Mongolia > Refused entry at the restaurant

Up early, because a long day lies ahead—or rather, we’re not exactly sure how the road will be, and whether it will be a long or shorter travel day. Just after seven, we’re packed and ready to leave Choibalsan. After a few kilometers on asphalt, we get back onto the dirt road. Driving on sandy tracks is becoming easier for us. The wider the central grass strip between the tire tracks, the better the road. Otherwise, cars see no reason to leave the tracks. Where new tracks begin, there are usually ruts. When it rains, cars in new tracks try to avoid the puddles. The new tracks often drive well but can also have unexpected holes. The dark patches are usually depressions where water has pooled the longest. We agreed to stop regularly to wait for each other. After about an hour of driving, we stop but see no motorcyclists—not even after waiting another hour.

Mongolia - What seemed like a beach was heavy clay Brutus was stuck up to the axles

We decide to turn back. When we’re almost back at the point where we last saw each other, we can only conclude that they weren’t there. They must have passed us via another track. On the map, we see an alternative route they might have taken. We turn again and head north once more. This, however, has cost a lot of time. The dirt road passes through a relatively monotonous landscape. Grassland stretches to both sides. There are hardly any hills, and no trees at all. Occasionally, a ger or a herd of cows appears in the landscape. On our left, we drive alongside the railway—the line to Russia. As long as we follow it, we’ll eventually reach Ereentsay, the border town on the Mongolian side. Further along the route, all tracks converge again. We see fresh tire imprints in the sand from two motorcycles. The riders are definitely ahead of us—a relief. At Hoh Nuur Lake lies Mongolia’s lowest point, still over 500 meters above sea level. We drive across the grassland toward the lake shore. We try to reach a beach but sink into the clay up to the axles. Whatever we try, we only dig ourselves in deeper. What now? There’s nothing else around. We have no choice but to unload all the luggage and dig the clay away from the wheels. A father and his son ride by on horseback. They laugh at our situation and gesture that we should have driven around this marshy section. A man on a moped arrives as well, and together we try to free the car. One of the men fetches some wood from the ger to place under the wheels. With this, we finally get the car free. They even help carry the luggage back to the vehicle.

Mongolia - Thanks to the help of some yurt residents we got the car free again

We thank them warmly. Because of all the delays, we only reach Ereentsay around five o’clock—a nondescript border town. The motorcyclists are already at the border. Maybe we can still cross today. To do that, we need to be at the Russian border before six. Leaving Mongolia shouldn’t be too difficult, yet there’s a problem with the visas. The visa numbers don’t appear in the computer. They also point to the “entry before 20 July” date. We explain that this is for entering Mongolia, after which the visa is valid for 30 days. It doesn’t seem to make sense to them, but eventually, they stamp the visas. The Russian border is friendly, and we’re given the necessary forms to fill out. All registrations take a long time. The car declaration, in particular, seems endless. The engine capacity is entered incorrectly, the model isn’t listed, and where the engine number should be is the chassis number, and vice versa. The form, in duplicate, has to be filled out again. This is still faster than the computer registration. Meanwhile, the car is inspected outside. Luggage stands next to the vehicle. Tent, open! Showing a photo doesn’t help this time, but ultimately the tent doesn’t need to be opened—probably because the rain is just starting. At quarter to eight in the evening, we enter Russia. Unfortunately, the road is also unpaved here. Combined with the rain, it’s not pleasant. After about twenty kilometers, we reach a section of asphalt—or what must have been asphalt at some point. We carefully avoid the potholes. Due to the undulating pattern, the car occasionally falls into a rhythm. We reduce speed. In Borzya, eighty kilometers past the border, we stop at a small hotel. Upon entering the restaurant, we’re initially refused—no shorts allowed! We’re offered a back room, but we don’t want that. We quickly put on long pants. The waiter helps with the menu. Everything is in Russian. We tell him what we want to eat, and he points to it on the menu—a perfectly workable solution.