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(more videos coming soon)

The bus depot was swarming with extras (people with no apparent purpose who like to crowed around useful people or events to offer advice, observe, or just get in the way). We wondered how many would end up in our bus. About ten climbed on. The bus looked full. Then another four hopped on. It was tight. When we left, 18 people, including the driver, were squished in and our legs and shoulders overlapped. Then the bus chugged its way out of town and five minutes it stopped again. Two more people jumped on with their own crowd of waving extras. With Josh, myself, and eighteen staring Mongolians we set off for the open Gobi Desert.

We had no idea how long it would take, what route we would take, or when we would stop for food, however, nobody seemed to be eating or drinking anything and it soon became apparent that our driver would stop at any opportunity he could conjure up – his favorite was smoking cigarettes and talking to the other driver in our “fleet.” We stopped about once per hour, usually at a nondescript point in the desert, for somewhere between 10 and 30 minutes each making what could have been a tidy 30-hour trip seem to stretch on into a spirit-breaking eternity. The utterly unchanging landscape of jagged rocks, dust and tumbleweeds only compounded the sensation of driving yet not moving at all. Each time the van stopped, people would fan out forming a perimeter of urination or would squat on the least windy side of the van to enjoy a cigarette. At one stop, the sunset was just hitting the horizon and through the rain, a massive and complete double rainbow appeared. The radiant sunlight made the peoples faces glow and the many streams of pee glisten magically.

Amazingly, we stopped for groceries once at 4 pm and didn’t eat an actual meal until 12:30 am. It was, as per usual in Mongolia, a choice of some combination of potato, goat and noodle. Josh and I chose noodle, goat and potato, and potato, noodle and goat respectively. When our food arrived at the table some local kids advised us about the quality of the meal by yelling “cheap meat” then laughed hysterically. As hungry as we were, their words were like a flavor enhancer bringing out every nuance of gristle and bone fragment. We meekly smacked a few bites then gave our leftovers to some fellow passengers who were scooping noodles into blue plastic bags.

Back on the van, there was music. A concoction of American pop hits and Mongolian hip-hop played on a loop. You could always tell which songs were favorites because the passengers would feebly sing along under their breaths in rough hissing whispers. After dark, the driver switched to what must be classic Mongol love ballads from the 70’s where the entire van murmured along in unison. The cheesy vibe of these songs made me wish I was in some grotty lounge enjoying a sidecar.

The people squished into and under every corner of our bodies became our second family. There was a man with two young, fascinated daughters we called “dad and the staring girls”, their uncle (?), a middle aged man who chain-smoked and once at a pee-stop threw up – we called him “uncle vomit.”The two other guys next to them were so quiet and motionless we barely noticed them. Then there was “the balladeer,” a guy with a motorcycle jacket who sang along to all the cheesiest songs, his girlfriend (?) and her sister(?) who both had large earlobes, rosy cheeks and never spoke. Next to them, two jocular teenage boys, probably best friends, were constantly hugging, tickling and touching each others legs in what we could only assume was an appropriate-for-Mongolia way. Nevertheless, we called them the “bromance brothers.” One of the drivers hung out in the back wearing a baseball cap with the Engrish phrase “New Generation – Life on a Mars”. He was wizened and greasy. There was a boy with a mullet who spent most of the trip with his head under a Mongolian style coat called a Deel (pronounced “dehthshjthss” or something close to that). In the front seat sat a mother and her daughter. The daughter would hide under the mother’s coat by her legs at every police checkpoint (we assumed this was due to some breach of a maximum capacity rule). Next to them was the chain-smoking driver at whose mercy we sat hopefully. We called him “Captain Butts.”

The other passengers were two sisters aged 18 and 19 who were constantly banging out text messages on their mobile phones with unparalleled speed to their friends in Ulaanbaatar. During a desperate attempt to communicate with this ogling bunch of strangers, I barked out questions in every language I could muster – “Does anyone speak English?” – “Ktonibud Pa-Ruski Panimayit?” – “Nihongo wo hanashimasuka?” – “Hablan ustedes Espanol” – “Parlez-vous Francais?” … “Oui!” said the elder of the sisters. A breakthrough! We proceeded to speak in absolutely terribly French for the rest of the trip. I haven’t ever studied French before but I’ve somehow absorbed enough of it through my travels to get our general story across to a Mongolian. Since I’m crap at speaking and understanding, we spoke to each other by writing text messages and passing her cell phone back and forth. I imagined that this is what instant messaging must have been like in caveman days.

“Do you like to sing and dance? I think you may be a good singer. ” Or at least that’s how I interpreted the French text. Before I knew what happened, I was singing “Michelle, ma belle” to a puzzled audience of Mongols followed by light applause. We carried on like this for a few hours and the uncomfortable bunch of strangers started feeling like an uncomfortable bunch of friends.

As night fell, the people began repositioning themselves into an interconnected snoring mass. My new French-speaking girlfriend offered herself as a cushion but fell asleep on my shoulder. Soon, her sister was snoozing in my lap. Josh fell asleep on my other shoulder. One of the homoerotic guys rested his head on my knee. A guy in the seat behind me was leaning his head on my back. Including legs and arms, I counted 8 different people touching me as I wrestled with sleeping through the bumps and bad Mongol music.

The next morning we woke up one by one. I wiped off the drool from three or four people and we bumped along through the desert. Having spent 24 hours in the van, the time seemed to go by much faster. We passed part of the day by showing each other tricks with our hands such as the famous severed thumb trick. I was delighted to see that some of the most standard American gestures, such as the unpleasant handshake with folded middle finger, were novel and hilarious to the people of Inner Mongolia.

We stopped again for another meal in the afternoon. It was “gulyash,” another variation on goat meat, starch and root vegetable but this time with the notable addition of GRAVY. This sent our palettes soaring in ecstasy… relatively speaking. After some public relief of fluids, we set off again.

At this point, we were all tired and smelly and becoming increasingly agitated. My French, except for the phrase “Je ne comprend pas,” was exhausted. We waited impatiently until the bus finally rolled into town around 9 pm, 41 hours since we boarded. We said goodbyes to our new friends and took off with an annoyingly tenacious taxi driver who charged another mysteriously inflated fare.

I must say, with the exception of the deep-vein thrombosis, I thoroughly enjoyed this bus trip.

I know you’ve been waiting for them and I’m pleased to announce that I’ve uploaded the first big chunk of photos of the Rally to my Flickr site. I’ve gotten up to Prague so far and I’ll keep uploading more periodically. Enjoy!

It was announced on the Official Mongol Rally site that a movie about the 07 Rally is coming soon. In the meantime, Check out the preview.

All of us, that is, except for Andrew who is presently in Hoi An, Vietnam. He has this to say about that…

There is this crazy “kid’s” lantern lighting festival going on. So the streets are crazy busy.
And you can get suits made for pennies.
And there is a foreign exchange school here for swedish folks.

I had an 8 hour layover in Korea and there was no way I was going to spend it hanging out at the Duty Free stores. I went and pestered the information desk girl for several minutes until I had all the details I needed to get out of the airport and into the city of Seoul. Apparently, this is not a very common thing to do since it took much cajoling of the security people and immigration officers to explain why I had no boarding passes or bags with me and that I’d be in and out of their country in less time than it takes to make kimchee. Nevertheless, I managed to enter my sixteenth foreign country on this crazy trip.

I was surprised to learn that many places don’t open very early in Korea. It took me a while to find someone to sell me a bus ticket as the booth was still closed at 8:00 AM. I took a wild guess and jumped on the one headed to Seoul Station.

On the bus, the white gloved bus driver addressed us formally in Korean then whacked in a tape of cheeky, poppy electronic feelgood music – think of the soundtrack from life aquatic. Everyone snored into the big, bland city.

seoul station
We arrived at the Seoul Station and as I predicted, it was a major hub of other forms of travel within the city. I paused to have my picture taken in front of the old train station by a middle-aged couple who luckily were Japanese, a language I can speak with some capability. Afterwards, I wandered around for a while unsure of what I should do with my four hours in a huge city I know nothing about. I stumbled past a McDonald’s in the train station and spotted two American college students. Hoping to get a recommendation, or at least get a peek at their Lonely Planet, I approached them.

They turned out to be two kids from Utah, one of whom spoke Korean very well from his days as a missionary. They not only recommended a place to me, but actually took the subway with me a couple of stops and pointed me down an interesting street. I thanked them, then they left me to go visit the DMZ.

I walked down the street to Gyeongbok Palace, a restored palace in the north of the city quite similar to the Forbidden City but with fewer eunuchs. There were lots of Japanese tourists there. The Japanese like to travel. Someone should get them a bigger island.

Afterwards, I walked down a street full of Korean restaurants. My mouth was watering for more bibimbap or maybe some seafood pajeon. Alas, as I said, many places don’t open early in Korea. Even though the doors were frustratingly open and menus prominently displayed, every restaurant I walked into had someone cleaning the tables or vacuuming the floor who, upon seeing my drooling face, would make an X sign with their arms and shake their head. I eventually stumbled across an open-air grill serving “toasts” with egg, thousand island dressing, and lettuce. It was weird, but it hit the spot regardless.

In my last hour in the city, I managed to stumble across a very cool little market / mini-mall full of young, hip designers of clothing, jewelry, art, books, and so on called Ssamzie Gil. Most notably interesting were SSBA, a crafty illustrator’s shop, and MMMG (millimeter / milligram), a stationary store.

After shopping I bid farewell to Seoul and made my way back to the bus station and to the airport. I hate saying that I’ve “been” somewhere that I only spent a few hours in, but in this case, I feel like I got a pretty good bang for my buck. My first impressions: Seoul is a lot like Tokyo but with more hills, spicier food, and prettier girls.

One of my favourite things to do is seeing a movie at the cinema without knowing anything about it other than the title. Being dropped off after dark in Hanoi on Vietnam Day with all my luggage is like that times ten.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone we were coming?” I asked as Jon banged on the locked door of the guest house.

“Well… um… It’s cool, don’t worry about it,” sputtered Jon. Then he led me through a dark alleyway and around a turn to a busy intersection. After having driven across all of Asia, I have learned to remain relaxed in these sorts of situations so I followed him, calmy taking in the beauty of the crowded architecture.

We approached two men on scooters parked at the corner and Jon gesticulated to them while shouting out various numbers and exchanging looks of feigned disinterest. Apparently, fifteen was the correct number, as in fifteen-thousand Vietnamese Dong, about one dollar.

“You’re going to love this,” he said to me grinning. Realization snuck up on me and smacked the back of my head.

“But… with all our bags?” I protested, but before I knew it, I was handing the driver my small backpack and sleeping bag which he nestled between his legs while I tried to balance myself and my 15kg travel backpack on the back of the scooter.

We shot off into a teeming crowd of children, balloons, scooters, trucks, and merchants as thick as a bowl of noodles. The wind blowing through my hair was a refreshing reminder that I wasn’t wearing a helmet and my hands clamped down on the seat even tighter. I started to envision the shock and pain of smashing into a streetside barbeque vendor at 30km/h. But after a moment of panic, I noticed a look of glazed non-chalant-ness on the faces in the crowd and realized that I was the only thing out of place. The driver knew what he was doing. What I was doing was not necessarily a terrifying deathrace, but rather something incredibly fun and exciting. I started to grin as the bike blew past a stoic family of 5 on a scooter next to us.

True to his word, Jon managed to find us a luxurious, albiet expensive ($12.50 per person), hotel just around the corner from his favourite bar, Le Pub, where we were greeted warmly by the pub’s owner Matt. Within an hour we had eaten a hot meal and found a place to rent motorbikes. Jon gave me the nickel tour around the city on the back of a scooter before we settled in for the night.

Now I’m sitting in my fancy hotel room writing this update and avoiding a sudden and heavy rainstorm. Soon I will go explore, spend my first million dong, and slurp noodles. Wish me luck!

And I probably won’t again.

I won’t bore you with a grocery list of goodness, but know this: I have found nirvana. It is riding a bike around Beijing while eating a bag of fresh-steamed dumplings. If I’m forced to choose how my life will end, this may be selection: Popping the last steaming, pork-licious dumpling into my mouth as a bun turns me into road pizza.

Anyhoo, tomorrow I head back to America. Today Mims flies to Vietnam. So does Jon. Andrew remains in Beijing until the ninth, then takes the train to Vietnam. It’s sad, but know what’s astounding? I have one more day to cruise around this fair, polluted town on my broken-down $20 bike, filling my belly to Buddha-like proportions. Dumplings, I’m coming for you.

P.S. This’ll be just about my last post on this here beautiful Web thingie. If you want to continue to read any of my words, I post most of my articles and so on over at: My So-Called Strife.  Also, we’ll likely be posting a packet of photos here on the site upon the return. So check back sporadically for supreme excitement.

Andrew and I are in Beijing, baby, and I believe I’ve found my nirvana. If I return with a belly the size of a bowling ball, know that it will be worth it. I’ve eaten so many pot stickers that I’ve even begin to forget the hell that was our journey here.

Our train ride was uneventful, dropping us off in the dusty town of Erlian. But from there, we hopped aboard a sleeper bus. What does this mean? Reclining seats? Oh, hells no. A sleeper bus is filled with beds, stacked two high. You spend yor entire journey reclining, with a blanket over your body. This may not be a problem at night, but we climbed onto the bus at 3 p.m.

“Nightie night, Josh,” Andrew said as he entered his narrow compartment.

I spent the trek sleeping, waking long enough to watch King Kong dubbed into Mandarin. Jack Black, man, he’s not the same with a Chinese accent.

Our bus was supposed to deposit us in Beijing at 6 a.m. However, due to the driver’s swiftness, we arrived at 2:30 a.m. In the middle of nowhere. Utilizing our skills, we caught a taxi to town, then stumbled into a hostel at 4 a.m. Huzzah!

We met up with my cousin Maya in the morning, then spent the day eating and walking, walking and eating. Most street snacks are one yuan: about $.14. Babies, I’ve eaten just about every scallion-bread iteration and kebab available.

“But have you gone to the penis restaurant yet?” my cousin asks.

No. But there is still time. I never thought I’d write this line, but I am nearly to ready to chomp down on animal penis. It will make me strong, like bull! Or sick, like stupid man!

At 8pm tonight, Andrew and I will be taking a train, then a bus to Beijing, where we will ride bikes and eat the hell out of dumplings. Oh, sweet Jesus, have I been waiting my entire life to eat dumplings in Mother China. Food poisoning be damned, I’m going to buy my own set of chopsticks and munch from stall to stall to stall. It’s like my Rocky moment, though instead of climbing stairs and punching cold beef I’ve been wandering the Byzantine blocks of New York’s Chinatowns, haggling with wizened men and women for the crispiest, freshest pot stickers around.

Anyhoo. Now that I’m properly salivating, I must tell you that tomorrow Mims and Jon will also be flying to Beijing, before heading south to the land of cheap tailoring and pho soup: Vietnam, baby.

It’s a monumental day, a sad one at that, but we’ve had a good little run. In any event, Mims and I will still be updating the site until we return to America, whereupon we’ll promptly be thrown in jail for trying to drive a car off-road across Central Park before riding on the curbs of the Lower East Side.

Wish us safe travels again! I have a bottle of Mongolia vodka and two icy beers that’ll be promising sweet, adventurous times tonight.