Planeta bikes we wanted were harder to come by than we’d planned, so we decided to take a bus north to Selenge Province and try our luck there. I fell in love with Mongolia the moment we left the city. The dead and dusty streets of Ulaanbaatar gave way to plush rolling hills and unimaginably wide blue skies. I saw an eagle perched atop a telephone pole, bigger than a child, and a gray wolf loping along a hilltop, locals going about their business in long traditional cloaks tied at the waist with brilliant silk sashes. Sukhbaatar, the capital of Selenge, was fresh and clean with wide streets and smiling people.

We found a pair of bikes within hours. The dealer had a few Czechoslovakian Jawa Tino road bikes, but we ended up with two Chinese dirt bikes, not the Soviet work-horses we’d been hoping for, but they looked strong enough and were reasonably priced. I told John the two symbols on the side of the gas tank, 钢狼, said Gang Lang in Chinese and meant Steel Wolf. John was talking to the salesman when I decided to take mine for a spin. Here I should mention, I’d never kick-started a motorbike in my life. John had assured me if I knew how to drive stick-shift then a bike wouldn’t be too hard. He was right, but my first attempt was less than pretty. I lost my balance, rolled forward, and fell over. The salesman looked ready to back out of the sale but John quickly made a drinking gesture, implying I was drunk. The salesman laughed and wished us well. Riding drunk was less a concern than riding for the first time.