Into the Wilderness

Three and a half weeks into a drive from London to Mongolia in a Fiat Panda, and my team of four were greasy, moody, and smelly.

Driving across the border from Russia to Mongolia was pure elation, especially when we were met with not another dirt track, but an actual concrete road, allowing us to hit the mind-blowing speed of 50mph. Excellent, we thought, we'd reach the capital in no time. However, amidst congratulatory pats on the back and discussions over what food we'd eat when no longer confined to cold baked beans, the road ended and we went back to muttering under our breath.

It was only because of this that we ended up heading into the wildness of Outer Mongolia. The vast, green space was beautiful in an eerie way, for there was no human life to be seen for miles - only horses. Eventually we came across a white ger. It looked like a large, very well put together tent, with a bright blue cloth attached to the top, waving about in the wind. We stopped the car and jumped out, stretching out our legs and - in my case anyway - trying to hide the sweat patches. We hovered for a moment - what was the etiquette here? Did we just knock on the tent flap?

We were saved from this decision by a man on a horse, riding up to us with a frown, dark eyes staring out of a tanned face. 'Hello!' we chorused, fixing on bright smiles. 'So sorry to bother you, but we appear to be a little lost,' we said, the panic not overriding our British sensibilities. The man continued to stare at us - three girls and an abnormally short boy - next to our red car decorated with a disco ball.

'Ulan Bator?' I hedged. He pointed out at the emptiness in front of us. The four of us stood with hands on hips, staring in the direction he indicated. No road, just lots of green hills. We turned back to the man with questioning (or pleading) looks, and his eyes lit up. He jumped off the horse, leaving it where it stood, and ran into his ger. Excellent! He was going to get a map. But no. He emerged not with a map but what could only be a cow's skull, looking triumphant. With much back and forth, he managed to convey that it was for luck.

So on we drove, over the hills and toward the city, with absolutely no idea how to get there. We did eventually make it - perhaps the cow skull really was lucky. But if anything, it taught me that getting lost isn't always a bad thing - we would never have seen that side of the country, or met a true nomad, if it wasn't for heading off the beaten track.