Mongolia: Driving Under The Influence Of Gobi Dust (cont.)

Enkhe, sensing that we are getting close to the Chinese border (where he will drop us and head back to Ulaan Baatar), tells us, “Just over this next pass, and we’ll see Las Vegas!” A couple minutes later he quips, “Chicago is just south of here! I think I can see the McDonald's now!”  He has never been to the United States, just seen our television shows and movies. We join in on the game and are cracking ourselves up in no time.

Too much Gobi dust, maybe.
   
The thumping of a tire interrupts our games. It appears as if this will be our fourth flat tire of the trip. It happens just as we pass by a sign indicating that the next ger is also a rest stop and restaurant of sorts. We rumble to a stop, and Enkhe kills the engine.  Enkhe flashes a gleeful smile that requires no explanation.
   
Yes, the smile says, we have another flat tire. But as usual I am prepared and will fix it in no time.
   
We have complete confidence in you Enkhe, we smile back. You are our hero. We would take you everywhere with us if we could.
   
And with that we dismount to find the back right tire flat.

Before we tackle our tire problem, we head inside the ger for some milk-tea. There is a middle-aged man who offers to help Enkhe with the tire. Alexis has not seen the sign, and it takes me close to half an hour to convince her that this is an actual restaurant.

After a few bowls of tea Enkhe tells the man that I have been studying morin khuur. They ask me to perform; so I tune up and play a few melodies as the family crowds around. Enkhe mends the tire and after hearty thanks from both sides—for the tea, the help with the tire, the music; we head on our way.

Our dirt road converges with a major road that follows power lines.  We can tell that the border is close by.  A few miles down we stop to help a broken down truck. The driver tells us that they have run out of gas and that his two friends are walking to Zamiin Uud, the nearest town. He wants us to give them a ride. We oblige.

Zamiin Uud appears after a few minutes, and it looks like all the other towns I've seen—dusty, dilapidated, and teeming with life. Our friends hop out at the first gas station, and we head on towards the border. Enkhe gives me the name and number of his friend, Baatar, who owns a hotel on the other side and will give us a good price.
   
We stop briefly to change money, and inside Enkhe finds a young woman who is driving through customs with her grandmother and will take us for $4 a head. Everything is happening too fast for me. We transfer our bags quickly and pause for a few pictures with Enkhe.
   
“Call me when you come back to Mongolia,” he says.
  
“I will. Maybe next year, maybe the year after. Will you still be here?”
   
He laughs. “Of course. Where would I go?”

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