By 10:30am we’d picked up the last gas we’d find in Russia treating the bikes to 95 octane. Then the fun and games began.

On the Russian side we passed 23-30 trucks, cars and 4x4’s and rode straight to the front of the line and up to the closed metal guarded gates. Half an hour later and we were waived through along with 8 others, the gates were then closed behind us. We’d been waiting in line for 30 minutes when we decided to walk down to the unimpressive white bricked kiosk, realizing it was customs we picked up the required declaration forms (2 copies each) and were surprised to find them in English and Russian, that’ll make things easier.

On the form we list our bikes details, make, model, year, etc along with the currency we are carrying and how much, then how many pieces of luggage we have. Basically at this point we’re making stuff up. We have no idea what counts as luggage? The tank bags? The water bags? The water proof waist bags? In the end we just wrote ‘3’. We already had a pretty good idea that no-one was going to check, and they didn’t.

Finally we are called to the front, and back inside the kiosk we hand over the declaration forms, proof of insurance, passports and pink Russian registration doc to the scar faced, square jawed officer who was dealing with us. Occasionally he’d snort, hacking up loudly something from the back of his throat, rounded off with a loud sniff.

An hour later we were done and could move all of 30 feet to the next kiosk where we were dutifully ignored for a good 30 minutes. Finally the curt female officer took our passports and then demanded I turn my head left, right, up, down and finally that I pull my hair back. She simply wasn’t convinced that the photo in my passport was me. Lisa was next – she was fine.

We cleared the last military checkpoint and said adios to Russia 3-hours after we’d arrived at the border.

On the Mongolian side things were about to get messy. Several squat buildings litter the compound, none of them signed. We knew enough that we rode into and through the deep concrete pit -filled in theory with strong antibacterial solution that by now was probably just shit-coloured slimy water. We were almost out of the compound when a female military official wearing camouflage shouted after us. We’d seen no sign of anyone and were still looking for where we’d start customs and immigration.

Here’s what we ended up doing. We got a royal bollocking from the above mentioned guard and then were told that we needed to go back to the small red-brick hut by the pit of slime to get a small piece of photocopied paper declaring we’d been through the disinfectant. Back at the hut we also handed over our passports and got given in total 3 pieces of scrappy paper. A white overcoated girl waived us into another larger building where we’d filled in a declaration confirming that we didn’t have swine flu, or coughs, itches, runny noses, wet asses, dribbly eyes, headaches, feeling of lethargy, aching muscles, and joints and so on and so on. (Actually Lisa said later that she could have ticked ‘yes’ to all of the above…but decided it best not to!)

Further into the complex we entered the only door we could see that was open in the derelict looking buling and again found desks and ‘officials’ all looking a bit bored. We handed over our passports, after being dismissed we milled around clueless as to where to go next – we had asked and the guy had waived us past with no specific direction indicated. Half a dozen officials lurk behind counters and none of them beckons us towards then. So, we just picked a window, turned up wearing our best ‘British, chirpy chappy grins’ and waited for something to happen. At the first window we handed over passports and confirmed our bike details. One of the scraps of paper was stamped; from there we headed over to another counter and simply handed over everything we had. More stamps. We were then directed back to the window we first come from. More stamps were issued onto before mentioned scraps of paper. The female military guard who’d run out and caught us earlier walked over and applied one last stamp. “You are finished…GO’! Exclaimed the official. We weren’t sure, we already been told that twice and then been pulled back in.

On the bikes we rode away only to have to hand over everything at the check point 200 feet from the immigration building. 50 feet further one last guard stared at us like we were offending his delicate sensitivities and then pulled back the iron gate and waived us through disdainfully.

Ha…here we are at last in Mongolia.

The nonsense of the border was forgotten almost immediately as Mongolia cast it’s spell. Green rolling hills blend into the horizon, each one dotted with white coloured Ger, the traditional Mongolian home. Livestock roam free, occasionally herded by a horse riding Mongol. Short two tone whistles can be heard over the bikes as the herder directs his horse and the flock. We count at least 3 Yak, each raising its head as we pass South. Cresting one hill we pulled over, realizing that a herd of Mongolian two humped camels wasn’t something we’d see every day. We’ve seen more livestock in 30 minutes in Mongolia than we have in weeks of traveling Russia.

Further south we pass dead-still lakes each one reflecting the yellow and green mountains around it. Two young children to our left are being pulled around like rag dolls as they hold on to a rope strung around the neck of petrified sheep. With each mad bolt the boys are yanked forward, their dirty skin and running noses all forgotten in the heat of the battle. They finally pull the sheep to the ground.

By early evening and with the hazy sun to our backs we finally reach Mongolia’s capital Ulan Bataar and ride into the chaotic madness. This feels familiar, more akin to Africa in particular our time in Dakar Senegal. 3 lanes of traffic carry 6 as drivers push, bully and cram their vehicles into spaces that didn’t exist moments earlier. You need a different driving mindset here; Lisa characterized the 3 features you have to employ here n the city if you are to get anywhere; concentration, awareness and aggression. Defensive riding here just doesn’t work. You can’t be intimidated. Like circling sharks, Mongolian drivers in the capital can smell the blood and you’re just chumming the water.

By 10:00pm and with 380-miles and a border crossing under our belts we pulled into the Oasis café and guesthouse on the south eastern outskirts of Ulan Bataar. We’ve been given the choice of a room or a ger. How could you not want to spend your first night in Mongolia in a Ger? We’ve lit a small fire in the metal boiler inside and we’re tucked up tight, tired but very, very happy.

Today we were meant to leave…but who should turn up but Tiffany from the UK with her pillion Annie. We met Tiffany quite a few years before at a rally when we were in the UK when we were all part of the UKGser club. I had heard from her recently as she was going to be traveling through Mongolia and we had hoped to meet up although she was arriving here in UB a little later than hoped and we were already going to be on the road…however..here she was!

We decided to stay a few more days and apply for our Mongolain visa extension. Monday morning we went back down to the Mongolian visa extension office – applied for the extension so we could stay here in Mongolia until 24th Sept. We would be able to collect our visas and passports this coming Thursday. We MUST leave Friday!

We’d stopped for a few photos at the white and blue traditional monument on the left. The country side was opening up, the distant hills fading into light blues and greys on the horizon.

Amongst the maze of streets in Dzuunmod we did our best to interept our route. We’d set the GPS to get us to to Mandalgovi, some 150 miles due south. Now don’t get us wrong, it wasn’t the lack of routes that was causing an issue but the quantity. On the south side of town twenty different tracks lead off with none of them heading due south. All we could hope was that the track we’d chosen would turn. 130-miles later and we knew we’d got it wrong. The track had turned to tar for 11-miles a good indiction that it was leading to a major town, that had to be Mandalgovi, we’d guessed. They’re isn’t another major town anywhere close. The tar fissled into 4-5 minor tracks that all eventually faded away. There was nothing for it but to U-turn and ride back to Dzuunmod. What a waste of time, we already knew that by now we weren’t going to reach Mandalgovi by tonight.

Back at Dzuunmod we criss-crossed our original track and followed what had looked like a dead-end. Around the back of what appeared to be the shanty side of town the track suddenly broadened and cut a swath through the valley. In the distance we could see 15 or so tracks all running parallel to each other. This much traffic can only be going to Mandalgovi.

3-hours later and we’ve been up on the pegs continuously, the dark clouds dappling the countryside with patchy light, which ony enhances what is a vast and open landscape. 4-miles ahead and a dozen dust clouds kick into the air each one trailing the speeding 4x4 that’s creating it. What a sight. It looked more a desert race than a commute home. At the top of a small rise and before entering the next valley we take a moment just to take in the view. Words don’t do much in the face of such overwhelming beauty.

Pulling off the track we simply cut across country and headed up into the taller hills we’d been riding to for the last hour, the ground getting more technical rough and soney as we ride higher.

We eventually made camp high above the track and out of harms way as the speeding 4x4’s will travel into the night. With the tent up and a cup of coffee in hand we perched ourselves on the taller rocks and whatched the sun turn the heavy cloudbase golds, mauves and yellows.

It’s only just beginning to sink in that we’re in Mongolia and camped on the steppes. Perhaps Ghengis Khan once passed this way, who knows. Tonight we’re tired but happy and excited at to what tomorrow will bring.

We were back on the track and snaking our way from valley to vale by 7:00am. By mid-day we’d found a steady pace and rhythem and had even become more accustomed to the weight of our loaded bikes.

As we round a crop of rock a white temple suprises us to the right, there’d been not a hint or sign or a mention of the temple on any of our maps. 20 or so white painted mini temples situated around a larger brightly painted one. The smaller white shrines walling the larger to the north, south, west and east. A Mongolian herder races into the centre, stood in the stirrups to make the picture all the more perfect. We snap a few photos whilst trying to deliberate the route. The GPS wants us to go straight but we can see the passing 4x4’s all turning west, up and over the hill behind the shrine. With directions asked from a few local herders we turn south to follow the GPS.

Two-hours later and I’m having my doubts as the tracks gets smaller and seemingly less used. By mid-afternoon and we’ve raced through low valleys and slowly wound our way into the next and stopped by a large lake. There was no way around, the track we’d taken had led us here. We needed to u-turn and search for another path. As we dead end again a half hour later outside a ger, the family come out, surprised to see us, their dog bearing fanged teeth until it’s brought to heel.

Our attempt to ask directions is met with frowns and looks of uncertain confusion. We thank them and cut across country, making our own track. I’d left Lisa as I rode onto the steep hill in the hope of looking down and seeing a track. The deep water cut trenches that cut into the side of the hill weren’t making life easier and the thick mounds of scrub grass kept the wheels and suspension bouncing as I rode higher. At the top and end I could see the faint wear of a track heading south and back with Lisa we ride into the wettest and marshiest area we’ve seen so far. As I slowly ride into a shallow puddle, I know instantly I’m going down, the back of the bike slips out and my left foot simply slides as I try to find a solid footing. Lisa’s yells of laughter bring a smile to my face. Yeah, it was about time I came off the bike. It turned out to be impossible to lift the bike still loaded we simply couldn’t lift without our feet slding from under us. And so with the bags off got the big girl upright, we found drier ground and re-loaded.

By late afternoon we’d again worked our way across country and found the main piste, a wide and corrugated track that looked like it had seen recent rain. The deep hardened trenches scared deep by the passing of heavy trucks during or after recent rain were the clue.

Four hours later and we were cursing and swearing aloud as we skidded and bumped from the seemingly never ending washboard into the deep pockets of sand that line the piste. There’s no two ways about it, ride them fast or slow corrugations are a bloody nightmare and will drive you complety mad.

We were by early evening chasing the sun, trying to get to Mandalgovi before night fall, the idea of being out on the piste, still riding the sand and the washboard at night was a cruel one.

On the outskirts of town we flicked through the pages of the LP and after checking out one of the hotels it describes as ‘rundown’ we decided it looked derelict and headed for the hotel Temoujin. 12,000 tug seemed OK for night and even better to have the bikes locked up securely in a connected factory protected by 5 frothy-mouthed raibbied looking st Bernards. Massive animals that looked postivley wild, their heavy fur soaked in filth and oil.

With our bags in the room we headed down into the eating room, yeah, calling it a resteraunt just paints the wrong idea. With two cold beers in hand suddenly the day didn’t seem so long and by 9:00pm we’d been joined by two locals who’d hammered down from UB, who were stopping for food and drink and then carrying on for another 5-hours to reach east of Dalandzadgad. Without a comom language we had a bizarre conversation. Randomly they’d spit up English words. Mid beer sip, one of the guys would turn, grin and yell”Dianna, Charles” and then “Beckaham”. “Manchester United”and “Beatles” followed quickly after. The bizzarest part of the evening was when the older of the two guys stood from his chair and physically demonstrated that he wanted to ass shag Britney Spears, the conversation turned political. “Terrorist, Bin, Bib, Bin Laden…Ghinkas Khan…same” the older of the men stated. We couldn’t believe our ears. Mongolias most famous hero slash mass murderer was being exclaimed as a terrorist by one fo his own country men. We checked we understood but there was no mistaking the worlds and the hand gestures. This guy was saying the Khan and Bin Laden were the same, a couple of terrorists. Bizzare.

We turned in tired and slept heavily after eating a bowl of goat meat/fat stewed on hot water and onion. Sounds bad- tasted good.