Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  As his laughter began to slowly die off, the car began complaining far louder than the usual clunking and banging noises it had a habit of making. The shock absorber had come off, and our ride was even bumpier and slower from then on, something I could hardly believe was possible.

  “Jesus, I sorry! I think Jesus not like that I joking. Forget last night’s joke. Just forget,” he begged. But how could we forget that one? He’d told it at least half a dozen times. Despite the newest dilemma, I smiled as I remembered it. “‘What is that big white thing in the sky,’ they asking Ammon. He saying, ‘I don’t know, I not from here.’ But everybody knowing it is the moon.”

  On our way to the capital, we needed diesel urgently and finally drove past a very small town. Our relief turned into consternation when we found that the whole town was deserted, including the gas station where we’d hoped to fuel up.

  “I’m so hungry! Are we ever going to stop for food?” I asked as we approached.

  “Not if you want to make it to Ulaanbaatar tonight. It’s still 360km (224mi) away! That’s pushing it as it is. Here’s another biscuit. Eat that,” Ammon replied as he threw one back at me. Bree and I instinctively parted like the Red Sea to dodge the edible bullet. As a final farewell, the granny where we’d stayed while the car was being fixed had given us a woollen bag full of flour biscuits for our journey. We were extremely moved by her generous offer, a feeling we’d experienced often over the past few weeks, but despite our gratitude, they were still the same hard, tasteless biscuits that Bree and I, in particular, had a hard time choking down.

  “We’ve been chewing on those all day,” she muttered.

  “But after a while you kind of get used to them. They’re just like water. They don’t taste like anything. You just eat them because you know you need to,” Mom said.

  “You should be happy you’re not eating mutton,” Ammon reminded us.

  “I am glad, but either way, I’m still eating wool,” I complained as I pulled another long, dark hair from the cracks.

  Under protest, we both managed to choke down a biscuit before we finally found a rare passer-by who we could stop to ask where everybody was. Apparently, the entire population had gathered on the outskirts of town for their own local Nadaam Festival celebrations. He waved for us to follow him; he was headed to the same place.

  “Crap! Now we really won’t have time to stop and eat if we’ve got to go find this guy.” My complaint was completely ignored in light of our obviously more pressing need for fuel, but I didn’t push it. I was learning, even if I couldn’t always keep quiet about it.

  It took a while to find the owner. We received various answers when we asked the spectators in the crowd if they knew who and where he was.

  “Yah, my neighbour has a car. He will know!” one had told Future, sounding proud of his neighbour’s success and pointing across the large sea of heads. “He’s over there.” We chased down a number of such vague leads but eventually, by following a series of pointing hands and pushing through the throng of onlookers, we “found Waldo” and took him back with us to get refuelled. Unfortunately, we also noticed that the new patch job had been leaking oil. Judging by the visible puddle forming underneath the van, it had been dripping for quite a while. After purchasing what we hoped would be enough oil and diesel to make it back to Ulaanbaatar, Future leapt back into the driver’s seat and exclaimed, “Okay, we are go!”

  As if we didn’t have enough problems, Future then slowly turned around holding only half a key. He looked surprised, but not the least bit angry.

  “Where is the other half?” I asked carefully.

  “Is broking in ignition.” He’d bent it the night before locking the trunk, and now it had broken right off. “But is okay, I have spare,” he quickly continued.

  “Oh good! Phew! Where?”

  “At home.” When I laughed at what I thought must be another funny joke, Future did too, but then when I asked where the spare key really was, he began describing the drawer where he kept it in his house. I couldn’t believe my ears! After all the car problems we dealt with, this is what is going to bring us down? As luck would have it, though, there was still a piece of the key sticking out of the ignition. Future’s calm demeanour and naturally positive attitude kicked in again, and he somehow used the hole in the upper half of the broken key like a wrench to turn the part that was still sticking out of the ignition, and it worked. The engine actually turned over!

  It was a good thing Future was able to rig up that key contraption, given all the repairs we were forced to make thereafter. We stopped to jiggle the battery back into place, refill the oil, and investigate weird noises coming from the tire. We even had to rip out the shredded engine-fan-housing that was blocking airflow and causing the engine to overheat. We were determined not to allow these minor issues to keep us from reaching our target, but it was hard. We waited on pins and needles to see what the next disaster might be.

  Future kept the mood so light that it was hard to remain negative, though. At one point, he laughingly proclaimed, “I retire from tour guide AND mechanic.” We were amazed that, as the owner of a van now literally falling apart in more ways than we could count, Future was still, by far, the most happy-go-lucky member of the group.

  It was completely dark when we finally reached the tarmac road on the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar, only to have the van break down one last time. Yes, yes, yes – NOOO! And we were so close! The brakes had seized, but Future refused to give up. He stepped on the gas hard and the poor car struggled to move a few feet until the brake pads started burning and smoking. After a few more tries, the discs were worn down to metal on metal and were glowing red hot.

  “Umm, he’s about to blow up the whole car if he keeps doing that!” Ammon’s voice reflected a sense of urgency. I didn’t need to lean out the window to see the glow from the brakes on the dark landscape.

  Future finally admitted defeat. We pulled over to the side of the road and perched desperately around his cell phone, watching the weak reception signal fade as he made an SOS call to Baagii. It was past midnight by the time Baagii came to the rescue with a vehicle and food – real food. Having not eaten anything but the infamous biscuits, we were starved. I shovelled scoop after scoop of the tasty and, most importantly, non-mutton-based meal into me and revelled in the last lingering remnants of its warmth.

  While the men transferred the backpacks from Future’s vehicle to Baagii’s, it was somehow decided that Future would stay behind with his van and we would go on to the hostel without him. Even though I felt a mixture of guilt and relief at hearing about this arrangement, I dozed off a bit as I experienced the deep and calming satisfaction of a full belly. Everyone in this kind of culture has to rely on one another. In such harsh conditions and scenarios, it is likely that their experiences and lifestyle make them all the more appreciative of their fellow man. I’d seen how quickly people who value family and help strangers became friends in this culture. I thought of the grandparents who had nothing but shared their biscuits with us anyway, all the families who welcomed us into their homes, Khongorzul helping at the border, and the many others who’d helped along the way, none of them expecting anything in return. I couldn’t forget their bountiful generosity despite their limited means. These were the most hospitable strangers I’d ever met. In all fairness I don’t think there is a word for ‘stranger’ in Mongolia. The closest translation would probably be, “friends that haven’t met.” After all, isn’t that what a stranger should be? I was beginning to wish I, too, lived in a culture where that’s what being a stranger meant. I looked out the rear window as we departed and saw Future standing in his headlights waving. He was truly a selfless warrior.

  We were completely fried by the time we arrived at the hostel, but it sure felt good to be in a familiar place. Bree and I were forced to share a bed because only three were available in the twenty-bed dorm. I was so tired that all I needed was to be laid out horizontally somewhere – anywhere –
to sleep peacefully. It was hard to locate an empty bed without turning the lights on, and I had no desire to feel my way into an occupied one. Once again, though, Bree saved the day.

  “Over here!” she whisper-shouted to me. She’d found a free bunk. We could sleep in the top bed, and there was one for Mom below. Ammon was fending for himself in the darkness.

  For a couple of minutes, I could hear Mom shuffling about below. I could feel Bree’s rhythmic heartbeat and knew from her deep, even breathing that she was already in dreamland. I was not far behind. My heavy eyes closed and I was gone before my head even hit the pillow.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Three days later, Future and Baagii arrived for the final time to drive us to the train station. To our amazement, this time they pulled up outside the hostel in the van we thought we’d murdered in the desert.

  “Future, you did it again! I don’t know how you pulled it off!” Ammon inspected the refurbished van to see if it really was the same vehicle we had driven through the desert.

  Tickets in hand and bags fully packed and ready, we stood on the platform saying our final goodbyes. Bree and Baagii were off to the side undergoing an emotional, somewhat painful, parting.

  Future stood before Ammon and said, “I want you have,” as he twisted his silver, horse-head ring off his middle finger and placed it in his palm.

  “Oh wow, that’s beautiful Future, but I don’t know if I---”

  “No, you take. Is for you, my Ammon. You know, you really looking like Jesus. Please take care of girls.” Turning to Mom he said, “Good Mama. You good,” and gave her a hug. Finally it was my turn, “Little Savannah, when you are grow up, you getting pretty girl, ’cause I naming you Pretty Savannah.”

  “Thank you, Future.” I gave him a big hug, too. “You are a good guide, but an even better friend.”

  “Bree, you nice girl. Funny girl,” and he stole her from Baagii for a hug.

  “C’mon Bree. It’s time,” Mom reminded her gently. Bree was barely able to hold back her tears and needed a few more moments.

  “Good luck on your trip! And have fun in Russia,” Baagii called as he waved. “Come back to Mongolia any time. We’ll be here.”

  As I was climbing onto the train after Ammon, Future called out my name. I reached back to him and he took my hand and squeezed it tightly in a final farewell. I didn’t need to open my hand to know what was there. I could never mistake the shape and feel of those hard, round biscuits. I grinned as Bree and I lingered a few moments longer at the door. We were sad to be leaving, but the whistle blew and we had to find our seats. I staggered as the wheels started to turn and the train jerked slightly, but Bree was there to steady me, as always. I used this excuse to wrap my arm around her, hoping to comfort her at least a bit.

  From the window, I saw Future give Baagii a soothing pat on the back as they turned to leave. Sook, sook, sook, I thought with a smile. The platform slipped away and I wondered if I would ever see either of them again. We’d made some good friends, and the time for the painful inevitability of farewells had already come and gone, but I knew there would be plenty more hellos ready to welcome us wherever we went.

  Ammon and Mom were already settled into the four-seat cubicle which would be home for the next thirty-six hours. I found I didn’t mind too much. It was a perfect chance to get reacquainted with my dear, sweet Rhett, but then Ammon pulled the deck of cards from his daypack and began shuffling, his new ring reflecting the sunlight.

  With an exaggerated shiver, he plainly stated, “Given what happened the last time I was there, I am NOT looking forward to going back to Russia.”

  Secretly, I was!

  The story continues in the sequel,

  Sihpromatum 2

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  Preview of Sihpromatum 2

  Chapter 1

  A sudden nudge in my side jolted me awake and a rough, accented voice shouted, “Passport! Passport!” As I rolled over I froze in the glare of two cold, deep set Russian eyes. In such a state I was trying to decide if I was more shocked by the rude awakening or his blond hair and white skin. That’s not Mongolian! I quickly determined thinking of the two friends, Future and Baagii we’d just left behind in Mongolia’s capital, Ulaan Bataar.

  The train border guard seemed rather young with his flawless features. He had my knees shaking, but in a completely opposite way than I’d have expected of the blue eyed beauty. Perhaps it was the machine gun strapped over his shoulder. Laying across his chest the barrel pointed down at me uncomfortably close making me go slightly cross-eyed. I actually would have found him quite handsome, had he not initially terrified me.

  He didn’t give me a chance to respond before again insisting, “Passport, passport”, his hand outstretched.

  The second of the two military officials was rousting the others, flinging his arms at them enforcing a sense of urgency.

  Mom and my two siblings, Ammon and Bree, began digging in their daypacks, as he glared at them with disdain. I was grateful when Ammon, my eldest brother and our self-designated leader, reached out a hand to deliver his passport to the one towering over me. This released some of the tension from the situation and bought me a second of time; Time which they apparently did not have.

  I fumbled with my daypack which was protectively strapped around my ankle to find my own documents. I hoped I didn’t do anything wrong and warrant being yelled at again so early in the morning.

  As he flipped through the pages to find my visa, I cautiously glanced at the soldiers’ high leather boots and camouflage uniforms, amazed by this scene. I subconsciously nodded in agreement with myself as I recalled what I’d written in my journal the night before, “New adventures come with each new country.”

  My heart pounded as they scowled down at each of our visas. Oh please, oh please, work. Our Russian visas were one of only two we`d gotten in Canada before taking off on our intended yearlong backpacking trip. I knew they were 100% legit but these guys could have scared me into believing my name wasn`t Savannah.

  With confirming looks from passport to person, to my great relief, after a few grunts and a quick stamp, they were gone.

  “Wow, Russians! They look like right out of a movie,” Bree, my older sister and dreamer in the family, announced. “Cool!” She was leaning over the bunk bed above me, remnants of sleep creasing her face, yet her demeanor was alert and bubbly.

  I cringed a little, hoping the guards hadn’t heard her upbeat tone, which from first impressions, must be illegal here and I was sure she'd be reprimanded.

  “Welcome to Russia,” Ammon said, slipping his passport back into the money belt tied around his skinny waist.

  “That was awesome! They looked just like Drago from Rocky 4,” Bree continued as she jumped down from her bed to join us on the lower bunks. Her long, brown hair was full of static that reached like branches for the bunk above.

  “Dork! He isn’t Russian. Dolph Lungren is Swedish,” Ammon countered.

  “In the movie he is and they are here too, so there.”

  “Way to stereo type.”

  “In the movie he’s Russian,” Bree repeated, certain she was making a legitimate argument. At 18, three years my senior, Bree was often mistaken as the younger sister.

  Ammon slapped his forehead and shook his head, exasperated by her “movie script” take of the world. At twenty-five he already had quite a receding hair line, which this gesture surely had more than a little to do with it.

  “I can't believe that I am actually here in Russia,” Mom said, distracting them. “As a kid this was unheard of. After all, it was behind the Iron Curtain!”

  Wow, the biggest country in the whole world. It wasn’t as if I’d magically stepped from a TV screen into an Imax theatre but I still felt so small.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “They are still searching the train,” I said in disbelief several hours later.

  “Here they
come. Inspector Gadget!” Bree was busy singing the theme song. Directly above us we heard the “clunk, clunk, clunk” from armed soldiers tromping on the roof, metal buckling under their weight.

  Every so often they’d start shouting down to each other in the rough, foreign language. Russian had a completely different sound and tone to it than Mongolian. Though I'd heard Mongolian described as “cats in a fight” from more than one source, I was actually starting to get used to hearing it.

  From our window we could see them checking underneath the carriage on hands and knees. They were vigorously searching every nook and cranny; the roof, steel wheels, rafters, everywhere. I had no idea what they were expecting to find or if this was the usual protocol.

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