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Report - Mongolia, the final day


si ce que tu dis est vrai
28DL Full Member
Chinngis Khan was plowhing his mighty wang into my skull with feverish bloodlust. By the feel of it so were the Mongol hordes, and probably his horse. One eye socket for Chinngis, one for his steed. Wonderful. qx was returning into the yort and seeing me awake informed me he'd been out to unleash foxes from his gullet into the pit toilet. Our hosts arose shortly after and poured themselves a beer. It seemed day four was starting much the way day three ended.

qx took but a few mouthfuls of breakfast, grinding the noodles back into the paste from whence they came, ensuring they were less unpleasant when up they came. And so they did, painting the fence outside the yort with the garish colours of a HDR photo. Our hosts ventured to the convenience store (possibly for more alcoholol) so we took this opportunity to, with cameras in hand, make good our momentary escape towards the blocky soviet barracks.

Continuing their earlier form the Mongols have stripped the barracks bare, salvaging everything for a small section they're 'renovating' into permanent dwellings. At the southern end of the base, supported by globs of concrete and skewered by elevated railway tracks is a MIG fighter jet stripped of its internals. As you've likely gleaned there is little but the external structures left at the Choir Base. However compared to that which we encountered on day 1 this was a goldmine. Content with our findings and eager to put the events of the previous night behind us we returned for our bikes.

Farewells were long, involved exchanges of money, dehydrated strawberries and blueberries which were received sourly. This was the first time they'd seen dehydrated fruit, all staring excitedly as the shriveled red and blue globs grew into edible fruit. Unfortunately the taste just didn't live up to the hype. Now we'd wowed the locals with our foreign magic all that remained to fulfill the prereq's for Missionary Level 2 was to unleash the bible quotes, steal their spices, tea and gold then rape their women while indoctrinating them to the charms of a "better life". Chinngis' curled lip malevolent sneer and the prospect of another night like the last withered our missionary resolve to stay, as did qx's need to unload a double decker school bus somewhere amongst the barracks. I jest about this because we actually met a missionary on the TransSiberian traveling to Mongolia to convert the locals to whatever arbitrary comedy religion he subscribed to. What a fucking bellend.

pic: qx

pic: qx

Assisted by a furious tailwind 25km flew below us and the town of Choir, our final destination, rose shortly into view. Just south of the town we saw the remains of the final base. Over the rooves of more soviet barracks, against a backdrop of arid dunes, rose the final thing we'd come searching for. The motherfucking soviet warrior. With his tower shield held tight, emblazoned with the communist phrase "Everything that was made by the people should be protected by the people".


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

After a rough night but a perfect morning in the saddle, finding the warrior still standing was perfect. The that we'd traveled halfway around the world by plane, train and bicycle finally sunk in. Clearly the warrior isn't amongst the most highly regarded landmarks of Mongolia. He's surrounded by broken bottles, trash and graffiti.

Initially we intended to camp near the warrior but so close to the end we gave up the idea and rode into town seeking transportation back to UB. A teenaged boy, intrigued by these two dirty foreigners, tailed us by for a few meters the entire way through Choir. We never determined if he was dumb and mute, a genuine mong, or afflicted by down syndrome. Inside a small store the cutest Mongolian girl yet took a fancy to our pimping metal steeds and rugged foreign looks, soaking her panties at the rumours of two Australians bringing the finest vocal rendition of Waltzing Matilda this side of the Murrum-motherfucking-bidgee. She was cute as a button, certainly a prize but as she gestured the hem of her opaque white shirt lifted a fraction, affording but a glimpse of her tanned brown stomach crossed by a long nasty surgical scar.

While she provided directions a taxi-driver, a hulking brute of a man, lumbered towards us, the girl and the spacker kid. As he approached we noticed long scars running down his face. On reflection is was clear those gathered around us could have all been related. The shambling raper who spoke in long guttural grunts, the cute but traumatised rapee and the battered retarded offspring, pulled from her womb through a bread knife slash by fumbling grubby fingers.

The taxi driver offered to drive us to UB in 3 hours (one way) for 30,000 tugriks. Hacked up and eaten by wild dogs, to have their cameras sold for pennies at the local market is hardly how dsankt or quantum-x should die, so they politely told the guy to stick it, the retarded kick to shove off and thanked the post-op girl for her assistance. The options sucked: wait 23 hours for the daily bus, wait until 12 hours for the train, or die somewhere in rural Mongolia at the hands of a scar faced oaf. The train it would be.

Choir station is the nicest building in town, the small square outside home to a commemorative statue of Jügderdemidiin Gürragchaa. the first Mongolian Cosmonaut. Inside wasn't grand compared to the what one might find in Kiev or Moscow, but the chandeliers were a thoughtful touch. We spend the next 12 hours either:

  • staring at said chandeliers Really, they were nice.
  • corrupting the local kids by teaching them thumb wrestles, slaps, knuckles etc.
  • pissing off their mothers by doing the above
  • eating.

The Mongols are not shy at all, so when we kicked off our shoes, fired up the campstove and whipped up some spicy noodles with Russian beef and hoiwin the whole station wandered over for a gander. In a country of fucking nomads we figured cooking up a feast where you slept was par for the course. Evidently not. Middle aged women in cumshot glasses came to smell the aroma, all and sundry seemed to find this the most exciting thing to happen in Choir since the Soviets left their warrior behind.

While waiting for the train we met a Slovenian geezer with a decked out GT Avalanche mountain bike. Panniers on all corners and some serious miles on the clock. Over the past 25 months he'd cycled solo across 53 countries. He enthused over our entry level journey and spared us the judgment No matter how much you do, there's always someone to put you back into your place. Whether it's the graff writer who's busted the uncrackable metro long before you, Alain Robert who really does climb buildings (not just cranes), or the random guy who's cycled across 53 countries when you've just pedaled across a twentieth of one. Way to make us feel the noobs.

We tipped to him our hats, and donated the last of our dehydrated Russian beef, spicy chicken noodles and for luck, half a bottle of hoiwin sauce. We drifted into sleep aboard the train dreaming of baguettes, metro tunnels and all things Parisian. After a month on the road through the UK, France, Ukraine, Russia and Mongolia we were starting the long journey home.

  • Caveclan members are to be met fucking everywhere, even in Mongolian hostels.
  • Some Mongols sleep on pillows filled with cut up drinking straws.
  • Departing the train in UB qx and I paid our first bribe, to an angry bitch at the train station who refused to return our bikes from the luggage without a $0.50 bribe. Chalk up a point there naysayers!
  • Evidently we didn't die, or hug, or die hugging in the desert. Suck it bitches.