The sun came up and a stop in a coffee shop for breakfast isn't on the route. So much the better, at least it proves that I am travelling, that this is adventure, the real one
Since I got on the bus, ten hours have gone by without it stopping. I dream of a toilet. The young woman behind me explains to me that we will stop soon for lunch. So everything is fine, I’m looking forward to the traditional plank huts. But the bus gently stops in the middle of the plain, flat as a pancake, “khurdan! Quickly!“.
Here I am in the middle of the women of all ages who rush towards, taking pat off and, nacked butt, squat in the very, very low grass. I catch a young woman holding her big coat in front of her friend to shield her from view so that she will do the same with me, “yes, of course“. I appreciate the female solidarity and curse that jerk of a driver because we have just passed three consecutive villages abundantly supplied with huts.
The lunch break, hard mutton and soft pasta, allows me to get to know my neighbours better. I see a corpulent man abhorring a T-shirt decorated with Rimbaud’s portrait. Yes, the poet, our national poet
My young neighbour at the back speaks English because she is a teacher and not a student as I imagined. She tells me that she has four children and is thirty-two years old. WAF, she looks like a teenager.
My other little seatmate continues to vomit on me, her mother continues to smile sheepishly at me as if this is all completely normal. They are exhausted. The heat in the bus is sticky and thick, we are sweating profusely. Outside the air is as dry and rough as a forgotten flannel on a radiator.
The landscapes are repetitive. Lego-villages, plank huts, endless, barely undulating plains follow one another and the sky dominates it all, immense and blue.
We arrive at our destination. Ulaangom, ugly city
The poet drives me around the city until I find a possible hotel. It’s sure I won’t stay here for long. Hotels are rare but there is one that dominates. Rated the best hotel in town by a backpacker’s guide, I head there without delay. If it’s rated so highly, it will be more expensive. The choice is limited, I’m not going to be picky, a little luxury won’t hurt.
I have a room to myself, a comfortable bed and even a TV that doesn’t work. The bathroom is acceptable, the toilet is broken but after the shack at the back of the yard I’m not going to complain.
The internet doesn’t work, but for the moment I don’t care about anything except the shower that’s waiting for me, the shampoo, the towel, the perfumed deodorant and clean clothes.
It’s just 10.00PM when I dissolve myself like sugar in a cup of tea in the whites of the sheets that still smell after laundry.
But here’s the thing… L’et’s go party!
The hotel has a restaurant that must be celebrating something big this evening, something exceptional judging by the crowd, the food piled up on the tables and above all… the sound system that spits out Mongolian pop at full speed.
I go out to see what the new monarch looks like. He’s about twelve years old, stiff in a formal suit that’s too big for him. He is sitting like a little prince, bowing to the guests. A birthday party, then.
Everyone smiles at me, I wave, they invite me to join the party. I send kisses with the flat of my hand and return to my beloved pillow. The vodka is going to flow, I don’t have the strength to feast, the trip is not over yet.
I will manage to sleep no matter what.
