Our trip faces a dire threat: Mongolian hospitality. This is our second night under the conical wooden ribs of the same Ger, owned by a water-selling, shepherding family in Inner Mongolia. I’m lying on the floor on a wool rug. Sebrand is on a table. Last night he was on the floor, unconscious from baiju they had been forcing us to drink. He had been carried there. I think they’re intentionally sabotaging our trip.  

We arrived here on Monday. We never really intended to be here. We were having the best day of cycling yet. We had made 70km in three hours, the wind was at our backs, the scenery was beautiful and green again, and puddles of water sat on the sides of the road.

  

Image of windmills

    

We rode through green swards, and a forest of windmills that broke suddenly into an enormous emerald basin dotted with mud cottages and white sheep. 

  

Whenever we stopped, we were treated as celebrities.    

  

One couple pulled over and gave us 6 cans of beer just for being there. The point is, our ride was going great.

Then, shortly after we passed the paper lamp marking our current prison, two girls on a motorcycle caught up to us. They matched our speed, and the girl on the back, who was certainly European and spoke perfect English, motioned me to take off my head phones. That was where the trap was sprung. We were invited to dinner at the ger, and we had no reason to refuse. Clever bastards sent their English speaker to lure us in.

She was French Canadian, Marie-Christian. She’s on a four year journey walking alone from Beijing to Morocco. Essentially making our trip look quaint. She just graduated college like Sebrand, has never done anything like this before, and has a budget of two dollars a day. She’s been staying with this family for six days. They got her too. I can only imagine she’s as much unwilling to leave such kind hosts as she is afraid to walk through the Gobi.    

 But anyway, we met Arugot, a stout Mongol with a big laugh and love of flying kites. He’s the son and I assume to-be operator of this traveler’s snare. He and his smaller buddy with a ponytail, Satahn, herd up the sheep at night, and sell water from the well to passing truckers at all hours. His older sister, Alema helps their mother prepare food and care for the livestock. They run a small restaurant out of their house. The father has his own operation elsewhere, but when he’s here I’ve seen him preparing the iconic folded and steamed bread of Mongolia.  

 

Really, actually, they all pretty much do any job as needed. There doesn’t seem to be a consistent person responsible for any given task.

On the fateful first night they stuffed us with bread, sour grasses picked from the fields, potatoes, broccoli and lamb. Then put us on a steady drip of beer, which led to songs and laughter, then baiju (Chinese rice wine), then a morning of nausea. 

  

When they pour beer into bowls and start taking turns downing it, have no part. Run away. The baiju is soon to follow, and they will give you your own bottle of it to finish. 

 
If Marie-Christian and the older sister hadn’t poured some of mine out and replaced it with water half-way through, I’d have ended up like Sebrand, having to wash himself in a bucket.

Baiju is sinister stuff. It does not taste good. Once they had Sebrand, my back-up, out of commission, Arugot implored me not to go in the morning. Without support, not to mention a clear head, I couldn’t refuse. I agreed we’d go out into the steppe with the family after breakfast.

After breakfast six of us piled into this little broken down Chinese car. Then this happened:

(video)

He just drove off the road and started herding the sheep. Completely without warning. In this thing:

This little off-roader took us through the fields to a hill for some photos and a big mushroom for dinner.

It took us to some really tall grass.

And we got to watch a true nomad at work.

We spent the afternoon and evening lazily watching Arugot fly a kite and listening to the sounds of the pasture.

  

Eating goat butter on bread. Arugot again implored we stay with the promise that the next morning we could ride horses. They served us pickled herbs and soup for dinner, for which we were momentarily joined by a very confused sheep, who butted in the door suddenly then took on an “oh shit, wrong bathroom” expression and quickly made its escape.

It didn’t take long for these friends to call us family. I don’t know when we’ll be able to break away. They’ve made it difficult.

Edit: we didn’t ride any horses. They did bring out their saddle though and insisted that we sit on it sans horse. 

Image of Marnix on horse saddle

We decided we’d stay till lunch any way. Sebrand got to try his hand and sheering sheep while I got to feed this adorable lamb that has no mommy.