Mongolia: A lesson in turning the tables

Our month in Mongolia introduced us to the country's extremes. Photo / Rob Gray

As I watched my bike disappear down the dusty road and out of sight, I began to feel rather stupid. I had just broken one of my personal rules: never let anyone ride my bike.

Piza was my lifeline, my passage to London, and held all my personal belongings. No matter how often and how hard locals begged me, I was impassive, a stone wall. No one could use my motorcycle. Until now.

I don't know what made me say yes, but I hesitated for only a second. Andy seemed like a nice bloke, a young Mongolian around my own age, who was fluent in English, having studied overseas four years.

I was holding the keys to his late 90s Honda sedan as security, but I didn't fancy driving a Mongolian-registered two-wheel drive from northwest Mongolia to London.

As the minutes grew longer and longer, I began to think I had seen the last of Piza.

And then, just as I had begun to give up hope, I heard the strained sound of a Suzuki DRZ-250, stuck in first gear and revving far too high. As Piza came around the corner, my anxious eyes appraised the damage quickly: well, she was still going, so that was a start, and the wheels didn't look buckled. Coming nearer, though, I could see scrapes and scuffs scarring her length, a wing mirror missing, and Andy was clearly bleeding through large tears in his clothing.

I forced my face into an emotionless void to combat the feelings of anger and indignation that swelled inside me. As Andy pulled up, and toppled off my bike into a heap, I momentarily ignored him, tending to my wounded machine. Relief flowed through me as I confirmed my initial conclusions: nothing serious.

More annoyed than angry, I worked through the damage methodically, Andy watching on.

Two small holes in my side drink-bottle holder, a cracked buckle on my canvas panniers, further gouges to an already marked right side hand guard, a few insignificant scratches to my front fork, and a broken wing-mirror.

Piza's pride was dented, like a bad sunburn or scars from acne, but there was nothing that would stop us getting to London.

I turned my attention to Andy. And before I go any further, I'll probably have to make this blog a little more personal.

Travel writing is, in part, judged by a focus on the place, rather than the writer. After all, it is the place that people are truly interested in - they don't want to hear miniscule details of the writer's life, they want a place brought alive so vividly they can imagine themselves there, forgetting the writer altogether.

Still, if you want a real sense of what it's like to be on the road for six months, in some of the world's most remote places, you must also understand the feelings and emotions behind the landscapes - and the dramas. The feelings of hunger and despair, joy and dilemma, frustration and irritation are as relevant to travel as "stunning vistas" and "breath-taking beauty". Descriptions of cultures and locations alone can rob the experience of humanity. So, back to Andy.

I surveyed Andy with a mixture of compassion and disdain. I knew only too well the finality and horror that comes with a crash, the feeling of helplessness and permanence. I also felt betrayal - Andy had promised me he wouldn't leave the carpark on my bike - and a fierce, paternal anger, like a father might feel when he sees his child injured.

And, as someone who tries to follow the teachings of Jesus, I felt a desire to show love and forgiveness to Andy, even as another part of me clenched fists with the temptation to administer some on-the-spot justice.

As Andy wailed and complained that my bike had been too heavy, I told Andy to describe the accident, and, identifying a large gash on his hand where palm had collided with gravel, a huge flap of skin hanging limply, I took out our first aid kit and began cleaning his wound.

Saline solution to wash out the larger stones, a sterile swab for the dust and grit, antiseptic ointment and a clean dressing to combat infection.

I wasn't gentle, or sympathetic to his grimaces and twitches of pain, but I tried to be thorough. In the meantime, I considered what to do about my broken mirror. I knew the right thing to do would be to discharge Andy of his debt, even though this was undeserved, just as so much of the love I had received in my own life was undeserved and unmerited. Still, I wanted Andy to feel consequence, and when Climo instructed Andy to make his way to the local store and find me a new mirror, I didn't object.

When he returned five minutes later, I received an education in an alternative way to resolving disputes.

"I couldn't find anything, man," he mumbled, not meeting my eyes. Just then, a van pulled up, and several large Mongolian men jumped out, advancing towards me. The ugliest, a heavy-set man with a shaved head, broken teeth and an athlete's tracksuit, stood next to Andy, staring at me, slowly chewing on something, maybe his tongue. The thought flashed through my mind that he might well have eaten the former Mongolian kick-boxing champion for breakfast.

"Well, what do you think you should do about it?" I asked Andy, reaching for a tool as some sort of security against the imminent threat.

Unfortunately, all I could find with my fumbling fingers was a small adjustable spanner, which looked more like a child's toy than a weapon.

A few interested locals crowded around in the derelict street, distracted from their daily tasks.

"Get in the van," said Andy, "and we'll sort it out".

I might have been foolish enough to allow him a ride on my bike, but I wasn't about to get in a car with five hulking Mongolians and one smaller Mongolian who owed me a debt.

"I'm not going anywhere. Why don't you get your friends to help you find me a new mirror?"

"Nah man, big problems," Andy said. I wasn't interested in playing around for hours, so I looked Andy in the eyes and said "Mate, you have two choices here. You can choose to act with integrity, and help me find a new mirror. I'd appreciate it if you did. Or, you and your mates can get in your van, and leave without helping. I can't stop you. I won't call the police, because we are leaving town in a few minutes anyway. It's your choice. It's your conscience, not mine."

Whatever I hoped the desired effect would be, I hadn't anticipated what happened next.

"You're not going anywhere, man," Andy muttered, avoiding my gaze.

"The police are coming. These guys are going to say that you ran me over with your bike. You hit me, man. You must take me to the hospital, and pay me money, for my back. It's hurt."

Realising I was wasting my breath, and that there wouldn't be much time to act, I ignored Andy and strode into the internet cafe where the other boys had been talking to their loved ones while I took a turn guarding the bikes.

"Boys, we need to leave town within 30 seconds," I directed without further explanation, "so shut down those things right now."

As we walked out, Misha insisted on an explanation, and I had to hold him back from mauling the kickboxer when he realised what was happening.

We kitted up quickly, and I turned to look at Andy, who was already protesting "Hey, you're not going anywhere, man!" I knew there was no point fighting - a few moments of temporary satisfaction would turn into weeks of headaches, as our visas expired the next day, and I could not afford to be drawn into a lengthy dispute over the accident or, even worse, be arrested for lashing out in anger.

"This is your choice, Andy, and it's on your conscience, not mine."

As I spoke, a further car drew up, and I could see the three stars on a uniformed shoulder that designated a policeman on the scene. We had been warned multiple times about the corruption of Mongolian policemen, and their willingness to side with whoever was prepared to pay a bribe. If I was to leave, it had to be quickly.

As the officer jumped from his car, Andy attempted to grab my keys from the ignition. The rage which I had smothered thus far threatened to overflow, and I threw his outstretched arm away forcefully. Flicking Piza on, I hit the ignition, and in a cliche that I expected only from movies, nothing happened. Again I hit the ignition, and this time Piza flared into life.

The frantic gestures of the other boys revealed that the officer was only a few feet behind me, but I didn't look around. Instead, I kicked Piza into first gear, opened the throttle up, and burst onto the potholed street, large cracks weaved across the thin tar seal like a broken windscreen.

And so, Mongolia began as it started, fleeing from an unexpected encounter that threatened to overturn all our plans and stop our trip in its tracks. Racing through traffic, overtaking with speed, we had no time to fill the bikes up with fuel, and our first stop came only when Tom ran out of gas.

We crossed the border without incident the next day, and our month in Mongolia was over.

I left with mixed feelings. I still had a sour taste in my mouth, surprised at the audacity it took to twist the crash around on me, and haunted by thoughts of my bike sliding down the street. In many ways, though, it had been a wonderful month. Mongolia had welcomed us with open arms, with all but a few inviting us into their homes and their lives.

I could still taste the fresh, lumpy sensation of warm sheep's yoghurt and the hot flavours of goulash and fried noodles. I could still see the smiling faces of friendly, mischievous herdsmen. I could still picture the spectacular mountains and arid deserts we had made our way through.

It had been good, and, if they let me, I decided I'd willingly return some day.