Behind me the bewitching Gobi desert, galloping horses, singing camels, bleating sheep, old-fashioned toilets, stinking clothes, ruminating yaks and dazzling sun
Tariat is a village in the province, Aïmag in Mongolian, of Arkhangaï. Close to the village, the incredible Khorgo national park, an extinct volcano which left behind its anger scoria fields very difficult to walk on, covered with vegetation. The Mongolians call this relief the basalt yurts. The landscape is spectacular and well worth all the effort.
I have to hurry up because the Mongolian-Chinese border will soon close for ten long days
I sleep in a hostel. It’s a weird mix of camp, refuge and party hall
Super Tunga arranges a reservation for me on the bus to Ulaangom, in the east of the country, a cardinal point I need to get close to
Before the sun goes down I scrupulously note the direction on my compass to the nearest degree, it doesn’t seem very easy to me
I go to bed in my tiny room lit by headlamp. Next to the bed, everything is ready, the bag is already packed.
At 1.30AM, Tunga knocks on the door. In two minutes I put on my backpacker-ninja uniform and we go out. The sky is pitch black, not a star or a quarter moon to light the field. The village is plunged into a thick darkness, road, house, street light… including the petrol station.
Tunga accompanies me for the first fifty metres. A motorbike moves in the distance, it goes towards the road. Tunga is all smiles.
“Easy! No problem, follow this way, follow the motorbike! Bayarlalaa!“
I ride into the night, big bag on my back, small bag in front, here we go
Even the less experienced in military training will easily imagine that keeping the direction to the nearest degree while avoiding the mud lakes is for a GI level, captain’s rank.
I’m heavy, I sink into the water and the mud, I lose my balance several times. I quickly realized that walking fast, heavily loaded, on uneven ground, in the dark of night while looking at my compass at the same time is definitely a tricky exercise.
The bike disappeared into the night. I hasten my pace, slightly nagged by the worry of getting really lost. OK. Don’t panic, we have to count twenty steps, stop, take the axis, start again, twenty steps, axis, and everything will be fine.
No, it’s not all right actually. I’ve been walking for fifteen minutes now and there is no sign of a road or a petrol station around.
The night is immense, compact, it absorbs like a sponge the beam of my lamp which gives me hardly more than the meter necessary to take a step.
A cool wind tickles my ears.
The sound of my shoes in the water, the bag, the straps, the compass, the whistle, the knife and my quick breath make click click click sloupf tschhh tschhh. A hellish noise in the steppe.
I stop. No more movement. Silence envelops me, it weighs tons. One minute.
I scan the darkness, right and left. I breathe, right and left.
Suddenly, at what seems to me to be a good kilometre as the crow flies, two beams of light appear
God exists, I follow the points of light with my eyes for as long as possible, because they are on the road. I run in their direction before they disappear.
Car, bus or truck, I don’t know, they are so far away.
Total darkness returns. If it was my bus, if it was that bus… Impossible, it would be waiting for me, for sure. I’ve been walking at a steady pace for thirty minutes now.
I slow down, there’s no point in running unless you want to fall like a turtle on his back in the mud.
I stay on course, basically, let’s stay calm. The sun rises early here, in two hours. It’s not cold. If I miss this damn bus, I’ll take another one.
Click click click sloupf tschhh tschhh
For sure, this damn road is not far.
Hey Gengis! Give me a sign!
And there, in this dull silence, hardly a hundred meters away, the gas station lights up with the soft guttural sound of a generator
I gloat: “Thank you Genghis, I owe you one!” I just have time to feel the reassuring asphalt under my shoes when the generator stops again. I’m at the red station, turn back, on the way to the blue.
I turn myself from time to time to watch for the arrival of the bus. I have to keep the faith, I already have the road, it’s half the battle.
Then it appears, all lights on, gliding through the night like Santa’s sleigh.
Here we go again, this time in the other direction, flashlight in warning mode. The driver finally sees me, starts the roaring monster again and drives towards me. “Franssouss?” the driver asks. “Yes! That’s meee!“
With my bag in the hold, I walk to my seat at the very back of the crowded bus. I step over a grandmother lying in the middle aisle, some boxes and a groggy teenager.
The air is dense, it smells of confined humans, sheep and goats, bodies in need of a shower, clothes in need of laundry, vomit, food, yak butter and roughly tanned animal skin.
My place is currently occupied by a little girl, about seven years old who sleeps like a baby. I balance in the aisle, waiting for her big, stout mom to take her on the knees
The three of us will become very intimate. Mom falls asleep with full mass in my seat. The little one falls regularly on my legs. Every five minutes on average I nudge her to get her. My shoulder, my legs are numb. The dear little one will end up vomit on me, poor child, without her mother being shamed more than that.
But I don’t care, I’m sitting in this damn bus that rushes, jumps and rowboats on this uneven road, full of holes, sand and stones.
Mission accomplished.
