Into The Great Big Open

I lit out from Ulaan Baatar with a fresh transit visa for Russia; the numerous small delays of the past month had left me with a scant few days to explore Mongolia, re-enter Russia and enter Kazakhstan. A quick taxi ride to the Russian embassy, and two days later (and US$250 lighter) I had two more weeks to head south to the Gobi, then northwest to the Olgii region, and the Altai.

The paved road runs out about 20 miles south of UB, and and it would be six days before my tires touched tarmac again. Where the pavement ends, the tracks begin: 2 or 8 or more sets of tracks worn into the grassy landscape, some merging into others, some leading off into the hills for small villages or gers that may no longer be there. At some point I was diverted from the main track and found myself on a lone and little-used two-wheeled track was headed in the right direction (that is, south-southwest toward Mandalgov), meandering across the steppe with the casual line of a dropped rope.

Rounding a blind bend I surprised an eagle who lifted off impossibly on a 6-foot wingspan. Standing up on the pegs, in 2nd gear, the bike working easily over the undulations and across dry streambeds, having a dual-sporting delight until I found myself carrying too much speed and entering deep sand. The front end squiggled, I panicked and when the front wheel hit the raised edge of the track I was flicked off the bike like a dry booger, coming down hard on my left shoulder. No damage to me, but the bike’s windshield broke at the two upper mounting points. Three feet of duct tape made a temporary repair, and once the adrenaline went away I was off at a more sedate pace.

Mongolia is a camper’s delight. Throw a dart at a map of Mongolia, and wherever it sticks is probably a good place to pitch a tent.

No matter how far off the beat track you think you are, eventually a Mongolian or three will pop by to see what’s up.

I rarely saw motorcycles in UB, but out in the countryside there were four motorcycles to every four-wheeled vehicle. When a herder stopped by the campsite, we’d start with “Sain baina uu?” (“How are you?”), and then continue with hand gestures, writing in the sand (great for numbers), or I’d whip out the map and we’d discuss where I’d come from and where I was going. The fellow on the right was out checking on his herds of camels, goats, and sheep. And on the 2nd day, I was rewarded with a sighting of Bactrian (two-humped) camels.

But in truth, I smelled them long before I saw them. I can only imagine the smell of a camel market where hundreds if not thousands of these odoriferous critters are milling about.

On the third day I entered Gurvan Saikhan National Park for what would be the most challenging two days of riding of my life. Miles of dry riverbed (up on the pegs, pull back on the bars, stay on the throttle, goose it if she starts to get squirrelly), go-fast alluvial plains, occasional single-track to go around rocky lava beds, and a few steep ravine climbs that had me cresting the top with my heart in my throat. Loss of traction, a wheelie or stalling would have had me rag-dolling to the bottom followed by a a 350-lb motorcycle, and a noisy cascade of my trip’s gear.

Around mid-morning, heading north out of the national park, I met a herder who was taking a break next to his motorcycle on the side of the road. We chatted, and he asked if I’d like to see his ger. (He asked by pointing to the phrase in the Language section of my LP guide.) After stopping at a well and topping off a huge water barrel and lashing it to his bike’s pillion seat, we went cross-country to his ger, where we were greeted by a dog and a bored horse.

Upon entering the ger he pulled out a small wooden stool and motioned for me to have a seat. Then he lit the central stove with clods of dry dung, and placed a large steel bowl  in an opening in the top. To the bowl he added water and a fistful of loose tea, and with more dung fuel brought the mixture to the boil, then added a few cups of mare’s milk. He served it up in small porcelain bowls, him sipping away at the scalding mixture right away, while I passed it from hand to hand trying not to burn my fingers or spill it or look too much like a tender first-worlder.

Next he emptied and wiped out the steel bowl, added more water and brought it to boil. From under a bed he pulled out a pile of cloth-swaddled butchered meat and carved off a few ribs and a foreleg of mutton, and dumped it all into the boiling water. After the meat had boiled for a few minutes he added handfuls of small potatoes and salt, and when it was all cooked the meat & potatoes were placed into a separate large dish. We sat on the floor, carving away and eating the meat and fat and potatoes (he made sure I got the foreleg), sipping more mare’s milk tea, and watched sumo wrestling highlights on his solar-powered, satellite-fed television set. (The Mongolian sumo champ lost to a gargantuan towering sumo’d-up westerner!)

From the meat and potatoes broth he made salty rice soup, and while slurping it up we watched Greco-Roman wrestling championships (Mongolia won), and after a snort of snuff I went on my way, thanking him for the meal and hospitality.

From Ulan Ude I followed the main highway south, noticing that the rest areas and passes contain ovoos, or sacred stone cairns.

Rest area on the road from Ulan Ude to Mongolia. The ground surrounding the nearby ovoo was littered with thousands of coins.

A few kilometers from the Russian border town I encountered a road sign in Russian, and also another strange language. My brain churned on it for a few seconds before I realized the second language was English! It was the first non-Russian road sign I’d seen since entering Russia nearly 3,000 miles ago.

The exit from Russia and entry into Mongolia is fussy with forms but mostly painless. $40 for Mongolian liability insurance, exchange rubles for tugrik and I’m in Mongolia.

Just crossed into Mongolia, pointed south toward Ulaan Baatar.

Entering UB, my first impression was…aggressive drivers! Second place was a three-way tie between dust, exhaust fumes and honking horns. Martyn and Ian in Vladivostok recommended a guesthouse called Oasis, and following their directions I continued east through the city center, creeping along two meters at a time in a frustrating stop-and-go pace. (At these speeds, at least it’s fairly safe!) Children smiled and waved from public buses, and a few motorists honked and gave a thumbs-up…before continuing the ultra-competitive jockeying for any small gap in traffic. Eventually I found the Oasis, and settled into a ger for nearly a week.

Cluster of gers behind the Oasis cafe & guesthouse.

The cozy if spartan ger interior. Includes a light, electrical sockets and, next to the door, a small sink with gravity-fed water supply.

One of the nicest things about staying at the Oasis is the number of overlanders I met. There was An and Jo from Belgium, traveling around the world in their highly modified Nissan Patrol. Jo granted me a detailed tour of their traveling home, and I was really impressed with his creativity and craftsmanship. I also met Pete and Tash and Lee, three Kiwis driving an ambulance from Ireland to UB for the Mongol Charity Rally. They had leftover food supplies and allowed me to root through it to add to my larder. Thanks guys! I also met fellow bikers Scott, who is riding around the world on the same route I intend to follow…only in the opposite direction! Scott passed on helpful contacts and advice for my upcoming miles. Thanks Scott! It was nice to connect with like-minded people and have a rest after riding fill-up to fill-up since Vladivostok.

For a diversion we piled into the ambulance for a trip to see a huge statue of Chinggis Khan about 50km west of the city. And huge it is:  40 meters of stainless steel immensity.

The base houses an impressive collection of bronze arrow tips, buckles, tools and decorative items.

A climb up endless stairs gets you into the horse’s mane, rewarding your workout with sweeping views of the countryside.

Today will be my last day at the Oasis — tomorrow morning (Wednesday the 8th), I’ll make an early departure south for the dunes of the Gobi desert.

Monday morning I arrived at the office of Dong Chun Ferry, Ltd and right away we got to work getting the bike released from customs. I handed over several documents for copying, and was kindly given access to a computer with a fast internet connection. After about an hour, I was handed over to the tender mercies of the Top Gun Kelly McGillis lookalike Katia, who would assist (in a big way) the process of getting insurance and temporary vehicle importation papers. Across town we filled in forms, waited, filled in forms, waited….eventually handing over cash and in exchange receiving the documents that would make it possible to ride legally in Russia. Back at customs, more cash was handed over for bike storage, and after a brief search around the expansive customs yard, I was reunited with my grimy steed.

I paid Katia the agent fee (money very well spent), she said Good Luck, and I was with my bike, with t-shirt and shorts, sandals, helmet and gloves. Not the best riding gear for frantic inner city traffic, but eventually I found my way back to the Moryak in one piece.

Mid-morning the next day, I lit out for the 1800-mile flog to Chita. Fresh fruit was cheap and cheerful at roadside stands, and delicious meat-filled rolls helped keep my energy and spirits up. The road was every sort of pavement imaginable, with some sections of bone-jarring hardpacked dirt riddled with softball-sized holes. I rode well into evening, with daylight lasting until well-after 8PM, and eventually started looking for a place to camp for the night.

My first choice was to explore a road that lead down from the built-up surface of the highway. Right away I realized that this was a mistake as the bike started slipping on the mud and grass of the bottomlands. I was able to get the bike turned around, but getting back up the slippery slope to the road had me dumping the bike. No damage done, but the practical matter of having zero traction had me wondering how I would get back to the tarmac. During these thoughts, the mosquitoes noticed there was a fresh blood supply available and cruised in for the feast. Most were kept at bay by my riding gear, but some were able to find the chinks at get their evening’s meal. While the mosquitoes sang in their thousands I unloaded the bike and walked it up the muddy slope, carefully playing the clutch and throttle, smelling gasoline and wondering how much I’d lost during my spill.

Eventually I was back on the road, with a new camping mantra: When searching for rough camping in eastern Russia, never go downhill from the road, but seek high ground. The next search yielded much sweeter fruit:

Morning at my first rough camping spot in Russia.

The next day started out through fog.

Foggy M-60, somewhere between Vladik and Khabarovsk.

In Khabarovsk, I stopped for gas and refreshment and started chatting with a man who was re-mortaring the steps to the gas station. (We chatted in as much as two people can chat who know only a few words of each other’s language.)  A few minutes two more helpful folks joined our party, and eventually I was given directions on how to get on the Amur highway out of the city.

Not all paved roads are the same. On the road to Chita were hundreds of miles of new, bowling-alley smooth tarmac, followed by hundreds of miles of road buckled and potholed by seasons of harsh Siberian freeze-thaw cycles.  There are still a few dozens of miles of unpaved sections, sporting a surface swiss-cheesed with divots just large and deep enough to hold a softball. Avoiding them is impossible, so all you can do is try to pick the cleanest line possible, knowing that a bone-jarring ride is in store at any speed.

A smooth, top-gear road in Siberia. Gold-toothed truck drivers would tell me that this is Mr. Putin’s highway, and we all agreed it was better than the alternative.

During a rest stop, a boxy Lada pulled in, and out stepped two guys and a lady, the guys packing semi-auto pistolas. They identified themselves as detectives and started in with the hard questions:

“What is your name?” “Where are you from?”

The cops shared their cured meats, cheese and bread. They offered vodka, but I politely refused, citing a no-drink policy while on the moto.

“Want some lunch?” Can we sit on your motorcycle?” We exchanged souvenirs: I received a box of matches and two 10-rouble notes, all signed by them; they received US$1 bills, signed by yours truly.)

Any flat earth near the road was under cultivation.

Campsites were plentiful; this one even had a clear, fast-flowing stream nearby.

After 4 nights of camping since Vladik, I overnighted at the Panama City Hotel in Chita for a proper hot shower and internet connection. The hotel was easy to find because it’s the only sign that isn’t in Cyrillic.

On the highway I hit my oil-change interval, so I bought (and paid dearly for) synthetic 10w-40 oil, and changed the oil at a rest area. I also cleaned and oiled the drive chain.

Rest areas usually have large ramps for oil changes or other under-vehicle maintenance.

At Ulan Ude, I stopped at the main square for a rest in the shade, and a photo of your chauffeur under the largest head of Lenin in existence(!)

One more day of ride-eat-sleep, and I eventually made it to the shores of Lake Baikal.

Lake Baikal and lighthouse, at the town of Babushkin.

From Babushkin I skirted around the southern shores of the lake, and later the mountains offered up the first fine twisty roads since Korea. I had to carve with care: Russian drivers will pass on blind hills and corners!

From Baikal I would backtrack to Ulan Ude, then head south toward Mongolia.

With the bike tied up in customs, I had the weekend to dawdle in Vladivostok, taking in the pedestrian shopping areas, seafront, and sampling my first Russian cuisine.

The hotel recommended to me by the helpful Roman at Dong Chun Ferry Ltd was the Moryak, providing basic accommodations at around US$45 per night. It was a short but uphill slog from the sea terminal, and a short jaunt from Admiral Fokina street and the sea front.

Admiral Fokina street

Fokina street is packed with shops and cafes, and with the help of the staff at the Moryak, I found an internet cafe full of twitching teenage online gamers where I was able to catch up on e-mails and update the blog. At a coffee shop I treated myself to an Americano and cake while I boned up on my Russian alphabet. (Somehow my Lonely Planet PDF files for Russia had gone missing, so except for phrases provided by a helpful Russian friend, I was flying blind language-wise.) Using a travel magazine I was able to produce a Cyrillic-English alphabet key using place names on maps.

Just down the street on the waterfront, tourists were doing beachy things.

Grand view of Sportivnaya Gavan (Sporty Bay).

Beach fun with paddle boats for rent, and huge clear balls that folks would climb inside and flounder about on the water.

The ocean breeze keeping huge colorful kites aloft.

Further down the beach, some were getting on with day-to-day life.

Many people were hauling in the day's catch, one flopping fish at a time.

South of Svetlanskaya were a few small parks and monuments.

St. Andrews chapel

Triumphal Arch

"Grand dad" Lenin, now in front of a Cinnabon shop.

The C-56 Submarine museum.

During a walk to the sea terminal to extract rubles from a cash machine, I spied two loaded and dirty motorcycles with “GB” stickers on the back. Nearby were Martyn and Ian, a Brit and Scot who’d just arrived from the west (and as it turns out were staying in the same hotel.) It was a huge pleasure to chat with these guys, and they had lots of helpful information for my upcoming miles through Russia, Mongolia and Kazakhstan. We later met up for dinner and beers. Ian had been considering shipping to Korea, then on to the US, but after hearing about the costs and hassle associated with driving in Korea, decided to put himself and his bike on the westbound Siberian train to Moscow, from where he’d ride back to the UK. Martyn’s plan was to ferry to Japan, then on to the US where he’d ride to the east coast, and then freight to the UK. I truly enjoyed their company, and hearing their stories made me even more eager to get back on my own bike. Monday couldn’t come soon enough.

I queued up at the Sokcho International Passenger Terminal for my ferry ticket to Zarubino, Russia, sweating in my riding gear among Korean, Japanese, Russian and Chinese travelers. I planned to enter Russia at Zarubino instead of the larger port of Vladivostok after hearing horror stories about the entrenched corruption at Vladik (that’s how Russians shorten Vladivostok). “Annyeong haseo. One-way to Zarubino please” earned me “No Zarubino. Valdivostok.” Assuming some sort of miscommunication, I repeated my request, which was met with the same response. According to this schedule, the next ferry to Russia would be on Sunday, three days away. As I paid my fair for today’s passage to Vladik, I made a hurried mental check of my plans. Did my Russia visa specify an entry at Zarubino? Did my invitation letter or tourist voucher specify my entry point? Was I making myself vulnerable to additional problems or costs at Vladik? I decided it was worth the risk rather than waiting another three days in Sokcho.

While waiting for the departure time, I met with Mr. SungJin Kim, who spent a lot of time traveling between Russia, Korea, Japan, and China for work. He kindly bought me a frozen treat while we chatted.

Like any seafaring vessel made of steel, the ferry New Dong Chun was in a constant battle with rust, and the lengthy struggle was showing on her. I rode the bike onto the lowest level, then up a ramp to the second deck. The warehouse-like feel of it made it difficult to believe that this structure would soon be steaming north on the Eastern Sea at 12 knots.

The bike secured on the upper cargo deck.

So long Korea. It would be my last sight of the Korean landscape, but Korean generosity was not finished with me yet.

Steaming out of Sokcho harbor.

My “ECON-B” class ticket had me in a room with six sets of bunks. One bunk-mate was a Russian named Ruslan, and we hit it off right away. His education is as a ship’s 2nd Officer, so he shared many insights into sea travel and ship life.

My newest Russian friend, Ruslan.

He very kindly bought me a dinner of tasty Korean food at the ferry’s cafeteria, and then a beer (Korean “Hite”) from the vending machine.

Tasty Korean dinner from the ferry's cafeteria.

The 20-hour transit to Vladik left lots of time for watching the sea.

Fellow traveler watching the wake.

The ferry’s captain came by and Ruslan asked if he could get a tour of the wheelhouse later in the voyage.

The ship's captain, Ruslan and your author, with Yoon Hee and Minh, two lovely Korean ladies we chatted with during the trip.

Mid-morning the next day, Ruslan decided to find the captain to see if he could tour the wheelhouse, and I tagged along hoping to get a glimpse of the inner sanctum. After knocking on a few doors and asking around, we were granted access.

Big spassiba to Ruslan; without him I wouldn't have had a chance to explore the wheelhouse.

Hmmm..what does this button do?

After the tour I was invited to join three Korean men for lunch. They shared noodles and Korean liquor, and were convinced that I looked like Kevin Costner. They’d been friends and co-workers for over 20 years, and all had nicknames for each other: Monk, Colonel, and Dragon. And I was now Kevin Costner. (I thought I’d taken a picture of these fellows, but I guess the Korean liquor made me forget…)

Eventually, Russian islands came into view through the fog.

A pilot ship came alongside and deposited a small crew to help guide us through the shallow, narrow channel to the port of Vladik.

The huge port handles a lot of cargo traffic.

The Vladivostok Sea Terminal, with the train station in the yellow buildings to the left.

We disembarked in a sweating flood of humanity into a sauna-like stairwell, waiting to be processed through immigration. Once my passport was stamped, I started asking around about getting the bike out of customs. I was eventually directed to the Dong Chun Ferry office in the sea terminal (2nd floor, office #241), where Roman explained that since it was late afternoon on Friday, the process could not be started until Monday morning. That left a weekend for rest and sightseeing in Vladik’s downtown pedestrian areas and seafront.

The full photo dump can be seen here.

Heading east from Yeoju, the surroundings became more mountainous and rural. I took a butt-break at Chiak-san National Park.

Chiak-san National Park

(Link to Korean National Parks.)

The road followed a wide river, which eventually joined another near this roadside stop.

Rest stop between Chaik-san and Seoraksan National Parks.

The road approaching Seoraksan climbed through steep 180-degree switchbacks with granite boulders on one side and dizzying views on the other. After several miles of this excitement, I pulled off into a rest area, where a tent was set up to sell freshly-cooked meals to paying passers-by.  A group of men where just settling in to their meal, and kindly invited me to join them.

One of their group was a professional Korean comedian, and had the rest rolling with laughter. I’m sure I was involved in some of his jokes, but none were at my expense. When a spicy potato pancake was served, everyone ate from the same platter, one fellow giving me a quick lesson on how to properly dive in with chopsticks. Next came spicy duck (good pantomimes all around) with peppers, which were rolled into greens that had been gathered from the nearby field. Delicious!

Had lots of laughs and great food with these kind fellows.

I was stuffed to the gills, but before I left, the men gave me three corn cobs, a can of sweet, rice-based drink, and a huge apple-colored, grapefruit-sized piece of fruit.

Just one example of Korean kindness.A

At the entrance to Seoraksan National Park, I could start to see granite peaks poking through mist.

Entrance to Seoraksan National Park.

Near Seoraksan National Park.

After more twisty mountain roads, here’s the top:

Crown jewel view of Seoraksan National Park.

At the visitor’s center I met a Korean named “Mr Mike”, whose very forward approach and bone-crushing handshake was very un-Korean (in my limited experience).  At parting, he tried the bone-crushing handshake thing again, increasing the pressure well beyond that of an enthusiastic new friend. I gave him a little squeeze of my own to let him know that a firm, friendly handshake is always appreciated, but he shouldn’t bring a knife to a gun fight.

After the cool, misty mountains of Seoraksan, it was back to the lush lowlands. Time for gas.

Fueling up is easy, just like home. Only here, they give you a packet of paper towels with each fill-up.

At the end of the day I arrived at the port city of Sokcho, where I would board the ferry to Zarubino.

Or so I thought.

The beach was only a few steps from the hotel, so while the bike was in transit I passed some time walking on the beach. This was a quiet family vacation spot, with long tidal flats instead of bodacious breakers.

Beach on south Incheon island, Korea.

Along the shore were small shops, ATV-rentals and restaurants where whole fish were cooked on in-table grills.

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On Sunday, I went to Korean Air Cargo where I met J.C., whose mastery of English was a huge help in getting through the importation process. We visited several customs offices, and the huge rulebooks were opened and several phone calls made. Since it was Sunday, the customs offices were running only skeleton crews, so expertise on vehicle importation (by air) was thin on the ground. Eventually we had a plan: On Monday, I would go to Incheon City Hall for temporary tags and insurance.

After navigating the subway system (easy with English signs and station announcements) to Incheon City Hall, I was directed to the district office where traffic issues were handled. Once there, the very helpful employees called several insurance companies for me, searching for one that would sell me a short-term policy. During the lunch hour I wandered into China Town and promptly got lost, rushing back to the traffic offices dripping in sweat. At 4PM I had the golden temporary plates (they really are on gold-colored paper), and proof of insurance. These were the keys to getting the moto from customs.

Tuesday found me back at Korean Air Cargo, who walked me to the office of customs broker Mr. Choi, a former long-time customs officer who had assisted U.S. President Gerald Ford in a visit to Korea, China and (then) U.S.S.R. He smoothly navigated through more customs mazes, and just before noon, the crated bike was brought out by fork-lift. I jumped to uncrating and bike re-assembly with vigor, much to the enjoyment of customs employees who were taking smoke breaks. Finally at 2PM, I pressed the starter button, and sped off into the hot honking mid-day crush of Incheon traffic.

After 7 nights in 4 different hotels, I'm ready to ride again!

I spent two hours getting lost in Incheon traffic before finding my road east, and spent two more hours along non-stop urban developments. I finally stopped for the night at a “love motel” near Yeoju.

The first few days of being without a motorcycle were OK, mostly because my backside could use a rest after the long saddle days of the previous week. But having been at the mercy of public transport, expensive taxis, and my own feet for over a week, I’m more than ready to be back on two wheels.

Since the last update, I caught my long flight from Vancouver to Incheon and spent a few nights at a small hotel near the beach on the southern end of the island.  But before I can get sand in between my toes, there are chores to attend. First, I need to decipher new technology. This is the control panel for the toilet, which in good old America is a simple porcelain tool with only one control for the user.

I mistakenly set the backside-cleaning water stream pressure to “barnacle removal/crowd control” because it nearly launched me off the seat. I’m sure I’m not the first or last clueless Westerner to tell this particular story.  Once the buttons were decoded, this hi-tech head with heated seat, backside washer and air-dryer makes going to the bathroom a pleasant experience.

There’s also the never-ending chore of laundry. A quick lesson for the curious:

Hit the "high traffic" areas (pits, etc) with a laundry bar purchased from the corner shop. Agitate & let soak. Drain soapy water, re-agitate with fresh water.

Rinse and wring. Then lay the items flat on your huge microfiber towel. This is a good reason to get the biggest microfiber (not cotton) towel possible.

Roll it all up snugly, then squeeze or kneel on it to transfer moisture to the towel's large surface area. Hang everything and hope it dries before you have to pack it all up again.

Chores finished, I was off to the beach. Details coming up…