The repairs done in UB hold up for 230 miles. It’s enough to get us to Kharkorin, Mongolia’s first capital, while the sun is still high, despite an unexpected delay. While still deep in the desert, we pass another LaSalle, its driver puzzling over some problem with the engine. Seeing Rally cars stopped in the desert has become a common sight. When I saw them on our first day in Mongolia, I thought they were stopping to take pictures or have a snack, but I soon learned that nearly every one of them needed a repair. Sometimes a mechanic’s van would be parked alongside, everyone working furiously to get the car back in the race. But with broken cars numbering in the high double-digits and only a handful of mechanic vans, most teams struggled on their own. Of the two signs the organizers gave us on Day 1, one saying SOS and the other saying OK, this man has put the OK sign on his windshield. As Bernard drives by I recognize the car. “Hey,” I shout. “That’s Gustav.” Bernard slams on the brakes and backs up. “Oh come on, Bernard. Their sign says they’re OK. This is the first time we’re making good time. Let’s keep going.” We only know Gustav and his wife, Laure, through a handshake when we happened to park our similar cars near each other. From this I know they’re French speakers, but I don’t know anything else.
“Dina, they have a LaSalle. We have to see if they need help.”
The two men put their heads together. I pick up smatterings of French, a language the two have in common, but if auto mechanics parlance in English was a stretch, figuring out what they’re saying about the car in French is an impossibility. Soon Bernard is dragging out our tool bags from the trunk. “Dina, would you see if we have any three-quarter inch bolts?” he asks me in French.
“Bien sur. On a beaucoup.” I’m chagrined to have exposed the fact that I’m more concerned about myself than helping someone in trouble, so I dig through our tubs of spare nuts and bolts with unusual vigor, prepared to give Gustav handfuls of bolts to make up for my earlier selfishness.
As I walk over to the stuck car I can’t help comparing it to ours. It’s a few years older than Roxanne, a convertible painted matte black, and nowhere near as lovely as she is. When I give Gustav the bolts he nudges me toward his wife, telling me she doesn’t speak any other language but French. She’s sitting on a folding camp stool Gustav has set up for her, sunk in gloom, her fair skin an angry red from the heat, wind, and sun she’s exposed to in their open-top car. Much as I love Bernard, not being able to talk to anyone but him for 35 days would lead to some extended moments of silence. I feel for the woman.
“Bonjour Madame,” I say, addressing her formally because she appears older than I and I haven’t really spoken to her before. I start babbling about the heat, the long days, the food in camp. She nods, but doesn’t contribute much. Finally at a loss of what to say, I suggest that we all have dinner together one of these nights. At this she brightens, straightens from her slump, and gives me a forlorn smile. How happy this would make me, she tells me. I decide I’m willing to be this woman’s go-to-girl every now and then if that’ll make her feel better. At the time, I have no idea that Gustav has other plans in store for me.
Our lodging for the night is in a tourist camp of fixed gers, an exciting opportunity to leave our tent folded in the car. This is a proper Mongolian setup, not the faux Mongolia presented by China. As we near it we pass an aged monastery, Erdene Zuu Khiid, the first Buddhist monastery in Mongolia. It used to be home to a thousand monks. Like many ancient sites, it’s suffered the ravages of time, not to mention the ravages of the Stalinist purges of the 1930s, during which all but three of the original hundred temples were destroyed. One of the ornately carved wood portals in the high white walls surrounding the monastery is open, giving a view of the stately ancient beauty of the remaining buildings. I get a first glimpse of two maroon-robed monks in Crocs striding purposefully across a derelict quadrangle as we drive by. We’re sorely tempted to visit, but we have to clock in at the finish time control or face more time penalties, so we don’t stop. Though we’re out of the running for Gold or Silver medals, both of which require clocking out of the MTC every day at our appointed time, we still try to follow Rally rules if we can. This strikes us as more sporting, though from the way the organizers seem to dismiss us, I surmise we’re the only ones who view it so.
We are higher in the mountains now, and there’s a small river coursing through the fields around our camp. Though it’s still not the flourishing landscape I’d imagined, the crisp, bracing air fills me with optimism. There’s even green grass on which to park Roxanne in front of our assigned ger. As more cars arrive, a match is organized to display the skills of local Mongolian wrestlers. Inside the circle formed by Rally crews, two burly, oliveskinned men swagger in leather briefs in the afternoon chill. Suddenly, they whirl and lunge at each other, then grapple and twist until one tosses the other to the ground. The thrown one leaps back up, while the winner struts the perimeter of the circle, beating his chest and shaking his fists in the air in mock triumph. We roar our approval.
In a moment of insanity, a Rally driver unzips his trousers. He hops about tugging off his socks and pants, and enters the ring. I almost have to avert my eyes at the sight. His body is pallid and flabby in comparison with his opponent’s swarthy skin and sleek, bulging muscles, and he’s quickly covered with goose bumps. He looks ridiculous, but we all give him a loud hoorah of encouragement. The Mongolian wrestler, being a good host, allows him thirty seconds before tossing him on the grass. His pale shoulders now have green stains on them, but he’s up and hopping about like a bantam cock, ready for another go. I hug Bernard with relief, both to be here on this night and because I’m so glad he’s not the sort to jump in and tussle with a Mongolian wrestler. Though I do think he’d beat him if he did.
Another delight awaits me. It’s the shower cabin I spied when we drove in, with a large hot water tank installed on its roof. I head there late, delayed both by the thought that I might make some friends if I let others go first and by a strange inability to find my hand towel in my duffel. By the time I walk in, it’s clear no one else felt so constrained. The intoxicating steam billowing from completed showers is enough to make me tipsy. It is also proof that most of the fifty-six other females still on the Rally have already partaken of the joys of hot water. Rarely in my life have I disrobed faster. Clutching my modest travel towel to my even more modest chest, I abandon my dusty cargo pants on a bench and scamper down the slimy corridor, and I enter the first shower stall I come to.
By now I’m shivering, made colder still by the arctic draft blowing through the ill-fitting stall door. “Suck it up, Dina,” I tell myself. “Hot water’s comin’.” I turn on the tap and wait. Some warm drops dribble from the shower head. The anticipation is killing me. I’ve seen the gravity-fed pipe leading to my side of the shower house, so I know hot water from that rooftop tank can reach me. Not to waste a drop, I crouch under the rusty shower head and hold my breath. There’s a loud gurgle accompanied by the whining of pipes. A good sign. I swivel the wobbly faucet to what I hope is the fully open position and am deluged by water so cold it should be solid.
Gasping and cursing, I splash the liquid ice over my body to dispel the accumulated dust. All I manage to do is water a bumper crop of goose flesh. “Who even would notice that you’ve sacrificed yourself for their showering pleasure,” I censure myself. “You idiot!” I add for good measure, to impress on myself that a lesson needs to be learned. In under a minute I’m out of the shower, dashing on tiptoes down the icy, dank hallway to the women’s room, and have pulled my dusty clothes back onto my still damp body. As luck would have it, Bernard emerges from the men’s shower cabin at the same time I step out of the women’s side. Only he’s pink and warm, where I’m chapped red and cold. We look at each other. “Don’t even ask,” I say. He puts his arm around my shoulder and I shrug it off, determined to have a good sulk.
Near dusk, a local herder brings ten Mongolian horses to the camp, the first herd I’ve seen. They’re small beasts, with big heads and coarse manes, saddled and ready to be ridden. At best they’re scrappy ponies, compared to the stout American quarter horses I have back home. Yet I am so enchanted to finally have horses around that I can barely contain myself. First, though, I turn to Bernard. “Will you come, too?” I ask, hoping to experience something with him on this trip that doesn’t involve cars.
“No, I don’t think so. Horses are your thing. I’ll watch. Maybe take some photos.” If he’s trying to make up for the fact that he got the hot water, I accept.
There is a traditional saying in Mongolian: “A Mongol without a horse is like a bird without wings.” Venus is bright and a few early evening stars are already winking when I mount a small, sinewy bay and trot off down the green. His gait is choppy, and it’s hard to direct him. Perhaps Colorado horse language is different from what a Mongolian horse would understand. The dusty warm pony sweat and the fresh air on my face make me long for home. Still, it feels so poetic to be in Mongolia on horseback that I momentarily consider just trotting on, to be done with brutal roads and confusing waypoints. Bernard’s figure recedes, becoming a small spot on the dark field. I thrill to be just me and the bay. Until I don’t. The further Bernard fades in the dusk, the more bereft I feel, as if I’ve torn half of me off and left it behind. In the deepening blue dusk I canter a ragged circle and head back. Bernard raises his arms high in a victory sign as he sees me, and I sink into his enveloping hug as my pony is led away.
Like much Rally news, word has spread informally that a special dinner plus entertainment are arranged for that evening. For everyone. Thanks to the largesse of one participant with the connections to import cases of Moët & Chandon, there’s also champagne for the entire Rally. The very frivolity of this gesture boosts our spirits, and I’m especially looking forward to sharing a toast with Bernard and our friends. Hoping to surprise everyone, I ransack Roxanne for some extra treats, pulling out our precious stash of beef jerky and some sticky sweet lemon energy bars. Thus laden, I take the long way to the dining hall, enjoying the feel of the clean night air with its hint of moisture, and the spring of grass under my feet. I relish this rare chance to be alone. On my detour, there’s a small, fancy yurt I hadn’t noticed earlier. Like in a fairy tale, it’s small and squat, with a carved wood door and canvas walls covered in curlicues of blue and red embroidery. Light flickers in a window, and I hear low voices punctuated by sharp laughs. “Ah, a secret discovery,” I think, already planning the memorable end to the evening that Bernard and I can have here. I pull open the door and peer in, expecting to see a few locals clustered round a bartender. Mongolians are hospitable and I have no doubt I’ll be greeted by gestures to step inside. Instead I glimpse Matthieu, sitting in a sumptuously decorated yurt with his mates, bottles of wine open on the table, a Mongolian singer performing for their private pleasure. He looks up, sees me, just as James does. After our shared work day in UB, I feel I know James, or if not “know” then at least am acquainted insofar as he sometimes nods when he sees me. Though I’ve also noticed that sometimes he sees me and does not nod. I’ve forgiven the latter episodes, attributing it not to snobbery, but to him being distracted by his own car problems. Though since he has his own mechanic, I can’t imagine he’d have any.
“Now’s my opportunity,”I think.“James is clearly a generous, thoughtful person, since he’s the one who made the gift of champagne to the whole Rally.” I expect him to wave me in. In that same second, James flicks the back of his hand at me. There’s no mistaking the gesture. He’s shooing me away. Matthieu doesn’t move. I have been summarily dismissed.
I find myself yearning not to care, to relish instead the pleasure of horseback riding, of being on this endeavor with Bernard, of having made it this far. Yet there’s no denying that people I hoped to befriend have signaled they do not want me in their clique. It hurt when I was thirteen, and it hurts now. Walking toward the dining yurt, I no longer am able to review my day with the same pleasure of a few minutes back. This slap to my sense of belonging stings as smartly as the ice cold shower that afternoon, though at least the shower left me feeling a little bit cleaner.
When I open the heavy door to the dining hall I’m hit by rollicking shouts. It’s a wall of noise and bodies inside, as hot and dimly lit as a sauna. Everyone’s pressed together, open bottles of champagne passing from hand to hand, people drinking straight from the bottles. It’s a veritable bacchanal. I grab a bottle by the neck, spy my own clique at an already fully occupied table, see Gustav and Laure talking standing with another couple, though Laure still doesn’t seem to be participating. I weave my way through the crowd to Bernard. “Look,” I tell him, handing him the bottle. “I got us some of our beef jerky for dinner.” We each take a swig of Moet. “Robert and Maddy are over there,” I shout, pointing into the teaming crowd. “Their table’s already crammed. Let’s find our own place to sit.” Grabbing some empty chairs before someone else takes them, I pull the jerky bag out and fling it onto the table. “Help yourselves,” I shout to the others at our table. No one moves. The jerky is one of the best decisions I made before the Rally. Not only is it organic beef, I’ve chosen a peppery, soy, sugary version that satisfies every one of my food cravings. To the uninitiated, jerky looks as appetizing as boot leather. “It may not look good, but it’s delicious.” They each take a tiny piece to be polite and soon all our hands are delving into the sack, tangy jerky washed down by mouthfuls of drily refreshing champagne.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice three tall Mongolian women striding through the crowd. They’re dressed in claret silk dels, the traditional, loose-fitting Mongolian tunic buttoned on the right shoulder, the neck a high-fitted collar, the fabric falling in folds to the calf. Each wears a red silk and velvet ceremonial skull cap, perched low over her glossy long black hair. On their feet are leather boots with pointed upturned toes, richly decorated with bold-colored appliqués and embroidery. They’re heading for a small raised platform and to make it through they hold their instruments above the crowd. The evening’s entertainment has arrived.