Loves, Kerbsides and Goodbyes by David McNamara

Author:David McNamara [McNamara, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Travel Writing
ISBN: 9781742982021
Publisher: Ginly Pty Ltd

Fourteen hours later, eight beyond the time we were told the ride would take, we reached Mörön. I was half asleep and the lulling sounds of alien chatter around me invoked dreams of a campfire with Ewoks on the planet of Endor. We weaved through the silent, slumbering city, dropping passengers off at requested addresses. Even in the pre-dawn hour I could see this was the first regional aimag Maccas and I had visited which had a size or structure comparable to Ulaanbaatar.

At each stop, it was obvious the driver was querying our destination. But we were doomed trying to read our guidebook in the dark moving vehicle. When we were the last passengers remaining, the driver dropped us at a small dour hotel with an encouraging apple-green light glowing. It was almost four in the morning. Every fibre in our bodies was begging beyond sleep to simply lay horizontal. Once we were given a room we quickly determined why it kept open twenty-four hours. It was a hotel of ill-repute or simply a brothel. Staff and customers regularly entered the room through the lefto-vers of the night curious about our luggage and before the sun was wide awake they burst in demanding more money.

We found the Black Market. Away from usurious roadside prices our negotiating power was somewhat restored. And we bargained hard with what were rich in — time — and after two hours had a ride to Khatgal. The delay meant we arrived late. We were driven to the MS Guesthouse run by Jimmy, a genuine Khövscöl cowboy and gentleman. He possessed natural poise and ease fundamental to an archetype of the wild. Revitalised by the knowledge all roads and lifts in our journey now pointed back to Ulaanbaatar and sighting the well manicured turf of Jimmy’s bivouac we countermanded our previous agreement and decided to camp again. Jimmy chuckled but didn’t discourage us. He said there was a fee but it was much less than a guest ger. He let us stay in the kitchen near the stove until we went to sleep. We talked and played guitar until the fire grew low. ‘It’ll be cold,’ Jimmy warned as we retired to bed. No fucking shit Sherlock. Extreme cold isn’t emotional or somnolent like heat. It has no feelings and doesn’t leave quickly or easily. The night’s iciness was merciless and an excruciating repeat of our freezing Terkhiin Tsagaan Nuur experience.

We decided the next morning — for the second time — never to camp again. Instead, we trekked around the lake, through the softly wooded forest. The day is splendid and mild. The sun tickles with warmth and the exertion gives us enough impetus to strip off and tear into the entrancing, pellucid water. The relief in plunging into such frigid water is found only in getting out and being back on land. With no chance to bathe, dirt happily clings crystalline and frozen to one’s skin. But it’s autumn and nobody bathes. There’s no running water anyway and the lakes are only just above freezing point.

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