Ulaan Baatar, Friday 17 October

Snow. Coats. Hats. Steam. Heating. Soups. Stews. Mutton. Greatcoats. Fur hats. Boots with turned up toes. But stilletoes too! Yerts. Gers. Trucks. Dust in the desert. Tracks in the desert. No roadsigns. At all. Nothing, nil, nix. Just follow someone elses tyre marks and see where they go. Keep the Trans-Siberian Railway line to your left. Or your right. But do not lose sight of it.

We loved every minute of the two and a half hours spent at the remote border crossing town of Dzamin-Uud, being shuffled from one counter to another by the usually smiling but still autocratic women in uniform who comprise Mongolian Customs. Eventually one took pity and  just waved us away despite paperwork remaining incomplete and fees unpaid. Overnight at Saynshand, staying in the only hotel, and the next day a marathon to Ulaan Baatar. No roads - just tyre marks to follow, and make sure you choose the right ones at the regular confusing forks and crossings.

Twenty Five ks north of Choyr we visit a massive  abandoned cold war Russian air force base. The stripped shell of a sole MIG fighter on a concrete pedestal resists the vandals and scavengers who have taken recycling to new heights. A local guardian collects the ‘photography fee’ which we are happy to contribute to an obviously struggling local economy. Bunkers that once housed frontline fighters now help Mongolian herders with a different war against the cold.

UB as she is known is the closest to a western city we have seen since Bangkok. But the contrasts between the old and new overwhelm. Soviet era architecture, public buildings with broken windows, smoky stovepipes, muddy surrounds, smashed concrete… juxtaposed with skyscrapers under construction with reflective glass and chrome, Posche 4wheel drives and Hummers.  Not sure with some of the building sites whether they are being demolished or are newly built….. Visited the museum dedicated to the victims of Soviet persecution of the 1930s…. nearly 30 000 known to have perished and the Mongolians are keen not to let the Russians forget.

We struggle to find fresh fruit or vegetables. Meals are all so greasy. We persist in our efforts to eat with locals not tourists - but the food is all so greasy! Little crescents of pastry with boiled mutton that spurt fountains of fat as you bite into them. Dumplings ditto. Stew. Mince steaks. We try Korean….

Another bizarre travel coincidence [see Flores, Indonesia]. In our hotel early afternoon. Knock on door, woman standng with a bottle of water says “here it is”"without looking and then apologises and says ’sorry wrong room…. oh its Jon Faine…. . ” Carol and Martin are staying in the next room. I play Veterans hockey with Martin in Melbourne. We join their group, in transit from the Trans Siberian train, as they enjoy a Mongolian bbq before heading off to China.

Maybe in summer Mongolia presents a different face, but as winter closes in, it is a bleak and forbidding place. We head west, first overnight at Olgii-Nuur, then Tsetserleg. At Olgii-Nuur we stay with a family in their lakeside cabin, joining them for fish soup and tea. Their son Massar collects live fish and skins them for our soup, father Adai peels the potatos and Mumma [sorry, could not get her name right....] watches every spoonful as we eat. My leftovers are devoured by Massar almost before I put the bowl down. It is minus 1degrees  as we go to bed, and I am sure it was -5 or less when I staggered the 100m to the outside drop-pit loo with terrible diarrhoea at about 3am. Aaaah, the joys of travel.

A slower day driving to Tsetserleg, local capital and overnight at the Fairfield Guesthouse, featuring Steam Rail enthusiast magazines in the cafe. Jack delights in a cornish pastie at the English owned cafe. I relish the hot shower!!!

South through the mountains to Bayanhongor. We ford at least ten rivers, drive hours through the rocks of the river beds, taking four hours to cover  the first 100ks. Sometimes there is no road - we can see where it goes up the hill in the distance but until it emerges from the river you just make your own way there. Yaks, sheep, eagles, snow leopards [about the size of foxes but prettier] and millions of little hampster and mouse sized critters dodging both our car and the eagles break up the featureless terrain.

Overnight in Bayanhongor  eating at a restaurant run by a local cook who trained in Auckland NZ ! Best place to go to learn new ways of cooking sheep, we suppose. Vegetable soup ordered to re-balance the tummy…. served greasy and with mutton, of course.

Today we drove 400ks to get to Altai. We started in the Gobi desert and ended in deep snow. Snow in the desert is magnificent, but at minus 10 it is just too cold to appeciate it other than through the window. We ploughed through deep drifts, regretting my decision not to carry chains. We offer up our spare biscuits to the stranded busload of Mongolians who had run out of fuel 30k from town. We do not have a jerrycan of spare diesel…. I figure that with 180 litre capacity if we still run  out it is sheer stupidity and  extra ‘extra’ fuel really is not needed. And now we have rugged up in the sole hotel in town. From here to the Chinese border crossing of Bulgan / Takeshiken ought be two or three days…..

when we get a faster internet connection we will be able to add some photos.