To Ulgii...

On the outskirts of the village there was a small collection of stonewashed brick garages, the white peeling off in shabby curls, and large Russian padlocks holding together corrugated iron doors, hanging off their hinges in a mix of blue paint and rust. There were 20 or so guys hanging out in the compound, all busy cutting and welding different sizes of iron piping into various lengths.

We were met outside by two young boys and after I had taken them back to the wheel to show them our problem, they ushered us inside, and within a few seconds everyone was gathered in a semi circle around the rear of the truck. A few minutes of discussion as they decided who was to be in charge of the operation, one prominent guy was selected, and I was being motioned to jack up the truck and remove the wheel. Here we go again... I had already lost count how many times this wheel had been removed and placed back on; right there and then I vowed that as soon as we reached Ulgii and a decent mechanic I would have the whole locking system replaced with something new and trustworthy. As a couple of guys got busy taking off the wheel, I went with two others to go scavenging in the garages amongst what looked like years of old mechanical debris, to try and find three suitable bolts to replace the ones that were broken. Each garage we entered was like going into a museum, they were ful of mechanical parts from every kind of machinery imaginable, tractors, trucks, lathes and other unidentifiable hunks of metal. These people did not throw anything away that might one day come in usefull. My mind was super dubious about this method of fixing and I was skeptical, to say the least, about finding anything suitable at all; yet after about twenty minutes of blowing dust and rattling engine parts, sure enough three bolts of roughly the right size were triumphantly produced. We marched back to the truck and within an hour our wheel was once again back on, sporting no less than four different sizes of nuts and boltsto secure it in place. It was'nt the most desirable of solutions, yet I could not help thinking that if I was in Europe with a similar dilema, a mechanic would only have attempted to fix the wheel when the exact right parts corresponding to the specific part number were at hand, and I would most likely had to make an appointment two weeks in advance of explaiing my problem. Here in the midst of the wilds, there were no such luxuries as exact parts at hand. When you needed to move and your method of transport was broken, then whatever was neccessary to make you move was sought out with the greatest expediency. Here it was obvious that practicality came far above the need to keep ones effects in thier original shapes. If it works, then it must be right.

Just over one hundred kilometers further and we reached Bayan Ulgii, our wheel still firmly attatched to the truck. This small city was another collection of dusty streets and hand made single story buildings that mostly had a Ger errected in their rear enclosures. Every second or third building displayed a colourfull signboard that hung over the peeling white paint and pronounced it some kind of shop or restaurant. We made our way directly to a mechanics and got to work organising the final (I prayed) reparation of the back wheel. Within a few minutes we had affectionately re-named the street where the mechanics lay "Dead Leg Alley". This was due to there being a whole selection of animal legs, all neatly chopped off and scattered with gay abandon throughout the dusty fly ridden street. Goats, Sheep, Cows, Horses and even a Camels leg were lying around willy nilly, some fresh and lifelike, others flat and squashed by the cars and trucks that drove up and down.
It was like walking through the odd legs department of a teddy bear factory. We found out after a short while that this was a side street of the main market where animal skins were traded between Nomadic herders and Townsmen,,, all bits that were not usefull just disregarded on the spot where they were lopped off.

Our new mechanic Bek was a JKazakh, and later, as we found out, also a trained doctor. He did'nt speak any English, but by now my universal comunicating skills had become tuned to a level where lots of gestures, face pulling, and pointing in the right direction, got Bek to understand our needs. He got staright to work, re-building the back wheel holding plate and bolts. We spent two days roaming the streets of Ulgii, which also became affectionately re-named "Ulgy", before the truck was ready and we were able to head off to Khoton Nuur for the Solar Eclipse. I was excited to say the least. All this time to get to Mongolia and the last thing I wanted to do was hang out in dusty alleys getting oily and dirty with my hands stuck in a truck engine.

We drove out of town, only about three hundred metres of tarmac road before we were met with,,, unpaved Mongolia. The only thing that defines a road here is a couple of squiggly lines making their way up into the mountains, through the valleys, and in and out of whatever terrain is in the way to get you to where you want to be. Our first days driving and we took a wrong turn somewhere up in the mountains, ending up somewhere absolutely beautifull. Sometimes its great to make mistakes, but if you define being somewhere beautifull as being in the right place, then whilst in Mongolia you could rarely be anywhere wrong. We had driven about sixty kilometers out of the direction we wanted to be in, ending up next to a river in a lush valley, surrounded by soft femenine mountains. Trying to paint Mongolia with words is quite a futile practise,,, at best one can describe the shapes and contours of the land, and maybe make a dance along with the plays of light that get split by clouds in the immensity of the Skies. Whatever pretty picture one can conjour, when it comes to the feeling that one experiences only by being in this gargantuan display of Nature on our Earth, the endless space and immensity of land and Sky, wildness and resilience of the animals and people; it is the same degree of massiveness and raw freedom that is felt inside. To begin to replicate this feeling in words is to start to fill the space that created them. The more one writes, the more space is filled, the less the massiveness becomes; unill ofcourse one just stops ones vain attempt at replicating this wonder of Life, open ones eyes to see it once more, seemingly for the first time again.

We spent a night by the river, sleeping outside under the stars, so many dazzling twists and turn of lights, dizzying and tranquilizing, being shot to sleep with the trails of yet another shooting star. The following day was spent mostly just trying not to leave. We had plenty of time to get to Khoton Nuur for the eclipse and this soft corner of paradise was too pleasant to add haste too. We had picked up a hitchhiker in Ugly called Crhistos from Greece, who ghad somehow thought to actualize his vision of bringing along a bright yellow inflatible lilo. He claims it was for his back problem, but I'm still sure it was just for the fun he knew was install in floating naked down the short rapids of the river between open grasslands of grazing yaks and goats, in the curls of the mountains and under the midday Mongolian summer sun.