Aja

Steely Dan - "Aja"

Released September 23, 1977

Personnel:

Donald Fagen - lead vocals, keyboards

Walter Becker -  bass guitar, lead guitars (various tracks)

Session musicians (not all listed):

Larry Carlton - guitar

Chuck Rainey - bass guitar

Steve Gadd - drums

Bernard Purdie - drums

Rick Marotta - drums

Wayne Shorter - tenor saxophone

Strolling down musical memory lane, the above-referenced album is another on my list of sentimental all-time favorites. "Aja" is yet another example of an album that is like a fine wine. It keeps getting better with age. Steely Dan reached their peak with this album, assembling a wealth of musical talent to fulfill the template Donald Fagen and Walter Becker set before them. From all accounts, this was a painstaking effort by all involved. 

As previously described with my reflections of Elton John's "Rock of the Westies", this album is one in which I shared a real bond with my dad. While Steely Dan had been around for a few years before, and produced some great rock songs ("Reelin' in the Years", for one), this album was the one that captured my dad's attention. Prior to this album, Steely Dan was probably more well-known as a rock outfit, though their albums always suggested they were much more than just that. When the first single, "Deacon Blues", emerged on the radio in late 1977, my dad at this point had divorced my mom and married another woman. He was no longer living in my house. Unlike Elton John's album, this was not one that was brought home and I got to listen vicariously through him. 

I do, however, have distinct memories of dad picking my siblings and I up every second Friday for our weekend visitation with him. It was roughly a 45 minute drive between towns, and he always had the radio on during those trips. Sitting in the backseat, staring at the winter darkness out the window, I often got lost in the music. Part of that soundtrack was the lead single from "Aja", "Deacon Blues". I recall dad being very taken by this song. I listened intently to the music, and it had become synonymous with those trips along the desolate backroads. The song had a melancholic feel to it, though I didn't fully understand what it was about. I could tell whenever it came on that my dad felt both the music and lyrics deeply. 

Through 1978, "Deacon Blues" was still in heavy rotation on our most popular AM radio station. The song permeated my environment, from those drives with my dad through to memories of trips around my hometown to summer Little League games. The music of Steely Dan, and particularly of this song, had become an intrinsic part of my childhood memories at that time. So many years later, this is one of those pieces of music that magically transports to me to a distinct time and place, and conjures up so many details of these times and places in my mind's eye. 

I can see the inside of dad's Volkswagen Beetle, and even remember how it smelled like a new car. I can see dad reaching over into his glove compartment for his green Chiclets, which he chewed like no tomorrow (he had recently quit smoking his pipe, and he was under a lot of stress). I can even smell the Chiclets on his breath as I think back now on it! I can also remember feeling a sense of foreboding as we got closer to dad's town and home. There was an air of trepidation, knowing that his wife was going to get drunk that night and there would be yelling and screaming through the night, and even plates being thrown around from time to time.  

Hearing this song, I can see my avocado green baseball uniform that I was so proud of wearing, and the parks in my hometown that I played at. I can see my best friend's house, where I spent so much of my free time that summer riding my bike to, and hanging out with him. I see the main park along the bay and waterfront of my hometown, where every summer the excitement of the international speedboat competition drew everyone from around and beyond to watch. I see the local shopping plaza, my church, and my school. All within the same central intersection of the "downtown" area. I see my front and backyard, where I spent all summer playing hide and seek or just out enjoying the summer sun. I get this wave of nostalgia, good and bad, from hearing this one song off Steely Dan's "Aja".

 Later in life, the album would come back to my radar. In my mid-twenties, after striking out and failing on my own, I found myself at a fork in the road. My dad had finally gotten through to me to leave where I was and come and stay under his roof. By this time, dad was in his 50's. Still married to the alcoholic, but at this point they had resigned themselves somewhat to their fate of being stuck together. At first, my step-mother welcomed me to her home. Dad resolved to whip me into shape at that time (mentally, not physically), by instilling me with some much-needed self-discipline. Dad, being an administrator of a school board, was a far more organized and disciplined man than I was (or ever will be). I had been on my own for better or worse at that point for at least 5 years. I had run into all kinds of problems with school and money, and finally dad was ready to step up and take me on. 

So, at the age of 25, I found myself living under my dad and step-mom's roof. While I had visited there on weekends throughout my youth, it was never my home. Her son, my step-brother of the same age, had moved out at that point. It was just the three of us. As mentioned, it started off really well. Much to my chagrin, my dad strong-armed me into going back to my school through the Adult Continuing Education program run by his school board. I had selected an architectural drafting course, for the lack of anything else interesting from their brochure. My dad also told me that he had lined up a job interview for me through one of his former students who worked at a local drugstore. All this was overwhelming to me at first, but I really had no choice but to comply. 

I went off to school every morning with my dad, who worked right around the corner. Through dad's connections with the high school, he got me an old drafting table that we brought home and put up in my room to work on assignments. Dad slept in his own bedroom across the hall from me, and at night after the step-mother had had her fill, we sat and watched tv together. Two or 3 nights a week and on weekends, I went to work in the drugstore, where I was miserable (but stuck it out). After about a month or two of this routine, I started to feel better about myself. I was more productive, and I had a goal to finish my year-long course. Dad of course was pushing me to think beyond the completion of my course and to start strategizing long-term. While this arrangement was suitable for the short-term, he made it fairly clear that I wouldn't be staying there the rest of my life. I wasn't particularly planning on that either. 

During this time, dad and I found a path in which we bonded over common interests. Our strongest bond was our love and appreciation of music. Dad had his portable CD player, and on nice days where we had some time off (mainly Saturdays or Sundays), we made our way to the front porch with the stereo and our cold beers. Dad and I had matching sombreros, and we looked like complete rednecks to cars passing along his quiet street. These were such terrific moments, looking back, as we both enjoyed our beer and music immensely. We listened to everything from The Beatles to Hank Williams. The step-mother was tolerant of this to a point, as long as the meat eventually made its way on to the bbq and she had a sufficient supply of wine. She joined us later on in the afternoon out on the porch, after which the music had to be turned down. 

Inevitably, dad would pop in his "Aja" CD and we would both become very reflective of the music we were listening to. This was when I truly became exposed to the whole album, though by this point I was familiar enough with a lot of it. We listened intently to the sounds and notes, the arrangements, the intricate guitar solos, and amazing percussion featured throughout. Truly, I had come to realize just how special and great this album was. Dad had always known just how good it was, but now he was sharing that with me. These are moments frozen in time when I go back and listen to it now. 

As I wrapped up my course and received a diploma, dad was on the verge of retiring. During this remarkable period in both of our lives, I had finally found the resolve to go after my dream that I never believed possible - to live and teach English overseas. With this goal firmly established, dad encouraged me in every way possible to go out and achieve this goal. That meant moving back to Toronto and obtaining a TEFL Certificate. That represents a whole other chapter in my life, which I may or may not delve into at a later time. To make a long story short, I did that and carved out my path toward ending up in Mongolia for two years. At any rate, after roughly a year and a half under dad's roof I was ready to set forth. Dad at this point was my strongest support in terms of giving me the boost in confidence to go out and get what I wanted. He had recently retired, and I saw firsthand how hard he worked to reach his ultimate position of Director of Education for his school board. I saw his colleagues past and present praising him for his dedication to his work, and for many times having the courage to make unpopular decisions for the betterment of the students under his charge. 

Once dad retired, he immediately enrolled in a course through the very same continuing education program I had just finished. He chose to expand his skills in carpentry, and once he finished that course, he built a workshop in his backyard to make wood crafts, mainly items of furniture. He made it very clear that he was not looking at this as a hobby, but more as a second career. He went out and bought the tools he needed, and honed his skills to become a local artisan, selling his wares at various area craft fairs and flea markets. It was inspiring watching him transform himself. I was preparing to ship off to Mongolia for two years, and dad was becoming a carpenter. After moving out of his house, I remember one of my last visits before going abroad where dad had the cement truck pulling into his backyard to pour the foundation for his workshop. It was incredibly satisfying, as we clinked beer bottles to our exciting respective futures. 

Several months later, I found myself in a dusty frontier border town at the northern end of Mongolia. It was an incredible mix of feeling both isolated (as the only foreigner residing there at the time) and invigorated. I was working as an English teacher for a local business development agency, which also served as the town's cable tv provider. My classroom actually had a wall of tv's that were on constantly through my lessons. The young fellows who served as technicians would often walk through my class to check on them and fiddle around with settings while I was teaching. There was a real feeling that I was in Mayberry or some such place at times. 

One day, though, when I was particularly down and overwhelmed by it all, my Mongolian counterpart presented me with a box that had arrived in the mail. The postmark indicated it had taken at least a month (much more than that, I am sure) to get to me. I immediately recognized the writing as dad's, and I couldn't wait to bring it home and open it. Once I did, I was almost in tears with joy. Dad had sent me a copy of Steely Dan's "Aja" CD, along with some Stevie Ray Vaughan and other assorted music. There was also a jar of Kraft Chunky peanut butter and some Pop Tarts, which didn't last through the day. On top of it all, was an incredible 12 or 13 page handwritten letter (both sides) that dad had composed. He told me in amazing detail of his trials and tribulations with his carpentry business, and descriptions of various people he met at flea markets and such. 

I can't begin to describe the joy this package and letter brought, and just how significant a role that Steely Dan CD would play in my life at that point. I listened to it every night and it accompanied me through all the good and not-so-good experiences of living in that small remote town. Once again, "Aja" had become part of my soundtrack. Every note, every word, every nuance of those songs had become etched in my memory. Especially the title track. This is a song that immediately transports me literally across the world to a tiny bachelor flat, where I sat over tins of beer pouring my thoughts and reflections into a journal I had been keeping. Dad had provided me with the incredible gift of music, particularly music that I was connected deeply with him over. Listening to "Aja" not only brings back memories of my time with him both as a young boy and in my early twenties, but also of those quiet moments I managed to have in my own space, away from the stares and curiosity of the town. I don't know if I ever found the words, as I seem to be finding now, to properly thank dad for this gift that keeps on giving. 

ROCK OF THE WESTIES AND OTHER ASSORTED MUSICAL TREASURES

"Rock of the Westies", Elton John

Released October, 1975

Featuring hit single, "Island Girl"

Notes:

Long-time bassist Dee Murray and drummer Nigel Olson were fired from the band prior to recording the album. They were replaced by drummer Roger Pope and bassist Kenny Passarelli. 

Elton John in the early to mid-1970's was an incredibly versatile and successful musician. Each passing album produced incredible hits and featured perfectly-written songs (through his writing partnership with Bernie Taupin). As a child during that era, I remember the airwaves being dominated by Elton John and Paul McCartney and Wings, mainly. My dad was in his early to mid-thirties throughout Elton John's run at the top of the charts in those years.

 Dad was deeply into music in those years, and I remember peeking at him him down in his workshop below the stairs, while puttering around at his little workshop, listening to his tape collection on his prized portable tape deck. We also had a stereo upstairs in the living room, where he occasionally blasted his vinyl records (much to the chagrin of my mother). One day he came home from whatever errands he was running with a new record to show for his day out - Elton John's "Rock of the Westies". 

He immediately put the record on the turntable, and he was suddenly transformed and transfixed. Witnessing this display of musical rapture he was experiencing, immediately affected me. I too, at the age of seven, was suddenly thrust into this swirl of rock and pop music permeating my house. I saw my dad standing in front of the stereo, tapping his foot and occasionally playing some air guitar. The beats and melodies coming out of the speakers were infectious. The album in question is the afore-mentioned "Rock of the Westies". Little did I know at the time just how much this album would come back to affect me at several points in my life, and how much it played a role in the bond I would come to share with my dad over music. 

Looking at the album cover, my dad somewhat resembled Elton John during that era. Over the summer of 1975, he had grown his hair longer and he cultivated a beard. He wore a funky summer hat and started wearing jeans and t-shirts. He had eschewed the trappings of his clean-cut professional image, and became somewhat of a hippy / beatnik. Again, this was much to the chagrin of his wife, my mother. She did not understand what he was going through, nor did my siblings and I. However, to me, I thought my dad was pretty damned cool at that time. I idolized the man, yet feared him as well. He was a hulking figure, and was pretty much aloof and into his own pleasures and projects. Being a kid, and having a penchant for getting into trouble with my brother at times, all my dad had to do was raise his voice or change his tone and I was trembling with fear. My brother, on the other hand, just kept pushing his buttons. 

One of my dad's "simple" pleasures was music. He listened to it in a different way than most people did. He listened to the words and to the intricacies and nuances of the music. He was never a musician, however he was connected to music in other intrinsic ways. The "Rock of the Westies" album is one of those records he felt deeply connected to, as though the music was speaking to him. There are several tracks on the album that evoke memories of my dad at this stage in his life, but particularly "I Feel Like a Bullet (in the Gun of Robert Ford)", "Feed Me", "Dan Dare (Pilot of the Future)", and "Medley (Yell Help - Wednesday Night-Ugly)". It wasn't something dad necessarily shared with me, but I watched him in the living room tapping his feet and playing air guitar to the music, and I enjoyed watching him immensely. I grew to love this music he was playing too. 

Flash forward several years to my late twenties and early thirties, around the same age my dad was when the album came out. I was in that faraway land of Mongolia, living in a remote town. Most times I found myself isolated and alone in my little one-bedroom flat on a Friday night. It was during those times I felt most connected to my dad. I would often sneak out of my flat in the dark of the night (so as to avoid detection from curious townsfolk) and visit a roadside shop where I could buy some beer for the evening. I usually had enough in my pocket for about 6 cans, which I would triumphantly bring back to my apartment. 

I would have my portable CD / cassette player with  its accompanying cheap Chinese external speaker charged and ready to go, as well as my pen and journal laid out in front of me. Music at this point was a vital lifeline to me, and most of the music I had in my limited collection was gifted to me by dad. "Rock of the Westies" was one such album that was on heavy rotation on those nights, as I was basking in my beer buzz and solitude. As I wrote my deepest, and my most incoherent thoughts on those pages, I felt such a strong connection to my dad (despite being literally across the world from him). Dad and I also had a terrific correspondence via letters to one another. I would write tomes to him, describing my life as a conspicuous foreigner in a small northern Mongolian town, while dad would describe his life post-retirement as a wood crafter, selling his wares at various flea markets around the region. There was a true bond between us during these times, where after so many years of trying to figure one another out, we just clicked all of a sudden. 

The true gift of music, I have found, is that it can magically transport me back to these incredibly significant moments in my life. It was truly another lifetime ago, yet somehow when I listen to "Rock of the Westies", Steely Dan's "Aja", Dire Straits' "On Every Street", the Kinks, the Byrds, The Beatles' "White Album" and "Abbey Road", I am flooded with memories of my dad and how much he enjoyed these albums and artists, and many others too many to mention. I felt my dad was a true renaissance man - an intellectual, and at the same time someone who enjoyed crude humor and the simpler things in life. He reinvented himself upon retirement. Having spent so many years as an educator, he switched gears immediately and built a shop in his backyard to do his woodworking. He was incredibly talented at both. He was meticulous and disciplined. From his descriptive letters to me during my time abroad, I took great joy reading about his projects out in his shop. I could picture him out there, in his man cave, tapping his feet and playing air guitar to his music, just like he did when I watched him in the living room when I was a kid.    

A Year Ago Today - In Memoriam of My Father

 A year ago today, my father, Bruce Paterson, passed away at the age of 79. I miss him a great deal, but I know he is in a better place now.  Dad and I shared a lot in common, and particularly we bonded over music, beer, and a similar sense of humour (not necessarily in that order). I have a lot of fond memories whiling many a hot summer afternoon away out on his front porch, drinking cold beers and listening to some great rock music. We wore sombreros and looked like rednecks to all cars passing by, and we couldn't care less about it! Dad loved tapping his feet and playing air guitar to the sounds of The Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Clapton, The Beatles, and so on. I was a little more reserved with demonstrating my passion for the music, but watching Dad get into the groove was truly infectious and good for the soul.   Through that time, Dad and I were each other's best friends. He also pushed me to take a course and set goals for myself, and with his guidance I ended up embarking on a two-year adventure overseas to teach English. I had always dreamed of doing something like that, and he finally gave me the push I needed. 

Dad and I shared a truly incredible correspondence of long, epic letters to one another while I was in that faraway land, sharing details of our lives at that time. As I was cleaning out his apartment, I found my letters to him that he had filed away meticulously. I was choked up reading through them, and reliving the sense of love and comradery we had for one another. I was amazed by my father at that time in his life, as he had just retired after a 30 year career in education, and went back to school to learn woodworking. He became an artisan in his mid-fifties, building a workshop in his backyard and creating furniture and crafts to sell at local markets. It is astounding to me to think that I am now close to the age he was back then. Dad shared a lot of details about his daily life of working in his shop and making benches, rocking chairs, picture frames and such. He would load them all up in his van and head off to markets on the weekends hoping to land a few sales to augment his pension. Dad tended to look at it as a second career, as opposed to a hobby or leisurely activity, but that had a lot to do with the fact that he was often cash-strapped back in those days. 

I feel fortunate and grateful that I was there for Dad when he needed me the most, and that I was able to pay it forward in the end. I am also very grateful that his time was then and not now, with all that is going on with COVID. I believe it would have been very hard on my Dad not having regular contact with us, or other friends and family. I love you, Dad, and I miss you deeply. I will most definitely have a beer or two in your honour later. 

  

Time Warp Again

It's been a few years since I've visited this, my vanity project called "Pro-Lost or Pro-Found". I barely remember starting it, but I do remember it being spurred on by the impending finale of the program "Lost", which I was heavily into at the time. Themes of friendships, relationships failed, past regrets, atonement for past digressions, etc. all figured prominently into the plot lines. I really related to the show at the time. My overwhelming sense of nostalgia and sentimentality, often longing to recapture the free-spirited joy of my childhood was my overarching theme for this project. Coming back to this now, after so many years, I kind of feel I have let go of a large part of that longing or yearning to recapture the essence of my youth.

I have been back to Valleyfield twice in recent times. First as part of a trip with my son to see my dad. I brought him for a day trip to walk around and show him where I grew up. We also came and stayed in the only hotel in town during Thanksgiving Weekend. Again to visit my dad, but also to have a family trip. Both visits were pretty incredible, in terms of the overwhelming sense of nostalgia for seeing my house, my school, and other old landmarks so familiar to me. On our summer day trip, I brought my boy to Park Sauve, overlooking Baie St. Francois. It was like coming full circle, watching my boy play in the park where I once played and rode my bike as a child. I looked at him and thought how odd and random it was, the path I had taken to go from this small town to the point of travelling halfway across the world, then meeting my Mexican wife in Vancouver, and creating this incredible boy who has rapidly grown up before my eyes. 

I took my son to the house I grew up in, showing him the street and neighborhoods where I used to ride my bike or play hide and seek. The modest bungalow show below is the house I grew up in. I can still visualize what it looked like inside, and almost down to the fine details such as wallpaper design. I remember my dad doing things around the house, and having his little workshop tucked away in the basement. I remember him taking on the task of renovating the bathroom - it was a big job for one man. He also spent a lot of time in the back yard, tending to his garden, cutting the grass, and burning leaves in the autumn. I loved that smell, and like all good things, this is banned in most cities and towns now. Most of all, I am certain my dad puttered around and found projects to take on in order to avoid having to be around my mother, and probably us kids as much as possible. Being honest, I know my dad wasn't happy in his marriage. I believe he also wasn't content being a full-time father.

As a father, I am now reflective on the fact that I virtually grew up in a house without a father. I was eight years old when he left. I was almost the same age my son is now. In as much as my son drives me insane at the worst of times, I also cannot imagine not being a part of his life on a daily basis. I am incredibly proud of how he is turning out, and it is through the hard work and efforts of my wife and myself that he is so well-adjusted. He has a few issues, but what kid doesn't? It takes teamwork to raise children. My parents were never a team. I think there is a lot of blame to go around with both my parents, both having been equal parts selfish, self-indulgent, and self-serving. 

Despite all the pain caused by their splitting up, I still look back at my youth and hometown with great fondness. Perhaps it is because of that. I definitely believe I created some sort of whimsical fantasy land version of life in my mind, in order to avoid dealing with all the strife and chaos around me. We all have our coping mechanisms, and mine was to pretend there was never anything wrong. My bike was my vehicle for escape, and to explore strange new worlds beyond my normal everyday boundaries around home. Quite often I would hook up with my pals like Chris, but I was equally as happy going off on my own. Sometimes I even preferred it. I liked the silence, listening to the buzz of crickets and June Bugs, or hearing the sounds of a public address loudspeaker in the background. 

I am fast approaching my fiftieth birthday. I have a hard time reconciling my age with the notion that these memories still seem fresh to me. I wonder now if this "rose-colored glasses" version of Valleyfield is my sanctuary, where I retreat to when things get tough. Actually, I don't really wonder about that - I do often return to that corner of my mind. I can't help myself, nor do I really want to let go of that last strand of naivety and youthful exuberance. In a sense, I think I have a better grasp of it now, and it lies in the ability to not allow the nostalgia to overcome me. 

In the past year I have managed to track down my best friend Chris, and I look forward to the day when we can get together over a beer. We have been in touch, mostly through texts, trying to find an appropriate time to get together. Chris and I were inseparable as kids. I was devastated when he moved away at the end of grade 5. We had lost touch over those years, and suddenly found ourselves living in the same residence at York University ten years later! We were no longer kids, but it didn't take us long to become best pals again. Our language was a lot rawer, but he was the same old Chris I remembered. We were always hanging out together at university, but again, we lost touch since leaving there. Until catching up recently, we had not been in touch for over 25 years! I found out he has two kids around my boy's age. One girl and one boy. It would be fantastic to have our kids play together, like we used to. 

  

A Pigment of My Hallucination, Part II

I should warn whoever chooses to read this, that the following story is extremely long. I thought about breaking it up into chapters, but then I realized I am not that organized or inclined to do so. I prefer the long, drawn-out narrative, I suppose. While I have remained faithful to the facts as I remember them, I did embellish a few details along the way in order to keep things interesting (at least for me as I wrote it). My only regret is that I do not have any photographs from this experience to look back upon, or include in this post. Several images remain firmly entrenched in my memory, however it would have been a wonderful thing to have a visual record of this trip.
 As previously mentioned, several years ago I ended up as a VSO International volunteer in Mongolia. As the years progress, the memories fade just a little bit more. There are some that are permanently ingrained in the memory banks, though. Before launching into that, I should preface this story by saying that living so far away and outside my comfort zone was made so much easier and better thanks to a very special and select group of friends (both fellow volunteers and Mongolian) that I made. I have touched on this in past posts, and I will probably keep doing so in future posts. 

One such friend was Andy A. (Not to be confused with the other Andy (G.), who was equally a valued friend). This Andy was the one who I used to hang out with over marathon games of Scrabble, stale Chinese beer, and the ubiquitous packs of contraband smokes. This Andy introduced me to his eclectic collection of music including Radiohead, Pavement, Orange Juice, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Antonio Carlos Jobim and even the Hammond organ virtuoso, Klaus Wunderlich. Andy also introduced me to a world of literature that I would never have explored otherwise, such as the works of Franz Kafka, Dostoevsky,  and some of the lesser-known (but equally great) writings of Henry Miller. 

Andy was very philosophical, deep and introspective. At the same time, he and I enjoyed some of the more trashy aspects of pop culture as well. This was one of the many things I truly enjoyed about Andy. There was never a dull moment with him.  I think our friendship really hit its stride when he came up to visit me in Sukhbaatar  for a few days in the Spring of 1997. At that time I was living in the sleepy northern town on the Russian border, experiencing a great deal of isolation and angst. His visit came at the best possible time, as I really needed a sounding board. We hardly knew each other at that point, but that was what made the whole experience so truly unique and special. There was a sense of being in it together, and that was the greatest basis for establishing friendships.

Andy had a tremendous knack for "taking the piss" (British slang for "making fun/light of") out of  a situation, with just the right blend of cynicism and wryness. Having him stay at my flat and experience the nightly knocks on my door from local eccentrics helped me to see things from a fresh perspective. I had grown weary and quite jaded by this at that time, and having him there to joke about it helped a great deal. For him the visit was a welcome distraction from the hustle and bustle of Ulaanbaator. He reveled in the fresh, clean air and lack of noise pollution. The visit gave him some much needed respite to clear his mind of the clutter and din of Ulaanbaator. 
Over a few nights of drinking beer, chatting and watching cheesy soap operas and sitcoms at my flat, we hatched a plan for my upcoming three week vacation that summer. Andy was employed by the national university, thus being fortunate enough to have the summer off. I was working for a private enterprise, but managed to convince my Mongolian employer that I needed a three week break (even though I had only started in April). I mentioned to Andy at one point that I was anxious to see more of the country, and he came up with the idea of going to Lake Hovsgul. Apparently other volunteers had raved about this area, which featured a large and pristine fresh water lake and ideal surroundings for camping. This sounded like a real adventure, which I was craving at that point. Lake Hovsgol was way off the beaten path, and would require us to leave from Ulaanbaator by bus. Apparently it was at the very least a good 15 hour bus ride. The idea would be for me to meet up with Andy at his place, which meant I would have to catch an overnight  train from Sukhbaatar to U.B. 

Lake Hovsgol on a map of Mongolia. Travel to and from was either by bus or jeep over dirt roads.  

A view of the crystal clear shores of Lake Hovsgol

Somewhere in the middle of July, I took leave for my vacation, and crammed my backpack for my trip to the big smoke. It was an invigorating feeling, to be on the first leg of my trip to meet up with Andy and our other mutual friends. I arrived after a night of little to no sleep on a crowded overnight train, and eventually met up with Andy at his place early the next morning. We still had a lot of planning to do, and many supplies to round up. First and foremost we needed the VSO tent and camping equipment. Before all that, though, we needed to do a trip downstairs to the nearest kiosk to pick up several bottles of beer for the afternoon and day ahead. 
Before diving into our stock, we decided it was best to head to a bar and discuss the logistics of our trip in an atmospheric setting. Andy had the perfect watering hole in mind, just a stone's throw from his apartment block. The place was aptly named "The Elvis Bar", and it was a dimly-lit little dive hidden away in some nondescript rows of buildings near the central train station. Appropriately, the bar was adorned with all kinds of Elvis memorabilia, including portraits of young and older Elvis,  and the sound system blared out Elvis music on a non-stop rotation.
Naturally, as we sauntered into the bar, we were greeted by a handful of inebriated Mongolian patrons. They were somewhat surprised (but too busy with their drinks to bother with us) to see foreigners. We ordered a round of pints and settled in to absorb the environment. I was happy hanging out with my new friend, and the more we conversed the more we realized how much we had in common. Supposedly this was our first stop before moving on to some bigger bars, however we grew quite comfortable right where we were. We pretty much spent the entire afternoon there. When we finally stumbled out the door, we were struck in the face by the relentless glare of the sun. We had to make our way back to Andy's for a nap to recover. 

By that point I had been sleep-deprived for a good 24 hours, so I definitely needed to recharge my batteries. Out of all my friends in Ulaanbaator, Andy had the greatest couch to crash on. It was big and long, perfectly contoured for the body. Cushions were firm, yet inviting at the same time. This couch definitely had a long history, judging by the various blemishes and burn holes on it. However, these things were easily covered by a blanket, and by wrapping oneself up in their sleeping bag. In other words, the comfort of the couch easily outweighed the blemishes.
 By the time we got up from our naps we were well into the evening hours. We needed something to eat before deciding what to do next. We feasted on huushur and buuz - Mongolian versions of fast food (I won't get into describing them here). Andy had put on some music from his collection, a lot of things I had never heard before - groups like Pavement with their alternative rock styling as well as the dulcet tones of the band Orange Juice. Andy also had a soft spot for Burt Bacharach compositions, particularly those sung by Dionne Warwick. Oddly enough, so did I. He also had a deep appreciation for Brazilian samba standards, particularly the music of Stan Getz and Antonio Carlos Jobim.
I was familiar with a lot of this music too, recalling my parents' record collections from the sixties  and early seventies - artists such as Sergio Mendez and Brasilia '66 as well as Stan Getz and Tom Jobim. We took great delight in listening to and appreciating these tapes in his collection.  He also had a tape of Hammond organ music by Klaus Wunderlich. Listening to these whirling organ runs evoked memories of my younger days growing up in the seventies. Andy and I were of the same generation, and as such grew up with the same musical influences. Listening to such music invoked many funny images images of the adults of our time having fondue parties,  with some sort of jello or parfait concoction for dessert, spinning records and dancing on shag rugs.
Over the course of this introductory music session, Andy asked if I liked playing Scrabble. I was indeed enthusiastic. He brought out the board and tile bag, and asked if I'd like to engage in a friendly game. I was happy to oblige. Little did we know that this introductory game would flourish into a great competitive, yet friendly rivalry that would span over a year and a half. Our first game ended in almost a tie, with Andy edging me. In fact, he probably beat me every time we played, but with each passing game our strategies grew increasingly more complex. If it is even possible to compare Scrabble to chess, I think we came pretty close to it. If there was ever an occasion to play team Scrabble competitively, Andy and I would have become world champions. Slight exaggeration, maybe. However, we were really excellent players. We eventually modified rules to our own liking, to keep things fresh. Little did I know just how significant this game would become in the course of our friendship. 
A couple of days had passed without making any real solid plans about our trip across the Mongolian countryside. I had grown quite comfortable hanging out at Andy's, and our routine had become really enjoyable. Late mornings after slowly getting up, we'd have a game of Scrabble over stale bread and cheese with instant coffee, smokes, and music in the background. Early afternoons would be over beer and more Scrabble, some sandwiches and louder music in the background. Late afternoon was nap time, then some dinner with more beer and possibly Mongolian vodka, followed by raucous blasting of his stereo while we prepared to go out for nights on the town. Late nights would find us dancing with hot Mongolian ladies at the discos. Despite our shaggy looks, we did seem to attract quite a bit of attention (good and bad) at those places. 
Anyhow, after about a week of this, it had become quite imperative that we get out of dodge and breathe some clean countryside air. We forced ourselves to buy our bus tickets the next morning. We had decided to get our tickets for the day after, so that we had a good two weeks to make our journey. I had to rely on Andy a lot in those days, as his grasp of Mongolian was much better than mine. He went up to the ticket booth and asked for the tickets. There was an obstacle to our plan - the bus to the nearest "city" (Moron, appropriately enough) only went twice a week. We had to wait another 3 days, as it was already the weekend by that point. 
Perhaps the height of all the chaos had been reached the final morning before our bus journey. We had set out to grab the tent and all the supplies, when all of a sudden we heard shouting at us from across the street. They were calling out to Andy. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but they were motioning at him to come over. The closer we got to them, I realized that they weren't Mongolian. Andy finally recognized this motley group of young guys as a travelling Peruvian folk group who had performed at a nightclub he went to one night. Andy had spent some time in Spain prior to going to Mongolia, and as such he was able to communicate in Spanish with the musicians.
It was only ten or so in the morning at this point, but the fellows were eager to have us join them at their flat for some breakfast and vodka, of course. I knew absolutely no Spanish at this stage of my life, so I really was limited in terms of communication. It didn't matter, though. We all got along fabulously the more we drank. At one point, things got so spirited that the band members took out their respective musical instruments. There was an acoustic guitar player, pan flutist, and a maracas / percussionist. Without a word to one another, they broke out in a rousing and heartfelt Peruvian folk song, followed by a more somber sounding one. After about 5 amazing songs, they collapsed from exhaustion. The mood had become much more serious in the room, and I asked Andy what was wrong. He said that they told him they had been travelling around the world for about two years straight and they were incredibly homesick. The last song they played was a song pertaining to the lament of being so far from home. It really struck me at that moment how odd and random it was to run into a Peruvian folk ensemble in Mongolia, of all places. Their music touched me deeply, as did the whole experience of making their acquaintance. I certainly did not intend to get drunk so early in the morning, yet here I was stumbling back to Andy's place again. Time for another nap, and to put a cap on the partying. We had to catch our bus early the next morning so a good night's sleep was in order.                                               
 We woke up quite rejuvenated and ready for the trek across the countryside that next morning. Off we went to the bus station, backpacks firmly on shoulders and tent and accessories securely bundled. We had rations for the trip, figuring on about 15-18 hours on a bus. Once Andy figured out which bus was ours, we boarded and got a seat near the back of the bus. We had about ten minutes to departure, and the bus was less than half full. We felt pretty comfortable, thinking we had plenty of place to stretch out and sleep. As we inched closer to the ten minute mark, we noticed more and more Mongolians lining up outside the bus. The driver finally showed up, and started to let more and more people on. We looked at each other and realized our stretching space was no longer available. As people boarded, they looked at us with bemused curiosity, as we were the only foreigners on board. 
We looked at them with slight irritation, as they seemed to be bringing their entire life belongings with them. One man, dressed in traditional countryside attire, boarded with fresh sheep pelts. It was an extremely hot and sticky day out, and the smell was overwhelming. Naturally, he plopped down in the seat right in front of us, and as he turned to look at us, we were again overwhelmed by the smell. He reeked of alcohol, appearing quite intoxicated. We thought we were bad, but we had nothing on this guy. By this time, the bus was already a good hour late. Another hour passed, and with each minute the fellow in front of us grew bolder and bolder as he attempted to communicate with us. He even started to get his fellow passengers in on the act, to get us to crack I guess. They all seemed to think he was a Mongolian Jim Carey or something, because he was making them all laugh hysterically. Andy and I were already thinking up ways to kill him without detection. 
The bus finally got going a good 3 hours late. We stayed on the bus all that time, knowing there wasn't another one to take. They had already turned back several people as there was no room on the bus, so we didn't necessarily want to give up our prized seats. We were quite relieved to be moving, and finally getting some fresh air blowing in our faces. The bus made its way out of the city, and as we reached the outskirts, there was a loud thud coming from the rear wheel well. Naturally, the wheel had been punctured by something on the road, and we were stopped dead in our tracks yet again. It took a good 2 or so hours to get the tire replaced, and back on the road. The frustration levels were reaching a simmering boil at this point, and we had barely gotten out of Ulaanbaator. We still had a good 18 hours to go. The fellow in front of us had developed somewhat of a stand up comedy routine with our fellow passengers, as he grew more and more animated with each sip of vodka from the bottle he had stashed in his overflowing traditional robe. We really weren't in on the joke, due to language and cultural barriers, however we couldn't shake the feeling that we were the butt of it. The gesturing towards us and his inching closer and closer to us with his putrid breath were pretty much a dead giveaway. 
Finally we saw the tail end of the city lights, and as it grew darker out, people began to unwind for the long trip ahead. I should say most people. Our master of ceremonies in front of us was just getting primed. He seemed to have an endless stash of bottles hidden away in his deep pockets, and by that point he was feeling pretty generous to share some with us. In my experience, Mongolians did take offense when they offered something and were refused. With that in mind, we politely declined, feigning stomach problems and what not. He was not about to take no for an answer, as he was nose to nose with me at that point. The breath was enough to make me submit, so I took a sip, thanked him and hoped that would be the end of it. Unfortunately, it wasn't. Andy was still holding out, and by this time it had become a battle of the wills between the two. Andy had started off politely, but the more the inebriated passenger insisted, the more irritated Andy had become. I could see Andy's teeth clenching, as he steadfastly refused. It proved fruitless, and then Andy started in English with as many curse words as he could muster. He finally closed his eyes and did his best to tune him out. I followed suit, however there was no stopping the guy. He would get out of his seat and start shaking me at some points to wake me up. He would lean over and slap Andy's arm to get his attention. I found myself praying not to haul off and hit him, for fear of the rest of the bus ganging up on us. I begged God to do something drastic to this guy to shut him up and make him finally pass out. Then, for the first time in my life, my prayers were answered.
We had been travelling over dirt roads through the countryside, and the lack of shock absorbers caused us to bounce wildly up and down off our seats throughout the grueling ride. At one point we hit a really deep hole in the road, and the whole bus load of passengers flew out of their seats into a big heaping pile. The obnoxious drunk in front of us was completely unprepared for this, and apparently flew up head first with a tremendous impact into the metal ceiling of the bus. He was apparently knocked out cold by the blunt force of the impact. We weren't totally callous about the accident, as we did take a look to make sure he was breathing and wasn't bleeding. At the same time, though, we were relieved to finally have some good karma coming our way. The next 4 or so hours passed without incident, and we were finally able to get some sleep. By the time our fellow passenger awoke from his haze, we had reached a sort of oasis in the middle of nowhere. It was a small compound of gers (yurts), where the driver stopped to unload passengers and have a rest. Few people disembarked with their belongings, but again the fates were positive for us. Our mate got off and disappeared into the village with all his belongings. 
It was a welcome relief on all fronts to get out and stretch our legs, and have a smoke. We were offered all sorts of freshly made dairy products, including a traditional drink called "airag". This consisted of fermented mare's milk. I had never tried it before, and thought for sure it would make me sick. However, I owed it to myself to try it, and any sort of pick-me-up was badly needed at that point. Surprisingly, it went down quite smoothly. So much so, that I consumed a fair amount before getting back on the bus. By then, it was early morning after a sleepless night traveling across the landscape. Both of us collapsed from exhaustion, only waking up several hours later as we approached our final destination aboard the bus. We arrived in the late afternoon to Moron, the closest large town to Lake Hovsgul. By this time there would be no buses leaving for Lake Hovsgol, nor were we really inclined to hire a driver at that point. We stood around the bus depot deciding what to do. Apparently the only hotel in town had been closed for some undisclosed reason, so we thought we would end up sleeping on benches in town. That might have been a risky thing to do, but it was our last resort.                                        
As we stood bewildered, exhausted and confused, a fellow passenger neither of us recognized from our bus trip observed our predicament. He approached, and spoke to Andy in Mongolian. He had a very friendly face, and seemed soft-spoken and humble. He put his hand on Andy's shoulder and motioned for us to follow him. I asked Andy what was going on. He told me that we had been invited to stay at his family's place and have something warm to eat. I asked Andy what he thought, and he had the same vibe from the fellow as I did. He led us through a maze of wooden homes along the side paths around the outskirts of town. We reached a fenced enclosure, to which our new friend made a noise. A young fellow came out to open the gate, and our friend motioned for us to enter the property. 
We followed him through the front door, which was adorned with a beaded curtain with bells hanging. As we parted the curtain to go through, the bells rang with a faint, but heavenly chime. Immediately we were struck with the scent of incense burning. The sun was beaming through the side window, but we could make out the shadow of a large figure sitting in a chair against the wall. Our new friend introduced himself as "Davaa", and introduced the large, shadowy figure as his father. It was a scene somewhat reminiscent of Martin Sheen finally coming face to face with Marlon Brando in "Apocalypse Now" (only, it wasn't apocalyptic....it was serene).    His father emerged from the shadows and gave us a warm handshake. He was a Buddhist monk!
The young fellow who greeted us was the monk's student, and after a cordial greeting and discussion of where we came from, he went right back to training his young disciple in prayers and chanting. We were offered a nice warm cup of milk tea, and some Mongolian biscuits. At that point, as we breathed in the lovely aroma of incense and candles, warmed our gullets with the tea and filled up on biscuits, we were overcome with a feeling of relief and relaxation. After a short time with the monk and his student, Davaa instructed us to follow him outside.
He led us to the wooden house next door, and motioned for us to proceed into the wood home. It turned out that this was actually Davaa's house that he shared with his wife, their two young children (a boy and a girl), and his mother. The women were busy preparing food in the kitchen while the children were playing in the living room with the tv blaring in the background. The children rushed up to greet us as soon as they heard their father come through the door. Davaa gave them a warm hug and pulled out some candy from his bag. Their mother looked on somewhat disapprovingly, but was happy to see her husband home. There were several sets of eyes staring at the grubby vagabonds he brought in with him, though. 
Davaa made some introductions, and I assumed that he was letting his wife know that we would be their guests for an undetermined amount of time. Right away he led us to his living room, where he lit up a pipe and offered us a haul. We gladly accepted. He showed us some of his prized possessions, including volumes of encyclopedias from Russia, as well as his coveted chess set. With that, his wife presented us with plates of food, to which we were beyond grateful. We devoured helpings upon helpings of traditional Mongolian dishes as they were presented to us. We were not the least bit embarrassed by the sets of curious eyes upon us. Our hosts were tremendously pleased that their foreign guests were enjoying the food so much. 
After dinner, Davaa brought out some vodka and we had a ceremonial Mongolian shot. The vodka was poured into a small and ornate drinking bowl, and Davaa dipped his finger into it, flicking the vodka in the air as if to bless it. He took a sip and passed it on to us. The bowl got passed around several times until we decided to drop tradition and just take shots from an actual shot glass. We were happily buzzed after a short time, to which Davaa challenged us to a chess game. He told us he was a bit of a chess prodigy, and to prove it he wanted to play us simultaneously on two different boards. Neither Andy nor I were any good at the game, however we did have a basic grasp of it. We accepted the challenge and Davaa had both of us in a checkmate within seconds. He let out a hearty laugh at how pathetic we were as opponents, and we were humbly appreciative of his mastery. 
The children came back to the room after playing outside and the ladies joined us as well. We all sat around, and made our best attempts at communicating with one another. This was truly my first experience being with a Mongolian family, and I felt so relaxed and at home with them. They were truly wonderful people. Both children were absolutely adorable, and they were so keen to interact with us. Davaa and his wife were obviously so proud of their children and were terrific parents. Davaa made sure to instruct his children to practice what little English they knew with us, and we made sure to compliment them on their abilities. The rest of the evening was spent sipping more vodka, and eventually we settled down to watch tv. They found a channel that came in on the rabbit ears, and there was a movie playing with English subtitles. At first I thought it was a Mongolian movie, as it featured shots of scenic nature. Then as I looked closer, I couldn't help but shake the feeling that it was Canada. 
Sure enough, we were watching a movie entitled "Black Robe", set in the early settler days of Quebec. It was a gripping tale of a Jesuit priest trying to convert the local natives, with all the perils that he brought on to them, as well as the perils of the elements surrounding them. I was flabbergasted and elated to be able to tell my hosts that this was my country's history we were watching!  The whole family sat quietly through the movie, and as it finished, Andy and I realized we were exhausted and it was late. There was a moment of awkwardness, as we realized their living room was where the whole family slept. We quickly hatched a plan to set up our tent in the back yard, so as to avoid one or both of our hosts giving up prime sleeping space. We knew they would go as far as not to sleep if it meant providing us with a place to rest. 
Andy explained our plan to Davaa, and as much as he protested, we could tell they were relieved. They too had had a long day. Davaa had been on the grueling bus trip the whole time with us, so he didn't sleep much the past day and a half either. We got the tent up under the light of the brilliant moon, and quickly collapsed into a restful sleep. The next morning, I woke up to voices and giggling outside our tent. I unzipped the tent to find the children peeking in with great curiosity and amusement. Andy and I invited them in and they were incredibly excited. We surmised that they had never seen the inside of a tent before, so it was all a new experience for them. Andy and I found a couple of snacks to give them, but we made sure to make gestures to them not to tell their parents. 
That morning I felt a complete sense of release, of all the tension we had encountered on our bus trek across the Mongolian landscape. Gone were my feelings of ill-will towards our fellow passenger, as well as my frustration with the system of travel in Mongolia. Andy felt the same way, and we were overcome by how happy this young family was despite their lack of money or material wealth. Actually, we had determined that they were happy in spite of it, rather despite it. The laughter of the children in the tent, and how open they and their parents were to us had tremendous impact on me. We knew that we were supposed to be finding a bus or a jeep to head off to Hovsgul, however we were not in such a rush anymore. Soon after, Davaa came around and scolded his kids for waking us up. We insisted we were happy to have them there, and that it was no problem. 
Andy and Davaa spoke a little about transportation matters, but Davaa told him that it was time for breakfast. Off we went back into the house. Our hostess had an assortment of cheese, bread and biscuits laid out for us. Again, we delighted in being fed. Davaa sat with us over breakfast, and explained he needed to go into town for a while. He told us to stay at the house and to make ourselves at home. We did so, playing with the kids some more while mother and grandmother tended to domestic duties. After a while, Andy and I felt we should go into town and buy something for our hosts. It was a small town, and easy to find our way around. We made sure to observe certain landmarks to ensure we found our way back "home". 
We picked up some little gifts for our hosts and children, then we found a store where we could buy some beer. We brought that back to share with Davaa, and he was quite pleased to have one with us when he got back from his business in town. After another delicious dinner, Davaa and Andy finally got down to the bare bones of our plans. Davaa instructed Andy that it was far easier and better to go by jeep, and that he had already pre-arranged a driver for us. This was a friend of his who he obviously trusted implicitly, and we once again felt humbled by all the amazing things our hosts were doing for us. Davaa explained that his friend was getting some work done on his jeep, but he would be ready by the next afternoon. Once again, we were happy to stay another night with our family, and at this point we were feeling very attached to them. 
The trip by jeep was yet another few hours, barring any setbacks. At this point we were well aware to expect the unexpected. At this point, we didn't care - we had a whole jeep to ourselves, and it would be at the most a half day journey. After we said our heartfelt goodbyes to our host mother and children, we set off to town with Davaa. It was a bittersweet feeling parting ways with them, as we had grown very fond of our adoptive family. Our host mother took it upon herself to make sure we were well-rationed for the trip. She sent us off with bread, cheese, biscuits, and pretty much everything else she could find at the last second. Davaa ushered us down to the market, where we met up with our driver. He was quiet, however took his role seriously as our driver. Davaa seemed to give him some last minute instructions, and we said our goodbyes at that point with him. My only disappointment in that whole experience was that I could not express succinctly how deeply grateful I was to him and his family for taking us in. I wanted to tell him how extremely wonderful he and his family was, and that thanks to him I felt a sense of rejuvenation about my whole Mongolian experience to that point. Instead, we shook hands and embraced Mongolian style, and that was the last we saw of him. 
The driver made one last inspection of the jeep, and ensured that everything had been packed securely. Davaa had informed Andy about how much money to pay him. Andy and I had our money ready to hand him as soon as we got in the jeep. Our driver was extremely embarrassed to take it on the spot, and insisted we pay him at the end of the trip. Unbeknownst to us, Davaa had made one last incredibly generous gesture of kindness, which was to arrange for the driver to take us to a nearby river for a picnic with some friends of his. Davaa had really wanted to show us what a true Mongolian experience was all about. The driver explained all this to Andy, and while it took us by surprise, at this point we were still very high from all the love and kindness that had been extended to us. We were more than happy to divert a little from the plan. The driver assured Andy that we would get to Hovsgul before dark. At this point, it was probably around 9:00 in the morning. 
Within a few kilometers from the town limits, the driver veered off the main road back into the dirt trails. We bounced around a fair bit, but this jeep was built for off-roading. In the distance was a line of coniferous trees, and the driver pointed towards them saying something neither of us fully understood. We assumed this was where he was heading, so that was good enough for us. Once we got to the tree line, he pulled right into the forested area. Right before us were a bunch of people, most of them about our age, setting up for a picnic. They all made their way to the jeep and seemed to know the driver really well. They invited us over, and sat us down on the blanket to be fed. We could not believe that a party was literally unfolding before our eyes, in the middle of nowhere. There was lots of Mongolian joke-telling and roars of laughter, as well as a portable stereo blasting out Mongolian and North American pop songs. Andy and I immediately noticed some fine looking young women in our midst, and they looked very tempting indeed. The vodka was going around very liberally at this point, as was the beer. Much dancing ensued, and I was completely up for the party. Andy was a little more hesitant to throw himself all in, however he was enjoying himself a great deal. 
Suddenly someone yelled something out, and everyone began to strip down to their underwear! Everyone motioned for us to do the same, and immediately Andy had drawn the line right there. He was not going to strip down, especially not knowing the reason why. I on the other hand, was willing and able to throw myself right into it at that point. Everyone roared with delight to see the scrawny goat-like white guy in his underwear, in a very appreciative way of course. They led us down a short hill to reveal a pristine river, where everybody plunged right in. I followed suit, and it was the most refreshing plunge into a river I had ever experienced. It was an extremely hot day already, and the sun hadn't even peaked at that point. On top of that, I was already feeling drunk from the vodka, so dousing myself in cold fresh water was the best thing I could have done for myself at that stage. I encouraged Andy to join us, but he was not really into it. I sensed that he was getting a little anxious to hit the road, considering we would have to find a spot to set up camp. He was absolutely right, but I was really enjoying myself. 
After drying off and heading back to the picnic, Andy expressed his/our desire to get going to the driver. I had been in Mongolia for about 6 months at that point, and I had already grown to understand that Mongolians, particularly in the countryside, did not have the same sense of urgency that we Westerners did. This could be the source of a great deal of frustration to a lot of people (myself included at various times), however in moments such as this I found it absolutely liberating. By the same token, I also understood Andy's rationale, that we wanted to get to our destination (wherever it ended up being) before night fall. We parted ways with our new friends, and once again it was with a touch of regret on my part. I still wanted to get to know some of the ladies in the group, but it was not to be. I hopped into the back of the jeep, half dressed, while Andy rode shotgun. The driver did not seem to mind taking off when we did, so he was happy to oblige. 
We had been on the road for a couple of hours over rugged terrain, as we meandered through valleys of ger settlements and then nothing as far as the eye could see. At one point it felt as though we had hit a pot hole, and the driver stopped to check out the jeep. We had a flat tire, but he assured us he would have it fixed in no time. I could see Andy getting a little worried that things might digress as they did with the bus trip early on. I chose to put my complete faith in our  driver, and ride the wave of good karma. The driver seemed to know the terrain like the back of his hand, and he proceeded to drive with the flat tire down a barely visible dirt trail. We went into a valley of hills, and as we passed through, we were at a small village of about 2 or 3 gers. He stopped in front of one, called out for the occupant, and a lady who looked like she might be in her fifties poked her head out the door. She had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and motioned the driver to come in. 
The driver explained to Andy that she would feed us while he fixed the flat tire. Andy was getting tired of all the hospitality at this stage, and just wanted to get to Lake Hovsgul. I was still a little buzzed from the party, so I really didn't care. The driver assured us that he would only take a few minutes. The lady motioned once again for us to come in, while the driver called out for another fellow to help him with the tire. Andy and I headed towards her ger, where she had a radio blaring inside. It wasn't the most ornate ger I had seen thus far, but it was cozy inside. She had just finished cooking something, which had a distinct odor. Andy and I felt the situation was getting somewhat surreal, as the lady resembled a chain-smoking witch. The radio was tuned into the BBC, and just at that moment the opening chords of "Sympathy For the Devil", by the Rolling Stones was blaring through the speakers. She yelled at someone through her door, and with that an attractive young woman, probably in her late teens came in. She instructed the girl to start serving us. 
I had expected something hot like a bowl of soup, however we were served some sort of white porridge with curds in it. I turned to Andy and asked what it was we were eating. He replied that it was home made yogurt, which I was not in the mood for. The lady then instructed the young girl to start pouring us drinks, which of course was vodka. She did not have a sipping cup, so she had the girl serve it to us in regular coffee mugs. Andy played it wisely, pretending to sip his vodka and tossing it over his shoulder when she wasn't looking. I on the other hand, was fully immersed in the experience and made sure to take everything that was given to me. As the Stones were blaring in our ears, with this sinister-looking hag and her attractive young daughter, the situation was taking on very weird overtones. 
The lady realized that I could not speak Mongolian, so she turned her attention to Andy. She leaned over to him, while chattering away to her daughter who was protesting. Andy's face had grown quite serious, and I demanded to know what she was saying to him. Andy gulped and said, "I'm not quite sure, but I think she is offering to sell us her daughter." That was it for both of us. We had to get the hell out of that ger. It was all too surreal, confined in this ger in the middle of nowhere, listening to "Sympathy for the Devil", and being solicited to buy some witch-like woman's daughter. Fortunately the driver had the tire fixed by then, so he was ready to go. Andy told him quite emphatically to leave immediately. The driver did as he was told and went flying over the dirt mounds away from the settlement. 
As we bounced around up and down, I felt a series of tremors rattling inside my stomach. Suddenly it seemed that mixing this home made yogurt with vodka was not such a good idea after all. I leaned forward to ask the driver to stop, but before I could get a word out, I spewed forth and splattered the entire dashboard and front inside windshield. It was a stroke of luck that I had leaned straight forward, though, as one degree to the right or left would have spelled disaster for either of the front seat occupants. The poor driver's jeep was a mess of sticky white curds and what-not. Immediately we pulled over and I sheepishly offered to clean the mess. The driver declined, probably because he was concerned I would do it again and get it all over some hard to reach spot. I stripped down to my shorts and took everything else off for the rest of the trip.
The driver didn't seem to be too upset over his jeep getting all messed up, and refused to take any extra money from me for the "upheaval" that I had caused. I actually felt quite relieved and ready for the final leg of the journey. We drove on, and finally after a few more hours we approached our destination. The driver spoke to Andy and pointed in both directions. Andy told me that he was offering to take us into town, or to find our spot to set up our tent. Andy told him to drive on along the road and he would tell him when to stop. We looked along the winding road and as we passed a long row of trees, the lake was there in full view down a steep embankment. Andy instructed the driver to pull up off the road and we would hike the rest of the way down. The driver seemed a bit reluctant, and pointed at the clouds rolling in. He told Andy that it looked like a storm coming in. We didn't care at that point. We just wanted to get to our spot and set up camp before any rain came. The driver reluctantly obliged, and we paid him and said our thank you's and goodbyes. 
The air felt a little fresh where we were, due to the proximity of the large lake and surrounding mountains. We marched through the thicket of trees, down the embankment, and settled on a remote spot right near the shore. It was a perfect location, near the beach yet sheltered in some trees. Sundown was rapidly approaching and we knew it was imperative to get our tent up and start a campfire. Just as we got the final peg in, the rain drops began to fall. At first it wasn't an intense rain, so we figured we could still get the fire going. We set about to collect fire wood, and as soon as we were about to start the fire the rain intensified. We sought shelter in the tent, and that was where we would remain for the next three days. 
That night the rain raged and the winds whipped our tent from side to side. Fortunately we had secured it well into the ground, otherwise we would have lost what little shelter we actually had. We took turns peeking through the tent flap to check on the rain, and by that point we could not see the lake which was a mere stone's throw away. As night fell, it grew colder out. We had a couple of flash lights, but were concerned about draining the batteries. We did not anticipate such an intense rain, the likes of which I had never encountered in my life. Had we known, we would have stocked up on more food beforehand. After a quick check, we discovered all we had were biscuits. That would be fine, though, because we were certain the rain would let up by morning and we could do the 10 km hike along the main road into town the next morning. We settled on a game of Scrabble by flash light, to get our minds off the cold and dampness that had set in. 
We got through one game, and realized our tent had a leak. Then we discovered another one, and then a few more. We could not stop the leaks. The rain had only intensified even further into the night, and suddenly everything was wet. All of our clothes, our sleeping bags, and even our biscuits were completely soaked. The only thing that we managed to keep dry was a lighter, which we were able to use to light our soggy imported Bulgarian cigarettes. There were no words we could use to describe the absolute frustration and misery we were starting to feel, so we chose not to talk at all most of the time. For the first time, I felt as though my friendship with Andy was being tested. Through his silence, I wondered to myself if he somehow blamed me for this cruel act of nature. Then I thought perhaps it might have been my fault. I ran through the events leading up to our setting up camp, and began to wonder if things might have been different had I not thrown up in the jeep. Perhaps that might have been the catalyst that forced Andy to decide to set up camp right away, rather than get dropped off in town. Maybe it was even further back than that, when I was so eager to party and swim in the river earlier that day. All the while Andy was getting more and more impatient to get to our destination. 
I realized, though, that this was something much larger than the both of us, and there were external forces at play. Call it fate, destiny or karma.....there was nothing either of us could have done to alter the course of events as they unfolded. It was simply meant to be. As I sat huddled and shivering in my tiny dry corner of the tent, I absolved myself of any guilt over the disaster that had transpired. Since I couldn't see Andy, I determined that he was simply meditating and willing the rain to go away. Time by this point seemed to have stood still. Neither of us had any idea what time of night it was. It felt like a long time had passed, but I couldn't be sure. One thing we were certain of, though, was that we were alone against the elements. There couldn't possibly have been another soul within miles of us, as Andy made sure to pick a very obscure location. His top priority by this time was to get as far away from civilization as possible. 
Naturally, as would always seem to happen in Mongolia, a local appeared out of nowhere and knocked / scratched on our tent door. I unzipped the tent, and could barely make out a figure standing in front of the tent through the pelting rain. I rubbed my eyes as if to ensure I wasn't imagining an apparition. The man crouched down and I had a better look at him. He was dressed in yellow rain gear, complete with the fisherman hat, and was holding a dead fish out. I heard Andy asking who the fuck that could possibly be, so I explained that it was a Mongolian fisherman holding a fish. 
Andy thought I was hallucinating so he took a look. The man spoke to him, and Andy sent him off. "What did he want?" I asked. Andy said that he was wondering if we wanted to buy the fish he just caught. We then found the humor in the whole situation, as it was absolutely a surreal encounter. The man never offered to help us out, and in fact seemed quite upset that we wouldn't buy his fish. What were we supposed to do with it, anyway? We had no way of cooking it, and it wasn't the type of fish you would want to eat raw. It really was like a Monty Python sketch. After a while, we settled back into a deadened trance. We were still soaked, and our tent was not holding up against the elements. There really was no dry place to sleep, so we had to lie in our wet sleeping bags. The air had become unbearably cold overnight, and there was no relief in sight. I tried to keep my composure, but I couldn't help but let out a couple of disheartened sighs, and perhaps even a whimper here and there. 
The next morning we surveyed the damage, and there was virtually nothing left of our food stock. We had a tin of instant coffee, but no fire to boil water. The rain was still coming down in buckets, and there was no refuge from it. We stuck it out another day, as hiking would be completely out of the question. There was flooding all around us, so we would never make it up the steep embankment with all our gear in tow in our sopping wet clothes. There was no telling what the road up above would be like either, as we imagined it being completely washed out. We resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be stuck in that spot for the foreseeable future, until the rain subsided. It lasted for another two days. Little did we know that we picked the worst possible time to camp out in that part of the country, as we were in the midst of the rainy season. We somehow toughed it out over sporadic games of Scrabble and little to no sleep at all. We read our books in silence with what little daylight we had as another means to occupy our minds. To this day I am surprised neither of us ended up with pneumonia. 
Finally by the third morning, the rain subsided into a mist, and the clouds slowly parted and gave way to a couple of rays of sun. Andy seized that moment to declare that it was time to get the hell out of there. I was with him, and didn't know or care what the plan was. Andy didn't really have a plan, except to bundle up what he could and scrape and claw his way up the embankment. I followed suit, and the load I had was absolutely overwhelming at times. I forged on, though, because by this point Andy was far ahead. He was like a bolt of lightning, and was determined to make it to town without stopping. I kept up as much as I could, stopping only when I could keep him within eyesight. At one point, I could feel my legs buckling, and I shouted for him to go on and to send help for me. Then I thought that it was a bad idea, should he not remember where we were. I forced myself to continue, as exhausted as I was. 
We made our way to the road, which was indeed flooded. As such, there were no vehicles passing through and we could not get a ride. We would have to hike the distance. At this point I felt my spirit breaking, and was resigned to collapsing and allowing the vultures or any predators to eat me barely alive. Andy would bellow out for me to get up and keep going, so I did. Finally I could hear Andy faintly shouting with excitement that he could see the village ahead. I was suddenly lifted off my feet and even managed to catch up to him. We headed for the first building we could see, and we didn't care if anybody was there or not. We were going to break in and get out of our soaking wet clothes. Luckily it didn't come to that, as Andy swung the door open to reveal a room full of Mongolian men sitting around a table eating. Andy sputtered out as much Mongolian as he could, namely that we needed help, and the men ushered us to the stove to warm up. We were numb from the dampness and cold, and without hesitation we whipped off all of our clothes. 
The men roared with laughter at this point, and once they got us some blankets, they sat us down near the stove to eat some hot soup. Once Andy was able to talk, he found out we had sought refuge with the local fire and rescue brigade. It was a stroke of great luck, after 2 1/2 miserable days huddled in the cold and wet confines of our tent. Our fire team took us under their wing, feeding us hot plate after hot plate, drying our clothes and equipment out, and then providing us with comfortable cots to sleep on. We must have slept a good six hours that morning and afternoon. It was only after our nap that we were able to thank our hosts properly.  They brought out some vodka and beer, to which we had a couple of toasts. The men regaled us with tales of the foreigners who came in from the rain, soaked to the skin and in desperate need of food and shelter. After a while we were able to laugh about it, and once again we were recharged. 
By this time the skies had cleared and we were basking in the warmth of the sun. We couldn't stay indefinitely with the fire brigade, as they needed their space for emergencies, and obviously they had a lot to contend with with the flooding. They advised us there was a hotel down the road, so we said our goodbyes and expressed our gratitude once again. Before we left, we surveyed our funds, which we had pooled for the trip. We had budgeted what we thought would be enough, however that didn't include anything for emergencies such as getting a hotel. We were dangerously low, and knew we had barely enough just to get back to Ulaanbaator. There was nothing in our budget for an overnight stay in a hotel. We weren't sure what we were going to do, but I suggested we go to the hotel and explain to the owner our situation. We could then offer to clean rooms or dishes if that would be acceptable. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. 
As we strolled down the path toward the hotel, we discussed the events that led up to where we were at that point. We agreed that we should have budgeted more carefully, however we were still riding the wave of good fortune so we weren't going to get pessimistic. We were engrossed in our conversation, so I didn't hear the shouting in the distance. Finally I heard my name being shouted out repeatedly, and then Andy's. We couldn't believe somebody might know us in the village, but as we got closer the voice was very familiar. It was our friend Andy!! That is, it was the other Andy (G.) that I mentioned way back at the beginning of the story! We were ecstatic to see one another, and couldn't believe that we were in the same remote village at the same time. We had prior knowledge that this Andy had been planning a trip out there, but we didn't know when he was going. With that, the other members of his group emerged from the building. It was Jeff and Alison, a couple that were volunteering with VSO as well. We were all happy to see one another, and began telling stories of our respective journeys.
They too had been caught up in the deluge, but were smart and/or fortunate enough to choose a spot on higher ground. As such, they were spared from much of the flooding. They also had better equipment, and their tent stayed dry. Still, they decided to head to the village in case things deteriorated. They were staying in the hotel, and invited us to their room. We had a beer together, and we sheepishly admitted we didn't have any money for a room. We also admitted we barely had enough money for the trip back, as we were pretty certain we were going to hit roadblocks on the way. Alison was very much the mom figure of our clan, and she took it upon herself to lend us money, along with a stern lecture about planning these things properly. We gladly accepted the lecture and were extremely grateful. We decided not to press our luck any further and just stay the night and get a jeep back to Moron the next day. Andy, Jeff and Alison had further travel plans so we parted ways and would eventually meet back in U.B.
We made our way back to Moron without much incident that next day. There were no buses going out to U.B. that day, or even the next if I remember. We weren't sure what to do from there, but our driver graciously offered to put us up in his family's home that night. My memory is a little more cloudy at this point, as I was completely exhausted from the whole experience. The family we stayed with was once again very nice, but at this point all we wanted to do was get back home. We knew we had a grueling trip ahead of us, so we just kept focused on that and didn't allow ourselves to get too involved with anything or anyone else. We were extremely grateful for the hospitality once again, as our driver took us the next morning to the market. He said that he could possibly find a driver that could take us at least part of the way, to the nearest bigger town if need be. Andy was willing to try anything. The driver found a friend of his, who was a truck driver. He claimed to be going to U.B. and would be taking passengers. We seized that opportunity, and made arrangements to pay him. He took us to his vehicle, which was a flatbed truck with a wood gate around it. We climbed aboard, knowing this might be perilous (but desperate enough to take anyway). Again we were lulled into a false sense of security, thinking we had the whole back of the truck to ourselves. The driver took off with us as his only passengers, only to make several stops around town to pick more people up with all their cargo. We were once again overwhelmed by the smell of sheepskin, and who knows what else. We were now packed in like sardines, and finally the truck hit the main road out of Moron. 
A sense of desperation hit me, in that this was going to be another awful trip. It would certainly be close to 18 hours over bumps and dirt roads, under the dark cold night with no shelter from the wind. I felt uncomfortable in the position I was jammed into, but had no room to maneuver. Andy had been squeezed into a spot close enough, but far enough so that we could barely hear each other. 
I am sure this suited him fine, because I knew by this point he was all talked out. I saw in his face that he had lost the spark from being saved by the firemen and our chance meeting with Andy, Jeff and Alison. He dropped his head down and pulled his hat over his eyes. He was determined that this time around he wouldn't be doing any of the talking with the locals. 
I was not in much of a mood to entertain our fellow passengers either, but I thought that it was up to me to maintain good relations in case we needed it. I at least managed to smile a few times, as curious eyes locked on to us. I had even managed to make friends with our fellow passengers at a pit stop early in the trip. I forget how it all started, but I recall having my shirt off and doing some sort of mash up Irish jig / break dance for the enthusiastic crowd. After the getting back on the road, The driver had reached a comfortable speed (for him) as we were bouncing and flying around the back of the truck. The wind was hard against the face, but at least the sun was still shining and warm. 
After a while I realized that the sun would be going down, and it would get really cold out in the open. Andy had already prepared, pulling out his sleeping bag at that point. It was another relatively sleepless night, and at various points I felt my sanity being tested. I resolved not to let things get to me, though, so I followed Andy's example and simply buried my head into my chest. I recall that I was able to remain calm this time around, mainly because I wasn't being harassed by a drunk passenger. I had also found solace at various points, staring at the brilliant moon as it beamed in the clear, dark sky. Up until then, I hadn't truly noticed how beautiful the night sky was in those parts. Despite the pain and discomfort from being twisted into a pretzel throughout the trip, I did manage to catch a few winks along the way. I woke up rejuvenated enough to look around and see that I had no idea where I was, or how much longer the trip would take. I was okay with it this time, as I knew we were eventually going to reach the creature comforts of the big smoke again.
We finally did reach Ulaanbaator, sometime in the early evening hours. The only two things we required, or I should say desperately needed at that point where a bath and a good night's sleep. Prior to our departure, Andy had lent his flat to a fellow VSO who was in from the countryside. She agreed  to leave the key with another fellow volunteer who lived upstairs if she were to go out somewhere before we got back. We finally made our way up the stairs to his flat, and of course the door was locked. We trudged up another few flights of stairs to his neighbor's flat, and fortunately he was there. Unfortunately, he did not have the key. Someone forgot to leave the key with him before going out!! We pretty much barged our way through his flat at that point, leaving his neighbor shocked and indignant. 
To say we were dirty and smelled awful would be putting it mildly. I really cannot put into words or give justice to how nasty and vile we were at that stage. Adding insult to injury, he was hosting a lovely young lady that evening and we pretty much ruined the atmosphere. We didn't care, to the point of threatening to hijack his bath tub and steal whatever clothes he had available. Alistair was a really good man, and we didn't necessarily want to walk all over him. However, it was truly a desperate moment, and he was simply collateral damage. We issued an ultimatum, that we were staying until we got Andy's key back. Alistair managed to usher us into his kitchen while he attended to his guest. He closed the doors on us, coaxing us into submission with biscuits and hot tea and coffee. After about an hour or so, there was a knock on the door and it was Andy's guest returning with the key. It was a coin toss as to who was more relieved at that point - Andy and myself, or Alistair. 
We raced back down to Andy's apartment and naturally I ceded first dibs on the tub to him. It was after all, his place, and that meant I would have to stew in my own filth for just a little while longer. I took great pains not to flop down on the couch, as I knew I would be sleeping on it later that evening. Basically I paced around, had a couple of beers and listened to music while I waited for what seemed like an eternity. Andy finally emerged, and I ran in for my turn. The shower was truly refreshing, yet at the same time it was frightening to see so much filth all over me. I smelled like stale alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke and rancid sheep skins. I'm sure there was a trace of vomit residue left over from the horrible jeep incident a few days earlier as well. I really didn't care that I had been standing in an ice cold shower for such a long time. I was determined to emerge squeaky clean and ready for a good sleep. Needless to say it was a damned good sleep, and Andy's couch was a welcome relief. 
I stayed on a couple of more days with Andy before heading back to my sleepy town up north. I was deeply impacted by the friendship I had formed with Andy during this trip. We had endured a great number of hardships, or tests if you will, to our newly-developed friendship. The fact we didn't kill each other in that water-logged tent was a great testament to the bond we had forged. That and the fact that we endured such grueling trips there and back without a nasty word to one another really meant something to me. When I finally boarded the train back to the frontier, it was nearing the end of August. Summer was quickly fading into fall, and many changes in my life were on the horizon. A few months later I found myself back in Ulaanbaator - this time permanently. Perhaps some day I will fill in the gaps of my life in Sukhbaatar, or perhaps not. There are many things I would like to express and write about during that phase of my Mongolian experience, but at this point I have written enough to last a while.